(no subject)
Title: All That Shit Seems To Disappear When I'm With You
Pairings: Frank/Pete/Patrick/Mikey, past Frank/Bob
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 26 000
Warnings: Underage drinking, teenage sex.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: Frank’s been attracted to Mikey for awhile, a feeling that he’s kept carefully to himself. Other people don’t have the same compulsion for secrecy. On the first day of school there’s a short angry boy standing at Frank’s locker, condemning him for making Pete’s life hard. September quickly turns into a month of bad decision making as Frank, Pete, and Patrick deal with Mikey not feeling the same way they do.
Except, that’s not true. After all, none of them have actually asked Mikey his side of things.
The first day of junior year Frank gets dropped off. It’s not something that will happen every day. There might be a day or two that it’s sleeting and a ride avoids pneumonia and three weeks of bedrest and expensive medication. Mom will offer then just to avoid the hassle. There might be a day when he has a giant diorama that will take up a second seat on the bus, which will get him loathed by every other passenger, and a ride is the only way to prevent her son from being spit on or flunked when an angry stranger throws it out the half open window. But for the most part it’s bussing, or find your own other mode of transportation. She calls it instilling self-care values.
Today is different, because a ride on the first day of school is tradition. The Ieros have a long history of following tradition. It sinks into every aspect of life, from the mark his father and grandfather carve in their drumsticks, to birthday dinners being dessert first, full course optional, to parent accompanying child on their first day. At least at sixteen he’s no longer being led into the school with a guiding arm over his shoulder.
Once inside Frank’s first order of business is to find his locker and set it up. It should be locate his friends, but it’s not. Ray and Bob have graduated, and he probably wouldn’t seek out Bob alone anyway. Not now. This year it’s just him and Mikey, and it’s impossible to say if he likes it that way. Every time he’s grateful for the alone time, he starts deluding himself that it’s because Mikey wants it that way, not because they’re the youngest in their former group, and therefore last to be together. Facing reality after a moment of hope always sucks. But it’s not like being alone works either. The month Mikey was at camp he just pined, like a moron. There’s really no way to win this sort of thing.
It’s easy enough to find. It’s a 1100 locker. The thousand means first floor, which isn’t particularly surprising. After that one time in freshman year he got stubborn and came to school in an oxygen mask for a day before giving up and going back home the administration has been more accommodating about things like Frank probably collapsing if he has to climb to the third story for his textbook. The hundred means it’s in the science wing. Last year Frank’s and Bob’s were both in the industrial wing. He’ll miss the smell of oil and exhaust, but it’s probably better for his lungs. Frank pulls the lock out of one of the front pockets of his heavily zippered backpack and strings it through the hole without locking it. According to Gerard they used to supply the students locks, but they were so old a bit of jiggling could get just about any of them open. And in case of suspicion of anything bad, it’s not like they can’t just snip them open anyway.
With the door open and his backpack tossed at his feet, Frank pulls out his file folder and duct tape. He doesn’t have an exact arrangement in his head, and has more printouts than actual space, but he’s got time to work with it. If he runs out of time to track Mikey before homeroom there’s always lunch, not to mention that they have fourth and sixth period together. Mikey time is later, right now it’s time for interior decorating. You can’t paint a locker, but you can wallpaper it. You can’t burn incense, but you can stuff a sock with potpourri and jam it in the back of the locker. And fuck Gerard for constantly laughing at him about it. Gerard has always smelled like dirty underwear and cigarettes and death. He’s got no right to say what stuff should smell like.
Frank’s maybe expecting a little shit as the hallways start to thicken with people. What for is open to debate. Maybe for taping a pride flag up, maybe for taping up a few band logos. From his two years of experience he’s learned that Jersey teenagers have opinions on everything other teenagers do. Or maybe it’s a universal thing. How the fuck would he know? He’s never moved. Regardless, sooner or later someone is going to talk smack about the shit he has taped up, and he’s gotta pick between ignore, defend, and attack.
What he’s not expecting is a tiny chubby guy with classic square plastic emo glasses to come up to him and kick him. “Fuck you.”
“Dude, do I know you?” It’s not that Frank doubts the fact that he can piss people off. He and his last boyfriend had a. Well, it wasn’t hatesex, it’s not like they were Harry and Draco or Wolverine and Cyclops. It was more like annoyancesex. It was a relationship based on mutually irritating each other, and then provoking orgasms. And it’s not like he needs to be sexing someone to annoy them either. But still, he’d think someone would at least need to have met someone to annoy them.
“You’re the reason that I’ve been up every night for the last week.” It’s accompanied by a glare that’s like the eyeball version of a kick to the shins.
“Um. No?”
“Do I look like I’ve been sleeping!”
The answer to that is no, he doesn’t. Whoever this guy is, he’s got a Paris Hilton on The Simple Life number of bags under his eyes. But it’s not like he’s Frank’s next door neighbour, and Frank’s been partying every night with the bass at max. Frank’s got a family with three girls on one side, and an elderly couple on the other side. Not to mention his mom would kick his ass if he turned the bass on his music to full blast.
“Look, I didn’t do-”
“Mikey, or as it became about three seconds after we got to know him, Mikeyway-”
“Yeah, that happens a lot.”
He gets another glare-kicking for his interruption. “Mikeyway brought a few pictures with him to camp. To ward off homesickness or whatever, I guess. Whatever, I don’t care. One of them is you two hugging, and you grinning this ridiculous fucking grin.” Frank decides not to demonstrate, in case that makes the guy start actually kicking him. But he knows the expression the guy means. It’s just instinctual when someone asks him to smile to do it as obnoxiously as he can. “Which was fine until they broke up at the end of the summer. And then it was all awesome Frank, and awesome Mikey, and I bet they’re having awesome sex, and why can’t I have awesome sex with awesome Mikey? For two fucking weeks straight. Whenever the thoughts occur to him. Which, just so you know? Is every fifteen goddamn seconds. Guess how many times I’ve gotten woken up so we can talk about you at five fucking am?”
“Um.”
“Yeah. I don’t know either. I have fucking lost count. So thanks and fuck you for snuggling my best friend’s ex. Just wanted to let you know I fucking hate you.”
Frank could protest multiple things, the first being technically he hugged Mikey way before this summer, the last being that he didn’t actually do anything wrong. But what comes out is “want me to tell whoever that we’re not actually having awesome sex?” Saying it to a stranger would be just another opportunity to drill it into his own skull.
“Jesus christ, what’s wrong with you? Stay the hell away from Pete, do you want me to be up for the next month?” The guy doesn’t give Frank a chance to say um again, he just glares a third time then takes off down the hall.
The first three periods move slowly. Frank’s not the best student in the world to begin with. He loves reading and thinking about stuff, but he can barely bring himself to read things he’s forced to read. This tends to lead to a lot of skim reading and frantic bullshitting on the night before an assignment is due. The fact that the content of all three periods is just orientation and course outlines doesn’t really help him maintain his focus. There are only so many times you can look at the person to the left of you and state one biology question you hope gets answered by the end of the semester before you want to hang yourself with boredom. Although he really does want to know how some plants can dissolve the bugs that feast on them.
When he’s not worried about properly aligning the three hole hole punch that’s being passed around, he’s thinking about Mikey and Pete. Mikey’s been back from the camp for two weeks and he never once mentioned hooking up. Frank’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt about it not being a boyfriend. Just because Glasses said they broke up doesn’t mean it was a break up in Mikey’s mind. But it’s clear there was some alone time, and Mikey didn’t tell him. Mikey tells him everything. He has since they met playing Red Rover at recess in second grade and Mikey told Frank his hand was sticky because he had a Fruit Rollup in his pocket, and did he want a piece after the game? Mikey had insisted he share with Gerard too, who was sitting on the monkey bars because sixth graders were too cool to play games, so the ripped off bit hadn’t been very much at all, but Frank still considers it the start of a beautiful friendship. An honest friendship, which makes this omission really fucking weird.
At lunch it’s still the predominant thing in Frank’s head. He has the future to worry about the fact that he’s probably going to fail AP math and he really should have taken consumer. Mikey hiding a hookup from him is a concern now. And not just in the way that Frank’s going to torture himself with imagining the guys that Mikey would rather have sex with than him, although god knows that’s true. It’s a concern because if Mikey is deviating from the relationship model they’ve used for the last eight years, -and fuck, doesn’t he sound like Dr Phil or Oprah right now- then something is seriously wrong.
Frank brings his own lunch to school. He’s in the minority, but it’s a large minority. Approximately a quarter of the students completely brown bag it, a little under a third buy every item whether from the caf or the convenience store two blocks over, and a over a third have some combination of the two. Some bring their own lunches because it’s cheaper, but for Frank it’s primarily so he doesn’t get sick. He’s not quite allergic to white flour, he’s not quite allergic to dairy, he’s not quite allergic to nuts or sugar. Nothing Frank eats will kill him, but most things he eats will make him ill. Picking proportions to avoid the worst of it is more easily done when he actually knows the ingredients list, something caf food doesn’t allow for.
Of course, there’s the added benefit of snickering as he passes Mikey a hundred back in line, and looking up as he dumps his sack of food out on the laminate table to see his best friend flipping him off. By the time Mikey joins him with his Pepsi and grilled cheese in hand Frank’s already done his tupperware container of blueberries. He sits beside him, not across from him. It’s bad etiquette. They’re basically taking up four spots because no one that isn’t a friend would sit across from them, and they’ve got no more friends at school. But Frank doesn’t say anything. He’s got bigger conversations to have.
“So, you went to camp with someone named Pete?”
Frank’s spent a little over three hours thinking about how he’s going to start this conversation. As always, he prefers bluntness over so called tact. All tact does is draw out a potentially awkward conversation until it’s long and even more awkward.
Mikey goes wide eyed for a moment. Frank’s never actually seen a deer, in a natural habitat or in headlights, but in emoticon form Mikey’d be two zeros with a period between. Then he settles, at least enough fix his face into a colon and vertical bar. “Yeah. You know how you could buy the camp experience in two week chunks?”
Frank does. He himself tried to beg his mom for two weeks with Mikey, even knowing that getting sick from a stranger’s germs or starving from lack of acceptable food were both extremely likely. She didn’t go for it. Meanwhile Mikey, who didn’t want to go at all, got four weeks of camp to get him out of holing in the basement with Gerard. He grunts agreement, and waits for the good part of the story.
“Pete and his friend Patrick both got the full eight week treatment. While I was there we hung out. Them and Alicia, and Travis and Matt and Disashi. They were cool. Camp was actually a lot less shitty than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah, tell me more about Pete and Patrick.” If Patrick’s the first name that Mikey thought of after thinking Pete, then he’s probably the guy that cursed him out. Frank wants to know more about him too.
“Patrick’s got this bitchy sarcasm thing going. Reminded me a lot of-” he cuts off guiltily, then masks the silence with a bite of his sandwich.
“You can say his name. We broke up, he’s not dead.” Hell, it was even a basically amicable break up. It just got to a point where the joy of annoying each other was less than the annoyance of being provoked, so they stopped so they could still hang out in a group before Bob went off to college.
“So Patrick was kind of like Bob, and Pete was just loud and obnoxious. A good summer friend.”
“Friend, or friend?”
“Really?” Mikey raises his eyebrows and takes another bite.
“You’re stalling,” Frank feels compelled to point out.
“We had a thing at camp.”
