Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/291703.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz, Tyson_Ritter/Patrick_Stump
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Tyson_Ritter, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Drug_Use
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-10-18 Words: 1496
****** green-blue-red ******
by megyal
They never found his body. I don't think they really looked. He was just some
foster kid; he fell outside the lines and I was supposed to watch out for him.
My mom was pretty pissed that she lost all that government money; she said it
was my fault.
(She was right. It was all my fault).
*
I lived in the haze of up-the-nose, sliding (slide in) needles, veins, green-
blue-red (oh the colours pretty colours oh) and I don't know how I lived, I
don't know how I survived it all. I did and he didn't and he never did
anything. He was just very unfortunate to be in my presence and what the hell
was I supposed to do? I was a kid and he was even more of a kid, but his eyes
were too old (too wise and probably they were his demise because they were very
pretty). Green-blue-(red) and such lovely shades in between. At one point I
thought they looked like the sea. I've never seen the sea.
Green-blue.
Red.
He had red hair. He had blonde hair. I never could decide what it was.
Strawberry-blonde. That's what he told me, shy of his own voice, one of the
first things he said to me when the social worker brought him over. I had just
taken a hit, so I was in a fairly good mood, and I actually retained what he
said to me that time.
(His hair was caught in someone's hands his hair was pulled on it was fairly
long)
He lived with us for two years, I think. He was a good kid. Quiet and bright. I
think. His teacher told me so, when I would come by to get him. She said he
needed more friends. I can almost see her now, looking over her glasses at me,
her eyes clearly saying no friends like you. But he would be sort of smiling at
me, and he would get up and walk slowly behind me, deferential, reverential.
No friend like me.
Let me tell the truth; in those two years I didn't care. I didn't care that he
looked at me like I farted the sun and belched the moon. I didn't care that
every move I made, he was my shadow, although I was doing so much shit that my
own shadow was ashamed to be near me.
(It was all his fault. Smart kid like that should have known better than to
stick around someone like me).
*
My mother was screaming at me on that morning. I could hardly hear what she was
saying and it was pissing me off. Why that bitch didn't learn to talk properly
was beyond me. But she came up the cramped hallway (I could almost feel the
underfed walls trying to press away from her) and then she burst into my room.
It was where he slept too, but it was my room. She had kicked my door in (she
had a hatred for door-handles) and glared at me, her hair still in pink
rollers.
"Fuck, Pete. Didn't you hear me calling?"
No bitch. I didn't, but the Paulsons the next street over sure did.
"What the fuck do you want?" I was trying to be polite. This was my mother.
Unfortunately.
"Where the hell is Patrick?"
Before I could stop myself, I craned my head to look over at his bed, empty and
spread neat. She crossed her hands over her housecoat and raised her eyebrows.
"You both went out last night and only you came back. I swear to god, if he ran
away again, I'll kill him when he gets back."
"I don't-" But I did. I did know. I think she saw in my face that I got a
little frightened, and her own premature-old, caffeine-yellowed skin, drew up
into itself and she was still mad, but now she was scared herself.
(She knew my crowd.)
*
I told the cops I didn't remember anything. I told them that he and I went to
Tyson's place, I blew my mind and woke up the next morning at home. Without
him.
I lied, though. It's like...flickers. Shutter-snaps.
I think he was broken in the worst way, and I was there. I didn't care.
(I think that broke him more than anything).
*
Patrick watches me as the needle slides home, home (I could never find my way
home) and his eyebrows are pulled together, a line as thin as this needle
pressed in between those brown brows, his mouth slightly parted (he's shocked,
poor thing, this is the first time he's here with me) and I laugh, and breathe
for the first time in forever and Patrick is moving away from me.
Tyson is pulling him away.
I am so happy that he's moving away, he was practically in my lap at that
table, the wooden table that Ryan had kicked over once when he was going
through seizures and Patrick is yelling at me but I am too high (ionosphere)
and he is still yelling but now I'm practically in space and what did that guy
say again? In space. No-one can hear you scream.
I'm standing-swaying in the middle of the living-room, I'm staring down,
looking at the fancy carpet Tyson brought in last month, and I'm tracing the
red curlicues with my eyes and I hear him again. A low, loose sound. He's not
yelling anymore. And the noise is still lost in the space between my heart and
my head.
(The curlicues are blonde now).
*
When I finally float into the bedroom, pulled in by this drumbeat sound, I find
Tyson on top of him, trapping him in that small broken mattress. Tyson's pants
are pulled down, his ass milky-white, and stark against the line of his tan,
going up and down, rough, harsh, and he has one of Patrick's bare legs
stretched up and out, gripping so tight that there are bands of red around his
thigh and leg. I can see Tyson's cock pistoning, and when I move around and get
a better angle, Patrick's hole looks reddened, bruised, consumed. The skin
around it is enflamed too, and I know Tyson didn't take his time.
He's not taking his time now, and he's biting Patrick on the collarbone, and
Patrick's hat is lonely on the floor.
Patrick's eyes are green-blue. Red.
Tyson must have punched him in the face, because one of his eyes is puffy all
around and there is red all around the green-blue. Tyson's other hand is in his
hair, pulling it back and Patrick is still pushing at him, but Tyson is too
much, too tall. He looks skinny, but he's a strong motherfucker.
Green. Blue. Red strands of hair are all over the pillow, and the back of the
bedhead is slamming against the wall, and Patrick is trying to get away,
struggling towards me, but I'm still floating away, red curlicues. Tyson is
laughing. He has a laugh like a hyena. He has his prey. Devoured.
I float back out, and I think I hear Patrick calling my name and the hyena is
still laughing and those red curlicues are dripping and this is some sweet shit
Tyson has me on, I will sell my soul to get some more. I will not only sell my
own soul, I will sell the soul of a boy with green-blue eyes and strawberry-
blonde hair, because Tyson saw him at my gate waiting for me one day and
thought he was perfect. Perfect for this.
Whose soul is next?
(I float home).
*
I tried to get clean.
It took a long while.
I made a first step when they found Patrick's hat nearby the river, snagged in
some of those lovely river-reeds that talk in sorrowful whispers. It was
bloodstained (red curlicues) and I was crying when they showed it to me, but
mostly it was for myself, because I was so afraid that the cops would accuse
me. They didn't find Tyson, either.
(I don't think they really looked).
*
Four years later, I'm still crying, but now it's because everywhere I turn I
see green, blue and red, I see a flash of pale skin, I see a red mouth caught
in a wry smile, I see a hat with the words White Sox on it, and the needle
called me home tonight, pointing straight back here in my mother's house that
is failing in its purpose, sitting on the bed that used to be his (she never
got any more foster kids in this house), and I think I saw him peek out from
the mirror awhile ago, his eyes dark (no green no blue) and burning and I said
I was sorry, but he only smiled coldly and demanded in a curiously wet voice,
"Give me my hat."
I bought a new one for him. A Bulls' hat.
(I hope he likes it).
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