(no subject)
Title: Nobody's Flounder
Pairing: Pete/Gabe
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1285
Summary: If this is hazing, Pete would like to see what they consider good treatment.
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.
Pete always knew he would pledge a frat. That it would be like this hadn’t really occurred to him. The house isn’t anything like the shining examples of frats shown in university brochures. But he’s almost through the hazing. He’s almost in, and he’s nothing but happy with the choice.
Unlike most frats Nu-Omicron-Chi has given their pledges a list of things they must do before they’re accepted, with proof of completion by means of photographs, video, or first hand accounts. Sort of like a scavenger hunt of open mindedness. Like Gabe explained on rush night, ‘we can’t technically haze you, or say only hot guys, or only guys willing to make out with other guys. But bottom line? We are’. A lot of the more stupid guys dropped at that moment. Wannabe CEOs don’t kiss other guys, apparently. Good riddance, as far as Pete is concerned.
For his part, Pete’s completed all but one. All were some level of fun, no bullshit like scrubbing a toilet with his own toothbrush. Some were more fun than others. He looked surprisingly cool crossdressed, maybe good enough to try it again without a prompt. Getting into a fistfight with a Republican was great, for all that he hated having enough conversation to pinpoint one. Volunteering at a homeless shelter for an afternoon was depressing, but in a way that felt important. Making out with someone completely androgynous is sort of a daily habit of his, doing it while taking a picture was equally routine. And doing a drug he’d never tried before required a little searching, and checking Erowid to make sure the effects were something Pete wanted, but in the end the MDMA powder capsules were a good time. He really feels sorry for the pledge in the lavender hoodie that checked that box with alcohol. What eighteen year old has never gotten drunk?
The last thing on Pete’s hazing list is take a full member on a date. Not just any, but one assigned. It’s a way of making sure Butch Walker doesn’t have to take on twenty guys in a row. Out of all the names in the hat, Pete got Gabe. Most pledges would feel pressured to impress, taking the frat president on a date, but that’s not Pete’s source of stress. He’s perfectly confident he can be an entertaining date, Gabe enjoys his company when they talk at the frat house. Even if he’s not, the location should pick up the slack. His personal drama is that he likes Gabe. It sucks to be taking someone on a date that has no actual interest in dating him. If he could somehow get Gabe to like-like him over the next few hours that would be grand.
They smoked up before they left, but Pete’s pretty sure that doesn’t matter at this point. The bus ride has taken over an hour, and it’s not like weed is datura, the seven day hallucinogen that Pete has to keep telling Gabe not to buy online. Not only is mailing drugs super illegal, all the trip reports Pete’s read make it seem really unreliable and potentially nasty. Even Pete doesn’t have the capacity to stay awake for seven days to babysit.
So they’re not on datura, and hopefully never will be, and they’re probably not on pot anymore either. That doesn’t stop Pete from checking the map he got with his wristband as soon as they’re inside the gate. He needs to stop at the concession area. Munchies or no, he’s in desperate need of cinnamon sugar covered doughnuts. And cotton candy- pink, not blue. And one of those lemonades with the slices of frozen lemons floating through it.
Twenty minutes later, his half eaten churro in hand, Gabe says “you’re gonna puke.”
“That’s the point.” Pete replies easily. It’s not a real roller coaster experience if you’re not sure if you’re going to vomit everywhere. That feeling in the back of your throat is just as much a part of it as sore feet from standing in line, or sunburn because sunscreen isn’t the style of a twenty year old guy, but being outside in July from noon to midnight allows for a lot of sunshine.
“You want to puke?”
One time Pete actually did. He was on the ride that was sort of like a Ferris Wheel, except the carts were shaped like umbrellas, and swayed a lot more. Halfway up he puked all over his shoes. He had to find the nearest bathroom and wash them off before he could go stand in line for the Polar Express.
“I don’t like actually puking. I like being on the edge of it though. I guess that’s weird?”
Gabe shrugs. “Everyone’s weird.”
Half an hour after that they’ve made it through the Octopus and the Hammerhead, and squish together to get into the shared seat of another classic; the Ferris Wheel. It’s not the most thrilling, but part of going to an amusement park is riding everything at least once to show respect. They pause at the second from the top, and Gabe amuses himself by kicking his feet. Pete doesn’t dare, his laces are white parcel string and they don’t hold his shoes to his feet very well. Then Gabe nudges him and together they rock the seat. It’s good seeing the resulting smile.
Pete’s liked him forever -since the fucking minute they met- and it just seems like the perfect time. He twists sideways and leans forward, only to be interrupted.
“You get that I’m not genderfucked enough to count on the hazing list, right?”
“I x’ed that square already. I just like you.”
His second move in is also interrupted. “Wait, dude. If you try to kiss me at the top of the Ferris Wheel I will burst into laughter and it’ll ruin our relationship before it starts. Just wait until you’re on the ground.”
Gabe does have a point. It is a little cliched and ridiculous. Pete settles back against the back of the seat and decides to give it a second try later. He won’t go back to the dorm without having tried, but he can wait until Gabe is less likely to hysterically laugh at him.
After they do the flying swings three times in a row, and then try to get as close to the ceiling as they can on the Gravitron, it’s time for more food. At least Pete thinks so, and Gabe doesn’t disagree. He follows him to the same stand, but while Pete starts to devour his sno-cone, Gabe buys cotton candy.
The way he eats his cotton candy is adorable. Pete would never use that word out loud, but it’s true. Gabe isn’t just tearing off tufts, like a normal person. He’s tearing off the thinnest of wifts with deliberate precision, then letting them melt on his tongue like communion wafers. Not that Gabe’s ever seen a communion wafer. He’s a practicing Jew as much as Purple Hoodie’s best friend is a Mormon. The guy only lasted a day before he dropped out, but he doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, and visits Purple Hoodie almost daily.
Pete’s cone is done, it’s time for the next order of business. “What does your cliche-o-meter say about handjobs in the bathroom?”
“Uh.” Gabe looks at him like he’s checking to see if Pete’s joking. He’s not joking. “They are the least cliche thing possible. You are in absolutely no danger of me laughing.”
“Good. I’d rather hear moaning.”
Fifteen minutes later a security guy is escorting them out of the fairgrounds. As far as Pete is concerned, it’s worth it.