(no subject)
All That Shit Seems To Disappear When I'm With You (3/3)
It’s one of the rare days Mikey follows Frank to his locker after cooking class. Normally they separate just outside the door, Mikey and Jamia going down the hall in the direction that’s closer to the stairs, Frank going the other way to the science hallway. Unless he and Mikey are planning on leaving together and hanging out, there’s not really any point in lingering when they’ll just be talking online all night. Today it’s different. The discussion they’re having about Kraftwerk is too heated to wait a hour to conclude online.
Patrick’s leaning against the metal door of Frank’s locker, like he promised, like Frank requested then completely forgot about. Frank realises about a minute too late that this could get really awkward really quickly if Patrick’s about to give Mikey a kick for all the late nights the way he did Frank.
“Patrick?”
“Hey Mikeyway. It’s been a while.”
Frank would have thought it was just a greeting, but Mikey reposts with ‘since I could say I wasn’t addicted’ and then Patrick comes back with ‘been awhile since I could say I love myself as well’. Clearly it’s a in-joke.
“I actually need to talk to Frank for a minute though.”
Frank shrugs at Mikey like he has no idea what this is about. It’s only half a lie. “Text you later?”
“Sounds good,” Mikey replies with a slight shrug of his own.
After getting out the stuff he’ll need if he feels like doing homework -the answer is always no, but some days you have to rise above that feeling and actually get something done- Frank slips the lock on, twirls it a few times and leaves it on a random number for misdirection, then follows Patrick outside. Pete’s waiting in his car. Frank knows without asking that he’s the backseat. When you have a friendship as long as Pete and Patrick have, no one else is ever shotgun. Considering the state of Pete’s room the one time he was inside it, Frank’s surprised at how clean the car is. He doesn’t even have to push anything to the side to get the seatbelt in the buckle.
“So we’re talking?” He has to pitch his voice a little higher to be heard over the shoddy muffler.
“We’ve been arguing for a week. A full week. Using hours that most people wouldn’t normally use as conversation hours, of course.”
“My bad.” Pete brushes off Patrick’s following glare like he doesn’t even see it.
“Basically it boils down to are you interested in alternate versions of relationships?”
Frank needs a little less boiling to basics. He can’t figure out the specifics of what they want. “What?”
“You know. When A dates B and B dates C and C dates A. Has it ever occured to you? Would you want something like that? You know, with us, I mean.”
“I’ve never really thought about it?” It comes out sounding like a question, an involuntary tone that kind of makes Frank mad at himself. This is obviously a serious question for them. Frank’s spent hours online talking to Pete, and good chunks in the morning with Patrick. Even if the idea has never occurred to him, Frank doesn’t want it to sound like he thinks they’re insane for asking.
Pete makes a sudden hard left. Patrick asks, a hint of concern creeping into his voice, “where are you going?”
“Dropping him off so he can think.”
“You don’t know where he lives.”
Patrick’s right, but that’s not the point. “I live in the direction we were going, but you don’t need to drop me off so I can think with my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. I just need a minute. I’ve never really thought about having a threesome.”
“More though.” Pete says with emphasis. “Like a threesome relationship.”
“A and B and C, like I said.”
If Frank was going to say the first thing off the top of his head, he’d have to say it sounds weird to him. There’s no way he’s going to say the first thing off the top of his head. They’re both great guys, and he doesn’t want to hurt them. And the more Frank thinks, the more he doesn’t give a fuck if it would be weird. It wouldn’t be the first weird relationship he’s had. His and Bob’s primary strength was how good they were at bothering each other. That was great, at least until it wasn’t. Who’s to say dating two people wouldn’t be great?
Saying no might hurt them. Saying yes won’t hurt Mikey, he’s made it clear he no longer cares about their interests. “We could try a date? I don’t know how long it’ll work, but I’m up for trying.”
Pete catches Frank’s eye in the rear view mirror. “No one knows how long anything will last. Movie date? I have the full oeuvre of Silent Bob. Even the Scream and Degrassi cameos.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees. There’s no place he’d rather be, except maybe a few places that will never be offered to him.
They pile into Pete’s room without saying anything to the rest of the house. Frank’s not even sure who’s home, and if it doesn’t matter to Pete and Patrick, it probably shouldn’t matter to him. He sits on Pete’s bed and tries not to react as he remembers what happened the last time he was on this mattress.
“You go make a snack, I’ll set up the movie,” Patrick instructs.
“Oh, like that’s hard. You only have to turn my laptop on. It’s one button.”
“Yeah, and the microwave has a popcorn setting button. Go make some.”
Frank watches to see if Pete will rebel. When he turns and opens the door, Frank stands and scurries after him. It doesn’t take two guys to turn on a laptop. Besides, maybe he’ll get lucky and one of the family will come in. Frank likes being able to put faces to names.
Pete insists on melted butter on his popcorn. The second the bowl is in the microwave Pete has him against the counter. Most of what Frank can smell this time is the rich, chemical laden popcorn, the entire kitchen reeks of it. But the kiss itself is as good as their last. Frank’s hands clench the hem of Pete’s shirt and Pete’s got one around the back of his neck.
Neither stop until the timer goes off. The butter has bubbled into a froth which has overflowed the bowl and is all over the removeable disk. Frank laughs because it reminds him of something Mikey would do, but only points to the congealing mess when Pete looks at him. He’s not about to bring Mikey’s name up.
Frank picks through the Wentz cupboards to find something else to top the popcorn as Pete half-assedly wipes out the microwave. Frank’s mom would expect a more thorough job, but from the stories Pete’s told him he’d guess Pete’s parents won’t even bother to ask which one of their three kids messed things up.
They’re only halfway into the bowl, barely five minutes into Clerks 2 when Pete reaches out and shoves Frank’s shoulder. Unprepared for it, and therefore completely unbraced, Frank jolts hard and lands half on Patrick. For a boy that just barely avoided getting a hastily put down hand in the balls, Patrick replies quite calmly. “Wow. That’s the least subtle thing I’ve ever seen you do. And that’s saying a lot.”
“Hey, if you want to push him in my direction, I am totally cool with that.”
“I’ll share after I’m done.”
Patrick hauls him up and Frank just goes with it. He’s stretched like a seal, but his lips are on Patrick’s and Pete is drawing a line down the asscrack of his jeans. He wouldn’t move for a thousand dollars. The touch is arousing more because it makes Framk think about his ass than because the fabric is rubbing against anything vital, but there’s no question it’s arousing. More than that. Arousing implies level one interest, and Frank is level three at least. The touch makes Frank want to get fucked. Maybe twice in a row, one of them after the other. Or hell, if Frank fucked Patrick while giving Pete one of the handjobs he’s accustomed to, but something was put inside him, like a carrot or a hairbrush. That would be hot as hell.
“If we’re gonna do this right now I’m pausing the movie, and we should all take our pants off.” Patrick speaks with authority and who are they to question it? As a group they stand and take their jeans off. Frank hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear, but doesn’t take that final step when neither of them do.
“Just a quick poll,” Frank asks, mostly for Pete’s benefit. “We’re all cool with how fast this is moving?”
After a beat of silence in which no one complains Pete drops back to the bed and drags Frank with him. He’s not quite laying across Pete’s lap, they’re almost knee to knee. If Frank needed something to cling to, the edge of the mattress is in reach. The more Pete plays with the leg holes of his underwear the more Frank thinks he’s going to have to grab on. Minus a layer doesn’t make Pete’s questing fingers any easier to take.
“Can we-” Frank cuts off with a hitch when Pete presses his fingers hard against his crack. He grinds against Pete’s bed desperately. All he needs in the world is for someone or something to fill him. He doesn’t care what anymore.
“What, Frank? Can we what?”
“Fuck. Can we fuck. I need-” God. Pete’s fingers are right on his asshole, only a thin layer of cotton blocking Frank from getting what he needs.
“All you had to do was ask,” Patrick teases, pulling on the underside of his hair at the nape of his neck. “Pete, what about a train?”
