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He had only been walking back to his house from school. He was wearing what he normally wears, old, ratty jeans with whichever t-shirt he picks up off the floor. Along with the jacket that’s practically a part of his body. It was a dark green with gray sleeves, but it looked black at first glance. Overall, there’s nothing special about it, only what reputation it holds of Pete, and how it associated him.
His name was stitched small in the front, ‘PETE’, and on the back in big, bolded text, ‘GHOST RIDER’. It was a habit of Pete to just run his fingertips over his name, a small reminder to himself of who he is. The jacket held a particular shine in any sort of light, and it definitely had a bright glimmer when it was soaked in the rain.
Pete sighed where he laid against a random building. He couldn’t move, he didn’t know why. There was an ache in his leg screaming at him to notice it. Why did his leg hurt so much?
There had been some people behind Pete, they were running. He could hear their wet shoes squeaking and splashing in the rain. They’d pushed Pete to the building and had a few rushed, quiet words, then they were gone. It all happened so fast. Pete groaned, his head smashed against the brick wall of the building. So, he let himself lean his head back. His eyes hurt.
Cars passed by, very few. It was nearing midnight, from the last time Pete checked his watch. He would’ve simply looked down at his wrist, but the pain in his leg suddenly restricted any other movements.
The rain was nice. Pete loved the rain.
Rain helped him calm down. He’d been on a walk to cool off, Tom’s father had said something so stupid and got Pete all fired up. Tom told him to walk around for a bit, then to come back when he felt better. God, Pete didn’t know how long it had been. The soft patter of rain on his face made it seem like it’d been a few minutes, but the passing cars made it feel like hours.
Would Tom be upset if Pete didn’t come back sooner than he should’ve? One day, Pete would marry Tom. They’d move out of this shitty town and start new, in a cleaner project.
Someone walked by, they didn’t seem to notice Pete. He wanted to get up, but his leg made his arms stop working. Why? The most Pete could do was shake his head back and forth against the wall. The person was right in front of Pete, they were standing on the pavement, and Pete was sitting in green grass and new mud.
His shoes, which were about to fall apart at the seams, shined in the streetlights. The stranger stopped, they looked at Pete. They took a few shallow steps closer, if not hesitant. Maybe Pete even saw them almost fall, they couldn’t hold themselves up very straight.
“You alright buddy?” The person asked him quietly, his voice deep. Like the one Pete wants to achieve one day. He was being cautious of him. Some poor teenager that couldn’t move, and didn’t know why for the life of him.
He examined his face, he probably looked tirer. His head is pounding. “Are ya’ drunk?” What? No! Pete had never touched a drop of alcohol.
Pete shakes his head, ‘no’. “I bet you’re all stumblin’ everywhere. ‘Can barely walk, can you?” His words started to slur together. Pete could barely understand them, he could feel his consciousness starting to slip away, slowly.
“I’ve got enough sober-ness left in me to call a cop on you… You’re too young to be drinkin’ anyways.” He sounded more like he was talking to himself, rather than Pete. There was a hint in his tone, like he was feeling ashamed of himself. How he was telling Pete off for being apparently drunk, he was really telling himself.
“Nah, you’d be in lotsa trouble with your parents an’ them. I guess I’ll let you off this time, kid.” The man sighed, and staggered back onto the sidewalk.
Aren’t you going to help me up? You’re not going to tell me why my leg hurts so much?
~~
Tom told Pete to go for a walk an hour ago. To just cool down so he wouldn’t kill his father. Honestly, Tom had thought that Pete would take a few deep breaths and stroll around the neighbourhood.
He thought that fifty minutes ago.
Why the hell hadn’t Pete come back yet? Was he really that pissed at his dad? All of Tom’s thoughts went to the worst, within reason. Still, he remained visibly calm, and told his parents that he would go out and look for Pete. They didn’t care.
Twenty minutes later, almost one-thirty in the morning, Tom hadn’t found Pete. Nobody that he’d talked to had reported that they’d seen him. Tom was basically running down the streets, looking every which way for a figure.
He suddenly stopped when he heard a low groan. Pete? A jacket that was making itself known despite the shadows shone through.
“Pete?” Tom whispered. His shoes squeaked against the wet concrete of the sidewalk. He gets nothing in response.
The first thing Tom saw was Pete’s slack jaw, and the way his arms were cradling himself. He must’ve been freezing. Tom shook him lightly, nothing. Maybe Pete just fell asleep, he looked exhausted.
Tom’s hand trailed down from Pete’s shoulder, to rest on his leg. It was suspiciously warm on his left thigh. He looked down, and let out a quiet gasp, then a loud sob as his hand covered his mouth. A gash, cut right through his jeans and deep in his leg. Red seeped into the denim, and Tom felt like he was going to be sick. Tom raised his hand for him to look closer, Pete’s blood, on his hand. This only ever happened when Pete got into fights, when Tom had to help his idiotic, loving boyfriend. Not like this. Not when he was lying unconscious in the streets.
Shaking, Tom brought his other hand to Pete's mouth. Was he breathing? His hand couldn’t stay still, and there was nothing there to warm Tom’s cold, wet hand. The sobs started again, his hand came to cup Pete’s cheek.
His tears mixed with rain, Pete had always liked the rain.