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Check 'Yes' Or 'No' (Like The Notes We Passed In Study Hall)

Part 1

by [livejournal.com profile] subcutis and [livejournal.com profile] cold_clarity 

Pete/Mikey

Rated R for explicit sexual situations

Notes: so one night [livejournal.com profile] subcutis and I got into a conversation about bandom guys in the generic high school AU setting (you know. like you do).  it sort of spiraled out of control and now we have a multi-part fic happening? anyway, we co-wrote everything, and then I went back and sorta curated it all. this is the first 'chapter' of what we have produced. things you should know:

this part in particular is very, very loose, and kind of all over the place. an eventual sense of continuity appears later down the road, but this is really just us lolling at the idea of Pete Wentz and co. at an all-boys boarding school. we hadn't started out intending to actually write a fic. so yeah.

the melodrama will escalate. I'm warning you now. we're on a mission to rival Degrassi or something.

this is probably the gayest all-boys school ever.  no seriously.  and no one goes to class and there isn't even the slightest hint of supervision.  we are both fully aware of how hugely unrealistic all of that is.

finally, I feel the need to disclaim that neither one of us bear any hatred for Gabe Saporta or Jared Leto. we actually think Gabe is hilarious and Jared is just kind of a diva in a weirdly endearing way.

as usual, we own nothing and we are making no profit out of this. we only hope to make you laugh.


high school

Really, it's all Jared Leto's fault.

Because Jared Leto is a lacrosse-playing douchebag (and, okay, maybe he's good at what he does but still--douchebag) and Pete's sworn enemy until the end of eternity and if Pete can blame anything on anyone, he's going to blame it on Leto. It's a rule of sworn enemy-hood.

Enemy-ship?

Whatever.

Pete flops over onto his bunk, trying to articulate the gravity of the situation.

What was he saying? Oh right. The point is that yeah, maybe all LAX bros are, as a rule, jerk-offs, but Leto could make asshattery a profession with or without lacrosse as his crutch, seriously--

"I'd blow him," Gabe interjects.

Pete makes a frustrated noise. Gabe is the least helpful.

From the top bunk, Andy chimes: "Gabe, you'd blow anyone."

"And?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "You have no standards."

"Puh-leeze babydoll. Don't even talk to me about standards. You pine after the weirdest people."

"Fuck you, name one person--"

"Sorry, I didn't realize you wanted to be here all day--"

"So Pete," Andy cuts in. "You never got around to specifying what exactly Leto did."

Pete halts, mouth open. After a minute:

"What, you mean besides everything?"

Pete can basically hear Andy rolling his eyes. He kicks at the mattress over his head and gets a snarled 'Fuck. You.' in response. From his side of the room, Gabe just snorts.

Sometimes, Pete hates his friends.

.

St. Cecilia's School for Young Men might actually be hell on Earth. Pete hasn't come to a conclusive decision about this, but it's looking like a pretty good call.

It's a boarding school, so his parents were all excited when he got in. They were equally excited when he made the varsity soccer team in his sophomore year because of something about him having initiative. And a good head on his shoulders. He remembers his dad saying that. And then clapping him on the shoulder at some point, during one of those visits when they came up to watch a game.

God, parents.

In any case, he's a junior now, and he still plays soccer, which, he supposes, isn't the worst thing in the world. Except that it means he runs in the same jock social circles as Jared Leto. Like it's not enough that he has to see the guy in class or something.

Ugh.

Anyway. Leto and his cohort aside, like at least seventy-five percent of the school population sucks. And all the teachers are jaded hypocrites. And class is boring. And Pete's pretty sure that, despite what people say about the St. Cecilia's prestigious reputation as a "preparatory academic institution", the whole ordeal is pretty much bullshit. He's never going to have to use trigonometry ever again, and no future employer is going to give a flying fuck if he can find the cosine of the tangent or whatever the hell.

As a defensive action against all the soul-sucking, he rooms in a triple with Andy and Gabe and it's pretty rad. They've all been friends since freshman year and Pete's sure that their unspoken bond of brotherhood will remain unbroken for all eternity, even if Andy occasionally accuses Pete and Gabe of being "total bitches" when they're playing Fuck, Chuck, or Marry with the yearbook.

Gabe always rolls his eyes at that jab.

"You love us," he drawls. And then, when Pete flips a page in the yearbook and points to a particularly gross picture of Travie McCoy at last year's hotdog eating contest: "Fuck. Totally would fuck."

Andy pages through a well-worn copy of Ultimate X-Men and says nothing.

Gabe doesn't prod him, more interested potential fuck buddies (Pete presumes) than in harassing Andy into throwing the nearest hard object at his head. That is until--

"Oh. Ohhh!" Gabe flaps a hand. "Well I would say 'chuck' but I thiiiink I might make Andy mad. We can't do anything bad to his special music manfriends."

