The Best Things Come From Nowhere || Patrick/Mikey, Pete/Ashlee || NC-17
Title - "The Best Things Come From Nowhere"
Author - runthegamut
Pairing - Patrick/Mikey, Pete/Ashlee
Rating - NC-17
Word Count - 24,441
Summary - A High School AU wherein Fall Out Boy attend public school, My Chemical Romance attend private school, and Patrick and Mikey meet while working together at a grocery store. As a friendship blossoms between the two, Patrick learns he can't always see the obvious. Fortunately, that's what best friends are for.
Warnings - Underage sex, mentions of drug use
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - Written for bandombigbang. Masterpost here. Title from "Made-Up Love Song #43" by Guillemots.
Fanart post
Fanmix post
Patrick was gradually awakening, the dull murmur of voices slowly filtering into his conscious. He was becoming aware of the kink forming in his neck from lying on a meager throw pillow, the way the carpet pressed against his forearm, and the slight tingling in his fingers that signaled his hand was falling asleep. Everything outside of those physical sensations was fuzzy, like a dream.
It was the sound of a gunshot that pulled him back into the present completely. He was awake, but kept his eyes closed and lay still in his spot on the floor, listening to the voices of Pete and Ashlee coming from the couch above him.
“Hm. I know people can survive shots to the head, but I’m pretty sure he should have something more wrong with him than just a sore jaw and a little blood,” she was saying.
“I don’t care, because the effects there are awesome; the slow motion way we get to see his cheeks inflate and his head fly back? The smoke is a nice touch, too,” he replied.
“Oh, totally,” she agreed. “I’m just saying it’s not terribly realistic.”
Pete was laughing; amused, not in a mean way. “I’m pretty sure very little in this movie can be considered realistic.”
Patrick didn’t need to open his eyes to know that onscreen, as The Pixies were launching into “Where Is My Mind?” the narrator was taking Marla Singer’s hand as they watched the surrounding buildings get demolished.
“Baby, would you stand by my side while I blew up the world?” he asked, and Patrick knew he was grinning that cheesy way he did at her, eyes half closed.
“I thought I already was,” she answered, probably smiling back.
The soft smacking sound of lips being pressed together began to emanate from above him. As the sounds grew wetter, Patrick began to regret not sitting up as soon as he was awake. He figured that at this point, it was less embarrassing for everyone if he lied still and continued pretending to be asleep. To his relief, the kissing stopped after a couple minutes.
“Pete,” she said gently, but firmly.
“What?” he asked, clearly confused as to why she was stopping him.
“Patrick’s right there...”
In between the sounds of more kisses, Pete murmured, “He’s sleeping.”
“No, he’s not,” she insisted.
“No, I’m not,” Patrick parroted. He cracked his eyes open and carefully looked up to the couch, prepared to close them again if anyone’s clothing had been removed. Mercifully, he found Ashlee sitting with her legs over Pete’s lap, both fully clothed. “How did you know?” he asked her.
Ashlee smiled down at Patrick as she leaned slightly over the couch to see him better. “Your breathing changed a few minutes ago. I figured you were waking up. Have a nice nap?”
Patrick lifted his hat off his head and smoothed his hand over his hair before replacing it. “Yeah, I’m good,” he answered as he pushed himself up to a seated position. “I should probably get going though,” he added as Pete nuzzled his face into Ashlee’s neck.
“Aw, you don’t have to leave, Patrick.” Ashlee frowned at Patrick as he stood, placing a hand against Pete’s chest to stop him from leaving the hickey he was no doubt intending. “We’ll behave.”
Pete looked up at where Patrick was standing and straightening out his clothes. “You know what you need? You need someone to make out with during movies so you don’t have to feel so weird about watching them with us. We can double date and stuff.”
Catching his lip between his teeth, Patrick looked away, his fingers shoved in the front pockets of his jeans as his thumbs brushed over the denim. “I’m good, thanks,” he decided after a moment.
“No, seriously!” Ashlee chimed in, pulling her legs from Pete’s lap and tucking her knees underneath herself as she sat up higher on the couch. “Who’s your type? I can fix you up with someone!” She looked entirely too excited about the possibility.
“Um.” Patrick looked at the two of them and blinked a few time. “I have to go,” he repeated before turning to make his way to the door.
“Aw, Patrick,” Pete called after him. “Why do you have to be like that?”
Patrick stopped and sighed, his back to the couch. “Really,” he replied, turning back around so Pete could see he was telling the truth. “I have to be up early. I work in the morning.”
Pete’s face broke into a grin at the mention of work. “Yeah? What time?”
Rolling his eyes, Patrick shrugged. “Ten to Four?”
“Awesome,” Pete answered, satisfied. “See you there.”
***
Patrick had gotten his job bagging groceries the summer after he turned sixteen, the legal age to work without a permit. His allowance and the occasional lawn-mowing job weren’t enough to earn him the cash he needed to buy all the albums he wanted, so he went in and applied at the store his mom had been frequenting every Saturday since he could remember. In fact, he probably got the job on account of the fact that the store manager, Mr. Rapple, knew his mother.
It was easy enough work, mindless after he got the hang of it. It was a matter of being able to organize the groceries as he saw them coming down the line, placing them in the right bag. Cans got their own bag, of course, and Patrick had learned how many he could put in doubled-up plastic sacks (six, unless they were Campbell’s condensed soup cans, in which case eight would safely fit). Breads and chips couldn’t be put in with other items. Frozen foods were grouped together. Fresh meat got a little plastic sleeve before being placed in its own sack so as not to cross-contaminate the fresh fruit.
(The process was not at all dissimilar to categorizing records. Soul got its own section, hip hop another, punk another. Otherwise, Etta James would end up next to either the Eurythmics or Jadakiss, and that would just be wrong. Classify and subdivide, that was the name of the game.)
It was a pretty decent job for a seventeen - year - old. He didn’t come home smelling like grease, the uniform wasn’t anything appalling, and most importantly, they let him wear a hat. Pretty much, the only downside was that sometimes he’d see one of his parent’s friends come through the line and they’d coo at him and how responsible he was being, or they’d remark how they wished their son or daughter would be as responsible as him. It was run of the mill embarrassing stuff, nothing major.
Patrick didn’t have to worry too much about seeing his peers, though. Most of the kids who came shopping with their parents were ten or under. Teenagers opted to stay home or were at practices or rehearsals or the like. It was a fairly safe job in that respect. The only person he knew that he saw on a regular basis - save his coworkers - was Pete, who would come in, buy a pack of gum, insist that he needed it bagged, and then stand next to Patrick, chewing said gum and talking about random stuff as Patrick bagged the next four or five customers.
“Soooo,” Pete smirked as he came through the line that day. The cashier scanned his pack of gum and then handed it to Patrick with an irritated eye roll. “How’s work going?”
Patrick dropped the gun in a plastic sack and then handed it to Pete after he had collected his change. “It’s awesome, as always.”
“Isn’t your day a little brighter for having seen my face?” Pete teased.
Patrick couldn’t help but smile at his friend. “Something like that,” he agreed, readying the grocery sacks for the next customer. “So what are you up to today?”
Pete shrugged, tearing open his pack of gum and popping a piece in his mouth. “The usual,” he replied. “I’ve got soccer practice this afternoon and then after dinner I’m going over to Ashlee’s. Hey, you want to go see that new Seth Rogan movie with us tonight?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Patrick sighed, quickly grabbing the cans that came down the line and dropping them into the sacks before doubling them up. “I already played third wheel last night. You guys should have a Saturday night out without me, you know?”
Frowning, Pete looked down at where he was scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. “You’re not a third wheel. You’re my best friend. I like hanging out with you. So does Ash.”
Patrick grimaced because he knew it was true. But Pete and Ashlee had been dating for over six months now and as their relationship got more serious, Patrick couldn’t help but feeling like a voyeur. “Yeah, but you guys should have some time alone together, too. It’s cool. I was going to go look at albums after work anyway, so I’ll probably have a few new purchases I’ll want to listen to tonight.”
“You sure?” Pete asked, sounding doubtful. “I really don’t want you to feel weird about hanging out with us. Like, it’s not a problem or anything. Is it-“ Pete paused, his eyes shifting from Patrick to the wall behind him. “Is it because you don’t have someone to bring with? Ashlee has some friends who are single,” he offered.
Pausing from bagging the groceries a moment, Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Pete,” he said firmly. “I mean, it would be nice and all, but it’s not… I’m not going to date someone just to date someone, okay? If I meet the right person, cool. I don’t want to be set up with anyone or anything.” Glancing over to see the sad look on his friend’s face, Patrick added, “I really do have stuff to do tonight. I’m not going to be sitting home feeling sorry for myself. Don’t worry about it. Okay?”
“Yeah, alright,” Pete nodded, sounding unconvinced. He offered Patrick a piece of gum before noticing the look Mr. Rapple was giving him and making his way for the door. “I’ll catch you tomorrow,” he called as he left.
***
As public high schools went, the one Patrick attended was definitely considered a ‘good’ one. They had state champion football and soccer teams, three debaters competed at nationals that year, and some eighty percent of its seniors planned to attend college. The facilities were top-rate, the hallways were clean, and the student body was predominantly upper middle class.
The only thing that Patrick really cared about, though, was that the school, by and large, was pretty easy going when it came to social interaction. There weren’t strictly defined social groups and to the extent that someone was considered a ‘band kid’ or an ‘honors students,’ there was a line-crossing; it wasn’t a very cliquish school.
Patrick’s own friends were a hodgepodge group: Pete was an athlete, Joe was a stoner, Andy was a metal-head, and Matt was pretty popular. Patrick didn’t really put himself into a category. As far as he was concerned, he was sort of a nobody. He had been in band his freshman and sophomore years, but quit when he started working at the grocery store. He didn’t really participate in any extra-curricular activities, didn’t drink or smoke, wasn’t an honors student; he was just sort of there. He was okay with that.
“Sup?” Joe greeted him one Monday morning as Patrick took his seat in their English class, scooting his chair over to make room for Patrick at the table. “Did you enjoy writing fifteen hundred words this weekend on Ethan Frome and the themes of desperation in this classic American novel?” Joe sneered.
“Fuck,” Patrick mumbled as he dropped his book bag onto the floor slumping into his seat. “Shit, I totally forgot,” he admitted, dropping his head into his hands. “I worked both Saturday and Sunday to get some extra hours in and I fucking blew off my homework.”
“Ah,” Joe sympathized. “Well, it’s not like Ms. Kellerman is a hardass about turning things in late. She’ll probably only knock you down one grade if you turn it in tomorrow.”
Patrick folded his arms on the desk and laid his head on them. “So if I’m lucky I’ll get a C,” he moaned. “Which will be a miracle, seeing as how I’ve only read the first two chapters.”
Joe fished something out of his bag and tossed it onto the table next to Patrick. When he looked over, Patrick saw a Cliff Notes version of the book. “To ease your troubles, my friend,” Joe said as he pushed it over to Patrick.
“Thank you,” Patrick replied, grateful for the help. “Fuck, I need to get on the ball with my classes. If I don’t keep my grades up, my mom will make me quit my job.”
“You know, most teenagers don’t want to work,” Joe offered thoughtfully. “I know I don’t.”
Patrick chuckled as he bent down to stuff the Cliff Notes in his bag. “Yeah, well, I need the money to fund my habit.”
