Fic: Bound to the Beat 1/5 (FOB/MCR, NC-17, Bob/Patrick, Mikey/Pete, Brian/Gerard)

[dancinbutterfly]

Bob decides he doesn’t want a soulmate about six months after his dad dies. The car wreck happens at the end of his freshman year of high school. He even hasn't sparked yet but it doesn’t matter at the time. All that matters is the way his father's throws his arm out as if to brace her against impact, despite her seatbelt, as the drunk driver's truck jumps the median.

They flip three times. When their car finally stops, the roof is completely caved in on the driver's side. Bob aches everywhere and can barely think because his mom is screaming. She screams until her throat gives out, grabbing the base of her skull at her joining spot, frozen, until the ambulance arrives. Bob can't move far, but when he manages to touch her shoulder, she doesn’t react. She's locked too tightly into that whatever nightmare is holding her captive.

The truck is completely immolated, no signs of life at all. On the other hand, it takes the jaws of life to tear the car open enough to reach any of them. The shriek of metal is almost as bad as the noises his mother made before her voice gave out but not quite. Nothing could ever be that bad.

Bob's leg hangs horribly when the firemen ease him out. The EMTs tell him that he'll probably have to have surgery on it, that possibly he could have internal bleeding but somehow? That seems like nothing compared to the way his mom is trapped in a silent wail of despair as her soulmate and dominant dies in front of her. She won't let go of his arm, still thrown across her chest. They roll his gurney away before the paramedics can pry her fingers off.

His mom's sister Emma and her submissive are sitting on either side of his bed when he wakes up after the surgery that sets his leg. They each hold one of his hands as they what he already knows, that his dad was pronounced dead at the scene and his mother is still in the coma-like mourning sleep. The two women promise him everything will be okay. The only reason he doesn't tell his Aunt Meg and Aunt Emma to go fuck themselves because his parents raised him better than that.

They're wrong. He knows they're wrong. His friends are wrong too. Everyone is fucking wrong about things being okay because when she wakes up from the mourning-sleep his mom is ruined. She's barely there, a shell of a person who floats through life like a ghost. They have to move in with Emma and Meg because she forgets things - like grocery shopping, cleaning the house, going to work, and Bob.

"Mom, please, I need you to sign this." He held a permission slip for a drumline trip in front of her and she just stared at him.

"What?"

"It's for band. Mom, please."

She blinked at him a few times then tears welled in her eyes. "Oh. My god but don't you look like my Robby. I lost him. I don't- I can't-" She shakes her head. "I'm sorry.

It's what she always called his dad and fuck. Fuck he hates this. It's just wrong. It's the moment that breaks him. If this is what a soulmate costs then its just not worth it. Bob is sure of it.

He fumes through concordance classes that are required when he starts 10th grade. His distain in dominance and submission world traditions and etiquette class is so blatant that he actually gets he gets called into the bonding counselor's office.

The counselor seems like a nice enough. His name is Dr. Adams he's a good looking man with coffee colored skin and a thin silver collar that matches his wedding ring perfectly. He gives Bob a gentle smile as he slumps in the chair on the student side of the desk.

"Well, its nice to meet you Mr. Bryar. I hear you're having some trouble in concordance. You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Sorry, but if you've made it to my office, you kind of have to. Do you know your orientation yet?"

Bob rolls his eyes so hard it should hurt. Of course he does. He figured out he was a submissive before his balls dropped. That isn't the problem and he doesn’t want to talk to this guy about it. It's not his business.

"Right. Yes, I see in your file that you've self-identified as a sub. My apologies. You also don't seem to have sparked yet so it's not that either." Dr. Adams folds his hands on his desk. "My best guess is that it has something to do with your father's passing last year."

Bob fixes his gaze on the wood grain in front of him. It's a slow winding spiral across the edge.

Dr Adams clears his throat and asks "How's your mother holding up?"

"Go fuck yourself," Bob snaps. He's glaring at Adams now, his eyes locked on the man's placid expression.

"You know, after a soulmate dies, it takes time for the survivor to recover. It's a physical and psychic trauma."

