Fall Out Boy One Shots

21 Years (part 1)

Most people couldn't wait for their twenty-first birthday; they wanted to be adults, to be able to go get a drink whenever they felt like it. They wanted to be free to do whatever they wanted, when they wanted.
Pete kept an eye on the calender, too, but for a completely different reason.
*
He was fourteen when his parents sat him down to explain what your twenty-first birthday meant in their family.
It was three days before he came out of his room and another two before he said anything.
The "I will never forgive you for this," was so low that it took a second for it to sink in. By the time it did, Pete was already back upstairs.
*
By the time he was sixteen, Pete had taken an aggressive approach to his problem; he had started sleeping his way through the greater Chicago area's music scene. His father had explained to him that he would know his mate almost on sight and would definitely know it when he touched their skin.
Pete made sure to touch as much skin as he could. Ironically, the same heritage that had gotten him into this mess (Incubus, Fae and human; apparently one of his ancestors had been part Incubus and part Fae and all stupid; he had spurned an Unseelie Sidhe for a human, which had then resulted in that long ago ancestor's entire line being cursed) also made him extremely sexually appealing to humans.
He enjoyed himself because he figured he might as well get some pleasure out of the entire thing.
But Pete always had that calender in the back of his mind, constantly marking off the days.
*
When Pete was eighteen he tried to kill himself.
A handful of sleeping pills in his mother's car in the middle of a Best Buy parking lot, with a sad song playing in the background. A last minute phone call to his father to inform him -bitterly and scathingly, the words starting to slur together as the medicine took affect- that he would choose when and how he died, and not wait around for some centuries old curse to do the job. Pete took a vicious satisfaction in his father's frantic questions asking him where he was, what had he taken; it was, after all, his father's long ago ancestor that had set in motion what was happening now.
Pete could appreciate the overall tragic, Grimm Brothers fairy tale-esqueness of the whole thing, if nothing else.
When he woke up in the hospital, surrounded by his family, he just sighed and closed his eyes again.
"Why did you even bother?" Pete asked dully. "I'll be dead in three years; there's nothing that can stop the inevitable, remember?"
They were the last words he spoke for the next three months.
*
By the time he was twenty, Pete had resigned himself to his fate. He wrung every bit of fun he could out of the days he had left. He didn't want to reach his twenty-first birthday and leave anything undone.
When the end of April rolled around, Pete was almost manically cheerful; only one month left, after all, and being depressed and pissy wasn't going to make anything easier. He would play it cool, be happy and spend his last few days having a good time. This was the end of the line for him and it had taken him years to accept it; he was almost looking forward to it with the same kind of weary happiness that people had toward their homes after being on vacation for too long.
Of course, that was when he met Patrick.
*
He was at a friend's show, just losing himself in the frantic beat of the music and the pulse of the crowd.
There was a sudden surge of motion towards the stage, Pete lost his balance, stumbled into a group of people off to the side and ended up on his ass, looking up at the bemused faces of three strangers and Joe.
"Shit, sorry," Pete apologized with a grin. "Lost my balance."
"Jesus, Wentz, spaz much?" Joe snickered while Pete rolled his eyes.
"It's no problem," one of the others said; Pete felt something stir in his stomach at the sound of that voice and focused on the person responsible almost without realizing it.
He was short, an inch or two shorter than his own 5'7 Pete guessed; wearing skinny jeans and a faded 504Plan shirt; his hair was tucked under a trucker hat, a few strands of reddish blond escaping from underneath the brim. Amused blue-green eyes met his as he held a hand out to help pull Pete off the ground.
Pete reached up for it even as his brain was telling him no, don't; not real if you don't touch him, nononoNO; a warm, rough hand wrapped around his (callouses; drums and guitar, if Pete was any judge) and Pete was completely unsurprised at the feeling that slammed into him; the gut deep certainty that this was him, the long awaited for mate, the one that was meant for him, that would save him. Pete felt every part of his consciousness focus on the person in front of him; felt his heartbeat sync up to his and the insane urge to wrap himself around his body to make sure he stayed safe.
"Pete. Pete."
Pete blinked and realized he had a death grip on a strangers hand (mate, his mind thrummed; that alien, inhuman part of him that was usually so easily ignored and forgotten was now in the forefront and Pete wasn't sure if he was more pissed or terrified at the change); Joe's voice was both amused and worried and Pete knew without being told just how much of a creeper he was acting. As he looked around, he saw that the other two guys had wandered off, leaving the three of them alone.
"Uh, sorry," he apologized again and if he had the right skin tone for it, he would have been bright red. "I just got distracted or something, I guess."
Joe didn't look convinced but he let it go without an argument, so Pete counted it as a win. "Uh-huh. Since I doubt you heard it the first time, Pete this is my friend, Patrick Stump. Patrick, Pete Wentz."
"Hey," Pete said, his voice rough. He smiled and tried -and hopefully succeed- to appear interested instead of just desperate.
"Hey," Patrick repeated and briefly looked Pete over; he was subtle about it, but Pete could feel his gaze like a brand over his skin. "You still have a hold of my hand, dude."
"Fuck," Pete cursed and let go even though what he really wanted to do was throw himself at Patrick and scent mark him to keep everyone else away from him.
