
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1652648.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy, My_Chemical_Romance
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz, Mikey_Way/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz, Mikey_Way
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_BDSM, violation_of_privacy, Alternate_Universe_-
      Soulmates, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Kneeling, Mental_Health_Issues, Suicidal
      Thoughts
  Series:
      Part 1 of Bandom_D/s_soulbond
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-18 Words: 10698
****** Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz ******
by the_ragnarok
Summary
     "Come on," Pete says for the third time in as many minutes. "Why
     don’t you want me to hear it? Does it have your sex noises on it?"
Notes
     Major thanks to pinetreekate for beta'ing this even though she
     doesn't know the fandom at all. ilu bb! <333
     Please see tags for content notes, see end notes for elaboration. If
     there's anything else you think I should add, please don't hesitate
     to let me know.
     This takes place in the Bound_and_Determined_AU, though I've taken
     some liberties with how bond structures work and there are no
     mutants. Also this owes a debt of inspiration to Bound_to_the_Beat, a
     Patrick/Bob Bryar fic also in the B&D AU. Both are awesome, and if
     you haven't read them yet, what are you even doing here? Go go go!
     These are just pale imitations of real people, I don't pretend to
     know them, I probably messed the timeline too. Sorry!
See the end of the work for more notes
  This work was inspired by
      Unbound by Cesare, helens78
The fascinating thing about Patrick—
Or rather, one of many fascinating things about him, like the way Patrick
managed to live sixteen years on this Earth without realizing his voice is
beautiful, and his prodigious ability to not see when people are throwing
themselves at him, or how much he values talent in other people while being
maddeningly nonchalant about it in himself—
Right, but right now Pete is mostly concerned with how Patrick mostly rolls
with whatever insanity Pete throws at him, but at seemingly random times his
boundaries are carved out of solid rock.
"Come on," Pete says for the third time in as many minutes. "Why don’t you want
me to hear it? Does it have your sex noises on it?"
"It’s got your mom’s sex noises," Patrick mutters, red-faced and hunching over
his laptop like a broody hen. Pete’s sex-noise theory seems more plausible by
the second, although he’ll allow there’s a good part of wishful thinking in
there.
(It’s just that Patrick would make the best noises, Pete knows this in his
bones, even if Patrick has never gotten off while Pete was in hearing range.
This despite having spent weeks on end in a crowded van right next to Pete.
Patrick is sneaky like a ninja. A masturbation ninja.)
"No, seriously," Pete says. "What is it? Are you worried that it’s bad?
Patrick, it’s you, there’s no way I won’t think it’s awesome."
Patrick’s shoulders hunch. “Not this one,” he says. He looks like he regrets
the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
So does Pete, because hearing Patrick sound defeated and quiet makes Pete wanna
climb in his lap and cling and tell Patrick how amazing he is until Patrick
damned well believes him. “Anything,” Pete says, and he crouches so his eyes
are level with Patrick’s, voice low and solemn, “that you make, I will love.
Swear.”
And still, Patrick won’t give up his laptop and let Pete listen to what
Patrick’s been working on. “Not this one,” Patrick says with finality. “Just
leave it, Pete. It’s, it’s personal, okay?”
Really, Patrick should have known better. You don’t wave red in front of a
bull, and you don’t tell Pete Wentz not to pry in someone’s business.
~~
Getting to Patrick’s laptop is a challenge. Patrick guards that thing like
there’s a piece of his soul hidden in it, handles it with careful loving
confidence like it’s a sleeping child. He won’t let anyone else use it, even
for the most perfectly legitimate reasons that Pete can manufacture.
Pete is reduced to stealing the laptop while Patrick’s asleep. Patrick’s
actually using his laptop bag as a pillow, and he makes little grasping motions
when Pete shifts him away, careful. His face screws up, and Pete’s certain
Patrick will wake up and Pete will be in a world of pain, but then Patrick
mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like Pete's name and relaxes. Pete
feels guilty as fuck, but he takes the laptop anyway.
Story of his fucking life, right there.
~~
When Patrick finds him, Pete’s on his third listen through, still trying to
make sense of the sound file.
It doesn’t sound like anything he’s ever heard Patrick play. It’s jangled,
discordant, practically hurts Pete’s ears to listen to it, yet strangely
compelling all the same. There’s a rough desperate edge to it that feels
achingly familiar, but Pete can’t put his finger on it.
"I don’t get it," he tells Patrick as he takes the headphones off.
"It’s not for you to get," Patrick says. He’s not furious, like Pete thought
he’d be; instead, he seems resigned. Tired, although that might be just because
he had to cut his nap short and go find who took his laptop. "It’s mine. Is
that so hard for you to understand?"
"Yes," Pete says, honest.
Patrick sits down. He pushes his hat up, rakes his fingers through his hair,
and shoves it back down. “It’s just— I was experimenting. I never get it right
but I thought this time….” he sighs.
Pete stares back at the laptop screen. The file is titled requiem.band. “Weird
name.”
Patrick grimaces. “Yeah, I was ten the first time I tried to work it out, I
didn't actually know what a requiem was. The name stuck.”
"So, you just picked the name 'cause it sounded cool?” Pete says, skeptical.
Patrick sits down. His hat is skewed, and his hair is messy under its edge.
He's got his back to the wall, leaning back like he doesn't want even the
slightest chance of anyone coming up behind him. “I just thought it meant a
song about death.”
"Oh,” Pete says, weakly, because yeah. That's what the song is.
~~
Patrick doesn't want to talk about it, and for once, Pete doesn't force it. He
knows from his own bitter experience that sometimes talking about what hurts
you just makes it realer, worse. He doesn't want to do that to Patrick.
He allows himself a full hour to rage about it. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Patrick was supposed to be safe, happy and beautiful inside the way Pete has
always known he could be. Pete would have given anything for that; he had given
up everything.
And evidently it didn't even work, because here is Patrick, fussing over music
that sounds like death, and not even a quiet death. It sounds like throwing
yourself on a grenade and being happy about it, furiously joyous that there's
more purpose in ending it than there ever was in life. It sounds like the
soundtrack to a school shooting.
It sounds like everything that shouldn't happen, not to Patrick, and Pete
doesn't know what the fuck to do about it.
~~
He's got his meds in hand. He thinks about going off, like he always does.
"Take your fucking pills,” Patrick says without looking up, because he doesn't
need an active soul bond to read Pete's mind. “Contrary to popular belief, you
don't actually enjoy being miserable.”
Sometimes Pete kind of does, but that's beside the point. He also has this dumb
niggling thought, like if Patrick's unhappy (and how could Pete miss that?
Jesus fucking Christ, what's wrong with Pete?) Pete shouldn't be either, but he
knows that's bullshit.
There's this undercurrent, though. If you weren't on the fucking pills,
you'dknow.
Pete downs the fucking pills. He hasn't missed a dose since he was sixteen
(except for the one week, but he doesn't talk about that, doesn't even think
about it) and he's not actually going to start now.
~~
On tour, it's common etiquette not to talk about soul bonds. A lot of people
end up on the road when they get a coma and a head full of static in place of
true love.
