Pete spends seven days at his mother's house before he finally plucks up the courage to go home. He cries when he leaves, as if he hasn't done enough of that already. His mum has run out of things to say to him; she knows how hopeless the situation is, she knows neither of them can do anything to change it. She can't tell Pete to move on, so she simply tells him to keep going. And that's exactly what he tries to do.

When he creeps through his front door, he's met with a pile of his own belongings, all things he left behind in - at the lab. He tries not to look at it, to think about those people coming into his house.

It's so quiet. Pete's become too used to Patrick's background noise, his constant scuffling, the rustle of his feathers. The way he'd always appear in the hallway five seconds after Pete got in the door. But no matter how long Pete stares, the hall remains empty.

There's a strange smell coming from Pete's kitchen, so Pete blindly follows it, clinging to the distraction. He gags when he sees it - the rotting tomatoes on his kitchen counter, the mould-covered fruit in the bowl. He avoids looking at the dead flowers in the vase, the ones he bought Patrick when he learned that the boy had never seen roses before.

Pulling on his marigolds, Pete gingerly disposes of the decomposing dead things, shoving the infected dishes into the washing up bowl and turning on the tap. His mum told him to keep busy; might as well start right now.

He watches the bubbles rise, telling himself that this is just a normal day. He's washing up, just like normal, just like he was three months ago before - well. Before. Things are back to the way they were, he's finally got his life back, it's just what he's wanted. Then he sees the tea.

He relives that horrific morning in a split second; the gun pressed tight to the back of his neck, the dread in his stomach as he was dragged up the stairs towards exactly what those men came for. Patrick's cries as they pounced on him, the way they'd squeezed his mouth shut and stomped on his wings. The fact that Pete did nothing to stop them.

But perhaps even more memorable were the moments before all that. The feeling of Patrick's arms around him, the tranquillity of that one, precious morning. The excitement Pete had felt when he'd poured two cups of tea instead of one. Now both still sit, stone cold and sour smelling, next to Pete's kettle.

The washing up bowl is overflowing with bubbles by now, so Pete rushes to turn the water off and begins to scrub. If he's crying, he doesn't acknowledge it. He's just got to keep going.

It's fair to say he falters a little bit when he finally brings himself to look upstairs - staunchly ignoring the bullet hole in his landing wall, who knows what he'll do about that - and sees the bed that they both should have been sleeping in for the last two weeks. The covers are spilling everywhere and there's faint boot-prints on the sheets, but he picks up the pillow anyway, presses his nose to it in the hope that there's some faint proof of Patrick. There isn't - it just smells of dust.

Pete finds, however, that the t-shirt on his bedroom floor does smell of Patrick, and so do the crumpled jeans. Then, he finds a feather wedged in amongst the covers and the tears fall all over again. He wishes he'd known the importance of that morning, he wishes he'd woken Patrick and kissed him hard and told him how beautiful he was, just to be sure he knew. He hates that Patrick might not know that.

He puts all the sheets in the wash, and Patrick's clothes, too. He puts the feather in his bedside drawer. He sighs at the bullet hole, then empties out his fridge of anything particularly shrivelled, and then he sits on the couch and stares at the blank television.

A sharp mew snaps him out of his stupor - Sam stares at him from the other end of the room, looking grumpy and distinctly thinner. Pete's never been more relieved to see the cat; he pats his lap, begging for forgiveness with his eyes, and after a few seconds of haughty staring, the cat slinks towards him, rubbing himself against Pete's legs and eventually jumping into Pete's lap.

"God, I've missed you," Pete says as he scratches behind Sam's ears, stroking from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. The cat mews softly, nuzzling into Pete's chest, then settles in his lap, green eyes blinking up at him.

Maybe Pete's reading into it more than he should, but Sam's looking for something, his eyes surveying the room, then shifting back to Pete, like Pete has any of the answers.

"He's not here," Pete says quietly, running a thumb over the cat's ears. "He's not coming back."

Sam simply looks away from him.

