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The music's so loud and distorted, Pete can barely figure out the words the guy is screaming out of the speakers, but that doesn't matter. He's here to dance his ass off, catch up with his boys (and Victoria), and forget the hell that was his fucking math midterm.
"How did you think you did?" Nate asks, bending down to shout into his ear.
"I don't want to talk about it," Pete says, holding his bottle high so the press of the dancing crowd doesn't make him spill it. "I'd be fine if they just let me write essays for all the answers. How did X feel when Y left him for another man, you know?"
"I don't think math works like that," Nate says.
"I know." Pete shakes his head, flicking sweat out of his eyes. "Don't care now, it's over either way, right?"
"Right," Nate says, and he puts his hand out to steady Pete as the crowd surges again.
Pete nods thanks, and pushes into the crowd as Taking Back Sunday blares out of the speakers, putting his arms in the air and dancing his ass off, until the only thing that's in his head is the press of bodies and the thud of the bass. It's working perfectly until a girl knocks into him and he gets a look at her.
"Oh."
It's Morgan. She looks--beautiful. Pete can't stand to look at her. She tucks her hair behind her ear, that same dear, familiar gesture, and smiles.
"I didn't know you'd be here," she says. "How have you been, Pete? It's good to see you."
Pete opens his mouth, but he knows that if he says anything, it will be to beg her, beg her to take him back, and he knows that that would be a bad idea. That they were always a bad idea. The voice in his head that reminds him of this sounds suspiciously like Patrick's.
Instead, he turns around and pushes his way through the crowds with some difficulty. The party's in full swing now, with what looks like half of campus letting off steam. He stumbles through the press of people until he can find another door. It could be the door to the bathroom, for all he cares, he's not above hiding in the shower.
It turns out to be a small den, people sitting around on couches and on the floor, haze of grey-blue smoke in the air. The music in here is muffled, but still loud enough to hear when it switches to Green Day. Most importantly, though, there's no Morgan.
Pete flops down onto a beanbag, and only registers he kicked someone on the way down when he hears a flat "Ouch."
"Oh, hey, dude, sorry," he says, drawing his legs up out of the way. "Didn't see you there."
"I was practicing being invisible," the guy says. "I guess it finally worked."
Pete gets a good look at him then, bleached hair in a swoop over half of his face, tight black jeans, awesome boots all straps and buckles, and--
"Hey, Buzzcocks," he says, nodding at the guy's shirt. "Fucking awesome."
"You like them?" The guy's mouth twitches up at one corner. He has green eyes, but they look a little red, like the smoke is getting to them. He's pretty much the cutest thing at the whole party, Pete decides.
"Hell." Pete grins. "'Ever Fallen In Love' is like, the soundtrack to my life."
The guy nods slowly, like he's considering it.
"So, why being invisible?" Pete asks, settling back on the beanbag. It crackles as it settles round him. "Cuz you're too cute be invisible."
The guy actually ducks his head at that, pink staining across his cheeks, and seriously. Adorable.
"Why?" he asks instead. "What super power would you have?"
"Oh, man," Pete says, "I keep changing it, you know? Now, you ask Patrick, he always says telekinesis, but I think that's just because he wants to be able to play the drums and the guitar at the same time, like he's not freakishly talented enough. I kind of want to fly, because how cool would that be, just get away from everything, see what the city's like from up there. But then I think telepathy would be cool, because you could tell what people really thought about you, like, they couldn't lie to you or cheat you, because you'd know."
The guy nods, his hair falling further into his face. "But you might hear bad things," he says.
"Hell." Pete shrugs, trying to play it cool. "It's not like enough people don't say bad things to my face."
"I'd be invisible." The guys nods, like Pete had asked. "Not always. Just sometimes, when I don't want people to see me."
Pete can't really understand that, because even when he feels at his worst, he still wants people there, but he nods, about to say something, when the door crashes open.
It's Morgan. Of course it's Morgan, legs hooked around some guy's hips, his hands under her ass, her skirt hiked up. They're kissing messily, and Pete remembers what that felt like. They stumble to the nearest unoccupied couch, and Pete wants to punch something. Mostly himself.
"Hey." The guy touches his elbow. "You ok, dude?"
Pete tugs on his bangs. "Not really," he says. "I gotta get out of here, it was nice talking to you."
"I could use some air," the guy says, and gets up when Pete does. Standing, he has endearingly awkward knees, and he's a good head taller than Pete. Not as tall as Gabe or Ry, but still tall enough that Pete can imagine how he'd tuck under his arm. "Want to come for a walk?"
Pete really does.
"So, she the reason for the Buzzcocks theme song?" the guy asks when they've made it to the door and out onto the street. The night air is cold and he pulls a knit cap out of his pocket and jams it on his head, and spends a few seconds pulling out strands of hair to frame his face. Pete's kind of mesmerised.
"One in a long line." Pete sighs. "I kind of have shitty taste."
"Should I be offended that you hit on me?" the guy asks.
"Well, it always seems like I have good taste at first," Pete says, and then slaps himself on the forehead. "Sorry, pretend I didn't say that. And if you're going to get the history of my shitty love life, you should at least get my name. I'm Pete."
"Mikeyway," he says, running the words together. "Mikey."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mikey," Pete says. He holds out his hand and after a brief pause, Mikey takes it. His fingers are skinny and calloused, and press cold against Pete's.
