along the middle path they tread

Donnie’s pen skittered out of his grip and rolled to the floor. He sighed. Rubbed his eyes. Placed his head in his hands and sighed again. 

Eventually he groaned and made himself pick it up off the floor. “Why are you like this?” he asked the pen. It did not answer. He glanced at the notes in his phone. They were far more evocative than the drivel he’d been scribbling, which was absolute rubbish by comparison. 

He tapped his fingers impatiently against his desk. Zander hadn’t texted him since they’d last seen each other. Which had been three days ago. He reached for his glass and found it empty. As was the bottle of whisky with which he’d been filling it. Time to fix that. 

Once he’d pushed himself out of his chair, he ambled out of his room in search of another bottle. Maybe grab a smoke while he was at it. Wait. Hadn’t he quit smoking? Another bottle it was, then. 

He did find more bottles. But they were all in the recycling. “Fuckin’ hell,” Donnie grumbled. There was probably a can or two of beer in the fridge but he was still sober enough to know better. Whisky for inspiration, beer for socialization, and never the twain shall meet, otherwise abandon all hope ye who enter here. He wasn’t at abandon all hope yet. Those days were over. 

Well, they were supposed to be. If somebody would just text him back. Would it kill him to send even just a ‘hey’? Something that would let Donnie know Zander hadn’t decided to ghost him? Three days was a long time to not hear from his soulmate! 

Then it struck him. He could text him! Heck, he could even call him!  Hear his voice instead of fumbling with texts! No one called anyone anymore. Donnie could fix that! Just as he was wrestling with his pocket for his phone, it began ringing all on its own. That never happened! 

(Okay, it did, sometimes, but this was completely different.) 

Donnie’s fingers took longer than usual to cooperate, but he managed to press the buttons and get it to his ear before it finished ringing. “H’lo!” 

At first, all he could hear was slightly laboured breathing. Then a familiar, if kinda hushed, voice: “Donnie! Donnie, hey man.” 

It was his soulmate! Donnie’s spirits rose. “Zander! Good t’hear your voice, love! I was so worried you’d-!” 

Zander was shushing him over the phone, so Donnie shushed and did his best to stay shushed. “Not so loud, Donnie, got a client, can’t talk long, but it’s important.” A deep breath. “I need you t-” Someone was knocking hard on something - a door? - and a sultry voice was calling for Zander. Donnie felt like there was something important about that he was supposed to fixate on, but it kept slipping out of his mental grasp, like a slippery thing. 

Zander told off whoever was knocking; the voice and knocking stopped. Donnie could hear him taking deep breaths. “Important?” he prompted after several seconds of quiet. “Need to?”

“Right, yeah,” his soulmate said, sounding distracted. “Y’know what, it can wait, I should g-” 

Donnie sank to his knees and cradled his phone to his ear with both hands. “No, don’t go!” he pleaded. “S’important, you said! I miss you.” 

 “I miss you, too, man, but I gotta go, might’ve just fucked this up, too.” 

Immediately, Donnie told him: "Y’haven’t fucked anything up, love. S’not as bad as you think.” 

Zander’s small laugh made Donnie feel warm and cozy. “Man, I hope so. Text you later, yeah? Gotta go, bye!” 

“Bye!” Donnie chirped even though the call ended - it was the spirit of the thing, after all. 

Now that he’d heard from his soulmate, he felt much better. So much better, in fact, that he skipped (read: stumbled) all the way back to his room without thinking about drinking or smoking or being sad. Now all he could think about was working on the most magnificent, beautiful, wonderful, exhilarating, fantastic, passionate song Donnie had ever- no, anyone had ever written. Josh Groban would have nothing on him. 

Zander would love it and love him and everything would be perfect. 

Augy looked up from his mug of tea, slowly, deliberately, to fix his gaze on gleaming helmet with its winged insignia, and finally uttered the words that had been haunting him for weeks. “You could die.” 

“Yes, I could,” agreed Clifford and he set down his own mug, with more force than necessary. Enough to rattle the table at which they both sat. “I have survived thus far, my father having survived far more.” 

“This isn’t about your father, this is about you, and whether you really are as ready as you say you are,” Augy said to the helmet. 

