.two months later.

A cold wind blew through the air, making Pete pull his jacket closer around his body. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, since it was February in New Jersey, but it was a lot colder than what he was used to.
He felt a buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored as he waited at the crosswalk, watching the white blinking hand on the sign turn into a red man. He was almost certain it was either Gerard or Patrick; he talked to Patrick everyday, and he had begun the same habit with Gerard after that day.

Even though it was nearly two months ago, Pete still didn't like to think about the day Mikey died. Pete knew, deep down, that Mikey deserved to die: he had kidnapped and murdered twenty-four people (well, twenty-five, but nobody would believe Pete if he told them that Mikey had killed him). But, despite the solid facts, Pete loved Mikey. He couldn't help but love him, because both knew that Pete was as messed up as Mikey. Maybe even more.

The vibrating in his jeans pocket was incessant, and he huffed in frustration as he pulled it out. His phone displayed that the number was unrecognized, and he pushed the device back into his pocket. It had become a rule for him to never answer the phone unless he knew who exactly was calling.

Ever since the funeral in January, Pete had begun to live by a set of rules that he made up that night as he lay in his bed. In the midst of his tears, he devised his first rule: never fall in love. That was working well so far; he had seen too many men— clients, Pete reminded himself as he watched a single snowflake drift down from the steel-gray sky— to be able to possess the ability to love.

Rule two: make money however you can. He was doing that well, what with Gray, which had gained popularity since the funeral, and his secret occupation. He wasn't sure if anyone knew about how he made the most of his money, and, honestly, he wasn't sure why he kept with it. It became boring after a while, and he knew that he was probably going to contract some horrible STD one day. I'll go out like Freddie Mercury, Pete thought. Well, if I could die, I would.

His third rule was to never answer the phone unless he knew who it was, but his fourth rule was to never think about the funeral. He never wanted to think about that day or what he said and did. Especially the did part.

The wrought-iron gates loomed in front of him suddenly, and he pushed them open with his shoulder, brushing snow out of his hair. He walked down the beaten trail trail blindly, not having to think about where he was walking; he had walked the path too many times.

It never did make sense to him. How had Mikey died? He received the lethal injection, which kills everyone, but Mikey wasn't everyone. He survived everything, but Pete had watched Mikey die. Not even Gerard was sure of what happened. No one was.

Pete sat down in his usual place on the dying grass, brushing a few snowflakes from off the stone. It surprised him that Mikey was allowed to be buried, to have a funeral, to have a tombstone, but the world was full of surprises. Pete looked at the epitaph, thinking about the words that had been put in the stone: Michael James Way, 1987-2015. Brother, lover, friend. May God rest his soul. It was strange that Gerard, of all people, decided to inscribe something about God on his brother's tombstone, considering that Mikey A) was not all that religious, B) had committed all seven deadly sins, and C) was gay as fuck, but it was Gerard's choice.

"Hi, Mikes," Pete whispered, running his fingers along his dead lover's name. "Sorry it's been so long since I talked to you. I have no good excuse. Umm... I forgot how hard this is. You haven't missed anything exciting. The Super Bowl sucked, as always. It may be my inner rainbow that inhibits me from seeing the point of football, but it seems ridiculous.

"You wouldn't be proud of how I've been able to live comfortable. I know, I'm sorry, but I need money somehow. And this is quick, easy, and it's fun. I mean, it's sex, of course it's fun, but I haven't been able to find anyone that eats ass like you did... Sorry, I'm getting weird. Anyway..."

He's interrupted by his phone buzzing again, and he sighs, pulling it out again. The same number. He rolls his eyes and answers it, holding one finger up to the tombstone, as of saying 'hold on'. "Hello?" He asked.

No answer came. He could hear someone breathing, which made the hair on the back of his neck tingle, but no words came. "Hello?" He tried again. When he got no answer, he said: "I can hear you breathing. Who are you?"

The phone beeped twice as the person on the other line hung up, and Pete shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Sorry 'bout that," he apologized. "Second time in twenty minutes."

He sighed and whispered: "Mikey... I love you. God, I love you so much. You didn't deserve this fate. You were supposed to live a long, happy life, have a kid and husband like you always wanted." By now, he had started crying, and wiped his eyes dry with the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

"It's my fault. If I hadn't come into your life, if we hadn't slept together, if I didn't bind us, you wouldn't be dead. How are you dead? You're supposed to live, no matter what. How're you dead?"