-

Mikey is very good in bed. Pete had nearly forgotten that, but he's remembering now, as another moan spills from his lips as the man slams into him over and over. He's doing all the right things, kissing Pete's neck and biting in all the places he knows Pete likes, he's got just the right angle and just the right rhythm, he'll give Pete one hell of an orgasm and everything in Pete's life will magically fall into place.

At least, that was the logic behind calling him.

It's been years since they tried the whole relationship bullshit; it was clear pretty fast that they had no desire to be together romantically, so Mikey became Pete's emergency fuck, his safety net when he had no-one else to turn to. Pete swore, after last time, that he'd never do this again, never use Mikey like this, but here they are, lips crashing like waves, like cars. Even as he's tipped over the edge, the anticipation of regret gnaws at Pete's mind. Mikey being here also means Mikey leaving.

He lays there panting as Mikey finishes, the drive of his hips sending jolts of pain through Pete's spine. Pete supposes he deserves it; he is, albeit vaguely, aware that Mikey is in a relationship now. A relationship they both just ruined.

When Mikey collapses beside Pete, he's not smiling like normal. He doesn't throw an arm around Pete and let him cuddle up, even though he knows it's almost Pete's favourite part. Instead, he glares a hole in the ceiling, ignores Pete's pawing at his arm, ignores Pete's happy sighs, his prompts for Mikey to tell him how good he was, like normal.

"Why d'you do this to me, Pete," Mikey sighs, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Pete feels panic seize up in his chest.

"Wha - where are you going?" he exclaims, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Mikey shove his underwear back on.

"I'm going back to the flat I share with my boyfriend, who I love, and I'm going to tell him what we just did, and he's going to break up with me," Mikey states, scowling anywhere but Pete.

"But you always stay," Pete whines. That's what makes Mikey Pete's last resort - he always stays for at least one night, he always fills a little bit of the emptiness, but then he goes away again, ripping the void open a little wider each time.

Mikey scoffs, finally looking Pete in the eyes, his t-shirt crumpled in his hand. "And you always say it's the last time. Why d'you always have to screw me over?"

"Hey, you could've said no," Pete says indignantly. Pete's not the one who's just cheated on his boyfriend. At least, not quite.

"Oh, yeah, and let you guilt-trip me. But Mikey, I'm dying, Mikey, this might be the last time I sleep with anyone, please, Mikey, please," he mocks, his face turning sour.

Pete feels his cheeks burn. "I didn't say that," he mumbles. Not out loud, anyway.

"When are you gonna realise that you can't found a relationship on pity?" Mikey spits, and boy, does that hurt.

"You pity me?"

Mikey stares at him. "Don't tell me that's news to you. Why the hell do you think I'm here?"

"Because you like fucking me?"

Pete watches Mikey's face crease in exasperation. "So? You're young and up for it, everyone likes fucking you! I'm here because I got a phone call from my sobbing, dying ex-fuck buddy saying that he needed company. I should've learnt to say no to you by now," he chides himself, wrestling his jumper over his head as Pete tries not to cry.

Pity. He fucking hates that word. And now the one person he thought he could count on has slapped him in the face with it. Apparently, he's not worth anyone's time unless he's dying.

"What's happened, then?" Mikey asks, his voice a little softer than before.

"What do you mean," Pete sulks, not looking at the other man.

Mikey huffs, but sits himself at the end of the bed. "Come on, something must've happened. That's what we do, isn't it? We fuck, we sleep, you tell me what shit your life is, then I leave. So what is it now? The cancer again?"

Pete shakes his head. It's always the cancer, but only as background noise. "Uh...just - this guy."

"Whoa, you met a guy? A guy you actually felt things for?" Mikey laughs bitterly, but his smile drops when Pete throws him a glare. "What's his name?"

"Uh...Patrick," Pete says, hating the way the name feels in his mouth.

"He dumped you?"

Pete shakes his head. That scenario is about as likely as Sam learning to fly.

"Oh, so you dumped him, and now you're regretting it," Mikey nods, as if he's got Pete all figured out. To his credit, he's not far off. "What's he like?"

Flopping back on the bed, Pete tries to think how to sum up Patrick in a single word. He fails.

