Work Text:
His feet felt so heavy. His body was cold and wet from the rain. His hands felt caked with blood. Still, he kept walking. What else did he even have left?
Peter McVries, the winner of the Long Walk. What a joke. Pete had lost everything. He'd lost his best friend when the boy had lost his will to live and had turned around to accept his fate. He'd lost his worst enemy when the boy had stabbed out his own throat, something he hated to admit he felt guilty over. He'd lost his other best friends when the boys had suffered internal bleeding and the horrible decision of self-sacrifice, respectively. He'd also lost who could damn well have been the love of his life when the boy had tried to rally the others against the soldiers. Collie Parker may not have been one of his Musketeers, but he'd been special to Pete in a way that no one else was. Which was why it had hurt him especially when the boy had raced off the track, realizing his revolution had failed. He was just glad that he hadn't turned around to see the body when the carbine roared.
He knew he was about to be killed. What else would happen? He'd be pardoned for his crimes? No. Pete wasn't that stupid. He couldn't even pardon himself for that crime. He glanced down at his hands and, in the darkness, became convinced that they were dripping blood, and not rain water. It was a blood that could not be washed away, even by the violent downpour. The weight of the gun in his hands had shocked him. The unit was shockingly light. Pete had handled firearms before, growing up with an uncle who's only lesson had been how to hunt. The kickback hadn't even been that bad, compared to the old hunting rifles and sawed-off shotguns his uncle swore up and down were perfectly safe and legal. The way the Major had crumpled in front of him made the entire act feel almost easy. There was no dramatic scream, no tearful begging, there wasn't even that much blood. After all of the visceral pain he'd seen on the Walk, it felt tame. He wasn't even sure the Major had felt it. The bullet had gone in, come out, and he was dead. That almost made Pete feel guiltier.
A loud click sounded from behind him, but he didn't dare turn. Up ahead, a shadowed silhuette stood in front of him. Was it Ray? Art? Hank? Collie? Stebbins? He'd even take Barkovitch as this point. He felt his mouth twitch at the thought of that ugly mug being the first one to greet him at the pearly gates - though, if it was Gary Barkovitch he was seeing, he doubted the gates were pearly. He had killed a man, after all, and wasn't that one of God's cardinal rules? Thou shalt not kill?
The figure up ahead raised an abnormally long arm. It looked lumpy and misshapen, and Pete wondered who that could possibly be? Was it St. Peter? Another saint? He didn't know anything about saints. Did one of them die from a mangled arm? He wished Art was here. He might know. Did Art believe in saints? Or was that a different denomination? He'd ask when he saw him again in the afterlife.
The carbines roared, and the saint ahead of him seemed to glow in the light of gunfire. Why didn't the gunshots hurt him? Had it been a clean blow that killed him? All that was left was to approach the saint and… that wasn't a saint. Pete understood through the blur of exhausion as soon as he heard the thumps of bodies behind him.
Collie Parker was in front of him before Pete had even registered that the boy was running. The carbine smoked at the end of his arm. He looked like hell, with sharp lines of stress on his face and filthy clothes. Still, the sight of him would've brought tears from Pete's eyes if he still had any to cry. Instead, he made a choked sound in the back of his throat, collapsing against the other boy.
It smelled like cigarettes. That was the first thing that registered in Pete's mind. That made him bolt up a bit, because his uncle only smoked indoors when he was having a particularly rough night, and Pete knew to lock his door if that was the case. But as he started to get up, he felt all of his muscles scream at the effort, and my, he was tall. Too tall to still be that scared kid living with his uncle, certainly. He took in the stained wallpaper and the dingy, yellow lighting and realized he had no idea where he was, until his eye landed on the figure on the couch. Gun thrown haphazardly next to him, Collie was busy tying his hair up. Despite his haggard state, Pete couldn't help thinking that he was beautiful. The lighting was harsh, making his face appear sunken and skeletal. Clearly, his time on the run had taken its toll, Pete thought - until he realized that it had only really been a day. No, this was the Walk's toll. He wondered, raising a hand to his own rough cheek, what he looked like. Would he even recognize the man that had won the Walk? Still, not all of the roughness had come from the Walk. Collie's arms were covered in tiny scrapes and cuts. So he must have made it to the woods. He remembered Collie's comments about Maine, smiling at the thought of the city boy having to trample through the woods. The smile faded at the memory of Ray, though. Ray had sacrificed himself for Pete, and what had that done? Plus, the thought of Collie in the woods was only funny without the context of why he was there.
