Finding Answers

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Sat, 11 Jul 2009 17:47:18 GMT

Last night I was thinking about watching Ocean's 11 but then I remembered the scene I was thinking of is from angelgazing's fic.

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Wed, 08 Jul 2009 16:59:59 GMT

Whoa! PWT flashback. Denver suburbs have a Jensen's Flowers. Wish I'd taken a picture for Andie.

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Tue, 07 Jul 2009 20:28:52 GMT

Bonus points to anyone who knows the kind of berries Kanga, Roo, and Tigger like in Winnie the Pooh. Is it cloudberries?

To Hell With All the Damn Romantics (Part 2)

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 05:36:37 GMT

Part 1

Being in the HJ made Mikey feel dirty. He hated questioning everything and everyone, but they worked hard to plant the seed of doubt and maybe it would be better to know for sure.

When one of the SA officers in charge of the HJ meetings he attended took him aside, Mikey was filled with dread. He couldn’t make himself get enthusiastic about any of it, and being singled out in such a way gave him a bad feeling, like they had decided joining wasn’t good enough. He had waited with butterflies in his stomach until the officer explained why Mikey had been detained.

“You had a job before?” the officer asked, not looking up to see Mikey’s nod before continuing, “But what was it you were really doing?”

“Delivering books,” Mikey offered weakly. “For Mr. Harris’ shop.”

“How do you know they were really books?” the officer asked, staring him dead in the eye. “Just something to think about.”

The storefront looked the same as always, the name painted above in elegant script. Pushing away his nervous discomfort, Mikey opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Harris was seated behind his desk, jotting something down in a ledger. He looked up as the bell jingled. "Your brother made it sound like you weren't coming back." He set down the pen, eyeing Mikey speculatively. "I didn't think the Nazis took days off."

Mikey shrugged. "I'm not a very good Nazi."

A loud laugh burst out of Mr. Harris. "I guess not."

"I have some free time, and sometimes I don't show up even when I'm supposed to." Mikey stood awkwardly with his hat in his hand, not sure what else to say.

"There's nothing for you to do today-" Mr. Harris started to explain when the loud ring of the telephone interrupted him. He ran to the back room to answer, leaving Mikey waiting by his desk. The quiet sounds of phone conversation carried to him, as Mikey stood there, idly running his fingers along the desk.

After a couple minutes of awaiting his return, Mikey stepped around to behind the desk. He glanced at the ledger Mr. Harris had been writing in, but he had only read about spies, never tried to be one. Mikey didn’t even know what he was looking for. Flipping back a few pages, the ledger seemed normal to him, as far as he could tell. There were accounts credited, lists of deliveries made and shipments yet to arrive, rows of numbers.

Mikey turned around to look at the books behind the desk. The more rare and valuable books were kept there on shelves where no one could touch them without permission. Even Mikey wasn’t supposed to touch them, but since there was nobody looking, he pulled a familiar-looking book off the shelf. He thought he could remember Mr. Harris wrapping it up for delivery before, but if it was still there then obviously Mikey was mistaken.

He opened the cover, mildly curious just how old the book was. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor as Mikey did so, and he bent to pick it up. There were footsteps approaching, so he shoved the paper in his pocket, shutting the book and settling it back on the shelf before he could get caught.

"It turns out I do have a delivery for you." Mr. Harris reached for the shelf behind the desk, pulling down the book Mikey just touched.

Mikey froze for a moment, sure he was caught.

Without even cracking the cover, Mr. Harris began wrapping it in brown paper and handed it to Mikey before jotting something down quick on a slip of paper. "Here's the address, I think you've been there before," he explained as Mikey took the paper from him.

With a nod, Mikey put his hat back on and started walking. The streets were emptier than he remembered and he made good time. Watching the street names, Mikey stopped when he knew he was getting close. He had to know what had fallen from the book before he went any further.

Mikey fumbled with the package, tucking it under his arm so he could use both hands to unfold the piece of paper. It took a moment to realize what he was looking at, but the truth was right there. The sheet was clearly an identity paper, not Mr. Harris' or anyone else he knew; it had to be a forgery.

Shaken up, Mikey tucked the paper back in his pocket, trying not to think about it, even as it burned a hole in his mind. The distraction caused him to make a couple wrong turns, but when Mikey finally reached the right building, he knew it seemed familiar.

Entering the cramped brick apartment building, Mikey grew more certain that Mr. Harris was right and he had been here before. As he climbed the stairs, sounds echoed down from the rooms, the muffled noise of families in small quarters.

Soft music carried through the door Mikey knocked on, then the sound of footsteps approaching. When the door opened and the music grew louder, Mikey remembered why the place was so familiar.

"Mikey, hi," Gabe said, lingering in the doorway. "Is that the book Shawn was sending over?" His eyes lit up.

Mikey nodded mutely, handing it over. He stared at Gabe, who seemed nice and normal enough, but all he saw was a person, not a reason Gabe would be getting that delivery. He would never have guessed Gabe was breaking the law, any more than he would have guessed it of Mr. Harris.

"Have a nice day," he said as he realized Gabe was giving him a funny look, and he turned to go before Gabe could question him.

Crossing the bridge to the other side of the river, Mikey stopped to lean against the railing. He knew what he was supposed to do, but Mr. Harris had always been a good boss; his shop couldn't really earn that much, but still he managed to find work for both Mikey and his brother because their family needed the money.

He pulled the damning paper from his pocket, glaring at it. He was better off not knowing and hadn't asked for this, any of it. All Mikey wanted was to get away from having to decide what he would do now that he knew about Shawn. Lips quivering, Mikey furiously ripped up the paper, tossing it into the water. He blinked back frustrated tears as the shreds of paper fluttered down, some catching in the wind and floating back around his ankles.

Even after the last shred had flown away, Mikey stood there, staring blankly at the water. Getting rid of the evidence didn't change what he knew, and he still could report Mr. Harris, was required to.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, a gruff voice going "Hey, swing boy!" Mikey jumped, startled as Pete burst into laughter. "Gotcha!"

He scowled, tugging away. "Cut that out. You're such a jerk."

"Aw, come on, Mikey, I was just having fun. ...I was thinking maybe you'd want to go for a ride." Pete waited expectantly for a reaction, but Mikey was too preoccupied to care. "Ride what, you ask?" He grabbed Mikey by the elbow, turning him around to reveal a shiny black bicycle. "They just gave it to me for nothing!" he enthused, darting up to it to jingle the bell.

"What do you want, Pete?" Mikey asked point-blank. His frustration was too much to be patient and having Pete around was no longer either comforting or a distraction, only a sharp reminder of what he was supposed to do with the knowledge he had just gained.

"Nothing. Christ, I just wanted to talk, is that so weird?" Pete said defensively, giving Mikey a sharp look. It seemed almost guilty, but Mikey wasn't sure if he was just projecting his own guilt onto Pete.

"You just- Did they tell you to talk to me?" Mikey exploded. "Is that what they told you to do, talk to me?"

Pete's face darkened. "What the fuck are you on about? Fuck you. You're getting paranoid like Patrick and we all saw how that worked out for him."

~

Mikey was a ball of nerves, sitting in his desk waiting to be called on. He listened and watched as others in the classroom were called upon, each young man standing and reporting anything subversive he had observed, wondering how it was possible everyone else had seen or heard something worth mentioning. It was a big city, but if everyone was seeing that much subversion, there had to be a reason for it. If the Nazis were such a good thing, so many people wouldn’t go against their better order.

But the list grew longer and longer as the young men stood and complained about things they had read or seen or heard in the past week. Most of their reports were innocent enough, and Mikey burned inside, feeling guilty because he knew his own observations that week were of a much more grievous sort.

When they called on Pete, Mikey had a moment of hoping someone else would have nothing to report. Pete got to his feet, eyes at the front of the room. "I've heard my father speaking out against the fuhrer. He's a coward so it's just talk." Mikey tried not to gape, thrown for a loop.

He felt as though his own name had been called out. Part of that was the strong suspicion he would be the only one reporting nothing subversive, but it was also because that was family. If people would report their own family, no one was safe. Mikey wished for a fire, an air raid, anything to stop the meeting before his name was called.

There was no reason not to report Mr. Harris. Sure, he had given Mikey and Gerard jobs when they needed them, but he was breaking a law, and not a little one. There was no chance there was a good explanation for why he was passing forged identity papers in books at his shop. He was running serious risks and must have known the danger. Mikey was doing this for his family, that was all.

No natural disasters manifested; the SA officer continued calmly calling names and writing down what the young men had to report. Mikey stood tensely as his own name was called. “I have nothing to report,” he mumbled, sitting down without looking at anyone. He couldn’t do that to someone, he didn’t care if it really did make him a bad Nazi.

~

"So where's Pete tonight?" Frank asked. Mikey shrugged glumly, staring at the table. Patrick snorted. "He probably had to stay late to help the Nazis." Every time the door opened, Mikey's eyes darted to it expectantly, only to return to the table disappointed. The others didn’t say anything about Pete, clearly able to see how bad Mikey felt.

Patrick was clearly nervous, hiding it behind his bad mood. It was almost time for him to hit the stage, and still Pete hadn’t arrived. Mikey knew Pete hadn’t forgotten it was his big night, so he had no idea where Pete could have been.

An assortment of SA officers sat at the table nearest them, their loud jokes hard to ignore. It was even harder not to glare at them for talking over such good music, but SA officers were best left alone and un-aggravated. Even for an HJ, they could make life very difficult.

Patrick’s fingers were twitching at his case when Pete finally showed up. Mikey was relieved he at least had come alone. If Ryan had tagged along, Mikey suspected there would have been blows. “I didn’t miss the big moment, did I?” he asked as he sat down.

“Just about,” Patrick answered and he opened his case, finally taking out his guitar again. It was already tuned; he’d checked several times while they waited. Still, he checked it once more, plucking the strings and nodding with satisfaction. The singer from the house band introduced their band with a grand voice and it was show time.

"I'll sit this one out," Bob told the guys, rubbing his wrists as Patrick and Ray got to their feet. They all watched proudly as Patrick got back onstage. The drummer from the house band took Bob's spot, launching them into one of the less taboo swing songs.

Even with only two working fingers, Patrick pulled off the solo, playing furiously and with the intensity he always had. "He looks like his old self," Gerard beamed, applauding as the solo ended.

Bob frowned and shrugged. "He's not happy yet, says he's gotta figure out ascending chords again. He just about smashed his guitar I think, he was so fed up."

"Still." Gerard shrugged back. "He sounds great."

They were all sitting back and enjoying the music, when the SA officers got loud again. They waved the club owner over, and it was impossible not to overhear them, though Mikey was trying to focus on Patrick and the band.

“We want to hear a German song,” one of them requested loudly. “Have the band play something German.”

The club owner nodded and made his way to the stage. He waited until the band finished their song before catching Patrick’s attention. “They want to hear a German song.”

Patrick scoffed. “Tell them we play what we want to play.”

“You play what I tell you to play. I am telling you to play a German song.” The club owner seemed unamused, frowning sternly at Patrick.

“Play it yourself,” Patrick countered sharply, getting to his feet. He made his way slowly across the hall, everyone hushed as they watched, well aware the band had fallen silent. Passing the table where his friends sat, Patrick stopped at the table where the SA officers sat.

Though drunk enough to be genial, the SA officers seemed surprised by Patrick’s vehemence. “We only want to hear one good German song.”

“There are no good German songs. Only Nazi songs.” With those tight words, Patrick turned and began putting his guitar away.

The rest of the guys looked at each other uncomfortably. Bob was the first to follow suit, tugging on his overcoat and getting to his feet. But slowly, one by one, the others also got ready to go, slamming the rest of their drinks and pushing their chairs back from the table.

Pete was the last one back on his feet, a disgruntled look on his face. It was early to go back home, but swing kid solidarity was important. Mikey would rather support Patrick in this than stay, especially at a place that was so concerned with meeting the approval of the Nazis at any cost. The house band wasn’t nearly as good as Patrick’s.

Out on the street, they stood huddled together. Pete scowled at Patrick. “What was that all about? You couldn’t play one goddamn song?” huffing, he pointed out, “We were having a good time.”

“One song?” Patrick asked, turning on Pete with the temper he’d been holding back all night. “It starts with one song, and then next thing you know, we’re killing Austrians, killing innocent people, and no one is telling them it’s wrong. At least I know who I am. I didn’t sell out to them.”

“Oh, so I sold out?” Pete asked, glaring. “Maybe you just don’t like the Nazis because they won’t accept you. You belong with the cripples and the retards, but I just bet if they’d have you, you’d be lining up.”

Mikey’s jaw dropped and he stepped between them, expecting fists to fly any moment. “Christ, Pete. You’re turning into a fucking Nazi!”

“Well so what if I am?” Pete swaggered there, and Mikey turned around, walking away before he had a chance to do something he might regret. He’d never wanted to punch Pete so bad in his entire life. Mikey had heard people say things like that, but never one of his friends and not to Patrick. Walking did nothing to dispel his anger, so finally Mikey stopped, turning and kicking the side of the building he had been passing, kicking over and over until his toes hurt, before finally walking again.

~

The apartment was dark when Patrick got home, but he only turned on the light in the bathroom, running water in the tub. Following his old rituals, Patrick moved back to the bedroom, setting his guitar case next to the bed and carefully began to undress. He opened the closet door, hanging his jacket next to his trousers. He was too numb to think, just moving on muscle memory as he unknotted his tie and placed it in a drawer.

Patrick slowly crossed the room, the twinges of pain from the HJ's attack gone. He pulled a folio from the shelf, sliding a record from its sleeve with the care most people reserve for precious jewels. As he went to place the record on the record player, Patrick realized it was the one Pete had scratched. He hurled it across the room and listened to it shatter on the bathroom floor.

Selecting another album, Patrick made his way back to the bathroom. The tub was full and he turned off the tap before carefully lowering himself into the hot water. His glasses fogged and he nearly slipped as his bad leg touched down, but somehow Patrick managed to keep his fedora still on and dry. Count Basie's soulful music carried from the other room, but Patrick wasn't listening anymore. It seemed like none of Germany was.

Swing music had once filled Patrick with hope, the thought that maybe music could change people. But though his countrymen were definitely changing, it was for the worse and not the better, swing music, all music, brushed to the wayside as they strove to be this ideal he had so many doubts of. A cynic might say his doubts were natural as someone who could never fit them, what with his handicap. Patrick preferred to think it was because he didn’t let the propaganda cloud his mind. He knew plenty of people who did not fit the fuhrer’s image of Germany who were intelligent and talented and physically capable.

All he had were his music and his friends, and it seemed the Nazis had stolen both from him. Even his efforts to relearn guitar with fewer fingers, painful as they were, did not keep the Nazis from taking his music, requesting to hear him play “good German songs” as though they cared what they listened to. All they cared about was control, but there was one thing they could not control.

Picking up his straight razor, Patrick deliberately and slowly opened the blade. It was sharp enough. He ran the blade along one wrist, then switched hands and ran it along the other. Blood spread throughout the water, turning it red and he dropped the razor over the side of the tub, drops of blood falling on it and the broken pieces of record. He couldn't save Germany, but he didn't have to keep watching what it would become.

~

Mikey tugged at his narrow black tie uncomfortably, not sure if the pain in his throat was a lump from holding back tears or just from knotting the tie too tight. He stared at the dark wood of the coffin, still not ready to accept it.

The open lid showed Patrick inside, looking almost like someone else without his usual fedora on. It had been years since anyone had seen him without a hat; even in the hospital, Patrick had managed to keep his fedora.

He didn't want to look, but Mikey felt drawn to the coffin and the gaping hole it made. He shuffled to the front of the church, getting a better look inside but still leaning away, some irrational part of him fearing he'd be sucked into the casket and buried too.

Patrick's arms laid at his sides so none of his scars were visible, and Mikey found himself wishing he had his own fedora with so he could leave it with Patrick and restore a little of his dignity. Feeling a hand on his back, Mikey turned to see Frank behind him, hat clutched to his chest. He stared morosely into the coffin, setting the hat on Patrick before practically running back to his pew.

Mikey felt frozen in place, but he forced himself to move back and sit down. Bob was sitting a little ways down from him, hands twisting around the brim of one of Patrick's fedoras. After a moment watching him out of the corner of his eye, Mikey slid down so he was next to Bob and put a hand on his shoulder. "His family didn't want him buried wearing it," Bob whispered, desolate. He teared up, swiping at his eyes with a handkerchief already crumpled and stained from use.

The chapel filled with those who knew Patrick, a bizarre mix of his family and the swing kids he had devoted his life to. Gerard ducked into the pew bare minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, having left university for what was left of his school day. Everyone scooted down a little, somehow managing to make enough room for him next to Mikey.

The staid organ music during the service was depressing, so unlike the music Patrick had loved that it just formed another reminder that Patrick wasn't going to make his own music ever again. The somber hymns seemed strange and unfitting, and the sermon given was carefully written, almost pretending they didn’t all know Patrick had killed himself.

Mikey looked around the room, seeing a lot of familiar faces. But the one face he had expected to see wasn't there. Even when the service ended and the pallbearers shut Patrick's coffin and carried it out, there was no sign of Pete.

They all gathered around the gravesite and as he watched the coffin get lowered into the earth, Mikey couldn't help replaying everything that had happened in the past few months. He'd known Patrick was in a bad way, but he had no idea that it had gotten this bad. It was so easy to get preoccupied with balancing his own life, HJ by day and swing kid by night, that Mikey hadn't really been thinking about Patrick.

He steeled himself, unwilling to cry. Staring at the grave didn't help, so Mikey finally averted his eyes, looking instead at the crowd gathered with him. When Mikey's eyes first hit the uniform across from him, he glossed over it, only to double back, shocked. Knowing how Patrick felt, surely no one would dare show up at his funeral in anything associated with the Nazis.

But his eyes were right the first time, and Mikey found himself staring at Pete. Everyone else wore proper black suits or dresses, but Pete seemed completely untroubled to be there in the khaki of his HJ uniform. He didn't even seem upset about Patrick's death, even though earlier the same night he died, Pete had fought with Patrick and not reconciled.

Mikey couldn’t move his eyes off Pete the whole time he stood there, watching the unrepentant look on his face and unable to say anything. He didn’t even try approaching Pete, just watched from the other side of the grave until Pete turned and left.

Pete hadn't stayed long, turning to leave long before the rest of the funeral-goers dispersed. Even after he was gone, Mikey couldn’t help looking at the tree he’d stood beside.

~

Gerard and Mikey made their way home together, somehow. Mikey was so caught in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed, even when they climbed the steps to their apartment. He went into his room and shut the door without even a word to Gerard.

Face crumpling as repressed emotions finally hit, Mikey tugged off his tie and threw it in the corner, hating his funeral garb. Even watching as Patrick was buried didn't make it any easier to believe or to quit blaming himself.

During that last fight, Pete had pushed Patrick too far; hell, he'd pushed Mikey too far. It seemed plain to him that fight had played a part in Patrick killing himself, and for all that Pete could be an ass before, the things he said were things he never would have thought before he joined the HJ, nevermind saying them.

Before the HJ, everything had seemed much simpler. It was easier to ignore the war and the politics when the biggest thing in their lives was music. And the reason that had changed was Mikey. When they stole the radio, if Mikey had just been able to run a little bit faster then they would have gotten away with it and neither of them would have had to join the HJ.

Maybe Patrick was right. Not for killing himself; Mikey shuddered at the thought. But right to care, right in everything he'd said about how horrible the Nazis were. With how loyal of a Nazi Pete had become... It was painful to admit, but good intentions or not, they had killed the compassion Pete held, even for his friends.

This new Pete was much harsher, his smart remarks now having a cruel edge to them. Under the uniform, he still looked like the old Pete, especially when he smiled. But this Pete was so different it hurt, a tight pain in Mikey's chest. He'd made this Pete, but Mikey didn't want him. He wanted the old Pete back, the one who had laughed and took the blame when Mikey broke his mother's vase in the living room trying out a new dance step, the Pete who was so determined to learn all the fancy American swing steps and figure out how to whip his partner around in the air that he kept dropping Mikey on his elbow for two weeks straight. The Pete who always managed to make Mikey laugh. The Pete Mikey hadn't seen in months.

It would almost have been easier if Pete had died; at least then Mikey wouldn't have to constantly see this Pete he didn't even like, who only reminded him of the Pete he cared about.

Sitting there, curled up, Mikey didn't even notice as it got dark and the light coming from his window slowly faded. He heard his mother call him to the table for supper, but Mikey didn't stir. He was so numb he couldn't imagine being hungry; his head was full of the shock at Patrick's death and, as always, full of Pete. She called for him again and again, sounding more and more exasperated before giving up.

The sounds of forks and knives scraping against plates carried to him and Mikey's stomach turned. The only reason he didn't run for the toilet and retch up his stomach contents was his stomach being completely empty, all appetite long gone. Even still, he gagged. All Mikey could think was that there was nothing he could do. Patrick would never eat again, and he couldn't change that. Pete-

Pete wasn't Pete anymore, and maybe that wouldn't hurt so bad if Pete had been anyone else to begin with. He couldn't help dwelling on the change, the way Pete once had been the brightest spot in the world, and now wore an HJ uniform to the burial of his most Nazi-hating friend, not even attending the funeral. Mikey briefly found himself wondering if Pete would even bother coming to his funeral, but he pushed the thought away. He didn't know if he wanted the answer to be yes or no in the first place.

As caught up as he was in his own head, Mikey didn't notice the door open and shut, even with the moment of golden brightness from the hallway light. He started when a hand touched his shoulder, looking up at Gerard with an agonized expression. "How did you-" Mikey blinked hard, struggling with his question. He didn't need to ask it to know what he'd figured out anyhow, he just wished he was wrong. Flinging himself into Gerard's arms, Mikey began to sob.

Gerard patted his shoulder helplessly, wetness spreading across his shirt as hot tears burst from Mikey's eyes. It was all so wrong; not even unfair, it was just wrong, completely not-right in every way. As the thought rang through Mikey's head, he only sobbed harder, fingers curling tight around his brother's chest.

It was exhausting, crying so hard. Mikey could only keep it up for so long before finally his tears calmed and he was just sniffling, still clinging to his brother with desperation and that futile hope a little brother always had that his older brother could fix everything.

His head still rested on Gerard's shoulder as he said, "I think I'm in love." The words made him want to vomit, even worse when he said them aloud, but Mikey couldn't vomit up his love. He was stuck with it, heavy as it weighed inside him. "With Pete," Mikey whispered sadly, almost to himself.

"Oh, Mikey." If it had been anyone else sounding so sympathetic, Mikey would have bristled. As it was, he just buried his face deeper in Gerard's shirt as he began to cry again, dry sobs racking his body. Saying it aloud made it all the more terrible and undeniable.

Mikey finally quiets again, swiping at his eyes and his nose with the back of his hand. "How did you and Frank figure things out?" he asked quietly, voice sounding unsteady and unused to speaking anymore.

Gerard tensed. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice high and nervous as he pushed Mikey away.

Blinking at him, Mikey took off his glasses and wiped them clean. As he settled his glasses back on his nose, he gave Gerard a look. "You and Frank. How did you tell him?"

Burning red, Gerard stuttered, flabbergasted. "What? I don't-" Mikey just kept staring down his nose, unblinking, until Gerard's protests ceased. "I. I couldn’t say anything to him," he finally admitted nervously, fidgeting all the while. His fingers twisted at his necktie as he offered an awkward smile to Mikey. "He's something else. But, I'm sorry Mikey, I don't think I can help you figure out things with Pete."

“I know,” he whispered finally, clinging to Gerard again. “Nobody can.”

~

On the weekends, Gerard usually tried to help out around the house. He wasn't great at it, but with Mikey so busy and their mother working at the factory, every bit helped. If the pictures were a little crooked after he dusted and the rug was a little askew, at least it was clean.

His favorite part was dusting all her knickknacks in the living room cluttering little shelves on every wall. A lot of the knickknacks were memories of happier times and Gerard was learning to appreciate the memories, as painfully different as they were. He found himself humming familiar songs as he worked, inadvertently singing snatches of them to himself.

Gerard jumped as a hand touched his shoulder, yelping as he dropped a figurine. "It's me," Frank reassured him. "Mikey let me in."

Red-faced, Gerard bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered porcelain figure, Frank helping. "Sorry, I didn't think you were coming till later."

Frank shrugged. "I wasn't busy so I came early. You know me, I always like spending more time with you, even if you're working on something."

Gerard was quiet, fishing porcelain chips from under the couch. They moved to the kitchen to toss them in the rubbish bin and Gerard paused, noticing a bright red drop of blood welling on one of Frank's fingertips. He tugged Frank's hand to his mouth, sucking away the blood so he could get a good look at the cut.

"I'll be fine," Frank excused it, but he followed obediently when Gerard insisted on leading him to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was nearly empty, but he sat Frank down on the toilet seat as he found a half-empty tube of ointment and a bandage. He knelt down in front of Frank looking at the cut again in the light before getting it bandaged, blushing again when he realized Frank was staring at him.
"What?" he asked, still holding Frank's hand.