“Ah, yes. Your vinyl addiction,” Joe replied, shaking his head sadly. “Another poor soul who’s lost his innocence to the thrill of a needle in the groove of a record. I, for one, am glad my addiction is to one hundred percent organic shit. I can grow it in my backyard if need be.”
“Oh, I’m sure that would fly with Mr. and Mrs. Trohman,” Patrick snorted.
Joe reclined in his chair, draping one arm over the back. “I would tell them it was for the science fair. Also, I could profit off its sale, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about working my fingers to the bone at an after school job and forgetting to write insightful theories on Edith Wharton’s tragic protagonist.”
Patrick slid his fingers under the frames of his glasses to massage his temples. “Please, don’t remind me,” he groaned.
“Oh, hey,” Joe said suddenly. “Speaking of your job, I saw some new guy working there last week. He had crazy hair and a Smiths shirt on. This seems like someone I would get along with.”
Patrick glanced up at the mop of curly hair atop Joe’s head and then frowned. “Wait, what were you doing at the store?” he asked.
“I needed a honey bear,” Joe replied, matter of factly. “Where else would one go to purchase a honey bear?”
“Joe,” Patrick laughed, shaking his head. Joe returned Patrick’s smile before the bell rang and Ms. Kellerman asked the class to pass their essay papers forward.
***
Patrick checked the work schedule the next time he came in, but he hadn’t recognized the new name on it - Mikey Way - from school. He didn’t recognize his face, either, when Mr. Rapple had sent him to the back room to retrieve another case of plastic sacks and Patrick had found a thin guy, taller than him, ducking his head through the loop of a white apron. The guy’s light brown hair hung in longer strips around his face, tucked beneath the frames of his black glasses, which caught on the neck of the apron, pushing them askew.
Mikey, Patrick thought as he averted his eyes and went to grab the cardboard box containing the sacks. He heaved the box into his arms and as he turned, the new guy was standing with his mouth hanging slightly open, knees together, as he squinted at the schedule. Patrick made a quick exit before the guy could say anything to him. He figured they’d make a proper introduction later.
The thing was, Patrick actually managed to go an astoundingly long time without saying a word to Mikey; they either worked opposite schedules, or when they worked the same shift performed duties in separate sections of the store. From the little Patrick managed to see of Mikey over the next couple of weeks, he gathered that he was fairly quiet, kept to himself, and was a bit awkward.
In talking to his coworkers, Patrick had heard Mikey attended Saint Joseph’s, the Catholic high school in town, which explained why Patrick had never seen him before. Mikey didn’t really look the role of a private school kid, though: his jeans were tight and low and he wore them with studded belts; his hair was definitely styled, but not in a way any other kid in town wore their hair; his t-shirts were threadbare and probably a size or two too-small. It wasn’t the preppy look that most of the Saint Joe’s students adhered to.
It wasn’t until Mikey wore a New London Fire shirt to work one Saturday that Patrick made up his mind to say something to him. He’d seen Mikey wear t-shirts promoting a plethora of Brit pop bands like The Smiths and Joy Division. It wasn’t Patrick’s favorite genre of music, but it was music nonetheless and some basis of common ground to start a conversation about, anyway.
When Mr. Rapple had sent Patrick outside to help corral grocery carts and return them to the store, Mikey was already in the parking lot, a gray hoodie on with the hood covering his head so only his bangs blew out of it in the breeze. He was wrestling with a cart that a customer had left on an embankment, one of its wheels jammed in a deep crack.
“So. New London Fire,” Patrick said from behind Mikey as he tugged on the cart again. “I’ve got I Sing the Body Holographic, but I guess they put out an EP after that, which I never got around to picking up. Do you have it?”
Mikey continued to tug on the cart, muttering a distinct “motherfucker” under his breath as he put his right foot on the cart to try to help leverage it out, but in no way made an effort to respond to Patrick’s question.
“Um. Do you need some help?” Patrick asked, leaning his weight to one side as he peered around Mikey to get a better view of the situation, his hands jammed deep in his front pockets.
“Fucking fuck, motherfucking fucker,” Mikey said more clearly now, continuing to ignore Patrick. He braced his left foot against the curb and heaved back again. With the extra force, the wheel came free from its position and the cart sprang backward as Mikey scuttled away to keep from getting slammed into.
Patrick’s eyes widened as he watched the scene unfold. He was about to ask Mikey if he was okay when Mikey reached up to scratch his head, his hand sliding under his hood and pushing it back far enough to reveal a white ear bud occupying Mikey’s right ear. Realizing Mikey hadn’t heard a word he said, Patrick shuffled off, hoping to avoid the embarrassment of anyone realizing he’d just attempted a conversation with someone who was completely oblivious to him.
As Patrick made his way to a cart a couple rows over, he looked back over his shoulder to where Mikey had paused in his task of returning the cart to pull an iPod out of his pocket, his finger moving over the wheel. Interesting, he thought, and looked away just as Mikey caught his gaze. He made a mental note to bring his iPod to work for the next time he had parking-lot duty.
***
“So, have you talked to the new guy at work yet?” Pete asked as he sat down at the lunchroom table, swiping a French fry from Patrick’s tray.
“I was eating that,” Patrick mumbled, watching helplessly as Pete helped himself to another, dragging it through the ketchup before popping it into his mouth with a smile.
Pete swung his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Not that exact one,” he replied. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, I tried to talk to him...,” Patrick started explaining.
“And were unsuccessful,” Andy supplied from across the table.
Joe looked up from where he was dunking his French fries in his chocolate shake before eating them. “How can you try to talk to someone and not be successful?” he wondered. “I mean, assuming you opened your mouth and words actually came out.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and slapped Pete’s hand away from the remainder of his food. “Okay, I talked to him but he didn’t hear me. Apparently he listens to his iPod when he’s returning carts to the store.”
“So talk to him when he’s not returning carts to the store,” Pete answered simply.
Patrick turned and glared at his friend. “Thank you so much for the advice,” he replied, his voice oozing sarcasm.
“You’re welcome,” Pete said happily, reaching around Patrick to snag another fry.
***
One week later, Patrick was sweeping up the aisles when he rounded the corner to find Mikey at the other end, methodically turning the cans one at a time so that the labels faced forward. Patrick stopped momentarily, watching as Mikey stood motionless, save for one hand that slowly rotated each can, his face devoid of expression.
Having worked at his job for a year and a half, Patrick worked quickly, pushing his broom in quick, definitive sweeps as he moved up the aisle. He kept his eyes squarely focused on Mikey though, hypnotized by his co-worker’s calculating demeanor. He couldn’t tell if Mikey was being indifferent or thorough.
When he was about ten feet from Mikey, Patrick stopped sweeping and stood up straight, but Mikey didn’t acknowledge his presence. “I noticed you were listening to your iPod out in the parking lot the other day,” he said at last. “Never thought to do that before.”
Mikey turned the can in his hand forward as he quickly glanced over toward Patrick. “Might as well enjoy myself while I’m working,” he replied, a hint of a smile in his lips.
“We haven’t met or whatever. I’m Patrick, by the way.” Patrick switched his broom to his left hand and offered his right to his co-worker.
Mikey stared down at Patrick’s hand for a moment before taking it and giving it a tentative shake. “Mikey,” he replied, his eyes meeting Patrick’s a brief moment before resuming his work. Behind his glasses, Mikey’s eyes were golden brown with flecks of green.
“You, um. You know you could do that faster if you used both hands, right?” Patrick asked as he watched Mikey slowly turning the cans once again.
The corner of Mikey’s mouth twitched up more this time as he managed a half-smile. “I could, but what’s the point? I mean, I get paid by the hour, right? If I finish faster, it’s not like I get paid more,” he answered with a quick shrug, his eyes following his hand. “I’m just given more work to do. Really, I just need to do enough not to get fired.”
Patrick opened his mouth to respond but hesitated before he could get the words out. Mikey was right, of course. It’s just that he’d never thought about it like that before. He’d always wanted to get his work done efficiently and do the best job possible. “Well, that’s... I mean, yeah. I guess.” Glancing down, Patrick pushed the broom around ineffectually as he tried to look busy. “So what kind of music do you listen to?” he asked weakly.
“Eh.” Mikey gave another quick shrug. “Good music,” he said, looking amused. “I listen to a little of this, a little of that. The Smiths and Muse and Smashing Pumpkins. Whatever. Some metal, some rap.” Mikey looked over to Patrick again as his hand hovered over another can. “You?”
Mimicking Mikey’s shrug, Patrick paused from his sweeping and stood up straight once more. “A little of everything, too. Mainly R&B and the blues, I guess, but I have jazz and hip-hop and punk and, yeah, a little bit of everything in my collection.”
“Sweet,” Mikey nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else when Mr. Rapple showed up in their line of vision.
“Stump. Way. Why don’t you both take your fifteen minute break now and then head up front to help at the checkout,” he said gruffly before heading off again.
Patrick nodded and picked his broom up before heading to the break room at the back of the store. The lounge area was fairly bare, consisting of a folding table and some chairs, a coffee pot, and a microwave. There was a small television in the corner, which Patrick usually zoned out watching during his breaks.
Mikey entered the break room behind him, but as Patrick went to take one of the chairs, he walked past, heading toward the back exit. Patrick’s eyes followed him, eyebrows raised inquisitively until Mikey paused at the door.
“I’m gonna have a smoke. You want to come?” he asked, procuring a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket.
Conversation with Mikey seemed better than watching whatever PGA tournament was currently airing on the ten-inch set, so Patrick set his broom against the wall and followed Mikey outside. The back door overlooked the loading dock and Mikey leaned against the metal railing as he dangled his cigarette in his lips and flicked his lighter.
“You want one?” Mikey gestured after he’d exhaled a lungful of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
Patrick leaned his back against the railing and shook his head, looking up at the roof. “Nah, I’m edge,” he replied.
Mikey raised an eyebrow as he processed that and then took a long drag on his cigarette. “So you don’t use anything?” he asked. “You don’t smoke or drink or... whatever?”
“Nope,” Patrick answered, his elbows resting on the railing to support his weight.
“Huh.” Mikey seemed to think about it for a minute. “So, did you use to use and quit or something?”
“No,” Patrick replied again. “Never tried any of it.”
“Really,” Mikey said, sounding dubious. “Well, it can be fun sometimes.”
“I guess. It’s just not for me.” Patrick looked down and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the concrete landing. “So you go to St. Joseph’s?” he asked in an attempt to casually change the subject.
Mikey snorted as he inhaled again on his cigarette, coughing twice as he nodded. “Yeah. It’s awesome,” he said, his voice laden with sarcasm.
Patrick looked Mikey over, his too-tight jeans and thin shirt and hoodie. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head with his bangs clustered together in sharp points that hung under the frames of his glasses. “No offense, but you don’t really look like a private school kid,” he said carefully.
Mikey snorted again. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied as he exhaled another drag and flicked the ashes over the railing.
“Um, you’re welcome?” Patrick replied, shoving a finger up under the brim of his hat to scratch at his head.
Mikey sighed, looking around the docks. “A lot of my classmates are rich douche bags who don’t care or talk about anything much more than how to spend their parents money. I’m not rich. I’m not planning on going to an Ivy League school. I don’t really fit in.” He shrugged as though it didn’t bother him.
“I don’t really fit in either,” Patrick offered. “I mean, I do. I’m not like an outcast or anything. But I just have some different interests from my classmates or whatever.”
