(no subject)
i finally have something to post here in my new writing lj! good times, yo. \o/
a let's-pretend theme
Pete Wentz/Mikeyway
based on this prompt from we_are_cities and the fact that i really, really wanted a fic where there is making out in libraries involved and no one would write it for me. so, uhm, AU: mikeyway works in a library with gerard, and pete -- does something else, i guess? i blame/thank patchworkwounds, pspenceyprep and sexy_schnitzel for listening to me ramble about what is possibly some sort of library fetish, haha.
NOT REAL ETC., except the phrase "a let's-pretend theme", which comes from a review of the novel 'spies' that was in, if i remember my english literature class correctly (and i probably don't), the guardian.
He reads the words “a let’s-pretend theme” from somewhere, small black print set against off-white that makes him guess at a newspaper, maybe, and it sets in motion a train of thought that makes him consider the way he lives his live. Eyes shut even when he can’t sleep like he can trick himself into it as the world turns grey, force his thoughts into dreams; a smile hitched on his face when he’s not feeling quite up to it so much. Words written down straight from his mind, words left in books by others for him to consume, words that can transport him off to different or better places.
Let’s-pretend.
Yeah, he thinks. Yeah, that could just possibly be a theme running through him.
*
It is a complete coincidence when they meet, which Pete has come to learn is how anything worthwhile ever happens in life anymore.
In his life; in anyone’s.
*
He doesn’t know how old he was when it started because it was when he was young enough for everything to be blurred together in his mind now, but he was young, which is the main point; he started reading as soon as he could and just never really stopped with it. It was his parents, he thinks, which is another thing to thank them for if he ever gets around to keeping such resolutions (made in good faith, genuine intentions, forgotten about and overshadowed within a week or two), because he was a bit of a handful when he was younger.
Not that he ever grew out of being like that, not really, but since even that long ago the solution is something he never grew out of either: reading. His parents talk about it sometimes, fond and nostalgic looks on their faces - a book in his hand and not a word out of him for hours!
It started then but followed him to adulthood; it’s something to do with the way there’s another world hidden in the words that he can go to, explore, lose himself in for a while.
(let’s-pretend.)
*
“You’re in here kind of a lot.”
This is the first thing anyone says to him in there, the only words directly addressed to him that aren’t fees for marginally overdue books or a vague ‘have a nice day’ from either of the two brothers who are usually on the desk.
The first thing Pete ever says that’s more than a thank you for the change or ‘yeah, you too’ as he heads out the door is, “Yeah, well you know, I kind of like it a lot here,” and he almost winces, just because his voice seems too loud in a place like this, where there are even rules against it.
And at first at least he’s talking about the soft silence and the dusty, comforting ambience of the books that line the shelves, old and new, dog-eared and well read, treasured.
But then Mikey (because it’s not the name tag but the coincidence from before that tells Pete who he is) grins; it’s not just the small smile Pete’s gotten from him before but a flash of his teeth, the crinkle of his eyes behind his glasses and maybe, Pete thinks, maybe he likes more than just the faint, sweet and lingering smell of pages of paper.
*
A coincidence: the same Starbucks one afternoon, a stumble and a stuttered pair of ‘sorry’s.
“Shit, man,” Pete’s saying, one hand grabbing a napkin as the other steadies his coffee once more, “shit, I’m sorry - uh…?”
He doesn’t think he’s making much sense but the guy blinks at him behind a pair of glasses, shrugs, offers a smile that’s not much more than just a twitch of the corners of his mouth and says, “Mikey, I’m Mikey. And it’s cool, don’t worry.”
“Mikey, hey, I’m Pete,” Pete says, and for a fleeting few moments he thinks, déjà vu, except it’s not; there is no sense of this having happened before, just a sense of knowing, of the idea that someday this might be significant.
A plot device.
Then again, maybe it’s just that theme in his life cropping up once more.
*
Less of a coincidence: a dark and dusty rarely visited corner of the library, books waiting to be stacked in a pile at their feet.
In the split-second uncertainty he has just before he presses his lips against Mikey’s, Mikey’s back pressing against the neglected shelf, Pete thinks back over, from Starbucks to here and the smiles and conversations between, the watching they both must know the other is doing. Mikey’s eyes are huge behind his glasses but he doesn’t look too shocked; there’s that flash of teeth in a wide grin that looks as though it’s forced its way out from behind any barriers and guards that were put up to block it, keep it under control.
Pete leans in and kisses him and there’s still that faint waft of paper and books all around. All of a sudden, it smells even sweeter.