On the flip side, a lot of people tech on tours as a kind of all-expenses-paid
seeking trip. You can tell who they are by the hopeful way they raise their
heads every time someone walks into a room, by the varying level alertness in
their spines as the tour bus moves closer to or farther away from that not-
voice in the back of their heads.
Sometimes those people get that fiery look in their eyes and run the fuck away
and don't come back, only sending an email or SMS to explain: found them.
Sometimes, though, they do come back. It's worse when they do.
This is how Pete ends up sitting in the back of a tour bus with Mikey's head in
his lap and Mikey's hand curled loosely around Pete's ankle and Mikey's
eyeliner running down his face and messing up Pete's jeans.
Whatever. Those jeans were a fucking lost cause anyway. Maybe Pete can sell
them on ebay later: Besmirched with genuine Mikeyway tears.
"Do you want to talk about it?” Pete asks. He's betting the answer is a
resounding No. Gerard's been at him to Process, Mikey, you can't just let it
rot up your head. Gerard's fucking unbearable since he got clean, acts like
psychotherapy is his religion and he needs to tell everyone the good news.
Mikey's had a lot to say about that before.
Now he's mostly silent, just shifts closer against Pete. His bony shoulder digs
into Pete's stomach. “It's such a fucking joke,” Mikey says. “Do you think
maybe people just lie to themselves? That it's just fucking randomness fucking
with us, that we think this one person is right for us so we try and try even
if it's completely hopeless?”
Pete doesn't think so. Then again, Pete won the fucking soulmate lottery,
except for the part where he can't collect his winnings on account of being
crazy and also no good for Patrick. “I don't know,” Pete says. “But if it
doesn't work out, it doesn't. You don't need a soulbond for someone to love
you, Mikeyway.”
Mikey rolls his eyes. Pete feels him. It's not like Pete believes it, no matter
how many times his parents repeated the sentiment at him when he was growing
up.
So he tries what usually works, gently pushes Mikey to sit up and slips down to
kneel at his feet. Mikey looks down at him, blank, and for a moment Pete
worries that he miscalculated, that Mikey is seriously not in the mood and
Pete's just being his usual selfish asshole self.
Then Mikey's hand tightens in Pete's hair, dragging his head back to look up at
Mikey. Mikey's face does that thing where his expression doesn't change at all
but it's suddenly focused, looking down on Pete like he knows every single
thought in his head.
Pete kind of loves that expression. “Sir,” he breathes out.
"Make yourself useful,” Mikey says, and Pete concentrates on opening Mikey's
fly with his teeth.
~~
Scening with Mikey leaves Pete feeling a little hyper in a good way, full of
joy that wants to come out to the world and make itself known.
He wonders if it's like that for Patrick, then harshes his own buzz wondering
if that's Patrick's problem, if he's repressing his natural instincts and
suffering for it.
Patrick literally whacks Pete with a rolled up newspaper when Pete brings the
question to him.
“No,” Patrick says firmly. “I do not need to go out and get laid, or,” he
raises his voice when Pete tries to reply, “go out and tie someone up. Okay? I
am fine, I am peachy keen, get your brain out of my pants, Pete. And my
handcuffs.”
This leaves Pete with the unfortunate mental image of a handcuffed brain, which
he has to share, leading Patrick to whack him again.
"No wonder you don't want to go out,” Pete mutters, rubbing his no-doubt
bruised nose. “You just get everything you need by bossing me around and
hitting me.”
There's a moment when Pete worries he's gone too far, that Patrick will
apologize stiffly and go lock himself in the bathroom or something, but Patrick
just says “Yeah,” lazy, easy, in a voice that makes Pete wanna lay himself down
at Patrick's feet and beg.
Though in all honesty, Patrick's voice has that effect on him anyway.
~~
"I wish I could just,” Mikey says into Pete's ear. “Turn it off.” They're
cuddled together on Mikey's bunk on the My Chem bus. There's not really enough
room for the both of them, even though Pete's a tiny little dude and Mikey
practically vanishes if you look at him from the side. That's kind of the
point.
It takes Pete a few seconds to get what Mikey's talking about. “What, the
bond?” he asks. “Why don't you?”
He doesn't need to see Mikey's face to know that Mikey's looking at him like
he's nuts. They get one another that way. “Yeah, sure, let me just turn it off
with this handy switch I've got here.”
Pete shoves at Mikey's shoulders. “I'm serious, jerkface. There's pills for
this shit. I know your health insurance covers them, okay, I have the same
insurance and I take them too.”
That makes Mikey still and stiffen, moving up and away and looking at Pete. He
doesn't say anything, though, lets the questions hang heavy and unsaid over
them.
Pete closes his eyes. “It's a side effect,” he lies. “They're for bipolar
disorder.” That much is true, anyway, and is the reason his parents wanted him
to take them to begin with.
"Shit,” Mikey says. Pete tenses for the inevitable avalanche of advice – Aren't
there drugs without the side effects, Can't you go off meds just for a seeker
trip, I know this therapist--
But of course, it's Mikey, and he and Pete didn't stick to each other like glue
for no reason. So he just says, “Gee keeps talking to me about multiple bonds,
like maybe I have another soulmate out there,” and Pete and Mikey can go on
trash-talking Gerard Way and his disgustingly happy four-way soulbond until the
atmosphere's not so tense.
They're close to falling asleep – or Mikey is, anyway, and sometimes watching
someone else sleep is almost as good as getting some shut-eye himself for Pete
– when Mikey says, “I don't think I want to take pills.”
"So don't,” Pete says. His voice is steadier than he expected it to be. He
needs to add, though, “They won't change who you are, if that's what you're
worried about. You're still you, just.”
Without any of the wordless voices in the back of your head, not your
bondmate's and not the ones that question your very existence. Sometimes Pete
kind of misses the noise, just for the sake of having company.
"No, I know,” Mikey says, like that never even occurred to him. “I just, I
don't. Want to lose it, I guess, not really. Even if it hurts.”
Pete pets Mikey's hair until he settles, and eases carefully out of the bunk
once Mikey's asleep, his fingers itching for a pen.
~~
Pete's dad had been all for him getting on meds. Pete was fifteen and furious
with the world and himself, staying up all night and sleepwalking through the
day, getting worked up on rages so sudden and violent he scared himself some
days.
His mom was more ambivalent. “You still haven't sparked, honey,” she said,
petting his hair. Pete was lying with his head in her lap, staring at the
ceiling, blinking useless tears away. He was too numb, too tired to fight or
yell or hide or, case in point, move. “You don't know what it's like. You don't
know what you're throwing away.”
Pete didn't have the energy to answer, either, so he just closed his eyes and
waited for his mom to focus on the TV again.
Before that night, Pete had never imagined being grateful for insomnia. For
just that night, though, it was worth it, every restless hour spent tossing and
turning and cursing before or since.
Insomnia meant Pete was wide awake in that hour before dawn, when he felt his
mind melting open and something-- someone-- come out of the emptiness to meet
him halfway.
Pete thought maybe he was falling asleep after all, maybe this was a dream,
because he'd never even imagined anything like that. On the other side there
was sleep, smoothly fading into waking, and there was curiosity melting into
open wonder: Oh. There you are. I wasn't expecting you yet.