They walk three blocks down, the night air still and cold. The street light bounces orange off of the clouds, and even though it's Friday night, it's mostly quiet, people inside partying rather than outside in the Chicago night. Pete stuffs his hands inside his pockets against the chill, hunching his shoulders.
"We broke up about 6 months ago," Pete says, feeling like he owes Mikey some kind of explanation for dragging him outside in the cold. "She cheated on me. Like. A lot. And I kept taking her back."
"Six months ago, though." Mikey doesn't say, ”You should be over it by now,” which Pete is grateful for.
"Well, that was the last time we broke up," Pete shrugs. "It was long and messy."
"You ever wish you were a robot?" Mikey asks. "Like, so you could switch your feelings off if they got too much?"
"All the time," Pete says. Mikey nods.
"Cool," he says. "Plus, if you were a robot, you could totally fly."
"Unless you were like, R2 D2," Pete points out, "then you'd only be able to roll around and bleep."
"R2 was a droid," Mikey corrects, and that leads them into a long and convoluted debate about whether droids or force powers were cooler, and what colour lightsaber was the best, and how Pete had always secretly wanted a pet Ewok.
"You can't keep them as pets," Mikey says, poking his shoulder. "They are sentient, that would be like, slavery." He's so earnest, craning his head down to look at Pete, eyes wide and serious.
"But the droids are sentient," Pete argues as they turn the corner back to the block they started from. "And you never see them getting paid. And everyone has them, even Jedis, so are they really that much of a force for good? If you think about it, the whole alliance is still built on the back of slave labour."
"No." Mikey frowns. "Just because you don't see them getting paid doesn't mean that they aren't."
"Luke buys R2 and 3PO," Pete counters. He loves an argument, loves someone that can keep up with him, even if they are just arguing about ridiculous things. "So what does that mean for your theory, huh?"
"Well," Mikey starts, but then someone short and dark barrels into him, clinging on. Pete takes a step back. The guy's about his height, sliver lip ring glinting in the street lights and with the dark smudge of ink on his neck.
"Mikeyway," the new guy says. "We gotta go, now." He grabs Mikey's hand and tugs him toward one of the parked cars.
"Frank?" Mikey asks, but he's already moving as Frank pulls his wrist.
"I may have punched a guy out for calling some girl a slut," Frank says, still tugging. "His friends, all of who are bigger than Ray and Bob put together, may be coming after us. Come be my getaway driver, Mikeyway."
Mikey trips over his feet as Frank hustles him to a beat up old Saturn.
"I'll see you around," he calls over his shoulder as the opens the door. "Good to meet you, Pete."
Pete wants to say, ”Wait,” or even, ”Take me with you,” but all he can do is watch as the car drives down the street, staring at the red tail lights as they disappear into the night.
He goes back into the party. His jacket's still there, and Morgan isn't. It's more than he could have reasonably hoped for, and so he snags another beer and leans against the wall to drink it, thinking of longer fingers and small smiles and green eyes in the glow of street lamps.
Pete wakes the next morning slightly hungover, an ache building behind his eyes. It's barely morning really, pretty much midday, and he lies and stares at the ceiling and thinks idly about Mikey, how his fingers looked holding a cigarette, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled, the tickle of possibly possibly Pete had felt with every turn of the conversation.
And then it hits him. he has no idea when or even if he's ever going to see Mikey again, because someone--Frank, Pete remembers--dragged him away before he even got a chance to ask. Shit, Pete realises, he doesn't even know if Mikey goes to school here. He knows pretty much nothing about him other than that he likes British punk and Star Wars and superheroes and had a unicorn patch on his black denim jacket, and is kind of perfect, and, god, Pete is such an idiot.
So he does what he always does when he feels bad, and crawls into bed with Patrick. Patrick is still sleepy because he never gets up before 1 pm on a weekend, even though he had refused to come to the party and spent the evening home like an old man.
"Pete," Patrick says, slow and sleepy. "What's up? Didn't you have a good time?" He shifts further back across the bed so Pete can spoon up in front of him. Patrick's warm and Pete wriggles round so he can stick his cold hands on Patrick's neck.
"It was ok," Pete says.
"She was there, wasn't she?" Patrick says. He doesn't even bother to name her.
"I saw Morgan, yeah," Pete says, "But that's not it." He skates over how it felt to see her with someone else, because at the moment it's nothing compared to the knowledge that he might never see Mikey again. "I met someone."
"Someone nice?" Patrick asks softly. He slips an arm around Pete and Pete turns his face into Patrick's neck.
"Yeah," Pete says, "he was great. He has the cutest knees, and he likes the Buzzcocks and the Misfits and the Ramones."
"Good taste," Patrick says. "So why are you sad?"
"I think he has a boyfriend," Pete says, remembering the possessive way Frank had gripped Mikey's hand.
"Did you ask him?" Patrick asks. He rubs his thumb over Pete's where their hands are clasped.
"I can't," Pete says, feeling miserable. "I didn't get his number, or even his email address. I don't even know if he's at school here."
"What's his name?" Patrick asks.
Pete says, "Mikey Way. That's how he introduced himself. Mikeyway." He tries to say it like Mikey had, all one word.