“Can do.” Pete slaps Frank’s ass then pulls his underwear to mid thigh. “Hands and knees.”
Frank complies, because at this point he’d have to be completely insane not to. Patrick gets off the bed and walks the few steps to the dresser. He gets the drawer for the lube on the first try. Frank wonders if it’s just an obvious placement, or if they’ve fucked in the last week. He’s had a dozen opportunities to ask but he hasn’t out of some version of respect, and now he doesn’t because he’s got more important things running through his mind. Like Pete’s hand moving to his ass again. He can feel all of it, not just the duller feeling through denim or cotton. The second pass is slick and Pete wastes no time pushing the tip of his index finger inside him. Frank’s head drops as he groans. He misses the sound of the bottle being opened a second time, just barely catches Pete’s moaned fuck, Trick. Frank looks up to Patrick standing bent with one hand braced on the bed, fingering himself. He shares Pete’s sentiment wholeheartedly. It’s hot as hell.
“You’re gonna fuck him, and it’s gonna be crazy good. Patrick’s wanted you for a while now. He wants you to fuck him so bad. Do you want to?”
It’s impossible to say what’s undoing him more; watching, or listening or feeling. All Frank knows is that if he doesn’t get his cock touched he will keel over and die.
The bed jostles as Patrick climbs back on it. It’s Pete’s hand that directs him to Patrick’s hole. Frank’s eyes roll back in his head when he finally gets in. It’s a feeling that never gets old. Pete stays against his back like a sweaty cape. His fingers haven’t changed their rhythm but the sudden closeness has allowed Pete to get close enough to Frank’s neck to bite his sweet spot. Frank shudders and almost lets go of Patrick.
“Focus, Frank.”
Frank would like to reply something like you try to focus when you’re being fucked and fucking at the same time. He doesn’t even require pithiness, just some level of coherence. Getting that much is as likely as Pete suddenly turning into a griffin. He doesn’t have a single syllable that’s more than a moan. Still, he tries to thrust with some semblance of rhythm, and Patrick seems to appreciate the gesture.
He comes too fast. A hundred years later would be too fast. This feeling is the kind of thing that should never stop. His only consolation is that Patrick’s already come all over Pete’s bedspread, kindly letting Frank finish without complaint about being too sensitive. Frank shakes his way to standing knowing in the next minute he’ll need the bathroom. Pete’s wiping four fingers on the comforter beside Patrick’s come. Frank doesn’t remember when Pete added it, but the stretched feeling makes more sense when he sees them. He grabs his jeans, dick chafing against sudden metal zipper.
Frank needs to get out, as much for a minute to think as for beckoning bodily functions. “I’ll be right back. No one have any threesome freakouts while I’m gone. Is that even a thing? Don’t do it, even if it is.” If it is a thing, he might be the person having one.
It’s a little awkward running across the hall to the bathroom just in hastily buttoned jeans. Realistically it’s no worse than fucking with other people home, maybe even a little less. But the sprint is the thing that feels dirty to Frank.
He spends the minutes he’s on the toilet poking at his feelings, trying to figure out if he thinks the whole thing is too much. If he’s a lover, not a fucker, Frank needs to be sure he’s got enough emotions to spread between the two of them. When he comes to the consensus that it’ll probably work -at least, he doesn’t feel any more uneasy than he did in the car- he washes his hands, rubs his hands over his face, and goes back to Pete’s bedroom. He’s prepared to talk, now. They’re not. Patrick’s mouth is occupied, and Pete’s babbling, words broken with gasps just like the last time Frank saw him turned on. Frank’s not ready for a second go, but he sits at the edge of the bed anyway. Watching could be vital jerking off footage later.
“You came in my ass?” are the first real words that are said. Patrick’s lips are shiny when he speaks. For an instant he’s got a streak of come on his chin, before Pete leans in and wipes it off with a thumb. It’s almost adorable. The words aren’t an accusation, Patrick’s way too pleasantly tired to try for accusations. Frank decides to explain anyway.
“Look around this room. I’ve had sex with Bob and Pete. Bob insisted on a STD test the day after we broke up so I couldn’t blame anything on him. I don’t know how many people Pete’s exchanged fluids with, but considering you sucked his dick, you’d have anything I passed on from him.
“I do not have an STI!” Pete shouts. They both ignore him.
“Last time you were pretty insistent.”
Frank shrugs. “Might be next time. I got caught in the moment. As far as unsafe sex goes, it was pretty safe. I’m sure you would have stopped me if there was a reason to.”
“Trust is good. Video games?”
“How about we watch the next hour of Clerks?” is Patrick’s counteroffer. Frank doesn’t care either way. He’s comfortable where he’s sitting, but he’s equally willing to be comfortable in the games room. There’s no reason to go home any time soon, he can just as easily text Mikey from here.
***
He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his. It’s disorienting for a second before he realises course he is, that’s what happens when you sleep over at someone’s. Any question that last night was if not a mistake at least a misunderstanding is quashed when Patrick comes in the room fully dressed and says “I made coffee,” and Pete scrambles to his feet and says deeply reverently “I love you”, then turns to Frank still sprawled on the bed and climbs on top of him. “I love you too,” he says, and bites his ear like he’s trying to make a hickey on his cartilage. Frank bucks up to try to dislodge him, laughing as Patrick snickers from the doorway.
“We have about five minutes to leave the house. If there’s something you think would fit you you can borrow it. Fuck knows Pete does.”
Frank appreciates the offer, but he’s good. He was wearing a zippered hoodie and a t-shirt when he left school yesterday, and it’s not uncommon for him to wear the same hoodie for a week straight.
Any morning not on the bus is a good morning. This is one of the better ones, because he’s not in the backseat because he’s starting to get rundown from illness, or because it’s hailing. Frank’s sitting on torn fake velvet upholstery with Patrick singing along fucking beautifully -there’s no other word for it- in driver’s seat, Pete tapping out the bass line with one hand. Pete’s got a Slurpee brand mug of coffee in his other hand, it has to hold at least six cups. Frank’s sure that much caffeine is bad for someone, but it seems a bit early in the relationship to be nagging about personal habits. If Pete starts having heart palpitations then he’ll intervene.
Frank’s not sure what level of punishment is waiting for him when he gets home. On one hand, he did text to tell her that he wouldn’t be coming home. On the other hand, he didn’t ask permission. For now though he’s happy about his decision making. After all, he’s got two boyfriends now. One of whom is holding his freakin’ hand as they walk into the school from the student parking lot. Frank automatically looks down. Pete’s fingers look good with his. Pete spent almost an hour last night drawing the word Halloween on Frank’s fingers, yellow to orange to red to brown, the each letter outlined with black. Pete’s fingernails are covered in chipped blue polish.
“So we’ll see you at lunch, in the band room?”
Pete shakes his head before Frank can answer. “Frank and Mikey eat lunch together. They have every day except the day you molested him.”
“So you really were stalking him.” Frank was positive about Facebook, and he was right, and he was pretty sure about strategic seat placement in the caf, and he’s apparently right about that too.
“You should never doubt that I’m stalking the people I care about.”
“He meant that to sound way less creepy than it does,” Patrick interjects quickly. He must be used to explaining Pete’s thoughts to others. Frank doesn’t need the explanation though, he just thinks it’s funny. He separates from them with a laugh, and bolts to homeroom.
Mikey’s nowhere to be seen at lunch. Frank can’t help but feel a little grateful about it. He needs a day or two to figure out how to tell his friends about his threesome relationship. Poly, as Patrick keeps calling it. He’s pretty sure he gets what they’re gonna do, what they are doing, but he needs a way to explain it to others. Frank waits fifteen minutes to make sure Mikey didn’t get caught up asking Gibbons a question about a project, then goes down the hall to the band room and knocks. He didn’t watch Patrick’s door jimmying system well enough to be able to do it himself it.
