Who Had Strength Enough To Pull Down The Moon
By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
Epilogue: Can't Want And Won't Will
It's about three weeks after that night on the beach that Micky grabs Peter's hands and, pulling him up off the bandstand, drags him out the door. Peter stumbles behind his best friend, content at the feel of the drummer's hand in his, proof that Micky is really there.
Sometimes, in Peter's dreams, he is not. None of them are.
No one has spoken of that night, of what happened to Peter's parents, of how it happened. No one has said anything about it. Peter catches them sometimes, though, looking at him sadly, shoulders sagging in sympathy.
He wants to tell them it's okay, that he's okay, but he doesn't think he is, and no matter how badly he'd broken his promise not to lie that night, he couldn't bring himself to break it any more. So he just smiles back, as sad as they are, and no one says anything.
He's afraid, when Micky pulls him all the way to the ash trees, that his friend will try to talk to him now. He's not sure he can. But Micky just smiles at him, not sad so much as understanding, and nestles himself down among the roots. Peter smiles back and follows suit.
It's peaceful there now, no fighting or yelling or angry auras, and Peter rests against Micky tiredly, propping his chin on the drummer's thin shoulder and watching the surf roll in and out.
They fit nicely between the twisted roots of the ash trees, legs a bit tangled, shoulders pressed together. The branches, knotted and gnarled, cast strange, beautiful patterns over them in the light of the crescent moon.
Micky laughs quietly. "Hey, Pete. Bet you can pull down the moon."
"No," Peter says with a smile, letting his eyes slide shut as prickles and tingles run across the palms of his hands. "No, I can't," he adds, precisely because he can't.
Even if, were he someone entirely different, he probably could.
THE END.
A/N - And now have a nice little preview of Part Two, which is, as of yet, unnamed!
"Hey, Mike, you about done in there," Davy calls, brow furrowed in confusion. "You've been in there for an hour and a half!"
"I'll be out shortly," Mike's voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door, muffled by the barrier.
Shrugging, Davy walks away.
On the other side of the door, Mike listens, gripping the sink until his knuckles are ready to pop, sweat rolling down his forehead. He can hear Davy's heartbeat getting fainter and fainter, the scent of flesh dissipating, and he nearly relaxes.
Looking up into the mirror, Mike feels tears gathering in his red-tinged eyes, and he draws in a hissing breath between too-sharp teeth.
"Mike, are you sure you're okay," Peter calls, his voice accompanied by the sweet scent of meat, and Mike swallows hard, trying not to breathe through his nose.
"I'm fine," he growls, his voice sounding too deep, too strange, and Peter, too, walks away.
Mike looks back at himself, watching his face as it contorts, his pupils dilating to slim slits, ears slightly more pointed than normal. He shudders, feeling the gnawing hunger eating its way through his belly, and he lets himself slip to the floor. He sits there, resting the side of his face against the cabinet, and whines.
He'd been so stupid to think it was over, so very stupid, and now he didn't know if he'd be strong enough to save his friends this time. He wasn't even sure he could save himself.