Pete glances at the page. Ray Toro--a senior now--is slouched on some chair in the band room, his fluffy hair falling into his face as he fiddles with a guitar. Pete snorts. Ray is basically Andy's other best friend--or something. They talk music a lot, anyhow. The nature of their relationship is hugely unclear, and Andy himself is astoundingly mum on the matter (not that this is a huge change of pace for Andy--some shit about having privacy), but Pete has his suspicions.

Andy sighs.

"Do I even want to know?"

"It's your ma-an," Gabe singsongs.

"What are you--" Andy looks over. "Oh you know what? Fuck you."

"More like fuck him."

"You wish."

Gabe actually looks offended. "Honey please."

Pete adds: "He is basically the dweeb crowd incarnate."

"Like Dorksville Dorksilvania."

Andy makes a face. "You guys are sitcom-worthy. Toro's a cool guy."

"Yeah, if you define cool as communing with a guitar."

"Or, you know, hanging out with Gerard Way."

A pillow almost hits Gabe square in the face. He ducks out of the way with a yelp. Pete considers tossing it back, but Andy's already swung off his bunk and is striding for the door.

"I'll come back when you two have gotten a collective bitchectomy."

Without missing a beat, Pete retorts, "Or when you're done running your hands through Toro's untamable locks."

"Oh my god," Gabe chimes. "Try not to break anything when you're fucking him."

"Jealous," Andy says calmly--and then he's out the door.

Pete and Gabe look at each other, share an as if face and return their attention to the yearbook.



unrequited

Since halfway through last year, Pete has had an embarrassingly huge crush on Mikey Way. It's awkward for a lot of reasons. For example, Pete doesn't really cross Mikey's path that much. It's really hard to talk to someone without looking like a stalker if you don't have a reason to be around them.

It doesn't help that Mikey primarily hangs out with his brother. And his brother's ensuing entourage of dorkus friends. All of whom kind of creep Pete out--thereby making it even harder to come up with a reason to run into Mikey.

This year, though, they have history class together. Pete tries not to take their mutual interest in Stalinist Russia as a sign that they're meant to be together, but he kind of does. Especially when he's trying to surreptitiously appreciate Mikey's totally hot (and, okay, totally freakishly skinny) bod from across the classroom.

Naturally, Gabe takes the whole situation as an opportunity to give Pete endless amounts of shit.

"You realize we're talking about Mikey, here. Mikey Way. As in Gerard Way's little brother." Gabe says this as though Pete might have somehow missed that detail. "You can't."

Pete tries to ignore the funny heat creeping up into his face. "Dude, why do you care?"

"Because he's Gerard's brother! That weirdness has to be genetic. Also"--Gabe rolls over on his bed--"you might as well burn your street cred now. That's like a one way ticket the land of the social outcasts."

Pete fidgets. "He's…not that outcast." God, he wishes Andy were around. Andy is better at arguing and making sense at the same time.

"No, honey. You cannot get mixed up with the Ways--"

"Everyone invites him to things! He goes out!" It comes out whinier than he intended, sure, but… "Everyone likes Mikey."

"Pshh, listen. Baby. Kids like Mikey are an entirely different species."

In the smallest voice, Pete mumbles: "But. Wehavestuffincommon."

"No. Pete. Don't even go there."

"But--"

"You are not destined to fuck someone just because you play the same goddamn instrument."

"You'd fuck him."

"Immaterial." Gabe waves a hand. "And anyway, sure, I'd fuck him. But I wouldn't go and have a lot of feelings about it."

Pete sighs. This is a losing argument. "You are an unbelievable slut."

Of course, this isn't news to Gabe. He carries on:

"Also, he hangs out with that other sophomore. You know. The transfer one? A total crazy."

Pete gives him a blank look. Gabe sighs like he's being put upon and reaches for his laptop. His fingers click across the keyboard.

"This kid." He spins the laptop so Pete can see. "Total spaz, oh my god. Seriously. He gets in fights like it's his job."

Pete peers at the picture. He recognizes Frank Iero mostly by his smeary eyeliner and impish grin.

"He's not that bad, really…."

Gabe scoffs. "Pedophile."

Pete rolls his eyes.

Gabe just forges ahead. "You know that sleeve he has? I heard he did it himself."

"Okay, first of all, that's not even possible. Second of all--I don't have a second of all. But what does this have to do with Mikey?"

"Uh, clearly it's a sign that he's crazy? And possibly a serial killer. I'm not sure, Pete--I just know that quiet dudes who hang out with manics probably aren't your ideal bedfellows."

"…Ryan's quiet."

"Not always."