“I cannot afford to think like that. I am ready. I will leave for my mission tomorrow at midday.” 

Augy glanced away from the helmet and toward the similarly agleam sword and matching shield. “You could die,” he repeated softly. 

A long sigh. A rustling of movement. Then Clifford was sitting beside Augy, their shoulders almost brushing. The familiar scents of armor polish and apples greeted him. “So could you.” 

“I’m not marching off to another kingdom to fight their battles.” 

“I’m not- I’m helping them protect their people. Not all of us are going.” 

Augy knew where the conversation was headed yet continued it nonetheless. “Then stay. Switch places with someone. You can stay here, protect the people here.” 

Another long sigh. “You know I can’t do that.” 

“Yes, you can.” 

“Physically, yes, morally, no!” 

Augy picked up his mug and drained it despite his dislike of it. He would never tell Clifford this. “Save your anger for the evil you smite.” 

“I’m not mad at you. I just wish you wouldn’t get like this every time I leave.” 

Only when he heard Clifford’s retreating footsteps did Augy bring himself to look at him. I do not want you to leave. I need you to stay. More things he would never tell Clifford. Not unless he really needed to. Which he hoped never happened. 

Clifford would return. He always did.

The first thing Mal thought upon seeing Donnie smile was that it outshone the sun. It was immediately followed by what the fuck was that. And rounded off with a strict reminder to stick to the plan.

The plan. The keep-Donnie-at-the-emotional-equivalent-of-arm’s-length plan. The you-can-care-about-Donnie-but-not-that-much plan. That plan. If he could do it with everyone else he can certainly do so with Donnie. Soulmate nonsense be damned. 

Helping Donnie with whatever addiction problem he had wasn’t deviating from the plan. It was something friends did: friends helped each other. Not that Mal was expecting any reciprocal help from Donnie and in the unlikely event that it was offered he would turn it down immediately. He couldn’t have Donnie prying any more than he already unwittingly had. Granted, that had been entirely Mal’s fault; he’d take the blame for that one. 

Smoking. Smoking! That’s what it was, Mal thought as he watched Donnie procure one of those rechargeable ARC lighters from his jacket pocket. “You kept that?” 

Donnie grinned, looking maybe a bit abashed. “Well, love, I’m a sentimental lad,” he answered with a flourish of a shrug. Then flicked open the lighter, producing a tiny flame - not an ARC lighter, just a heavy-duty kerosene lighter, then - before quickly extinguishing it. “Might need it for a concert. Or candles.” 

“Candles?” Mal raised a brow. The light - heh - emphasis Donnie had put on the word, plus the sudden quirk in his grin, had him feeling he knew what meaning he was supposed to take from it. However, he wasn’t going to make it easy on him. That wasn’t as fun. “That far behind on your rent?” 

After having closed the bathroom door behind him, Donnie danced his way from the hallway, through the living room, and into the kitchen in a series of leaps and spins. That had been the most incredible experience ever. Oh, how he could sing with it! Or he would if he could ever find the words even remotely suitable enough to encompass the incredibleness of the experience he’d had the pleasure to, well, experience. The sex had been the best he’d ever had, hands down. Yet what had come after, holding Zander in his arms as they both basked in the afterglow and in each other, had been transcendental. 

Ooh, transcendental. That was an excellent word. After washing his hands at the kitchen sink, Donnie pulled out his phone and its accompanying stylus to scribble down his thoughts. The stylus had been a gift from Gordon, who had insisted he learn how make better use of his phone for note-taking and subsequently taught him how to do so. Of course, he’d backed up his graciousness by explaining first the intricacies of stream-of-consciousness and then finishing it off with “and it means I don’t have to listen to your fucking rambling at three am”. Donnie loved it nonetheless. Once he’d scribbled down as much of his thoughts as he could translate in the moment, he helped himself to some lukewarm coffee using last night’s mug and poked around the kitchen. 

To his surprise - alongside what might be a disproportionate amount of  disappointment - Donnie discovered the contents of the fridge and cabinets to be much like his own: generic, mostly inexpensive foodstuffs, scattered and sorted in some measure of organization. The sleek, upscale feel to the kitchen clearly didn’t hold up to what it held within. He really ought to know better than that, to judge based on appearances and get his hopes up. 