"Do you remember the first time we saw each other at the record shop?" Frank asked. He still hadn’t blinked and Gerard was fixed in place by his eyes, staring back without even meaning to.

Gerard swallowed, his mouth suddenly, painfully dry. "Yeah?"

"Remember how I said I'd let you know if I found a singer I could get excited about?" Gerard nodded and Frank squeezed his hand. "I found one."

"Really?"

When Gerard's face grew even redder, Frank touched his cheek. "Yeah, really."

~

Pete hated family dinners. The awkward silence as they stared across the table at one another was even worse than the stilted and formal conversation of his parents’ dinner parties. Though they kept the meals short, they always seemed to drag on for hours, souring the rest of the night.

The only sound was the creak of knives scraping along plates and forks trying to catch the last few peas off the plate. There were no dishes to pass holding a second portion of potatoes or a bit of salad; unless one of them had an urge to ask about the others’ day, there was nothing to say and Pete, for one, did not care. He hoped that his father had bad days, if only to make up for how bad Pete had felt because of him. The hurt might not have stayed on the surface, but it wasn’t something he could forget.

There was a knock at the door, and his father looked up, a puzzled look on his face. “We’re not expecting anyone, are we?” he asked. When his wife shook her head, he turned to Pete. “Are you?”

Pete shook his head too, just as surprised at the break from their monotonous routine. His father pushed his chair back from the table, heading to the front hall to answer the door. After a moment, Pete followed, curious.

He hung back in the shadows as his father unbolted the door. Several Gestapo officers stepped into the house, and Pete’s eyes widened at the sight. Gestapo officers were not an unfamiliar sight to him, but never in his own home.

“Peter Wentz?” one of them asked. “Peter Wentz the second?” he clarified, quickly.

“Yes?” his father answered, glancing from face to face in confusion. Pete had never seen his father look scared before, but now he did.

“You need to come with us,” the officer said, taking his arm firmly.

Pete’s father turned towards the dining room. “Right this moment? But, my family- We’re in the middle of dinner. Can’t it wait?” His voice almost seemed desperate.

“It won’t be long,” the Gestapo officer assured him, grip visibly tightening. “We just need to ask a few questions.” It was what they always said, as everyone knew. And Pete had heard stories, from Mikey and from others – it was never just a few questions. Not with the Gestapo.

The other officers glanced at the dining room Pete’s father had indicated, and one of them noticed Pete there by the door, offering a heil. “Good work.”

~

Mikey came home to a flustered Gerard, who led him to the living room. As they walked, Mikey shot Gerard a confused look. “He just showed up,” Gerard whispered. He shrugged and opened the door, showing Pete sitting in one of the armchairs. Mikey tried to back away, but Gerard wouldn’t let him. “I’ll just leave you two to talk,” he said, excusing himself as Mikey awkwardly shuffled into the room. “I have to go study.” Mikey shot him a desperate look, not wanting to be left alone, but it was too late.

“How’ve you been?” he asked uncomfortably, sitting across from Pete. They hadn’t really talked since the night Patrick killed himself, a fact that weighed heavy on the room. Mikey glanced around, not quite looking at Pete. The living room might usually have been familiar territory, but on this occasion it was so fraught with tension it seemed someplace unknown.

Pete pulled his jackknife out, fiddling with the blade. Though he had been the one to seek Mikey out, he seemed to dread being there even more than Mikey dreaded him being there. “Good,” he answered finally, “I’ve been good.”

Mikey sighed, looking at him. “You haven’t been sleeping again,” he pointed out, noticing the dark circles under Pete’s eyes.

“So what?” Pete spat out. “Who the fuck cares if I sleep enough. I still do what I’m supposed to.” He scowled and Mikey grimaced, unable to take back his words and undo the mood swing.

“So I care, you ass,” he fired back instead. “We used to be friends, what happened to that?”

Pete shrugged. “I can’t figure that out…” He sighed and put away his jackknife. “So why isn’t Gerard in the SA or anything? I bet he’d be good at it.”

“I don’t want my brother to be a part of that bullshit,” Mikey answered, disgusted. “Christ, like one Nazi in the family’s not enough. I’ve seen what they do to people and if there’s any way he can get out of it, I’m not letting him join.”

“What’s so bad about Nazis?” Pete asked, getting to his feet. “Sure, the uniform takes some getting used to, but it’s not so bad. Everyone wants you to like them. People just let us do what we want, give us stuff free, how is that a bad thing?”

Mikey bit his lip to keep from interrupting Pete, but when Pete finally fell silent, he could hold his words in no longer. “They want us to report our own families! They’re evil! They killed Patrick, they’ll kill all of us.”

“What?” Pete recoiled. “Why did you say that? How could you even say something like that, do you want me to report y-” He cut himself off, staring at Mikey, horror in his eyes. Mikey couldn’t say anything, staring back just as horrified. After a long moment of their mutual stunned silence, Pete turned and ran out the door, leaving Mikey staring after him.

~

When they told him it was a great honor being chosen, Mikey didn't feel honored so much as he felt stuck, unable to say no. He nodded, listening to the familiar-sounding instructions. It was easy enough, going through the motions of heiling before they handed him a stack of parcels and Mikey knew how to be a delivery boy even if it hadn't been for the Nazis before.

Mikey glanced at the addresses and started with the nearest, heading along the river at a comfortable pace. He didn't bother wondering what he was delivering; it didn't matter. His shoelace came untied, and the packages clattered awkwardly as he set them down, kneeling on the pavement to retie the boot.

The neighborhood seemed eerily still, so he started moving faster when he got back to his feet, not wanting to linger. The sky had gone dark and oppressive, but at least it wasn't raining. They only gave him three packages to start with, but if all the neighborhoods felt like this then he didn't want to be out on the streets.

Mikey slowed down again as the houses got smaller and closer together, checking the street numbers more often. He had made deliveries to this neighborhood before, with Mr. Harris, and he knew he was getting close.

The brick building was dirty, covered in the faded marks of paint that had been scrubbed away. Approaching the door, Mikey stood straighter and rapped on it with his knuckles. A little girl in pigtails opened the door, her dress as faded as the bricks of her house.

"Give this to your mother," he said, holding out the box.

A woman bustled into the entryway, shooting a scared look at him as she pushed the girl behind herself. "Do you have news of my husband?" she asked, voice shaking. "What have you done with my husband?" Her hands twisted a dishrag fretfully as she begged for something he didn't know the answer to.

"Take it," he said as firmly as he could. "Take it, it's for you," Mikey repeated as she stared at him uncomprehendingly, shoving the box in the woman's hands. He couldn't answer for the actions of the Nazis, and knowing the little girl's father had been taken just like his own made it harder to do the job he had been given.

Rather than face it, Mikey turned and began walking away before the woman could open the package. As he reached the main street, a shriek broke the air behind him, followed by wailing.

Mikey walked faster, unwilling to look back or even stop until he was by the river again. It was once a popular walking path, but now it was nearly bare, the benches all empty. The woman's scream was still echoing in Mikey's mind; he couldn't go further until he knew what he was delivering that could inspire such a heart-wrenching sound. Her anguish chilled him to his bones.

A breeze swept past as Mikey sat down on the nearest bench, fingers not quite shaking. He fumbled at the twine knotted around one of the parcels before giving up and pulling out his jackknife. Slicing through the rough string, Mikey pushed back the paper. The box under it was perhaps the size of a cigar box, a fine wood with a swastika painted in the center of the lid.

Mikey glanced around, making sure he was still alone, then flipped open the lid. The wind stirred again, blowing away some of the fine pale dust inside. The underside of the lid said Traitor in big letters and as Mikey ran his finger through the dust in the box, his fingers hit something. Picking it up between two fingers, Mikey held up what he had found, not wanting to believe it. The simple gold wedding band was unmistakable, and he jumped to his feet, dumping the rest of the ashes on the ground.

He ran. He left the third box on the ground beside the bench and sprinted as fast as he could, not caring or noticing when he dropped the ring. He only stopped when his heart was pounding so hard it seemed his chest was about to explode and he couldn't keep running anymore. The sky had grown darker and it was starting to rain.

There was no one he could talk to, not Pete, not his brother. There was only one person who Mikey could think of that he might be able to talk to without fearing he would be a disappointment. Swiping at the tears he hadn't realized were falling, Mikey made his way to the bridge. He moved fast, still hoping he could outrun the memory of what he had seen. He hadn't succeeded, even by the time he reached the run-down apartment building and made his way up the narrow staircase once more.

Something was different; it was quiet, even inside, this time. Mikey pounded on the door nonetheless. "Gabe! Gabe, please." He kept knocking even after hope the door would open had passed. Mikey didn't want to give up because he had nowhere else to go.

Finally, unexpectedly, Gabe opened the door a crack. "Mikey? What is it?" His eyes darted around and he frowned at the uniform Mikey wore.

"I- Please, I need to talk," Mikey begged, rain dripping onto the floor around him. Gabe didn't move and Mikey glanced around nervously before shaking his head. "Please. Inside, I can talk to you there."

Reluctantly, Gabe opened the door and Mikey entered his apartment. It was small and cluttered, and through an open door Mikey saw a bed with a suitcase open on top, half-packed. "I don't have much time," Gabe prompted anxiously, fetching a towel from another room and handing it to Mikey.

He took it gratefully, running his fingers through his hair, grimacing at the gritty feeling still on his fingertips. Taking off his glasses, he dried them on the towel, wrapping it around himself after and shivering. "I deliver their ashes." Vision still blurred, Mikey looked up and met Gabe's eyes, getting no reaction yet. "They- And I take the boxes of ashes to their families, people who were taken just like my papa."

He choked up on the last part and Gabe put his arms around Mikey, who sagged against his shoulder, sobbing. After a few minutes, Mikey quieted again, sniffling as he pulled away, glasses wet again.

"But... They deserved it, right?" he asked as he dried them again. "They must have done something wrong."

Staring him dead in the eye, Gabe asked, "And what about your father? Did he deserve it?" He raised his eyebrows.

"You don't know anything about my father!" Mikey glared fiercely through the remnants of tears. It was all too much for him to think about.

"Okay, fair enough," Gabe shrugged. "I never met him. But Victoria, my wife, studied under him at the conservatory. She always said he was nice, a gentleman who had good intentions."

"So?"

"Why was he taken?" At Mikey's silence, Gabe answered himself. "When all the Jewish musicians and instructors were kicked out, your father was one of the few at the conservatory to defend their right to be there."

"But what if- Maybe they cheated, maybe they stole other people's compositions," Mikey suggested stubbornly.

Gabe sighed and shook his head. "All they did was be Jewish. Hell, the only way I've stayed here so long is I took my wife's name." Mikey gave him a weird look. "Yes, I'm Jewish. And I've got to hurry..." He turned away to rifle through a desk. "I found this, a letter from your father to my wife. You should read it."

Mikey took the outstretched envelope and pressed his lips together, glancing at Gabe before he tugged out the folded pages.

"The second page," Gabe prompted and Mikey obliged.Every day I watch my boys grow stronger together. When one falls down, the other helps him up. It seems to me that all men should be like that. They're both so curious, Gerard asking endless questions and Mikey watching until you'd think his eyes would burn out. I just hope they learn one thing from me: how to be good men. They have already taught this to me.

Partway through, Mikey's vision blurred with tears again, but he kept reading. "Thank you," he mumbled, still choked up. "I- Thank you." He folded the letter, tucking it in his pocket. He hugged Gabe hard.

"You're a good fella." Gabe patted his back. "Now please, I have to go, quickly."

~

Mikey felt like his whole body was tingling, almost vibrating with anticipation. He dressed with care, tugging his suspenders over his shoulders and adjusting his tie just so with a glance in the mirror. There was nothing he could do about his regulation short hair, but he stretched to snag his fedora from atop the armoire.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mikey brushed the dust from a hat he'd not worn in far too long. On his feet again and staring in the mirror, Mikey donned the hat deliberately, tugging the brim low on his forehead. The door opened and Gerard stepped into the room. "Mikey, have you seen-" He blinked with surprise. "Are you coming tonight?"

"You have to stay home," Mikey ignored the question. "Mama can't have two sons who are delinquents."

Gerard shook his head, biting his lip. "I have to be there."

With a frown and a stern look, Mikey handed his brother the envelope from Gabe. "You shouldn't go, there will be a raid tonight." He paused, hand brushing against Gerard's. "Papa did love us, you know."

Gerard read the letter, scanning it rapidly and nodding. "If you're going, I'm going. Besides, people are counting on me to be there."

~

Despite everyone who had joined the HJ, the SA, and the army, not to mention all the people taken away to the work camps, there were still a couple dozen people at the dance hall. Frank practically leapt into Gerard's arms when he appeared and Mikey tried not to watch as their mouths met hungrily. "Wish me luck," Gerard ordered as he feebly pushed Frank away.

"Aren't kisses for luck?" Frank challenged him with a fierce look, arms still around Gerard. At Gerard's nod, Frank kissed him again and Gerard's arms came up, knocking Frank's hat to the floor as one hand cupped the back of his neck.

Finally they parted, Frank looking smug as he scooped up his hat, Gerard giving Mikey a proud, apologetic look. Mikey blinked as instead of moving to a table or the dance floor, Gerard continued to the front of the room, climbing onto the stage.

He stepped up to the microphone, fidgeting nervously and flashing a smile at his friends. Before he had a chance to get any more nervous than he looked, Bob started on the drums, the band kicking in. Frank danced near the foot of the stage, catcalling as Gerard grabbed into the micstand and began to sing.

The song started slow and Mikey danced alone; he didn't want to dance with anyone but Pete. At first it felt awkward and he stumbled, certain everyone was staring. But as the song continued and his brother's voice rang through the dance hall, he danced faster, switching to a double-step and kicking his feet in the air like it was the end of the world and all that mattered was he kept dancing.

The floor was in a frenzy, packed with every free swing kid anybody knew, all dancing, but none so intensely as Mikey. With all the noise and movement, Mikey didn't notice the HJ raid had begun until one of them grabbed his arm. He shook off the hand, swinging an arm at the soldier-to-be. At least his own time with the HJ had taught Mikey how they fight.

He shot a worried look at the stage, but his brother had Frank at his side, brandishing a hook-handled umbrella. Mikey ran to the aid of one of the girls. An HJ was dragging her away by her hair, but a couple blows and a really well-landed kick had him dropping her. She scrambled back to her feet and ran off while Mikey moved onto another scuffle. He craned his neck, watching the uniforms for familiar faces.

Ryan's face lit up with a smug, malicious smile as his eyes landed on Mikey. He pushed his way past others, stopping beside him. "So this is the jive joint where traitors jitterbug?" he asked.

Ignoring his words, Mikey whirled, throwing a punch with his full weight and momentum behind it. He didn't bother telling Ryan that was for Pete, just shook out his fist as he walked away, leaving Ryan cradling a broken nose.

Even though it was the only person Mikey was really looking for, he had yet to see Pete. Part of Mikey hoped that meant Pete had a change of heart and hadn't come, but he didn't really believe it.

Fighting the HJ was hard; there were so many smaller fights going on it was easy to hit the wrong person or get hit by someone in another fight. After taking a few hard hits from the batons, Mikey's chest hurt and he decided to get a weapon of his own.

He ducked under arms and between knots of people, making his way to the bar. As he stretched to snag one of the heavier-looking bottles, a baton came down on his wrist. Mikey winced, pulling his hand back and turning towards his attacker. His eyes widened as he realized it was Pete, and Pete recognized him.

For a moment it seemed like Pete would back down, but he just raised the baton again, clubbing Mikey on the shoulders. As he swung a third time, Mikey grabbed him by the arm, halting the blow. With both hands, he latched on to the black baton, trying to tug it away. Pete wouldn't let go, driving Mikey back.

One of the back alley exits was next to the bar; Pete shoved at Mikey until he stumbled out it, almost tripping and falling. Mikey caught himself against a car parked out there and Pete pinned him there, holding his baton to Mikey's throat.

He pressed the baton against Mikey's neck, pressing harder and harder despite the fingers scrabbling at it, unable to shove the baton away. The struggling grew weaker as Mikey's feet lost their grip, sliding against the pavement.

Pete stared at Mikey, his eyes wide and staring straight back, not pleading but not giving up either, still trying to get away. Mikey would never give up, even seeing what Pete had become. His eyes watered, but he kept trying to breath, not fighting Pete.

Just when Mikey felt like he was about to black out anyhow, Pete’s face completely changed. Pulling back and dropping the baton, he let Mikey sink to the ground, gasping for air and Pete followed, hands shaking.

Mikey tugged his necktie loose and unbuttoned his collar as Pete looked over his throat, bruises already starting to show. "Run, Mikey Way, get out and find your brother, get away."

Mikey blinked back tears. "You said they'd never split us up."

Pete kissed him fiercely then brought a hand to Mikey's cheek, their mouths meeting again even more desperately. It felt like a goodbye and an apology, one Mikey didn’t want. He was ready to fight for what he wanted, ready to fight for Pete. Running wouldn’t change anything.

"You have to run for me, Mikey," he mumbled against Mikey's lips before pulling away. Pete tugged both of them back to their feet, giving Mikey a peck before shoving him away. "Run."

Shaking his head, Mikey stayed where he was. He knew Pete wouldn’t get it, but he had to stay. He had to make his point, prove that the Nazis hadn’t killed this swing kid, and hadn’t killed the swing kid in Pete either. More HJs and Gestapo poured out the door, grabbing hold of Mikey as Pete stared on, unmoving.

Mikey couldn’t help wincing as they squeezed him a little too tight, throwing him in the back of a truck. “You’ll go to a work camp,” he heard Ryan sneer, but he had made his choice. He sat, staring back at Pete as more of the swing kids were also thrown into the truck bed. Finally full, the truck started pulling away. Mikey saw Gerard standing in the alley on the other side of the street, the look on his face a mix of sadness and pride. He raised his arm in a salute, yelling, “Swing heil!”

It was the only encouragement Mikey had to offer, but it seemed to do the trick, pride winning out on Gerard’s face as he returned the salute. “Swing heil,” he screamed, voice hoarse from the singing. “Swing heil, Mikey!” Pete was still staring, until Mikey couldn’t see him anymore.

The truck moved slow, rattling down the street with a load of scared-looking teenagers. Mikey didn’t want to think about what the work camp would be like. The work camp might as well have killed his father, for how long he lived after he left there. “Mikey! Mikey!” He turned, startled to hear his name called.

Pete was running after the truck at top speed. “Herr Wentz,” one of the Gestapo on the truck brandished his gun, “What is your business?”

Mikey held his breath as Pete ignored them, running after the truck still. “Mikey,” he called again and Mikey pushed himself to his feet. “Swing heil!” It was the bravest thing Mikey had ever seen. Thinking fast, he shoved the nearest Gestapo off the truck and jumped over the side, rolling as he hit the ground.

He was bruised, but hadn’t been shot, and Mikey looked up to see the other swing kids following his lead and jumping off the truck. Pete offered him a hand up and they embraced again, Mikey’s hand curling around the back of his neck to pull his mouth close.

A whistle disrupted them, and they jumped apart. “We gotta get outta here,” Pete reminded him and tugged him into the nearest alley. They ran through the maze of the city, ducking into the shadows every time they heard footsteps. Mikey wasn’t sure how they did it, but they weren’t getting caught.

“So what do we do now?” he asked Pete finally, unable to keep from grinning at him.

Laughing, Pete countered, “Hey, why’s that up to me? You decide. We could go to France. Or if you don’t wanna, I guess we could stay here, maybe find a resistance movement around here. It’s your call.”

“Why do I have to decide?” Mikey asked, biting his lip as he considered the options. There was always Mr. Harris, if they stayed. And he could probably get them out of the country easier if they wanted to leave. He was suddenly glad he’d never given in, the times he’d doubted his choice not to turn him in to the Nazis.

“Well…” Pete shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s that whole thing where I’ve been making some pretty shitty choices lately.”

Mikey smiled sheepishly, unable to disagree. “Whatever we decide, we have to make a stop on the way.” At Pete’s questioning look, he explained, “I know someone who’d want to come with us.”

“Who?” Pete asked, looking suddenly confused.

“Gerard,” Mikey reminded him. He rolled his eyes incredulously.

With a smirk, Pete added, “And don’t forget about Frank either. Man, Mikey, once we get them, we’re gold.”

“Pure gold,” Mikey agreed.

To Hell With All the Damn Romantics (Part 1)

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 05:35:16 GMT

To Hell With all the Damn Romantics

Band(s): My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Panic at the Disco
Pairing(s): Pete/Mikey, Frank/Gerard
Word Count: 20,030
Rating/Warnings: Young Adult/strong pg-13. Warnings here.
Summary: Even in Nazi Germany, teenagers find their own
diversions. Mikey throwing himself into dancing and swing music,
Gerard isolating. Mikey finally forces Gerard to meet the swing kids
he associates with, and Gerard falls in love with the whole movement.
But the swing kids, though they seek their own amusement, have their
own struggles.

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

Fanart:
The Funeral by poseys_demise

Fanmix(es):
Fanmix
by afavoritemelody

I would like to thank poseys_demise for the hard work
doing the art and afavoritemelody for creating a mix for
me. I would also like to thank sinuous_curve for doing my beta and thelemic for helping me throughout the writing process. Though
the warnings cover this, I would also like to reiterate that some
characters in this fic use racial slurs. They only do so because it's
in character, what with them being Nazis.

"I don't know why I invite you guys over," Patrick grumbled from where he lay. "You just eat half my food and make a mess." He frowned at Pete and Frank where they sat in front of the record player, surrounded by stacks of records. Huge spaces in his shelves gaped at him.
Pete shrugged. "Sure you do. You love us, Patrick. Besides, we'll put everything back before we go."

"You will not." Patrick yanked off his glasses and used his shirttail to furiously rub them clean before shoving them back on his face. "You always put them back in the wrong spots. I can handle it, I just don't see why you need to take out a dozen at a time. You're not here long enough to listen to all those."

The room was crowded and there was hardly enough room for everyone. The walls were covered with posters for the musicians Patrick wished to emulate, shelves and crates of records taking up half the room. A record player sat on a stand in the middle of the room, everyone collected around it either on the floor or sitting in one of the two chairs Patrick owned. Bob and Mikey or Ray usually took the chairs, and if Pete or Frank managed to beat them to it, they usually got up soon and forfeited the chair to someone who was closer.

Patrick didn't have a proper table, so the chest at the foot of his bed usually served that purpose, as well as holding most of his sheet music. The contents of Frank's pockets were scattered on top.

"Hey Mikey." Frank deftly rolled a cigarette, hands moving faster than his casual tone, "Don’t you have a brother?"

Mikey’s eyes were shut, intently focused on the record playing. He nodded absently.

"How come you never bring him with at night?" Frank fidgeted, toes tapping the beat until the song finished. Mikey opened his eyes to lift the needle.

"Um." Blinking, Mikey pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Gerard doesn’t do much but study. He’s not-"

"All work and no play…" Pete interrupted. "He might actually have fun for once." He snapped Mikey’s suspenders through the slotted chair back, laughing when Mikey scowled at him from behind round lenses.

~

Mikey got there late, almost dragging another man with. The man’s overcoat was unbuttoned, showing a sloppily knotted tie tucked into his vest only halfway; the vest itself was only half-buttoned.

Scowling at Frank, Mikey nodded at the man. "Fine, I got him here. If we missed all the good songs, it’s your fault." He hung his coat and scarf on the back of a chair. "Everybody, this is my brother Gerard. Gerard, this is Frank, Bob, Ray, Patrick, and you know Pete."

"Yeah, now if these lazy bums would finish their break and get back onstage, we could wow the crowd." Pete knocked the brim of Patrick’s fedora, earning a glare as Patrick clutched the hat to his head.

He got to his feet and picked up his guitar again. "For the record, Way," Patrick smirked. "All our songs are good."

Gerard was obviously trying not to stare as he limped across the room, the rest of the table silently staring at one another. "He got in a tussle with a gangster," Frank said, giggling when everyone stared at him instead, Gerard's jaw agape.

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Don't listen to him, that's what he tells everybody." There was a pause before he answered. "Polio when he was a kid. He's still one of the greatest guitarists Germany's ever seen."

"Damn right he is," Bob said as he stood. Picking up a pair of drumsticks from the table, he followed Patrick to the stage with Ray at his heels.

Pete raised his eyebrows, giving Mikey a look as he hooked his head at the dance floor. "Come on," he pled, "You left me here all by my lonesome. None of these squares can dance worth anything."

"Don't worry, I'll try not to scare your brother off," Frank promised, shooing Mikey away. Giving Gerard a watchful and worried look, Mikey followed Pete to the floor. Frank turned his full attention to the only person left at the table. "You ready for your first swing music?" he asked Gerard.

"What?" Gerard fidgeted nervously, touching the half-empty glasses on either side of him. "I've heard Mikey's records before."

"Screw Mikey's records." Frank laughed as Gerard's eyes widened. "Sure, the records are Artie, Benny, all the greats. But they don't mean a thing till you see and hear and feel what swing is for yourself. Live."

