Fic: Leading the Revolution (In my Bedroom), multiple pairings, R
Title: Leading the Revolution (In my Bedroom)
Authors: xaritomene and xrysomou
Pairings: *deep breath* Nick/Tyson, Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Ryland/Vicky-T, Frank/Gerard, teeny bit of Bob/Mikey, the usual suspects and a load of gen.
Rating: Soft R
Warnings: language, drunkenness, boys being boys and general revelry.
Word Count: 15, 432
Disclaimer: Not ours, we are not affiliated with the people in any way and nor would they want us to be. Title by Panic! at the Disco.
Cheerled by the incomparably lovely fortune8 and whocares19_05. Thanks, darlings!
Summary: It's Finals Night. Everyone's wary of Finals Night. A Bandom College AU.
Dear Students
Today is the final day of exams, and the return of time to relax and enjoy yourselves. I am sure there may be more than a few post-exam celebrations over the next few days...
I like to see you enjoying yourselves at this time of year, you have deserved it for all your hard work. A few drinks are enjoyable, but can easily turn into a few too many! Remember, I DO NOT want to have to send for you for an early morning meeting in full academic dress.
Please take a few minutes to think about other people around you who may not want to enjoy your exuberant celebrations. This often leads to complaints. Below are some suggestions to help you consider ways to avoid an early morning disciplinary hearing...
**
1. Neighbours usually like to sleep at night, not listen to late night parties or other excursions - please be considerate, let your neighbours know if you are having a party, keep the noise level reasonable after midnight, wherever you are in college, and whichever college you might be in!
“Where are you going with those fireworks?”
“Bilvy! Billiam! Thrilliam! Light of my life and delight of my eyes!”
“Can I help you?” Bill stood in front of his door, legs akimbo, hands on hips.
“I was just about to come looking for you!” Gabe beamed and Bill took a step backwards. That smile should not have been anywhere near any of fireworks that Gabe was currently clutching.
“What do you want?”
Gabe’s beam never faltered. “Exams are over, we’ve passed, we’re free-”
“We don’t know that we’ve passed,” Bill corrected fretfully. “You might have done. I completely bombed my Post-War Fiction and Poetry exam and that’s gonna drag down my GPA, and I need at least 3.7 to make it into any post-grad degree worth getting and basically I’ve just-”
“Stop,” Gabe said wearily. “I’ve heard it. You’ve already told me. Quite a few times, actually. So, we need to distract you. And I have a great plan. Hold these.”
He stood up, shoving a roman candle and a couple of rockets into Bill’s hands. Bill stared at them.
“Your great plan is to tie me to a firework.”
Gabe gave him a disdainful look. “Don’t be silly, Billy.” Gabe paused and giggled. “Silly Billy.”
Bill looked at him closely. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” Gabe’s unwavering grin did nothing to dispel Bill’s fears. “Just high on life.”
“Oh God, that’s actually true, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. Ok. Here’s the plan. We’re gonna take these fireworks to a nice, open space. We’re gonna find a box of matches, and we’re gonna have our own firework display. And if that doesn’t distract you, then I will admit defeat.”
Bill sighed. “Couldn’t you just get me drunk like a normal friend? So we’re not messing around with anything life-threatening?”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “I’d happily get you wasted, but we both remember what happened last time.”
“Oh. Yeah. No.”
“I still maintain it wasn’t my idea.”
Bill scowled. “It’s always your idea.” He waved his fireworks pointedly. “And anyway, you’ve seen the list. I’m pretty sure fireworks are automatically included under ‘Do Not, Ever’.”
“Eh,” Gabe said airily, scooping up his shoes and a handful of Catherine wheels. “Lists are made to be broken.”
“That’s rules -“
“- and we’re not going to set them off on College grounds. Well,” he amended, “not our college grounds.”
“Oh?” Bill said suspiciously.
“No. We’re going to go up to the Collingwood soccer pitch and set them off there.”
“Even better,” Bill muttered and picked a stray sparkler up off the floor.
Gabe slid one arm round Bill’s shoulders and propelled them both out of the door. “Think of it this way. How long has it been since you last thought of your failure and impending doom?”
“About five minutes?”
“See? My plan is clearly working. C’mon.”
**
2. Keep your clothes ON in public...
Sometimes, it was hard being Nick Wheeler. Of course he was bound to admit that sometimes, it really wasn’t - he was at an awesome college, with awesome friends, his finals were over, and he was celebrating with his tall and gorgeous boyfriend. Unfortunately, his tall and gorgeous boyfriend occasionally had really bad ideas. This was one of them.
“C’mon, Nicky!” Tyson hollered, from about ten feet away. “Get your clothes off! Let’s see that beautiful body!”
Nick pulled a face and hop-skipped a little harder. He’d lost a flip-flop halfway down the road, and had sworn a vow to himself then and there that that was the biggest concession he would make towards nudity. He dragged a hand over his face and flailed a condemnatory finger at Chris. “This is your fault,” he accused. Chris, who was swinging wild and free and encouraging Tyson far too much, did not answer.
Mike gave him a sympathetic look. Firmly anti public nudity, Mike was steadily refusing to remove any part of his jeans-and-t-shirt ensemble.
Nick looked on him as a kindred spirit.
“Guys, c’mon,” he said, “I don’t wanna have to go and see the Dean in my last week.”
“But that’s what college is about!” Tyson said cheerfully. His shoes were long gone and he was now busily divesting himself of his socks.
“Oh God,” Nick murmured, and trailed after his mad friends as Chris made a break for Walmart.
Nick had already resigned himself to getting arrested, with friends like these. He’d just never thought it would be in a Walmart.
**
3. Be cautious when meeting new friends/exploring relationships - think about where (or with whom) you want to wake up in the morning...
The creepy guy was staring at him again, and not for the first time, Kevin regretted his decision to go out tonight. If it had been up to Kevin, he would have stayed in his room with a pizza, a DVD, and possibly a beer - but then Demi had given him the stink-eye and told him that Joe had called him boring.
Kevin reflected miserably that he should really stop rising to Joe’s challenges. Yes, he was boring, and after twenty one years, it was probably time he just embraced that - not embracing it led to sitting here in what they laughingly called the college ‘bar’ (Kevin was no expert, but he was pretty sure ‘dive’ would be more accurate), with Demi over the other side of the room, as normal, entertaining the slavish attentions of one of the jocks.
Kevin was left to himself and the mercies of the creepy guy who’d been turning up religiously (Kevin pardoned himself for the pun) to Christian Union for the past few weeks. He thought his name was Michael - he wasn’t sure.
“Hi,” said creepy Michael, and Kevin had to stop surreptitiously trying to inch his chair away from him.
“Hallo,” he said awkwardly, eyeing his opponent warily. Michael wasn’t normally the sort of person who talked to Kevin. Not in the bullshit high-school cliques-from-movies way - it was just that Kevin was Kevin (“boring”), and Creepy Michael was the kind of guy who thought nothing of a quick dose of wacky baccy behind the chapel. (Kevin was pretty sure they didn’t call it wacky baccy anymore. He’d have to ask Joe.)
Point was, he and creepy Michael didn’t really associate outside of CU. That was the way things were, and to be honest, Kevin was just fine with that.
However, his idiotic, well-bred mouth continued, without conscious volition, “how are you?”
Creepy Michael looked a little amused. “Fine, kid.” Kevin bristled a little. He was only a year or so younger than creepy Michael, at most. “How are you?”
“I’m OK. But I should go. I’ll see you-” Kevin stood then remembered that most of the college-specific societies stopped after exams were done, and CU wouldn’t be meeting again until the beginning of next year - without Kevin, and probably without Michael, creepy or otherwise. “Around?” he offered, and Creepy Michael offered him a broad grin.
“You want a drink?” he offered, instead of nodding and letting Kevin go as Kevin had expected him to.
Kevin stared for a moment, envisaging shots of absinthe downed in the inevitable squalor of this guy’s room - then he chastised himself for being unkind. Probably. Then, unbidden, Joe’s accusation of ‘boringness’ rose to the forefront of his mind and he scowled.
“C’mon,” Creepy Michael said, grinning persuasively, “it’s practically the end of the semester, we’ll probably never see each other again - what’s the worst that could happen?” The grin acquired an edge, and Kevin thought about actually answering the question. His mind, which was set to its default ‘worry’, had come up with at least a dozen scenarios by now, two of which involved the emergency room, and one of which involved the police. Then again... boring.
“OK,” he said decisively, pulling out his stool and sitting back down. “What’re you having?”
“This late, I normally stick to beer. You, though,” Creepy Michael pointed at him totally needlessly from a foot and a half away, “you should have something stronger. You got a bit of catching up to do, Jonas.”
“How do you know my name?” Kevin asked absently, staring fixedly at Michael for a couple of moments before voicing his revelation. “Wait. Hang on, you - you’re totally wasted, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Michael said, sounding alarmingly sober. “Yes, I am. And of course I know you! You’re Jonas!”
“That’s not actually my Christian name, you know?” Kevin said, and Michael’s eyes darted away. “You thought my name was Jonas Jonas, didn’t you?”
“It could happen!”
