Fic: Bound to the Beat 3/5 (FOB/MCR, NC-17, Bob/Patrick, Mikey/Pete, Brian/Gerard)

[dancinbutterfly]

Nothing about the beginning of Fallout Boy is easy except playing the music. They're broke as hell. They sleep in the van and on the couches and floors of people Pete meets on the internet for fuck's sake.

About a month after Take This To Your Grave drops, the kids at the shows all know the words to their songs. They sing along to Saturday and Grand Theft Autumn. It's a fan favorite even though Patrick still kind of thinks they should've left it where is your man rather than where is your boy because of the implicit sub connotations but Pete had argued so hard he nearly turned purple. Playing it a few hundred times wins Patrick over in the end.

They are gross all the time. They have semi-clean clothes that they keep in their music cases and only pull out for the shows. Everything else is a blur of highways, gas stations, and small venues with shitty lighting and nearly nonexistent green rooms.

It's at one of those shitty as fuck venues that Patrick meets Anna. She's gorgeous. She's the kind of sub who wears wrist cuffs to show off her orientation and thick eyeliner and torn up shirts to show that she's scene. Best of all, she likes him.

"Not for keeps or anything," Anna says the first time, beer bottle hanging from her underaged fingers. "But we could scene if you want. I haven’t gone down for anyone as cute as you in ages."

"I'm not- I haven't-" He clears his throat. "I've never dommed anyone before. Not like that."

She grins at him, all teeth and too bright lipstick. "I could show you if you want." She holds out her free hand to him. "Come on. I've got a place."

The place is her parents' house. He asks her how old she is and she says seventeen which isn't that bad. He only just turned nineteen so it's not like he's Pete, dating a girl seven or eight years younger than he is. Pete says its because it doesn't matter anyway.

Anna matters. Anna is the first person to want him like this, enough to show him what she wants and how to do it. He's turned on and she wants to kneel for him. There's no fucking question he'll say yes.

"So," Anna says when they're in her room, the door safely looked. "I'm going to get on my knees and we don’t have to say all the formal shit. You're not my soulmate so I don’t really care about that part and I don’t think you do either."

Patrick blinks at her. He hasn't really thought about it since that thing with Pete. He nods dumbly because she's been taking off her clothes as she talks. He doesn’t know how to think with the way she's slowly getting more and more naked.

For some reason, Patrick feels like an instant later that she's on her knees in front of him. She's stunning, make-up still on, her hair still pulled back and up but everything else laid bare. He wants to touch her only he has no idea where to start.

"I'm not sure how to do this."

"You tell me what to do, and I do it. Wanna go with the red, yellow, green safeword structure?"

"Like traffic lights."

She grins up at him. "Just like that."

He nods. "I can work with that."

"Cool. So. Tell me what to do, Patrick."

Patrick thinks about what he wants and comes up with the bare bones. Whenever he imagines what he wants, the fantasy always involves a blown open bond. He pictures himself being washed in emotion and sensation and finally knowing who is on the other end of the rarely-there connection. He thinks of the feedback loop he'd have with his sub, how good it'd feel to experience the power of dominance and the relief of submission at once. He thinks about sliding his hands cradling his soulmate's joining spot as Patrick fucks into him slow and smooth.

That’s not what Anna's asking for. She wants here and now and that takes more thought. He looks at her, at the Marilyn Manson and Invader Zim and Nightmare Before Christmas posters on her room. There's a thin green vibrator on her bedside table and shoes poking out from beneath the bed. So yeah. That.

"Get on the bed." His voice comes out low and thick. Anna actually shivers before she rises to her feet.

"Face up or down?"

Jesus he hadn’t even thought about that. He doesn't want her on her stomach though. He likes her eyes and wants to be able to see them. "Up."

She grins at him and sprawls on top of her comforter. "Yes, sir."

Patrick's whole body reacts because fuck. That is so good. It's so damn right. It's like a switch being flipped from off to on. He still doesn’t know what he's doing but if she keeps saying yes sir, in that voice, with that expression? He'll figure it out.

"Would you-" He stops. This isn't the place to ask questions. She wants orders, he wants to give them. So he reframes it. "I want you to get yourself off." He jerks his chin at the nightstand and the unassuming toy. "You can use that if you want."

She grins at him and reaches for the vibrator. "Yes sir." A low mechanical hum fills the air and she moves her hands between her legs.

Watching her touch herself is amazing. He could come from just that if he had even the smallest bit of friction. Instead he digs his nails into his fists so hard they leave crescent indentations and watches her moan and arch and come panting.

She gasps in this little hitching breathes as she comes down from her orgasm, the vibrator still buzzing but her hands hanging limp. It's possible that she is the most beautiful thing that Patrick's ever seen in his life, just like that. He crawls onto the bed and givens into the impulse to lick first her fingers and then her thighs clean.

He moves up until Anna is whimpering and has her hands in his short hair, pulling his face against her wet heat. He could tell her to stop and she would which makes this even hotter but he's never eaten a girl out before. He likes the guidance and he likes feeling her contract around his tongue and lips. She comes again which is awesome because he did that. He made her. He makes her until she's begging him to stop, to yellow, yellow, yellow.

He pulls back to look at her. She's been so wet that he has to actually wipe his face off with his hand before he can even imagine kissing her. When he pulls up even with her and asks, "Can I fuck you?"

She laughs. "Orders. You give orders not ask questions." She licks her lips and says, wraps one leg around him and says, "Green."

Anna has condoms in her dresser drawer and she's already so slick. She's come twice so she doesn't mind that he's doesn't last long. "Next time, you'll be better," she promises and Patrick grins down at her.

They don't tour very often that year so he and Anna keep seeing each other. It goes from every weekend to every few days to all the time. Before Patrick knows what's happening, he's in a relationship with her, a real one. There are dates and intimacy and movie nights and sex that keeps escalating into something more and more complicated.

Patrick finds himself loving her before he knows what he's doing. It's not a conscious decision. Turns out Patrick isn't the sort of person who can spend that much time laughing and fucking and generally enjoying each other and not end up loving her.