*
He thinks, a few times, about how he’d write the whole thing down if he could. Their moments, soft and supple, a contrast to the sharp angles of Mikey’s hips, ribs, teeth. Words, to bring him back to the here and now if (when) he ever needs another escape.
He wonders if it would be one chapter, two; if it would span over several and draw him in, make him want to stay forever.
*
An escape is what he wants sometimes and sometimes he feels bad for that because he knows there are people who have it much worse than he does, and he knows some people who definitely do. His main problems are the ones in his head, and he thinks that he should be able to get rid of them himself by thinking it out as well, that it would only make sense to work that way.
It doesn’t, but the hidden worlds of certain words can provide him with that escape, knowledge carried with him from childhood; he spends a lot of time in the library when he can, when he needs to, where it’s peaceful and quiet and empty, devoid of people and conversations. The guy, Mikey, who he met one afternoon at Starbucks, works there and offers him a subtle smile occasionally, or lets him off the odd overdue fine, like a mark of recognition.
The recognition doesn’t stretch to conversations, which Pete is grateful for, because it’s easier to lose himself that way.
*
Let’s-pretend.
(that maybe he could take somebody on his travels with him?)
*
“He gets me,” Pete says, and then shrugs because it doesn’t sound quite right, because there’s more to it than that. “It’s just - he’s okay with it, too.” And that’s more like it: Mikey is not like the past chapters of Pete’s life - like Jeanae, who Pete thought he never was quite enough for; like Ryan, who never thought he could be enough for Pete.
This is in response to an amused quirk of Patrick’s eyebrow and Patrick asking, Okay, who is it? because he knows Pete so well, knows what smiles for no reason and the way his handwriting slopes to the right, attempting to seem elegant, means, and then Patrick asking whether it’s different this time.
Pete thinks about it, and he thinks that it is and he adds as much to his previous words. He can feel the uncontrollable lift at the corner of his mouth, see the crinkles at the corner of his eyes in the mirror behind Patrick’s shoulder.
And Patrick, who is the only person to have ever really gotten Pete so far, grins wide and pleased and says, “Good.”
And it is.
*
Every boy in every book takes on the quiet, unassuming qualities of one Michael James Way; not that Pete is the brave heroine or the love-struck just trying to make it in the big bad world career girl or the bitter main character with too many issues to ever be sure about trusting again, but-
There is something about picturing the curve of Mikey’s eyebrows or the way he laughs like someone startled it out of him that makes it all seem more real, even as Pete glances up every few minutes to see Mikey looking back half of the time, feet tucked under Mikey’s thighs to keep them warmer.
*
Against the shelves the first time they kiss Pete presses forward, too much for where they are, but Mikey presses right back into him; the movement jostles the shelf behind Mikey’s back, and there’s the dull, secretive flutter of pages as they knock a book that had only been balanced precariously on there to the floor, the tiny thud as the cover hits the carpet.
Pete checks the very same book out the next day. It bores him throughout almost all of its entirety and the writing is tedious, difficult to get through, but he reads it with a smile nonetheless, stupid and happy.
*
The first thing Gerard ever says to him in there, the only words he directly addresses to him that aren’t fees for marginally overdue books or a vague ‘have a nice day’, is, “So, you’re the reason I’m pretty much running this place by myself now, then?”
He says it when Mikey is within earshot, and Pete laughs even in the quiet around them, slightly guilty but mostly because of the blush that creeps across Mikey’s cheeks as he deliberately doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes. It’s absolutely not a coincidence; the patterns and trails of Mikey being distracted every time Pete comes in can only lead back to one answer, and Pete is aware of this fact.
And that’s fine too, a significant leap his plot has taken.
The first thing Pete ever says to Gerard in return is, “I’ll persuade him to help you out some more.”
Gerard grins, wide and pleased, and he says, “Good.”
And it is.
*
Mikey is asleep, glasses slipping down his nose, mouth slightly open and a little slack-jawed. He is utterly relaxed and Pete feels something like the same for once; he nudges him lightly with his foot, just to check that he won’t wake up soon.
(he doesn’t, won’t - a brief flickering frown, a twitch of his finger, a muffled, mumbled mnrf.
then. peace, again.)
Out of his pen comes all the words he can’t quite say right, can’t quite say yet, mostly sure and mostly even spelled right, and it won’t be yet but-
Someday. Someday, some time, he might leave something like this around to found, tucked inside the pages as he returns a book and there to lead right back to him.
