Before It's Voiced

Tragedy

Love to chaotic-panda for beta'ing <3

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tragedy

noun

a play dealing with tragic events and having an unhappy ending, especially one concerning the downfall of the main character.  

They greet the dawn with languid murmurs and somnolent kisses, fingertips scattering stars across skin and scales as if this alone can make the night last forever. Patrick breathes Pete's name with a shaking exhale and Pete returns with a sigh of his own.

"Patrick," he says as anchors line themselves around his being. He could stay here forever, given the chance, he's sure. "Patrick."

Patrick keeps a hand caught in Pete's hair, resting amongst the dripping and curling locks. He smiles at the changing shape, blinking as water gets caught on the tips. It's not as extreme a change as it would have been years ago, not the tight spirals he'd fought so hard to hide, but it's enough to have Patrick bouncing his palm off of it, content in the harmless shift.

"Humans can become so many things," he says and Pete knows he's not speaking merely of hair or curls. "Of all the human things I envy, this is nearly the greatest."

Pete doesn't bother to explain that not even a human, with their best technology and toys, can create a way to keep them together. He doesn't ask if Patrick's magic can find a solution for them, either.

"Nearly?" He asks instead, a master at picking apart the words that don't matter. "And what do you envy the most?"

"I would think it obvious," Patrick says, tracing constellations on Pete's cheek with his free hand. "I have said before that humanity is lucky to have you."

Yes, Patrick has said this before but, this time, it sends new crackles of lightning into Pete's veins, warming him with the static promise of destruction on the horizon.

"Yeah, well," he says, looking away. "I just wish I could give all that luck to you."

Soon

Neither speaks after that.

As the minutes drift by, seconds lost in an all-consuming sea, Patrick's exhaustion grows more evident. His tail twitches with an attempt to stay awake. His blinks grow slower and slower. His grip on Pete becomes loose.

"Pete," he says, nothing more than a whisper. Pete accepts it with a gentle smile, tracing Patrick's lips with the tip of his finger.

"Patrick," he says. "You need to sleep."

He pulls himself free from Patrick's arms with more trouble than he should. Chains tug at his eyes and limbs in an attempt to keep him beneath the waves of false hope and temporary joy. Cooled water seeps into his skin as he pushes himself up, giving him an excuse to shudder when Patrick's touch lingers before fading away completely.

It's no surprise when his clothes weigh him down and he knows he should change. The thought, though, of leaving Patrick for a second— a minute of selfishness, an exchange of dwindling moments for a meaningless comfort— keeps him in place. Heavy-heartedness sinks him to the floor. The once-plush towel feels thin beneath his knees, all pretense of comfort gone. He turns, resting his head on his arms upon the edge of the tub. It takes a while to find a position that doesn't yank his neck or back in an unnatural way but, then, what about this is natural?

"Pete," Patrick says once more like that night he first learned it. And then he speaks like he was born with the letters on his tongue, the way Pete first opened his eyes with unwritten stories etched on his soul. "Pete."