“No, it couldn’t!” Kevin accepted the drink without looking at it, and downed it in one go. Michael looked impressed. “What did you think my brother was called?” Michael looked distinctly shifty. “You thought he was called Jonas Jonas too, didn’t you? Lord in Heaven.” Another drink appeared in front of him, and he sipped it a little more cautiously this time. The alcohol burnt his tongue. “No, by the way. He’s Joe, and I’m Kevin. But he calls me Skippy, because he’s a dick like that.”
Creepy Michael looked a little taken aback. “Nice language, Christian boy.”
Kevin shrugged. “Joe deserves it.”
“Well, be fair,” Michael said, smiling lopsidedly, “I was close with him. Joe Jonas is practically Jonas Jonas. So, now I know your name - Skippy,” he added with a wicked grin. Kevin groaned. Tarnation, “I think we ought to get to know each other a little better before we all go our sordid separate ways. Have another drink.”
“I haven’t finished this one yet,” Kevin said uncertainly.
“I’m getting one, I’ll get one for you whilst I’m at it.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Kevin asked, beginning to edge his chair away again.
“Well, you see, Skippy,” Michael said, “that depends on one very important question.”
“What’s that?” Kevin said warily.
“There are some very interesting rumours going round about you, Skippy, and I’m wondering if they’re true.”
Kevin sighed. “Not this again. Why is everyone so concerned anyway?”
“Because you are young and hot and possibly a virgin. And that’s a turn on for some people.”
“Like you?” Kevin asked acidly, and then wondered where he’d found the courage. He remembered when he looked at the brimming glass of - something - in front of him.
“Nah, I’m a take-‘em-as-I-find-‘em sorta guy. Why, Jonas, are you confirming or denying?”
“Look, Michael-”
“Mike. Call me Mike. Only my grandma calls me Michael.”
“Fine, Mike.” Kevin took a deep breath. “I don’t think that that is any of your business, and it’s certainly not something I have to discuss with you or anyone else.”
Mike patted his knee. “Nice speech, Skippy,” he said approvingly. “But - to be honest, I don’t care. I was pretty much only asking to find out how much you value that vaunted potential purity, and whether or not, if I get you drunk enough, you’ll sleep with me.”
There was a brief, aghast silence, and Mike looked temporarily wrong-footed. Finally, Kevin spoke. “I thought there’d be a lot more bullshit than that,” he said, and Mike took a deep breath.
“Nah, I’m a law student. I deal with cold, hard facts. So, you got an answer for me?”
“Being a lawyer, I’d have thought cold, hard facts were the last thing you deal with,” Kevin replied tartly. Mike raised his glass in a mocking toast.
“Touché.”
Kevin smiled and then looked thoughtful. “Well,” he said, his tone revelatory, “I think I like the direct approach. Fine. Get me another one of these,” he picked up his glass, a little liquid sloshing over the edge, “and we’ll talk. Oh! Before that,” Mike turned back to him, eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to get anywhere with me - and I’m not saying you will! - you have got to stop calling me Skippy.”
Mike gave him a long approving look. “Deal.”
**
4. DO NOT intimidate anyone, or be a nuisance, harass or be violent to anyone, especially members of staff, porters, university security etc...
They weren’t breaking any laws. And that was what Gerard would earnestly protest in the Dean’s office the next morning.
It was just that Walmart had no soul and Gerard Way, on behalf of his boyfriend, was going to be part of the frontline dedicated to educating the masses on this point.
“One does not simply walk into Walmart,” Frank was cheerily informing a passerby, “there is an evil there which does not sleep. Have a nice day!” The woman scurried away, after casting terrified glances at Bob, Gerard’s eyeliner and Frank’s lip-ring. “Wait! Are you sure you wouldn’t like a leaflet?”
“No luck?” Gerard asked, sidling over to Frank and also trying not to stare at his lip-ring - though for entirely different reasons.
“It’s like they don’t care, man,” Frank pulled a face. “Wal-Mart is crap on like, eighteen different levels, and they just don’t care.”
“I know, man. I know,” Gerard patted his shoulder and tried not to let his hand linger too long. They had work to do. This vendetta was Frank’s baby - ever since he’d done a brief stint at working for Wal-Mart and found out that it wasn’t just him who wasn’t covered by their health-care plan - they didn’t actually have a health-care plan at all, despite their tax breaks and the billions of dollars they earned annually. “We’ll bring the assholes down one store at a time.”
Exams were over, and they’d all rocked up to help. Technically - technically - they weren’t doing anything wrong. They weren’t on Wal-Mart property, they weren’t defacing Wal-Mart property, and they weren’t disturbing the peace. And if Mikey occasionally pulled his shadow-ninja act and wafted into the parking lot to slap a few dozen of their ‘Why Wal-Mart Is Shit’ leaflets onto a few cars, well, that wasn’t actually wrong.
Keeping Frank under control was the key to success in this mission. Ray had had to confiscate his megaphone three times.
“Wal-Mart means death to small businesses!” Frank had climbed on top of the wall and was waving his arms frantically.
“Frankie, get down!” Gerard hissed.
“Why?” Frank looked down at him, eyebrow raised.
“Because that wall is Wal-Mart property,” Bob explained patiently, “and you could get fined. Arrested, even.”
“You’ve gotta stick it to The Man, Bryar.” Frank gestured at Bob with his megaphone.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “I’ll stick it to him good and proper on public ground.”
“Oooh, kinky,” Frank lisped, cocking his hip.
“Now, Frank,” Gerard stepped in, “that’s stereotyping.”
Frank ignored him. “Wal-Mart kills babies!” he yelled through his megaphone.
“And that’s defamation,” Ray said, with unimpeachable calm.
They were interrupted by Mikey, slouching out through the gates, hands empty and stuffed into his pockets.
“Was your mission successful, Mikeyway?” Frank demanded. All he really needed, Gerard reflected, was a Napoleon hat.
Mikey ignored him and plopped himself down next to Gerard. “All good?” Gerard asked, and Mikey nodded.
“But I made a few of the leaflets into paper aeroplanes and threw them through the automatic doors, and we might have to go in a minute, because one of them hit a security guard in the face.”
“That’s right, Mikeyway!” Generalissimo said from the wall. “Stick it to The Man!”
“Aren’t the security guards some of Wal-Mart’s most exploited victims?” Mikey asked. “Underpaid, no health-care, crappy quality of life-”
“Not enough sunlight,” agreed Ray.
Frank was momentarily stumped, but rallied admirably. “But until they realise that, they are agents of the enemy, and we can take them, guys! They have no fire in their blood, no passion behind their actions, and we can take them!”
“I really don’t think we can,” Gerard said, stuck in the novel position of ‘voice of reason’. “You’re, like, four foot tall, my muscles are like cooked pasta, Mikes is a stick and Ray’s a pacifist. That leaves Bob.”
Frank fixed Bob with eyes bright with the light of fanaticism. “I have faith in you, Bryar.”
“My mother will be so proud. Frank, we’re not fighting the Wal-Mart security. I intend my college career to end with a whimper, and if there are any bangs, they will not be here, and they will not be with you guys watching.”
Gerard briefly considered whether that was objectification or not, then decided to let it go. Bob had had a hard day.
“Guys?” Ray said, “I see blue lights. I think we should move it along. Frank, let’s find you some richer pickings, OK?”
“To the centre of town!” Frank agreed dramatically, and hopped on Bob’s back.
**
5. DO NOT cause mayhem of any kind in any other College (or ours) even if you are provoked!
This was Pete’s big day. This was the day he would woo Patrick, and it would work. He hefted his boombox higher onto his shoulder, grabbed his rose, and set off.
He ignored all the stares (and there were a few - perhaps the doublet and breeches had been a mistake) with the ease of long years of practice. All his thoughts were on his Love. There was no way Patrick could resist this.
Unfortunately, he realised when he arrived at Patrick’s college that knowing his amour’s room number wasn’t the same as knowing which window was his, and this led to a good half-hour wandering around the quad trying to look nonchalant in full Elizabethan dress. In the end, Pete had had to call Bill and resort to some serious bribery. Bill was set for alcohol for the rest of the week, and Pete was broke.
It would be worth it when his Love was his and his alone.
Pete stationed himself under his paramour’s window and lobbed a handful of gravel at it. Half a dozen people stuck their heads out of their windows after his gravel had unfortunately scattered, demanding to know what the hell he was doing, but none of them were his beloved. He yelled back a brusque apology and chose his next stone more carefully.
He hefted it briefly, then threw, and his aim was true. He winced as the window shattered with the delicate tinkle of glass.
Seconds later, the broken window was thrown open, and Patrick’s beloved, angry face appeared. “What the fuck, Pete?” his dulcet tones rang out across the quad.
Pete felt a thrill of joy. “You knew it was me?” he asked, and Patrick frowned.
“Of course I knew it was you,” he said. “Who else would throw a rock through a window at eleven at night?”
Pete reflected that, as ever, his courtship was not going well. Then he frowned as a new thought struck him. “I can pay for that,” he said quickly, and tried not to think how he was going to balance that with Bill’s pay-off.
Patrick’s scowl deepened. “Damn right you’re paying for it,” he snapped, and Pete hurried to distract him.
“What’re you doing in on Finals night, anyway?” he asked. “I mean, I’m glad you are, but - you know - it’s the best night of the year, man!”
“I’m not a finalist, and I’m not,” Patrick added pointedly, “a post-grad research student with an apparently infinite amount of time on my hands which I can spend following round perfectly innocent second years.” Pete winced, both at the accusation and at the thought of just how much time he had ‘wasted’ following Patrick around; his work had definitely been suffering. “I’ve still got classes, you know, and a performance tomorrow. This is pretty much my last chance to pack.”