And this, there is no pretence to it at all, like that theme has reached its end in Pete’s life for now, unneeded.
a let's-pretend theme
Pete Wentz/Mikeyway
based on this prompt from we_are_cities and the fact that i really, really wanted a fic where there is making out in libraries involved and no one would write it for me. so, uhm, AU: mikeyway works in a library with gerard, and pete -- does something else, i guess? i blame/thank patchworkwounds, pspenceyprep and sexy_schnitzel for listening to me ramble about what is possibly some sort of library fetish, haha.
NOT REAL ETC., except the phrase "a let's-pretend theme", which comes from a review of the novel 'spies' that was in, if i remember my english literature class correctly (and i probably don't), the guardian.
He reads the words “a let’s-pretend theme” from somewhere, small black print set against off-white that makes him guess at a newspaper, maybe, and it sets in motion a train of thought that makes him consider the way he lives his live. Eyes shut even when he can’t sleep like he can trick himself into it as the world turns grey, force his thoughts into dreams; a smile hitched on his face when he’s not feeling quite up to it so much. Words written down straight from his mind, words left in books by others for him to consume, words that can transport him off to different or better places.
Let’s-pretend.
Yeah, he thinks. Yeah, that could just possibly be a theme running through him.
*
It is a complete coincidence when they meet, which Pete has come to learn is how anything worthwhile ever happens in life anymore.
In his life; in anyone’s.
*
He doesn’t know how old he was when it started because it was when he was young enough for everything to be blurred together in his mind now, but he was young, which is the main point; he started reading as soon as he could and just never really stopped with it. It was his parents, he thinks, which is another thing to thank them for if he ever gets around to keeping such resolutions (made in good faith, genuine intentions, forgotten about and overshadowed within a week or two), because he was a bit of a handful when he was younger.
Not that he ever grew out of being like that, not really, but since even that long ago the solution is something he never grew out of either: reading. His parents talk about it sometimes, fond and nostalgic looks on their faces - a book in his hand and not a word out of him for hours!
It started then but followed him to adulthood; it’s something to do with the way there’s another world hidden in the words that he can go to, explore, lose himself in for a while.
(let’s-pretend.)
*
“You’re in here kind of a lot.”
This is the first thing anyone says to him in there, the only words directly addressed to him that aren’t fees for marginally overdue books or a vague ‘have a nice day’ from either of the two brothers who are usually on the desk.
The first thing Pete ever says that’s more than a thank you for the change or ‘yeah, you too’ as he heads out the door is, “Yeah, well you know, I kind of like it a lot here,” and he almost winces, just because his voice seems too loud in a place like this, where there are even rules against it.
And at first at least he’s talking about the soft silence and the dusty, comforting ambience of the books that line the shelves, old and new, dog-eared and well read, treasured.
But then Mikey (because it’s not the name tag but the coincidence from before that tells Pete who he is) grins; it’s not just the small smile Pete’s gotten from him before but a flash of his teeth, the crinkle of his eyes behind his glasses and maybe, Pete thinks, maybe he likes more than just the faint, sweet and lingering smell of pages of paper.
*
A coincidence: the same Starbucks one afternoon, a stumble and a stuttered pair of ‘sorry’s.
“Shit, man,” Pete’s saying, one hand grabbing a napkin as the other steadies his coffee once more, “shit, I’m sorry - uh…?”
He doesn’t think he’s making much sense but the guy blinks at him behind a pair of glasses, shrugs, offers a smile that’s not much more than just a twitch of the corners of his mouth and says, “Mikey, I’m Mikey. And it’s cool, don’t worry.”
“Mikey, hey, I’m Pete,” Pete says, and for a fleeting few moments he thinks, déjà vu, except it’s not; there is no sense of this having happened before, just a sense of knowing, of the idea that someday this might be significant.
A plot device.
Then again, maybe it’s just that theme in his life cropping up once more.
*
Less of a coincidence: a dark and dusty rarely visited corner of the library, books waiting to be stacked in a pile at their feet.
In the split-second uncertainty he has just before he presses his lips against Mikey’s, Mikey’s back pressing against the neglected shelf, Pete thinks back over, from Starbucks to here and the smiles and conversations between, the watching they both must know the other is doing. Mikey’s eyes are huge behind his glasses but he doesn’t look too shocked; there’s that flash of teeth in a wide grin that looks as though it’s forced its way out from behind any barriers and guards that were put up to block it, keep it under control.
Pete leans in and kisses him and there’s still that faint waft of paper and books all around. All of a sudden, it smells even sweeter.
