Archive of Our Own

The snow was falling surprisingly steady outside, a curtain of white over a beautiful world filled with lights and laughter that Patrick had yet to discover. He downed the remains of amber in his glass, not without having shaken it around a couple times and went back to filling paperwork, his eyes stopping on their track as they met the little picture he kept upon his desk. He took the standing picture frame and gently folded it, holding it near his heart for a couple seconds before he lay it face-first upon the desk.

He was gonna need more scotch.

The room was illuminated solely by a vintage oil lamp, its fire wavering every now and again. The former was large and mostly empty, much of its space taken up by a gigantic, snobbish fireplace. The curtains – the actual ones – that framed the thick window had some extravagant pattern on it, which suited well the mint green walls decorated with drawings of butterflies and flowers, in addition to the chunks of mirror. Patrick had hated it the moment he’d seen it, and that was just the beginning. A little further from where he sat, there was a bedroom, that he’d also very soberly furnished for the décor was enough to make your head spin. At least it was very far from an army tent.

Atop the intimidating fireplace’s mantel sat a radio, and from it fused the warm sound of Eileen Barton’s voice.

If.. I.. a-knew you were comin’ I’d’ve baked a cake~

Patrick made his way from the desk to his bed unsteadily, not taking the time to shed his clothes, simply falling into it.

It would be another very lonely Christmas, it seems. As they had all been. Very, very lonely. His fingertips caressed the silk under him. What use… what use..

*

It had taken months for people down in hell to get used to the idea that Pete was just a whole different type of weirdo, but they’d eventually realized. In the circle he was in, they weren’t all that bad, just hit on him a lot. Maybe it was because people liked machos more than they’d like to admit, maybe they were sick of dresses and girl names, maybe it was because Pete was so damn hard to get.. But he had never given into temptation. He remembered, he remembered so clearly, and every day he prayed with every inch of his damned soul to have even so little as one minute back in the land of the living, he just needed to see the love of his life.

After he did get used to it, however, hell wasn’t half bad. Again, the circle he was in. It was only full of homosexuals, adulterers and promiscuous women, which Pete didn’t consider sins worthy of going to hell for, but he didn’t make the rules.

Every now and then, The Elders who made up the council had reunions to reevaluate sentences, but their idea of what the “straight life” should be was so outdated that they never came to anything fruitful, to anything innovative. Instead, they bathed in their prejudice and reinforced their hatred.

“So, how are you in this fine morning, lonely boy?”

“I ain’t lonely.” Pete argued with a shrug, looking at his fellow damned soul.

The man in front of him stood straight and tall. Argali-like horns had, after all these years, grown heavy and intimidating on either sides of Gabe’s head, but his side-smile immediately annulled any fright the sight could’ve given you.

“Sure you ain’t. Come on, we’ll go to that one bar, listen to some jazz, get real drunk, mess around.. Once you hit rock bottom, Peter...” Gabe chuckled, the fiery flames burning passionately inside his eyes, they had so much life in them.

“I know, but..” Pete gazed into a small puddle of ink-like water. It looked just like the Styx, save for, of course, the size of it. “I can’t. I love him.”

“Pete, don’t be stupid, he’s going to die, sure, many many years from now..” Gabe said softly, laying a hand upon Pete’s left shoulder, his head coming to rest on the opposite one. His fingers walked down the man’s arm. “And his pretty soul is going to go up up up to heaven, babey.”

Pete pushed him away, “Why would he! He’s just as guilty of lying with a man as I am!”

“Oh please, Petey, that’s what they want you to believe, darling. You ain’t in hell because you’re fag! You’re here because you k--..” Gabe relaxed his shoulders, sighing. “Oh darling, never you mind what I said.”

“Come again?”

“I don’t know-- I don’t know, it may not be true.. That’s what they’re saying up there, though.”

“How would you know?”

Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, shrugging. “It’s just what they’re saying! You know, you hear it from this one, you hear it from that one, and suddenly it’s as good as true when you haven’t got nothing else to believe in!” He defended himself.

Pete fell silent for a couple of seconds.

“I miss him terribly. I miss him so that each morning my insides twist up at the thought of the future we were supposed to have. I miss him so that I’d ought to kill myself if I weren’t already dead.”

