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Living is Just a Waste of Death, part II

Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part II (part I can be found HERE)
Fandom: FOB + P!atD RPS
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, Brendon/Jon/Pete
Rating: NC-17 for swearing, violence, gore, disturbing imagery and m/m/m sex.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.
Summary: Like the zombies whose bodies have only recently died, security is an illusion in this new nightmare world. Just when the boys think they're safe, things aren't as they seem. Sanity is deteriorating, and there are less and less places to run.
Notes: For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, prompt #089 - found. If you're looking for my table, it's in my memories.



When Pete woke up that morning, Brendon was curled around him like a giant cat. On his left side, Jon had one arm thrown over his waist and was snoring softly - there were fucking zombies staggering around outside and he was in this house that they'd barricaded so carefully wrapped up in these two boys and feeling warmer and safer than he ever had. Even before the zombies. He could hear one of them dragging decaying nails across the boards they's nailed over the window by the bed though, and so he carefully slid out of bed and tiptoed toward the bathroom for his shower. He left Brendon and Jon sleeping as peacefully as he could have expected them to, and Jon reached out instinctively for Brendon in his sleep once Pete's body was out of the way, which broke his heart a little.

When he went downstairs, Spencer was licking guns.

"Spence?" he said slowly, upon reaching the foot of the stairs and finding the former drummer boy slowly dragging his tongue along the cold, ridged edge of one of the Glocks' barrels. He had his eyes closed, and was humming softly to himself. He seemed to enjoy it. "What are you doing, kiddo?"

Spencer opened his eyes, and smiled. "Trying to figure out which one of these will be the one to kill me," he said calmly. "I can tell if I taste it. None yet, though."

"You know," Pete started helplessly, as a means of bringing some kind of sanity to the situation. "It's far more likely that one of the things out there will be what kills you, as opposed to one of those guns."

Spencer gave him a dark look. "Not if I can help it."

Pete shut up.

When he went into the kitchen, he found his sneakers crunching in the dry cereal that had been scattered all over the floor, as if the family who had lived here had been making breakfast when the zombies had come for them. There were even spoons on the table that he couldn't bring himself to move, and he ate two slices of dry toast over the sink. Spencer was losing his mind, clearly. Jon seemed to be doing okay, though he was rapidly beginning to display a violent, almost sadistic streak when it came to the zombies - a certain lack of regard for the fact that once upon a time, these things had been human. Pete had caught him cornering one in the backyard the day before, on their second day in the house, pinning it to the side of the house by shooting it everywhere but the head. He'd blown off it's arms with the one M-16 he'd managed to fit into the trunk, and Pete had watched him smile a smile so cold it had chilled him as the zombie had shrieked in agony. "Bet you wish you'd stayed dead now, huh motherfucker?" he remembered Jon saying softly to the dead thing, before ramming the barrel of his gun right down its throat and squeezing the trigger.

There was a brutality in Jon, a cruelty that no one had ever seen before in good old mellow Jwalk. Pete was still trying to decide if it was going to be an advantage, or something that would get out of hand eventually. And Brendon - Brendon was adjusting remarkably well, actually. He wasn't falling apart like Spencer or gaining a vicious streak like Jon. He was shaky and terrified like any sane person would have been, but he was holding it together. He'd protect them, all of them, Pete had decided. Even though there was no label anymore, no bands, no fame or money or music or anything...they were still his proteges, still his friends and students. He had to take care of them.

"Pete?" It was Brendon. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him wash his hands. He wore the same boxers he'd gone to sleep with he and Jon in last night, and suddenly he looked very young, standing there. He had one hand on the frame of the doorway and still looked tired. "Why is Spencer licking the guns in the living room?"

It was the one thing he couldn't save Spencer from - himself. The horrors inside his own mind, in his nightmares. He lowered his head a little. "I don't know, Brendon."

Brendon stepped forward, approached him until a slender hand was resting against his upper arm. "It's not your fault, Pete. Spencer can't help crumbling, and you can't do anything to stop it. People aren't meant to mentally withstand something like this. It's a fucking miracle that you, Jon and I are all...well, 'fine' doesn't seem to be the word. But you know what I mean."

"Three days since these things first showed up," Pete said quietly. "Where's the fucking army? Where's the president? Why hasn't anyone quarantined the U.S. or anything yet?"

"I don't know, Pete."

"We can't stay here for much longer, it's already been three days."