The horns blared and Gerard jumped, startled. With another laugh, Frank pushed his glass over to Gerard, who downed it in one go. The tables around them sat empty as couples trailed onto the floor and began to dance. They watched, Gerard's eyes huge and Frank's hungry until Frank quit tapping his foot, shoving his chair back from the table and leaping to his feet. "I'll be back," he promised. "Unless... D'you wanna dance?"

Fretting with his tie, Gerard shook his head. "Go ahead, I'll watch."

~

His eyes followed Frank out to the open space of the floor until he lost sight, Frank too short to be seen past other people.

There were a few familiar faces around; people Gerard had seen at school, work, the grocer. They looked different here, smiling and laughing with a foreign energy. Even Mikey looked different here, from the glimpses Gerard caught of him and Pete in the thick of things. It was nothing like when Pete would come over and Mikey would clear space in the living room for them to practice. They looked less awkward and out of place, surrounded as they were by other dancing pairs.

After a couple songs, a grinning, sweaty Frank came back to the table and sprawled in the chair next to Gerard.

"You’re a swing kid now," Frank tsked, flicking Gerard’s tie. "Take some pride in your dress." His hands were at work unknotting the tie before Gerard could protest that coming with his brother one time made him no such thing.

He still hadn’t figured out what to say when Frank let go of his retied neckwear and started unbuttoning his vest. "Hey!"

Ignoring his protests, Frank smoothed the tie down against Gerard’s shirt and re-buttoned the vest over it properly. He gave a little nod, and smiled at Gerard. "So, what do you think?"

Gerard blinked, running a hand through his hair. "I- uh- Thank you?"

Frank laughed. "I meant," he waved a hand around the room, "You know, the whole experience, the music, all that jazz."

"Oh." Gerard fiddled with one of the hats thrown on the table. "I- The people here are different." After a slight pause, he rushed to reassure, "I like it. Everybody seems freer." He was startled when Frank darted away out of nowhere, but a couple minutes later Frank was back with two glasses. He handed one to Gerard.

"I didn't know what you like, so I just got what your brother always gets, is that okay?" Gerard grinned awkwardly and nodded, sipping the drink. He hadn't been expecting to be one of the group right away like this; it was strange.

The night passed far more quickly than Gerard expected and he was a little disappointed when everyone came back to the table, disrupting Frank's explanation of who was who and why it mattered, usually things like "he has an awesome hat" or "she works at a bakery and she'll slip a little something extra to swing kids."

Sweaty and grinning, Mikey asked Gerard if he'd enjoyed himself and he nodded, a little surprised at himself. Everyone picked up their hats and shrugged back into their overcoats, making their way outside. They split into groups going different directions, Frank joining Pete, Mikey, and Gerard on their way along the riverfront.

"Race you to the bridge!" Pete dashed off, Mikey and Frank racing after.

A couple paces in, Frank stopped, almost tripping over himself. "You don’t run?"

Gerard made a face. "Ugh. Not if I can help it."

Matching his pace, Frank pulled a pouch from his pocket. "You smoke?"

"Yeah!" Gerard beamed. "Thanks, I ran out of tobacco a couple days ago." He quit swinging the umbrella he held, tucking it under his arm so he could use both hands to light the cigarette Frank rolled.

"I hate it when that happens; I bum off the other fellas then, since Pete and Mikey don’t really smoke." They took their time catching up to the others at the bridge, Gerard laughing when Frank made fun of the posters they walked past, huge papers glued to brick buildings with slogans about joining the HJ and listening to German music.

~

It was just a low-paying job on the weekends, but Mikey liked being a delivery boy for the small bookseller around the corner. He had grown up going there, picking up books for his mother and grandmother, running his hands along the bindings and saving his pocket money to buy one every once in a while. The owner was practically family Mikey had known him so long, and Mikey knew that was how he got the job in the first place.

Times were hard for everyone, but when Mikey had gone months without stopping in, Mr. Harris had mentioned needing someone to help out for a couple hours a week. One job had quickly become two, Mikey splitting his hours with his brother. Having a job was nice. It meant he got to help out with making ends meet, plus buy himself a few records or a new tie he didn't really need sometimes. Not to mention he still got to see interesting books and people.

His deliveries rarely took more than an hour to do unless it was the Christmas season, and if there weren't any deliveries then Mr. Harris could usually find something for him to do in the shop. The shop was nice, if a little cramped. It was filled with all sorts of books in an order only Mr. Harris seemed to understand. Mikey was dead certain he knew exactly where every book he owned was; whenever someone phoned or came in looking, he always went straight to the right shelf, even if the person wasn't sure what book he or she wanted.

Mikey walked into work and Mr. Harris waved at him, not leaving his conversation with a familiar-looking couple. Most of his business was repeat customers, and Mikey knew better than to interrupt. He waited by the desk, running his finger along the stacks of books and parcels stacked on the top.

When the customers finally left, Mr. Harris crossed to the desk and jotted down something in his ledger, giving Mikey a smile. "Sorry about that," he apologized and picked up a stack of brown paper packages, handing them to Mikey.

"No, that's fine." He looked at the addresses Mr. Harris had written down. "The usual?" he double-checked, and the boss nodded.

"People don't read like they used to. They're too busy marching." He snorted and Mikey couldn't help but think that if Mr. Harris was a few years younger, he would make a good swing kid. The mental image made Mikey snort too.

Pushing his glasses further up on his face, Mikey shrugged. "Not me."

"Oh, wait. There is one more." Mr. Harris ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, making it stand on end. He pulled a book from the shelf behind him without even looking, quickly tying it up in brown paper and string, scribbling down the address onto the paper for Mikey. "It's not too far out of your way, just on the other side of the river."

It was windy when Mikey left the shop, and the sky was overcast. He clutched the stack to his chest and walked the familiar roads, tugging his hat more firmly onto his head. It didn't look like rain, or at least he hoped it wouldn't rain. Rain on the weekend always killed any chance of just wandering around town with Pete, hitting the docks or whatever.

There was a commotion on the street and Mikey stopped, curious what was happening. SS officers and the Gestapo milled about in their strict uniforms, making his skin crawl. They seemed to be emptying a house of anything that held any value, from furniture to the record player and the fine china and silver. Mikey couldn't help but notice one in particular, carrying off a large, beautiful radio he eyed enviously.
The officer cracked a joke with another officer who was holding a paintbrush and Mikey noticed they were painting a words on the door in large white letters: Traitor. He shivered and started moving again, trying not to look.

Mikey’s deliveries went as usual, one of the ladies offering him a hot drink and another offering a cookie. He accepted gratefully, knowing everyone had little enough to share what with rationing. The usual deliveries done, Mikey turned his attention to the new address.

The other side of the river was similar enough to his own side, people crowding the streets as it grew later in the day and they set about heading home from work or doing their daily shopping. Mikey moved faster, running later than he'd realized. With how cloudy the sky remained, he hadn't been able to see the sun go down but it was almost time for sunset.

He finally found the building he was looking for, a tall apartment building of faded red bricks not unlike the one his family lived in. Mikey made his way inside, catching a whiff of dinner cooking in one of the apartments. After a pause to double-check the apartment number, Mikey trotted up the stairs. The boards of the stairs were worn out; they clattered and creaked beneath him in a way that made him not want to linger. The smells of meat coming from a door as he passed it made Mikey suddenly aware how hungry he was. He found the right door and rapped on it impatiently, eager to get home to his own supper.

There wasn't an answer, with all the noise of an overfull building with walls just a hair too thin. He knocked again, louder this time.

The door cracked open and a tall man stood there in the doorway, slight scowl on his face. "What do you- Oh, you're not one of the neighbors." He opened the door wider and gestured with one hand for Mikey to follow him inside.

There was music blaring and Mikey realized why he had first assumed a knock at the door would be a complaining neighbor. The man crossed to the record player, turning it quieter, but not before Mikey recognized the piece. Startled, he couldn't help but say, "That's Beethoven's Piano Trio in B Flat Major, right?"

Seeming just as surprised as Mikey at his recognition, the customer paused over the record player, looking up. "It is. Do you study classical music?"

Mikey shook his head sheepishly. "I think my father's the violinist."

"You're Don Way's boy?" he asked. When Mikey nodded he offered his hand. "Gabe Asher. I never met your dad, but I was sorry to hear what happened to him."

Mikey bit his lip and shook the out-stretched hand.

~

Mikey didn't look up when he pushed open the door to the record shop, even when Ray waved and greeted him. They were officially closing soon, but as a regular and a friend of Ray’s, he knew he wouldn’t be kicked out. He needed to be there just then, needed to find his peace in music.

The store was empty as he bypassed rows of albums, heading straight to the classical section. With practiced familiarity, Mikey collected a stack of records, hardly having to look to know exactly where the ones he sought were.

He curled up in the corner of the listening booth, arms wrapped around his knees as he listened, trying not to cry. Failing in that, Mikey felt tears running down his face as he changed the record, hearing his father play in a way he hadn't played since Mikey was small. Some of his earliest memories were music like this as his father practiced, but his violin playing had stopped before Mikey felt like he really had a chance to appreciate it or tell his father how much it meant to him. Gerard was a great brother, but Mikey missed having a father.

It wasn’t something he ever talked about. There wasn’t anything that anyone could do about it; his father was dead and that was that. It would only make Gerard look miserable and hurt and make their mother frown in that worried, upset way she had if he said anything to either of them. Mikey hated bringing that look to her face; she wore it easily enough over things he couldn’t stop.

By the time he felt better enough to leave, Mikey knew he was late for dinner. He returned the records to where they belonged carefully, nodding his goodbye and thanks to Ray as he left. The shop had been closed for a while, but Ray was a nice guy. He followed Mikey out, offering a quick hug and a quiet, “I’m sorry,” as he locked the door and they went their separate ways to go home for the night.

~

Frank walked into the record shop, nodding at Ray by the counter. He headed towards the swing section, only to find a familiar person already flipping through the albums there. "Gerard? Did Mikey con you into going out to check out the new shipment?"

Gerard shook his head, taking his hands away from the records almost guiltily. He managed to knock one down in the process, but somehow managed to catch it and put it back on the shelf without anything breaking. "Um, I thought I'd check it out for myself. I have no idea what I'm looking for though," he admitted.

"Lemme see what you have." Frank took the record Gerard had just put down and eyed the label. He whistled. "Benny Goodman, not bad for a first-timer."

"What?" Gerard leaned closer to look at the label again. "No, it's Shmarkle Shmalinger."

Bending even closer, Frank double-checked the label. "Huh? Nope, definitely Benny. The bastards banned him so they changed the name to get past the censors."

"That's fucking brilliant," Gerard smiled toothily. "Like being an international spy or something."

"Only you're protecting something better than some goddamn crown jewels." Frank ushered Gerard towards the listening booth. "You're protecting our freedom to listen to music."

Gerard sat with a rapt expression on his face as the record played. For the most part, Frank stayed quiet with him, a few comments and explanations bursting out before he could stop them. "You can talk, I don't mind," Gerard said after the first song. "I don't listen to music much."

"Why not, if you don't mind my asking?" Frank hooked his thumb at the record player. "You seem to like it. I get that your father taught at the conservatory Patrick goes to, but why give up something so...fucking alive?"

Gerard shook his head, staring out the window of the listening booth. "He never played after he came back. Mama didn't sell his violin until after... But when they took him, they took our music. Mikey was a little younger, so maybe he didn't feel the same way about it, but it felt safer, the quiet." Swallowing a lump in his throat, Gerard pulled away from the hand Frank had placed on his shoulder. "Our papa was a good man. If they'd take his music away, they'd take it from us too. I never claimed to be brave."

Frank frowned, nudging his toe at the wooden door to the listening booth. "Not being brave doesn't mean you have to be so chickenshit you don't even let yourself be alive and fucking enjoy it." His mouth clamped shut. "Sorry. I- fuck, I run my mouth a lot, I shouldn't have said that."

Gerard's mouth twisted wryly. "At least I know you're not lying to me. Not a lot of people say what they mean like that."

"I can't just leave with you pissed like this," Frank decided. "Go ahead and take a swing at me if it'll help, I won't try to stop you or fight back." When Gerard didn't react, Frank grabbed his arm and guided it to his own face, using the hand to smack himself lightly. "There, we're even."

Laughing, Gerard tugged his arm back. "Maybe I don't think so." Frank's face fell, but he sat up straighter, turning his cheek towards Gerard. "Not that. Tell me more about this fucking swing music thing. What's your favorite?"

"I'll do one better, I'll play it for ya." Frank darted out of the listening booth, Gerard almost tripping in his haste to follow. "You'll probably hear people talking about the Andrews sisters and shit, but I gotta say I don't like 'em. The songs are good but they don't sing with enough passion like they mean it. Watered down pop shit." He started flipping through albums, rapidly moving from row to row in his quest.

"Who do you like then? Vocally?"

Frank shrugged. "I'll let you know if anyone ever jumps out at me." He grinned, handing a record to Gerard. "Louis fucking Prima. Patrick could tell you everybody playing, all I know is Gene Krupa on drums and Benny Goodman on clarinet and that is it fucking perfect."

Heading back to the listening booth, they turned up the volume and swapped out records. As he started the record, Frank couldn't help but sway to the music. The movement carried through his body, hips moving as the song continued, the drums and horns drawing a reaction from him. He took one step, then another, grinning madly.

It wasn't until Ray scolded him loudly from the counter that Frank realized he was fully dancing and Gerard was staring at him.

"Turn that down and save the dancing," Ray begged again. "You're scaring off my other customers and it's not like you ever buy anything." He gave Frank a miserable look from his spot behind the counter.

"I'll buy it," Gerard interrupted and Frank grinned at Ray smugly.

"Finally someone who appreciates my dancing!"

~

Pete felt like he lived for the nights they could go out dancing. He enjoyed hanging out with the guys, but sometimes he just thought he would explode if he wasn’t doing something. Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited for Mikey to show up. It wasn’t the same dancing with anyone else; they didn’t weigh the same, didn’t know how to follow his lead the way Mikey did.

By the time Gerard and Mikey walked into the club, Pete was so eager to get out on the floor that he ran across the room to meet them halfway. “What took you so long?” he asked, hurrying Mikey to their table.

“Gerard couldn’t find the right vest,” Mikey said, his smile almost laughing. “I was ready a while ago, but he wanted me to wait for him.” Pete snatched the fedora off his head, tossing it at the table.

He tapped his fingers on the table while Mikey unbuttoned his overcoat and slung it over the back of a chair, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the floor as soon as it was off. “Your brother having fun shouldn’t make me have less fun,” he complained, but he grinned.

The band was mid-song, but Pete didn’t care, grabbing Mikey’s hands and bringing him straight into a complicated series of knots and turns that he made up as he went. Mikey grinned back at him as he got stuck and had to work his way through them in reverse before finally launching into a fast-paced pattern of left, right, backstep with Mikey mirroring his movements.

They’d done this enough times that when Pete went to toss Mikey over his shoulders, Mikey was ready, rolling over them easy only to slide along the floor until, on the right beat, Pete tugged him back to his feet to slip back into the basic step. As the guitar solo began, Mikey took the lead briefly, using one of the dance moves they’d only just perfected the week before. It was a little rough, but Pete trusted Mikey not to let him fall and almost laughed when he was back on the ground, exhilarated.

A young man ran in, panting. “The HJs are coming,” he yelled. It was like a switch had flipped, the laughter immediately sucked out of the dancehall. The band transitioned straight into a traditional song, dropping the song they had been playing and the dance floor thinned out as couples switched from swing dancing to a more sedate polka or quit dancing entirely.

Pete had Mikey in mid-air, but once Mikey was back on the ground they parted, looking around at the change. They felt abandoned, almost, unwelcome on a dance floor that seemed so proper. Shrugging, Pete headed over to the table, Mikey on his heels.

Just as they were sitting down, a row of half a dozen HJs marched in. Pete couldn’t even bear to look at them, not really. He hated how bland and boring they were, how completely dull the polka was. If he was going to spend his time going out to dance, he wanted to have fun, he wanted to break the rules, and he did not want to listen to any authority figure to find out how to do it. Those plain uniforms signified everything he hated about Germany.

Though the girls wore make-up and had their hair down and curled, the boys wore their hair long, and their fashions were not the down-to-earth look so many of their countrymen had taken to, there were no rules being broken. Not as far as the HJ could see, anyhow, and there was no way for them to prove what music the band had been playing so long as none of them had heard it.

It kind of made Pete feel like a gangster from some American novel, like he was at some speakeasy. Maybe even like he was in some American radio drama, the lucky guy from Chicago who knew the boss and was liked by all the dames. It was thrilling being one of the guys on the inside, a guy who knew the secret password to get in. He liked feeling like he was really a part of something, smiling smugly at the thought that these schmucks were on the outside.

Mikey nodded at one of the HJs, hissing, “Isn’t that Ryan?”

The others all looked at the row of uniformed young men. It took a moment to notice, the lack of a fedora and long hair, the absence of interesting scarves and ties hard to process, but the face was definitely familiar. “But he’s the original hep-cat!” Patrick protested, even though it was obviously him.

Pete sighed. “I’d wondered why he wasn’t around lately.” He shook his head sadly, hand on his chest. They all sat silent, as if to honor the passing of one of their own.

~

Patrick leaned back, looking around his room, a serious expression on his face. He’d been thinking all night, and now it was time to figure out some things. “Ryan’s a swing kid. Once you’re a swing kid, it’s for life.”

Ray shrugged doubtfully, “I mean, I don’t know… He might be?” It was a rare occasion for him not to have an instrument in his hands, but they were all focused on the conversation at hand. Even Pete and Frank were completely focused, Patrick’s shelves of records untouched.

“Nobody who likes swing could be a Nazi.” Patrick met everyone’s eyes one by one, forcing each of them to think about it. The best musicians and composers in swing were black or Jewish; there was no way someone who appreciated that could genuinely be a part of something that had so much propaganda against those people.

“Then what was he doing in the HJ like that?” Pete asked finally.

Frank snorted and gave him a shove. “It’s compulsory. Just because we’re a bunch of god-forsaken juvenile delinquents doesn’t mean everybody else is.”

The door burst open and Gerard ran in, running late because his university was a further walk than their schools. “An HJ just passed me on a bicycle,” he exclaimed eagerly, “And he whistled the signal.”

“He whistled Don’t Mean a Thing?” Pete frowned.

“Yeah.” Gerard nodded as he tugged off his coat. “A real fucking swing kid.”

“How do you know that?” Bob wondered, giving Gerard an appraising look.

Patrick shook his head, smug. “Come on, it’s gotta be. It took Pete a month to learn to whistle that.”

“That’s because Pete’s tone deaf,” Frank laughed.

~

"You wanna dance?"

"No," Gerard gave the same answer he’d given to Frank the last two nights he’d come with Mikey. "Why don’t you ask one of the girls over there?" He gestured to the tables around them.

"Birds go fast around here." Gerard raised an eyebrow. "…And most of the girls here won’t dance with me anymore. Why don’t you ever dance? Don’t you have it like, burning inside you, here?" He pressed a hand to Gerard’s stomach.

"N-" Gerard bit his lip, blushing as Frank pulled his hand back. "I don’t- I don’t know how." His eyes cut to Mikey and Pete, in the middle of the dance floor.

"So?" Frank tugged his arm. "I can teach you. Sort of. It’s fun!"

Gerard almost pulled away, but the drums kicked in and Frank took advantage of the distraction. He tried to grab hold of a chair, the table, anything, but Frank was too quick for him, so arms flailing, Gerard found himself on the dance floor.

They didn't sit down until the band took a break between sets. Sweat was practically running down Gerard's very red face but he didn't stop grinning, even as he collapsed into a chair.

Mikey eyed him suspiciously, one eyebrow cocked. "Are you sure you're still Gerard?" he asked in that quiet way which left everyone unsure if he was serious.

Laughing, Gerard nodded. "Christ, Mikey, that was fun," he beamed.

Mikey blinked and turned to Frank. "You got my brother to dance," he half-asked, half-said. "Nobody's done that since I was ten."

Everyone was awkwardly quiet for a moment, realizing that must have been when their father was taken away, but Mikey smiled, eyes bright, and Pete gave him a squeeze.

"Guess we've got some competition on the dance floor," he said with raised eyebrows. "I gotta prove I'm dancing with the best Way."

~

Patrick sat on the bed, blindfolded, listening to the commotion filling his apartment. There were people flipping through his records and having hushed conversations about the pros and cons of what they were, Ray had picked up his guitar and was tuning it, and there was something cozy about hosting the little nest of swing kids.

Frank repeated a joke that made everybody groan except Gerard, who giggled in a very high pitch until they all stared and even Patrick peeked from the blindfold. Gerard fidgeted awkwardly as he fell silent and Pete handed Mikey a record so Patrick slipped the blindfold back on. With a snort, Mikey handed it back. "He'll get it in like two seconds, come on, make it tougher."

Grinning, Patrick sat up straighter, ear turned towards the record player. Ray set aside the guitar and Pete started a new record playing. "Good luck," Pete snarked.

"I don't need luck, I already have it pegged," Patrick smirked. "Harlem. September 14th, 1937. Teddy Foster on trumpet, Freddy Gardner alto, J-" There was a horrible scratching sound and Patrick tore off the blindfold to see Pete guiltily standing by the record player, hand on the arm.

"It slipped! I'm sorry, Patrick, it just slipped, I didn't mean to," he hastily said, ashen-faced. Patrick hobbled over to the record player and took off the album, holding it to the light. A deep scratch was visible across the whole record. "I'll buy you a new one."

Patrick snorted. "A new one? Christ, Pete, you don't even know what to look for. If I was lucky I might be able to find something at the docks but even then..." Scowling, he shoved the ruined record back into its sleeve.

"What do you mean, I wouldn't even know what to look for?" Pete griped. "Just because I can't tell you everything about every damn swing record on the planet. Hell, the only reason you can is you can't dance to 'em."

"Pete!" Mikey exclaimed, but Patrick didn't want to listen to a forced apology.

"Get out," he growled, shoving at Pete. "Just get out of here."

Mikey tried to get between them. "It was an accident, Patrick, he's sorry."

"You always take his side and I am sick of it! Get out, all of you get out!"

~

“Had a rough day?” Pete asked Mikey when he answered the door with a frown embedded in his face. Mikey sighed and nodded, crossing his arms on his chest. “Me too. Grab your coat.”

Within a few minutes, the two of them were walking down the street, both feeling better from the company, even without talking about it. Their hands brushed together as they walked and Mikey smiled at Pete, making him glad he had decided to head to Mikey’s instead of just sit at home. Every once in a while one of them would comment on something he’d just seen, drawing the other’s attention to a stray dog or little kids playing cowboys and Indians, but for the most part they walked in silence.

The further they walked, the happier Mikey seemed to be, making Pete happier too. It made sense to him, needing someone else to distract from thoughts of one kind or another.

As he and Mikey walked past the bakery, Mikey stopped and Pete did too, confused. Mikey hissed, indicating an SA officer talking to a woman covered in flour. He was holding a large box radio. "I've seen him before," Mikey said quietly with a hint of abhorrence. "He stole that radio in a raid."

"It's a nice-looking radio," Pete agreed, watching as the officer entered the bakery with the woman and set it up in the corner. "Wish we had something that nice."

"Yeah," Mikey sighed, eyes on the fine wooden radio. "We could give it to Patrick, listen to Benny live maybe."

Pete laughed. "Hell yeah. I can see the look on his face..." He paused, giving Mikey a quick look. "...we could. That radio's as much ours as his."

Hesitating, Mikey's eyes moved back and forth between Pete and the radio. "I don't know. I mean, it's not like we can just walk in there and take it."

"Why not?" Pete asked, eyes sparking with excitement. "That radio's not his, it's not hers, and fuck them, we'd use it better than they ever would."
Mikey sighed, eyes latching on Pete's. "Do you have a plan?"

Pete was unable to contain a triumphant grin. "Not yet."

"We are so screwed," Mikey mumbled under his breath, leaning closer to Pete as Pete started wildly plotting.

Five minutes later he had a plan that might work, if they did it right and worked fast. They got a couple tomatoes and smashed them on Pete's shirt. The red guts weren't very convincing blood, but they'd work for a couple minutes if nobody got a close look.

Clutching his chest, Pete stumbled in the bakery door. "Help me," he groaned loudly, moving towards the bakeress. She looked up, alarmed, and Pete clutched at her. "Help me, you gotta help me," he moaned, tugging her towards the back of her shop.

As Pete continued his loud complaints, Mikey slipped in the front door, quickly unplugging the radio. When he moved to pick it up, the radio scraped against the table with a slight rasp and the woman turned to check out the sound. Pete grabbed her shoulders, trying to regain her attention as Mikey ran out the door with the radio in his arms.

For the first time, she gave him a good look and Pete could see the moment she realized he was faking. He pushed past her, laughing as he ran after Mikey, leaning against his shoulder when they stopped running a little ways down the street.

She ran out after them, yowling like a cat. "Stop! Stop thieves," she screeched, shaking her fist angrily. "Those boys stole my radio!"

It wasn't until then that Pete and Mikey noticed a couple SA officers were still hanging around, and they began running down the street again, plowing down pedestrians as they went. Mikey started lagging and Pete realized the radio was slowing him down.