"Okay, let me guess, he's your usual. Tall, dark, breathtakingly handsome, a spitting image of yours truly, really," Mikey grins as Pete laughs at him.

"Nah. He's - the opposite. He's short and chubby and ginger." Even thinking about him makes Pete smile. And ache a little, too. He decides not to mention Patrick's eight-foot wingspan.

"Whoa, the great Pete Wentz is going out with a fat guy? Stop the press," Mikey says, but the suggestion of present tense hurts worse than the insult. "I'm kidding," he adds, when Pete frowns.

"I like it," Pete shrugs, "he's adorable." He tries not to think about how warm Patrick was; how lovely it was to wrap his arms around Patrick's soft middle and bury his face in Patrick's chest.

Mikey just raises his eyebrows. "He must be a pro in the bedroom, then?"

Pete just shakes his head. "We haven't - didn't. He hadn't - before. Y'know?"

"So let me get this straight," Mikey says flatly, "you're the whore of London, you could have anyone at the drop of a hat, but when you finally fall in love it's with some chubby virgin? Do I know you?"

"I'm not in love with him, I just -"

"Oh, come on, you're totally heartbroken! You've got a face like a slapped arse!"

Said face is quickly hidden in Pete's hands as he contemplates whether or not Mikey is right. "It was just supposed to be a stupid - it wasn't supposed to - ugh," Pete groans, grabbing one of the pillows and hugging it to his chest. Part of him wants Mikey to leave - he desperately wants to wash the stickiness from his thighs and hide in his bed for a few hours - but part of him can't bear the thought of it.

"What happened?" Mikey says in his therapist voice. Somehow, they always get to that question.

Pete pauses to think how he can best put this without also having to explain the existence of supernatural beings to Mikey. "Uh - his - parents. They pretty much told me I couldn't see him ever again, or they'd - well, I dunno."

"Fuck," Mikey breathes. "So you just left? Just like that?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, they sort of threatened me," he says, wishing he could tell Mikey the truth. But this is close enough.

"What, so he didn't stop loving you?"

"No," Pete says, hoping that's still the case, even after Pete shouted the walls down. Shouted at Patrick, who'd done absolutely nothing wrong. God, he's a terrible person.

"And...you still love him, obviously," Mikey reasons, waving a hand at Pete like his very appearance is of someone in love.

"Well, I don't-" Pete begins to protest, but Mikey cuts him off.

"What the fuck are you doing, man?" he says, gesticulating wildly. "Why are you calling up your exes demanding pity fucks when you've got eloping to do?!"

"It's not that simple," Pete sighs, because it really, really isn't.

"So, you're just gonna give up?" Mikey says, rolling his eyes. "How very Pete Wentz."

Pete opens his mouth to object, but the flash of hurt in Mikey's eyes makes him snap it shut again.

"He must've had some rotten luck, falling in love with you," Mikey sighs, running a hand through his hair and a knife through Pete's internal organs.

He's right, though. Patrick could have had so much more. He could have found someone who'd fight for him, who'd be brave enough to do more than wallow, who'd admit to loving him back. Instead, he got Pete. Pete curls in on himself a little more.

He doesn't see Mikey out. He imagines, briefly, the look on Mikey's boyfriend's face when he's told he's been cheated on. It's not so different to the look he imagines on Patrick's face when he's told Pete's left him. He quickly stops imagining.

-

Work is hell.

No-one questions him as to why he was away, or what he was doing, but he can see it on their faces, in their fake smiles. Joe doesn't eat his bagel in Pete's office anymore. Pete is reminded how utterly crushing it is to find himself this lonely again.

He wishes he'd never tasted it, he decides. He wishes he'd never known what it was to have someone call him up at work just to ask him how his day was going, or to simply natter down the line about how it's so cool how you're the other side of town but this machine makes it seem like you're right here. He wishes he'd never met that stupid kid at the store.

November sinks into December, and Pete breaks down the first time he hears Lonely This Christmas humming through the radio, his visions of he and Patrick curled on the sofa watching It's A Wonderful Life swimming before his eyes. He wanted so badly to see Patrick's face light with amazement at the sights and the smells and the tastes of Christmas, to drape tinsel from his wings and feed him mince pies and kiss him silly under the mistletoe.