"Hmm." Patrick's breath tickles Pete's ear. "Don't recognise the name."
"It's not fair," Pete says. "He's perfect and now I've lost him forever."
"And you're not at all being overdramatic," Patrick says.
Pete just pouts at him. He knows his eyeliner has smudged and he looks a bit like a pathetic panda, but that's always worked well on Patrick in the past.
It works now, because Patrick sighs and says, "I'll put Sesame Street on."
"Love you," Pete says and rubs his nose against Patrick's collarbone. "Best friend ever."
"You know it," Patrick says, and he lets Pete lean against him as they watch Big Bird and the Count, and hugs him tightly every time Pete sighs, so Pete feels pretty fucking lucky, really.
They watch a lot of Sesame Street over the next few days, because it cheers Pete up and Joe thinks it's hilarious, especially when he's stoned. Pete has actual work, classes and assignments and his shifts at Target, and though he still looks for Mikey at every opportunity, he's busy enough that it's a wistful ache. It's almost better this way, a might-have-been, because this way it can never go wrong, and he can never get his heart broken.
He keeps telling himself that, but it doesn't seem to be working, because he's still full of a kind of sad what-if feeling that doesn't seem to be going away. Which, in Pete's case, leads to bad decisions. Like Ryan.
Ryan's great; fiercely clever, weird, and endearingly quirky. They'd met in a poetry class the first semester, and now they stake out the back row, swapping poems and notes about the professor, and, in Ryan's case, mercilessly criticising the fashion sense of every single one of their classmates. He's cutting and funny and Pete gets a real kick hanging out with him.
He just wishes he could work out a way to do it without getting naked.
This time, he'd knocked on Ryan's door with the Kundera translation Ryan needed. Ryan had been stretched out on his bed, head tipped back with a blissful expression on his face as The White Album trickled out of the sound system. Ryan smiled, and twisted his long fingers into Pete's shirt, and Pete let himself fall forward into Ryan's smoke-sweet kiss, let Ryan put thoughts of another boy with awkward angles and long fingers out of his mind.
"I thought we agreed we wouldn't do this any more?" Pete asks after. Ryan's fingers walk down his spine and in the gloom of the evening, he looks like something made of shadows and secrets.
"Hmm. Why was that?" Ryan's voice is slow and deep. When he sounds like this, Pete wants to record him.
"Because we both know it's not going anywhere?" Pete kisses his collarbone absently. "And I think your best friend hates me. Like, wants to wear my skin as a hat."
"Spence doesn't hate you," Ryan says. His hand rests at the base of Pete's spine, pressing close.
Spencer does, Pete knows. Mostly because Pete has never seen two people who are more clearly meant to be fucking than Spencer and Ryan, but they seem incapable of realising this themselves.
"He thinks I'm a bad influence," he says instead, "luring you toward literature instead of sensible subjects."
"Sure," Ryan says. "You want to stay?"
Pete considers. He doesn't have to be anywhere, and he likes this, cuddling, warm and and lazy. He always sleeps better with someone in the bed, but he's pretty sure Greta's over. Patrick's tiny, but that doesn't mean they can really fit three to a bed, even if Greta didn't have some weird girlfriend rights.
"You mind?" he asks.
"Never," Ryan says, and kisses his cheek.
The light is bright when it hits his eyes the next morning, and he realises its because Spencer has yanked the curtains open with unnecessary force and is glaring down at both of them like something out of a nightmare.
"Ryan," Spencer says, like Pete's not even in the room. "You promised."
"Fngh," Ryan says, because he's never the most articulate first thing in the mornings. Pete has no idea what Ryan promised, but he can kind of guess.
"Ryan has to get to class." Spencer turns to Pete. "Your sneakers are by the door. I almost fell over them."
Pete lifts his head from where he's sharing the pillow. Ryan's legs are still scissored with his and it takes a while to get untangled. Spencer doesn't even leave the room, just stands there, glaring.
"You don't have to protect his honour, dude," Pete says as he finally wriggles out from under Ryan's weight. "Besides," he adds, because he can't resist pushing, "it's kind of late for that."
"Pete," Ryan warns from the bed. "I'll see you in class tomorrow, ok?"
Spencer folds his arms and glares, and, ok, Pete likes to stir shit but he isn't stupid and the sexual tension could be cut with a knife. He grabs what he hopes is his shirt and his pants and wriggles into them as fast as he can, jamming his feet into his sneakers and slipping out of the door just as the shouting starts.
It's really early, he realises, looking at his phone. Spencer is a vindictive fucker. He's not only denied him one of Ryan's awesome slow early morning handjobs, but also anything approaching breakfast or even a cup of coffee. The sun is too bright, and Pete wishes he had sunglasses. As it is, he doesn't even have his own shirt, he registers. It's one of Ryan's weird striped ones.
There's only one cure for this. It comes in two parts and starts with coffee and ends with Patrick. Part two should be at home; part one is calling to him from the Starbucks across the street.
Everyone is too loud and too close and too fucking awake, and the line is moving at a snail's pace, because every single person ahead seems to be cursed with chronic indecision and also all want to tell the barista their life story. Pete can feel his hair plastered to his head, the corners of his eyes crusty with sleep and kohl, and his mouth is dry and sour-tasting.