Bob doesn't say anything because this asshole doesn’t know anything. He's collared and married. His dom is off somewhere right now, living eir life, connected through their bond. Eir is one wrong step away from getting hit by a bus and struck by lightning destroying Dr. Adam's for life forever.

"Sadness is expected," Dr. Adams is saying. "The loss of a bond is something that can't be explained until its felt."

"Are you done?"

The counselor sighs. "You need to understand that what your mother is feeling is normal for the situation."

"Yeah," Bob says. " That's the point."

Dr. Adams' brow furrows. "I don't understand."

"I know. Dr. Adams, just tell me what you need me to do to get the hell out of here?"

"Behave yourself in concordance classes. All you're required is to take basic power exchange history and etiquette so you'll know what you're looking at and dealing with when you're with people who want to follow tradition." He sits back in his chair. "And for gods sake, there are a lot of students who want to learn these skills for their soulmate. Just because you don’t doesn’t mean you can be rude. Respect their desire if you expect them to respect your lack."

"Fine. Can I go please?"

Dr. Adams sighs. "Yes. I want you to start seeing Dr. Mallory the guidance counselor. You need grief counseling, Mr. Bryar, whether you think so or not."

Bob doesn’t say anything to that. He just gets up, grabs his backpack and leaves without looking back. He's late for math, which he hates, but it has to be better than this.

Ironically, he gets the idea of how to deal with the problem of the soulmate bond in concordance classes. Some unoriented girl raises her hand and asks what happens when soulmates decide to renounce? It lead to a messy conversation about reasons why someone would do that at all that lasts for most of the class but in the end, the answer is either meditation and spiritual introspective type detachment that takes over week or with better living through chemistry, bond blockers like Xinitac.

That is so damn simple and obvious that Bob bursts out laughing in class. Everyone stares at him but he doesn’t care. It just feels good to finally have a solution. Hell, he even has an idea of how to get it.

Of course, it still takes all of Bob's nerves to approach the burnouts. They hangout underneath the bleachers like a walking talking cliché and they stare at him when comes over. He may wear black jeans and a Megadeath t-shirt but he's not one of them. The leader is a dominant who looks like he's knows has repeated 12th grade at least twice with red rimmed eyes who leans into Bob's personal space. His breath smells like pot and old fast food as he asks, "What can we do for you, little man?"

His friends laugh but Bob doesn’t care. He doesn’t owe these bastards anything and he's got a pocket full of cash. That's what matters here. "I need Xinitac. Can you get it?"

The burnout's face softens and he frowns at Bob. "Kid, what are you twelve? What the fuck do you think you're doing with a bond-blocker?"

"I don’t ask what you guys do with whatever it is you're using." Bob says, his voice shaking more than a little. "Can you get it or not?"

"Xinitac's legal. My fucking insurance'll cover it. Of course I can get it."

"How much?"

"Kid, I don't think you should -"

"You're not my dom," Bob blurts because he's not. He is not and it hits Bob that if he can get the Xinitac, Bob will never meet his dominant, even if eir is standing right in front of him.

Bob's thought about this decision a lot since his mom woke up a shell from her mourning-sleep but this is the first time it's really hit him what that means. If he does this, he'll never know what is to kneel and give the honor of his submission to the person he was meant for. He won't feel his knees hit the ground for his soulmate. He'll never be given the gift of care and dominance or have hands hold his soul's home as he's kissed. He'll never be given a collar to show the world that he's legally recognized as part of a bonded pair, that he belongs to someone.

Knowing that makes him hurt, deep down in the space where his bond is already starting to grow little by little. Even so, that pain's nothing compared the thought of becoming a shade like his mom, drifting through his aunts' house like a ghost without her soulmate. He'd rather have nothing than risk that.

He clears his throat. "Anyway. I want it. How much?"

"Twenty a bottle." He holds up a plastic baggy between his fingers. "Want some weed for now?"

Bob shrugs because at this point why not. "Sure." He hands over ten bucks, gets a dime bag, some rolling papers and instructions to come back in one week.

He smokes up in his room and watches MTV until he passes out. His aunts call him down when its time for school. They pet his hair, ask him why he's wearing the same clothes as last night but when he doesn’t answer, they just kiss his forehead and drive him to school.