He lets strangers fuck him whilst he lays there and hopes that this one might be the one to replace Patrick. There's a couple who want to see him again, who look at him with something more than just lust, but none of them have sparks in their eyes or fire on their tongues. Everyone else is greyscale now that Pete's seen what true colour looks like.

Christmas is spent with his mum, as usual; they miss dad most this time of year, miss how he used to make the crispiest roast potatoes and sing tipsy carols for the whole street to hear. The day is characterised by absence, and it gnaws at the festivities like frost at their fingers. It gets a little easier when Pete's grandparents join them; furious games of Trivial Pursuit distract them from the hole in the celebrations, and the grief becomes secondary to the desire to hurl the roast chestnuts at his grandmother's face.

It always comes back to Patrick, though. Pete hopes beyond anything that he's alright, that maybe White might have taken Christmas off, that someone gives him a gift or even just a hug. The thought of Patrick locked up in some cell of a room all by himself is enough to bring tears to Pete's eyes; he tells himself they can't have done that, they won't have done that. It keeps him vaguely sane.

It's the 2nd of January when the news breaks.

Pete wakes up to an internet full of chaos and a TV that won't shut up, to blog headlines and YouTube footage and radio reports so shrill that even the neighbourhood dogs can't ignore it.

Pete knows something is wrong when he first rolls over in bed and picks up his phone to see five missed calls from his mum, and several texts telling him to turn on BBC One. He goes straight to his newsfeed, and chokes at what he sees.

The Angel of London: Natural History Museum Announces Newest Exhibit

Pete feels his jaw go slack. It's everywhere; Science's Best Kept Secret Revealed and Hoax or Fact? What We Know About the Angel and "The Angel is Real" Insist Experts.

Pete's thumbs are shaking when he finally taps one. The words swim on the page as he tries to focus.

2 January 2017 11:19 / Science & Environment

Natural History Museum Unveils "Angel", Claims It's A "New Species"

Rumours have been circulating for weeks over what exactly the museum planned to present to the public in the new year; earlier in December, curator Mark Adams hinted at an "exciting acquisition" for their January exhibition and promised that it "would certainly not disappoint".

At 9 am this morning, the museum published this piece advertising the exhibit - and revealing a winged creature which they claimed to be an "angel". Recently released photos show large white wings protruding from the creature's back, and while rumours of a hoax circulate, primatologist Alejandro Estrada insists that the creature is "the biggest scientific discovery of the century" and is "most certainly real."

According to a statement from the creature's handler, Prof. S. White, it has been "raised in captivity" all its life and is "finally ready to be revealed to the public." This has already sparked anger - many have expressed concerns over whether the scientific community should be permitted to keep information such as this confidential to the public. "This is certain to provoke discussions as to the effectiveness of the Freedom of Information Act," says Streatham MP Chuka Umunna, "those privy to this have a lot to answer for."

It is not clear yet where the creature has originally come from; the Museum promises that further information will be released, along with accompanying research papers. The exhibition will be open to the public on Monday the 9th.

By Paul Rincon

BBC Science Editor

Pete reads it twice over. Then he flings himself out of bed and hurtles down the stairs, phone in hand as he slams the TV on and scrabbles for BBC News.

"...science correspondent Jonathan Amos, who is in the exhibition hall itself - Jonathan," the reporter blares from her seat in the studio, before the camera switches to a middle-aged man in a suit holding a microphone. Behind him, there stands a large, glass enclosure.

"Thanks, Fiona. Today marks an important day for the science community - and indeed the rest of the world - as the Natural History Museum unveils its first live exhibit. It's a secret kept for nearly twenty years - hidden in the bowels of laboratories right here in London - but finally, it's here for public viewing; the winged creature that even the experts are calling an angel."

Pete hits the word mum in his contacts. She picks up after two rings.

"Have you seen the news?" is the first thing she says.

"Yeah," Pete croaks, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

Neither knows what to say. Pete can hear the same news report filtering down the line.

