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Pete wakes up feeling as if he’s been completely wrung dry. Everything hurts; tension tangled in his every muscle, queasiness churning in the pit of his stomach. There’s rope around Pete’s wrists that only makes his skin feel raw.
He’s acutely aware of the radio, looping a—Prince tape, maybe?—tender humming that doesn’t belong to the tape, but rather whoever else is in the car, draped over it.
When he finally looks over, he’s met with the figure of a man tapping on the wheel as if he can’t quite stay still.
The faded blurs of motion illuminating an otherwise dim car serve as his only way to get a better look at the man, even though Pete’s too dizzy to see anything but warmth.
Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe it’s all one elaborate prank that Pete never got the memo for. He finds himself speaking up anyway.
“My parents are gonna wonder where I am.” His voice is gravelly, each sound burning his vocal cords.
“They won’t.” He’s quick to deny it, his eyes never leave the road ahead of them, as if not looking at Pete makes it any easier to be cold. “They’ll think you ran away, I made sure of it.”
His certainty in the fact no one would question his disappearance makes Pete sick.
Pete can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s right; No one would care. No one would wonder. They’d take him as a runaway and leave it as that and nothing more.
Pete's thoughts drift off as ‘If I Was Your Girlfriend..’ still repeats in the background, and he can’t help but wonder if his prayers to die were answered. Maybe this man could be the angel Pete always needed to take away his pain, maybe he was sent here to free him. Or, at least, Pete wishes he was.
And Pete’s always dreamt of disappearing, just never like this.
So many nights spent wondering if anyone would mourn him once his body went cold, or if the only thing that ever cared to embrace him in his misery would be the maggots chewing away at his remains.
A turn signal clicking snaps him back into reality, and the lingering smell of cologne surrounds him in his solitude. He thinks maybe he almost fainted, or at least that his body and mind disconnected for a moment.
“Still awake?” The angel hums to him.
Pete must’ve been drugged - the sickness inside him is only festering. He tries to respond, but all that comes out is a silent wail that startles even himself at how uncharacteristically small he sounds.
But it was enough, because the angel whispers to him, “It’s okay, don’t speak if it hurts you. I know you’re up now.”
The words sink under Pete’s skin, crawling underneath his epidermis in a way Pete wishes he could claw out. He tries to settle in the discomfort, not that it could be much worse, but he just can’t.
“I’m gonna throw up,” he rasps, despite the angel’s insistence that he doesn’t speak.
The car jolts to a stop immediately, which does nothing to help how queasy he feels.
The angel gets out of the car, moving around to Pete’s side and swinging the door open. Pete feels like nothing more than a ragdoll with the way the angel dragged him onto the grass so easily - directing his head towards the ground. Pete doesn’t try to fight it, he couldn’t even if he wanted to.
His knees are dampening from the chill of wet grass underneath them, distantly aware of cars wooshing past them on the freeway. Pete doesn’t know what hour of the night it is; the world still moving oblivious to him, as if he doesn’t matter.
The smell of cologne is stronger now, and Pete can see the angel more clearly like this—he looks older, far older than Pete. His hair is long overdue for a cut, a scruffy beard amongst otherwise gentle features. He’s dressed in a patched up jacket and a hat with a logo Pete doesn’t recognize—and Pete feels uncomfortably small in comparison to him.
The angel’s stare feels intrusive and expectant. Pete’s never been one to be intolerant of bodily fluids, especially disgusting acts to do with them—quite the opposite, really—but at this moment, it feels impossible to throw up with him watching, no matter how sick he feels.
The angel’s hand brushes Pete’s back, his touch warm; not comforting, but rather stabilizing Pete’s uneasy weight. It feels too heavy to be kind, though it could almost pass for it.
“Just.. let it out. Get it over with.” His voice is almost too light when he speaks, foot tapping as he anxiously glances over his shoulder. He acts as if anyone would ever bother to stop and question them.
Pete whimpers involuntarily at the contact, “I can’t. You’re watching me, it’s too weird.”
“Well I’m not trying to make it weird,” He sighs, trying to plead sympathy.
Pete only scoffs dryly.
“You’re not trying to make it weird?” He echoes, “You kidnapped me, dude. That’s pretty fucking weird to most people, don’t you think?”
The angel’s eyes go wide, like Pete’s said something jarring. Perhaps he didn’t expect retaliation, not from someone so impaired, or maybe it’s the first time he’s really felt the weight of what he’s done. Pete won’t bother to ask which.
“What? You didn’t realize you’re a creep? That you-“ Pete’s cut off by his own retch, doubling over at the dry scratch of it in his throat. “Fuck. Fuck, I need water, please.”
The angel clears his throat, trying to regain control over his composure. “You can have water after you throw up. It’ll only burn again if you drink it now.”
“Fuck you.” Pete chokes, then everything in him comes up at once, insides expelling all over the dirt into a slurried mess of stomach acid. His head is pounding again, cold sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose. He thinks he might cry from how badly it burns, guts feeling inside out.
Pete pukes until he isn’t sure he can anymore. He’s lightheaded by the time it’s reduced to merely saliva, dripping down his chin uncomfortably.
“Now you can have water,” The angel hushes, a thumb coming to wipe the stray drool before he drags Pete back into the car, reaching over the console to grab a water bottle.
It’s almost like he prepared for this possibility.
Pete parts his lips as the water’s provided to him, swallowing reluctantly. His vision feels splotchy as he tries to focus on the man in front of him, almost like the world wouldn’t permit it anymore.
Pete wonders if he knows him. He’s not sure if that’d make it any less sickening.
The water tastes metallic on his tongue, going down thicker than it really is. Prince ended long ago, replaced now with the sound of his own heartbeat coming through his ears.
The world around him feels fuzzy, the weight in his limbs increasing tenfold. As if he’s sunk down into the car and become one with it.
He wonders if this is what peace is like, a slow descent until it all releases.
Someone’s talking to him - maybe the man, but maybe not. Either way, the weariness overtaking him is too much to allow him to listen.
He can still feel rumbling in his nerves as he lets the weight of his eyelids rest, the ricketing of his own heart lulling him into an escape.
He’s only distantly aware as it fades to black again.