It when Mikey doesn’t show up to fourth period that Frank gets worried. It’s not even the end of September yet. It’s too early to be skipping full days.
Fifth period American History the class has a substitute. Clearly uninterested in doing anything educational, the sub takes rollcall then escorts them to the library and lets them loose. With the cunning and speed of a Slytherin Frank snags one of the few free computers in the small bank against the wall. He’s intent on checking Facebook. Any year now it’ll be banned as dozens of others website have been, but for now it’s still accessible. He wants to check Mikey’s status, see if there’s anything about being ill.
Banned for a good reason, apparently. Any FCC censor would have a field day with Frank’s timeline. It’s nothing but a history of slurs and hate, from about thirty members of the Toro clan. Ray and his two older brothers feature heavily, but everyone that’s peripherally related has at least one comment. If Frank wasn’t confused and kind of pissed he’d be impressed at the creativity of some of them. The things Ray’s grandma on his mom’s side are telling him to do with animals aren’t even physically possible.
Not wanting to create more of a feud on his timeline he pulls out his phone and texts I’m confused. The only other time you did this was when I broke your guitar, but I haven't seen you in a week and it was fine when we left.
Ray doesn’t have the same qualms about fighting in public. A minute later Ray comments on his timeline. Bro rule 1: don’t fuck your best friend’s exes. The number of Likes go up with each refresh.
He takes a few minutes trying to figure out how Mikey knows. Frank checks Patrick’s Facebook first. His is all links to Youtube videos, classic rock and glam and motown, mostly. There’s nothing to be seen, except that they’re going to be having future discussions about Queen vs Prince. Pete has changed his status three times since last night. First they say my tattoos taste like licorice, then heart like an anorexic see saw, then dream for me I'll mop your brow. It’s not a declaration in the normal sense, but maybe Mikey can read the snippets of poetry and understand them. It’s more than Frank or Patrick have said, anyway.
The substitute escorts them back to the classroom a few minutes before the bell. By the time that it goes off Frank’s decided he can’t stay. The sooner this gets under control the better. Last period on a Friday he probably won’t be the only one skipping anyway.
Frank has a spare key to the Way house, the Bryar house, and the Toro house. He was kind of surprised when Bob never asked for his back, and with Ray at Penn he doesn’t need his, but he still has them both on his keyring. When he sees Mrs Way’s car on the street he considers knocking for a second, but doesn’t. Better to sneak in, just in case she’s angry with him. She might know about this, at least Mikey’s perspective of it, or she might still have a grudge about him bailing on the birthday party.
Mikey’s under his blanket. Frank can see the outline of his body and not much else. The back of his head is a third under the blanket, a third sunk into the soft down pillow, and a third hood of a hoodie. The only other thing he can see is his foot hanging off the bed, a sliver of ankle between sock and sweatpant. If Frank was just a friend he’d tell him he’s sweating through all his layers and stinking up the room. If Frank was his boyfriend, he’d tell him he’ll get heatsick, and to take off his hoodie. But right now -fucking always- his roles are confused, and as his rational self is trying to decide which route to take, his mouth opens and out spills “since when do you even care? You haven't cared the last two weeks. You didn't care enough to even tell me about him until Patrick approached me.”
“If my mom hears me crying she'll claw out your eyeballs.”
Frank doesn't doubt it. He's seen her fingernails. He could almost believe it’s an issue of concern. Mikey’s voice is heavy like he has been crying. But Frank’s question still stands. Mikey spent the last two weeks of August not giving a shit about Pete, and he’s spent the last two weeks insisting that Pete was just a summer fling. And now all of a sudden he’s choosing to be upset when it looks like Pete might have finally moved on? It’s a dick move, pure and simple.
Of course, if Mikey’s being a dick about Pete, it’s possible he’s going to be a dick to Frank and set him up. Hell, he’s already sort of done it with Ray. “What, so you're gonna fake crying out of bro revenge sensibilities? Like you got Ray to make his family send me hate messages? Which I’m fucking sure violate terms and conditions of having an account, not that I’m contacting authorities or anything.”
“I didn’t tell Ray to do shit,” Mikey mutters head still muffled by the pillow. “I saw Pete’s lyrics, I saw you three come in. I was waiting so if you were late we’d have detention together and all of you- I freaked out. Had a panic attack. Next thing, I’m at Ray’s, except of course he’s not there, it’s just his mom. And she helped. She’s as good as he is, guess he had to learn it somewhere. But she was really mad too. She drove me home. I guess she ranted after she got back home.”
Frank gets that, at least in theory. It’s hardly the first time Mrs Toro has activated a rage phone-tree. Toros descend like wasps when one of their own is hurt. This time specifically though, the rage doesn’t make sense. His voice is dripping with disbelief as he asks “you got so pissy about Pete no longer doting on you that you went to Ray’s mom?”
At that Mikey sits up and looks at him. Directly at him, eye contact burning a hole in him. “No, you utter fucking asshole! I love Pete!”
“Um.”
If it’s true, he had over a month of days in which to contact him again and make things work. Frank gets now why seeing Pete with someone else would upset Mikey, but he still kinda brought it on himself. He’s opening his mouth to say something to that effect when Mikey looks away and drops his face into his hands.
“I know he didn't love me, he could barely touch me. He was pushing himself beyond his boundaries to have a summer experimentation. And it's fucking September, so. But then it wasn't experimentation. He just didn't like me enough to want to see me naked. Can’t fucking blame him for not wanting to. I’m not fuckin’ Jared Padalecki. Shit, not even Shawn Ashmore. So go be naked with him. And fucking Patrick too. Makes sense, I guess. Everyone always thought those two should be together. Just appreciate it.”
Frank feels like a deer in the headlights, holding perfectly still so he doesn’t accidentally do the wrong thing. He’s got no idea what to say. He’s always known that Mikey doesn't like his legs or his teeth -stupid opinions, truly- but he didn't think Mikey was that insecure about stuff.
“Why are you still here, Frank? Go away. Go be with them.”
Frank doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t just leave.
Mikey falls back onto his back, and rolls to again face the wall. “I’ll be happy for you on Monday. Just give me the weekend. Please?”
Frank pauses for a moment, then turns and closes the door behind him. He’s never heard Mikey’s voice sound like that before. If what Mikey needs from him is for him to go away, that’s what Frank will do. He owes him that, at least.
***
Frank’s original plan is to stay in his bedroom until the end of time. Knowing that somewhere else in the city Mikey is doing the same it feels only right. The plan, such as it is, backfires nearly immediately. He realises that the only thing worse than making his best friend and longtime crush feel that bad about himself is doing so then having to explain it to Mom when she asks why he’s not going over to his best friend’s house as per weekend routine. So Frank leaves, before her motherly radar gets pinged.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do for the day, just that he can’t come back until late evening without getting questioned. He catches the bus that stops nearest his house then focuses all of his attention on silently singing along to his iPod. Personalised karaoke might save him from thinking, something that he really doesn’t want to do right now.
At the stop outside the mall the bus cycles passengers nearly entirely, as many walking out of the back door as step on through the front. The bus continues to idle, Frank’s ridden them enough to know that at certain stops they have to idle for about five minutes. He sits waiting for the driver to change gears until the last possible second, then holds down the yellow strip on the back door until it opens. There’s nothing in the mall he particularly wants to buy, but it’s a decent waste of time.
After a few minutes of walking Frank heads out of one of the mall’s side entrances. He’s too restless to sit on the bus, and he’s too restless to look at mannequins wearing seasonal coloured clothing. He stands there smoking, each exhaled cloud quickly whisking away. He flicks his ash into the weird planters filled with pebbles, and tries to forget last night. The problem is he’s incapable of distracting himself. He needs external stimulation, and window shopping isn’t going to cut it.
Frank knows how to get to Pete’s house from the mall. It’ll take longer -a lot longer- walking than it did in his mom’s car, but he’s not exactly in a time crunch. He tries to ignore the voice that reminds him this is exactly what Mikey spitefully told him to do.
