Fic: Bound to the Beat 4/5 (FOB/MCR, NC-17, Bob/Patrick, Mikey/Pete, Brian/Gerard)
Bob switches meds right around the time that the band goes into Helena overdrive. The Xinitac is starting to give him migraines, the kind that cut through his skull like knives and get in the way of his playing. As soon as they get back from Europe, Bob flies home to see his doctor because he has no time for bleed through with Frank throwing himself on top of his bass drum on TRL.
"Tranaxil is a little more extreme than Xinitac," the doctor is telling him. "You need to take it at the same time every day. Don’t fluctuate dosage and if you miss a dose, try and take it as soon as you remember."
"Okay. I can do that."
"Nausea, dry mouth, and drowsiness are all normal side-effects. But if you experience anything neurological - muscle twitches, tremors, seizures, convulsions, anything like that? You go to a hospital, Bob. Immediately. We're talking about brain damage here. Do not pass go, do not collect $200." He holds up the scrip and jerks it away when jerks it away when Bob reaches for it. "Do you understand?"
Bob reaches out and snatches it out of his hand. "Yeah. I get it. Once a day. No shakes or spasms. Be good."
"Damn right. I'm serious, Bob. Don't fuck around with this drug. Xinitac is standard. It's been around more than fifty years. It's a well tamed beast where we know what we're dealing with."
"And you guys don’t know about this?"
"We know but moving to Tranaxil is like changing from prescription strength motrin to percodan. Tranaxil is a whole other level. It's a control substance where Xinitac was not so you have to be careful. It affects your brain chemistry and the psionic nature of the bond in a different way."
"I get that. Are you done?"
The doctor sighs. "I wish you would go to counseling, Bryar. I normally require it for this kind of prescription."
"And you know that I'm going to be back on the road in two days."
"I know." He sighs and rubs his furrowed brow. "Be careful. You're not playing anymore. Overdoses on this are like overdosing on Oxycontin or Xanax. I like you, Bob. I don’t want you killing yourself on drugs I gave you."
Bob nods and finally takes the piece of paper. "Noted," he grits out. His hand is only shaking a little.
There's a weird few days where Bob can feel his Dom as he transitions from Xinitcat to Tranaxil. His presence feels like warm water on the strained places of his spirit. It'd be like spending almost a week in a hot tub only Bob can feel that he's hurting. His soulmate is exhausted and afraid of something huge. It reminds Bob of the way he felt when his dad died and oh, his dom hurts. Bob can feel him hurt so much.
Despite himself, Bob reaches out with every ounce of himself and sends gentle waves of affection and support. Bob doesn't want to call it love but that's probably what it is. He's probably sending love through the bond and thoughts like "you'll be okay" and "I wish I could give you more" and "I think about you even if I can't be there for you" and "I want to. I do want to. I'm so sorry." Yeah. It's love he sends through the bond.
He's shocked when it echoes back, thick like pudding and fast like a tidal wave. Desperation of his soulmate's love and want hits him so hard he almost loses his footing in the airport. Frank raises an eyebrow at him and catches him as he trips into his shoes at security. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. Fucking TSA." He sends regret and affection and apology and more love on back down the line because he's already taken his Tranaxil for the last two days. This isn't going to last. He's hurting the person on the other side and he's sorry. He is, and he does love his dom.
Bob knows the man is probably a beautiful person who deserves so much better than what Bob is doing to him. He just can't be caught in that trap. By day five, the residuals will be gone completely but until then, he can sit on the plane and send what little he has to give through the line as a small atonement to the man he doesn't plan to meet and will most certainly never be worthy of. He has right now that he can give them both as a small apology.
So he sits in his cramped economy class seat and puts his noise-cancelling headphones on, closing his eyes. He reaches out as the plane taxies and gropes his way through takeoff. Bob doesn’t know how navigating a bond is supposed to work so he listens to his favorite playlist and just tries to look in.
He turns the ipod to pause before they captain turns off the seatbelt signs because music. The bond is full of music. This isn't something anyone warned him about, the twisting cadence pouring through the connection into Bob's mind from his soulmate. It's so beautiful that he tips his head back against the headrest and tries not to cry. None of it is a song he can recognize, original music from inside the person he's meant for.
It's not fair. It's not fair that this is so good because he knows how bad it can be when this is lost once it becomes ingrained. Bob can live without it a few days of this music, this depth of connection. But after years or even months? No. "No," Bob breathes, choking on the pressurized air. "Fuck, no."