His mood sank. His stomach growled. Donnie didn’t feel like eating anymore yet he forced himself to procure a small bowl of cereal from the fullest opened box lest he accidentally finish off someone’s favourite. The dairy milk in the fridge was of questionable freshness so he opted to eat it dry. Last thing he needed was to be sick while he was a guest in someone’s house. At least the coffee tasted good. 

By the time there were only broken pieces of cereal left in his bowl, Donnie realized what had killed his mood: he hadn’t had his morning smoke. He patted down his jacket and only found his lighter. Where’d his packet go? 

Wait. 

Last night at the nightclub. He’d thrown them out while riding on coattails of euphoria. Vowing he’d quit for good this time. Because that always went well. With a groan of despair, Donnie dragged his hands over his face and then dropped his head onto the table. He really wanted a smoke. Damn it. Why, oh why, had he thought quitting had been a good idea? 

Something went thunk-shhh on the table; Donne all but vaulted out of his chair. He barely heard Zander’s giggle over the thundering of his heart. 

“Y’left those in the bathroom,” he said by way of explanation. Unconsciously lifting a hand to his chest, Donnie looked at the new addition to the tabletop. A container of mints. “Tryin’a tell me somethin’?” 

Donnie swiped the mints off the table and popped one into his mouth. Then popped a second one for good measure. “That Freud would have a field day with me, is what.” 

His soulmate laughed at that, which lifted Donnie’s spirits. Somewhat. “Same.” Zander slid into the seat adjacent to him, elbows on the table, hands on the sides of his face. “That’s not what you’re sad about though, right?” 

Blinking in surprise, he said, “I’m not sad.” 

“You’re somethin’ that ain’t happy.” 

“Got me there,” Donnie conceded with a quick finger-guns motion. Earned him a snicker. “I guess I’m just, dunno, upset with m’self, for quittin’, and settin’ m’self up for failure again.” 

He heard Zander’s chair scooch closer to him. Looking up, he found his soulmate gazing at him. His heart wasn’t sure whether it wanted to sink or rise so it did a weird flip-flop in his chest. “I feel you, man, that shit ain’ easy. I can help if ya want.” 

Donnie’s brows flew up in surprise and for a moment, Zander looked surprised at himself. “Really?” 

A hand rose to rub the back of his soulmate’s neck as he grinned. “Yeah, I mean, like, you can text me whenever y’feel the urge an’ I can be like, boy don’t do it.”

Donnie giggled at the choice of words and then smiled, touched. “That... that would help a lot, I’d wager. Thank you.”

Last night had felt so much like a fever dream that upon waking the third time Mal still had to take stock of his surroundings just to be certain it had been real. He was in his own room. He was in his own pjs. He was in his own bed. His phone, wallet, keys, laptop were on his desk. His jeans and jacket were hanging off the back of his hamper.

The vanity mirror directly across from him showed two people in his bed: himself and Donnie, the latter facing away from him, one arm thrown above his head and the other draped along the covers that were tucked up close to his face yet exposed the slope of his back. Mal looked away from the mirror and cautiously inched his way over to him. He stopped before he reached the pillow yet was close enough he could, slowly, carefully, reach out and... 

Donnie didn’t stir. Mal exhaled through his nose as quietly as humanly possible, his heart thundering in his chest, and let his hand rest atop Donnie’s. It was warm and solid. Three of his fingers had a solid metal ring on each of them, the textured design on one of them so strongly reminiscent of tire treads that Mal had to swallow a laugh. The longer Donnie remained asleep and still, the more Mal’s heart slowed to a reasonable rate and he could soon breathe easily again. 

He couldn’t explain the current compulsion and he was torn between wishing he hadn’t followed through and wishing certain acts of intimacy, even the goddamn tiniest things, didn’t bother him so much. It all felt performative. Ironic, considering most of his life was performative, but it was different. The smaller the gesture, the more it meant. The more it meant, the more it’d inevitably be torn away and used against him as a weapon. 

His chest felt tight. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, Mal wrenched his hand away from Donnie and held it against his chest as if that’d somehow ease the terrible ache that’d settled there. He shut his eyes and forced himself to take silently counted breaths. 