He’s listened to Offspring’s greatest hits CD once and is halfway through it a second time when he comes to a halt on Pete’s step. Frank rings the doorbell and waits for his call to be answered. When it’s been a good minute and no one has come, Frank powers down his iPod, pushes his headphones down to curl around his neck and presses the doorbell again. This time he’ll be able to hear if it doesn’t, if it’s been disabled or something, and go straight to knocking.
ding dong
“Shit,” he mutters. That’s clearly not the answer. Which only leaves a few more options, none of which he particularly likes. Maybe the Wentzs don’t answer doors, thinking everyone is a religion freak or someone begging donations. Maybe no one is home, and his hour plus walk has been a waste. Maybe Pete saw all the hate on his timeline. After Frank had deleted it all, only to come back an hour later and see his timeline repopulated with nastiness, he’d had no choice but to delete his account. Frank digs out his cellphone and sends you home? and hopes it’s the first option.
Pete doesn’t bother to text back. Instead Frank can hear the thuds of someone quickly navigating a set of stairs, and a moment later the door opens. Pete’s mouth splits into a grin and he pulls Frank in for a hug, completely uncaring that Frank’s shirt is translucent with sweat.
After a quick kiss they pull apart. “You walk here?” Pete asks, glancing slightly beyond Frank for a car.
“I wanted to hang out?” he replies inadequately. If Pete doesn’t know about ...things from Facebook stalking, Frank doesn’t want to talk about them.
“Party time? Well, it’s unscheduled, but we can make it work. Lemme just call Patrick and ask if we can come over to his house.”
“Why his?” Not that Frank minds switching. He’d even be willing to walk, if he had to. He’s just wants to know. There are so many things Pete and Patrick know about each other that he doesn’t. He has to ask if he ever wants things like hanging out at Patrick’s, not Pete’s, on Saturday afternoons to be automatic.
“My parents are married with three kids. Patrick’s are divorced with three kids. Mine give a shit on scheduled intervals, which is pretty good. But Patrick’s usually aren’t even home, which is better. The siblings are in elementary, so they have to stay with the parent that’s home, and Trick usually stays in the empty house.”
“That’s cool.” Well, maybe cool. Frank’s not sure he would want to be in that situation. There’s a difference between wishing your parents would fuck off and having them literally not be there. Frank’s not sure he could live alone, not until he’s at least graduated college, and even then he’d always sort of thought of living with Mikey or Ray. There’s no question though that it is convenient.
Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Pete disappears. He didn’t tell Frank to follow him, so Frank doesn’t. He jams his hands in his pockets then takes them out to resettle his headphones before finally deciding to slip his shoes off. There’s no welcome mat so he’s grinding his heels into the beige carpet. If his mom saw him right now she’d probably smack him.
Pete comes back a minute later doing a weird shuffle that Frank’s seen before. More than likely Pete’s tried to jam his feet into his sneakers without undoing the laces, but the abused backs of the shoes have crumpled under his heels and only his toes are in the shoe. Frank can’t blame him, he can’t even remember the last time he undid his properly, his bow is more of a crusted over knot. Pete grabs a zippered hoodie from the closet beside the door and hooks it over his arms. “Patrick says he’s meeting us at his dad’s.”
Pete reaches beyond him to grab the doorknob. “Aren’t you gonna-” Frank cuts himself off. No, Pete’s not going to tell his parents where he’s going. He should know that by now, without having to abort stupid questions.
Pete drives up the driveway and parks tight against the garage. The front door is unlocked, and against all rules of logic and sanity Pete doesn’t hesitate to go in. He doesn’t even curl his hands into fists in case he has to suddenly do battle with a mass murderer making his bloody way out of the house. Frank forces himself to go in next, wishing he had a crowbar for the inevitable.
Evidently Frank’s imagination is too strong, or at least too warped. They get their shoes off and into the living room no problem. Once they’re inside Frank thinks this Stump house is probably the original house. Unless the parent that owns it is just overcompensating. There are growth charts carved into the doorframe of the kitchen, and the carpet has food stains, and those hard bit of grey that come from glue stick sliding off the page and landing on carpet. He doesn’t ask Pete, and probably won’t ask Patrick either. His parents split up went pretty decently, considering the nature of the event, but not everyone reacts well to the ‘we still love you, but we hate each other’ conversation.
There’s no sign of Patrick, apart from the door being unlocked. Pete leads him to a room on the second floor. Patrick’s sitting at his desk. He clashes horribly with his pumpkin walls. It’s almost cute. So is the hello kiss Pete gives Patrick before bothering to take off his sunglasses.
The next three hours comprise of two Freddy Kruger movies, one bowl of M&M sprinkled popcorn, one bowl of cheese sprinkled popcorn, about a thousand kisses, and four orgasms because Pete is a cheater.
As the credits roll, Patrick shirks his duty of getting off the bed to exit out of VLC Player to look at both of them across the bed. “Instead of just hanging out we should go somewhere on a date.”
“Where do you wanna go?”
“I dunno. I came up with the date idea, one of you be a good boyfriend and take me somewhere.”
“I’ve got a good dating technique.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Frank looks at Patrick but he doesn’t seem to have any idea either. Pete leaves the room for a second and comes back with the phone book. Frank can’t even remember the last time he used one, though he’s sure one gets delivered to his house each year. Pete tosses it with a thunk to Patrick’s desk. He opens it to a random page and scans it. “There we go. Desi Pizza and Sweets. We’re gonna go check out Desi Pizza and Sweets and I’m sure there will be something glorious there.”
Frank checks over his shoulder at the listing. “I’ve never even heard of that street.”
“Good thing I’m the driver.”
“We’re going to starve to death,” Patrick groans, utterly resigned to the idea of a cross town roadtrip.
Pete grins. “Don’t worry, we can always resort to cannibalism.”
It takes a while to get there. If Pete ever loses track of his location he doesn’t say anything, but with Patrick ready on standby to roll his eyes he’s probably not going to say he’s lost even if he is. The place looks decent from the outside. Big windows show off big dark tables and waitresses all in blue. Even if it was a pit they’d probably dine in anyway, just for the experience of following a random whim to its conclusion.
Just beyond the front door is a podium with a sign on it that says please wait to be seated. As far as waiting areas go, it’s pretty decent. No length of padded bench to sit on, but the walls are distracting enough. It’s like someone went to Etsy and bought one of every print that came up once they typed ‘pizza’ or ‘dessert’. They wait about thirty seconds, looking at the artwork before Pete focuses in on the distance and nudges Patrick.
“Is that,”
“Shit, I think it is.”
With the kind of unspoken mutual agreement Frank has with his own friends, Pete and Patrick both move into the seating area and head towards the couple in the corner booth. Frank goes with it, hoping their obvious disregard for the restaurant’s rules won’t get them kicked out. It takes him a second to place the male half of the couple in the booth as one of the more constant guys in Mikey’s pictures. Disashi Lumumba-Kasongo, if Pete’s Facebook pictures were tagged properly.
“Fancy meeting you here!”
Disashi checks his watch -tonight is apparently blast from the past night, Frank can’t remember the last time he saw someone wear a watch- and then tilts his head like he’s confused. “You’re early. Like, way early. Our next scheduled hang out is in ten months. Or like the camp song said, it’s been awhile since I first saw you.”
The girl punches Disashi lightly in the arm. “Introductions, please.”
Disashi explains to his girlfriend “That’s Pete. That’s Patrick. That’s. I dunno who that is.”
“I’m Frank.”
“I’m Sashi, and this is my girl Katrina.”
She laughs, big hoop earring bouncing. “He’s my boy, really.”
Pete grins, teeth flashing snow white in the intimate lighting. “Yeah, I know how that is.”
“Where’s Mikey at?”
“I. Uh.”
Patrick steps in with the ease that comes with years of helping Pete. “We don’t really see him anymore.”