It takes Pete a second to put two and two together. And then:

"Fuck you! And you're calling me a pedophile?"

Gabe snorts. "Guuuuuurl. I never claimed to be a role model. I'm just looking out for you."

"I have no words for you."

That earns him a grin.

"I bet you do, you fucking poet." This, delivered as though Gabe knows something.

And--okay. There's no actual way Gabe knows about the journal Pete keeps but. Maybe his heart stutters anyway?

"Oh my god, Gabe, fuck off."

The Cheshire cat grin grows. "I think it's really good, I mean it. You should show Mikey all the shit you write about him. He'd be flattered."

That's about all it takes for Pete to launch himself across the room.

"ASSHOLE."

Cackling, Gabe scrambles to avoid Pete's fists. "Seriously, Pete. Anyone who keeps a diary is just asking for it--"

"I never wanted you to read that! I never wanted anyone to read it!"

They end up dashing down the hall, Pete howling after Gabe. They make it down to the second floor of the dorm before Gabe nearly bowls right over Patrick Stump coming out of his own room.

Gabe manages to gasp Sorry, Trick, Pete's just mad that I-- before he gets tackled. Straddling Gabe's hips, Pete mooshes his hands over Gabe's stupid, oversharing mouth.

"Hi Patrick," he says. He hopes his breathlessness comes off as friendly nonchalance.

"…Hey guys."

Pete grins, suddenly feeling all fluttery. "What's up, Patrick?"

Meanwhile, Gabe makes several ferocious noises against Pete's hands. Pete attempts to thump his head against the floor.

Patrick looks bemused. "Uh. I--was going to the library?"

"Mmmffnngsff!" Gabe contributes, sliming Pete's palm with his tongue.

"Ugh, Gabe!"

Pete almost topples over in his attempt to recoil.

"So--uh--" Patrick tugs on the brim of his cap. "I'll see you guys later?"

Pete deflates only slightly. "Wait--"

But Patrick is already walking down the hall. Pete watches him only a little mournfully.

Gabe shoves at Pete's chest.

"Dude. You are the most pathetic man on the planet."

Pete tries to pin his arms. "Fuck you, just because I don't fuck everything that moves--"

"No, you just write goddamn poetry about it--"

"I'm going to murder you."

They wrestle in the middle of the hallway until Ryland Blackinton, Patrick's roommate, shows up and reminds Gabe that they have plans to attend to. At which point Gabe shrieks 'uncle!' and squirms away, leaving Pete in an out-of-breath pile on the floor.

Fuck his life, seriously.

.

No, but really, his life is hard. Because if Pete's being honest, he's also had a crush on Patrick since forever. Like seriously. And it sucks because Pete and Patrick have been best friends since they were kids and Pete knows anything else is totally off-limits because it's Patrick and that's just how things go with your best friends and he guesses he'll just have to suffer in unrequited silence for as long as he lives.

It blows, really.

It blows even harder because they legit don't hang out as much as they did when they were younger. Pete isn't even sure how that happened. He spent all of his freshman year trying to convince Patrick to apply to St. Cecilia's--and it was finally the promise that they had great funding for the music program that got Patrick to stop mumbling about I don't know--it doesn't seem like my scene and just send in an application. When he got in, Pete was kind of bowled over with joy--because Patrick is and was the best thing in his life and no he's not a sucker for emotional anguish, he just really likes Patrick. Like a lot.

But really, it's like they run in different crowds or something. Pete can't quite figure it out because Patrick seems to be on the fringe of every clique--and a person would think that would mean Pete sees him all the time, but it doesn't. If anything, Pete has to go out of his way to hang out with Patrick. And it's not like he minds (quite the opposite, really. A day that includes Patrick can't be anything but a good day, in Pete's book) but sometimes he isn't the best at keeping up with people when they aren't right there to be part of his day-to-day?

So he feels shitty as a friend, occasionally.

Not that he doesn't care or anything. In fact, he's the first to come to Patrick's defense for everything. Like that one time he saw Jared Leto flirting outrageously with Patrick--or "asking for music recommendations", Pete's ass. He knows what it's like to talk music with Patrick, and it does not include predatory smiles and tucking hair behind ears and whatever the shit else Leto does.

Presumably, it was all some kind of weird roundabout way of pissing Pete off. And, okay, maybe it worked because they nearly got into a fistfight in the locker rooms but whatever. Pete would destroy anyone who tried to take Patrick for granted, so it seemed reasonable to take a swing at Leto at the time.

Later, Patrick found out about it and got kind of pissed ("Seriously, Pete--I don't need you to--No. Whatever. Just try not to get kicked out of school for being some kind of discipline case."). But Pete doesn't regret it. Because this is Patrick, and if Pete can't openly declare his undying love for him, then the next best thing is volunteering himself to defend Patrick's honor at all times. Even in the face of his own fascination with Mikey Way and Mikey Way's hips in skinny jeans.