Said a groggy, English voice, “Bad dreams, love?” 

Mal opened his eyes and turned his head to the left just enough to see Donnie facing him now, propped up on one arm and rubbing sleep from his face with the other. His dark hair was a spiky mess which he consciously tried to comb into submission with his fingers. There was something oddly calming about watching him do that. 

After making a noncommittal noise, Mal yawned, stretched, and started finger-combing his own hair. Once he was satisfied with how it looked in the mirror he pulled himself out of bed and shuffled over to his desk for his phone. A text from Dani letting him know she’d left for work and reminding him to deal with the damn dishes before he went anywhere ended with a smiley and a heart. So she’d remembered not to clean up after him. Meant she was in a good mood. Good for her.

“Here.” Mal tossed Donnie his clothes from where they’d been gathered on his chair. “Bathroom’s ‘round the corner if you wanna shower or whatever, make yourself at home, I’m gonna get food.” Donnie blinked at him over the bundle of clothes he’d caught in his arms. “What?” 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” 

Donnie couldn’t believe it. Somehow, some way, he’d managed to convince Zander, his soulmate, to take him home with him. On the first date. His nerves buzzed with anxiety and excitement, the latter of which quickly taking precedence over the former: as they stepped out of the club, Zander’s hand reached for his. Warmth bloomed from their connected palms and spread through Donnie’s body. While he was dimly aware that the night was chilly, the cold couldn’t touch him. He was as warm as though he were sitting cozy on the hearth, wrapped up in his favourite blanket, a mug of homemade hot cocoa in his hands, watching the crackling fire dance behind the grate. 

He felt a sudden absence in his hand. The warmth and cozy image disappeared. Donnie shivered, blinked quickly, and realized something very important: Zander snapping his fingers in front of his face. “’Ey, space-age country boy. Still on Earth?” 

They both were standing on the edge of the sidewalk, right by a waiting cab. The cold night air slipped beneath his collar and sleeves. He shivered. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, love, got a bit distracted.” 

Zander looked like he was going to argue something, but changed his mind and ushered him into the cab, hastily giving the driver an address as he did with the air of someone apologetic for overspending someone’s time. Donnie reached for his hand and found it. The warmth returned, as did the imagery, albeit less vivid than before. Now he kept it in his mind without losing track of the present. He longed to cuddle up to his soulmate right then, to reassure him, in the back of the cab yet had enough sense not to do that, even amid the pleasant haze of contentment. Zander seemed comfortable with just holding hands for the moment so Donnie wouldn’t push for anything else. His silence seemed odd but he wouldn’t push that, either. No pushing. Just holding hands. And it was good. 

His soulmate’s hand was warm, his sturdy fingers linking perfectly between his own, his steady pulse reassuring him everything was good. There were many possible reasons why he was quiet, Donnie reasoned, and none of them had to be bad. All he had to do was take it at face value and simply enjoy the fact they were together. 

He felt Zander nudge him with his shoulder and saw him jerk his head a bit toward the window. Donnie leaned across him and looked. Dazzling, festive lights decorated grand arches and a giant Christmas tree while snowflakes drifted and danced across the glittery nightscape. “It looks so magical.” 

Zander mumbled something that sounded like, “no, you.” Donnie zeroed in on him instead. “Didn’t catch that, love.” In the dark of the cab, he felt rather than saw the blush warming his soulmate’s face and knew it was adorable. 

“S’nothing.” Zander’s warm breath caressed his ear; heat rushed through Donnie with such urgency it was a wonder he didn’t catch fire right then. If he turned his head just a bit to the side he might be able to-- 

A loud and deliberate cough jerked him out of the moment. Mumbling an apology, Donnie flashed a smile at the cab driver and drew back to sit in his seat proper. He gave Zander’s hand a squeeze and wondered if he felt the same flame burning under his skin. His soulmate squeezed back and shuffled impatiently in his seat. Donnie stared down at the floor and let the smug grin unfurl. Darling, the feeling’s mutual. 