“Shit, really? I always figured you’d get off your dumb ass and join Pete and Mikey. You’re telling me Mikey fucked off so you got this guy?”
“Frank’s not a Mikey replacement, Sashi.”
“Yeah. No one could beat Mikeyway.”
“I didn’t mean it like-” Pete stops as the waitress behind him with a platter of pizza makes her displeasure known. They move out of her way.
Sashi doesn’t offer to share the booth, and they don’t ask. Pete crosses to a table across the room and they all sit. They chat casually, mostly about food, as they flip through the menus. Most restaurants split their menus into breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinks. That’s not something this place is concerned with. Desi’s menu is split into pizza, pie, cake, and dairy. It’s kind of stoner heaven, and looking around Frank would be willing to bet three quarters of the customers are currently high. Hell, the waitress that comes to take their orders has white girl dreads.
Even through his bites of the best cheese pizza he’s ever eaten, Frank can’t stop thinking about Disashi’s comments. Frank’d thought they’d had a love V at camp; Pete the centre point between Mikey and Patrick. Mikey’d thought the same. But their summer friends, the ones with the true perspective, they thought poly. And Patrick knew that word, knew that concept. It’s possible Patrick just looked it up in the week between their first time and the car conversation. But it’s equally possible he looked it up on one of the slow speed computers in the tiny library at camp. It’s possible he’s wanted this for a long time, since before Frank showed up on the scene.
Frank shouldn’t be here. It should be Mikey. Yes, he feels as happy with them as he ever did with Bob. Maybe more; this relationship has joy, not interested aggravation. But his wanting doesn’t really matter. Just because he wants to be here and joyous with them doesn’t mean he deserves it.
The bathroom is near the front door. Frank thinks he’s going to take a piss to give himself time to settle his thoughts before they show on his face and Pete and Patrick ask him questions he’s not ready to answer, but no. Somehow he’s bypassing the door with the crude art of a slice of cake with a penis and shouldering through the glass door. He’s outside. He’s separated from them, and it already hurts, but he knows it’s right.
He paces the concrete slab in front of the restaurant for a minute. A cigarette would be great, but he’s pretty sure his box with two left was left at Patrick’s. It’s not the only thing he’s missing. His wallet is on the table, beside Pete and Patrick’s, along with Pete’s shitty sunglasses, and his own fingerless gloves. It’s not much of a decision to abandon both items. The thirty dollars is not worth going back in.
one of you text Mikey he texts.
Patrick’s message comes first. what are you talking about?
Frank sends back Mikey loves both of you.
The dramatic kid inside him wants to find a sea to throw his phone into so that he may never speak again. The realist in him just powers it down and slides it into his pocket. It’s time for more brain numbing walking.
This time he ends up in a park. It’s one of the newer ones, with woodchips instead of sand. They look kind of gross, lumpy and dark brown with water, but they compress under his sneakers as he walks over them instead of remaining hardpacked. They’re probably safer for kids when they fall down. Frank kicks a section spitefully, digging the plastic tip of his converse into them and pushing some of the chips aside. When he was a kid it was all sand, or sometimes just plain concrete. No one ever worried about whether his generation would get bruises. If parents are worried about something as simple as a scraped knee, what are they going to do when it’s 2022 and their child comes home sobbing because they’ve broken their goddamn heart?
He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t just stand here. It’s weird, bordering on creepy. Lucky he’s short enough that he can be a junior high kid, and twelve is just young enough to be playing. Frank looks around the equipment, casting his eyes for something to do. He’s always been a fan of the tulip seats, but a six year old is riding the other one, and the mother standing there might stab him if he sits near the child.
The next best thing is the climbing apparatus. It’s a lot better than plain monkeybars, it’s half of a globe, with each rod large enough to fall between. The bars are cold. If he had his fingerless gloves it would help. Though, realistically he probably wouldn’t wear them. He can’t remember ever wearing mittens during recess, even if his hands were bright red and sore by the time the fifteen minutes was up. His mom used to yell at him whenever he had frostbite, like the strength of her voice could warm his fingers and the curls of his ears. Frank hooks his knees over one bar and hangs on a few feet down.
All the lights are off when Frank finally comes home. It’s not that much of a surprise. It’s Saturday, around ten. Frank doesn’t really want to think about his mom having a hot date, but if she doesn’t come home it wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocks the front door, happy his keys stayed in his pocket when his wallet left his jeans. There’s no spare he can get to from outside the house. His grandpa has a spare, but any time he’s ever needed one he’s used Ray’s or Bob’s or the Ways.
Frank turns the kitchen light on for a minute so he can grab a juice box. They’ve got multiple flavours, and sure there are half a dozen healthier things in the fridge, but at this point he needs to fall into a sugar coma. Maybe he’ll have Fruit Roll Ups for dinner. He needs to eat something, at least. He’s hungry as fuck, he hasn’t eaten since the handfuls of popcorn when he was with his boyfriends. Fuck. Ex-boyfriends. He was only dating them for three days, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember.
Shit, it shouldn’t be that upsetting. Seventy two hours does not give a man enough time to fall head over heels.
Frank grabs a box of FudgeeOs from the cupboard and heads for the living room. It’s got a larger screen than the computer does, and they own a bunch of shows on DVD. He’s in the mood for a Angel marathon. Season three or four, probably. All misery, all the time.
It’s impossible to say what’s more stereotypical; the shriek he lets out, the step back he takes, or the box that crushes in his left hand as the juice box squeezes and grape juice hemorrhages out the straw. Those are stereotypes for a reason though, and Frank would demand to know who wouldn’t react nervously when something coughed when someone walked into a pitch black room.
“Chill, Frank. It’s us.” Frank’s hand bats at the light switch on the wall. It’s Pete’s voice, but his system is so jacked into fight or flight that his hindbrain is screaming at him to make sure it’s not a demon possessed Pete, or a vampire Pete.
Pete looks normal. So does Patrick, who’s sitting beside him. So does Mikey, who’s on the opposite end of the sectional.
“What the fuck!” He means to continue, with ‘why is Mikey here’, or ‘why are you sitting with the lights off’, or ‘get out’, but they all want to take precedence and nothing comes out.
“Be more specific.”
“Why the hell were you all sitting in the dark? Did you want me to piss myself? Fuck.”
Frank lets Mikey take the dripping juicebox from him as he stands and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a roll of paper towels. He crumples a few then tosses them to the purple stain and stands on them, getting the paper to soak up the juice he’s squeezing out of the carpet.
“That was Patrick’s fault. We were watching a movie when we heard the door open, he turned the tv off.”
“I meant to just pause it, but your buttons are in weird places.”
“Okay.” Frank can see that, Patrick’s not the first to bitch about the off brand universal remote. Bob complained every time. “But that forces me to ask, why the fuck were you watching a movie in my house while I wasn’t home.”
“We were waiting for our boyfriend to stop his Australian style walkabout and come home and watch with us.”
“If you thought I was going to change my mind so easily- Which I’m not, by the way. But if you thought that, why would you bring Mikey?”
“Frank, I’m pretty fucking invested in all the shit that’s been happening the last few weeks.”
He knows that. Christ, of course he knows Mikey’s invested. Mikey’s the one that’s had to suffer through Frank fucking things up again and again. “I know that. Why are. I don’t.” It’s so fucking frustrating that he can’t speak in a full fucking sentence when all of this is so painfully clear in his head. “God, would you three just fuck off and go to Patrick’s place and be happy or whatever? You don’t need to be here to be happy. Actually, being here really sucks, if not for you, then for me. Mikey, you wanted the weekend, right? Can’t you gimme the same?”
“We want to be happy with you, fucktard.”
Frank shakes his head. “But- Mikey. Look at him, you know it’s better. It boils down to if you love something, let it go, right? So I’m letting the three of you go, so you can find each other.”
Patrick crosses his arms. “You notice how we’re in your room, finding you?”
“That’s just ‘cause I’m immature and turned my phone off. Once we talk about it you’ll understand.”