*
He thinks, a few times, about how he’d write the whole thing down if he could. Their moments, soft and supple, a contrast to the sharp angles of Mikey’s hips, ribs, teeth. Words, to bring him back to the here and now if (when) he ever needs another escape.
He wonders if it would be one chapter, two; if it would span over several and draw him in, make him want to stay forever.
*
An escape is what he wants sometimes and sometimes he feels bad for that because he knows there are people who have it much worse than he does, and he knows some people who definitely do. His main problems are the ones in his head, and he thinks that he should be able to get rid of them himself by thinking it out as well, that it would only make sense to work that way.
It doesn’t, but the hidden worlds of certain words can provide him with that escape, knowledge carried with him from childhood; he spends a lot of time in the library when he can, when he needs to, where it’s peaceful and quiet and empty, devoid of people and conversations. The guy, Mikey, who he met one afternoon at Starbucks, works there and offers him a subtle smile occasionally, or lets him off the odd overdue fine, like a mark of recognition.
The recognition doesn’t stretch to conversations, which Pete is grateful for, because it’s easier to lose himself that way.
*
Let’s-pretend.
(that maybe he could take somebody on his travels with him?)
*
“He gets me,” Pete says, and then shrugs because it doesn’t sound quite right, because there’s more to it than that. “It’s just - he’s okay with it, too.” And that’s more like it: Mikey is not like the past chapters of Pete’s life - like Jeanae, who Pete thought he never was quite enough for; like Ryan, who never thought he could be enough for Pete.
This is in response to an amused quirk of Patrick’s eyebrow and Patrick asking, Okay, who is it? because he knows Pete so well, knows what smiles for no reason and the way his handwriting slopes to the right, attempting to seem elegant, means, and then Patrick asking whether it’s different this time.
Pete thinks about it, and he thinks that it is and he adds as much to his previous words. He can feel the uncontrollable lift at the corner of his mouth, see the crinkles at the corner of his eyes in the mirror behind Patrick’s shoulder.
And Patrick, who is the only person to have ever really gotten Pete so far, grins wide and pleased and says, “Good.”
And it is.
*
Every boy in every book takes on the quiet, unassuming qualities of one Michael James Way; not that Pete is the brave heroine or the love-struck just trying to make it in the big bad world career girl or the bitter main character with too many issues to ever be sure about trusting again, but-
There is something about picturing the curve of Mikey’s eyebrows or the way he laughs like someone startled it out of him that makes it all seem more real, even as Pete glances up every few minutes to see Mikey looking back half of the time, feet tucked under Mikey’s thighs to keep them warmer.
*
Against the shelves the first time they kiss Pete presses forward, too much for where they are, but Mikey presses right back into him; the movement jostles the shelf behind Mikey’s back, and there’s the dull, secretive flutter of pages as they knock a book that had only been balanced precariously on there to the floor, the tiny thud as the cover hits the carpet.
Pete checks the very same book out the next day. It bores him throughout almost all of its entirety and the writing is tedious, difficult to get through, but he reads it with a smile nonetheless, stupid and happy.
*
The first thing Gerard ever says to him in there, the only words he directly addresses to him that aren’t fees for marginally overdue books or a vague ‘have a nice day’, is, “So, you’re the reason I’m pretty much running this place by myself now, then?”
He says it when Mikey is within earshot, and Pete laughs even in the quiet around them, slightly guilty but mostly because of the blush that creeps across Mikey’s cheeks as he deliberately doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes. It’s absolutely not a coincidence; the patterns and trails of Mikey being distracted every time Pete comes in can only lead back to one answer, and Pete is aware of this fact.
And that’s fine too, a significant leap his plot has taken.
The first thing Pete ever says to Gerard in return is, “I’ll persuade him to help you out some more.”
Gerard grins, wide and pleased, and he says, “Good.”
And it is.
*
Mikey is asleep, glasses slipping down his nose, mouth slightly open and a little slack-jawed. He is utterly relaxed and Pete feels something like the same for once; he nudges him lightly with his foot, just to check that he won’t wake up soon.
(he doesn’t, won’t - a brief flickering frown, a twitch of his finger, a muffled, mumbled mnrf.
then. peace, again.)
Out of his pen comes all the words he can’t quite say right, can’t quite say yet, mostly sure and mostly even spelled right, and it won’t be yet but-
Someday. Someday, some time, he might leave something like this around to found, tucked inside the pages as he returns a book and there to lead right back to him.
And this, there is no pretence to it at all, like that theme has reached its end in Pete’s life for now, unneeded.