It’s that bare statement that throws up warning bells in Frank’s mind. His earlier thought is confirmed by this continued behaviour; even when directly confronted Mikey’s not saying anything. In any other situation he’d continue talking, saying something sarcastic like how many details do you want? and then he’d actually divulge whatever Frank asked about. Frank’s always done the same, even when it made Bob punch his arm numb. It’s how he and Mikey work.
“If you liked it enough that you don’t wanna tell me about it, track him down.” Frank’s got no doubt that Pete would be easy enough to find. It’s a series of circumstantial evidence; the person at this locker this morning was probably Patrick, Patrick and Pete are probably best friends if Pete was telling him his every thought no matter what the time, best friends the same age probably go to the same school because teengers make friends with their classmates. Even if he doesn’t go to Johnson, it’s the twenty first century and Facebook is built for connecting to others.
“We don’t live in Grease, okay?”
Frank can’t help himself. He belts out “summer lovin’, had me a blast. Summer lov-” The abrupt cut off is from a sudden elbow in the gut. Normally Mikey doesn’t care when Frank makes scenes, but he’s got a sensitive spot when they occur while he’s eating.
“That’s my fucking point, okay? I had a great summer. But it’s fall now, so it’s over. Pete’s not gonna rev an engine and catch me again, I’m not gonna change my look to impress him. We don’t live in a movie, so rekindling and do wop numbers aren’t gonna happen.”
“Whatever. You wouldn’t look good in all leather at a carnival anyway.”
Mikey smirks, and Frank does his best to smirk back. It’s a fucking blatant lie. If Mikey ever wore leather pants and borrowed Gerard’s leather jacket like Sandy, Frank might explode and splatter come all over the walls in a death shower. But Mikey doesn’t need to know that. It’s the one thing Frank isn’t ever going to talk to him about.
***
Frank spends the next three days looking forward to Friday evening. They’ve had the plan since July, and soon they’ll finally be able to execute it. Mikey’s birthday is on Monday, and they’re going to spend the weekend at Ray’s university. Penn State is supposed to be a huge party school, and they want in. It’s kind of a long drive, and according to the trip cost website about sixty bucks in gas, but they’re all throwing in. It’ll be worth it for three nights of celebrating Mikey’s sweet sixteen in a manly fashion. No sleepovers, or theme parties, or makeovers, or streamers, or anything else that would be on that stupid MTV show. Except for how they’ll all be sleeping in Ray’s room, and the Way brothers have recently gotten into eyeliner, and Ray’s the kind of guy that would decorate, and the theme is of the weekend is definitely beer. But no pink or sparkles, that much Frank is sure of.
It’s not until after the scrape of thirty chairs pushing back to stand for national anthem, then scraping again as everyone sits back down that Frank realises today is going to be a long day to get through. The student rep that does the announcements cheerfully lets everyone know that it’s a senior appreciation day. Frank groans, and he’s not the only one. It makes sense that he forgot. He doesn’t have senior friends this year to be be even marginally excited for. Besides, most people tend to repress shitty events.
SA days are basically a massive inconvenience on the other three grades. Frank’s not sure what the official explanation for the day is, but all the students know the real reason, thanks to a few good Google searches. His generation is awesome like that. It’s why journalism is dying. Every individual teenager already knows everything, no one needs a newspaper. In this case, it’s well known that Principal Ropen has a degree in early childhood education, as well as the qualifications that made her a high school principal. She developed this whole technique for transitioning toddlers into school readiness. Apparently her first year she transferred those ‘buoy confidence to support growth’ strategies into getting seniors ready for university, and it had some sort of quantifiable results. Less skipping, or better grades, or something. Whatever it was, it’s a tradition now, and school boards are even less likely to mess up a tradition than his parents.
Every month there is a seniors day, like they don’t already have shitty king of the castle attitudes. Even Ray was kind of a jerk towards the end of last year, and he’s Ray fuckin’ Toro, the nicest metalhead in North America. No matter what the event, the younger students always get sucked in. Teachers don’t get paid enough to give a shit, so whether it’s blowing balloons to attach handwritten inspirational quotes to, or kettle-popping a fuck ton of popcorn for a last period movie.
Some of the students use it. Devoting lunch hours to help can be bullshitted into volunteering or leadership skills, depending on what slant they’re writing college applications with. Some of the students even enjoy it. Frank’s never really understood the school spirit mindset. Given the option he’d much rather Nirvana it up than be peppy, smell like it instead of embodying it. But if other teens get off on it, good for them.
Frank only participates when he has to. Except for the one time last year when they did a karaoke thing, and they needed someone skilled enough on the guitar to be able to fake the top fifty, and some classic rock. That was actually fun, and not a chore at all. Today he doesn’t volunteer, and he’s not conscripted. It’s an assignment. Up until last period Frank thinks he’s going to get away with not helping. Then it comes out of nowhere, and his options are do his best or get a bad grade.
Last period with Mikey is cooking class. Ten ovens between thirty students means he and Mikey have a fellow lab partner on the days that it’s skills instead of theory. Jamia was nice enough yesterday, she holepunched all six course outlines before giving one to each person at the table. Today is their first chance to see if she can actually cook. Frank hopes she can, as Mikey is fucking dangerous around an element, and honestly probably shouldn’t even be allowed around one. For the safety of the class, even the entire school, Frank will be telling him to stand in the corner and not touch a thing any time electricity is used.
The lab in question is cupcakes. Apparently by 3:30 they need to have something like five hundred cupcakes cooked and iced. If Frank’s basic math is right they should have more than enough by now, twelve cupcakes per station multiplied by six periods is over six hundred. Maybe they’re going to have a bake sale or something.
“Anyone care if I delegate?” He knows Mikey won’t care, but Jamia might. Once he gets nods of approval he picks up the recipe print out and scans it. There’s a lot of hand mixing, and he’s not sure who to assign it to. On one hand, he and Mikey both have decently strong arms with good rhythm, both from playing instruments and jerking off. On the other, making Jamia do all the delicate measuring stuff just because she’s a girl seems pretty bullshit. “Mikey we need a cup of cake flour, a cup of sugar, and three quarter cup of all purpose flour. Jamia, half a tablespoon of baking powder, half a teaspoon of vanilla, and half a teaspoon of salt.”
They all go to the front of the room, Mikey and Jamia to get their dry ingredients from where they’re laid out on the table. Frank’s got the wet, the butter and the eggs and the milk, all three of which are still in one of the several fridges in the pantry the next room over. Once everything’s together Frank starts stirring, cursing the butter for being rock hard. He could stick it in the microwave, but it’s got different settings then the one at home, and he’d probably melt the butter and that would be equally bad.
Once the batter is together Frank leans against the counter and tries to work some feeling back into his hand. The impression of the spoon handle is still clear against his bright red palm. Mikey and Jamia each grab a spoon and start filling the liners.
“For someone that is completely fucking blind without their glasses, you’re pretty accurate,” Frank calls out.
“Meanwhile I just fail.” Jamia replies completely cheerfully. She seems to have a great ability to move her spoon from the bowl to the tray just as it starts to drip, drizzles of batter are everywhere.
“The less in the liners, the less we have to ice.” Mikey grins at her, one of his normal close lipped smiles.
“That’s not actually true, but thanks for trying to cheer me up about my incompetence.”
After the cupcakes are in the oven, they have twenty minutes to get the icing done. Looking around the room Frank would guess they’re pretty on schedule. Suarez’s group has their icing done too, but that’s hardly a fair comparison. Suarez has known what he’s doing for college since freshman year, laughed when the career counsellor tried to make appointments with everyone in the class. It’s pastry school in Europe or bust, unless that commune his crazy senior friend keeps talking about actually somehow happens. Frank’s not even sure why he’s in this class. It’s an easy A, sure, but it has to be as boring as art was for Gerard. When they were freshmen and he was a senior he complained pretty much nonstop.
Frank gets another stick of butter, along with the small bowl of confectioners sugar and milk and vanilla. He puts the tray on the counter and shrugs. “One two three not it. My hand is gonna fuckin’ fall apart.”
Jamia, because she’s smart like that, nukes the butter before she starts to whip it. She’s even smart enough to not dump the entire four cups of confectioners sugar in at once, so there’s no mushroom cloud. Frank’s not sure Mikey would have been that smart. They start doing the dishes as she stirs, Frank washing and Mikey drying. It’s better that way. If Mikey dries the worst thing that can happen is the dishes go back in the cupboard wet. It’s not like they’ll develop mold before first period pulls them out tomorrow. If Mikey washes, worst case is they stay slimy.
The oven timer goes off and Mikey crosses before Frank can dry his soapy hands and hold him back. He at least puts on the oven mitt before he opens the door. That doesn’t seem to matter, Mikey still curses about seven times as he turns the cupcakes and slides them back in. He holds up his still gloved hand. Frank wants to drown himself in the no name brand bubbles as he sees a giant hole in the mitt. Mikey couldn’t have noticed that before he touched the hot metal?
“Jamia, you used all the butter, right?”
Another instance for what Frank is going to be a long catalogue of times when he wanted to drown himself. “You don’t put butter on a burn. Put your hand under cold water, or go get a ice cube from the pantry.” It can’t be bad enough to go to the nurse for. That’s just Frank’s stupid feelings getting all swoony, not reality. If Mikey was actually badly hurt, Jamia would look concerned. Instead she’s just very concentrated on the concoction in front of her. She looks like it’s going to be awesome icing if it fucking kills her.
The next time the oven has to be engaged with, Frank does it, only using the mitt without a hole in it. The tray goes on one of the non-venting elements, and they sit down. According to the recipe, the cupcakes are supposed to cool for at least ten minutes before they try to spread the icing on them. Frank’s not sure what would happen if they didn’t wait, but considering he’s just learned icing is half butter and half sugar, he’d guess it would melt. Meanwhile they’ve got the worksheet to complete. It’s three questions, all completely ridiculous. The first is why they used butter instead of margarine, which only Suarez will know. The second is asking them to convert all measurements used today into ml, because they’re all in a Canadian math class, instead of an American cooking class. And the third is what they learned today. Frank avoids the temptation to write I learned fucking metric and says a few sentences about the temperature of solids determining how easy they are to stir. Nothing intelligent, but probably better than swearing. The fourth number doesn’t have a question, just a number and a blank space. Frank figures it’s a typo.
“What did you two do for the third?” Judging from her scrunched face, Jamia thinks it’s as stupid as he does. “I wanted to put metric, but I just put the importance of grip when stirring a big mixing bowl.”
Frank laughs. “If you had a dick, you’d be a boy after my own heart. I almost said that too. Just about softened butter versus refrigerated butter.”
“The importance of making sure oven mitts don’t have holes.” Mikey shrugs.
“Nice guilt trip. Baxter really should have checked. Isn’t that a safety precaution? Like you could sue or something.”
“No, it wasn’t a guilt trip. I really shoulda checked it.”
Thankfully icing their cupcakes goes easily. The three in station two are swearing loud and frequently enough that Baxter gets out of her chair to pretend to care. Frank’s pretty sure Suarez cares more than she does. He loves food, she’s just getting paid.