“This is me talking,” Pete says. He falls to his knees from the couch and puts one hand on the zippered bulge of Mikey’s crotch, and one on Frank’s. “Enough words?”
“No. You’re saying you want an orgy?”
Pete smiles a little. “I thought I was demonstrating?”
Patrick kicks Pete’s hip, and Frank has a great moment of thinking he’s not the only one before Patrick starts talking. “It’s not an orgy. That’s like Brian Kinney twink club bullshit. This is poly. Four people can still be poly.”
It seems kind of ridiculous to Frank. “So what, you can just keep adding people until there’s ten or fifteen?”
He’s hoping for a laugh. A laugh means they’re seeing reason. Instead Mikey’s looking at him and Pete’s hand is cupping him and Patrick is still talking angrily. “Do you have anyone besides us three? Want to be with, and, and fuck, and laugh at? Do you have ten? Because I’d be willing to meet them.”
That’s just unfair, Frank can’t help but think.
“I’ll be happy to laugh at you both while Pete blows you,” Mikey offers with a bit of a smirk.
“His orgasm face isn’t that ridiculous,” Pete replies.
This is all sort of overwhelming. Frank doesn’t normally consider himself Mr Serious, but presuming that Pete and Mikey think the same way that Patrick does, it’s sort of something they should talk about instead of making sex jokes. Frank’s about to say something when Patrick does it for him.
“Can we all just be intelligent for a second?”
“Really?”
“Fuck off, Trick. Respect your boyfriends!”
Patrick sighs heavily. If, by some insane miracle this does end up working, it’ll probably the the first of a near infinite number of times Patrick sighs. “Fine. Logical, then. Me and Pete are best friends and will be forever, this just adds to it. Me and Frank work. I could easily be with Mikey. Pete and Mikey started all of this. Frank and Pete are great together. So it comes down to if Mikey is attracted to me, and if Frank and Mikey can work.”
Pete interrupts “And Frank loves Mikey, so that’s that side done.”
“Pete!”
“Now is not the time to be subtle about your feelings. Not that you really were. Your crush is as subtle as a brick to the face.”
Clearly Pete’s wrong. Mikey’s stunned.
Patrick glares. “Pete, have some fucking tact or something.”
“What,” he demands defensively. “Tell me now is a good point to lie about shit.”
“I didn’t say lie, I-”
Frank decides to let them bicker as he deals with the most immediately important thing. He turns to Mikey, who looks like he got run over by a truck. “You. Uh. Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, no, it’s just Gerard said something a while back. But I thought he was just being Gerard. He sees love between a piranha and a human leg.”
“What did he say?”
“To not have friends with benefits rebound sex with you, because it would just make things worse.”
“After Bob, you would have...”
Mikey blushes, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve wanted to feel you up since, like, junior high. So. Uh. Yeah. I would have been really into using you. But Gerard helped me not be a douche, so.”
It would probably give the wrong impression if he replies ‘you can use me any time you want’. It would be like making a rape joke or something. Frank still wants to say it. He opens his mouth, fuck only knows how inappropriate whatever comes out will be, and it’s like Patrick somehow knows. He breaks away from his face to face argument with Pete and stands, Patrick’s movement effectively stopping Frank and Mikey’s much belated conversation.
Pete joins them to form a ragged circle, reluctantly moving his hands. “I’m only not groping you because you all are really insistent about the talking. After we talk there will be much more groping.”
Frank can’t really bring himself to veto that plan. He’s not the only one, the room stays silent.
“So what now?”
“Frank and Mikey should go on a date and see if they fit. And then I guess me and Mikey too.”
Frank thinks about watching a movie without Patrick’s running commentary, about eating without worrying that Pete’s gonna choke because he’s got about seven bites of food in his mouth at once, about kissing and having the body against him not smelling like oranges, first or second hand. As much as he wants to bash his head against a wall for not broaching this with Mikey earlier and having something years ago, somehow Pete and Patrick have become just as important.
“I don’t want to date without you two. Can poly have relationships where everyone isn’t with everyone, or is that called something else?”
“Poly can be anything. It’s-”
Patrick cuts off, but the sudden lack of words doesn’t mean there’s no auditory input. Mikey’s kissing him, and he’s doing it loudly, wet and enthusiastic. Pete’s hand slips onto Frank’s ass as they both angle themselves to watch.
Mikey’s lips are shiny with spit when he finally pulls away. “Everyone in this room wants everyone in this room. So everything is going to be okay, and no one will be left out, or sacrifice themselves, or anything else stupid. Okay?”
It’s pretty much the most brilliant thing Frank’s ever heard, now that he can believe it. So yeah, it’s okay.
Art
Mix
It’s one of the rare days Mikey follows Frank to his locker after cooking class. Normally they separate just outside the door, Mikey and Jamia going down the hall in the direction that’s closer to the stairs, Frank going the other way to the science hallway. Unless he and Mikey are planning on leaving together and hanging out, there’s not really any point in lingering when they’ll just be talking online all night. Today it’s different. The discussion they’re having about Kraftwerk is too heated to wait a hour to conclude online.
Patrick’s leaning against the metal door of Frank’s locker, like he promised, like Frank requested then completely forgot about. Frank realises about a minute too late that this could get really awkward really quickly if Patrick’s about to give Mikey a kick for all the late nights the way he did Frank.
“Patrick?”
“Hey Mikeyway. It’s been a while.”
Frank would have thought it was just a greeting, but Mikey reposts with ‘since I could say I wasn’t addicted’ and then Patrick comes back with ‘been awhile since I could say I love myself as well’. Clearly it’s a in-joke.
“I actually need to talk to Frank for a minute though.”
Frank shrugs at Mikey like he has no idea what this is about. It’s only half a lie. “Text you later?”
“Sounds good,” Mikey replies with a slight shrug of his own.
After getting out the stuff he’ll need if he feels like doing homework -the answer is always no, but some days you have to rise above that feeling and actually get something done- Frank slips the lock on, twirls it a few times and leaves it on a random number for misdirection, then follows Patrick outside. Pete’s waiting in his car. Frank knows without asking that he’s the backseat. When you have a friendship as long as Pete and Patrick have, no one else is ever shotgun. Considering the state of Pete’s room the one time he was inside it, Frank’s surprised at how clean the car is. He doesn’t even have to push anything to the side to get the seatbelt in the buckle.
“So we’re talking?” He has to pitch his voice a little higher to be heard over the shoddy muffler.
“We’ve been arguing for a week. A full week. Using hours that most people wouldn’t normally use as conversation hours, of course.”
“My bad.” Pete brushes off Patrick’s following glare like he doesn’t even see it.
“Basically it boils down to are you interested in alternate versions of relationships?”
Frank needs a little less boiling to basics. He can’t figure out the specifics of what they want. “What?”
“You know. When A dates B and B dates C and C dates A. Has it ever occured to you? Would you want something like that? You know, with us, I mean.”
“I’ve never really thought about it?” It comes out sounding like a question, an involuntary tone that kind of makes Frank mad at himself. This is obviously a serious question for them. Frank’s spent hours online talking to Pete, and good chunks in the morning with Patrick. Even if the idea has never occurred to him, Frank doesn’t want it to sound like he thinks they’re insane for asking.
Pete makes a sudden hard left. Patrick asks, a hint of concern creeping into his voice, “where are you going?”
“Dropping him off so he can think.”
“You don’t know where he lives.”
Patrick’s right, but that’s not the point. “I live in the direction we were going, but you don’t need to drop me off so I can think with my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. I just need a minute. I’ve never really thought about having a threesome.”
“More though.” Pete says with emphasis. “Like a threesome relationship.”
“A and B and C, like I said.”
If Frank was going to say the first thing off the top of his head, he’d have to say it sounds weird to him. There’s no way he’s going to say the first thing off the top of his head. They’re both great guys, and he doesn’t want to hurt them. And the more Frank thinks, the more he doesn’t give a fuck if it would be weird. It wouldn’t be the first weird relationship he’s had. His and Bob’s primary strength was how good they were at bothering each other. That was great, at least until it wasn’t. Who’s to say dating two people wouldn’t be great?
