Before It's Voiced

Psychological

A/N: Updates may be the tiniest bit delayed for the upcoming weeks since I"ll be visiting family. I'll do my best but feel free to check my Tumblr for updates! Folie-Aplusieurs is the name, I try to keep people posted over there.

As always, all the love to chaotic-panda for being such an amazing beta <3

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psychological novel

noun

a work of fiction in which the thoughts, feelings, and motivations of the characters are of equal or greater interest than is the external action of the narrative

Pete's nightmares are a rest-cure in comparison to the following hours. Packing and preparing to leave, working so quickly that the blur of monsters in his mind never has time to separate into individual voices. Words make it through the cacophony every other second— now and finally and ours— but he knows better than to give into the bait. He knows better than to run back outside despite how deeply he wants to. It's night and the stars will still outnumber the moon, no matter how dim they seem each time Pete glances out a window. It's night— Patrick is safe under its shroud for the next few hours, at least.

Pete doesn't imagine any further than that; he wanders the house in a daze, almost numbed by the terror of it.

Better to pretend this night will last forever, he tells himself. Better to fall into daydreams where the sun is only a chain around his neck and the stars are all in Patrick's eyes. No skies or mornings or nights; he imagines a world where every light comes from the sunrise Patrick causes in Pete's veins.

But Pete's sun is sunken to the bottom of the sea and, as far as he's concerned, Patrick's eyes were dripping with tears the last time he saw him. And stars are not beings which can cry— if they had any emotion or feeling, they would have never let Patrick slip away from him like this.

So, Pete focuses on his packing. He turns his mind towards his preparations. He brought so little with him that it only takes a few hours to store away, stuffed up suitcases and half-filled bags lingering next to the doorway by the time the monsters have drifted into an eerie silence. Sleep or schemes, he's never been sure what they do at these times of quiet.

One more call to confirm with his mom that he's coming home. One more check on the plane tickets he bought last minute. The flight times are unfavorable— a handful of moments after midnight— but it was a better option than booking a plane leaving weeks from now.

Or, he thinks, it felt like a better option. Patrick can take care of himself, right? He's a siren and he has powers that were made to aid him. Pete has no reason to feel guilty for his sudden departure.

Right?

He shakes his head before doubts can answer. God knows he's had too many of those tonight.

Again, he checks the house for items he may have missed. A few objects scatter across the house but those were left on purpose— pens and notebooks placed haphazardly on a desk, sheets still folded at the foot of a bed. They're promises he will return, unspoken oaths that his absence won't be permanent. He's just going to visit his mom for a bit. He's just going to take a break from this absurdity and then he'll return. He has to, he's sure.

Still, as he shuts and locks the back door, it feels too much like finality.

And, when he finds himself in an open bathroom door, it feels like an already broken promise.

The bathroom's the one room he hadn't had the heart to clean out yet, towels and water covering the floor like a carpet of opposites. Small bubbles cling to the bottom of the tub. Water drips off the side. On the floor, fallen and forgotten, a rubber duck rests with its beak pressed unhappily against the ground.