Pete brightened perceptibly. “A performance? Can I come? I could cheer really loudly and then bathe your fevered brow with lavender water afterwards.”
“You’re not bathing my fevered anything,” Patrick said repressively. “Anyway, what are you wearing?”
Pete noticed that that was not a refusal, and his heart swelled. “I am your troubadour!” he cried, sweeping into a low bow, then grabbing the boombox as it threatened to slide off his shoulder. The rose whacked him in the eye.
“You have a boombox,” Patrick pointed out.
“Well, yes,” Pete said defensively. “My college string quartet was busy and they’re using the only lute in this whole goddamn town in a production of The Crucible.”
Patrick looked momentarily taken aback. “The Crucible?” He repeated. “Where the fuck is a lute going to come in in that light-hearted romp through musical history?”
“I know, right?” Pete agreed, grinning at him. Patrick felt a treacherous, dangerous pang of fondness for the horse-faced loon. That fondness disappeared swiftly when Pete set down his boombox, spread his arms wide and cried, “now, let me serenade you, my darling, with proof of the most tender love I bear you!”
Patrick could hear more than one person shouting for Pete to shut up and flushed to his hairline. Things only deteriorated when Pete clicked ‘play’, and Cee Lo Green’s ‘Fuck You’ rang out clear and strong through the quad - Pete hurriedly clicked it off. “Sorry,” he said, bending over to fiddle with it. “Wrong side of the tape.”
When he stood up again, Ewan McGregor was stridently insisting that his gift was his song. “Moulin Rouge?” Patrick said, the fondness making a comeback. “Seriously?”
But over the sound of Patrick being allowed to tell everyone about the song Pete had brought him (as thought they didn’t already know), he heard a gruff, “excuse me, sir.”
Pete cast a panicked glance up at Patrick, and chucked the rose at him. It fell spectacularly short of the mark. “Patrick! Look for my coming tomorrow!” he paused very briefly, then sniggered, clearly catching the innuendo in his own words. Then he bolted, security guards in bright yellow hot on his heels.
“Sir - sir, we need to see some ID,” one of the called. “Are you a member of this college?”
“You’ll never take me alive!” Pete said shrilly - and still Ewan McGregor sang on, requiring Patrick’s permission to tell the world how wonderful life was. The irony was painful.
“Wait,” Patrick called down, and was ignored as Pete was cornered by the fountain, clinging to it manfully as security tugged at his legs. “Wait, he’s with me. I’m coming down!”
Pete made another sound which, in any other situation, would probably have been yet another ‘Patrick!’, but lived only briefly in this one as a squawk as security forcibly detached him from the fountain.
When Patrick reached the quad, it was deserted.
**
6. DO NOT steal shop signs, traffic cones, or any other public/personal property...
Vicky-T wanted a stop sign.
Well, of course she did.
Ryland heaved a put-upon sigh and started after Alex. Vicky-T was not to be disobeyed. Next to her, Machiavelli couldn’t have run a lemonade stall - she was brilliant, she was beautiful, and she was organised. Back in first year, none of them had stood a chance. Unfortunately, whilst this normally benefited all three of her minions (Ryland had long ago realised that for the moment, he was a mere minion in her eyes, but he could totally turn that around), it sometimes led to situations like this - running through the night, trying not to trip over his assortment of road signs, evading capture by both the campus security (mere amateurs), and the actual police. Unfortunately, both sets of law-enforcers were out in force tonight. Everyone was wary of finals nights.
Ryland knew, however, that he had to do this. If he ever wanted to have a quiet drink with Vicky-T, and possibly form a romantic alliance, he had to follow her instructions.
“Which one are we getting her?” He called after his partners-in-crime. Nate was already clutching a road works sign, though Ryland suspected that was a personal trophy rather than danegeld for their overlord. Overlady. Boss.
“Walton Street is deserted this time of night,” Alex decided, leaning on his ‘approaching roundabout’ sign. “We’ll try there first.”
“And if not?”
“We improvise,” Nate said, and as one, they turned into the night.
At least, they would have done, had Tyson Ritter not swerved into Ryland’s path and left a giant smear of glitter down Ryland’s arm.
“Hey, man,” Tyson said, words slurring alarmingly. Ryland glanced at Nick for help. “How’s it going?”
Nick, who was hopping up and down, attempting to keep hold of Tyson, balance a beer and bat Tyson’s hands away from his fly all at the same time, was no help. “Hey, Ryland,” he said distractedly.
“Hey, Wheeler. How’s it hanging?” Ryland glanced at Chris and averted his eyes. “Don’t have to ask how it’s hanging with you, man, I can see perfectly.”
“Tyson wants to flow as wild and as free as Chris.” This came from Kennerty, who was wearing all of his clothes and a look of deep resentment. “It’s been a long night.”
“All I wanted to do,” Ritter said grandly, “was to steal a shopping cart. And now look at all the new and exciting opportunities which have been opened up to me!”
Nick, who was holding onto Tyson’s wrists with a grip of steel, sighed. “Yeah, Ty. Like a public indecency charge.”
Tyson looked briefly intrigued. “Nicky, can I have one of those?” he asked, batting his eyelashes.
“It’s looking likely, sweetness,” Nick agreed dryly.
“Um, I don’t want to draw too much attention to this,” Ryland said delicately, “but - where did all the glitter come from?” Alex and Nate had come to join him, staring interestedly and clutching various road signs.
Nick grimaced. “I don’t know, but when I find the asshole who gave it to him, I’m going to kill them.” It was only when Wheeler turned round that Ryland noticed that he had a large, glittery handprint on one buttock.
Mike Kennerty looked at them speculatively. “If you’re collecting road signs,” he said, “Seventh and Luxembourg are closed at the moment. And there’s a school down there.”
“Sweet,” Alex said, and took off.
“Why are you collecting road signs?” Nick asked. Ryland leaned against his ‘Stop: Children Crossing’ sign, and affected nonchalance.
“Well, you see,” he started, only to be interrupted by Nate.
“He wants into Vicky-T’s panties,” he said bluntly.
“Thanks, dude,” Ryland said sarcastically.
“A worthy goal, my friend!” Tyson said expansively. “If I were not already in my darling Nicky’s pants,” Darling Nicky looked distinctly put-upon and muttered something which sounded a lot like ‘I just wish you’d stay inside your own’, “I would steal anything he wanted to be so!”
“I don’t want any road signs, Ty.”
Tyson looked bewildered. “Who said anything about road signs? I thought we were talking about sex.”
Nick sighed, and Chris stepped in to save the day. “I’m bored,” he announced, and wandered off.
Mike Kennerty made apologetic gestures. “I have to follow him,” he said, “or he’ll flash another policeman.”
“Another?” Ryland said nervously, but Kennerty was long gone, and Wheeler and Ritter were following after. Tyson was skipping.
Ryland put them out of his mind and headed for Seventh, where he was met with an unexpected barrier. Unlike all the other road signs they’d liberated, stop signs were cemented down.
It was as he tugged fruitlessly at the stop sign with Nate, that he came to a sudden, shuddering realisation. Road signs weren’t a game. Road signs were there for a reason, to stop people crashing or driving in to kids or - any other myriad potential disaster. And, more to the point, Vicky-T hadn’t responded to any of his advances thus far, no matter how slavishly he followed her orders.
For the greater good, it was time to stop.
“Guys!” he said expansively - he had considered putting it to them carefully and rationally, but in the end his dramatic side won out. “Guys, we have to put these signs back!” he flung his arms out.
Nate looked at him. “You’re making the Jesus Christ Superstar arms again.”
Ryland let his arms fall back to his sides rather limply. “Whatever,” he said, battling embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. These signs have to go back, or we’re gonna cause actual accidents, and - and stuff.”
Nate and Alex stared at him for a moment, then looked at each other, then turned back to him. “What about Vicky-T?”
“What about her?” Ryland said.
“Well,” Alex said frankly, “she scares me.”
“I’ll deal with Vicky-T,” Ryland said, with perhaps more bravery than sense. “C’mon, we have road signs to put back.”
It was as they slotted the final ‘approaching roundabout’ sign back into place that their plans fell apart. There were footsteps behind them, a pause, and then, ominously: “good evening, gentlemen.”
Fuck, Ryland thought, and turned. “Officer,” he said pleasantly, trying very hard not to look at Nate, who was clutching an incriminating traffic cone like a protection charm. “How can we help you?”
**
7. DO NOT bring the College into Disrepute!
“Will someone please sleep with this boy!” Spencer yelled, and Ryan rolled his eyes just that tiny bit harder. Brendon was staring out at the crowd with hopeful eyes, and Spencer turned back to him with a shrug. “Don’t think it’s gonna work, dude.”
“It has to work, Spence,” Brendon informed him. “I am not going into my second year a - a virgin.” The last word was a mortified whisper.
“Oh, come on, it’s not the end of the world-” Spencer started, and Brendon cut him off.
“It is. Everyone says that college is when you stop being the band freak no-one will go out with and suddenly become really attractive to hot guys who want to sex you up. If I go home like this, it’s proof I’m doomed to die alone. Plus, Pete will mock me-”
“Oh please, Pete’s been on a dry spell for months. Ever since he saw Patrick,” Spencer muttered. “I don’t believe this, it’s not even as though you’re completely horrible to look at. There’s got to be someone.”