The rest of the week passes by in a daze and on Friday he slinks over to the bleachers. The dom who leads the burnouts smiles sadly when he sees him. He jerks his head to the left, walking out and away from his crew. Bob follows him hoping to hell that he isnt going to get the shit kicked out of him. His hope dwindles when they come to a stop behind the equipment shed, completely out of sight of the bleachers and the parking lot.

Only instead of throwing a punch, the dealer reaches out and cups his cheek in his hand. "Kid, do you know what you're really doing? I mean, fuck, have you even sparked yet?"

"You can't tell?"

"People cant tell just by looking, idiot."

"No. I haven't."

"I have. I can feel eir, out there, waiting. When they're sad, I can send them comfort. I may be a fuck up but I can feel eir love and they can feel mine. I know they're out there and one day, eir's going to kneel for me. You sure you don't want that?"

Bob shrugs. "There's always places to play. Every club in every city in America has people I could go down for. I could do it for you if I wanted it."

The guy's brows go up at that. "Do you want to?"

Bob shrugs. He's good looking enough, brown hair tied back in a ponytail and just enough stubble to look like an adult. He also seems to genuinely give a shit about this, about Bob, and is still touching his cheek. So, yeah, okay. First time for everything and he would rather his first be like this, casual and easy.

Bob sinks to his knees in the grass in the fluid motion they taught in those stupid concordance classes he's always hated. He settles with his hands resting on his thighs, palm up. As much as he hates to admit it but fuck, it feels good.

He grins down at Bob and runs a hand through his hair. "Thank you for the honor," he says.

It makes Bob laugh because really? Really? They're going to stand on ceremony? It may be the casual one for uncommitted play but still, here? Out in the dirt behind the football field? Whatever. If Mr. Burnout Drug Dealer Dom wants to play that way, Bob can roll with it. "Thanks, I guess, for the gift."

He looks down at Bob and shakes his head. "You really don't want the real thing do you?"

"Oh my god, you actually can learn. You think you'll graduate this year?" Bob asks. That earns him a quick smack across the cheek and oh fuck, that's good. He hisses through his teeth and tips his head back, silently asking for more.

"Safeword?" he asks.

Bob doesn’t want to feel grateful but he does. This isn't how he imagined his first time but then, the last year he stopped imagining anything but mammal sex. "Car. What's your name?"

"Will. What's your name, kid?"

"Kid is good."

His hand twists in Bob's hair. "I ask a question, you answer and you call me sir when you do it. That’s not a question."

His brain is screaming yes, especially when the grip loosens but doesn’t release. He hopes that Will won't let go of his hair. He likes being held in place more than the pain which is good to know. "My name is Bob, sir."

"Okay, Bob. How do you want do this?"

"You're the dom. Just tell me how the fuck you want us to fuck. Sir."

Will shakes his head and scratches at Bob's scalp with his fingernails. "You are… interesting." He murmurs, almost affectionate. Then he chuckles. "Okay, kid. Unzip me and suck. I'll tell you when to stop."

Bob can do that. He reaches forward and undoes the fly of Will's jeans. He's never done this and Will is bound to figure that out as soon as Bob gets going.

His hand is shaking when he pulls Will out of his boxers. His cock is already hard. It's hot and smooth in hand. He takes a few deep breaths before he takes the head into his mouth. He takes a few experimental licks and sucks at various places and speeds before he gets a rhythm he can maintain.

"Goddamnit, kid," Will breathes, pushing both hands into his hair and gripping tight. "Just like that. Keep going like that so I don’t have to fuck your mouth."

Bob groans low and deep in the back of his throat. Something about it makes Will gasp. "You like that? You do, don’t you? Okay? Okay, fine."

He grabs Bob's head, careful to avoid the joining spot, and just uses him. Bob opens his throat as best he can but it's still makes him gag. That's good too. It makes his eyes water but he doesn’t resist, doesn't fight it. He likes the feeling of being used like this. With enough practice, he could probably take this kind of fucking without even blinking. Oh, God, that thought makes him hard enough to hammer nails.

He whimpers, wondering if he should reach down and touch himself or not. He doesn’t have permission but Will didn't tell him not to either. He looks up with questioning eyes.

