I Wanna Be Emo

coricomile @ 2009-11-09T21:51:00

2009-11-10T02:58:27Z

Hi, f-list. Would anyone like to beta-read the Labyrinth fic for reel_band? Y/n?

Patrick turned and yanked open the door. He ran to Joe’s room, pounded on the door that had been closed. He yelled into in, pressed his mouth to the doorjamb and screamed. The laughing behind him escalated, pulsing and tangible. The lights flickered again, shadows lingering in the corners of the hall. The front room window flew open, crashing into the wall.

Patrick jerked the doorknob, kicked at the door. Why wasn’t’ Joe coming? Something scaled and cold wrapped around his ankles, pulled him to the ground. Patrick threw his arms over his head. His heart was stuttering in his chest, his breath coming short. A shadow fell across him.

A man stood in front of him, leaned against the opposite wall. He was tall and thin, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He wore skinny jeans and a purple hoodie, a pink hat turned sideways over his short hair. A long chained necklace dangled from around his neck, a square plastic medallion of himself hanging from it. He snapped his fingers and the laughter stopped.

“Who are you?” Patrick asked, curling his fingers into loose fists. He wasn’t a fighter-not really- but he was willing to make exceptions.

“Tricky, baby, I think you already know,” the man said, crouching down, resting one elbow on his bent leg. Patrick’s eye twitched.

“A burglar?”

“Try again.” The man’s grin was wide, toothy. He pulled his necklace off and flicked the medallion. It spun around unnaturally fast, the picture inside shifting into glimpses of dreams and nightmares.

“Are you-“ Patrick shook his head, feeling foolish. Was he really thinking that? “Are you the goblin king?” The man’s grin grew wider. He tipped his hat and offered a hand.

“Gabe Saporta,” he said. “You, though, can call me whatever you want.”

“Where’s Pete? And Joe?” Patrick pushed himself up, ignoring Gabe’s outstretched hand. He adjusted his knit hat, suddenly glad he hadn’t taken it off. He felt bare enough, as was.

“Joe’s sleeping,” Gabe said calmly, straightening up. “And Pete. Well. You said you want him to live forever, right? I sent him to a place where he can do just that.”

“I meant here.” Patrick eyed the corners of the room warily. Shifting, hunched figures lurked there, features too sharp to be human. “Bring him back.” Gabe tsked.

“What’s done is done, Pattycakes.” He tapped a finger against Patrick’s jaw. “Anyway, you’ve got me here, now.” Gabe touched his cheek to Patrick’s, bent to meet him. “I can give you anything you want.”

“Pete,” Patrick said, voice shaking. “I want Pete back.”

---

Why do I keep making Gabe the villain? Gabe, honey, you're not evil, your love is just. Misunderstood.

coricomile @ 2009-11-09T13:57:00

2009-11-09T18:59:52Z

You would think it would be easy to get Gravitation in .mp4 easily. It's older, has a large fanbase of internet kids. But! Everything is .avi. And I can't ~convert because I'm a failure in technology that isn't Photoshop. I'm about to play sourgrapes and be all "well, it wasn't that good", and I don't want to do that because it was pretty awesome. *Sigh* Back to the hunt.

coricomile @ 2009-11-06T12:21:00

2009-11-06T17:21:49Z

Day two of captivity. I escaped for an hour to sit in the cold for an hour to talk to my project development group. This... Was probably not a good idea. I'm hopped up on cough-syrup and soda and confined to my room with the x-box and a blanket. So. Movie time, I guess.

...One day, Bronx is going to watch Release the Bats and Pete's going to have to have a very awkward conversation. one of many, I guess.

coricomile @ 2009-11-05T18:40:00

2009-11-05T23:40:58Z

My boss is pretty awesome. She text me and told me to take the next two days off to get better. Which is awesome, but I think I'm going to go a little crazy with cabin fever.

Benji and Joel Madden are on the Jeff Dunham show. Oh, the memories. I want to go back to 2003 so badly. *Sigh*

coricomile @ 2009-11-05T13:10:00

2009-11-05T18:10:59Z

So, I've watched about 10 episodes of Bones in a row, and now I need a bandom crossover. *Sigh* My life is so boring and one-track. I need a hobby. Maybe I should pick knitting up again.

coricomile @ 2009-11-05T07:19:00

2009-11-05T12:19:52Z

I am sick. Stuck-in-bed-with-a-roll-of-toilet-paper sick. But, at least I have LJ, right? Anyone want to write me sick-time fic to go along with my tomato soup?

I guess this means I get to watch Bones all day. Oh, Zack. Your silly face will make me feel better.

coricomile @ 2009-11-03T18:43:00

2009-11-03T23:43:12Z

What About Before? Meme

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

:}

coricomile @ 2009-11-02T16:08:00

2009-11-02T21:09:20Z

I'd really like to know what Di bawah ini adalah daftar hasil pencarian iklan baris sesuai dengan kata kunci yang Anda gunakan (coricomile @ 2009-08-24T15:56:00). Klik pada judul iklan untuk membaca detil iklan yang bersangkutan.

says. Sadly, I don't know the language or a translator. So.

coricomile @ 2009-11-02T12:11:00

2009-11-02T17:15:23Z

I have a ridiculously short attention span. The Internet is not helping. Damn you internet and your websites and pictures of Patrick Stump. Need to write my piece for creative writing, which is roughly.... 1/4? of the way done. On the bonus side of things, our teacher did encourage us to make basically everything porn. So. Familiar ground? Yeah, no. Maybe not.

ETA: Oh, my god.

Brendon misses home. He scuffs his purple sneakers over the sidewalk, crunching leaves underfoot as he walks down the road, backpack bouncing off his back. At home, he’d be playing piano. His sisters would be baking, both of them in the kitchen with his mother, shooing him and the dog away. His brothers would be coming home from their missions, ready to be married to their fiancés. He’s going to miss them getting married.

First paragraph? Failure. So many awkward sentences, so little space.

Stolen from megyal

2009-10-31T15:50:29Z

This is for those of you who never got a chance to Trick or Treat, or who grew out of it before your time, or for everyone who has an unnatural affinity for extortion...

So, in the words of the creepy dude on your street who gets his mail in his boxers and robe, "Give me a trick, I'll give you a treat, baby *winkwinknudgenudge*"

Please feel free to put this up in your LJ to invite trick or treaters to your own door. Treats can be anything that strikes your fancy (pics of fave actors, one sentence fics, a few words why you're glad to have them on your flist, etc. etc.). The more "houses" to visit the more fun it'll be, so spread the fun!

coricomile @ 2009-10-28T11:22:00

2009-10-28T15:22:16Z

So, I bought an iPod yesterday, which basically means I bought Patrick on demand.

:)

coricomile @ 2009-10-26T13:14:00

2009-10-26T17:23:59Z

Title: Set Me Up, Buttercup
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “…You’re taking me, in an entirely unsafe, and possibly illegal, wagon to Amish Country because the Amish are, apparently, scary?” Patrick waits until Pete nods to kick him. “I’m telling my mom you’re crazy.”
A/N: anon_lovefest strikes again. Blame them, not me.

Patrick's pretty sure it's a set-up.

Pete's shitty Honda is tethered to an old farm wagon by a fraying piece of rope of questionable origins. The wagon is painted blue, the slats old and splintering, and the wheels look a little misshapen, but the alarming thing is the sheer amount of straw piled in it, overflowing and leaving a trail down the road. Hey Chris is at the wheel, head out the window to watch as Pete kisses Patricia on the cheek before hefting Patrick up and over his shoulder.

So, yes, Patrick pretty much knows it’s a set-up.

Pete deposits Patrick ungracefully into the straw heap and clambers up the side of the wagon after him. Patrick is in shorts and a t-shirt- he hadn’t really planned on going out and is thankful that Pete at least let him grab shoes- and the straw sticks at his bare legs as he tries to scoop out a spot for himself. He nearly topples off the side when Chris steps on the gas, and only a well timed grab from Pete saves him from landing cap-over-sneakers on the pavement.

“Is it useless to ask what you’re doing?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Pete says as he sprawls on his stomach. Chris takes a sharp turn and a half-stack of straw explodes onto the road behind them. Patrick grips the side of the wagon and tries not to think about the likelihood of becoming road kill. “We’re going to Amish Country. It’s scary out there, right?”

“…You’re taking me, in an entirely unsafe, and possibly illegal, wagon to Amish Country because the Amish are, apparently, scary?” Patrick waits until Pete nods to kick him. “I’m telling my mom you’re crazy.”

“She loves me, Rick. You just have to deal with my crazy.” Pete grins at him, all teeth and scrunched eyes, and Patrick begrudgingly accepts his fate. It could be worse, he supposes.

Chris’ turns loose their speed as they get further from the city, and Patrick manages to throw out enough of the straw to make a little pit for him and Pete to settle in to. It’s not really Halloween yet, just barely into October, but the sky is dark early, and the wind is cool against Patrick’s cheeks and arms. He’s staring up at the half-moon when he feels the scratch of soft cotton against his shoulders. He looks up and Pete grins again, stripped down to his ratty t-shirt. Patrick feels his cheeks heat up as he pulls Pete’s hoodie closed around himself.

Amish Country is not, as Pete predicted, all that frightening. It’s mostly just trees and barns and the stray horse tethered to a fence. It’s actually sort of pretty. The wagon is going slowly enough that Patrick can enjoy the view. Pete is pressed up against his side in their little ditch, goosebumps on his arms. His head is against Patrick’s shoulder, the mess of his hair soft against Patrick’s cheek. He’s tapping his fingers against his thigh in an uneven rhythm, fidgeting.

“It’s okay if you’re scared, y’know?” He says without looking up. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Oh my god, that barn? Is totally going to eat us. And those backhoes? Totally possessed. I am so scared.”

“Don’t be a douche,” Pete says into Patrick’s neck, breath hot. Patrick swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m just saying, I’m here if you need me.” Patrick hides his grin in Pete’s hair and lets Pete tangle their fingers together on his lap.

Totally a set-up.

----

A/N: What’s with all this non-porn I’m writing lately? I need to trawl for porn prompts, y’know. Get back to normal. Or maybe just get a hobby so I stop spamming. Are you people sick of me yet?

coricomile @ 2009-10-26T12:49:00

2009-10-26T16:56:40Z

Someone needs to make a Stuck in an Elevator Meme. Or a One Blanket Meme. I am socially retarded and can't organize things like that. So. Go go ~~gadget~~ f-list!

We went to see Paranormal Activity last night. It was good? But it would have been a lot more effective if the theatre wasn't full. The drunk people next to me didn't help, either. I would watch it again, and I definitely wouldn't want to watch it by myself. So. That says something for its merit.

I got to talk about Dance Macabre last night and fell in love with horror as a genre all over again. Books are more effective, but movies are more exciting. I need to start reading actual books again instead of fic. Maybe I'll finish the Vampire Chronicles. Maybe.

coricomile @ 2009-10-25T17:08:00

2009-10-25T21:27:22Z

Title: Sugar Plums
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The thing is, Pete could totally love him. Is a little in love with him, actually. But Patrick is sixteen, and Pete is not. So, Pete tucks Patrick into his 'do not touch' file and pretends it doesn't suck leaning away from Patrick's touches, pretends he doesn't notice the long looks from across the basement.
A/N: For gcbenjigal, who's recent complaints against the lack of Pete/Patrick spurred me on.

They meet twice before they actually meet. The first time is at a coffee shop. Pete is with his girlfriend. Patrick is buying coffee with bleary eyes, backpack over his shoulder. They bump. Patrick spills coffee on Pete’s girl’s bag and stares at Pete with wide, frightened eyes a little pathetically until Pete laughs and waves him off.

The second time is at a show. Pete’s pissed, screaming into his mic, slamming into Chris and kicking amps and leaping into the crowd from dangerous heights. Patrick is in the front row, still all wide eyes and loose lips. He’s swept away before Pete lands, and he doesn’t manage to make it back over until Pete’s on stage again.

The official time, the time that matters, Pete is doing a favor for a friend. Check him out, Joe had said. He’ll be great. Pete is tired of this, but Joe is his friend. Patrick is in socks that climb to his knees and a sweater that is too hot for the weather. Pete sees him swallow, feels like he should know who this kid is already when Patrick chokes out his name.

Patrick is sixteen. His voice cracks when he talks, and his hands and mouth are too big for the rest of his body. He’s smart, though, and has the same sense of humor as Pete and, oh, he can sing. Pete maybe falls a little in love.

Joe is stoked when they start practicing. He hugs Patrick, then Pete, then he breaks out a celebratory joint. Pete- who is edge when he can remember it- declines. Patrick smokes, though, and his eyes go glassy, and his mouth goes slack, and he falls asleep on Pete’s lap before any of them actually play a note.

Practices go pretty much like that for a few weeks. It’s fun, but it isn’t really all that productive. Pete likes the easy fit of Patrick in his conversations, feels like they were made to just sit and talk and pluck at their guitars all day together. Joe laughs a lot and sends Patrick a lot of looks when he thinks Pete won’t notice.

And Pete. He knows, okay? He can see the way Patrick stares, can see the way Patrick smiles at him, only him, the way Patrick leans in at every hint of a touch. He's not an idiot, and Patrick isn't subtle.

The thing is, Pete could totally love him. Is a little in love with him, actually. But Patrick is sixteen, and Pete is not. So, Pete tucks Patrick into his 'do not touch' file and pretends it doesn't suck leaning away from Patrick's touches, pretends he doesn't notice the long looks from across the basement.

It works, for the most part. Patrick doesn't make a move, and Pete doesn't have to turn him down. Joe sends him confused looks every now and then, looks between them like he knows more than he's letting on. If Patrick seems quiet, Pete says nothing. And it works. Well. Until Patrick corners him.

"Pete," he says, arms wrapped around his chest. Pete winces. Patrick looks small, arms thin, corners of his lips turned down. "Can we talk?"

"Yes?" Pete sits on the couch, right on the loose spring, and Patrick sits next to them. Their thighs touch, knee to hip. Pete sighs and waits.

"I think," Patrick starts, leaning forward on his legs. I think that I like you, like, a lot." There's a fierce blush across Patrick's cheeks, and he's staring pointedly at the floor. "And. I think that..." He leans into Pete's side, small and sweet. "That maybe-"

"Patrick," Pete says. Patrick looks up at him, then, and Pete's stomach twists. "I think we shouldn't have this conversation." Patrick's face falls. "I think we should hang out, and make music, and just. Not do that, okay?" Patrick leans away, and Pete feels like the biggest asshole ever.

"Is there, y'know, something I did-"

"No!" Pete winces at the sharpness of his voice. He lands a hand on Patrick's shoulder, making him look over again. "It's not that, okay? You're, like, the most awesome kid in the history of ever, okay?" Patrick glares. Pete flinches. "You're sixteen. I just can't-" Patrick punches him and locks himself in his room.

Patrick sulks for a week. Pete gives him space, cowering in the corners during practices, leaving as soon as he's dismissed. Joe books them six shows. Pete is impressed and tells him as much. Joe kicks him and refuses to say why. Pete's pretty sure he knows, anyway.

The first show sucks. Patrick throws up before, and his voice is raw through all of it. Their drummer is off beat, too loud. Joe spins into Pete, smacking him in the mouth with the end of his headstock. Pete bleeds until the next morning. Still, it's a show, and people nod along. Some clap. They have potential.

The second show goes marginally better. Patrick is still a little shaky, and their drummer is still shitty, but the kids whoop and yell and Pete feels like he's actually playing a real show again. After, he throws an arm over Patrick's shoulders, hugs him. When he pulls away, Patrick is frowning.

There's a little break between parties, and Pete spends it crashing in Patrick's basement, watching movies and eating popcorn. Patrick still sits too close, still falls asleep on Pete's lap, open-mouthed against Pete's knee. Pete's stomach twists when he touches the curve of Patrick's cheek, when he accidentally knocks Patrick's cap to the floor.

The next few shows aren't in Chicago. They drive in Joe's mom's van, all of them piled in the back like a litter of puppies. Patrick's lost his stage fright, for the most part, and, when Pete looks, he seems to be okay. Excited. A tiny, tiny rockstar in argyle and skullcaps. When it's over, Pete tosses himself into Patrick's side and hangs on. He's found his ticket.

Show six is the big one. The show that might get them more shows, give them somewhere else to go. Pete recognizes faces in the crowd, knows the names of too many of them from Arma. He hopes they don't recognize him. He doesn't want anyone to base their success on him.

They play like maniacs, all nervous, excited energy. Pete's worries about stealing the limelight are squashed. It's Patrick's show, through and through. His voice is clean and clear, and his nerves have been killed. He looks like passion, like everything all wrapped up in tight jeans and an ugly cap. The crowd chants for an encore.

At the after party, Patrick disappears. It's fine. It's cool. Pete figures that he's mingling, sharing his genius with potential tour-mates. Pete follows the lead and catches up with old friends, plugging Fall Out Boy with each conversation. It's a few hours later when he realizes he hasn't seen Patrick, still, and he excuses himself to go on a hunt.

He finds Patrick outside, pressed to the club wall by a solid body. The man- because he's older than Patrick, maybe older than Pete- has Patrick's hands pressed to the brick, fingers wrapped loosly around his wrists. They're kissing, and the slide of Patrick's mouth against the man's is wet, his lips red and swollen. There's a dark spot on his neck, sucked into the tender skin above the collar of his shirt. Patrick is pressing his hips forward in a slow rock, eyes closed, groaning softly. Pete clenches his fists. There's a sick feeling deep in the pit of his gut, and he doesn't let himself believe that it's jealousy.

"He's sixteen," Pete says, the bite to his voice more bitter than he had intended. The man jerks back, startled. Patrick looks dazed- all unfocused eyes and pink cheeks and parted lips. He glares at Pete when he realizes he's there.

"Hey, next time you're in town," the man says against Patrick's cheek before walking away. Pete doesn't look at the flash of Patrick's stomach or the bulge in his jeans.

"What the fuck, Pete?" Patrick yanks his shirt down, his voice tight.

"Rick-"

"No, seriously. What the fuck?" Patrick shoves past him to the van. They don't talk on the ride back, and Patrick deliberately shoves himself between the doors and Joe. Pete feels like shit for days.

And, the thing is, Pete can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop seeing the curl of Patrick's fingers, the red of his lips. It eats at him, sits heavy in his chest. He feels guilty. Sick. Patrick doesn't call, and Pete doesn't visit.

Joe books more shows, Andy signs on for the long haul, replacing their shitty drummer. They practice and yell and party. Patrick doesn't mention the show, and Pete takes it as a reprieve. He's more careful with his affection, takes care not to do anything he shouldn't. Patrick frowns more often than not, and Pete thinks about ways to make him smile that he never goes through with.

They go on tour with some band from Pennsylvania. It's just around Illinois, but it's something. Pete brings his meds, but doesn't take them. Patrick sits up with him during the long nights, the bruises under his eyes as deep as the ones under Pete's. They talk about music and Pete shows Patrick his backlog of lyrics, and Patrick says maybe they can make something out of them. When he sings Pete's words, Pete feels like he's home for the first time.

Patrick disappears after two of the shows and comes back with hickeys. Pete bites his tongue but he can't control his temper. He gets into fistfights that leave him aching for days and ignores the questions Patrick asks as he bandages him up. In his dreams, Pete peels off the bruised skin on Patrick's throat and replaces it with his own.

They're halfway through the tour when it happens. Patrick's just finished shoving the last amp into the van, and someone grabs him from behind. He jumps, nearly falls to the gravel. Before Pete can run over to him, though, he laughs and throws his arms around the man's neck. Pete recognizes the hoodie before he recognizes the face, and he goes from worried to pissed, and he's nearly shaking with it when the man leans down to kiss the curve of Patrick's ear.

Pete's not really sure how he ends up on top of the man, fist cocked, hand wrapped around his throat. All he knows is that Patrick is yelling at him, pulling him back to the pavement. Suddenly, there's pain across his jaw and ringing in his ears, and the man is sitting up, wiping blood from his mouth.

"Gabe- I'm sorry." Patrick helps the man up, pulls him to his feet. "Hey, I'll catch tomorrow, okay?" Patrick presses a kiss to the corner of Gabe's mouth, fingers curled into the folds of his hoodie. When Gabe walks away, Patrick slams his foot into Pete's thigh. Pete rolls away, cursing.

"What the fuck?" Patrick kicks him again.

"You shouldn't fuck around with skeezy guys," Pete says through a cough. Patrick glowers.

"Yeah, Gabe's a fucking skeeze. Sure." He shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "Pete- I don't. I don't get you." Pete opens his mouth, but Patrick cuts him off. "No, dude. You just. You can't do that shit." He kicks a tire and the van shakes with it. Pete sits up slowly, curls in on the pain in his stomach.

"Patrick-"

"Fuck you, Wentz. You know what?" Patrick fists a hand in Pete's hair and yanks, and all Pete can feel is Patrick's mouth- soft and hard and full of venom- against his own. Patrick pulls back too soon, and, by time Pete realizes that he's made a giant mistake, is gone.

Joe tells him the next morning over coffee that Patrick's found a ride to the next few shows and isn't going to be in the van with them for a while. He raisies his eyebrows when he talks, his voice nasal and harsh. Pete slumps in on himself and makes the effort to keep his phone in his pocket. Calling isn't going to help.

They play on. Gabe is a nice guy, and Pete hates him because of it. He's at all their shows, buys Patrick Cokes and drives him from town to town, following after the van. He laughs loudly and dresses louder, all brovado and wide grins. Patrick smiles a lot when he's around, but he doesn't frown when he isn't. Pete's nasty enough to Gabe, in the same way that he's nasty to everyone, but Gabe just grins at him, throws an arm across Patrick's shoulders and whispers things into Patrick's skin.

Pete is jealous. He can admit it now that it doesn't matter. Now that he's thrown his chances away based on shaky morals. He fucks a seventeen-year-old girl in the back of the van, a sweet-faced sixteen-year-old in the bathroom. The world doesn't end, the police don't come, he doesn't return their calls. Patrick is careful around him, and it kills Pete a little inside.

The night Pete walks in on the break-up, he feels hollow enough that he doesn't punch Gabe out straight away. Gabe looks tired, and his voice is low and even. He hugs Patrick before he leaves, kisses the top of his head and tells him- sincerely, honestly- that he hopes they can still hang out, can still be okay. He sidesteps Pete, gives him a half-smile that's more sad than anything else.

Patrick doesn't fight it when Pete gathers him up. His eyes are damp, his lips tight, but he doesn't cry. He's stiff in Pete's arms, face pressed to Pete's shoulder. Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's temple, under his hair. The tears start.

Pete gives him a week. A week of careful touches, of pats on the back, and nights curled up on the floor of the van. Things feel like they used to, before. Patrick's smiles are back, aimed at Pete again, however timidly. And Pete, he's not going to miss his chance again.

"So, Patrick," he says, sprawled on the stage, waiting for soundcheck. Patrick folds down next to him, guitar still in his lap. "I think that I like you. Like, a lot." Patrick raises an eyebrow. "You want to maybe try me out for size?"

When Patrick kisses him, Pete knows he's home.

---

A/N: I said I'd write it, I didn't say it would be good. New style. Y/n?

coricomile @ 2009-10-24T13:24:00

2009-10-24T17:24:38Z

I have New Perspective stuck in my head. And I don't know what al the words are, so I just keep singing "can we fast forward to go down on me?" And my coworkers are like "..."

Going to go see The Academy Is on the 15th, and Breathe Carolina on the 12th. Maybe Hit the Lights on the 23rd. All at the same place, which is awesome. :) Yay.

coricomile @ 2009-10-22T16:46:00

2009-10-22T20:47:27Z

Title: Bells in Bombay
Pairing: Mikey Way/Frank Iero
Rating: R
Words 19, 115
Warnings: Character death, drug use, implied underage sex between an adult and 14 year old.
Summary: Frank is an overworked stockbroker just barely on the right side of thirty. He is in the middle of both an early mid-life crisis and a falling out with his wife when he takes a trip to India. In one of Mumbai’s red light districts he meets Mikey, a fourteen-year-old boy who works in a brothel.
A/N: Big thank you to jaded_hopeless for the beta read, and to plumerri who did fabulous art that can be found here

Frank rubbed his temples, trying to block out the yelling. Jamia threw a spiked heel at him. This was their third fight in as many days. He wanted to strangle himself. Their six-year anniversary was only a week away. Frank was beginning to think it was six years too many. He opened his eyes and managed to look up at her.

She was still as beautiful now as the day he had married her. Her eyes were still wide, her mouth still sweet. She had gained weight around her hips and under her arms, but so had he. The soft black strands of her hair had both thinned and grown longer. There were beginning signs of smile lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Frank felt more and more his own age every time he looked at her.

“Jami,” he said patiently, his voice strained. “I can’t be here all the time.” They’ve had this conversation before, but she seemed to bring it up more and more often. “I have to work.”

“You’re always at work!” Jamia threw her hands into the air. Her bracelets clicked together around her wrists. “Why won’t you just take time off?”

“I can’t take time off because you want me to buy a forty thousand dollar car, pay a six thousand dollar mortgage, and give you an allowance twice a week.” Frank slammed his fist down on the kitchen table. “I’m a fucking machine.”

“You’re heartless is what you are, Iero,” Jamia spat at him. Her fists clenched at her sides. “I’m your perfect goddamn housewife. I cook, I clean. I fucking…” Her voice broke. She wiped at her cheek with a thumb, turning away. “I just want to see you, Frank.”

“Jami, stop.” Frank ran his hands through his hair. It was starting to get long again. “I love you, alright? Can’t that be enough?”