Mikey pulls his headphones off. "Bob are you okay?" he asks. His chin is resting on Bob's shoulder.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
Mikey's bony fingers reach up and rub at Bob's face. He holds them up and they're wet. "You're crying."
"Oh."
"Bob."
"I'm fine though. Just…the air pressure."
Mikey studies him through his thick lenses. He looks like one of those cartoon owls. "You're lying." He says eventually. Then he reaches up and wipes at Bob's cheek again. "Tell me."
It’s the casually commanding tone that Gerard confirmed a few years ago that Mikey doesn’t even realize he's doing half the time. Combined with the music of his dominant's mind, Bob folds like a piece of Wal-Mart lawn furniture. "I'm just having some issues with my bond."
"I thought you'd never sparked." That was the unspoken assumption on most of the tours he's been on. Since he's joined My Chem, he's done as much as he can to reinforce that idea without lying outright.
Will's at Northwestern getting his BA in chemistry of all things, so there'd just be Brian to tell otherwise.
When Bob joined My Chem, Brian and Gerard were so busy with the combined projects of rebuilding the band, releasing that first video and most importantly pulling Gerard out of his drugs and depression that Brian was basically MIA except for absolute business or emergencies. So he was never there to answer any questions that a curious roadie might have asked.
"No. Not exactly. It's complicated."
"We've got a nine hour flight, dude," Mikey points out.
The overhead lights flash and make a dinging noise as if to emphasize this point. Mikey's not wrong. Only the music is still there. Bob doesn’t really want to talk to another dominant, not even Mikey fucking Way with those notes thrumming through his soul. "I don't want to talk about it."
Mikey drops his head onto Bob's shoulder. "Okay. I'm going to nap here though, so you're not alone."
Bob wishes the world were different. He wishes that people just feel in love in a chance encounter and some dates. Mikey's the kind of boy he could love. He's sweet and smart and funny not to mention hot as shit. Plus he plays directly into Bob's thing for smaller guys topping the shit out of him.
Only it will never ever happen because this is the world they live in. Mikey way is in a truly terrifying relationship with his soulmate. Ey are fuck knows where but it doesn't matter. Sometimes Mikey says eir is barely there and sometimes ey're so close that Mikey actually gets glimpses out of his soulmate's eyes, can hear eir words. They've all been the one to wake Mikey up screaming from a shared nightmare which doesn't even touch on the most recent turn events.
Yeah. February was bad for everyone in the band. Gerard spent all his time not on stage curled around his brother. Mikey just cried for days slipping in and out of mourning sleep in a way that was rarely heard of. Even weeks later, he was still shaking sometimes. Before he would've curled up around Gerard, but since Gerard was collared, he's stopped doing it so much.
This time around, Bob was the one he turned to, tucking himself under his chin and clinging to his larger frame. Bob held him through the tremors and told him that it was fine, it was okay, his soulmate was just having a hard time and everything would work out - even though he didn't know if he believed it or not. That’s probably why Mikey's turning this around on him now.
The contact helps but it's not right. So mostly he listens to the music that filters in over the bond and tries to send as much as he can over the connection while it's open. He knows it's not enough but it's all he's got. By their third night in Europe, the bond is gone and Bob cries through the show but no one notices because the tears mix with the sweat so completely that they're all just salt water.
Europe is a good distraction though. Europe is always good for Bob. It's not as good as Asia but nothing is. He still feels himself slide back into his skin in London, Glasgow, Paris, Cologne, Berlin, Munich, Stockholm, Rome and Vienna. European crowds are different than American ones but they don’t love any less hard and they sing just as loud. They're not okay and both their cars collide and they hang onto fences afterwards waiting for a glimpse of them. Bob doesn’t forget the music he heard but he can put it in the same place he puts his dad's witty sense of humor and his mom's hugs and wrapping the tour around them helps seal them away.
When they get back in the summer, they have about fifteen minutes to breathe before Warped. Bob flies up to Chicago and crashes with Will so he can see his doctor. Will rifles through his cosmetics bag and whistles lowly. "You just love to play with fucking fire don’t you Bryar?"
"Shut the fuck up and fuck me already," Bob snarls. His hands are chained above his head to the slats in Will's headboard.
"Safeword out then."