So of course, of course, this is when someone taps him on the shoulder and says, "Pete. Hey."
Pete looks around. Mikey has a different striped hat on and cute, plastic-framed glasses, but the carefully arranged hair is the same, and so are the boots and the unicorn patch and the same air of quiet amusement. The bubble of attraction in Pete's chest is even stronger, though.
"Sorry about skipping out like that," Mikey's saying. "I didn't even get your number. You waiting for coffee?"
"I--" Pete says, suddenly really conscious of what a fucking wreck he looks. "I gotta--bathroom."
Mikey just nods and Pete all but runs to the rest room and locks the door, leans against it. He takes some deep breaths and then fills the basin with hot water. He wonders whether he can actually drown himself in a basin, but it's hardly the most picturesque death. Instead, he splashes his face, and sits on the floor, and texts Patrick until he's sure that Mikey has given up and gone.
The scruffy blond guy at the counter calls out to him as he attempts to slink out of the door.
"Hey, Pete. Your friend left you this." He's holding out a venti cup covered in black scribble.
"What friend?" Pete asks, but he can read the writing now he's close enough Had to run. Call me. 555 897 5209. Mikey!. There's a star drawn under the name.
"Guy with the green beanie. He said to look out for the thorns." The guy gestures on himself to where Pete's collar of thorns pokes out from the V neckline of Ryan's shirt. Pete's kind of pleased that Mikey was checking him out enough to notice, but that fades quickly when he realises that he looks like shit, and he'd not even managed a whole sentence.
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him?
"Thanks," he mumbles at the guy, and takes the coffee. It's a touch too hot and it burns his tongue. Kind of fitting, he thinks.
He's still dwelling on Mikey's glasses and today's T-shirt (Misfits), and the pin on his jacket that Pete doesn't remember from the night of the party when he gets back to the apartment. The coffee's cooler now, and he drains the dregs before setting the cup on the floor, carefully.
Patrick's scribbling on some staves of music, but he looks up, and his face falls.
"What's the matter? Did Spencer glare at you again?" he asks.
"Worse." Pete throws himself on the couch and Patrick snatches up his assignment just in time. "I saw Mikey."
"Mikey--? Oh, Mikeyway Mikey from the party?" Patrick asks. "But that's good--you've been moping for a week."
"Patrick," Pete says. "I met him looking like this." He gestures at himself. "And he's, Patrick, he's--" He gestures, because, for once, he doesn't have the words.
"Even cuter in daylight?" Patrick says like he's laughing at him, but Pete nods.
"Exactly. He even left me a coffee with his number on it."
"Where were you?" Patrick asks, but he looks at the cup with the sharpied number.
"Hiding in the bathroom like a freak," Pete sighs.
"The number's a good sign," Patrick says encouragingly. "You're going to call him, right?"
"No," Pete says. "Because I looked like an idiot and I'm wearing Ryan's shirt and I'm pretty sure Mikey's with that Frank guy anyway."
He pushes his forehead onto Patrick's shoulder until Patrick gives up and puts his arm round him.
"Well, if you called him, you could find out for sure," Patrick says. Pete just shakes his head.
"Why are you wearing Ryan's shirt?" Patrick says after a while.
"Spencer wouldn't stop glaring at me till I got dressed and got out," Pete says honestly. "He's kind of scary. I think he hates me."
One of the many great things about Patrick is that he doesn't argue this.
"Well, you keep boning his best friend," he says instead. "It's no wonder."
"I don't hate Greta," Pete says. He doesn't, not now he's sure she's not an evil harpy about to break Patrick's heart. That had lasted a week, tops.
"You also don't want to bang me." Patrick strokes Pete's hair.
"It doesn't mean I don't love you," Pete says, just in case Patrick doesn't realise.
"I know." Patrick scratches his nails across Pete's scalp and Pete butts his head up into it.
"I'll call him tomorrow," he promises. "I'm just going to feel sorry for myself today."
"Ok," Patrick says, and turns back to his composition. He still keeps on arm round Pete as he writes.
He means to call Mikey, he does, but Andy 'helpfully' tidies the living room because this girl he wants to impress is coming over to study anthro, and when Pete goes to pick up the cup and actually call Mikey, it's nowhere to be found.
"I didn't know!" Andy says defensively "It just looked like scribble!"
"It quite clearly said Mikey! There was a star and everything!" Pete shouts. "Now he'll think I'm avoiding him."
"Well, you did hide in the bathroom from him," Andy spits back, "so I'd say you're doing a good job of making him think that by yourself."
"See if I ever help you get laid again," Pete yells, and slams the door to his room with a satisfying crash.
Andy yells, "It's not like I need the help!" through the door and stomps away.
Pete tries to put the pieces together. Mikey was at a campus Starbucks early enough that he has to either live on campus or close by. He was by himself, which doesn't mean much. And if he likes the same drink he bought for Pete, he's more about the caffeine than the fancy syrups and cream. It's not really much to go on. He doesn't seem to exist on Facebook that Pete can find, and Pete's idly considering some "have you seen this boy" posters, with the little tear-off strips at the bottom, except that he doesn't even have a picture.
Instead, he scribbles phrase after phrase about missed connections and things ending before they begin and love slipping through fingers.