"I know. They know we're here, I keep waking up in the middle of the night to hear them clawing at the boards over the windows. Plus, our food is running out."

"But they're multiplying out there, killing more people so that...whatever is reanimating them can have another body. We're probably facing a lot more now than we were three days ago."

"I know."

"Where's Jon?"

"He's in the shower." Brendon's hair was already damp, it was obvious that he'd already taken his.

"Want something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. I think we should leave today."

With a shrug, Brendon sat down at the kitchen table and tried to work his way around an apple. Being surrounded by so much rotting meat, even though it was human, had made him more of a vegetarian than ever. Jon came downstairs a few minutes later and entered the kitchen, his eyes wide. Pete held up a hand. "Please don't ask about Spencer. We don't know. He's just losing it."

Jon nodded, understanding. When he sat down at the table next to Brendon, Brendon took his hand and held it while he ate. It seemed a natural thing for them, and none of them mentioned anything about the kissing they'd all indulged in last night. Finally, Jon spoke. "We can't stay here any longer."

"I know," Pete said simply. "We need to pack up our shit and get the hell out of dodge. They're already clawing at the windows, who knows what's next? The only thing is, I still haven't been able to reach Patrick. I keep getting that fucking message on his voicemail, and I've been leaving him like fifty messages a day. But Jersey's a huge state, and I wouldn't even know where to start looking for him..."

"Fuck it," Jon's voice was harsh. "We need to get the hell out of Jersey, Pete. We've been sitting ducks, just waiting around here for Patrick to find us somehow. This was a pipe dream, and we've all indulged you long enough. Patrick is dead. If he's lucky. If he's not? Then he's one of those things out there, and you bet your ass I'll blow his fucking head off just as soon as I would yours if you were."

Brendon's eyes went huge. "Jon..." he whispered, his voice shocked and horrified, and Pete was hauling Jon up by the collar of his shirt before he even knew what he was doing. He shook him violently, tears dripping down his face hot and wet without him even realizing what they were.

"Fuck you, Jon! Fuck YOU! What if it was your Brendon out there all alone, huh? Wouldn't you wait forever for him?"

Jon, despite the bloody nose that had started to spurt from Pete's shaking, started to laugh. "But it's not Brendon out there," he pointed out. "This world has become one of cold truths and harsh realities Pete, and it's the ones who are willing to do what they have to and ignore the feelings they don't want to, who will survive. You can stay here as long as you fucking want and wait for Patrick to come staggering up that street to chew on your flesh, but I'm taking Brendon and we're getting the hell out of here."

Pete ignored the fact that leaving had been his suggestion in the first place, and glared Jon down. "Just you wait," he hissed bitterly. "Eventually, Karma's going to bite you in the ass, Walker. You'd better hope I'm around to save Brendon for you when you can't." He let go of Jon's shirt and Brendon rushed to the sink to grab a dishcloth to mop up his bloody nose. Jon grabbed the cloth from him and walked out of the kitchen however, away from them both. Brendon dropped his arms in defeat, giving Pete an apologetic look.

"He didn't mean it, Pete. It's the stress."

"Don't apologize for him," Pete snapped. "I don't want to hear it. If he wants to apologize for being an asshole, then maybe I'll listen then."

And with that, he stomped upstairs to go pack his things.




++++




They were on the road by mid-afternoon. Brendon drove while Spencer frustratedly gave up on licking guns in the back, and slept again. They were all getting worried about how much he'd been sleeping - it was like he was spending all his time either babbling nonsensically and licking shit, or sleeping. But it kept him quiet and out of the way, and the harsh reality was that it was easier on them this way. Jon looked over the map, and Pete glared at him from where he was sitting next to Spencer's limp body in the backseat. Jon couldn't see of course, as he was sitting up front, but Pete liked to think that he felt it or something. And then he realized how childish that was. But didn't care much.

They drove around Jersey all day, only pausing to fill up the gas tank once and for lunch. The state seemed empty for the most part, save for the few zombies they caught straggling in the streets. Jon made sure to lean out the open window and pick off each and every one of them - Pete had to begrudgingly admit that they were lucky to have him. He was the only one of them who knew anything about firing a gun, and it seemed that he had a real natural skill for it. He never took any more than two shots to take each zombie down, provided they were close enough. He preferred the 9MM Browning pistol that he'd first picked up, and kept it under the passenger's seat in the car now. When dusk finally fell, Brendon turned to Pete with real sorrow in his big, liquid-dark eyes. "Pete, love. I don't think we're going to find Patrick."

