The Emo Mafia

•My name's Blurryface•

Three days later, Pete is interrupted while eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream. He had a day off to relax at home, so why not eat ice cream in front of old reruns of Friends? But the interruption just so happened to be a knock on the door. At ten p.m.. Okay, what the hell?

"Who the fuck...?" Pete mutters annoyedly as he gets to his feet and walks into the foyer. He gets to the door and pulls it open, a little surprised by who he finds on the other side.

"What are you doin' here, Patty?" Pete asks, confusedly.

Patrick purses his lips and glances down at his feet a moment before looking Pete in the eye. "Can I come in?"

Pete widens the opening between the door and the frame, moving aside. "Sure." Then Patrick steps by him into his home.

"I've been seein' a lot of you lately." Pete closes the door and crosses his arms over his chest. "Not that I mind. You here to search me again?"

The fed simply shakes his head.

"Need me for another lineup?"

Another head shake.

"You turn me in?"

Patrick shakes his head again.

"Jeez, Red, then what the hell do you want?" He threw his arms in the air out of frustration.

Patrick opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a sudden gunshot. It puts a hole in Pete's front door nearly nicking him in the shoulder. At first the two just stand there, not sure whether to move or forget about it. But then more shots go off like a hurricane, someone outside has a tommygun. Pete picked the wrong day to give everyone the day off.

Pete thinks fast and tackles Patrick to the floor in an attempt to protect him, ducking his head down and covering Patrick's body with his own. More and more bullets cut holes into Pete's home, not letting up for a single second. Whoever it is attacking them must really want them dead, or at least send them a pretty hefty warning. Pete holds Patrick's body closer to him as Patrick grips the front of Pete's shirt.

"Did you bring them here?!" Pete shouts over the gunshots.

"If I wanted you dead I'd kill you myself!" Patrick yells back, tightening his grip.

Then the shooting suddenly stops and they can hear the distant slamming of car doors, screeching tires, and laughing. Pete can't remember the last time something like this has happened, in fact, this never happened before. What's he supposed to do about this? A fed just witnessed gang activity, even more shit that he could report if he finds out who it was that attacked.

Pete lifts himself up enough to look at Patrick directly, he looks a little scared but seems fine otherwise. "You okay?"

"I...you...why?" Patrick stutters, now more confused than afraid.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you protect me?"

Pete shrugs and sighs. "I'm sure it was just a reflex, like in the movies or somethin'." He gets to his feet then holds his hand out for Patrick to take, hauling him to his feet once he does.

"Well, thanks anyway."

"'Course Pattycakes. But, um, you probably shouldn't go anywhere else tonight."

"Why, were those guys after me?"

"I don't know, Red. It's just a precaution." Pete takes a look around and grimaces at the sight. "This place is a fuckin' mess."

Patrick nods slightly in agreement. "Sorry about your home." He mutters.

"Don't worry about it, s'not your problem. Now are you gonna answer my question?"

"What question?"

"What are you doin' here?" He asks as he heads to the front door, opening it and poking his head out to make sure no one was lingering around.

Patrick avoids the question again but Pete was too distracted to notice. He found something on his front porch, a message written in what looked like black spray paint.

Blurryface, is what it read.

Patrick notices that Pete is staring down at the floor for an unnaturally long time and goes to peek too. He gets on his toes and looks over the other man's shoulder.

"Blurryface?" Patrick asks. "They're after you?"

"I think I know what this is about." Pete mutters mainly to himself then goes to call Joe.