"Come on," he called over his shoulder frantically. "We gotta get outta here." He saw a truck at a red light up ahead and aimed for it, but Mikey was still just a hair too slow. Pete climbed into the bed of the truck, holding out his hand to help Mikey up. "Drop it. Drop the damn radio, it's not worth it," he pled as Mikey fell further behind.

"No!" Mikey insisted, unable to see the officers barely three paces behind him. He tripped on the uneven road and the radio smashed at his feet just as one of the officers grabbed his shoulder. Pete was helpless and knew there was no point in them both being arrested, so he stayed in the truck, watching them haul Mikey off as the truck pulled away. His eyes stayed latched on Mikey until the truck had gone too far and he couldn’t see Mikey anymore.

Once he got out of the truck, Pete made his way to Mikey's house. He stared at the door, knowing they wouldn't be happy with him for what he had to share. It would be better to just get it over with, so finally Pete knocked on the door. He knew it took a little bit to get to the door, but still he pounded impatiently at his wait.

“I’m sorry,” he said as Gerard opened the door, an unhappy look on his face from the disturbance.

Gerard’s look of unhappiness shifted to one of concern and reluctant interest. “Why are you sorry?” he asked with puzzlement.

“I-” Pete frowned and bit his lip, trying to peer around Gerard and into the dim hallway behind him. “Is your mother home? I should probably come in and tell her.” He couldn’t see anything in the apartment, not even the clock to know if she was due to be there.

The mistrust on Gerard’s face grew at that. “Where’s Mikey?” he asked suspiciously. “I thought he was out with you.”

Pete’s face fell and he shuffled his feet nervously. He gave Gerard an earnest look. “Just let me in and I’ll explain, I swear.”

After a long moment of staring at Pete from the doorway, Gerard finally opened the door wider and backed away so he could walk in. Pete thanked him and made his way to the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch tensely while Gerard called to his mother. He hated being stared down, but Pete found himself forced to endure it the whole time he sat there waiting for Mrs. Way to appear.

Her blonde hair was a mess when she finally came into the room, the buttons on her dress fastened wrong. She had clearly just gotten home from work and was in the process of changing out of her work clothes. “What is it? What has happened to my Mikey?”

~

Frowning, Gerard fetched the sharp scissors from their mother's sewing basket. "You're lucky mama doesn't skin you alive for pulling shit like that," he called over his shoulders, tossing spools of thread and a pincushion back in before meeting Mikey in the kitchen. A chair sat in the middle of the room, tugged in from the dining room.

"You're lucky she doesn't cut off your tongue for using words like that in her house." Mikey handed Gerard the sheet he'd fetched from another room and sat down.

Sighing, Gerard shook out the sheet and slung it around Mikey's neck. “I’d guess how you want it, but…” He picked up the comb. “All short?” He combed out Mikey's hair, running his fingers through it before wetting the comb and running it through his hair again.

“It’ll grow back,” Mikey mumbled, sitting up straight as Gerard held the scissors up to the light, making a practice snip to check the blades were sharp enough. He took off his glasses, holding them in his lap and blinking at how blurred the far side of the kitchen had become.

Trying not to wince, Gerard brought the scissors up to Mikey's head, carefully snipping his hair short. The locks of hair fell to the floor and Mikey shut his eyes, unable to block the sound of each snip of the scissor blades. "I can't believe they're making you join the goddamn HJ," Gerard griped, frowning again and tilting his head to check his cut. He ran the comb through Mikey's hair again, making a few quick cuts and stepping back to examine his work again.

"I know," Mikey agreed quietly. "It's just… They said if I didn't, it'd make trouble for mama. I didn't want to- she has it hard enough already." They fell silent, both in agreement.

Gerard evened out the ends and eyed his work again, unsure if it was short enough. He brought the scissors back against Mikey's neck, trimming off a bit more. Mikey's hands tightened around his glasses, unable to keep from making a face at the cold metal reminder of what was going on. "That and the uniform. Do you really have to wear it?" Gerard complained. "It's so- I don't know the right slang for it."

~

Mikey was nervous setting foot in the building where the HJ met. He knew he couldn’t be truant without his mother hearing about it, but if he didn’t have to go yet, he wouldn’t. Instead he hung back, waiting in the hallway where no one would talk to him.

His eyes followed all the other young men there, all of them in uniforms just like his own. It was stiff and uncomfortable, like he was wearing an ill-fitting disguise. Mikey couldn’t help but think if he was a spy, this would be so much cooler. As it was, it was just a nerve-wracking experience, and he was eager for it to end.

Someone grabbed his arm and tugged him even further out of the way. Mikey bit back a scream, tense and certain one of these HJs would beat him up. They could probably tell he wasn’t really one of them, but he didn’t want to be there and he couldn’t see anything changing that.

A familiar laugh broke into his thoughts and Mikey finally realized who the person in the uniform was. “Pete?” he asked incredulously. “What’re you doing here?”

Pete shrugged, running a hand self-consciously through his own close-cropped hair. “Thought maybe I’d keep you company. Since it’s pretty much my fault you’re here anyway.”

Grinning, Mikey hugged him. “It’s good you’re here. At least I’ll have someone to laugh about this shit with.”

“I know,” Pete groaned, “Did they get all uber-Nazi ‘I’m a big tough German and I love my country so should you’ with you too when they gave you the uniform?”

~

The day was sunny and almost warm, despite the season. Though there had been rainstorms daily for the past week, the clouds had finally broken and Patrick had managed to leave his apartment, confident the weather would hold long enough for him to reach the docks and get back.

He had missed a couple shipments, but even so, Patrick's meticulous search through the records there yielded one new find. As more and more often, he found nothing, Patrick could hardly contain his excitement. He was eager to get home to his record player, make himself comfortable, and have the first listen. There was always something magical about that, the first moment his ears managed to hear something new.

His delight grew with every step as he walked home. Patrick couldn't resist throwing a few clumsy dance steps into his walk, weaving his feet together in an approximation of what he'd spent to many hours watching others do. He could practically hear his new record already, the sax and clarinet dancing together, a rolling drumbeat...

Lost in anticipation as he was, Patrick didn't really notice he was sharing the street with anyone, let alone with a bunch of HJs. Even when they started taunting him, he wasn't fazed. As far as Patrick was concerned, being called Swing Boy was a badge of honor, not an insult, and true besides. Patrick wasn't even that worried when they started trailing after him, but by the time one of them snatched the record from his hand, he was getting a little steamed.

Holding the record close to his face, the HJ read the label intently. "Oh, Benny Goodman," he commented with an interested tone of voice, laughing as he tugged it out of Patrick's reach. When Patrick tried again to snatch it from him, one of the other HJs gave Patrick a shove, almost knocking him off his feet. Patrick struggled to keep standing and not fall down the hill. "You know this is kike music, right?" a uniform asked snidely. They all looked the same to him, with the same attitude of superiority simply due to the clothes they wore.

"What's your name?" one of them asked, drawing a notepad from his pocket.

Patrick stood up straighter, meeting his eyes. "Artie Shaw." He was backhanded so hard his head reeled, but Patrick didn't back down. "Gene Krupa." The HJ pulled back his arm to hit Patrick again when someone interrupted, "I know who he is."

When he realized the new voice was Ryan, Patrick's eyes lit up and he unintentionally stood up even straighter, unable to help feeling a little cocky. "Patrick Stumph. With an h." Patrick watched as his name was written down.

The HJ holding the record smashed it in the street.

Some small part of him knew it was irrational, knew it was a bad idea, but he was seeing red. The utter wrongness horrified Patrick, that people his age were educated - or uneducated, more like - in a way to think the only way to be safe was destroying something beautiful.

Patrick shoved the HJ, swinging his umbrella at another. They were standing uphill from him, so he didn't really have the leverage when they fought back. One of them kicked him, hard, and try as he might to keep standing, Patrick failed, falling to the ground, dropping the umbrella.

They circled around him, hurling insults along with their blows. Ryan stood back and watched, arms crossed on his chest. The umbrella was at his feet, and Patrick was pretty sure if he stretched out his hand, he could reach it and defend himself once more. Repressing the urge to curl up and protect his ribs from their boots, Patrick instead reached out, grasping desperately for the umbrella. It was a further off than he thought, but his fingers were brushing against cloth. Just a little more stretching and he'd have it.

All of a sudden, there was a sharp, jarring pain in Patrick's fingers, and he looked up to see Ryan had moved, stomping on his hand. "Let's see you play that nigger kike music now," he said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. Twisting his toes from side to side, Ryan ground Patrick's fingers against the pavement, the shattered bones rubbing together unnaturally. One of the boots to his chest made a cracking sound and the pain grew even worse. Still trying to fight back, Patrick noticed his vision going black.

~

The painkillers were strong enough Patrick had hardly been awake since the attack. He was vaguely aware of doctors, nurses, and his friends coming and leaving, but Patrick spent most of his time lost in the hazy dreams made more intense by the drugs.

He fought his way out of a nightmare, only to start at the sight of his dream turned reality. The HJs were there in the room with him, and Patrick shouted, arms flailing wildly despite the pain. In bed as he was, there was no way for him to run, the bed sheets tangled about him too tight to escape or back away.

"It's okay, Patrick, it's okay," Bob said, hands on his shoulders as he tried to calm Patrick down. "It's just Pete and Mikey." It took a couple minutes for Patrick to finish waking enough to process the words and sag back against the bed.

As Pete and Mikey drew close in crisp new HJ uniforms, he couldn't help but shrink back from them. Mikey tapped Pete's shoulder, stepping back a little and signaling he should do the same. Even with the space between them, Patrick wasn't quite breathing easy.

"Who did this?" Pete asked with a sweeping motion at Patrick. "Who did this to you?"

~

The only relief from the monotony of being HJ was the sports training and even that somehow managed to be completely dull, dozens of other teenagers crowding into a gymnasium, all wearing identical shorts and tank tops. The athleticism of it was precise and calculated, no personality or sense of style. The lesson on boxing promised to be just as dull as all the others, until Pete saw who was leading it.

He hardly listened as Ryan explained the basics, already fantasizing about smashing his nose. The one word he was listening for finally came: volunteer. Pete's hand shot on the air and he waited impatiently until Ryan called him forward.

A fierce grin on his face, Pete joined Ryan in the ring, bringing his fists to his face. Pete was good in a fight and he knew it, even if he had no idea how to box. It couldn’t be that complicated, he figured, just throwing some punches.

He was still grinning when Ryan’s first punch flew, only catching Pete’s attention as it landed squarely on his cheek. “An important element of boxing is blocking your opponent,” Ryan explained to the room. Gritting his teeth, Pete focused on Ryan, determined not to let him do that again. “And follow-through,” he added, left fist slamming into Pete’s jaw.

Pete swung back, full force behind his arm as he aimed for Ryan’s face. He scowled as Ryan ducked, the edge of his knuckles only grazing Ryan’s cheekbone. His next punch hardly landed better, Ryan backing up almost before he threw it. But he had Ryan backing up at least, so Pete pushed forward and kept slugging at him even though he kept missing.

The room couldn’t be silent, but it seemed that way, everything reduced to the two of them there in the ring. Ryan dodged another punch, panting a little as he changed that, telling the room, “It’s important to keep your punches tight so your opponent can’t see them coming.”

Even watching for his punches, Pete couldn’t get his fists up in time to avoid them. He could feel moisture dripping down his face, a bloody nose, but he didn’t care. He just tried to land a blow on Ryan, one solid hit. Ryan’s next punch was too much, Pete falling to the mat from the impact.

Ryan walked away as though it was nothing, still talking to the rest of the HJs. Pete swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, wincing a little. He could taste the blood as he licked his lips, launching himself back to his feet and straight at Ryan, fists flying.

His eyes gleamed as he finally made Ryan bleed. “It don’t mean a thing,” he sung quietly, the words smug. He knew Ryan would understand, swing boy versus ex swing boy.

~

Stopping by Patrick’s between school and an HJ meeting, Pete reclined on the floor and watched while Mikey explained what had caused Pete’s black eye. They already wore their uniforms, but he didn’t care if a little dust from the floor got on his.

Mikey bounced on his heels as he gave everyone a play by play of the fight, using Ray to illustrate it. “Christ, you guys shoulda seen it. Pete was like wham, bam, and kept punching even though Ryan was moving like a snake and avoiding it each time…”

Patrick sighed. “I didn’t ask you to do this,” he told Pete with a harsh edge to his voice.

“So?” Pete asked. “I did it for you anyway. Might as well get something outta this whole HJ shebang besides an ugly uniform.”

Sizing Pete up with a bitter look from over the tops of his glasses, Patrick frowned. “And why are you an HJ anyhow?”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Pete reminded him, exasperated. He’d already been over this with Patrick a couple times, but apparently that wasn’t good enough.

Patrick snorted at his answer. “Mikey didn’t have a choice. What’s your excuse?”

Before Pete had to answer him again, a whistle sounded at the door, the familiar notes to It Don’t Mean a Thing. He couldn’t help feeling a little relieved at the disruption.

Frank popped up to open the door and Gerard came in, hair wild and windblown and a grin on his face. He waved at the guys as he unknotted his scarf and shrugged out of his overcoat, setting it on the floor.

“I’m dying for a smoke,” he lamented despite his broad grin, waiting for Frank to roll one.

Within a minute, Gerard was lighting up and Frank glanced around, “Anyone else?” he asked.

Mikey sighed, leaning against one of the shelves of records. “No thanks. They smell our breath.”

“Are you sure you should be here where we’re playing this music?” Patrick scorned. “They might listen to your ears.”

~

"The guys miss seeing you," Bob said, handing Patrick the thin bag in his hand.

Patrick's eyes lit up briefly as he slid the record from the bag and scanned the label. "What do you mean? They were just over a couple days ago." He limped to the record player, finally letting Bob in the door.

Bob shut the door behind himself, frowning at Patrick. "You haven't left your apartment since you were released from the hospital. I don't mind running to the docks and getting groceries, but you need to go out. At least to the club. Listen to music and see people, get some swing in your life again. If Emil tries anything with you again, I'll kick his ass."

"It's not about that. I'm not scared of him." Bob gave Patrick a look and he shrugged. "Okay, fine, I am, but I'm more scared about the rest of Germany. Have you read the papers you bring to me?" With a swift kick, he knocked over the stack of old newspapers next to the chair.

Bob sighed. "The news won't get any better just because you're staying in."

"And it won't get any better." Patrick held up his hand with its broken fingers, the cuts on them nearly healed. "I can still play, but swing's not gonna save Germany. It's too late."

~

Trudging in the front door, all Pete wanted was to head upstairs, bathe, and go to bed. He tried to slip past the open door of the sitting room undetected, only to have his father call for him.

Pete stepped into the room where his parents and a couple of their friends sat having drinks. "Good evening Doctor, Mrs. Salpeter."

The doctor frowned at his face, still battered and bruised from the fight with Ryan. "I can run and fetch my bag so I can take a closer look at those," he offered.

"Oh, he's in his element," Pete's father answered scornfully. "Being tough, fighting. It's the first time our Peter has managed to do what he wants and not have trouble with the law. But they look so fine in their uniforms."

Trying hard not to lose his temper, Pete excused himself from the room, hurrying away. Halfway up the stairs, he paused and glared at the door to the sitting room. "Bastard," he hissed under his breath and ran the rest of the way to his bedroom.

It was unfair; even when Pete was doing so well, it wasn't enough for his father. He couldn't help it if he'd rather bum around with Mikey than sit at home and study or attend stuffy dinner parties where his parents would try to introduce him to the right sort of people, all of them boring.

Mikey even made being in the HJ exciting and if one of them was a bad influence, it was Pete, not Mikey.

~

There was a knock at the door and Gerard left his books on the table to answer it. No one else was home and neither Mikey nor his mother had mentioned expecting any kind of a delivery.

He blinked, surprised to see Frank standing there when he opened the door. "Um, Mikey's not home," he said weakly.

"So what, I can't come over to see you?" Frank asked. "Or, shit, sorry, are you busy?" He frowned and tugged at his suspenders.

"Oh. Uh. Not- Sort of?" Gerard opened the door wider and let Frank in despite his words. "I've been studying, but I'm ready for a break."

"Why are you hitting the books all the time?" Frank nudged Gerard’s shoulder. "Mikey says that’s why you never go out."

Wrinkling his nose, Gerard sighed. "I hate engineering. It doesn’t make sense, you know? But mama had a hard enough time so we can afford university, and she said Germany needs engineers."

"…damn."

"Yeah, I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad, but it just doesn’t come to me, not unless I spend pretty much all my time studying."

"So what would you have picked?"

Gerard almost blushed. "I…wanted to go to art school. But mama said there wasn’t a career in it."

~

Knowing how stubborn and persistent Pete could be, it didn’t surprise Mikey that the next time the HJ did boxing, he asked Ryan for a rematch. He quelled his misgivings, staying on the sidelines to cheer Pete on again, hoping for a slightly better outcome this time.

Pete looked serious, standing in the ring with his fists held up and elbows tucked close to protect his sides. He waited, letting Ryan throw the first punch and ducking underneath it. As Ryan overcompensated, clearly surprised Pete had avoided his punch, Pete threw his own fist at Ryan.

The room was still, everyone intent on the match. With how Ryan had managed to completely cream Pete the first time, everyone knew that one was or another, this would prove a fight worth watching. Mikey was almost afraid to watch, the smug grin on Pete’s face showing he was already getting cocky. Ryan threw another fist, only to be met by two more from Pete. The first just grazed his shoulder, but the second landed squarely on his chest.

An applause and cheer roared through the room, but Pete’s eyes never left his opponent for a second. Ryan’s fist shot out again, catching Pete in the stomach. They danced around each other, glancing blows landing by turns. Pete hit Ryan in the jaw and Ryan spat blood on the mat, his tongue bitten. Neither was going down.

Mikey was impatient for the match to end, biting his lips as he watched. This time Pete and Ryan seemed evenly matched, or near enough. He had no idea how the fight was going to end, or even if it would. It almost seemed as if they could keep going forever, each getting in a little hit here and there but never knocking the other down.

It had to be a lucky punch, but Pete managed to knock Ryan to the mat. Ryan held his arm out and Pete helped him back up. Mikey milled closer, eager to congratulate Pete. He heard Ryan saying, “You’ve taught me an important lesson about passion and how it can persevere in the end.”

Pete’s gloating aside, Mikey had thought that would be the end of the upheaval the HJ had caused in his life. But then more and more often he noticed Ryan joining them at the required activities, laughing with Pete, jokes neither bothered to share with him.

Most of Mikey’s focus was on not being noticed; when he was at the HJ meetings, he didn’t usually feel like laughing anyhow. But the thrill of knowing there would be a familiar face there in Pete had faded. He still felt alone there.

Every time there was a competition between the HJ, he saw Pete and Ryan at the forefront, winning and congratulating each other, going off without him as they discussed whatever it was they had in common. It was a betrayal of sorts, having Pete go so readily into friendship with someone who had crushed Patrick’s fingers beyond repair.

But mostly it hurt because it felt like Ryan had stolen away one of his best friends, and now Mikey didn’t have a Pete.

Part Two

THWATDR fanart

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 04:34:56 GMT

by poseys_demise

Artist's Note: “I just want to note that I'm sorry the hairstyles aren't historically accurate, since I didn't give them faces, I wanted to still be able to tell who's who.”

THWATDR fanmix

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 04:09:15 GMT

by afavoritemelody

Mad World - Adam Lambert (Cover)
Wake Up Alone - Amy Whinehouse
Bye, Bye, Blackbird - Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr
Some Unholy War - Amy Whinehouse
MakeDamnSure - Taking Back Sunday
Our Father - Extreme
Sentimental Journey - Various Artists
From Yesterday - 30 Seconds to Mars
Watch The Sky - Something Corporate
Where'd You Go - Fort Minor
Satisfy - Vadera
Me and the Moon - Something Corporate

download

warnings for THWATDR

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 03:13:13 GMT

warnings: Nazis use strong language, including racial slurs; suicide

Either I Have a Concussion or I'm in Love part two

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 05:55:28 GMT

Part One

~

Mikey walks nervously into the living room, the sounds of zombie movies carrying down the hall. "Um. Gee?"

"Yeah, Mikey?" He looks up, the glow of the TV almost red on his face.

She tugs on her hoodie zipper, sitting tensely at the far end of the couch. "Um. Remember how a while back you said I could talk to you if I was nervous?"

"What's up?" He turns off the TV and turns towards her.

"Um. I wasn't nervous, but. Uh. I guess I should have been?" She glances at him, arms tucked around herself.

"You mean?" She nods and Gee scoots up the couch to hug her. "Mikey," he sighs.

"I know," she mumbles against his shoulder.

"It's just-" he squeezes her a little tighter. "Mikey."

"I only just figured it out today," she says weakly. "I wasn't thinking about it…"

Gerard pats her head. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Mikey giggles a little desperately. "No, Gee, I'm not." She pulls back and rubs at her eyes.

"Is there- What can I do?" he asks, biting his lip.

She shrugs, shaking her head. "It's not exactly gonna undo itself."

"Are you gonna tell Pete?"

Mikey pales. "I can't. Not yet…" She frowns, leaning against Gerard's shoulder again. "I mean, I will eventually. But like. Not until I go to the doctor and shit. Maybe it's cancer or something," she suggests brightly.

~

"It's not cancer," Mikey sighs, pushing open the swinging door into the waiting room. Gerard hugs her from one side, her mom from the other.

Their mom sighs, "You'll be okay."

"I want ice cream," Mikey says as they walk back to the car, eyes big and pleading. "The only good thing about going to the doctor was the receptionist isn't that creepy lady with the fingernails who calls me honey anymore. He was reading a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comic, I shit you not," she informs Gerard.

His eyes light up. "Really? I didn't notice, but he was rocking a pretty killer beard. Did you notice his name?"

She shrugs. "I think it was Bob or something? He had the comic inside a file he pretended to look at, but I saw it when he sign-in pen was out of ink and he had to find me another one." Mikey gives her brother a meaningful look. "Ice cream before you decide you want a doctor's appointment to find out if he's your geeky soulmate?"

Gerard blushes. "Fine. Momma, can we stop and get Mikey ice cream, or is it too soon for her to start abusing pregnancy cravings?"

"Fuck you." Mikey scowls until they turn into the parking lot at Dairy Queen.

Her chin rests on Gerard's shoulder while they stand in line, jostling every time the line moves and they slowly shuffle forward. "The usual?" he asks when they're next in line and she nods, the movement sending his hair into her eyes.

"This sucks," she mumbles and he nods. "This sucks hard."

~

The guys are hanging out, playing video games, enjoying the first taste of the freedom of summer when Gabe starts talking about his graduation party, a favorite subject of his for the past month or so. "The only way it could've been more sweet is if JT himself had been there, had a fucking dance-off with me."

"You know, Gabe," Patrick says, rolling his eyes, "We all were at your graduation party. You don't need to tell us it was the most fabulous neon extravaganza since your fifth birthday, because we all saw it."

"It was all that and more, Stump, don't you forget it." Gabe grabs a handful of Doritos and keeps talking. "That's why I gotta keep talking, I wouldn't want you to lose any detail of the best party experience of your lives."

Travis turns up the volume on the TV. "We got it, your party rocked the hizzy. I'm with Patrick on this one, can we move on?"

Gabe pauses the game. "I don't think you're giving my party enough value. The decorations my sisters helped me do, the food my mom made, come on. Everybody came and everybody had fun, am I right?" He spreads his arms, inviting a contradiction. "I haven't had a party that fun since December, eh boys? The one where Mikey and Bill were all over each other?"

"Shut the fuck up, Gabe!" Patrick glares.

Gabe grins and keeps talking, getting louder and more animated as he goes. "Like every one of you didn't put that in your spank bank. I know I did. It was practically porn, I swear to god I think her hand was down his pants. Remember?" He turns his broad grin on the group sitting there in stunned silence.

"Is there some other Mikey?" Pete asks, hands curling into fists. He's dangerously quiet and no one says anything for a long moment.

"Do I know more than one Mikey?" Gabe says, raising his eyebrows.

Patrick sends a menacing look at Gabe. "Are you seriously this retarded, or do you just want me to punch you until you are?"

"December?" Pete interrupts, growing more quiet and still with every moment.

"Beginning of the month?" Gabe offers when no one else answers him. "The week before finals I think? Around then."

"Hey, d'you think maybe we can get back to the game?" Travis suggests. Everyone quickly agrees but Pete stays silent the rest of the afternoon.

~

Pete knows he's being moody and standoffish from Mikey, but he doesn't know what to do about it. He's too caught in his head to worry about it, even when she leaves Bill's graduation party early, saying she's tired.

She looks tired, dark circles under her eyes, probably from late nights talking to Pete and studying for finals. Part of Pete's glad she leaves, glad she doesn't want to stick around Bill's now he knows she's fooled around with him before. He almost feels bad for the thought, but mostly Pete's busy feeling bad for himself being caught in a funk.

Gabe presses a glass of spiked punch into his hand. "Cheer up," he suggests. "Graduation, can you fucking believe it? We survived being seniors. Oh, wait, you're not done yet. Uh, here, you need this more than I do." He hands Pete his own glass too.