That's why Patrick shouldn't have had to find out she'd found her soulmate the way he did. He should have had some warning. It should not have been by him unwittingly going into the apartment she gave him a key to so that he could see her getting fucked face down in her duvet, collar around her neck, ropes around her wrists torn between moaning and laughter.

He didn't hold finding her soulmate against her of course. She was just waiting for the pull, for the drive that would send one of them on the seeker trip. He knew that when they started dating that he was temporary to Anna.

That doesn't make it hurt any less. Pain apparently makes him petty too because Patrick kind of wants to do something at to get back at Anna. He wants to, god, let Pete loose on her maybe? He doesn't know

That’s the best he's got. Patrick is not good at coming up with revenge scenarios. He's good at sitting on the couch in the living room of Pete's mom's house feeling sorry for himself. Pete's on the floor, his head leaned back against Patrick's knees. Andy once said looks a lot like a dog at rest. Pete didn't take offence. Hell he actually seemed pleased and even barked before cracking up and taking over the Xbox.

Pete's always been loyal. He'd attack too if Patrick let him off the leash which might have been half the problem. Patrick took the control Pete offered because Pete needed. It helped Pete and so few things did. He trusted Patrick's dominance and care to hold together since he hadn't found his dom yet, since he was ragged at the edges, since he was constantly clawing his way out of the dark places in his head and since he so often couldn't sleep.

Anna never understood, that what he did with Pete wasn't anything beyond friendship. Submission and dominance were so tightly wound up in sex to her that she couldn't wrap her head around how Patrick could do those things with Pete and it had nothing to do with the way he felt when he was with her. She liked to throw Pete in his face when they fought.

That didn't excuse what she did. There are rules, damnit. There is an etiquette. She didn't wear his collar but he loved her and she could've at least called. Or texted. Or something. Anything. A note on the door saying -please don’t come in I'm being fucked- would've been nice.

"I just wanted the common courtesy of not having to see someone fucking my girlfriend. That's not too much to ask for is it?"

"I could blog about what she did if you want," Pete offers. "It would take about fifteen minutes and we could write a whole album about it. Lyrics about pain and betrayal always sell. Trust me, it would be awesome."

"Um, no." Patrick replies. Anna was the first person he ever loved so he can't yes, even though the petty hurt part of him wants to. "Don't do that."

"She could've been nice about it. What happened to her loving you?"

"I guess she found her soulmate and everything else fell away."

"That’s not how it's supposed to work," Pete says. "Your soulmate is supposed to make you, I don’t know, better."

"I don’t think that's how it works. I seem to remember a lot of talk about evolution and biological pairing in concordance and history class."

"Whatever. Screw her. She clearly wasn’t good enough for you anyway." Pete lolls his head back. "I'm going out to Las Vegas in a week. Come with me. We'll watch those guys in that band play and then I'll take you to the Strip. I will buy you a hooker. I'll buy you two hookers. I'll get you so drunk you don’t even remember her. "

Patrick ruffles Pete's hair and shrugs. "Sure. Why the fuck not?"

Pete's mom pays for both of them to fly out to Vegas for a week. Patrick has no idea why. Pete says its because she could see how wounded he is. Dale says its because she doesn't want Pete out in Sin City on his own. Patrick thinks it’s a little of both.

People finally know who they are. They're starting to, well, not make money. They are making the equivalent of part time at a burger joint and shit maybe they'd get tips at a burger joint. Pete makes marginally more with his Clan stuff but still. They're all broke as shit (except for whatever money Dale and Peter Sr. gave Pete for this trip; Patrick's scared to ask) but they are fucking working musicians who are on a label and are going to be touring like crazy in the coming year.

That's where this fucking Ross kid comes in, as far as Patrick can tell. He's been livejournal stalking Pete for months. Pete's always admired tenacity because he's the pushiest guy in any room. Patrick thinks he just finally got tired of it and listened to what the guy had to say or sing or whatever.

"Their singer's got pipes," Pete says for, like, the seventieth time. "You'll feel better when you're out there, Trick, I promise."

Patrick doesn’t argue. He just does a load of laundry, packs and gets on a plane to the desert with Pete. Apparently his dad gave them one of his credit cards so they rent a car and drive out to the suburb of Summerlin. They reach the town's only sad little indie nightclub just in time to catch the back half of the set.

Panic! At the Disco, and yes they insist on the exclamation mark, are at first glance pretty freaking sloppy. They're young, so fucking young. Yes, Patrick knows that's hypocritical because he's twenty and he started when he was about their age. Whatever. They look younger than Patrick has ever felt. The lead singer looks all of fourteen in this terrible, sexy jailbait sort of way with big brown puppy dog eyes and hands that are too big for his body but just the right size to grip a microphone. The other guys are no better, with their floppy hair and torn clothes.

Jarring immaturity aside, the real problem here is that Pete is right, goddamn him. The vocals are amazing. The lyrics are sharp and interesting. The song structure isnt quite there yet but musically they have the potential to be something special.

"Right?" Pete shouts directly into his ear. Patrick reaches over, grabs Pete's ear in retaliation and twists. Pete whimpers but he comes down to Patrick's level so that he doesn’t have to shout to speak.

"They're okay," he concedes, ignoring Pete's whining and wincing. He likes it. Patrick is doing him a favor here. "They could be good."He lets go of Pete's ear, stopping to rub the skin in apology and approval but the points made. They agree and the kids on stage are worth hanging around a little longer to talk to.

The guitarist is sees Pete in the crowd early and does everything he can not to lose it. Patrick sees him slide down in a move like a baseball player trying to steal a base up next to the drummer at the end of a song. There's a minute while the singer shifts from guitar to piano where the drummer runs a hand through the kid's hair all the way back until it rests on his soul's home. When he pops up a second later, he's loose and calm and grinning into the next song. Before they even reach the bridge, singer nuzzles into his shoulder. The guitarist smiles and leans into it when a kiss is pressed into his cheek.

Patrick has a moment of sharp, stinging jealousy at these kids. And they are kids; there is no freaking way that the drummer is legal, probably not the bassist either. He's burning with envy that they all found each other.