Will moves one hand so that he can feel himself through the thin skin of Bob's cheek. "You're so needy. You don’t know how needy you are, you really don't. You can touch yourself, baby. Go ahead."

Bob's scrambles blind at his own pants and manages to get his own fly undone before shoving his hand inside. He barely has room to move his hand but that’s okay. He doesn’t really need to stroke himself, he just needs some friction to contrast with this feeling of being on his knees, giving in and giving up and being used. He comes about five minutes later, choking on Will's cock as an involuntary noise tries to tear itself free from his throat. The vibration must be enough to set Will off because he's pulling back and coming warm and bitter in Bob's mouth and on his lips.

Then it's over and Bob keels over, toppling forward and Will catches him against his hip. He drags his nails through Bob's short blond hair for a long time. Bob likes this too, the feeling of being cared for. He can surrender himself and it's alright. It's good even.

"You still sure you want the Xinitac?" Will asks. "Because that was great but anything you do with your dom is going to be so much better. Seriously, it'll be so good you want to fucking die."

Bob laughs into Will's skin. That's the point. He closes his eyes against the stinging tears because yes, he is sure. He hates that he's sure. Right now, he can just imagine what it would be like to be held just like this by his soulmate. As content as he feels in this moment, as relaxed, how much more would it be with his other half? How much better?

Good enough that going without it would destroy him. That's how good. So he can't think about it. He won't.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose and looks up at Will. "Yes please, sir."

"Fuck, Bob, get dressed and get up. We're done. I can't do this with you down there. I feel like I'm ruining you."

Bob does as he's told, shaking he's told the whole time. "You're not. You're saving me, man."

Will shakes his head. "I'm not. You just don’t know it yet."

"Can I have the fucking drugs or not?"

He watches as Will fishes into his back pocket and comes out with an orange pill bottle. He hands it to Bob with steady hands. Bob shoves it into his jacket pocket but when he goes for his wallet, Will catches his wrist. "No. Don’t you fucking pay me for ruing your life and eirs, kid. I'm not fucking taking it. 'Specially not after I just fucked you."

Bob licks his lip, a little surprised when they come back bitter from the come still lingering there. He nods and pulls his hand back. "Thanks."

"Yeah I guess. I'll see you next month, kid, if its still what you want."

It is. He just doesn’t get why no one will fucking believe him.

~*~*~

Patrick's soulmate doesn't want him. He sparks into his bond and the realization when he's ten years old. He's working on his English homework so he can go watch TV already and the bond snaps into place with a violence that made him stiffen and gasp. With it came the sharp, desperate feeling of "no, I don’t want you" before it faded into a low thrum discontent and rejection.

He puts his pencil down and rolls off his bed. He runs barefoot into his parents' room where his mom and dad are watching TV in a familiar position. His dad is on the floor while his mom sprawls on the bed on her stomach toying with the edge of his collar as they watch Jeopardy. They are pillars of calm parental strength and Patrick is so, so glad they're there, just like always.

He climbs up on the bed and puts his face in his mom's shoulder. When she turns her head and looks at him, Patrick finally gives in and bursts into tears. "Baby, oh," His mom twists into a sitting position to pull him into her arms. His dad hits mute on the TV and joins her, resting a hand on his back.

"Patrick, what's wrong?" His dad asks because his mother is too busy cooing at him, rocking him back and forth. It takes Patrick a long time to stop sobbing long enough to form words.

When he does, he doesn’t stop crying. He just chokes out, "He doesn’t want me," through the tears and the snot. Patrick can feel that too, that his soulmate is a boy. He's older and sad and he doesn't. Want. Patrick.

"Who doesn't?" his dad asks, rubbing circles on his back.

Patrick can't answer. He doesn't know his name. He doesn’t know his face. He just knows that he loves him. That he belongs to Patrick. He's close, so close, maybe he's in Chicago but he doesn't want Patrick. He doesn't want to be with him and it hurts. It hurts so much. "My-my-my…"

He can't say it. He can't breathe long enough to form the words. Besides it if he says 'my soulmate' it means that this is real. It means that he's going to be different from everyone, forever. He's a discard, a reject, not even good enough to be loved by the person he was made for.

