Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter McVries had lived with his uncle for as long as he could remember, he hadn’t known all he could about his parents' lives. He only knew how they went and the struggle behind it, his uncle told him that his mother, despite her occasional oddities, had been a good kid when they were young. But when she met Pete's father he got her hung on the needle and she was impressionable enough to love it.

At first she was taking a bit of opioid on the occasional wild night and had stopped completely once she got pregnant, then Pete got himself born and she couldn’t deal with his crying or other infantile needs and went back to his father to eat up the needle a little more.

On any good days they were sober enough not to let Pete die and his father had it in him to drive up to the nearest winn-dixie to get formula but most days it fell to their neighbor Marshall Magdon, a young twenty-something with the styling of Billy Idol who lived across from them in the trailer complex, to get up and stop the newborn from crying by fixing him a bottle.

He sometimes thought that the good days were better than the most days and the most days weren’t as bad as the really bad day, because on the really bad day, they went. Pete had just learned to crawl and hold himself up—a good sign for a four month old—and had crawled all the way to Marshall's house, craving something to sink his teeth into and had been chewing on the wooden railing when the neighbor found him after coming back from evening service.

Magdon had said something along the lines of where’s your mama, knowing that Pete's father wasn’t good for taking care of him, and Pete stared blankly with beady baby eyes.

When Magdon brought Pete to the trailer they found his mother, covered in rusting blood that was caked into her fingernails where small failed attempts to get a good high could be seen. There was a needle still in her arm and she was hunched over the body of his father, whose face had been half eaten and there were small holes in his gums where his teeth would’ve been.

His mother was put into a penitentiary after they got her on insanity.

At 8 months he was staying with his uncle Mike. He hadn’t been crying anymore and had taken to biting the wood rails on his uncle's trailer, Marshall Magdon had moved too not liking the idea of living across from a murder scene.

For the first few weeks, things had been good. Pete had gotten thick enough that he was a healthy weight for his age and uncle Mike had picked up a job at a hospital as a custodian. They lived well.

On a spring day, sometime in April, uncle Mike had been working late and asked Magdon to watch him for an hour and a half and the boy was happy enough that he didn’t bother to ask for money. Pete doesn’t remember what happened after uncle Mike closed the door to his Volkswagen. Maybe Magdon put him to sleep and kissed his head with those smoker lips, maybe he chatted to the baby about a girl or boy he met and stroked down on the boy's curly head when he laughed. Or maybe he didn’t laugh.

Pete was crying when uncle mike came home, he had his teeth on the dirty white bone of Marshall Magdon, he couldn’t swallow it but really wanted to and his ambition kept him angry. At first, when uncle Mike came home, he couldn’t see it, and didn't want to be reminded of his sister’s not-so-little oddities. When he pulled the bone out of his mouth and stuck his fingers inside like a brave little crab he pulled out the gummy textured hammer of Marshall Magdon's eardrum.

Marshall Magdon had lived two trailers down on the right side where single dads usually stayed. He lived alone and worked odd jobs, he didn’t go to school but he did play guitar, so somebody would miss him for a day before forgetting.

That was the first time they had packed up and moved in a hurry. No u-haul, only what uncle mike could stuff into the back of his car.

Chapter Text

At the age of 12, Pete went to summer camp. It was the kind where the boys and girls were kept apart and ate on different sides of the dining hall for modesty’s sake. Uncle Mike had urged him not to get on with any of the boys in case he did what he called ‘the bad thing’ and Pete did his best not to jump in on games of tetherball, help any boys pick up kindling or sit too close to them around the campfire.

The boys were set eight to a cabin with four bunk beds and the counselors would have them in before dark to check for any bugs or scarring. In the morning they would go to the lake and Pete would watch the other boys wade in up to their waists and flail around as if they were drowning when it got up to their chest. But Pete was a good swimmer, he felt better in the dark water, more alive. One morning, he had decided to swim out to the middle of the lake just to say he had done it, swimming and swimming and reveling in the sound of the life guards whistle signaling for him to turn back.

He stopped for a moment, turning to contemplate if he should and that's when he saw another boy, a boy who’d been swimming behind him without catching his notice. “Hi.” He called and Pete replied awkwardly, both of them stopped and treaded the water, the sky had started to grey and the clouds looked like they were bubbling over his head. The boy swam closer and so did he, he ran his fingers across the boy's arm. He was pale white with dark hair and dark freckles on his body, there was one freckle that was larger than the rest on his leg and he smiled with a missing tooth when he got closer.