“No, Frank,” Jamia said wearily. She picked up her flats from the floor and shoved her feet into them. “It’s not enough. Not anymore.” She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. It killed him sometimes to see how domestic she had become.

“Come on, Jamia,” Frank pleaded, pushing himself up from the table. He reached out for her hand. She shoved him away.

“I’m going to my mother’s,” she said to him. “Call me when you’re ready to be my husband again.” Frank followed her through the house, begging her half-heartedly to stay. Part of him was relieved when she slammed the door in his face. Sighing, Frank made his way slowly to their bedroom.

Their house was old, made in the late eighteen hundreds. Jamia had fallen in love with it immediately and Frank was a devoted slave to her every whim. He signed the papers, forked out the ridiculous down payment, and moved them in right after their honeymoon.

The house was long and narrow, three floors high and two rooms wide all the way across. They spent the first week painting the walls varying shades of red. Jamia was an artist. After Frank put down the base coat, she made elaborate murals that stretched from wall to wall. The last mural was finished on their one-year anniversary. It was Frank’s favorite. He supposed it had something to do with it being in their bedroom.

Frank had spent more money than he could remember on renovations. First, it had been the kitchen. A new stove. New tile. New refrigerator. Then came re-insulating the walls. At Jamia’s request he turned the basement into a studio. Then, the third floor was made into a gallery to show her work.

Frank’s trust fund had started to run low. It was with reluctance that he hung up his guitar and took the job Bob had been offering him for years. At seventeen Frank would have punched anyone in the face if they would have told him he would grow up to be a stockbroker. At twenty-nine Frank could only shrug and roll down his sleeves to hide his tattoos.

Rolling his sore shoulders, Frank sat on the edge of his bed. He stared up at Jamia’s last mural, feeling suddenly old. The mural was in Jamia’s jerky, sharp style, all angles and lines. She had drawn the base of it from a photograph of them taken at a Leathermouth show. Mural-Frank was pointed at the chin and elbows and hips, holding a guitar in one hand. Mural-Jamia was under his other arm, tucked against his side, their lines overlapping like a misfitted jigsaw puzzle. Their smiles were crooked and sharp, while .
swirls of yellow, un-uniform stars made a galaxy around them.

Frank missed her. He missed the snarky girl he had met in the moshpit with her wild hair and Misfits tee shirt. She had been so full of life. He had been so full of life. It was love at first smash. Frank chased her around like a rabid puppy until she finally agreed to go out with him. It was the happiest he had been in his entire life.

The years went by. He loved her more with each passing day. Loved her enough to tattoo her name over his heart. They had been together for three years when he finally manned up and proposed. It didn’t really go according to plan, but Jamia had nearly tackled him to the ground in excitement. It took another two years for the actual wedding. Jamia had been patient with him, following his band from city to city, peddling her art at the merch booths. When the chance happened that a minister buddy of the drummer came to a show, they said their vows on stage.

God, he loved her so much, then. Their honeymoon had been a two-week bender spent on the heels of the Warped Tour. It was perfect. She was perfect.

Frank yanked off his shoes and tossed them into the corner of the bedroom. He was tired, his feet hurt, and he had a pounding headache. All he wanted was a stiff drink and a painkiller. Jamia had been sleeping in her gallery for the past month. Frank was beginning to get used to sleeping alone in the queen bed, even if it made him feel cold and lonely in the morning.

Their problems started in their second year of marital bliss. After many trials and failures to become pregnant, Jamia went to her doctor. Gently, he told her that her fallopian tubes were scarred beyond repair due to a severe case of endometriosis that had developed unnoticed. She had cried for months. Frank had suggested adoption, but she had refused. The child wouldn’t be hers. Could never be hers.

The shot of tequila burned down Frank’s throat. He grimaced, shuddering against the taste. The house was quiet. He thought once again about buying a dog from a shelter. The thought was immediately put away. Jamia didn’t have the patience for animals and he didn’t have the time. The poor creature would starve to death. He washed his glass out and put it back in the cupboard.

Jamia’s attention eventually drifted back to her artwork. She would hide in her studio for days, coming out only for meals, and emerge looking exhausted but somewhat content. Frank wasn’t allowed to see any of the paintings until they went up in the gallery. He had felt an intense stab of anxiety as he walked through with the patrons. The show was titled In Mother We Trust and the paintings, still in her jagged brushstrokes, were all of deformed, scarred women and bleeding fetuses.

Frank checked her into a stabilization ward when the show closed. Jamia had fought him but, somehow, he convinced her mother and Jamia could never say no to her mother. The time that she spent in the clinic was the worst time Frank had ever been through. He drank at night to stop himself from stressing over her and stumbled through work like a zombie. Jamia came home tired and sad but okay. Their fights started soon after.

The sheets were cold against Frank’s bare back. Frank groaned into it. His back was sore and the soft give of his bed felt like heaven. He hated to admit it, but he was living for the feel of falling asleep. Mindlessly, he set his alarm clock, flipped the lamp off, and sprawled out. If there was one thing he could successfully do, it was sleep.

---

Frank held his oversized handheld computer in his left hand and his stylus in his right. He stared at the big NYSE written across the top of it as he made his way across the trading floor. His blue floor jacket- which had always been too big on him- was ripped at the elbow, right underneath his number and flag patch. Next to his ear his Bluetooth buzzed. He pushed it on and continued toward the MGM computer.

“Make it quick,” he said into the mic next to his mouth.

“Hey, man,” Bob said on the other end of the line. Bob worked in the front office, face to face with the clients. Frank was still- only- a lowly floor broker. “Do you want to catch a few drinks tonight?”

“Fuck yes,” Frank replied. He made a face at the elderly man that turned to look at him. “Catch you after the shift, yeah? I’m getting buzzed to load up.”

“Cool deal. I’ll pick you up after.” Bob hung up and the Bluetooth flipped off.

At the MGM station Frank elbowed past the agents and started scrawling on the big blue computer screen with his stylus. When it opened to him he took over the keyboard and punched in his numbers. Seventy in, thirty out. His handheld beeped an okay. There was already a big red message flashing at him to sell all of his HEB stock out.

“Fucking machines can never be on the same side of the room,” he grumbled to himself. There was a crowd at the HEB station and, using his small stature, Frank managed to weasel his way in. “Jesus.” HEB was falling at an alarming rate. Frank cursed under his breath and jammed his fingers into the screen to sign in. The yelling in his ears was getting frustrating. He typed in the sixty shares and smacked the sell button just as HEB hit negative twenty point six points.

It took nearly as long to fight his way out as it took to get in. Frank eventually began shoving his handheld into people’s sides. He fights dirty and is okay with that. Once he made it back to the floor he adjusted his ugly cotton jacket and straightened his tie. He felt rather suspiciously like a monkey.

The hours dragged as Frank ran back and forth around the room. His ever-present headache seemed to have grabbed him by the ears and brain fucked him. The big flashing time clock under the scrolling stocks glared down at him, its face remaining stubbornly still. Frank wanted to climb up the wall and break it.

Finally, oh finally, his handheld beeped four thirty and he let out a joyous whoop. He ran up the stairs to the offices. His arms caught as he tried to pull his jacket off and toss his handheld down at the same time. He shook out of it and grabbed his hoodie before racing down the stairs. Bob was already waiting at the front door.

Bob was a large, quiet man. He had blonde hair and big blue eyes and a scar that matched one Frank had under his own lower lip. Frank had adored him from the moment they met. Bob seemed to tolerate him fairly well, too. Frank took a running jump and landed on Bob’s back, catching his arms around the other man’s shoulders.
‘
“Iero, you’re too old for this shit,” Bob grumbled as he linked his arms under Frank’s knees.

“You love it, Bryar.” Frank sat his chin on top of the man’s head, grinning as Bob carried him down the road to their favorite after work bar. He was dropped rather unceremoniously when they reached the door.

Ulysses was a crowded, smoky place that served the best Irish Car Bomb Frank had ever tasted. He shoved and pushed until he got to a stool. It took Bob a few minutes to join him. The music was loud and the people were jammed in close. Three girls were yelling pleasantries at him. Frank waved them off, leaning up and over the bar. He ordered one of those Irish Car bombs that he loved so much and slapped a bill onto the wooden top of the bar.

“You okay, man?” Bob shouted. He leaned in, hair flopping into his face. Frank patted his cheek and smiled wide. He was doing his best to keep Jamia at the back of his mind. “I’m serious. You looked dead down there today.”

“I think I could do better if I was,” Frank shouted back. He meant it to sound lighthearted but was left to assume he failed by the look on Bob’s face. “Don’t worry. I’m cool.” The bartender smacked their drinks down in front of them before rushing off to wrangle a fight at the other side.

“You’ve been working too much.” Bob took his shot of whiskey without flinching- something Frank had always admired him for- and turned the concerned face back on. Frank wilted a bit. He took a deep drink of his Bomb. Another.

“That’s what Jamia keeps saying,” Frank finally said. He leaned in close enough to feel the stray hairs of Bob’s beard prick at his nose. “Backyard, yeah?”

The bar was a giant box with its center cut out. In that empty middle was a big, flowering yard filled with tables and laughing drunks and old patio furniture. It reminded Frank of his grandpa. The air always smelled like lavender and felt like it had just finished raining. Away from the smoke and the pounding music, Frank could pretend to be in the wilderness. With a never-ending supply of alcohol.

They pulled out chairs from the table in the far left corner. Frank tore off his tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He longed for a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Bob was still sending careful, worried looks his way. Frank knew he would have to spill. He just… wanted to hold on a little while longer, was all.

“Jamia and me got into it again,” Frank finally said around the rim of his glass. He avoided Bob’s eyes. “I think it might be over soon.” His heart sank. That was the first time he had said it out loud.

“Did she say that?” Bob leaned in, his shoulders hunched together. He had been fat once- well, for a long time- and had never really grown out of his old habits. Something Frank could understand to the fullest extent.

“No.” Frank pounded back the last of his drink and made the universal gesture for another. “It’s just a feeling.”

“I’m sorry, man. I know how you feel about her.” Bob pat his shoulder. Frank tried not to stiffen under the touch. He loved Bob with a fierce, heterosexual life partner sort of vengeance, but couldn’t take him on that. He’d spent the past decade with Jamia. Devoted his life to keeping her happy and smiling and safe. Bob was lucky to keep a girl for two months.

“I don’t know what to do,” Frank said glumly. “I can’t lose her. She’s my wife. You’re only supposed to have one, y’know?” Bob nodded.

“You need to get away,” he said. Frank snorted into his new cup. “I’m serious. Take a vacation.”

“I can’t afford it,” Frank replied.

“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” Bob raised his eyebrows. He was the head of Frank’s section. “You’ve got a month and a half of vacation time.”

“I was saving it to take Jami on a vacation,” Frank mumbled. He slouched back into his chair and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. Five years worth of vacation time, wasted.

“Take some of it now, man.” Bob waved his shot in Frank’s direction. “You need it. Hell, I’ll go with you to make sure you have fun.” It was times like these when Frank knew he wanted to leap onto Bob’s back every day for the rest of their able-bodied lives.

“Where would we go?” Frank didn’t let their epic bromance ruin his petulance. He loved nothing more than a good argument.

“Dude.” Bob’s eyes grew wide. It was creepy in a way. “Let’s go to India.”

“The hell?” Frank looked at his drink, then up at Bob. Did it again. “I’m not drunk yet. Did you just fucking say India?”

“Yeah.” Bob put on an affronted look. “Why not. We’ve been to Paris, Disney World, fucking Iceland. Why shouldn’t we?” Frank had to think about it. When he couldn’t find a reasonable excuse, he shrugged.

“Alright, Bryar. You’re on.”

They shook hands and parted ways. Frank only realized he was alone in the house when he fell into bed. It was too late to be bothered then, and he fell into sleep.

---

Billie Joe Armstrong was serenading him. Frank was both confused and strangely flattered by the occurrence. Just as he began to sing along with him to the third repeat of Favorite Son, he woke. His phone vibrated along the top of his dresser until it hung precariously balanced on the edge. The display read ten-oh-seven. Frank plotted an instant death for whoever had woken him early on a Saturday morning.

“Rise and shine, Iero,” Bob said through the phone. Frank wanted to reach through and strangle him. “Since I know you’d pussy out if I didn’t do it, I got us tickets to Bombay. Which is technically Mumbai now, but I can’t be too concerned with technicalities.”

“You need to drown in your espresso,” Frank grumbled into the receiver. He had never been a morning person. Jamia had been, though, and Frank found himself missing her early morning laugh. Found himself missing her presence in the house altogether.

“Earth to Iero. You still there, man?” Bob’s voice was muffled and Frank had to assume he was eating. His own stomach grumbled at the thought.

“Still here,” he answered. He twisted his way out of the covers and made it feet first to the floor, kicking the sheet away from his legs in a hopping sort of manner that he had never grown out of. He made it a point not look at the mural as he passed it. “I still have paperwork and shit-“

“Done,” Bob cut in. “I’ve done everything, you ungrateful shit. Just pack up and meet me at the airport at three.”

“Today?” Frank paused in his venture for food and coffee.

“No. Fucking three years from now.” Bob clucked his tongue and Frank was sorely tempted to call him an old woman. “Just get there, yeah?” And then, dial tone.

Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, Frank sighed. He sat on the couch in the front room, his thighs and back sticking to the leather, and wonder what, exactly, one brought with them to fucking India. It was well into the noon hour when he finally dragged himself to the bedroom again.

He hadn’t gone on vacation in years. Either he had been to busy, or Jamia had had a show, or something. After Jamia’s recovery, he stopped wanting to go at all. It was hard to be with her for long periods of time without feeling guilty for no reason. That thought made his heart ache in his chest.

The suitcase was at the bottom of the closet. Frank pulled it out and tossed it onto the bed. He fingered his old band shirts tenderly, ran his fingers over jeans with the knees ripped out. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled three pairs from their hangers and folded them into the suitcase. He shoved socks and underwear in after them and, feeling a little silly, dug for his favorite tee shirts. He was older. Not old.

Frank sang Leathermouth songs in the shower, skipped the shave, and yanked on his oldest, most torn and disgusting pair of jeans. He danced a little as he brushed his teeth. Hopped undignifiedly into his socks. Somehow, he found the shirt he’d scribbled on years ago deep inside the closet. It was a little tighter around the chest than it had once been, but he was okay with that. Feeling like he had nothing to loose, he dug into Jamia’s makeup bag and smeared eyeliner and eyeshadow across his eyes.

When he looked in the mirror, he instantly felt stupid and childish. He broke eye contact with himself and trudged back to his room to gather the rest of his necessities.

The clock on his phone read five-oh-two when he jogged into the airport. Bob, in a pair of khaki slacks and a button down shirt, raised his eyebrows. Frank gave him the finger and went to the front to check his bags in. This, he decided, was the worst part of flying. Or maybe it was the worst part of life in general. He couldn’t quite make up his mind. When his turn came, he hefted his suitcase onto the counter and dropped his leather messenger bag next to it. The woman at the front gave him a terse smile and handed him a form.

It had been a while since he had flown anywhere, but he was pretty sure he had never had to sign anything before. Unwilling to risk Bob’s fiery, cuddly wrath, Frank filled in his name, address, telephone number, and social security number. He grumbled and fumbled with his wallet when the woman asked for a photo ID. After a copy of his license was made he was- finally- handed his tags.

“Just get back from a gig?” Bob asked when Frank flopped down next to him. Frank shrugged and looked away. He was beginning to regret his foray into youthful vigor more and more. “It’s cool.” Bob grinned at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what this is about.”

“How long is the flight?” Frank asked, at some sort of ease again.

“Sixteen hours,” Bob replied. “And it’ll be roughly this time tomorrow when we get there.” He pulled a book from one of his bags and cracked it open. “Might want to set your watch before we get there.” Frank groaned.

They waited the customary two hours before being called to board. Frank settled himself into a security line. When he got to the station he thumped his bags down and grabbed a tray. His keys, wallet, and belt went in with a clatter. The conveyer belt smelled like burnt rubber as it rolled on.

“Remove your shoes,” the security guard at the station said. He was just barely taller than Frank- which wasn’t saying much- and maybe a handful of years older. A taser hung off his left hip, a baton off the other. He looked Frank over and repeated himself. Frank, petulant and confused, kicked his tennis shoes off at the guard’s legs before going under the metal detector. “Come with me.” The guard grabbed Frank’s arm and pulled him off to the side.

“What the fuck?” Frank yanked his arm away and glared up at him. “The fucking machine didn’t go off you fucking rent-a-monkey.”

“Random inspection,” the guard said before roughly turning Frank around and smacking him in the back with a handheld metal detector. Still in his socks, Frank was pressed against the wall and frisked. He bit his tongue and fought the urge to turn and swing a punch. “Good to go. Collect your things.”

“I can’t take you anywhere, man,” Bob said as Frank finished tying his shoes.

“What the fuck was that?” Frank asked, waving his arms in the direction of the guard. “The shoes? The dickhead? The fucking social security papers?” Bob shrugged.

“Things have changed since… y’know.” He looked up toward the ceiling. “The crashes.” Bob had been close with people in the towers. He- and Frank- had watched the screens in NYSE with horror stricken faces as reel after reel of fire and exploding jet engines and falling bodies played again and again. Bob had called off every September eleventh since. Frank was sick of hearing about it. He just wanted to move on. He and Bob never discussed it.

They settled into their horribly uncomfortable seats and Frank was thrilled to see that there were no children in their immediate vicinity. He buckled his seatbelt around his waist tightly as the captain went through his pre-flight spiel. Nerves began to eat at his insides the longer they sat. He gripped the armrests as the plane began to roll forward.

It wasn’t that Frank was so much afraid of heights as it was he was afraid of falling. This applied to skyscrapers, rollercoasters, elevators, and most definitely airplanes. Humans did not belong in the air. Neither did two ton pieces of metal and plastic. Frank screwed his eyes shut as the plane began to climb, only opening them once he felt the vertigo fade and the plane even out.

“Have I told you recently how much I love you?” Frank asked his companion. “Really. We could be like Jay and Silent Bob. All I have to do is put the name change papers through. We can quit our broker jobs and sell pot of Ulysses for the rest of our natural lives.”

“Iero,” Bob said as he put the headphones attached to his armrest in. “I’m not afraid of stuffing you though the window.” He tapped the plexiglass at his side with a knuckle. Frank settled. He followed Bob’s example and plugged himself into the first in-flight film.

Somewhere between Jurassic Park and Billy Madison, he fell asleep against Bob’s shoulder. He dreamt of Warped Tour, of Jamia jumping from Avenged Sevenfold’s stage into the crowd. She hung in the air for what seemed like forever, smiling the smile he had fallen in love with. When he opened his arms to catch her, she exploded into a flurry of bells. A million small, round, singing bells that he couldn’t catch to save his life.

Frank jerked awake when the plane bounced along the landing track. Bob’s arm went across his chest to act as a make-shift seatbelt. The pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker again to thank them for their travels, and they filed out into the main floor of Chhatrapcti Shivaji International Airport.

Frank stretched his arms over his head, yawning. His back popped as he let his arms drop. He looked around the airport, taking in the new sights and sounds. People in the thousands milled about, mixes of brightly dressed women and men in striped button down shirts and crying, shouting children. Soft, busy music overflowing with bells and a woman’s lilting voice was playing in the background. Sharp, spicy smells filled the place, centered around a stand set up near the door. Frank’s stomach grumbled at it.

Ignoring his rioting belly, Frank went to pick up his luggage. He was ecstatic to find that there were no surprise security measures. With his bag over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand, he craned his neck to find Bob. This was not a task that took much effort. Bob’s blond hair stuck out like a skunk in the flowers.

Bob was hugging a woman dressed in jeans and a long, ornate salwar kameeze. She stood to the middle of Bob’s chest. Her skin was a soft, earthen brown, cheeks a pale fawn. She wore no makeup but her eyes still stood out. A decorative bindi sat between her dark eyebrows. Her hair- long and shiny black- fell past her shoulders in soft waves.

“Hey. I want to introduce you to someone,” Bob said as Frank walked up to them. “Kochi, this is my associate Frank Iero. Frank, this is Kochi Patel. She works for Bombay Stock Exchange.” Frank smiled and held his hand out. Bob elbowed him in the side. Kochi smiled at him. She pressed her palms together as if in prayer and held them under her chin.

“Namaste,” she said as he nodded her head. “You did not research.” Her laugh was bright and Frank could see Bob grinning out of the corner of his eye. “You should not reach for a woman here.” Frank shrugged and offered the palms of his hands as apology.

“Bob,” he said, drawing it out. “Did you drag me to India so you could go on a date?” Bob’s cheeks flushed. Kochi laughed.

“No, dude. I just, y’know.” Bob scratched at the back of his head nervously. “Thought I’d visit.”

“Bad sport, man,” Frank said through a grin. “You owe me lunch.” The three of them made their way to the conversion station. Kochi watched their bags as Frank and Bob exchanged their US dollars for Indian rupees. Frank thumbed the wad of paper, lingering on the ten thousand note. He tucked them into his wallet and stuffed it into his pocket. Bob graciously bought them lunch at the stand.

“Holy shit,” Frank said after swallowing his first bite of his vada pav. “This is a burger made of potatoes. Do you know how awesome that is?” Kochi laughed around her panipuri and Bob shook his head. Frank was happy to know that he wouldn’t have a hard time finding vegan foods.

Kochi escorted them to their hotel. Frank tried not to let his jaw drop. It was called the Taj Presidential Hotel and it looked as majestic as the palace it was named after. It was a wide, long, white building that sat proudly on the riverfront. Hundreds of windows were cut straight out of the stone walls, no glass in them to block out the elements. Two large domes were at either side of the building, their ornate carvings visible from the street. People were strolling through the gardens in pairs, their sandaled feet stepping lightly on a path made of limestone.

Inside they were greeted with every sort of warm, comforting orange known to man. Elaborate, decorative rugs and paintings filled the wide, open halls. Women in bright, beautiful saris gathered together on the benches along the side walls, talking amongst themselves. One group was set up at a table, two elderly women drawing neat, curling lines on the deep chocolate colored skin of a young girl in henna.

Kochi hugged Bob goodbye when they reached their room. Frank nodded his head to her as she left, closing the door behind her. He crossed his arms and turned his eyes to his companion.

“So,” he said. “Should I be jealous?”

“You’re an asshole, Iero.” Bob set his bags on the bed, his eyes averted. Frank laughed. He was happy for him. Bob was a good man. He deserved a good woman. If he had to go across the globe to find her, well, Frank couldn’t say he blamed him.

“I’ll survive my heartbreak if you promise that I’ll get to be best man,” he said over his shoulder as he headed to the bathroom. Jet lag hadn’t caught up to him yet and he wanted to keep it that way. The clock on his phone read eight pm. He figured a trip to a bar was in order.

Bob had changed clothes while Frank had been taking care of business. Frank raised his eyebrows. He laughed at the tinge of pink that crept over Bob’s cheeks, clashing horribly with his hair and beard. It felt nice to laugh. He had been doing it a lot less recently.

“Kochi invited me to dinner,” Bob mumbled, fiddling with his shirt cuffs. He looked up suddenly. “Is that cool? I didn’t-“

“I’m not ten, dude,” Frank said. “I’ll try my best not to get ass raped while my bodyguard’s away.”

“Funny, Iero. Really.” Bob straightened his shirt again. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure.” Frank rolled his eyes. “Go. Get some hot Indian nookie.” Bob gave him the finger on his way out. When the door closed, Frank slumped a bit.

The chatter of people outside wafted in through the window. The heat followed it, humid and smelling of sand and sweat and spicy foods. It was the beginning of the humid season, before the rains, and everyone seemed to be tense in anticipation of it. Outside, the sun was beginning to sink behind the buildings, turning the sky shades of amber and gold and rose.

Jamia would have thought it was beautiful.

Frank, sitting on the edge of his bed, ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to do something. Needed to get away and take his mind off of everything. He sighed, low and deep, and shoved himself off the bed and out the door before he could change his mind.

The streets were filled with honking rickshaws and taxis darting between groups of walking people. The further into the streets Frank delved, the more interesting the scenery turned. The apartments and businesses faded into closed market stalls with folded awnings and locked away goods. Neon lights flashed in Hindi and English above clubs and theaters. Groups of teenaged boys walked in large groups, dressed in the same sort of clothes American boys partied in. A smaller group of girls walked along the other side of the street in low slung jeans and midriff bearing tops, brightly colored scarves over their heads.

Frank continued to walk, taking in the sights. He felt a little out of place, still in his old clothes, as he looked from one mass of people to another. The differences were on wither extreme- old and new- and the end result was stunning. He was contemplating this when he smacked hard into something warm and solid.

“Jesus. Sorry.” Frank reeled back. He looked up at the broad shouldered man he’d bumped into. The man was neither Indian nor American, but had the tan skin of Spanish heritage. His features were thick, his red hair curly and wide about his face. His sandals scuffed against the gravel as he caught his balance. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the man said. “American?”

“Yeah.” Frank felt his pride twinge a bit. Was it that obvious? “Hey, I’m gonna sound realty obnoxious. But. Do you know where I can go to, I don’t know, have some fun?” The man cocked his head to the side, looking him over. Frank shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous under the other man’s scrutiny.

“I’m Ray.” He stuck his hand out.

“Frank.” Frank shook it, smiling a little. “So. What do you do for a good time around here?”

“I think I know something you might like,” Ray said in his unrecognizable accent. He made a come gesture and began winding his way through the streets in an easy, practiced manner. Frank had to rush to keep up with him.

