Pete wakes to the warmth of two bodies. He's done it dozens of times before, a different guy pressed up against him, a different excuse buzzing on his lips; the same rush of cold as he leaves the sheets, the same disappointment as he realises he's not worth keeping.

But when he stirs, the arms around him tighten. When he opens his eyes, Patrick's head is half buried in the horizon of the pillow, his breath ghosting across Pete's face. Pete's not sure if he's ever seen Patrick so at peace, his resting frown smoothed into something softer, brows delicately risen and lips parted. Streams of coppered gold trail over his forehead, cascade onto the pillow to pool in gentle waves about his cheek. Pete blows a soft breath just to watch them stir, and swears he sees the dimples at the corners of Patrick's mouth deepen in a shadow of a smile.

Hands are clasped tight to the fabric of Pete's t-shirt, a wing draped across the two of them. Pete dips his fingers into the feathers, feeling the barely-there fluff over his skin. The lights are on, bright white and blazing in the corner of his vision, but they bathe the boy in a glowing fuzz that has Pete wondering if perhaps this is heaven after all.

It certainly feels like it. Patrick's so warm, his heart a hot water bottle under Pete's careful hand, the duvet sealing in their shared heat, a home of their own making.

Pete averts his eyes from the bandages binding Patrick's arms, from the impressions of dressings over the bullet wounds in his chest; the flash of anger that darts through him has no place in this haven of serenity. Instead, he revels in the sight of Patrick so close, in the fact that he can reach out and touch Patrick without a sheet of glass between them.

He does so with careful fingers, brushing the fall of hair from Patrick's face and tucking it behind his ear. He rests his palm on the gentle line of Patrick's jaw, stroking over the silken skin of his temples and wondering if this is it. He's chased love for so long, mourned its absence, resigned himself to its loss, can it really be laid out in front of him?

If this is it, it's not quite as he expected. It's not strong or sudden like Huey promised, it's not a fantastical epiphany or a great discovery of meaning. If this is it, it's subtle. It's the space between wingbeats, the breath before the drop. It's nothing at all, it should be a let-down, an anti-climax, but instead Pete just feels full, satisfied, complete. Perhaps it's not fully bloomed yet, perhaps he's not quite ready to let it consume him – but he can feel it, the soft flutter in his stomach as Patrick's mouth twitches, the leap of his heart as Patrick's eyes breeze open and his gaze rests upon Pete.

"Hey there," Pete whispers, smiling softly across the pillow as Patrick blinks away the haze of sleep.

Patrick doesn't reply, simply stares at Pete, his eyes flicking to Pete's arm on him and Pete's body against his own and flooding with confusion. Pete has barely picked up on it before Patrick starts to squirm, pushing Pete away and curling his wing around his own torso.

"Hey – no, no, it's okay," Pete soothes, taking his hands off Patrick and placing them where he can see them. He won't be right for two days, Hurley had said – Pete had hoped he'd been exaggerating, but the panic on Patrick's face suggests not. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Patrick's eyes peek from behind his wing, his bound hands shuffling out from underneath the feathers and towards Pete. His fingers nudge Pete's palm and Pete refrains from curling his hands around them, letting Patrick trace his palms and poke at the veins in his wrists. He can't help but smile as Patrick's fingers come to rest on his face, feeling him out from his hairline to the curve of his jaw.

Pete's acting on instinct when he raises his hand and hovers it near Patrick's face; he's half expecting to lose a finger, but instead, Patrick clasps Pete's hand and presses it to his nose, smelling it, just as Pete had hoped. He sniffs Pete's palm and all around Pete's wrist, concentration twisting his face, then shifts closer to snuffle along Pete's arm until his nose is buried in Pete's chest. When he looks up, the panic has disappeared.

"Pete?" he croaks, a hand pawing at Pete's collar, kneading the fabric gently between his fingers.

Pete smiles, wide and real and reflected in the spark of Patrick's eyes. "That's right," he says, "it's Pete. How're you feeling, sweetie?"