Bob glares at him but says nothing. He just watches as Will climbs on top of him, naked, fitting Bob's cock into the crease of his ass as he stares down at the pills. "You know, the foundation for Tranaxil is actually a neurotoxin? It incapacitates receptors in your brain so that they can't make the proper connections needed to connect to the bond.In fact, it actually makes them fire wrong, so your soulmate can't see you." Will shakes the bottle. "You're slowly killing your brain cells with this."
"Wow, thanks professor."
"You could just stop, save your mind and give your soulmate a chance to meet you." Bob bucked his hips upwards and Will sighs, grinding back down. "Or you could be the most obstinate sub in history and keep fucking yourself out of one of lifes pleasures. That works too. Sure. Do that."
The conversation hadn't really improved from there. The sex had. Angry sex was fantastic, especially with Will. That didn't change the fact that it got them less than nowhere when it came to this argument. Will was still glaring at him when he dropped Bob off at O'Hare.
Warped is surreal. Not because it was yet another huge festival circuit which does have a lot to do with it. Bus cities were always odd. No, Warped has this air to it like right here, right now, they've all entered a crystalline moment that can't be replicated. The entire band feels it but no one can seem to figure out why. Not until they meet Fall Out Boy on halfway through day two.
Well, that's not accurate. They don't meet Fall Out Boy so much as the front man comes barreling across the parking lot towards the spot where they're all having a smoke and actually skids to a halt. There's a squeaking sound as the rubber of his Converse drag over the pavement and everything.
Then the guy is dropping to his knees so hard it has to hurt, right at Mikey's feet. He looks up at Mikey with huge, dark eyes in an olive skinned face and beams up at him. "You," he breathes. "It's you. Jesus, you're even more beautiful than I thought you would be, fuck." Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against Mikey's hip. The man lets out a little hiccupping breathe and says, "God, and you feel so fucking good, baby. I knew it. I knew it."
Mikey's hand is actually shaking when he reaches down to stroke the man's thick black hair. "You're here?" Mikey asks, his voice shaking. His face is still a mask but his eyes are so bright. "How are you here? I felt something but I never-" He shakes his head to clear it. "Thank you so much for the honor of your submission. Mikey. I'm Mikey. Your name. I need your name. I've been waiting forever for you, please. I want to know everything."
"Pete," he chokes out. "I'm Pete. Thank you for the gift of your care and dominance Mikey." He pulls his face out of Mikey's side and tips his head back. "Will you kiss me? Please? I've thought about it so much I just want taste you. It's all I can think about. Holy shit, look at your mouth. You're so perfect."
Mikey's on his knees a second later and the two of them are kissing like they don't need air, like all they need to breathe is each other. Bob looks around and Gerard and Frank are beaming. Ray looks a little sad but happy too.
Then there are three other people approaching. Two are tall - one with curly black hair and one with long brown hair and glasses, and a third who is even shorter than Frank with a trucker hat and glasses hiding him from the world. The three of them must be the rest of Fall Out Boy because they look concerned and Bob cant help but think that concern looks good on the short one. Really good.
"What just happened?" The short one demands.
"They found each other," Gerard says dreamily. He holds out a hand. "I'm Gerard Way. Mikey's my little brother. He's Pete's soulmate. I can't tell you how happy I am for them. We were worried about them for awhile but this is better." He beams at him until he is forced to take his hand.
"I'm Patrick," He points to himself then at the black haired man, then the one with glasses. "Joe, Andy. We're his band and are…you sure?" he glances over at the two of them again. They're still kissing like the world will end if they stop. Mikey's hand is around Pete's neck, thumb pressed over his airway and Pete looks like a rag doll. He also looks like he's floating in a sea of bliss.
It hits Bob then that he has never seen this before. He's seen bonded pairs. He's seen single people who have a bond that hasn’t been consummated yet. Hell he even had Brian call him when he found Gerard but he has never once seen a pair find each other in person.
It's breathtaking, the way they break apart and press their foreheads together, noses rubbing together as they whisper to each other. They're sharing secrets their hearts have been sharing for decades that they can finally put to words. There are tears on Mikey's face even though he's smiling hugely, like Bob's never seen before and he cant keep his hands off Pete's face, thumbs rubbing over his cheeks down his jaw again and again.
"It's really something isn't it?" Patrick asks. He sounds a little wistful, a little sad but happy too. "I've been waiting for him to find this since I met him. You guys can't take him or anything, not until we're sure he's stable but they've always been so…"
"Intense?" Bob finishes and Patrick laughs.