There weren't actual words. Pete has read about malformed soulbonds, knew what
to watch out for, but this wasn't like that. He knew no words were actually
spoken; the emotions were just so clear, so bright and instinctive that Pete
could put words to them as easily as remembering the lyrics to his favorite
songs, to his own songs that he scribbled in a notepad during class.
Next morning, Pete's dad dropped hints about going to see a psychiatrist and
Pete threw his mug, letting hot coffee splash over the kitchen floor. Slammed
the door and walked to school. I am never letting go, he thought at the
suddenly alarmed presence in his mind. Never never never.
~~
Pete raises his eyes from the notepad to see Patrick peering over his shoulder,
frowning thoughtfully. Pete grins and carefully knocks his shoulder into
Patrick's stomach; Patrick oofs companionably and folds into the chair next to
Pete's. “See anything you like?” Pete asks.
Patrick makes that sound that means he wants to give it some thought before
saying anything, and says, “Bus stop in ten. I want to go get ice cream.”
Pete's mentally assembling his order when Patrick says, almost tentatively,
“Come with me? I mean, if you're here anyway, Mikey's probably feeling better,
right?” He starts blushing before he even finishes the question. It's endearing
enough that Pete almost forgets to be horrified with himself.
"Patrick! Have I been neglecting you? Why didn't you say anything?”
Patrick just rolls his eyes, taking it in stride as more Wentzian drama. Pete
means it, though. Typical fucking Pete Wentz: get concerned about a friend in
trouble, get fucked up over his own concern, end up avoiding the friend
entirely and making everything worse. Way to go, Pete.
As always, he overcompensates, attempting to climb Patrick like a tree where
he's sitting, crooning, “Rickster, you're my favorite,” into Patrick's ear,
adding a sloppy lick to his jaw for good measure.
"Asshole,” Patrick says, but he's smiling. “Come on, eat ice cream with me.
It's the new male bonding.”
At the station, Pete lets Patrick buy for them. It never gets old, seeing
Patrick pick out flavors for both of them, pay, and then get flustered when the
little old sub running the counter smiles benevolently and says, “One for you
and one for your boy, young man.”
"I hate it when people do that,” Patrick grumbles. He waited until they're out
of the old bat's hearing range, though. He's such a well-behaved young Dom.
Pete tells him that and gets a swat to the shoulder for his effort. “Yeah,”
Pete says, “I really don't see how anyone would get the idea that you beat me
up recreationally.”
"He does beat you up recreationally,” Joe says, stopping by on the way from the
public bathroom. “He just doesn't fuck you. By the way, I don't recommend going
in there just yet.”
Patrick grimaces. “That bad?”
Even Joe's 'fro droops when he considers. “One of the new techs got Andy
cornered up and they're discussing Ayn Rand. Seriously. Not if your life
depended on it.”
Pete shudders. “Duly noted.”
When they get back to the bus, Patrick makes a beeline for Pete's notebook and
the lyrics in it. He grabs it and his guitar and says, “So I was thinking--”
and strums, singing softly, Ring around my neck, world's smallest handcuffs on
your fingers, oh....
There's a darkness in the tune. It fits the words but it's not the kind of hook
Pete would expect from Patrick. He places it after a second. “Is that,” Pete
says, faltering, “is it from--?” He waves vaguely at Patrick's laptop.
Patrick looks surprised, and-- pleased? No way. But his voice when he says,
“Yeah,” is cautiously hopeful. Pete has no idea what brought that on; it's
really not the response he expected. “I use stuff from it. Sometimes.”
"Oh,” is all Pete can say for a moment. He's not speechless, he very rarely is,
he's just kind of choked with relief.
Because Patrick? Doesn't look miserable or angry or despairing. He looks a
little sheepish, maybe, fussing around with his hat. He doesn't look like
someone who just played music that came from wanting to die.
Suddenly, Pete has to know. He's going to ask Patrick. He will open up his
mouth and say it. "So you said something earlier.” Pete swallows, and shapes
the words, and.
Can't go through with them.
Instead he says, “About Mikey. I mean, he's my friend, and he's been through a
rough time, but you know you come first, right? You don't have to wait for him
to be whatever to ask me to hang out.”
It's a dumb cowardly move, not at all what Pete meant to say. But then Patrick
blinks and says, “Oh,” just like Pete from earlier only softer and round-eyed.
“I. I did,” Patrick says, and this right here, that's exactly what Pete meant;
Patrick's such a shitty liar. There's no way he's harboring a death wish that
Pete doesn't know about, there's just no way. “But, uh, thanks for telling me,
I guess.”
"Dumbass,” Pete says, and affectionately headbutts Patrick's shoulder.
~~
So now Pete knows. Or he's reasonably certain, at least, that Patrick is fine.
Of course he is; Patrick is always fine. Patrick's the sane one, Pete's rock,
his port in the storm.
That might be exactly what Pete is thinking when he goes to take his meds that
evening and just shoves them in his pocket instead of swallowing. That if Pete
makes himself crazier, Patrick will have to become less crazy, like some
natural balance. Conservation of sanity, or whatever. (Absently, Pete notes
that to himself as a potential song title.)
Pete's therapist warned him against that, though. “You shouldn't make your
narrative all about you as a liability,” ey said, and, “Don't you think that's
a lot to put on Patrick?”
It is. It really is. And Pete promised himself he wouldn't do that to Patrick,
years before his therapist told him that, years before he and Patrick even met.
But this is different. “Reasonably certain” isn't good enough; Pete has to
know.
~~
Last time he went off pills, he avoided Patrick entirely. Last time it was
easier, since he'd only just met the dude, but his reason was the same: Pete
had suspicions that he had to confirm.
Suspicions that ended up being right. Of course this kid, this amazingly
talented, humble, sweet kid with his beautiful voice and beautiful mouth was
Pete's soulmate.
He'd told Joe to tell Patrick Pete was out of town, and then – not to mince
words – he stalked Patrick. Sneaked into the club where Patrick replaced
UnBond's drummer, doing a favor for a friend.
Felt the bond waxing inside him, watched Patrick play from back stage, slipping
in and out again before the set was done. Patrick was so absorbed in playing
that he hadn't even noticed the bond come back, much less noticed that his
soulmate was a few bare yards from him.
Pete considered briefly that he might be wrong. That his soulmate was someone
else in the club. That it was mere wishful thinking drawing him to Patrick,
wanting to leech the potential Pete saw in him like some sort of psychic
vampire.
But then the set was done, and Patrick threw down his drumsticks and got up so
fast he upended his chair. Pete could feel him, hope and fear and fury
intermingling as Patrick pursued.
Pete had planned for this, though. He had his car waiting right outside the
club, left the keys in the ignition like a blatant invitation to theft.
Stupider chance than even Pete liked to take, but it was necessary. He had to
get away before Patrick saw him.
He nearly turned around at the last moment, when he stopped feeling Patrick
coming closer, and the fury shifted over to despair. Please, said the not-voice
in Pete's voice. Can't you just tell me what I did wrong?
Pete stopped at a red light, closed his eyes and tried to send Nothing, you are
perfect, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you, with every bit of urgency
he could muster.
After all, it was true. Pete just needed Patrick to stay away so this would
keep being the case.