“Stop with that nonsense, Wentz, we’d better get to work again before they find we’ve been slacking.”

“You’re right, Gabe. I’m sure glad I’m in this circle of hell and not the one where they get tortured everyday. We ain’t got it so bad.”

The company of two resumed their sewing – a supposedly humiliating thing for men to do, or something, and of course, with those needles that seemed to have a mind of their own, pricking their fingertips with each movement, it was no pleasant work. Their workplace was a seemingly abandoned warehouse that wore holes as its only decorations. It reminded Pete of the places where they’d leave the injured soldiers sometimes – any building that still had walls to it did the work, they just had to be hidden and guarded from the weather. Being here every day, it was so hard not to think of Patrick’s gentle touch upon his skin, his soft voice, reassuring him, telling him it’d be over soon, telling him they’d have a future then, one with a little house, once all of this would be over. They’d have such a nice little house, cozy and warm, far away from the bleak skies and the loudness of war. No one would have to know, they could just disappear, they could just desert this god forsaken place.

“It’ll be alright kid, just breathe, breathe, come on..”

“Pat-Patrick, the things, the things I did...”

“They were going to kill you, you didn’t have a choice. Come on kid, this is what you signed up for! Uncle Sam wouldn’t like you chickening out like this!”

Pete lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning up.

“You didn’t. Is that it?”

He shook his head, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket in sharp, staccato movements.

“That’s a shame, Peter… Come on boy, War can’t go on forever.” He landed an encouraging pat on the younger man’s back.

“Back to work, Wentz, unless you want to see the actual flames of hell.” A voice barked out into his ear and Pete jumped.

“Yessir,” and so he went back to sewing and pricking his fingers, scarring his hands over and over again. At least the wounds closed up fairly quickly...

*

The first few years after the end of the war had been truly catastrophic. As the survivors came back from deserted land where death was the least of your concerns and into the mundanity of daily life, many of them saw their reality crumble between their fingers. On the battlefield, the goal was to survive the next second for most of them. It was so tough that everything else would slip their minds every now and again, for they didn’t have time for it. It was cold and humid most of the time, regardless of where they were, it was cold, humid, loud and overall very unpleasant, as wars tend to be. To Patrick, it wasn’t so bad. His job was to help people out, to feed them little bits of hope as one feeds pigeons little bits of bread, to patch them up, sew them back together so they’d be functional back on the field, or mostly, anyway. Even then, even protected by the red cross on white cloth wrapped around his arm, he’d seen the worst atrocities of his life; people bleeding out, people dying before his very eyes without him being able to do anything about it. Worst part is, most of them, he’d known for months, he’d cracked a few jokes with, had a few conversations, yet, it wasn’t unusual to find one of his companions dead somewhere, or to ask someone where he was only to learn they were no longer.

Patrick spent every waking hour back there taking care of someone. Naturally, he saw his fair share of homosexuals come and go. He had this little trick for finding out-- their whole body, their posture, the way they presented themselves, whether he could get them to admit or not. Rumors were that men who wanted men would no longer be considered apt to serve in the army. They’d be sent to asylums and treated, all that.

Patrick could remember vividly the first time he’d talked to Pete. The kid was young and cocky then, though without the pride of one who chooses to integrate the troops. He did not have much time to grow up in Europe…

“So, what will you do once the war is over?” Patrick asked, looking at the gentlemen as they ate and played cards, illuminated by a soft, yellowish glow. Outside, one could almost feel the presence of the enemy.

“I’ll go home to my girl.” The oldest-looking of them answered, running a dirty hand through brown hair.

“I plan to help my old man with his farm – he’s wanted me to do it for years. Learn the job… And you, Peter?”

“I dunno. I’d like somewhere to call my home, that’s all. Maybe the sweet embrace of a lover’s arms.” The kid responded, as expected. In a sea of rough and dark, his traits stood out because of the softness of them, the kind, patient look in his eyes. He did not wish to kill, and he did not wish to be killed.

“Me too...” Had Patrick responded then, his head bowed slightly. Maybe beginner’s luck could help the kid out.

Truth is, Pete was terrible at killing and amazing at being killed, as they would learn later on.

