Before It's Voiced

Thriller

I suck at author's notes but I wanted to say that I've seen a few people nominate me for some fandom fic award thing and like? That's the coolest thing. I'm new to fandom in general and to have your guys' support and stuff means a ton. I mean, I don't even really get what the awards are but they made my heart grow twelve sizes. Lol, thanks!

Also, beware of blood and stuff in this chapter

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thrill·er

noun

containing heightened feelings of suspense, excitement, surprise, anticipation and anxiety

For the first time in years, Pete takes joy in writing.

For the first time in years, pleasure entwines with each word and passion derives from each sentence. For the first time in years, Pete can't put down his pen.

For the first time ever, he doesn't want to.

Patrick's voice plays on repeat in his head like a soundtrack to the writing scene, the score for the movie this novel undoubtedly will be once published. He breaks every rule, ink staining the side of his hand and the keys of the typewriter punching into his fingertips. Adjectives and purple prose paint the page. Truth masquerading as a lie decorates the paper.

And Patrick's voice plays on.

Infatuation— this is the word Pete continues coming back to. The intensity causes his heart to race each time he confesses to the story before him. He writes of how it felt to fall into the water with Patrick, how it felt to have those hands gliding so strongly but so softly against his skin. Not one detail is left out— he can't afford to betray his memories in such a way. Everything but his writing is a blur as he describes the incredible proximity between himself and this being, between his own awed lips and Patrick's starry smile. Everything is but a stuttered heartbeat, a halted breath, as he pulls pretentious words for the bit about Patrick's eyes.

Everything is futile compared to the pages upon pages about Patrick's voice. His singing, his speaking, his laughing, his voice.

His voice.

The most impossible piece of him yet.

Pete's been writing since he left the beach, since Patrick glanced at the promise of morning and peeled away from his hold. Pete's been writing since he collapsed at his desk, a puddle of water beneath him and the stale feeling of salt upon him.

Pete's been writing since dawn and, though the sun now rests easily at its zenith, he shows no sign of stopping.

He has to write. He wants to write. His vision fuzzes over and his limbs ache but he needs to write.

One more sentence, he tells himself. One more word and then—

And then there is splashing outside.

Against the rhythm of the waves, against the soothing calm, there is a splash.

Pete's at his feet without a thought.

Patrick never comes to the surface at day— not when the stars aren't there to protect him, he claims. So Pete knows it must be children messing around, teenagers sneaking in. Pete knows it can't be the merman.

But that doesn't mean he can't dream.

He doesn't bother with shoes or closing the door as he hurries outside and onto the beach. The sand under his soles eases his mind even as the waves continue out of sync.