Patrick doesn't seem to understand the question but the soft curve of his lips doesn't fall and his hand slides to stroke Pete's cheek, his wing stretching to rest across Pete's body. There's a second of smile-filled silence before Pete moves to kiss Patrick, lifting his head from the pillow and leaning the few inches between them to press their lips together.

It's short and soft and Patrick doesn't quite kiss back, but the light in his eyes when they pull apart is reciprocation enough. Pete stays close enough for their noses to touch, for their breath to mingle; he can only stand a few seconds before he's going back for more, feeling the give of Patrick's bottom lip between his own and realising just how much he missed it. He allows himself one last peck to Patrick's mouth before he moves back, watching Patrick's eyes flutter open and his cheeks ball up in a smile – he hides his face in the sheets and then peeks back out at Pete, pink flushing his face. 

"I've missed you so much," Pete says quietly, because he has to say it, he has to somehow express the deep sense of longing welling up inside him. He wonders if he should say those three little words, too; they dance on the tip of his tongue as he watches Patrick smile, feels Patrick's hands over his skin.

He decides not to. He wants Patrick to understand, to fully understand, he wants Patrick to remember it because – and it brings tears to Pete's eyes when he realises – it'll probably be the first time anyone's ever said it to him.

Instead, he just kisses Patrick again, threading his hands through Patrick's hair and savouring each push of Patrick's lips. The surge of protectiveness that compels him to hold Patrick so close is like nothing Pete's felt before; he's never had someone to cherish until now, never wanted to keep hold of anyone until now. He keeps kissing until Patrick pushes him away, leaving Patrick's mouth panting and his eyes curious.

"I'm sorry," Pete whispers as he returns his head to the pillow. "I just – got carried away," he smiles breathily, "you – you need rest."

"Don't leave," Patrick says quickly, his hands curling tighter in Pete's t-shirt, his wing resting heavily on Pete's shoulder.

"Not gonna leave," Pete assures him, sliding a careful hand to Patrick's soft waist and shifting himself closer. Patrick lets out a hum of contentment and tucks his head under Pete's chin, his hair tickling Pete's neck. With a bubble of warmth in his chest, Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's forehead, breathing in his smell and bathing in the peace.

As he falls asleep, that's all Pete wishes for: peace, and that it might last.

It doesn't.

-

Pete wakes to Patrick's shouts.

Nothing makes sense, his vision is too blurred and the wave of noise that hits him is more than his stirring brain can possibly grasp at. His eyes catch on first; Patrick isn't beside him, Patrick is on the floor – they are no longer alone.

"How did you get in here?!" someone shouts through the ringing, "speak!"

Pete scrambles to the edge of the bed and tries to take in the scene in front of him. Patrick doesn't reply beyond a wordless yell, a guard's hand wrapped firmly around his arm and shaking him where he's crumpled on the floor. There's four of them, weapons aimed at Patrick's face as the speaker aims a kick at his stomach. Pete barely thinks before he dives.

The floor is hard and cold and painful as both it and a steel-capped boot slam into him, his brain alight with pain and noise but a feeling of purpose sitting resolutely in his chest. "Stop!" he screams at the oncoming figures, all wielding sticks and heading for the boy whose wing Pete can feel underneath him.

"I didn't do it!" Patrick cries, scrabbling out from beneath Pete and away from his attackers, "I didn't do it!"

"Liar!" the guard – Johnson – Johnson – replies, lunging past Pete and landing a hand in Patrick's hair. A second filled with Patrick's screams is enough to have Pete on his feet and throwing himself at Johnson, his fighting strategy boiling down to simply taking all the blows meant for Patrick. He shoves at the guard until he stumbles backwards and releases his hold on the boy.

Patrick crawls away, tucking himself into a corner and wrapping himself in his wings as another man pursues him, baton raised high in the air. "Fucking stop!" Pete shouts again, grabbing at the man's arm before he can strike Patrick again and dragging him backwards as far as he can manage.