*

“Patrick… I-I think I… shot someone.” He cried against his shoulder one night. Outside, the incessant noise that seemed to populate every area affected by war replaced Christmas carols around this time. Pete’s body tensed up with every little sound, holding onto Patrick like he were his lifeline, his knuckles white against the harsh fabric. Patrick ran his fingers in Pete’s hair then, hoping he could dull the noise every time his hands brushed over Pete’s ears.

‘That’s kind of the point...’ Patrick thought, not voicing it. Instead, he shushed Pete, letting him bury his face against his chest.

They stayed there until the sky turned pinkish, and then blood red as the sun went up. The soldier had fallen asleep.

*

Patrick watched as the fake snow fell down in the translucent globe, decorating fake little houses and roads. He could bet they were full of fake people pretending to be happy. He could use some happiness, even if it was fake.

Winter had that thing about it where everything melted into one gigantic white mass – rooftops and porches, skies and ground alike, they became one indivisible fabric. Some could’ve ran their fingertips on it, could’ve painted it the colors of life, others would’ve ripped it to pieces under their unforgiving nails just to see the sun. Patrick hadn’t been granted the gift of free will. He was but a puppet directed by a merciless master, at the mercy of life’s violence and the elements. Holding his hands close to his chest as he walked, he’d blow on them every now and again as he hurried towards the closest guarded area.

Abandoned on his desk, back home, lay thousands of letters without a correspondent or a return address.

*

“Listen, I know you don’t usually allow this but.. I, I really miss him and-- It’d be only one night, just, give him a merry Christmas with his boyfriend. Then, I’ll do whatever you want! Just let me see him one last time, please.” Pete’s voice was almost begging. It reverberated in the enormous room as his eyes explored it. He’d never been here before and he felt like an ant drowning in an ocean of marble black. The walls were decorated with white pieces of engraved limestone, representing little demons running around, gargoyles screaming and angels with agonizing faces. A imposing hole in the wall seemed to be an ever-burning fireplace, yet Pete could feel his carnal body shiver.

“I don’t, indeed.” A voice replied, seemingly coming out of nowhere, also echoing in the empty room, but it was about two octaves lower than Pete’s, smooth like the polished rock he stood on. In comparison, his voice was pure gravel, lacked the seducing warmth and dark undertones, lacked dimension. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you go just one night, see what you can do.”

Pete cocked an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t this be more complicated?”

“Oh no, you should know better than to ask things from The Devil, sweetheart. You do know what they say about playing with fire...”

You’re bound to get burned.

He’d never gotten the guts to ask before, but now had seemed a good time. See, he was getting pretty good at this whole sewing thing, hadn’t been slacking much, had been nice and polite to everyone, done a few favors…

Besides, he just knew The Devil was pretty easy to convince when someone’s whole soul was placed into hands for very little. Right now, at the circle he was in, there wasn’t much The Devil could do, but by making a deal like this, as he slit his hand open and let his black, sticky blood pour out, freezing mid-air to form some sort of web, he really, really could no longer be saved by anyone, not even God if there is one.

A feeling of pure, excruciating pain shot through his spine and the room faded to black.

“Merry Christmas, loverboy.”

*

Knees dirty, a teenager Patrick was making his way to church. He’d been playing tackle with a few of his friends just minutes ago, before annoying adults decided to be, well, annoying and pry his friends and he out of their half-imaginary world where they were living crazy adventures to drag them into about an hour of some priest saying deep stuff and ladies gossiping to each other about the town’s whore. He frankly did not care much for all this, would rather continue playing in the dirt, but he wasn’t really being given a choice.

The sun was shining blindingly bright up in the aggressively blue skies, white clouds like they ripped the world’s ceiling off at some bits.

They walked hurriedly, Patrick taking his hat off as soon as he was in. There wasn’t anything Great about the late 20’s, his shoes were torn and so were his clothes, which his mother spent so much time working on to repair. In times like these, you had to pretend everything was fine. He’d been too young to really appreciate the roaring 20’s with their craziness yet here he was suffering the aftermaths of adults being stupid and truly, if there was a God above, he hoped for humanity to be wiped out because surely by now God could only be very angry.