It took Collie a moment to realize that Pete was awake - actually, it took Pete a while to realize that Collie knew he was awake. The boy had simply moved on from his hair to his gun, which he was polishing the dirt off of with a rag. It took covert glances for Pete to figure out that Collie knew he was awake, but was choosing to ignore him. "Hey, Parker." Pete tried. Couldn't ignore that.
"You abandoned me." Collie didn't even look up from his task.
Pete immediately knew what he meant. "And I regretted it for miles, Collie."
"Then why the hell didn't you help me?" He said it so calmly for such an angry question, but Pete could still hear the tremor in his voice. And, to his credit, it was a good question. Pete wasn't even sure that he had the answer. It was irritating.
He clung to the first explaination he could. "You… you heard Stebbins."
"Fuck Stebbins." Collie quickly dismissed the thought. "You really expect me to believe that you threw me aside just because fuckin' Stebbins said to?"
Pete sighed. It was stupid of him to even try to lie. "No. I don't."
"Then why'd you say it?"
"Because… it was an easy answer."
"An easy answer!?!" Collie laughed at the ridiculousness. "Pete, I'm not asking for an easy answer. Dammit, I'm asking you to be honest!"
Pete was already frusterated by his inability to answer, and Collie's laughter pissed him off more. "I can't."
"Why not!?!" Collie sat upright, and Pete noticed that his cheeks were wet. This outburst of emotion tipped him over the edge, his feelings spilling out as he shouted.
"Because I don't know! Goddammit, I don't know why I left you, and I hate myself for it!"
The shout hung in the air, only emphasized by the buzzing of the light and Collie's hitching breath. He was wide-eyed and staring at Pete as if seeing him clearly for the first time in his life. Pete, meanwhile, was coming to an uncomfortable conclusion as he stared at the sobbing boy.
"I never could've done it." He sighed. "I'm not brave like you."
"You think-" A hiccup bubbled from Collie. "You think I'm brave!?! Look at me, McVries!"
"You're braver than I am. You had the balls to grab the gun-"
"And I was terrified!"
"So was I, and yet you still found the strength to move! You found the strength to move and fight and kill because you're so, so brave! You have the will to fight, and I don't. I never have."
Collie pointed to his cheek, and Pete's hand involuntarily jerked up to the scar. Oh. "I don't anymore." He ammended. "And that wasn't bravery."
"What was it?" Collie hiccupped again. He'd been crying so hard he was hiccupping.
"Stupidity, I suppose? Anger? Fuck, man, those days, out on my own, all I wanted was to hurt."
Collie let out a long breath, seemingly an attempt to soothe himself. They stayed still for a moment, before another hiccup cut through the silence. Pete knew that he'd been in the wrong. It'd fuck him up for the rest of his days. Nothing he said could possibly make up for the fact that he'd left Collie on his own. But he had to do something, at least. Collie was all he had left. In a selfish way, he was glad that it was Collie left.
"I'm sorry…" Collie breathed. "I'm being unfair."
"No, no." Pete reassured him. "You're alright."
"I shouldn't be so pissed."
"You have every right to be pissed at me."
"No." Collie looked away from him for a moment. His eyes seemed to scan the carbine beside him. "You're not- hic! - You're not who I should be angry at."
He couldn't disagree with Collie. After all, had the Walk never happened, none of them would even be here. They'd all be back home. Or, Collie and the other boys would be. Pete didn't really have a place to call a home. It was the entire reason he'd signed up for the Walk - he had nothing left to lose. How many of those boys were in the same boat? Not many. Art had his grandma. Ray had his mom. Hank… oh, Hank and his darling, Clementine. Even Gary Barkovitch had a meemaw… whatever that was. Barkovitch. He'd hated that boy. After everything he'd seen, though, it was hard for that face to conjure the same vitriol as before. They were right when they said "hate the game, not the player," but it seemed Pete learned that far too late. But Ray… Ray hadn't hated the game either, had he? He hated the Major. That was different. Pete had hated the Major, too - he'd killed him! But it wasn't until now that it had fully settled in his chest what the real problem was. The real thing to hate. It wasn't a person. There'd be a new Major within the month. There probably already was one. No, the thing to hate was the game itself. The Long Walk. Collie had realized that when he'd tried to stop the Walk itself - he'd probably even known it sooner. Pete should've listened more to Collie. Everyone else had been too damn loud.