Yeah. Patrick's honor wins out over pretty boys in skinny jeans. That's how much Pete cares.

"His honor, Andy," he bemoans.

Andy pats his back sympathetically. "You'll figure it out."

"Neverrrr." Pete buries his face in a pillow.

"Pete."

"You don't even know what it's like! You just get to chill with the man you love!"

"Okay--I'm going to ignore that--"

"And it's just one man. You have it so easy--"

Andy sighs his long-suffering sigh and just pets Pete's hair.




heterosexuality

"Ugh can you even believe that asshole turned me down?"

It's a Saturday, so, naturally, they aren't doing anything productive. Gabe is making the most impeccable of bitch-faces at the back of Mike Pedicone's buzzed head from across the quad. The school's star quarterback, completely unaware of Gabe and his fury, dashes for a frisbee.

"He's straight, Gabe," Pete says.

Not that it matters. They've been through this before.

"Does it look like I care?"

"That's not how it works--"

"Ugh. Ugh. He was so fucking nice about it, too." Gabe waves his hands dramatically and Pete sighs, because, clearly, this is just the start of his fuming. "I even told him--I told him he would complete my football team circuit."

"Gabe, what even--"

"And he like. Patted my fucking shoulder."

Sprawled on the grass, Andy actually almost chokes on a laugh. Gabe snarls.

"Like he was fucking sympathetic--I just. Do you know what he said to me?"

"What, besides 'no, I won't have sex with you'?"

"Fuck you--fucking--he said 'We're cool, right, bro?'. Just. How can we be cool? Ugh. Fuck you, cool--That doesn't even begin to cover what we are, Brodicone."

Andy might actually be convulsing with laughter.

"…Brodicone? That's retarded."

"You're retarded!"

"…Okay."

"And you know what else?"

Pete tugs at a blade of grass. "I'm sure you're going to tell us."

"Just. Okay. I've slept with more people in this school than anyone."

"…Okay…"

"I could touch his dick in ways he can't even imagine! He would find god, okay."

Pete is actually struggling to keep a straight face.

Andy controls his laughter enough to jab, "I'm sure he'll live."

"NOT WHEN I'M THROUGH WITH HIM HE WON'T."

"Dude," Pete glances at Gabe's crotch, "you have now surpassed half-mast. Why don't you go take care of that?"

Because seriously, that boner is starting to look painful.

"Grossssss," Andy drawls.

Gabe shoots them both a murderous look, getting to his feet. "YOU BITCHES WISH YOU COULD HAVE THIS."

As he stomps away, Pete shouts after him:

"Yeah, too bad Pedicone doesn't!"

"EAT SHIT AND DIE, WENTZ."

Pete glances at Andy, who's wiping at his eyes.

"Oh my god, you two and your love lives. You should be on One Tree Hill or something."

Pete throws a clump of grass at him. "Asshat."




parties

Gabe and Ryland are like some kind of glitterati at St. Cecilia's. In the sense that Gabe is Perez Hilton and Ryland is…okay. Ryland is probably more like John Waters than he is like glitterati, Pete has to admit. But he's Gabe's best friend so he's like school-celebrity-by-association. Or something.

Either way, a big factor in their status seems to have to do with the fact that, every month, they always manage to pull together a hugely illicit, after-hours, invite-only, booze-laden party in the basement of the fieldhouse. Pete has no idea how they get away with it. He doesn't ask, either, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

He goes every time, though. Probably because there's something vindicating about drinking on school property while the administration sleeps the night away.

The attendees are the usual--or, as Gabe so classily puts it: everyone who's anyone. Mostly, Pete just knows Gabe, Andy, and the other sports guys.

He's surprised to see that there are girls present, though. According to hearsay, Pedicone (who apparently has all the connections in the world) managed to sneak them in from St. Cecilia's sister school?

Pete doesn't ask.

Everything is decently cool. He talks and drinks and feels generally amicable until a third of the way through the night, when Mikey shows up. And then Patrick. And then Jared Leto. Pete's sure he can't handle all that emotional conflict existing in one place. Especially not when he's already several beers deep.

He ends up standing in the corner with Andy.

"I'm going to kill him." He glares across the room at Leto, because the guy is clearly putting the moves on Patrick.

"Pete--"

"No really. You just have to help me hide the body."

It comes out whinier he wanted it to. He blames the beer. Beer always makes him whiny. He takes another swig.

Andy eyes him. "Could you try not to binge-drink your feelings away?"

"Fuck you and your straight-edge sobriety."

"I love you too."