The lights around the streets were red, glaring against the brick walls and wrought iron balconies. Men swarmed the roads like flies on a dead animal. Big, shadowed alley ways spat out people in pairs and singles, tinged rose with the cast off light. A long line of women of varying ages stood against the walls of buildings, dressed in a mix of traditional and Western clothing. Frank’s eyes widened.

“Oh. Dude.” He reached for Ray’s arm, looking nervously around himself. “I’m married, man. This really isn’t what I had in mind.”

“I see. You want the special, then.” He led Frank into one of the buildings. Dirty plates piled up in one corner on the floor by the stairs, equally dirty sandals buried under them. A girl, no older than seven, squatted at a pot, froglike, and scrubbed at it with handfuls of sand. She didn’t look up as they walked past.

There were doors and doors and doors. Some were cracked open, showing silk and satin beddings crumpled on the floor. Two women were yelling at each other in their harsh, high voices, gesturing wildly back and forth. A toddler, naked from the waist down, cried between them. A leash was tied around one of his small, cubby brown ankles, tied to a pole at the other end. Another young girl ran between them with a tray of teas held above her head, ducking into one of the rooms. Ray pushed one of the doors open and ushered Frank inside.

There was a young boy dancing in the middle of the room. His hair was a soft, sandy blonde that fell around his soft face, his skin as pale as Frank’s. There were bells, tiny and round and silver, around his ankles. They jingled softly as he moved his long legs in time to the soft music playing from the corner. He was beautiful in the way that only adolescents are, gentle around the face, angular around his shoulders. His eyes flashed an emerald green as he turned, fingers folding into angled peaks. His hips, wrapped in intricately folded silk, swayed in soft circles, small creases appearing in the bare skin of his torso as he leaned to one side, then the other.

Another boy, larger and older, sat at his feet. He was the same shade of pale- American, Frank realized- with a ghost of the same features in his face. They were brothers. The older boy, his dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck, narrowed his eyes in Frank’s direction. Ray smacked the back of his head. Clenching his jaw, the boy turned to watch his brother again.

“They come as a pair,” Ray said. “Three thousand rupees a turn. The blonde is a virgin. He will only service you with his mouth. Do with the other as you like.” Frank could only stare forward, mouth agape. He swallowed thickly and put his hands up.

“Ray, man,” he said, his throat dry. “I think you got me wrong. I. This.” He tore his eyes away from the boy’s swaying hips, looking up. “No, dude. Just. No.” Ray laughed.

“You’ll be back,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Americans go crazy for them.” He dug one of his large hands into a pocket and produced a crisp, clean edged business card. It fit into Frank’s palm neatly. “Call me when you change your mind.”

It took Frank four hours to find his way back to the hotel. Ray’s card stayed clutched in his fist.

---

“You went to a red light district?” Bob asked loudly. Frank shushed him and looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. He clutched his tea to his chest, tapping his fingers against the cup. His breakfast sat untouched in front of him.

“It was an accident,” he mumbled. “I just went exploring and… y’know.” Bob laughed. He still had lipstick just under his collar from the night before. Frank wanted to call him on it, but figured it could wait. There were more important things at hand. “It was weird. This guy. He showed me to a ‘special’ room.” Frank even used air quotes. The boys deserved them. “I freaked and he gave me his card. Look.” He pulled the card from his wallet and slid it across the table.

“Ray Toro,” Bob read. “Nightlife tour guide.” He snorted and flicked the card back. Frank scrambled to catch it against his chest. It was an important document in one way or another. Bob’s eyes shifted one way, then the other, and he leaned in across the table. “Look. I don’t… condone cheating, okay?” He held a hand up to keep Frank’s protest in check. “But. Maybe you should find yourself a friend, y’know?” His face softened, the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes wearing thinner. “Maybe it’ll help.”

“I don’t know. I mean…” Frank shrugged. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Bob that he’d already thought too much about it.

“Look.” Bob took a bite of his bread, his head cocked in thought. “We’ll go out today. Explore and shit. If you still feel… cluttered? Go back.”

“You just want me out of the room so you can get down and dirty with Kochi,” Frank said as he bit into his muffin. Bob shrugged. Frank couldn’t get the picture of the boy’s swaying hips out of his head.

---

Part Two

coricomile @ 2009-10-22T16:44:00

2009-10-22T20:45:07Z

Frank touched one of the silk scarves hanging from the vendor’s stand. It was soft and cool under his hand, its end curling at the bottom from the humidity. Bold swirls of sparkling silvers twisted and turned in the yellow cloth, shining in the sun. Frank pulled it down, the rasp of it against its brethren audible even over the endless drove of voices. He paid the two hundred rupees to the babbling vendor and wrapped the scarf around his own neck. It reminded him of Jamia’ swirling stars. He hoped to give it to her when he returned home.

Sand kicked up under his dragging feet as he shuffled to the pottery stand that Bob was looking over. Big, glazed vases and small, handcrafted animals were laid out across the wooden stands, prices scratched onto papers that sat under them. A large, grey elephant the size of Frank’s palm reared its trunk at a tiny, pudgy Buddha child. Frank tenderly touched his fingertips to the Buddha’s forehead, feeling the minute bumps and grooves of the clay. He picked it up and weighed it in his palm. It was solid, the tiny belly gleaming with gloss. When the vendor turned to take bills from a customer, Frank slipped the Buddha into his pocket. It felt appropriate.

The market was bustling with people jostling from one stand to another, their constant chatter like background music. It reminded Frank of NYSE in a way. He felt at home winding his way through the crowd, peeking in at goods at his leisure.

Beggars accosted him and Bob as they made their way to the Ferozeshah Mehte Gardens. Some of them were old and painfully thin, their eyes covered in a jaundiced yellow glaze, skin wrinkled and thin. Others were children, yelling full out, racing after them with their hands outstretched. Some of the children carried babies. Others sang. A few had hideous scars over their eyes, leaving their eyeballs a milky, unnatural white. Frank passed a few five rupee bills into some of the children’s hands, his mind flickering back to the brothel.

“Jesus,” Frank whispered as he and Bob made it to the top of Malabar Hill. A vast, green park lay before them, a winding brick path snaking around fenced off gardens. Big, ancient trees stretched up toward the cloudless sky, their branches shading rainbows of flowers. A large, covered area full of benches in a circle sat in the center of the gardens, filled with people breaking from their exploration.

Frank wished he had brought a camera. He wanted to see a painting of it in Jamia’s brushstrokes. His heart ached a little.

They walked along the paths in silence, admiring the flora. A large fountain was around one bend. It sprayed massive jets of water into the air, lights buried beneath turning them blue and pink and green. The mud brick wall around it was carved with detailed engravings of elephants, tigers, and snakes. Frank sat at one of the benches surrounding it as Bob wandered off to inspect the fountain closer. Slowly, hesitantly, Frank pulled his phone and dialed Jamia’s number. It was straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Jami,” Frank said into the receiver. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. I. Bob dragged me to India. Can you believe that? I’ve. I picked up some things you’ll like. Maybe we could come here together later?” He sighed a little. “I’m sorry, Jami. I miss you.” He paused, eyes sliding closed. “I love you.” He closed his phone and tucked it into his pocket. Ray’s card scratched against his palm.

---

Frank scratched nervously at his arm as Ray led him once more through the halls of the brothel. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, his nerves all gathering in his stomach in a great, writhing knot. He took a deep breath when they stopped in front of the boys’ door. Soft music, reedy and lively, leaked around the frame.

“Three thousand rupees,” Ray said, his hand held out. Frank fumbled with his wallet, unable to meet Ray’s eyes as he put the bills into his upturned palm. He stood there for a moment longer, unsure of the usual protocol, and waited for further instruction. Ray patted him on the shoulder and cracked open the door. “Have a good time.” He began to walk away, but Frank grabbed his arm.

“What’re their names?” Frank asked, his voice urgent. He couldn’t go on with the whole thing without knowing.

“Mikey’s the blonde. The other one’s Gerard.” Ray looked him over again, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Anything else?” Frank shook his head and stepped forward into the room, closing the door behind himself before he could talk himself into backing out.

The boys were sleeping. The bed, a mattress covered in satin and throw pillows, lay on the floor, covers thrown off because of the heat. Gerard’s hair was loose, dark brown and long around his rounded shoulders. He wore loose, black pants that were cinched tight around his waist and ankles. His bare back was littered with pink, raised scars. He held Mikey bundled tight in his arms, face pressed against the young boy’s hair.

Mikey’s eyelashes were long against his olive cheek, pink lips parted. He, too, was bare to the waist, nothing but smooth, unmarked spans of skin glowing in the sunlight from the window. The silks wrapped around his thin, sharp hips had come undone, laying like tangled sheets over his legs and lower stomach. One long calf was thrown over Gerard’s, the anklet of bells stark against the older boy’s clothing.

Slowly, Frank walked forward. Mikey blinked up at him, yawning into Gerard’s shoulder. He shook his brother awake, his bells ringing as he sat up. His silks slipped down to his lap, one lean thigh exposing itself. Frank gnawed on his lower lip, averting his eyes. Gerard rolled into a sitting position, head down. Mikey stood first, tying his silks loosely around his waist.

“Sit,” he said. His voice was soft. Boyish. He took Frank’s hand, his skin cool in the evening heat. Frank’s stomach clenched as he was pulled forward to the mattress. He sank down next to Gerard, side flush against the boy’s. “Would you like me to dance?” Frank, unable to find his voice, nodded.

Mikey took up the dance in the middle, as if he had never stopped. His arms lifted above his head, body stretching into a tight, long line. He ran the knuckles of one hand along the smooth curve of his own forearm, his silks swaying around his calves as he rolled his hips in small, sweet circles. His bells tinkled as he lifted one foot, then the other, in soft, crisscrossing steps. He turned, baring his back. The silks hugged his backside, mapping the gentlecurves. Thin, long fingers ghosted up from the waist of the silks to the base of just-visible ribcage.

Frank jumped when a hand landed on his thigh. Gerard knelt next to him, his face turned away from his brother’s dancing. He ran his palm down Frank’s thigh, fingers dipping into the knee hole in the man’s jeans. He undid the laces of Frank’s tennis shoes, pulling them off one at a time. Frank grabbed the collar of his own shirt and yanked it up and off. His eyes were locked on the arch between Mikey’s ribs and hips. It took a small miracle to push his guilt away. The fingers nimbly pulling his zipper apart helped.

“Mikey,” Frank called softly. The boy turned, no sign of surprise at Frank knowing his name. Frank held out a hand, reaching. Mikey slid into is, stepping over his brother to climb into Frank’s lap. He ran his hand across the bared planes of tattooed chest and stomach, tucking his fingers into the open fly of the man’s jeans.

Mikey backed away, sliding to the ground. He and Gerard pulled Frank’s jeans and underwear down and off, letting the drop to the floor. ---

When it was over, Gerard was up instantly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He tucked himself into a corner, arms folded across his stomach. Frank lifted Mikey from the bed to sit across his lap, wiping sweat from the boy’s forehead. His stomach flipped, chest tightened.

“Thank you,” Mikey breathed against Frank’s cheek. His bells rang as he wiggled, bare thighs sticking to Frank’s. He pulled one of the silks- green- over his lap and smiled. Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He felt suddenly old. Tired. Sad. He let the boy slide to the mattress and dressed himself. There was vomit rising in his throat and if he stayed any longer he was sure it was going to end up all over the packed dirt floor.

Ray was outside the door, his curls pulled into a tie at the nape of his neck. He held two wrapped panipuris in one hand, leaning back against the wall. He opened his eyes when the door clicked shut.

“Good?” He asked, waving the wrappers in the direction of the room. Feeling green, Frank could only nod. Ray clapped him on the back. “I knew you’d like them. Americans always want their own.”

“I.” Frank swallowed, trying to block out the screaming in his head. “I need to leave now.”

“Feel free to come back,” Ray said to him as he walked away. Frank clenched his teeth and shoved his hands into his pockets. He sped up until he was almost running. No matter how fast he went, he couldn’t seem to get away from himself.

Bob caught him with one arm as he darted into their room. Frank almost doubled over, his breath coming fast. Images of Mikey, small and naked, kept swimming to the forefront of his mind and he was almost screaming out loud to make them go away. Bob grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, his book falling to the floor with a bang. Frank met his eyes and the shame washed over him.

“Frank. Frank.” Bob shook him again. “Are you alright? Come on, Iero. Talk.” Worry lines broke across Bob’s forehead and Frank couldn’t look straight at him.

“I went back,” he said, his voice cracking. “I. I went and. I.” He slid to the floor, cradling his head in his hands. He drew his knees to his side, leaning forward over them. There was a tornado in his stomach. Bob, his hero forever and always, pulled the ice bucket from the dresser and held it under his chin just as Frank let out his first wave of sick.

“It’s okay,” Bob murmured, rubbing the other man’s back with his free hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s alright.” When Frank stopped vomiting, Bob hefted him up like a child and laid him on his bed. Frank fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

---

”Hey, Jami. It’s me. I’m… worried about you. You haven’t called and I can’t get a hold of you. Please, sweetheart, call me. I. I don’t care if you hate me for going on vacation with Bob or if you’re mad at me because I’m getting old and boring. I just… want to know you’re okay.”

---

“Hey, Jami. I’m sorry for being a shitty husband. I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. Please. Let me fix it. Give me a chance to show you that I’m still the man you married. I. I don’t want to lose you. You’re my world, Jamia. I’ve got you all over me, jinx removed and everything. Call me. I love you.”

---

“Jami. I. I’m not gonna call anymore. I. I can’t. I love you. I’m. Please, Jami. Let me know you still love me, too.”

---

Mikey, dressed in a pair of Frank’s old jeans, sat in the window, swinging his legs to make his anklets jingle. A pair of thick-framed glasses were folded next to him on the sill. The wind blew his hair from his face and he smiled into it, eyes closed. His fingers were tangled in the yellow silk scarf around his neck. He hummed to himself, the familiar chorus of a Leathermouth song slowed down and made soft.

Frank wrapped his arms around the boy’s chest, pressing his lips to the gentle swell of his cheek. He hooked his chin over Mikey’s shoulder and stared out over the city, the beat of Mikey’s heart steady against his own.

Frank jerked awake. Bob stood over him, his face set in a determined frown. Kochi lingered in the doorway, her eyes worried. Bob grabbed Frank by the upper arm and hauled him out of the bed and into the bathroom. He lifted him up and dropped him into the shower, turning the water on. Frank spluttered and flailed under the cold stream.

“What the fuck?” He scrambled out of the tub, flopping ungracefully onto the floor. His boxers stuck to his thighs, and his hair fell wetly into his face. He climbed to his feet and cocked back his fist. Bob caught it and squeezed a warning.

“Don’t try it,” he growled. “You’ve been in bed for three days. I didn’t pay for that shit. Get the fuck up and get over it.” Bob let his hand go. “The three of us are going out for lunch and you’re gonna man up and stop being a guilty bitch.” Frank, shocked by the anger in his calm, cool friend’s voice, slowly backed into the main room.

Kochi left the room as Frank shaved and dressed. Frank followed them to the rickshaw waiting in front of the hotel and took the seat at the far end. When they reached the restaurant, he took his seat, ordered a salad and a Coke, and stared wide eyed at Bob’s hands. Koch squirmed in her seat, turning her head to whisper in Bob’s ear. He flushed and ducked his head.

“Frank, man,” he started. “I didn’t mean to be so tough.” He ran a hand through his hair and offered a timid smile. “I just worry about you, dude. You’re making yourself sick.”

“I love you, too,” Frank said, only half joking. “I know I’m being a bitch, yeah? I just… Jamia won’t call and I keep having dreams about the kid from the brothel…” He pointedly ignored the looks Bob and Kochi gave him. “I miss my wife and think I have an unhealthy obsession with a fucking hooker.”

“Go to her,” Kochi said softly. “Go to your brothel girl.” Frank couldn’t bring himself to correct her, lost in the concern in her face. “What is meant to happen will happen.” She smiled and patted his hand from across the table.

After lunch, Frank followed her advice. He pulled out his phone in the rickshaw, dialing Ray’s number. His heart beat hard in his chest, stalling between beats until he heart Ray’s voice on the other side of the line.

“Toro. Can I help you?”

“Um. Yes?” Frank took a deep breath. “I want Mikey. All night. I don’t care how much it costs.” There was a pause on the line and Frank’s throat tightened.

“I’ll have the boys ready in an hour,” Ray finally said.

“I just want Mikey.” Frank paid the driver when he stopped at the market, beginning to pick his way through.

“Are you sure?” Ray asked, voice raised in suspicion.

“Yeah. I won’t.” Frank paused. “I know the rules about him.”

“Eight thousand rupees. Up front.” Ray’s voice faded, and Frank could hear yelling in the background. “One hour.” There was a click, and then the line went dead.

Frank forced himself to slow down. He took deep breaths in time with his steps, looking forward. There was a weight in his pocket, next to his wallet. He palmed it through the denim of his jeans, feeling the curves of the tiny statue he had been carrying with him for luck. The anticipation was killing him.

He was twenty minutes early. The girls along the buildings looked him over, their faces sad. Two of them had hastily covered black eyes. Frank skirted past them and slipped into the door of Mikey’s brothel, his head down. The people inside ignored him as he made his way to the back hall.

“Fuck you, Toro,” Gerard spat as he was dragged from his room. Mikey stood in the doorway, confused. Ray pulled Gerard’s arm sharply. The boy almost toppled over. “I’m not leaving him.”

“You’ll do what I tell you or you don’t eat.” Ray slapped him, open handed. “Now get out and don’t come back until tomorrow.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Gerard yanked his arm back. Ray put a hand to the back of the boy’s head and turned him.

“Go sleep with Pervati.” He smacked the nape of Gerard’s neck when he hesitated. As he walked away, Gerard looked over his shoulder, sending a glare Frank’s way.

“You’re early,” Ray remarked. “Mikey hasn’t eaten yet.”

“He can eat with me,” Frank mumbled. “It’s no big deal.” His nerves jumbled about now that he could see Mikey so close to him. He traded his rupees for the naan Ray held. “How long?”

“Eight AM.” Ray pocketed the money. “Remember the rules.”

“I will.” Frank met Mikey’s eyes and his heart stuttered. Mikey smiled and backed into his room. Frank followed him in, closing the door. They were alone. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Mikey repeated, laughing. “Do you want to feed me?” Frank nodded. He could think of nothing more enticing than doing just that. He sat on the mattress and Mikey knelt between his thighs, sitting back on his heels. His bare chest glowed in the sunlight. Frank broke off a piece of the naan and held it to Mikey’s mouth. He boy took it from him, tongue touching the pads of Frank’s fingertips.

Frank fed him slowly, eyes locked on Mikey’s jaw and throat. Every time Mikey swallowed, the small bulge of his Adams apple bounced. He was smiling a bit each time he leaned in, his lips sliding over Frank’s fingers. Frank shifted, trying to ignore the forming hard-on in his jeans. He placed the last piece of naan carefully on Mikey’s tongue. He touched the lines of Mikey’s lips as he chewed, concentrating on the movement of his jaw.

“Want me to touch you now?” Mikey asked after he swallowed. Frank’s body screamed a clear yes, but he forced himself to shake his head no. Mikey cocked his head to the side, confusion written across his face.

“I, uh,” Frank started. “I just want to. Uh.” It hurt to be that pathetic, he realized. He was stuttering in front of a kid. “I wanted to see you dance again.” Mikey laughed a little, eyebrows drawing together.

“You bought a whole night with me to watch me dance?” He asked, bewildered.

“And talk,” Frank added, mentally wincing. Had he been this big of a train wreck with Jamia? His heart ached at the thought and he shoved it away.

“You’re not a normal customer,” Mikey said as he stood. Frank shrugged. “It’s okay. I like dancing.”

“Where did you learn to do it?” Frank kicked his shoes off and folded his legs under himself. The mattress sank under his weight, the sheets pooling around him. He tried not to eye the curve of Mikey’s spine as the boy bent down to press play on the small, gray CD player in the corner of the room.

“Ray had a dance instructor teach me on the weekends,” Mikey stated. “He gave up on Gerard a long time ago, but he says I do a pretty good Bharatanatyam.”

“That is a very impressive bunch of syllables,” Frank said sincerely. It was only then that he realized Mikey had a soft, lilting accent. “Is that what you did the other night?”

“Nah. That’s just a dance for the customers.” Mikey shrugged. “The Bharatanatyam is important. Like. It means something.”

”Do it, I want to see it.” Frank felt guilty. Like he was ordering a slave.

“It’s weird because you don’t know what it means,” Mikey said to him, removing one of the silks around his waist. Frank wondered if it was a naked dance and felt his dick twitch. He shuffled to hide it, which was both awkward and unnecessary. “Everything about it is really, like, specific.”

“How?” Frank asked. He found himself enjoying the small lifts and falls of Mikey’s voice. The passion hidden behind his half-smile.

“Um. Like.” Mikey bounced the ball of his foot against the ground, jingling his bells. He lifted his left arm and crooked it. He kept his hand stiff and turned his palm up. “This is Varada. It means, like, compassion.” He lifted his right hand to his shoulder, palm bared. “And you put it with Abhaya. So they mean, like, I mean no harm. I want to protect you.”

“Jesus,” Frank murmured. Mikey laughed.

“Want me to show you anyway?” He asked. Frank nodded.

Mikey waited until the next track began to play. He lifted one leg, bent at the knee and turned inward and folded his hands into the same positions he had demonstrated. The bells on his ankles jingled as he dropped his bare foot to the ground. The dance was fast and Mikey rang the bells in time to the music by stamping his feet on the floor. His hands kept a steady flow of changing positions, telling a story Frank couldn’t understand. A smile was flickering across his lips, and Frank could feel the pride flowing from him in waves. As the song ended, Mikey snapped back into the opening pose. Frank clapped like an idiot, heart fluttering at the smile he was given.

“That was all sorts of awesome, dude,” he said when Mikey sat next to him. The rise and fall of the boy’s chest was rapid, close to his arm.

“Thanks,” Mikey replied. He leaned against Frank’s shoulder, his heartbeat solid against Frank’s skin.

“I’m Frank, by the way,” Frank said into the boy’s hair. It smelled like lavender as he breathed in.

“It’s not normal to be on a name-to-name basis with the customers,” Mikey stated quietly.

“Hey. You already said I wasn’t normal,” Frank responded. “Oh. Uh.” He reached into his pocket and pulled the Buddha out. “Here.” Mikey took it gently, letting the statuette sit on his palm. He smiled at it, tracing the fine lines of its face with a fingertip. He lifted it to his face for a closer look, admiring the glaze of the Buddha’s eyes.

“It’s pretty,” he said softly. “You don’t need to bring me presents to make me work better.” Even so, Frank saw the boy’s fingers twitch around it possessively. Like he was afraid Frank would take it back.

“It’s not a bribe,” Frank murmured. “Just. Something nice, y’know?” His face burned, and he felt like a stupid teenager again. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” Mikey answered as he placed the Buddha on the lone dresser. He hopped up next to it, swinging his legs. “I’ll be twelve in September.”

“Do you have, like, birthday parties?” Frank asked, picking up the rhythm of Mikey’s speech.

“No. I get the day off,” Mikey added as an afterthought. “It’s not really important.” Frank shook his head. Birthdays at his house had always been gigantic, with balloons and pumpkins and enough candy to choke a giant. Even after he and Jamia got married, they still had elaborate parties in their home, drinking until the sun came up. He couldn’t imagine anything different.

“I, uh, was born on Halloween,” he offered. Mikey cocked his head.

“What’s Halloween?” He asked. Frank jerked up and the boy winced.

“Are you serious?” Frank pushed back against the wall, leaning his head back against it. He rubbed his thumb over the double Ls on his knuckle. “Halloween’s the best fucking holiday ever.” Mikey slid down from the dresser and laid across the bed, resting his head on Frank’s thigh.

Frank played with the boy’s hair as he explained Halloween and all the awesome things it had to offer. When he took a pause before explaining the significance of pumpkins, he looked down. Mikey’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Frank smiled a little, caressing the curve of Mikey’s jaw with his thumb.

---

It was dark when Frank woke. There was a chill coming in from the window over him, blowing across his bare chest and back. He could hear soft, angry whispers from a cross the room. Groggily, he cracked one eye open. Mikey stood at the door, hands on the handle, back curled defensively.

“He’s mine, Gee,” Mikey whisper-shouted, his little boy voice pinched. “You can’t share him.”

“I don’t want to share him,” came the hissed reply. “I just want to make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“You’re jealous,” Mikey taunted. He crinkled his nose and started to close the door. “Go away. I don’t need your help.” Frank closed his eyes as Mikey turned. He opened them again when the bed sank under the boy’s weight. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Nah. It’s okay.” Frank waved it off and sat up. “I didn’t really mean to fall asleep.” He yawned into his wrist, grinning sheepishly. He curled his fingers in the silks at Mikey’s knees, studying the small curves and lines of his legs. It felt dirty in a horrible sort of way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “So. What do you do?”

“Blow men with my brother,” Mikey answered honestly. Frank flushed.

“I, uh,” he stumbled, “I meant, y’know, what else do you do?” Mikey laughed. His cheek was outlined in moonlight, turned a soft, pastel blue.

“Ray keeps us on a tight schedule,” he said. “He gives us lessons when we’re not working.”

“Like what?” Frank leaned forward, interested.