Ryan coughed meaningfully, but Spencer just glared at him, and Brendon couldn’t yet decipher their fifteen years of best-friend-speak. “Thanks,” he said, instead, aiming for sarcasm. “I think I could be a really good lay!”
“A really good fumbling, inexperienced lay,” Ryan said dryly, tiring of the day’s proceedings, before snapping “go away!” at someone who gave him an experimental grope. “He’s the one advertising his wares.”
“So how much is he?” a stranger asked, pointing at Ryan. “I’d pay to get under those scarves.”
“Not me!” Ryan squawked again. “Him! He’s the one wearing the sign!”
`
“You made him a sign?” Jon asked, emerging out from behind the bar on his break. “Awww... looking good, B!”
The sign was about a foot high, pink, sparkly, and read: PLEASE SLEEP* WITH ME (*as in ‘have sex’ not as in ‘snuggles’. Though snuggles are also welcome.). Brendon was clutching it like a drowning man clutches a raft.
He was also pouting. “I don’t get it. I have the sign. Why are they all going for Ryan?”
“Maybe I just look approachable?” Ryan said, with palpable smugness.
Brendon snorted. On a good day, Ryan was about as approachable as a cactus; it had taken a whole semester for Brendon to work up the courage to so much as talk to him, and that didn’t count the further five weeks he’d spent with a tongue-tied crush on the guy. Then he’d actually talked to him, and the crush had faded quite fast. Ryan’s bitchiness was not conducive to romantic feeling. “No,” he corrected sweetly. “What you look is easy.”
Ryan rolled his eyes again. Brendon began to worry that he might strain them.
“Hello! People!” Spencer was working the crowd again. “Completely legal young man available for totally free, no strings attached sex! Right here, right now-”
“Dude, I’m not doing it right here, or right now.”
“How about that guy?” Jon asked, pointing at a small, elfin guy in the crowd wearing an enormous stripey scarf and a dopey grin. “He looks sweet.”
“No,” Spencer said automatically.
“Why not?” Brendon asked.
“He’s too short,” Spencer said. “And he looks like a stoner. Who knows what he could give you?”
“Height is no object,” Jon pointed out. “Bden’s practically pocket sized.”
“Oh, this, from you?” Brendon returned without heat. “And who said you get to veto who I sleep with, Spence? I’m going to go and sleep with that guy right now.”
The guy clearly heard him, because he looked briefly worried and vanished into the crowd.
“Aw, don’t worry, B,” Jon said, patting his arm. “He clearly wasn’t worth it.”
“We’ll find someone much better suited to you,” Ryan agreed. Brendon waited for the inevitable sarcastic add-on, but it never came.
“Wait, were you just - supportive?” he asked.
“I can be supportive!” Ryan said indignantly. “I am awesome at being supportive.”
Brendon decided the better part of valour was discretion and turned away. Ryan was lying; what he was best at was sarcasm and occasional flashes of biting insight. Or, more regularly, just biting. (Brendon had this on good authority: Pete and Ryan had been a Thing for a while. Ryan had so much sex that Brendon really didn’t think it was asking too much for him to share it around a little.)
“Oh, what about him? He looks perfect!”
“He’s five feet taller than you and he’s wearing a biker jacket,” Spencer said acidly. “I’m taking this one out myself.”
“Yeah, just like you took out all the other applicants,” Ryan muttered, and Spencer kicked him.
“Fine,” Brendon capitulated with a huff. “What about that guy?”
“No,” all three of them said, and Brendon pouted. “That’s Frank Iero,” Jon explained, more calmly. “He could fuck you up, man.”
“Isn’t that kind of what we’re going for?” Brendon asked.
“Not that kind of ‘fuck you up’, moron,” Ryan said, and Brendon heaved a relieved sigh. He and Ryan were clearly back on familiar ground again.
“And if he didn’t, Gerard Way would talk to his brother and then Mikeyway would make sure no one ever spoke to you again, and then you’d never get laid,” Jon added.
Gerard paused in front of Brendon and his sign, and looked at him with eyes full of compassion. “Hang in there, man,” he said. “It gets better.”
“Could you help me out of here, then?” Brendon asked, and Gerard paused. For a long moment, he looked at him consideringly and Brendon looked consideringly back. Then:
“No,” said both Frank and Spencer in perfect tandem.
Gerard had the decency to look faintly disappointed. “Sorry, dude,” he said, as Frank latched onto his hand with a grip of steel. “You’ll find someone!” For some reason, he looked over at Spencer. Did everyone know that Spencer was vetting his potential bed-partners?
Life sucked sometimes.
Frank dragged Gerard backwards and safely out of Brendon’s reach, shooting Brendon a grin that contained more teeth than was strictly comforting. “C’mon, guys! We have to go spread the word some more!”
“Frank,” Mikey said, in a rare display of emotion, “we’ve been spreading the word for four hours. I wanna go have some fun.”
Frank looked as though he might protest, then Gerard muttered something in his ear, and the fight went out of him. With a sigh, he handed his megaphone over to Spencer, who accepted as an honour. “Use it well, man. Good luck! I’m gonna go defile my boyfriend. Again.”
Instead of moving, however, he drew Gerard into the filthiest, most pointed kiss Brendon had ever seen. When he pulled back, Gerard looked dazed and Frank threw Brendon a triumphant grin. “So long, motherfuckers!” He disappeared into the crowd, dragging Gerard behind him.
Spencer caught Brendon looking speculatively at Ray, and frowned. “Definitely not,” he said sternly. “He’d break you in two.”
Ray looked mortified. “I have a girlfriend!” he squeaked, and scuttled away.
“Brave woman,” commented Ryan. “Brave, big woman.”
“Everyone is doing the defiling but me,” Brendon said grouchily. “Even Gerard Way, and he’s weird!”
“I don’t really think you can throw stones in the weird stakes, Bren,” Ryan pointed out, without the habitual edge to his voice.
“Guess not,” Brendon shrugged moodily. “But,” he turned to Spencer, “if I’m so weird, why are you so keen to scare off every single applicant? I don’t think I need the help!”
“Yeah, Spence,” Ryan echoed with a grin, “Why are you so keen to scare off every single applicant?”
“It’s almost as if you don’t want to help Brendon achieve his goal,” Jon joined in innocently.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Spencer snapped, and shot Ryan a look which promised death. “And we’re calling them applicants now, are we?” he asked, then noticed the widening of Ryan’s eyes as he looked over Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh fuck, it’s the fuzz, isn’t it?”
“Hello, boys. What’s going on here?” The cop looked deceptively genial.
“We’re just trying to get our friend here laid, officer,” Jon said mildly and Spencer facepalmed.
“I can see that,” the guy said, eyeing Brendon’s sign. “I think you all had better come with me.”
**
Bill bitched at Gabe the entire way back from Collingwood. To be fair, Gabe thought it had gone pretty well. Neither of them had died, for one, the Collingwood pitches were still in one piece (barring a couple of very minor craters), and all they had sacrificed was-
“My eyebrows,” Bill snapped. “My graduation is in two weeks, and my mom will be there, and do you know what she’ll see? An eyebrowless wonder with a terrible GPA!”
“Your GPA will not be terrible,” Gabe said soothingly, but Bill would have none of it.
“I’ll still be an eyebrowless freak,” he pointed out bitterly.
“I lost my eyebrows too!”
“You’re post-grad, no one cares about you!” Bill snapped.
“Well, wasn’t it fun? I thought you were having fun!” Certainly, the words ‘GPA’, ‘exam’, ‘post-war fiction and poetry’, and ‘doom’ had not been mentioned for the last couple of hours.
Bill looked as though he would like to refute this accusation, but couldn’t. “Fine,” he said, after a brief, conflicted pause. “It was fun.”
Gabe grinned. “You see? It was a great idea. We’re not drunk, we’re not high, we’re not having ill-advised sex-”
“That was one time!” Bill said quickly. “And it wasn’t my idea!”
“Well, it wasn’t mine either, so how did it happen?”
“Osmosis,” Bill said firmly, and Gabe knew a closed subject when he saw one.
“Next time, all we have to remember is not to put the Catherine Wheels next to the rockets.”
Bill nodded fervently. “Oh, yeah. But, y’know, they’ll be able to fill in those holes in no time.”
Gabe shared a conspiratorial grin with him. “Pity about the tree, though.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Unfortunately, as Gabe said this, they walked through the college gates and were stopped by a porter. “William Beckett and Gabriel Saporta?”
“Yeah?” They said as one, turning guilty eyes on him.
The porter handed them each an envelope with their names printed neatly on the front. “There’s been a report. The Dean wants to see you tomorrow morning, first thing.” He paused. “Full academic dress.”
He left them there, and Bill sighed. “That is not going to help my GPA.”
Gabe sighed. “And we were doing so well. Hey, we’ve only got like, four hours before we have to go and see the Dean. Wanna order pizza and go watch Moulin Rouge in the common room?”
Bill would have glared at him had it been possible. Instead he said: “will it make my eyebrows grow back?”
“No... but it will make you feel all warm and mushy inside?” Gabe said temptingly. “And it will make you cry at the end. You don’t need eyebrows for crying.”