"…He's trying to break Patrick's heart. To piss me off."

"Okay, the universe doesn't revolve around you, Pete. And Patrick's a big boy. He'll handle it."

Pete sincerely doubts all of this, but his head is pretty foggy, so he doesn't argue. Yet. He does glare some more. Until Andy pokes him in the side.

"You've got a suitor," he says, voice low.

"Wha--"

"Don't be an idiot."

And he's gone. Pete blinks. Fuck you too, Andy.

"Hey."

He looks up and hopes he doesn't balk because Mikey's sort of shuffling up to him, all skinny and awkward and kind of flushed in that tipsy way and--fuck, how is that so hot? Pete stares.

"Mind if I join?"

"Uh--" He should say something. He's supposed to answer.

But Mikey's already leaning against the wall, standing kind of a little too close. Nonchalant as anything, he sips at his own can of beer. Before Pete can really think it through, he blurts:

"Did Gabe invite you?"

A shrug.

Pete doesn't even know what the hell that's supposed to mean. So he rambles on.

"Because--I mean--I've told him you're cool and…he just. Is picky sometimes."

Nice, Pete. It's always good to start off with the 'I didn't think you were cool enough to get on my friend's radar' line. Very smooth.

Mikey looks at him askance, so Pete assumes he's thinking something equally sarcastic.

"Gabe's kind of a dick."

"He's my friend."

"You're friends with a lot of dicks."

Pete considers this. It's probably true.

He tips back his beer to cover for the awkward silence.

Mikey thumbs the tab on his own can. After a minute: "Wanna hear something really stupid?"

"Um."

Apparently the question was rhetorical, because Mikey keeps talking.

"I'm pretty drunk."

"Me too."

"I had to get pretty drunk to work up the nerve to come over here."

"Me t--oh. Um."

And whoa, hey now. When did Mikey start looking directly at him? Pete's mouth abruptly goes dry. Mikey kind of leans in a little closer. Close enough that he's officially invading all of Pete's personal space. Pete doesn't think he could move, even if he wanted to.

"Um," he says again. Apparently he's feeling eloquent tonight.

"Hey, Pete?"

He actually can't talk. His vocal chords are frozen or something. Not that it matters. After a second, Mikey closes the distance between them in the sloppiest kiss Pete has ever received. He gasps into Mikey's mouth (which totally tastes like shitty beer) and Mikey reaches up to cup his jaw and they're suddenly sort of tangled up against the wall and Mikey actually drops his can of beer--

But all Pete can think is: Fuck. Yes.

He doesn't even see Patrick duck out the door.




crashers

"What about Mikey?"

"He's a traitor, and to be viewed as one of them. Well. For right now. Any other time, he's one of us."

Gerard screws the cap back onto his supersoaker and gives the gun a little shake. The diluted paint sloshes around satisfactorily in the tank.

He's standing at the top of the stairwell with Ray, Frank, and his two (possibly even weirder) friends, Jimmy Euringer and Steve Montano. They, among others, make up the No One Wants To Talk To You Nerds contingent of the school. Gerard knows this. Gerard has suffered the ramifications of this since his freshman year.

It's about time the fucking popular kids got a taste of their own medicine.

The din of the party drifts up the stairs.

"Sounds like they're having a good time." Frank is all but bouncing with glee. "Can we go kick some ass now?"

He's filled his own soaker up with fake blood and, in the process, also got it all over his hands. It looks a little bit like he bludgeoned someone to death.

"Wait."

They all look at Steve.

"Here."

He tosses bandanas to each of them; black for Gerard, blue for Ray, yellow for Jimmy, and red for Frank. He ties a dark green one around his own face because everyone knows that party-crashing isn't half as cool if you don't have a bandana on your face. He also slips on his aviators.

"Dude, it's like 1 a.m."

Steve shrugs. "Night vision."

Ray shakes his head and Jimmy giggles.

Gerard tilts his gun up. He's basically trembling with adrenaline. "Let's make them suck it."

He's about to start down the stairs when a figure comes up, head sort of tucked down. It takes him a minute to recognize the guy--Patrick. The kid who always hangs around the music room.

"Hey Trick!" Frank says amicably.

"...Hey."

Patrick only halfway glances at them. He doesn't even ask about the bandanas or the supersoakers. Ray gives him a quizzical look.

"You all right, man?"

"Yeah. Just tired. I'll catch you around?"

"Sure."

He shuffles past and Steve gives him a little salute.

"C'mon let's go," Jimmy urges, tugging on Ray's arm.

Ray looks back after Patrick, but Gerard doesn't need telling twice. His footsteps echo on the way down the stairs and he grins. When they reach the bottom, he holds up three fingers, using his other hand to level the his gun at the door. Ray waits, hand curling around the doorknob, as Gerard counts down:

"Three. Two. One."

