wentz/way fic
Bronx/Bandit ficlet, written for yourealwaysmine and reposted for convenience.
As soon as he was old enough to think of it, Bronx googled his parents. It was an incalculable error in many ways. Many, many ways. Many. But he can't undo it and he can't ever block it out completely despite trying hypnosis and banging his head against the wall, among other things.
So, you know, the point is that he knows that there were some rumors about his dad and Mikey Way, and even though it's one of the least traumatic things google has told him he still doesn't like it. It's not only the gay thing, but, okay, it's a little bit the gay thing. But just because his dad and his mom, man. That's all. But he kind of hates Michelle Trachtenberg and Jeanae, too, so he's totally not a bigot. And also, maybe just a small part of it is the idea that Mikey Way sort of broke his dad's heart. Because (and sometimes when he was younger, this really embarrassed Bronx--he's glad that he's 15 now and more mature and beyond, like, accepting societal ideas about masculinity [which chicks young female people totally dig]), his dad is a softy. His dad is, like, a Krispy Kreme donut with the light, fluffy white shit inside. And sprinkles. Which his mom totally understands and encourages and defends, even, because she's kind of more like a bagel. With a rock in it. A beautiful, awesome rock. Like--a diamond rock. Whatever. The point is that if Mikey Way was too stupid to appreciate Pete Wentz and also broke his heart and stepped on his donut then Mikey Way is something totally sad and nasty. Like a bran muffin. That's stale. With the top ripped off so it's just the paper-wrapped part.
The point is, Bronx doesn't really have great feelings about the Ways. And he doesn't really appreciate that he and Bandit have been foisted off on each other at this picnic. They've been staring at each other over the potato salad for a while now, and it's just all kinds of torture.
"So," Bronx says. "I saw you pull up in your uncle's car." He's kind of like his dad, in some ways, and he thinks that a good offense is the best defense. Or, you know, even when you don't necessarily know if you need a defense. You should still be offensive. It's a Wentz thing.
Bandit nods.
Bronx looks over at where Mikey is walking his cat. On a leash. Fucking weird-ass Ways. "I hear he's a closet homosexual."
Bandit's eyebrows draw together and for a second Bronx thinks he's going to get punched. 13 year olds are pretty childish like that. Instead, Bandit looks away, then says, "Hey, does your dad drink your mom's piss, or just his own?"
Bronx makes a fist under the table before he can help it. Then he remembers that he's not 13 anymore. "So, like...is that the kind of stuff you look at online?" he asks, stabbing a mayonnaise-covered pepper. "Piss-drinking? It's, like, your thing?" Bandit makes that little scrunchy face again, but doesn't respond. "And, also, that was totally staged," Bronx says. Just to clear it up. On principle.
"Huh," Bandit looks over at Pete appraisingly. "I kind of liked him better before you said that." Bronx must make a WTF-face, because Bandit clarifies. "Artistic expression. Also, it's supposed to be, like, healthy. To drink your own urine. And it's sterile." Bandit's cheek is twitching, and Bronx sort of suspects he's being fucked with. He goes for a drink, but his plastic cup is empty.
"Um, I'm gonna--" he gestures back toward the table where the drinks are set up, then stands. Not that he's, like, running away. But. Who knows that much about consuming urine?
"Hey, we brought the yellow punch!" Bandit calls after him. "It's really healthy!"
Fucking weird-ass Ways.
As soon as he was old enough to think of it, Bronx googled his parents. It was an incalculable error in many ways. Many, many ways. Many. But he can't undo it and he can't ever block it out completely despite trying hypnosis and banging his head against the wall, among other things.
So, you know, the point is that he knows that there were some rumors about his dad and Mikey Way, and even though it's one of the least traumatic things google has told him he still doesn't like it. It's not only the gay thing, but, okay, it's a little bit the gay thing. But just because his dad and his mom, man. That's all. But he kind of hates Michelle Trachtenberg and Jeanae, too, so he's totally not a bigot. And also, maybe just a small part of it is the idea that Mikey Way sort of broke his dad's heart. Because (and sometimes when he was younger, this really embarrassed Bronx--he's glad that he's 15 now and more mature and beyond, like, accepting societal ideas about masculinity [which chicks young female people totally dig]), his dad is a softy. His dad is, like, a Krispy Kreme donut with the light, fluffy white shit inside. And sprinkles. Which his mom totally understands and encourages and defends, even, because she's kind of more like a bagel. With a rock in it. A beautiful, awesome rock. Like--a diamond rock. Whatever. The point is that if Mikey Way was too stupid to appreciate Pete Wentz and also broke his heart and stepped on his donut then Mikey Way is something totally sad and nasty. Like a bran muffin. That's stale. With the top ripped off so it's just the paper-wrapped part.
The point is, Bronx doesn't really have great feelings about the Ways. And he doesn't really appreciate that he and Bandit have been foisted off on each other at this picnic. They've been staring at each other over the potato salad for a while now, and it's just all kinds of torture.
"So," Bronx says. "I saw you pull up in your uncle's car." He's kind of like his dad, in some ways, and he thinks that a good offense is the best defense. Or, you know, even when you don't necessarily know if you need a defense. You should still be offensive. It's a Wentz thing.
Bandit nods.
Bronx looks over at where Mikey is walking his cat. On a leash. Fucking weird-ass Ways. "I hear he's a closet homosexual."
Bandit's eyebrows draw together and for a second Bronx thinks he's going to get punched. 13 year olds are pretty childish like that. Instead, Bandit looks away, then says, "Hey, does your dad drink your mom's piss, or just his own?"
Bronx makes a fist under the table before he can help it. Then he remembers that he's not 13 anymore. "So, like...is that the kind of stuff you look at online?" he asks, stabbing a mayonnaise-covered pepper. "Piss-drinking? It's, like, your thing?" Bandit makes that little scrunchy face again, but doesn't respond. "And, also, that was totally staged," Bronx says. Just to clear it up. On principle.
"Huh," Bandit looks over at Pete appraisingly. "I kind of liked him better before you said that." Bronx must make a WTF-face, because Bandit clarifies. "Artistic expression. Also, it's supposed to be, like, healthy. To drink your own urine. And it's sterile." Bandit's cheek is twitching, and Bronx sort of suspects he's being fucked with. He goes for a drink, but his plastic cup is empty.
"Um, I'm gonna--" he gestures back toward the table where the drinks are set up, then stands. Not that he's, like, running away. But. Who knows that much about consuming urine?
"Hey, we brought the yellow punch!" Bandit calls after him. "It's really healthy!"
Fucking weird-ass Ways.