"That's a word for it. I was going to say enmeshed but yeah." Out of the corner of his eye, Bob can see Patrick adjust his hat then shove his hat than then shove his hands in his pockets. It's fucking charming as hell and the guy is cute. So his type, small and compact. If he's a Dom the package will be complete and Bob will have himself another fruitless fucking crush.
"Yeah."
"They look good together," Patrick adds. "I just hope your Mikey helps him level out. Pete's had a rough year."
"February," Bob says with a nod and suddenly Patrick is staring at him. Bob can feel the full force of his gaze and ugh, yeah, hes a Dom. Definitely.
"He felt that. Right. Of course he did."
"It wasn’t a good month for us either," Bob says with a grin. He glances over at the pair by the bus. Mikey has fallen back to sit on his ass on the asphalt and Pete as crawled into his lap, face buried in his neck. "But that was months ago."
"Yeah." Patrick agrees. "So, the rest of us are going to go see who else is here and then we've got sound check. If they can't untangle before seven, could you send someone over to let us know?"
Bob nods. "Sure."
He watches Patrick walk away and wants. He wants with an intensity that makes his whole body hurt. He's never wanted anyone the way he wants that tiny, gentle-voiced young man and Jesus, the bones in his legs are practically begging him to follow and then sink to the ground. He shakes his head and turns back to his bus.
Gerard is like a new mom with how he flits and fusses over Mikey. He insists that either Mikey stay on the Fall Out Boy bus or Pete stay with them. "Your first night together is so important," Gerard proclaims. "It doesn’t have to be perfect it just has to be together you know? It's so different when you wake up, right Frank? Oh Mikes, god, you found him."
Frank just nods along and grins that big Frank grin. "He's hot. I like his ink."
"You would," Bob mutters and Frank pokes him with his foot.
"It's okay to be jealous because you haven't sparked yet. Don't worry baby, you will. I'll totally dance at your wedding."
"Dude shut the fuck up." Bob snaps.
Mikey gives him a pained look that is out of character on him right now, with how fucking happy he is, and comes to Bob's defense. "Come on, Frankie."
Frank holds up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I am just trying to help." And the thing is, it's Frank. So Bob knows that he really is doing just that.
The thing is? The longer they're on tour, the stronger the bond gets. At first it's just a little itching tug but a week into the tour, he can hear the music again, low and distant but definitely there. It's happy and excited but also tinged in exhaustion.
So he cracks some of the Tranaxil pills in half and adds each of the halves to his twice daily dose. That works for the first week or so before he ups it to a full extra pill each dose. Taking his meds are just another small punctuation between riding in the buses or playing shows or the best times when he joins Mikey over at the Fall Out Boy bus. Pete sits at Mikey's feet wherever they are, his head against Mikey's knees. If they're eating, Mikey feeds him from his hand and if they're not he's always playing with Pete's hair or ear or the skin of his neck.
They've slid perfectly into the roles they were meant for and it shows. Hell, Pete looks so fucking content that it hurts Bob to look at him. Actively fucking hurts.
He keeps his eyes on Patrick instead. He's shy. He ducks his head when he smiles his wide smiles but he throws his head back when he laughs. He's what anyone else would call average but Bob looks at him and gets so fucking hard that he could cut class with his dick.
"You should play with us," Patrick says about three weeks into the tour, sprawled in the lounge of the My Chem bus. Gerard is in his bunk having phone sex with Brian, Ray is shut up in the studio in the back of the bus, Mikey is with Pete and Frank is… Actually Bob doesn’t know where Frank is.
"Have you seen Frank?"
"No? That wasn't what I was talking about though."
"Right but if you don’t keep tabs on him terrible things can happen."
Patrick purses his lips. "You say that like he's a walking bomb."
"Yes. Perfect analogy actually." He's already fishing into his pocket for his sidekick. He sends out a where the fck is frank text to pretty much everyone he knows for a fact are actually on tour.
He gets back a text back from The Rev that reads on the roof of DKMurphys bus. prob sober def stupid. Bob can live with that. He's not surprised it's from the Rev rather from Johnny or Zacky. It's the drummer grapevine sometimes. His people are watchers. They have to be keep an entire band of crazy fucks on beat, and he has yet to be let down.
"Anything exploding?"
"No. He may be in traction tomorrow though if he falls off the roof."