Patrick hears his dad suck in a breath through his teeth."Oh God. Mistress, I think-"

His mom shifts towards him, squeezing Patrick tighter. "He's too young." She whispers.

"It's happened before and to kids who are younger."

Patrick is still sniffling when his mom pulls back and looks at down him with her cool blue gaze. "Baby, what are you feeling?"

Patrick doesn’t want to say it. He really doesn't but his mother is the family dominant and he knows better than to disobey her. "I feel someone. He's close and far and he's feels like he should be mine but I can feel that he doesn’t want me." He starts crying again because he can't help it. "He doesn't want me. He never met me. How can he not want me?"

"Oh baby. It'll figure itself out. It will somehow. You're such a good boy. Anyone would want you. When you go on your seeker trip, he'll realize how amazing you are. I bet it won't take half a minute of seeing you face to face before he realizes how lucky he is to have you," she promises.

Then she hugs him tight and kisses his forehead and temples and the top of his head. His father sandwiches him from the other side and it helps. It doesn’t fix anything though. She can talk for hours but that doesn’t change the way the bond feels, muted, dull, and full of pain and stubborn rejection of Patrick's very existence. "It hurts," he whispers.

They cuddle him until his tears stop and let him have all the ice cream he wants. Then they call him in sick to school for the rest of the week and when it's time for bed, they let him sleep with them. The first thing they do is take him to the doctor, just to be sure that sparking so early and so negatively hasn't impacted him physically.

The doctor says nothing is wrong with his body but gives his parents a number for a child psychologist. His parents put him in therapy for a few months to establish that no, its not his fault. Yes, he can be loved and have a healthy relationship with someone else. People who are widowed or unbounded find happy relationships every day. The therapist also tells him that he shouldn't worry about this. He's a child and he should enjoy his childhood. He tells Patrick to journal or do art when he feels things through the bond he doesn’t understand.

Patrick does try. He does and for a few years, it's easy. His soulmate isn’t really there most of the time. Then he starts high school and one by one, his friends and classmates spark. Then its not so easy anymore because so many of them are excited about the feeling of someone out there for the first time, feeling the joy and excitement of engaging.

Not saying anything is better than telling them about the waves of "do not want" that hit him sometimes, out of the blue, like slap to the face. It's bad enough to have on his own. Sharing it would be like tearing open an old scar with a dull knife.

Only the knowledge wears. He never checks an orientation on paperwork because it doesn’t matter. He slumps in his chair because sometimes, the weight of being unwanted feels like its pulling him down from the inside. His mom is always telling him to stand tall, be proud of himself but that doesn't work and by the time he's 15 he's got some of the lowest self esteem of anyone in the marching band. Probably anyone in school

Then a couple months after he turns seventeen he meets a guy named Joe in Borders. Joe's funny and smart and knows almost as much about music as Patrick. Most importantly, through Joe, Patrick meets Pete Wentz from freaking Arma Angelus and Racetraitor.

He's been going to shows in the Chicago scene since before he was old enough to drive. He knows who Pete is in the same way he knows who Tim McGrath and Bill Beckett are. In the abstract sort of way that he knows who the quarterback of the football team is.

Real Pete is like no one Patrick's met before. He's loud and brash and amazing. Patrick feels lit from within when Pete's around. That is probably because starting the moment Joe introduces him, Pete decides that Patrick is awesome and is going to be his new best friend.

"You're squishy and delicious and clearly magic," Pete declares about a month into knowing him. "Also a genius. Can't forget that."

The way Pete praises him makes Patrick uncomfortable all the fucking time. At least at first. Then Arma implodes spectacularly. Patrick spends a lot of time on couches watching as Pete and Joe decide to scrap together a new band and who will be doing what. It's pretty funny until Pete whirls on him and declares "And Patrick, you'll be our singer."

Patrick stares at him, his chin on his knees, his eyes what. "I'm sorry, I'll what?"

"You'll be our singer. It'll be perfect. Your brain is already full of music magic. You can let it out your fingers in a guitar and out your mouth."

"Pete I don’t sing."

Pete rolls his eyes at him and blows a raspberry. "Have you ever tried?"