"How did you get out of solitary, you little shit?!" someone yells, but Pete's already heading for Patrick, crouching next to him and hunching over him as a baton flies towards them. It knocks the air out of Pete when it lands heavily between his shoulder blades, once, twice. Pete can only imagine what it might have done to Patrick's face.

"Stop," another voice bellows – Andy. He stands between them and the guards, hands flung outwards and a storm on his face. "I let him out of solitary. He needed stitching up. He asked for Pete so I let him in here."

"I didn't do it!" Patrick says again, his eyes wide and flicking from Andy to Johnson. Pete strokes a hand over his wing where it's wrapped around his body – he swears he can feel the boy trembling.

"We know you didn't," Pete whispers to him while Andy begins to snap at Johnson, "you didn't do anything wrong."

Patrick's gaze drifts back to Pete, recognition in his eyes and surety in the way he unfolds a wing with which to cover Pete. But fear is still spilt over his face, twitching with each crack of raised voices. Pete lifts a hand and cups his jaw.

"It's okay. I won't let them hurt you," Pete says softly, a promise he wishes he could more certainly keep. Nevertheless, he snakes an arm around Patrick and brings him closer, turning him away from Johnson's hissing insults and guiding his head to rest against Pete's collarbone. "I got you."

"He's not allowed contact," Johnson's snarling, "You weren't allowed to give the halo back, he's supposed to be out cold."

"He was nearly dead. You'd have nothing to bully if it weren't for me," Andy says icily, his hands clenched into fists. "Now, I'm going to walk him to the table, and you're going to leave us all be. Alright?"

"Piss off," Johnson responds, "we've been ordered to keep a watch of him. Can't have him trying anything."

"He's not in his right mind, he won't hurt you," Andy says, turning to them and gesturing for them to stand up. "Come along now, let's get this over with."

"Get what over with?" Pete asks slowly, wishing he could drape himself more thoroughly over Patrick. "I'm not letting you do anything with him."

"Will we ever be shot of you?" Johnson spits. "Fucking fags."

Andy simply rolls his eyes. "Get up," he says, "if you want to protect him, stand him up and keep him calm."

"No," Pete replies resolutely, "you're not cutting him open again."

"Wentz," Andy huffs, striding nearer. "Please, just do it." He lowers his voice. "This one's necessary."

Pete can still feel Patrick shaking in his arms. In this moment, he's not Pete's lover, he's a kid, a boy robbed of safety and friendship and privacy clinging to the first person that offered him a kind hand. He's put all his trust in that person. Pete squeezes him tighter. "No."

Andy crouches next to them, running a hand across his face. "Wentz. Pete. Please, this one will help."

"What are you gonna do to him?"

"It won't take long. It's necessary, Pete. If you don't cooperate, they'll only take him by force."

Pete turns to Patrick, lifting his chin and meeting his eyes, silently begging for answers. His Patrick knows how to worm his way out of any kind of trouble; this Patrick simply stares. The look in his eyes is one of utter terror.

"No," Pete says again. Andy sighs.

"Alright, Johnson. Have your fun."

Before Pete knows it, they're being approached by four armed guards, weapons raised. Pete brings Patrick to his feet, tries to cover Patrick with his body, tells himself that this is what Patrick would want him to do. Patrick always fights. The problem is, Patrick never wins.

"Stop," Pete says at the last second, "let me take him. Stop."

Johnson smirks, waving at his colleagues to stand down. He extends a hand towards the open door. "Right this way."

Patrick's hands clasp at Pete's waist as he starts to move them forward, his wings reaching to encompass Pete fully. His eyes scream with questions.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Pete murmurs gently, "I don't know what else to do." They shuffle out into the corridor. Johnson beckons him one way, Andy blocks the other.

 Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's temple. "Patrick," he whispers, "run."

Patrick doesn't understand until Pete shoves him in Andy's direction, tripping over his own feet before catching himself and starting to sprint. Pete barely notices Johnson slamming him up against the wall, a sigh of relief washing through him.

He doesn't realise the fault in his plan until Andy catches Patrick by the halo and watches him crumple to the floor. He drags Patrick to his feet once more and shakes his head at Pete. "I told you, Wentz. This is necessary."