Patrick raised his eyes from the wooden floorboards for the first time that day when the priest coughed loudly into his elbow. His gaze traveled to the altar, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Something dripped onto his forehead. He reached to wipe it and there was the priest again, smiling, smiling until his cheeks ripped from the corner of his lips. The priest’s eyes rolled back in their orbit, vessels popping inside them and tainting white with red, leaving pinkish behind. His mouth opened mechanic-like, revealing two rows of sharp teeth.

“Good morning, Patrick.”

His eyes flew open. Ceiling, window, ceiling, window. Window? Patrick stood, shivering as he quickly slammed the window shut. How could he have forgotten…?

Taking a deep breath, he waited until his heart rate slowed down, looking at the passing automobiles. Some of them were filled to the brim with mysterious boxes, possibly kid’s gifts. They illuminated the road as they went by, tranquil.

Patrick took a few steps back then turned around, taking the empty bottle on his nightstand to the kitchen and getting himself some water, his breathing still uneven; the slightest sound made him jump.

Three knocks at the door. Patrick walked towards it, hissing slightly as his fingertips met the coldness of the handle before twisting it open. Cold air reminded him that he was only in a nightgown.

“Good evening.” A known voice said, rich and velvety. Patrick’s eyes traveled from the man’s black shoes to his dress pants, to his white shirt to his.. lazy grin, whiskey eyes, hair falling however it wanted, one strand partially covering his eye. “Long time no see.”

A breath escaped Patrick’s lips, turning white as it hit cold air. The universe collapsed onto itself. A supernova-gone-blackhole. Flash of lights or lack thereof. Time and space warped into one point. A sponge for the matter. His thoughts were yanked out of his mind more than they flew out the window. They picked up their suitcases and walked out the door. He gulped. The caress of cold wind forced him to blink.

Patrick’s knees were threatening to give out underneath him, he held onto the wall.

The man invited himself in, looking up at the walls and around the little hall. “It’s a nice house you’ve got here. You live with anyone?”

“N-No?”

Pete turned around to look at Patrick, his eyes glittery. “Splendid. I was hoping you’d say just that!” He grabbed Patrick’s face between his rough, scarred hands, bringing him closer, and for the split of a second, Patrick could swear they were the only two living beings in the whole world. He felt surprisingly awake for the ungodly hour Pete had chosen to appear at, and decided that even if this was most likely a dream, he’d better make the most of it.

“If you don’t kiss me right now, Peter, I will throw you right out my house.” Patrick threatened with a chuckle before Pete smashed his lips against his, kicking the door shut behind him, and with it, destroying with it the darkness of the night and the glitter of the snow, the laughter, the music and the lights.

Pete pulled away slightly, resting his face into Patrick’s neck to breathe. The latter ran his fingers through Pete’s hair, close to his scalp, feeling his lover relax against him, letting out a little sound as Patrick’s thumb ran over a bump.

“Wait – Don’t be scared!” Pete exclaimed before Patrick could even react. “I went to hell, that’s… yeah.”

Patrick considered it for a few seconds before deciding to just go with it. “That’s… Alright. You’re here now.”

“Yeah. Didn’t bring a present though.” Pete said softly, smiling wickedly as he looked into Patrick’s eyes. “Guess you’ll have to unwrap me.”

Patrick was quick to discover Pete had changed just a little bit, and that change was in the little nubs protruding from his skull. He not only had feeling in them, he had tons of feeling in them, as if they were composed solely of nerve endings. Pete would practically purr beneath his hands, mouth open as he sagged against him, looking like absolute sin.

Somewhere in the daydream, Patrick overheard a; “Fuck me, please, I’ve missed you so much.” and was taken aback, but naturally, Pete was a demon after all..

Patrick nodded, pushing him down on the bed.

»»

Pete awoke in the arms of his beloved, warm and at home. He could not have wished for a better place on earth. He’d asked for a day, and as he checked on his wrist, he understood only about four hours had passed, still twenty to go. He eyed the clock, and then Patrick, who was sleeping, his face completely relaxed and almost happy. It was about seven. Pete rubbed his eyes, quietly stretching and getting up to make breakfast. It was the least he could do.