"Well, no." He didn’t really see the point. He doesn’t like being in front of people. He doesn’t feel very secure exposing himself. One of the good things about the marching band is that he gets to play the music he loves without having to put himself out there. He's had to before and echoes of the ache from the bond have amplified the shyness he already had. So no, he never sang.

"So sing for me, Patrick. Sing me Joy Division." Pete grins at him. "Don’t say you don’t know Love Will Tear Us Apart because you do."

"Pete I don’t think-"

In a really low movie, Pete comes over and puts his nose against Patrick's. "Please?"

"Goddamnit, Pete, get the fuck out of my face."

Pete jerks back, for just a second. Then he moves forward again and rubs his nose against Patrick's in protest and clicks his tongue in his cheek. "Nope. Not until you agree to sing."

"Fine just take a step back. Your breath is just rank." Pete blows air in his face just to be a dick then falls back so hard he lands smack on his ass on the basement floor.

Patrick sighs and says fuck it, in his head. Just fuck it. Shockingly, for the first time, something echoes to him through the bond that isn't dismissal or emptiness. It's feeling that manages to convey "Hell yes, good for you, fuck it all," without words. It's so unexpected that for a moment, Patrick can't even breath. A second later the bond is completely gone and he's back in the room with Pete and Joe staring at him.

"When routine bites hard…" Pete prompts.

"Fine." Patrick sighs and clears his throat and picks up with the next lyric. He sings like he's in the shower. He closes his eyes and pretends that no one is there. When he gets to the end he opens them and looks at his friends.

They're both staring. Joe's mouth is actually hanging open. There's a long beat before Pete tackles him so hard they both fall sideways on the couch. "Amazing," Pete repeats in his ear, clinging to him like a baby octopus. He kisses Patrick's cheek then pulls back and declares "We are going to be so fucking huge, Patrick, you don’t even know."

Things move fast from there. Patrick spends a lot of time writing lyrics and music with Joe while Pete is chasing down Andy Hurley. The guy is one of the best drummers in the scene and Pete, being Pete, wants the best.

However, Andy sparked recently. Every time Pete asks, he waves him off excuses about going on a seeker trip or not having time because he was in three other bands.

Both of those things were true but Pete didn't give a shit. He wanted what he wanted and he fucking got it. The band gets its name during it's second show at a crappy little dive right before Thanksgiving break. Some idiot in the crowd shouted out Fallout Boy and Pete decided that was the one to go with.

Patrick thinks it's kind of a stupid name but being an official member of Fallout Boy makes Patrick feel really, truly special for the first time he can remember. Andy joins the band week before Christmas. Pete sets up shop in the Stump living room over the break. He spends every free moment of the holiday beating down on Patrick's parents until they crack and give Patrick got permission to tour. So Patrick piles into a van instead of a school bus in January.

It's good. It's better than good. Standing on stage, a guitar hanging around his neck and a mic in front of him are all transcendent. Every moment he's performing he feels like a hole is being filled. They sleep in the van and don’t wash for days and live on chips and cheetos and Patrick hasn't been happier since he was in elementary school. Kids are dancing to their music. With Pete, Joe and Andy, he finally, fucking finally belongs.

Being back in Chicago isn't so good. Patrick takes the tests required to graduate but Pete is coming out of his skin. Whenever they spend time together, its like Pete can't sit still. There's nothing wrong with that. Not most of the time.

There's a day in June not long after Pete's birthday when Patrick's just had enough. Pete's frenetic movements are making Patrick actually nauseous and if he doesn't stop Patrick is going to kill him. Murder in the first fucking degree. "Fuck, Pete, just sit the fuck down!" he shouts, losing it completely.

And Pete goes down. He sinks like a stone to the couch and looks up at Patrick like Christ risen from the grave. Joe and Andy are looking at him with wide eyes too.

"How did you do that?" Joe whispers, reverent.

Patrick shrugs. "I don’t know. I just…asked."

"You didnt not ask." Joe says. He shakes his head so his fro shakes. " That was not a question."

Andy nods in agreement "You're a dominant right?"

Patrick shrugs. "I don’t know. Maybe. I never thought about it."