Pete's mouth flaps as he struggles in Johnson's hold. He was so sure Andy would simply step aside, like he always seems to do. "How can you let this happen? How can you claim to love him when you – you hurt him like this?!"

"Aw, did you really think he'd go along with your little plan?" Johnson coos, shoving him harder into the wall. "Bless. Where exactly was the kid supposed to run to? There's nowhere for him to go. You're on a losing side, lawyer."

"Pete," Patrick cries as Andy pushes him down the corridor. "Pete! I didn't do it, Pete!"

"It's gonna be okay," Pete calls, now a downright lie. "Sweetie, don't panic, I'll stop them, I'll –"

He's cut off by Johnson's hand pressing into his face, crushing his lips against his teeth. "Shut the hell up. If I hear another word out of you, the kid's injuries will be the least of your worries."

Pete can only watch as Patrick stumbles around a corner and out of sight, the tips of his wings disappearing a second later. He blinks back the tears that sting his eyes.

Johnson shoves him unceremoniously back into his bedroom – his prison. The anxiety is like a rat gnawing at his fingers, spiking each time teeth hit nerve, burrowing its way down to the bone. The addition of love to this twisted equation has only resulted in greater desperation, heightened yearning. His thoughts always end with Patrick, his limbs itch with the want to be wrapped around him. Pete's always known himself to be an anxious person, but this – this distress, this torment - is something else entirely.

-

Pete's right to be worried.

When Johnson marches him back down the corridor, he wears a smug smile, a new spring in his step and a flash of malice in his eyes as he asks if Pete would like to see his creature now. Pete nods, follows, dreads to think what they might have done this time. If it wasn't for Andy's insistence that this one's necessary, Pete would think they'd finally killed Patrick. He's not sure which would be worse; seeing Patrick dead or seeing Patrick in so much pain he wishes he was.

"He's in there," Johnson smirks, pointing towards a slate grey door. "He looks – different."

Pete just glares as he meets Johnson's beady eyes, his face carefully blank. Johnson looks away first, swiping his keycard against the lock and yanking the door open. He steps aside and beckons Pete across the threshold. Pete can feel his heart beating in his ears.

But instead of Patrick, it's Andy he sees. "Wentz?" he says, "What are you –"

"I thought I'd give him a look at the damage," Johnson replies, giving Pete a push into the room. It's a lab of some sort; Andy sits at a table littered with paperwork and silver tools glitter from cabinet tops.

"Now is not the time," Andy says shortly, placing the lid on his pen and glancing towards an open door at the back of the room. Pete glimpses a bed. Already, he feels his stomach curl with nausea.

"What've you done," Pete asks, low and trembling.

"Pete, just – come and sit down. I need to explain some things to you."

The atmosphere is suffocating. They both know something Pete doesn't – they both know what awful fate has befallen the person he loves, and each second he remains ignorant is another square foot of air sucked from the room. Pete looks from Johnson to Andy. Both eye him as if he's a glass pushed too close to the edge.

"What's going on?" he asks, looking towards the room and wondering if he should simply make a run for it.

Andy seems to read his mind, standing up from his desk and pulling the door shut. "Sit down, Pete."

Johnson shifts in the corner of the room, and Pete feels a stir of hatred in his chest. "Not with him here."

"I've every right to be here," Johnson snaps, "and if you speak to me like that again, I'll-"

"Yes, Johnson, get out," Andy sighs. "This doesn't need to be made worse."

Johnson's face reddens. "I'm technically your superior, Hurley, don't –"

"Being allowed to carry a gun does not make you my superior, Johnson, it makes you a trigger-happy meathead with a god complex. Get out."

Pete watches Johnson boil, sees his hand twitch towards his gun but curl into a fist instead. "Fine," he mutters, stomping towards the corridor. "Enjoy what's left of your boyfriend." The door slams, and leaves a cold silence in its wake. Pete turns to Andy.