He received no answer, just as he expected. "And I'm just talking to myself..." Pete whispered. "I'm talking to a stone. You can't even hear me. I want to know how you were able to die in front of me when I've watched you live through much worse. How, Mikey?"

The wind blew, ruffling Pete's dark hair, and he stood up quickly, letting out a small grunt of pent-up anger. The only other thing on his mind at that moment was home, which is where he was headed after the cemetery. He tried to talk to Mikey at least every week, and the sessions always ended with Pete asking how Mikey had died.

He got to his apartment quickly, sighing in relief as he fell onto the couch cushion. He pulled off his coat and shoes, leaving them where they landed, and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling.

After a silent moment, Pete stood up and headed to his bedroom. In there was his bed, the sheets and blankets forming a small nest near the pillow, and he burrowed himself into the warmth. He didn't close his eyes just yet; he looked at the only picture of Mikey he allowed himself to keep. It stayed on the bedside table, in a simple wooden picture frame.

It was his mugshot. The only picture Pete had of his dead lover was his mugshot. He only kept the mugshot because of Mikey's smile in the picture: a smirk, almost as if he knew something that no-one else did. His eyes were bright and sparkling, as they always were, and his pale skin contrasted his hair, which had returned to its natural dark brown in the weeks leading up to his death.

Pete reached out for the frame and took it in his hands, bringing it back to him. "Mikey..." Pete whispered, closing his eyes and pressing the frame to his lips. He breathed deeply and reopened his eyes, placing the picture back where it belonged.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have at some point, because he was startled awake. The clock read 2AM, meaning he slept for ten hours, and the blue of the numbers was the only light in the room.

Then, he heard it: talking. Coming from the living room. Pete's heart took a swan-dive to his stomach and he slowly got out of bed, hoping that the floorboards wouldn't creak. He looked around for a weapon of any kind, before remembering the contents of his bedside drawer. He dropped to the ground quickly, opening the drawer and pulling it out. A Gloch; specifically, Ray's Gloch. Pete had kept it after that night, vowing to only use it to protect himself. And, boy, did he need protection now.

Slowly, he crept down the hall, towards the living room, his grip on the gun becoming tighter with each step he took. Through the crack between the closed hallway door and the floor, he could see the glow of the television and he stopped to listen.

Pete nearly dropped his weapon when he placed what it was. It was the news broadcast of Mikey's funeral, set to the end of Pete's speech. He remembered that he had shared a story quite different from what really happened, and that he made Mikey the obvious villain. "He killed many people for his own selfish purposes," Pete's voice said. "He tried to kill me. He kidnapped me, hurt me, did things that no loving boyfriend should do, all so that nobody would know what he really was... Michael Way was hateful, manipulative, vengeful, psychotic, and still I loved him. He was my everything; and all he saw me as was a target, just another name on his list."

Pete pushed the door open as the story changed. The room was dark, except for the television, and Pete stood transfixed, watching the television.

"In other news, a citizen of Belleville has disappeared. The head detective from Michael Way's case, Ray Toro, was reported missing by his wife early this morning. He was last seen at the Belleville Police Department last night, and has not been heard from since."

The television turned off and a noise came from Pete's right, from the kitchen. It sounded as if someone were clearing their throat, and Pete nearly fainted.

Someone was in his house.

Pete slowly walked backwards, towards where he knew a light switch was. He backed up against the wall with only a slight sound, and he adjusted his grip on the gun to grope along the wall.

Finally, his fingers found the switch and flicked it on, bathing the room in light. It took Pete's eyes a few seconds to adjust, and, when they did, he very nearly dropped the gun in shock.

It was impossible, but he was there. His hair was now dyed black, but that was the only difference. His usual dark jeans hugged his legs along with a black t-shirt, a leather jacket wrapped tightly around his body. A smile passed over his lips when he saw Pete. "Did I wake you?" Mikey asked, coming up to Pete. "I'm sorry, baby."

"No," Pete said quietly, his eyes locking on Mikey's face. "No, no, no. You're dead."