“Math. English.” Mikey shrugged. “Like school.” Frank felt his stomach sink. He had assumed they didn’t go to school, but hearing it confirmed made him sad. He reached forward to touch the bells lying against Mikey’s ankle, but made himself stop. Mikey looked at him strangely. “Why do you have so many tattoos?”

“Huh?” Frank rubbed his arms self-consciously. “It’s. I wear my heart on my sleeve, y’know?” Oh, did he ever. “It’s like telling people everything they need to know about me without saying anything, y’know?”

“What’s this one say?” Mikey touched his fingertips to the crying Virgin Mary on Frank’s left arm. Frank tried desperately to fight the goosebumps off.

“It’s an Our Lady of Sorrows,” he answered. Mikey stared at him blankly. “Virgin Mary? Mother of Jesus? Patron saint of women and children?” Mikey blinked. “Do you know anything about Catholicism?”

“We don’t follow religion,” Mikey replied.

“Of course,” Frank muttered. “Mary’s an important lady. You’ll just have to trust me on it.” He traced her skirts with a thumbnail. “She had seven sorrows in her life. That’s what the swords are. Her sorrows.” He held his arm up closer to Mikey’s face to show him better. “I. I only had five. Not that I want to add anymore, y’know?”

“What about the scorpion?” Mikey asked. He leaned in until his nose brushed against Frank’s jaw. The soft breath against his neck made him squirm like he hadn’t for a long time. He felt so… young. Mikey made him feel young again.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbled. “Fucking stupid.” He met Mikey’s eyes, aching to kiss him. “I was in a band. I thought we’d get big, y’know? So I got it to keep from backing out.”

“Did you?” Mikey asked, sincere.

“No,” Frank said into Mikey’s mouth. He cradled Mikey’s head, holding him close. Mikey crawled to his knees, resting his hands on Frank’s thighs. He slid his tiny, slick tongue against Frank’s lower lip, sighing softly when Frank sucked it in. Frank groaned, pulling the boy up into his lap, chest to chest. Mikey’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingertips bent into his hair. Their hearts pounded against one another, shaking their chests. It felt like home.

Mikey pulled back slowly, lips parted. His eyes, glazed and shining in the moonlight, flickered from Frank’s lips to meet his own stare. The corner of his mouth, red and slick, turned up into a half-smile. Frank kissed him again, just for the feel of it. The soft skin under his palms was hot and smooth, tight around the curve of Mikey’s hips. Frank held on tighter.

“I don’t get it,” Frank murmured into the curve of neck and shoulder.

“What?” Mikey whispered. His nose was pressed into Frank’s hair, breaths coming heavy.

“Why you’re so fucking special.” Frank closed his eyes and sighed. Mikey didn’t move from his lap.

---

Frank kissed Bob’s forehead, wet and messy. Kochi, next to him, giggled behind her hand as Bob wiped his arm over the violated area. Frank took a seat on the bench next to them. His cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling but, goddamn, he hadn’t been this happy for years. It was worth a little pain.

“I’m gonna guess it went pretty good,” Bob said. Frank beamed at him. “You’re sunshine act’s burning my eyes, man. Stop it.”

“It’s sweet.” Kochi leaned forward to share a smile with Frank. Her hand was enveloped in Bob’s.

“I like her, Bryar,” Frank confirmed, nodding his head once. “She can be maid of honor at our wedding.”

“Iero,” Bob started, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “You give me brain aches. Deep, incurable brain aches.”

“Your mom hired me for that specific purpose.” Frank patted him on the head. He jerked when a finger prodded him in the side of the neck.

“You have a hicky,” Bob accused. Frank bared his throat, sort of proud. “What? Are you a teenager again?”

“Will you take me to the prom if I promise to wear a dress?” Frank asked, batting his eyelashes. He laughed, giddy, when Bob smacked the back of his head with an open hand. Kochi’s cheeks had turned pink with her giggles. She really was pretty, Frank thought. He hoped she saw it, too. “I’m taking that as a yes. I expect roses.”

“You’re a freak,” Bob said fondly.

“Your words of love touch me in deep, dark, dirty places,” Frank responded. “So. Do we have plans, or are we just going to plan our honeymoon?”

“Funny. Really.” Bob and Kochi stood as a unit. Frank was impressed. It had taken him and Jamia forever to sync like that. His heart twinged. “We’re going to the beach.”

“There a beach?” Frank asked in wonder. He ignored the patient stares. “Sweet,”

The beach was just as awesome as Frank had thought it would be. The sun blared down on them, and Frank was sure that he was going to have a swim trunk shaped tan for the next month. He was also pretty sure he was going to find sand in his hair for twice as long. Kochi, wearing a swimsuit that looked like a dress, took his hand when he offered it, and, together, they ran through the wash of water over the sand while Bob set up camp. When no one was looking, he picked up a smooth seashell and pocketed it.

The beach was full of people laughing and yelling. Children in their day clothes ran in the sand, buckets in their hands rattling with castle building supplies. Men in swim trunks and tee shirts carried coolers filled with Coke and liquor under their arms as their women pointed out sandy places to park for the day. The women wore varying outfits, from common bathing suits to full saris, their hair pulled back from their faces. A vendor was selling flavored ice from a cart by the lifeguard’s tower. Frank’s mouth turned blue from the blueberry flavoring of the cup he bought almost immediately.

Bob seemed to be content watching Frank and Kochi from the dry bank. He waved them off when they yelled for him in the water and Frank, deciding it was only right, made a specific effort to borrow a bucket and dump a generous helping of sea into Bob’s lap. He cackled like a madman as Bob chased him like a bull after red. They called a reluctant truce when side cramps overtook them.

The three of them lay in a fan as the sun began to sink. The sky was turning into a mottled, swirling palette of pinks and purples. Frank closed his eyes, enjoying the breeze against his already stinging skin. He thumbed the shell in his pocket, feeling the pores with his nails. It was cool against him. His phone rang and he jerked up. He flipped off the alarm, climbing to his feet.

“It’s been great, but I’m gonna go.” He kissed Kochi’s cheek and ruffled Bob’s hair. Unquestioningly, they said their goodbyes. Frank smiled as he walked away. They had been shooting Meaningful Looks at each other all day. It was just as well. He had an appointment with Mikey.

Gerard was leaving the room when Frank arrived. He sneered, his chubby teenager’s face pulled into awkward creases. Deep, purple shadows outlined his eyes- so unforgivingly similar to his brother’s- and a clump of broken blood vessels gathered at the crest of his cheek. The bottom of it was already starting to yellow out. Ray, at the door, smiled politely at the money Frank offered.

“Hey,” Frank greeted Mikey when he closed the door. Mikey looked up from the textbook on his lap and smiled. His hair was messy, standing on end at the back of his head. Frank’s stomach twisted when he saw the used condom in the trash. Gerard’s shiner suddenly made since in a horrible, real way. Mikey untied one of his silks and tossed it to the floor. The two left around his waist parted at his knees, wrapping around his calves. Frank swallowed thickly.

“You’re red,” Mikey remarked when Frank sat next to him. He lifted a hand and prodded Frank’s cheek gently. It stung, but Frank ignored it.

“We went to the beach,” Frank explained. “Oh, yeah. Here.” He fished the shell from his pocket and held it out to Mikey like a prize.

“I’m going to start expecting presents from you every time you visit,” Mikey said fondly.. He took the shell gingerly, turning it in his hands like a treasure. “What’s the beach like?”

“You’ve never been to a beach?” Frank asked, incredulous. Mikey shrugged.

“We aren’t really allowed to go out,” he mumbled. Frank watched after him as he rose to place the shell next to the Buddha. “So. Are you gonna tell me?”

“Sandy,” Frank said, nodding. “Hot. Sunny.”

“So, like all of India?” Mikey laughed when Frank dragged him down to his lap. He crinkled his nose, eye crossing a little. Something sweet and warm and unstoppable coiled in Frank’s chest.

“Fucking smartass.” He flicked one of Mikey’s bells, letting his fingers rest on the curve of the boy’s ankle. “It’s a beach. You swim and build fucking sand castles and burn like a sorry motherfucker for days.” Mikey’s smile stayed on, but Frank saw the flicker of sadness anyway. “Think I could bribe Ray into taking you?”

“No,” Mikey answered truthfully. “I have other customers, you know. And no one buys Gee by himself.” Frank felt guilty about it, deep in the back of his mind. He thanked whatever for letting him be an only child. Maybe he would try to bring both of them. If he could afford it. If he could make it happen at all.

“What’s your brother’s deal?” Frank asked. Mikey stiffened in his arms, jaw setting. “Hey, hey, calm down. He’s just. Hostile.” Mikey nosed Frank’s cheek, rubbing his ankles together.

“He’s jealous,” Mikey admitted. He squirmed in Frank’s lap and Frank tried not to get hard. “No one wants him by himself.” Mikey’s voice softened. “They’re really mean to him. Like, they hurt him.”

“Why do they treat him differently?” Frank asked quietly.

“He was… They had sex with him when they took us.” Mikey chewed on the corner of his thumbnail. It was horribly, ridiculously endearing. “He was, like, eight. I don’t remember too much of it.”

“You were kidnapped?” Frank’s insides twisted. Mikey shook his head.

“Not really. They killed our mom when we were visiting Nepal.” He squirmed until Frank let him go. His silks made soft, rasping sounds as he slid to the floor between Frank’s knees. “I was too little to run away, and Gerard couldn’t just, like, leave me, so they took us. I remember a lot of screaming. And. I remember Gerard crying.” Mikey wasn’t looking at him. Frank, heart heavy in his chest, stroked the boy’s hair, soothing away the cowlicks. “When Ray found us after, he brought us here. Gee’s used goods. He’s not as valuable.”

“You’re not a regular fourteen- year- old,” Frank remarked gently. Mikey grinned up at him.

“I guess we match, huh?” He unwound the silks from his calves and pulled one off.

“It’s fucking awesome that you’re getting naked, don’t get me wrong, but why are you doing it?” Frank shifted, following the curved hem of the last silk around Mikey’s hip.

“People like it when I’m naked,” Mikey said cheekily. He placed his hand on the last knot. “Do you want me to be naked?”

“Like a fucking starving man wants pizza.” Frank decided he could guilt trip himself later. Mikey laughed, eyebrows together a bit in confusion, and slipped the knot apart. The silk fluttered to the ground, leaving Mikey bare but for the bells. “Jesus,” Frank breathed. He held out his hand, touching the flat of Mikey’s chest. It was warm and smooth, the pound of his heart underneath strong and fast.

Mikey stood still as Frank mapped out the angles of his body, laughing a little when fingertips ghosted across his tummy. Frank circled his tiny, pink nipples with his thumbs. Mikey took in a sharp breath. Mikey didn’t show any sort of embarrassment, just gnawed on his thumbnail and let out soft sighs.

Frank was enamored with the boy’s thighs. They were bowed just a little, curved and soft and the same olive as his chest. There was the barest hint of soft, blonde hair growing. It tickled against Frank’s palms. Two dark, round freckles made their home between the crook of thigh and groin. Frank connected them with his thumbnail, Mikey’s shiver running through him like it was his own.

“Good, right?” Mikey asked, breathy. Frank wet his lips and nodded, unable to form words. He touched a finger to the underside. It pulsed in time to Mikey’s erratic heartbeat. Carefully, he framed Mikey’s hips and pulled him closer.

Frank touched him, explored the curves and juts of his body. Mikey stood still for him, sighing and smiling, his thighs shaking under Frank’s hands. His eyes went wide when Frank’s hand slid up higher, wrapping around him. It ended quickly, a small mess on the web between Frank’s thumb and forefinger.

“When’d that start happening?” Frank asked, nodding to his sticky hand, when Mikey’s breathing evened out again. Mikey shrugged, his arms tense. Frank rubbed them, trying to dissipate the tension.

“You’re the only one who does that to me,” Mikey said softly, his face pressed to Frank’s chest. “No one… touches me like that. It’s… I…”

“It’s okay, Mikey,” Frank soothed. He kissed the top of Mikey’s head, cradling him like the child he was. “Shh. It’s okay.” Mikey took in deep, rattling breaths, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

“They’ll stop buying me,” Mikey whispered, drawing into himself. “You’re gonna go home and Ray’ll find out I do that and then he’ll have to sell me to Eunuch Lane because no one wants a boy whole if he’s not little.” He was sobbing, his tears soaking into Frank’s shirt.

“Shh. Mikey, hey, look at me.” Frank lifted Mikey’s chin with two fingers offering a weak smile. “I’ll stay longer, okay? I’ll. I’ll cancel my flight home and I’ll figure something out, yeah?” He prayed his words weren’t empty. Mikey sniffled, swallowing down his tears.

“How can you afford me?” He swiped at his nose with his wrist, red eyes locked on Frank’s mouth.

“My wife left me,” Frank admitted. To Mikey. To himself. “I don’t have to pay her bills, or her allowance. My bank account’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Jamia,” Mikey whispered sadly. He touched his fingertips to the banner on Frank’s neck. He squirmed away, grabbing for the silk closest to him. He tied it around his waist, back turned.

“Mikey.” Frank stood, placing his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders. “I-“

“Thank you for your patronage,” Mikey said tightly. “Would you like me to find Gerard again? I’m sure we’ll please you better together.”

“Mikey,” Frank said into his hair. “You’re not. It’s not like that.”

“Anymore,” Mikey finished for him. Frank winced.

“I.” Frank swallowed, eyes closed. “I think I love you in a way a man shouldn’t love a boy.” His throat burned. “I.” He tightened his fingers around Mikey’s shoulder and, then, let go. “I’m sorry.”

“Ray loves us,” Mikey said softly as Frank began to pull his shoes on. “Not like you. But. He saved us.” Mikey slid to his knees, hands splayed over the floor. “He. He might help. If… If you’re serious.” Frank, one shoe still lying on the floor, lunged at Mikey, pulling him to his chest. His heart was beating like it was going to fly away. Mikey kissed him, wet and sad.

“I promise, Mikey.” Frank clutched him close. Dear God, he couldn’t lose Mikey, too.

---

Part Three

coricomile @ 2009-10-22T16:38:00

2009-10-22T20:43:32Z

“Frank, you can’t just stay here,” Bob tried again. Frank, stubborn as ever, lifted his chin and held his ticket out. Bob, lips in a tight line, took it. Frank could see the shake in Bob’s fist as it unclenched. He was already braced for a punch, just in case. “Iero, you can’t do this by yourself.”

“Then stay with me, man.” Frank let himself fall loose. “Help me.” Bob shook his head. “Then help me from home. Cover me.” He sighed softly, the dull ache of pain in his chest swelling. “Sell my house.”

“What’re you going to do? Live here for the rest of your life?” Bob threw the ticket onto the dresser and ran his hands through his hair. “For a kid? Frank, I can’t even go into how wrong everything about this is. How many fucking laws you’re breaking in both countries.”

“Bob, man, you know me.” Frank grabbed the other man’s shoulders, face to chest, and tried to will him to understand. “You know I wouldn’t ask you for help if it wasn’t fucking dire. Dire, damnit.” Bob shrugged him off.

“I fucking know, you shit.” He sat on the end of his unmade bed, head in his hands. “I’ll keep your job waiting. I’ll sell your house.” He let out a slow breath. “I’ll bring Jamia the divorce papers. That’s it, Iero. That’s all I can do for you.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, hugging him tight. Bob hugged him back, just as tight. “Fucking- I owe you so much, man.”

“Yeah, you do,” Bob agreed.

---

Frank threw his phone to the floor. Ray wasn’t answering his calls. He kicked the hotel bed, the scrape of it against the floor painful in his ears. Bob had left two days ago, pleading with Frank one last time before catching his plane. Frank missed him sorely. His single bedroom seemed so empty, and his frustration was written in strewn clothes and broken CDs across the floor.

“Fucking no,” he said out loud. “Fucking no way am I giving up.” He yanked a shirt and grabbed his phone from the floor. The door slammed behind him as he walked out. People stared. Frank didn’t give a fuck. He ran to the brothel like a man on fire.

Mikey’s room was empty.

Frank ignored the women yelling at him as he tore the room to shreds, looking for any sign that Mikey wasn’t really gone. He swung when a hand grabbed him from behind, pulling him out into the hallway. His fist connected with a hot cheek and, suddenly, he was on the floor. He snarled, the sound drowned out by the women yelling and screaming.

Blind in his fury, Frank jerked and kicked until he could roll his attacker over, fists pounding into skin whenever he could find it. Curls of hair pulled out in his hands as he struggled to stay on top. He kicked uselessly as he was flipped over again. His head jerked to the side as punches cracked into his cheeks and jaw. He could taste the blood in his mouth.

Ray hovered over him, lip split, nose bleeding. He sneered, shoving Frank into the ground. He yelled at the women to back to their rooms, his fist held high. He slammed it into Frank’s chest. Frank jerked up, shouting. He headbutted the other man, hair sticking to his face.

“Where did you take him?” Frank demanded through his bleeding lips. He rammed a knee into Ray’s stomach, pinning him down with knees and elbows. Ray spit blood at him. “Just fucking tell me! Where the fuck is he?”

“You fucking got them taken,” Ray spat. He snarled, eyes burning.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“The bosses think you spent too much time here,” Ray said angrily. “They think Mikey needs to be kept away from you. They think you might try to steal him.” He knocked Frank off pushing himself to his feet. “You fucking son of a bitch.” He kicked Frank in the side. “They took them away from me. I fucking loved those kids.”

“How could you bring them here?” Frank asked, clutching his side. “If you fucking love them so much, how could you sell them here?”

“You think I wanted to?” Ray let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You think I’d get away with my own life if I tried to hide them?” He wrapped his hand around Frank’s throat. “They own me,” he hissed. “I am a recruitment machine, and they will shoot me in the motherfucking head if I don’t give them everything I find. Do you get that?” He threw Frank down and began to walk away.

“Help me save them,” Frank croaked, hands at his throat. “Please.”

“Do you think you’re some fucking hero?” Ray asked over his shoulder. “Think you can overpower the underworld?”

“I love him,” Frank said, desperate. “I love him enough to save him and Gerard.” He looked up. “And you. I can save all of us.” Ray shook his head and turned back. He held a hand out, pulling Frank up when he took it.

“It’s useless,” he said softly. “They’re calling him Pavitra.” Frank stared at him blankly. “Virgin.” His heart sank. “You go to the brothels and ask for the boy virgin. They’ll arrest you or kill you.” Ray ran his hands over his face tiredly. “He’s too old now. They’ll sell him to Eunuch Lane or a slaver.” His eyes were bloodshot. “And Gerard’ll go to a gang. He’s not going to auction. Too busted up.” Too late to salvage.

“I’ve gotta try,” Frank said, more to convince himself than Ray. “I can’t let him go.”

“If you find them,” Ray started, turning away, “call me. I’ll do what I can.”

Frank managed to find his way back to his hotel, stumbling blindly though the streets. He felt empty and tired and hopeless. The anger in him had faded, leaving only shock in its wake. He had screwed up. He had fucked everything up for everyone and Mikey was going to pay the way for all of them. His heart ached, tired as the rest of him.

The room seemed even emptier than before. Frank sank onto his bed and tried not to scream.

---

Frank laughed into his beer. It sloshed up over the side of the cup, soaking into his shirt. That, too, was hilarious. The people around him stared. The bartender shook his head when Frank pounded his empty glass on the bar.

“Drinks!” Frank shouted, falling over himself on the crooked stool. The world was fading in and out, fuzzy around the edges. Black and green spots danced in front of his eyes, swirling and giving him a case of the dizzies. The bar rushed up at him, smacking him in the face.

He woke in the back alley.

---

“No more! No more! Get out of my bar!” The bartender’s voice scratched at his ears like nails. Frank stuck his tongue out, childish, dancing to keep his balance. The man’s brown face swam. “Go drink somewhere else!” The man slammed the door shut. Frank kicked it, sliding in the sand.

He had been thrown out of four bars in as many days. If he had been sober, he would have been offended. Instead, he stumbled to the next bar and hollered for a beer. Three men sitting around a hookah stared up at him.

“That looks great,” Frank bubbled, falling into their circle. One babbled foreign words at him as Frank took a free tube and sucked on it.

He vomited alone in his bathroom for hours.

---

Frank stumbled into the alley, coughing. The taste of has hadn’t gotten any better in the three days he’d gone to the hookah bar. He’d stopped throwing up, at least. His head swam as he guided himself along the wall with a braced hand. He giggled when he stumbled over a beggar, toppling to the ground. The beggar’s face floated above him, long hair waving in the draft between the buildings.

“You look familiar,” Frank slurred, lifting a lazy hand to touch the face.

“I fucking better, you goddamn slumbitch,” the face said. Frank got dizzy when he was pulled to his feet. He shook it off and looked closer at the face. “I should’ve gone to Ray. You’re fucking useless.”

“Gee!” Frank exclaimed giddily. He hugged the boy briefly, laughing. “Where’s Mikey?” A solid stream of thought broke through the haze. He sobered a little.

“That’s why I’m here.” Gerard looked around. “Hey. Bring me to your hotel. We can’t get caught.” Frank nodded and tried to think sober thoughts as he led the way back. When the door closed behind him, he looked expectantly at Gerard. “He’s going up for auction in three days.” Frank’s stomach clenched. “You have to help him.”

“Why aren’t you with him?” Frank asked. Gerard looked away, jaw set. There were bruises on his neck, deep purple and blue.

“They threw me out,” he said softly. His lower lip trembled and he bit down hard on it. “I.” He swallowed. “I’m HIV positive.” His eyes slipped shut, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. Frank couldn’t speak. “That’s not why I’m here.” He knuckled his eyes, wiping away the tears. “You need to help Mikey. God, please, help him.”

“Where is he?” Frank asked, unable to step forward. His insides ached for the boy in front of him.

“Falkland road,” Gerard said. “You’ve got three days to fix what I did.”

“What?” Frank’s stomach dropped. Gerard took a deep breath, staring at his hands. They were raw at the palms. “Gerard, tell me what you did.” Frank’s anger was beginning to over take the hash, and the world wasn’t so fuzzy anymore.

“I.” Gerard opened and closed his fists. “I told the bosses you were going to take Mikey away.”

“The fuck?” Frank pinned Gerard against the wall. Gerard winced, eyes screwing shut. Frank shook with the effort not to punch him. “Why did you do that?” He roared, making each word its own sentence.

“I didn’t know this was gonna happen,” Gerard whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He was openly sobbing, breaking slowly apart. “I was scared. Mikey, god Mikey, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Frank withered. “I thought they’d just get rid of you. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He pulled Gerard to him in a hug, sharing his pain. They were both scared.

“Shh,” Frank whispered to him. The déjà vu was overwhelming. “It’s okay. I’ll make it okay. I swear.” He would. Even if it killed him.

---

Ray led them to Falkland road, jaw set. Gerard followed behind him like a beaten puppy. He stared at the road, raw hands clasped together. Frank, angry as he was, felt for him. They stopped when Gerard pointed the brothel out. Frank’s chest tightened. He was terrified.

“You can’t just walk in,” Ray said. He looked from Frank to Gerard. There were bags under his eyes and his hair hung limply around his face. Frank knew he looked the same, if not worse. “None of us can.”

“Who do I need to distract?” Gerard asked. He looked strange in clothes borrowed from Ray’s closet- jeans and button down shirt done up to the collar. His stunning normality was jarring. Frank tried to ignore it.

“Saleem,” Ray answered. He jerked his chin in the direction of a second story window. Franks eyes followed, and he could see the outline of a wavery figure. “He’s Mikey keeper. Run in, run out, and try to buy us twenty minutes. If everything goes okay, we’ll meet at the hanging gardens. If not. Well.”

“Ray Toro,” Frank whispered. “The man with the plan.” Ray gave him a grim little grin. “You gonna be okay, Gerard?” Frank looked over at him, trying not to study the clench of his fists too closely. Gerard lifted one shoulder, staring up at his target’s window.

“I’m gonna die one way or another, right?” his voice belied his flippant words. Sweat had gathered under his tied back hair. Frank could almost hear his heart beating. “Give me a five minute head start.” Gerard squared his shoulders and began walking forward. He didn’t look back.

Frank wanted to pace. He wanted to run and yell and pull his hair out. He wanted Mikey. His chest pulled tight, his stomach turned. Above all, he wanted Mikey. Ray put an understanding hand on his shoulder, staring up at Saleem’s window. Time slowed, creeping along in tense, unsure silence. Then, a shout.

Gerard was outlined in the window, his hands a blur as he threw three quick punches. Frank tensed, ready to run in. Ray grabbed his arm, holding it tight until Gerard burst back out onto the street. Two men followed him, the guns at their hips bouncing with their strides. Frank’s heart jumped to his throat and stayed lodged there until he felt Ray push him forward.

Frank fought the urge to run screaming into the brothel. He followed Ray in, ignoring the women looking at them sadly. The place looked eerily similar to the other brothel; dirt and grime and filthy shoes. Little girls, their dresses floral print to their knees, scrubbed dishes and yelled to one another from their crouched positions on the floor. Ray kept his eyes forward. Frank wished for his strength.

“How do you know where to go?” Frank hissed out of the side of his mouth.

“I used to work here,” Ray hissed back. “He’ll be up here.” He cracked open one door. Nothing. He looked into the next, giving a curt reply to a woman’s shout. When he opened the third door, he froze, shoulders tight, fingers drawn into fists. Frank shouldered past him, stumbling ungracefully into the room. “Oh, God, Mikey.”