"What the fuck have you done," he says, dread curdling his insides. "Tell me right now, or I'm going to go and see for myself."

Andy's hand doesn't move from the door handle. "Pete – sit down. Please, let me explain to you why this will be beneficial."

Pete stays put. He wonders how easily Andy would go down if he were to shove him. He wonders how easily he could prise Andy's hand from the door.

The answer to both, as it happens, turns out to be very.

The cabinets rattle as Andy staggers back into them, and Pete's hands tingle with the friction of lab coat lapels. His mind bounces between the shock of his own violence and the terrifying curiosity of what might have become of Patrick.

"Pete, please –" Andy starts, but Pete's already opening the door. "You have to understand that this is necessary!"

Pete strides inside.

"I promise you, this is a good thing, Pete, please, listen to me –"

What Pete sees can't be real. What Pete sees is perhaps one of the worst acts of malice he's ever encountered, the most vicious of sins, the most sickening of evils. What Pete sees brings tears to his eyes and bile to the back of his throat.

What Pete sees is an angel without wings.

Patrick lies unconscious on the bed, face down, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. His back gleams white under the seething lights, freckled and shifting with his breathing. Gauze pads are taped across his shoulders, neat and clean and cackling.

"It's for his own good," Andy says quietly from somewhere in the background. Pete wishes he'd choke.

The room seems to sway as Pete staggers towards Patrick's prone form, reality tearing at his seams with each step. The image in front of him won't be reconciled; that's not Patrick, that's not Pete's angel, Pete's angel has beautiful white wings billowing from his back, wings that can't just be not there anymore.

"What've you done," Pete whispers, even though it's so painfully obvious, so jarring that his bones ache with gnashing tremors. What he's truly asking is what this will do to Patrick, what exactly they've done to Patrick's tortured mind, whether this will finally drown the light in his eyes, break the backbone of his weary hope. The answer – certainly, unwaveringly, irreversibly – is yes.

The hatred that courses through Pete will not translate into words; it screams only actions, only the swinging of fists and the gushing of blood. Pete wouldn't know how to crack a jaw or crush a nose, but the rage does, knows Andy stands too close. Insects are so easy to squash.

But that would deny Patrick the honour. If there's anything left of him, it'll be fury. "He's going to kill you," Pete says, flat and absent. "He's going to smash your skull into pieces."

Pete doesn't hear Andy's response, doesn't care. There's tears on his face, tightening his throat. He wants to scream that this is too much, too far, but it's always been too much, always left Patrick with less of himself, always ripped him into smaller pieces.

As Pete reaches out, he thinks how different this should have been; tracing the curve of Patrick's shoulders with love in his heart rather than acid in his throat, hearing Patrick's sweet laughter instead of just empty breathing. He strokes across Patrick's spine, the intimacy sterilised by the gauze, the lights, the stillness.

It burns him up. It blazes in his stomach, in his lungs, behind his eyes as he scrubs at his face with his sleeve. His skin seems stretched tighter around his frame, straining and splitting where the anger seethes, ashes of grief settling low in his stomach. It's more than a sin – it's not just an affront to morality, to any sense of decency humanity may have retained – it's a helpless boy whose unimaginable pain goes unnoticed, uncared for.

Patrick's face twitches when Pete touches it, and Pete flinches away, terrified of Patrick waking up, of watching him realise what they've done to him, what they've taken from him. Pete wonders if he'll ever see that happy kid again, if this will finally snap his neck. Cupping the curve of Patrick's cheek, Pete prays this peace lasts a little longer, that someone up there might grant Patrick the gift of a good dream before he wakes up to the nightmare. Pete presses a soft kiss to Patrick's hair, hoping he feels it and not the tears dripping from Pete's face.

Then, Pete turns on Andy.

"How could you," he says, "just – how could you?"

Andy looks an odd kind of sad – disinterested but pitying, as if he's watching a poor yet endearing performance of Romeo and Juliet. He shakes his head. "It needed to happen."

"Why."