~~
People who just know Patrick from watching him play think he's a sub sometimes.
Mostly it's because he sings Pete's lyrics and Pete is a sub, it's in
everything he writes, and Patrick's not the kind of asshole who can't sing a
song written by someone with a different orientation.
Sometimes, though, people are just stupid.
Like this roadie, thick-necked and easily a foot taller than Patrick. Ey tries
to get Patrick to let em carry the equipment – which, actually, Pete supports;
it's eir job and ey's visibly physically stronger than Patrick.
Patrick, though, is a dude who carries his own guitar. Whether it's because
Mrs. Stumph raised a chronically polite boy or because Patrick doesn't trust
anyone else with it, Pete isn't sure, but there you have it. “No, it's fine,”
Patrick tells the roadie. “Really. Thank you for offering.”
"Aw, sugar,” the roadie says. “C'mon, let me take that. If you feel that bad
about it, you can make it up to me.” Ey waggles eir eyebrows.
If you don't know Patrick as well as Pete does, you might not even see him
getting annoyed. His voice is calm and level when he says, “I don't think so.”
The roadie laughs and reaches under Patrick's hat to ruffle his hair.
Pete's pretty sure that every single person who knows Patrick in the room just
collectively held their breath. Or maybe it's just Pete.
Patrick turns around very slowly and with great precision. He has to crane his
head at an angle to look the roadie in the eye, but he's widened his stance and
fuck, Pete would swear Patrick made his own hair stand on edge, puffing up like
an angry cat.
Angry cats are kind of funny, Pete thinks, unless you've got one poised just
right to headbutt you in the groin.
"Exactly what,” Patrick says, “do you think you're doing?”
If Pete shivers, it's not his fault. Patrick has him practically conditioned to
react to those words in that tone, which he usually brings out only when Pete
has fucked shit up but good. Of course, it's never sexy when Patrick does it to
Pete, not while it's happening; then, Pete is usually busy trying to dodge the
Wrath of the Stump. The sexy all happens much later, in Pete's head, when he's
safe and alone in his bunk.
Now, though, Pete's (admittedly spotty) sense of self preservation lies
completely dormant. He can allow himself to think of being in the roadie's
position, having Patrick's eyes focused on him like laser beams.
"Touching other people without their permission,” Patrick says, “is
inappropriate.” If Pete's hands were obeying him he'd reach into his pocket and
take out his phone, record Patrick's precise, cool voice. Show it to those
assholes on the internet who think Patrick's slurred lyrics are anything other
than a stylistic choice.
"Look,” says the roadie, who's obviously angling for self destruction, “I just-
-”
"In. Appropriate.” With every syllable Patrick steps closer, until he's
practically standing under the roadie's nostrils. It should be ridiculous.
Pete's knees threaten to give way from the sheer force of Patrick's voice. By
the look of em, so do the roadie's. Ey blinks at Patrick, goes momentarily
white and then very, very red, and backs away with a mumbled apology.
"For fuck's sake,” Patrick grumbles. He's getting red, too, whether from anger
or sympathetic embarrassment Pete has no idea. “And now ey's run off and I'll
have to carry the amps too, fucking figures.”
Pete will volunteer to help, he will, just as soon as he catches his breath.
"You dommed the fuck out of em,” Joe says, impressed.
Patrick winces and says, “Really not the point.” He puts down the guitar.
“Shit, all that accomplished was to make em think if I really were a sub, this
crap would be okay to pull. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.”
Oh, Pete thinks, and the heat coursing through him makes sense.
The bond doesn't come back all at once. Patrick's self-conscious, but not
always very self-aware. He doesn't dissect his own feelings the way Pete does,
looking for cracks to tape them over before they become breaks. The meds took
longer last time to wear off. Pete wonders what this means.
At the same time, it hardly matters. He can feel Patrick now, a vague warm
impression in the back of his mind, tinged with annoyance and guilty
satisfaction. Lust, too, the automatic unthinking kind that comes with raw
sexuality, with the displays of power that form human mating instincts.
What Pete can't feel is even the vaguest suggestion that anything is wrong. Not
even a hint of that corrosive darkness from the music.
~~
Before bed, Pete eyes his pills. Spills a couple from the jar into his hand,
rolling them around, waiting for Patrick to tell him to take them already like
he always does.
Patrick is fine, Pete knows this now. He should take his meds. As it is, he's
really not looking forward to the few days of feeling like there's a noose
tightening around his brain until he balances out again. No sense prolonging
his misery.
The tiny bathroom window is open. Pete tosses the pills out and goes to his
bunk, where he jacks off until his dick hurts and then writes instead of
sleeping.
~~
Avoiding addictive substances was never Pete's MO. He started on cigarettes way
too young for comfort but still old enough to know better, toked up when the
mood hit him, didn't become an alcoholic only by the grace of God and probably
his genes. Things don't have to even be addictive for Pete to form a habit; he
got addicted to video games, to the rush of having an audience look at him, to
staring at blank walls while words whirred across his mental vision.
The soulbond was supposed to feel good, anyone could tell you that. It's just
evolution. So nobody should have been surprised when Pete Wentz managed to get
addicted to it, too.
He was leaning back in his chair, throwing a ball at the wall and catching it,
poking at his bondmate. Trying to transform the constant background hum of
their connection into the almost conversation-like flow he sometimes managed.
I'm bored, he tried to project. Entertain me. He wondered how it came across on
the other side, as petulant whining or just incoherent noise.
From across the bond Pete felt frustration and exasperation, and something
cold-- metallic feeling, almost, which was weird in the generally organic
feeling of their connection. The feeling took a while for Pete to place, and he
snorted when he figured it out.
Math? Math sucks. He doubted the words made it across, but the sympathy
probably did. Then inspiration struck.
Out loud, to the empty room, Pete said, “You're in worse shape than I am. Let
me entertain you.”
When Pete reached down for his zipper he wasn't really feeling anything yet but
exuberance, the giddy excitement of sharing thiswith his bondmate. God knows it
took Pete long enough to spark. If he wanted to catch up to what everyone else
his age was doing, he'd have to step it up.
He closed his eyes, concentrating on his bondmate. He felt a broad stream of
affection there, and a little bit of confusion. Pete slid his hand into his
pants, wrapping it around his still mostly soft cock and pulling.
The confusion thickened. What are you doing? Stop that.
Pete grinned and sent, Make me. Pete went to a progressive school where the
concordance lessons had an entire section about being conflicted about your
orientation, or not being certain about your bondmate's, but Pete never needed
either. He'd known he was a sub for as long as he could remember, and
everything he felt from his bondmate spoke of control.
Sure, Pete's bondmate was young, but ey knew what ey was doing. Pete has known
this since the first time ey stopped Pete going down a panic-shame spiral with
a firm Don't, followed by a softer, I love you. Don't do this to yourself.
He'd only wanted to play. In hindsight, he should have known his bondmate
wasn't playing along.
From the bond Pete felt something like shock. Pete thought-- Pete didn't know
what he was thinking, just mindlessly pushing along, when fear and anger came
back to him. No. Stop.And an intense flash like the taste of oranges that had
Pete yank his hand out of his pants like it was on fire.