Pete sighs. "You're so lucky you're free." He empties one of the glasses. "It's like a fucking prison, only with less assrape."

Gabe shrugs. "Fake it, right? You're almost there, close enough, right? It's still your last summer of freedom before college." He eyes the glass Pete's sipping from. "Hey, I'm gonna go get something else to drink, don't set yourself on fire or anything when I'm gone. I want to catch shit like that on camera."

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off." Pete muses on Gabe's words as he eyes the group of classmates, mostly people he doubts he'll ever see again.

~

Mikey wakes up to the sound of her phone ringing. She only just fell asleep, but she's too tired to deal with it, so she ignores the phone until it falls silent again. A couple minutes later, it beeps insistently, telling her she has a new message. With a groan, Mikey holds the phone to her ear to listen.

It's Frank, and he sounds really worked up but all Mikey can piece together from the message is that he's apparently on his way over to tell her something really important, so she should probably put pants on. She wrinkles her nose, pushing back the covers. Mikey's already wearing pants, the flannel monkey pants she stole from Gerard. Gerard hasn't noticed yet, but Mikey figures he'll steal them back next time they wind up in the laundry.

She yawns and feels around on her desk until she finds her glasses, slipping them on her face as she makes her way downstairs. The TV's on in the living room, and Mikey leans against the doorframe a moment instead of just walking past. "Hey, Momma."

"Hey, hon." Donna turns to look at her. "I thought you went to bed. Are you feeling okay?"

Mikey nods, burying her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. "I did, but Frank called and said it's important." She sighs. "I hope it's not something about being attacked by vampires again." She waves and heads outside, sitting on the front step to wait for him.

The last bit of sunlight is lingering, not quite ready to fade even though the stars are already out. It's the kind of night for staying up late and watching the sky. The neighborhood looks almost beautiful in the fading light, like it's not really Jersey anymore. It's almost peaceful until the sound of Frank's beat up car comes into range.

Mikey chuckles to herself at the noise; she and Gerard keep telling Frank he drives a death machine, but he doesn't want to listen. As it pulls to a stop, she half expects something to fall off, but the car stays intact for now, even with Frank throwing his door open and slamming it shut again as he darts up to the house. "What is it?" she asks, still smiling to herself.

"I saw it with my own eyes, Mikey. You won't believe it, but I did," Frank says, kicking the front step. "Wish I fucking didn't, that goddamn asshole, but I can't fucking help it."

"What?" she asks, a little alarmed now. "What did I miss? Was there a fight or something after I left the party?"

"A fight I could fucking deal with," Frank says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Want one?" he offers, tapping one out. Mikey shakes her head as he lights up. "I don't even know how to tell you, Mikeyway, but it seems like you gotta hear it from somebody who knows you, right?"

"Uh. I'll let you know when I know what the fuck you're talking about?" She gives him a look. "Come on, Frankie, don't make me fucking beg."

"It's bad." He takes a drag of his cigarette before gesturing back where he came from. "So the party. It was, you know, your usual shitty party, right? A buncha people pretending to behave in the backyard, Bill's folks inside with all his relatives, nothing out of the fucking ordinary. But then, I mean, you know how it gets, it's getting later, people start breaking out a little hooch and it's pretty good, right? I think you left around then, huh, Mikey?" Frank starts pacing across the sidewalk.

She nods, kicking his ankle. "Sit the fuck down, come on, you're making me nervous."

Frank takes a seat next to her, fumbling with his cigarette. "Alright, alright. So the party's turning into like, an actual party and not just some bullshit teaparty or whatever it is adults expect us to like. Everybody was getting the way they do, all excited and mopey and that shit, like one last hurrah or whatever. I kinda figured that your boy would hang with Patrick and them like he usually does, but instead I saw him chatting up some girl, fuck if I know her name, skinny blonde chick." He stops to take a breath.

"So Pete was talking to somebody?" Mikey raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you should call the police, I'm pretty sure that's a crime or something."

"Okay, whatever, guy's allowed to talk to other people, I get that. But there's talking, and then there's more than talking and your Pete was definitely doing more than talking. And okay, like, I know it's getting a little dark out but there were some lights on and it wasn't that dark. I know what I fucking saw."

"Then what did you see?" Mikey scowls. "I'm not calling you a liar or anything, but how the fuck can I know if it's a big deal if you don't tell me what you saw?"

"I'll tell you what I saw," Frank flicks away his cigarette butt. "I saw Pete fucking Wentz and this chick all over each other, as fucking attached after five minutes as the two of you are most of the damn time. He had his tongue down her throat till I woulda thought she'd be gagging on it and they didn't look like they were planning on stopping there, that's for fucking sure."

~

Laying in bed, Mikey stares at the clock on the nightstand. The glowing red numbers keep changing, and as the sky outside her window starts getting light again, Mikey gives up on the idea of getting any sleep.

She tugs up her hood and slips on a pair of shoes before she heads outside. It's dark enough that the streetlights are still on, a morning chill in the air making Mikey shiver as she starts wandering down the street. She doesn't really have a destination in mind, but there's a restlessness inside her that she has to put to use.

Turning a corner, Mikey realizes she's at the park. The trees and the open space there seem appealing, like it might be a good place to think. She walks around the playground, reaching up a hand to knock on the monkey bars, laying on the merry-go-round and kicking the dirt around it to start it spinning.

When she gets dizzy, Mikey drags her heel until it stops, laying there a moment before she feels well enough to get up. She grew up going to parks like this and it makes her even more dizzy to think she's gonna have a kid that probably goes to this same park. Mikey shoves herself off the merry-go-round forcefully, trying to shove away the thought at the same time.

Mikey makes her way over to the swing set, sitting down on one of the swings and just hanging there while she thinks. But she spent all night thinking, really, and she already knows what she has to do. Mikey picks up her phone and calls the person she's been thinking of.

It rings and rings and she's almost ready to throw her phone across the playground when Pete picks up. "H'llo?"

"Wake up," she says firmly, pumping her legs to get the swing moving. "Meet me at the park by my house."

"Wha-? When?" he mumbles.

"Now, asshole." Mikey hangs up and scowls, still tempted to throw the phone. She's trying not to be upset, but it's not working very well, and she has a sinking suspicion that actually talking to Pete won't help.

She keeps swinging for a few minutes before she decides she'd rather just sit there on the swing and wait. The sunrise is nearly over by the time Pete shows up. He waves and she ignores it, waiting for him to approach.

"What is it, Mikey?" he asks, sitting on the swing next to hers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fucking sick of that question," she mumbles. "And you should know what it's about. It's about you and the stupid shit you apparently do at graduation parties."

"You heard about that already? News travels fast." He knocks his swing against hers. "Sounds kinda like what you do at regular parties though, huh?"

Confused and offended, Mikey gives him a indignant look. "What?"

"Yeah. I heard about you and Bill Beckett at Gabe's party." He scowls. "I heard all about you. But we're even now, right?"

"Even?" She raises an eyebrow at him. "You're such a douche, it was before we even went out."

Crossing his arms, Pete gives her a petulant look. "Yeah, like, the day before."

Mikey shrugs. "So?"

"So it's after I asked you out."

"Oh my god, are you seriously-" Mikey scowls. "Yeah, it was. Get the fuck over it."

"I did get over it."

"Got over it with your dick." The wind picks up and Mikey tugs on the zipper of her hoodie. "You could at least fucking apologize and cut the self-righteous bullshit."

"Why? Why the fuck would I apologize, Mikey?" Pete spreads his arms. "I didn't do anything wrong, not if you didn't."

"That's bullshit. That's total bullshit, Pete. You and I had hardly even talked until we were at the bowling alley. Plus, it was a party. We weren't dating yet and I was having fun. We were just fooling around, it's not like it was anything serious."

"Not anything serious?" Pete stares at her. "You're wrong. You're wrong and I'm not apologizing till you apologize."

Mikey crosses her arms. "Fine, but I'm not apologizing when I didn't do anything wrong." She juts her chin.

"Fine." Pete gets to his feet. "I guess that's it, then. I guess I should have known you were too good to be true. Fuck you, Mikeyway." He turns and waves goodbye to her as he walks off, Mikey sitting there in shock. She watches him pick up a rock as he walks back to his car, throwing it at a tree, but can't say anything.

~

Mikey takes every chance she can to lay in bed and hide under the covers. It really only works when Gerard's busy or distracted and her mom's at work, otherwise she's forced to read books and magazines on parenting and pregnancy. It doesn't really hide her from anything, but she almost feels a little better when she does it.

It's afternoon and the house has been quiet all day, so Mikey is taking advantage of the opportunity to stay in her pajamas and lie in bed. If anyone asks, she'll just say she was reading, but she hasn't been able to focus on her book since she first picked it up after breakfast.

Mikey sighs and rubs her stomach, shoving her book off the bed. She's been reading and rereading the same couple pages all day, the words just not processing. It feels like nothing's really processed for days, really, everything just a distraction from what Mikey wants to be thinking about.

It's stupid, she knows it's stupid, but Mikey can't help missing Pete. She doesn't even know what happened there, just that after what seems like a stupid fight to her, suddenly everything was wrong and they were over.

Mikey blinks back tears, unable to stop the thoughts running through her mind. It's not even like Pete would probably be very helpful, but at least she wouldn't feel so alone. The more her family proves helpful, the more alone Mikey feels. With a desolate squeak, she rolls on her side, swiping at her eyes as she starts to cry.

The tears quickly turn to sobs and Mikey lies on her stomach, tugging her Star Wars blanket over her head. She sobs harder at the thought that in a couple months, she won't even be able to lie on her stomach anymore. It's the first time Mikey has let herself get upset about everything that's happened in the last couple months and there's a lot to cry about.

"Hey, Mikey, I was making some popcorn, do you wa- What's wrong?" The bed dips down and Gerard's arms wrap around her. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Mikey," he croons, stroking her hair.

Still sobbing, Mikey sits up and clings to her older brother, burying her face against his shoulder. She shakes her head fiercely in disagreement even as Gerard starts rubbing her back. "You're wrong," she cries, "Everything's fucked, Gee, everything."

He pats her shoulder helplessly, rocking her to try and to calm her down. "Don't cry, Mikey," he pleads. "It'll be okay, you'll be okay, I promise. Please, you're gonna cry yourself sick, it's not worth it, whatever it is."

Mikey ignores him, crying until she can cry no more, then sniffling and hiccuping as she finally quiets down. "I- I don't know- if I can do it, Gee, I- I- I just can't!" She rubs at her eyes with the corner of her blanket. "It's too h-hard."

Gerard squeezes her against his chest. "What do you mean?" He frowns, biting the corner of his mouth. "You know we're all here for you, right?"

"That's not the s-same," she sniffles. "You're not the fucking person who should be here for me. I know it's not all his fault but it's not all my fault either."

"Did you at least tell Pete?" Gerard asks, patting her on the shoulder.

Mikey gives him a dour look, pulling away. "Before or after he decided he'd rather be a dick and not even admit what he did was wrong?"

"Fuck, Mikey, you mean he doesn't know?"

She shrugs. "What was I gonna say? 'Gee, thanks for being a cheating pig and breaking up with me, and by the way, guess who's got a bun in the oven?'" Mikey giggles a little hysterically. "Like I said, it's not his fault, since he didn't know."

A throat clears in the doorway and the Way siblings look up to see Frank standing there. "I was just wondering what was taking Gerard so long to get back to our zombiefest." He eyes them on the bed. With Mikey still in her pjs, her hair a mess and looking miserable wrapped in her Star Wars blanket, and Gerard's shirt soaked with tearstains, there isn't really a way to make light of the situation. "Um, so I didn't mean to overhear or anything but I thought I just heard Mikey saying..." Frank trails off as Gerard looks guilty and Mikey's eyes dart away to the corner of the room, confirming it.

"Sorry, Mikey," Gerard mumbles. "I forgot to say the guys are over for movies, that's why I was making popcorn."

She shrugs and sighs. "It's okay." She crosses her arms across her chest. "Yeah, I'm, uh, in the family way." From the corner of her eye, she watches Frank's reaction. A wave of emotions pass over his face, settling on anger.

"Fuck that Wentz. Goddamn whorebitch. I should go kick his ass and set his house on fire," he huffs. "Fuck that. Like it's not bad enough that asshole made you cry. Don't worry, Mikey, I can set him straight. And if that doesn't work, I can always set him on fire. I told him not to fuck with you." Frank seethes.

Mikey just tightens her blanket around herself, sitting up straight. "No. Leave him out of this, I'll be fine."

~

Mikey's curled up on the couch playing video games. The simplicity and clean violence of it is soothing in a way she needs sometimes.

The lights in the living room are off except for the TV, so all she sees is a dark shape cutting through her line of vision, followed by the feeling of someone sitting down next to her. She winces as her guy takes a blow because of the distraction, thumbs ramming into buttons faster to compensate.

The person next to her stays silent while Mikey finishes the level, then pushes the pause button with practiced ease. "Good job killing the ninja dudes before they get to you. I usually die on this level like, three times before I can get past them."

Mikey sighs, putting the controller to the side. "But you probably didn't come in here to watch me kill ninjas and say what a good job I'm doing at that, right?"

"Well, no." Gerard bites his lip then plunges on. "Mikey, you haven't been doing anything about the baby."

She raises her eyebrow at him. "I eat better, I don't smoke at all, and I can't even count how many damn books I've read on pregnancy. Don't fucking tell me that."

"But, like, planning?" he asks. "You haven't gotten any baby shit. What are you even gonna do with it?"

"I was thinking I'd keep it under my bed and feed it my homework." She glares, curling into a tighter ball. "I don't know, okay? I don't even want to fucking think about it."

Gerard hugs her, pressing his forehead to her temple. "I know, Mikey. But it's not gonna figure out itself, I mean, we're not like the humpback whales on Discovery Channel. What are your options?"

"Don't I get this enough from the doctor?" she gripes. "At this point, I'm leaning towards getting abducted by aliens that want to keep my baby for further study."

"Uh..."

Mikey rolls her eyes. "What? It could happen, so that's plan A. Otherwise..." She shrugs.

Gerard squeezes her tight, then lets go and moves back so he can meet her eyes, hands braced on her shoulders. "You're a woman, Mikey," he bites his lip at that before continuing. "You're a woman, with a woman's body and a woman's choices, and you know we'll love and support you no matter what you choose..."

"Seriously, Gerard, I get this enough from the doctor. It's kinda late for that and anyhow, we're Catholic." She gives him a look. "We might not be hardcore mass-going Catholic, but that's not an option, okay? I don't want to have to deal with that."

"I just don't want you saying no to what you want for the wrong reasons," Gerard explains, "Really, Mikey, I'm your older brother no matter what." He holds up a fist and Mikey half-smiles, knocking her knuckles against his.

"Thanks, Gee." Mikey sighs. "Okay. I don't know. Like, my options are pretty much adoption or keep it, right? But fuck, I don't want to just pawn it off on some stranger, and I'm sure as hell not ready to be a parent."

"Why don't you go to one of those schools?" Gerard suggests.

Mikey raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "What schools?"

Gerard leans in earnestly. "The whatever, for pregnant teens and teen mothers," he hooks his thumb at the other room. "I was googling them and they have counselors to help you figure out what you want to do and parenting classes and they're really fucking good about adapting to your schedule with the baby and doctor visits and shit."

"Um. Hell no?" Mikey ducks her head. "I don't want to go to one of those places like a goddamn leper. I have you guys to be there for me, right? So I don't need them. I don't want to leave my friends and my school should be able to just send my homework with Frank or put me in correspondence classes if I can't make it to class all the time."

"We'll do whatever we can to help, okay?" Gerard gives her a worried look, stroking her shoulders gently.

Mikey hugs him, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Thanks, Gerard. I dunno, I'll figure it out eventually." She sighs, then smirks. "But in that case, I think I remember reading something about pregnant women and footrubs?"

~

It's nothing urgent, but Pete's a little worried when Patrick goes a day without answering any of his texts. Considering they usually have a steady conversation on the phone, the times they spend together excepted, it's a weird feeling.

After a restless night trying not to worry, Pete sends another text before deciding he has to call to make sure Patrick hasn't exploded or gotten in a car crash or slipped into a coma.

He's expecting a reassuring voice to mock his paranoia, but Patrick doesn't answer, and it goes to his voicemail after ringing far more than Pete's expecting. "Uh, Patrick?" Pete sighs. "I hope you're not lying in a ditch somewhere or being held hostage or grounded or something. I, uh, haven't heard back from you in a while. I'm okay, just was- You know me." With a sheepish laugh, Pete hangs up.

Stashing his phone, Pete tries not to think about it, but it's summer, and there's nothing to distract him from missing his best friend.

"Im lonely" he texts Travis restlessly. Pete shuffles his phone from hand to hand until it pings with a new text.

"Why, man?" Travis' reply reads, and Pete sighs even though there's no one around to hear him.

"No patrick i think he died" he answers quickly.

Pete impatiently awaits another text, eagerly opening another reply from Travis. "He's cool. Was just telling me his music lessons kick ass."

"Oh. thx." Pete skims through his texts, but he can't figure out anything he said to Patrick that might have pissed him off. Usually if Patrick's mad at Pete, he just says so. But the last thing Patrick said is about going grocery shopping with his mom, so it doesn't make any sense.

After another hour just sitting around doing nothing, Pete grabs his keys, leaving a quick note on the fridge saying where he's going. If Patrick's pissed, he has a right to know why, even if it means he gets his ass kicked by an angry Patrick. Patrick's never done more than given him some really good bruises yet.

Five minutes and a couple stop signs he runs later, Pete parks his car and stares at Patrick's house, not moving from his position behind the wheel. He's nervous sitting there. He can't help thinking that Patrick doesn't want to be his friend anymore, and that maybe talking won't change anything.

But it's a hot, sunny day, and Pete doesn't want to stay in the car forever. "It's cool," he tells himself with a confidence he doesn't feel, reaching for his seatbelt. The metal of the buckle's hot on his fingers, but Pete has bigger concerns on his mind. He makes his way up the sidewalk to Patrick's house and rings the doorbell.

Pete shuffles nervously on the doorstep until the door opens. Patrick stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. "Pete."

"Hi, Patrick." He waves.

With a sigh, Patrick opens the door and Pete comes into the house. "I don't want to let all the cool air out," Patrick explains, shutting the front door with a little more force than necessary. "What do you want, Pete?" he asks exasperatedly.

"I missed your dulcet tones," Pete schmoozes. "What gives?"

"I don't really feel like talking to you right now." Patrick glares at him.

Clutching his chest, Pete gives Patrick a hurt look. "Hey! What'd I do?"

"You're a dick."

"Yes?" Pete answers, unsure if there's a specific reason Patrick's pointing this out.

Patrick gives him a hard look. "Mikey."

"Oh." Pete looks away. "Yeah, pretty much."

"I don't get it, Pete," Patrick says frankly. "I just don't fucking get it. You were pretty serious into her and then turned around and did something that shitty?"

"What do you expect?"

"Maybe for my best friend not to be that shitty to the people he says he cares about? Damnit, Pete, I fucking tried to help your relationship because you do such stupid fucking things, but after running into her at the grocery store all I wanna do is punch you in the face for her."

"You saw Mikey?" Pete asks, eyes almost lighting up. "How did she look?"

"How do you think?" Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. "You probably deserve more than getting punched."

Pete sits down, staring at his hands. "I know. I- I mean. I didn't want things to turn out the way they did, you know? I just, I don't even know what to do, Patrick."

Patrick sits on the couch next to Pete. "I'm not really the person to ask."

"I still like her, you know." Pete sighs, leaning against Patrick. "Do you think she hates me?"

"Ask her." Patrick hugs him and gives a little shove. "Go home and call her or text her or whatever."

"You're a good friend," Pete says, hugging harder. "Okay, you're not still not talking to me, are you? Because I gotta tell you, Patrick, that shit is not cool."

"No, I'll quit ignoring you." Squirming away, Patrick guides Pete to the door. "I'm sure we'll talk later."

~

The guys are clustered around the grill, trying to make food for their barbeque. Mikey watches from the picnic table, laughing when Frank almost sets everyone's eyebrows on fire after adding way too much lighter fluid.

Her phone vibrates and she tugs it out of her pocket, puzzled. Everyone who texts her on a regular basis is at the barbeque, so she doesn't know who it could be. It's a number she doesn't have saved, and it's local, so it could be anybody. She opens it and reads the message, then rereads it.

Mikey's still just staring at her phone when Ray comes to the table bearing a plate of burgers. "What's up, Mikeyway?" Frank asks, clinging to her back. "Playing games instead of talking to your friends again?"

She shakes her head and hands him her phone wordlessly.

He reads it then hands the phone back to her. "What's this shit about, 'I miss you?'"

Mikey shakes her head and swallows, her mouth unexpectedly dry. "I think it's Pete." Frank tries to snatch the phone back from her, but Mikey stretches out her arm so he can't reach.

"Hey! Come on, let me at it. I wanna give that fucker a piece of my mind." He tries to jump for it and Mikey groans.

"Ow, fuck, ow, get off my back before you break something." He backs off and apologizes before asking for the phone again. She gives him a look. "No. I appreciate it, Frank, really, but back off. This is my business, not yours."

"Sure, Mikeyway, I get it. I just don't want him taking advantage of you or being the shithead he usually is again."

"Neither do I. But what's the point in making things worse by getting in a fight with him?"

"Yeah," Gerard chimes in from across the table. "This isn't West Side Story, we don't want anyone dying in a rumble."

Mikey snickers. "We all were hoping for the musical theater interpretation of it." She pauses and tilts her head consideringly. "But it would be pretty interesting if you all started dancing through the streets like that, singing and snapping your fingers."

"Shaddup!" Frank tries to look pissed off before collapsing in a heap of giggles. "Gee'd be badass at a gang like that though."

"You bet your motherfucking ass I would!" he insists proudly. "I am always badass and don't you forget it."

"And what was your elective at school last semester?" Ray asks innocently.

"Women's Studies. I got an A!" Gerard beams then frowns. "Hey, wait, I get what you're saying but girls can be badass too."

Mikey laughs. "We know you're as badass as most chicks we know, all right?" She pokes Frank. "See, to prevent dancing street gang violence, I'm just gonna ignore Pete, okay?"

"Fine, fine." Frank touches the spot she poked him and winces. "Fuck, I think you gave me a bruise."

"Damn right." Mikey smirks. "I am the queen of badassery."

~

The texts from Pete keep coming. Not as often as they used to while they were dating, but the lack of replies doesn't stop him like she had hoped. Mikey tries not to let herself read his texts, but late at night when she's all alone she can't resist, a mix of curiosity and missing him.

After a week of his texts, Mikey shouldn't be surprised when Pete calls. She is, though, and afraid to answer. She's not sure if she'd cry, yell at him, or say she misses him if she did and that has her petrified.

She tells herself she's not going to listen to the voicemail he leaves, knowing it's a lie all the while. She manages to hold out nearly a day before she gives in to her curiosity. A growing part of her wants to hear just what Pete said that he thinks will change anything; if she's in her right mind, nothing should be able to do that. Then again, if Mikey's in her right mind, she won't listen to what he has to say in the first place, so maybe she shouldn't pretend to believe she's that.

Mikey needs to be alone to listen, so she takes a walk, winding up back at the park where Pete broke up with her. It's late afternoon and she's startled by the amount of kids there on the playground. Still, the field itself looks pretty empty so Mikey finds a tree there to sit under.

The sounds from the playground carry to her even though Mikey can't see it anymore. The noise is distracting, but she doesn't want to move. She has to take a couple deep breaths before she's calm enough to listen to the message.

"So, I know you probably hate me, Mikey. I mean, I hate me, so I know where you're coming from. But. I dunno. I don't want to say that I fucked up, but I kinda feel like maybe I did. Um." There's a pause where all Mikey can hear is his breathing and the faint crackle of white noise. "It's just, Mikey, I miss you. I want to see you again, even if it's just so you can kick me in the balls or whatever. I miss you like the trees miss their leaves in the fall, like the clouds miss rain when it falls. Um. I'll understand if you don't call, but I'd really like it if you do. Bye."

The phone continues to do its spiel about what buttons she can push, but Mikey's not listening. She just sits there, unaware she's crying until a tear drips onto her leg. She dries her cheeks on her sleeve, then listens to the message again. Pete sounds like he means everything he's saying, but then, he always sounds like that. She scrolls through the call history on her phone, highlighting Pete's number before hitting cancel as hard as she can.

Calling Pete's a bad idea, even if he sounds sorry. But she can't help stroking her phone with her fingertips, thinking about it as the sky turns orange and the sun begins to set.

~

When Mikey goes in for her next monthly appointment, she grins at Bob as she signs in on the clipboard.

"You seem happy." He eyes her. "You know drugs are bad for the baby, right?"

"Fuck you, Bob." She rolls her eyes. "I'm not allowed to be happy?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. You haven't been yet, so I kinda figured it's your thing, not being happy."

"Things change. I think I've decided that's not always a bad thing."

"I'm just saying, drugs are a serious problem."

"Are you sure you should work at a place like this if you're gonna harrass the patients?" she asks.

He nods solemnly. "I'm a professional, ma'am."

