Boywrangling: Days Zack Hates His Life
There are days that Zack looks around and hates his life, Jack Marin, and Pete fucking Wentz. Possibly Wentz most of all. Wentz discovered them.
The chatty one is doing a handstand in the corner, humming something Zack darkly suspects is the Care Bears theme; the awkward one is slumped in the corner of the sofa with a handheld, and what the quiet one is doing to his hair right now surpasses understanding, but appears to involve a straightiron.
The incredibly feminine one left ten minutes ago in search of a Snapple, but Zack isn't worried; of all of them, he's the most trustworthy when it comes to being let out on his own. The quiet one gets lost in his own head, and the chatty one has no sense of just how terrifying fangirls can get. The awkward one does better than either of them, but he's often bewildered enough by the attention to get backed into a corner, which can't end well.
They have real names, of course, and Zack even knows them; he's a professional, he's never once slipped to their faces. But they have yet to really earn more than labels in his head.
The pretty one comes back, absently rubbing his thumb over the top of his drink.
"Spencer!" the chatty one shouts, and tumbles down onto the cement floor of the dressing room in a tangle of limbs. He sits up and rubs at the side of his head. "Ow."
Zack sighs.
The chatty one is doing a handstand in the corner, humming something Zack darkly suspects is the Care Bears theme; the awkward one is slumped in the corner of the sofa with a handheld, and what the quiet one is doing to his hair right now surpasses understanding, but appears to involve a straightiron.
The incredibly feminine one left ten minutes ago in search of a Snapple, but Zack isn't worried; of all of them, he's the most trustworthy when it comes to being let out on his own. The quiet one gets lost in his own head, and the chatty one has no sense of just how terrifying fangirls can get. The awkward one does better than either of them, but he's often bewildered enough by the attention to get backed into a corner, which can't end well.
They have real names, of course, and Zack even knows them; he's a professional, he's never once slipped to their faces. But they have yet to really earn more than labels in his head.
The pretty one comes back, absently rubbing his thumb over the top of his drink.
"Spencer!" the chatty one shouts, and tumbles down onto the cement floor of the dressing room in a tangle of limbs. He sits up and rubs at the side of his head. "Ow."
Zack sighs.