After that show is the same as after every show. People with drinks mill around while the band packs up their instruments and equipment. There's a small throng when they're done - scene teens who just want to do something other than their homework. Pete is holding court with the few people who recognized him because that's what Pete does until the crowd has thinned enough for him to sweep the four Panic boys out of the bar.

Patrick follows. God knows what will happen if he leaves Pete unattended with impressionable, fuckable teenagers. Well, no, Patrick knows will happen. He's got a very vivid mental image. He just needs it to not.

Seriously, he is 84% sure these boys are not entirely legal. Dale may be a lawyer but who wants to explain that to their mom from jail? No one. Not even Pete. So Pete needs to not have any bench warrants pending in Nevada. They will no doubt be touring here in the future.

Summerlin is a ghost town after ten p.m. so there's nowhere to go after the show. Except it turns out that Ryan, the guitarist sub who spent the last few months stalking Pete, has a dad who moved into the bottom of a bottle when his soulmate renounced him and makes for a great alibi. So his dom Spencer and the singer Brendon all call their respective parents and tell them they're staying at his place. Lies firmly in place Pete drives all of them - minus the bassist Brent who apparently can't stay out, regardless - into the Strip where its always daylight and everything is moving.

Patrick vetoes a bar because Pete is the only one old enough to drink. Seriously what the hell is he even thinking? Instead they settle in at a diner that seems like the kind of place that would have awesome burgers and great fries. Ryan and Pete talk animatedly about music and Fueled By Ramen and the boutique label that Pete's been talking to Janick about starting and albums. The whole time they're talking, Spencer keeps his hand on Ryan's neck, his thumb resting over the pulse point, nodding along.

"They've been acknowledged since they were twelve and thirteen." Brendon tells him when he catches Patrick looking. "I didn't know them back then but Ryan and Spencer were friends their whole lives and sparked at the same time. Their parents actually submitted the whole thing to some scientists because that kind of close-contact early recognition is so rare. They got special legal dispensation to get recognized when they turned sixteen even though they both live with their parents. They're in books."

Patrick stares at them. There's a hint of a necklace showing at the edge of Ryan's t-shirt, probably his collar, something easily concealed because of his young age. The way Spencer is looking at him though, its so obvious. "Wow."

Brendon nods. "Yeah. It's cool, ya know? One of those things that gives you hope." He looks down at his patty melt and frowns. "Like if they could find each other that early and that easy then there's got to be hope for everyone? Anyway." He looks up and is grinning again. "So what did you think of us, vocally? I mean, your voice is so amazing I'd love any tips you could give me."

"Of the top of my head? You reach too far too fast and get out of tune. There's more but most of it's stylistic. All you have to do is practice I think. That's something you guys can work on before you get in the studio."

Brendon stares at him as if Patrick presented him with the bright and shining answer secrets of the universe. "We're really going to get to make an album."

Pete and Ryan are talking over each other so loudly that Patrick really cant understand them. He knows that look on Pete's face though. "Yeah. You absolutely will. Pete'll make it happen, you just watch."

Surprising everyone but Patrick really Pete manages to talk the bond pair back up to his hotel room. Patrick doesn't mention that Spencer is seventeen because the boy's a dom and he'll probably end up having Pete and Ryan fuck each other for his amusement. Pete's the type. It's happened before; Patrick has absolutely no doubt it will happen again.

Even so he pulls the Ross kid aside and checks to make sure he knows that having sex with Pete is not necessary to get the music help. Ryan just laughs. "Of course I know but I've wanted to fuck Pete Wentz for ages. Spencer said I could so, yeah." He trails off and grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Patrick rolls his eyes. Whatever. Ryan is eighteen. More importantly, he is not Patrick's boy, so he is not Patrick's problem.

What is his problem is that he really had been looking forward to having Pete get him drunk… or buying him a hooker. Sub hookers are notoriously tricky because of the danger involved and implications therein. The regulations in Vegas made that sort of thing genuinely safe. Now he couldn’t do either because Patrick was sad about Anna but not sad enough to get shitfaced alone in Vegas.

"So don't get shit faced alone." Pete pulls out his ID, hotel key and a couple credit cards then tosses Patrick his wallet. "Take Urie and go ape-shit."

There is over two-hundred dollars in cash in there. What the holy hell? Patrick is going to pay the check with one of Pete's credit cards and counts out the bills on the table while Brendon stares at him.

"Wow. That's- Wow."

"No. Pete's parents are successful and generous. We are broke. Don't be fooled." Two-hundred-and-sixty-eight dollars plus the fifty Patrick's got in his own wallet. So. Yeah. He could do some damage with that if he were, you know, old enough to buy booze. Or gamble. Or do anything fun except vote or buy a gun. He gives Brendon a cursory look. "So what do you do for fun around here?"

Brendon shrugs. "It's Las Vegas. What does anyone do for fun?"

"I don’t know. If you're not old enough to drink or go into the casinos most of your options are eliminated and it’s a little late to see the Celine Dionne show."

Brendon lifts an eyebrow. "I can't tell if you're joking."

"Only about Celine. I do have some taste."

"How old are you?"

"Freshly minted twenty." He holds up the new twenty dollar bill the weird oversized Andrew Jackson on it. "Just like this."

"Huh. I thought you were older."

"Nope. Pete cradled robbed me too. It's what he does."

"Again," Brendon says. "I can't tell if you're joking."

"Not this time," Patrick admits. "So…strip club?" He holds up the bill fold. "I bet we could get a lot of ones."

Brendon bites his lower lip, like he is trying to stop himself from saying something. When he releases it, its bright red. He leans towards Patrick, nervous puppy eyes dark and wide and takes a deep breath. " I'd like-" He looks around. "Could we-"

Patrick reaches out and touches Brendon's cheek which is already getting pink. "You wanna go to one where the boys dance, Brendon?"

"Please?" He breathes out, ducking his head into the touch. If Brendon isn't a sub, then Patrick sure as fuck thinks he might act like one for him.