Pete finally rose from where he'd been sitting on the bed, and cautiously approached Collie. He stared up at Pete with dark, wet eyes and after a moment's deliberation, he slid aside to give Pete room on the couch. He lowered himself onto the cushions, then opened his arms in a gesture of goodwill. "Come here." He said softly.
Collie collapsed into his arms, a new wave of tears shaking him. Pete's fingers found his hair, gently brushing through it as he whispered sweet nothings to soothe the other boy. He felt hbeginning to calm, too, as he focused on the weight of the boy against his lap and the monotonous task of stroking his hair.
"I- I should've done more!" Collie choked out.
"Sh, sh, sh. You did everything you could."
"I did- I didn't do anything!"
"You did so much, Collie. So, so much."
"I should've saved them!" The boy squirmed in his lap.
"You couldn't have." Pete held him tighter, practically massaging his scalp to calm his nerves.
"I miss my friends… I miss my fuckin' friends…"
"I… I miss them too."
When had he started crying, too?
"I should've done it sooner, Pete, but I didn't want to be alone…"
"I know, I know."
"I didn't want to go alone… I didn't want to be alone, but then I was and- and-" He hiccuped again. "Dammit."
"Hey, hey. Collie. Breathe. Just breathe."
Collie did his damnedest to listen, but he was hyperventilating at this point. He was practically gasping for air.
"You did everything you could." Pete sucked in his own breath. "And we should have helped you. And I'm so… so sorry…" Now he was starting to sob. He tried to stop himself but couldn't, finding such a heavy lump in his throat that he was gasping for air around it. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry!"
"You're okay… it's alright." Collie's vo. Pete began to catch his breath again before another wave of tears spilled, and he buried his face in Collie's hair attempting to ward it off. His tears soaked the top of Collie's head, but the other boy didn't seem to mind, repositioning his arms and giving his shoulders a sort of awkward massage. They came to a sort of strange rythem, Pete working his fingers through Collie's hair as his shoulders were squeezed. Moving to the strange music of troubled breathing and the occassional hiccup. Eventually, the noise died down, and Pete felt himself drift off against Collie. His nap was uneventful, his dreams were nonexistant, and his position was awkward, so he woke up a tad sore.
Collie was gone when he came to. It worried Pete for a moment, but when he cried out the boy's name, he appeared from a side room - there was a side room? - with a half-shaven chin. "Yeah?"
It took Pete less time to readjust to his surroundings this time. "Nothing. Just looking for you."
"Alright." And he was gone once more.
Pete made himself comfortable on the couch, down and fon the stains on the ceiling. They were small, and probably caused by water damage. None were in too distinctive of shapes. There was a spider's web in the corner of the ceiling. The largest stain was barely visible anymore. He couldn't blame the staff for the filthy ceiling, after all, how does one clean a ceiling? How does one clean a highway? Do you think the bloodstains from the Walk have already been cleaned away? There's still blood on his shirt, he remembers. Art's blood, most likely. God, he was gushing blood like a food court fountain by then. Did anyone else bleed on him? Maybe Barkovitch. Barkovitch, who he'd hated and prayed would die. Barkovitch, who'd stabbed his own throat out? Was that his fault? Barkovitch had goaded a boy into getting himself killed, and really, hadn't Pete done the same? Just over an extended period of time? And what about Pearson, that irritating boy with the glasses? Maybe if Pete had let him be a Musketeer, he'd still be here? Oh, his Musketeers. Hank Olson and his stupid baseball cap and his city boy accent and his hatred of littering and the ten naked ladies. Art Baker and his cross - Pete hadn't grabbed the cross. His grandma would never get it - and his dreams of the moon and Baton Rogue and his uncle who made coffins and his infectious smile. Ray Garraty and his baseball and his cookies and his ridiculous jeans and his horrible, horrible dream of killing the Major. His dream had come true. Pete really was a killer. Unlike Barkovitch, he couldn't even deny it. He'd pulled the trigger. He'd killed a man. Killer. Killer. Killer. K-
"Hey, hey, hey." Collie was here. He looked so clean. So soft. Pete reached out and cupped a smooth cheek. It felt like he hadn't lost all of the baby fat of childhood yet. How old was he? Twenty-three? Twenty? Was he nineteen, like Pete? Freshly eighteen? He couldn't be any younger. Collie Parker wouldn't lie about his age to get into something like the Walk. He focused on Collie's face, hoping it would ward off the visions of splattered blood, the sounds of the carbines roar, the humiliation of shitting on live television. But that face had been right beside him on the road. His brow had been knitted in fury, his eyes shiny with sorrow, his lips heavy with song in the hopes that it would raise their spirits for one last charge.