Mikey knelt in the middle of the room, surrounded by torn bed sheets. His arms were bruised, deep yellows and unsettling greens. His hair hung down around his face in stringy, dirty pieces. Dark circles sat under his clouded, unfocused eyes. The skin around his ribs and hips and cheeks was stretched taunt over his bones. The hollow of his stomach made Frank vomit in the corner of the room. Mikey blinked up at them, letting the empty syringe in his hand clatter to the floor.

“Morphine,” Ray said softly. “They gave him morphine.” Frank rushed forward, wincing when Mikey leaned away from him. He put his arms around the boy’s bony shoulders and held him tightly, near tears. “Frank, we have to hurry.”

“I know. Shit.” He let go reluctantly. Ray was already racing around the room, shoving Mikey’s things into a bag. Mikey was limp in Frank’s arms as he lifted him. “How did it get so bad this fast?” It was directed at Mikey, but Ray was the one who answered.

“They gave him enough to kill a horse.” He zipped the bag, running a hand through his hair. “He’s small. It doesn’t take much to get them addicted.”

“Fucking…” Frank bit the insides of his cheeks. “Come on, Mikey. Can you walk?” Mikey didn’t answer him. Frank’s chest was constricting around his heart, and if Mikey didn’t say anything soon, he thought he might suffocate. “Work with me, okay?” He grabbed Mikey around the knees and shoulders, hefting him up.

Mikey screamed.

“Toro, what’s going on?” Frank shouted over Mikey’s yells. He was struggling to hold onto the boy’s wriggling, fighting body. A stray elbow caught him across the cheek, sending black spots over his vision.

“He’s scared,” Ray shouted back. “Fuck. They’re back.” Ray shoved himself away from the window. “I’m sorry, Mikey.” Before Frank could stop him. Ray smashed the butt of a gun Frank didn’t know he had into Mikey’s temple. Mikey fell silent, head lolling to Frank’s shoulder.

“What the fuck? Are you fucking crazy?” Frank wanted to punch him, but Mikey’s weight kept him still. Ray kissed Mikey’s forehead, eyes closed. He shoved the bag into Frank’s uncooperative hand.

“It’s the only way you can get him out.” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket and shoved it into Frank’s jeans. “Their passports are in there. Take a red-eye. Don’t stop running.”

“Toro, what the hell?” Frank looked from him to the window. “Let’s go.”

“There’s four at the door,” Ray said softly. “And they’re coming here. I can keep him distracted.”

“No, man. Just come on. We’ll get Gerard and-“

“Go.” Ray shoved him toward the window. “I swear to Allah if you let anything happen to them…” Frank smiled sadly at him.

“Try to meet us,” he said, already knowing Ray was never leaving the room.

“Yeah,” Ray replied. “Now get the fuck out.”

Carefully, Frank arranged Mikey over his shoulder. He threw one leg out the window, feeling almost like he was in high school again, and took a last look at Ray who was already aiming his gun at the door. Cautiously, Frank shimmied his way down the wall, praying the spectators would keep their mouths shut. He heaved a sigh of relief when his feet hit the ground. Then, he ran. Three gunshots echoed after him, and Frank whispered his apologies into Mikey’s hair.

Gerard was waiting at the Hanging Gardens, tugging anxiously at his hair. He stood when he saw Frank run his way. His face fell, and Frank knew he had noticed Ray’s absence. Frank grabbed his hand, out of breath and sore from Mikey’s weight, and dragged him along. They would mourn later. There was no time to spare.

Frank gathered his things together at the hotel, hastily shoving everything into his bags. Gerard washed the blood from Mikey’s face, his hands shaking. Frank called the airport, demanding tickets to the States. The soonest flight was in four hours. Frank took it. Gerard took Mikey, carrying him like a child, and they hailed a taxi right outside the door.

Franks heart pounded as the boy’s passports were scanned. He smiled timidly at the attendant and prayed they wouldn’t ask about Mikey’s condition. Gerard wouldn’t stop looking over his shoulder. Mikey’s breathing was coming in rough, uneven bursts. Frank wanted to kill.

The hour wait for boarding was spent with furtive, troubled looks shot over shoulders. Frank jumped a little every time anyone walked too close to them. Every time someone looked too closely at Mikey or Gerard. By the time their plane was called to board, he was a heartbeat away from an unforeseen panic attack.

Gerard sat window side, Frank aisle side. Mikey, half awake and sweating under his bangs, leaned up against them in the middle. The flight was long enough to begin with, but when Mikey grabbed for the vomit bag before the plane even began to roll forward, Frank knew it was going to feel like years in the air.

When the seatbelt lights went out, Frank helped Mikey stumble to the bathroom. He locked the door behind them, awkwardly shuffling to let Mikey sink to his bony, exposed knees. If Gerard looked strange in civilian clothes, Mikey looked downright surreal in Frank’s. A flash of a dream hit him hard in the stomach, and Frank had to force himself to snap out of it.

Mikey was shivering. Goosebumps pimpled his arms and trailed from his wrists to the sleeves of Frank’s old tee shirt. The skin across his cheeks was pale, unnatural. He heaved into the toilet, crying when nothing came out but bile. Frank rubbed his back. There was nothing else he could really do.

Gerard brought water for Mikey and Sprite for Frank. He tried cramming in with them, but Frank’s claustrophobia grew until his heart was fluttering almost as fast as Mikey’s. Gerard nodded and mumbled an apology, and Frank couldn’t trade places with him out of pure selfishness.

Pounding came on the door sometime after. Frank opened the door reluctantly to meet the angry face of a stewardess. She looked down at Mikey, her face softening a little, and told him he’d have to vacate the bathroom, at least for a while, so the other patrons could use it.

Frank gathered Mikey up, carrying him around the waist and under the knees. Mikey’s arms shook with the effort of holding his upper half up. Gerard held his arms out almost instantly when they came up next to him. The people around stared. Frank felt, irrationally angry, a break in his fragile patience.

“Have you never seen anyone with the fucking stomach flu?” He snapped at the closest pair of scrutinizing eyes. Several faces turned unflattering shades of pink. There was no relief in the outburst.

Frank took Mikey’s seat, lifting the boy’s legs to rest over his own. Gerard wore a permanent look of worry, wrinkles between his eyebrows and around his mouth. Frank patted his shoulders. Mikey’s eyes were closed, his shakes violent. Frank laid his jacket over the boy’s shoulders. There was a pain deep in his temples, spreading through him.

Mikey fell asleep between hour six and seven, face pressed to the window. A streak of sweat and oil was sinking into the pores of the glass. Gerard was nodding off, his head rolling forward and snapping back up in an almost predictable rhythm. His arms were still wrapped tightly around his brother’s waist, hands tangled in Frank’s old shirt. Frank looked away from them. He was just so fucking tired.

Hour nine on the flight, he called Bob. The phone rang for longer than Frank was comfortable with. He let out a breath of relief when Bob’s scratchy, sleepy voice came over the line.

“Iero, do you know what fucking time it is?” Bob yawned into the phone.

“Shit. Sorry.” Frank rubbed his cheek with his palm. The stubble grated against it almost painfully. “I’m coming back to the states.”

“Finally,” Bob said.

“Mikey and Gerard are with me.” Frank chewed on his thumbnail, pausing when he realized he was picking up Mikey’s habit. The hiss of Bob’s breath over the line made him anxious.

“What did you do?” Bob’s voice was tense, and Frank could almost see him rubbing his forehead.

“They were gonna be sold, dude. Like animals.” Frank looked around to make sure no one had eavesdropped. “Look, I’m on a plane to New York right now. And. Mikey’s sick. Bad sick.”

“What do you need?”

“A place to stay.” Frank’s stomach churned in the silence. A sigh rang in his ear, soft and resigned. “Only until he gets better. I just. Please, Bob?”

“Damnit, Frank,” Bob groaned. “You know I’m not gonna say no.” Regardless, the tightness in Frank’s chest lightened. “When’s your flight come in?”

“Three hours?” Frank looked over at Mikey, reaching his free hand out to tuck back a piece of the boy’s hair. “Thanks, man. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Shut up, Iero.” Bob’s voice was muffled. Frank loved him more. “Call me when you land.” The line went dead. Frank sighed and tucked his phone away.

Mikey shook hard enough to wake Gerard up. They blinked tiredly at one another, confused until they looked out the window. Mikey rubbed his throat, and Frank handed him a glass of ginger ale. He drank it down fast, and Frank knew it was probably going to come up again almost as quickly. Surprisingly, Mikey handed the glass back and hunkered down again, eyes sliding shut again. Frank followed suit, resting his forehead on his own shoulder.

He jerked awake when the pilot’s voice announced landing. Groggily, he dragged his phone from his pocket and hit redial. Bob was already at the airport, waiting. Frank wasn’t surprised.

More like thankful.

Mikey was able to walk out on his own, for the most part, leaning just a little on Frank’s shoulder. Bob greeted them at the pick up spot. His long shorts were frayed at the hems, his oversized white tee shirt wrinkled. His hair, messy around his face, was longer than Frank remembered it. Frank threw his arms around him immediately.

“You are, seriously, my best friend on the fucking planet,” he said into Bob’s shoulder. Bob hugged him back, patting between Frank’s shoulder blades.

“Keep talking,” Bob replied when he let go. “Jesus. You weren’t kidding.” He looked over Mikey, face softening. “I’m Bob.” He held his hand out to them.

“Gerard,” the boy answered. He shook Bob’s hand weakly. “This is Mikey.”

“You would, Iero,” Bob muttered under his breath. “Here, let me…” He gave a small smile of awkwardness before scooping Mikey up. “Go get your bags. I’ll take him to the car.” Frank nodded slowly. He was reluctant to let Mikey out of his sight.

“Is he…?” Gerard started when Bob walked through the exit.

“He’s a good guy,” Frank said. “Heart of fucking gold, man.” He saw Gerard nod out of the corner of his eye. They gathered their bags in silence, heading for the door when they were done.

Mikey was lying across the backseat, and Frank could see him shaking through the window. Bob had covered him with a blanket, tucking it around his sides. Gerard slipped into the back with him, soothing his hair. Frank sat shotgun. Bob drove them to his place. His eyes darted up to the mirror every few minutes, checking on his young passengers.

Mikey was sick almost as soon as they crossed the threshold into Bob’s house. Bob winced but rushed to get a bowl. Frank rubbed Mikey’s back and cooed soothing noises into his ear. When he was finished, Frank carried him to the guest bedroom. He laid him out carefully on the bed. Gerard helped undress him, hands shaking a little.

“Go to sleep, guys,” Bob said from the doorway. He ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. “I got him.” Gerard looked hesitantly from Mikey to Bob, relenting when Frank tugged on his shirt.

“Thanks, man,” Frank said as they left. Bob waved him off.

---

Day three was hell. Mikey had a constant cycle of hot and cold spells, both extreme. When his fever burned, they sat him, kicking and screaming, into the tub filled with ice. When he shook so hard his teeth chattered, Frank wrapped him in nearly all the blankets and quilts and towels Bob owned. Bob kept a running temperature chart.

Gerard was there when the kicking started. Mikey jerked sporadically, legs lashing out uncontrollably, bells jingling ridiculously loud. His muscles popped loudly with each kick. He cried, tears streaming over his cheeks. Frank held him as best he could. He couldn’t feel his shins after the first half hour.

---

Mikey could hold down solid foods come day eight. The fevers stopped. Bob, Frank, and Gerard took shifts watching him. He looked healthier. The skin around his cheeks no longer clung too tight. He was speaking in even, clear sentences when he was awake, sleeping soundly when he laid in bed. There was a defined limp to his walk though, and Frank worried that he’d torn something.

Frank stood in the kitchen, a glass of juice in his hand. Bob gave him a half smile. They stood in comfortable silence until, finally, Bob cleared his throat. Frank had been waiting for it, honestly.

“You should talk to her,” Bob said quietly. Frank clicked the glass against his teeth.

“I know,” he said around it. “It’s just.”

“I know, man.” Bob rested a hand on franks shoulder, giving a supportive squeeze. “I’ve got the kids.” It made Frank’s stomach lurch every time he said that. Kids.

“Can I-“

“Yeah.” Bob handed him his keys. “Go on.

The drive to Jamia’s mother’s house was too short to be comfortable. Frank was jittery, fingers tapping uneven rhythms on the steering wheel. He drove around the block three times before finally pulling into the driveway. Slowly, his stomach somewhere near his knees, he walked up to the porch and raised his fist to knock. The door opened before he was able to.

Jamia was just as beautiful as always. Frank wanted to hug her. Instead, he smiled weakly and motioned in the direction of the sidewalk. Jamia closed the door quietly behind her. The silence was heavy, but not wholly uncomfortable. Frank’s mouth went dry when Jamia took his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. Jamia gave him a little half smile.

“Me, too,” she replied.

“I’ll always love you, Jami,” Frank said. They settled on a bus stop bench, folding their legs up like teenagers. A flash of too many memories came over him, and Frank was painfully nostalgic. He squeezed Jamia’s hand gently. She still wore her wedding ring.

“I know, Frank” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at the sky. “I wish it could have worked out. We were… We were good together.”

“Yeah,” Frank murmured. His heart ached dully, a memory of a feeling. “Would it really be dick of me to say I still want to be friends?” Jamia laughed, small and bright. Frank smiled.

“You pansy,” Jamia said fondly.

“I’m a delicate kind of guy,” Frank replied. “So?”

“I just need a little time, y’know?” Jamia squeezed his hand before letting go. She slid her wedding band off. Her hands were so, so thin. She placed it gingerly in Frank’s palm, closing his fingers around it. “I need to remember how to be Jamia Nestor. Not Jamia Iero.” Frank fought off the sadness. He stood, helping Jamia to her feet. He kissed her temple softly.

“You’ll work it out,” he said into her hair. “I know you will.”

---

Mikey sat in the window of the guest bedroom. He wore a pair of Frank’s old jeans, his thin knees poking out through thread bare holes. He was bouncing his legs against the wall to make his bells jingle. The yellow scarf that Frank had never given to Jamia was wrapped around his wrist, flowing in the breeze. The sickness had passed. The nightmares still lingered, waking the household in the middle of the night. He spoke more. Smiled more. Stole Frank’s clothes and listened to old Leathermouth CDs. He wore the seashell Frank had given him as a necklace. The shell nestled nicely in the hollow of his throat, pale against his olive skin.

Frank stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the boy’s chest, hooking his chin over Mikey’s shoulder. A wash of familiarity settled over him, even if he couldn’t pick the memory out. Mikey’s fingers wrapped around his, cool and soft and just a little chubby. Frank kissed the crown of his head.

“I never got to say it back,” Mikey said softly. His eyes were closed. The wind pushed up against their faces, making their hair flutter. Frank made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. “I never got to say I love you back.”

“Do you?” Frank asked, his heart tumbling over itself.

“I’m fourteen,” Mikey replied. “I don’t think I understand it.” He opened his eyes and smiled a little. “But I think I might.” Frank let out an unsteady breath.

“You know, you don’t have to, y’know, say it, if you don’t feel it or whatever,” Frank said thickly. Mikey laughed. Frank’s heart melted.

“I know,” Mikey said. “Just wait for me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Frank whispered into Mikey’s hair. They stared out over the city, quiet but for the sound of Mikey’s bells.

coricomile @ 2009-10-21T11:46:00

2009-10-21T15:49:30Z

...also, a band named Your Mom. Mostly, according to one friend, so people can say, “I saw Your Mom at the Paladium last night.”

I would totally go see a band called Your Mom. It would be hiliarious, even if they sucked. Okay, so it's immature, but I'm only twenty. Holy shit, I'm twenty.

:{?

:}

coricomile @ 2009-10-16T11:45:00

2009-10-16T11:45:22Z

Holy shit, Tip of Your Tongue and Poision's in the Powder have been viewed by over a thousand people each. That's. Crazy. And awesome. Totally a pick-me-up. :)

coricomile @ 2009-10-15T00:37:00

2009-10-15T00:37:27Z

Am I weird for enjoying the researching for fic more fun than the actual writing? Like, I seriously loved learning all the things about India while I was researching for Bells in Bombay ~~which goes up in two weeks :)~~, but I wanted to rip my hair out during the end stretch. Also, it's killing me to have it laying around with no one reading it. Call me an attention whore- but I write for the reviews. It's a lefitimate reason.

Anyway.

I'm starting work on my final for Creative Writing class, which is novelette length. It's from.a prompt at anon_lovefest in which Ryan is severely agoraphobic and Brendon is a pamphlet boy.

I get to research Mormons. I'm really stoked about this. Again, is that weird?

~~Yes, I'm totally writing bandom fic for class. Sue me.~~

coricomile @ 2009-10-10T23:11:00

2009-10-08T03:16:10Z

Title: Chiaroscuro
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump
Words: 15, 320
Summary: There's a familiar print tacked up on one of the corkboards. Pete (who is thrilled that his hard work didn’t meet a garbagey fate) takes it down carefully, inspecting the quality. A purple post-it flutters to the ground. Curiously, Pete picks it up.
A/N: Many thanks to skelly_lector and lady_blue_peach for beta-reading and being generally awesome. Many thanks also to plumerri for the awesome soundtrack, which can be found here.

The darkroom is maybe the best place to be in all of AIC. The sinks are spaced out through the room: three stations, dead center. Twenty-eight enlargers circle the walls, numbered and stationed off. Above them, the safelight glows red. The sharp smell of stop-bath hangs in the air like words unspoken. Stories untold. Soft humming vibrates from the sinks, the ever-running water in the washes splashing in the stainless steel.

Pete loves the darkroom more than he loves his own mother. It's comforting. Especially when he's got it all to himself. There's no line of bodies crunched in at the sinks, no abandoned prints left in the washes, no idiot first quarters flooding the room with accidental light. It's just him, his film, and the pictures in his head.

It's the first week of summer quarter, and Pete's working on a project left over from spring. He thinks that it'll look good in his portfolio. He's terrified about portfolio review in winter and is beginning to seriously regret all the partying. Okay… maybe not. But he’s maybe wishing he’d done a little less. Maybe? The grain of the film is driving him nuts, and there's an unfortunate blowout between the frames of his favorite shots, bleeding white space onto the images. This is more annoying than discouraging; Pete is a wizard in the black and white darkroom. A wizard.

The print he's working on is of a boy- his brother, as a matter of fact- in a field. The sky is filled with big, puffy clouds, and the tall grass is dry and angled in the wind. The boy's shirtless, his tan little chest bowed, leaning back into the grass. His eyes are closed, head lolled back, small adams' apple haloed by the sun. His lips- still too big for his face- are pulled at the corners in a sleepy smile in muted grays. It would be perfect if he could just get the damn grain to work with him.

Pete yawns into his wrist and presses the button on his enlarger. The light flashes onto his paper- fiber, the good kind- for exactly thirty-point-six seconds before dying off. Pete thumbs the lock of his four-blade and pulls the paper free. The edges of the fiber wave and curl in on themselves when he slips it into the developer.

It's still magic to watch his image appear out of nowhere. It starts at the top corner, splotches of grass and clouds bleeding into the fibers. A shoulder. Fingers. Pete rocks the plastic tub of developer with two fingers, eyeing the clock every few seconds. After a minute and a half, he dips his fingers in and gingerly grabs the print at both corners. He transfers the paper to the tub of stop-bath and starts rocking that tub. Thirty seconds. Moves the print from stop-bath to fixer. His hands are going to look like hell when he's thirty.

It's surprising that he's got the patience for the process. It's so time consuming. So methodical. He thinks that that might be the important part of he equation. It takes his mind off of things. Gives him something to focus on. Lets him get rid of his tension in the steps.

Pete's just putting his print into the dryer when his phone rings. He flips it open and tucks it between his shoulder and ear, leaning in to it. The dryer takes twenty minutes- give or take- to dry a print all the way through. He's got time to spare.

"Wentz's house of Love. Pete speaking." Pete hops onto the counter next to the dryer. His eyes are stinging from the light in the review room. He kicks his legs against the cupboards and gazes longingly toward the hall that leads to the darkroom.

"You're a freak, just so you know," Andy's voice says over the speaker. Pete snorts. "There's free food in the lounge. You game?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Hurley?"

"The day I ask you on a date is the day the space lizards attack." There's commotion behind his voice, and Pete assumes Andy's already upstairs in the community area.

"Now that you mention it, I did see a chick with scales on her face come out of the IDT lab this morning." Pete slides off the counter. "I'll be up in a minute, yeah?" He shoves the phone into his pocket and treks back into the darkroom for his things.

He forgets his print in the dryer.

---

"I will kill you if you turn that light on," Pete growls from somewhere underneath his giant pile of blankets. He hears Andy's footsteps pause, can almost hear the gears in Andy's head turning. The light comes on. "I renounce my love, you fucking heartless, vegan bastard."

"Breaks my heart," Andy says flatly around his toothbrush. "Really."

"You'll regret it later." Pete ruefully rolls out of his ridiculous bunk and gropes for a pair of jeans. Andy's feet are too close to his face, and there's braided hemp bracelets wrapped around his ankles. "Those are really faggy, man."

"Says the guy that brings home dudes on a regular basis." Andy spits into the trashcan. "You're late for class, by the way."

"Shit." Pete scrounges under the beds for his bag. Andy, jackass roommate that he is, offers no help. Just hops onto the top bunk and starts reading. Pete might hate him a little sometimes.

Pete's still yanking his shoes on as he half-hops, half-runs to the elevators. He hopes fervently that they're not jammed (because the dorm elevators are janky as all hell), and breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the familiar clanking up the shaft.

Pete loves his school. He loves his major, loves his roommate, and loves Karaoke Thursdays. He hates four hour lecture classes at eight am. There is nothing important enough to be discussed for four hours ever, for starters. Also? It's hard to have a discussion when half the class is drooling on their binders.

Pete skids to a halt in front of room 431. He flattens his hair and tries to catch his breath (it's been a while since he's played soccer. Also? He's maybe put on the freshmansophomorejunior fifteen). He opens the door and flashes a smile to the twelve faces that turn his way.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wentz," Mrs. Sych says from the front of the room. She's a small, middle-aged, Polish woman, accent and all. She's smiling, and Pete grins back at her. She's his favorite, and he seems to be pretty high up on her list, too, all things considered.

"Couldn't miss your stunning lecture, Kamilla," Pete says with a wink. Kamilla shakes her head and turns back to the board. There are free chairs in the front with easy access. There's also a free seat next to Mikey Way, all the way in the back. Pete climbs over bags and legs and chairs until he can plop down into the prize winning seat. "Hey, Mikeyway." Mikey waves a hand at him. He doesn't smile, but Pete knows well enough by now that that alone means nothing. Operation Make Mikeyway Love Me Madly is still a go.

A syllabus is passed back in his direction, and Pete takes it graciously from the cute redhead in the seat in front of him. He bats his eyelashes, chin propped on his knuckles. The redhead rolls his eyes. Photo Criticism is written in bold across the top of the syllabus. Pete wrinkles his nose and tucks the packet into his notebook. At the front of the room, Kamilla has put a PowerPoint on the screen.

"Why do we, as photographers, need to learn how to analyze photographs?" she asks. The class is silent. Pete yawns into his wrist and slouches down into his chair. The next eleven Mondays are going to be long. "Patrick, what do you think?" The redheaded boy jerks a little. One of his hands reaches up and tugs at the bill of his obnoxiously green trucker hat.

"To learn from other photographers' mistakes?" He (Patrick, Pete reminds himself) squirms in his seat until Kamilla calls on someone else. Pete grins. He likes 'em shy. Speaking of which-

"Mikeyway," Pete hisses. When Mikey doesn't respond, Pete resorts to prodding at his bare, bony elbow. Mikey swats his hand away, but also turns to look at him. This is a small victory in the war for Mikey's heart. "Lunch with me after class?" No response. "Starbucks? On Me?" There's a flicker of a smile, and it takes an alarming amount of self control to not do fistpumps when Mikey nods.

Pete burns off his excitement by kicking a steady rhythm against the back of Patrick's chair. By the end of class Patrick has:

Shot him twenty-four (24) dirty looks
Thrown three (3) pencils over his shoulder without hitting a damn thing
Thrown one (1) pencil over his shoulder that hit Pete square in the forehead
Drawn two (2) dicks on the white toes of Pete's sneakers in Sharpie

Pete's pretty sure he's found his Monday morning entertainment.

---

Lunch with Mikey was a bust. The conversation was awkward, the coffee sucked (Pete dated the barista once. Their relationship hadn't ended on a good note), and Mikey's date etiquette was atrocious. Really. Who looks longingly at busty waitresses when their- hotter, if Pete says so himself- date is sitting across the table from them? Pete decides that this means he has to step up his game. Maybe he'll call Saporta for tips.

Pete's thinking about the god-awful tips Gabe would hand out as he walks into the review room. There's a familiar print tacked up on one of the corkboards. Pete (who is thrilled that his hard work didn’t meet a garbagey fate) takes it down carefully, inspecting the quality. A purple post-it flutters to the ground. Curiously, Pete picks it up.

Nice photo. It could use some more contrast, though. And maybe less sky. Definitely less sky. Try cropping it?

PS

Pete frowns and turns the post-it over, looking for the rest of the note. He shrugs when he finds no more and sets the print on the counter. His anonymous critic has a point. Pete paws through his bag until he finds his handy China marker.

It's interesting to see your own work through someone else's eyes. They're less biased. More honest. Pete is a big fan of the solo critique. This is what makes it easy to draw crop marks over his fluffy clouds and write lowercase C's over his brother's face and knees. A class is starting to fill in the spaces of the lab by the time Pete is satisfied with his corrections. He'll just have to come back later.