“Yeah?” Mikey said, arching an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Patrick raised one shoulder. “Oh, well, like the music thing. I like music, but I listen to some stuff that I guess isn’t very mainstream, so like no one at school would know it. And I keep my music on vinyl mostly. I’m not all into tech stuff, like everyone else is.”
“Seriously?” Mikey laughed. “I think records are badass. I wish I had a turntable.”
“Well, the sound quality is better,” Patrick said without hesitation. He stopped himself before he launched into his critique of the audio compromise that occurred when converting music to digital form.
Mikey grinned, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, well, I’m a comic book nerd and a video game nerd and I like 80s movies.”
“Dude,” Patrick exclaimed, turning to face Mikey. “I love 80s movies, too. The best movie of all time?”
“Ghostbusters,” they replied at the same time.
Patrick smiled wide. “Right on, right on,” he said, nodding. “My second favorite has got to be Back to the Future.”
“Love it,” Mikey quipped. “One of the best ever.” He was quiet a moment, squinting up at the sky. “So, that guy who comes in here all the time to see you while you’re working. Is that your boyfriend?”
“Who? Pete?” Patrick sputtered. “No. No, no, no, no,” he replied decisively, before chuckling. “No, Pete and I are friends. Good friends, but just friends.”
Mikey furrowed his brow and nodded slowly. “Oh, alright. Just wondering. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”
Patrick shook his head firmly. “No, it’s cool. It’s cool. I’m not offended,” he assured Mikey. “Pete is kind of... overly familiar with his friends, I guess, so it’s not like the first time someone’s asked or anything. He’s got a girlfriend, actually.”
“Ah,” Mikey nodded, returning a cautious smile.
“Seriously,” Patrick added as Mikey took one final drag on his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground below. They stood on the landing one more moment, before Patrick checked his watch. “Looks like break time is over,” he sighed, pulling open the door for Mikey.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” Mikey grinned as he made his way through the room and back into the store. “Next time we can discuss the merits of the 80s sequel movies.”
“You realize that’s going to get us off on a tangent about the Star Wars trilogy, right?” Patrick asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Mikey said as they returned to work.
***
Over the next few weeks, Patrick and Mikey began an easy friendship, which centered around their mutual love of all things geeky, even if they had somewhat different interests. Patrick spent one break singing the praises of a Technics turntable while Mikey discussed the dynamics of the relationship between Cable and Deadpool.
“You’ve never played a Playstation?” Mikey asked one day, sounding personally affronted at the concept.
“No?” Patrick replied, his eyes darting from side to side as he wondered why it was a big deal.
Mikey crossed his arms and let out a disapproving breath. “What, you don’t like video games?” he asked, as though the idea were foreign to him.
“I like video games,” Patrick offered, frowning. “I just don’t play a lot? I mean, I never bothered to get one at home cuz I spent most of my time and money on my music collection or actually playing guitar and stuff. I’ve played video games.”
Mikey narrowed his eyes as he looked down the length of his nose at Patrick. “Yeah? What video games?” he demanded.
Patrick laughed at how seriously Mikey appeared to be taking the situation. “Uh, I’ve played some games on Joe’s Nintendo, I guess. Actually, I’m pretty amazing at Mario Kart.”
Mikey blinked and then slumped slightly, dropping his face into his hand. “Oh, Patrick,” he moaned.
“What?” Patrick laughed. “Is there something wrong with Mario Kart?”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Mikey answered, shaking his head sadly. “This needs to be remedied, and I think I’m the person to do it. What are you doing this weekend?”
Patrick widened his eyes as he saw the determined look in Mikey’s eyes. “Playing video games with you?” he replied slowly.
“Exactly,” Mikey said, satisfied. “I have Sunday off if you want to come over? I’ll introduce you to the world of Halo.”
Patrick shrugged because he could think of worse things to do on his weekend. “Yeah, that’d be cool,” he agreed, not really sure what he was getting himself into.
***
The Way home was not in the area up the hill where most of the kids who attended St. Joseph’s lived - the money in town was clustered in that area, known by the population as ‘Snob Nob.’ Instead, Mikey’s family lived in the flats like most of Patrick’s friends. Their house wasn’t terribly large and had a brick facade with curtains closed tight over the windows.
The inside of the home was clean, if a bit cluttered. Stacks of magazines and newspapers were stashed in corners and knick knacks lined the fireplace mantle. A large ashtray sat in the center of the kitchen table, where Mrs. Way tapped a cigarette against the edge while idly flipping through a magazine.
Like Mikey, Mrs. Way didn’t fit in with Patrick’s preconceived notion of what St. Joseph’s students and families looked like; her hair was bleached and teased and her manicured fingernails were three times as long as his own mother had ever worn hers. Still, when Mikey introduced her as Patrick shuffled through the kitchen, she looked up from her reading and flashed him a warm smile, telling Patrick to make himself at home and help himself to anything in the fridge.
“My mom’s pretty laid back,” Mikey explained as they made their way out of earshot, Patrick following behind as Mikey led him down the hall to his room. They passed a door that had several sketches tacked up on it. Patrick could tell from a glance the work was good and assumed it was Mikey’s older brother’s room. Mikey had mentioned Gerard several times before, and Patrick knew he was away at art school.
Mikey’s room was like the rest of the house, except instead of magazines or newspapers stacked in his room, there were comic books. He didn’t have knickknacks lining his walls; instead, he had an assortment of action figures from comics and movies, most still in their original packaging. The one thing that was exactly the same was the large ashtray sitting on Mikey’s desk.
“My mom’s pretty laid back,” Mikey repeated when he caught Patrick’s eyes studying it and the cluster of cigarette butts it contained.
Nodding, Patrick turned his focus back to looking around the room. “That’s cool,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. He shifted his weight from side to side, uncertain of where to sit.
As if on cue, Mikey, straightened the covers of his unmade bed and gestured at Patrick. “You can sit here,” he offered. “I changed the sheets just a few days, ago. I swear.” He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Patrick pulled his hands from his pockets and sat down on the edge of the bed, his palms flat on the mattress as Mikey walked over to flip on the tv set across from his bed. As Mikey bent down to flip on his Playstation, the already low waist of his jeans fell to expose a couple inches of the top of Mikey’s briefs. Patrick dropped his eyes to his lap where he quickly folded his hands, picking at his fingernails.
“Here,” Mikey said, pulling his attention back. Looking up, Patrick found Mikey offering him a controller. He took it as Mike turned back to the television, making selections on the menu that shown on the screen before crossing his legs and lowering himself to the floor next to Patrick’s feet.
“So, the goal is, you have to kill all these alien things,” Mikey explained. “But first you have to make a character, unless you want to use one of the ones me and Gee already made.”
“Uh…” Patrick blinked at the screen as Mikey scrolled through a myriad of avatars, flipping through the controller to change color and symbols on the uniforms and the types of weapons they used.
“You better make your own,” Mikey decided. “You’ll feel more connected to it if it represents you.”
“Uh,” Patrick repeated, chuckling. “Okay.” They spent the next half hour putting together a character for Patrick with Mikey offering his input. By the time they’d finished, Patrick’s head was swimming.
Mikey then shuffled through a few screens. “Okay, so now for the play,” he stated and then gave Patrick a litany of instructions involving which buttons to push to make which actions happen.
Patrick ran his thumbs over the dozen buttons on the controller, ignoring what Mikey was talking about on the screen. “Uh, there are like a million buttons on here,” he informed Mikey. “How am I supposed to figure this all out?”
Tilting his head up to look back at Patrick, Mikey grinned. “You’ll figure it out,” he answered simply before turning back to the screen and starting the game.
“You know, that’s not very reassuring.” And it wasn’t. The millions of buttons controlled way more actions than Patrick thought a video game should allow a player to control and Patrick found his avatar moving one direction as it “looked” in a different direction. Consequently, he could never see what was ahead of him. Meanwhile, aliens were popping out and blasting their weapons at him.
“Dude,” Mikey laughed after a moment. Patrick glanced down at him to see Mikey watching as he played before quickly returning his eyes to the screen to try to ward off another attack. “You know that when you move your head, it doesn’t change the direction your guy looks, right?” Mikey informed him. “That’s what this control is for.” He jabbed his finger at Patrick’s controller.
Patrick glanced down momentarily before pushing Mikey’s hand away. “Shut up,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side in a vain effort to get his avatar to look in that direction too.
“And playing with your mouth open doesn’t actually help you do any better,” Mikey added smugly as Patrick closed his mouth, pressing his lips together in concentration.
They continued on with play, Patrick dying in rapid succession.
“You seriously suck at this,” Mikey informed him.
“Hey!” Patrick laughed, kicking ineffectually at Mikey as Mikey leaned away. “It doesn’t look like you’re really all that great either.”
Mikey grinned, biting his lip as he blew up another alien. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But compared to you I’m fucking awesome, which says a lot about your skills.”
“Shut up!” Patrick laughed again. “I just learned how to play! You, on the other hand, have the game in your room and can play it all the fucking time!” He kicked at Mikey again, but instead of leaning away, this time Mikey dropped his controller and grabbed Patrick’s foot, tickling it.
Screeching, Patrick twisted and tried to pull his foot away from Mikey’s grip, but Mikey just clamped his arm around Patrick’s leg and continued tickling. Patrick stood up and tried to move away, but Mikey’s grip was tight and he ended up tripping and falling to the floor instead, laughing in fits.
“God damn it!” he gasped between body-shaking laughs. “Stop it! Stop it!” He twisted again and Mikey let go, allowing him to slide his foot away and scoot himself up to a seated position on the floor. Patrick clenched his hands into fists and held them up defensively as he narrowed his eyes at Mikey, still smiling. “Don’t try that again,” he warned.
Mikey’s face was wide in a smile as his own laughter subsided. “No, I won’t,” he promised. “At least, not now while you’re expecting it.” Reaching up, he cleared a strand of hair that had fallen in his eye. “You’re really ticklish.”
“You’re not?” Patrick asked, reaching one hand out toward Mikey, as Mikey leaned away from his touch. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Patrick smirked. “So are you going to sit here and insult my lack of skill or are we going to keep playing so I can kick your ass?” He pulled himself around so he was sitting with his back propped up against Mikey’s bed and picked up his controller once again.
Mikey followed suit, scooting back into position next to Patrick, his knees pulled up to his chest. As Mikey took possession of his controller again, his shoulder knocked against Patrick’s. Mikey sucked his lip into his mouth and glanced over at Patrick quickly before re-starting the game.
They continued playing the rest of the afternoon with Patrick making no visible improvement - not that he’d admit it. Whenever Mikey began to mock his play, Patrick would just start speaking in a loud impersonation of Christopher Walken. They finally gave up play when Mikey was laughing so hard he had tears rolling down his cheeks and was doubled over, clutching his sides.
“Mikey Way. Mikey Way. Are you okay? Do I need to call 911?” Patrick asked, still in character as Christopher Walken.
“Stop it, stop it!” Mikey cried, gasping for air as he removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes. When he’d finally regained his composure, Mikey took a deep breath and put his glasses back on, smiling at Patrick. “You’re pretty fucking funny.”
“Dude, Christopher Walken is funny. I just do an impression of an impression of him,” Patrick explained, brushing off the compliment.
Mikey looked at Patrick for a long moment in silence, a small smile still in place. “Whatever you say,” he said at last, crawling over to his bookshelf and flipping through DVD cases. “Should we watch Pulp Fiction?” he asked, holding up a copy of the movie.
“Uh, do I get to recite Walken’s speech about hiding a watch up his ass?” Patrick grinned.