He wasn't crying this time, but he was breathing heavily, uncontrollably. There was a bird caged in his chest and it was beating its wings against the bars.
"You're safe now, we're safe now, we're safe." Collie was saying, sliding down on the couch across from Pete.
"Are we?" He gasped out. "There is no winning, Collie. They'll- I'm-"
"We'll worry about that when we get to it. We're safe here, I made sure. Trust me, no one here's a rat."
"How can you be sure, huh?"
"Well, even if they hadn't been handing out anti-government pamphlets, I'm sure that the semi-automatic rifle I've got could've convinced them not to tattle." He said it with the ghost of a smile. He couldn't fully joke yet, not until he was sure Pete was in the joking mood.
But his sentiment did help to calm Pete. The added safety blanket of sympathetic hosts made it easier to catch his breath. "Okay… but… fuck."
"I know. We've been through hell together, haven't we?"
"Yeah."
"We've got each other, though." Collie began to lean forwards, then stopped, unsure. Pete realized his hand was still on Collie's cheek.
Fuck it.
He closed the distance.
Collie seemed surprised, a slight gasp muffled against Pete's lips, but he leaned into the kiss. A volley of fireworks erupted in his stomach, much to the excitement of the bird. It was a comfortable nervousness that melted away into desperation and hunger. What was it Pete had said to his friends? He was the horniest he'd been in his entire life. Lips and tongues quickly found their way to cheeks, chins, teeth, necks. He tasted shaving cream and hair and peppermint - had Collie brushed his teeth? God, Pete must taste disgusting! But Collie didn't seem to care, matching his ravenous energy. He leaned Pete back, straddling his hips as he kissed deeper, slowly grinding against him. Pete's hands grasped down Collies back, reaching for the bottom of his shirt.
And then Collie pulled back. His face was flushed, his hair rumpled. He looked like a dream. A very concerned dream. "We should- you should- um, you need a shower, Pete."
A laugh burst from Pete's chest, and Collie's own laugh followed, fuller than Pete had ever heard it. It was bubbly and warm and made his stomach do a somersault. "You callin' me gross, Parker?"
"Well- yes! You haven't showered in days, Pete! I don't wanna fuck you that badly!"
"So you do wanna fuck me?" Pete bit his lip jokingly. He was quite thrilled by the prospect, though.
"Uh, yeah!" Collie said as he hopped to his feet. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was quite obvious, considering the tent in his pants. Both their pants, actually. "I'll go turn on the water."
"We could do it in the shower."
"I'm not losing my virginity in a shower, Pete!" He called through the bathroom door.
"But you are open to the idea?!?"
"Don't push it!" He giggled. Oh, what a laugh. Pete couldn't wait to keep hearing it.
Pete stripped off his dirty clothes - they'd have to figure out how where to get clean clothes, but that was tomorrow Pete's problem - and sauntered into the bathroom. Collie let out a sharp whistle upon seeing him. "You sure you don't wanna join me?" Pete smirked.
"I don't think I could handle that." Collie practically gasped.
"You look like you can barely handle this." He gestured to his nearly-nude form. He'd had the decency to keep on his boxers. Didn't wanna be that forward.
"I- uh-" Another bout of laughter, this time, nervously. His cheeks were so flushed. It was adorable.
"I'll be quick, Collie, don't worry. We can have our fun soon." He winked, and Collie practically swooned. He'd never seen this side of him before. It was exhilarating.
"I've, um, never done this before."
"I have. I can show you what to do."
Collie nodded furiously. "Got it." He made his way to the door frame, before pausing for one last look.
"What?" Pete smiled.
"I'm just… I'm just glad I'm not alone. After… all of this."
Oh, how Pete's heart warmed. "Me too, Collie. Me too."