"No shit," Jon muttered, and Brendon shushed him.

Pete slumped in his seat. "I know," he said weakly, defeated, feeling like he wanted to cry. But goddamnit, zombies taking over the world hadn't broken him. This sure as hell wasn't going to. "I guess we should decide whether we want to head north for New York or south for Maryland now."

"I say Maryland," Jon said. "New York is too big a city, way too many bodies for those things to reanimate. Plus, they're multiplying every day. The place is probably fucking crawling with them by now, at least in Maryland we'll have a shot."

Pete wanted to argue with him, but goddamn if he wasn't right.

It was then that Patrick came hurtling out of nowhere and collapsed sobbing across the hood of their car.

Brendon slammed on the brakes with a yelp, and Jon immediately reached under his seat for his gun. Pete was already out of the car, the rush in his stomach at seeing Patrick again like that first swallow of icy water after crawling through a sweltering desert. "Patrick?" he whispered, wondering if this was all a daydream. Behind him, Jon was pushing him out of the way and aiming his pistol directly at Patrick's head.

"Hey, Patrick," he said calmly, and Pete reached for his arm.

"Don't point a fucking gun at him!"

Without hesitating, Jon turned the gun on Pete, resting the cold barrel gently against his forehead. "Take two steps back, Pete," he said quietly, looking directly into Pete's eyes. "Take two steps back and do not touch me again. I love you, man. Please don't make me kill you."

Brendon had frozen, was staring at the two of them in horror, and Spencer was still sleeping in the car. Pete didn't move. "You wouldn't," he challenged softly, and Jon cocked the gun. Pete could hear the bullet loading into place as clearly as if Jon had fired it.

"Please don't test that theory, Pete."

Pete took two steps back, and Jon turned the gun back to a stunned-looking Patrick. "Hello, Patrick," he continued as if nothing had happened. "I hope you don't take offense to my doing this, though to be honest I could care less even if you do. You can understand my problem here - I'm sure you've figured out by now that those things that have been hunting us for the past several days are just as capable of speech as you and I are. Until their vocal cords start to rot at least, I'd assume. Therefore, it's very difficult to gauge who is human and who just died very recently."

"Jon," Patrick said in a hushed, terrified whisper, because Jon's gun was still loaded and cocked and pointed right at his head. "Jon, it's me."

"Ah, but see...I can't trust that, Patrick. And me? I only have two goals in life left now: to stay alive, and to protect Brendon. The first one is mainly for the sake of the second one, since it would be hard to protect him if I'm dead. But my point is, I can't afford to go trusting people left and right just because they're wearing my friends' faces."

"The first domino is falling! The tower is next!" Spencer called cheerfully from the car, rolling down the window to shout it at them.

To their left, a badly-rotting zombie lurched it's way toward them from out of a gas station store, skin falling off in damp, fleshy chunks with every step. A thick, glistening intestinal rope dragged behind it from the gaping wound in it's lower stomach, getting caked with dirt. Without hesitating or even flinching, Jon moved his arm so quickly they barely saw it and nailed the thing, blowing the top of it's head off. It slumped to the ground with thick, wet brain matter pulsing wetly for a few more weak spurts of blood that oozed over the broken edges of the skull, and then it didn't move anymore. Jon cocked his gun again and returned his aim to Patrick.

"Theoretically, I could just blow your brains out just to be safe," he said thoughtfully. "But if you really are Patrick, I guess that would be pretty monstrous of me, huh?"

Pete stepped forward again. "This has gone on far enough, Jon. Give me that fucking gun. It's easy enough to tell if Patrick is still alive - we check for a heartbeat. You said these things must live inside the brain, right?"

"But say we get close enough to check, and he rips our throats out. Who's going to protect Brendon and Spencer then?" Jon argued, and Pete paused.

"I'll do it," he finally said, looking into Patrick's wide eyes. "I have to trust that it's really you, 'Trick. If it's not...well, I'd rather die than watch Jon kill you, anyway."

He didn't waste any time, and walked the rest of the way until he was all but in Patrick's arms. Jon kept his gun trained on both of them, and Brendon was maybe crying a little behind him, he couldn't tell. Patrick let Pete pull up his t-shirt, and he pressed his ear to a bare, warm chest that he remembered so well. There was a clear heartbeat, pumping with such loud fear that there was no denying it.