Once she’s up, she stays up. She goes from station to station, taking a bite from a cupcake picked at random and grading it. Her face stays blank as she chews and marks something down in her notebook. Then she asks all three at the station to eat one, and grade themselves and justify the grade under number four. Frank’s a little startled, but not badly. If he’d actually paid attention to the course outline Monday he would have already known this. The one he bites into is pretty good. Not amazing, but pretty good. Better than station two’s, at least. Their icing was somehow so thick it ripped the cupcake tops off when they tried to ice them. He gives his group a nine after she moves on to station seven, then writes a few lines of bullshit about why.
Just before the bell rings, Baxter slips into her teacher voice. “Are there any volunteers to stay and make sure each senior only takes one?”
It’s like shouting into a black hole. Frank doesn’t feel sorry for her, she should know better than to ask. If she wants results she should have just assigned it as a penalty to the class’s worst bakers.
An instant later he feels sorry for himself. Mikey’s got his hand raised, and when he’s obvious he’s got her attention he says “me and Frankie’ll do it.”
Frank glares as Jamia raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Don’t you think a week in is a little early to be doing extra credit?”
Jamia interrupts, “never too early to be a suck up.”
“Dude, there will be leftovers. You’re telling me you think our roadtrip will be better without a dozen cupcakes?”
He’s got kind of a point, Frank has to admit.
“Besides, you really think Gerard will be waiting outside at three thirty?” Frank doesn’t bother to answer. He and everyone else that’s ever met Gerard knows he’s horrible at showing up anywhere on time. He used to be equally shit at time management, but SVA and its constant multiple deadlines have given him new skills. Mikey takes the silence as confirmation that he’s right. “Exactly. So while we wait the extra hour or whatever we might as well get free food out of the deal.”
It ends up working as well as Mikey predicts. After a bit of a frantic, sugar craving swarm right after the bell, the room clears. Within fifteen minutes everyone is gone. No student has any interest in staying after school on a friday. They’re out of the cooking lab and heading for Mikey’s locker by 3:50. His is on the top floor, a stupid amount of stairs that leads to Mikey hoarding everything he needs for the day in his backpack. A broken back is better than three flights between every period. They have no choice but to go though. He and Mikey both have bags of birthday supplies stored in their locker for the day.
In the middle of the stairwell Mikey’s cell buzzes with a text. He has the noisiest vibrate setting Frank’s ever heard. He takes a second to check, then informs him “he’s leaving school now.”
Frank remembers he and Ray trying to talk Mikey off a proverbial ledge the summer between freshman and sophomore year. Among other things they printed off transportation routes to show how easily Mikey could get to his brother if he needed him. It’ll take Gerard twenty nine minutes to get here, and that long only if he honestly does leave now. They’ve got plenty of time to grab Mikey’s stuff, go back downstairs, grab his, and secure a spot sitting on the grass. Mikey’s not really a grass person, but the concrete walkways are are heavily stained with spit and old gum. At least on the grass there’s the illusion of cleanliness.
“I’m surprised your stalker didn’t show up,” Frank comments, playing with one of the zippers on his backpack.
“What? Who?”
“Pete.”
“He’s not a stalker.”
“He’s obsessed with a picture of me and you.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a stalker. He didn’t even try to add me on Facebook.”
That doesn’t mean much in Frank’s book. Everything on Mikey’s profile is public. It’s like saying he’s not a stalker because he didn’t ask for permission to look at a billboard with Mikey’s face on it. Not that he actually does think Pete is a stalker. He’s just a believer in love. Pete and Mikey had a great thing, and Pete still cares, and Frank knows Mikey enough that he’s sure he still cares too.
“Did you try to add him?”
Mikey doesn’t answer, instead thumbing at his phone. A minute later it loudly vibrates again. “He says twenty minutes.”
“Uh huh.” Frank will believe it when he sees Gerard’s Impala.
Gerard gets out of the car when he finally pulls in front of the school. It’s only been a week since they last saw each other. That doesn’t mean Mikey doesn’t step in for the first hug, Frank for the second. Frank almost forgot that smell, cigarettes and markers and general unwashedness. Mikey’s got the last, but not the first two. It’s nice, like a home from home. Hopefully Ray smells like Ray four hours from now.
“Tell me one of you got directions? Otherwise we need to stop at home or the library or something.”
“We’ll go to the library.”
Frank understands the wariness in Mikey’s voice. With both his mom and Mrs Way it’s easier to get yelled at after something than trying to ask permission before something. Either mother will be able to sense a plot afoot, and stop them from doing this. At this point, there’s no turning back. Luckily he’s got this covered. “I’ve got them.”
“In the immortal words of some immortal men-” Gerard pauses to grin, and Frank prepares himself mentally to quote back whatever line he needs to “It’s a hundred and six miles to Penn State, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and it’s dark, and I’m wearing sunglasses.”
“Hit it,” Frank intones, completely unsurprised to hear the same words coming from Mikey.
Technically Gerard’s wrong on all counts, except the sunglasses one. It’s not quite five so it’s sunny, though hazy. Between the two of them they’ve got a pack and a half. He and Mikey have given Gerard their twenty dollar share in the tank needed to get there and back, but he hasn’t stopped at a gas station yet, so it’s halfway between halfway and empty. And according to directions he printed from Google Maps, they need to get onto the I-80, and continue down the I-80 for 196 miles of their 230 mile journey. Then it’s ten miles down I-99, and then they’re there. But quoting is never about accuracy, it’s about vibe, and Frank only dreams he could be as badass as Elwood and Jake.
The long trip into Pennsylvania goes smoothly. It’s one of the longest stretches of time Frank’s ever been in a car, but with Mikey and Gerard talking non-stop it doesn’t feel like it. Gerard’s driving, of course, and Mikey’s claimed the front passenger, but Frank’s got the back middle and leans forwards the entire time. It’s almost like being in the front. No one suggests turning down the music so they can hear each other better, they just use what Frank’s mom would call outdoor voices.
Eventually, after one bathroom stop and two coffee stops, they’re in University Park. According to Ray he really lucked out getting a room in the dorms here, they’re fiercely coveted. Frank doesn’t see what’s so great about it, but he’s never really been one for landscaping and architecture. Interior decorating, maybe, but who the fuck cares what the outside of a building you spend the whole day inside of looks like?
“We should all text him now, and see who he replies to first to see who he likes best.”
“I texted him when I parked. He says he’ll meet us here.”
Frank starts to scowl in Gerard’s direction, then completely forgets about it when he sees Ray on the horizon. Sure probably a lot of university students are trying out new looks, but not everyone will have a great fucking mane. He sprints in that direction, full loosely strapped backpack bouncing against his ass with every step. Ray knows him too well, he stops walking and braces himself before Frank leaps. It’s nice to be caught. He would have leaped regardless, but Ray can get pissy when he gets grass or leaves in his hair. Apparently it’s harder to comb out of long hair.
The Ways follow at a slower pace, which Frank doesn’t understand. This could quite possibly be the best weekend of their young lives, and Mikey and Gerard are walking to face it? Whatever, Frank knows the right way to be, and that includes clinging to Ray like a limpet. The heels of his sneakers are in Ray’s back, arms around his neck, and he knows Ray won’t let him fall. Ray’s not Bob, for all the good and bad that statement means.
“Hey Toro.” Mikey’s pretending calm, and Frank wishes they had crashed to the ground. At least that way he could throw a clump of grass at Mikey. Big faker.
“Hey Mikeyway. How’s impending adulthood?”
“Dunno. Ask when I have a red cup in either hand.”
Frank dislodges himself so Ray doesn’t have to continue talking into his collarbone. It’s a considerate act, and most likely one of the last of the weekend. He’s gotten drunk a few times, and he’s not exactly Mr Manners. He can only imagine it’ll be worse when he gets completely trashed for the first time.
“Actually, I was thinking tonight it’ll just be us. An actual birthday party thing. Starting tomorrow we’ll do the frat thing.”
“Don’t know much about science book, don’t know much about the French I took-”
“Gerard, not every frat is Animal House!”
Ray gets shouted down from three sides; Gerard’s ‘they are in my head’, Mikey’s ‘they should be’, and Frank’s ‘then those frats suck’. He means it too. If D-Day isn’t riding a motorcycle up the stairs, it’s a shitty frat house.
Ray’s dorm room is intensely average. Frank doesn’t see him in it at all, or just barely. There are a few decent posters up. For the most part though, it feels like items a set designer picked out to make a three walled set look like a university bedroom. He makes a mental note to start collecting cool shit, so he doesn’t leave his home bedroom completely barren, but doesn’t have this in two years either.
Mikey doesn’t seem to notice. He sits on the bed that’s obviously Ray’s -Ray’s kind of ridiculous about making his bed, he’s the only one Frank knows that actually does- and bounces once or twice. “How long we have this to ourselves?”
“I told my roommate you were coming, so he fucked off.”
“That’s a really great roommate.” Frank can only hope his future roommate is so accommodating.
Ray shrugs and laughs his high laugh. “Not really. I told him my two gay best friends and my sexually ambiguous best friend were coming. He’s not homophobic, he’s just-”
‘Heteronormative?” Gerard offers when Ray trails off.
“Close enough, yeah. Besides, his parents live like twenty minutes away. It’s not like it was a hardship for him to go get his clothes washed.”
“You think I’m sexually ambiguous?”
“You still crossdress?”
“Yeah?”
“Then yeah.” Ray shrugs again. Frank can’t really disagree. It’s not like Gerard’s trans, or a flat out drag queen. He just likes to mess around, sometimes. See if he can pass. Ambiguous is a good term for it. Ray Toro is a smart man. Frank blames his family. The Toros are an exceedingly good clan.
The next thing Frank knows, Ray’s pulling a Dollar Tree bag out from under his bed. The first thing that comes out is a set of disposable shot glasses. They all watch as he lines a bunch out on the carpet. He stops when they make a cube -sixteen total- and gets a bottle of Smirnoff from the same bag. That Frank doesn’t believe he bought from the dollar store.
“If I do all sixteen I might die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Shut up, fuckface. I’m not a moron. Four shots each, in honor of Mikey.”
The first goes down pretty easy. Frank’s gag reflex kicks up at the end of his swallow, but he overrides it by taking the second. That one is harsher. The third nearly makes him throw up, system instinctively knowing something bad is happening. He takes a minute to breathe, not surprised that Mikey and Gerard can do the fourth without a problem. The Ways are the kind of family that only make one kind of egg nog at Christmas, and everyone that wants some drinks it, no matter what the age.
It stays pretty low key. In fact, it could be any of the summer days the five of them spent together, minus the month Mikey was gone. They play cards, rounds of Speed getting progressively more aggressive until hand slapping starts to become a strategy. They run a stream of movies in the background, letting Mikey pick from Ray’s vast downloaded catalogue, and reenact all of the dialogue perfectly. Ray continues to dole out the shots, but they only drink enough to maintain a base level of drunk. As Ray explains more than once, blackouts are to be saved for tomorrow.
Around three am Mikey pulls out the cupcakes. There are six left, and the icing is sort of smeared across the top of the tupperware lid. They each take one, fingers sliding a section of icing off the container. Without a sugary topping it’s just a muffin, and no one wants that. Unfortunately the first food Frank’s eaten since lunch has some kind of effect on him. He made the damn things, so he knows the cupcakes don’t contain tryptophan, that drugs that makes turkey an exhausting food. And yet he can’t help but yawn. Once he does, everyone starts, going around the room in a circle of contagion.
“The adult in the room wants to sleep. The young’ins cool with that?”