They talked about this in concordance, too. Universal signals for situations
that needed to be addressed before meeting your bondmate, for things like
incompatible orientations or being in danger because of your bond.
This signal didn't come from concordance, though. That one was taught to Pete
back in elementary school, along withStranger Danger: I am too young for this.
Bad touch.
It figured, it fucking figured. Pete had thought, had hoped that his bondmate
was just a late bloomer. But no, apparently on top of all of Pete's other
issues, he was a fucking pedophile to boot.
He wanted to scream that it wasn't fucking fair. This was his bondmate, the one
person who should be able to know him through and through. Ey shouldn't be hurt
just because Pete was Pete.
In the back of Pete's head, the fear and confusion slowly transformed to
concern, something vaguely apologetic.
"Don't be fucking sorry,” Pete snapped at the empty room. The apologetic
feeling intensified. Pete buried his head between his hands and groaned. He
tried to find something positive, anything, to send his bondmate, but every
reassurance he could make would be false. Pete hated himself, he hated life and
the world and everything about existence.
He didn't hate his bondmate, but he couldn't reach through the sea of loathing
filling him for that small kernel of love. Instead he sprawled bonelessly in
his desk chair and felt his bondmate curling emself up small and tight, away
from the spewing venom that was Pete's current emotional state.
You don't deserve this, Pete thought dully, but he had no idea if that made its
way through.
~~
Mikey bans Pete from his presence after he makes one morbid joke too many. Pete
is kind of impressed with himself: he managed to creep out a member of the Way
family. Not an everyday accomplishment.
That means getting back on his own bus, which Pete isn't looking forward to.
He's not avoiding Patrick, exactly, he's just....
Okay, yeah, he's avoiding Patrick. But he's not happy about that or anything.
Patrick's not on the bus when Pete gets in, though. Joe waves at him lazily
from his bunk then turns around and starts snoring. Pete takes a moment to hate
Joe's guts. He slept like shit last night, surprising no one.
Andy's in the lounge, with a book in his lap and a thoughtful frown on his
face. Normally this is a clear stay away sign, but Pete's feeling reckless.
“Yo, Hurley. Whatcha reading?” Andy closes the book halfway so Pete can see the
cover. Michael Pollan. Figures. “Any good?”
"Well,” Andy says. Then he narrows his eyes at Pete and points a finger at him.
“No.”
Pete doesn't have to fake a baffled pout.
"You are not using my ideology to fuel your dumbass self-flagellation,” Andy
says. “I'll talk to you about it when you can hold an actual rational
conversation. Not today.”
Fuck, Pete's bandmates know him too well.
He thinks of going back to his bunk but there's no way that'll end in anything
but tossing, turning and hating the world. They have a show to play tonight. If
there's anything Pete can do to get himself in better working form, he should
get on that.
Shame Mikey threw him out. An hour on his knees would be just the thing.
Pete considers for a moment, then crawls into Patrick's bunk. It smells like
him in here, like sweat, like Patrick's hair when he hasn't washed it in days.
It should be disgusting. It smells like home. He can feel Patrick through the
bond, still muzzy and faint but definitely there. Patrick's concentrating on
something just now, and there's flashes of amusement coming through. Pete hears
them in the cadence of Patrick's laugh.
He closes his eyes and loses himself to the hazy image of Patrick finding him
here. Maybe Patrick, deceptively strong for his size, will physically remove
Pete from the bunk. Pete wouldn't make it easy for him, he'd struggle and cling
and bite, maybe. Force Patrick to bring out the heavy guns, piss Patrick off
until maybe Patrick will pin him to the floor and kneel on his chest.
Ugh. Not a good path to go down unless he wants to start jerking off in
Patrick's bed. Or, okay, scratch that, not unless he wants Patrick to kill him.
(One part of Pete's mind that's a complete asshole whispers, What a way to go,
though.)
So Pete shifts his thoughts to the other likely scenario that'll result from
Patrick finding him here. The one where Patrick just sighs, exasperated, and
pulls the covers over Pete, maybe laying his hand for a couple seconds on the
back of Pete's neck. Not in a way that means anything – they're friends, after
all, just friends, despite Pete's stage antics – but warm and real and
comforting just the same.
Pete wraps himself in that thought like a blanket. He's halfway to falling
asleep when he shifts and feels something hard press into his thigh. Pete
blinks, sits up, and pulls what turns out to be Patrick's laptop towards him.
Sad to say, but Pete's first impulse is to check for porn. He wants to know
what Patrick gets himself off to, maybe even right in this bed, tugging his
dick and thinking about pretty subs all tied up for him. Or whatever. He flips
the laptop open.
Only when it's turning on, Pete realizes he's humming that hook Patrick wanted
to use, the one from the requiem song. It's pretty there, yeah, and it fits,
but.
As Pete opens the file he's got an entire soundtrack of No, bad idea running
through his mind. Patrick's already repeatedly asked Pete to stay away from
that file (over and over, it's like Pete is constitutionally incapable of
respecting boundaries), the music is entirely wrong for Fall Out Boy and so are
the lyrics Pete wants to put to it, nobody in their right mind would ever
listen to it. Pete's not certain if he wants anyone to listen to it, right mind
or wrong.
The headphones are already jacked in. Pete puts them on, opens Notepad and
presses Play.
~~
Until he accidentally traumatized his soulmate – okay, not exactly accidentally
but it's not like he meant to, fuck – Pete never paid attention to how often he
jacked off or what happened across the bond when he did.
Now it was kind of awful, because Pete would unthinkingly reach for his dick at
night before realizing that yeah, a fucking kid was watching him
telepathically.
Jesus. Not a fucking kid, just. Just a kid.
So Pete was getting sexually frustrated, and he constantly felt guilty and on
edge. Jerking off was one of the things that helped him sleep sometimes, so he
wasn't getting a lot of that, either.
To make it worse, every time Pete got annoyed, there'd be this hesitant
apologetic feeling from the other side, and it made Pete want to scream. It was
just so fucking wrong on so many levels. That Pete's Dom would make emselves
small like that to him; that the child Pete was bonded to was taking
responsibility for Pete's fuck-ups.
Pete's parents had stopped mentioning therapy or medication to him. Because
Pete was a contrary fuck, this meant he thought about it. Every day.
He was trying and failing to sleep. His bondmate's soft reassurances were
fading into frustration, annoyance; when Pete stayed up like this, head a
cacophony of self-loathing, ey wasn't getting any sleep either.
Of course. Pete could only have a good thing for so long before he ruined it.
The most pathetic part was, even if all he got was anger and dissatisfaction,
Pete still couldn't give the bond up. He needed it more than sleep. More than
happiness.
More than anything, he thought.
His bondmate went resigned, then... Pete frowned. It felt a little like
anxiety, but for once, he couldn't place what ey was feeling.
Then it resolved, raw and tentative, into something like pleasure. Oddly
hollow, arousal without lust, with a sickeningly hopeful undercurrent of Does
this help? Is this better?
Pete sat bolt upright in bed and shouted, “No!”
His bondmate radiated worry and hurt at him, but Pete. Pete couldn't. He got up
and started walking, ignoring his mom's sleepy, “Pete?” from across the hall.
