Before It's Voiced

Suspense

sus·pense

noun

a state or feeling of excited or anxious uncertainty about what may happen.

Cold concrete kisses Pete's hands as he trips over an uneven piece of sidewalk, colorful curses leaving his lips as he shoves himself back up to his feet. Though few others are around, he swears he feels mocking stares on his shoulders and back. With a dissatisfied humph, he hides his scraped hands in small pockets and continues his walk to the store. With the sun beaming down relentlessly and no sign of wind in sight, it had seemed like a nice day for a walk.

But, then, he hadn't realized he's come to accept sand as default ground texture.

He's made a habit of visiting Patrick each chance he gets, sneaking out at dusk every night for the past week or so. The first few nights had been as strange as the first, Pete yawning and trying to hide how non-nocturnal humans are supposed to be. Patrick might have noticed, mouth mimicking Pete's in a seemingly subconscious manner. It had made Pete laugh, a sound which caused Patrick to grin. He performed the action again and again until Pete finally defined a yawn to him. Patrick had narrowed his eyes in determination and shut his gills— an ability Pete hadn't considered before, watching them press down as Patrick pulled himself nearly completely out of the water— and tried it for himself. His excitement at such a mundane activity was enough to demolish any and all awkwardness that may have remained. The following nights were more like acquaintances meeting up, sharing jokes and teasing back and forth.

It's been... nice.

But it's also been inspiring. Patrick reveals details of his life, of his existence, each night, whether he means to or not. He compares Pete's world and culture with his own, small remarks that leave huge questions— questions Pete doesn't know how to ask. Patrick speaks of the stars and moon and sand as if they can hear him. Patrick behaves like a child with a secret, like an old man who's seen too much.

He behaves like a book with every other page torn out. No matter how he learns, Pete can only write the barest of plot amongst the world of details.

Not that it's stopped him from writing, though. No, the light of the sun always rests upon drying ink as Pete dries himself, his hair almost always smelling like the sea. Pete's schedule has shifted to focusing on Patrick, writing about Patrick, thinking about Patrick, dreaming.

Pete reaches the store, at last, shaking these thoughts from his head.

Before long, he finds himself in Mr. Urie's shop again, his mind set on coffee and energy drinks. Oh, he'd shunned them back in the city— his mind was awake enough for day and night— but something about the ocean wishes to lull him to sleep. Something about the stars causes his eyelids to slip as Patrick speaks.

Even something about Patrick himself makes Pete feel as if he's betraying his nightmares and dreams.

Brendon's in the back when Pete enters, sweeping with earbuds in. Pete sighs at the sight, allowing the door to slam as he sneaks towards the drinks. He's debating between Red Bull and Monster when he's approached.

"Oh. I was wondering when we'd see you again."

Mr. Urie.

Fighting back a grimace, Pete turns, both drinks in his hands. "Hey, nice to see you, too."

Mr. Urie raises an eyebrow and Pete's certain the man's in need of a wolf-head cane to match his stiff posture and myths.

Not, of course, that his myths are really myths, per se.