.

It's astounding, really, the amount of havoc that five people can wreck when everyone else is pretty much not expecting an attack. It also probably helps that they're armed with supersoakers while everyone at the party is defenseless.

In a matter of (scream-filled) minutes, everything is covered in lime-green paint, stage blood and is soaking wet.

Steve guards the door like a champion, spraying down anyone who tries to escape. Jimmy and Frank are their own individual tornadoes, attacking everything that moves and, in Jimmy's case, cornering people and leering at them and gyrating in bizarre gestures of sexual overtures before giving them a face full of tepid water.

Frank feels a little bit bad when he realizes that two of the people he just shot are actually some pretty cool girls from their sister school. Jamia and Alicia, he thinks? He's not sure. Either way, he doesn't feel guilty enough to stop, exactly--so instead he grins, shouts 'sorry' and dashes off to gun down Shannon Leto.

Gerard, personally, thinks that the whole endeavor is a massive success. Especially when he first bursts in and catches Pete Wentz all over Mikey (or maybe Mikey's all over Pete Wentz? Gerard isn't sure and there are some places his brain isn't quite ready to go yet. Like, mostly places involving his little brother and Pete Wentz). He strides right up to them, grinning behind his bandana, and takes aim.

"Hey guys."

Mikey looks more than a little disheveled, trying to shove his glasses back into place. "Gee?"

Gerard squeezes the trigger. "Two birds, one stone."

Okay. Yeah. He totally feels like a badass out of a Rob Zombie movie.

Ray, for his part, is the calmest about everything (because Ray is always the calmest). He makes a point not to shoot Andy, but other than that, everyone is fair game.

Pedicone, being the most amicable guy in the world, is of course tremendously good natured about the whole thing. Gerard nails him in the chest with green paint and he just grins, holding his hand up for a high five.

"Sweet guys!"

"I just…shot you."

"I know! This is awesome!"--And then proceeds to get into the spirit of general mayhem, dumping half-empty cans of beer indiscriminately all over everyone.

Gerard just stares. That is, until, one of the girls actually attempts to take a swing at Steve to get him out of the way of the door and Jimmy launches himself at her with a shriek.

Oh. And there go the homemade smoke bombs.

Gerard rolls his eyes because they weren't supposed to make their get away yet--but he supposes there's no point in wasting the opportunity. They disappear while they still can, with Leto and his posse dashing up the stairs after them.

Not that this puts an end to the chaos, by any means. Pedicone's enthusiasm has spread and he and a crew of football jocks have all somehow started a roughhousing beer-fight. Basically, everyone else is collateral damage.

This carries on until Gabe shrieks wordlessly. Then, all motion comes to a halt.

"Everyone. Get. Out. Now." Gabe stands in the middle of the room, dripping with water and red goop.

Pedicone, holding another guy in a half-nelson, starts in placatingly: "Whoa, Gabe, it's cool--"

"And you," Gabe rounds on him. "You get out first unless you're staying with me tonight."

Pedicone drops his friend's arms. Says, in the sincerest of tones: "Hey, I thought we talked about this."

Gabe is actually shaking with rage. "Get out!"

This is actually shaping up to look like the beginning of what could be a very long, very screechy rant. Still in their corner, Mikey hooks his fingers into the beltloop on Pete's jeans.

"Come with me," he says against Pete's sorta paint-splotched ear, in a voice that's low and throaty enough to make Pete shiver.




crush

They stumble into the double that Mikey half-shares with Gerard (Gerard's always off in Ray or Jimmy's room) and Pete stares as Mikey wedges a chair beneath the doorknob.

Mikey yanks a hand through his paint-covered hair.

"I'm really sorry about that, Pete. My brother's an ass sometimes."

Pete blinks, primarily because he can't get over square one: he's in Mikeyway's room. After a minute, he gathers himself enough to fumble for words.

"Mikey--you didn't have to bring…I mean. I get it if you don't want to be around me after--"

Because, somehow, the supersoaker incident is his fault? He's friends with Gabe who definitely must have made a point to not invite Gerard--so. Um. Yeah. Clearly Pete is to blame by virtue of…extension. Or something.

He's still trying to apologize when Mikey backs him up against the door.

"I wouldn't want to be around you after what? You got over yourself and finally made a fucking move?" A lopsided smile.

He leans in and doesn't even kiss Pete so much as he sort of licks at Pete's lower lip? Pete might pass out. Maybe. Either way, he's pretty sure he stopped breathing.

He manages to blink. "So. You're not mad at me then."

"You're quick, Wentz." This, delivered more or less into Pete's mouth.