Mal choked on a laugh; he turned his head and tried to disguise it as a cough. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear, much less from Donnie. He’d expected something more like “Am I not good enough for you?” since he had, after all, been dancing with someone else in his absence. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, something like “Do you believe in ghosts?” because for a moment there he sure looked like he’d seen one. Or, even more far-fetched (hopefully) than that: “Are you the Zander Grey, the SWM escort?” Yet it’d been none of those things. 

He couldn’t help it: he giggled as relief bubbled up and spilled over into laughter. “I’m not laughing at you,” Mal said as soon as he could, patting Donnie’s arm and smiling apologetically at him. Admittedly, he was, a little bit. “Jus’ hadn’t expected that.” 

Donnie had looked like he’d been caught between being scandalized and relieved and then decided the latter was the better option. “So I’ll take that as a no, then.” 

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, you’re right.” Smiling still, Mal sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus ain’t got shit t’do with that, or God, or whoever. Load’a bullshit t’me, all of that stuff.” 

Donnie visibly brightened. “Same!” Then frowned. “Then why?” 

“Why what?” 

“Why do you think you’re not soulmate material?” 

Donnie had been mostly joking about needing a smoke. There’d been nowhere else he’d rather be than with his soulmate at that moment and yet Zander’s reassurance had propelled him off his stool and out of the club. He was a man of his word, after all. Couldn’t have his soulmate thinking him indecisive or fickle or anything like that. 

After stepping outside, he took in a deep lungful of air. The night was comfortably cool and dark; he readjusted the sleeves of his leather jacket out of habit despite the lack of studded bands on his wrists. Readied himself a smoke and took in a lungful of that, too. Not as... pleasant wasn’t the word. Dismissable? Forgettable? Unimportant? Nondescript? Donnie pondered a few more possible synonyms before tossing the thought aside while flicking ash off his cigarette. He’d become accustomed to the taste yet it’d dawned on him now that he didn’t enjoy it at all. 

Perhaps he should try a new brand? Better yet: perhaps he should quit, for good this time. He toyed with the thought while eyeing the smoke burning away between his fingers. It’d be wasteful to not finish the one he had going; then he’d stop. But he still had a few left in his pack... he’d finish those first- 

What the fuck had that been? 

After having shaken off the enthusiastic audience - the fuck had been in that brandy? - Mal ordered a beer, thought about it, and changed it to a screwdriver. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and he had enough sense to go for something with some sort of sustenance if he was going to make it through the rest of the night. 

Donnie sat beside him, leaning against him again, looking all the world like he’d just had the best sex of his life. It would’ve hot as hell if Mal wasn’t too busy trying to look like he wasn’t about to lose his shit. 

“Feels like I need me a smoke,” Donnie said with a laugh and a sigh. 

Mal latched onto the idea with relief.  “Dude, go ahead.” 

“You sure?” 

He nodded and nudged Donnie in lieu of being affectionate and reassuring while actually trying to get him away from him, even for a few minutes. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. And sip on his drink while he did both. 

It was entirely possible that it hadn’t been the brandy. Actually, he knew it hadn’t been the brandy. Alcohol of any kind didn’t work like that. And if it’d been spiked with something, he wouldn’t be sitting where he was at the bar thinking about what had happened in the first place. Instead, he’d either still be on the floor or in really bad shape. So... 

Maybe... 

There might be something true about the soulmate thing after all? 

Mal ought to be more upset at the thought, yet that was hardly the case: he felt... surprisingly calm about it. He took a steep drink, grimacing around the pulp. The afterglow of the... thing. Dance thing. The exquisite euphoria. That’s what was doing it. That made sense. Never mind what had caused it. 

Satisfied with himself, Mal hummed a bit and then checked his phone. One missed text from Dani asking him if he still wanted the emergency call. He started typing a response but then frowned. The club’s atmosphere started filtering into his consciousness: throbbing music, laughter, dancing; the fact he was sitting all by himself currently enjoying none of it. 

Well, that was just unacceptable. Mal knocked back the rest of his drink, pulp and all, and texted Dani a succinct “nah” before hopping off his stool and heading back to the dance floor. He was there to enjoy himself, soulmate nonsense be damned.

Zander commandeering the dance floor and the music thrilled Donnie. Here was a man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. He moved with the kind of confidence that strolled up to the line separating it from sheer arrogance and leaned against it with a smirk on his face. Made it look good. 

