A forthright temper saturates Dallon's shoes as they're struck by the cackling wind on his course outside, and not even the frigid temperatures can sway him from vilifying the man strapped tightly in his clutch, the one he's come to despise without a lawful deduction.

And he's back outside in the cold, the place where his smoke rose into the air in a creek of chemicals the last time he was there, and the memories aren't as convenient to him as they were, considering Pete is making a show out of his old friend, yet Dallon continues to assure himself that he doesn't care about the kid, but like Patrick, he hates to lie.

But lying is all he's been doing up here in Caribou, where it seems as though lying is coincidentally the least of one's concerns by virtue of the other activities swarming its residents, and now his beloved Patrick Stump finds him to be an arrogant cunt, which is beyond his ambitions. He wouldn't have confronted Patrick at the bar if he knew it would turn out this way, but they haven't spoken in two years, and attitudes can be altered in that time.

It appears that Patrick's attitude has been tailored against the man, for he barely can so much as glance at his so-called "attacker" without fragments of spite splotching his tongue as he speaks an inimical tale meant to punish him.

Still, Pete is open, and Patrick is ostensibly comfortable enough with the boy for it to be clear that Dallon's identity has not been disclosed, so why not give it a shot with Mr. Wentz?

"Dallon, what the hell are you doing?" Pete whines as he's pulled from the interior of the house with a forced tact.

Dallon's focus is sold to the pillow of ground in front of him, bones pressured in an override of his actual emotions towards the subject. "We need to talk."

Pete struggles to keep up, feet gamboling in the snow as his energy is abducted from him, making it particularly difficult to say even a simple word. "About?"

Dallon wheels around, still perpetuating his rough clamp on Pete's collar. "About you and Patrick."

"Why does that bother you?" The younger man's brows grab each other, half unnerved and half flummoxed.

"When did I say it bothers me?"

"You wouldn't be taking me outside privately if it didn't." Pete's argument censors his partner, and their dander is distilled in the ivory blanket accentuated by the shades of the moon.

"I suppose not." Dallon's voice is frail, as tenacious as he's heard Patrick's, and it's a discordant eruption in his larynx that nettles him so fully, but he can't see it ever stopping now that it's commenced.

Pete indents his waist to accommodate his hands, a frank point to his lips. "Just tell me what you have to say, and we'll be off."

"I want to tell you that Patrick isn't the person you think he is."

"What do you mean?" Pete gapes. "Apart from him being mostly covert, there's nothing under the layers beyond regular human secrets."

"Are you so sure about that?" Dallon's brows undulate on his face, feasted by his counterpart's chagrin. "The idea of secrets is to keep them hidden." He shrugs, dismissing the notion in a subtly sarcastic fashion. "Plus, he's an anxious kid who never unveils anything, so you're mistaken in whatever you think you understand."

Pete's turmoil deliquesces into humor, a sardonic extravaganza furnishing his amaranth lips. "I love how you're so sure in this."

"I know Patrick," Dallon enforces, a dash of sincerity eating away at his crystal veneer.

A serrated "hah" lathers hilarity on Pete's lungs, and he grants, "Yeah, for two days."

Dallon, however, is firm. "If that's what you think."

Pete nods durably, emphasizing his claim against Dallon's immovable treachery. "That's what I know."

"Well two days is enough," the elder man declares, abolishing the creases of his jacket for a political stature.

"No, it's really not." Frustration boils Pete's facade, and burns begin to fleck its surface, beauty far from the actuality.

A latent grin blinks onto the primrose crescent of Dallon's face, proposing a dare. "I love how you're so sure in this, Pete."

"I know Patrick," Pete reinstates, an icier intonation present than when Dallon said the same thing only moments earlier.

"Then you should also know that he's delusional as hell."

Pete's hand sprawls into his hair, clipping a sigh to his lungs simultaneously. "Dallon, I'm not discussing Patrick's mental health with you."