"Yeah, of course. I like all of it. You heard of anywhere good?"

Brendon knows the names of two places that are apparently infamous. Patrick asks the waitress and she writes the directions down for them on the back of their receipt. Since he paid with Pete's credit card, they tip her fifty percent.

Over the years, Patrick has been dragged into his fair share of strip clubs. Pete has his priorities and he doesn't like to be alone. The Stiff Rooster is actually one of the nicer ones he's been to. Every surface is so clean it could be eaten off of(not that Patrick would because ew). The men are beautiful, talented and well trained. The bouncers are huge and probably armed. The music is loud but not so much so that they can't talk.

Brendon's eyes are locked on a dancer who with a sharp jaw and a pointed chin who is muscular in a slim way. Instead of the hairless look, he's one of the more natural performers with a dusting of dark hair over his belly trailing down into his barely their underwear to match his thick black brows and leg hair. Patrick is more distracted by the way his companion is ogling the dancer more than the gyrations.

Patrick waits until the dancer finishes, smirking at the audience before strutting off stage. Then he puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder. "What's going on?" he asks right into his ear even thought he doesn't need to do so to be heard.

He can feel Brendon stiffen all over. His jaw tightens and Patrick sighs, He's going to take a page out of Pete's book for this one and flags down a waiter. He gives them Pete's card and asks for a private room and the dancer who just left the stage. The waiter beams at them and leads them out of the m main club and into a quiet backroom with a large chaise-like piece of furniture for them to sprawl on.

The stripper calls himself Gage which cannot be his real name and tells them that he's they've got him for an hour to start. Is there anything they'd like? "What do you usually do?" Brendon asks with a voice that shakes.

"I usually I touch myself and dance. Sometimes I touch you. There's a camera there."He points up at the ceiling."And the rule is you have to keep your hands to yourself. But if you want to touch yourself or each other, that’s okay." Gage grins. "You can also ask me to touch you or myself in a certain ways if you want. Just be aware that I reserve the right to say no to anything."

"Oh." Brendon's voice sounds small. "That sounds fair."

Gage smiles at Brendon. "Sweetie, have you done this before?"

"Yeah. Of course. Yeah. I did. I mean I have. Definitely."

Gage casts his gaze over to Patrick. One perfectly plucked eyebrow rises. When Patrick doesn’t respond Gage says, "Anything you want me to do for your boy?"

"Just dance. We need to talk."

Gage winks. "I can definitely do that." The music starts and he starts to move slow and sexy.

Brendon's face flushes red and he is torn between staring and hiding. Patrick isn't an idiot. He has eyes. What's more, he knows what it's like to be low and shy.

"Brendon, what's going on?" He asks again. This time he reaches out and takes his hand. No, he takes his wrist, wrapping his hand around it in a makeshift cuff. Brendon shudders and unwinds, pressing his face into Patrick's neck. A second later, Patrick fears wetness on his neck. He lifts his other hand to stroke through his dark hair, soft compared to Pete's coarse strands. "Oh. Hey. No don't cry."

"My dom's a boy," Brendon chokes out into his neck. "He feels so beautiful. Like, my ADHD is so bad but he's so calm. Sometimes I feel like he's the only thing that keeps me from spinning into space."

"That sounds good to me," Patrick says. "I mean, that’s what you want out of a soulmate, someone who balances you out."

Brendon pulls back and shakes his head. He wipes his eyes and looks at Gage with longing of a different kind. "No. It's not. The LDS Church doesn't sanction male pair bonds. You can't get married in the Temple and you can't acknowledge to your family without getting excommunicated. "

"You're Mormon?"

"Yeah. We're not fundamentalist but we're still practicing and my family, they're already unhappy about me playing music. If I find him, they'd lose it. It'd be okay if I were girl. That’s how the old history of polygamy happened. In the early days, sister-wife bonded pairs would attach themselves to a bigendered couple so that they could have children in unified families. Bond pairs are supposed to be how Heavenly Father creates perfect families in the preexistence but not male pairs. It has things to do with Cain and Abel, Sodom and Gemorrah, and the importance of children."

"That is bullshit."

Brendon shrugs. "Maybe but it's going to come down to family or soulmate for so many of us and I just…" He shakes his head, eyes locked on Gage. "There are more Mormon men on Xinitac than any other recognized group in America."

For some reason, that makes something twist sharply in Patrick's gut. "Are you serious?"

"Some people cant handle it. They'd rather never meet their soulmate than risk losing their family or and excommunication an eternity in outer darkness. I talked to one guy about it." Brendon admits. "He said it was easier not to feel the bond that to know what his soulmate felt like and to know he couldn't have it."

All the air felt knocked out of Patrick's lungs. For the first time in ten years he feels like the puzzle pieces of his bond are clicking into place. Xinitac. Bond blockers. It's so fucking obvious Patrick doesn't know why he didn't realize it before. There are a thousand and one reasons like the one Brendon mentioned that his soulmate would try and suppress their bond - from religion, to family, to a trauma, to something beyond his imagining.

Knowing this doesn’t make up for any of the pain he's felt but having an explanation feels amazing. He takes a moment to look over the feelings that have come through the bond over the years of rejection and fear and realizes that no, they were never aimed at Patrick the person. They were more nebulous than that.

"Oh god." The words slip free before he can help himself. He's horrified that his soulmate, his sub, his love has been out there, somewhere, for so long hurting so badly that he thinks that not having is safer than ever trying to connect. The very thought makes his throat burn.

Worse, there's nothing he can do if his soulmate really is on Xinitac. He can't force his side of the bond. It's like trying to make a call if the recipient's disconnected their phone. He could try forever but it wouldn't get through. There isn't a word for the way that makes his heart feel. It hasn't been invented.

"Do you want to leave?" He asks quietly Brendon. "We could go somewhere else. If you want." Patrick just needs to get out of there. Gage is beautiful and wasted on both of them. He wants to curl up in Brendon and make them both feel better.

"That'd be good," Brendon says.

"Thank you," he says to Gage. "I'm sorry about this."