He's forced himself not to wonder. Wondering makes him reach down the bond and hit the emptiness, which is better than the strained 'no, don’t, go away' vibes he gets when there are hints of his soulmate there. "Why's it matter?"

"I am," Andy agrees. "So is Joe but that doesn’t mean Pete will listen to either of us and he's the subbiest fucking sub I've ever met."

"This is true," Pete chimes in from his place on the sofa. "You're a total dom, Trick. It's like a gift from god." He grins at Patrick. "I am totally grateful for the gift of your care and dominance man. If I could just pick a dom out of thin air? You'd be at my first choice, no question."

Patrick stares at him. He doesn’t know what to do with that, with being wanted. It makes his chest ache and his eyes sting. "Oh. Um. Thank you for the honor?" He looks over at Andy and Joe. "Is that right?"

"Yeah it is and you know what? We need pizza." Joe says, hopping out of his chair and heading towards the stairs that lead out of the basement they've been using as a practice space. "Also weed. Andy? Shall we?"

Andy glares at him. "You know I don’t smoke that shit, dude."

"Okay, so we'll get some fucking soda too. Hurley, get the fuck up and help me."

Andy rolls his eyes and clambers to his feet. "Whatever."

It leaves the two of them alone. Patrick cant tell whether that's a good or bad thing until everything's over most of the time. All he knows that he is now a victim of the full force of Pete's far too perceptive attention. He stares at Patrick from his seat on the couch for long enough that Patrick's skin starts to itch before asking, seemingly out of nowhere, "Lunchbox, what the fuck happened to you?"

"Nothing." It's a rote answer that comes out quick and easy. He's had six years to practice. Everything's fine. He's normal. There is no problem here. Only Pete knows people way too well and doesn’t buy it for a second.

"Liar."

"Pete."

"You're lying. You don’t have to lie to me." He smiles up at him. It's the same open, honest smile Pete's been giving him since day one.

Patrick can't help but think that it's just not fair. It's not fair that Pete isn't his because it is so obvious in this moment that Pete wants him. He really does. If Pete were his soulmate, fuck, Patrick would take such good care of him. He really would. He would protect him from himself and ease the shadows in his eyes and make him sleep.

He's not though. They could always date. People who aren’t bonded do it all the time but Pete sparked hard in junior high. They're fairly unstable. Pete's got whatever mental health issues and meds he's on fucking with his side of the bond and God knows what was going on over on his dom's side of things. All of that makes their bond fluctuate dramatically but when it was on the stronger side? It was one of the most intense bonds Patrick's ever heard of. Hell, he's walked in on Pete talking, out loud, to his soulmate through the bond, with actual words rather than just emotions and impressions.

So even if Patrick could make that kind of offer, he wouldn't. Pete knows eir is out there for him and doesn't mind waiting. Besides, the band is more important than anything. Hell, Andy even put off his seeker trip for this. It's everything right now. So his problems with his bond and orientation isn't worth talking about.

"Pete."

"Don't Pete me. If I can't pull shit with you you cant pull it with me. Tell me." He holds out his hand. "You're my best friend, Patrick and something's hurting you. Grow a pair and tell me." His grin turns lopsided. "I probably wont use it for lyrics. Honest."

"You really want to know?"

"I just fucking said I did. I know you're not stupid." He snaps his fingers. "Try and keep up."

"When'd you spark?"

Pete shrugs. "Thirteen? I think? Before the shit with boot camp, definitely, because ey were with me then."

"I was ten." Patrick says looking down at his worn out Converse. He hasn’t talked about this in years. When people ask he just shrugs and says "not yet" and his family don’t talk about it at all except to ask if he's okay. So this is the first conversation he's had about it and yes, it sucks just as much as he expected.

"Shit, Trick, that's young."

"Yeah. I don’t know what happened to him to make me spark so young but I felt how upset he was, how sad and how angry. God he was so angry and wounded. I don't get much from him anymore but when I do a lot of it is low-level anger and pain. I don’t think he even knows it even hurts anymore you know?"

He swallows hard and god, it was all right there again, just under the surface of his every moment. The ache. Patrick thinks the whole mess is made worse by the fact that despite himself, he loves the man on the end of the bond.