Patrick all but bullies them all into playing a show that Sunday, because he knows Pete can't stay mad at Andy when they play together, and, yeah, Pete does just want to scream everything out until his voice is hoarse and his throat is shredded. They're the warm up for the warm up, but the main act is Greta's band and Patrick's singing with them for one number, so, of course, Pete has to stay and watch. Pete half-hopes Mikey might be there, but even though he scans the crowds for a knitted cap or Mikey's bleached bangs, he can't see him anywhere.
It probably wasn't the best plan to stay up till 5 am the day before he has a 9 am lecture, but Pete's never claimed to be sensible. Ryan saves him a seat right at the back and lets Pete nap on his shoulder. He has a purple hickey under his jaw that Pete doesn't remember putting there.
"Spencer come to his senses?" Pete asks. Ryan's blush is answer enough.
Pete's happy for him (if for nothing else because it might mean Spencer will stop glaring at him), but its a sad, wistful kind of happiness. Everyone in the world seems to have someone but him.
He has four separate deadlines that week, and his world narrows down to libraries and writing and reworking, trying to get his thoughts in order and get them down on paper. He never really catches up on his sleep debt, even more so than usual. He's taking a quick nap in the library (The Arden Shakespeare is surprisingly comfortable) when a long-fingered hand gently moves the highlighter from under his cheek.
"These things called pillows exist," Mikey says, and he smiles down at him. "I even hear that some people sleep in what they call beds."
Pete wants to say something witty and charming and deep, but he's acutely aware that he's been drooling on King Lear so he just manages, "My drummer threw your coffee cup out."
Mikey gets it, because Mikey is perfect.
"Oh," he says, smiling with the corner of his mouth, "that's what happened. I thought you just didn't want to call me or something."
"Are you kidding?" Pete says. "I was kicking myself for not getting your number after the party."
"Yeah." Mikey picks up Pete's block of bat-shaped post-its and scribbles on one. "Sorry for the quick exit. Frank has a bit of a short temper when people are being assholes." He finishes writing and sticks the post-it to Pete's forehead.
"Don't lose it this time." He grins.
Pete peels it off and reads the number. It has the same "Mikey!" and star under it.
"You better have mine as well," he says, and scribbles his down. He looks at the piles of books, and thinks about his deadlines, and then thinks hell, it's not like he sleeps at night anyway.
"Mikeyway." He grins up at him. "Want to get lunch?"
They get burritos from the van that parks outside the sports center, and sit on the grass to eat them. It's not warm, and Pete maybe shamelessly huddles close to Mikey when the wind picks up, whistling around his ears.
"So, did those guys come after you?" Pete asks around a mouthful of beans.
"Nah," Mikey says. "Well, Frank is still in one piece, so I'm guessing not."
"He do that kind of thing often?" Pete asks. He's not sure why he's asking about the guy's probably-boyfriend, but it's like poking at a black eye or jiggling a loose tooth; he can't help it.
"Yeah," Mikey says. "Long as I've known him. He's a scrappy little fucker. But you know, he's my best friend, so I have to have his back."
"Best friend?" Pete asks, to make sure, because there's hope blossoming in his chest.
"For ever." Mikey nods seriously. "No one else I'd ever have. We grew up together. It was a bit weird when he started dating my brother, but we're brothers anyway, so it just, like, makes it official."
"Oh," Pete says, and he thinks about asking Mikey out right then and there, but he hasn't showered in four days, and he thinks he probably has cilantro in his teeth, so instead he asks, "Hey, you going to the Tempered Steel show this weekend? They're this great local band, sound kind of like The Undertones crossed with Taking Back Sunday, with this awesome girl drummer."
"Oh, yeah." Mikey nods, drumming his hands on his knees. "Yeah, saw them a couple months ago, they were amazing."
Pete stretches back on the grass. It's not a date, but it's a guarantee he'll see Mikey again.
“You go to a lot of shows?” Pete asks after a while.
“Every chance I get,” Mikey says. “'s why I picked this place, for the scene. You didn't tell me you were in a band.”
“You saw that?” Pete grins, because this could work for him. “Yeah, me and Patrick and our roommates. Patrick's voice is amazing, totally good enough for us to make it, but his parents insisted on school, so here we are.”
“His parents?” Mikey asks.
“I'd already dropped out once.” Pete shrugs. “But I thought I'd give it another go. I'm not doing this without Patrick either way.”
“You just play bass?”
“If you can call it that.” Pete grins. He has no illusions about how good he isn't. “You play anything?”
“Guitar,” Mikey says, “some bass, too. Frank plays, and my brother can sing. I like it, but there's no way you'd get me on stage.”
“Patrick used to feel like that,” Pete says. “I think he still does, sometimes. So, you see anyone else recently I might have missed?”
It's the right question to ask, because Mikey's face lights up and they spend the next thirty minutes discussing bands they've seen, bands they want to see, and where the best places are to watch the kinds of bands that are going to be huge one day, if there's any justice in the world. Mikey is knowledgeable and passionate, and Pete, who's lived here his whole life, is surprised when Mikey talks about places even he doesn't know about.
"But the Undertones, man," Mikey finishes, "I wish I'd seen them live. John Peel thought Teenage Kicks was the perfect song."
"Really?" Pete frowns.