Frank rolls his eyes. Gerard’s always making a big deal of their age difference, but it’s not like he’s thirty. Still, he is interested in crawling under a blanket and closing his eyes. “I’m more than good with that.”
“I’m sleeping in my bed, obviously. Who wants where?”
Frank is still sober enough to know he shouldn’t share a bed with Mikey. That way accidental cuddling and meaningless morning erections lie, and further up that road madness lies. He could think of a good excuse to get either other friend, but in the end it’s easiest to say Gerard smells like feet, and his stomach is a little delicate right now. The Ways share Lee’s bed, and Frank curls against Ray. Platonic cuddling is nice, when there are no awkward emotions tangled in.
When he wakes up, he’s got the bed to himself. There’s no residual warm spot, so Ray’s obviously been gone a while. After a minute or two his eyes open stickily. Frank reaches up to wipe the grit from the folds, and sits up. Mikey is on the edge of the other bed, half under the blankets. He’s reading one of Ray’s textbooks, Frank can’t tell what subject from across the room.
Frank’s considering grabbing a book of his own when the door opens and Ray comes in with a recyclable grocery bag. He puts it on his desk, digging in it with one hand as he drops his wallet onto the bed with the other. Frank watches with interest as Ray turns domestic, making the three of them bowls of cereal and pouring tall glasses of chocolate milk. Mikey accepts his like it’s his due, balancing the bowl on Gerard’s thigh. The cold will probably wake him up soon, Frank’s own bowl is cold in his fingers.
“I don’t actually have celiac, you know.”
“Shut up and eat your Rice Chex,” Ray mumbles around a mouthful.
It takes a single gulp of the chocolate milk to realise it’s actually white milk with kahlua in it. Frank splutters a bit in surprise but it makes sense. The milk mingling with his cereal is white, after all, and what’s the likelihood of Ray getting two jugs in one day?
“This is gonna be one lush fucking weekend.”
“Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Ray points out. Frank raises his glass in a fake toast before taking another sip.
The next thirty six hours is nothing but alcohol. Frank loses track of how much he’s had to drink, only knows the clear thing he drinks isn’t water, and the sour red thing he drinks isn’t Koolaid. The more he drinks the less the drinks burn his throat. At least until he pukes the first time. After that the first few shots burn like the first he drank Friday evening. But Gerard is at the toilet with him, handing him a cooler to gargle, and then Ray is at the keg pumping like a gentleman because the girls around him don’t have the coordination, and then Mikey is standing with him outside some restaurant, offering him a flask as Frank sucks his cigarette. There just never seems to be a good point to say no, no more.
And then all of a sudden Ray is plucking the beer cup out of his hand. Frank scowls and tries to grab it back, but Ray is taller than him, and Frank’s pretty sure if he jumped up to get it, his feet wouldn’t be able to find the ground again. Gravity’s already being tricky, jumping is just asking for something to go wrong.
“It’s midnight!”
“Huh.” It would be cooler if it was twelve twelve. Or twelve fifty one. That would make a mirror image on a digital clock.
“Frank! It’s midnight, and it’s Sunday. Where are Gerard and Mikey?”
“Gerard’s getting laid.” Frank grins at the thought. Everyone deserves to get laid. Even dudebros. And Gerard isn’t even a dudebro, like everyone else here. Gerard is cool. Gerard deserves to get laid twice. Or, like, a threesome.
“Excuse me?”
“He tripped and went all bloody and the girl he was talking to all night took him away to go ‘help him’. He’s totally get laid.” Frank wishes his love life was that easy. He’d totally bleed all over the damn place if it would make Mikey want him.
“Well he needs to stop. You and Gerard and Mikey need to go home.”
“I don’t know where Mikey is.” He saw him earlier -unless that was yesterday- but not recently.
“Arrrgh!”
Frank blinks. It doesn’t help the world get any less fuzzy, and Ray still looks way too upset. “We didn’t lose him forever. We’ll find him event- eventually.”
“Focus Frank. Help me find him now, so you guys can go home.”
“Okay.”
After thirty seconds of relative silence, Ray snaps “you’re supposed to-”
“I know. There just aren’t any options. Gerard tripped ‘cause he’s like fall down drunk. I’m a probational driver, and I’m not fall down drunk, but stumbling drunk could be accurate. Mikey doesn’t even have probational, and he’s between fall down and stumbling. We’re staying overnight.” If there’s one thing that’s been pressed into the heads of every child of his generation it’s that drunk driving is a sin on par with eating babies and fucking dead people.
“Donna will fucking kill me.”
Frank shrugs. If Mikey misses his birthday breakfast Mrs Way probably will, but Frank can’t do anything about it. It’s not like teleporting is a real thing. And if Mikey tried to apparate he’d totally splinch.
“I’m driving you home.”
“What?”
“I’m sober enough to blow safe on a device, and-”
“It’s four hours, Ray.” Frank knows that for sure, he totally printed off the map.
“Better than Donna waiting until Thanksgiving to kick my ass. That woman holds grudges.”
Somehow Ray finds them both. Frank’s not entirely sure how. The floor moves with each step so he needs to be careful with how he’s walking. As close as he tries to follow Ray, the taller man is moving almost frantically, asking people questions. All of a sudden Mikey is beside him, his steps equally as measured. Frank grabs his hand. It’s clammy with sweat, but Frank likes it anyway. A minute later they’ve got Gerard, collar of his shirt ripped, zipper undone. A minute after that they’re at Gerard’s car. Ray Toro is fucking magic. It’s the only possible explanation.
Frank and Mikey get Gerard installed in the backseat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him upright. Mikey wobbles his way to the other door, and Frank steps into the Impala’s front seat, happy not for the first time this weekend that Gerard doesn’t own an SUV. Having to climb up into the car would have made things a lot harder.
Ray flicking on the turn signal is the only sound for the next while, and Frank doesn’t like it. There has to be something interesting on the radio. For that matter, he knows for a fact Gerard’s got some great burned CDs. When he reaches for the console though, Ray slaps his hand. “They’re sleeping.”
Frank knows. He just doesn’t think it matters. The Ways could sleep through anything.
It’s past four when Ray parks in the Way driveway. Frank knows because his blurry vision is focused on the digital clock on top of the coveted CD hole. He’s tired, but he knows from a wealth of past experience that sleeping in transportation always makes him feel shitty, and so he didn’t let himself drop off.
“You take Mikey, I’ll take Gerard.”
All considering, it’s a worse deal for Ray. He has to navigate stairs, while Mikey’s room is on the ground floor. It’s hard enough getting Mikey down the hall, and on to his bed. Frank nearly leaves, then sighs and turns back. He can’t leave Mikey fully dressed. Nothing is more gross than waking up sweating, and realistically they’re all going to feel pretty gross waking up anyway. He’d be a shitty friend if he let multiple layers contribute to that problem.
Mikey’s hoodie is fairly easy to get off. The zipper down the front doesn’t take more than a second to take down, and his arms slide out of the loose sleeves with only a few manoeuvres. It thuds when he tosses it to the floor. Frank hopes the noise wasn’t caused by a now cracked cell phone. He doesn’t pick it back up to look though. If he doesn’t look he won’t be lying if he says he doesn’t know how it happened. The theory is proven wrong anyway, after Frank unzips his jeans and starts to tug them off. The bulge in Mikey’s pocket is obviously his cell.
Frank considers his t-shirt and underwear for a moment before leaving them on. Taking them off would be too close to taking advantage. That’s not the kind of person Frank wants to be. Mikey should be cool enough in just a shirt to sleep comfortably.
What Frank really needs to figure out is what he’s going to do now. At this point he should probably just pull an all-nighter. He’ll only get four hours of sleep at most, and naps usually make him feel worse than not sleeping. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. The best way to keep himself awake is is take Mikey’s laptop and play something engaging, like Diablo or Starcraft. Mikey won’t care are long as he makes up his own character. Playing one Mikey’s already created will mess with the stats and probably get him hit.
On the way out of the room Frank accidentally kicks the thudding hoodie and his curiosity piques. He picks it up by the hood, and pats it down. In the left overlarge pocket is a flask. From the shake of it it’s only got a shot or two left. Pointless to save for some time in the future, really. Before he can think of the reasons not to, Frank down it in a few nasty swallows.
Frank makes himself comfortable in the living room, shucking himself out of his dirty jeans so he can put a crocheted blanket over his legs. Once he’s settled he turns Mikey’s laptop. It’s really cool how all his pinned tabs sign in automatically. Frank can’t let the computer he and his mom share do that, she’d spy in a second. Mikey’s got a surprising amount of accounts, half to websites Frank’s never even heard of. He trolls them all, leaving hilarious comments on a few of the forums, and a ton of Likes on Facebook. Mikey needs to show more enthusiasm.
Eventually commenting loses its appeal. Rather than load a game Frank finds himself going through Mikey’s horribly organised files. Ray would probably cry, but that’s okay because Ray is sleeping so he doesn’t have to suffer, and to Frank it seems sort of like an online adventure. He is the Indiana Jones of a convoluted directory.
Somewhere on this laptop is Mikey’s porn, sitting there like the holy grail. Frank will find it, and then he can see what Mikey likes. And once he knows, he can imagine Mikey liking it while he jerks off. It’s wrong, but less wrong than groping him in his sleep. Frank wouldn’t be that bad of a person.
Before he finds the porn, he finds a folder of what are obviously all Mikey’s camp pictures. There’s more than Frank thought there would be. Mikey got over his MySpace cam whore phase really quickly, while they were still in junior high. His Facebook has some pictures, but they’re mostly ones Frank or Ray have taken. Clicking through the five hundred in the Windows Photo Viewer Frank gets the impression it’s probably the same this time. At least half of the pictures he sees are Mikey with other people, surprise pictures that catch him with an actual expression.
A few faces come up over and over again. Patrick, three impossibly tall black guys, a short guy with tattoos, a white girl with tattoos and the kind of ratty hair it takes hours to perfect. The more Frank clicks the more pissed off he is that Mikey didn’t tell him about any of them. They clearly never left each other’s sight for a solid month, that’s the kind of thing that builds great in-jokes and adventures. Mikey’s got twenty eight days of stories, and he didn’t tell Frank any of them. It’s almost worse than not being told about Pete. What did Mikey think he was gonna do, yell at him for having temporary new best friends? Yeah, he wants to yell at him now, but that’s only because he wasn’t told.
Then Frank hits picture 189. It’s one of the first MySpace angle ones. The angle makes the sunlight dim behind them, but it’s bright enough to see Mikey and the boy with tattoos kissing. So that’s what Pete looks like.
The pictures after that change, subtly. In each group picture it’s Mikey, Pete, and others close beside them, but not quite existing in each other’s space the way Mikey and Pete do. There pictures of Mikey’s feet in the grass, of rumpled bunkbed sheets, of Pete’s stomach with swim trunks riding low. He’s got a tattoo there too, some weird looking fusion of a bat and a heart.
Frank keeps hearing Mikey’s words from last week. Great summer friend. Except Pete probably doesn’t even know Mikey thought so, because he hasn’t posted and captioned any of these happy pictures. No, Frank knows Pete doesn’t know, because Patrick as much as told him Pete felt like Mikey moved on. It’s just not fair to Pete. A boy that looks that thrilled to be in love doesn’t deserve to be cut off with nothing.
Thankfully, Facebook has a bulk uploader, so he doesn’t have to open each picture individually. He doesn’t really have the dexterity for that right now.