"I'm not, Petey," Mikey said gently, tenderly wrapping his arms around Pete's waist. "But Ray is. It's okay, baby. I know."

Pete carefully put the gun in the waist of his jeans, freeing his hands, and slowly buried his face in Mikey's shoulder. "I liked it," he whimpered. "I killed him, fed on him... I liked it, Mikey."

"It's okay," Mikey told him, running his hand down Pete's back. "It's fine. You had to, it's okay."

"It's not okay!" Pete yelled, tearing himself out of Mikey's grip. "It's not fine, Mikey! None of this is fine! I killed someone and loved it! I loved it, but I don't do it because I don't want to end up like you! You did the exact same thing, and you ended up dying! Now, I understand that we really can't die, but you did somehow, and I'll sort through that later, but I cannot live with how much I liked it! The fear in his eyes, the way his neck fit perfectly in my mouth, how intoxicating he smelled... I loved it, Mikey. And I hate myself because of it."

"Pete, honestly, you get used to it," Mikey said, trying to hold Pete again. This resulted in Pete throwing Mikey's arms off of him and pulling out the gun, pressing it over Mikey's heart.

"I swear, come any closer to me and I'll make sure you're dead," he snarled, cocking the gun menacingly. "And that you'll stay that way."

"Pete, please listen to me," Mikey pleaded. "I came here to try to let you know that I was okay. You can't shoot. Please."

"Yes, I can," Pete said. "I can shoot it six times."

"Stop and think about what you're doing," Mikey said, his hands shaking. "I love you, Pete, and I want you to know that I'm okay. Truly, I am. I had to disappear to make sure you would be protected."

"Protected?" Pete said again. His grip tightened and he let out a rueful laugh. "Yeah, you protected me all right. Now, I'm the cheapest hooker this side of Washington Street, and I contemplate killing myself every night. I mean, I thought the love of my life was dead; what else was there to live for?"

"What about Saint?" Mikey asked quietly, taken aback at Pete's statement.

"He doesn't know who I am yet," Pete said rather calmly. "What does it matter if I'm gone before he's here?"

"Well, whether you believe me or not, it's true. I protected you," Mikey said. "I let myself die so that William and Brendon and Spencer and God knows who else would stay away. They only wanted to kill you because I was there with you. Pete, I—"

"Don't you fucking dare start talking about being a martyr," Pete said harshly. "You're no martyr. You're a murderous, high-functioning sociopath. And the world would be better off without you."

Mikey was silent as he let Pete's words wash over him. "God..." He whispered finally. "You... Really hate me, don't you?"

"You ruined my life," Pete said roughly. "You basically kidnapped me, you fed on me— making me almost die— you made me a target. I'm doing this because of what you did to me."

Mikey took a deep breath before saying: "Even if you did shoot me, I wouldn't die."

"I literally just told you that I want to kill myself," Pete said and pressed the gun harder into Mikey's chest. "Silver bullets are the only thing that'll kill me, and I think they'll work on you just fine."

Mikey blinked once. "Fine, then," he said. "Kill me. Put me out of my misery."

"What misery?" Pete asked, his question coming out as a snarl without him meaning for it to.

"Pete, I thought that I had killed you when I turned you. I thought I had nothing to live for. I turned myself in, pleaded guilty, because I didn't want to live without you," Mikey started quietly. "I had made a deal with Ray that he would make sure I died when I got the injection; slip something in that was lethal to me. But... Something happened that day. I didn't die, and I was able to see Ray for a few seconds afterwards, while he drew up the final report. I asked him why I wasn't dead, and you know what he told me?"

Pete didn't answer verbally; his finger curled around the trigger, his breathing growing labored.

"He said two words: 'he's alive'. I instantly knew who he was talking about, and I tried to find you, but Ray told me not to. He never told me why he didn't want me to."

The room was uncomfortably silent, and Mikey watched as Pete slowly brought his arms down, dropping the gun and letting it clatter to the ground. "Mikey..." Pete whispered, moving closer to him until their chests were flushed together. He let out a single sob and hugged Mikey tightly.

It was a moment of tight embrace, followed by another moment of slight hesitation as Mikey leaned down and let his lips hover in front of Pete's, as if asking for permission.