And then. And then okay--okay. Mikey's definitely kissing him, now. In way more than a casual make-out sense. This is thorough, despite the fact that they're both still pretty drunk. No. Not just thorough. Suave as hell.

And maybe more than incidentally slutty.

Pete pretty much doesn't move because he doesn't want to do anything stupid. Like, you know, everything.

Finally, Mikey leans back, appraising.

"You taste like paint," he says matter-of-factly. "C'mon."

And heads to the room's attached single bathroom. Pete's thoughts arrange themselves in the order of: They don't have a suite bathroom. They don't have a sui--AM I ABOUT TO SHOWER WITH MIKEYWAY AND ONLY MIKEYWAY?

Also, okay. Okayokay Mikey is taking off his shirt. It's not fair. No one should be able to walk and undress like that all at once. And sure, maybe his chest kind of looks like a toast rack with a wet paper bag over it--and all splotched with green paint. But it's still hot?

Pete just boggles. Mikey's normally pretty awkward, honestly--but this Mikey is about as far from that as you can get.

As if to prove it, Mikey halts at the bathroom threshold.

"You've done this before, right?" He grins.

Pete manages to formulate the stellar reply: "Sh-showered? Yeah. Sure." And internally: Nice one, Pete.

Mikey just does this low little laugh. Pete knows it's pretty much over. He's certain that he only manages to follow and undress by the saving grace of divine intervention. There's really no other explanation.

And in the shower? Mikey just turns the smooth-operator act up to eleven. It's basically torture. Pete's pretty sure he makes a really embarrassing noise (or several)--not in the least because Mikey just cops every last feel like Pete's his own personal sex object.

Which, hey, if there's ever an opening in that field…well. Pete would gladly submit an application, is all.

And when Mikey starts kissing his neck? Yeah. Yes jesusfuck there has to be a god. Somewhere. He's struggling to keep breathing when Mikey mumbles in his ear:

"So are you into dweebs now, or have I been recategorized?"

Pete makes a hnng noise. "--Never thought you were a dweeb."

"Yeah, whatever."

If Pete's denial bothers Mikey in the slightest, it's not obvious. In fact, Mikey totally appears to be more interested in bite-kissing his way down Pete's chest. And, oh, Pete does this high-whine thing when Mikey's teeth graze his nipple. Maybe he scrabbles his fingernails against the shower tiles, a little.

"I--I'm all clean," he gasps (and fuck you, his voice does not sound squeaky), "I dunno about you--"

And his inner voice mocks the shit out of him: SERIOUSLY, YOU HAVE THE FINESSE OF A BULL-MOOSE, WENTZ.

Mikey just shrugs. "The spray feels good."

And that's that, apparently. Because Mikey's got himself in a genuflect, at this point. Mouthing over Pete's ribs. Kissing a hot line down Pete's abdomen, before pausing to look up and meet Pete's gaze--smug as anything.

Pete is having trouble not drowning because he can't close his mouth.

Mikey, the fucker, says absolutely nothing. Just presses a kiss to the base of Pete's stomach, just above his thatch of pubic hair. Pete is pretty sure he might actually die before Mikey even--

Oh.

Okay.

Okaymayyyyyybenot.

He can sort of hear his own stunning oration on the themes of fuck and Mikey, but it's pretty far away. At best, he manages to organize his thoughts around the fact that Mikey is the most obscene giver-of-head to have ever graced the face of the earth. The fucker. He doesn't even start at the tip like a normal person--he's mouthing against the base like he's looking to see how it's attached or some shit. And he's taking his fucking time working his way up goddammitfuckingsonofabitch--

And why is he stopping?

Pete's pretty sure he never said anything even close to 'stop'. He did thunk his head against the wall, sure, but considering the circumstances…

--Mikey sits back on his heels, pushing his hair out of his face.

"The water's getting cold." The corner of his mouth quirks. "You didn't notice?"

Pete thinks the world could have come to a crashing halt and he wouldn't have noticed. He manages a dumb nod.

Mikey straightens up, smirking like the bastard he is, and slips past Pete, out of the shower stall.

"Turn the water off when you're done."

He grabs a towel and begins tousling his hair, completely neglecting the rest of his body. Strolls back into the other room like nothing even happened.

Fucking asshole.

Pete slams the water off and steps out, reaching for the only other towel in sight--mostly just as a formality. He follows Mikey back into the bedroom before he realizes that he doesn't know what to say.

Maybe something along the lines of 'I hate you with all the fire of a thousand suns'. But, okay, that sounds a little immature, even in his head.

Mikey--fucking Captain Casual--is still sort of scrubbing at the side of his head. "I'm never getting all this paint out of my ears."

Pete just stands there, blowing water off his lips. Trying not to splutter with incredulity. Mikey smiles.