---

"Yo, Saporta!" Pete calls from across the lounge. A few heads turn toward him, but Pete takes no notice of them. Instead, he opts for running across the common, dodging tables and chairs, to lunge onto Gabe's back. This attempt is only half successful, partially because Gabe is a goddamn mountain, and partially because Pete's hauling thirty pounds of photo equipment on his back, and he’s left dangling awkwardly.

"Hang on, I think just grew a tumor." Gabe sets his phone on the closest table before bending forward fast enough to flip Pete off. Pete laughs- cackles, really- and makes grabby hands at Gabe's coffee. "You only want me for my java," Gabe laments, cradling his cup to his chest.

"Actually, I want you for your snake," Pete says as he pulls himself up.

"I bet you say that to all the boys." Gabe waggles his eyebrows suggestively. The effect is somewhat lost behind the white frames of his big, lensless glasses.

"Why change what works?" Pete throws an arm around Gabe's shoulders (which is awkward as all hell) and bumps their hips. "Seriously, though. You up to modeling with the Cobra?"

"Always." Gabe picks his phone back up and closes it without saying goodbye. He's an asshole, but, then again, so is Pete. Pete's pretty sure that's why they get on so well. "Time?"

"Tonight? I booked a studio at eight." Pete hefts up the camera bag on his shoulder. It’s starting to sting. Gabe smacks him hard on the back and waves at a few people across the room. Pete’s already lost his attention, and is fine with it because he gets a thumbs up. Gabe’s an ass, but he never ditches on appointments.

The sun burns Pete’s eyes as he steps outside onto the smoke deck. He raises his hand like a shield, scanning the patio for Joe. It takes a minute but through a fog of cigarette and not-cigarette smoke, a familiar white-boy fro shows up. Pete has the decency to refrain from taking Joe’s weed. He doesn’t, however, have the decency to stop himself from flopping down onto Joe’s lap, elbows and lenses bashing into arms and chest.

“Toking up on school grounds, JoeTroh?” Pete flicks the burning bud off the tip of Joe’s blunt. The ember rolls to the wood floor, ashes scattering in the breeze. Joe gives a girlish sort of laugh and takes another hit.

“Gets the creative juices flowing,” he says as he exhales, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his mouth. Pete thinks he’s right because, even though he can never relive it, he wishes he could have that smoke and Joe and everything it stands for on film forever.

“You’re a chef, Troh,” Frank (who Pete hadn’t even seen) says from the floor. “The fuck ‘creative juices’ do you need?” He’s squinting one eye against the sun, propped on his elbows on the deck. His legs are spread in a lazy ‘v’, the holes in the knees of his jeans frayed and stark against his skin. Pete pulls his camera from its bag, turns it on. He’s snapping a photo before Frank realizes what’s going on. The advance dial feels sharp under the pad of Pete’s thumb as he turns it. Frank grins for his second photo. Pete wishes, for a fleeting moment, that he used digital. He’d like to see them now.

“You’re wrecking my chances with the fashion chick,” Joe says to Pete, swallowing down smoke like he’s done it his whole life- which he kind of has, but whatever. Pete snorts and aims his camera at the girl Joe’s been eying. She’s pretty in an average way. Blonde and tall. Curvy hips and too much make-up. Pete twists the lens on his camera carefully to zoom in on her. The wind blows at the girl’s dress as Pete’s clicking the shutter. It’ll blur. Look like a ghost in black and white.

“Seen better, seen worse,” is what Pete says, even though he’s lost in thoughts about summer and dying and living in a moment forever, forever, forever. They’re all theoretical, but Pete gets off on living inside his own head, so it’s okay. Joe shoves at his back half-heartedly.

“Like Mikey Way is so much better,” he says. He cackles when Pete whips around. Frank, the douchebag, is nearly doubled over in peals of laughter. Pete kicks his thigh meanly.

“I’ll have you know Mikeyway is the most magnificent being to walk this earth. The whole damn earth, you hear me?” He takes Joe’s weed, much to Joe’s dismay, and takes a hit. It burns, and he really does hate the taste, but the look on Joe’s face makes the jerk in him smile.

“Your mouth has touched dicks, man,” Joe whines. “Keep it off my shit.” Frank seems to have to be trouble breathing, rolling around on the ground like he is. His hands are clutching his stomach like he’s going to hurl. Pete hopes he does out of spite.

“You’re just jealous my mouth hasn’t been on your dick.” Pete ashes the blunt and hands it back. “Yeah, so, I had a point coming over here. We still on for tonight?” Joe nods sagely, his eyes slitting.

“Most definitely,” he answers and grins. Dicky mouth or no, he offers the blunt to Pete again. Pete laughs and takes it.

---

Pete loves working in the studio. He loves the control it gives him over everything. Loves the freedom. It’s easy to lose himself in the lights and the model and his message without the distractions of the outside of the world.

Pete’s setting up a boom when Gabe walks in, a box under his arm. Pete can see the flicker of the Cobra’s tongue through one of the air holes. He waves Gabe over before tossing the sandbag in his hand over the arm of the boom. It catches easily, and the softbox at the other end rockets up.

“Get naked, “ Pete says over his shoulder as he plugs in his power cables. Gabe laughs.

“What, no dinner? No movie?” He pulls off his hat- something pink and green and nauseatingly bright- and shirt before joining Pete by the background set-up. “So, what’s this one?” Gabe has modeled for Pete a good twenty times already. Pete thinks of him as a favorite.

“Animal magnetism,” Pete says. He’s fixing the floor lights with steady, even movements. He can hear Gabe’s eyes roll. “Don’t knock it, man. I have a plan. A plan, motherfucker.”

“Give it your best, Wentz.” Gabe pushes his jeans down and steps out of them, unashamed. “I want a cool moniker if these end up in the nudie mags, though.”

“No worries. I’ll keep them in my private collection.” Pete winks at him, grabbing his camera from the table. He waves it at the backdrop absently. “Lay down. Get comfy.”

Gabe is Pete’s favorite model for a reason. He lays out on his side, stretched and comfortable, even on the concrete floor. The backdrop crinkles and cracks as Gabe shifts on it, the paper bending under him. Gabe’s arms and legs are long and fit, and the curve of his waist makes a soft shadow on the floor behind him. It’s the line Pete loves: the angles of bent elbow, the spiral of hair against skin, the sweep of empty space between ribcage and hip. The geography of the human body in all its peaks and valleys.

The snake freaks Pete out. He’s not going to lie about it The Cobra flicks its tongue at Pete’s hand when Pete opens his box. If Pete shudders a little, it’s just because he watched Anaconda too many times as a kid. The Cobra, which is actually a boa constrictor of freaky proportions, lifts its head and curls around Pete’s wrist when it’s offered. Pete grimaces at the slick feel of its scales. Carefully, he lifts the rest of the snake with his camera-holding hand and carries it to the set.

The Cobra transfers itself slowly from Pete’s arm to Gabe’s leg. It wriggles its way around Gabe’s calf, half as thick and twice as long. There’s a struggle to move the snake’s body in the way Pete wants it, and Pete’s about ready to give in when-

“Come to daddy,” Gabe coos. The snake- slimy, reptilian bastard- slithers up between Gabe’s thighs, over his hip, and curls its head onto Gabe’s shoulder. Pete is impressed. “Daddy loves you. Yes he does.”

“That is seriously creepy, dude,” Pete says softly as he backs away. He raises his camera and looks through the viewfinder. Gabe flashes him a peace sign before sliding into Model Face. The first time he’d modeled, it had taken Pete thirty minutes of explaining that, no, Zoolander was not a good role model. “Like that, man. Don’t move.”

The strobes pop as Pete presses the shutter, filling the room with too-bright light. The snake lifts its head, tongue flicking. The tip of it touches Gabe’s earlobe as Pete taps the shutter again. So far, so good. He pops the strobes again and grins behind his camera. His set is going to kick so much ass.

---

The best part of being roommates with an RA? Invites to the most badass dorm parties. This one’s on the sixth floor, three floors up from his own room. Pete’s dressed to impress; tiny yellow polo, a pair of his sister’s old jeans. Obnoxiously orange sneakers. He let the girl in his portraiture class do his eyeliner. He’d aborted his flirting pretty early; the chick’s girlfriend’s as bull-dyke as they come, and Pete’s a scrawny motherfucker. His plans are pretty well set, and he doesn’t have class for three days.

The times, they will be rocking.

Someone’s jammed open the lock on 6B so the door won’t latch. There’s an overflow of people from the dorm (which had once been an apartment, before the school had bought the building out) into the hall. Music blares from inside, the bassline like a heartbeat inside his eardrums. A hand holds out a red plastic cup and, ignoring every PSA on date rape he’s ever seen, Pete takes it and knocks back a drink before stepping inside.

Andy’s sitting on the couch, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a pretty brunette. Her eyebrows are drawn on, lips painted too small. The corner of her mouth, still soft pink, untouched by her red lipstick, is quirked. Andy waves a hand in Pete’s direction before going back into his discussion. Pete sidesteps the couch. Andy is the not-so-Silent Bob to his Jay but, no. Just. He’s not up for existentialist bullshit tonight.

“JoeTroh,” Pete calls to the smoky corner of the apartment. He sighs. His friends are such clichés. A hand pops up. Pete flops onto the nearest chair, ignoring the indignant squawk from the girl he lands on, and makes a grab-hand at Joe’s bowl.

“You have shitty manners, dude,” Joe says. His eyes are a little red around the edges. There’s a fairly large chance that he started up before the party did. Pete grins and offers up the palms of his hands in lieu of an explanation. “Yeah, so, what were we talking about?” It’s then that Pete sees the new addition to Joe’s usual gang.

The face is familiar. Round and chubby cheeked. The boy’s mouth is pink, pink, pink and his eyes are a little too wide. He looks too young to be at the party, and Pete is about to say as much when he recognizes the ugly hat and red hair.

“You,” Pete says, pointing a finger at the boy’s face. “Kamilla’s class, right? Pat? Or something?” Alright, fine, he’s sort of shit at remembering names. His head can only hold so much shit at a time. The boy’s smile drops, and his glare is more bunny-cute than menacing.

“Patrick,” he says. “My name is Patrick.” Pete shrugs a shoulder. He gets it. It trips him out when people call him Peter. That’s his father’s name, not his. The scowl leaves Patrick’s face, and he looks up at Joe, presumably to carry on their conversation. It’s too late, though. Joe’s talking animatedly to the girl Pete’s sitting on about gerbils. Pete is pretty sure he doesn’t want to be part of it. Instead, he grins at Patrick and offers him his cup. Patrick shakes his head. “Not old enough,” he offers at Pete’s raised eyebrow. Pete laughs, a loud bray that gets him a few weird looks. A blush creeps over Patrick’s cheeks and the bunny-scowl returns for an encore.

“Dude, sorry,” Pete chokes out around his laughter. “Seriously, though? How old are you, and why the fuck do you think that means anything here?”

“I’m seventeen, asshole, and I don’t want to get charged with underage drinking if this place gets busted.” Patrick glares at him, nose wrinkling. Pete is never, ever going to think of him in a non-furry pet way. Also? He’s pretty sure he’s laughing hard enough to shake the tits of the girl he’s sitting on. From the creepy smile Joe’s wearing, Pete can see his hysterics are not going unappreciated.

“Dude, dude, seriously?” Pete wipes at his cheek with the inside of a wrist. He catches his breath and lets out a final little snort. “Who the hell even thinks like that, dude?”

“Say dude one more time,” Patrick says through grit teeth. “I dare you.” Pete has never declined a dare. Prides himself on that, even.

“Du-ow, you little shit.” Pete clutches his shin, dropping his cup. Beer splashes onto the carpet, and there’s a cry of party foul somewhere in the room. Pete is too busy sticking his lip out and tending to his will-be-bruised-in-the-morning leg to notice which inebriated asshole is the source of it. Patrick gives him a tight-lipped smile, dragging his foot back slowly. His sneaker’s purple, and if Pete wasn’t in pain, he’d compliment him on them. Instead, he tries to focus on how Patrick’s toes are probably killing him from the impact. “Uncool.”

“Not my issue.” Patrick stands and heads toward the DJ. Pete, in weak retaliation, watches his ass sway in his jeans. It doesn’t take the sting away, but distraction is as good as any medicine, right? Then, there’s a pair of familiar glasses floating in the crowd. Pete scrambles to his feet, kisses his makeshift chair’s cheek (and Joe’s, too, just to be obnoxious), and rushes across the room.

“Mikeyway!” He tosses an arm around Mikey’s waist and bumps their hips together. Mikey gives him a little half-smile. He lifts his cup into the air, and, just as Pete thinks he’s going to get an alcohol shower, a girl pushes through the crowd toward them. Pete’s stomach falls out. Things could get ugly, fast.

“Hey, Pete,” Mikey says, casually untangling himself from Pete’s tightened hold. “Have you met Alicia? She’s video.” Oh, Pete is familiar with Alicia and her videos, thank you very fucking much. Alicia leers at Pete before snuggling in under Mikey’s arm. Pete tries not to pull her hair. He’s a man, not a bitch (but, damn it all, those girls really have a good thing going there).

“Hey, honey,” Alicia says against Mikey’s cheek. Her lipstick leaves a little smear against the cut of his jaw, jumping over his stubble. Pete’s stomach is twisting unpleasantly, and his heart is somewhere near his kidneys. Mikey smiles (big, real) at her.

“I’m gonna- Yeah. Bye.” Pete turns on his heel and heads toward the kegs. He needs beer. Lots and lots of beer.

---

Pete loves Andy. And Joe. And Gabe. And he even loves Amanda, Andy’s weird girl. But mostly? He loves the cold, solid toilet bowl under his cheek. His skin feels hot, hot, hot, and he had a gin and tonic after nine (ten?) beers like the dumbass he is. The insides of his eyes are burning like he’s been staring at the sun, and he can taste the Doritos he ate for lunch. The world has, finally, stopped spinning too fast, and the dizziness has worked its way down to a dull roar in his temples.

Pete is reminded, once again, why Andy is edge. He thinks maybe he’ll take it up, too, just to escape the puking. Then he wonders what made Andy decide to do it. Did he puke a lot, too? Pete laughs a little hysterically at the image of Andy Hurley trashed. He’s about three seconds from upchucking again when the door pops open.

“Jesus, it would be you.”

Pete looks up at the intruder through blurry eyes. Red hair. Ass ugly hat. Patrick, come to save him from his own plague of snakes. Pete cackles again and tries to hold onto the remainder of his organs. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Come to take me home, Pattycakes?” Pete asks with slack lips. Patrick’s left eye twitches.

“No, I came to take a piss.” Patrick grabs Pete under the armpits and hauls. Pete thinks briefly something along the lines of stronger than the eye, and, then, the floor of the hallway punches his shoulder. The bathroom door closes. Pete frowns. He thinks about crawling back in, but Andy’s walking by, so he just latches on and lets himself be dragged to the door. One of his anklets is missing.

“I’m drunk,” Pete tells him, very serious. Andy shakes his head, an annoyed grin at the edges of his mouth. He bends and helps Pete to his feet.

“You’re useless, man,” he says. Pete presses a wet, sloppy kiss against Andy’s cheek. Andy has the grace to not wipe at his face.

The trip to thier room is a blur. Pete throws up once and has a mini-panic attack in the elevator. It feels like they’re falling, going to crash through the bottom of the building and keep going down. When they reach their door, he won’t let go of Andy’s shoulders long enough for him to unlock it, and Andy has to fend him off with baby slaps. Pete crawls into bed, clothes and shoes on, and passes out.

---

Pete hates Andy. And Joe. And Gabe. And alcohol. And- no, he still loves Andy’s girl. She brought him aspirin and water when her douchey boyfriend decided to start ‘practicing’ on his kit at some ungodly hour of the afternoon. Pete is positive his head is going to explode all over the walls, and he really doesn’t want to clean brain out of the sheets. Joe is sitting on the couch in the living room/kitchen area, laughing at something inane on TV. Pete throws a book at him with surprising accuracy.

“You need anything?” Amanda asks. She smoothes a hand, cool and tender, over Pete’s forehead.

“Just your hand in marriage,” Pete responds. His throat is dry, and his mouth tastes of dead cat. He shudders.

“I’m not ready for that kind of commitment,” Amanda says. Her lipstick has worn off, and so have her eyebrows (this is immensely creepy, but Pete’s having a moment and chooses to ignore it). Amanda taps one finger on the tip of Pete’s nose before standing. She closes the bedroom door behind her like the saint that she is.

It takes an hour or so for Pete to finally roll out of bed. He dresses and heads for the bathroom. Joe’s snoring on one side of the couch, and Andy and Amanda are curled up on the other. Amanda, who has drawn her eyebrows back on, but left the lipstick off, gives Pete a smile before stealthily grabbing the remote from Joe’s limp hand.

After the morning clean-up and teeth brushing, Pete grabs his darkroom stuff and heads to the school. He’s already inside the review room when he realizes he’s forgotten his iPod in his room. Before his mood is too soured, though, he catches sight of the print pinned to the corkboard. It’s the final version of the field and his brother (titled Life Is Not About Fighting Fair). And, so, maybe he left this one on purpose, just to see if he’d gotten his anonymous critic’s approval.

There are two post-its on the back this time, lined up neatly side-by-side. One is yellow. The other is pink. Pete peels them off carefully, squinting at the loopy, messy handwriting.

This looks so much better now. I really like the location. Good scouting Your eye for light is-

amazing. Maybe you should work on your in-camera composition? So you don’t have to crop next time?

PS

Pete’s smiling, but his eyebrows tuck in confusion. He glances at the ground for a fallen note, but finds none. He’s about to pull his print down, but pauses. Looks at his book of negatives. Grins. He has a plan.

---

Pete’s tied of looking at Gabe’s goofy ass face. The negatives came out better than Pete had hoped, and he’s thrilled about getting a final print out. What he’s not thrilled about? Burning in Gabe’s white ass so it won’t blind any potential viewers.

Pete’s got a piece of cardboard out, the curve of Gabe’s ass and thighs traced onto it. He wields his child safe scissors, grim line of concentration across his face. The cardboard seems indifferent to Pete’s struggle. Carefully, Pete cuts the appropriate holes out, careful not to nick anything important. He flips the cardboard twice, checking out his handiwork, and heads back into the darkroom.

Pete presses the timer on his enlarger and waits the ten point nine seconds for the light to die. Then, he lines up the cardboard over his blank sheet of paper and hits the button again. He shakes the cutout diligently for the three extra seconds. When the light flicks off again, Pete pulls his paper and heads to the sinks.

---

The print is gorgeous. Gabe’s arms and legs look strong; the curves of his shoulder and knee are three-dimensional. The light is soft and accents the angles of his cheeks, the sharp line of his nose and jaw. The Cobra’s tongue is long and slender, and there’s the tiniest blur at the tip of it. The background is white and stark, contrasty to Gabe’s soft, even tones.

Pete is proud.

He tacks it up himself and pulls out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. There’s an aborted sketch of an idea in the margin. Pete draws an ‘x’ over it with sharpie before scrawling down his note.

what do you think about this one?
leave me some of your stuff
i want in on your head

Pete carefully tapes the note to the bottom of his print, gathers his things, and leaves the room.

Things are great until he gets upstairs to the student lounge. He’s yawning (getting old), and his stomach is growling loud enough to be heard. There’s twelve steps between him and turkey sub when he sees them. His stomach growls again.

Mikey’s sitting at one of the tables with Frank. They’re looking over a set of storyboards- Frank’s, a body study- laughing at Frank’s atrocious drawing skills. Alicia is perched on Mikey’s lap, t-shirt riding up over her back as she leans in to play with Mikey’s hair. Pete shoves down the sick in his throat. Mikey got himself a girlfriend. So what? Who cares? Not him. Uh-uh. No way.

Oh, fuck it. He’s so jealous it burns.

---

Pete tosses his mic to the side and scrubs his hands over his face. He is so sick of playing this douchebag, hardcore bullshit. Behind his kit, Andy puts his sticks down. Chris throws up his hands and lets his bass fall to the floor. It crashes with a mess of reverb, and all of them scramble to cover their ears.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Adam yells over the noise.

“This is a shitty band, and a shitty scene, and I’m fucking sick of this bullshit!” Pete yanks the cord from Chris’ amp, silencing the feedback. He stares down his friends (his bandmates, his brothers) and clenches his fists.

“Then quit.” Adam’s knuckles are white around the neck of his guitar. Pete wants to punch him; wants to get in his face and scream. He kicks the amp nearest him instead and heads for the door.

When he’s in the hall, he hears the soft tones of Andy’s voice, knows he’s telling them why he’s so pissed. He shakes his head and walks home.

---

On Monday, Pete sits next to Patrick, much to the boy’s obvious dismay. It takes more will power than Pete has not to look back at Mikey. Mikey doesn’t even notice. Pete tells himself it doesn’t sting and turns to Patrick. Patrick seems to be making it a point to ignore him.

“Miss me?” Pete asks, snatching Patrick’s cap. This one is a grey knit affair, with a tiny little bill that’s seen better days. Patrick’s hand flies up after it, and Pete can tell he’s fighting off a battle cry. This is hilarious and Pete holds the hat up higher, snickering.

“Give it back, you asshole.” Patrick punches him in the shoulder. Pete drops the hat and clutches at his new injury. Patrick grabs the cap up and yanks it down over his head, his hair wild under it. He swings his leg back to smash his heel into Pete’s shin. Pete is somewhat thankful that the bruise he got on Friday night is on the other leg.

“This abuse shit’s got to stop,” Pete whines, twanging his voice up. It grates against his own ears. “Serious, I’ll have to report domestic violence, and then we’ll have to separate. Think about the kids, man. The kids.”

“Why are you even talking to me?” Patrick hisses as Kamilla walks into the room.

“Because you’re shiny and new.” It’s not entirely a lie. Pete is a socialite. He loves people, and Patrick is a fiery little ball of pretty. Also? He’s not Mikeyway. It’s pretty awesome. Patrick opens his mouth to say something, but Kamilla starts her lecture before he gets the chance.

“Sally Mann is considered to be very controversial,” Kamilla says, tapping her folders on her desk. “She published her own book of photographs of her children. Three girls, one boy. Ages four to twelve, taken over several years. Some of the images are of the children playing nude.” She runs a few projections of Mann’s images across the board before turning back to them. “What do you guys think?”

“She wasn’t making porn,” Mikey says from the back. Pete clenches his fists. “It was just pictures of kids playing.”

“Good, good,” Kamilla replies, smiling. “Anyone else?”

“It’s uncomfortable, though,” a girl near the front pipes up.

“It shouldn’t be, though,” a boy in the back says. “They’re her kids. They’re just being kids, y’know?”

“But they’re half-naked in a lot of the photos-”

“And, like, ten. Dudes run around shirtless all the time-

“But they’re little girls-“

“Who won’t have tits for six years,” the boy finishes triumphantly. “It’s not porn.” The back of Pete’s neck tingles, and he knows Mikey’s nodding in agreement. The class says nothing else, and Kamilla takes that as her cue to project another image onto the screen. It’s beautiful, is what Pete thinks. He leans in closer to take a look.

The image is of three little girls in front of a wall of vines. The little girl in the middle is topless, her pale, tender skin glowing in the light, outshining her sisters. Her hair is blonde. Theirs is soft browns. She’s wearing a necklace of pearls and a pair of earrings as big as her button nose. The photo is in black and white, but the lipstick on her mouth is blatant, shiny and well done. She’s got a hip cocked to the side, shoulders towards the camera. A little model in an imaginary fashion spread. The two other girls are in little dresses, checks and flowers, rubbing sleepy eyes and looking away.

“This is Jessie at Age Five. What do you think, guys? Any opinions?” Kamilla asks. Pete’s hand shoots up. “Pete?”

“She set it up to talk about the importance of childhood, and how kids are growing up too fast. Maybe to talk about image issues starting early? Look at the middle girl’s face. It looks like she went straight from six to twenty. Mann’s talking about how precious and fleeting childhood is, about how stereotypes and influences start up way too soon.” He frowns for a second. “It’s sad.” There a soft snort on his left. Pete turns his head to look.

“It’s a picture of her little girl playing dress up,” Patrick says matter-of-factly. “Little girls do that. It’s just a photo documenting her growing up, not some giant metaphor for youth and image and stereotypes.”

“I think this goes deeper than all that. I mean, yeah, sure, she was playing, but look at her, and look at them. There’s a story, y’know?” Pete leans in closer, measuring Patrick’s reaction. “It’s all about the message and the change. Without a message, it’s nothing.” Pete flaps a hand, unable to find the words. “It’s, it’s like music. You make it to mean something.”

“Photos and music can be there just to be pretty,” Patrick says fiercely. His jaw is clenched, and there’s something Pete’s not catching. Pete looks at him closer, trying to figure it out. Patrick lets out a breath, unclenching his fists. “There doesn’t have to be anything deeper than that.”

“Both of you have valid points,” Kamilla interrupts. Pete sees Patrick’s fingers twitching, and he’s willing to bet that Patrick’s the kind to get into fights about his passions. This is… intensely fascinating. “Jeremiah, do you have something to add?”

Pete zones for the rest of class, stealing glances at Patrick from the corner of his eye.

When class ends, Pete heads straight to Starbucks. He needs some caffeinated goodness, and nothing will stand between him and this goal. He’s trying not to think about Mikey and their not-date last Monday. It’s hard in a way Pete’s not used to. In an effort to separate himself from it, he orders tea. It’s green and tastes weird and doesn’t have nearly enough caffeine. Pete takes this in stride. He will not angst over Mikeyway and the love they could have had (okay, so, he will totally angst, but not in public, okay? He’s got some shred of dignity left).