"I dare you to name five better." Mikey stretches out next to him and kicks his booted feet against Pete's sneakers. The grass is damp, seeping through his shirt, but he couldn't be happier.
"Oh, it is on," he says.
Pete's looking forward to the Tempered Steel show even more than he was already, now that he knows Mikey will be there. It's not a date or anything, he reminds himself, but it's a guarantee that he and Mikey will be in the same time and space. And this time, he promises himself, he's not going to do or say anything stupid.
Soon Pete's right in the middle of the pit, jumping around, feeling the drums and the bass echo through him, grinning wide at the lyrics, which are wry and urgent at the same time, all delivered in the singer's raw voice that cracks with emotion. They are so fucking good, and Pete can't understand why they haven't been signed yet, why some small label won't just take a chance on them.
He and Joe grab onto each other and sing along, and it only gets better when Mikey slides in next to them, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that, Pete's learning, is the equivalent of a full on grin on anyone else.
It's too loud for any kind of introductions, so Pete just nods at Mikey and opens his mouth to bellow out the words of the closing song.
The high of a good show is still thrumming through Pete as the echoes of the last chords fade away, and Tenn crashes her cymbals one last time before the sound system cuts back in.
"Great show." Pete stretches up to say into Mikey's ear. His are still ringing. "Glad I found you."
"Hey," Mikey says. "I found you, though you were kind of easy to spot." He actually touches Pete's bangs then, freshly streaked in red, and Pete feels his heart stutter.
Frank shoves his way through the crowd and loops an arm round Mikey's neck. He has a bruise on one cheekbone and Mikey flutters his long fingers over it.
"We have to make a run for it again?" he asks.
"Oh, no," Frank says, "Just a normal pit injury, someone wasn't watching the elbows. Who're your friends?"
"Pete," Pete says, "And this is Joe."
"Hey." Joe steps forward to say hi and and jostles Pete, making him spill his entire open cup of soda over Mikey's feet. He's not wearing boots for once, but beat-up sneakers, and Pete knows his feet must be soaked. Seriously, something about this guy makes him lose any pretence of cool.
"Shit, sorry," he says. Mikey shakes his head.
"Worse things have happened in moshpits," he says.
"Gee's meeting us at the diner down the block," Frank says to Mikey.
"You guys coming?" Mikey asks, raising his eyebrows at Pete. Pete was planning on staying and dancing, but alone time -- or, well, nearly alone time -- with Mikey easily wins out.
"Let me find Patrick," Pete says, "but sure, I could go for some pancakes."
"It's night time." Frank frowns.
"Best time for pancakes," Mikey says, and Pete thinks he might actually be in love.
Patrick's up by the bar talking to Andy, so Pete grabs them both.
"Mikey's here!" he says, because the most important thing should be shared first.
Patrick smiles at him. "We actually get to meet him?"
"We're going to the diner down the block," Pete says, "Come on."
"I'm just going to hang out here," Andy says. "I'll see you guys later."
Patrick glances at Pete, and he has to bite his lip not to laugh, because Andy totally thinks he's stealthy about his crush on Tenn.
"Ok," Pete says instead, "but we're not bringing you anything back.
Andy just waves them away.
"Patrick, Patrick," Pete says, "this is great. Well, apart from Joe making me spill my drink on Mikey's shoes."
"You kind of have bad luck around this guy, huh?" Patrick asks, but he doesn't complain as Pete hustles him through the crowd and out to the street where Joe's waiting with Mikey and Frank and a stocky blond guy Pete vaguely recognises.
"Hey, Bob." Patrick waves. "Should have known that was you on the board in there; they sounded even better than usual."
"I do my bit," the guy says. He has a lip ring like Frank, and he tugs it into his mouth like he's nervous.
They make introductions as they walk down the block to the diner, and as soon as they get to the door, Frank jogs over to the corner table where a couple of guys are already sitting. Pete knows Frank's dating Mikey's brother, so he guesses Gee is the guy with choppy black hair down to his ears, not the taller guy with curls to rival Joe's. Well, unless Frank tongue-kisses all his friends like that.
“My brother Gerard,” Mikey says, pointing to where Frank's wriggling into his lap. “And that's Ray.”
The guy with the hair waves and says, “Hi,” then makes room for Bob to sit next to him.
“Pete,” Pete says, “and Patrick, and Joe's the reason Mikey's feet are still wet."
"I said I was sorry," Joe says as the server comes over.
Gerard just asks her to leave the whole pot of coffee on the table, and Pete and Mikey both order pancakes.
“So, are you guys all at school here, too?” Pete asks.
“Ray and me came up from home,” Gerard says, “to see Mikey.”
“Hey--” Frank says, and Gerard kisses the side of his head. “And you,” he finishes.
“Plus Baby Face Assassin are playing tomorrow,” Ray says. “They're not coming out to Jersey, and I've wanted to see them live since I heard the EP.”
“Oh, the self-released one?” Patrick asks. “With the theramin?
Patrick, Bob, and Ray are soon deep in conversation about--Finnish rock, Pete thinks. He listens with half an ear to make sure that Patrick's ok, but he's got Mikey next to him, elbow bumping his every time he cuts into his stack of pancakes, so he doesn't pay that much attention.
"You sleep in any more libraries this week?" Mikey asks after a while, tugging the coffee pot away from Gerard and pouring another cup.