Part Two
Pairings: Frank/Pete/Patrick/Mikey, past Frank/Bob
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 26 000
Warnings: Underage drinking, teenage sex.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: Frank’s been attracted to Mikey for awhile, a feeling that he’s kept carefully to himself. Other people don’t have the same compulsion for secrecy. On the first day of school there’s a short angry boy standing at Frank’s locker, condemning him for making Pete’s life hard. September quickly turns into a month of bad decision making as Frank, Pete, and Patrick deal with Mikey not feeling the same way they do.
Except, that’s not true. After all, none of them have actually asked Mikey his side of things.
The first day of junior year Frank gets dropped off. It’s not something that will happen every day. There might be a day or two that it’s sleeting and a ride avoids pneumonia and three weeks of bedrest and expensive medication. Mom will offer then just to avoid the hassle. There might be a day when he has a giant diorama that will take up a second seat on the bus, which will get him loathed by every other passenger, and a ride is the only way to prevent her son from being spit on or flunked when an angry stranger throws it out the half open window. But for the most part it’s bussing, or find your own other mode of transportation. She calls it instilling self-care values.
Today is different, because a ride on the first day of school is tradition. The Ieros have a long history of following tradition. It sinks into every aspect of life, from the mark his father and grandfather carve in their drumsticks, to birthday dinners being dessert first, full course optional, to parent accompanying child on their first day. At least at sixteen he’s no longer being led into the school with a guiding arm over his shoulder.
Once inside Frank’s first order of business is to find his locker and set it up. It should be locate his friends, but it’s not. Ray and Bob have graduated, and he probably wouldn’t seek out Bob alone anyway. Not now. This year it’s just him and Mikey, and it’s impossible to say if he likes it that way. Every time he’s grateful for the alone time, he starts deluding himself that it’s because Mikey wants it that way, not because they’re the youngest in their former group, and therefore last to be together. Facing reality after a moment of hope always sucks. But it’s not like being alone works either. The month Mikey was at camp he just pined, like a moron. There’s really no way to win this sort of thing.
It’s easy enough to find. It’s a 1100 locker. The thousand means first floor, which isn’t particularly surprising. After that one time in freshman year he got stubborn and came to school in an oxygen mask for a day before giving up and going back home the administration has been more accommodating about things like Frank probably collapsing if he has to climb to the third story for his textbook. The hundred means it’s in the science wing. Last year Frank’s and Bob’s were both in the industrial wing. He’ll miss the smell of oil and exhaust, but it’s probably better for his lungs. Frank pulls the lock out of one of the front pockets of his heavily zippered backpack and strings it through the hole without locking it. According to Gerard they used to supply the students locks, but they were so old a bit of jiggling could get just about any of them open. And in case of suspicion of anything bad, it’s not like they can’t just snip them open anyway.
With the door open and his backpack tossed at his feet, Frank pulls out his file folder and duct tape. He doesn’t have an exact arrangement in his head, and has more printouts than actual space, but he’s got time to work with it. If he runs out of time to track Mikey before homeroom there’s always lunch, not to mention that they have fourth and sixth period together. Mikey time is later, right now it’s time for interior decorating. You can’t paint a locker, but you can wallpaper it. You can’t burn incense, but you can stuff a sock with potpourri and jam it in the back of the locker. And fuck Gerard for constantly laughing at him about it. Gerard has always smelled like dirty underwear and cigarettes and death. He’s got no right to say what stuff should smell like.
Frank’s maybe expecting a little shit as the hallways start to thicken with people. What for is open to debate. Maybe for taping a pride flag up, maybe for taping up a few band logos. From his two years of experience he’s learned that Jersey teenagers have opinions on everything other teenagers do. Or maybe it’s a universal thing. How the fuck would he know? He’s never moved. Regardless, sooner or later someone is going to talk smack about the shit he has taped up, and he’s gotta pick between ignore, defend, and attack.
What he’s not expecting is a tiny chubby guy with classic square plastic emo glasses to come up to him and kick him. “Fuck you.”
“Dude, do I know you?” It’s not that Frank doubts the fact that he can piss people off. He and his last boyfriend had a. Well, it wasn’t hatesex, it’s not like they were Harry and Draco or Wolverine and Cyclops. It was more like annoyancesex. It was a relationship based on mutually irritating each other, and then provoking orgasms. And it’s not like he needs to be sexing someone to annoy them either. But still, he’d think someone would at least need to have met someone to annoy them.
“You’re the reason that I’ve been up every night for the last week.” It’s accompanied by a glare that’s like the eyeball version of a kick to the shins.
“Um. No?”
“Do I look like I’ve been sleeping!”
The answer to that is no, he doesn’t. Whoever this guy is, he’s got a Paris Hilton on The Simple Life number of bags under his eyes. But it’s not like he’s Frank’s next door neighbour, and Frank’s been partying every night with the bass at max. Frank’s got a family with three girls on one side, and an elderly couple on the other side. Not to mention his mom would kick his ass if he turned the bass on his music to full blast.
“Look, I didn’t do-”
“Mikey, or as it became about three seconds after we got to know him, Mikeyway-”
“Yeah, that happens a lot.”
He gets another glare-kicking for his interruption. “Mikeyway brought a few pictures with him to camp. To ward off homesickness or whatever, I guess. Whatever, I don’t care. One of them is you two hugging, and you grinning this ridiculous fucking grin.” Frank decides not to demonstrate, in case that makes the guy start actually kicking him. But he knows the expression the guy means. It’s just instinctual when someone asks him to smile to do it as obnoxiously as he can. “Which was fine until they broke up at the end of the summer. And then it was all awesome Frank, and awesome Mikey, and I bet they’re having awesome sex, and why can’t I have awesome sex with awesome Mikey? For two fucking weeks straight. Whenever the thoughts occur to him. Which, just so you know? Is every fifteen goddamn seconds. Guess how many times I’ve gotten woken up so we can talk about you at five fucking am?”
“Um.”
“Yeah. I don’t know either. I have fucking lost count. So thanks and fuck you for snuggling my best friend’s ex. Just wanted to let you know I fucking hate you.”
Frank could protest multiple things, the first being technically he hugged Mikey way before this summer, the last being that he didn’t actually do anything wrong. But what comes out is “want me to tell whoever that we’re not actually having awesome sex?” Saying it to a stranger would be just another opportunity to drill it into his own skull.
“Jesus christ, what’s wrong with you? Stay the hell away from Pete, do you want me to be up for the next month?” The guy doesn’t give Frank a chance to say um again, he just glares a third time then takes off down the hall.
The first three periods move slowly. Frank’s not the best student in the world to begin with. He loves reading and thinking about stuff, but he can barely bring himself to read things he’s forced to read. This tends to lead to a lot of skim reading and frantic bullshitting on the night before an assignment is due. The fact that the content of all three periods is just orientation and course outlines doesn’t really help him maintain his focus. There are only so many times you can look at the person to the left of you and state one biology question you hope gets answered by the end of the semester before you want to hang yourself with boredom. Although he really does want to know how some plants can dissolve the bugs that feast on them.
When he’s not worried about properly aligning the three hole hole punch that’s being passed around, he’s thinking about Mikey and Pete. Mikey’s been back from the camp for two weeks and he never once mentioned hooking up. Frank’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt about it not being a boyfriend. Just because Glasses said they broke up doesn’t mean it was a break up in Mikey’s mind. But it’s clear there was some alone time, and Mikey didn’t tell him. Mikey tells him everything. He has since they met playing Red Rover at recess in second grade and Mikey told Frank his hand was sticky because he had a Fruit Rollup in his pocket, and did he want a piece after the game? Mikey had insisted he share with Gerard too, who was sitting on the monkey bars because sixth graders were too cool to play games, so the ripped off bit hadn’t been very much at all, but Frank still considers it the start of a beautiful friendship. An honest friendship, which makes this omission really fucking weird.
At lunch it’s still the predominant thing in Frank’s head. He has the future to worry about the fact that he’s probably going to fail AP math and he really should have taken consumer. Mikey hiding a hookup from him is a concern now. And not just in the way that Frank’s going to torture himself with imagining the guys that Mikey would rather have sex with than him, although god knows that’s true. It’s a concern because if Mikey is deviating from the relationship model they’ve used for the last eight years, -and fuck, doesn’t he sound like Dr Phil or Oprah right now- then something is seriously wrong.
Frank brings his own lunch to school. He’s in the minority, but it’s a large minority. Approximately a quarter of the students completely brown bag it, a little under a third buy every item whether from the caf or the convenience store two blocks over, and a over a third have some combination of the two. Some bring their own lunches because it’s cheaper, but for Frank it’s primarily so he doesn’t get sick. He’s not quite allergic to white flour, he’s not quite allergic to dairy, he’s not quite allergic to nuts or sugar. Nothing Frank eats will kill him, but most things he eats will make him ill. Picking proportions to avoid the worst of it is more easily done when he actually knows the ingredients list, something caf food doesn’t allow for.
Of course, there’s the added benefit of snickering as he passes Mikey a hundred back in line, and looking up as he dumps his sack of food out on the laminate table to see his best friend flipping him off. By the time Mikey joins him with his Pepsi and grilled cheese in hand Frank’s already done his tupperware container of blueberries. He sits beside him, not across from him. It’s bad etiquette. They’re basically taking up four spots because no one that isn’t a friend would sit across from them, and they’ve got no more friends at school. But Frank doesn’t say anything. He’s got bigger conversations to have.
“So, you went to camp with someone named Pete?”
Frank’s spent a little over three hours thinking about how he’s going to start this conversation. As always, he prefers bluntness over so called tact. All tact does is draw out a potentially awkward conversation until it’s long and even more awkward.
Mikey goes wide eyed for a moment. Frank’s never actually seen a deer, in a natural habitat or in headlights, but in emoticon form Mikey’d be two zeros with a period between. Then he settles, at least enough fix his face into a colon and vertical bar. “Yeah. You know how you could buy the camp experience in two week chunks?”
Frank does. He himself tried to beg his mom for two weeks with Mikey, even knowing that getting sick from a stranger’s germs or starving from lack of acceptable food were both extremely likely. She didn’t go for it. Meanwhile Mikey, who didn’t want to go at all, got four weeks of camp to get him out of holing in the basement with Gerard. He grunts agreement, and waits for the good part of the story.
“Pete and his friend Patrick both got the full eight week treatment. While I was there we hung out. Them and Alicia, and Travis and Matt and Disashi. They were cool. Camp was actually a lot less shitty than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah, tell me more about Pete and Patrick.” If Patrick’s the first name that Mikey thought of after thinking Pete, then he’s probably the guy that cursed him out. Frank wants to know more about him too.
“Patrick’s got this bitchy sarcasm thing going. Reminded me a lot of-” he cuts off guiltily, then masks the silence with a bite of his sandwich.
“You can say his name. We broke up, he’s not dead.” Hell, it was even a basically amicable break up. It just got to a point where the joy of annoying each other was less than the annoyance of being provoked, so they stopped so they could still hang out in a group before Bob went off to college.
“So Patrick was kind of like Bob, and Pete was just loud and obnoxious. A good summer friend.”
“Friend, or friend?”
“Really?” Mikey raises his eyebrows and takes another bite.
“You’re stalling,” Frank feels compelled to point out.
“We had a thing at camp.”