Bill paused. “Fine. But you’re buying the pizza.”
**
Part Two
Authors: xaritomene and xrysomou
Pairings: *deep breath* Nick/Tyson, Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Ryland/Vicky-T, Frank/Gerard, teeny bit of Bob/Mikey, the usual suspects and a load of gen.
Rating: Soft R
Warnings: language, drunkenness, boys being boys and general revelry.
Word Count: 15, 432
Disclaimer: Not ours, we are not affiliated with the people in any way and nor would they want us to be. Title by Panic! at the Disco.
Cheerled by the incomparably lovely fortune8 and whocares19_05. Thanks, darlings!
Summary: It's Finals Night. Everyone's wary of Finals Night. A Bandom College AU.
Dear Students
Today is the final day of exams, and the return of time to relax and enjoy yourselves. I am sure there may be more than a few post-exam celebrations over the next few days...
I like to see you enjoying yourselves at this time of year, you have deserved it for all your hard work. A few drinks are enjoyable, but can easily turn into a few too many! Remember, I DO NOT want to have to send for you for an early morning meeting in full academic dress.
Please take a few minutes to think about other people around you who may not want to enjoy your exuberant celebrations. This often leads to complaints. Below are some suggestions to help you consider ways to avoid an early morning disciplinary hearing...
**
1. Neighbours usually like to sleep at night, not listen to late night parties or other excursions - please be considerate, let your neighbours know if you are having a party, keep the noise level reasonable after midnight, wherever you are in college, and whichever college you might be in!
“Where are you going with those fireworks?”
“Bilvy! Billiam! Thrilliam! Light of my life and delight of my eyes!”
“Can I help you?” Bill stood in front of his door, legs akimbo, hands on hips.
“I was just about to come looking for you!” Gabe beamed and Bill took a step backwards. That smile should not have been anywhere near any of fireworks that Gabe was currently clutching.
“What do you want?”
Gabe’s beam never faltered. “Exams are over, we’ve passed, we’re free-”
“We don’t know that we’ve passed,” Bill corrected fretfully. “You might have done. I completely bombed my Post-War Fiction and Poetry exam and that’s gonna drag down my GPA, and I need at least 3.7 to make it into any post-grad degree worth getting and basically I’ve just-”
“Stop,” Gabe said wearily. “I’ve heard it. You’ve already told me. Quite a few times, actually. So, we need to distract you. And I have a great plan. Hold these.”
He stood up, shoving a roman candle and a couple of rockets into Bill’s hands. Bill stared at them.
“Your great plan is to tie me to a firework.”
Gabe gave him a disdainful look. “Don’t be silly, Billy.” Gabe paused and giggled. “Silly Billy.”
Bill looked at him closely. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” Gabe’s unwavering grin did nothing to dispel Bill’s fears. “Just high on life.”
“Oh God, that’s actually true, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. Ok. Here’s the plan. We’re gonna take these fireworks to a nice, open space. We’re gonna find a box of matches, and we’re gonna have our own firework display. And if that doesn’t distract you, then I will admit defeat.”
Bill sighed. “Couldn’t you just get me drunk like a normal friend? So we’re not messing around with anything life-threatening?”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “I’d happily get you wasted, but we both remember what happened last time.”
“Oh. Yeah. No.”
“I still maintain it wasn’t my idea.”
Bill scowled. “It’s always your idea.” He waved his fireworks pointedly. “And anyway, you’ve seen the list. I’m pretty sure fireworks are automatically included under ‘Do Not, Ever’.”
“Eh,” Gabe said airily, scooping up his shoes and a handful of Catherine wheels. “Lists are made to be broken.”
“That’s rules -“
“- and we’re not going to set them off on College grounds. Well,” he amended, “not our college grounds.”
“Oh?” Bill said suspiciously.
“No. We’re going to go up to the Collingwood soccer pitch and set them off there.”
“Even better,” Bill muttered and picked a stray sparkler up off the floor.
Gabe slid one arm round Bill’s shoulders and propelled them both out of the door. “Think of it this way. How long has it been since you last thought of your failure and impending doom?”
“About five minutes?”
“See? My plan is clearly working. C’mon.”
**
2. Keep your clothes ON in public...
Sometimes, it was hard being Nick Wheeler. Of course he was bound to admit that sometimes, it really wasn’t - he was at an awesome college, with awesome friends, his finals were over, and he was celebrating with his tall and gorgeous boyfriend. Unfortunately, his tall and gorgeous boyfriend occasionally had really bad ideas. This was one of them.
“C’mon, Nicky!” Tyson hollered, from about ten feet away. “Get your clothes off! Let’s see that beautiful body!”
Nick pulled a face and hop-skipped a little harder. He’d lost a flip-flop halfway down the road, and had sworn a vow to himself then and there that that was the biggest concession he would make towards nudity. He dragged a hand over his face and flailed a condemnatory finger at Chris. “This is your fault,” he accused. Chris, who was swinging wild and free and encouraging Tyson far too much, did not answer.
Mike gave him a sympathetic look. Firmly anti public nudity, Mike was steadily refusing to remove any part of his jeans-and-t-shirt ensemble.
Nick looked on him as a kindred spirit.
“Guys, c’mon,” he said, “I don’t wanna have to go and see the Dean in my last week.”
“But that’s what college is about!” Tyson said cheerfully. His shoes were long gone and he was now busily divesting himself of his socks.
“Oh God,” Nick murmured, and trailed after his mad friends as Chris made a break for Walmart.
Nick had already resigned himself to getting arrested, with friends like these. He’d just never thought it would be in a Walmart.
**
3. Be cautious when meeting new friends/exploring relationships - think about where (or with whom) you want to wake up in the morning...
The creepy guy was staring at him again, and not for the first time, Kevin regretted his decision to go out tonight. If it had been up to Kevin, he would have stayed in his room with a pizza, a DVD, and possibly a beer - but then Demi had given him the stink-eye and told him that Joe had called him boring.
Kevin reflected miserably that he should really stop rising to Joe’s challenges. Yes, he was boring, and after twenty one years, it was probably time he just embraced that - not embracing it led to sitting here in what they laughingly called the college ‘bar’ (Kevin was no expert, but he was pretty sure ‘dive’ would be more accurate), with Demi over the other side of the room, as normal, entertaining the slavish attentions of one of the jocks.
Kevin was left to himself and the mercies of the creepy guy who’d been turning up religiously (Kevin pardoned himself for the pun) to Christian Union for the past few weeks. He thought his name was Michael - he wasn’t sure.
“Hi,” said creepy Michael, and Kevin had to stop surreptitiously trying to inch his chair away from him.
“Hallo,” he said awkwardly, eyeing his opponent warily. Michael wasn’t normally the sort of person who talked to Kevin. Not in the bullshit high-school cliques-from-movies way - it was just that Kevin was Kevin (“boring”), and Creepy Michael was the kind of guy who thought nothing of a quick dose of wacky baccy behind the chapel. (Kevin was pretty sure they didn’t call it wacky baccy anymore. He’d have to ask Joe.)
Point was, he and creepy Michael didn’t really associate outside of CU. That was the way things were, and to be honest, Kevin was just fine with that.
However, his idiotic, well-bred mouth continued, without conscious volition, “how are you?”
Creepy Michael looked a little amused. “Fine, kid.” Kevin bristled a little. He was only a year or so younger than creepy Michael, at most. “How are you?”
“I’m OK. But I should go. I’ll see you-” Kevin stood then remembered that most of the college-specific societies stopped after exams were done, and CU wouldn’t be meeting again until the beginning of next year - without Kevin, and probably without Michael, creepy or otherwise. “Around?” he offered, and Creepy Michael offered him a broad grin.
“You want a drink?” he offered, instead of nodding and letting Kevin go as Kevin had expected him to.
Kevin stared for a moment, envisaging shots of absinthe downed in the inevitable squalor of this guy’s room - then he chastised himself for being unkind. Probably. Then, unbidden, Joe’s accusation of ‘boringness’ rose to the forefront of his mind and he scowled.
“C’mon,” Creepy Michael said, grinning persuasively, “it’s practically the end of the semester, we’ll probably never see each other again - what’s the worst that could happen?” The grin acquired an edge, and Kevin thought about actually answering the question. His mind, which was set to its default ‘worry’, had come up with at least a dozen scenarios by now, two of which involved the emergency room, and one of which involved the police. Then again... boring.
“OK,” he said decisively, pulling out his stool and sitting back down. “What’re you having?”
“This late, I normally stick to beer. You, though,” Creepy Michael pointed at him totally needlessly from a foot and a half away, “you should have something stronger. You got a bit of catching up to do, Jonas.”
“How do you know my name?” Kevin asked absently, staring fixedly at Michael for a couple of moments before voicing his revelation. “Wait. Hang on, you - you’re totally wasted, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Michael said, sounding alarmingly sober. “Yes, I am. And of course I know you! You’re Jonas!”
“That’s not actually my Christian name, you know?” Kevin said, and Michael’s eyes darted away. “You thought my name was Jonas Jonas, didn’t you?”
“It could happen!”
“No, it couldn’t!” Kevin accepted the drink without looking at it, and downed it in one go. Michael looked impressed. “What did you think my brother was called?” Michael looked distinctly shifty. “You thought he was called Jonas Jonas too, didn’t you? Lord in Heaven.” Another drink appeared in front of him, and he sipped it a little more cautiously this time. The alcohol burnt his tongue. “No, by the way. He’s Joe, and I’m Kevin. But he calls me Skippy, because he’s a dick like that.”