"I had deadlines," Pete says. "And I don't really sleep much when normal people do."
"Like a vampire," Gerard puts in.
Pete frowns, because he's not sure if Gerard is making fun of him or not.
"Oh, cool," Mikey says. "Yeah, like, maybe you don't know you're a vampire but that's the way it, like, manifests itself. Or a werewolf?"
"Being a werewolf would be cool," Pete accepts. "Though I'd totally be smart and keep clothes all around the place in case I changed by accident."
"Werewolf emergency plan." Mikey nods. "That's important."
"I think these things through," Pete says, grinning.
"But," Gerard asks, "how do you know that you'd remember where they were when you were in wolf form?"
"Wolves are intelligent," Pete says at the same time as Mikey says, "Gerard, I told you, Werewolves maintain their human awareness, they'd have to to know when they changed."
"There's nothing in any of the classics that says that," Frank says, and Pete gets the feeling this is an argument they've had many many times in the past.
"You could make sure that there was something that the wolf likes the smell of," Pete suggests. "Like, put cheese or something in the pockets?"
"Cheese?" Mikey sounds doubtful. "Wouldn't steak be better?"
"I'm vegetarian," Pete says. "I'm not carrying raw steak in my pants."
"Right!" Frank leans across the table and holds out his fist for Pete to knock his own against it. "See, Mikey, I told you you could be a vegetarian werewolf."
"You get this is theoretical, right?" Patrick puts in.
"Patrick, don't ruin things with logic," Pete says, and knuckles his arm, then hugs him around the shoulders. Mikey narrows his eyes.
"Hey," Patrick says, "Bob's going to come see Greta's next gig.”
"You didn't invite him to our next one?" Pete says. "Sometimes I think you love her better."
"Who's Greta?" Mikey asks.
"My girlfriend." Patrick tugs on the brim of his hat the way he always does when he talks about her. It's unbearably adorable.
Mikey seems to relax, melting against Pete, and Patrick gives Pete a pointed look which Pete has no trouble translating.
"So you like him?" Pete asks Patrick, later, so late it's early. They'd stayed until the server looked inches from throwing them out, and spent another 10 minutes saying goodbye on the sidewalk outside, everyone carefully entering numbers into phones. Pete thinks Patrick basically wants Ray to be his new best friend. Whatever. He's totally secure about that.
"Well, you kind of monopolised the conversation with him," Patrick says from behind the bathroom door. From the sound of it, he's brushing his teeth. He won't let Pete in the bathroom with him any more. Some stupid thing about boundaries. "But his friends seem to know their stuff, and Bob's awesome."
Pete nods, even though Patrick can't see it. He's too wired to sleep, because he has three texts from Mikey on his phone, and a whole new store of Mikeyfacts, and he knows how up close Mikey smells a bit like cigarette smoke and the ink from comics.
"Hey?" Pete asks when Patrick finally comes out of the bathroom, face scrubbed pink. He follows Patrick into his room and claims the right side of the bed. Patrick just sighs and pulls back the covers.
"Get the light," he says, and Pete does.
"You gonna see him again?" Patrick asks, draping his arm round Pete's waist.
"I don't know," Pete says. "I hope so."
"You like him," Patrick says. "You've been talking about him for the past week solid. Now you're not sure?"
Pete's mostly sure. But he's not sure what he would do if Mikey turns him down, and it's weird that he doesn't know what Mikey would do. Mostly when he wants to fuck someone, he does -- or, at least, finds out pretty quickly they don't want to fuck him. Mikey's kind of hard to read and it's throwing him off.
"I'm charming, right?" he asks, glumly. He's pretty sure he is, but Mikey makes him doubt things.
"Well, look at it like this," Patrick says. "You still have your shoes on, and yet I'm still letting you snuggle."
"I know," Pete says. He tugs Patrick's arm more tightly round him. Patrick's warm and under the blankets everything smells sleepy and soft. "I just keep looking like a fucking idiot."
"That's kind of part of your charm." Patrick rubs his cheek across the top of Pete's head and Pete snuggles back into him. "If he can't see that, that's his problem."
"I wish I had your faith in me," Pete says. Nothing ever looks bright this time of night, and so far Mikey's seen him doing the walk of shame in Ryan's clothes, drooling on library books, and ended up wearing Pete's drink.
"You talk me up all the time," Patrick says.
"But you're Patrick."
Patrick chuckles.
"And you're Pete. That's enough moping for one night. Just text him tomorrow and ask him to one of those shows. You freaked out enough when Andy threw the cup away and now you're not going to even use his number?”
Pete knows it doesn't make sense, but he kind of can't cope if Mikey tells him no when he's actually trying. Mikey matters.
“Maybe I will,” he says.
Patrick snuffles into his shoulder.
“You do that. Think you can sleep?”
Pete shakes his head. His hair makes a shush-shush sound against Patrick's worn T-shirt.
"Probably not. I can pretend, though."
"Good enough for now," Patrick says. He tugs the blankets up around them both, and Pete kicks his shoes off and lets himself drift off to Patrick's steady breathing, telling himself he'll be brave and text in the morning.
Except that he doesn't. Every time he gets his phone out, thumb hovering over Mikey's name, he chickens out. Mikey texts him a couple more times, but Pete can't even decide what to reply to those, other than short answers that make him sound like a tool.