The camera pans slightly to the left, following the newsreader as he walks towards the enclosure. It's built in the corner of the room, two white walls and two glass. Inside, there's a collection of plants, rocks and general mock-scenery, the floor cushioned with about a foot of earth.

"...a little difficult to swallow for the general public, but with papers and studies being finally disclosed, it's becoming more difficult to reach any other conclusion. If we look closer..."

Pete's stomach drops as the camera moves towards a flicker of white behind a rock. No matter how much Pete shakes his head, though, it's not long before the feathers are clear to see, and the cameraperson zooms in on a figure huddled between the rock and the wall.

Patrick's eating something from a metal bowl with his hands, his head bowed and his wings wrapped around himself. He sits with his knees to his chest, bare apart from a grubby white loincloth like some sick costume. Pete waits with bated breath for him to look at the camera; he wants to see Patrick's face, just to check, to prove that he's not dreaming this.

"So, as we can see, the creature looks remarkably human," the newsreader says quietly, as if Patrick's some easily scared rodent, "and this is what's been sparking discussion - can something from supposedly another world really look so similar to us? And what might this mean for religious groups?"

It's at this moment that Patrick turns his head and sees the camera, and Pete's anxiety levels peak. He looks...okay. His hair's a mess, but there's no bruises on his face, no new marks. But then, Pete remembers, there wouldn't be, would there? All evidence of trauma disappears from Patrick's skin as quickly as it comes. They could be beating him every day and he'd have nothing to show for it. Pete blinks back a rush of tears.

He expects Patrick to hide. But Patrick just stares.

It's all there in his eyes. He's not frowning, but he's angrier than Pete's ever seen him, a storm raging on his face as his gaze bores into the lens, intense enough to make even the reporter shut up. It's the camera that looks away first.

Pete can hear his mother breathing through the phone, and can't bring himself to say anything. He can't begin to comprehend how Patrick, his Patrick, has been outed to the world, how there's millions of people currently ogling him, passing judgement on him. Pete's run his fingers through that hair, been wrapped up in those wings, kissed those lips that are now set in a hard line, devoid of their usual curious smile.

He listens to the reporter point out Patrick's halo with a burning rage in his chest; it feels like a violation as the camera zooms in on it, showing it to the country like it's a pretty piece of jewellery rather than a living, feeling part of Patrick.

By the time the report comes to a close, Patrick's gone back to eating, his back to the glass and a different camera crew swooping in to take their own piece of Patrick's privacy.

Pete blinks as the reporter hands back to the studio, and feels hot tears fall down his face. "That poor boy," his mother says quietly, "that poor, poor boy."

"What do we do," Pete croaks, a sinkhole opening in his chest.

His mum is silent for a long few moments, and when she finally does speak, Pete knows exactly what she's going to say. "I don't think there's anything we can do."

She's right. Neither of them will be allowed in the exhibition before next week. Even then, even if Pete goes to see Patrick, even if it makes Patrick immeasurably happy to know that Pete still cares, who's to say that Patrick won't be punished? Who's to say that Patrick hasn't grown to hate Pete after two months?

Pete's been trying to move on for so long. It'd be a shame to give up the effort at this stage.

Pete spends the next week alternating between steadfastly not caring about Patrick, and obsessively combing the internet for new videos, new photographs as if they might lead him to some sort of solution. He has to know everything, he has a right to, and he's hit with waves of possessiveness each time he sees someone express their stupid fucking opinion of Patrick in their stupid fucking YouTube comment. Patrick is his, not theirs.

It's all anyone can talk about, and Pete seethes, snapping at his co-workers when they ask if he's heard the news, glaring at the headlines, at anyone who thinks they know anything about him.

It's obviously capable of thinking for itself, it looks so human, some people are arguing, that cage is nowhere near big enough.

Just because it looks human, doesn't mean it's anything like us. It doesn't seem very intelligent, all it does it sit around, others rant on forum threads.

Pete hates every single one of them. He knows that some are as outraged as he is about the conditions, the degradation, he knows that PETA has reared its ugly head and the RSPCA its prettier one, but he still hates them. They all treat Patrick like an animal, like he can't do things for himself, like he's some innocent bunny rabbit rather than an intelligent and creative individual.