"I can't sleep,” he told her, “I'm going for a walk.”
Her door opened, and there she was, wearing a ratty bathrobe and rubbing sleep
from her eyes. “Pete,” she said, soft, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
His voice cracked when he said, “Mommy,” and he stepped into her arms.
"I want to see a psychiatrist,” he said half an hour later, seated at the
kitchen counter with a cup of chamomile tea in his hands. His bondmate was a
subdued, distant presence in the back of Pete's head. Pete shut his eyes so
hard he saw sparks and sent Sorry, sorry, you're too good for me, sorry,knowing
it wouldn't do any good.
~~
Usually Pete comes up with the lyrics first and Patrick hooks them to the music
after the fact, rearranging syllables like fridge magnet poetry, so it's not as
easy as Pete thinks it should be.
On another level, it's the easiest thing in the world. These are words that
have been running through Pete's mind for years. Normally he hesitates before
committing them to paper, edits to make them oblique and twisting, hiding just
enough to create the illusion of mystery.
(Because the truth is there's no mystery to Pete at all, none whatsoever. If he
wrote exactly what he felt, all his songs would go I'm in pain, pay attention
to me, either make it stop or distract me until it does.
That's a good line. He adds that.)
He's growing more aware, as he writes it, that he can never show this to anyone
but Patrick. Maybe not even him. It's just-- it's just bad, and Pete hates that
a little bit. Patrick's music deserves better than this bullshit.
Pete stops. It's not done, but there's as many words on the page as the music
makes room for. He plays the music again, mouthing the words, when he hears the
other track.
He presses pause. Pete does not remember this track from before.
It's more like Patrick's usual style, but at the same time it's too simple,
almost naïve. Something too obvious about the music placement, simplistic. It
could be a dumb little pop tune, except it's Patrick's, and it's set in the
middle of this song that manages to be noise without any distortion or effects.
They mesh really well together. So Pete plays it again, and realizes he has
words for this, too.
I'm trying to help, why won't you let me, he writes, what do I do to get
through to you, and Don't hurt I love you repeating all through the end like a
broken record.
Two voices, Pete thinks. A duet, only neither singer can hear the other, but
they're trying. They're trying.
"Yeah,” Patrick says, quietly. “That's pretty much it.”
Apparently Patrick's not the only one who can be distracted away from the bond
by music.
~~
Pete's got so many questions he doesn't know which to utter first. So when
Patrick sits down next to him and grabs the laptop away, Pete lets him,
keyboard slipping easily from Pete's nerveless fingers.
Patrick unplugs his big sturdy headphones, motioning at Pete until Pete fishes
out his small in-ears out of his pocket. Patrick plugs it in and gives one
headphone to Pete. When Pete hesitates, Patrick holds Pete's face and puts the
earphone in for him. He's careful about it but firm, fingertips not digging
into Pete's jaw but not leaving any room for movement either.
The death-music – the requiem – starts playing first, and Patrick sings Pete's
lyrics soft, under his breath. Then the other track comes in, and Patrick gives
Pete a questioning look.
Pete's not much of a singer, never was. But he can do this, even if he can't do
it justice.
Because Patrick made this, the harmonies are beautiful, even while they twist
Pete up inside in unpleasant ways.
By the time they finish the first run-through, Andy's there, looking
thoughtful. “It's good, but I don't think it works for us.”
"No,” Patrick says, hurried, sparing Pete the need to come up with a civil
response. “It's, uh, a side project.”
"Sure,” Andy says easily, obviously not believing him for a second. “Have fun,
then.”
He walks away. Patrick takes a deep breath, mutters, “Fuck, you're an asshole,”
and kisses Pete breathless.
~~
When the meds started taking effect, when Pete's bond had withered away to
static noise at the back of his head, Pete locked his door and masturbated for
an entire afternoon.
It felt good, even beyond the obvious. Something in Pete loved the frustration
of waiting, of knowing that – however twisted a way it came about – he'd been
holding off for his Dom, and now he could let go, finally.
It was bittersweet, too, even without all the things Pete refused to think
about without his bondmate to help him out of the spiral of shame. (That,
Pete's psychiatrist had told him, he really should not feel guilty about.
Wanting your Dom to make you feel good was apparently perfectly natural and
nothing to be ashamed of, even if the circumstances were “a little
unorthodox.”) Finally he could get off, but it was without his Dom's knowledge
or approval.
That part kind of sucked.
What Pete really wanted was to go out, to find someone on Craigslist maybe,
someone who'll hold Pete down and fuck him and call him a bad boy. However, in
a rare fit of common sense, Pete decided to wait another two weeks – his
psychiatrist said the meds should stabilize by then.
So for the time being, it was just Pete, all alone in the room and in his head,
trying to get off with a desperation known only to teenagers who'd gone weeks
on end without a single orgasm.
Only that's not exactly right, is it?Pete thinks. Because. In the few times he
slept, there had been-- dreams.
That may have been another reason he didn't sleep, scared of psychically
molesting his bondmate without even being conscious for it. What made it worse
was how he always felt so good on waking, sated and fine and sleepy like he
could turn over and go right back to dreaming.
While dreaming Pete couldn't feel pain, so of course his mind escalated
everything ridiculously, trying to feel something. So he'd dreamed of spankings
escalating to caning, someone mercilessly pulling and twisting on his pierced
nipple. He could barely see in the dreams, only blurry undefined lines like
watercolors, but he could hear; his bondmate's voice, his laugh.
It was a nice laugh, that much Pete remembered on waking. Not cruel, like Pete
sometimes thought he wanted. It sounded like Pete's bondmate enjoying himself,
and enjoying Pete, too.
Fuck, but that was all Pete wanted. He imagined sprawling at his bondmate's
feet, saying Use me, take me, do whatever you want, and it wouldn't matter if
the pain was good or bad, wouldn't even matter if his bondmate ignored him
completely. If ey was happy, so would Pete be.
Though if ey wanted to handcuff Pete and make him kneel and go down on em,
well. Pete wouldn't say red.
~~
"Such an asshole,” Patrick says again when they come up for air. It's not as
accusing as it could be, though.
Pete swallows, licks his lips and licks them again. He wants to shut the
curtain on the bunk, to lie down and pull Patrick to lie across him.
More than that, though, he wants not to make any decisions. If Patrick asked
Pete to leave his bunk right then – to leave the bus, and not to come back –
Pete would do it, and happily, because he'd be doing what Patrick wants.
Fortunately, it doesn't look like Patrick wants him to go away. “Lie down,” he
tells Pete, who scrambles to obey.
The bunk is tiny, and even two smallish dudes such as themselves have a hard
time fitting in it. This means proximity, Patrick's breath on Pete's neck and
his back flush against Pete's front.
"We're supposed to get going in like, twenty minutes,” Patrick says. “So I
won't make you talk yet. After the show....” he trails off, probably trying for
menacing, but his relief is coursing through Pete, too obvious to hide.
"After,” Pete agrees. He tries to twist around and kiss Patrick. He's not
surprised when Patrick won't let him, doesn't even struggle against Patrick's
suddenly confining grip. Much.
"No making out until after we talk,” Patrick says sternly.