"Oh Honey, don't worry. I've seen a lot worse that you." Gage accepts their tip with concomitant grace. He smiles when they leave with their fingers laced together.

Pete's got the hotel room. No doubt he, Spencer and Ryan are doing unspeakable things on sheets they don’t have to clean. It's okay because if there's one thing Las Vegas has plenty of it's hotels. They go to the nearest one on the Strip, hand them Pete's much abused card and take the elevator up.

When the lock clicks into place, Patrick leans against the door and sighs. He bangs his head against the faux wood once and looks up. This not at all how he expected this trip to go.

"Patrick?" Brendon's lovely voice is tremulous, cracking on the K. "You okay?"

"Are you?" He retorts.

"No. I should be." Patrick drops his head in time to see Brendon drop onto the king sized bed. "I mean, you guys basically signed us. That's awesome. It's the beginning of exactly what we wanted. I just…" He sighs. "My parents aren't going to be happy about this."

"The music?"

Brendon nods. "They want me to go to college. Only I'd major in music. We weren't big on TV in my house. Everyone in my family plays an instrument. We used to play together and I…I'm good. I can play guitar and piano and I can sing and I learned to write. They taught me to love it."

"And now they don’t want you to live it."

"How is that fair?"

"It's not. Life's not fucking fair."

"You're only twenty. You're in a band that is already awesome. How do you know that?"

He looks at Brendon. This boy, and he is a boy, is scared and wounded and trusting him. He can do the same. "What you said, about the Xinitac? I think that my soulmate's taking it. I've been trying to figure out what's wrong for years, why he's mostly missing and you gave me the answer, in a fucking strip club. So yeah. I know."

"Oh." He sounds so small and looks so fragile. "We're like one of Pete's lyrics," Brendon says. "Two fucked up strangers baring their souls in a substandard hotel room."

"That's not Pete's. That's yours. You should write it down."

"It's true though."

Patrick shrugs. "Yeah. It is."

"Have you ever, you know, done anything? Since you can't reach him?"

"Are you asking if I've ever had mammal sex or if I've ever dominated anyone? Because the answer to both is yes." Anna liked straight up vanilla sex sometimes and Patrick did too. "Just not with a man. Nothing sexual anyway. Sometimes I feel like I spend my whole life dominating Pete into sanity but I don't think that's what you mean."

"Oh."

Brendon sounds disappointed. Yeah, the slump of his shoulders is definitely a disappointment sag. He's seen it on Pete enough times to recognize it. "But I would. Do you want that?"

He looks down at the bedspread. With one fingernail, he scratches at the stitching."I- I just met you."

"Yeah you did and you know you don’t have to scene with me to get signed. I mean, I don’t even have a say in that. It's Pete's vanity label, not mine."

"It's not about that."

"Okay."

"It's just…" Brendon chews on his lower lip. That move should be illegal. Patrick doesn’t know what the age of consent laws in Nevada so possibly it is. "I've always wondered and you're…" He rubs the back of his neck. "Do people tell you that you feel safe a lot?"

Patrick laughs. "Yeah. They do. I don’t know why."

"It's because you are. It's probably because you listen."

"That's a musician thing. You listen too."

"Ryan and Spencer are musicians. They don’t listen like you."

He rubs the back of his neck. It's hot and jostles his hat. "Well thanks, I think."

"If I wanted to try, to see if, you know, it might be worth it. Would you be willing to try with me?"

Whether Brendon meant worth it to leave the Church or worth it to take blockers one day, Patrick had no idea. He was probably better off not knowing which question he was asking. It was so much easier not to try and sway him that way.

"Yeah, I can try. I just don’t know what want. I might not be what you're looking for even short term."

"I watch Ryan go to his knees for Spencer all the time and he just…" He trails off and close his eyes. Without opening them he says, "He puts his head on Spencer's knee and Spencer pets his head and he just looks almost like he's peaceful. If you knew Ryan you'd get how big that is."

Oh yeah, that Patrick can understand. Pete's been in that place countless times. Brendon isn't Pete though so he probably doesn’t need the same kind of discipline but at least he's got a direction to work with. "You want to submit."

Dark brown eyes fly open. "Please?" Brendon asks on the verge of tears. "Please can I? I just want to know how it feels."

Patrick crosses the room to him. Desperation of that kind is like a starter pistol at a race. He cups Brendon's soft cheeks in his hands. "Hey, it's okay. Of course you can. Thank you for the honor, Brendon."

The noise Brendon makes his broken. He leans forward and presses his face into Patrick's shirt. He's only three years behind Patrick but with the way he's been raised to think about his bond, he is so young.

Patrick just cards his fingers through Brendon's for a few long minutes. He hums under his breath until he relaxes against him. "We're not going to have sex," he tells Brendon. "No pain play, no intentionally sexual contact; just some power exchange. You can see how you like it."

"Thank you for the gift," Brendon mumbles into his stomach. Patrick doesn’t usually like his extra weight. It's not something he's very comfortable with but Brendon keeps rubbing his face and nose against it and sighing like he wants to live there. He almost laughs when Brendon nuzzles his midsection like a sleepy cat.

Patrick leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Brendon's head. His hair smells like cheap shampoo and cigarette smoke and stripper glitter. "Get on your knees on the bed for me."

He doesn't watch as Brendon scrambles to obey. This isn't Pete or Anna. He doesn't have to worry about disobedience or a play for discipline. He picks up the phone as Brendon gets into position.

He orders a hamburger and fries from room service because he is kind of hungry. More importantly, the kind of quiet submission he has planned for Brendon is fairly effective with food. Anna never liked this and Pete rarely can sit still long enough but it's one of Patrick's favorite things. He likes to think that his soulmate might like it too but he's fairly sure that it will work for Brendon now.

He tells the room service guy that he's got an extra fifty if they can have it up here in ten minutes. When he hangs up, he turns to Brendon and finds him exactly where he was ordered, kneeling on the bed. He is fiddling with his fingers, unsure what to do with his hands. It makes Patrick wonder if boys in the LDS Church even got submission training as a standard education.