Because for all its freedom of information, the reports and papers and dissertations all omit one very important detail: Patrick can talk.

Nowhere on the internet has Pete found anything that describes Patrick communicating in any way with humans. One source describes him as being able to 'imitate gestures and sounds', but that was all. Pete's not sure what that collar around Patrick's neck is for, but he'll bet anything it's being used to threaten him into silence. They've managed to cut away all of Patrick's power and reduce him to a voiceless beast. Pete spends a good deal of time sobbing over that fact.

When the exhibition opens, Pete fights tooth and nail for a ticket. He's not sure why, though; when the day finally arrives, he can hardly bring himself to walk out the door. What's he going to do? Kiss Patrick through the glass, get them both up to their balls in questions? He'd no doubt make the news, make a name for himself as some pervert who fraternises with animals.

But he has to see. He has to look for himself, register what they've made of his lover. Ex-lover.

It's so much worse than what he'd imagined.

The enclosure itself is alright; or it would be, in a different context. It's bigger than it looked on camera, lighter and more varied. Pete keeps his distance, letting the crowds behind him surge ahead, letting them push to the face of the glass and stare. That's what makes it so disgusting.

Pete watches as people discard all trace of humanity to go and bang on the glass, to point and beckon and make stupid noises like they're calling a dog to heel. Pete hovers behind them, can't bring himself to search for the trace of feathers they're all cooing over. There's still reporters pushing to the front of the crowd, cameras picking random people to interview as if they could possibly contribute anything other than stupidity.

He sits on a bench at the side of the room for twenty minutes, just watching. It's somehow comforting to be in the same room as Patrick, to know he's closer than he's been in months. But then Pete remembers that they're not in the same room at all; Patrick's in a cage.

At 1pm, just when Pete's thinking about leaving without torturing himself with the sight of Patrick, a man appears inside the enclosure with a big orange bucket. Pete notices that the crowd has thickened, and stands up for a better view. It's only when the man bangs his fist against the bucket that Pete realises, with bile in his throat, that it's feeding time.

Between people's heads, Pete sees Patrick emerge from wherever he's been hiding. He's all wings at first, shielding himself in feathers, and Pete feels his chest tighten at the sight of him. Patrick's face remains blank as he glances around at the people, then begins to crawl over to the pile of food the man's dumped on the floor in the middle of the enclosure. The crowd ooh as he stretches his wings out, and Pete bites his lip in an attempt to stop the tears.

Patrick doesn't look up as he reaches out a hand and starts to eat. He takes a handful of the strange brown pellets and eats them one by one, his head bowed and his hair falling across his face. Pete longs to tuck the strands behind his ears. People chatter excitedly, pushing for a better view.

When Pete thinks he's past the worst of it, the man bangs the bucket once again, and produces a grubby football from amongst the foliage. He picks it up and throws it in Patrick's direction. It bounces past him, and he throws it a glance - then goes right back to eating. The man bangs the bucket again. He looks annoyed. He bangs the bucket once more, and Patrick still doesn't react.

That's when Pete sees it. It's only a little flick of the man's wrist, but Pete notices a button being pressed and a split second later, Patrick's face squeezes in pain beneath his fringe, his shoulders tensing and his wings jolting where they're pooled around Patrick's legs. A moment passes, then Patrick drops his hands to the floor and makes for the ball. When he finally throws it back, the man encourages applause from the crowd.

There's a brief moment where Patrick's gaze flits around his audience; a moment when he's so close to spotting Pete that Pete ducks behind the nearest person like he's been burned.

But the worst thing, the thing that eventually drives Pete out of the room in a rush of falling tears and stuttering breaths, is the look in Patrick's eyes. They're dead. They're empty of all life, all boundless curiosity, all the things that made him Patrick. There's no sparkle anymore, no glitter of wit. Pete hurries from the room, not looking back, trying desperately to hold it together until he makes it to the exit, hoping the winter air will blow the tears away. It doesn't.