Pete moved his lips forward to meet Mikey's, and he immediately melted into Mikey's chest, clutching the hem of his shirt in his fists. Mikey grasped Pete's hips, gripping tightly, before furrowing his eyebrows and pulling away. "Wait," Mikey said with a smirk as Pete kissed his neck. "Did you say you were a hooker?"

"Cheapest one this side of Washington. The best, I've been told," Pete said, biting gently at the skin on Mikey's neck.

"Really?" Mikey asked, leaning down again to kiss along Pete's jawline. "The best?"

"Yep," Pete confirmed. "I always take Wednesdays off, but I suppose I can slip you in."

"I intend on staying, thank you very much," Mikey whispered, moving his mouth back to Pete's and kissing him harshly. He pushed Pete against the wall roughly and pushed his legs open with his knee, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses on Pete's neck.

Mikey ran his hand down Pete's thigh, towards his knee, and suddenly hitched Pete's leg up around his waist, rocking his hips forward onto Pete's. Pete gasped and his hands flew up to Mikey's hair, pulling gently. With bated breath, Pete asked: "Bedroom?"

"Unless you want me to make love to you on this wall, yes."

Pete smiled at Mikey's answer and tugged him down the hallway, letting the bedroom door slam behind him. Mikey instantly took Pete in his arms again, kissing his lips and pushing his tongue in. Pete let out the smallest of moans, and Mikey tightened his grip around Pete before releasing him and pushing him back onto the bed.

Pete pulled his shirt off, discarding it next to the bed, and Mikey kissed down his chest until he got to Pete's nipple, raised and inviting. He closed his lips around the puckered flesh and Pete moaned, arching his back. His tongue encircled the area and his hands worked to unbutton Pete's jeans. Finally, the stubborn button popped open and Mikey removed his mouth from Pete's chest, pushing Pete's pants down his legs along with his boxers.

Mikey realized that he was still fully dressed while Pete lay completely naked underneath him. He pulled off his jacket for compensation and Pete's fingers scrambled underneath his shirt, pulling it over his head. Mikey let the shirt fall to the floor and slowly trailed his fingers down Pete's body, watching the effect he has on the man beneath him. Pete writhed at Mikey's touch, his eyes slipping closed blissfully and a sigh escaping his lips. "I love you," Mikey said, leaning down and softly claiming Pete's lips.

"I love you too," Pete said against Mikey's mouth, wrapping his legs around Mikey's waist.

Mikey rolled his hips down onto Pete's, making him moan out at the friction of the denim of Mikey's jeans against his already-hardening cock. "Fuck, Mikey," Pete moaned, tugging at Mikey's jeans. He wasn't able to do much to them other than pull them down to further expose Mikey's v-line, and Mikey moved them up the bed so that Pete's head laid on the pillow.

Mikey slowly made his way down Pete's body, taking special notice of the heart-bat tattoo he had missed so in the three months. He left a kiss in the middle of the heart, sucking on the skin for a moment before moving down and pulling Pete's legs over his shoulders.

"You know..." Mikey started, pressing a gentle kiss to Pete's hole. "I heard what you said, back in the cemetery. I was there, but I was too scared to say anything. I tried calling you, but I locked up when you answered. I heard what you said about me, and I have to say that..." He paused and dipped his tongue in, making Pete cry out in surprise and reach down to tangle his fingers in Mikey's hair.

"Say w-what?" Pete breathed as Mikey pulled out slightly and danced the tip around the hole. His muscles tightened at nothing, and he pulled on Mikey's hair again.

"I do this so well because you taste so good," Mikey finished his thought and moved his mouth to the skin of Pete's ass, capturing the skin with his teeth. "I can't get enough."

Pete moaned his lover's name and let his head fall back to look at the ceiling. He felt Mikey pull away and he heard the distinct sound of a zipper, and he nearly wanted to scream.

"Are you ready?" Mikey whispered, hovering over Pete once more, now fully undressed. His whole body ached with need, and his heart jumped when Pete nodded. He took a deep breath and slowly pushed in, feeling Pete tighten around him. "Oh, God," he breathed, his blunt fingernails digging into Pete's hips.