As he walked around looking for the kitchen (wasn’t so hard to do, considering the size of the house), he noticed many things about the place. It was very cozy, overcrowded with adorable little artifacts that possibly had little to no use. Patrick wasn’t a man to keep stuff like this; he was simple, pragmatic. Maybe he’d found a lover in all this time, someone to fill his shelves with useless shit like Pete would have. If that were the case, Pete was left wondering where said lover was… He did not have it in himself to be angry, or even remotely jealous. It was natural that Patrick would have moved on. He just hated to have come between that during the night. Then again, it’s not every day you see your dead boyfriend reincarnating into a demon right before Christmas.

Oh.

Pete’s eyes went wide as he realized, leaving his hand on the stove after he’d turned it on. He barely felt the burn as it reached it’s maximal heat, simply removing his palm and putting the pan, movements automatic. As he cracked a few eggs, he was careful not to make too much of a mess. After all, Patrick lived here, not him. It should’ve been them, but… Guess that didn’t work out.

“What’re you doing, darling?” A sleep slurred voice asked, coming from the doorway. An adorably disheveled Patrick was leaning on the frame, watching the demon.

“Making breakfast!” Pete responded, flashing him a wide smile. He was glad Patrick wasn’t asking any questions that’d force them to talk about serious stuff. He just wanted them to enjoy whatever they got, and what they didn’t… Well that’s too bad.

Patrick sat on a stool, elbows on the counter, eyeing his (ex-?)boyfriend. “Can I get coffee?” He demanded more than asked, but there was a playful glint to his eyes, something that betrayed his blank expression.

“Why of course, honey-darling!” Pete responded in an overly high-pitched voice, in his best imitation of girls trying to flirt, sliding the cup across the counter, careful not to spill. Patrick cupped his hands around it, appreciating the warmth it emanated.

“So… Have you been seeing anyone?” Pete asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence, a waver to his voice.

“No, not since – Well, you know. You?”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “No, of course not!” He chuckled “I’m still head over heels for you.”

Patrick laughed at that, shaking his head, his cheeks turning a dusty shade of pink. “Really?”

“Really.” Pete promised.

“Good, because so am I. Over you. I mean… No-- Not over you, like, head over heels for you not...”

“Yeah yeah, I got that.” Pete interrupted, grinning like a child on Christmas day as he sat across from Patrick.

He slid his hand to rest it upon Patrick’s, running his thumb onto his knuckles. If his hands were rough, Patrick didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy losing himself in Pete’s eyes.

After they had breakfast watching as the sun slowly rose into the sky, Pete pulled him in for a kiss. Patrick felt seamless, infinite. They breathed in unison, so close to one another Pete could feel every tremolo of Patrick’s voice deep in his own guts, a wave of sound crashing onto oceans of copper.

He was content with listening and nodding along, inserting a comment every now and again. Patrick’s life ever since he left hadn’t been too eventful. Patrick didn’t mention hook ups. Pete didn’t ask.

Before they knew it, it was midday. They decided to go out, Patrick hiding his body in the warmest coat around, wrapping a scarf around his neck, putting on his thickest gloves. He looked nothing like the medic back on field now, Pete thought. His cheeks were easily red, his eyes glittery, his smile big. The big disadvantage of going out was having to pretend they were no more than just friends, which, of course, was very far from the truth at this point, but it had been so long since Pete had seen actual people. People with beating hearts and warm smiles, kids singing Christmas carols, throwing snowballs at each other, and even people falling, falling and getting back up without difficulty.

Things had changed since last time he’d walked the Earth, but most of them had changed for the better. It was a merry time, and of that, he was certain. From every restaurant came out people with rosy cheeks and wine-induced easy smiles, in front of every door, a welcome mat and decorations. The sky was incredibly bright today.

As the sun started going down, they walked back to Patrick’s. Pete counted his steps, and then before they went in, picked him up bridal-style, shutting the door with his foot.

Patrick and he hadn’t screwed before the day before. Not even a shitty handjob. There was something sacred about marriage, something oh-so-romantic about chastity. It didn’t matter much now, as Pete slid his deathly cold hands down his lover’s body, cupping his cock through his clothes. Chastity died on Patrick’s lips and hadn’t resurrected ever since, even less as the latter pressed up, giving himself entirely, up for grabs, desperate little sounds escaping his lips with every rub of fabric against his touch-starved body. The heat Pete had been stacking up for the past few years was in every part of his body now, he was burning alive with need of the most primal type. Pete could make it worth Patrick’s while.