"Verdict?" Jon called out.

"He's alive," Pete whispered, tears dripping down his face now, as he threw his arms around a still-stunned, weak Patrick. "Oh god, he's alive. I was so scared Patrick, you don't even know...I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

Jon uncocked the gun while Pete and Patrick reunited, and Brendon reached out to touch his arm. "Would you really have...would you really have shot Pete?" he asked him quietly.

"Bet your ass," Jon responded in a blunt, flat voice. "I can't have anyone getting in my way, lover. The only thing that matters now is survival."

"What about me? What if you had to kill me?"

Jon gave Brendon a tender look that suddenly looked out of place on him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "I could never do that, baby. You know that. I'd turn this gun on myself first. I love you."

"I love you too, Jon."

"I'm sorry if I scared you."

"It's all right."

"Come on, kids," Jon raised his voice suddenly, addressing Pete and Patrick. "We're heading for Maryland, and I want to get on the road before it gets dark. Those things are more active at night."

"What's in Maryland?" Patrick asked, still being squeezed in Pete's arms.

"Hopefully less of whatever's in New York."

As they piled into the car, having to squeeze in even more tightly to make room for Patrick, he reached out and touched Jon's arm. "I understand," he said quietly. "I don't blame you. I'd do the same thing if I were you and Brendon was Pete."

Jon glanced over at him, smiling faintly. "Thanks, Patrick. I'm sorry I had to do it, though." There was a moment of mutual understanding between them, and then Pete started the car. They were on their way to Maryland, and they reached it well after midnight.




++++




"Holy shit," Jon said softly, about ten minutes after driving past the 'WELCOME TO MARYLAND' sign. He'd turned on the radio out of sheer curiosity, some wild hope, and...there were voices. Human voices. Reaching over the gear shift, he gently shook Pete awake. "Pete, wake up. Listen to this."

Pete stirred, opening his eyes tiredly. "The hell? What's going on?"

"Listen." Jon turned up the radio.

"If anyone out there can hear this, COME TO MARYLAND! We have a bunker here, an old abandoned military base that we found way out of the city, just outside of Salisbury. We have a few weapons, some food, and plenty of clothes and places for you sleep. It's not a safe zone, but it's the best we have..." fuzz interrupted the broadcast, and the woman's voice faded away. Pete's eyes widened as he looked at Jon, and together they nodded.

"I guess we're going to Salisbury, then."

They made it just after lunchtime, the car almost on E as they shuddered their way into the lot of the military base. They were greeted by a group of about fifteen smiling faces, eager to welcome them into their 'family'. Jon watched them warily and didn't really return any hugs, but the rest of them were deeply grateful. They ate an early dinner with the woman from the radio broadcast, whose name turned out to be Lindy. She was a short, round, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and old-fashioned glasses, the kind of woman who was hard to dislike. The base was enormous, all cement and steel and barb wire, and according to Lindy the zombies didn't know they were in there yet. Once they were finished eating, she took them to Dr. Leiber, who they'd been lucky enough to rescue on one of their search outings for survivors. He took care of all the medical issues there.

"Where did you boys come from?" he asked in a slow Virginia drawl as he checked them over. "I don't hear an accent on'ya. 'Cept for you," he gestured to Jon. "You sound like a city boy."

"Spencer and I are from Las Vegas, and Jon, Pete and Patrick are from Chicago," Brendon explained. "But we were all in Pennsylvania when the zombies started attacking."

The doctor whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Shee-yit. Y'all traveled across two states on foot and in a car with those things on every side? I'm going to suggest that we put a gun in your hands, y'all got to be some badass kids."

"No, just Jon," Pete finally spoke up, gesturing to him. "The rest of us have all fallen apart at one point or another, but Jon's really been holding it together. He's harsh, but he's a lifesaver."

It was a kind of peace offering, a subtle means of saying 'okay, I get it now', and Jon smiled faintly at Pete. His eyes spoke his apology, and Pete nodded simply. The doctor spoke a moment later. "Well either way, you kids are tough as nails to have made it this far. I bet you're all tired as hell, let's get you to your rooms."

There were enough bedrooms for all of them to have one of their own, but Brendon and Jon sheepishly explained to Lindy that they didn't mind sharing a bed, until she finally got it and blushed profusely. No one wanted to leave Spencer alone either, so they all pushed one of the heavy military beds into Pete and Patrick's room so that someone could keep an eye on him. He'd been very quiet ever since they'd arrived at the base. Later that night, after they'd all showered and undressed, Pete slipped into Brendon and Jon's room. Patrick and Spencer were already fast asleep.