“I think we’re in trouble.” Pete said, turning around toward the frantically screaming guards and feeling raindrops on his head. The boy frowned for a moment then smiled “Not if we stay here forever,” he said

“I don’t swim that well.” Pete pulled his arm away and wiped the rain from his eyes. “I’ll show you how to stay up for days, I can do it. See?” He sounded so sure and turned his body in the water to face the sky, his assurance made Pete smile. “You don't get tired?” Pete said, a little louder so that the boy could hear him.

“Nope.”

So Pete tried it, mimicking him, turning his head up and letting the water run into his ears as his body bobbed up and down. The lifeguards on each side of the lake went on blowing, Pete could hear it even with his ears below the surface but he knew they wouldn’t bother to jump in themselves.

He didn't remember how long they stayed. It was long enough to cause trouble but not for uncle Mike to be called.

The boy's name was Marco and over the next few days he had found ways to reach Pete, leaving notes under his pillow and one day at lunch he led Pete behind the rec hall and showed him a box of cicada shells that was kept in a small jewel box that was clearly stolen from a girls cabin.

“I eat ‘em every once in a while. They only shed once in a lifetime.” Pete did his best to hide his disgust, but clearly failed. “Why are you making that gross face?” Marco looked at him and Pete stared at the shell in the boy's hand,

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are, c’mon don’t be such a fag. Try one.” He placed the shell in Pete's hand and complained about the lack of salt on the shells. Pete didn’t wanna eat it, he knew what things were supposed to be eaten and what was not. Pizza is supposed to be eaten, toblerones and the little strawberries kept in his grandma's purse were supposed to be eaten. Not bugs.

The whistle blew for lunch and Pete dropped the shell in the box and ran away before Marco could stop him. That night he found another note under his pillow, this time it was written like he was auditioning for penpals.

‘My name is Marco Capellucci, I have three sisters,
I’m from North Dakota, this is my third time at camp
Canyon, im glad your here, now we can swim together,
even if we have to break the rules.

PS: meet me outside at 11pm’

That night Pete slept with his trunks under his pants and waited until he heard everyone's heart beating evenly, when he unlatched the screen door Marco was already there and pulled his hand. “C’mon.” He said, somehow whispering loudly.

“I can't." ‘I don't want to’ Pete thought, but they were already past the rec hall. There was a night breeze, and Pete imagined it was the pines singing to him. Marco let go of his hand and stopped in front of a red tent—well what looked like it was supposed to be a tent. Really it was just a red throw hung over a curtain rod clearly stolen from one of the cabins and not as stable as Marco hoped.

“You made this?” Pete looked at him.
“Yea for us.” Marco invited him to sit and Pete was still keen on leaving. When he breathed in he realized that he could smell Marco right down to the lice in his hair, he had the smell of the lake on him, wet doggish and sheepish. He clearly hadn’t washed up after dinner and he could smell it on him too, sweaty and dirty.

A sharp pain went down his spine and he remembered Marshall Magdon, as much as he could at least. At the time he only knew that he did something bad and he was going to do it again.

“I gotta go back.” He said

“Don’t be a wimp! Nobody’s going to find us. Everyone’s asleep. Don’t you want to play with me?” Marco grabbed at his hand again and Pete couldn’t protest once he got under the flap of the ‘tent’ . It was a makeshift hideaway, there were some sprite cans and other treats like pop tarts, board games and a choose your own adventure novel. He offered Pete an already open sprite and Pete rejected.

“Well do you wanna play cards?”

“No.” Pete said sadly.

“Whats wrong? I thought you liked being outside.”

“I do.”

“I thought this would make you happy.”

“It does. But you’re going to get in trouble if you don’t go back to your cabin.”

“Oh, I don’t mind wiping tables in the mess hall tomorrow,” He waved his hand carelessly."It's worth it. Now lets just—”

“I don’t want to stay!” Pete's blunt reply finally reached him, and Marco stopped and grabbed his hands.

“Don’t go Pete. I want you to stay, please…”

There was a small temptation to stay and Pete's thoughts waned between. ‘I don’t want to’ then to ‘I really want to. Pete leaned in and that memory of Marshal Magdon popped up again, He sniffed him—wet dog, sheep and lice—Marco stiffened as Pete leaned into his neck and once he breathed. There was no going back.