“Duh,” Mikey said, putting the movie in the player.
***
“srsly u really do suck at halo.” Patrick read the text message on his phone as he was getting ready for bed that night and grinned.
Hitting the reply button, he typed out his response: Pretty sure Im not the only one on our team who was sucking.
A minute later, Patrick’s phone chimed again: Were like the bad news bears of halo.
“Lovable losers? Or driving Walter Matthau to drink?” Patrick tapped out before pressing ‘send.’
The electronic strains of Patrick’s ringtone started up as the name “MWay” appeared on Patrick’s screen. He pressed the button to answer and held the phone up to his ear.
“Walter Matthau was an alcoholic before he started coaching,” Mikey said, dispensing with any sort of greeting.
Patrick laughed as he lay back on his bed. “Oh, right. Sorry, I haven’t seen that movie since I was, like, eight. So we’re losers then, is what you’re saying?”
“Lovable losers,” Mikey corrected. “Losers who learn important lessons about what matters in life and eventually go to Japan.”
“Oh, fuck, they totally did,” Patrick grinned. “I forgot about that.” He pulled off his glasses and set them on the table next to his bed as he rubbed his eyes. “Going to Japan would be pretty awesome.”
“I don’t think there’s any shame in forgetting about the third Bad News Bears film. It’s probably for the best. But Japan would be amazing,” Mikey sighed.
“Think of the turntables I could get over there,” Patrick gasped. Mikey let out a high-pitch laugh on the other end of the phone. “What?” Patrick demanded.
“Nothing,” Mikey lied. Patrick waited for him to continue. “Just… you have a one track mind and it’s not the track that most teenage boys are on.”
“Oh, right.” Patrick paused, uncertain what to say to that. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Mikey replied thoughtfully. “It makes me curious about your record collection, though. Not gonna lie.”
Patrick glanced over at his shelves of records and his stereo system and grinned. “Well, you should definitely come over sometime and check it out.”
“Well, I’m not going to invite myself,” Mikey hinted.
“Mikey,” Patrick said in his most serious voice. “Would you like to come over sometime and check on my collection of vinyl and listen to some tunes?”
Mikey made an amused humming noise before responding. “I’d love to.”
“Cool. When are you working next weekend?”
After making plans for Mikey to hang out, they chatted about inane things until Patrick found himself waking up to a stream of sunlight pouring in his bedroom window, his dead cellphone next to his head on his pillow and a kink in his neck.
***
Patrick was digging through the stack of books in his locker when he felt familiar hands pressing down on his shoulders. “Hey, Pete,” he said without turning around.
“Patrick! Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Pete exclaimed before leaning against the locker adjacent to Patrick’s.
Patrick looked over at his friend, narrowing his eyes. “I saw you two hours ago at lunch,” he reminded him.
“Well, yeah. But we haven’t gotten to, like, do something outside of school for a while,” Pete pouted. “What are you doing this weekend? I mean, besides working. Do you want to come over and watch movies?”
“Well, actually, you stopped by work last weekend and harassed me, remember?” Patrick tucked his physics textbook under his arm and closed his locker door before turning to head off to class. “Uh, this weekend Mikey’s gonna come over and check out my record collection.” Pete slowed his step until Patrick had to stop and turn around. “What?” Patrick demanded.
“Nothing,” Pete grinned. “Just that showing him your record collection? Sounds pretty serious,” he teased.
Patrick rolled his eyes and turned around, shaking his head as Pete jogged to catch up with him. “It’s not like that,” he sighed.
“Not like what?” Pete asked.
“You’re still my best friend,” Patrick reassured Pete. “Just because Mikey and I hung out last weekend and we’re doing something this weekend doesn’t mean you and I aren’t best friends anymore. I like him, okay? He gets my sense of humor and I get his. We both like kind of dorky things and... I don’t know. We have fun, I guess.”
Pete arched his eyebrows, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “And he’s cute, too,” he offered.
Patrick furrowed his brow, shooting a glance over to Pete. “Whatever,” he said dismissively. “I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
“It’s okay,” Pete chirped. “I pay enough attention for the both of us.” He clamped his hand down on Patrick’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze as he slowed to a stop. As Patrick turned to face him, he noted the genuine look on Pete’s face. “Just so long as we stay best friends,” Pete said, giving a nod.
“Nothing will ever change that,” Patrick assured him, and he meant it. “Anyway, I’m sure Ashlee appreciates having her boyfriend to herself from time to time.”
Pete chuckled, turning to bump his shoulder against Patrick’s. “Actually, she misses having your judgment around. You can usually talk me out of some of the dumber ideas I get,” he admitted.
Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “True. This is why I have to be your best friend forever, right? Where would you be without me?”
Pete narrowed his eyes as he looked up, sucking in his lower lip in thought. “Probably wearing a mustache made of my own pubic hair and jumping off my roof with a patio umbrella.”
“You’ve done both those things,” Patrick reminded him.
“Yeah,” Pete grinned. “But not at the same time.”
***
Patrick knew he had a lot of records, but he would forget how absurd his collection was until someone saw it for the first time. He was reminded as Mikey gawked at the shelves lining his walls, running his fingers over the albums and occasionally pulling one out to inspect the cover art. “How’d you get all of these? This is insane.”
Patrick stood with his arms folded over his chest as he watched Mikey. “My dad gave me a bunch to start out with and the rest I’ve picked up over the last four years or so. Most of my paycheck goes to buying records,” he shrugged. “I’m supposed to be putting some money aside for college too, but, eh.”
Mikey pulled the jacket of Purple Rain from Patrick’s collection and held it between the palms of his hands as he studied it. “Awesome,” Mikey decided, looking over to Patrick and grinning.
“You want to listen to it?” Patrick moved forward and gingerly took the album from Mikey’s hands, pulling the record from the sleeve and placing it on his turntable. A moment after setting the needle down, the opening notes of “Let’s Go Crazy,” started up.
Mikey let out a laugh. “I don’t know anyone else our age who’s as into Prince as you seem to be, judging from your collection here.”
“Dude, are you laughing at Prince,” Patrick asked in his most serious tone. “Prince is fucking amazing, okay? And if you don’t think so, you’re welcome to get the fuck out of my room.” He narrowed his eyes at Mikey in a mock glare and Mikey put his hands up in surrender.
“No, no! I’m not laughing!” Mikey said, laughing again. “I mean, I am, but I’m just saying it’s different. It’s cool that you’re into all this stuff. It’s not that I think the music is bad or anything.” As if to emphasize his point, Mikey began nodding his head in time to the music, his eyes closing as he got into the groove of it, moving slightly from side to side.
Patrick watched Mikey dancing, his eyes widening slightly. Mikey didn’t seem like the dancing type; his lean limbs seemed kind of gangly most of the time, toes and knees turning inward. But he looked comfortable like this, not self-conscious at all.
Lost in his staring, it took Patrick a moment to realize Mikey had opened his eyes and was watching him back. “What, you think I’m a freak for dancing?” Mikey asked, arching an eyebrow at Patrick.
“No, no,” Patrick stammered, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I, uh. Your hair,” he said quickly. “It’s sort of all over the place and it moves a lot when you do.” He gestured at Mikey’s coif, which was teased up and curled into standing on top of his head with his bangs coming to a point in the middle of his forehead.
Mikey reached up and ran his finger over the strand of hair that hung between his eyes. “Oh, I see,” he grinned. “You think my hair is weird? What’s up with your facial hair, Mr. Stump?” Mikey moved forward, reaching out his hand to touch Patrick’s cheek.
Patrick stumbled back a couple steps, raising a hand to fend off Mikey’s touch. “What about my sideburns?” he laughed.
“Nothing,” Mikey said, his eyes fixated on Patrick’s face. “They’re just a little…” He trailed off, biting his lip as he watched Patrick with raised eyebrows.
“A little what?” Patrick demanded, running his hand over one side of his face defensively.
Mikey was obviously trying not to smile or laugh, his facial features fraught with tension. “A little out of control,” he finished.
Patrick snorted and rolled his eyes. “You think? I haven’t bothered to do anything with them in two years,” he replied. “I’m too lazy to mess with them, I guess.” He shrugged and let out a sigh. “You think I should lose them?” he wondered.
Mikey shook his head quickly. “Nope. I think they suit you.” Reaching up, Mikey ran his hand through the mess of hair on his head. “I’m just saying, don’t be calling my hair weird.”
“Fair enough,” Patrick conceded.
They spent the afternoon playing songs from different albums, with Patrick talking excitedly about why certain albums were important and why certain artists were his favorites. Mikey agreed to give everything a shot, including the experimental jazz, which he listened to for an admirable amount of time without making a face.
Eventually, they ended up lying on Patrick’s floor in companionable silence as the music filled the room. Mikey drummed the fingers of one hand in time with the music and gently swayed his foot from side to side, as Patrick hummed along or sang softly when the urge overtook him.
“You have a nice voice,” Mikey said after a time.
Patrick jerked his head to the side to look at Mikey, unaware of how much he’d been singing. “Uh, me? No, not really,” he shrugged. “It’s okay, nothing special.”
“Sure,” Mikey said, sounding disbelieving.
Patrick pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at Mikey. “What?” he demanded.
Mikey shook his head slightly, his eyes fixated on some point on the ceiling. “Nothing,” he sighed.
Patrick lay back down, trying to focus on the music again. “What?” he repeated a minute later.
“Nothing,” Mikey chuckled.
“No, seriously,” Patrick insisted. “What are you thinking? Because obviously it’s not nothing.”
Mikey smiled wide, glancing over at Patrick. “It’s nothing!” he insisted.
“It’s not!” Patrick argued, playfully swinging his hand over to hit Mikey’s arm.
“Ow!” Mikey cried, acting as though Patrick’s half-hearted blow had actually hurt him.
“Oh my god,” Patrick laughed. “You’re such a baby!”
Mikey pursed his lips and glared over at Patrick. “Hey, I’m tough,” he argued, flexing his arm to show off his bicep. “Don’t call me a baby.”
Patrick swallowed a laugh. “Baby,” he said under his breath.
“Hey now,” Mikey said, louder. “I am not a baby.” He flexed his arm again to drive home the point. “Feel this arm. I’m like Popeye with this thing.”
Laughing, Patrick obediently reached over and squeezed Mikey’s arm as he flexed the muscle. “Impressive,” he said in a flat voice.
“Shut up,” Mikey laughed. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows and pushed himself back up to a seated position, pulling his arm across his chest and flexing it dramatically, his fist facing out.
Mikey sat up as well, and crawled over to Patrick on his knees, reaching out to squeeze his arm, his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Nice,” he said in a low voice, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Now you shut up,” Patrick laughed, pulling his arm away.
“See!” Mikey exclaimed. “This is what you do. You are always dismissing any compliment you get and you act like you’re nothing special. Stop doing that!”
Patrick frowned as he studied Mikey, trying to assess if he was being serious. “No, I don’t,” he said.
Mikey rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said as he had earlier, indicating he didn’t believe Patrick at all.
“Maybe a little,” Patrick begrudgingly admitted.
Mikey shook his head. “You know, you do have a nice voice. And people may actually be interested in you. Stop putting yourself down.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Patrick sighed. “I remember Pete saying something along those lines to me.”
“See?” Mikey sank back down to the ground. “You totally need to stop that.”
Patrick nodded, getting up to change records. “I’ll try,” he murmured, returning the Curtis Mayfield album back to its sleeve. “What do you want to listen to next?”