It’s that bare statement that throws up warning bells in Frank’s mind. His earlier thought is confirmed by this continued behaviour; even when directly confronted Mikey’s not saying anything. In any other situation he’d continue talking, saying something sarcastic like how many details do you want? and then he’d actually divulge whatever Frank asked about. Frank’s always done the same, even when it made Bob punch his arm numb. It’s how he and Mikey work.
“If you liked it enough that you don’t wanna tell me about it, track him down.” Frank’s got no doubt that Pete would be easy enough to find. It’s a series of circumstantial evidence; the person at this locker this morning was probably Patrick, Patrick and Pete are probably best friends if Pete was telling him his every thought no matter what the time, best friends the same age probably go to the same school because teengers make friends with their classmates. Even if he doesn’t go to Johnson, it’s the twenty first century and Facebook is built for connecting to others.
“We don’t live in Grease, okay?”
Frank can’t help himself. He belts out “summer lovin’, had me a blast. Summer lov-” The abrupt cut off is from a sudden elbow in the gut. Normally Mikey doesn’t care when Frank makes scenes, but he’s got a sensitive spot when they occur while he’s eating.
“That’s my fucking point, okay? I had a great summer. But it’s fall now, so it’s over. Pete’s not gonna rev an engine and catch me again, I’m not gonna change my look to impress him. We don’t live in a movie, so rekindling and do wop numbers aren’t gonna happen.”
“Whatever. You wouldn’t look good in all leather at a carnival anyway.”
Mikey smirks, and Frank does his best to smirk back. It’s a fucking blatant lie. If Mikey ever wore leather pants and borrowed Gerard’s leather jacket like Sandy, Frank might explode and splatter come all over the walls in a death shower. But Mikey doesn’t need to know that. It’s the one thing Frank isn’t ever going to talk to him about.
***
Frank spends the next three days looking forward to Friday evening. They’ve had the plan since July, and soon they’ll finally be able to execute it. Mikey’s birthday is on Monday, and they’re going to spend the weekend at Ray’s university. Penn State is supposed to be a huge party school, and they want in. It’s kind of a long drive, and according to the trip cost website about sixty bucks in gas, but they’re all throwing in. It’ll be worth it for three nights of celebrating Mikey’s sweet sixteen in a manly fashion. No sleepovers, or theme parties, or makeovers, or streamers, or anything else that would be on that stupid MTV show. Except for how they’ll all be sleeping in Ray’s room, and the Way brothers have recently gotten into eyeliner, and Ray’s the kind of guy that would decorate, and the theme is of the weekend is definitely beer. But no pink or sparkles, that much Frank is sure of.
It’s not until after the scrape of thirty chairs pushing back to stand for national anthem, then scraping again as everyone sits back down that Frank realises today is going to be a long day to get through. The student rep that does the announcements cheerfully lets everyone know that it’s a senior appreciation day. Frank groans, and he’s not the only one. It makes sense that he forgot. He doesn’t have senior friends this year to be be even marginally excited for. Besides, most people tend to repress shitty events.
SA days are basically a massive inconvenience on the other three grades. Frank’s not sure what the official explanation for the day is, but all the students know the real reason, thanks to a few good Google searches. His generation is awesome like that. It’s why journalism is dying. Every individual teenager already knows everything, no one needs a newspaper. In this case, it’s well known that Principal Ropen has a degree in early childhood education, as well as the qualifications that made her a high school principal. She developed this whole technique for transitioning toddlers into school readiness. Apparently her first year she transferred those ‘buoy confidence to support growth’ strategies into getting seniors ready for university, and it had some sort of quantifiable results. Less skipping, or better grades, or something. Whatever it was, it’s a tradition now, and school boards are even less likely to mess up a tradition than his parents.
Every month there is a seniors day, like they don’t already have shitty king of the castle attitudes. Even Ray was kind of a jerk towards the end of last year, and he’s Ray fuckin’ Toro, the nicest metalhead in North America. No matter what the event, the younger students always get sucked in. Teachers don’t get paid enough to give a shit, so whether it’s blowing balloons to attach handwritten inspirational quotes to, or kettle-popping a fuck ton of popcorn for a last period movie.
Some of the students use it. Devoting lunch hours to help can be bullshitted into volunteering or leadership skills, depending on what slant they’re writing college applications with. Some of the students even enjoy it. Frank’s never really understood the school spirit mindset. Given the option he’d much rather Nirvana it up than be peppy, smell like it instead of embodying it. But if other teens get off on it, good for them.
Frank only participates when he has to. Except for the one time last year when they did a karaoke thing, and they needed someone skilled enough on the guitar to be able to fake the top fifty, and some classic rock. That was actually fun, and not a chore at all. Today he doesn’t volunteer, and he’s not conscripted. It’s an assignment. Up until last period Frank thinks he’s going to get away with not helping. Then it comes out of nowhere, and his options are do his best or get a bad grade.
Last period with Mikey is cooking class. Ten ovens between thirty students means he and Mikey have a fellow lab partner on the days that it’s skills instead of theory. Jamia was nice enough yesterday, she holepunched all six course outlines before giving one to each person at the table. Today is their first chance to see if she can actually cook. Frank hopes she can, as Mikey is fucking dangerous around an element, and honestly probably shouldn’t even be allowed around one. For the safety of the class, even the entire school, Frank will be telling him to stand in the corner and not touch a thing any time electricity is used.
The lab in question is cupcakes. Apparently by 3:30 they need to have something like five hundred cupcakes cooked and iced. If Frank’s basic math is right they should have more than enough by now, twelve cupcakes per station multiplied by six periods is over six hundred. Maybe they’re going to have a bake sale or something.
“Anyone care if I delegate?” He knows Mikey won’t care, but Jamia might. Once he gets nods of approval he picks up the recipe print out and scans it. There’s a lot of hand mixing, and he’s not sure who to assign it to. On one hand, he and Mikey both have decently strong arms with good rhythm, both from playing instruments and jerking off. On the other, making Jamia do all the delicate measuring stuff just because she’s a girl seems pretty bullshit. “Mikey we need a cup of cake flour, a cup of sugar, and three quarter cup of all purpose flour. Jamia, half a tablespoon of baking powder, half a teaspoon of vanilla, and half a teaspoon of salt.”
They all go to the front of the room, Mikey and Jamia to get their dry ingredients from where they’re laid out on the table. Frank’s got the wet, the butter and the eggs and the milk, all three of which are still in one of the several fridges in the pantry the next room over. Once everything’s together Frank starts stirring, cursing the butter for being rock hard. He could stick it in the microwave, but it’s got different settings then the one at home, and he’d probably melt the butter and that would be equally bad.
Once the batter is together Frank leans against the counter and tries to work some feeling back into his hand. The impression of the spoon handle is still clear against his bright red palm. Mikey and Jamia each grab a spoon and start filling the liners.
“For someone that is completely fucking blind without their glasses, you’re pretty accurate,” Frank calls out.
“Meanwhile I just fail.” Jamia replies completely cheerfully. She seems to have a great ability to move her spoon from the bowl to the tray just as it starts to drip, drizzles of batter are everywhere.
“The less in the liners, the less we have to ice.” Mikey grins at her, one of his normal close lipped smiles.
“That’s not actually true, but thanks for trying to cheer me up about my incompetence.”
After the cupcakes are in the oven, they have twenty minutes to get the icing done. Looking around the room Frank would guess they’re pretty on schedule. Suarez’s group has their icing done too, but that’s hardly a fair comparison. Suarez has known what he’s doing for college since freshman year, laughed when the career counsellor tried to make appointments with everyone in the class. It’s pastry school in Europe or bust, unless that commune his crazy senior friend keeps talking about actually somehow happens. Frank’s not even sure why he’s in this class. It’s an easy A, sure, but it has to be as boring as art was for Gerard. When they were freshmen and he was a senior he complained pretty much nonstop.
Frank gets another stick of butter, along with the small bowl of confectioners sugar and milk and vanilla. He puts the tray on the counter and shrugs. “One two three not it. My hand is gonna fuckin’ fall apart.”
Jamia, because she’s smart like that, nukes the butter before she starts to whip it. She’s even smart enough to not dump the entire four cups of confectioners sugar in at once, so there’s no mushroom cloud. Frank’s not sure Mikey would have been that smart. They start doing the dishes as she stirs, Frank washing and Mikey drying. It’s better that way. If Mikey dries the worst thing that can happen is the dishes go back in the cupboard wet. It’s not like they’ll develop mold before first period pulls them out tomorrow. If Mikey washes, worst case is they stay slimy.
The oven timer goes off and Mikey crosses before Frank can dry his soapy hands and hold him back. He at least puts on the oven mitt before he opens the door. That doesn’t seem to matter, Mikey still curses about seven times as he turns the cupcakes and slides them back in. He holds up his still gloved hand. Frank wants to drown himself in the no name brand bubbles as he sees a giant hole in the mitt. Mikey couldn’t have noticed that before he touched the hot metal?
“Jamia, you used all the butter, right?”
Another instance for what Frank is going to be a long catalogue of times when he wanted to drown himself. “You don’t put butter on a burn. Put your hand under cold water, or go get a ice cube from the pantry.” It can’t be bad enough to go to the nurse for. That’s just Frank’s stupid feelings getting all swoony, not reality. If Mikey was actually badly hurt, Jamia would look concerned. Instead she’s just very concentrated on the concoction in front of her. She looks like it’s going to be awesome icing if it fucking kills her.
The next time the oven has to be engaged with, Frank does it, only using the mitt without a hole in it. The tray goes on one of the non-venting elements, and they sit down. According to the recipe, the cupcakes are supposed to cool for at least ten minutes before they try to spread the icing on them. Frank’s not sure what would happen if they didn’t wait, but considering he’s just learned icing is half butter and half sugar, he’d guess it would melt. Meanwhile they’ve got the worksheet to complete. It’s three questions, all completely ridiculous. The first is why they used butter instead of margarine, which only Suarez will know. The second is asking them to convert all measurements used today into ml, because they’re all in a Canadian math class, instead of an American cooking class. And the third is what they learned today. Frank avoids the temptation to write I learned fucking metric and says a few sentences about the temperature of solids determining how easy they are to stir. Nothing intelligent, but probably better than swearing. The fourth number doesn’t have a question, just a number and a blank space. Frank figures it’s a typo.
“What did you two do for the third?” Judging from her scrunched face, Jamia thinks it’s as stupid as he does. “I wanted to put metric, but I just put the importance of grip when stirring a big mixing bowl.”
Frank laughs. “If you had a dick, you’d be a boy after my own heart. I almost said that too. Just about softened butter versus refrigerated butter.”
“The importance of making sure oven mitts don’t have holes.” Mikey shrugs.
“Nice guilt trip. Baxter really should have checked. Isn’t that a safety precaution? Like you could sue or something.”
“No, it wasn’t a guilt trip. I really shoulda checked it.”
Thankfully icing their cupcakes goes easily. The three in station two are swearing loud and frequently enough that Baxter gets out of her chair to pretend to care. Frank’s pretty sure Suarez cares more than she does. He loves food, she’s just getting paid.
Once she’s up, she stays up. She goes from station to station, taking a bite from a cupcake picked at random and grading it. Her face stays blank as she chews and marks something down in her notebook. Then she asks all three at the station to eat one, and grade themselves and justify the grade under number four. Frank’s a little startled, but not badly. If he’d actually paid attention to the course outline Monday he would have already known this. The one he bites into is pretty good. Not amazing, but pretty good. Better than station two’s, at least. Their icing was somehow so thick it ripped the cupcake tops off when they tried to ice them. He gives his group a nine after she moves on to station seven, then writes a few lines of bullshit about why.