Creepy Michael looked a little taken aback. “Nice language, Christian boy.”
Kevin shrugged. “Joe deserves it.”
“Well, be fair,” Michael said, smiling lopsidedly, “I was close with him. Joe Jonas is practically Jonas Jonas. So, now I know your name - Skippy,” he added with a wicked grin. Kevin groaned. Tarnation, “I think we ought to get to know each other a little better before we all go our sordid separate ways. Have another drink.”
“I haven’t finished this one yet,” Kevin said uncertainly.
“I’m getting one, I’ll get one for you whilst I’m at it.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Kevin asked, beginning to edge his chair away again.
“Well, you see, Skippy,” Michael said, “that depends on one very important question.”
“What’s that?” Kevin said warily.
“There are some very interesting rumours going round about you, Skippy, and I’m wondering if they’re true.”
Kevin sighed. “Not this again. Why is everyone so concerned anyway?”
“Because you are young and hot and possibly a virgin. And that’s a turn on for some people.”
“Like you?” Kevin asked acidly, and then wondered where he’d found the courage. He remembered when he looked at the brimming glass of - something - in front of him.
“Nah, I’m a take-‘em-as-I-find-‘em sorta guy. Why, Jonas, are you confirming or denying?”
“Look, Michael-”
“Mike. Call me Mike. Only my grandma calls me Michael.”
“Fine, Mike.” Kevin took a deep breath. “I don’t think that that is any of your business, and it’s certainly not something I have to discuss with you or anyone else.”
Mike patted his knee. “Nice speech, Skippy,” he said approvingly. “But - to be honest, I don’t care. I was pretty much only asking to find out how much you value that vaunted potential purity, and whether or not, if I get you drunk enough, you’ll sleep with me.”
There was a brief, aghast silence, and Mike looked temporarily wrong-footed. Finally, Kevin spoke. “I thought there’d be a lot more bullshit than that,” he said, and Mike took a deep breath.
“Nah, I’m a law student. I deal with cold, hard facts. So, you got an answer for me?”
“Being a lawyer, I’d have thought cold, hard facts were the last thing you deal with,” Kevin replied tartly. Mike raised his glass in a mocking toast.
“Touché.”
Kevin smiled and then looked thoughtful. “Well,” he said, his tone revelatory, “I think I like the direct approach. Fine. Get me another one of these,” he picked up his glass, a little liquid sloshing over the edge, “and we’ll talk. Oh! Before that,” Mike turned back to him, eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to get anywhere with me - and I’m not saying you will! - you have got to stop calling me Skippy.”
Mike gave him a long approving look. “Deal.”
**
4. DO NOT intimidate anyone, or be a nuisance, harass or be violent to anyone, especially members of staff, porters, university security etc...
They weren’t breaking any laws. And that was what Gerard would earnestly protest in the Dean’s office the next morning.
It was just that Walmart had no soul and Gerard Way, on behalf of his boyfriend, was going to be part of the frontline dedicated to educating the masses on this point.
“One does not simply walk into Walmart,” Frank was cheerily informing a passerby, “there is an evil there which does not sleep. Have a nice day!” The woman scurried away, after casting terrified glances at Bob, Gerard’s eyeliner and Frank’s lip-ring. “Wait! Are you sure you wouldn’t like a leaflet?”
“No luck?” Gerard asked, sidling over to Frank and also trying not to stare at his lip-ring - though for entirely different reasons.
“It’s like they don’t care, man,” Frank pulled a face. “Wal-Mart is crap on like, eighteen different levels, and they just don’t care.”
“I know, man. I know,” Gerard patted his shoulder and tried not to let his hand linger too long. They had work to do. This vendetta was Frank’s baby - ever since he’d done a brief stint at working for Wal-Mart and found out that it wasn’t just him who wasn’t covered by their health-care plan - they didn’t actually have a health-care plan at all, despite their tax breaks and the billions of dollars they earned annually. “We’ll bring the assholes down one store at a time.”
Exams were over, and they’d all rocked up to help. Technically - technically - they weren’t doing anything wrong. They weren’t on Wal-Mart property, they weren’t defacing Wal-Mart property, and they weren’t disturbing the peace. And if Mikey occasionally pulled his shadow-ninja act and wafted into the parking lot to slap a few dozen of their ‘Why Wal-Mart Is Shit’ leaflets onto a few cars, well, that wasn’t actually wrong.
Keeping Frank under control was the key to success in this mission. Ray had had to confiscate his megaphone three times.
“Wal-Mart means death to small businesses!” Frank had climbed on top of the wall and was waving his arms frantically.
“Frankie, get down!” Gerard hissed.
“Why?” Frank looked down at him, eyebrow raised.
“Because that wall is Wal-Mart property,” Bob explained patiently, “and you could get fined. Arrested, even.”
“You’ve gotta stick it to The Man, Bryar.” Frank gestured at Bob with his megaphone.
Bob raised an eyebrow. “I’ll stick it to him good and proper on public ground.”
“Oooh, kinky,” Frank lisped, cocking his hip.
“Now, Frank,” Gerard stepped in, “that’s stereotyping.”
Frank ignored him. “Wal-Mart kills babies!” he yelled through his megaphone.
“And that’s defamation,” Ray said, with unimpeachable calm.
They were interrupted by Mikey, slouching out through the gates, hands empty and stuffed into his pockets.
“Was your mission successful, Mikeyway?” Frank demanded. All he really needed, Gerard reflected, was a Napoleon hat.
Mikey ignored him and plopped himself down next to Gerard. “All good?” Gerard asked, and Mikey nodded.
“But I made a few of the leaflets into paper aeroplanes and threw them through the automatic doors, and we might have to go in a minute, because one of them hit a security guard in the face.”
“That’s right, Mikeyway!” Generalissimo said from the wall. “Stick it to The Man!”
“Aren’t the security guards some of Wal-Mart’s most exploited victims?” Mikey asked. “Underpaid, no health-care, crappy quality of life-”
“Not enough sunlight,” agreed Ray.
Frank was momentarily stumped, but rallied admirably. “But until they realise that, they are agents of the enemy, and we can take them, guys! They have no fire in their blood, no passion behind their actions, and we can take them!”
“I really don’t think we can,” Gerard said, stuck in the novel position of ‘voice of reason’. “You’re, like, four foot tall, my muscles are like cooked pasta, Mikes is a stick and Ray’s a pacifist. That leaves Bob.”
Frank fixed Bob with eyes bright with the light of fanaticism. “I have faith in you, Bryar.”
“My mother will be so proud. Frank, we’re not fighting the Wal-Mart security. I intend my college career to end with a whimper, and if there are any bangs, they will not be here, and they will not be with you guys watching.”
Gerard briefly considered whether that was objectification or not, then decided to let it go. Bob had had a hard day.
“Guys?” Ray said, “I see blue lights. I think we should move it along. Frank, let’s find you some richer pickings, OK?”
“To the centre of town!” Frank agreed dramatically, and hopped on Bob’s back.
**
5. DO NOT cause mayhem of any kind in any other College (or ours) even if you are provoked!
This was Pete’s big day. This was the day he would woo Patrick, and it would work. He hefted his boombox higher onto his shoulder, grabbed his rose, and set off.
He ignored all the stares (and there were a few - perhaps the doublet and breeches had been a mistake) with the ease of long years of practice. All his thoughts were on his Love. There was no way Patrick could resist this.
Unfortunately, he realised when he arrived at Patrick’s college that knowing his amour’s room number wasn’t the same as knowing which window was his, and this led to a good half-hour wandering around the quad trying to look nonchalant in full Elizabethan dress. In the end, Pete had had to call Bill and resort to some serious bribery. Bill was set for alcohol for the rest of the week, and Pete was broke.
It would be worth it when his Love was his and his alone.
Pete stationed himself under his paramour’s window and lobbed a handful of gravel at it. Half a dozen people stuck their heads out of their windows after his gravel had unfortunately scattered, demanding to know what the hell he was doing, but none of them were his beloved. He yelled back a brusque apology and chose his next stone more carefully.
He hefted it briefly, then threw, and his aim was true. He winced as the window shattered with the delicate tinkle of glass.
Seconds later, the broken window was thrown open, and Patrick’s beloved, angry face appeared. “What the fuck, Pete?” his dulcet tones rang out across the quad.
Pete felt a thrill of joy. “You knew it was me?” he asked, and Patrick frowned.
“Of course I knew it was you,” he said. “Who else would throw a rock through a window at eleven at night?”
Pete reflected that, as ever, his courtship was not going well. Then he frowned as a new thought struck him. “I can pay for that,” he said quickly, and tried not to think how he was going to balance that with Bill’s pay-off.
Patrick’s scowl deepened. “Damn right you’re paying for it,” he snapped, and Pete hurried to distract him.
“What’re you doing in on Finals night, anyway?” he asked. “I mean, I’m glad you are, but - you know - it’s the best night of the year, man!”
“I’m not a finalist, and I’m not,” Patrick added pointedly, “a post-grad research student with an apparently infinite amount of time on my hands which I can spend following round perfectly innocent second years.” Pete winced, both at the accusation and at the thought of just how much time he had ‘wasted’ following Patrick around; his work had definitely been suffering. “I’ve still got classes, you know, and a performance tomorrow. This is pretty much my last chance to pack.”
