[got those second row seats to fall out boy in like 2 days. They're also releasing the mv for hold me tight or don't and I'm nervous for that why is it when I'm supposed to be at the venue. Was the intent to make me watch it later and sob my heart out]

I was so exhausted that next morning, I barely registered Pete screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs, inches away from my ear. If he genuinely had a knife jutting out of his stomach and gushing blood, I probably wouldn't even have noticed. I'd admit, staying up to read to the final pages of Dallon's journal was a mistake. I only had two entries left, so it was worth it. I was so close to answers.

"-he's gone too! Can you hear me at all?!" It felt like my shoulders were being squeezed by a Boa Constrictor. "Respond, you fuckin' zombified mega-jerk! This is important!"

I tried to shove him off and roll back over, but Pete ripped my hands off his biceps and pinned them to the mattress. I never knew someone so tiny could be so strong. Unless I was just really weak. I'd heard lack of sleep had that impact on many. "Pete, I'm so tired-"

"Me too!" He hollered at the top of his lungs and gripped my shirt for dear life, "but I'm awake, because every second matters! Get your ass up and help me look!"

He left after that, still fuming from my unresponsiveness. I could almost hear the smoke shooting from his ears like his head was a tea kettle. I would've found it funny if I knew what he was rambling on about so early in the morning; catch me early enough, I'd be dead to the world and everything inhabiting it. It was a miracle I had survived school for so long.

The flap to my tent fluttered again. I cracked open my eyes just enough to catch a flash of a red bandana and icy blue eyes crouching down beside me. He smiled softly, rough pads of his fingers brushing against my cheek. "It's time to get up. We need all hands on deck." He whispered.

My mind made a faint connection to Pete screaming and the word 'missing', but it was gone before I could even begin to place it. "Yeah, well, my hands are tiny. They're good for nothin' freeloaders." For emphasis, I held one of them up and wiggled my fingers a couple times.

"Your tiny, good for nothing, freeloading hands can help calm down Pete, then. He's bound to spiral into hysterics soon without some tea."

"Aren't we out of teabags?" Tyler had an unhealthy obsession with tea, and the love peaked when he was stressed, apparently.

Dallon sighed deeply. I heard him drag a hand down his face, judging from the faint slap sound. "Put some dead leaves in a bag and put them in water, he can't tell the difference. Your tiny hands can do that, right?"

There was something significantly unappetizing about collecting dead leaves in the middle of the desert to make tea for someone on the verge of a mental breakdown. I wasn't even sure there were any leaves around to collect, let alone enough to make a drink out of. Even the idea sounded nasty. "No. That's disgusting. Pete can make his own dirt tea."

"Well, then he'll know the difference," he pressed his lips to the side of my head quickly, patting my shoulder once, "c'mon. We need you."

__________

I'd spent at least an hour talking to Pete, sitting on the dirt, rambling about nothing just to keep him decently calm. He never liked interrupting people. He was still rocking back and forth, and sniffling, but it was better than the hyperventilating and screaming we had to deal with prior to a giant group hug.

"...but I've never personally had to scrape dog poop off a record player. Now cat poop is a different story, but I can proudly say it's never been a giant dog dookie cooking on the turntable."

I'd turned to glance down at his face to make sure he hadn't quit breathing yet, and he shot a glare towards me. He wasn't in a good mood, and I had the feeling my stories weren't helping.

"Do you... wanna talk about it?" I patted his back and rubbed his shoulder, but he shrugged my hand off and let out a low grumble of blatant disapproval. I honestly wasn't sure what I should do. "I'm really sorry. You can talk about it if you want to, but you don't have to."

"Y'know what? Actually, I do. I do want to talk about it right now." Pete said after another minute of silence. He clambered to his feet to my surprise, and stood over me for a moment, like he was deciding what to say. He probably was — he second guessed his actions a lot, which matched with the dislike of interruptions.