It was but a succession of scenes; bed, sheets, thighs, red, handprint, lube, fuck, fuck… The whiny notes of Patrick’s voice still reverberated through his mind as he recalled how good he’d felt inside him, a copious amount of tight warmth around his cock, his fingers intertwined with his lover’s.

Patrick snuggled into him, hugging him close.

*

“Enjoy your daydream, loverboy?” A voice echoed in the empty, cold room. Pete shivered, his heart beating inhumanely fast inside his chest, breaking into a cold sweat. He tried to move, but he was trapped in goo, and as he looked to his hands, they were slowly becoming one with the marble, absorbed into it.

“Wait-- Wait..” He called, the same goo filling his mouth, pushing against his tongue, bitter and acidic and nothing like Patrick’s lips. Pete could feel himself suffocating, his lungs about to give out. Suddenly, his insides burned like bile was trying to come up, gag reflex triggered by the substance pushing down his throat. His body convulsed. He passed out.

*

“You’re in terrible shape.” Gabe reproached. Pete blinked.

There he was. Back in hell. Satan had held up his deal. He’d been stupid to think it could last. To believe the Devil would have forgotten.

“Yeah.” Pete replied, no real conviction in his tone. His shoulders dropped as his gaze got lost in the infinity of the desert in front of him, the abandoned warehouse not so far away.

“Come on, you’ve been out for a week and plenty of insects have made themselves at home in your insides. Pick that out and come back to work.”

Pete could see Gabe was trying to be humoristic. He could also see Gabe was failing terribly.

He pushed himself up, bones and muscles cracking with each move.

“Come on amigo, as they say, every time it’s rained, it’s stopped.. That’s a terrible translation… but like, it means every you go through a rough patch.. Or like, when you go through a rough patch, it eventually ends, y’know, ‘cause rain’s sad and all--...”

Pete just wanted to go back to sleep.

*

Patrick woke up hugging a pillow, bottle of scotch in hand, headache confirming that all this had been just that, a dream. A damn good wet dream, at least.

Nothing kicks off a morning like a little mental breakdown, and as he sobbed into the pillow he’d thought to be Pete’s body, he asked himself how he’d ended up this fucked up. How could one single person have ruined his whole life. Patrick was gonna marry. Patrick was gonna have a happy ever after with a pretty woman he’d have fallen for, in a pretty little house with pretty little flowers and a pretty little dog and pretty little children and what’d he get instead? He was a faggot, in love with no less than a decaying corpse, leading a miserable life of addiction to a bottle of shitty scotch in a house decorated to a dead man’s taste with stupid books everywhere and he didn’t even like Hemingway! What’d he get? A pounding headache, that’s what.

Beautiful, oh so white and perfect flakes had turned to beating rain outside, the sky cliché-ly clouded over and it was so fitting Patrick hated it.

Pulling himself up in one smooth motion, he swung the bottle away from himself, letting it clink and shatter on the floor to little bits he’d later cut himself upon by walking barefoot, and he laughed, he laughed hysterically, letting every inch of his mind slip away from him as he spun around.

“I’d have brought you the fucking moon! Do you hear me!” He yelled at the ceiling, and if this were a play, he’d have the spotlight on himself now, but instead, it just felt over dramatic like a teenage girl promising she’d end it all after her first boyfriend left her.

As he let himself fall down to the floor, back against the side of the bed, he couldn’t believe this is what he’d come to, after years of literal hell, after years of what was supposed to wreck him, render him useless, it was stupid heartbreak. Stupid fucking heartbreak.

Patrick’s hand went to his face, glass bits lacerating his cheeks as he cried it out, as he let the oceans inside his eyes dry out for the first time in at least a decade.

The spotlight was gone. The bottle’s neck rolled on the wooden floor, broken. The radio, in the back, was buzzing with white noise. Now Patrick just felt ridiculous.

*

“Wouldya look at that, Petey-baby!” The devil exclaimed, forcing his head towards the rounded window to the world. Right now, it showed a close up of Patrick’s life, but it could show right about anything, from the sunset to the sunrise, to a popular singer fucking themselves over in thirty years.