Pete brightened perceptibly. “A performance? Can I come? I could cheer really loudly and then bathe your fevered brow with lavender water afterwards.”
“You’re not bathing my fevered anything,” Patrick said repressively. “Anyway, what are you wearing?”
Pete noticed that that was not a refusal, and his heart swelled. “I am your troubadour!” he cried, sweeping into a low bow, then grabbing the boombox as it threatened to slide off his shoulder. The rose whacked him in the eye.
“You have a boombox,” Patrick pointed out.
“Well, yes,” Pete said defensively. “My college string quartet was busy and they’re using the only lute in this whole goddamn town in a production of The Crucible.”
Patrick looked momentarily taken aback. “The Crucible?” He repeated. “Where the fuck is a lute going to come in in that light-hearted romp through musical history?”
“I know, right?” Pete agreed, grinning at him. Patrick felt a treacherous, dangerous pang of fondness for the horse-faced loon. That fondness disappeared swiftly when Pete set down his boombox, spread his arms wide and cried, “now, let me serenade you, my darling, with proof of the most tender love I bear you!”
Patrick could hear more than one person shouting for Pete to shut up and flushed to his hairline. Things only deteriorated when Pete clicked ‘play’, and Cee Lo Green’s ‘Fuck You’ rang out clear and strong through the quad - Pete hurriedly clicked it off. “Sorry,” he said, bending over to fiddle with it. “Wrong side of the tape.”
When he stood up again, Ewan McGregor was stridently insisting that his gift was his song. “Moulin Rouge?” Patrick said, the fondness making a comeback. “Seriously?”
But over the sound of Patrick being allowed to tell everyone about the song Pete had brought him (as thought they didn’t already know), he heard a gruff, “excuse me, sir.”
Pete cast a panicked glance up at Patrick, and chucked the rose at him. It fell spectacularly short of the mark. “Patrick! Look for my coming tomorrow!” he paused very briefly, then sniggered, clearly catching the innuendo in his own words. Then he bolted, security guards in bright yellow hot on his heels.
“Sir - sir, we need to see some ID,” one of the called. “Are you a member of this college?”
“You’ll never take me alive!” Pete said shrilly - and still Ewan McGregor sang on, requiring Patrick’s permission to tell the world how wonderful life was. The irony was painful.
“Wait,” Patrick called down, and was ignored as Pete was cornered by the fountain, clinging to it manfully as security tugged at his legs. “Wait, he’s with me. I’m coming down!”
Pete made another sound which, in any other situation, would probably have been yet another ‘Patrick!’, but lived only briefly in this one as a squawk as security forcibly detached him from the fountain.
When Patrick reached the quad, it was deserted.
**
6. DO NOT steal shop signs, traffic cones, or any other public/personal property...
Vicky-T wanted a stop sign.
Well, of course she did.
Ryland heaved a put-upon sigh and started after Alex. Vicky-T was not to be disobeyed. Next to her, Machiavelli couldn’t have run a lemonade stall - she was brilliant, she was beautiful, and she was organised. Back in first year, none of them had stood a chance. Unfortunately, whilst this normally benefited all three of her minions (Ryland had long ago realised that for the moment, he was a mere minion in her eyes, but he could totally turn that around), it sometimes led to situations like this - running through the night, trying not to trip over his assortment of road signs, evading capture by both the campus security (mere amateurs), and the actual police. Unfortunately, both sets of law-enforcers were out in force tonight. Everyone was wary of finals nights.
Ryland knew, however, that he had to do this. If he ever wanted to have a quiet drink with Vicky-T, and possibly form a romantic alliance, he had to follow her instructions.
“Which one are we getting her?” He called after his partners-in-crime. Nate was already clutching a road works sign, though Ryland suspected that was a personal trophy rather than danegeld for their overlord. Overlady. Boss.
“Walton Street is deserted this time of night,” Alex decided, leaning on his ‘approaching roundabout’ sign. “We’ll try there first.”
“And if not?”
“We improvise,” Nate said, and as one, they turned into the night.
At least, they would have done, had Tyson Ritter not swerved into Ryland’s path and left a giant smear of glitter down Ryland’s arm.
“Hey, man,” Tyson said, words slurring alarmingly. Ryland glanced at Nick for help. “How’s it going?”
Nick, who was hopping up and down, attempting to keep hold of Tyson, balance a beer and bat Tyson’s hands away from his fly all at the same time, was no help. “Hey, Ryland,” he said distractedly.
“Hey, Wheeler. How’s it hanging?” Ryland glanced at Chris and averted his eyes. “Don’t have to ask how it’s hanging with you, man, I can see perfectly.”
“Tyson wants to flow as wild and as free as Chris.” This came from Kennerty, who was wearing all of his clothes and a look of deep resentment. “It’s been a long night.”
“All I wanted to do,” Ritter said grandly, “was to steal a shopping cart. And now look at all the new and exciting opportunities which have been opened up to me!”
Nick, who was holding onto Tyson’s wrists with a grip of steel, sighed. “Yeah, Ty. Like a public indecency charge.”
Tyson looked briefly intrigued. “Nicky, can I have one of those?” he asked, batting his eyelashes.
“It’s looking likely, sweetness,” Nick agreed dryly.
“Um, I don’t want to draw too much attention to this,” Ryland said delicately, “but - where did all the glitter come from?” Alex and Nate had come to join him, staring interestedly and clutching various road signs.
Nick grimaced. “I don’t know, but when I find the asshole who gave it to him, I’m going to kill them.” It was only when Wheeler turned round that Ryland noticed that he had a large, glittery handprint on one buttock.
Mike Kennerty looked at them speculatively. “If you’re collecting road signs,” he said, “Seventh and Luxembourg are closed at the moment. And there’s a school down there.”
“Sweet,” Alex said, and took off.
“Why are you collecting road signs?” Nick asked. Ryland leaned against his ‘Stop: Children Crossing’ sign, and affected nonchalance.
“Well, you see,” he started, only to be interrupted by Nate.
“He wants into Vicky-T’s panties,” he said bluntly.
“Thanks, dude,” Ryland said sarcastically.
“A worthy goal, my friend!” Tyson said expansively. “If I were not already in my darling Nicky’s pants,” Darling Nicky looked distinctly put-upon and muttered something which sounded a lot like ‘I just wish you’d stay inside your own’, “I would steal anything he wanted to be so!”
“I don’t want any road signs, Ty.”
Tyson looked bewildered. “Who said anything about road signs? I thought we were talking about sex.”
Nick sighed, and Chris stepped in to save the day. “I’m bored,” he announced, and wandered off.
Mike Kennerty made apologetic gestures. “I have to follow him,” he said, “or he’ll flash another policeman.”
“Another?” Ryland said nervously, but Kennerty was long gone, and Wheeler and Ritter were following after. Tyson was skipping.
Ryland put them out of his mind and headed for Seventh, where he was met with an unexpected barrier. Unlike all the other road signs they’d liberated, stop signs were cemented down.
It was as he tugged fruitlessly at the stop sign with Nate, that he came to a sudden, shuddering realisation. Road signs weren’t a game. Road signs were there for a reason, to stop people crashing or driving in to kids or - any other myriad potential disaster. And, more to the point, Vicky-T hadn’t responded to any of his advances thus far, no matter how slavishly he followed her orders.
For the greater good, it was time to stop.
“Guys!” he said expansively - he had considered putting it to them carefully and rationally, but in the end his dramatic side won out. “Guys, we have to put these signs back!” he flung his arms out.
Nate looked at him. “You’re making the Jesus Christ Superstar arms again.”
Ryland let his arms fall back to his sides rather limply. “Whatever,” he said, battling embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter. These signs have to go back, or we’re gonna cause actual accidents, and - and stuff.”
Nate and Alex stared at him for a moment, then looked at each other, then turned back to him. “What about Vicky-T?”
“What about her?” Ryland said.
“Well,” Alex said frankly, “she scares me.”
“I’ll deal with Vicky-T,” Ryland said, with perhaps more bravery than sense. “C’mon, we have road signs to put back.”
It was as they slotted the final ‘approaching roundabout’ sign back into place that their plans fell apart. There were footsteps behind them, a pause, and then, ominously: “good evening, gentlemen.”
Fuck, Ryland thought, and turned. “Officer,” he said pleasantly, trying very hard not to look at Nate, who was clutching an incriminating traffic cone like a protection charm. “How can we help you?”
**
7. DO NOT bring the College into Disrepute!
“Will someone please sleep with this boy!” Spencer yelled, and Ryan rolled his eyes just that tiny bit harder. Brendon was staring out at the crowd with hopeful eyes, and Spencer turned back to him with a shrug. “Don’t think it’s gonna work, dude.”
“It has to work, Spence,” Brendon informed him. “I am not going into my second year a - a virgin.” The last word was a mortified whisper.
“Oh, come on, it’s not the end of the world-” Spencer started, and Brendon cut him off.
“It is. Everyone says that college is when you stop being the band freak no-one will go out with and suddenly become really attractive to hot guys who want to sex you up. If I go home like this, it’s proof I’m doomed to die alone. Plus, Pete will mock me-”
“Oh please, Pete’s been on a dry spell for months. Ever since he saw Patrick,” Spencer muttered. “I don’t believe this, it’s not even as though you’re completely horrible to look at. There’s got to be someone.”