"Like a hooker or like an assassin?" she asks, leaning across the counter enough to snag his comic book and flip through it.

"Both." He shrugs. "You'd be surprised how big the market is for assassin hookers, the movies aren't exaggerating."

"The movies usually have assassin hookers in slinky dresses." She tilts her head and eyes him. He's in a set of plaid scrubs, something Mikey hadn't known existed before. She giggles. "Oh yeah. Fuck, you should see my mental image, Bob, it's awesome. I'm tempted to draw it."

"I should assassinate you," he mutters. "Fuck that, quit thinking about me in a dress."

"Sorry, did I blow your cover?" She hands the comic book back to him. "And for the record, if you're gonna read mainstream comics, Batman's better than Superman." She turns to sit down.

"Hey!" She turns back around. "You can't just diss my comic and then walk away without even telling me why you're happy."

"Oh." She shrugs. "My, uh, ex called. I think he apologized? Anyhow, yeah, I think I might call him back."

"Okay." Bob frowns. "Well, I hope that works out for you."

~

"I missed you," Pete confesses against Mikey's mouth. "Like it was winter again without my fairy to keep me warm."

"Pete," Mikey half-heartedly protests between kisses. "Pete, shouldn't we talk? Or at least leave my front yard?"

His arms tug her closer. "We'll talk later, after I'm done missing you."

She shakes her head, smiling before brushing a kiss against his neck. "You're ridiculous," she sighs as his hands run along her sides.

"You've been kind of packing on the pounds, haven't you?" Pete's fingers brush over her stomach.

"Um. That does kind of happen when you're eating for two," Mikey points out awkwardly.

"Wait, what?" Pete gives Mikey a look. "I just- what?"

She stares back. "We share how many friends? I kind of thought you knew."

"I thought you were, like, stress-eating or something."

"Um. No." Mikey crosses her arms over her stomach. "I'm a little bit pregnant. Except for the little bit part. Pretty much, uh, completely, it's not really a partial thing."

"Um. You're probably gonna slap me if I ask if it's mine..." Mikey gives him a look. "Right. Uh. Seriously, though?"

Mikey snorts. "What, you think I'd fake being knocked up just to get back at you?" She arches an eyebrow, snorting again when Pete shrugs sheepishly. "I wish."

"I just," he makes a vague sweeping gesture over her. "How? How did this even happen?"

"Uh. You were there, I think the how's not really the confusing part." Mikey zips her hoodie and crosses her arms over her stomach again. "I was gonna tell you. Um. Before, but then...yeah." She shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Pete gives her a pat on the shoulder as he backs up slowly. "I mean. Fuck. I'm sorry, I just. I'm not saying I don't want to be with you, I just- Can I-? I need some time to think. I'll call you, I promise."

~

"I'm here for my ultrasound," Mikey says, grabbing the clipboard to sign in.

"So, how did things go with the-" Bob gestures at Mikey's belly.

"Pete?" She sighs, leaning against the reception counter. "Yeah, that was a fucking..." A shuddering sigh escapes her.

"If you want I could beat some sense into him," Bob suggests. "Just a little, I'd be gentle."

Mikey laughs. "Thanks for the offer?"

"Seriously, though, if you want someone to watch movies with or something to distract you, I'm not doing anything after work." He shrugs, "I also play a mean game of Halo."

She smiles. "Offering me a shoulder to cry on?"

Bob frowns. "Well. I'd prefer it if you don't. But everybody knows the guy who hangs out with pregnant chicks gets all the play."

"When you put it like that…" Mikey shrugs. "My options are going home to have Gee and Momma nag me or playing hooky. I like scary movies."

"I can work with that," Bob agrees with a nod.

Mikey lingers at the counter, talking to Bob as she waits for the nurse to call her name. When she finally does, she waves at Bob and follows the nurse into the maze of exam rooms. It's weird to be at the doctor alone without Gee waiting outside for her.

She shivers a little, hugging her hoodie around herself and answering the questions the nurse is throwing at her. The number on the scale is higher like always and Mikey hopes they don't start asking how she's eating again. The nurse just mutters to herself, writing down the number before leading Mikey to a small exam room.

The process of checking her temperature and all the other preliminary stuff is awkward as ever, the paper covering the exam table crinkling under Mikey's ass every time she fidgets. Every time the nurse goes "hm" and jots something down on her chart, Mikey kind of wants to punch her. It makes her feel like a guinea pig or a rat in a lab.

Finally the nurse looks the chart over and gives it a nod. "Make yourself comfortable, the doctor will be in to see you shortly."

Waiting for him is boring, and Mikey almost wishes she'd taken a morning appointment so he wouldn't be so late. She swings her legs and stares around the room with its posters about the ear and vaccinations and teen pregnancy. She snorts at that one, amused they put her in the room that reminds her she's become a statistic.

When he finally walks in with her chart, Mikey's focus shifts to the doctor. He makes smalltalk as he gets everything ready and Mikey lays back, tugging up her t-shirt for him.

It's not a weird as the first ultrasound had been, but Mikey still feels like a science experiment gone wrong as the doctor spreads the gel over her stomach. "Do you want to know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"I was going more for 'lie back and think of England'." She sighs and stares at the ceiling. "It's a baby inside me, it just looks like an alien right now."

The doctor sighs and Mikey ignores what's happening until he wipes off her stomach and she tugs her shirt back down. "I'm a little worried about your blood pressure," the doctor starts in and Mikey tunes him out again, crossing her arms.

"My mom's made me read the fucking books," she sighs, "So are we done now?" It takes forever to get away from the doctor, but finally he lets Mikey go with a sigh of his own. When she gets back to the waiting room, she sighs and sags against the counter, giving Bob sad eyes.

"I get off in like," Bob checks the clock, "Half an hour. So it's up to you if you still want to do something."

Mikey nods. "I think I can waste half an hour reading old magazines." The same five magazines have been in the office for as long as she can remember, probably years, and Mikey finds herself reading the kid's ones just because they're less boring than Newsweek and National Geographic. She's antsy by the time Bob comes out and asks what she wants to do.

"Movies, video games, anything that's not fucking stressful." She rolls her eyes. "Doctor's orders, I threw in the fucking for emphasis, I'm pretty sure that's not allowed either."

They wind up at Bob's house with a stack of DVDs. Mikey slips off her shoes and they get comfortable, fake blood filling the screen.

Halfway into a movie, Bob turns down the volume, twisting to look at Mikey. "So like. I hope you don't mind me asking, but it's kind of weird having someone come in for an ultrasound alone. Your mom couldn't get off work or something?"

Mikey's eyes twinkle. "Oops, I must have written it on the calendar wrong." She grins as Bob's eyebrows go up. "I know she'll be even worse about things, but I needed a fucking break before I exploded."

"I feel like I'm helping a criminal." He settles back against the couch again.

"All I'm stealing is time." Mikey props her feet up on the coffee table. "I know my family's fucking supportive, I get that. But shit, I needed a little space. My mom freaks out every time I even get a little upset and all I hear about is the fucking baby. Christ, it's not due for months."

She leans against Bob's shoulder and he pats her arm awkwardly.

Mikey sighs. "I was gonna invite Pete today, but apparently he still needs to get a fucking clue."

~

The doorbell rings and Gerard groans before passing Mikey his controller. "I bet it's Ray. We're gonna beat Left 4 Dead today or play till our eyes bleed." He runs to the door and a couple minutes later yells, "Uh, Mikey, I think it's for you?"

She swears and pauses the game, shuffling to the door. "Fine, I'm on my way." She raises her eyebrow at Gee before she gets in view of the door and he shrugs awkwardly, backing away.

"Um. I brought a peace offering?" Pete offers sheepishly, holding up a plastic bag.

Mikey eyes him, standing there hopefully in a World's Best Dad shirt with Darth Vader on it, and steps out the door, shutting it behind herself.

"You're ridiculous," she sighs. "You're ridiculous and I'm stupid." She rolls her eyes at the shirt before leaning against his chest, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I am not ridiculous," Pete protests. "I am awesome."

"Awesomely ridiculous." She laughs and pokes him in the side. "Peace offering?"

"Oh! Right." He grins. "I hope it's still good. Wanna sit here or somewhere else?"

"Um. Here's fine?" He holds her hand as she lowers herself to the front step, then sits down next to her and pulls a half-gallon of ice cream from the bag.

"And I have spoons!" he announces proudly, brandishing them as Mikey reads the label. "Chocolate peanut butter whatever, that's still your favorite, isn't it?" he asks worriedly.

"Yeah," she admits, kissing his cheek. "Even freaky cravings can't change that." She snags one of the spoons from him and opens the carton before offering it to him.

They both dig in, slowly eating and smiling at each other. "I was gonna get you a t-shirt," Pete says, licking off his spoon with a moan. "But Patrick convinced me not to. Plus, I don't know what size you wear."

Mikey shrugs. "I usually just steal Gerard's clothes," she admits. "It's easier than going shopping for new stuff and he doesn't care."

Pete laughs. "So the pink pajama pants?" He tugs at her pantleg until she shakes his hand off.

"Not mine." She grins as she confirms it. "He thinks the little dogs on them are badass. Also, I thought you were going to call." He shrugs and beams at her. She takes another huge bite of ice cream, arm curling around the carton protectively at the sound of someone heading up the sidewalk.

"Hey Mikey!" Ray greets happily, "...and Pete? Um, is Gerard around?"

"The living room." She points behind herself with the spoon. "Head on in, he's probably still playing Overlord."

~

"You didn't say he was coming," Frank complains when Mikey shows up for a summer barbeque with Pete in tow.

"And Ray didn't say Krista was coming." Mikey sets down the soda they brought. "It's kind of implied."

"Why do you keep him around?" Frank asks, not quite glaring at Pete.

She shrugs, but her fingers tighten around his. "I like him."

"So?" Frank gives Pete a doubtful look. "You can't like him that much."

"Um. Yes?" Mikey leans against Pete's shoulder. "He's not that bad."

Frank frowns. "If you're sure. I could still set him on fire," he says wistfully, tugging a box of matches from his pocket.

"No." She scowls and nods at the grill. "The matches are for cooking. That's it."

Bob looks up from the grill. "Toss those here, Frank." He catches the box of matches, lighting one and dropping it in the bed of coals. Flames shoot up and Bob stays put until they die down.

Frank busts up laughing. "Fuck, Bob, that was fucking amazing. You like- And you practically caught your goddamn hair on fire and it like didn't even faze you." He runs over and throws his arms around Bob.

"I told you not to use all the lighter fluid," Bob grumbles, setting the empty bottle on Frank's head. "You're gonna set the whole damn state on fire, fucking pyro."

"But it was so cool!" Frank follows Bob as he collects the stuff for burgers and starts throwing them on the grill. "You're so my favorite. Mikey, why couldn't you have a thing for Bob here? I'd seriously fucking throw the wedding myself."

Bob turns red and Mikey tucks her chin against Pete's shoulder. "Fuck off, Frank, quit trying to be matchmaker."

"But-" Frank turns to Bob. "I'll give you twenty bucks if you marry here. Twenty bucks, and you get Mikey, double win, right?"

"Right, uh, how does everyone like their burgers?" Bob asks, bending over the grill, red-faced.

~

The first day of school, Pete joins Mikey and her friends outside for lunch. He always touches a lot, but around them it's even more than usual.

Frank smirks at him, tugging out his lighter and playing with it idly, flicking it on and watching the flame for a long moment before shaking it out. "So how're you, Wentz?"

Pete tugs Mikey into his lap, eyeing Frank warily. "I'm, um, good. How're you?"

With a shrug, Frank flicks the lighter again. "I dunno. I'm a little cold."

Mikey sighs, shifting under Pete. "Frank, cut it the fuck out." Frank looks guilty, fingers stilling. Mikey gives him a serious look, jaw set. "If you set him on fire, you'll wake up even shorter one of these days."

"What, you'll cut off my legs?"

Mikey raises an eyebrow. "Or something." Pete puts his hands on her belly and hugs her from where he's hiding behind her.

Frank winces. "Fine. Your boyfriend's the biggest wuss ever, so he'd probably be scared to death before I set him on fire anyhow." With a disgruntled sigh, he shoves the lighter back in his pocket. "But for the record, Mikey, I'm being nice about it. The rest of the fuckers at this school aren't so much."

"What have they been saying?" Pete asks. "Did you have to kick anybody's ass for saying shit about my girl?"

Frank snorts. "Why? You want in on the action?" He shakes his head. "They're mostly talking about you, not her. And about how she could do better, so I can't really fucking disagree."

Mikey pushes Pete's arms away and gets to her feet. "Frank, you're my friend, so you can say shit. I'll be back." The guys exchange worried looks, standing up and following her to the cafeteria. When she walks in the doorway, there's an almost quiet moment, followed by a surge of chatter.

"Shut up!" Mikey glares, arms crossed. "Just. Everyone shut up about Pete. Because anything you say about him, you might as well be saying about me. Which okay, you can say whatever the fuck you want, but I don't want to be friends with anyone who says that shit about me."

She turns and storms out of the cafeteria. Pete throws his arms around her, pulling her to a stop. "It's okay, babe, I deserve pretty much anything they could say."

"That doesn't make it right," Mikey sniffles. "You know, you don't need to fucking prove yourself to me by trying to be the greatest boyfriend ever."

"Maybe you make me want to be better," he suggests.

~

Pete swoops his arm around Mikey, pulling her close for a kiss. "Happy birthday, babe."

"Woo, I'm legal?" Mikey rolls her eyes before smiling at him. "Thank you for remembering."

He laughs. "I think if I forgot, Frank would tattoo it on my dick or something." Pulling away, Pete brings his second arm into view, a chocolate frosted cupcake with a single candle in his hand. With a quick peck on the lips, Mikey snatches the cupcake and starts eating. "Do you know how hard it is to get to school with a cupcake intact?"

She pauses in the middle of licking off the frosting. "Don't tell me you ran anyone over on the way here."

"Just a small child." Pete grins and rubs her belly. "I'm just doing my duty and knocking out any potential competition for Mikey Junior here."

She laughs and wipes a frosting-covered finger on his nose. "I hate you."

"Liar." He catches her hand in his and licks off the offending finger. "You just wish you did."

"Fine." Mikey licks off his nose as Pete continues sucking on her finger. "I only hate you a little."

Pete grins smugly. "Nope, not at all. Negative amounts of hate."

Frank walks up to them, pretending to gag. "I hate agreeing with Wentz, but he's right. A ridiculous amount of not hating him, Mikey." He motions for her to lower her head and sets a tiara on it. "Okay, now you're all set to be the birthday girl."

"I still think the only reason you insist on the birthday tiara is so you can wear one too on your birthday," Mikey bitches, adjusting it.

"So?" Frank asks. "It looks cute on you, and I fucking rock the tiara, so shut the fuck up."

~

When Mikey walks into Pete's living room to pastel and black streamers and a crowd of people, she pauses in the doorway and then backs away slowly.

Pete's face falls and she groans. "I don't want a fucking baby shower. They're lame."

"Then don't think of it as a baby shower." He grabs her hand and tugs her towards the room. "It's a Mikey shower. There's food, games, all the guys... I even had Gerard invite some of your family." His voice drops to a whisper. "I would've asked your mom to help, but she kind of fucking scares me."

Finally convincing her to sit down and join the party, Pete hands Mikey a stack of paper plates. "Pass these out, okay? Um. I'm not sure I know how this game works, but my mom told me every baby shower has it, so bear with me." He pauses, his brow knitting as he tries to recall the rules. "Right, so you put the plate on your head and try to draw...something."

Gerard puts the plate on his head and gets started, making faces as he goes. "I think my superhero's gonna be kinda abstract."

"Wait!" Pete hands him another plate. "Everyone's supposed to try drawing the same thing. Uh...the baby, I think. Well, a baby, I guess we can't tell if it's this one yet."

They all start over, Mikey pressed uncomfortably in the corner of the couch. Bob cranes his neck to look at Frank's. "If that's a baby, it's in the burn unit." Frank shoves him, laughing, and Bob shoves back.

"Fine, jerkwad, what's yours look like?" Frank asks, jumping to try to snatch the plate off Bob's head. He climbs up Bob's back, laughing so hard he falls off when he sees it. "If this one's right, Mikey's gonna give birth to Mr. Potato Head."

"Does anyone even care who won, or are we just gonna laugh at each other's drawings?" Pete asks, snickering as Gabe flashes at him a plate that looks like a pair of boobs are drawn on it. "Screw it, everybody wins. Help yourselves to refreshments, mingle, I'm gonna take away Gabe's pen."

Mikey doesn't want to be around so many people, so she slips into the kitchen as everyone's distracted by lemon bars and smalltalk. The stack of gifts in the corner of the living room makes her uncomfortable to see, knowing most of them are probably things for the baby, things she'd rather not look at.

She sits on the floor on the far side of the island, where she's unlikely to get noticed. Mikey enjoys the peace, the sounds from the other room an almost soothing dull rushing sound through the door.

The noise gets loud for a moment, then falls quiet again. The person who walked in comes over to Mikey's side, but she doesn't look up.

"Mikey." The voice is soothingly familiar. "Mikey dear, I know you're worried but maybe talking things out will help. I have a lot of experience."

Mikey shrugs as her grandma sits down on a kitchen stool. "What good's it gonna do?" she asks with a sigh. "I know Pete means well but this was a crappy idea."

"Your brother told me what you're really upset about, and it's not baby showers," her grandma says. "You still haven't figured out what you're doing with the baby, have you?"

Mikey shakes her head. "I don't-" She swallows, struggling to speak. "I don't want to have a kid to take care of already. But if I'm doing all the work of having it, I'm not just giving it away to somebody who might not even let me see it."

"Hm." With a decisive nod of her greying head, Mikey's grandma makes a proposition. "I know I'm not exactly young, but I'd like to think I know a thing or two about raising babies."

"You mean-?" Mikey blinks. "You'd take the baby? I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not, I'm offering." She smiles at Mikey. "You're family and so's this baby. It's what family does. Now let's see about getting you up and keeping an eye on that boyfriend of yours again." She gets to her feet, offering Mikey a hand.

~

Pete's gotten caught with his phone out enough he knows he'll get suspended if he pulls it out in class again, but there's something reassuring about the way it vibrates in his pocket every time Mikey texts him. He checks his messages between class, but with block scheduling, that's not as often as Pete would like.

His pocket has been keeping a pretty steady vibration, a new text every five minutes or so when it unexpectedly goes still. Pete hopes that means Mikey's taking a nap or something, but waiting until he can check what she's been saying is even harder knowing she's gone quiet for some reason.

An office aide knocks at the door and Pete groans inwardly, knowing the teacher's gonna keep class late to make up for it, cutting into the time he can text Mikey back. "I'm looking for Peter Wentz?" the aide reads the name from a slip of paper. "They need to see him in the office right away."

Pete glances at the teacher and starts packing his things. He follows the aide out of the room and heads down to the office. "Um," he hands the secretary his slip. "Somebody needed to see me?"

"You have a phone call on hold. Just a moment, dearie." She quits typing and leads Pete to an empty desk, picking up the phone and pressing a few buttons before passing the receiver to him.

"Hello?" he asks nervously.

"Thank god." It's Gerard's voice, which startles Pete. "You should fucking hear Mikey, when I left the room she was going on about how she doesn't care if you're in fucking confession with the goddamn pope, she wants your ass here."

"Where's 'here?'" Pete asks. "Is Mikey okay?"

"Oh." There's an awkward pause. "We're at Saint James. They took Mikey's phone when she went into the maternity ward, but they say she's having the baby today. You should get here fast, she's really upset about the phone."

Pete clears leaving with the office, almost getting lost on the drive to the hospital. He parks by the wrong door and gets lost inside the hospital a few times before he actually figures out where Mikey is and coaxes a nurse into giving him her room number, since Gerard forgot to tell him that. Pete passes the gift shop on his way and is tempted to stop, but he doesn't want Mikey getting any more worked up than she apparently already is.

Walking down the hallway, Pete feels nervous in the sterile space. He swears hospitals are designed to make people scared and lost, but finally he finds the right room number, M Way hastily written on the sign next to the door. "Mikey?" he asks as he steps in.

"Pete." She smiles faintly, reaching for him. He hurries over so she can hold his hand. "I'm thinking of starting to charge a dollar every time somebody looks up my gown. I'd be rich!"

In the room, there's a constant flow of the burnt coffee from the machine down the hall, Pete and Gerard taking turns holding one of Mikey's hands while her mother holds the other. The waiting is hard, but Pete knows it would be worse if he was waiting somewhere else, so he just tries not to think about it too much as the hours crawl by.

The doctor keeps coming in every few minutes to check on her, finally saying it's time. Everything after that's kind of a blur, Pete trying to focus on Mikey's face and not what else is going on. There's crying, and Pete thinks he sees a baby covered in goo before it gets taken away.

Mikey falls asleep and Pete takes the chance to slip away to the gift shop. He stares at the flowers and stuffed animals and cards, unable to see anything that reminds him off Mikey. He pushes a couple things to the side, spying something shiny at the back of a shelf and almost crowing when he finds a stuffed unicorn there.

Gerard's milling around the hallway when he gets out, a cup of coffee from the lobby coffee shop in his hand. "I called the guys," he tells Pete, walking back to Mikey's room with him. "I think they're gonna try to make at least one nurse quit before the end of visiting hours."

When Pete gets back, Mikey's drowsy but awake again. She hugs the unicorn. "Is it for me or the baby?" she asks, biting her lip.

"You, babe," he assures her, brushing back her hair.

Mikey smiles. "Did you see him?" she asks, pointing at the bassinet.

"Uh, not really?" Pete admits, going over to look inside. The baby's sleeping in a little hat, and Pete's afraid to touch him. "Does he have a name?"

"Levi." She motions for him to pick up the baby and bring him over. "He's Levi."

fin

Either I Have a Confession or I'm in Love

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 05:34:28 GMT

Band(s): My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy
Pairing(s): Pete/Mikey
Rating/Warnings: Adult/NC-17. Always a girl Mikey!
Summary: Mikey likes to have a good time, so it's just her luck she gets asked out by someone who can appreciate bowling dates, pinball, and making out during zombie movies. But since that person's Pete, who has his own issues with paranoia, dating's not as simple as it seems.

Fanart:
Pete and Mikey in the hallway by x3fixmein45
Mikey on Valentine's Day by thelemic
Mikey on prom night by thelemic

Fanmix:
A Mix for Mikey Way by thelemic

Endless thanks and kudos go out to thelemic for doing my beta and encouraging me throughout the writing process (as well as the rest of my f-list for the encouragement), x3fixmein45 for the hard work on my art, thelemic for making a brilliant and perfect mix, and thelemic for doing two pieces of art as well!

Pete has a system. It might not be the most finely-honed, but when he goes back to school, he makes a habit of waiting to see where the hottest girls in the class sit and then sits by them.

In French class, the room is mostly filled with girls. It's level three, so the room's not full, but there is only one other guy in the class, so Pete pretty much gets full pick. There's a cute girl with glasses he considers before one with a lowcut top walks past him and sits down. The girl with glasses is cute enough, he concludes, but not as hot as that one.

Watching everyone, Pete tries to learn names as the teacher does attendance. He listens more closely as she nears the end of the alphabet. "Michaela Way?"

"Mikey." The girl with glasses raises a hand leisurely. "It's Mikey."

"Mhmm." As the teacher writes it down, Pete looks her over again and groans to himself. He totally chose the wrong person to sit by.

~

The week before finals, Pete sits at the desk next to Mikey's.

"Hey," he says. She blinks at him, looking up from where she was digging around in her backpack. "So like, I was wondering if you wanted to go bowling this weekend."

"This weekend Friday or this weekend Saturday?" she asks, frowning.

"I was thinking Saturday. But whichever, if Friday's better for you?"

"No, I'm kinda busy Friday night," she grins. "Saturday, cool."

Pete's not sure what to expect when he picks her up, but Mikey looks the same as she does in class, only a little more focused. She doesn't steal his nachos when he's not looking and even though he stares at her ass pretty blatantly when she bowls, he's not sure she realizes he meant it as a date.

After they finish their game, Mikey takes off her bowling shoes and waits for Pete to take his off before lacing their fingers together and dragging him towards the arcade. "Star Wars pinball," she informs him in hushed tones.

"You're on," Pete whispers back. "It's like the holy land." He pulls out his wallet and gets quarters from the change machine.

Mikey's intense when she plays pinball, bracing herself against the machine in ways that make Pete want to do things to her that he probably shouldn't do in public.

"Damn it," he groans when their final scores flash between Deathstars. "You seriously kicked my ass, Mikeyway."

She looks away and smiles. "It's not my fault you suck."

"It totally is, you have no idea. You ate my fucking mojo."

"Sorry." She covers her mouth, chuckling behind her hand. "I don't think I've ever seen somebody score that low before."

"I want a rematch," Pete pouts, jingling more quarters.

Mikey glances at her wristwatch. "Su- Um. Fuck. Not right now, I'm supposed to be home like. Already, I think? My parents probably will be okay with it, but I should get home."

When he pulls into the driveway, Pete keeps his hands on the steering wheel, trying to ignore how awkward it feels inside the car. "So, um, here you go." He's not good at being a gentleman, but he wants Mikey to think he is, so he doesn't lean over for a goodnight kiss.