Between his first cup of tea and his decision that no bad memory is worth denying himself his beloved coffee, a familiar face pops up behind the counter. The camouflage hat (Seriously? Camouflage?) has been replaced by a Starbucks cap, and the flannel shirt is covered by an apron, but it is definitely Patrick standing by the frappuccino machine, backpack still dangling off one shoulder. Pete’s mood is inexplicably raised.

“Oh, god,” Patrick groans and his shoulders visibly slump when Pete walks up to the counter. Pete winks at him and presses a finger to his lips, contemplating his order. He always gets the same thing. It’s tradition. Tasty tradition. Sweet, sugary, tasty tradition. The barista begins taking her cash drawer out, asking Pete if he could just wait just one sec for shift change. Pete is nothing if not patient. (Shut up. He totally has patience.)

“Hey there, Pattycakes,” he says when Patrick slides a cash drawer in. It jangles merrily as he shuts it. “Didn’t know you work here.”

“It’s my first week,” Patrick says tersely. “Can I take your order?” His lips go a bit white, pressed tight together. There’s a halfway hidden pair of earbuds curled around the neckstrap of his apron, white and scuffed. Red straggles of hair curl around his round little cheeks, and there’s the beginnings of a pretty fierce pair of sideburns along his jaw. He’s cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. Pete grins at him. Patrick closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. “Can I take your order,” he repeats.

“I’ll take a venti mint chocolate frappuccino, an apple muffin, and your phone number.” Pete grins wider and raises his eyebrows. A vein pulses at Patrick’s temple. Pete’s waiting for his eye to start twitching again. It doesn’t. Patrick turns, grabs a muffin out of the case, and goes to make Pete’s coffee. His shoulders are rigid. Pete wonders if it would be taking things too far to offer a massage.

“Eight twenty-six.” Patrick places the coffee on the counter next to the muffins. He holds his hand out. Pete takes it and tugs. Patrick’s eyes go wide as he falls forward, just missing the cup. Pete presses their cheeks together. Patrick’s skin is cool and soft, and Pete thinks he could spend time getting to know it.

“Where’s your number?” He asks against the soft curls of Patrick’s sideburns. The punch to his chest is expected (and totally worth it). Pete laughs, pays the bill, and tosses the change into the tip jar. “See ya, Pattycakes.”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick huffs. Pete cackles and heads back to his table. He’s got a sudden urge to call Gabe and brag. (Their battle for creepiest come on is an ongoing one. Gabe is currently winning, but Pete hasn’t pulled out all the stops yet.)

He settles down at the table and pulls out his Color Theory homework. It’s boring, and Pete’s never been into color, anyway. He prefers the solidarity of black and white. The comfort of uniformity. Also? He can’t paint to save his life. He is so going to fail this class. He’s staring forlornly at his sketch and paints when someone slides into the seat across from him.

“Hey.”

Pete’s arms tighten. His tube of periwinkle paint slips from his hands and clatters onto the table, leaving a smear of blue over the black tabletop. He looks up slowly, hoping that he can stall long enough to trick himself into being alright with coming face to face with-

“Hey, Mikeyway,” he says tensely. Mikey’s got a cap pulled on over his messy hair, and his glasses are crooked on his nose. Pete’s chest aches a little. It’s so ridiculous. It’s not like they dated (not that Pete hadn’t tried like hell). But, still, Pete is used to getting what he wants, and he wants Mikey like a fat kid wants calories. It’s totally unfair.

“Travis’ll do a quarter’s worth of Color Theory homework for a pound of weed,” Mikey says, looking at Pete’s sad little sketch. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.” Pete nods, awkward. His throat closes up when Alicia sits in the empty seat next to Mikey, two cups of coffee in her hands. Mikey takes them with a little smile. Pete wants to punch him for no reason at all.

“Is that a cat?” Alicia turns her head to the side, eying Pete’s sketchbook. Pete covers it with a hand, fingers splaying out to hide the drawing from further scrutiny.

“It’s a unicorn,” he says defensively. “And remember that drawing of the dog you did last quarter? Yeah. You have no room to talk.” He wants to say bitch so incredibly badly, but can’t. She hasn’t done anything wrong (except show an entire party a video of them having bad, drunk sex and, oh, steal his hardcore crush right from under him), and, therefore, is put into a bubble of reluctant protection. He manages to keep his tongue in check, but thinks the word to himself. Loudly. Alicia laughs.

“Drawing’s for the brother-in-law,” she says, wrapping her pinky around Mikey’s. Pete checks for rings and is pleased to find none. “I’m just here for the good looks.”

“Right. Speaking of good looks, I’m gonna go hit on the barista.” Pete gathers his things and shoves them roughly into his bag. “Bye now.”

“Pete.” Mikey catches Pete’s arm as he’s going by. Pete can feel the press of his fingers through the sleeve of his hoodie, hot like fire pokers. “There’s a show Friday. Want to come?”

“Nah. Plans.” Pete shrugs away from him. “Busy dude and all.” He heads towards the counter, intent on making good on his words. Patrick flinches when Pete stops in front of him. It’s endearing for no reason other than Pete’s masochistic streak. “Hi, I’m recovering from a badly ended crush. Please pretend to find me incredibly charming.”

“If I ask why you’re coming to me for this, will I get a retarded answer?” Patrick adjusts his hat, frowning a little.

“Probably. But I’ll buy you dinner if you laugh at the joke I’m not telling.” Pete gives his best charming smile, and Patrick softens. Smiles back, even,

“Skip on dinner. Buy me music,” he says.

“A man after my own heart,” Pete replies. “You name it, you got it. Now laugh.” Patrick does, and it’s more real than Pete had been expecting, rich and smooth. “That-a boy.”

“I want Prince’s Purple Rain on vinyl,” Patrick says, lips still turned up. Pete offers him a two-fingered salute.

“Your taste in music is Wentz approved.” Pete looks over his shoulder at Mikey and Alicia. Their heads are close together, noses touching. Pete’s stomach flips a little. He looks back at Patrick and thinks he sees a flash of disappointment. “Hey, I gotta run. Catch you Monday?” Patrick nods but doesn’t say anything.

---

Part Two

coricomile @ 2009-10-10T23:08:00

2009-10-08T03:11:35Z

Pete is on a mission. He’s taking Mikey’s suggestion and seeking Travis out in hopes of passing Color Theory without finding himself in paint hell. While this task should be ridiculously easy, it’s turning out harder than Pete had planned on. Travis, it seems, has turned off his phone. This is so not on.

So far, Pete has checked Travis’ dorm, the student lounge, and seven art labs. His list of Travis-friendly places is dwindling. He’s opening the door to art lab number eight when a hand claps down on his shoulder. Pete jumps, flailing his arms to bat away the offender. There’s a laugh, high and familiar.

“Hey, Amanda,” Pete says, sheepish. He rubs at the back of his neck and grins.

“Hey there, sunshine. You looking for something?” Amanda’s wearing a fluffy bathrobe. It’s folded over her chest, and she’s holding it closed with one hand. The untied belt hangs down to her bare thighs (which have soft, light brown hair on them. Pete… respects her bravery), and her hair is piled in a messy bun on the top of her head. A few long, loose strands have worked free, falling against the curve of her neck. There’s a purple-red hicky half hidden behind a stone necklace. Pete makes a note to pat Hurley on the back.

“Travis McCoy. Tall. Big hair.” Pete frames his hands around his head in poor imitation of Travis’ afro. “Smells like weed more often than not?”

“You’re lucky. He’s in the life drawing workshop.” Amanda nods her head down the hall. “You want to try?” Pete laughs.

“Yeah, no. I think it’s better if I don’t,” he replies. Amanda shrugs and leads the way. She pushes the door to seven thirty-eight open and steps inside.

There’s a stool set up on a platform in the front of the room. Five kids are sat up at easels in a semi-circle around it, pencils at the ready. Travis is sitting in the middle, nodding along the music on his iPod. He raises a hand at Pete when Pete closes the door behind himself. Pete pulls a stool up behind him.

Amanda pushes the robe off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor beside the pedestal. She’s slender, her hips and belly round and full. Womanly. She sits on the stool and arranges herself artfully. There’s a little smile across her bare lips, sweet and indulgent. Pete really needs to pat Hurley on the back.

“Never took you for the drawing type,” Travis says as he starts sketching. His strokes are sure and even, small jerks of the wrist and fingers. His eyes are trained on the lines of Amanda’s shoulders and sides, concentrated.

“Yeah, no.” Pete taps a finger on his knee, looking between Amanda and Travis’ canvas. “That’s why I came to see you, actually.” Travis makes a vaguely interested sound, and Pete takes that as a blessing to continue. “Someone told me you’re up for a trade?”

“One pound of bud, one quarter’s worth of art.” Travis holds up his thumb, turning it to match the angle of Amanda’s calf. Pete wasn’t aware that people outside of movies actually did that.

“What’s that for, anyway?” he asks, gesturing at Travis’ raised hand.

“Proportion,” Travis answers absently. “So, what class am I acing for you?” It’s not smug, just true. Travis is the best artist Pete knows, and that list isn’t exactly short. (Hello? Art school.)

“Color Theory.” Pete leans in closer to examine the lines making up the curve of knees. He nods in approval.

“Dude, that is such a blow off class.” Travis switches pencils and starts on the facial features. Amanda’s still smiling, but it’s a little uncomfortable now. Pete doesn’t take her for the sit-still kind of gal. “Put your syllabus in my bag and have the pot by Wednesday.” Pete does as he’s told and tucks his packet into the black, bulky backpack at Travis’ feet. He scribbles his name on the top of it at the last second, just in case.

“Any preference?” he asks as he stands. Travis shrugs. “See ya, then.”

“Yeah,” he mutters back, lost in the nuances of shading. Pete takes a last look at the canvas. It’s beautiful in the way only pencil drawings can be. There’s a spark of jealousy, faint and foreign, somewhere in Pete’s chest. It fades by time he hits the door.

Pete catches an elevator down to the basement. He’s eager to see if his critic has left any notes. Sure enough, there’s a purple post-it note stuck to the bottom edge of his print. It doesn’t say anything on it, this time, but has a green arrow drawn on it, instead. It points down at a yellow folder sitting on the desk. There’s a scrawl at the top, and if Pete squints he can see that is says Fall Quarter. Pete slides into the desk chair -it’s the rolly kind, and he has to force himself not to take an impromptu trip around the room- and opens the folder. There are three eight by tens inside on plastic-coat paper. A piece of notebook paper is folded and taped to the back edge of the folder.

This is my last project. It’s about a boy, and about being lost, and about figuring out what being you means. This isn’t the whole set, but it’s enough for you to find a story, whatever you want it to be. I don’t do artist statements, so you’ll have to figure out what it means on your own.

PS

PS- Gabe Saporta is the biggest douchebag on the planet. I can’t comment on your photo because his stupid face makes me cringe.

Sorry.

Pete laughs and folds it again. He pulls the prints out and thumbs through them. They’re filled with soft, muted colors, dreary and sad. There’s only one subject, and his body looks familiar, but his face is covered by a long-nosed gasmask. Pete doesn’t recognize the surrounding, and he wonders if the images were taken in Chicago at all.

The first one is a close-up. The mask is beaten-up, grey and faded. There are cracks on the eyes, chips in the paint of the muzzle. Black hair falls across the top of the mask, hiding the crease where it meets the boy’s face. The light across the face catches the texture of the leather, finds all the dips and bumps and imperfections. It’s creepy and sad and curious. Pete touches a fingertip to the lines of the big, round, plastic eye, tracing the curve of it before tucking the print to the back of the stack.

The second photo is in front of a wrecked building. It looks like it’s been cut in half for display, the floors and ceilings still intact, even without the rest of themselves. The boy sits on the second story, legs dangling precariously off the stone. Bars of twisted, wrecked iron protrude from the concrete, rusty brown and black. The boy is staring past the camera, his mask askew. There’s a flash of tattoo on his arm, just visible under the sleeve of his faded red hoodie. Pete stares at it, trying to clue in on the model. It’s too small, though, and he gives up after a while.

The last print is in a park. The trees are mostly bare, their remaining leaves crackly reds and oranges. The gnarled, twisted branches make a bridge in the sky, a tunnel of bark and dead foliage. The light at the end of it is from the grey sky. The boy stands at the far end, back to the camera. His arms are at his sides, loose and free. The mask dangles from the fingertips of his right hand, close to falling straight off. His face is lifted to the sky.

Pete stares at the last image for a long while. It makes his chest ache a little, and he’s not sure if it’s with hope or with sadness. He tucks the photos carefully back into the folder before pulling out his notebook.

the boy is alone. he is afraid because theres no one to love him and tell him that its okay to breathe. he was abandoned because he never spoke and he eventually lost his voice. no one noticed when he went missing because they didnt notice he was ever there in the first place. he wants to go home. he misses music and other peoples voices but its too late because all thats left now are the trees.

Pete folds the note and tucks it into the pocket of the folder. He takes his print down and puts it into his portfolio with the rest. He doesn’t have anything new to leave, and he’s not in the mood to print. Instead, he tears a poem from his notebook and tapes it to the outside cover of the folder. He wonders if his critic is a fan of poetry, too.

---

“Pattycakes, I missed you.” Pete bats his eyelashes at Patrick over the counter. It’s Wednesday and he has Advanced Studio Techniques in two hours. He also has to find Iero to buy Travis’ pot. These, of course, are both important endeavors, but the only thing that’s going to get him through either one is sweet, sweet coffee. Fucking with Patrick is just a bonus.

“Do you have radar or something?” Patrick asks, fingers drumming a steady beat on the counter.

“I’m a stalker, sweets. Comes with the Wentz package.” Pete grins. Patrick rubs the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger, eyes closed.

“That’s nice,” he says. “Can I take your order now?”

“Venti mint chocolate frappuchino.” Pete pulls out his wallet and fishes out a ten. “If I tip well, will you make it with an extra dose of love?”

“If by ‘extra dose of love’ you mean ‘less spit’, you’ve got a deal.” Patrick grabs an empty cup and heads toward the frappuchino machine.

“Baby, I’ll swap spit with you anytime you want.” Pete waggles his eyebrows and flicks his tongue across his lower lip. A faint blush crawls across Patrick’s cheeks. It’s a good look on him. Patrick shoves the coffee across the counter and snatches Pete’s ten.

“Have a nice day,” he says tightly as he hands the change back.

“You too, Pattycakes,” Pete says over his shoulder as he heads towards the door.

He finds Iero huffing in the spray room. Frank’s bent over one of the desks, head hidden from the cameras by the compartment walls. He has a whippit can in one hand and a deflated balloon in the other. Pete tugs on one of his dreadlocks as he slides onto the desk.

“That’s weak, dude,” he says, nodding to the can. Frank shrugs and tucks the end of it into the mouth of the balloon. He presses the top down, and the balloon swells with nitrous.

“My high. You come for my pretty face?” Frank pinches the balloon closed and tosses the can out.

“I came for your stash,” Pete admits. “Like, most of it.” He digs through his bag for his wallet, holding it up in triumph when he frees it from his stack of notebooks.

“How much we talking?” Frank offers the balloon up, shrugging when Pete declines. The balloon lets out a whine as Frank drains it, swallowing down the nitrous like a pro. He tilts in his chair, shaking his head. A giggle, high and childish, breaks free.

“A pound.” Pete reaches out a hand to steady Frank when the younger boy leans too far back on his chair. “You okay, man?” Frank sits up straight suddenly, wobbling.

“I am awesome,” Frank answers. “A pound, man? What the hell kind of party you throwing?”

“Sadly, all of it goes straight to Travie. You want to deliver?” Pete makes a hopeful face and hopes that Frank’s high is a generous one.

“Dude, I charge extra for that shit.”

“I’ll give you Jamia’s number, you creepy little shit,” Pete says fondly. Frank grins and holds out a hand. Pete drops the cash into his palm. Franks pockets it and holds his hand out again. “You’re kind of worse than me.”

“Oh, man, I had to sneak into Mikey’s dresser for you, dude,” Frank says, oblivious to the tightening in Pete’s chest. “You so don’t have room to talk.”

“But I will. It’s my thing. “ Pete scribbles Jamia’s number onto Frank’s forearm and slides off the desk. “People to do, things to see.” Frank waves him off. There’s an awkward moment of money-counting in which Pete is doing his best to not think about the Mikey comment, and then Frank is giving him a thumbs up and he’s good to go.

He suddenly feels like he needs more coffee.

---

Losing his voice was the least of his problems.

Pete touches the back of the post-it, sticking and unsticking his finger to the glue strip. The print it was attached to sits on the desk, sobering and stark.

The kid’s name was Billy. In the photo, he still holds the gas mask in his hands, clutching it to his bare chest. Tattoos creep up his arms like vines, suffocating and binding. His shorts are a subdued red, worn thin and hanging low off his too-narrow hips. The cracks and splits of his ribcage are visible through his thin, jaundiced skin. Dark circles hang from his eyes, punches from invisible fists. His hair is dark, cut to the angle of his jaw, scraggly and unclean. Bruises fall across his chest and hips, blue and purple and washed out. Scars, red and pink and silver by age, curl around his thighs and the insides of his elbows and knees. A victim without a crime.

The off-white porcelain sides of the old, battered tub he’s lying in are cracked and missing chunks of paint. Rust cakes the bronze faucet; mildew hugs the creases between wall tiles. Billy’s eyelashes are a dark smear across the pallor of his cheeks, blending with his smudged eyeliner. His lower lip is split cleanly in the middle, red and swollen. There’s a scab forming, black and thick. Ugly.

he died didnt he? he was the kid that…?

Pete sets the photo down, hand shaking a little. He’s heard about Billy, seen him around a few times, before. He never really paid him that much attention. Didn’t think anything of him. Two quarters ago, after finals, the posters started to go up. The scrawled words of a scared, unnamed author. Then came the graffiti across them, the ‘x’s, the spray painted curses and defamations.

Then, the obituary pasted to lockers, photoless and small. Vicious and reposted again and again.

…this picture’s worth more than a thousand. its this is the stuff that changes lives. the stuff that saves them. you. you have to put this out somewhere. let people know what happens when they lose their voices.

Pete tucks his note under the print and heads to the darkroom. He feels a little sick and is reminded again of why he loves photography. Of how powerful it is. How gut-wrenching and heartbreaking and wonderful.

He spends the next hour printing, going from one negative to the next, restless. His images are coming out all wrong, fuzzy and dull and unimportant. So very, very unimportant.

The photo of Billy is gone when Pete goes back to the review room. So is his note. His critic’s come and gone, only a wall away, without him knowing. There’s a blank CD case lying on the desk instead, a yellow post-it note attached. Green letters spell out for you across it in familiar handwriting. The CD inside is colored in a half rainbow, smears of sharpie markers dried permanent. The poem Pete wrote is folded and taped to the cover.

Pete pops the CD in as soon as he gets back to his room. Andy is sprawled across his bunk, a book held open with one hand. It’s yellow and plain, and Pete already knows it’s Naked Lunch again. He’s about to make a witty comment about straightedge kids and novels about drugs when the music starts up.

It’s a little scratchy, obviously home recorded, but not horribly distorted by it. A guitar is playing, lonely and maybe a little sad, up-tempo and fierce. It’s catchy as it is, the beat easy to get stuck on. Then, the voice comes, and Pete is absorbed. Breathless.

The voice is sweet and full and somewhat familiar. The words are Pete’s, rearranged a little, but filled with the angst and anger he’d been feeling when he’d written it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Andy nodding his head a little to the un-played beat; see his fingers tapping out a non-existent drum line.

Pete plays the song three more times before heading off to class.

---

“I didn’t think you’d really do it,” Patrick says Monday morning when Pete drops the Purple Rain vinyl on his desk. Pete grins at him and twists Patrick’s cap (it’s blue and has I heart Chicago written on it) to the side. Patrick bats his hand away irritably and readjusts it.

“A Pete Wentz promise is golden, dude.” Pete slides into his seat, propping his feet up on Patrick’s lap as soon as he settles in. Patrick raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push them off.

“You’re kind of weird,” Patrick mutters as he pulls out a green sharpie from his bag.

“I fall in love easy, Pattycakes.” Pete bats his eyelashes, smiling wide. Patrick shakes his head and goes about doodling on the whites of Pete’s shoes.

Kamilla is late to class. Pete doesn’t notice that Mikey never shows.

---

Starbucks smells of roasting coffee and baking muffins. The music sucks, but it’s soft and comforting, something folksy and acoustic. Sunlight filters through the tinted windows, dust dancing in the rays. Voices float on the waves of cold air let in by the opening of the front door. Patrick is at the counter, smiling awkwardly at customers, adjusting his hat every time a new one comes up.

Pete pretty much loves Starbucks.

“Dude, give the hat a break,” Pete says, leaning over the counter. He’s been standing in the same spot for an hour (which is longer than he meant, but not time wasted), moving for the occasional customer. After the initial argument, Patrick had given in, listening and, eventually, adding in on Pete’s mostly one-sided conversation.

“It’s new. Like, uncomfortable new.” Patrick pulls it off and sets it straight again, and Pete’s pretty sure that time was just to be obnoxious. “And no one’s forcing you to stay and watch me, y’know.”

“Don’t be petulant,” Pete says, stealing coffee stirrers from the rack. He tosses them at Patrick’s head while Patrick waits on a customer and smiles disarmingly when Patrick glowers at him. “So, hey, there’s a show Friday.” Pete fights back the vague sense of déjà vu and leans in closer. Patrick thumps him on the head. “You want to go?”

“Who’s playing?” He wipes down the spot Pete had been leaning on (as if Pete’s hoodies are anything less than clean. Pete is mildly offended), eying the door.

“Me, actually.” Pete waggles his eyebrows. Patrick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Pete steps aside for a customer, bouncing on his toes until he can take his spot back. “Arma Angelus. Heard of them?”

“That shitty hardcore band?” Patrick ducks Pete’s half-hearted punch, laughing. Pete’s knuckles graze the soft cotton of Patrick’s t-shirt, and the skin tingles a little. His stomach turns a bit. This… is an interesting development.

“You have no appreciation of music, dude,” Pete scoffs. “You coming or not?” There’s no reason for him to be so anxious, but he is. Patrick cocks his head to the side, mock-considering, before grinning.

“Sure, dude.” He laughs at Pete’s ridiculous smile and turns to the frappuchino machine. “On one condition, though,” he says over his shoulder, filling a cup. He sets on the counter in front of Pete. Pete raises his eyebrows. “Let me side stage to photograph.”

“Deal.” Pete wraps a hand around the coffee and takes a sip. It’s his venti mint chocolate frappuchino, sweet and cool. Patrick doesn’t ask for cash. Pete’s never been one to look a gift-horse in the mouth- he’s going to take this freebie and run with it. “You want me to pick you up?”

“Don’t you have to, like, set up and stuff?” Patrick takes another order, collects the money, and turns back to Pete. His eyes are clear behind the lenses of his glasses. They’re wide and bright, and Pete’s chest maybe tightens. Only a little, and he’s pretty set on not thinking about it).

“More stuff for your set, right?” Pete twists Patrick’s cap, cackling at Patrick’s slaps. “So?”

“I live in Shannon Hall,” Patrick says, readjusting his cap again. His cheeks are pink, round and smooth and very, very different from what Pete’s used to looking for. Is he even looking? Pete pats one of them- and it really is as soft as it looks- and picks up his coffee.

“I’ll pick you up around five, Pattycakes,” he says, shouldering his bag. He blows a little kiss (Jesus, he’s turning it up to twelve) before heading out.

He goes straight to the darkroom. As he’s passing through the review room, he notices a note tacked up. There’s nothing on it to say that it’s addressed to him, but he takes it down anyway. The handwriting on it is the same familiar scrawl.

Billy was my friend in high school. We grew up together, y’know? He had a hard time adjusting to college. He was sick all the time, and he was getting depressed, and there was nothing I could do to change it. I took the set to try to help him see what was going on. And. Well. We see how well that worked out. I don’t think I could share these on a large scale. They’re… I don’t know if Billy would want them out that way.

PS

Pete tucks the note into his pocket and grabs for a notebook. He scribbles down his response twice and tears them both up. His words are faltering, and he’s not really used to that. He finally settles and tacks his reply up.

use him to save others.

---

Andy’s tapping his fingers on the driver’s wheel, looking out the window while Pete finishes loading his equipment into the van. Chris and Adam pile in, slap fighting for shotgun. Pete settles in against his speakers, leaning into them. There’s a demo playing in the tape deck, totally off beat and out of tune, but it pumps Pete up. It’s been too long since they’ve played a show (a good show, an honest show) and he is just so. Fucking. Stoked. Also? He may be a little excited to show off to Patrick. And he’s not going to think about that last part.

Except maybe how he totally is. The doodles on his sneakers are green and badly drawn. There’s a stick figure photographer, music notes, and a scribble of a lyric that might be Prince. Pete’s stomach twists, and he distracts himself by yelling directions to Andy.

Patrick’s wearing a t-shirt that’s a little too small (and, seriously, Guys Gone Wild?) and jeans that are a little too tight. His hat is blue and fits like a skullcap. His hair is sticking out from under it, bright and messy. There’s a camera strapped around his neck, banging into his chest as he hurries towards the van. He gives Pete a smile and raises the camera to catch the smile that Pete flashes back.

Chris scoots to make room for Patrick, leaning into the front seats to toy with the radio. Andy starts driving before Patrick’s down, and there’s an awkward collision of elbows and knees and equipment before Patrick manages to squeeze himself between the PA and Pete.