Pete stumbled to the edge of the doc, and discarded his trunks—bloodstained and copper smelling—into the lake. He had something stuck into his teeth, just like he did with Marshall, and when he reached in to pull it out it was Marco’s teeth.

He fell on the dock, rocking himself into a fetal position and screaming into his hands and hitting himself. He wanted so badly to climb out of his skin, like a cicada.

When he walked back up the bath he thought about uncle Mike, he wouldn’t like what Pete had done, he wouldn’t like how he did it and who he did it too, but what would he do after? Would they leave again? Or would they wait for the police to come?

* * *

The next morning, the police came, and a coroner's van. Then there was an announcement

“We are very sorry to have to tell you that one of your campmates is dead. For your safety we have notified your parents, and all of you will be picked up this afternoon. In the meantime you will finish breakfast and return to your cabins. No one will be allowed anywhere else on the campsite until their parents arrive.”

All the boys and girls fled the mess hall and went to pack their things, Pete was extra slow with it, waiting to see if the police would come to get him. He overheard some boys talking about it,
“You know they think he was murdered?” one of the boys said, “They think the counselors did it.”

“I bet it was one of the older boys, you know how they get ‘em.”

“Boys I don’t wanna hear any of that!” One of the female counselors who had gotten mixed up in all the commotion and sent to watch the boys said.

Soon, uncle Mike arrived as pale and as unnerved as could be and led him out to the parking lot. Other parents stood in groups, arms crossed or nervously jingling their key chains. They whispered among themselves about Marco and how there was no discipline at the camp. Pete thought about what if he was taking him to the police, would they have known he’d done it?

When they got to the car, uncle Mike slammed the door and Pete was scared of what he was going to do next, his eyes flickered to the car mirror and he saw the boxes packed into the back of the car.
Uncle Mike's face was pensive, “Pete look at me.” He murmured, but the boy couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Peter, look at me.” He said it again and Pete forced himself to meet his eyes. Mike was eerily calm despite knowing that his nephew had eaten someone.

“Tell me it isn’t true.”

“I can’t.” Pete turned away and Mike put the car in drive.

That day, they moved from Oregon to Maryland.

And at 18, they had to move again.

Pete had been in his senior year, and he hadn’t done the bad thing since he left camp, he even made a friend at his school. A boy named Jack Landon, A friendship that lasted longer than he had intended.

On the 21st of may, he was messing with one of the guitars in the band room when Jack came in, that week he hadn’t seen him in any of the classes they had. “I didn’t know you played.” He leaned his hand on Pete's shoulder, using him as a balance. “I don’t, where you been all week?” He sat the guitar down.

“Yearbook. We missed our deadline with Jostens.”

“How’s it lookin’?”

“You’re not going to be in it. Mr. Esser says he reminded you three times to get your picture taken.”

Pete shrugged, he didn’t want his picture taken anyway.

Jack pressed harder on his shoulder. “My dad’s doing inventory all night and Taylor and Finn are sleeping over. Come too.”

“My Uncle won’t let me, you know it.” Pete shook his head.

“So sneak out. After he goes to bed.”
Pete looked at him with bewilderment, uncle Mike would tear him a new one if he did that.

“How would I even get there?”

“Just go by where the power lines are, I'm right there on chesapeake. You need to make some new friends anyway, it’ll be good for you.” Jack Landon had a therapy speak way about
supporting Pete, he would start off like a friend and end up like a shrink, maybe it made sense considering had the style of one too. Dressed so grown up and well-adjusted you couldn’t tell he was 17.

* * *

At 4( pm), uncle Mike had picked him up from school, he let him drive the Volkswagen to the grocery store, passing the power lines and the smell of old hearts beating down the street. When they got home he packed the groceries into the fridge and put a hungry-man into the microwave, scarfing it down as if he could actually taste it.

By 7, he was waiting for uncle Mike to go to sleep, it had gotten dark early due to daylight savings and his uncle had gotten old enough to start going to sleep at earlier times. Pete walked into the living room turning down the TV just to make sure that he was sleeping, he watched his chest rise and fall. He was still dressed and knew his uncle would say something about it if he was the slightest bit awake, but as the snoring started, he realised he wasn’t.