"I suppose that's to be foreseen," Dallon concurs, penning a masquerade of stress amidst a manipulative aspiration, one buried under an apparent tragedy. "Chatting about horror isn't what I'd call polite."

"If you wouldn't disparage him for something he can't control, that would be great, especially since he's not here."

"Oh, come on," Dallon cachinnates, cynical about Pete's balanced insurance on his friend. "Anyone can see that he's really fucking annoying."

For the first time, Dallon Weekes is a liar — a genuine fucking liar — and partial truths are all but gone, a sign clapped over them to signal their death, but that's never been enough for the man, because he keeps waiting by their door for a return that never transpires, and many storms weep into the sky before he finally leaves with his spirit shoved deep into his pockets.

And he washes those jeans immediately after the tears depart, too, so whatever spirit that remained is now gone, and the only thing Dallon knows is that he is fucking in love with Patrick Stump, and that his love will never be requited.

Dallon Weekes is the stupidest man you'll ever encounter, and he recognizes it, too, because he's crashed on too many occasions to number, and that itself isn't shameful, but what he does after lists his weaknesses with a close calculation.

He disguises himself the only way he knows how — through a corrupted ego.

And even when it comes to Patrick Stump, Dallon is still the same pretentious asshole as before, and his old friend has configured a solid hatred around him, but what he says is nothing to be taken seriously. It's all just a semblance with flashing colors that often point away, and his words are just errata.

Patrick Stump is everything but annoying, but in trusting entire lies, Dallon is caged within his own heresy, so he braves Pete's judgment with the ashes of his spirit inking his fingers as it defiles him for being so idiotic, and failure is only minimal.

"Patrick is not annoying," Pete retaliates calmly, stealing the sentence from Dallon with such casualty that he wishes he could possess.

The man of sapphire-blue upbringings wrings his shoulders, complying if only a bit. "Not to you."

"Not to anyone." Pete's eyes never sleep, their sole motive to drill the fact into his partner's bigoted mind.

And damn — it's so accurate that it hurts, because Patrick is definitely not annoying, but Dallon was in need of a reason as to why Pete should detach himself from the timid boy, though it's not like Patrick would like Dallon any more than he would the other man, yet Dallon chases the concept nevertheless.

But this isn't him — not the "him" people think of when they hear his name, anyway — and in the fabricated Dallon's mind, Patrick is the most annoying person ever, even if he hates that, because he's made torture out of it since day one.

And it was so traumatizing that it was written as a penny dreadful and rinsed down the sink to communicate plainly that it was never wanted, so he never pushed, but it pushed at him, and the fourth wall is now collapsing.

But he chooses to turn the opposite way and pretend it never happened, through tumbling bricks and dense pollution, and the opposite way happens to be towards Pete Wentz.

"You need to stay away from Patrick," Dallon urges, his sense of alarm so authentic that it could be jumbled with palpability, were it not for the panicked situation.

"And you need to stop ordering me around," Pete retrospects.

Dallon's hands crispen the air in a weak attempt to defend himself, stuttering, "I would hardly say—"

"No, you are ordering me around, Dallon, and you need to get it through your foolish little head that your actions bear consequences."

The older man's words lace around each other in a hectic dash, inundated by the sudden speed of the conversation. "Of course I realize that."

"I don't think you do."

Teeth braiding into each other, Dallon's syllables are choked and irate, yet they're able to be released like vultures into the wild. "I do, and I'll make sure you're aware of that."

Pete's fingers reticulate in his onyx mane for the second time in their conversation, a gesture of apprehension. "Honestly, you can do what you want with me, but at least give Patrick a good Christmas, yeah?"

A few seconds bedaub the silence until it's unembellished by caustic speech, unfitting for this anecdote yet containing the audacity to fall away like leaves. "Fine."

~~~~~

A/N: oh myy,,,y

just to be clear, this story in no way endorses sympathy for abusers, and the reason Dallon is so dichotomous is because I'm trying to write an interesting character so yeah

current vibe: when my friend didn't talk to me for three days after she read the "lmao gotta zayn" chapter

~Dakotlotlea