"Do you know the color safeword system?" Patrick asks, honestly shocked when Brendon shakes his head. He's never actually met someone who didn't. He hates whoever was responsible for Brendon's sex education on principle in that moment. "Okay. It's just like traffic lights. Green means everything's good and we should go ahead full speed. Yellow means okay but things should slow down or change things. If you say yellow, we can stop and talk about what we should do differently. Red just means stop, period. No questions asked. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"No." Patrick says, reaching out and tipping Brendon's chin up with his fingertips. "You can choose what to call me: sir, master, or if you don't feel comfortable with something like that then Patrick is fine. But when you answer, you'll address me with a respectful honorific until the scene ends."

"Yes, Master," Brendon murmurs.

Holy shit. Of all the things Patrick was expecting him to pick? That was not it.

Most people went for sir. Most subs preferred sir or ma'am since the subs rights movement really gained steam in the '50s and '60s. Patrick nearly chokes on his tongue and wills himself not to go back on his word and lay hands on Brendon. No one's ever called him master before. It's heady.

"You are so good, Brendon. I want you to know that. We've barely started and you're already trying so hard." He runs his fingers up his jaw and over his cheekbones. "You're beautiful on your knees. Do you believe me?"

Brendon gives a small nod. It's not enough.

"Brendon," Patrick says softly. "Do you believe me? Tell me. That's an order. It's okay if don't. I just want you to be honest with me."

There are tears in Brendon's eyes. "I don't know, Master. I want to."

"That's okay. I promise; it's okay. Do you believe me? Tell me. That's an order."

"Yes, Master," Brendon says. That Patrick doesn't doubt at all which is very good. He needs Brendon to trust him, even if he isn't going to stretch him.

"Sit back and put your hands palm down. Relax and get comfortable on your knees. You're going to be there for awhile." Brendon lets out a noise in reply that is reedy and strained but he does as he's told.

Watching him settle into his position makes Patrick wants to meet this kid's soulmate. He wants to sit him down and tell the guy that he doesn't have a discipline case on his hands. He's not like Pete either, a painslut looking for direction and control. Brendon is already showing himself to be the type of sub who just wants to be good, to please his dominant, to be loved.

The knock on the door makes Patrick jump a little but Brendon doesn't move. His head is down, eyes closed. That's a great sign actually. He crosses the room, grabbing Pete's wallet and grabbing cash out and shoving it at the room service waiter. He grabs the tray of his hand and shuts the door in his face without a word. He sets the food down on the nightstand. It's precarious but Patrick so doesn't give a shit. He has more important things to focus on.

He climbs on the bed and straddles Brendon's thighs. "Open your eyes for me, Brendon. There's a good boy," he murmurs when Brendon does as commanded. He presses a kiss to the space between Brendon's eyebrows and it earns him a dazed smile. "What's your color?

"Green," Brendon sighs. "So green, Master."

"Okay. I'm going to move behind you. You're going to lift your arms o'ver your head and back when I do. Understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good boy."

From where he's sitting, Patrick can actually feel Brendon shiver at the praise. It's so fucking sweet. He'll probably be coming to it later. Now he slide around to press himself against Brendon's back. Brendon obeys perfectly, arms up and back as Patrick peels his shirt off and then twists it around his wrists a few times, binding them behind him with the fabric. He presses a gentle kiss to Brendon's cheek. "Color?"

"Hm?"

"Brendon. Tell me your color. Now."

"Green, Master," Brendon drawls, head lolling back to rest on Patrick's shoulder. His face is so blissed out he looks high. So bondage is a hot spot for him. Good to know.

Patrick leaves him sitting there for a moment and set up the tray in a less dangerous way and sets everything up for what he wants. When he's done setting up, he pulls Brendon back so he rests against Patrick's chest. He takes a moment to settle them so that Brendon is resting with his head on Patrick's chest, just above his heart, his legs unfolded and stretched out and with his arms still bound behind him.

"My good boy," Patrick murmurs and Brendon lets out a little sigh. "How are you?"

"Good. Feels good. You feel good, Master. Just like this."

"Mm. I know." He reaches out onto the tray and grabs a small piece of cut hamburger. "Open, chew, and swallow."He instructs and Brendon obeys. He's so good at obeying, and chews lazily. Patrick repeats the process over and over until the hamburger is gone and Brendon is sucking his fingers into his mouth, chasing them with his tongue when he pulls away.

By the time the food is gone, Brendon is whimpering and hard. There are so many things Patrick could do with that but he promised. He's not going to betray that trust, not with all that Brendon's given him in his submission.

Instead he holds his greasy fingers up in front of Brendon's face. Without being told, Brendon sucks the digits into his mouth, moaning around them as he cleans them with his tongue until Patrick pulls them out and away. He makes a bereft sound and leans back against Patrick's shoulder with a sigh.

"You did so well," Patrick tells him. "You can't imagine how amazing you look, how great you were at following my orders. You're learning so fast to be such a good boy. I'm so fucking proud of you, Brendon."

Brendon tilts his head back to look up at him. "Really?"

He forgot the honorific but Patrick lets it slide. That’s not really the point. Not now. "Yeah." He kisses the hair at Brendon's temples. "We're done with the scene now. If you sit forward I can undo the shirt from your wrists so you can go take a shower."

"Do you think," Brendon begins then trails off for a moment before starting over. They've only known each other a few hours but Brendon's already figured out that Patrick isn't the type to like a question left unasked. "Do you think we could keep going? I know you said no sex but maybe, in concordance they talked about scene renegotiation. Could we do that?"

"If you want to."

"I'm not ready for it to end," Brendon admits. "Can we just go back to the colors? With you in charge? Please, Master?"

Patrick is twenty fucking years old. He doesn't have the strength or wisdom of age required to turn that down. He just doesn’t. "Absolutely."

They end up in the shower anyway. Only instead of a solo clinical activity, Brendon is on his knees facing away from the faucet. Patrick stands over him, watching the hot water cascade over all that pale bare skin. He keeps his chin tilted up because Patrick told him to so he can watch the shower send rivers streaming down his face, over his down his full lips and clinging to his ridiculous eyelashes.