Patrick gives him a smile from under his eyelashes. "Bus or building?"
"Bus," Bob says, sinking back onto the couch. "So if he does break his neck, you'll get your wish and have to play together. We'll be short a rhythm guitarist."
"Your faith in my talent's comforting but I don’t know the My Chemical Romance catalogue. Pete's baby band might though. The Ross kid is scary into you guys."
"You could do it," Bob says with complete confidence. Pete rambles, a lot, especially when Mikey doesn’t command silence. One of his favorite topics is Patrick and his magical music abilities. Bob's seen them play - the way Patrick picks up an instrument and it just sort of melts into his hands like it was created for him. It's awe-inspiring. Then again, Bob is crushing so blindingly hard that maybe its just Patrick.
When Patrick is really truly smiling all the way to his eyes, like he is at Bob right now, his whole face transforms. He goes from a shy, barely legal presence in the background to a spotlight shining directly wherever is attention is focused. Right now its on Bob. That kind of attention isn't helping the crush problem at all.
"Well you could do it too. I'd five you something easy. Of All the Gin Joints maybe."
"That one's not that easy."
Patrick beams. "That’s because Andy kicks all the ass." He nudges Bob with his knee. "You're pretty awesome too. Ray played me some of the work you guys have been doing on that new one - the Five of Us Are Dying. The march elements you've done are really impressive."
Bob suppresses a shudder. Gerard is deeply fucked up with calling that project. It feels like they've been tinkering with it forever and it's still nowhere near done. Bob knows it won't be until they actually get in the studio but he's with Ray on this one. They have got to get a new title for that song. Soon. It's starting to get really unnerving.
Instead he of saying any of that, he nods and bumps Patrick back. "Yeah, well, you know, I was in drum corps for and it's not that hard to get back into that rhythm."
"Me too," Patrick confides with a smile. Bob has the sharpest instinct to lean over and kiss him, to scoot to the side and rest his head in Patrick's lap and let him do, well, whatever he wants. It's stupid and shortsighted to want yet another dom who has an active bond but that doesn’t stop Bob from feeling it. "I never did DCI or anything. I was too young and then there was the band but I remember practices, especially right before school started." He wrinkles his nose. "Chicago in summer, man."
"Yeah," Bob agrees. "Not always worth it but then you go to the lake and it's like oh yeah, that’s why this city is awesome."
"Right,I keep forgetting you're from Chicago too."
"That's because I live with a bunch of grimy dudes from Jersey."
Patrick laughs. He has a great laugh but Bob's had a low level headache for a few hours. The sound just makes it worse. Even so, Bob doesn’t want him to stop. "Oh come on," he protests. "Only Gerard and Mikey are grimy. Frank is down right fastidious and you manage to maintain a sparkling beard despite how disgusting it is out here."
"My beard sparkles?"
"When the light hits it right. Patrick says. He's clearly joking but there's something in his eyes, bright and interested. His eyes dart down as if to inspect Bob's beard but they linger on his mouth. Then he's says, "Mostly it just really compliments your face." He swallows so loud his throat makes a clicking noise. "You have a great face."
Bob's dick stands up at attention at being under the inspection of a Dom he wants so freaking badly. It makes his chest ache too because he knows, knows that he could lean forward and kiss Patrick right now and Patrick would kiss him back. He doesn't seem the type to mind a sub initiating things. He is the type to take charge though, his will probably gentle but rock solid.
The problem with that would be that Bob doesn’t just want casual scening with Patrick. It's not like Brian or Will, where there was never more than lust beneath their friendship. This wasn't like Mikey either, where his desire never went past a passing fantasy that was a great jerk off material and a low level longing. Bob could fall for Patrick, hard, but unless he was one of the rare people who was widowed or lacked a bond altogether, he was asking for a world of hurt.
"I can't," he says even though somehow, he's gotten so much closer to Patrick than he meant to be. It would take so little for them to be touching, for Patrick to be on top of him or for him to be curled against Patrick. It'd feel so good that his muscles may actually be shaking at force of his restraint.
"Right," Patrick says deflated. "I didn't realize you were bonded already or I would never-"
"No," Bob says. He's having a hell of a time resisting the urge to reach out. He gives up after about three seconds and covers Patrick's hand with his own. "I don't have a bond, let alone a bondmate," he says and that's mostly true. "But Mikey's said some things and I know you do. So." He shrugs.
"So that means we can't? What if I don’t have mine either?"