Just before the bell rings, Baxter slips into her teacher voice. “Are there any volunteers to stay and make sure each senior only takes one?”
It’s like shouting into a black hole. Frank doesn’t feel sorry for her, she should know better than to ask. If she wants results she should have just assigned it as a penalty to the class’s worst bakers.
An instant later he feels sorry for himself. Mikey’s got his hand raised, and when he’s obvious he’s got her attention he says “me and Frankie’ll do it.”
Frank glares as Jamia raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Don’t you think a week in is a little early to be doing extra credit?”
Jamia interrupts, “never too early to be a suck up.”
“Dude, there will be leftovers. You’re telling me you think our roadtrip will be better without a dozen cupcakes?”
He’s got kind of a point, Frank has to admit.
“Besides, you really think Gerard will be waiting outside at three thirty?” Frank doesn’t bother to answer. He and everyone else that’s ever met Gerard knows he’s horrible at showing up anywhere on time. He used to be equally shit at time management, but SVA and its constant multiple deadlines have given him new skills. Mikey takes the silence as confirmation that he’s right. “Exactly. So while we wait the extra hour or whatever we might as well get free food out of the deal.”
It ends up working as well as Mikey predicts. After a bit of a frantic, sugar craving swarm right after the bell, the room clears. Within fifteen minutes everyone is gone. No student has any interest in staying after school on a friday. They’re out of the cooking lab and heading for Mikey’s locker by 3:50. His is on the top floor, a stupid amount of stairs that leads to Mikey hoarding everything he needs for the day in his backpack. A broken back is better than three flights between every period. They have no choice but to go though. He and Mikey both have bags of birthday supplies stored in their locker for the day.
In the middle of the stairwell Mikey’s cell buzzes with a text. He has the noisiest vibrate setting Frank’s ever heard. He takes a second to check, then informs him “he’s leaving school now.”
Frank remembers he and Ray trying to talk Mikey off a proverbial ledge the summer between freshman and sophomore year. Among other things they printed off transportation routes to show how easily Mikey could get to his brother if he needed him. It’ll take Gerard twenty nine minutes to get here, and that long only if he honestly does leave now. They’ve got plenty of time to grab Mikey’s stuff, go back downstairs, grab his, and secure a spot sitting on the grass. Mikey’s not really a grass person, but the concrete walkways are are heavily stained with spit and old gum. At least on the grass there’s the illusion of cleanliness.
“I’m surprised your stalker didn’t show up,” Frank comments, playing with one of the zippers on his backpack.
“What? Who?”
“Pete.”
“He’s not a stalker.”
“He’s obsessed with a picture of me and you.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a stalker. He didn’t even try to add me on Facebook.”
That doesn’t mean much in Frank’s book. Everything on Mikey’s profile is public. It’s like saying he’s not a stalker because he didn’t ask for permission to look at a billboard with Mikey’s face on it. Not that he actually does think Pete is a stalker. He’s just a believer in love. Pete and Mikey had a great thing, and Pete still cares, and Frank knows Mikey enough that he’s sure he still cares too.
“Did you try to add him?”
Mikey doesn’t answer, instead thumbing at his phone. A minute later it loudly vibrates again. “He says twenty minutes.”
“Uh huh.” Frank will believe it when he sees Gerard’s Impala.
Gerard gets out of the car when he finally pulls in front of the school. It’s only been a week since they last saw each other. That doesn’t mean Mikey doesn’t step in for the first hug, Frank for the second. Frank almost forgot that smell, cigarettes and markers and general unwashedness. Mikey’s got the last, but not the first two. It’s nice, like a home from home. Hopefully Ray smells like Ray four hours from now.
“Tell me one of you got directions? Otherwise we need to stop at home or the library or something.”
“We’ll go to the library.”
Frank understands the wariness in Mikey’s voice. With both his mom and Mrs Way it’s easier to get yelled at after something than trying to ask permission before something. Either mother will be able to sense a plot afoot, and stop them from doing this. At this point, there’s no turning back. Luckily he’s got this covered. “I’ve got them.”
“In the immortal words of some immortal men-” Gerard pauses to grin, and Frank prepares himself mentally to quote back whatever line he needs to “It’s a hundred and six miles to Penn State, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and it’s dark, and I’m wearing sunglasses.”
“Hit it,” Frank intones, completely unsurprised to hear the same words coming from Mikey.
Technically Gerard’s wrong on all counts, except the sunglasses one. It’s not quite five so it’s sunny, though hazy. Between the two of them they’ve got a pack and a half. He and Mikey have given Gerard their twenty dollar share in the tank needed to get there and back, but he hasn’t stopped at a gas station yet, so it’s halfway between halfway and empty. And according to directions he printed from Google Maps, they need to get onto the I-80, and continue down the I-80 for 196 miles of their 230 mile journey. Then it’s ten miles down I-99, and then they’re there. But quoting is never about accuracy, it’s about vibe, and Frank only dreams he could be as badass as Elwood and Jake.
The long trip into Pennsylvania goes smoothly. It’s one of the longest stretches of time Frank’s ever been in a car, but with Mikey and Gerard talking non-stop it doesn’t feel like it. Gerard’s driving, of course, and Mikey’s claimed the front passenger, but Frank’s got the back middle and leans forwards the entire time. It’s almost like being in the front. No one suggests turning down the music so they can hear each other better, they just use what Frank’s mom would call outdoor voices.
Eventually, after one bathroom stop and two coffee stops, they’re in University Park. According to Ray he really lucked out getting a room in the dorms here, they’re fiercely coveted. Frank doesn’t see what’s so great about it, but he’s never really been one for landscaping and architecture. Interior decorating, maybe, but who the fuck cares what the outside of a building you spend the whole day inside of looks like?
“We should all text him now, and see who he replies to first to see who he likes best.”
“I texted him when I parked. He says he’ll meet us here.”
Frank starts to scowl in Gerard’s direction, then completely forgets about it when he sees Ray on the horizon. Sure probably a lot of university students are trying out new looks, but not everyone will have a great fucking mane. He sprints in that direction, full loosely strapped backpack bouncing against his ass with every step. Ray knows him too well, he stops walking and braces himself before Frank leaps. It’s nice to be caught. He would have leaped regardless, but Ray can get pissy when he gets grass or leaves in his hair. Apparently it’s harder to comb out of long hair.
The Ways follow at a slower pace, which Frank doesn’t understand. This could quite possibly be the best weekend of their young lives, and Mikey and Gerard are walking to face it? Whatever, Frank knows the right way to be, and that includes clinging to Ray like a limpet. The heels of his sneakers are in Ray’s back, arms around his neck, and he knows Ray won’t let him fall. Ray’s not Bob, for all the good and bad that statement means.
“Hey Toro.” Mikey’s pretending calm, and Frank wishes they had crashed to the ground. At least that way he could throw a clump of grass at Mikey. Big faker.
“Hey Mikeyway. How’s impending adulthood?”
“Dunno. Ask when I have a red cup in either hand.”
Frank dislodges himself so Ray doesn’t have to continue talking into his collarbone. It’s a considerate act, and most likely one of the last of the weekend. He’s gotten drunk a few times, and he’s not exactly Mr Manners. He can only imagine it’ll be worse when he gets completely trashed for the first time.
“Actually, I was thinking tonight it’ll just be us. An actual birthday party thing. Starting tomorrow we’ll do the frat thing.”
“Don’t know much about science book, don’t know much about the French I took-”
“Gerard, not every frat is Animal House!”
Ray gets shouted down from three sides; Gerard’s ‘they are in my head’, Mikey’s ‘they should be’, and Frank’s ‘then those frats suck’. He means it too. If D-Day isn’t riding a motorcycle up the stairs, it’s a shitty frat house.
Ray’s dorm room is intensely average. Frank doesn’t see him in it at all, or just barely. There are a few decent posters up. For the most part though, it feels like items a set designer picked out to make a three walled set look like a university bedroom. He makes a mental note to start collecting cool shit, so he doesn’t leave his home bedroom completely barren, but doesn’t have this in two years either.
Mikey doesn’t seem to notice. He sits on the bed that’s obviously Ray’s -Ray’s kind of ridiculous about making his bed, he’s the only one Frank knows that actually does- and bounces once or twice. “How long we have this to ourselves?”
“I told my roommate you were coming, so he fucked off.”
“That’s a really great roommate.” Frank can only hope his future roommate is so accommodating.
Ray shrugs and laughs his high laugh. “Not really. I told him my two gay best friends and my sexually ambiguous best friend were coming. He’s not homophobic, he’s just-”
‘Heteronormative?” Gerard offers when Ray trails off.
“Close enough, yeah. Besides, his parents live like twenty minutes away. It’s not like it was a hardship for him to go get his clothes washed.”
“You think I’m sexually ambiguous?”
“You still crossdress?”
“Yeah?”
“Then yeah.” Ray shrugs again. Frank can’t really disagree. It’s not like Gerard’s trans, or a flat out drag queen. He just likes to mess around, sometimes. See if he can pass. Ambiguous is a good term for it. Ray Toro is a smart man. Frank blames his family. The Toros are an exceedingly good clan.
The next thing Frank knows, Ray’s pulling a Dollar Tree bag out from under his bed. The first thing that comes out is a set of disposable shot glasses. They all watch as he lines a bunch out on the carpet. He stops when they make a cube -sixteen total- and gets a bottle of Smirnoff from the same bag. That Frank doesn’t believe he bought from the dollar store.
“If I do all sixteen I might die of alcohol poisoning.”
“Shut up, fuckface. I’m not a moron. Four shots each, in honor of Mikey.”
The first goes down pretty easy. Frank’s gag reflex kicks up at the end of his swallow, but he overrides it by taking the second. That one is harsher. The third nearly makes him throw up, system instinctively knowing something bad is happening. He takes a minute to breathe, not surprised that Mikey and Gerard can do the fourth without a problem. The Ways are the kind of family that only make one kind of egg nog at Christmas, and everyone that wants some drinks it, no matter what the age.
It stays pretty low key. In fact, it could be any of the summer days the five of them spent together, minus the month Mikey was gone. They play cards, rounds of Speed getting progressively more aggressive until hand slapping starts to become a strategy. They run a stream of movies in the background, letting Mikey pick from Ray’s vast downloaded catalogue, and reenact all of the dialogue perfectly. Ray continues to dole out the shots, but they only drink enough to maintain a base level of drunk. As Ray explains more than once, blackouts are to be saved for tomorrow.
Around three am Mikey pulls out the cupcakes. There are six left, and the icing is sort of smeared across the top of the tupperware lid. They each take one, fingers sliding a section of icing off the container. Without a sugary topping it’s just a muffin, and no one wants that. Unfortunately the first food Frank’s eaten since lunch has some kind of effect on him. He made the damn things, so he knows the cupcakes don’t contain tryptophan, that drugs that makes turkey an exhausting food. And yet he can’t help but yawn. Once he does, everyone starts, going around the room in a circle of contagion.
“The adult in the room wants to sleep. The young’ins cool with that?”