Pete just hums an affirmative of sorts. Patrick's rubbing down Pete's chest and
his belly, firm and possessive, comforting. Pete's not sure how that's
complying with the no-makeouts verdict, but he's not about to argue about it.
~~
If Pete manages to actually play their songs correctly, it's down to pure luck
and muscle memory. He has no idea what he says to the audience between the
songs, but since he wasn't hauled off stage by angry management he's guessing
it wasn't too bad.
Or maybe it was and everyone thought he was joking. Pete is very glad for his
weird, overdramatic reputation at the moment.
When they make it offstage Pete essentially attaches himself to Patrick like a
limpet. Patrick takes it with cranky grace, muttering unpleasant things but not
shaking Pete off him.
"You're so nice,” Pete murmurs into Patrick's ear, the rim of which is still
wet from Pete licking it on stage.
Possibly he's overdone the show tonight just a tad.
"I'm really not,” Patrick says with a sigh. He stops just before their bus and
pulls Pete away to a more-or-less secluded picnic table. “I have a feeling we
won't want an audience for this conversation.” He eyes Pete grimly. “Start
talking.”
Pete spreads his arms. “What do you want me to say?”
"Do you want it in-- okay, you know what,” Patrick takes off his hat and mimes
pulling out his hair in frustration. Said hair's all sweaty, sticking to his
face. Pete wants to touch it. “I'll go with chronological order. Why did you
cut me off? Why didn't you tell me when you met me? And if you didn't want,”
Patrick swallows, “didn't want us, why stop taking your pills now?”
Pete stares at him, a little incredulous. “You don't know?”
Patrick meets his stare. Then he sighs. “Humor me.”
"Okay,” Pete says, doubtful, “but I've got a couple questions myself.”
Even as he's mentally composing them, though, the answers click through. I've
been working on it since I was ten, Patrick said. Jesus Christ. Ten. “The
song,” Pete says, “the, requiem. That was me, wasn't it. Stuff you got from my
side of the bond.”
Wordlessly, Patrick nods. Of fucking course it is. Pete heard Patrick as
lyrics, hadn't he? Obviously Patrick would hear him as music, the only person
to ever find reason in Pete's bullshit when Pete could barely supply rhyme.
"So why even ask? Would you subject a ten year old to that?”
Patrick twitches. “We're not talking about me.”
Pete gives him an incredulous look. “Oh yes we fucking are. We're talking about
us.” Then he looks at Patrick, still flushed from performing, voice a little
rough from use. Fuck. “I mean. If there's still an us to talk about.”
"Don't be an idiot,” Patrick snaps. But he takes Pete's hand, and his grip is
gentle. Pete shivers, despite being a little overheated still.
"I was worried about you,” Patrick says a moment later. “But it wasn't, it
never affected me personally, what I got from you. Except to freak me out,
because I wanted to take care of you and nothing I did seemed to help.” His
voice cracks a little on that last word.
Pete's eyes sting suspiciously. He tells himself it's just sweat dripping into
them. “Yeah, you couldn't. That's what the meds are for, you know? It was never
your responsibility to fix me.” He laughs a little, self-conscious. “My
therapist was really clear on that.”
Patrick's grip on his hand tightened. “So why did you stop taking them?”
There's banked anger radiating from Pete's bond, carefully reined in.
It's Pete's turn to snap, “Because I heard your fucking death song and thought
you wanted to kill yourself.”
For nearly a full minute, Patrick just blinks at Pete, like the thought is
completely inconceivable to him. The feeling from the bond backs it up, a
stunned sensation like static electricity.
“You,” Patrick manages eventually. “Really?” It feels like he's going to burst
out laughing, like it's ridiculous.
"Yes, really.” Pete just barely keeps from shouting it, hunches himself tight.
An echo of that fear runs through him. Patrick must get it then because he
blinks, and Pete feels him shudder, feels Patrick revisit old helplessness and
sorrow and sheer fucking panic. "Yeah,” Pete says, mouth dry, abruptly sorry he
brought it up.
But then, it was inevitable. Also, it was Patrick's fucking fault. So there.
Patrick visibly marshals himself. “So now you know I'm not.” His mouth thins, a
tight straight line that hurts to look at. “So what do you want now?”
The responsible adult thing to do, Pete knows, is talk it out. Draw boundaries.
Explain.
Hah, right. And since when is Pete fucking Wentz a responsible adult? He gets
off the hard, narrow bench, circumnavigates the table and plops himself to
kneel at Patrick's feet.
"Pete.” Patrick's tone is reproving, but his hand clenches tight in Pete's
hair.
Pete hums happily. “Patrick.”
Patrick grips and gives him a good shake. It's all Pete can do not to purr. “I
mean it, asshole. We can't just. Fall into this. We need to think it through.
There must have been reasons you didn't approach me when I was old enough.”
The memory makes Patrick small and unhappy inside, Pete can feel it through the
bond. It makes him ache. He bends forward, presumptuous, rubs his face against
Patrick's dick in a gesture that's half submission and half greedy skin-hunger.
Patrick grabs him again, moving him away. Pete lets him, only uttering a little
whine in protest. “You were still too young when I met you,” Pete says when
Patrick's grip remains strong. He doesn't want to talk, he wants to shut up and
do what Patrick tells him, but apparently these are currently mutually
exclusive options. “And then. The band.”
"Which is still a thing,” Patrick says. He sounds thoughtful. “On the other
hand, My Chem seems to manage okay.”
Pete doesn't really have the presence of mind to answer. He holds on to
Patrick's leg, rests his forehead against Patrick's thigh. Closes his eyes.
There's nothing in Pete's mind but Patrick now, the clean uncomplicated
presence of him, and Pete can't imagine ever wanting anything else.
Above his head, Patrick's talking, but Pete can barely make out the words
through the rush of affection the bond throws at him. “You fucking asshole,”
Patrick's saying, “like I could actually tell you no.”
~~
Pete never wants to get up. He has no idea how long they stay there, just like
that, but it can't have been too long; Pete's knees aren't complaining about
the hard ground and nobody's come to look for them.
Besides, he knows Patrick wouldn't have let them be found vulnerable like this.
Patrick hides his soft, bare spots, his hairline and his stomach and his heart,
where Pete puts everything on display, the better for the world to hurt him
with.
Which, oh, fuck. Patrick hurting him. Pete's so abruptly hard he nearly
stumbles from dizziness.
Half a step in front of him, Patrick shakes his head. “No. Not yet,” he amends,
probably catching Pete's hastily aborted panic. “Not till your meds stabilize
and I hurt you because you want to and not because you think you deserve it.”
Pete's breath catches in his throat. “We'll be waiting pretty long, then.”
Then Patrick's behind him, leaning his forehead against the top of Pete's
spine. Patrick's hands creep forward, joining at Pete's chest, resting against
his solar plexus. “Stop,” Patrick says, and the bond says, Don't hurt yourself,
I love you.
Patrick says, “Don't hurt yourself. That's my job.”
Pete shivers happily. “Yes sir.”
~~
Maybe Patrick texted Joe and Andy, or maybe they just developed an instinct for
when to clear the bus. Maybe they actually are on the bus and Pete is too
immersed in Patrick to notice them; he wouldn't put that past himself at the
moment.
