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He was going to fall apart. It was only a matter of time before he was going to die and the thought made his eyes burn with unshed tears. There were still so many things he wanted to do, so many songs he wanted to write and play with the others! Crying would only make things so much worse for him. He had to keep himself together, he had to keep himself curled up into as tight of a ball as possible.
Peter’s skin had turned into paper. His skin looked like the paper used in notebooks, complete with blue and red lines running over him. His skin had turned into paper but his insides were still made out of meat, blood, and other fluids. It was only a matter of time before his paper skin would start to get soggy and weak, allowing his intestines to spill out of his body and kill him.
Peter whimpered as he hugged his knees to his chest, pressing his head against the top of them to focus on not crying. If he cried then the paper on his face would get soggy before the rest of him and he really didn’t want to feel his skin peeling away in layers. At least his intestines spilling out would kill him almost instantly. His face falling apart was bound to take a long time.
The sprite came out of nowhere. One moment Peter was alone and the next there was a sprite looking down at him with wide swirling pink eyes. When the sprite spoke it was like someone blowing a whistle and Peter whimpered at the sound, covering his ears to try and protect himself.
The sprite waved a lime green limb up over their head, calling a satyr over to their side. The satyr was covered in thick curly fur and they stared at Peter intensely with their oddly shaped eyes.
Peter groaned, clapping his hands over his eyes. Slowly he parted two of his fingers, peeking at the pair between them.
The sprite and satyr talked between each other. The sprite then left, wings fluttering behind them. The satyr stayed, locking eyes with Peter in a way that made him want to burst into marmalade tears. The satyr kept trying to talk to him. Peter shook his head, pressing his hands over his ears. He didn’t understand goat languages! He opened his mouth and tried to speak but the only thing coming out of his mouth was brightly colored glitter and scarab beetles. They trickled and spilled down his chin, their small feet threatening to tear at his paper skin.
He wished the guys were here. He wished Michael were here. Michael would know what to do. Michael always knew what to do! He had saved Peter from Hell, he could do anything.
Peter parted his lips and another beetle climbed up his throat and tumbled out of his mouth.
“Peter? Pete? Peter, come back to us! Focus on what’s actually happening, Pete!” Micky tried desperately, waving a hand in front of Peter’s eyes to try and get his attention. “Peter?”
They had been at the house party for several hours before they noticed there was something wrong with Peter. The three had been enjoying themselves; Davy flirting with any chick with a pulse, Micky being a clown and soaking up the attention and laughs, and Mike talking about music with a few other musicians that had been invited to the party. Davy was the first to notice Peter wasn’t around. He went looking for him, discovering that a few people at the party were offering acid to anyone looking for a trip. He found the bassist sitting in a hallway closet, babbling rapidly about paper and intestines. Davy called out for Micky, ordering him to stay with Peter while he went to go and find Mike, begging for the drummer to keep him as safe as possible.
“My paper is soaking up my blood,” Peter whined. “It’s soaking up my blood and it’s going to break soon! I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die alone without the guys! I love them so much and I don’t want to leave!” Peter pleaded, shaking his head.
Micky fought the urge to touch Peter while he was in this state. “Oh Pete…”
“I’m going to die,” Peter moaned.
Davy came back with Mike. “Found him!” he said, gesturing at the tall Texan.
“Move,” Mike commanded, tapping Micky’s shoulder. He crouched down in front of Peter once Micky was out of the way, handing him the keys to the Monkeemobile. “Git the car ready. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he said.
With that he turned his full attention on Peter, his heart breaking at the state the other was in. “Got yer hands on a bad dose, Peter?” he asked, slowly reaching out and touching Peter’s hair.
Peter flinched when he felt something touching his hair. He looked up, blinking when he saw it was Mike. The Texan’s skin shimmered whenever he moved, as if stars had somehow found a new home inside of him. A slender crown of bluebonnets rested delicately on his head, the petals waving as if disturbed by a gentle breeze. His eyes were so deep and brown, Peter could see the roots of the universe living inside of them. Slowly Peter reached out, the tips of his fingers touching the lock of hair that always seemed to hang just above Mike’s left eye. He opened his mouth and more beetles spilled out.
Mike waited patiently as Peter played with his hair. His hands slowly trailed down his face, stroking his large sideburns. He offered him a sad smile as he started to tell him about his paper skin and how he was going to die because of his insides spilling out of him. He reached up and took hold of one of his wrists, turning his hand to press his lips to Peter’s palm in a comforting gesture, keeping them there. “D’ya feel that, Pete?” he asked against his palm.
Peter was silent, staring at his hand still held against Mike’s mouth. “…yes…” he finally answered, looking confused at this.
“Know what that means?” Mike asked, his lips tickling Peter’s palm. Peter shook his head and Mike kissed his palm again before holding it between both of his hands. “Paper can’t feel, Pete.”
“Paper can’t..?”
“No, Peter. It can’t.”
Peter blinked, watching as the paper started to peel off of his hands and down his arms, revealing his normal skin underneath. He opened his mouth and flowers spilled out instead of beetles. He smiled brightly at Mike, throwing his arms around the Texan’s neck.
He took this as his chance to get Peter out of here. He took hold of the other, scooping him up into his arms and letting him rest his head against his neck as he headed out to where Micky and Davy waited for them in the Monkeemobile.
“He gonna be okay?” Davy asked as Mike climbed inside, Peter still hugging onto him.
“He’ll be fine,” Mike hummed, stroking Peter’s head as Micky started to drive. He rocked him slowly without thinking about it, comforting him all the way home.
“Was anyone else freaking out?” Micky asked with a frown.
“I think I saw the singer for the Jolly Green Giants and their drummer stopping the bass player from jumping out a window to catch a star,” Davy sighed. “Someone was giving out a bad batch and Petey boy must have gotten his dose from them.”
Micky blinked at that, shaking his head at the mental image of two large men trying to hold back a third. “Damn,” he muttered.
“S’why I always tell y’all not to do that stuff without at least one of us staying sober,” Mike reminded him. “Ya always need someone to be the spotter with that shit.”
Peter’s skin was no longer made of notebook paper but his eyes felt so heavy. Hopefully that didn’t mean there were small steel weights tied to his lashes forcing them down. He yawned, a few flower petals spilling from his lips before he fell asleep, warm and comfortable against Mike. “I love you guys so much. M’glad I’m not going to die tonight. I would miss all of you.”
Mike hummed at Peter’s whispered words, pressing another kiss to the top of his head. “We’d miss you too, Pete. Stay with us,” he whispered into his hair. Peter was soon fast asleep, snoring softly against Mike’s throat.