It startles Pete when she does, a hand pressing against his cheek before curving around his neck as she slides across the seat towards him. Mikey's lips are a little dry but they part easy, her tongue meeting Pete's before pressing into his mouth. If it wasn't so cold that she's wearing a ton of layers and a long jacket over top of the rest, Pete's hands would be slipping under her shirt.

He's breathing heavily when she draws back, hand dropping from his neck. She gives him another quick kiss on the lips before opening the door. "We should go bowling again sometime," she says quietly, and he can almost see her smirk in the moonlight as she slides out of the car.

"Patrick, Patrick," he moans into his phone as soon as he backs out of the driveway, "I'm in love with a moonbeam."

"You're not in love," Patrick grumbles. "Just like you weren't in love with Morgan or Michelle or any of the other M-names you've dated."

"Okay, maybe not in love love," Pete concedes, "But Patrick, I seriously like her. Mikey's like, she's like me only a pretty girl and like not as fucking crazy and stupid. So all my good parts, plus tits."

"Good for you. Go to bed or go jerk off, whatever."

~

Mikey's frowning at papers scattered across her kitchen table when her phone rings. She makes a face at the papers before answering. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mikey, it's Pete."

There's a pause as he waits for her to answer. "Oh, hi," she offers, a little distracted.

"So like. I was wondering if I could call in that raincheck on the pinball rematch?" he asks and Mikey makes a face.

"It's Sunday."

"So?"

"Um. I have to do my homework." Mikey sighs at the mess on the table again. "I have this big thing for Chem that's due tomorrow."

"I could come help you with it," Pete suggests.

"Did you even have the same teacher I do?" Mikey asks incredulously.

She can almost hear Pete's grin. "Um, not exactly? I just transferred in this semester so I didn't take chemistry at this school."

Mikey sighs. "Yeah, you're fucking helpful." Pete sighs back and she adjusts the phone against her ear. "I can figure it out, it just will probably take a while. I'll see you in school tomorrow though."

"If I don't wither away to nothing because you don't love me." Pete's sigh is heavy and exaggerated.

"Yeah, shut up, I'll see you soon." Mikey laughs as she hangs up the phone.

~

"Will you eat lunch with me?" the text says when Mikey slips her phone out surreptitiously during class. She quickly taps out a yes to Pete before stowing her phone again.

Pete meets Mikey at her locker as she swaps out her morning books for the afternoon ones. "So you got your project done?" he asks, leaning against the locker next to hers.

"Lab write-up, yeah." She makes a face. "It's not hard, it's just a pain in the ass writing it all out." Mikey zips up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder, heading towards the cafeteria with another smile at Pete.

They make smalltalk as they wait in the lunch line, Pete cracking more than a couple jokes about the bad food. At last, they get their trays, and Pete suggests sitting in one of the back stairwells. "It's kind of full here, you know," he says, bumping his elbow against hers.

They perch on the landing between the top two floors, toes pointing toward one another as they munch on their food. Pete mostly picks at his lunch, watching Mikey through his bangs. "So, like-"

"Wanna make out?" Mikey grins at the look on Pete's face, raising an eyebrow at him. "The back stairwells are for making out. You know that, right?"

He pushes his tray away. "Uh. Yes?"

"Cool." She scoots closer, her hips pressing against his. Pete brings an arm up and cups the back of her neck as their lips meet.

~

After finals, Pete meets Mikey by her locker. "I am dead to the world," he laments. "I'd rather stab myself with a pen than take another test."

"Fuck off." Mikey rolls her eyes. "You're a senior; your classes are easy. I'm hungry and you're buying me fries."

Pete orders a huge soda and Mikey orders two huge fries at the McDonalds across the street from the school. Pete pays, stealing a fry off the tray as Mikey picks it up. She smacks his hand and turns away protectively. "These are for me. Who says I'm sharing?"

Pete pouts. "But there are two fries. One for each of us."

Mikey gives him a look. "If you wanted some, you should have ordered some. I'm fucking hungry and you're the one who wanted to go out after finals."

They sit at one of the tiny tables and Pete hooks his ankle around Mikey's, eyes huge and pleading. "Just a few fries?" He reaches out and she pulls the tray away from him. "Just one? I'll make a deal—a fry for a kiss."

"You want to kiss me whether you get fries or not."

Pete smirks. "Fine. Then maybe the deal is no fries, no kisses."

Mikey raises an eyebrow at his smug expression. "I stand by my point." She grabs Pete's hand from where it was trying to snag a fry and brings it to her mouth, eating the fry. Smirking at Pete, she licks the salt off his fingers before dropping his hand and helping herself to more fries.

~

"I just sent Mikey a text asking when I'm gonna give her her Christmas gift," Pete cries desperately into his phone.

Patrick yawns. "The fuck, Pete, it's like, two A.M."

"I know." Pete clutches the phone to his ear. "Which is why you've gotta help me. We're going to a movie on Friday so we have like, just under four days for you to help me figure this out. Probably closer to three days if we go to a matinee."

"Go to bed, Pete."

"But Patrick, I need you," Pete laments. "I can't figure this out alone. You've gotta help me out here. And, uh, it kinda has to be something on the cheap. I'm pretty broke."

"Why can't you have these emergencies during sane hours?" Patrick complains. "I was almost asleep."

"It has to be something perfect, something completely Mikey but something that makes her think of me and makes her think I am awesome." Pete lays back in bed, kicking his heels against the wall and thinking.

Patrick sighs. "Give her one of those poems you're always writing."

"I can't, Patrick," Pete pleads. "There's no way my stupid words would wow her."

"You have no money, and before you ask, I'm not lending you any. I can't work miracles. What the hell do you think I can come up with?"

"I don't know." Pete sits up. "I'm gonna come over so you can help me figure it out. Something that says 'I think you're hot and I totally want you but I respect you as a person.'"

"You're not coming over here. I'm going to bed. Make her a mix CD." Patrick hangs up and Pete stares at his phone, considering it before he runs over to his computer and starts working.

He sends Patrick half a dozen emails or so as he works, asking about certain songs or suggesting possible playlists, but he finally gives up as he realizes he's falling asleep.

By the time he wakes up, he has a reply—a text from Patrick telling him to come over and work on the mix for Mikey. He tugs on a hoodie and heads over right away.

"My hero!" Pete declares, flinging his arms around Patrick as soon as he answers the door.

Patrick tolerates his clinging for a moment before shoving him away. "Your goal is her liking you, not going deaf, right?"

"What? It wasn't that bad, was it?" Pete asks. "I kept remembering the logos of the shirts she wears to school and I wanted some of those bands on it."

With a noncommittal shrug, Patrick heads towards his room. "The songs should transition better and you need to figure out what songs you really want. I had a couple thoughts too, songs that I think could work."

~

"Um. I was gonna wait until after the movie, but I feel like I'm gonna explode if I have to wait longer, so do you mind if we do gifts now?" Pete asks as he pulls into the mall parking lot on Friday.

"Now works," Mikey agrees.

Pete hands Mikey the small package tucked next to the emergency brake. "I, uh, I know it's lame, but Merry Christmas."

Mikey raises an eyebrow and slides her finger under the wrapping paper. "Okay…" She tears away the paper and flips the CD over.

"I drew the cover myself," Pete brags, "and Patrick and I spent hours and hours on it. He helped me get the tracklist perfect."

She glances at the list of songs. "Oh, hey, I actually like a few of the bands on here. I'll listen to it when I get home," she promises, slipping the CD into her purse and handing Pete a small package from inside one of the big pockets of her winter coat. "Merry Christmas."

He rips it open, throwing the wrappings towards the backseat. "Fingerless gloves?" He tugs them on and flexes his fingers.

Mikey shrugs. "They seemed you? And I wouldn't want your hands to get cold."

"Would that I were a glove upon thy hand," Pete paraphrases, holding a hand up in the dim wintery light. "Mikey, they're perfect!" He leans across the seat and kisses her, one gloved palm resting against her cheek.

As his other hand tugs at the zipper to her coat, Mikey pulls away. "It's cold in here, Pete."

"Oh, right. The movie, then?" he suggests, giving her another quick peck on the lips. Mikey nods and they hold hands as they walk into the mall.

The back row of the theater might be a cliché place to make out, but Pete's hands inch their way up Mikey's sides and under her shirt before the trailers finish anyway.

~

Mikey tries to surreptitiously slip her phone from her pocket as it vibrates, but Gerard catches her.

"Christ, Mikey, again?" Gee asks and she gives him a look before typing out a quick reply.

"Pete says he misses me and that he thinks he's gonna go blind if his grandparents take any more pictures," she says fiercely. "I was just telling him about the eggnog mom made."

Gerard picks up his own camera to take a picture of Mikey texting. "Isn't that, like, kinda creepy that he texts you every five minutes?"

"He's bored," she excuses. "Besides, I think it's kind of sweet."

"He texted you all night last night, even during mass," Gerard points out, "and shouldn't he be spending Christmas with his family?"

"He is." Mikey's fingers wrap more snugly around her phone. "That's why he misses me."

~

New Year's at Frank's is a tradition Pete's never been a part of before, but Mikey invites him. Pete's been texting pretty much nonstop for days and with his relatives finally gone, the party's their first chance to see each other since before Christmas Eve.

By the time he gets there, a handful of people are already scattered around the living room, watching zombie movies. Pete sees Mikey on the couch and squeezes in next to her, leaning his head on her shoulder and lacing their fingers together. "Missed you like the moon," he whispers.

She smiles and he's not sure if it's at him or at the movie until she tilts her head just enough to knock their heads together lightly. "Me too," she whispers back.

There's not really room on the couch, so Pete finds himself pushed to the floor after fighting for space for a few minutes. He keeps his head in Mikey's lap and she runs her fingers through his hair as they sit for the rest of the movie.

When the movie's done, the crowd that has slowly been trickling in starts to stir and the TV is turned off. After helping herself to a drink and snacks, Mikey winds up pressed to a wall, making out with Pete. His hands rest on her hips, slowly sliding under her shirt and inching it up around her midriff. "Pete." His name catches between them and Mikey pulls back, her head thudding against the wall behind her. "Pete."

"Mikey." Pete sucks on her neck, thumbs following the curve of the underwire of her bra. "Wanted to kiss you under the mistletoe but we missed Christmas. So unfair, you're prettier than the angel on my tree." His hands slide up a little more, under her bra.

There's a loud cheer from across the room, loud enough Mikey looks over, startled. Everyone's watching Frank. He's standing on a chair, brandishing a large bottle. Pete's hands cup Mikey's chest before one traces its way around her, fingers fumbling at her bra clasp. "Pete," Mikey says, trying to draw away from his hands, "I have a better idea." She slips from his arms and starts walking down the hall, catching Pete's hand in hers to drag him along.

The first door on the right is shut, but Mikey opens it and flips on the light. There's an unmade bed and dirty laundry scattered on the floor, a guitar resting on a stand in the corner. Pete shuts the door behind them, hand staying on the knob. "Hi."

Mikey holds his head in her hands, kissing him. "Hi."

Pete's hands find their way back to her sides, sliding up and down her ribs again. "I'd cancel Christmas if it meant I got to see you more," Pete mumbles, pressing a kiss to Mikey's hair. She leans into him, pinning him against the door.

"I like Christmas," Mikey says as Pete's thigh presses between hers. "It smells good."

"You smell better." Pete licks the side of her neck. "You smell like summer and happy endings." He starts making a hickey below her ear.

"How happy of an ending?"

"Hm?" Pete's mouth breaks away from her neck with a pop.

"Well, do you wanna…?" Mikey's hips rock against his, finishing the sentence for her.

Pete bites back a moan, rocking back against her. "Do you?" he asks, hands resting on her sides.

"Why not?" Mikey half-shrugs, taking a step back. She unzips her jeans and starts shimmying out of them. When she realizes Pete's staring, she straightens, raising an eyebrow at him. "I think this usually takes two people to work, right?"

Pete tugs his shirt off and throws it on the floor before returning to staring at Mikey's bare legs. "Are you wearing Batman underwear?" He bends down and looks closer. "Are they from the boy's department?"

"Yes." Mikey crosses her arms. "So?"

"You're like, wearing little boy underwear."

Mikey nods, reaching up to unhook her bra under her shirt. "I wanted Batman underwear and you can't get that in a real lingerie department." She tugs the bra out her sleeve. "Besides, you totally think it's hot."

Slipping out of his jeans, Pete's eyes run over her again. "It's just, Batman?" He grins. "Not exactly what I was expecting."

"Yeah." Mikey crosses her arms, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. When Pete gets close she stills, tense as his arm slips around her. The tension changes, the two of them nervous and excited as his mouth finds hers again.

Mikey backs up slowly, shuffling so she doesn't trip until her legs bump into the side of the mattress. The kiss breaks and she brushes Pete's hand away from her ass so she can get onto the bed. She kicks the messy sheets away and Pete leans down over her, not quite touching. She raises an eyebrow at him and he straddles her, tugging her t-shirt up and off. His hands run up along her stomach before cupping her chest again, staring.

"I know my boobs are small," she mutters with a scowl.

Pete's thumbs brush across her nipples, eyes dark as his gaze moves from her chest back to her face. "No, I- I like them."

"Good." Mikey still looks uncomfortable about it, so Pete tries to focus on something else.

He almost falls on Mikey as he one-handedly whips off his boxers. He barely catches himself and Mikey smirks up at him, the smirk slipping as he kisses her and she moans. One hand slides down the front of her briefs and Pete presses his palm against her before his fingers slip in.

Mikey shifts and inches her underwear down a little, Pete leaning back on his heels to finish peeling them off before he lays down, half over her, and presses his fingers inside. Her hips tilt up and she makes quiet sounds at the back of her throat as he works his fingers in and out a few times. He kisses her cheek and Mikey's eyes drift shut, only to open again as his fingers press a little harder. "Fuck, more," she hisses almost silently.

"Oh, ohfuck," Pete mumbles, scrambling back to his feet so he can grab his jeans. He fishes a small packet from his wallet and practically dives back on the bed. Mikey's eyes drift shut as he mutters to himself, fiddling with the condom.

Even after his fingers teasing at her and making sure she's ready, it hurts when he pushes in. Mikey can practically feel herself breaking into a sweat and Pete groans, moving slow, but hips snapping forward at the end like he can't help himself. She gasps at the feeling, trying not to wince as he slides in and out.

It gets better as he keeps moving, and Mikey can see how it'll feel good if she's patient. She's just starting to adjust to the feel when Pete starts moving even faster, grunting as his hips thrust in and out. With a louder groan, he sags against her, lips brushing against the side of her neck.

Pete pulls out and lays next to her, eyes shut and hair sticking to his forehead. He sighs with satisfaction, unmoving as Mikey makes a quiet, needy sound.

With a whine at the back of her throat, Mikey reaches down to touch herself. Pete rolls onto his side, eyes glued on Mikey's hands. She bites her lip and presses harder as he moves closer, planting a kiss on her shoulder. "Fuck," he hisses under his breath, reaching out to run a hand along her flat stomach.

She gasps at the touch and he strokes her stomach again, hand trapped against her stomach as her arm shifts. A muffled groan escapes from her lips and she rubs faster.

As she's touching herself, Mikey's hips rock up against her and her eyes stay shut. She hardly breathes until she sighs loudly, hand stilling as she relaxes against the bed.

Pete's arm slips around her waist, chin hooking over Mikey's shoulder. "I wanna take you to Africa and build a hut for us. I could get a pet monkey and hunt down lions for us to eat."

"Uh?" Mikey groans and shifts awkwardly, wincing a little. "I don't know how to cook lion meat."

"We'd figure it out," Pete says, eyes slipping shut as he nestles her against him. He half drifts off, humming to himself silently.

"Um. I think people will notice if we don't head back," Mikey says finally, sitting up on the edge of the bed. She tugs her shirt back over her head and Pete wraps his arms around her, kissing the back of her neck.

"So?" He buries his face in her hair. "I wanna keep you all to myself. Like a fat kid with a pack of Oreos."

"My brother's here," Mikey sighs, not moving. "Please, Pete?"

Pressing another kiss behind her ear, Pete reluctantly lets go of Mikey. He talks to cover the fact he's staring as she stretches and finishes getting dressed again. "So I was reading the other day and there was this article online about like penguins and how they feed their young. Like, most of the time when I think of birds it's the mom feeding them, right, but penguin dads do and-" Pete quits talking as his jeans smack into his face. "Shit, what'd you do that for?"

Mikey giggles. "Get dressed, Pete." She pauses and gives him a look, eyebrow raised. "You can stare at my ass later if you really need to."

Pete gets dressed as fast as possible, giving Mikey a nervous look before catching her hand in his. "So. Like. Was-"

She smiles and ducks her head, hair hanging in her face. "Yeah." She hooks the hair behind her ear again and leans against him.

"You're totally my girl now, right?"

Mikey blinks and shrugs. "No, I was planning to go make out with at least five more people tonight." She tugs her hand free of Pete's and walks towards the door without a backward glance, leaving Pete shell-shocked. As her hand touches the doorknob, she leans against the door and busts up laughing with another look at Pete. "You're so fucking easy."

By the time Pete follows her, Mikey's not outside the door anymore. He turns down the hall towards the party to find her, startled to see Frank leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"Um. Hi," Pete grins weakly. "Cool room, I kinda got lost…"

Frank raises his eyebrows at him. "Shut the fuck up, Wentz." Pete gulps and quits protesting. "I'm hoping I only have to say this once because if I don't then it won't be as nice of a lesson. Mikey's like fucking family to me. If you hurt her, or make her cry, I will set you on fire."

"I wouldn't," Pete protests, but Frank talks over him dismissively. "Set you on fire. Don't doubt it, I've done worse shit with less reason."

~

"I got laid!" Pete grins, pumping his arms in the air triumphantly. "Oh my god, Patrick, it was like, you have no idea."

"Really, Pete? Really? You have to tell me about this?" Patrick sighs. "…then again, I'm kind of surprised it took you this long."

Pete's grin widens. "It was actual sex. Like, with a girl, a hot girl who was naked and in a bed with me." Patrick groans and covers his head. "And dude, it was so hot because after- After, she like. Touched herself. It was so totally The Divinyls and way hotter than porn."

Gabe laughs. "You know that's actually a bad sign, right?" He raises his glass. "Gentlemen, I feel a toast is in order. To Pete's inability to do his duty as a man!"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Pete scowls. "And you're drinking Mountain Dew, I don't think you can do a toast with that shit."

"Wrong." Gabe drinks his soda smugly. "But if you really want, you can come to the Gabe school of love and learn how to do it right."

"I hate you all," Patrick moans, banging his head against the table. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

"Oh hell yes," Gabe confirms. "We need to make sure our Peter can do a girl right. And wouldn't you rather learn from his mistakes than yours?"

"I can't believe my mom actually thinks you guys are a good influence."

Gabe leans back in his chair. "So, Pete, who was the lady of dubious luck?"

"She was luckier than any girl who you've ever touched," Pete scoffs. "And she's perfect, my Mikey."

"Mikeyway?"

"Yeah, we had French together. Language of love, you know how it is." Pete looks smug. "I wooed her with my words."

"Mikey?" Gabe laughs. "Yeah, I doubt it took any wooing. Are you that new, really?"

"What?"

"Mikey's totally the make-out queen. She's made out with like. Shit, at least half the school? She even made out with the homecoming queen I think." He leans back in his chair, "Not that it's not totally hot. Damn, girl's got a mouth on her."

~

Pete's waiting by Mikey's locker when she gets to school. "Were you ever gonna tell me about the five million people you've kissed?" he asks.

Mikey blinks as she opens her locker. "Um, it's not five million. I didn't think it mattered. And you never asked."

"But Gabe! Seriously, Gabe?" Mikey shrugs like she has no idea why it's a big deal. "Who else? Joe? Chris? Frank? Is that why Frank hates me, you had a thing with him?"

Mikey makes a face. "Christ, lay the fuck off, it's not like any of them got in my pants."

"Oh my god, it totally is." Pete scowls. "Fucking Frank, really? And you still hang out with him?"

"No, ew, I've never with Frank, that's like. Ugh." She glares. "Besides, it was pretty much just kissing,"

Pete huffs. "And groping."

Mikey shrugs. "So? Either way it was like, before you were even talking to me." She crosses her arms and takes a step back from him. "And don't say that shit about Frank. He's like family. That's just gross, that's like thinking about Gerard."

"You made out with everyone else I know," Pete throws out. "Everybody but Patrick. He's the only person I can fucking trust."

"That's what you think." Mikey storms off, throwing over her shoulder, "You can call me if you ever get your head out of your ass, otherwise tell Patrick he should call me."

~

Pete doesn't talk to Mikey for a week. He ignores her during class even though they sit next to each other in French this semester, and Mikey ignores him right back. It's not until Patrick comes to her during her off period that Mikey even thinks about talking to him.

"...Mikey, please tell him the truth. My life does not need this drama." He plunks his backpack down on the table.

"...why? He accused me of macking on my brother. Ew." Mikey scowls. "He deserved it."

Patrick sighs. "Fine, you're right. Pete's a paranoid dickwad. But he's my shitty best friend and I want him to not hate me." He sits down across from Mikey. "It's not cool having him call me in the middle of the night to yell at me for breaking his heart."

"No offense, but why the fuck should I care?"

With another sigh, Patrick explains, "You're pretty much the first actual girlfriend he's ever had. Usually Pete just makes out with chicks at parties." Mikey snorts. "Yeah, he's a fucking hypocrite. Give him a chance anyhow. Or at least, please, don't screw with my life."

"Fine, maybe, but he's never gonna live that down."

Patrick pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "Good, he shouldn't."

~

"You're a dick." Mikey kicks Pete.

"Ow, what the fuck, Mikey?" He winces and rubs his ankle.

"Seriously, such a dick." With a sigh, she leans against his locker. "And a moron. I've never made out with Patrick, and no offense to him, but I probably never will. Christ, Pete."

"But you said-"

Mikey rolls her eyes. "Yes, because you were being a jackass and I wanted to fuck with you. But it wasn't fair to him, so now I'm telling you to quit being a jackass to your best friend."

"What was I supposed to think?"

"Maybe that the past's none of your fucking business?" She scoffs. "Does it really make that big of a difference?"

Pete stutters a moment before answering, "But you're supposed to be my girl. I just- I don't want to think other people have gotten to touch you like I do. We're supposed to have something special."

"You didn't talk to me for a week. You think we're still anything?" Mikey's eyebrow arches over her glasses.

"But I'm crazy about you, Mikey. You make me completely crazy." He snatches her hand. "Please give us another chance."

~

"You seem to be in a good mood," Gerard comments. Mikey's curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee, playing a video game with her free hand. He sits down next to her and she lets him steal her coffee.

"I am," she nods, swearing quietly as she dies in the game. Mikey hooks her chin over his shoulder as she puts the controller aside.

"So what's up?" he asks, smiling at the contact.

Mikey shrugs, her chin digging further into his shoulder. "Nothin'."

"You're a fucking liar," Gerard drains half of the coffee left before she steals the cup back. "You've been twitchy for like a week and now you're all mellow."

"I was kind of nervous," she admits. "But it's all cool now."

"Mikey," Gerard hugs her, and it's only half because he's trying to steal her coffee again. "You don't have to be nervous alone. Isn't that what brothers are for?"

She snorts. "Not always. Besides, it was nothing anyhow."

Gerard rolls his eyes. "I bet. Tell me anyhow."

"It's just things with Pete, and I thought I might be, uh, kind of…late?"

"Late for a date?" Gerard pauses and Mikey gives him a look.

"Not that kind of late. The kind that ends up like, nine months late."

"Mikey, you mean you guys didn't-" Gerard flails, "Every time?"

She half-shrugs. "Maybe? I was kind of distracted?"

"Mikey!" Gerard yelps, scandalized. "I don't want- Can't I live under the belief my sister has no sex life?!"

"You asked," she reminds him.

~

"Being a girl must suck," Pete muses glumly, hand rubbing Mikey's stomach under her hoodie.

Mikey kisses his neck, too lazy to stretch to anywhere else. "You have no idea."

Pete squirms. "Fuck, Mikey, come on." He doesn't pull away though. "I'm so horny. This seriously blows, one week a month."

"Bite me." Mikey rolls her eyes. "I'm horny too. It's not gonna kill you."

"It could," Pete whines.

"Then do something about it?" Mikey suggests, raising an eyebrow.

Making a face, Pete groans. "Ew. That's so gross, Mikey." He pauses. "No offense."

Mikey snorts. "Right." She rolls her eyes again. "Gee, Pete, you make me feel so sexy." As he stumbles through awkward protests that she is, really, Mikey covers the hand on her belly with one of her own and guides it down the front of her pajama pants.

"Whoa, hey, come on," Pete tries to tug his hand back as her hips rock against it, Mikey's hand pressing his against her just a little harder. Her moan is so quiet Pete wouldn't be able to hear it if he wasn't right next to her.

As she rocks against his hand again, Mikey's eyes slide shut behind her glasses. Crooking his fingers just a little, Pete presses harder through her panties and she gasps, eyelids fluttering. He turns his head to watch her face, the color building there as she bites back every sound even though the house is empty.