Pete couldn’t help feeling ripped apart by the sight, like vultures were gnawing at his guts. He just wanted to close his hollow eyes and finally find rest, but he couldn’t, he had to stare into Patrick’s life, watch him destroy what he wanted so badly to preserve.

“Why don’t you go tell your boy to stop hurting himself like this? Hm?”

Pete swallowed the bitter taste he could feel building up on the back of his tongue. He couldn’t just be sassy with the devil, not when his boyfriend’s life was at his mercy. The best he could do was kill him off… Pete couldn’t imagine the worst. But no, he’d better stay quiet. Patrick had a life to live.

“Oh, right...It’s a shame he’s so in love with you,” Satan commented, “It would’ve been so fun watching you break. Can you imagine that? Getting cheated on by the very person you never thought would cheat on you. Hm..,” He laughed, “That would blow so hard.”

The devil caressed Pete’s cheek with the tip of a barely physical fingernail, cutting him. Pete couldn’t see it, but he could feel his blood trickling down his neck, sticky and hot.

“But you wouldn’t mind, would you? It’s so endearing, so tragic, you’d do anything for him, you’d let him remake himself, find someone else to love… Tell me sweetie, why even are you down here?”

Pete didn’t know whether to answer or not this time. He opened his mouth, unsure..

“Speak, please, you’ve been quiet this whole time.” The devil prompted, and though Pete couldn’t see him, he could hear him smiling.

“I-I think it’s ‘cause I’m gay.” Pete shrugged.

A chuckle sparked out of the blue, along with a loud laugh.

“You’re kidding me, right? You do know no one actually cares about that? No, come on boy, I can’t figure out why they sent you down here, lend a hand. You’re not greedy, or gluttonous, you’re not selfish, you’re not a cheat or a liar..”

“I was a soldier.”

“Your story’s so sad you could’ve been a martyr. You didn’t even want to go to war.”

“How do you –,”

“I just do. I don’t understand, though, there has to be something so corrupt in you-- yet I cannot seem to find it no matter how hard I look, how far I try to bend you...”

Pete sagged forward, as if his body had lost all energy as he watched Patrick throw up, his limbs trembling, his knuckles white from holding onto the porcelain. Pete had this burning feeling inside, this terrible, unnerving thought that kept coming around… It’d have been better not to go see him.

It was now the twenty-fifth.

*

It was sunny like it had rarely been this August, the skies blue as ever, clouds round and fluffy. Pete was walking around. He wanted to see Patrick, his lover. At this point, most people knew about them, but they didn’t care about it much. After all, when you’re in a place where you’ll probably get killed, you might as well have something to enjoy. Pretty much all men here had their little secrets anyway.

And then time froze, the split of a second. A noise he’d heard thousands of times-- enough to make him shudder. The dust in the air all around him. The green tents. The ground still wet from yesterday’s rain. A raindrop fell to the ground, hitting it and splitting into smaller drops like a crystal Christmas ball dropped by a careless child. The bullet.

Pete didn’t feel anything, and then just pain, white hot pain, pain like he’d never felt before, and then it all went black.

When he came to his senses, because he did come to his senses, Patrick had removed the bullet, but his face told Pete something was wrong.

“I’m dying, am I not?”

“No, no, we can fix this. I just--.. I’d have to take you to a hospital and we need a car for that and..”

‘We can’t have one’

Pete nodded “It’s fine, I can’t wait to make it out of this damned war.” he said coolly. He’d practiced for this moment-- his whole life being told to just be a man and that boys don’t cry-- he’d rehearsed in before leaving the states, he’d thought he’d feel such pride dying for his country, though he did not wish to. But this wasn’t anything to be proud of. A lost bullet. He hadn’t even been fighting. He felt… like a traitor, a coward, and that only added to the immense pain he was now starting to become aware of.

He spent the night in Patrick’s arms.
*

“The war is over! We’re going home!” Patrick exclaimed the next morning, entering the warehouse with a victorious smile on his face despite the gruesome scenario that was seeing all the wounded soldiers.

September had made its way in with some beautiful news.

“Pete! We’re going home!”