Hopefully it's the former option, because Pete starts taking his clothes off as
soon as they're in the sleeping section of the bus. Patrick stops him with a
soft touch to the chest.
Pete turns around and gives him a wounded look.
Patrick smiles and shrugs and says, “Heads up, this is going to be the last
time I'll let you come in a while. You might wanna make the most of it.” But
even as he's saying it, the soulbond is anxiously probing, asking Do you want
it?
Pete replies by launching himself at Patrick, making his fervent “Yes yes yes”
obvious in any way he can.
He's desperate, aching everywhere Patrick isn't touching him. The places they
are touching also hurt, in a good way, greedy for more. Patrick gentles him,
though, moving his lips against Pete's slow and careful, running his fingers
over Pete's face like Pete is something important.
"Dumbass,” Patrick says. Out loud, anyway. Everything else in him – his
expression, his touch, his mind where Pete feels it through the bond – screams
You are important, you matter, you're fucking precious to me.
It's too much. Pete turns his face away.
Patrick's hands are still on him. “It's okay,” Patrick says, in a low voice
that reaches into Pete's guts and pulls. “I'll make you believe it eventually.”
"I love your optimism,” Pete gasps, and Patrick shuts him up with a well-placed
bite to the neck. Just to be contrary, Pete adds, “I thought we weren't doing
painplay?”
Patrick smirks. “If you felt any pain, I wasn't doing that right.”
Oh God, it's a smooth Patrick Stump. Pete might not survive this night.
~~
Pete is definitely not going to survive this. “Please,” he says. It's a good
word, one short syllable he can squeeze in between gasps for breath.
Patrick stalls. “Yeah?” His fingers, buried deep inside Pete, crook just a tiny
bit.
Already Pete hates himself for saying that, but, “No,” he says. Patrick
withdraws his fingers until just the tips are in, letting Pete catch his breath
and settle down before sliding them inside again, slow but ruthless.
It's so fucking good that Pete wants to scream.
"Do it,” Patrick hisses, even as his hand clamps across Pete's mouth. Not hard
enough to restrict his breathing (though maybe later; what, Pete can hope),
just enough to muffle the weak whines that are the most Pete is capable of at
the moment.
"Fuck,” Pete manages when at last he has enough air, “fuck me.”
Patrick leans close, eyes dark, incongruous in his young face. “Soon,” he says,
a comforting threat.
Then he angles his fingers, moves them just so, and Pete comes all over both of
them.
"Sorry,” Patrick says, sounding not sorry at all. “I got impatient.” He looks
critically at Pete. “Too sore?”
"Yes,” Pete says, and means, Do it anyway.
He fucking loves Patrick's lax definition of painplay, loves that Patrick lets
himself use Pete like this even if he's afraid of punishing him. He slides a
condom on, eyerolling at Pete's mental Do we have to? Pushes into Pete
leisurely, like they've got all day.
So what if Pete's on the bare edge of hyperventilating, right?
Except Patrick actually stops at that, frowns down at Pete and starts to
withdraw. Pete makes an unhappy little whimper and crosses his legs behind
Patrick, keeping him in. “Don't go.”
"I'm not going anywhere.” Patrick's hand stutters across Pete's face. “But if
you--”
"Please,” Pete chokes out, and it's just plain desperation all over, a need to
be owned, fuck. He must flash that thought over to Patrick because Patrick's
hips buck once, hard and beautifully sharp. Pete sobs and lets his legs fall
open, lets Patrick take him over.
It's slow and brutal and gorgeous, feeling every inch of Patrick inside him,
too oversensitized for it to be pleasure, exactly. Just oversensitized enough
that the hurt comes back into being pleasurable from the other side. Patrick
rubs against Pete's prostate on every thrust, precise, a harsh little zing of
too much too much just enough.
It burns, it hurts, Pete never wants it to end.
When it does, though, it's Patrick making Pete's name sound like music, it's
Patrick's head on Pete's collarbone and Patrick's softening dick still buried
inside him. Pete cannot bring himself to mind any of this.
~~
"Be right back,” Patrick whispers in his ear.
Either Pete's sense of time is on the futz again or Patrick really does come
back right away, bearing a wet cloth and Pete's meds.
"No,” Pete says, hoarse. His hand closes around Patrick's wrist.
Patrick's implacable. “Yes,” he says. “You can talk to your psychiatrist about
switching to a different brand, but as long as this is the brand you've got,
you're taking them. That's not negotiable.”
Pete closes his eyes, because even he can't say, “I can't lose you,” without
feeling like a dumbass emo idiot.
Patrick snorts. “Yeah, like I'd let you. I'm not going anywhere. Now take the
fucking pills already.”
There's a glass of water for Pete to down his pills with. Pete gulps them down
with his eyes still closed, feeling Patrick's weight pull the bunk down next to
him.
Hesitation comes in through the bond. Pete elbows Patrick until he comes out
with, “If you want to keep taking this brand, though. That's okay.”
Pete's eyes spring open. He stares at Patrick, incredulous.
Patrick's blushing a bit, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders. It's so
wrong that Pete just has to go to his knees again, only he's still a little
fucked up from his recent orgasm, so he ends up half-sprawled across the floor
with his head leaning against the bunk's edge.
Even so, he can't regret it once Patrick's hand finds its hold in his hair
again. “You can't lose me.” Patrick's biting the words out, like they should be
obvious. Maybe they are. “No matter what you do. I don't need a fucking
soulbond to love you.”
The words, too familiar, make Pete cringe in on himself. Patrick notices. He
pulls Pete up by the hair until Pete's half-crouched, then wraps his arms tight
around Pete's shoulders.
"And I can love you with it, too,” Patrick whispers fiercely in his ears. “You
think there's anything I can see in there that'll make me stop caring about
you? Think again, asshole.”
Honestly, Pete never thought otherwise. This at the same time as knowing with
utter certainty that one day Patrick will see something, Pete will finally be
too much, and--
Patrick's arms tighten around him so hard they're at risk of cutting off his
air. “Don't,” Patrick says again. Low and soft, and all the more dangerous for
it. “Pete, don't. Nothing, do you hear me? Nothing you can do will make me
leave. You're stuck with me, now.”
Pete can't argue with that tone, and he can't believe, and he can't get up.
Can't do anything but grip Patrick's wrist, and breathe, and breathe.
 
End Notes
     Underage warning for soulbond between a pre-adolescent and
     adolescent, which takes on sexual tones for a very short time before
     the adolescent realizes the other party is too young and shuts it
     off.
     Violation of privacy - beyond what comes built in with soulbonds,
     Pete looks in Patrick's computer and a specific file despite being
     told not to repeatedly and having to actually steal the laptop away
     to do it.
     Suicidal ideation - there are oblique references to Pete's suicide
     attempt. Pete is worried that Patrick might be depressed and even
     suicidal, which he isn't.
     I'm theragnarokd on tumblr and I'm highly enamored of Patrick Stump's
     face. Come say hi!
  Works inspired by this one
      It's_hard_to_say_"I_do",_even_when_I_do by Morin, Hitting_the_high_notes
      by Morin
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