Once Pete was adjusted to Mikey's size, he pulled out slightly and pushed back in, hearing Pete let out a small hiss of discomfort, followed by a deep moan. "Does it hurt?" Mikey asked gently, moving slower.
"No," Pete said quietly, wrapping his arms around Mikey's neck. "Go faster."

"I don't want to hurt you, love," Mikey protested. "Anyway, I want to make love to you. That's different."
Pete was silent as he thought it over, finally kissing Mikey softly. "Okay," he agreed, and Mikey pulled out, thrusting his hips back towards Pete.

"I love you, Pete," Mikey whispered, leaning forward to gently kiss Pete's ear as he snapped his hips forward, fully burying himself inside of Pete. "God, you're so beautiful. I've missed you so much."

"Mikey," Pete moaned breathlessly, tightening around Mikey once more. He kissed Mikey's shoulder as he felt a dry pain course through his body at every one of Mikey's movements. He held back his discomfort, focusing on the pleasure that filled his veins.

The mattress squeaked beneath them in time with Mikey's thrusts, the sound almost melodic against Pete's moans and Mikey's whispers. "You're amazing, Pete," Mikey whispered, tightening his grip on Pete's hips. "So tight and warm. You're unbelievable, baby."

Pete nodded, pushing his hips up to meet Mikey's, who quickly decided that he didn't like that and forced Pete's hips back onto the mattress, keeping him there with an almost magnetic strength.
Mikey noticed that words were blooming on the ends of Pete's moans and he quietly asked: "What're you saying, baby? I can't hear you."

"Bite me," Pete whispered, dragging his fingernails down Mikey's back. "Please. I need to feel you."
Mikey started to argue that he was already inside of Pete, but he kept his comment to himself as he moved his mouth to Pete's neck, trying to maintain a sense of control.

Then, he caught a whiff of Pete's skin, of old books and ink and sweet skin, of the coffee and nicotine and the blood pumping through his veins, and his fangs pushed out. With that, he lost his self-control and sank his fangs into Pete's neck, drinking from the warm flow of blood.

Pete shivered at the feeling and moved his head to give a better angle. It still hurt like the last time, but now, he was expecting it and he could prepare himself for it. He had also been through a lot worse since the last time, and the pain paled in comparison to some of the pain he had felt more recently.

The blood turned Mikey on somehow, and he lost all pretenses of making love, now pushing in and pulling out as he moved his wet mouth away from Pete's neck, instead roughly kissing his lips.

Metallic. That's the first thing Pete identified about his blood when he tasted himself on Mikey's tongue. Then, a sweetness came, and Pete understood why Mikey had to force himself to stop drinking. He moaned into Mikey's mouth, and Mikey reached down, wrapping his hands around Pete's leaking cock. Kissing him the whole time, Mikey jerked Pete in time with his thrusts, tightening his grip when he brushed Pete's prostate.

"Mikey," Pete breathed, pulling his lips away. "I'm close."

Mikey kissed him once more and, when they separated, whispered: "Come on, baby. You can do it. Come for me, please."

Pete threw his head back and he tightened around Mikey once more as he came, covering Mikey's hand in his cum. He breathed hard, still vaguely aware of the blood flowing from the two small punctures on his neck.

Mikey watched Pete come, smiling when he closed his eyes and sighed blissfully. "Are you gonna come?" Pete asked quietly, opening his eyes and biting his bottom lip, still tinted red from his blood. "Come for me, Mikey, please. You're so beautiful when you come in me, please come."

Mikey said nothing as he came inside of Pete, both men moaning at the relief. Mikey almost immediately pulled out and rolled into his back, pulling Pete on top of him.

"You, mister, racked up quite the tab," Pete joked quietly, tightening his arms around Mikey's middle. "One of my most expensive clients."

"It's worth it," Mikey whispered, pressing a kiss to Pete's hair. "'Cause it's you, baby."

Pete sighed happily, burrowing his head in Mikey's neck. "Pete?" Mikey asked after a silent moment. "Why do you have my mugshot on your bedside table?"

"It's the only picture I have of you," Pete replied.

"And why do you have a gun?"

"It was Ray's, and I always kept it in case I need a weapon."

"Well, when you pointed that thing at me, it scared me half to death. It really wasn't the whole 'I have a gun pointed on me' thing that scared me, but it was the fact... The fact that you would actually shoot me," Mikey whispered.