"Pete, come and sit down," Andy sighs, drifting back into the other room and beckoning for Pete to follow. Sitting down is definitely a ploy to keep Pete from throwing Andy across the room, but he plays along anyway, slumping into a chair and scrubbing the tears from his face. "Listen, I –"

"There's no excuse for this," Pete huffs into his hands, trailing his eyes to Andy's and wondering how he could have possibly thought the man was on his side. "Whatever you say, it doesn't matter. This is fucking disgusting."

Andy adjusts his glasses, folds his arms across the desk, a picture of corporate formality. "Pete. This was a necessary business investment –"

"Investment?!" Pete explodes, his fist slamming down on the table and his voice suddenly roaring around the room. "He's a fucking person! He's a kid and you've – you've –" Pete tails off as the realisation dawns. "You've sold them, haven't you. You've fucking sold them."

"The museum deal fell through. We needed funds. We didn't want to have to accept this offer but it became the only option. This will keep him useful, Pete. As long as he's making money, he's kept alive."

"That's despicable. That's absolutely fucking barbaric and you know it, you fucking selfish son of a bitch," Pete spits, his voice rising with his anger. "He's not your fucking business venture."

Andy shakes his head. "They don't see it that way. As far as those higher up see it, as soon as we run out of money, he's not worth the upkeep. We have to justify his existence somehow."

"So you sell his fucking wings?" Pete growls, "that's – that's – who the hell wanted them?"

Andy laughs, hollow. Pete wants to rip his throat out. "The feathers are highly sought after. People will pay tens of thousands for just one; his bones, too, they're thought to have healing properties. It's all pseudoscience, of course, but you'd be amazed at the amount of money in it."

"How much," Pete asks, just to learn what they think Patrick's worth.

"Three hundred and fifty million."

"Fucking hell," Pete blurts, choking on his own saliva.

"And once they're sold part by part, the company in question will almost definitely make a profit. His primary feathers alone will sell for a million each." There's a nasty little glint of greed in Andy's eyes that snaps Pete back to reality. He doubts that Patrick will care for profit margins.

"If he's worth that much, why not just kill him?"

"Well, that was definitely a possibility. But for now, he's worth more to us alive. We've tested all we can regarding flight and aerodynamics and so forth. The wings were – disposable."

Pete can only stare at Andy's lifeless eyes, at the absolute indifference within them. He searches for words, but what could he possibly say to make this robot feel.

"I know you think I'm evil," Andy says softly, as if his acknowledgement somehow lessens his actions. "But the truth is, if he's ever – ever – going to get out of here, he needs to lose those wings."

Pete frowns at him. "What do you mean."

"I mean," Andy huffs, "if you're expecting to free him, to persuade them to let him go – this is the only way."

"No it isn't," Pete snaps, "you could have kept him whole. You could have at least tried – "

"Pete, look me in the eyes and tell me that they'd ever dream of letting him out of here with those wings."

Pete meets his gaze and stares, searching for a response, a put down. But the more he thinks, the more he realises – there's no way Patrick could live a normal life, no way he'd be able to disappear totally, no way his captors would risk his release.

"You know I'm right," Andy says, "trust me, this puts us in a much stronger position. He's all but human, now. He's not at risk of going back to a display cabinet. They can tell the papers he's a fake, they can release him as the boy involved with the fraud and it'll all be forgotten soon enough. Something like that, anyway. You're the lawyer."

Pete doesn't want to understand. This twisted act can't be justified – he wants every single person involved to burn for this. But if it saves Patrick from a lifetime of pain, could it possibly be worth it? It hurts Pete's chest to think about. "You had no right to take them." Of that, Pete's sure.

"So you think I should have gained his permission? You must know that there's no way in heaven and earth that he'd say yes. He'll see, eventually, that this is for the best. As will you."

"What if he doesn't," Pete says, fresh tears slipping down his face. "What if this is too much?"

Andy's lips curl over his teeth. He looks at Pete for a few moments, then shakes his head. "It's a risk we have to take."

"Not we. You." Pete's not the one gambling with Patrick's sanity.