Saying no might hurt them. Saying yes won’t hurt Mikey, he’s made it clear he no longer cares about their interests. “We could try a date? I don’t know how long it’ll work, but I’m up for trying.”
Pete catches Frank’s eye in the rear view mirror. “No one knows how long anything will last. Movie date? I have the full oeuvre of Silent Bob. Even the Scream and Degrassi cameos.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees. There’s no place he’d rather be, except maybe a few places that will never be offered to him.
They pile into Pete’s room without saying anything to the rest of the house. Frank’s not even sure who’s home, and if it doesn’t matter to Pete and Patrick, it probably shouldn’t matter to him. He sits on Pete’s bed and tries not to react as he remembers what happened the last time he was on this mattress.
“You go make a snack, I’ll set up the movie,” Patrick instructs.
“Oh, like that’s hard. You only have to turn my laptop on. It’s one button.”
“Yeah, and the microwave has a popcorn setting button. Go make some.”
Frank watches to see if Pete will rebel. When he turns and opens the door, Frank stands and scurries after him. It doesn’t take two guys to turn on a laptop. Besides, maybe he’ll get lucky and one of the family will come in. Frank likes being able to put faces to names.
Pete insists on melted butter on his popcorn. The second the bowl is in the microwave Pete has him against the counter. Most of what Frank can smell this time is the rich, chemical laden popcorn, the entire kitchen reeks of it. But the kiss itself is as good as their last. Frank’s hands clench the hem of Pete’s shirt and Pete’s got one around the back of his neck.
Neither stop until the timer goes off. The butter has bubbled into a froth which has overflowed the bowl and is all over the removeable disk. Frank laughs because it reminds him of something Mikey would do, but only points to the congealing mess when Pete looks at him. He’s not about to bring Mikey’s name up.
Frank picks through the Wentz cupboards to find something else to top the popcorn as Pete half-assedly wipes out the microwave. Frank’s mom would expect a more thorough job, but from the stories Pete’s told him he’d guess Pete’s parents won’t even bother to ask which one of their three kids messed things up.
They’re only halfway into the bowl, barely five minutes into Clerks 2 when Pete reaches out and shoves Frank’s shoulder. Unprepared for it, and therefore completely unbraced, Frank jolts hard and lands half on Patrick. For a boy that just barely avoided getting a hastily put down hand in the balls, Patrick replies quite calmly. “Wow. That’s the least subtle thing I’ve ever seen you do. And that’s saying a lot.”
“Hey, if you want to push him in my direction, I am totally cool with that.”
“I’ll share after I’m done.”
Patrick hauls him up and Frank just goes with it. He’s stretched like a seal, but his lips are on Patrick’s and Pete is drawing a line down the asscrack of his jeans. He wouldn’t move for a thousand dollars. The touch is arousing more because it makes Framk think about his ass than because the fabric is rubbing against anything vital, but there’s no question it’s arousing. More than that. Arousing implies level one interest, and Frank is level three at least. The touch makes Frank want to get fucked. Maybe twice in a row, one of them after the other. Or hell, if Frank fucked Patrick while giving Pete one of the handjobs he’s accustomed to, but something was put inside him, like a carrot or a hairbrush. That would be hot as hell.
“If we’re gonna do this right now I’m pausing the movie, and we should all take our pants off.” Patrick speaks with authority and who are they to question it? As a group they stand and take their jeans off. Frank hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear, but doesn’t take that final step when neither of them do.
“Just a quick poll,” Frank asks, mostly for Pete’s benefit. “We’re all cool with how fast this is moving?”
After a beat of silence in which no one complains Pete drops back to the bed and drags Frank with him. He’s not quite laying across Pete’s lap, they’re almost knee to knee. If Frank needed something to cling to, the edge of the mattress is in reach. The more Pete plays with the leg holes of his underwear the more Frank thinks he’s going to have to grab on. Minus a layer doesn’t make Pete’s questing fingers any easier to take.
“Can we-” Frank cuts off with a hitch when Pete presses his fingers hard against his crack. He grinds against Pete’s bed desperately. All he needs in the world is for someone or something to fill him. He doesn’t care what anymore.
“What, Frank? Can we what?”
“Fuck. Can we fuck. I need-” God. Pete’s fingers are right on his asshole, only a thin layer of cotton blocking Frank from getting what he needs.
“All you had to do was ask,” Patrick teases, pulling on the underside of his hair at the nape of his neck. “Pete, what about a train?”
“Can do.” Pete slaps Frank’s ass then pulls his underwear to mid thigh. “Hands and knees.”
Frank complies, because at this point he’d have to be completely insane not to. Patrick gets off the bed and walks the few steps to the dresser. He gets the drawer for the lube on the first try. Frank wonders if it’s just an obvious placement, or if they’ve fucked in the last week. He’s had a dozen opportunities to ask but he hasn’t out of some version of respect, and now he doesn’t because he’s got more important things running through his mind. Like Pete’s hand moving to his ass again. He can feel all of it, not just the duller feeling through denim or cotton. The second pass is slick and Pete wastes no time pushing the tip of his index finger inside him. Frank’s head drops as he groans. He misses the sound of the bottle being opened a second time, just barely catches Pete’s moaned fuck, Trick. Frank looks up to Patrick standing bent with one hand braced on the bed, fingering himself. He shares Pete’s sentiment wholeheartedly. It’s hot as hell.
“You’re gonna fuck him, and it’s gonna be crazy good. Patrick’s wanted you for a while now. He wants you to fuck him so bad. Do you want to?”
It’s impossible to say what’s undoing him more; watching, or listening or feeling. All Frank knows is that if he doesn’t get his cock touched he will keel over and die.
The bed jostles as Patrick climbs back on it. It’s Pete’s hand that directs him to Patrick’s hole. Frank’s eyes roll back in his head when he finally gets in. It’s a feeling that never gets old. Pete stays against his back like a sweaty cape. His fingers haven’t changed their rhythm but the sudden closeness has allowed Pete to get close enough to Frank’s neck to bite his sweet spot. Frank shudders and almost lets go of Patrick.
“Focus, Frank.”
Frank would like to reply something like you try to focus when you’re being fucked and fucking at the same time. He doesn’t even require pithiness, just some level of coherence. Getting that much is as likely as Pete suddenly turning into a griffin. He doesn’t have a single syllable that’s more than a moan. Still, he tries to thrust with some semblance of rhythm, and Patrick seems to appreciate the gesture.
He comes too fast. A hundred years later would be too fast. This feeling is the kind of thing that should never stop. His only consolation is that Patrick’s already come all over Pete’s bedspread, kindly letting Frank finish without complaint about being too sensitive. Frank shakes his way to standing knowing in the next minute he’ll need the bathroom. Pete’s wiping four fingers on the comforter beside Patrick’s come. Frank doesn’t remember when Pete added it, but the stretched feeling makes more sense when he sees them. He grabs his jeans, dick chafing against sudden metal zipper.
Frank needs to get out, as much for a minute to think as for beckoning bodily functions. “I’ll be right back. No one have any threesome freakouts while I’m gone. Is that even a thing? Don’t do it, even if it is.” If it is a thing, he might be the person having one.
It’s a little awkward running across the hall to the bathroom just in hastily buttoned jeans. Realistically it’s no worse than fucking with other people home, maybe even a little less. But the sprint is the thing that feels dirty to Frank.
He spends the minutes he’s on the toilet poking at his feelings, trying to figure out if he thinks the whole thing is too much. If he’s a lover, not a fucker, Frank needs to be sure he’s got enough emotions to spread between the two of them. When he comes to the consensus that it’ll probably work -at least, he doesn’t feel any more uneasy than he did in the car- he washes his hands, rubs his hands over his face, and goes back to Pete’s bedroom. He’s prepared to talk, now. They’re not. Patrick’s mouth is occupied, and Pete’s babbling, words broken with gasps just like the last time Frank saw him turned on. Frank’s not ready for a second go, but he sits at the edge of the bed anyway. Watching could be vital jerking off footage later.
