(no subject)
Title: Accident Prone
Pairing: Mikey/Patrick
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1131
Summary: Stupid shit happens when you're drunk. Sometimes you need an adult to summarize just how stupid your shit is.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The epic rivalry would make more sense if it was because Pete is a soccer player and Gerard is in band. Athletes and musicians are supposed to hate each other. Instead it’s because they’re both in drama. Because they’re both addicted to stage lights, the choice is between being gracious when the other snags the role they wants, or carrying a vendetta. Anyone that’s seen Gerard flounce around in a feather boa can’t be surprised by the path he chooses to take.
Being the younger brother, Mikey is loyal to Gerard and his stupid melodramatic ways. If Mikey had a blood feud Gerard would be loyal to him, Mikey’s certain of it. No doubt Frank and Ray feel the same. On occasion they have to prove their loyalty. Normally the antagonism stays in the theatre, but sometimes Gerard and Pete meet in other places. Like tonight, at this party.
Most parties don’t have a theme beyond underage drinking, but if this one did someone could easily claim it’s Truth Or Dare. No one’s actually sat down with a bottle to randomize selection, the host has just done a few circuits asking weird questions and suggesting weird things. And if there’s one thing you do around Gabe Saporta it’s follow his lead. Mikey’s pretty sure the one he gets will be sexual. Gabe is wired that way, and he can turn it off if he has to, but he very much knows the people that he doesn’t have to pretend for.
He’s right. When Gabe finally saunters up to him it’s to say “I dare you to play gay chicken with Stump.”
Mikey takes a swig of his beer. As far as stalling goes, it’s decent. It gives him a chance to decide how to answer. He decides to go with the obvious. “You know I’m bi.”
“So that means the home audience gets more than a three second closed mouth kiss. I think they’ll survive.”
“You need to ask again in front of him, so he doesn’t think I’m randomly assaulting him.”
“Fine.”
Mikey takes one last fortifying sip of his beer as they cross the room. He can do this. If Ron had to kiss Blaise to make a point, he would have.
“I dare you to play gay chicken with Stump.”
Mikey does his best to glare at both Gabe and the aforementioned Stump. Patrick glares back, unsurprisingly. “Accepted.”
In the span of three seconds what seems like the entire house has gathered. Gerard, Frank and Ray are standing in a semi-circle behind him, and Patrick’s got Hurley and Trohman and Pete, like towel boys in a boxing match. Mikey’s almost expecting a bell to ding when they step into each other’s personal bubble.
Patrick doesn’t have bad breath. Even if he did Mikey wouldn’t wouldn’t pull away -there’s too much riding on this now to simply pull away- but he’s glad Patrick doesn’t. He just smells like rum when their faces are an inch from each other, pushing on an invisible but oh so there boundary.
He tastes like it too, when Mikey kicks it up a notch and pushes his tongue past Patrick’s lips. It’s only a second after first contact, but they’re not exactly in love. Mikey doesn’t have to keep it clean to get a second date. A minute after that Patrick does a notch of his own, sliding his knee between Mikey’s slightly out-turned legs. Standing in the middle of the room instead of against a wall it’s kind of hard to get any friction going but Mikey does it as best as he can. The height differential almost makes him rub against Patrick’s belly, but the feeling -half arousal, half sheer Gryffindoresque daring- is worth looking silly.
Eventually he pulls his lips off Patrick’s. He doesn’t so much as move his body an inch away, just adjusts to sucking on the flesh of his neck. Mikey’s practically made a name for himself with the skilled hickeys he gives out. If there’s anything that’ll make Patrick buckle it’s a string of red bruises.
“I will finger you in front of a thousand people,” Patrick hisses, defiant under the onslaught.
There’s only one reply for that. “Bring it.”
Neither of them call chicken. It ends unceremoniously when Joe throws a punch at Frank. Unless Frank starts it. Mikey doesn’t know. He doesn’t really see how it starts, only gets jostled away from his enemy as it continues to go down. The brawl only stops when Gabe sends them to smoke up in different rooms in the house; an adult version of a time out.
Mikey’s too buzzed to think about much when he buses home with Gerard hours later. He’s barely coherent enough to ask for a transfer. But when he wakes up in the morning he isn’t thinking about anything else. Last night he didn’t want to stop at just making out. If they hadn’t been broken up it probably could have gotten a lot further.
Mikey pushes his face into the pillow and tries to deal with the fact that he wants to fuck Patrick. He may as well want to fuck Romeo himself, for all the epic rivalry this could stir up if he gets caught. That is if Patrick is into him too. It seemed like he was, but maybe that was just the alcohol and the cockiness. Maybe in the cold light of morning it’s ridiculous. Well, of course it is, but maybe for a different reason than Mikey’d like to pin the blame on.
After laying with his thoughts as long as he can possibly stand Mikey gets up and pads down the stairs to the kitchen, where lucky for him Dad is reading the newspaper. Mikey gets a box of cereal from the cupboard, as well as a bowl, but doesn’t do anything with it. He just puts both on the kitchen table, and looks at the spots in the uneven stain of the table. It’s one of those paint your own furniture deals, the first and last piece his parents bought. He’s spent many a bored family dinner imagining worlds into the stains and kicking his brother under the table.
Dad takes a long look at him, newspaper half folded. Then he asks in a supremely non-committal voice “You make a mistake last night?”
Mikey’s barely surprised. He loves both his parents, but his dad can read him like a book. He shrugs. “Did something without really thinking about how it was going to happen, or reactions that would happen next.”
Thousand, millions of parents would go the sex or drugs route, start asking questions. His dad says “sounds like an accident to me.”
Mikey snorts. A fucking accident is one way to put it.