Part 2
Author - runthegamut
Pairing - Patrick/Mikey, Pete/Ashlee
Rating - NC-17
Word Count - 24,441
Summary - A High School AU wherein Fall Out Boy attend public school, My Chemical Romance attend private school, and Patrick and Mikey meet while working together at a grocery store. As a friendship blossoms between the two, Patrick learns he can't always see the obvious. Fortunately, that's what best friends are for.
Warnings - Underage sex, mentions of drug use
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - Written for bandombigbang. Masterpost here. Title from "Made-Up Love Song #43" by Guillemots.
Fanart post
Fanmix post
Patrick was gradually awakening, the dull murmur of voices slowly filtering into his conscious. He was becoming aware of the kink forming in his neck from lying on a meager throw pillow, the way the carpet pressed against his forearm, and the slight tingling in his fingers that signaled his hand was falling asleep. Everything outside of those physical sensations was fuzzy, like a dream.
It was the sound of a gunshot that pulled him back into the present completely. He was awake, but kept his eyes closed and lay still in his spot on the floor, listening to the voices of Pete and Ashlee coming from the couch above him.
“Hm. I know people can survive shots to the head, but I’m pretty sure he should have something more wrong with him than just a sore jaw and a little blood,” she was saying.
“I don’t care, because the effects there are awesome; the slow motion way we get to see his cheeks inflate and his head fly back? The smoke is a nice touch, too,” he replied.
“Oh, totally,” she agreed. “I’m just saying it’s not terribly realistic.”
Pete was laughing; amused, not in a mean way. “I’m pretty sure very little in this movie can be considered realistic.”
Patrick didn’t need to open his eyes to know that onscreen, as The Pixies were launching into “Where Is My Mind?” the narrator was taking Marla Singer’s hand as they watched the surrounding buildings get demolished.
“Baby, would you stand by my side while I blew up the world?” he asked, and Patrick knew he was grinning that cheesy way he did at her, eyes half closed.
“I thought I already was,” she answered, probably smiling back.
The soft smacking sound of lips being pressed together began to emanate from above him. As the sounds grew wetter, Patrick began to regret not sitting up as soon as he was awake. He figured that at this point, it was less embarrassing for everyone if he lied still and continued pretending to be asleep. To his relief, the kissing stopped after a couple minutes.
“Pete,” she said gently, but firmly.
“What?” he asked, clearly confused as to why she was stopping him.
“Patrick’s right there...”
In between the sounds of more kisses, Pete murmured, “He’s sleeping.”
“No, he’s not,” she insisted.
“No, I’m not,” Patrick parroted. He cracked his eyes open and carefully looked up to the couch, prepared to close them again if anyone’s clothing had been removed. Mercifully, he found Ashlee sitting with her legs over Pete’s lap, both fully clothed. “How did you know?” he asked her.
Ashlee smiled down at Patrick as she leaned slightly over the couch to see him better. “Your breathing changed a few minutes ago. I figured you were waking up. Have a nice nap?”
Patrick lifted his hat off his head and smoothed his hand over his hair before replacing it. “Yeah, I’m good,” he answered as he pushed himself up to a seated position. “I should probably get going though,” he added as Pete nuzzled his face into Ashlee’s neck.
“Aw, you don’t have to leave, Patrick.” Ashlee frowned at Patrick as he stood, placing a hand against Pete’s chest to stop him from leaving the hickey he was no doubt intending. “We’ll behave.”
Pete looked up at where Patrick was standing and straightening out his clothes. “You know what you need? You need someone to make out with during movies so you don’t have to feel so weird about watching them with us. We can double date and stuff.”
Catching his lip between his teeth, Patrick looked away, his fingers shoved in the front pockets of his jeans as his thumbs brushed over the denim. “I’m good, thanks,” he decided after a moment.
“No, seriously!” Ashlee chimed in, pulling her legs from Pete’s lap and tucking her knees underneath herself as she sat up higher on the couch. “Who’s your type? I can fix you up with someone!” She looked entirely too excited about the possibility.
“Um.” Patrick looked at the two of them and blinked a few time. “I have to go,” he repeated before turning to make his way to the door.
“Aw, Patrick,” Pete called after him. “Why do you have to be like that?”
Patrick stopped and sighed, his back to the couch. “Really,” he replied, turning back around so Pete could see he was telling the truth. “I have to be up early. I work in the morning.”
Pete’s face broke into a grin at the mention of work. “Yeah? What time?”
Rolling his eyes, Patrick shrugged. “Ten to Four?”
“Awesome,” Pete answered, satisfied. “See you there.”
***
Patrick had gotten his job bagging groceries the summer after he turned sixteen, the legal age to work without a permit. His allowance and the occasional lawn-mowing job weren’t enough to earn him the cash he needed to buy all the albums he wanted, so he went in and applied at the store his mom had been frequenting every Saturday since he could remember. In fact, he probably got the job on account of the fact that the store manager, Mr. Rapple, knew his mother.
It was easy enough work, mindless after he got the hang of it. It was a matter of being able to organize the groceries as he saw them coming down the line, placing them in the right bag. Cans got their own bag, of course, and Patrick had learned how many he could put in doubled-up plastic sacks (six, unless they were Campbell’s condensed soup cans, in which case eight would safely fit). Breads and chips couldn’t be put in with other items. Frozen foods were grouped together. Fresh meat got a little plastic sleeve before being placed in its own sack so as not to cross-contaminate the fresh fruit.
(The process was not at all dissimilar to categorizing records. Soul got its own section, hip hop another, punk another. Otherwise, Etta James would end up next to either the Eurythmics or Jadakiss, and that would just be wrong. Classify and subdivide, that was the name of the game.)
It was a pretty decent job for a seventeen - year - old. He didn’t come home smelling like grease, the uniform wasn’t anything appalling, and most importantly, they let him wear a hat. Pretty much, the only downside was that sometimes he’d see one of his parent’s friends come through the line and they’d coo at him and how responsible he was being, or they’d remark how they wished their son or daughter would be as responsible as him. It was run of the mill embarrassing stuff, nothing major.
Patrick didn’t have to worry too much about seeing his peers, though. Most of the kids who came shopping with their parents were ten or under. Teenagers opted to stay home or were at practices or rehearsals or the like. It was a fairly safe job in that respect. The only person he knew that he saw on a regular basis - save his coworkers - was Pete, who would come in, buy a pack of gum, insist that he needed it bagged, and then stand next to Patrick, chewing said gum and talking about random stuff as Patrick bagged the next four or five customers.
“Soooo,” Pete smirked as he came through the line that day. The cashier scanned his pack of gum and then handed it to Patrick with an irritated eye roll. “How’s work going?”
Patrick dropped the gun in a plastic sack and then handed it to Pete after he had collected his change. “It’s awesome, as always.”
“Isn’t your day a little brighter for having seen my face?” Pete teased.
Patrick couldn’t help but smile at his friend. “Something like that,” he agreed, readying the grocery sacks for the next customer. “So what are you up to today?”
Pete shrugged, tearing open his pack of gum and popping a piece in his mouth. “The usual,” he replied. “I’ve got soccer practice this afternoon and then after dinner I’m going over to Ashlee’s. Hey, you want to go see that new Seth Rogan movie with us tonight?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Patrick sighed, quickly grabbing the cans that came down the line and dropping them into the sacks before doubling them up. “I already played third wheel last night. You guys should have a Saturday night out without me, you know?”
Frowning, Pete looked down at where he was scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. “You’re not a third wheel. You’re my best friend. I like hanging out with you. So does Ash.”
Patrick grimaced because he knew it was true. But Pete and Ashlee had been dating for over six months now and as their relationship got more serious, Patrick couldn’t help but feeling like a voyeur. “Yeah, but you guys should have some time alone together, too. It’s cool. I was going to go look at albums after work anyway, so I’ll probably have a few new purchases I’ll want to listen to tonight.”
“You sure?” Pete asked, sounding doubtful. “I really don’t want you to feel weird about hanging out with us. Like, it’s not a problem or anything. Is it-“ Pete paused, his eyes shifting from Patrick to the wall behind him. “Is it because you don’t have someone to bring with? Ashlee has some friends who are single,” he offered.
Pausing from bagging the groceries a moment, Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Pete,” he said firmly. “I mean, it would be nice and all, but it’s not… I’m not going to date someone just to date someone, okay? If I meet the right person, cool. I don’t want to be set up with anyone or anything.” Glancing over to see the sad look on his friend’s face, Patrick added, “I really do have stuff to do tonight. I’m not going to be sitting home feeling sorry for myself. Don’t worry about it. Okay?”
“Yeah, alright,” Pete nodded, sounding unconvinced. He offered Patrick a piece of gum before noticing the look Mr. Rapple was giving him and making his way for the door. “I’ll catch you tomorrow,” he called as he left.
***
As public high schools went, the one Patrick attended was definitely considered a ‘good’ one. They had state champion football and soccer teams, three debaters competed at nationals that year, and some eighty percent of its seniors planned to attend college. The facilities were top-rate, the hallways were clean, and the student body was predominantly upper middle class.
The only thing that Patrick really cared about, though, was that the school, by and large, was pretty easy going when it came to social interaction. There weren’t strictly defined social groups and to the extent that someone was considered a ‘band kid’ or an ‘honors students,’ there was a line-crossing; it wasn’t a very cliquish school.
Patrick’s own friends were a hodgepodge group: Pete was an athlete, Joe was a stoner, Andy was a metal-head, and Matt was pretty popular. Patrick didn’t really put himself into a category. As far as he was concerned, he was sort of a nobody. He had been in band his freshman and sophomore years, but quit when he started working at the grocery store. He didn’t really participate in any extra-curricular activities, didn’t drink or smoke, wasn’t an honors student; he was just sort of there. He was okay with that.
“Sup?” Joe greeted him one Monday morning as Patrick took his seat in their English class, scooting his chair over to make room for Patrick at the table. “Did you enjoy writing fifteen hundred words this weekend on Ethan Frome and the themes of desperation in this classic American novel?” Joe sneered.
“Fuck,” Patrick mumbled as he dropped his book bag onto the floor slumping into his seat. “Shit, I totally forgot,” he admitted, dropping his head into his hands. “I worked both Saturday and Sunday to get some extra hours in and I fucking blew off my homework.”
“Ah,” Joe sympathized. “Well, it’s not like Ms. Kellerman is a hardass about turning things in late. She’ll probably only knock you down one grade if you turn it in tomorrow.”
Patrick folded his arms on the desk and laid his head on them. “So if I’m lucky I’ll get a C,” he moaned. “Which will be a miracle, seeing as how I’ve only read the first two chapters.”
Joe fished something out of his bag and tossed it onto the table next to Patrick. When he looked over, Patrick saw a Cliff Notes version of the book. “To ease your troubles, my friend,” Joe said as he pushed it over to Patrick.
“Thank you,” Patrick replied, grateful for the help. “Fuck, I need to get on the ball with my classes. If I don’t keep my grades up, my mom will make me quit my job.”
“You know, most teenagers don’t want to work,” Joe offered thoughtfully. “I know I don’t.”
Patrick chuckled as he bent down to stuff the Cliff Notes in his bag. “Yeah, well, I need the money to fund my habit.”
“Ah, yes. Your vinyl addiction,” Joe replied, shaking his head sadly. “Another poor soul who’s lost his innocence to the thrill of a needle in the groove of a record. I, for one, am glad my addiction is to one hundred percent organic shit. I can grow it in my backyard if need be.”