"Lean forward for me." Brendon tips his head forward and Patrick groans. He is so fucking hard and he's naked too. With a word, he could have Brendon's wet mouth around him.

That's all it would take. Patrick would just need to say "Suck" and maybe pet the top of his head and like a good boy, he'd do exactly as he's told. Brendon would suck him down without protest. Then he would probably moan at the act of submission if not the visceral sexuality.

Instead Patrick reaches out for one of the little mini-shampoos and squeezes the contents out into his hand. His hands sink into thick black strands and works it up to a foam.

Patrick loves care dominance. Anna was never a fan. Sometimes Pete needs it after he's through beating himself all to shit but Patrick rarely gets a chance to do it like this. Patrick never gets to do care for a sub just for the pure pleasure.

So he circles his fingertips against Brendon's scalp until he moans. "That's it," He murmurs. "Let me hear you. That’s what a good boy does. He lets his Master know how he's feeling."

Brendon groans from a place deep down in his throat. It vibrates all around the small space shaking them both. Patrick thinks, with the part of his brain not lost in the scene that he needs to get this boy in front of a mic as soon as he can. Every sound he makes is beautiful. Watching him sway a little under the touch, pressing into the contact makes all of that even better.

"Tip back." Patrick moves his head even has he speaks and water sluices down over Brendon's face and neck. Patrick keeps rubbing his hands through his hair, down his neck, tumbling over his mouth.

By the time the last of the suds rinse away and Patrick brings his head forward again, Brendon is panting. His chest is heaving with nipples tightened into tight buds. His cock is flushed and hard, standing up at attention against his stomach. All of it is highlighted by the fall of water and Patrick is absurdly grateful all of a sudden, that Brendon would trust me to be the first to see him like this.

"You're hard, Brendon." The words come out of his mouth but sound alien to his ears. "I think you want to get off. Touch yourself how you would if you were alone."

Brendon looks up at him with fear written all over his features. For a moment, Patrick half expects him to safeword - yellow or maybe even red. Instead he takes a deep breath, licks his lips and says very unsteadily "Yes, Master."

He watches as Brendon wraps a hand around the base of his cock, his eyes locked on Patrick's face. The water smoothes the way as he fucks into the circle he makes with his thumb and forefinger. Patrick mirrors him stroke for stroke, watching the way Brendon's lips part and his eyes go dark with hungry arousal.

"I need you to be a good boy for me, here, Brendon." Patrick grits out. "I'm close so when I tell you to, you're going to come. When you do, I'm going to paint that gorgeous face."

"Master, oh fuck, Master" Brendon chokes out. It's a plea and it is beautiful. It is like a starter pistol going off at the start of a race.

"Now, good boy. Come now."

Brendon's eyes screw shut and he shouts as he comes. His whole body convulses. The muscles in his neck chord as he throws his head back. The sight is enough to send Patrick over the edge.

His orgasm hits him like a fist but he forces himself to keep his eyes open. He wants to see the way Brendon looks with stripes of Patrick's come streaking his face. It's filthy, dripping down his cheeks and lips.

Patrick catches his chin in his hand and smears his come across Brendon's upper lip. "Fuck you're beautiful. Just like this."

Brendon doesn’t open his eyes. He just whines in the back of his throat and leans into the touch. Then without being told, he licks his lips. If Patrick could, he'd be hard again watching the tip of that pink tongue pull taste his come for the first time.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Patrick murmurs more to himself than Brendon. Brendon has left the building. He's in outer space with the satellites and comets. Patrick enjoys getting down on his knees himself to wash Brendon clean of sex and first time anxiety.

He leaves Brendon alone in the warm bathroom just long enough to pull on his pajama pants and an ancient Prince t-shirt. When he comes back, he eases Brendon to his feet and towels him dry. Brendon leans on him heavily as Patrick guides him out to the bed and between the sheets. He doesn't have any clean clothes with him to change into and he's in no shape to get dressed when he can just as easily curl up under the blankets.

Patrick turns off all the lights but the bedside lamps then climbs in himself. Brendon is at his side seconds later, molded to his side. He rests his head on Patrick's chest and lets out a soft sigh.

"You were perfect," Patrick murmurs. "We're done with the scene now but I wanted you to know that. You were perfect."

"Hmm," Brendon sighs, nuzzling against his shirt. "Thank you. I can't even- I just- Thank you."

'Thank you too. You're not the only one who had fun you know."

"That wasn't even fun. That was something else. It was-" Brendon shakes his head a little and pauses, searching his mind for what to say. "It was like my skin fit. Finally."

"Now that I get," Patrick agrees with a chuckle.

There's a moment of easy silence. Patrick thinks Brendon may be drifting so he turns off the lights and settles down into the pillows. As soon as he does, Brendon ask, "If it's that good with you, it makes me wonder how good it would it be like with my soulmate, you know?"

Patrick doesn't say anything for awhile. Figuring out what to say to that, when there is so much hollowness in his own mind, is difficult. What he comes up with is "What do you think?"

"I think…I think that when I get on my knees for him it'll be where I'm supposed to be." Brendon traces shapes on Patrick's chest through the shirt. "I just don't understand how anyone can live without this."

There's a quiet finality to his words. Brendon's made his choice. Patrick can hear it. He is going to choose music and his soulmate and a life that may not include his family of origin but will include love and creativity and submission - all the things Brendon is realizing he needs.

"I don't know how either," Patrick agrees, even though it makes him a little sad, mostly for himself. He tries not to get bogged down in self-pity. It's been ten years. He's mostly over this shit. Sometimes though, he wishes for things he knows he's powerless over. Right now, he's got a bed full of warm naked submissive who is happy to be with him. That’s enough.

They meet up with Pete and the bonded half of Panic late in the afternoon for lunch. Pete is covered in bites and fingershaped bruises all up his arms. Spencer keeps his arm around Ryan the entire time and they both look extremely pleased with themselves. Lunch is all music talk, planning, contacts, everything they can think of before he and Pete fly home that evening.