Pete smiled weakly, cracking his eyes open. “Let’s get a little cottage, Trick. You wanna… shit.. You wanna do that? I’d marry you if I could.. And we’d have a little house, maybe by a lake, somewhere calm.” He grimaced, in pain.

“Oh Pete..”

The sun went down, and as the last rays of sunshine caressed the land of the living, Pete couldn’t go on any longer. He died in Patrick’s arms, face pressed against his chest as the former talked softly about the future they could(n’t) have, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Pete never saw the end of the war.

*

Patrick took a walk to clear his thoughts, his darkest pair of shades on and a hat, he felt a little like a vampire now, except instead of thirst, he experienced severe pain in the head, a throbbing no pill could relieve, sadly. He couldn’t stop thinking of how real it’d felt, his dream, the warmth of two arms to lay between and the feeling of being at home, finally, after such a long time of inhabiting a dead man’s house.

Every now and then, his gaze would meet decorated porches and living rooms with gigantic Christmas trees, some kids already up enthusiastically ripping paper off their gifts, and to forget his blues, he walked to the nearest store, getting a little feather tree. It wasn’t very beautiful, but neither was he, and it was small enough to hide it somewhere after Christmas, never to be seen again.

Once home, he placed it in a corner of the room and poured himself a whiskey, raising his glass in celebration, one might say.

“Wait.” A voice called from the fireplace. Patrick turned around, startled, eyes wide, ready to defend himself, but it wasn’t a burglar and it wasn’t a murderer, it was no other than a very poorly disguised Santa Claus.. Satan Claus? Santa Claws? Sandy Claws? Mr Sandman?

“What….”

The fella took took his hat and beard off, revealing, well, Pete, to no surprise. Except for the part where, “what the fuck isn’t that guy dead?”

Patrick slowly put the scotch down on the table and took a few steps back “I’m not even drunk yet, what in Go--..”

“And you weren’t yesterday night!” Pete interrupted quickly, “You thought you saw me and you did see me and yes we did fuck now please let me speak to you before you freak, I swear I’ll explain everything.”

Patrick let his body fall into the chair, rubbing his face and sighing slowly. “If you want to explain, go right ahead.”

“So I’m dead--”

“That, you are.”

“Let me talk, so like I--”

“I’m letting you, talk. Talk! I’m not at all going bonkers.” Patrick exclaimed, something like despair in his voice as he rubbed his temples, grunting.

“Will you shut up?!”

“Yes, okay, sorry.”

“The Devil sent me back, as a, uh, Christmas present, I suppose. Apparently, I shouldn’t have gone to hell but then well, he doesn’t really want to send me to heaven, so he… Let me go? I suppose? There has to be a loophole somewhere, I probably signed your soul off to The Devil but like..”

Patrick scoffed, looking up at Pete. “I am so hallucinating right now, but that’s… Alright I suppose. I need you here with me.”

“And I need to be with you, now put that drink away, will you? I think you’ve drank enough for the next ten years in barely 72 hours.”

“Well, maybe think of leaving a note next time you decide to, a) Die in my arms, b) go to hell and/or, c) mysteriously come back.”

“I’m sorry, damn, I’m not in Satan’s head, he’s the one that plans everything out.”

“Not everything, apparently.”

Patrick smiled lovingly, though he still couldn’t believe this was real, but did it matter? Pete made his way closer, sitting on Patrick’s lap and then hiding his face in his neck.

“I missed you so, darling.”

“You’re home for Christmas, that’s what matters.”

“And for the rest of my life, hopefully.”

Patrick held back the part where, well, Pete’s life was pretty much over. Against his chest, he could feel a regular thump, one that shouldn’t have been there, but was, against all odds, and so he decided not to question it. Not everything has a rational explanation. Sometimes, you can have something just because it’s pretty. Sometimes, you can touch something just because you want to. Sometimes, you can feel happy just because. Sometimes, you can hold your demon boyfriend and not ask any questions.

The fire was crackling gently in the immense fireplace. Pete’s red outfit had been a little burnt by it in specific places, but hey, Satan had a sense of humor.
Atop the fireplace’s mantel sat a radio. On the counter of the kitchen sat a cake. Under the Christmas tree, a little red box and a pack of condoms…