“Oh, I’m sure that would fly with Mr. and Mrs. Trohman,” Patrick snorted.
Joe reclined in his chair, draping one arm over the back. “I would tell them it was for the science fair. Also, I could profit off its sale, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about working my fingers to the bone at an after school job and forgetting to write insightful theories on Edith Wharton’s tragic protagonist.”
Patrick slid his fingers under the frames of his glasses to massage his temples. “Please, don’t remind me,” he groaned.
“Oh, hey,” Joe said suddenly. “Speaking of your job, I saw some new guy working there last week. He had crazy hair and a Smiths shirt on. This seems like someone I would get along with.”
Patrick glanced up at the mop of curly hair atop Joe’s head and then frowned. “Wait, what were you doing at the store?” he asked.
“I needed a honey bear,” Joe replied, matter of factly. “Where else would one go to purchase a honey bear?”
“Joe,” Patrick laughed, shaking his head. Joe returned Patrick’s smile before the bell rang and Ms. Kellerman asked the class to pass their essay papers forward.
***
Patrick checked the work schedule the next time he came in, but he hadn’t recognized the new name on it - Mikey Way - from school. He didn’t recognize his face, either, when Mr. Rapple had sent him to the back room to retrieve another case of plastic sacks and Patrick had found a thin guy, taller than him, ducking his head through the loop of a white apron. The guy’s light brown hair hung in longer strips around his face, tucked beneath the frames of his black glasses, which caught on the neck of the apron, pushing them askew.
Mikey, Patrick thought as he averted his eyes and went to grab the cardboard box containing the sacks. He heaved the box into his arms and as he turned, the new guy was standing with his mouth hanging slightly open, knees together, as he squinted at the schedule. Patrick made a quick exit before the guy could say anything to him. He figured they’d make a proper introduction later.
The thing was, Patrick actually managed to go an astoundingly long time without saying a word to Mikey; they either worked opposite schedules, or when they worked the same shift performed duties in separate sections of the store. From the little Patrick managed to see of Mikey over the next couple of weeks, he gathered that he was fairly quiet, kept to himself, and was a bit awkward.
In talking to his coworkers, Patrick had heard Mikey attended Saint Joseph’s, the Catholic high school in town, which explained why Patrick had never seen him before. Mikey didn’t really look the role of a private school kid, though: his jeans were tight and low and he wore them with studded belts; his hair was definitely styled, but not in a way any other kid in town wore their hair; his t-shirts were threadbare and probably a size or two too-small. It wasn’t the preppy look that most of the Saint Joe’s students adhered to.
It wasn’t until Mikey wore a New London Fire shirt to work one Saturday that Patrick made up his mind to say something to him. He’d seen Mikey wear t-shirts promoting a plethora of Brit pop bands like The Smiths and Joy Division. It wasn’t Patrick’s favorite genre of music, but it was music nonetheless and some basis of common ground to start a conversation about, anyway.
When Mr. Rapple had sent Patrick outside to help corral grocery carts and return them to the store, Mikey was already in the parking lot, a gray hoodie on with the hood covering his head so only his bangs blew out of it in the breeze. He was wrestling with a cart that a customer had left on an embankment, one of its wheels jammed in a deep crack.
“So. New London Fire,” Patrick said from behind Mikey as he tugged on the cart again. “I’ve got I Sing the Body Holographic, but I guess they put out an EP after that, which I never got around to picking up. Do you have it?”
Mikey continued to tug on the cart, muttering a distinct “motherfucker” under his breath as he put his right foot on the cart to try to help leverage it out, but in no way made an effort to respond to Patrick’s question.
“Um. Do you need some help?” Patrick asked, leaning his weight to one side as he peered around Mikey to get a better view of the situation, his hands jammed deep in his front pockets.
“Fucking fuck, motherfucking fucker,” Mikey said more clearly now, continuing to ignore Patrick. He braced his left foot against the curb and heaved back again. With the extra force, the wheel came free from its position and the cart sprang backward as Mikey scuttled away to keep from getting slammed into.
Patrick’s eyes widened as he watched the scene unfold. He was about to ask Mikey if he was okay when Mikey reached up to scratch his head, his hand sliding under his hood and pushing it back far enough to reveal a white ear bud occupying Mikey’s right ear. Realizing Mikey hadn’t heard a word he said, Patrick shuffled off, hoping to avoid the embarrassment of anyone realizing he’d just attempted a conversation with someone who was completely oblivious to him.
As Patrick made his way to a cart a couple rows over, he looked back over his shoulder to where Mikey had paused in his task of returning the cart to pull an iPod out of his pocket, his finger moving over the wheel. Interesting, he thought, and looked away just as Mikey caught his gaze. He made a mental note to bring his iPod to work for the next time he had parking-lot duty.
***
“So, have you talked to the new guy at work yet?” Pete asked as he sat down at the lunchroom table, swiping a French fry from Patrick’s tray.
“I was eating that,” Patrick mumbled, watching helplessly as Pete helped himself to another, dragging it through the ketchup before popping it into his mouth with a smile.
Pete swung his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Not that exact one,” he replied. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, I tried to talk to him...,” Patrick started explaining.
“And were unsuccessful,” Andy supplied from across the table.
Joe looked up from where he was dunking his French fries in his chocolate shake before eating them. “How can you try to talk to someone and not be successful?” he wondered. “I mean, assuming you opened your mouth and words actually came out.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and slapped Pete’s hand away from the remainder of his food. “Okay, I talked to him but he didn’t hear me. Apparently he listens to his iPod when he’s returning carts to the store.”
“So talk to him when he’s not returning carts to the store,” Pete answered simply.
Patrick turned and glared at his friend. “Thank you so much for the advice,” he replied, his voice oozing sarcasm.
“You’re welcome,” Pete said happily, reaching around Patrick to snag another fry.
***
One week later, Patrick was sweeping up the aisles when he rounded the corner to find Mikey at the other end, methodically turning the cans one at a time so that the labels faced forward. Patrick stopped momentarily, watching as Mikey stood motionless, save for one hand that slowly rotated each can, his face devoid of expression.
Having worked at his job for a year and a half, Patrick worked quickly, pushing his broom in quick, definitive sweeps as he moved up the aisle. He kept his eyes squarely focused on Mikey though, hypnotized by his co-worker’s calculating demeanor. He couldn’t tell if Mikey was being indifferent or thorough.
When he was about ten feet from Mikey, Patrick stopped sweeping and stood up straight, but Mikey didn’t acknowledge his presence. “I noticed you were listening to your iPod out in the parking lot the other day,” he said at last. “Never thought to do that before.”
Mikey turned the can in his hand forward as he quickly glanced over toward Patrick. “Might as well enjoy myself while I’m working,” he replied, a hint of a smile in his lips.
“We haven’t met or whatever. I’m Patrick, by the way.” Patrick switched his broom to his left hand and offered his right to his co-worker.
Mikey stared down at Patrick’s hand for a moment before taking it and giving it a tentative shake. “Mikey,” he replied, his eyes meeting Patrick’s a brief moment before resuming his work. Behind his glasses, Mikey’s eyes were golden brown with flecks of green.
“You, um. You know you could do that faster if you used both hands, right?” Patrick asked as he watched Mikey slowly turning the cans once again.
The corner of Mikey’s mouth twitched up more this time as he managed a half-smile. “I could, but what’s the point? I mean, I get paid by the hour, right? If I finish faster, it’s not like I get paid more,” he answered with a quick shrug, his eyes following his hand. “I’m just given more work to do. Really, I just need to do enough not to get fired.”
Patrick opened his mouth to respond but hesitated before he could get the words out. Mikey was right, of course. It’s just that he’d never thought about it like that before. He’d always wanted to get his work done efficiently and do the best job possible. “Well, that’s... I mean, yeah. I guess.” Glancing down, Patrick pushed the broom around ineffectually as he tried to look busy. “So what kind of music do you listen to?” he asked weakly.
“Eh.” Mikey gave another quick shrug. “Good music,” he said, looking amused. “I listen to a little of this, a little of that. The Smiths and Muse and Smashing Pumpkins. Whatever. Some metal, some rap.” Mikey looked over to Patrick again as his hand hovered over another can. “You?”
Mimicking Mikey’s shrug, Patrick paused from his sweeping and stood up straight once more. “A little of everything, too. Mainly R&B and the blues, I guess, but I have jazz and hip-hop and punk and, yeah, a little bit of everything in my collection.”
“Sweet,” Mikey nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else when Mr. Rapple showed up in their line of vision.
“Stump. Way. Why don’t you both take your fifteen minute break now and then head up front to help at the checkout,” he said gruffly before heading off again.
Patrick nodded and picked his broom up before heading to the break room at the back of the store. The lounge area was fairly bare, consisting of a folding table and some chairs, a coffee pot, and a microwave. There was a small television in the corner, which Patrick usually zoned out watching during his breaks.
Mikey entered the break room behind him, but as Patrick went to take one of the chairs, he walked past, heading toward the back exit. Patrick’s eyes followed him, eyebrows raised inquisitively until Mikey paused at the door.
“I’m gonna have a smoke. You want to come?” he asked, procuring a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket.
Conversation with Mikey seemed better than watching whatever PGA tournament was currently airing on the ten-inch set, so Patrick set his broom against the wall and followed Mikey outside. The back door overlooked the loading dock and Mikey leaned against the metal railing as he dangled his cigarette in his lips and flicked his lighter.
“You want one?” Mikey gestured after he’d exhaled a lungful of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
Patrick leaned his back against the railing and shook his head, looking up at the roof. “Nah, I’m edge,” he replied.
Mikey raised an eyebrow as he processed that and then took a long drag on his cigarette. “So you don’t use anything?” he asked. “You don’t smoke or drink or... whatever?”
“Nope,” Patrick answered, his elbows resting on the railing to support his weight.
“Huh.” Mikey seemed to think about it for a minute. “So, did you use to use and quit or something?”
“No,” Patrick replied again. “Never tried any of it.”
“Really,” Mikey said, sounding dubious. “Well, it can be fun sometimes.”
“I guess. It’s just not for me.” Patrick looked down and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the concrete landing. “So you go to St. Joseph’s?” he asked in an attempt to casually change the subject.
Mikey snorted as he inhaled again on his cigarette, coughing twice as he nodded. “Yeah. It’s awesome,” he said, his voice laden with sarcasm.
Patrick looked Mikey over, his too-tight jeans and thin shirt and hoodie. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head with his bangs clustered together in sharp points that hung under the frames of his glasses. “No offense, but you don’t really look like a private school kid,” he said carefully.
Mikey snorted again. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied as he exhaled another drag and flicked the ashes over the railing.
“Um, you’re welcome?” Patrick replied, shoving a finger up under the brim of his hat to scratch at his head.
Mikey sighed, looking around the docks. “A lot of my classmates are rich douche bags who don’t care or talk about anything much more than how to spend their parents money. I’m not rich. I’m not planning on going to an Ivy League school. I don’t really fit in.” He shrugged as though it didn’t bother him.
“I don’t really fit in either,” Patrick offered. “I mean, I do. I’m not like an outcast or anything. But I just have some different interests from my classmates or whatever.”
“Yeah?” Mikey said, arching an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Patrick raised one shoulder. “Oh, well, like the music thing. I like music, but I listen to some stuff that I guess isn’t very mainstream, so like no one at school would know it. And I keep my music on vinyl mostly. I’m not all into tech stuff, like everyone else is.”