"This is all your fault." He stated. Clear and simple, no hint of hesitation in his voice.

My breath caught in my throat. It felt like I'd been sucker punched in the chest with a bowling ball wielding brass knuckles. "...I-I'm sorry?"

In one swift motion, Pete swooped down and grabbed my shirt collar in his fists, yanking me to my feet. It reminded me of when Dallon did the same to him after discovering the rings, and frankly, that was more terrifying than the action itself. "I said, it's all your fault."

"Wh—"

"We wouldn't be here if you hadn't come," he spat, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ryan sprinting at top speed towards us, "he's gone because of you, Spencer is gone, Patrick is gone, we're all gonna go missing soon and it's all your damn fault."

"Pete—"

"Judgement day is upon us. We're dead and you killed us all." He hissed, and I caught an all too familiar gleam in his eyes that sent shivers up my spine.

I tugged at his fingers, but they wouldn't budge. "I don't know what you're talking about! Let me go, this isn't funny anymore."

That only seemed to make him want to hold on tighter. The sound of boots on dirt were growing louder by the second, but I feared seconds would take too long to rescue me. "You heard me," Pete's eyes flickered to the noise, then back to mine in an instant, "it's all your damn fault. Everything is happening because of you."

Something was off. The whole ordeal wasn't executed in the way I'd thought it out to be.

They yanked him away with raised voices filled with concern, and the most he did to put up a fight was glare at me harder and shove into my shirt.

He didn't kick and scream like Ryan had, he didn't place the blame on himself or anyone else.

He didn't storm back to his tent.

He didn't race to the Range Rover and start searching for Patrick himself.

He didn't do anything.

"Are you hurt?" Josh knelt down beside me, hand barely touching my shoulder. He kept glancing over his shoulder at Pete, watching them wrap him in hugs and affection for the time being.

"Other than my feelings, I'm fine." I said and he smiled for a second, pulling me to my feet with a pat on the back.

"I'm glad to inform you that your emotions will recover just fine, considering Pete can't do much other than hit things with big sticks and shatter eardrums. Even then he rarely makes a dent, and we can all still hear perfectly fine."

Josh was right — Pete usually struggled to crack open a piñata with a top-heavy baseball bat; Patrick told us about that a few times, although he focused more on the chihuahua that tore it to shreds while Pete had so much trouble breaking it in two. There was no way he could've caused any real damage, even if he'd wanted to. "I guess. He just worries me sometimes, you know?"

He nodded, and started off towards his tent. "Yeah. Everyone's been worrying me recently, especially Dallon. It's like we're all slowly spiraling into insanity out here."

I froze. I thought nobody else saw it. "You've noticed too?"

Josh had continued walking, and it's taken a couple extra steps to catch back up to him. "Yeah. The bandana around his neck is hiding something. He's been acting funny. It's pretty difficult to ignore, Brendon."

I couldn't believe it, I'd totally overlooked Josh. He was always so observant too, there was no way he hadn't noticed that something was up. "God, I thought I was going insane! You promise you're not just messing with me?"

He frowned and shook his head. "Of course not. I wouldn't kid around with a topic that's so serious, especially now. People are missing."

For a moment, I felt like crying tears of joy. "Do you see it at night too?"

"The what?"

"The wolf thing with the glowing eyes? Does it rip open your tent too? Haven't you seen it? Heard it? It's huge, I swear you can't miss it!"

I guess it didn't tear gashes in his tent and mutter extensively about harsh actions to be taken later, because he quit walking to turn around and stare at me like I was speaking in tongues. "What in the world are you going on about?"

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and bile threatened to rise in my throat. "The... the thing? It's out there like, every night. It fucks around near the circle and the next day something big happens. H-haven't you heard it? Seen it?"

I'd rather have had Pete try to strangle me to death, maybe even succeed. I'd prefer to have that thing rip my chest in half and paint a perfect recreation of Starry Night with my entrails.

"Brendon, I don't know what you're talking about."