Frank rolls his eyes. Gerard’s always making a big deal of their age difference, but it’s not like he’s thirty. Still, he is interested in crawling under a blanket and closing his eyes. “I’m more than good with that.”
“I’m sleeping in my bed, obviously. Who wants where?”
Frank is still sober enough to know he shouldn’t share a bed with Mikey. That way accidental cuddling and meaningless morning erections lie, and further up that road madness lies. He could think of a good excuse to get either other friend, but in the end it’s easiest to say Gerard smells like feet, and his stomach is a little delicate right now. The Ways share Lee’s bed, and Frank curls against Ray. Platonic cuddling is nice, when there are no awkward emotions tangled in.
When he wakes up, he’s got the bed to himself. There’s no residual warm spot, so Ray’s obviously been gone a while. After a minute or two his eyes open stickily. Frank reaches up to wipe the grit from the folds, and sits up. Mikey is on the edge of the other bed, half under the blankets. He’s reading one of Ray’s textbooks, Frank can’t tell what subject from across the room.
Frank’s considering grabbing a book of his own when the door opens and Ray comes in with a recyclable grocery bag. He puts it on his desk, digging in it with one hand as he drops his wallet onto the bed with the other. Frank watches with interest as Ray turns domestic, making the three of them bowls of cereal and pouring tall glasses of chocolate milk. Mikey accepts his like it’s his due, balancing the bowl on Gerard’s thigh. The cold will probably wake him up soon, Frank’s own bowl is cold in his fingers.
“I don’t actually have celiac, you know.”
“Shut up and eat your Rice Chex,” Ray mumbles around a mouthful.
It takes a single gulp of the chocolate milk to realise it’s actually white milk with kahlua in it. Frank splutters a bit in surprise but it makes sense. The milk mingling with his cereal is white, after all, and what’s the likelihood of Ray getting two jugs in one day?
“This is gonna be one lush fucking weekend.”
“Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Ray points out. Frank raises his glass in a fake toast before taking another sip.
The next thirty six hours is nothing but alcohol. Frank loses track of how much he’s had to drink, only knows the clear thing he drinks isn’t water, and the sour red thing he drinks isn’t Koolaid. The more he drinks the less the drinks burn his throat. At least until he pukes the first time. After that the first few shots burn like the first he drank Friday evening. But Gerard is at the toilet with him, handing him a cooler to gargle, and then Ray is at the keg pumping like a gentleman because the girls around him don’t have the coordination, and then Mikey is standing with him outside some restaurant, offering him a flask as Frank sucks his cigarette. There just never seems to be a good point to say no, no more.
And then all of a sudden Ray is plucking the beer cup out of his hand. Frank scowls and tries to grab it back, but Ray is taller than him, and Frank’s pretty sure if he jumped up to get it, his feet wouldn’t be able to find the ground again. Gravity’s already being tricky, jumping is just asking for something to go wrong.
“It’s midnight!”
“Huh.” It would be cooler if it was twelve twelve. Or twelve fifty one. That would make a mirror image on a digital clock.
“Frank! It’s midnight, and it’s Sunday. Where are Gerard and Mikey?”
“Gerard’s getting laid.” Frank grins at the thought. Everyone deserves to get laid. Even dudebros. And Gerard isn’t even a dudebro, like everyone else here. Gerard is cool. Gerard deserves to get laid twice. Or, like, a threesome.
“Excuse me?”
“He tripped and went all bloody and the girl he was talking to all night took him away to go ‘help him’. He’s totally get laid.” Frank wishes his love life was that easy. He’d totally bleed all over the damn place if it would make Mikey want him.
“Well he needs to stop. You and Gerard and Mikey need to go home.”
“I don’t know where Mikey is.” He saw him earlier -unless that was yesterday- but not recently.
“Arrrgh!”
Frank blinks. It doesn’t help the world get any less fuzzy, and Ray still looks way too upset. “We didn’t lose him forever. We’ll find him event- eventually.”
“Focus Frank. Help me find him now, so you guys can go home.”
“Okay.”
After thirty seconds of relative silence, Ray snaps “you’re supposed to-”
“I know. There just aren’t any options. Gerard tripped ‘cause he’s like fall down drunk. I’m a probational driver, and I’m not fall down drunk, but stumbling drunk could be accurate. Mikey doesn’t even have probational, and he’s between fall down and stumbling. We’re staying overnight.” If there’s one thing that’s been pressed into the heads of every child of his generation it’s that drunk driving is a sin on par with eating babies and fucking dead people.
“Donna will fucking kill me.”
Frank shrugs. If Mikey misses his birthday breakfast Mrs Way probably will, but Frank can’t do anything about it. It’s not like teleporting is a real thing. And if Mikey tried to apparate he’d totally splinch.
“I’m driving you home.”
“What?”
“I’m sober enough to blow safe on a device, and-”
“It’s four hours, Ray.” Frank knows that for sure, he totally printed off the map.
“Better than Donna waiting until Thanksgiving to kick my ass. That woman holds grudges.”
Somehow Ray finds them both. Frank’s not entirely sure how. The floor moves with each step so he needs to be careful with how he’s walking. As close as he tries to follow Ray, the taller man is moving almost frantically, asking people questions. All of a sudden Mikey is beside him, his steps equally as measured. Frank grabs his hand. It’s clammy with sweat, but Frank likes it anyway. A minute later they’ve got Gerard, collar of his shirt ripped, zipper undone. A minute after that they’re at Gerard’s car. Ray Toro is fucking magic. It’s the only possible explanation.
Frank and Mikey get Gerard installed in the backseat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him upright. Mikey wobbles his way to the other door, and Frank steps into the Impala’s front seat, happy not for the first time this weekend that Gerard doesn’t own an SUV. Having to climb up into the car would have made things a lot harder.
Ray flicking on the turn signal is the only sound for the next while, and Frank doesn’t like it. There has to be something interesting on the radio. For that matter, he knows for a fact Gerard’s got some great burned CDs. When he reaches for the console though, Ray slaps his hand. “They’re sleeping.”
Frank knows. He just doesn’t think it matters. The Ways could sleep through anything.
It’s past four when Ray parks in the Way driveway. Frank knows because his blurry vision is focused on the digital clock on top of the coveted CD hole. He’s tired, but he knows from a wealth of past experience that sleeping in transportation always makes him feel shitty, and so he didn’t let himself drop off.
“You take Mikey, I’ll take Gerard.”
All considering, it’s a worse deal for Ray. He has to navigate stairs, while Mikey’s room is on the ground floor. It’s hard enough getting Mikey down the hall, and on to his bed. Frank nearly leaves, then sighs and turns back. He can’t leave Mikey fully dressed. Nothing is more gross than waking up sweating, and realistically they’re all going to feel pretty gross waking up anyway. He’d be a shitty friend if he let multiple layers contribute to that problem.
Mikey’s hoodie is fairly easy to get off. The zipper down the front doesn’t take more than a second to take down, and his arms slide out of the loose sleeves with only a few manoeuvres. It thuds when he tosses it to the floor. Frank hopes the noise wasn’t caused by a now cracked cell phone. He doesn’t pick it back up to look though. If he doesn’t look he won’t be lying if he says he doesn’t know how it happened. The theory is proven wrong anyway, after Frank unzips his jeans and starts to tug them off. The bulge in Mikey’s pocket is obviously his cell.
Frank considers his t-shirt and underwear for a moment before leaving them on. Taking them off would be too close to taking advantage. That’s not the kind of person Frank wants to be. Mikey should be cool enough in just a shirt to sleep comfortably.
What Frank really needs to figure out is what he’s going to do now. At this point he should probably just pull an all-nighter. He’ll only get four hours of sleep at most, and naps usually make him feel worse than not sleeping. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. The best way to keep himself awake is is take Mikey’s laptop and play something engaging, like Diablo or Starcraft. Mikey won’t care are long as he makes up his own character. Playing one Mikey’s already created will mess with the stats and probably get him hit.
On the way out of the room Frank accidentally kicks the thudding hoodie and his curiosity piques. He picks it up by the hood, and pats it down. In the left overlarge pocket is a flask. From the shake of it it’s only got a shot or two left. Pointless to save for some time in the future, really. Before he can think of the reasons not to, Frank down it in a few nasty swallows.
Frank makes himself comfortable in the living room, shucking himself out of his dirty jeans so he can put a crocheted blanket over his legs. Once he’s settled he turns Mikey’s laptop. It’s really cool how all his pinned tabs sign in automatically. Frank can’t let the computer he and his mom share do that, she’d spy in a second. Mikey’s got a surprising amount of accounts, half to websites Frank’s never even heard of. He trolls them all, leaving hilarious comments on a few of the forums, and a ton of Likes on Facebook. Mikey needs to show more enthusiasm.
Eventually commenting loses its appeal. Rather than load a game Frank finds himself going through Mikey’s horribly organised files. Ray would probably cry, but that’s okay because Ray is sleeping so he doesn’t have to suffer, and to Frank it seems sort of like an online adventure. He is the Indiana Jones of a convoluted directory.
Somewhere on this laptop is Mikey’s porn, sitting there like the holy grail. Frank will find it, and then he can see what Mikey likes. And once he knows, he can imagine Mikey liking it while he jerks off. It’s wrong, but less wrong than groping him in his sleep. Frank wouldn’t be that bad of a person.
Before he finds the porn, he finds a folder of what are obviously all Mikey’s camp pictures. There’s more than Frank thought there would be. Mikey got over his MySpace cam whore phase really quickly, while they were still in junior high. His Facebook has some pictures, but they’re mostly ones Frank or Ray have taken. Clicking through the five hundred in the Windows Photo Viewer Frank gets the impression it’s probably the same this time. At least half of the pictures he sees are Mikey with other people, surprise pictures that catch him with an actual expression.
A few faces come up over and over again. Patrick, three impossibly tall black guys, a short guy with tattoos, a white girl with tattoos and the kind of ratty hair it takes hours to perfect. The more Frank clicks the more pissed off he is that Mikey didn’t tell him about any of them. They clearly never left each other’s sight for a solid month, that’s the kind of thing that builds great in-jokes and adventures. Mikey’s got twenty eight days of stories, and he didn’t tell Frank any of them. It’s almost worse than not being told about Pete. What did Mikey think he was gonna do, yell at him for having temporary new best friends? Yeah, he wants to yell at him now, but that’s only because he wasn’t told.
Then Frank hits picture 189. It’s one of the first MySpace angle ones. The angle makes the sunlight dim behind them, but it’s bright enough to see Mikey and the boy with tattoos kissing. So that’s what Pete looks like.
The pictures after that change, subtly. In each group picture it’s Mikey, Pete, and others close beside them, but not quite existing in each other’s space the way Mikey and Pete do. There pictures of Mikey’s feet in the grass, of rumpled bunkbed sheets, of Pete’s stomach with swim trunks riding low. He’s got a tattoo there too, some weird looking fusion of a bat and a heart.
Frank keeps hearing Mikey’s words from last week. Great summer friend. Except Pete probably doesn’t even know Mikey thought so, because he hasn’t posted and captioned any of these happy pictures. No, Frank knows Pete doesn’t know, because Patrick as much as told him Pete felt like Mikey moved on. It’s just not fair to Pete. A boy that looks that thrilled to be in love doesn’t deserve to be cut off with nothing.
Thankfully, Facebook has a bulk uploader, so he doesn’t have to open each picture individually. He doesn’t really have the dexterity for that right now.
Part Two