Brendon and Jon weren't, they were sitting up in bed talking. Brendon had his arms around Jon, was cradling his head tenderly against his bare chest, and when Pete pushed the door open he was literally floored to see that Jon was crying. Choked whimpers and wet sniffles and tears wetting Brendon's skin, and Pete suddenly realized that over the past several days he'd come to regard Jon as superhuman or something. Incapable of crying. He hadn't been fair to him, really. Brendon looked up when he entered, then put one finger against his lips and shook his head, glancing down at Jon. So Pete slid into bed with them and spooned against Jon, wrapping both arms around his waist. Jon didn't seem surprised, and continued to cry quietly against Brendon, all but clinging to him.

Together, Pete and Brendon held him, comforted him, for a long time. "Our brave warrior," Brendon said lovingly at one point, stroking Jon's fine brown hair. "We'd be lost without you, love." Pete was suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that Jon was only twenty-one years old - he was just a kid. All of a sudden, he kind of wanted to cry for all Jon had been forced to become.

So he kissed the rounded curve of Jon's shoulder instead, letting his fingers stroke down the soft, warm flesh of his slightly-round belly. He looked to Brendon for permission first, and when he nodded silently he let his fingers slip lower and gently touched Jon's cock. Jon sighed through his nose, opened his damp eyes and looked at Brendon, startled. Brendon smiled adoringly at him, but it was tinged with this immense sadness as he leaned in and took Jon's face into both hands for a long, sweet kiss. "Let him, baby," he said quietly, once they pulled apart. "Let us."

Jon relaxed in their arms, his entire body slumping like it hadn't since the zombies had come. He'd even been sleeping with a tension in him, an alertness. Pete let his fingers comb through the sparse hair on Jon's chest, a little fascinated with it, his sharp teeth nibbling lightly at his warm neck as he slipped his hand lower again and this time took hold of Jon's rising erection. Brendon slid him a small bottle of hand lotion that he'd taken from the house in New Jersey, out of some desperate hope against hope most likely. Then he went back to kissing Jon, their tongues sliding against each other and their mouths open and wet, panting. It was a fucking sexy thing to watch - these two young, hungry boys in love, aching and sad and still wanting. Pete slicked Jon's cock up with the lotion and went to work.

He watched them kiss, watched them wrap their arms around each other while he spooned against Jon's ass and jerked his stiff cock, feeling the precome leaking out over his fingers steadily with each thick pulse of blood. His cock felt hot and alive in his hand, and he liked it more than he would have thought. Jon arched his back and hissed through gritted teeth when he dragged his nails up the vein on the underside, a low moan spilling from his throat. Brendon watched, pulling away from their kiss to nod approvingly. "He likes that," he said to Pete with a smile. "You should see what happens when I do it with my teeth."

Pete shivered at the mental image, entirely turned on. Jon went back to sucking on Brendon's thick lips again, and every time they moved their heads he caught flashes of their wet, pink tongues moving in and out of each other's open mouths. Suddenly Jon tensed up all over, his cock swelling in Pete's hand. His breath hitched in his throat, and then a string of profuse swearing spilled from his lips as his cock spurted helplessly against Pete's palm. It dripped from his fingers, and he lifted his hand to take a taste. His eyes sank closed when he did - he hadn't expected it, but everything about Jon was fucking exquisite. Brendon smiled knowingly at him, before kissing the tip of Jon's nose. "Still mine," he said, with a slight pout. Jon smiled back, and the love between them was so intense that Pete could feel it rising off their skin like heat from a radiator.

"All yours, lover," Jon agreed. He reached between Brendon's thighs, but Brendon gently pushed his hand away.

"Not tonight, baby. Tonight was about you." Jon blinked at him, and then pouted. But Pete agreed despite his erection - it would go away in a little bit, and he kind of felt like just snuggling to sleep with these two beautiful boys. There were monsters outside, and hell on earth. But somehow, in here things could still be this beautiful. It was reassuring, that something like Jon and Brendon's relationship could still exist among all the horror they'd seen. They curled up together, damp and happy and safe.

In the bathroom down the hall, Spencer was laughing quietly to himself as he braced the barrel of the gun against his temple and cocked it.

He'd been tasting them for days, but he'd finally found it.

To be continued!