"I was terrified," Pete quietly explained. "I really did believe you to be dead."

"Well, I'm not," Mikey whispered.

"I'm glad," Pete said, hugging Mikey tightly.

---

"Pete, baby," Mikey said quietly, gently kissing Pete's forehead. "Someone's at the door."
"Why don't you answer it, you nut?" Pete asked, smiling and lazily opening his eyes. Early morning light came through the window, and the clock read that it was only 4AM.

"It's your house, you nut," Mikey replied. "And I'm also kinda supposed to be dead."

"Good point," Pete said, rubbing his eyes and slipping out of Mikey's arms, finding a pair of jeans on the bedroom floor. He wasn't sure if they were his or Mikey's, but he pulled them on anyway.

"Pete?" Mikey asked from the bed, sitting up on his elbows. "You didn't put on underwear."

Pete raised a single eyebrow and said: "I thought you liked it when I didn't wear underwear."

"It's preferred," Mikey replied. "Go answer the door."

Pete smiled and left the bedroom, stopping in the bathroom to quickly wash the blood off of his chest and neck. His skin was tinted red, but the worst of it was gone.

He passed into the living room as a knock came from the door, sounding rushed and worried, almost. "Hold on!" Pete yelled and rushed to the door, taking no time to look through the peek hole as he unlocked the door and opened it.

Officer Saporta was behind the door, looking tired and shambled. "Can I help you, Officer?" Pete asked, trying to look nonchalant.

"We got a call at the station this morning that there was a break-in here, but we chalked it up to nothing, considering your history," Gabe said, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Then, we got a report of a violent disturbance at the same address, and figured something was up."

"Oh," Pete said quietly. "Nothing's going on here. Honestly, just trying to sleep with my boyfriend." Then, realizing what he said, amended his statement to: "I mean, not sleep with, but, like, fall asleep next to. And... Yeah, I just made this awkward, I'll shut up."

"Can I come in?" Gabe asked, looking over Pete's shoulder into the room.

"Umm..." Pete started and looked behind him, pretending to be examined the slight mess of his living room. His eyes immediately landed on the Gloch, the exact same model as the one in Gabe's holster. A police, government-issue weapon was on his living room floor, half hidden underneath the coffee table. "Yeah, give me two seconds to, like, clear up a bit, put on a shirt."

"Of course," Gabe said and Pete smiled as he closed the door.

"Shit," he whispered, immediately grabbing the gun and putting the safety on as he went to the bedroom. Before Mikey could even get a word out, Pete dropped the gun in his bedside drawer and whispered: "Officer Saporta is at the door. Stay back here, and I'll try to get rid of him quickly."

"Why is he here?" Mikey asked, sitting up and letting the sheets and blankets pool around his waist.
"Someone heard us fighting earlier this morning and called in a violent disturbance or some shit," Pete explained, finding his shirt and pulling it on. He landed a kiss on Mikey's forehead, muttering: "I love you."

"I love you too," Mikey replied, falling back down onto the bed, watching the ceiling as Pete left the room, closing the door.

"Sorry," Pete said as he opened the door, admitting Gabe in. "It's a real mess."

"That's alright," Gabe said, then asking: "How have you been doing? Since... You know."

"I've been, umm... I've been okay, I guess," Pete said, tugging on the bottom hem of his shirt.

"You said you had a boyfriend?" Gabe asked. "May I ask his name?"

"James," Pete said almost instantly. Then, remembering what Mikey had once said his grandmother's name was, added: "Rush."

"James Rush," Gabe repeated. "Good for you. And he's in the bedroom?"

Pete's heart started to beat quickly and he said: "Yeah. But he's asleep right now, so—"

"Pete, you're a good, understanding man," Gabe started and Pete's heart dropped. "So, I'll just tell you: the disturbance was reported to be between you and another man who you called 'Mikey' that you were threatening to shoot. I hate to say this, but I came here with a search warrant."

"A search warrant?" Pete asked. "What're you looking for?"

"You've been associated with Michael Way for months, and you and I both know that that casket was empty and the speech you gave at his funeral was fake," Gabe said. "I came here looking for Michael, Pete."

Notes

Sorry for the absence. Rate, comment, subscribe, all that good shit.
xoKristin