An exciting change from when they’d first met, that was for sure. An unwelcome thought emerged: it could just be an act, Zander could have ulterior motives, bad ones. Donnie willfully ignored the nagging voice that sounded suspiciously like Chris and sidled up to Zander. This man was his soulmate. He had nothing to worry about. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” he was saying to him, right up close, grinning, and for that moment Donnie forgot to breathe. Then he spun away onto the dance floor. As if he was going to look at anything or anyone else! His soulmate danced to the beat, moving to the rhythm like it was made just for him, like his body was an extension of the music. Like he was the music. 

Donnie wanted to be part of it. Part of him. As he should be. Mesmerized, he reached out the same moment Zander reached for him. Their fingertips brushed. His soulmate grabbed his hand and in that instant he knew. He knew. The same thing he’d known since they’d first met. It sang along his arm and through his body and he tipped his head back and laughed as he was spun around and lifted and spun again. They danced together and then apart and then together again, always within reach, step for step, move for move, as though they’d been dancing together their entire lives. He never wanted it to end. 

However, as all good things, it ended. The world returned in a rush of cheers from the crowd that had formed around them. Donnie leaned against his soulmate for support, grinning. The rush from playing gigs paled in comparison to this. He glanced at Zander’s face and noted he was staring out at the people instead of looking at him and he wasn’t smiling why wasn’t he smiling- 

He’s in shock, Donnie reasoned, relieved he could alleviate his own worries so quickly. So he nudged Zander. His soulmate blinked and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time which, Donnie told himself, was also normal. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, uh. That was. A thing. I’m shook, dude.” So he’d been right. It was shock. Zander smiled a little and then turned so he could bow. Donnie did the same. This man was his soulmate. He had nothing to worry about. 

They could dodge bullets but they couldn’t dodge light. 

She watched them. They were like enormous misshapen vultures circling the distant sky, high enough to be easily ignored by most observers. She wasn’t like most observers. She wouldn’t act until one broke away from the flock.

Hefting the weapon on her shoulder, she adjusted her aim: the most high-power and fine-tune ever to exist. Designed to burn clean through anything, capable of doing so through objects miles away. And her target was in range. She listened to it whir by her ear, powering up, and then fired. 

The result was immediate. Even from afar, she heard the piercing cry. Felt it shudder through her. Watched the humanoid creature plummet from the sky, its winged fellows diving after it in vain. She lowered the weapon once it powered down, shivering suddenly, let it clatter to the ground. Her vision clouded; she blinked furiously to clear her eyes. Hugged her arms over her chest, heart aching. 

I’m sorry. It was a thought that became a whisper. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry. A murmur. She sank to her knees. 

I’m sorry! A cry, a yell. I’m sorry! A shout. I’m sorry!

She curled in on herself. I’m sorry! A scream. Tears poured down her face. Pain clawed her throat, crushed her lungs, still she screamed. 

Arms hooked under her. Hauled her to her feet. Dragged her from her hiding place. Something pinched her neck. The shrill sound of her own voice faded into nothing. 

Sipping brandy, neat, out of snifters, at a gay nightclub of his own choosing was extra even for Mal. But since it wasn’t coming out of his pocket, he’d drink whatever the hell Donnie ordered, no questions asked. Except daiquiris. If he ordered one from here, they were gonna have a problem. 

He hoped they weren’t gonna have a problem. Sure, Donnie looked like he’d dropped the greaser-punk look Mal had originally recognized him for - except the hair, that looked identical to when he’d last seen him. Yet he talked like a gentleman. Nothing at all like the high-velocity singer/screamer Mal had first observed at a distance and with slight interest some time ago. 

That had been before he’d dropped into his life and announced they were soulmates. 

As long as Donnie didn’t bring it up, Mal wouldn’t hold it against him. He was there to drink and dance. And he was just about finished his drink. The night was still young, meaning the dancefloor was littered with stragglers yet barren of dancers. Time for him to fix that. 

He downed the rest of his brandy, wiped his mouth with a flourish of his shirtsleeve, slid his phone back into his pocket, and flashed Donnie a grin. “Finish your drink. Let’s go.” 