Ryan coughed meaningfully, but Spencer just glared at him, and Brendon couldn’t yet decipher their fifteen years of best-friend-speak. “Thanks,” he said, instead, aiming for sarcasm. “I think I could be a really good lay!”
“A really good fumbling, inexperienced lay,” Ryan said dryly, tiring of the day’s proceedings, before snapping “go away!” at someone who gave him an experimental grope. “He’s the one advertising his wares.”
“So how much is he?” a stranger asked, pointing at Ryan. “I’d pay to get under those scarves.”
“Not me!” Ryan squawked again. “Him! He’s the one wearing the sign!”
`
“You made him a sign?” Jon asked, emerging out from behind the bar on his break. “Awww... looking good, B!”
The sign was about a foot high, pink, sparkly, and read: PLEASE SLEEP* WITH ME (*as in ‘have sex’ not as in ‘snuggles’. Though snuggles are also welcome.). Brendon was clutching it like a drowning man clutches a raft.
He was also pouting. “I don’t get it. I have the sign. Why are they all going for Ryan?”
“Maybe I just look approachable?” Ryan said, with palpable smugness.
Brendon snorted. On a good day, Ryan was about as approachable as a cactus; it had taken a whole semester for Brendon to work up the courage to so much as talk to him, and that didn’t count the further five weeks he’d spent with a tongue-tied crush on the guy. Then he’d actually talked to him, and the crush had faded quite fast. Ryan’s bitchiness was not conducive to romantic feeling. “No,” he corrected sweetly. “What you look is easy.”
Ryan rolled his eyes again. Brendon began to worry that he might strain them.
“Hello! People!” Spencer was working the crowd again. “Completely legal young man available for totally free, no strings attached sex! Right here, right now-”
“Dude, I’m not doing it right here, or right now.”
“How about that guy?” Jon asked, pointing at a small, elfin guy in the crowd wearing an enormous stripey scarf and a dopey grin. “He looks sweet.”
“No,” Spencer said automatically.
“Why not?” Brendon asked.
“He’s too short,” Spencer said. “And he looks like a stoner. Who knows what he could give you?”
“Height is no object,” Jon pointed out. “Bden’s practically pocket sized.”
“Oh, this, from you?” Brendon returned without heat. “And who said you get to veto who I sleep with, Spence? I’m going to go and sleep with that guy right now.”
The guy clearly heard him, because he looked briefly worried and vanished into the crowd.
“Aw, don’t worry, B,” Jon said, patting his arm. “He clearly wasn’t worth it.”
“We’ll find someone much better suited to you,” Ryan agreed. Brendon waited for the inevitable sarcastic add-on, but it never came.
“Wait, were you just - supportive?” he asked.
“I can be supportive!” Ryan said indignantly. “I am awesome at being supportive.”
Brendon decided the better part of valour was discretion and turned away. Ryan was lying; what he was best at was sarcasm and occasional flashes of biting insight. Or, more regularly, just biting. (Brendon had this on good authority: Pete and Ryan had been a Thing for a while. Ryan had so much sex that Brendon really didn’t think it was asking too much for him to share it around a little.)
“Oh, what about him? He looks perfect!”
“He’s five feet taller than you and he’s wearing a biker jacket,” Spencer said acidly. “I’m taking this one out myself.”
“Yeah, just like you took out all the other applicants,” Ryan muttered, and Spencer kicked him.
“Fine,” Brendon capitulated with a huff. “What about that guy?”
“No,” all three of them said, and Brendon pouted. “That’s Frank Iero,” Jon explained, more calmly. “He could fuck you up, man.”
“Isn’t that kind of what we’re going for?” Brendon asked.
“Not that kind of ‘fuck you up’, moron,” Ryan said, and Brendon heaved a relieved sigh. He and Ryan were clearly back on familiar ground again.
“And if he didn’t, Gerard Way would talk to his brother and then Mikeyway would make sure no one ever spoke to you again, and then you’d never get laid,” Jon added.
Gerard paused in front of Brendon and his sign, and looked at him with eyes full of compassion. “Hang in there, man,” he said. “It gets better.”
“Could you help me out of here, then?” Brendon asked, and Gerard paused. For a long moment, he looked at him consideringly and Brendon looked consideringly back. Then:
“No,” said both Frank and Spencer in perfect tandem.
Gerard had the decency to look faintly disappointed. “Sorry, dude,” he said, as Frank latched onto his hand with a grip of steel. “You’ll find someone!” For some reason, he looked over at Spencer. Did everyone know that Spencer was vetting his potential bed-partners?
Life sucked sometimes.
Frank dragged Gerard backwards and safely out of Brendon’s reach, shooting Brendon a grin that contained more teeth than was strictly comforting. “C’mon, guys! We have to go spread the word some more!”
“Frank,” Mikey said, in a rare display of emotion, “we’ve been spreading the word for four hours. I wanna go have some fun.”
Frank looked as though he might protest, then Gerard muttered something in his ear, and the fight went out of him. With a sigh, he handed his megaphone over to Spencer, who accepted as an honour. “Use it well, man. Good luck! I’m gonna go defile my boyfriend. Again.”
Instead of moving, however, he drew Gerard into the filthiest, most pointed kiss Brendon had ever seen. When he pulled back, Gerard looked dazed and Frank threw Brendon a triumphant grin. “So long, motherfuckers!” He disappeared into the crowd, dragging Gerard behind him.
Spencer caught Brendon looking speculatively at Ray, and frowned. “Definitely not,” he said sternly. “He’d break you in two.”
Ray looked mortified. “I have a girlfriend!” he squeaked, and scuttled away.
“Brave woman,” commented Ryan. “Brave, big woman.”
“Everyone is doing the defiling but me,” Brendon said grouchily. “Even Gerard Way, and he’s weird!”
“I don’t really think you can throw stones in the weird stakes, Bren,” Ryan pointed out, without the habitual edge to his voice.
“Guess not,” Brendon shrugged moodily. “But,” he turned to Spencer, “if I’m so weird, why are you so keen to scare off every single applicant? I don’t think I need the help!”
“Yeah, Spence,” Ryan echoed with a grin, “Why are you so keen to scare off every single applicant?”
“It’s almost as if you don’t want to help Brendon achieve his goal,” Jon joined in innocently.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Spencer snapped, and shot Ryan a look which promised death. “And we’re calling them applicants now, are we?” he asked, then noticed the widening of Ryan’s eyes as he looked over Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh fuck, it’s the fuzz, isn’t it?”
“Hello, boys. What’s going on here?” The cop looked deceptively genial.
“We’re just trying to get our friend here laid, officer,” Jon said mildly and Spencer facepalmed.
“I can see that,” the guy said, eyeing Brendon’s sign. “I think you all had better come with me.”
**
Bill bitched at Gabe the entire way back from Collingwood. To be fair, Gabe thought it had gone pretty well. Neither of them had died, for one, the Collingwood pitches were still in one piece (barring a couple of very minor craters), and all they had sacrificed was-
“My eyebrows,” Bill snapped. “My graduation is in two weeks, and my mom will be there, and do you know what she’ll see? An eyebrowless wonder with a terrible GPA!”
“Your GPA will not be terrible,” Gabe said soothingly, but Bill would have none of it.
“I’ll still be an eyebrowless freak,” he pointed out bitterly.
“I lost my eyebrows too!”
“You’re post-grad, no one cares about you!” Bill snapped.
“Well, wasn’t it fun? I thought you were having fun!” Certainly, the words ‘GPA’, ‘exam’, ‘post-war fiction and poetry’, and ‘doom’ had not been mentioned for the last couple of hours.
Bill looked as though he would like to refute this accusation, but couldn’t. “Fine,” he said, after a brief, conflicted pause. “It was fun.”
Gabe grinned. “You see? It was a great idea. We’re not drunk, we’re not high, we’re not having ill-advised sex-”
“That was one time!” Bill said quickly. “And it wasn’t my idea!”
“Well, it wasn’t mine either, so how did it happen?”
“Osmosis,” Bill said firmly, and Gabe knew a closed subject when he saw one.
“Next time, all we have to remember is not to put the Catherine Wheels next to the rockets.”
Bill nodded fervently. “Oh, yeah. But, y’know, they’ll be able to fill in those holes in no time.”
Gabe shared a conspiratorial grin with him. “Pity about the tree, though.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Unfortunately, as Gabe said this, they walked through the college gates and were stopped by a porter. “William Beckett and Gabriel Saporta?”
“Yeah?” They said as one, turning guilty eyes on him.
The porter handed them each an envelope with their names printed neatly on the front. “There’s been a report. The Dean wants to see you tomorrow morning, first thing.” He paused. “Full academic dress.”
He left them there, and Bill sighed. “That is not going to help my GPA.”
Gabe sighed. “And we were doing so well. Hey, we’ve only got like, four hours before we have to go and see the Dean. Wanna order pizza and go watch Moulin Rouge in the common room?”
Bill would have glared at him had it been possible. Instead he said: “will it make my eyebrows grow back?”
“No... but it will make you feel all warm and mushy inside?” Gabe said temptingly. “And it will make you cry at the end. You don’t need eyebrows for crying.”
Bill paused. “Fine. But you’re buying the pizza.”
**
Part Two