He takes no notice of the strange looks he gets from tourists, from camera crews, from the group of tired-looking protesters gathered around the steps - he just covers his mouth with his sleeve and sobs, trying to find his way with blurred vision. He finally finds a relatively secluded bench in the museum's dead-looking gardens, and collapses onto it, doubling over and crying harder than he has in years.

He cries for the agony of it all, his inability to do anything at all to make things better; he cries for the injustice, the absolute horrors that Patrick's been subjected to, the cruelty with which he's been treated. He cries for the fact that he's finally realised how completely in love with Patrick he is at the exact moment he realised how completely impossible it is to ever be with him.

It's over, he thinks as he stares up at the museum, they've won.

-

It's not over.

Pete's had a week of dozing during the day and lying awake at night, crying into packets of crisps and ignoring texts when his mum finally calls.

He's expecting to be chided - he knows he's blocked her out, blocked everyone out in favour of wrapping himself in blankets and hibernating in bed, but instead, she shrieks his name down the phone so shrilly that Pete nearly falls off the couch.

"Put the bloody news on!" she says, and Pete groans. He's had enough of the news, he's too scared of seeing Patrick again, of feeling his heart break again. He's getting better, so he tells himself.

"What's happened now," Pete sighs, reaching for the remote all the same.

"That boy is a genius," his mother asserts, and Pete feels his heart leap, his fingers jumping to the buttons as he curses the TV for not turning on fast enough.

Angel Solves Riemann Hypothesis

Those are the words emblazoned across the screen. Pete has to read them a few times before they really sink in.

"Oh my God," Pete says quietly, feeling his mouth quirk at the edges. "He...he...what?"

"Shh," she hisses as the screen cuts to an elderly man who is apparently Sir Andrew Wiles, mathematician and Professor at the University of Oxford, and is looking a little giddy.

"It's - it's just amazing," the man stammers, pushing his glasses up his nose and sitting forward in his chair, "this creature is a wonder, he - he's provided proof for a problem that I myself have poured over for years - many mathematicians have dedicated their lives to learning how to tackle problems like this, and - and this boy has just done it, just like that - and - and so young, too, it's just - astounding!" he rambles, flinging his hands about. "I'm sure I speak for many of us in the field when I say that I'd like to - to sit down with this boy and discuss what else he knows, what else he can help us with -"

He's cut off when the screen returns to the news reader. Pete's eyes widen as he's shown an image of Patrick's proof - carved into the wall of his enclosure, no less. It's a sea of numbers and letters, lines and symbols, and Pete marvels at it, a knot of pride glowing in his chest. Right at the bottom it says, in squished yet legible handwriting, all values accurate to 10 d.p. Up yours, [blurred]. Pete grins wider than he has in months.

The best part - oh, the part that makes Pete positively burst with happiness - is that to the side of the image, Patrick sits underneath his work, obviously posing for the camera and with a glittering smile across his face. His eyes aren't dead anymore. His eyes say I win. Or possibly something more explicit.

"They've gotta let him out," Pete realises, "they have to. They - they can't keep him like this now, people will -"

"...obviously faked. It will remain in captivity for the rest of the year, as per the museum's agreement," a tall man with a red face growls at the camera.

"Then what's your response to the public outcry?" the interviewer pipes up, following the man as he stalks through the corridor.

"If they believe that a dumb animal is capable of doing maths, that's their problem," the man snaps. "No more questions."

Pete stares. The newsreader goes on to show a statement from the museum detailing the fact that they will not give in to public pressure. Pete boils.

He doesn't cry, for once. He fumes. He feels anger he's only felt in the heat of a court room, his fingers shake but his mind is clear as crystal, this is so profoundly unjust that Pete would be neglecting his legal duties not to intervene. He won't take it anymore. He's fucking sick of being passive in every area of his life. He's sick of lying down.

He stands up, grabbing all the empty packets of junk food in coiled fists and turns off the TV. He can hear his mother talking through the phone still, and hangs up on her. He dumps all his shit in the bin and breathes a slow breath. He won't overthink this one, he won't chicken out.

There's an axe in the cupboard under the stairs. It's time for another trip to the Natural History Museum.