“Okay! Um, where?” 

“Dancefloor.” Mal had been reaching for Donnie’s arm when Donnie hopped off the stool; he misjudged and narrowly avoided grabbing his face, turning the movement into a dramatic follow-me gesture instead. If Donnie had noticed anything, he didn’t mention it, falling into step just shy of beside him. 

“Make way!” Mal called out, spreading his arms wide to move the halfhearted crowd aside. “Here to dance. Help a dude out?” he added when he made eye contact with the DJ. They nodded. The music changed to some remixed Lady GaGa. ‘Applause’, was it? Fitting. 

Mal turned and grinned at Donnie. Time to see what he could handle.

As agreed upon, Donnie waited out the week until his first date with Zander. It was the longest week of his entire life. He’d only texted him twice throughout - as promised - just to confirm the time and place. He’d driven his brothers and bandmates crazy, unable to stop talking about him or fretting about all the things that could be going wrong. 

How could he not? He’d finally found his soulmate, but only got to be with him for a few minutes, so of course his anxiety acted up. It was all Donnie could do to keep himself from getting drunk to get a break from it.  Yet it was the knowledge that he would be seeing Zander again that kept him going.  

Tonight was the night. Donnie had fussed over his hair and outfits since the afternoon, finally deciding scant minutes before he had to leave: hair in his favourite classic pompadour, dark brown leather jacket over a white vee-neck with the collar down, snug blue jeans with a belt that matched his jacket, plain black socks, and the sole pair of “sensible” brown shoes he owned. He was going for presentable date, not punk rock frontman. However, he did keep his chain and all of his rings, as he felt uncomfortably naked without them. And they gave him something to fidget with while he waited for his soulmate to arrive. 

And arrive he did. Donnie could only stare in awe. The evening sun cast Zander in a warm glow and lit his eyes into seductive pools of brandy. His dark hair was a perfect mess he’d just finished raking his hand through. His casual jacket, shirt, jeans, shoes, and his stroll spoke of a confidence that teetered on the edge of arrogant in the best way. He wanted to drink him in, all of him, in every way possible; he licked his suddenly dry lips and tugged at his collar. Did the room just get warmer? Zander spotted him and smiled: Donnie was glad he’d already found a seat because otherwise he’d be on the floor trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Zander was saying as he slid onto the stool next to him, “forgot th’ train was down this weekend, had t’find another way here.” 

Donnie told him it was okay, he understood, while silently hoping he hadn’t noticed the crack in his voice; he cleared his throat and flagged the bartender. He needed something to calm his nerves and ordered the first thing that came to his mind. 

“Brandy, eh?” 

Oh, god, Zander was laughing at him. The date had barely started and he’d already fucked it up! 

“Dude, no, it’s fine - got my attention, that’s for sure - make it two.” He was leaning against the bar, looking at him not with scorn but clear interest. So Donnie could breathe easy again. 

“First thing that came to me mind,” he confessed, chuckling at himself, “normally I warm up first with a brew. Must be your eyes, makes me wanna jump right in.”

To his absolute delight, his soulmate’s eyes widened, making him look adorably flustered. Then he glanced away, clearly at a loss for words, but in a good way that had Donnie grinning. He hadn’t screwed up at all. Tonight was going to be just fine. 

Aidan nearly crashed into a tree when an ear-splitting screech came from the radio. She swerved violently onto the side of the road, slammed on the breaks, and wrenched the key out of the ignition. The screech faded into silence. 

“Sorry, that was my fault.” From the back seat, Joshua looked every bit as sheepish as he sounded, although otherwise calm, unruffled by Aidan’s hard stare. “I didn’t have time to warn you before it happened.” 

Ears ringing, heart thundering in her chest, Aidan demanded, “What was that?” 

“Psionic feedback.” He shifted in his seat, tugging gently on the seat belt. “I left a channel open in case the flock needed it - normally it’d be through me directly, but I had to divert it for a moment through your car radio.” 

“Why?” 

“Because in that moment I brushed up against another channel on accident and if I hadn’t diverted the resulting feedback into something inanimate with an outlet, I likely would have done irreversible damage to the car - or you - otherwise.”