With a sigh, Andy nods. Pete wonders if he even feels guilty.

"I should check on him," Andy says after a stretch of silence punctuated by Pete's sniffs.

"When will he wake up?"

"I don't know. But I think you should be with him when he does."

Pete nods. He doesn't plan on leaving Patrick's side ever again. He watches Andy drift into the other room, hears the scuffle of bedding and the clatter of metal against plastic. He aches for Patrick, wishes he could help him, heal him, cleanse all the hurt from his brain. Instead, he has to watch them snip away at Patrick's body and let his mind unravel.

He cries quietly into his hands until he decides it won't help anything. Then comes a scream.

It cuts right to Pete's core; it rings at a frequency that hums in his nerve endings, sets his teeth on edge. It's Patrick, unmistakeably Patrick. Pete knows purely by the way the sound cracks his chest in half.

He staggers from his chair just as an almighty crash punctuates the shouts and broken glass skims across the floor. He's met with utter chaos as he swings into the room; a cabinet of medicine lies in pieces on the floor, beakers shattered around it and pills scattered over the tiles. Patrick lets out another bloodcurdling yell as he hurls the bedside table at a cowering Andy, who cries out and sinks to the floor, arms thrown over his face.

Andy's begging at Patrick, incoherent pleas as Patrick clears a path towards him. A blink of Pete's tear-filled eyes and Patrick's pouncing, rage possessing him as he screams and rips and pulverises, Andy's shouts quickly reduced to rasping breaths. Pete has no idea what he's doing as he throws himself towards Patrick, wrenching at the boy's bandaged hand where it's closed around Andy's throat.

Pete sure he's previously appreciated how strong Patrick is – but not until now has his strength made itself quite so apparent. Patrick's arm is rigid, unmovable. A shrug of his shoulders sends Pete to the floor, his fist plunging into Andy's ribcage. Pete tries again, tries scrabbling at Patrick's arm – not for Andy, just for Patrick, for what it might do to him if he really did kill someone – but Patrick swipes at him this time, rakes his nails across Pete's face. The flash of pain and another of those rattling screams distracts Pete from the falling sensation as he's flung across the room.

Beakers burst over his head as Patrick turns his tornado onto Pete, Andy's body left strewn in the opposite corner. Patrick aims his fist at Pete's face and Pete flinches away from it, hearing the crack of plaster and feeling flecks of Patrick's blood spatter across his face. His brain spins with the sensation that he's going to die. Later, he'll think on how much he fears it.

He takes a deep breath as Patrick shoves him into the wall, his ribs aching with the pressure and his eyes falling shut. He won't win this fight – he may as well die swiftly. He can feel the fury in Patrick's bones, in the pitch of his yells and the taughtness of his muscles. He'd held a small, weak hope that perhaps their love might have been enough to get Patrick through this, that if Pete could hold him tight enough, Patrick's broken pieces might knit back together. Instinctively, Pete throws his arms out in front of him.

Patrick never lands his punch. When the pain doesn't come, Pete opens his eyes, sees where his outstretched hand is resting. He'd always expected Patrick's halo to be cold, like metal; instead it pulses with heat. The world narrows to only this moment, to Patrick's gasp of shock and Pete's realisation, to the touch of Pete's fingers against polished gold.

"I – I'm sorry," Pete stammers as he finally retracts his hand. "I didn't – I – " He tails off as he watches Patrick lower his fist, sees all the anger and the betrayal in Patrick's eyes settle into absolute horror, feels the hand pinning him against the wall loosen. For a few seconds, Pete swears he can see Patrick's soul, bared raw and ruined on his face.

When he slumps forward, Pete catches him. He feels Patrick's first cracked sob in the crook of his neck, feels Patrick's hot breath against his skin. He tries to think of something to say, but no comforting words seem built to reach this far. Instead, he just holds Patrick, a hand carefully at his waist, the other sliding to the nape of his neck and stroking over his hair. 

He lets Patrick cry, hysterical screams wracking his body. Agony has never been more accurately exemplified.