What the fuck, Pete thought, completely freaked out for a second. Could this whole thing get any weirder?
"I didn't say I wanted you to stop," Patrick smirked and raised an eyebrow at Joe's dramatic huff.
"I'm out of here, guys; no offense, but I'm not going to stand around and watch you two hit on each other when I could be getting laid instead," Joe told them as he caught the eye of one of the women drinking by the bar. "Talk to you later."
Pete stared at Patrick's profile and tried to think of a way to get his number, maybe his address; anything about him so Pete could find him again, could convince him -
"So, you don't have a boyfriend, do you? Or, you know, a girlfriend?" Patrick asked, a small smile twisting his lips. "I really don't do the whole cheating thing, like, at all, so I'd appreciate an honest answer."
"No, there's... There's no one," Pete answered, grinning; maybe this whole thing would end up being a little easier than he originally thought.
"Awesome," Patrick said and wrapped sure fingers around Pete's wrist so he could tug him a little closer. "You have a phone?"
The words were said into Pete's ear, the tone low and smooth; Pete wordlessly dug his phone out of his pocket and offered it to him.
Patrick dropped Pete's wrist for the phone and for a minute Pete wanted to whimper and beg until Patrick touched him again. He mentally shook himself and decided he would need to talk to his father about this again.
"Here," Patrick passed the phone back over. "I've got to leave early tonight, I caught a ride out here with a friend, but give me a call later on, maybe we could hang out this week or something."
"Fuck, yeah, we will," Pete assured him with a smug smile, some of his normal equilibrium reasserting itself.
"Talk to you later then," Patrick told him as he turned to go; he gave Pete one last glance over his shoulder and then he got lost among the crowd still milling around.
Pete's eyes stayed on him, unable to stop himself from watching until he was out of sight. And even then, he had this urge to trail after him so he could stay close.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Pete narrowed his eyes; it was definitely time to talk to his dad again.
*
"Pete, what are you doing home?"
Pete looked up from the text he was sending Patrick -u. me. movis. y/y- at his father's words; he glanced back down to send the text and then focused his attention back on the older man.
"Dad, when you met Mom was it, like, weird or anything?"
"Weird," Peter repeated, frowning a little. He sat on the couch next to his oldest son, the glass of water he had come downstairs for temporarily forgotten. "In what context?"
"Like, did you want to follow after her like you were a dog or whatever?" Pete asked and ducked his head so he wouldn't have to look at him.
Peter paused for a second; he had thought that his oldest son would be permanently lost to him after this month, but if he was asking these questions, if he thought he had met his mate, that meant there was still a chance. Pete was hunched over, body language defensive, clearly uncomfortable, so Peter bit back the questions that were almost burning his throat.
"Nothing quite that dramatic; I did want to spend time with her, of course, and I thought of her frequently.
"It did become more intense the closer I got to my birthday," he added carefully. "I found myself making excuses to touch her, to make sure she was close to me. I used to swear that I could pick her heartbeat out of a crowd, but that may have just been my anxiety talking."
Pete nodded slowly, his thoughts clouded; it just figured that there would be a way to make this even more complicated than it already was.
His phone vibrated and Pete smiled when he saw Patrick's name flash across the screen.
If this is Pete, sure. Anyone else, fuck off and stop texting me at one in the morning.
yea, its me. tmrrw ok? srry if i wke u up, ddnt realze wht time it was.
Tomorrow's good. Afternoon or night? And don't worry about it, I wasn't sleeping yet, the noise just startled me.
When Pete looked up almost an hour later, his father wasn't there and he felt just a little bit better about the whole situation.
*
Almost a week later and Pete couldn't help but be cautiously hopeful; he had hung out with Patrick twice (to see the Halloween remake and to a show with Joe's new band, followed by pancakes at Denny's) and talked to him every day.
And now he had Patrick pressed against a wall in the alley behind some shitty club where one of Pete's friends were playing; one hand on Patrick's hip and the other fisted in the hair below his hat, holding him still while they kissed lazily.
"Christ, 'Trick, your mouth," Pete murmured as he pulled back enough to bite Patrick's bottom lip.
"Tell me something I don't know," Patrick smirked despite the flush coloring his face. "Your's isn't so bad, either."
"You guys out here?" Joe called, opening the door and sticking his head out. "Come on, we're getting ready to leave.
"Oh, am I interrupting?" Joe crowed gleefully once he got a good look at the two of them. "My bad. Please, please, continue while I patiently wait on the other side of this door, well within hearing distance."
"Trohman, you fucken cockblock," Pete ground out as Joe ducked back inside, laughing hysterically.
"Fucker," Patrick agreed fervently and dropped his head back against the wall. He eyed Pete up for a second before he cleared his throat.
"So, my parents are going out of town this weekend, do you wanna hang out? Spend the night maybe or something?"
"Yeah," Pete grinned and dipped his head for a quick, dirty kiss. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."
"Awesome," Patrick grinned back at him and then shook his head when he heard Joe making obscene noises on the other side of the door.
Pete rolled his eyes but the smile stayed on his face. "Come on, we better go before Joe hurts himself."
He laced his fingers with Patrick's and they headed inside.