“You still do film?” Pete asks, nodding to the camera. It’s old, worn around the edges, the logo nearly rubbed off the shutter. Patrick wraps his fingers around the lens tenderly, thumb sliding against the body.

“Film’s more personal, y’know?” Patrick replies. “It makes it something more.”

“Totally agree, dude.” Pete grins. He opens a hand, and Patrick, reluctantly, pulls his camera off and sets it gingerly on Pete’s outstretched palm. It’s lighter than it looks, warmed from being close to Patrick’s chest. Pete thumbs the advance dial delicately- as if it would break; the thing’s more solid than his own. “Can I?” Patrick shrugs.

Pete leans into Patrick’s side and lifts the camera, aiming it blindly. He licks Patrick’s cheek before snapping the shutter. Patrick sputters and elbows him in the chest. Pete cackles. He hands the camera back, settling against the nearest speaker.

“Dude, I want a copy,” he says. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“You came here on a scholarship, didn’t you?”

“Nope,” Pete says around a grin. “Rich parents.”

“Not rich enough to get us a damn trailer,” Chris grumbles, sinking back from the front. Tim makes a face at him, declaring his radio-oriented victory.

“Like we’re touring enough to need one,” Pete retorts. There’s an ache inside at that, but he pushes it away. Now isn’t the time for that. Chris flicks his muddle finger up without malice.

The rest of the ride is drowned out by the demo Tim’s managed to force into the tape deck. Pete keeps stealing glances at Patrick, who looks a little awkward and uncomfortable, and feels sort of creepy. Patrick catches him and cocks his head, eyebrows raised. Pete pulls a face, the nerves in his stomach settling down.

Twenty minutes later, Andy jerks the can to a stop. Pete, who is used to it, flings out an arm to catch Patrick before he has the chance to topple forward. The body of the camera, back around Patrick’s neck, slams into his elbow, and it throbs in a familiar way. The five of them crawl out of the van, stretching their legs and bounding around to burn off energy. (Okay, so Pete bounds. The rest just tolerate him with shaking heads and sighs.)

Patrick starts snapping photos. A glance of Chris’ hands in his hair. The stretch of Andy’s back. Tim’s legs dangling from the bumper. Pete in mid jump. Pete’s already wondering what they’re going to look like, what story Patrick’s going to tell with them. Wonders if he can get copies.

They unload and start dragging their equipment in, Patrick at their heels. Andy keeps sending Pete looks. Pete is steadfastly ignoring them. He doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

When they’re done with it, Pete drags Patrick to the bar by the wrist. Patrick slaps at him, but Pete has a new mission. He yells out an order to the bartender over the house music. The bartender eyes him suspiciously, and Pete’s about to pull out his driver’s license when the bartender pulls out two shot glasses.

“What part of I don’t drink don’t you get?” Patrick shouts into Pete’s ear. His breath is hot against Pete’s cheek, the ends of his hair tickling against Pete’s jaw. The bartender sets down a saltshaker and a plate of lime wedges, giving them one last disapproving look before turning towards the other end of the bar.

“No hablo Inglés,” Pete says, skewing the accent horribly. He slaps down a few bills before putting an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulling him in. “Watch and do, Pattycakes.” He lifts Patrick’s hand (against Patrick’s flailing) and shakes salt onto the space between the boy’s thumb and finger.

It’s official. He’s pulling out all the stops. Something’s going on. Pete doesn’t freak, but he does panic a little, deep on the inside (not that he hasn’t had a crush on a dude because, seriously, Mikey. Hey). But he’s feeling a little cheated out of a post-crush mope.

He shakes himself out of it. Patrick’s looking at him, eyes narrowed. Pete smiles at him charmingly before he lifts Patrick’s hand to his mouth. The taste of Patrick’s skin is overpowered by the salt, but it’s hot and smooth under his tongue. He doesn’t have time to catch Patrick’s expression before he’s downing the shot of tequila and groping for a wedge of lime. He shoves the lime into his mouth and sucks, wincing at the burn down his throat.

“That is so disgusting,” he says cheerily. Patrick’s staring at him wide-eyed, somewhere between pissed and confused. Pete’s taking this as a win. “Your turn.”

“Pete-”

“For me, man? So I don’t have to do two and suck during the show?” Pete bats his eyelashes overdramatically. He’s still holding Patrick’s hand. It’s hard not to notice. Patrick rolls his eyes. “I swear you will not get busted.” There’s a moment where Patrick just stares at him, lips pressed together. Pete’s feeling like he might be losing when Patrick sighs. “Success!” He dumps salt across his own hand, maybe more than needed, but whatever, and holds it up like a prize.

Patrick looks at it skeptically before leaning forward and licking at the web between thumb and forefinger. His tongue is wet and hot (and his lips are going to be in Pete’s dreams for years, seriously), and it’s gone sooner than Pete wants it to be. Patrick knocks back the shot and jams the lime wedge Pete’s holding into his mouth.

The face he makes is ridiculous- all scrunched up eyes and puckered lips and crinkled nose. Pete’s pretty sure it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. He snatches Patrick’s camera long enough to catch a picture of it. He dodges Patrick’s kick and laughs.

“I want that one, too, dude,” Pete says. Andy sits next to them, his you’re doing wrong again, but I’m better than pointing it out face firmly in place. Pete shrugs and pats him on the back. “I’m playing Bacchus.”

“We’ll go with that,” Andy says skeptically. His attention flickers, and then Amanda’s there, hair tied up messily, make-up as bright as ever. She kissed Pete’s cheek, smiles at Patrick, and sits on Andy’s lap in a flurry of movement. Patrick snaps a photo of them without either noticing.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?” Amanda asks Pete, reaching around him for the untouched lime left on the plate.

“A voice box as well rehearsed as mine needs no warming up,” Pete says matter-of-factly.

“Right.” Andy shakes his head. Pete’s about to go into a tirade about the quality of a good, well practiced scream when something catches his eye.

“Dude, jello shots.” He points out the mini bar excitedly.

“No,” Patrick and Andy say together. Amanda laughs merrily around her lime.

“You guys ruin the fun.” Pete scuffs his toe against the ground and sighs loudly. He grins when, a minute later, Patrick sets a shot down in front of him. “I knew I liked you.”

“Keep it up, Wentz.” Patrick rolls his eyes, settling down onto the stool again. Pete thinks he’s falling in love.

---

There’s something exhilarating about being on stage. The crowd. The lights. The knowledge that all eyes are on him. The bonus of Patrick snapping photos unobtrusively at the foot of the stage doesn’t hurt, either. Pete throws himself around the stage, smashing into Tim and Chris. He screams his throat raw, launches himself into the crowd, mic and all. It feels like a goodbye. He thinks maybe it is.

Pete tosses his mic into the air at the end of the last song and lets it crash to the ground. The crowd, which is as big as it’s ever been, cheers as the lights go out. Chris tackles him, bass and all. Pete laughs into the embrace hysterically. He won’t be having this moment again. Not with them. Not like this.

Patrick’s waiting in the wings, camera raised. The flash goes off as Pete races towards him. Patrick has time to swing the camera to safety before Pete wraps him up in arms and legs and knocks him flat. He’s protesting, yelling about sweat and dirt and swinging his arms futilely. Pete presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. He feels. Okay. Happy.

---

Pete yawns into his wrist as he heads toward the review room. He has a project to print and he is so not feeling it right now. The message just. Isn’t with him today. He also hasn’t been shooting, too caught up in midterm parties and notes and endless visits to Starbucks. There’s a folded note tacked up to the corkboard. Pete cheers up.

So. I want to ask you out. But there’s no way I’m doing it face to face. So. Do you maybe want to go for coffee? Or something?

PS

Pete frowns. Well. That’s unexpected. He folds the note carefully, running his thumbnail across the edges in thought. He tucks it away into his pocket and reaches for his notebook. It takes him a few tries to put the pen to paper, and he feels like an ass already. He’s never been good with this part.

hey. youre an awesome photographer. and your pipes are pretty badass. But im kinda interested in someone already. im sorry. another time another place, yknow?

He tacks the note up, feeling a little sick. There’s never an easy way to let someone down. He picks up his backpack and heads back to the dorms. He just. Doesn’t want to be there right now.

---

Pete flops into his chair Monday, bright-eyed and ready to go. He’s been promised band photos and he wants them right now. Patrick’s not in his seat, which is unusual. What’s more unusual is that, when he does come in, right at eight, he sinks into the chair next to Jeremiah, all the way across the room. Pete spends the class in a sulk, wondering what he did. He draws a blank.

Pete heads to Starbucks alone, hoping to find answers and make amends. He wonders if Patrick maybe got a hangover. Wonders if that’s grounds to get pissy. Dismisses it. He orders his frappuchino from a girl he’s seen but never actually talked to and waits at his favorite booth for ten minutes. The coffee doesn’t taste as good, and Pete pushes it aside after the first few sips. His phone buzzes.

Pete scrambles to pull it from his pocket, flipping it open hurriedly. He sighs. The text is from Travis. His Color Theory homework’s done. Pete hasn’t really thought about it since the deal. He looks at the clock above the door and then to the counter. Bites his lip and makes his way back over.

“Hey, do you know if Patrick’s in today?” Pete asks the girl. Ger nametag reads Greta in tiny print, a happy yellow smiley face penned in next to it. She eyes him with a frown. Pete wants to throw his hands up in surrender. He’s never pissed people off so easily before in his life.

“He called off,” Greta says eventually. “Are you Pete?”

“…Yes?” Pete flinches when Greta narrows her eyes.

“If you order another cup of coffee, I’m going to spit in it. Just so you know.” She puts her tiny hands on her waist, the picture perfect pissed off sister.

“Did I piss off the universe?”

“Pretty close. Meanie.” Greta points to the door. “No more coffee until you fix it.”

“You know, it’d help if I knew what I did wrong,” Pete says slowly. Greta ignores him, turning to the next customer in line. Pete cuts his losses, gathers his things, and heads for Travis’ place.

The cloud of smoke that greets him is both unsurprising and intensely irritating. Travis and Joe are sitting together on the couch, nodding along to the track on the stereo. Frank and Jamia are falling over each other on the floor, putting a puzzle together the wrong way. Joe raises a lazy hand and offers a neatly packed bowl. Pete fights the urge and declines. Figures that he can work out his issues better sober. He steps over Frank’s legs and flops into the space between Travis and Joe.

“Yo,” he says lamely.

“Sup, dude.” Travis motions to a sketchpad on the coffee table. “My work is done.”

“Thanks.” Pete kicks at Frank’s thigh lightly, rhythmically. Joe’s looking at him, head cocked. Pete’s ten seconds from snapping. He just. Does. Not. Get it.

“You alright?” Joe asks. Pete shrugs. Not really, no. He’s not. “What’s up?”

“I pissed Patrick off somehow. I also pissed off the coffee girl. Without trying.” Pete chews on his thumbnail absently. “These events are most likely connected. How? Beats me.” Joe and Travis share a look. They shake their heads. “Woah, hey, not on, guys.” He glowers at them. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“How to figure draw-”

“How to make twelve kinds of cheeses-”

“The difference between hatching and cross hatching-”

“Eight recipes for blood pudding-”

“How to render 3-D characters,” Frank cuts in cheerfully. Pete kicks him.

“Yeah, you guys are assholes,” he says tersely.

“And you’re, like, seven shades of stupid,” Joe replies fondly. “Seriously.”

“Thanks. Really.” Pete tocks up onto his feet and grabs the sketchbook.

“Boys are cute when they’re oblivious,” Jamia giggles. She kisses Frank’s cheek sweetly. Frank smiles, big and goofy. Pete’s not really in a bad mood. He just. Wants to be alone for a while.

---

Pete texts Patrick twelve times in as many hours. It’s been three days, and he’s feeling sicker with each one. He’s obsessive. He made peace with that a long time ago. It just never struck him how much time he’d been spending at Starbucks, or how often he’d found himself tucked into a corner with Patrick, sharing headphones in comfortable silence.

Patrick doesn’t text back. Pete pretends this doesn’t kill him. He’s never really been good at acting, though, and his heart aches.

Sometime after Pete’s sent text thirteen, Andy walks into their room. He takes a look a Pete’s bruised eyes, his slumped shoulders, and turns back around. A few minutes later, Amanda walks in. She’s wearing one of Andy’s shirts and a pair of kitten kneesocks. Pete wants to wonder if she’s gone to her own dorm at all in the past week but, honestly, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Silently, Amanda takes Pete’s phone and turns it off. She ducks into his bunk, folding her legs under herself, and pulls him to her chest. Pete curls around her like a child. He closes his eyes, letting the tiredness sink into him. Amanda runs gentle fingers through the hair at the nape of Pete’s neck.

“I don’t know what I did,” Pete says softly. Amanda hums quietly in reply. “I like him, y’know? Like, really like him.” Pete falls fast. He doesn’t kid himself about it. But, Patrick? He’s something Pete just. Needs in a way he hadn’t realized existed. A missing limb he’d never known he didn’t have. “And, seriously, I’m at a total loss here.” Amanda doesn’t offer any words of consolation or explanation; just rocks Pete until he falls asleep. She’s gone in the morning, but there’s a heartbreak mix tape lying on his pillow and a note under it that says, you don’t need me, but I’m here anyway.

---

Pete prods at the print that’s floating in the fixer. It’s still got two minutes to go, and Pete’s getting antsy. He’s tired, and all the coffee (strong, bitter brew from Andy) in his stomach is making him nauseous. A pair of grey eyes stare up at him, blurred under the ripple of chemicals. Pete flips the image over.

It’s been two days since Amanda rocked him to sleep, and Pete’s on the verge of giving up. He’s past the pissed, angry stage and moved on to the hurt, sad phase and it’s showing. His phone is full of texts and calls gone unanswered, and he’s going to have a lot of apologizing to do when he feels up to talking to his friends again.

Pete pulls the print and walks it to the dryer. He thinks about leaving it for his critic. Wonders if he’ll get any more notes. Doubts it. When the print rolls around he puts it carefully into his portfolio. He closes the binder without looking at it too closely. Right now, he just doesn’t really care.

There’s a cramp building in his stomach. Pete rubs at it with his thumb, wincing. Andy’s coffee is killing him. Pete slings his back over his shoulder and makes the long trek to Starbucks. His hand hovers over the handle for a long moment. He takes a deep breath and pushes in.

The line is long. Lunch rush. Pete takes his place without looking at the counter. He glances around instead, taking in the familiar tables, the old, ugly wallpaper. The- hold on.

Pete leaves the line to get closer to the new photo display. There are four prints on glossy paper, centered in old, battered oak frames. The images are no less heart-breaking than they were the first time Pete saw them.

The artist statement that hangs below them is short, hand written and concise. The penmanship is familiar, and there’s a tiny PS hanging on at the bottom of the page. Pete hazards a glance at the counter. Patrick’s watching him. He looks away when he realized he’s been caught.

Pete is a moron.

He hops back into line, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Patrick has his drink and muffin ready and rung up before Pete reaches the counter. He holds out his hand silently, eyes level with the decal on Pete’s shirt.

“Patrick, what’s your last name?”

“…Stumph?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. His lips are pressed into a tight line, and Pete really just wants to jump the counter and tackle him.

“I am an idiot,” he says instead.

“…I’m really not going to argue that.” Patrick pushes the coffee forward insistently. “Can you just pay and, y’know, leave?”

“Dude, we need to talk. Like. Five days ago.” Pete leans over the counter, ignoring the impatient huff behind him. Patrick looks at the growing line and sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger.

“I get off at three. If you’re not here, I’m leaving.” He winces when Pete lets out an excited whoop.

---

“Alright. Let me get this straight.” Patrick breaks off a piece of his muffin and pops it into his mouth. His hat is crooked, and he has coffee stains on his ugly blue shirt. Pete has never been so happy to see anything in ever. “I leave you notes on your photos for a month, and you don’t realize that PS is a set of initials?”

“Dude, I’m an idiot. It’s just something you’ll have to get used to.” Pete can’t stop smiling (his face is starting to hurt from it. This says something sort of huge). He steals the edge of Patrick’s muffin and munches contentedly on it. Patrick shakes his head, lips quirked up into a crooked grin. “So, uh, is that offer still up? Y’know. The coffee?”

“Well. We’re already here, right?” Patrick laughs when Pete launches himself across the table. Patrick’s warm and soft and tastes like apples when Pete kisses him.

Pete loves college.

coricomile @ 2009-09-26T16:41:00

2009-09-25T20:41:12Z

Alright, so, G-20 Summit is in Pittsburgh right now. This means protesters are in Pittsburgh right now. In my goddamn neighborhood, blocking up my way home. No, I don't support the war, yes I support soical healthcare, yes I'm pro-choice. But you know what? That is not your fucking buisiness, so leave me the fuck alone.

Your little gathering in the park means nothing. Your little picket signs, and bandanas, and yelling free Tibet do nothing. Sorry. Do you know why you have the freedom to 'peaceful protest?' Because it doesn't change a goddamn thing. If it had any power to change anything, you wouldn't have it, okay?

Just stop.

coricomile @ 2009-09-22T18:09:00

2009-09-21T22:09:32Z

Title: Tip of Your Tongue
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Something on the screen makes Patrick jump. He tightens his hand on Pete's thigh, fingers digging in. Pete makes a strangled noise and jets. He needs to be in the bathroom. Now.
A/N: Sequel to Moving Pictures.Takes place immediately after.

The movie theatre is too hot. Pete can't stop squirming in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping a rhythm against his knee. His arm is pressed against Patrick's from elbow to pinky. The heat of Patrick's bare arm is seeping through Pete's hoodie.

Patrick, for his part, is oblivious. His eyes are on the movie, wide behind his brand-new glasses. He's leaning forward a little, popping Sourpatch Kids into his mouth with one hand. Pete's doing his best not to look, but Jesus. Patrick's moth is open just a little, and he sucks on the candy before actually eating it, and Pete. Pete is only human.

On screen, Christian Bale is doing crunches, his voice over an even monotone. Usually, Pete would be all about this. Because, seriously, Christian Bale. Today, though, he's stuck on the up-down of Patrick's hand, stuck on the flick of Patrick's tongue across his fingertips.

Pete's jiggling his leg. It's obnoxious, but it works out the energy that's eating away at his insides. He's able to focus on the movie, at least, able to get into the chase and almost forget that Patrick is with him. Then, Patrick's hand- hot and heavy- lands on his thigh. Pete stills. The hand stays.

Pete has gone to Hell. He'd always pictured more flames. He stays very still, afraid that Patrick's going to realize what he's doing and pull away. Pete stares at the screen, but all he can see is Patrick's fingers in his mouth, Patrick's hand wrapped around his cock. He feels his own dick twitch and, Christ, his pants are too tight for this shit.

Something on screen makes Patrick jump. His hand tightens of Pete's thigh, fingers digging in. Pete lets out a strangled noise and jets. He needs to be in the bathroom. Now.

Pete rushes through the lobby, ignoring the shouts of the kids behind the concession stand. He locks the door to the first stall in the bathroom and shoves a hand into his pants without any prelude. He can still feel the heat of Patrick's hand on his thigh. He's in the process of unzipping his fly when the outside door creaks open.

"Pete?" Patrick sounds concerned. Pete bites back a groan. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Pete chokes out. He reluctantly pulls his hand from his crotch and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Patrick's sneakers are visible, the left one untied, laces frayed.

"Dude, you bolted on Bale- are you sick or something?" There's a soft thump. Patrick's leaning on the door, forehead pressed to it.

"Or something." Pete swallows. He can make out the curve of Patrick's cheek through the crack of the door, and, if Patrick tries, he'll be able to see exactly what Pete's doing. That. Is sort of hot. Pete's about to make a mistake. "So. I, uh, watched your video." Patrick jerks away from the door. Coughs.

"What?"

"It was hot, y'know? I've been thinking about it." Pete leans back against the wall. "Like, I'm gonna have jerk off material for the next, oh, forever." Pete's heart is pounding. His palms are slick. He's a little freaked, but still, he opens the stall door and yanks Patrick inside.

Patrick's face is red across his cheeks and nose, and he looks equal parts embarrassed and angry. Pete has the decency to pull his hoodie down over his hard-on, but he's pretty sure Patrick can feel it anyway.

"If you're fucking with me, I'll kill you." Then, Patrick's kissing him, hard and a little wet. He tastes like the memory of sour candies and stale Coke, and Pete's a little stunned. He didn't actually expect to get anything but slugged. Thus is why, when Patrick pulls away, Pete, maybe, overreacts.

He launches himself forward, pinning Patrick to the door, and presses their mouths together. There's no way Patrick can't feel Pete hard against him, but Pete's too distracted by the slide of Patrick's tongue to care. One hand is wrapped up in Patrick's ugly sweater, the other fighting a losing battle to knock Patrick's hat away.

Patrick kisses like. Well, like a fifteen-year-old, but that's hot in a way Pete's trying not to think about. Instead, he rubs himself against Patrick's hip and groans. He can feel Patrick getting hard against his thigh, can feel his hands clenching and unclenching at Pete's hips.

"Jesus, Rick, you have no idea," Pete breathes against Patrick's neck. He works Patrick's fly open with one hand, knuckles skimming across the soft skin of Patrick's stomach.

Patrick looks terrified. His eyes are dark, though, and he's thrusting lightly against Pete's thigh. He whines when Pete wraps a hand around him. Pete bites his tongue and tries not to lose it.

"What were you thinking about when you made it?" Pete asks, rubbing his thumb in small circles at the base of Patrick's cock. Patrick's breathing stutters. "Who were you thinking about?" Pete's pretty sure it's the adrenaline making him this ballsy. That's why he doesn't think before he drops to his knees.

His calves are cramped, pressed to either side of the toilet, and if he leans back he'll probably pull something. That's alright, though. He tugs Patrick's jeans and boxers down and presses his face to Patrick's hip. The skin there is hot and damp, and Patrick's hands are moving from his hat to Pete's shoulders to Pete's hair uncertainly.

"Pete," Patrick groans. His glasses are crooked, his lips red and wet. Pete wants to tie him to a bed and fuck him for days.

"Talk to me," Pete says against the slick skin of Patrick's hip. Patrick's thighs shake.

"Pete, you asshole, either suck my dick or get the fuck out." Patrick's hands settle on Pete's shoulders, fingers twisting in his hoodie. Pete laughs.

"Feisty," he says. He licks the head of Patrick's cock with a broad swipe of his tongue. Patrick's head thumps against the door. Pete wraps his lips around him and goes for gold. Pete, he's not really so much about sucking dick. But Patrick's squeezing his shoulders and squirming under Pete's hands and biting his lip to muffle sweet, high moans. Pete, he can live with this.

"You," Patrick says breathily. Pete looks up at him, flicking his tongue over the tip of Patrick's cock. Patrick slides a little down the door. "I was thinking about you, and you came over after, and I would so let you fuck me- ugn, don't stop-"

"Turn around," Pete says thickly. Patrick gapes. "Just do it, dude." Ruefully, Patrick turns and braces himself against the door.

Pete presses a kiss to the small of his back. He tastes sweat and skin, and he loves it because it's Patrick. He runs his tongue over the swell of Patrick's ass, soft and round and warm, biting gently. Patrick groans, presses back into it. Pete touches his tongue to Patrick's tiny pink hole. He licks once, twice, and then presses in.

Patrick bucks his hips. He's jerking himself off, and Pete wishes he could see both sides, wishes they were somewhere else. He rubs soothing hands over Patrick's hips and curls his tongue. The soft sighs are echoing off the walls, coming back in surround sound.

"I want to watch you fuck yourself," Pete says. "Would you let me do that?"

Patrick says nothing, but he nods, pressing back into Pete's touch. It takes a second for Pete to realize that Patrick's been sucking oh his own fingers, bracing himself against the door with his shoulders. Pete pulls his jeans open and fists himself.
The angle is awkward, but Patrick reaches back and presses his middle finger into himself. He twists his wrist, rocks back into his hand. Pete leans in. Licks around the finger. Patrick whines, high in his throat.

"Put another one in." Pete settles back. He watches as Patrick pulls his hand back. He sucks it back into his mouth. Makes obscene noises around it. Pete bites down on his own wrist to keep from embarrassing himself. Patrick crosses his fingers and presses them to his hole, stroking. Teasing himself. Teasing Pete. "No playing, dude. Seriously."

Patrick laughs, a little out of breath, and shoves his fingers in. His voice cracks, and that's about where Pete's breaking point is. He jerks himself too hard, too fast, and comes over his hand, moaning into Patrick's thigh. He yanks Patrick's hand away and presses his own fingers in, thrusting them in harder than Patrick had been. Patrick jerks back and comes in thick stripes over the door.

It takes a few tries, but Pete manages to do up the fly of his jeans. Patrick opens the door and almost falls out. He hasn't looked back, and that's making Pete's stomach turn uncomfortably. Slowly, Pete stands. His legs are numb, clumsy.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks. Patrick shrugs. He's leaning against the sink, trying to even his breathing out. Pete, well, Pete's not really done taking risks today. He wraps his hands around Patrick's hips. Kisses the back of his neck.

"You tell anyone about it and I swear to god-"

"Dude, your home movies are for my eyes only. If, you know, you want them to be." Pete tries not to freak out. Tries to keep his cool. If Patrick turns him down now, after all of-

"Yeah," Patrick says shyly. He turns, back pressed to the sink. His cheeks are still pink, and there's sweat dampening his growing sideburns. He grins. "Yeah, I want that." And, as Patrick kisses him stupid, Pete thinks about how awesome that is.