He climbed out of the window, leaving the nails of the protective screen on the seal for when he got in and boated himself out to Chesapeake.

When he knocked on Jack's door it opened and the light from inside made Pete notice that his jeans had a fine layer of dust on them.

“Hey! You made it, you got prickers all over you.” Jack peeled off the weeds from his shoulders and pushed Pete inside. A few minutes later he and Jack were under the table and taking a bite out of the cinnamon rolls the group seemed to have made before he arrived.

“I thought you said he couldn’t come because his uncle's real strict or something?” One of the boys, 'Taylor’ said, he was a stout kinda boy, stick and bones looking.

“I don’t know why he’s like that, I just crawled out the window.” Pete fiddled with the edges of the roll.

There was a quick ‘i wasn’t talking to you’ kind of look from Taylor then he said “Does he worry you’re going to get kidnapped or something?”

“Petes not the type, look at him.” Jack interjected, patting Pete's bicep and moving close against him as Taylor and Finn went back to their conversation, passing around a nail polish that was black, just like Marshall Magdon’s.

“So you can’t spend the night?”

“Not all night. He has tomorrow off so I should be back by six to be safe.” Pete removed the hood of his jacket.

“Jesus.” Finn, another boy, just as skinny as Taylor said. “Where’d you move here from, anyway?”

“Maryland.”

“Is your mom not in the picture? Jack says you only have a dad” That question earned Finn a hit on the knee.

“Look here…” Jack had gotten hold of the nail polish and painted his index finger with it. “Onyx Galaxy.”

Pete said nothing in reply.

“Don’t mind Finn about that mom shit, it's just a bit of incompetence.” Jack painted another one of his fingers and Pete watched how the brushes went across his nail, he could feel that sharp pain down his back and he could taste the remains of Marco on his lips, a deep singing in the pines, a moan from Jack when he took his finger in his mouth, a scream when flesh broke and a snap of bone.

There were other screams too, Mike and Finn tried to pull him off and eventually they did and grabbed Jack too, checking to make sure Pete didn’t kill him under that table.

* * *

Pete felt sick running home, he didn't bother to open the window and banged on the door loud and hard, hearing uncle Mike wake from his dead sleep. When he opened the door he saw disappointment and anger staring him in the face.
Before he knew it, uncle Mike was packing, their trailer was sparse and he kept all the documents in a folder so there was nothing else to pack but clothes.

“Three minutes, grab all that you can. Three minutes!” He yelled, fist balled up. Pete staggered to the bedroom and looked at himself, the blood looked like water on his skin for a moment and he hoped it was just a dream then it just looked like blood. He wanted to curl up and never wake up, but he couldn’t, not with uncle Mike yelling at him.

He grabbed a duffel bag of clothes, a constant memento to his tendencies, then a toothbrush from the cabinet and ran out into the car where uncle Mike was. There was no questioning when he got in, no look, uncle Mike just hit the dashboard a few times and drove across the statelines.

In July, when he was 19, uncle Mike left.

The day before, the 27th, was his birthday and uncle Mike decided to take him out to see a reshowing The Breakfast Club feeling that it would appeal to him, he said he told the school where Pete was finishing his senior year that he would be out that day but insisted he take the whole week off.

They then spent most of the day driving around and buying a few new clothes before spending the night in an Italian restaurant where he had a sip of the wine when the owners weren’t looking.

Uncle Mike seemed joyful that day, maybe because he hadn’t done the bad thing in months, he made him pancakes for breakfast and they ended the night finally by wishing each other a good one, they had barely spoken before that.

Pete tumbled into bed exhausted and prayed that in the morning there was still some of the wine he could take a little bit off of when Mike left for work.

But when he woke up, the trailer was too still. The thermostat was still set to be cold, something was wrong.

He called out for uncle Mike and got no answer.

In the kitchen he found a note, a birth certificate and a cassette tape.
‘I am your family and I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.”

He couldn’t have been gone, how could he be gone? He ran to his uncle's bedroom and found nothing but the comforter still in its sheets, paperback novels and a pile of clothes left for him with a jacket atop it with a stick note that said.

‘Don’t say I left you with nothing? :)’

It was like a cruel joke.

That night, he curled up into bed and poked at his wrist with his nails, doing it vertically, hoping that he could die.