Before It's Voiced

Mythopoeia

Thank you to chaotic-panda for beta'ing

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mythopoeia

noun

a narrative genre in modern literature and film where a fictional or artificial mythology is created by the writer of prose or other fiction; the making of a myth or myths.

Patrick used to say that Pete was luck. He'd compare him to the charms he wore, to the myths the sirens would share. Bathed in bathroom lights and bandages, he'd wax poetic about Pete's character. The stars know all, he would claim, so they must have known Pete would be here to save Patrick from the existence he'd come to call a life.

It's not a lie Pete ever allowed himself to believe. If the stars knew all, they would know Pete is no gallant hero, no prince, and no true love.

Even now with dusk painting the horizon, the reminder that they've been resting on the beach all night, Pete can't help but hate the stars. He'd slept little throughout the night, waking occasionally to Patrick's jerking figure beside him, but his dreams were stained with nightmares. He imagines a life where Patrick forgets how his own voice sounds, where he loses the siren songs he was taught as a child. He dreams of gold fading from sea-blue eyes, of pale skin turning grey, of the shine in his hair going out.

He dreams of stars falling from the sky.

Patrick shifts beside him, restless as the stars spin indifferently above. Pete knows he couldn't have slept well, either. Though the night was warm and the waters were calm, Patrick's never been one to sleep at night. Is this another siren trait that's been stolen? Or is something else of himself that he's changed?

Patrick's hand digs into the sand beside him, dull nails pressing against the grains in a way that looks all wrong. His face scrunches up and his lips part, a sharp breath taking place of the whimper Pete knows he's trying to give.

Slowly, with shaking hands, Pete pulls the charm— the necklace, the weapon— away from Patrick's skin. He doesn't dare remove it from his neck entirely— it's not his place and it's not his choice— but even the slight relief crossing Patrick's face is enough to have Pete considering it. Streaks of red and violet curl around each other on Patrick's skin, violent signs of his body fighting the changes happening from the inside out. Shallow breaths fill the air, his chest trembling with each inhale as if his ribs aren't quite in place. Worse, though, are the vibrant burns and blisters alongside the broken blade, lightning strikes embedded into the pale expanse of his skin.

Before, when Patrick was bleeding out in his bathtub and sinking into his own despair, he had been a car crash Pete couldn't tear his eyes from— the beauty of a storm tossing a ship against the waves, the ethereal sight of electricity running from the sky to the sea. In those moments, Patrick could be anyone and anything. He was magic and promise and a heroic story waiting to happen— a fairytale, a myth, a legend to be told in every year to come.

But now Patrick's become a man thrown off the crashing ship, the bystander struck by a crashing car. It's real and it's tangible and, for once, Pete finds himself looking away. If he stares for too long, he can see every minuscule hint of pain— every sign that Patrick wanted anything but this. He made this decision, yes, but Pete has to wonder what forced his hand first.

Like this? Human and speechless, burned and dying? Patrick's not the happy ending at the end of a fairytale; he's become a character in one of Pete's own books. Tragically damaged and wounded all because Pete put his pen to paper and bled.

Pete stands, every joint aching with regret as he pulls himself forward and up. With Patrick asleep, it's easier for Pete to look towards the stars as they gaze down at this scene. Eyes of gold and ominous knowledge, a power that Pete didn't know he believed until Patrick's lips were on his own. The horizon bleeds a dangerous shade of sunrise, orange and red against the black and white of night. Pete ignores the daybreak— the colors are too like the wounds marring Patrick's skin.