"You'll find eir at some point. You're too awesome for it not to happen," Bob says, his conviction total. "I just can't let myself start something with you knowing that it's going to end before we even start."
"So there would be something." Patrick moves his hand so that it's covering Bob's wrist. His fingers are a warm contrast to the joint always aches, even when he hasn't played in hours. If he asked, Patrick would knead the spot until he melted, or cried or both. He knows it just like he knows a touch like this is a prelude to other firmer holds.
"Yeah," Bob agrees. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he continues. "But you've got someone waiting for you and I'm not- I've lost other people because of a bond. It fucking sucks."
He lifts his eyes from Patrick's hand because it's too much like how he's been pinned before. It reminds him of everyone who let him go and walked away. Brian. Mikey. He even counts his mother though she didn't walk so much as she was dragged out of reality by her bond's vice grip on her throat.
"I don’t want to do that with you." He gives Patrick what he hopes is a convincing smile. "Nonbonded lovers come and go. I'd rather keep you as a friend, you know?"
The fact that he wouldn't be able to watch Patrick with his soulmate if they let this go farther goes unsaid. Right now, as a friend, Bob will be fine. He'll be disappointed and maybe even hurt but he won't lose what they've already built.
Patrick stares at him, his glasses magnifying his eyes. "It's not that simple. My bond's not that simple."
"Yeah you could have one of those rare threeway bonds but it doesn’t change anything. Can we please, just, not?" He hates that he can't keep the plea out of his voice. "I don't think it'd be fair, to either of us."
That gets him a sharp, ugly laugh. "Life isn't fucking fair, Bob. I may never meet my soulmate but this," His grip tightens on Bob's wrist, not painful just exerting pressure that whispered of possession. "This could be something real anyway." His thumb drags over the heel of Bob's hand. "We could be real."
Bob licks his lips and sighs. "Yeah, I just. Patrick." He doesn’t know what else to say. All he can manage is Patrick's name, one more time.
It gets Patrick to release his grip. He lets out a small, disappointed sigh and scoots away, putting just enough space between them to be friendly rather than intimate. He gives Bob a smile. "So," he says the cheer in his expression carefully controlled. "Are you going to play with us at some point or what?"
"Yeah," Bob replies. "Yeah I'd like that."
After that, the headaches get worse, radiating out from his joining spot and tendriling into his brain. He ups his Tranaxil dose again and it works for about three days before he has to do it again, and then again a couple days after that. His appetite is drying up. It hurts but he can't force food down over the ache in his joining spot.
The potential for something more with someone else, it has to be agitating his bond and Bob refuses to be anything but ruthless with the pull. He's fine though. Everything is fine. He's great, especially when they play and he can pour everything into his kit. Only when he comes off stage is it obvious that whatever his new Tranaxil level is already starting to become ineffective.
He isn't even sure what state he's in when he gives in and texts the tour manager saying he's not feeling well and can't play tonight. It's one of the few cities where they're playing two days in a row so no one will notice if he leaves the venue for awhile, or the night in a hotel to try and get some real rest. He starts by walking over to the gas station near the venue. He's running out of Advil and Tylenol and maybe he wants to get a beer away from the crush of the bus city.
It's not until he's falling over onto white and grey linoleum that he remembers what Will said about Tranaxil being technically toxic. By that point, his knees have already given out and he's sprawled on his back in the drink aisle.
A woman in her early thirties appears at his side, clutching a Mountain Dew. She's saying something to him. He can barely understand her. She's talking with marbles in her mouth and he tells her so and she shakes him.
She repeating the same question in different ways over and over until he can understand her. "Did you take something?" She says again. "You look high as hell what did you take."
"N'thing." He slurs. He doesn’t touch the hard stuff and she probably knows that beer or weed wouldn’t do this. "Meds. Too much." He manages.
He hurts. He hurts everywhere. His body is screaming in time to the throb in his head. He's felt pain before but this is new and it's vicious. He can feel tears on his face which makes sense because this is hell. It's actually hell. He can't imagine the pit Gerard keeps talking about could be worse than this. He's praying that he'll pass out, soon, because he can't take more of this. He can't do it.
She's saying something else, asking him what kind of meds. Where they are then? What is it, please? Has anyone called 911? Bob closes his eyes against the light. Someone is sobbing and he doesn't realize it's him until right before he finally, blessedly, loses consciousness.
~*~*~
Chapter 5