Mikey comes almost silently, sighing as she relaxes against the bed. Her lips brush against his cheek as Pete finally slides his hand out of her pants.

~

There's barely enough snow on the ground to count the flakes and it's warm enough it might not last the weekend when Pete sends Mikey a text, asking her to be ready in fifteen minutes. He's there exactly fifteen minutes later, standing on the sidewalk as Mikey finishes bundling up.

Tugging her hat more firmly over her ears, Mikey grins at Pete. "Um. So, what are we doing?"

Bending down, Pete scoops up a handful of snow and flings it at her, whooping loudly when it smacks wetly against her beanie. She raises an eyebrow at him, wiping it off. "Oh yeah?" She gets a bigger handful of snow, compacting it into a snowball and getting him in the face.

Pete grins back, crouching down to get more snow. Meanwhile she scoops up more, getting him in the shoulder as he pelts her with small snowballs all over, missing half the time. "Hit me like you mean it!" he yells, laughing until she does, a snowball right in the middle of the chest.

As she's looking down, finding a patch of usable snow, Pete sneaks closer. She tosses a snowball at where he used to be, and he smirks, tackling her into the snow. "Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me," he says breathlessly, Mikey's breath clouding between them. Pete leans down and kisses her, fingers curling against her scarf as she tugs him closer.

He shivers when Mikey's fingers press under the collar of his coat. "Fuck," he mumbles against her lips. "Fuck, Mikey, don't you have any gloves?"

She presses her nose against his cheek and it's just as cold. "I couldn't find them. It's not like I planned on a snowball fight today." Her fingers dip further under his collar and Pete shivers more.

"Good thing you got me here to keep you warm," he says, pushing her scarf aside to kiss her neck.

"Pete," she groans, "Pete, not in a snowbank."

"But I've never gotten past first base in a snowbank," Pete complains. "It's like, a rite of fucking passage or some shit."

"My ass is wet from melting snow and I'm fucking cold," Mikey informs him. "It's not as sexy as you think." She pushes him into the snowbank and straddles him. "See?" With another quirk of her eyebrow Mikey tightens her scarf, only to have Pete pull her down by the ends.

"Totally as sexy as I think," Pete counters. "You're like a fucking snow fairy or something, Mikeyway."

~

It's dark out when the doorbell rings, Pete standing on the doorstep in a pink shirt. Mikey blinks at him when she answers the door, covering her mouth as she grins. "Did you steal that shirt from an old man's closet?" She leans closer, trying to peek under his coat without getting cold. "Does it have ruffles?"

"Yeah, isn't it awesome?" He runs a hand along his chest and she laughs. "I found it at a thrift store for two bucks, but I would totally pay more for a shirt this awesome."

Shaking her head, Mikey slips into her coat and heads out the door, still doing up her buttons. "Where are we going?" she asks. Pete runs to open the car door for her. "I'm wearing a skirt, so it better be fucking worth it."

"Maybe I want to surprise you," Pete teases. "I could blindfold you."

Mikey rolls her eyes. "Do I want to go there if they wouldn't think they should call the cops when you bring in someone blindfolded?"

"It's Valentine's Day, it's romantic," Pete declares, shutting the door before Mikey can disagree. He goes around the car and gets in the driver's seat only to have her swat at him. He sniffs. "See if I tell you now."

She puts a hand on his thigh, eyes wide as she leans close. "I think you'd tell me."

Pete swallows as her hand slides higher. "No," he protests weakly.

With a quick squeeze, Mikey withdraws her hand, crossing her legs and folding her hands primly in her lap. "I guess I'll quit distracting you then."

They continue bickering, Mikey teasing that Pete got lost a couple times before he turns into the parking lot of a small Italian place.

The parking lot's nearly full, but manages to find a space, frowning when Mikey gets out of the car before he can go around and hold her door for her. "You don't make being a gentleman very easy," he gripes, tucking her hand into his as they walk across the parking lot.

When they get inside, Pete helps Mikey out of her coat before heading to the hostess stand. "Wentz? Reservation for two?"

The hostess highlights something on the stand before grabbing a couple menus and leading them into the dining room. "Will a booth be fine?" she asks as they pass a number of tables, all full.

"Sure." At Pete's word, she sets down the menus on a booth to her right before vanishing back to the front door. He sets down the coats on the seat before sliding in, Mikey sliding in across from him.

"You actually made a reservation?" she asks, impressed in spite of herself.

Pete reaches across the table to hold hands. "Word on the street is that if you don't on Valentine's Day, you'll end up eating fast food." He grins. "Well, and past experience. I thought about stealing my parents' reservation, but I don't think I can afford the place they're going to."

"I'm surprised you can afford anything better than Taco Bell," Mikey laughs.

Pete squeezes her hand. "I can't. Washing dishes is romantic, right?" He laughs at the look on her face.

Mikey rolls her eyes, muttering "jerk" under her breath as she flips open the menu.

The waiter comes to the table as Pete starts playing with the candle in the center. "What can I get you guys tonight?"

"Can you do like a Lady and the Tramp thing where we share a plate of spaghetti?" Pete asks.

Mikey shakes her head before the waiter can answer. "Pete, I don't think that would even work." She hands her menu to the waiter. "Don't listen to him, he learned how to woo from Disney movies. I'll have the alfredo."

"I'll have the...penne then," Pete decides with a pout. "I did not learn how to woo from Disney. I am an expert at wooing."

Mikey snorts. "I can outwoo you any day."

Pete leans across the table, grinning wolfishly. "Prove it."

Raising an eyebrow, Mikey leans in too, whispering, "Do you really want me to?"

"Go ahead." Pete makes a bring it on gesture. "Woo me."

She smirks. "Guess what I got you for Valentine's Day."

"Um?" Pete frowns thoughtfully. "Did you get me a CD or something?"

"No." She fidgets, smoothing her hands along her thighs. "I can't really show you in here. But I think our food will take a while, if you want to come see?" She arches an eyebrow as she makes the offer.

Taking his hand, Mikey leads Pete to the bathroom. Cracking the door, she peeks into the room before tugging him inside and flipping the lock. She leans against the sink almost casually as Pete shifts from foot to foot.

"Uh..." Biting her lip, Mikey slowly inches her skirt up, revealing her underwear. "Jesus Christ," Pete hisses, taking a step closer so he can touch. His fingers brush against the red ribbon laced up on the crotch.

"Well?" Mikey asks, ducking her head so her hair covers her blushing face. "How did I do at the wooing?"

"Huh?" Pete looks up, stepping even closer. "Yeah, right now I might be outwooed, but this kind of makes me want to woo you a little more. I think I'm gonna be the comeback of the year at wooing." His fingers tug at the lacing as he leans in and kisses Mikey.

"I could be wooed more," she agrees breathlessly, fingers curling around the edge of the counter when Pete pushes her panties slowly down. He leaves them around her thighs, hands cupping her ass and thumbs rubbing against her hipbone. Gently, Pete's thumbs rub in circles, working their way around until they sweep across the dark curly hair between Mikey's legs. She trembles, her knees unsteady until Pete quits teasing and his hands start moving with something resembling intention.

His fingers stroke and press against her, easing off every time Mikey moans. She bites back the sounds and Pete kisses her, tongue sliding against hers as he spreads her apart and presses his fingers inside. Mikey gasps against his mouth as he goes deeper and his fingertips brush against sensitive spots.

"Too much," she protests, knuckles almost painfully white as he brushes there again, stroking softer this time. He hits the spot again and again, Mikey's body going tense and taut and her breath coming faster as he does. "Oh, Pete, Pete," she moans, head tipped back as he pushes her over the brink.

He pulls his hand from where she's squeezed it between her thighs and slides her panties back up for her. "Are you sure that wasn't a present for you?" he asks as Mikey tugs her skirt back down.

She gives him a look, nodding at his crotch. "You enjoyed it too. And you'll get to enjoy your gift more after dinner." They hold hands as they walk back to their seat, Mikey's skirt swishing smugly as they pass other tables and slide into their booth.

The waiter brings their food almost before they can sit down, like he's been watching for them. Mikey's face is red as she thanks him, stretching a toe across to nudge Pete's foot. Pete fidgets, mumbling something she doesn't quite catch. All through dinner, Mikey watches him, smiling in a way that makes Pete shift in his seat when he notices.

After a quiet meal, the waiter takes away their plates. Mikey flips through the dessert menu, startled when Pete stretches his arm out and touches her to get her attention. "I got you this," he says, pushing an envelope across the table.

Mikey eyes her name on the front before flipping the envelope over and running her finger under the flap. Glitter covers her fingers as Mikey tugs the card out and reads it. Feeling how intently Pete's staring her down, she bends closer, mouthing out key words as she reads the poem inside. "Did you write that?" she asks, correcting herself quickly, "I mean, did you write that for me?"

Pete nods. "Like, I wasn't sure about the end and a couple lines didn't turn out how I wanted, but-"

"It's beautiful," Mikey interrupts. She touches the card carefully. "No one's ever written a poem for me."

"Well, now someone has." There's a pause as Pete riffles through his pockets. "Oh, and this is for you too, sorry, it's kind of anticlimactic."

She opens the box of candy hearts he finds, reading the first heart she pulls out. "One Way." Mikey giggles. "You can have this one, since I'm your one Way."

~

It's ten o'clock, and Mikey's planning a movie marathon when her phone rings. She picks it up, smiling at the ridiculous rap ringtone Pete picked for himself. "Hi, Pete."

"What are you up to?" he asks idly as she flops down on the bed, setting the stack of DVDs on the desk next to her.

"Nothing. Trying to decide between all the original Star Wars movies and The Matrix movies." Pete hmms and she taps the cases again. "What about you?"

"Tough choice," he says. "Missing you."

Mikey laughs. "Um. Okay. You do remember how we hung out all day, right?"

"So?" The background music carrying through the phone gets fainter. "I haven't gotten to see you every day this week. It's weird."

Mikey sighs. "Yeah. But the whole fucking no school thing's pretty nice."

"It's not an even trade," Pete informs her. "That's like giving up oxygen because water's pretty cool. I wish I could kidnap you."

"I can't decide if that's sweet or creepy," Mikey yawns. "But I'll go with sweet."

"It's spring break. I should get one hundred percent more Mikey." There's a pause. "Wait, I don't think that math works. Whatever, it's Spring Break and I should get to be around you 24/7." He sighs. "I hate math. I'm a senior, I shouldn't have to take math."

"Why do you?" Mikey asks, staring at the x-wings hanging amidst the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling. "Most people get out of math as soon as they can."

"I did," Pete gripes. "But your school is weird and they wouldn't transfer some of my credits."

"That's probably why people don't usually transfer their senior year."

He sighs. "I guess. I dunno, Mikey, do you ever just feel like you want to start over?" She mumbles something incoherent. "I feel like that all the time. We moved across town over the summer and I figured it was the best chance I'd ever get, right?" He laughs. "I didn't expect them to say so much shit I took doesn't count though. I tried arguing with them, but I have to stay an extra semester before they'll let me graduate."

"Seriously?" Mikey raises her eyebrows, frowning. "That's insane."

"Well, I could have gone without an off period or maybe done summer school, but fuck that. Besides, if I get to stay then I can spend more time with you, right?" There's a dull thud. "Hemmy keeps trying to say hi. He misses you too."

Mikey smiles. "Tell him I miss him."

There's quiet, the sound of Pete cooing at his dog slightly muffled. "Why do you miss him and not me?" Pete pouts. "I mean, Hemingway's a pretty damn cool dog, but what about me?"

"Fine," Mikey chuckles. "I miss you too, you brat. I'm giving up geeky movies to talk to you; my friends could tell you I don't do that for anyone."

"How do I know you're not watching them on mute?" Pete asks.

Rolling her eyes, Mikey groans. "Paranoid much? It's no fun without the sound unless you're ripping it or you're quoting it along with the screen. Eventually I'm gonna fall asleep on you, but we're good for a few hours at least."

~

Pete scowls at the clerk before pulling out his phone. "Hey, Mikey."

"Hi, Pete."

"Mikey, my dearest and most amazingly wonderful Michaela-"

"What, Pete?"

She sounds exasperated, but he plunges on. "The tux shop doesn't have lavender so we can't match."

"Am I supposed to be disappointed?"

"I am," he complains. "It would have been perfect, but now it won't."

"So get another tux. I know it's getting close to prom but they can't be out, can they?"

Pete hesitates. "Well, that's kind of why I was calling. I know it's not lavender, but powder blue is still pastel, right?"

"Jesus Christ!" Mikey sighs, "No, Pete. Hell no."

"But Mikey, it looks really good on me, you'd be surprised..."

"If I get a surprise like that, you're taking yourself to prom." Mikey sounds like she means it. "Fucking Gee wouldn't even let me pick my own dress, but some things are just not gonna happen."

~

Mikey looks paler in full makeup, standing tensely in the living room doorway. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Gee took fucking forever on my hair."

"So worth the wait," Pete assures her, getting up off the couch. A clear plastic box is in his hand, and Mikey tries not to roll her eyes at her parents taking pictures of Pete trying to pin on her corsage without noticeably groping her.

She sighs when his hands keep brushing against her chest really unsubtly. "Pete, later," she hisses.

"Your dress is really nice," he says, finally sticking the pins in. "Like, it feels nice, the material."

"Uh huh," she whispers. "You were checking out the material, right." Pete just grins at her, thumbs still brushing against her ribs.

"Oh," Gerard runs out of the room, coming back with a box similar to the one Pete had with her corsage. "Your boutonniere."

Mikey sighs and pins it to Pete's lapel. "Okay, I love you, whatever, we're leaving." She grabs Pete's hand, tugging him towards the door. "Don't wait up."

~

After turning their coats over to the members of the PTA running coat check, Pete directs Mikey towards the line for pictures. "I promised my mom," he explains when she asks if they have to.

"…but I get one too, right?" she asks.

"Of course." Pete grins. "I'm gonna put one up in my locker. And I might even make a t-shirt."

"You're so fucking lame." She grins back. "I'm not wearing a shirt with your face on it."

"If you loved me…" Pete starts, but Mikey just gives him a look.

"I'm sorry I have fashion sense?"

Pete tugs on one of the gauzy wings behind her. "I can tell. I like it."

Mikey blushes. "The wings were Gee."

"They suit you." Pete's fingers brush against them more. "You're already my little fairy princess."

"I'm bigger than you."

"…fine. My elegant fairy princess?"

She blushes harder. "Are we done yet?"

By the time they get their pictures taken, Mikey's antsy. "We haven't seen anybody yet."

"Who do we need to see?" Pete asks. "It's not like Patrick's old enough for prom or anything."

Mikey holds out her hand and Pete gets her phone from his jacket pocket. "Gabe's here somewhere." She makes a face. "…and not answering his phone."

"He's probably dancing," Pete suggests. "Like we could be?"

"Can you dance?" Mikey raises an eyebrow over her glasses.

"…can Gabe?" Pete takes the phone back. "We'll find him later."

The dance floor is crowded with poofy skirts, but Mikey relaxes a little more in the darkness, waving at a couple classmates as they find a place to dance far enough from the speakers.

"You don't have to be home tonight, do you?" Pete asks, mouth brushing against her hair. She shakes her head and glitter clouds around her. "My parents figured we're going to afterprom."

"And instead we're?" Pete presses a keycard into her hand and Mikey laughs. "You're so fucking cliché."

"It's my job to be part of the American Dream and get laid on prom night," Pete informs her. "And a hotel room is so much classier than the backseat of my car."

"I'm pretty sure the bathroom here is classier than the backseat of your car." Mikey smirks.

"Damn, I could've saved the money from that Motel 6."

~

Pete slides the keycard into the lock and pushes the door open. "My lady."

Mikey kicks off her heels as soon as they get in the room, hugging Pete's tux jacket around herself. "It's cold in here."

"Only because your dress is sleeveless." Pete smiles and kisses her. "Besides, I'm here to warm you up."

"Now is when you're allowed to grope me," she agrees, unbuttoning his shirt.

Shoving his jacket away, Pete presses his grin against Mikey's shoulder. "I still think that's always."

"You're wrong," Mikey informs him, squirming as his hand worms up under her wings, trying to find her zipper. She brushes his hand away. "I can get it."

"Keep the wings on?" Pete asks, almost sheepish.

"The w-?" Mikey stops in the middle of shrugging out of them. "Um. Seriously?"

"Maybe?" Pete tugs at his bowtie. "Not if- That's not like, too weird, is it?"

Mikey peels her dress off. "Uh… I guess they're just wings?"

He beams. "Awesome." Pete kisses Mikey again, standing so close her stomach presses against his. When the kiss breaks, she backs up and Pete gets to work on his pants.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she blushes at how Pete smiles when he looks at her. She shivers, arms around herself covering her chest as she waits for him.

"You're beautiful, babe," Pete says as he pushes her arms away from her body. "All covered in fairy dust."

Mikey ducks her head, quiet as Pete's mouth presses against the side of her neck. "Mmhmm." His hands cup her chest and as his mouth slides up her neck, she squirms. "Fuck, Pete, that tickles."

"I barely even touched you," Pete complains, moving a hand down to her side and tickling deliberately.

"Stop it!" Mikey giggles, pushing his hands away. "Stop, you're doing it on purpose!"

He pushes her flat against the bed, kissing her slow. "Maybe." His fingers curve around her sides and he rocks against her. "Seriously, beautiful," he mumbles, lips pressed against the base of her throat as he squirms out of his boxers and tosses them on the floor.

"Seriously tickles," she counters, stilling as his tongue dips against her throat.

"I'll show you tickles," Pete mumbles against her, hands nudging Mikey's thighs apart, slipping a finger inside her.

Mikey moans softly, hips pressing up against him. "I wouldn't call that tickling."

"How about this?" he asks, hips rocking against hers.

"Mmm, not quite." Mikey's hips meet his again. "But maybe you should keep trying that just to make sure." Pete kisses the side of her neck as he does so, slowly working inside her with each echo of the movement.

Pete groans as he finally sinks in all the way, his hands holding onto Mikey's waist and lips brushing against her throat as he adjusts to the feeling. She lets out a deep breath and his hands move to the bed, bracing himself as he slides in and out again.

They get lost in the movement, Mikey's eyes lighting up whenever Pete brushes against somewhere that feels good. It's not long before Pete's gasping himself, movements stilling as he comes. He sags against her, moving as Mikey pushes him off her chest.

Mikey rolls onto her side, eyes drifting shut as Pete's arm slips around her waist. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck, whispering, "We should run away to Canada."

"Sure, Pete," she yawns. "Canada, we'll get a moose. I'm gonna sleep now."

It's a while before he quiets, Mikey falling asleep to the sound of his voice.

She wakes up to Pete laughing. "What?" Mikey grumps, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow.

"There's glitter everywhere," he says, still laughing. "Like, everywhere."

"'All Gee's fault," she mumbles, face sparkling with the glitter that came off on the pillowcase.

Pete lifts the sheet and looks under it as she bats him away. "I mean, everywhere. I think it's up your ass even." He flicks one of the wings she's still wearing. "It looks like I fucked a fairy."

"I hate you." Mikey kicks at his ankles.

~

Mikey's collecting her books from her locker when an arm slips around her waist, a warm body pressing up behind her. "Good morning," Pete smiles against the back of her neck. She smiles and finishes with her backpack before she turns around, his arms still around her.

After a kiss, Mikey leans against Pete's shoulder. "I was hoping for a snow day," she says.

"In April?" Pete laughs and brushes a kiss against her cheek. "Why, baby? You're gonna kick ass on the French quiz, you always do."

"Kick your ass anyhow," she smirks. "Your accent is crap." Mikey sighs and gives her backpack a doleful look. "It's not that. I'm just tired, I want a day off so I can sleep, have fun, whatever."

"So call in sick," Pete suggests. "I could pretend to be your dad or something. You're smart, it's not like you'd fall behind."

"Except in math," she reminds him, leaning against his chest.

Pete shrugs. "Okay, except in math. But you could catch up."

"I'll live." She snuggles closer.

The bell rings and Mikey cringes, fingers curling into the hem of Pete's shirt.

He sighs and kisses her cheek again. "We should start heading to class."

Mikey shudders a deep sigh and nods, her fingers not loosening. "I need to get to math, you need to get to econ. Fucking math."

"I think they make it an early class just to torment people," Pete speculates. "I mean, who's awake at 8am, let alone awake enough for math?"

"I don't want to go," Mikey mumbles as Pete shuts her locker behind her.

"I know, babe." Pete brushes her hair behind her ear. She sighs again and he kisses her. "I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

Mikey nods and kisses him again. "Have a good morning." With a long look over her shoulder, she heads in the opposite direction.

After a moment, Mikey realizes how empty the halls are and sprints towards her math room. Halfway down the hall, the bell rings again and she groans, pausing to catch her breath. She hooks her hair behind her ears again and walks the rest of the way, slipping into her desk. Tardy to her first class, it seems her dread of the day is already justified.

~

Part Two

my bbb fanmix

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 05:05:04 GMT

by thelemic

download

my third bbb fanart

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 04:01:31 GMT

Mikey on prom night by thelemic

my second bbb fanart

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:36:00 GMT

Mikey on Valentine's Day by thelemic

my first bbb fanart

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:13:29 GMT

Pete and Mikey in the hallway by x3fixmein45

Posted using TxtLJ

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 14:37:01 GMT

I'm only posting one of my big bangs. The mods and I have a disagreement on warnings for my other.

Posted using TxtLJ

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 00:32:24 GMT

Dear lj-ers,
Everyone is allowed opinions. Yours and others need not match. Quit being douchey about it.

Posted using TxtLJ

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 15:02:44 GMT

Is it still gauche to wear a shirt for the band you're supporting if it's at a battle of the bands?

5/21/2009

Thu, 21 May 2009 13:44:53 GMT

Oh my. I don't really even know where to start. I've been pining for lj. I miss the internet. I miss typing on a keyboard that doesn't induce hand cramps - I think I have calluses from phone use. I miss Elle and Andie and Shardy and Velvs... And just having a proper online presence.

I was hoping to make this a good post, but instead it's a mix. And I don't have the patient to try coding on mobile lj, so sorry if this is a huge block of text.

As some of you know, I consider myself an aspiring writer. I've wanted to work in publishing since I was a little kid. I helped run a webzine for a while, I'm always writing and/or editing something. (Sidenote drawn from liner notes to an album I like: all writers want to be rockstars.) Jess was the co-conspirator with the zine and actually, she and I have a fictional band. It's hard to write songs together from other sides of the country, you know? Well she works at her local paper out in New York. And I was teasing, asking if she could get me a job. So a couple weeks ago, I applied to be the website maintainer for her paper. Over the next couple days I hope to hear back - already had an interview. But I might just be moving to western New York. Welcome to the part where all my dreams could come true: my band, my writing, a career in my field...

But the other side is pretty... well, opposite. I'm back in therapy. And it's about time. Because last Friday I found out my kid sister, the one we put through rehab last summer, has run away. She's been gone 2 weeks as of today - took my family over a week to tell me she'd run away. I'm scared, angry, worried... And, as usual, feel like a failure. I just want her to be okay and I don't think she is. I know enough about the circle she was running in last summer to say that. We know her best friend relapsed, so I don't feel like I'm out of line to assume she has as well.

If you see me (on twitter - brittanyj or on aim - padawanlady) drop a line. I can text at work from time to time and I'm leashed to my phone with unlimited text. Mobile im is not something I am against unless you're sending huge blocks of text that aren't relevant to the conversation.

5/8/2009

Sat, 09 May 2009 04:39:21 GMT

This is right by my shrink's.

Posted using TxtLJ

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 14:27:41 GMT

I'm so disappointed in myself, but my third bbb's not gettin' done.

4/19/2009

Sun, 19 Apr 2009 07:44:35 GMT

Yes I am a bitch.

Finished my second bbb today. it needs beta, of course. is there a comm to find bbb betas?

Voice Post

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 01:28:30 GMT

Voice Post

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 01:27:15 GMT

Posted using TxtLJ

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 21:41:50 GMT

http://www.questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=275 is me today. A woman asked if I need a place to stay (am I homeless) when I took out the trash at work.

Busy hardcore

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 19:19:04 GMT

Quick update. Because I am supposed to be writing, applying for jobs, bathing, and setting up my phone again after a hard reset. I multitask hardcore!

So. My computer died. A lot. And I've been sharing Rain's. Rain is moving this weekend. I just inherited my mom's ancient desktop. I have said "I think my phone has more ram than this" and I meant it. Slower than dead snails. But I can word process on it, which means I am not fucked on big bang. Unless I blow my personal writing deadlines: 1k a day! (I have half of one fic left and 3/4 of another)

Um. I work as a housekeeper at a nice hotel now. I miss my internet friends. And that sums up much of what has been up lately. My cats are adorable, but leaving me, I have enough of a computer I should in theory be able to look for a better job, and I really fucking wish I could make it to comiccon this year.

I have a suspicion that Mikeyway and Gerard will announce that Gee's project is a Way Brothers cooperative effort.

Sorry this was so incoherent, I am trying to hurry so I can get shit done today.