"Y'know. It's lucky for you I'm the bottom bunk." He nods to the bed.

Pete follows his gaze.

"You're the--oh. Oh."

Mikey arches an eyebrow. "You know, for a guy who rooms with Gabe Saporta…"

He steps closer, giving Pete a little push.

Pete nearly jumps out of his skin. "You're fucking with me!"

"Yeah?" Mikey pushes him again, more firmly this time. "Any complaints?"

"I. Um. I--"

Another smile. "Careful now. Don't dig your own grave."

And this push gets Pete onto the bunk. Mikey crawls in after him. In a distinctly gentler voice, he says:

"Lie down, I don't want to bump my head."

This is actually too much. Like really. Pete's astounded that he manages to do as he's told, shivering at the brush of Mikey's fingertips against his waist. He tries to relax or exhale or something, appreciate the cool rush of Mikey's breath on his skin. But no--

Mikey halts, suddenly. "Hey."

Inside, Pete's knee-jerk reaction goes something like: WHAT MIKEY, WHAT? WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY "HEY"?. Externally, though, he thinks his breath just kind of hitches.

"What're you doing here, Pete? Just because I dragged you in here or what?"

Pete shifts a little to meet Mikey's eyes.

"…You're seriously asking this question?"

The deadpan expression that he gets in response tells him 'yes'.

"Oh my god, dude, no. I'm not--I like you, okay? So. No one's dragging me." He can feel his face get hot at the 'I like you' bit but--okay. Don't dwell, Pete. Just don't.

Mikey's got this calculating expression, his gaze lingering on Pete's face. After a moment, he reaches for the towel still draped haphazardly over his shoulders, drawing it across Pete's hips as he tosses it aside. The fabric brushes against Pete's dick--a sharp reminder that, yeah. That's still happening.

Pete tries to stifle another groan. He probably fails. Mikey does this nose-exhalation thing that Pete's learning to recognize as a small laugh. He kisses Pete's hip.

"Forget what I was doing before…" he murmurs, in tones that suggest: 'remind me'.

Pete feels his face getting hotter. "We were--making out? And then--Um."

Mikey looks mildly interested. "Yeah? And then what?"

"And then…you. Um. Started. Y'know. Sucking me off?"

So much for not being indelicate, he thinks, miserably. Pete "Bull-Moose" Wentz isn't as bad as it could be, insofar as nicknames go.

Mikey, though? Just manages to look both triumphant and lazy, all at once. Eyes half-lidded and a slow smile.

"I thought it was something like that."

Pete could kill him. Well, not really. Actually, not at all, because Mikey just started doing this--mouthing thing?--on the inside of Pete's thigh. Working his way up. He exhales against Pete's dick before taking him in again. Pete shivers a little, struggling to watch.

And. Well. Okay, Mikey has this incredible ability to suck cock with supreme nonchalance. Like, really. Pete's entire respiratory system almost shuts down, jesuschrist.

Mikey just blinks up at him, shameless as anything, working his tongue like--fuck.

Pete tries to look, but his eyes keep fluttering. Maybe, he thinks, it would be easier to cope with if Mikey weren't making those sounds. But as it is, there's no coping at all. Even when his eyes slide shut completely, he can hear the slick sounds of Mikey's mouth, the low noises he's making in his throat.

Pete has the fleeting thought that he should ask how and when Mikey learned to do this--but it's gone when Mikey changes his pace, working hand and mouth in a weird arrhythmic-but-rhythmic tandem. It should really be impossible. But it's working. Kind of like syncopation--in blowjob form.

"Mikey--" Pete gasps, because it's about all the warning he can manage.

Mikey just hums contentedly, apparently intent on staying right where he is. Pete's orgasm jerks its way right through his gut and he comes with a stuttering inhalation. The shock of it crests over him until he slumps back onto the mattress, suddenly boneless.

When he comes back to himself, he murmurs "Mikey" again--just as Mikey crawls up to tuck himself beside Pete.

"Hey."

Pete blinks at him. At his flushed mouth and. Just. Pete leans in, kissing him before he can let himself say something stupid. Mikey laughs a little, against his mouth, and y'know. In any other moment, it might have hurt Pete. Might have come off as mockery, or something--but then Mikey kisses back, hard enough to leave Pete feeling breathless for the second time in like fifteen minutes.

How is this even his life, seriously.

"You should probably sleep," Mikey mumbles, squirming to pull the bedsheets up over them both. "I don't want to be a dick, but I'm probably gonna have to kick you out early--y'know. So Gerard doesn't have a cow or something."

Pete manages a small laugh, feeling the heaviness of sleep creep up on him. He closes his eyes, drifting off into weightlessness, the feel of Mikey's breath hot and constant against his neck.
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