Patrick writes his phone number on the back of Brendon's hand before they leave. When no one is looking, Patrick presses a kiss to his palm. "Lean on him, Brendon. He's there for you."

Brendon nods and hugs him tight before following Ryan and Spencer into the desert. Pete grins at him and opens his mouth give him shit but Patrick holds up a hand. "Do you want me to take those bruises from green to purple?" He asks casually.

Pete pouts. "No."

"Then shut up and I wont ask you what you thought you were doing screwing your pet project."

"It's an investment in their future."

Patrick rolls his eyes heavenward. "You are a filthy old man and you should be ashamed of yourself."

He sighs. "I am. I push through it."

The next six months are a blur of touring and helping Panic get adjusted to being part of the Fueled by Ramen family. It's so busy that Patrick almost misses it. He almost misses the way Pete is fraying - first at the edges and then all the way through.

He should have realized when Pete stopped coming to him for dominance. That should've been the clue. Patrick was so busy trying to get back in the swing of touring and trying to compose to the pages and pages and pages of verse that Pete was constantly plying him with.

He missed it right up until Pete's mom calls him from the fucking hospital where Pete is now in the ER. Dale is in tears when she tells Patrick he swallowed an entire bottle of lorazepam in the parking lot of a fucking Best Buy. The only reason he isn't dead is because and made the mistake of telling Hilary where he was.

Patrick plays the good traditional friend while Pete's in the hospital. He visits while he's on a mandatory three day hold on the psychiatric ward. He doesn’t say or do anything while Pete is home, curled up on his mom's couch crying the sort of quiet tears that come from nowhere and flow like a water out of a tap. Then, when he's finally cried out, Patrick gets pissed.

After about a month though, Pete's meds get adjusted. He rests. He pulls his shit together and by midMarch he's mostly himself again. When Pete invites himself over while Patrick's parents are out of town, Patrick can barely let Pete inside before he punches Pete right in his heartbreaking face.

"What the fuck, Trick?" Pete groans, clutching his cheek.

"Yeah. What the fuck is the question? Kind of scary to have no idea what's going on isn't it?" He demands, grabs Pete by the shoulders and slams him into the door. "You know what else is scary? Wondering if your best friend is ever going to wake up again, realizing that everything is going to stop. Forever - singing, talking, laughing, feeling, breathing? Everything would end. It's frightening to know that you may stop and never start again, right?" He gives Pete another violent shove but he's already backed into solid wood. He has nowhere to go so he takes the full impact. He sags against the door, staring. "That's what you were doing. You were chasing that, you stupid fuck."

Pete bites his lower lip. His eyes are watering but its not in the empty way he had cried before. "I'm sorry."

"No. Shut up. I'm not ready for you to apologize yet. We're going to get there but not yet." Without warning he hauls off and smacks Pete so hard across the face that his palm hurts. "That's for your soulmate, you selfish, self-centered prick. You were going to take yourself away from eir without ever letting eir meet you?"

Pete's eyes go wide. Yeah. That clearly never occurred to him. He wonders if that's part of why he got low, if the bond was more unstable than usual. Even if it were, that's no excuse. "Ey would've known I didn't-"

"No. Ey wouldn't. There'd just be an empty gaping wound where you should be for the rest of eir life. I'm lucky that I'm just hollow but you would've fucking amputated half eir spirit. There's someone on the other end of the bond. I know you love eir so I just have to ask how dare you? How dare you do that to them after every time they've been there for you, supported you, loved you across miles. Jesus, Pete."

"Patrick, please."He crosses his wrists in a way that is asking to be punished. It unlocks something in Patrick because now its not a fight. Now it’s a scene where he knows the rules and what he can and cant do. It's suddenly civilized.

"Please what?"

"I don’t know. I didn't…"

Patrick hit him again, open palm because this is what Pete is asking for, even if he doesn’t want it. "Think?" Another blow. "Consider other options?" Another. "Have hope?" He reaches out and rubs the now burning skin in gentle soothing circles. "Pete, if you hurt that badly then you should've gone to someone. You know your illness. You have to take care of yourself or let someone else do it because this is unacceptable."

"I just needed it to stop," Pete whispers. "I couldn't sleep."

"You didn't come to me." The words feel ripped from his chest. "Pete, you didn’t tell me. Why wouldn't you come to me?"

"I...I don’t know." He sounds so small. "I couldn't see myself out, not even to you."

"You can't let it get this bad again. You understand? You can't. I fucking forbid it." He pushes his forehead tight against Pete's. "I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life but it's okay because I have you." He tightens his hand on Pete's face. "You're why I have music and friends and myself. You're all I have Pete so you can't leave me. You can't."

Pete's hands drift up and rest on his shoulders then twine around his back. "You have more than me, Patrick. You've got the whole fucking world."

"And what the fuck is that worth if you're not in it, Pete?

Pete shakes his head, rubbing their noses together and sighing. "Probably about as much as it'd be worth it for me if you weren't here."

Patrick has no idea how they end up kissing. It's not something they've ever done before. Their breathing each other's air, trying to crawl close. It's sexual in that two bodies grinding together cause friction but mostly it's just Patrick feeling his air, his life, his presence. He's fucking crying, he can't help it. When the first tears hit Pete's face, he is pushing off Patrick's hat to stroke his thin hair.

They sag together, ending up in a heap on the floor. They can't stop though. They paw at each other, petting arms and faces and ducking in for kisses. Patrick feels like he's drowning in relief and residual grief and fear. It's too much and he just doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay right there against the door with Pete, where he knows he's safe - forever.

"I'm sorry," Pete says.

This time Patrick is ready to hear it. He presses a kiss to Pete's forehead. "I forgive you. Don't do it again."

"I won't. I swear."

"I'm going to try and believe you. We have too much too look forward to in the next seventy years, Pete. You don’t get to duck out early."

Pete nods into his shoulder. They don’t get up. There's no point. There's a lot coming. Lots of tours, the release of Cork Tree but right now, they can be still together. That's enough.

~*~*~

Chapter 4