“Seriously?” Mikey laughed. “I think records are badass. I wish I had a turntable.”
“Well, the sound quality is better,” Patrick said without hesitation. He stopped himself before he launched into his critique of the audio compromise that occurred when converting music to digital form.
Mikey grinned, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, well, I’m a comic book nerd and a video game nerd and I like 80s movies.”
“Dude,” Patrick exclaimed, turning to face Mikey. “I love 80s movies, too. The best movie of all time?”
“Ghostbusters,” they replied at the same time.
Patrick smiled wide. “Right on, right on,” he said, nodding. “My second favorite has got to be Back to the Future.”
“Love it,” Mikey quipped. “One of the best ever.” He was quiet a moment, squinting up at the sky. “So, that guy who comes in here all the time to see you while you’re working. Is that your boyfriend?”
“Who? Pete?” Patrick sputtered. “No. No, no, no, no,” he replied decisively, before chuckling. “No, Pete and I are friends. Good friends, but just friends.”
Mikey furrowed his brow and nodded slowly. “Oh, alright. Just wondering. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”
Patrick shook his head firmly. “No, it’s cool. It’s cool. I’m not offended,” he assured Mikey. “Pete is kind of... overly familiar with his friends, I guess, so it’s not like the first time someone’s asked or anything. He’s got a girlfriend, actually.”
“Ah,” Mikey nodded, returning a cautious smile.
“Seriously,” Patrick added as Mikey took one final drag on his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground below. They stood on the landing one more moment, before Patrick checked his watch. “Looks like break time is over,” he sighed, pulling open the door for Mikey.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” Mikey grinned as he made his way through the room and back into the store. “Next time we can discuss the merits of the 80s sequel movies.”
“You realize that’s going to get us off on a tangent about the Star Wars trilogy, right?” Patrick asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Mikey said as they returned to work.
***
Over the next few weeks, Patrick and Mikey began an easy friendship, which centered around their mutual love of all things geeky, even if they had somewhat different interests. Patrick spent one break singing the praises of a Technics turntable while Mikey discussed the dynamics of the relationship between Cable and Deadpool.
“You’ve never played a Playstation?” Mikey asked one day, sounding personally affronted at the concept.
“No?” Patrick replied, his eyes darting from side to side as he wondered why it was a big deal.
Mikey crossed his arms and let out a disapproving breath. “What, you don’t like video games?” he asked, as though the idea were foreign to him.
“I like video games,” Patrick offered, frowning. “I just don’t play a lot? I mean, I never bothered to get one at home cuz I spent most of my time and money on my music collection or actually playing guitar and stuff. I’ve played video games.”
Mikey narrowed his eyes as he looked down the length of his nose at Patrick. “Yeah? What video games?” he demanded.
Patrick laughed at how seriously Mikey appeared to be taking the situation. “Uh, I’ve played some games on Joe’s Nintendo, I guess. Actually, I’m pretty amazing at Mario Kart.”
Mikey blinked and then slumped slightly, dropping his face into his hand. “Oh, Patrick,” he moaned.
“What?” Patrick laughed. “Is there something wrong with Mario Kart?”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Mikey answered, shaking his head sadly. “This needs to be remedied, and I think I’m the person to do it. What are you doing this weekend?”
Patrick widened his eyes as he saw the determined look in Mikey’s eyes. “Playing video games with you?” he replied slowly.
“Exactly,” Mikey said, satisfied. “I have Sunday off if you want to come over? I’ll introduce you to the world of Halo.”
Patrick shrugged because he could think of worse things to do on his weekend. “Yeah, that’d be cool,” he agreed, not really sure what he was getting himself into.
***
The Way home was not in the area up the hill where most of the kids who attended St. Joseph’s lived - the money in town was clustered in that area, known by the population as ‘Snob Nob.’ Instead, Mikey’s family lived in the flats like most of Patrick’s friends. Their house wasn’t terribly large and had a brick facade with curtains closed tight over the windows.
The inside of the home was clean, if a bit cluttered. Stacks of magazines and newspapers were stashed in corners and knick knacks lined the fireplace mantle. A large ashtray sat in the center of the kitchen table, where Mrs. Way tapped a cigarette against the edge while idly flipping through a magazine.
Like Mikey, Mrs. Way didn’t fit in with Patrick’s preconceived notion of what St. Joseph’s students and families looked like; her hair was bleached and teased and her manicured fingernails were three times as long as his own mother had ever worn hers. Still, when Mikey introduced her as Patrick shuffled through the kitchen, she looked up from her reading and flashed him a warm smile, telling Patrick to make himself at home and help himself to anything in the fridge.
“My mom’s pretty laid back,” Mikey explained as they made their way out of earshot, Patrick following behind as Mikey led him down the hall to his room. They passed a door that had several sketches tacked up on it. Patrick could tell from a glance the work was good and assumed it was Mikey’s older brother’s room. Mikey had mentioned Gerard several times before, and Patrick knew he was away at art school.
Mikey’s room was like the rest of the house, except instead of magazines or newspapers stacked in his room, there were comic books. He didn’t have knickknacks lining his walls; instead, he had an assortment of action figures from comics and movies, most still in their original packaging. The one thing that was exactly the same was the large ashtray sitting on Mikey’s desk.
“My mom’s pretty laid back,” Mikey repeated when he caught Patrick’s eyes studying it and the cluster of cigarette butts it contained.
Nodding, Patrick turned his focus back to looking around the room. “That’s cool,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. He shifted his weight from side to side, uncertain of where to sit.
As if on cue, Mikey, straightened the covers of his unmade bed and gestured at Patrick. “You can sit here,” he offered. “I changed the sheets just a few days, ago. I swear.” He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Patrick pulled his hands from his pockets and sat down on the edge of the bed, his palms flat on the mattress as Mikey walked over to flip on the tv set across from his bed. As Mikey bent down to flip on his Playstation, the already low waist of his jeans fell to expose a couple inches of the top of Mikey’s briefs. Patrick dropped his eyes to his lap where he quickly folded his hands, picking at his fingernails.
“Here,” Mikey said, pulling his attention back. Looking up, Patrick found Mikey offering him a controller. He took it as Mike turned back to the television, making selections on the menu that shown on the screen before crossing his legs and lowering himself to the floor next to Patrick’s feet.
“So, the goal is, you have to kill all these alien things,” Mikey explained. “But first you have to make a character, unless you want to use one of the ones me and Gee already made.”
“Uh…” Patrick blinked at the screen as Mikey scrolled through a myriad of avatars, flipping through the controller to change color and symbols on the uniforms and the types of weapons they used.
“You better make your own,” Mikey decided. “You’ll feel more connected to it if it represents you.”
“Uh,” Patrick repeated, chuckling. “Okay.” They spent the next half hour putting together a character for Patrick with Mikey offering his input. By the time they’d finished, Patrick’s head was swimming.
Mikey then shuffled through a few screens. “Okay, so now for the play,” he stated and then gave Patrick a litany of instructions involving which buttons to push to make which actions happen.
Patrick ran his thumbs over the dozen buttons on the controller, ignoring what Mikey was talking about on the screen. “Uh, there are like a million buttons on here,” he informed Mikey. “How am I supposed to figure this all out?”
Tilting his head up to look back at Patrick, Mikey grinned. “You’ll figure it out,” he answered simply before turning back to the screen and starting the game.
“You know, that’s not very reassuring.” And it wasn’t. The millions of buttons controlled way more actions than Patrick thought a video game should allow a player to control and Patrick found his avatar moving one direction as it “looked” in a different direction. Consequently, he could never see what was ahead of him. Meanwhile, aliens were popping out and blasting their weapons at him.
“Dude,” Mikey laughed after a moment. Patrick glanced down at him to see Mikey watching as he played before quickly returning his eyes to the screen to try to ward off another attack. “You know that when you move your head, it doesn’t change the direction your guy looks, right?” Mikey informed him. “That’s what this control is for.” He jabbed his finger at Patrick’s controller.
Patrick glanced down momentarily before pushing Mikey’s hand away. “Shut up,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side in a vain effort to get his avatar to look in that direction too.
“And playing with your mouth open doesn’t actually help you do any better,” Mikey added smugly as Patrick closed his mouth, pressing his lips together in concentration.
They continued on with play, Patrick dying in rapid succession.
“You seriously suck at this,” Mikey informed him.
“Hey!” Patrick laughed, kicking ineffectually at Mikey as Mikey leaned away. “It doesn’t look like you’re really all that great either.”
Mikey grinned, biting his lip as he blew up another alien. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But compared to you I’m fucking awesome, which says a lot about your skills.”
“Shut up!” Patrick laughed again. “I just learned how to play! You, on the other hand, have the game in your room and can play it all the fucking time!” He kicked at Mikey again, but instead of leaning away, this time Mikey dropped his controller and grabbed Patrick’s foot, tickling it.
Screeching, Patrick twisted and tried to pull his foot away from Mikey’s grip, but Mikey just clamped his arm around Patrick’s leg and continued tickling. Patrick stood up and tried to move away, but Mikey’s grip was tight and he ended up tripping and falling to the floor instead, laughing in fits.
“God damn it!” he gasped between body-shaking laughs. “Stop it! Stop it!” He twisted again and Mikey let go, allowing him to slide his foot away and scoot himself up to a seated position on the floor. Patrick clenched his hands into fists and held them up defensively as he narrowed his eyes at Mikey, still smiling. “Don’t try that again,” he warned.
Mikey’s face was wide in a smile as his own laughter subsided. “No, I won’t,” he promised. “At least, not now while you’re expecting it.” Reaching up, he cleared a strand of hair that had fallen in his eye. “You’re really ticklish.”
“You’re not?” Patrick asked, reaching one hand out toward Mikey, as Mikey leaned away from his touch. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Patrick smirked. “So are you going to sit here and insult my lack of skill or are we going to keep playing so I can kick your ass?” He pulled himself around so he was sitting with his back propped up against Mikey’s bed and picked up his controller once again.
Mikey followed suit, scooting back into position next to Patrick, his knees pulled up to his chest. As Mikey took possession of his controller again, his shoulder knocked against Patrick’s. Mikey sucked his lip into his mouth and glanced over at Patrick quickly before re-starting the game.
They continued playing the rest of the afternoon with Patrick making no visible improvement - not that he’d admit it. Whenever Mikey began to mock his play, Patrick would just start speaking in a loud impersonation of Christopher Walken. They finally gave up play when Mikey was laughing so hard he had tears rolling down his cheeks and was doubled over, clutching his sides.
“Mikey Way. Mikey Way. Are you okay? Do I need to call 911?” Patrick asked, still in character as Christopher Walken.
“Stop it, stop it!” Mikey cried, gasping for air as he removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes. When he’d finally regained his composure, Mikey took a deep breath and put his glasses back on, smiling at Patrick. “You’re pretty fucking funny.”
“Dude, Christopher Walken is funny. I just do an impression of an impression of him,” Patrick explained, brushing off the compliment.
Mikey looked at Patrick for a long moment in silence, a small smile still in place. “Whatever you say,” he said at last, crawling over to his bookshelf and flipping through DVD cases. “Should we watch Pulp Fiction?” he asked, holding up a copy of the movie.
“Uh, do I get to recite Walken’s speech about hiding a watch up his ass?” Patrick grinned.