Patrick runs out of patience in three days, which is two more than it normally takes.
"Ok, Pete," he says. "This is enough. I'm calling Gabe, he's back this weekend. There's a party at his place and you will dance yourself out of your moping. You can even invite Mikey."
"You go," Pete says. He wants to see Gabe and find out just what the hell a philosophy internship even involves but he's no company tonight. He'd rather just sit and marvel at the fact he's managed to sabotage a relationship that never even started.
"Not without you," Patrick says stubbornly. "I will carry you if I have to."
Pete wants to argue, but Patrick has that determined expression and is totally not above getting Joe and Andy to help.
Patrick and Joe all but stand over him the night of the party, until Pete gives up ignoring them and goes to get changed into something that isn't sweats. He even straightens his hair.
"You not wearing your eyeliner?" Joe asks. "You always wear it."
"What's the point?" Pete says, because it's not like Mikey's going to be there. He didn't invite him.
Patrick rummages around in the crap on the bookshelf until he finds the nub of one of Pete's kohl pencils and Pete gives in, in the face of twin glares, and lines his eyes quickly. Who knows. He met someone amazing at the last party. Maybe lightning will strike twice. He doesn't think so though. Mikey's one of a kind.
They can hear the music from down the block, and Pete, not for the first time, wonders how the hell Gabe's roommates get away with the noise. When the door opens he realises it's because pretty much everyone on the street seems to already be at the party.
"PETE!" Gabe bellows. He's already wearing what looks like one of Victoria's glittery headbands, although, knowing Gabe, it could actually be his own. "It's been too long." The crowd parts, as crowds tend to do in front of Gabe, and then he's throwing long arms round Pete's shoulders and kissing him soundly on each cheek.
"Tell me everything," he says when he's gotten Pete tucked against his side, one arm round his shoulders. "Patrick tells me you are pining."
"I'm not," Pete says automatically, because he doesn't pine, he's just having a perfectly rational response to constantly looking like an idiot in front of someone.
"Hmm," Gabe says, completely ignoring him. He's steering them both through the dancing crowd. "It can't be Morgan because Patrick would have sent up the bat signal."
"You do not have a bat signal," Pete says.
"Oh, Peter Pan," Gabe says, shaking his head. "We even have a secret handshake. But something's got you blue. Or someone."
The crowd isn't thinning any, but Gabe, by virtue of being a giant, has a way of making his own space, and Pete's caught in his wake, Gabe's arm still tight around him, and he knows he won't be released until he spills.
"Just, I keep making a fool of myself in front of the same person," he says.
"Pete." Gabe squeezes him. "The first time I met you, you were wearing nothing but a hat fashioned entirely of cheez whiz. Making a fool of yourself has never seemed to bother you."
"This is different," Pete says, "Mikey's so--"
"Mikey--Mikeyway?" Gabe interrupts, and of course, of course, Gabe knows who he is.
"You know him?" Pete says, feeling a little flash of hope.
"We go way back," Gabe says. "Almost all the way back. Mikey's awesome, I can't believe you guys haven't met before."
"He is awesome," Pete agrees, "and I keep looking like an idiot, or throwing drinks on him, or falling asleep and drooling on myself and being woken up by him. It's hopeless."
"Well, he's around somewhere," Gabe says. "Try not to spill anything on him this time and I'd say you were golden."
Pete doesn't think so, and is about to explain this at length and maybe get some cuddles out of it, when Mikey himself appears, as if out of thin air. Pete wonders if he really did figure out invisibility.
"Gabe," Mikey jerks his head to where Pete is tucked under Gabe's arm, and frowns, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyes. Pete wants to kiss it. "You promised you wouldn't hit on people I like any more. We had a deal."
"A) I'm not psychic, and B) I'm not hitting on Pete," Gabe says. "This is just moral support for my boy."
Mikey looks doubtful and then Pete processes what he actually said.
"Wait," he says, "wait--"
"Want to go for a walk?" Mikey says, and it's like they've jumped back in time.
"What are you waiting for?" Gabe whispers in his ear, and shoves him hard, so that Pete, of course, falls flat on his ass.
Mikey's mouth twitches, and he gives Pete a hand up and doesn't let go, even when they get outside. He just threads his fingers tightly through Pete's, and they're holding hands, right there in the dark street.
"So," Pete says, "how many times has Gabe done that that you need an actual rule?"
"It's Gabe," Mikey says. "How many times do you think?"
"Point." Pete nods his head. "So, you like me?"
"I thought that was obvious?" Mikey says, like Pete hasn't had weeks of doubt, and then he tugs on Pete's hand until Pete facing him, and bends down to kiss him.
"You're kind of hard to read," Pete says, and Mikey doesn't say anything, just puts one hand on Pete's hip and holds tight as he kisses him again, sly and teasing and just exactly like Mikey. There could be no other way for him to kiss, Pete decides.
"I promise I'm way cooler than I seem," Pete says when they break apart. "I just seem to manage to look ridiculous whenever I see you."
"You've met my friends," Mikey says. "I'm used to ridiculous. I like it."
"That is excellent news for me," Pete grins, and this time he reaches up to kiss Mikey. The music bleeds outside from the open door, and it sounds a lot like victory.