He didn't want to. After that kind of rejection, Patrick wanted to hate him. He spent the early years of his adolescence trying to. Only the things that slipped through were sometimes soft and warm and often desperate for the kind of solace Patrick knew he could give if he could just reach him. He fought loving his soulmate so damn hard but he was only human. They evolved this way for a reason. It just sucked that the guy on the other side was better at fighting nature than he was.

He shrugs. He's been hoping since he was ten that if he plays if off like it doesn’t matter, maybe at some point it really wouldn't. "I don’t know what happened or what I did, but he doesn't want me. He never has; I've always known it. The bond's barely there and when I can feel him that’s the clearest thing I get from him - how much he doesn't want me. "

Pete frowns. His whole face crumples with confusion. "I don’t understand."

Patrick folds his arms over his chest. "What do you mean you don’t understand? It's not that complicated."

"It doesn’t make sense. How could he not want you?" Pete waves a hand at him. "You're Patrick. You're awesome. You're a good person and a power dom and a musical fucking genius. Also you're hot in an adorable ginger sort of way that is seriously hard to come by. Of course he wants you. He was made for you." Pete grins at him like he does when he's just had one of his ideas. The kind that usually end up with someone either vomiting or talking to the cops. "Trust me, Trick, he wants you."

"You don't live in my head, Pete. You don’t know what it feels like to have your soulmate sending how much they don’t want you screaming through the bond. You spend your life wondering what's wrong with you, what you did wrong, why you couldn't do better, couldn't be good enough for them to want you around. Try and imagine if your dom thought that at you every time you reached out to eir. Try."

Pete goes pale and his hand reaches up towards the back of his head towards his joining spot. He closes his eyes, reaching out in his head and his color comes back as, no doubt, his soulmate soothes him with the sort of assurances that Patrick never gets. Yes, Pete was wanted. Yes Pete was loved. Yes, one day they would find each other. Still when Pete opens his eyes and meets Patrick's gaze, he looks horrified. "Fuck."

"Yeah. So. Just. Shut the fuck up okay?"

Pete shakes his head. "No. I'm not going to shut up." He clambers to his feet and wraps himself around Patrick. "I want you. So screw him, Patrick. Just screw him. Because you're wanted. I want you, Patrick. I want you. I promise I want you." He presses a kiss to Patrick's cheek and squeezes him tight, repeating it over and over into his ear.

Patrick tries not to cry. He hasn't cried about this since he sparked but then again, he hasn't told anyone since then either. No one has held him like Pete, solid and understanding and a peer, not a parent. He sags in Pete's arms and lets the words sink into him. He tries really hard to believe it. To his surprise, when Pete lets him go he actually does.

"We're going to be fucking famous, Patrick," Pete promise. "Fallout Boy is the real deal. We'll make them so jealous because you and I are going to be huge. We'll make the most amazing music that it won't matter. He won't matter because what you make's going to be so beautiful that everyone will love you."

Fuck Pete. Fuck him so much, Patrick thinks as tears force their way past his defenses. Pete wraps him up in another tight hug which shatters him. He doesn't know what to do with this. Pete's conviction moves mountains; Patrick's seen it.

He sobs into his friend's shoulder because he believes him and doesn’t really know what to do with it. It's too much and too new. He digs his fingers into Pete's solid back and thinks that he can probably get used to it which is weird because it makes him a little more.

"We're going to be stars," Pete murmurs. "We're going to create things so brilliant that'll emit freaking light."

Patrick laughs and leans back, his face wet. "I think you're right."

"Hell yeah I am. Now cuddle with me some and then we'll call Joe and make sure he actually brings us that fucking pizza."

"Yeah. That sounds okay.

"Meat lovers?" Pete asks as Patrick leads him to the couch. Pete giggles and Patrick shoves him.

"Perv. Yeah whatever. That’s fine." Patrick sighs as Pete curls up with him. He loves this. He's never had a close friend he could actually lean against before. It's priceless.

They settle on the couch, Patrick's head on Pete's shoulder. Pete drapes an arm around his shoulder and for the first time, Patrick believes what the counselors told him. He can be happy without his soulmate. He can build his own life, damnit, and a good one. He will too. Just fucking wait.

~*~*~

Chapter 2