“Duh,” Mikey said, putting the movie in the player.
***
“srsly u really do suck at halo.” Patrick read the text message on his phone as he was getting ready for bed that night and grinned.
Hitting the reply button, he typed out his response: Pretty sure Im not the only one on our team who was sucking.
A minute later, Patrick’s phone chimed again: Were like the bad news bears of halo.
“Lovable losers? Or driving Walter Matthau to drink?” Patrick tapped out before pressing ‘send.’
The electronic strains of Patrick’s ringtone started up as the name “MWay” appeared on Patrick’s screen. He pressed the button to answer and held the phone up to his ear.
“Walter Matthau was an alcoholic before he started coaching,” Mikey said, dispensing with any sort of greeting.
Patrick laughed as he lay back on his bed. “Oh, right. Sorry, I haven’t seen that movie since I was, like, eight. So we’re losers then, is what you’re saying?”
“Lovable losers,” Mikey corrected. “Losers who learn important lessons about what matters in life and eventually go to Japan.”
“Oh, fuck, they totally did,” Patrick grinned. “I forgot about that.” He pulled off his glasses and set them on the table next to his bed as he rubbed his eyes. “Going to Japan would be pretty awesome.”
“I don’t think there’s any shame in forgetting about the third Bad News Bears film. It’s probably for the best. But Japan would be amazing,” Mikey sighed.
“Think of the turntables I could get over there,” Patrick gasped. Mikey let out a high-pitch laugh on the other end of the phone. “What?” Patrick demanded.
“Nothing,” Mikey lied. Patrick waited for him to continue. “Just… you have a one track mind and it’s not the track that most teenage boys are on.”
“Oh, right.” Patrick paused, uncertain what to say to that. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Mikey replied thoughtfully. “It makes me curious about your record collection, though. Not gonna lie.”
Patrick glanced over at his shelves of records and his stereo system and grinned. “Well, you should definitely come over sometime and check it out.”
“Well, I’m not going to invite myself,” Mikey hinted.
“Mikey,” Patrick said in his most serious voice. “Would you like to come over sometime and check on my collection of vinyl and listen to some tunes?”
Mikey made an amused humming noise before responding. “I’d love to.”
“Cool. When are you working next weekend?”
After making plans for Mikey to hang out, they chatted about inane things until Patrick found himself waking up to a stream of sunlight pouring in his bedroom window, his dead cellphone next to his head on his pillow and a kink in his neck.
***
Patrick was digging through the stack of books in his locker when he felt familiar hands pressing down on his shoulders. “Hey, Pete,” he said without turning around.
“Patrick! Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Pete exclaimed before leaning against the locker adjacent to Patrick’s.
Patrick looked over at his friend, narrowing his eyes. “I saw you two hours ago at lunch,” he reminded him.
“Well, yeah. But we haven’t gotten to, like, do something outside of school for a while,” Pete pouted. “What are you doing this weekend? I mean, besides working. Do you want to come over and watch movies?”
“Well, actually, you stopped by work last weekend and harassed me, remember?” Patrick tucked his physics textbook under his arm and closed his locker door before turning to head off to class. “Uh, this weekend Mikey’s gonna come over and check out my record collection.” Pete slowed his step until Patrick had to stop and turn around. “What?” Patrick demanded.
“Nothing,” Pete grinned. “Just that showing him your record collection? Sounds pretty serious,” he teased.
Patrick rolled his eyes and turned around, shaking his head as Pete jogged to catch up with him. “It’s not like that,” he sighed.
“Not like what?” Pete asked.
“You’re still my best friend,” Patrick reassured Pete. “Just because Mikey and I hung out last weekend and we’re doing something this weekend doesn’t mean you and I aren’t best friends anymore. I like him, okay? He gets my sense of humor and I get his. We both like kind of dorky things and... I don’t know. We have fun, I guess.”
Pete arched his eyebrows, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “And he’s cute, too,” he offered.
Patrick furrowed his brow, shooting a glance over to Pete. “Whatever,” he said dismissively. “I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
“It’s okay,” Pete chirped. “I pay enough attention for the both of us.” He clamped his hand down on Patrick’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze as he slowed to a stop. As Patrick turned to face him, he noted the genuine look on Pete’s face. “Just so long as we stay best friends,” Pete said, giving a nod.
“Nothing will ever change that,” Patrick assured him, and he meant it. “Anyway, I’m sure Ashlee appreciates having her boyfriend to herself from time to time.”
Pete chuckled, turning to bump his shoulder against Patrick’s. “Actually, she misses having your judgment around. You can usually talk me out of some of the dumber ideas I get,” he admitted.
Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “True. This is why I have to be your best friend forever, right? Where would you be without me?”
Pete narrowed his eyes as he looked up, sucking in his lower lip in thought. “Probably wearing a mustache made of my own pubic hair and jumping off my roof with a patio umbrella.”
“You’ve done both those things,” Patrick reminded him.
“Yeah,” Pete grinned. “But not at the same time.”
***
Patrick knew he had a lot of records, but he would forget how absurd his collection was until someone saw it for the first time. He was reminded as Mikey gawked at the shelves lining his walls, running his fingers over the albums and occasionally pulling one out to inspect the cover art. “How’d you get all of these? This is insane.”
Patrick stood with his arms folded over his chest as he watched Mikey. “My dad gave me a bunch to start out with and the rest I’ve picked up over the last four years or so. Most of my paycheck goes to buying records,” he shrugged. “I’m supposed to be putting some money aside for college too, but, eh.”
Mikey pulled the jacket of Purple Rain from Patrick’s collection and held it between the palms of his hands as he studied it. “Awesome,” Mikey decided, looking over to Patrick and grinning.
“You want to listen to it?” Patrick moved forward and gingerly took the album from Mikey’s hands, pulling the record from the sleeve and placing it on his turntable. A moment after setting the needle down, the opening notes of “Let’s Go Crazy,” started up.
Mikey let out a laugh. “I don’t know anyone else our age who’s as into Prince as you seem to be, judging from your collection here.”
“Dude, are you laughing at Prince,” Patrick asked in his most serious tone. “Prince is fucking amazing, okay? And if you don’t think so, you’re welcome to get the fuck out of my room.” He narrowed his eyes at Mikey in a mock glare and Mikey put his hands up in surrender.
“No, no! I’m not laughing!” Mikey said, laughing again. “I mean, I am, but I’m just saying it’s different. It’s cool that you’re into all this stuff. It’s not that I think the music is bad or anything.” As if to emphasize his point, Mikey began nodding his head in time to the music, his eyes closing as he got into the groove of it, moving slightly from side to side.
Patrick watched Mikey dancing, his eyes widening slightly. Mikey didn’t seem like the dancing type; his lean limbs seemed kind of gangly most of the time, toes and knees turning inward. But he looked comfortable like this, not self-conscious at all.
Lost in his staring, it took Patrick a moment to realize Mikey had opened his eyes and was watching him back. “What, you think I’m a freak for dancing?” Mikey asked, arching an eyebrow at Patrick.
“No, no,” Patrick stammered, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I, uh. Your hair,” he said quickly. “It’s sort of all over the place and it moves a lot when you do.” He gestured at Mikey’s coif, which was teased up and curled into standing on top of his head with his bangs coming to a point in the middle of his forehead.
Mikey reached up and ran his finger over the strand of hair that hung between his eyes. “Oh, I see,” he grinned. “You think my hair is weird? What’s up with your facial hair, Mr. Stump?” Mikey moved forward, reaching out his hand to touch Patrick’s cheek.
Patrick stumbled back a couple steps, raising a hand to fend off Mikey’s touch. “What about my sideburns?” he laughed.
“Nothing,” Mikey said, his eyes fixated on Patrick’s face. “They’re just a little…” He trailed off, biting his lip as he watched Patrick with raised eyebrows.
“A little what?” Patrick demanded, running his hand over one side of his face defensively.
Mikey was obviously trying not to smile or laugh, his facial features fraught with tension. “A little out of control,” he finished.
Patrick snorted and rolled his eyes. “You think? I haven’t bothered to do anything with them in two years,” he replied. “I’m too lazy to mess with them, I guess.” He shrugged and let out a sigh. “You think I should lose them?” he wondered.
Mikey shook his head quickly. “Nope. I think they suit you.” Reaching up, Mikey ran his hand through the mess of hair on his head. “I’m just saying, don’t be calling my hair weird.”
“Fair enough,” Patrick conceded.
They spent the afternoon playing songs from different albums, with Patrick talking excitedly about why certain albums were important and why certain artists were his favorites. Mikey agreed to give everything a shot, including the experimental jazz, which he listened to for an admirable amount of time without making a face.
Eventually, they ended up lying on Patrick’s floor in companionable silence as the music filled the room. Mikey drummed the fingers of one hand in time with the music and gently swayed his foot from side to side, as Patrick hummed along or sang softly when the urge overtook him.
“You have a nice voice,” Mikey said after a time.
Patrick jerked his head to the side to look at Mikey, unaware of how much he’d been singing. “Uh, me? No, not really,” he shrugged. “It’s okay, nothing special.”
“Sure,” Mikey said, sounding disbelieving.
Patrick pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at Mikey. “What?” he demanded.
Mikey shook his head slightly, his eyes fixated on some point on the ceiling. “Nothing,” he sighed.
Patrick lay back down, trying to focus on the music again. “What?” he repeated a minute later.
“Nothing,” Mikey chuckled.
“No, seriously,” Patrick insisted. “What are you thinking? Because obviously it’s not nothing.”
Mikey smiled wide, glancing over at Patrick. “It’s nothing!” he insisted.
“It’s not!” Patrick argued, playfully swinging his hand over to hit Mikey’s arm.
“Ow!” Mikey cried, acting as though Patrick’s half-hearted blow had actually hurt him.
“Oh my god,” Patrick laughed. “You’re such a baby!”
Mikey pursed his lips and glared over at Patrick. “Hey, I’m tough,” he argued, flexing his arm to show off his bicep. “Don’t call me a baby.”
Patrick swallowed a laugh. “Baby,” he said under his breath.
“Hey now,” Mikey said, louder. “I am not a baby.” He flexed his arm again to drive home the point. “Feel this arm. I’m like Popeye with this thing.”
Laughing, Patrick obediently reached over and squeezed Mikey’s arm as he flexed the muscle. “Impressive,” he said in a flat voice.
“Shut up,” Mikey laughed. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows and pushed himself back up to a seated position, pulling his arm across his chest and flexing it dramatically, his fist facing out.
Mikey sat up as well, and crawled over to Patrick on his knees, reaching out to squeeze his arm, his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Nice,” he said in a low voice, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Now you shut up,” Patrick laughed, pulling his arm away.
“See!” Mikey exclaimed. “This is what you do. You are always dismissing any compliment you get and you act like you’re nothing special. Stop doing that!”
Patrick frowned as he studied Mikey, trying to assess if he was being serious. “No, I don’t,” he said.
Mikey rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said as he had earlier, indicating he didn’t believe Patrick at all.
“Maybe a little,” Patrick begrudgingly admitted.
Mikey shook his head. “You know, you do have a nice voice. And people may actually be interested in you. Stop putting yourself down.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Patrick sighed. “I remember Pete saying something along those lines to me.”
“See?” Mikey sank back down to the ground. “You totally need to stop that.”
Patrick nodded, getting up to change records. “I’ll try,” he murmured, returning the Curtis Mayfield album back to its sleeve. “What do you want to listen to next?”
Part 2