“You came in my ass?” are the first real words that are said. Patrick’s lips are shiny when he speaks. For an instant he’s got a streak of come on his chin, before Pete leans in and wipes it off with a thumb. It’s almost adorable. The words aren’t an accusation, Patrick’s way too pleasantly tired to try for accusations. Frank decides to explain anyway.
“Look around this room. I’ve had sex with Bob and Pete. Bob insisted on a STD test the day after we broke up so I couldn’t blame anything on him. I don’t know how many people Pete’s exchanged fluids with, but considering you sucked his dick, you’d have anything I passed on from him.
“I do not have an STI!” Pete shouts. They both ignore him.
“Last time you were pretty insistent.”
Frank shrugs. “Might be next time. I got caught in the moment. As far as unsafe sex goes, it was pretty safe. I’m sure you would have stopped me if there was a reason to.”
“Trust is good. Video games?”
“How about we watch the next hour of Clerks?” is Patrick’s counteroffer. Frank doesn’t care either way. He’s comfortable where he’s sitting, but he’s equally willing to be comfortable in the games room. There’s no reason to go home any time soon, he can just as easily text Mikey from here.
***
He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his. It’s disorienting for a second before he realises course he is, that’s what happens when you sleep over at someone’s. Any question that last night was if not a mistake at least a misunderstanding is quashed when Patrick comes in the room fully dressed and says “I made coffee,” and Pete scrambles to his feet and says deeply reverently “I love you”, then turns to Frank still sprawled on the bed and climbs on top of him. “I love you too,” he says, and bites his ear like he’s trying to make a hickey on his cartilage. Frank bucks up to try to dislodge him, laughing as Patrick snickers from the doorway.
“We have about five minutes to leave the house. If there’s something you think would fit you you can borrow it. Fuck knows Pete does.”
Frank appreciates the offer, but he’s good. He was wearing a zippered hoodie and a t-shirt when he left school yesterday, and it’s not uncommon for him to wear the same hoodie for a week straight.
Any morning not on the bus is a good morning. This is one of the better ones, because he’s not in the backseat because he’s starting to get rundown from illness, or because it’s hailing. Frank’s sitting on torn fake velvet upholstery with Patrick singing along fucking beautifully -there’s no other word for it- in driver’s seat, Pete tapping out the bass line with one hand. Pete’s got a Slurpee brand mug of coffee in his other hand, it has to hold at least six cups. Frank’s sure that much caffeine is bad for someone, but it seems a bit early in the relationship to be nagging about personal habits. If Pete starts having heart palpitations then he’ll intervene.
Frank’s not sure what level of punishment is waiting for him when he gets home. On one hand, he did text to tell her that he wouldn’t be coming home. On the other hand, he didn’t ask permission. For now though he’s happy about his decision making. After all, he’s got two boyfriends now. One of whom is holding his freakin’ hand as they walk into the school from the student parking lot. Frank automatically looks down. Pete’s fingers look good with his. Pete spent almost an hour last night drawing the word Halloween on Frank’s fingers, yellow to orange to red to brown, the each letter outlined with black. Pete’s fingernails are covered in chipped blue polish.
“So we’ll see you at lunch, in the band room?”
Pete shakes his head before Frank can answer. “Frank and Mikey eat lunch together. They have every day except the day you molested him.”
“So you really were stalking him.” Frank was positive about Facebook, and he was right, and he was pretty sure about strategic seat placement in the caf, and he’s apparently right about that too.
“You should never doubt that I’m stalking the people I care about.”
“He meant that to sound way less creepy than it does,” Patrick interjects quickly. He must be used to explaining Pete’s thoughts to others. Frank doesn’t need the explanation though, he just thinks it’s funny. He separates from them with a laugh, and bolts to homeroom.
Mikey’s nowhere to be seen at lunch. Frank can’t help but feel a little grateful about it. He needs a day or two to figure out how to tell his friends about his threesome relationship. Poly, as Patrick keeps calling it. He’s pretty sure he gets what they’re gonna do, what they are doing, but he needs a way to explain it to others. Frank waits fifteen minutes to make sure Mikey didn’t get caught up asking Gibbons a question about a project, then goes down the hall to the band room and knocks. He didn’t watch Patrick’s door jimmying system well enough to be able to do it himself it.
It when Mikey doesn’t show up to fourth period that Frank gets worried. It’s not even the end of September yet. It’s too early to be skipping full days.
Fifth period American History the class has a substitute. Clearly uninterested in doing anything educational, the sub takes rollcall then escorts them to the library and lets them loose. With the cunning and speed of a Slytherin Frank snags one of the few free computers in the small bank against the wall. He’s intent on checking Facebook. Any year now it’ll be banned as dozens of others website have been, but for now it’s still accessible. He wants to check Mikey’s status, see if there’s anything about being ill.
Banned for a good reason, apparently. Any FCC censor would have a field day with Frank’s timeline. It’s nothing but a history of slurs and hate, from about thirty members of the Toro clan. Ray and his two older brothers feature heavily, but everyone that’s peripherally related has at least one comment. If Frank wasn’t confused and kind of pissed he’d be impressed at the creativity of some of them. The things Ray’s grandma on his mom’s side are telling him to do with animals aren’t even physically possible.
Not wanting to create more of a feud on his timeline he pulls out his phone and texts I’m confused. The only other time you did this was when I broke your guitar, but I haven't seen you in a week and it was fine when we left.
Ray doesn’t have the same qualms about fighting in public. A minute later Ray comments on his timeline. Bro rule 1: don’t fuck your best friend’s exes. The number of Likes go up with each refresh.
He takes a few minutes trying to figure out how Mikey knows. Frank checks Patrick’s Facebook first. His is all links to Youtube videos, classic rock and glam and motown, mostly. There’s nothing to be seen, except that they’re going to be having future discussions about Queen vs Prince. Pete has changed his status three times since last night. First they say my tattoos taste like licorice, then heart like an anorexic see saw, then dream for me I'll mop your brow. It’s not a declaration in the normal sense, but maybe Mikey can read the snippets of poetry and understand them. It’s more than Frank or Patrick have said, anyway.
The substitute escorts them back to the classroom a few minutes before the bell. By the time that it goes off Frank’s decided he can’t stay. The sooner this gets under control the better. Last period on a Friday he probably won’t be the only one skipping anyway.
Frank has a spare key to the Way house, the Bryar house, and the Toro house. He was kind of surprised when Bob never asked for his back, and with Ray at Penn he doesn’t need his, but he still has them both on his keyring. When he sees Mrs Way’s car on the street he considers knocking for a second, but doesn’t. Better to sneak in, just in case she’s angry with him. She might know about this, at least Mikey’s perspective of it, or she might still have a grudge about him bailing on the birthday party.
Mikey’s under his blanket. Frank can see the outline of his body and not much else. The back of his head is a third under the blanket, a third sunk into the soft down pillow, and a third hood of a hoodie. The only other thing he can see is his foot hanging off the bed, a sliver of ankle between sock and sweatpant. If Frank was just a friend he’d tell him he’s sweating through all his layers and stinking up the room. If Frank was his boyfriend, he’d tell him he’ll get heatsick, and to take off his hoodie. But right now -fucking always- his roles are confused, and as his rational self is trying to decide which route to take, his mouth opens and out spills “since when do you even care? You haven't cared the last two weeks. You didn't care enough to even tell me about him until Patrick approached me.”
“If my mom hears me crying she'll claw out your eyeballs.”
Frank doesn't doubt it. He's seen her fingernails. He could almost believe it’s an issue of concern. Mikey’s voice is heavy like he has been crying. But Frank’s question still stands. Mikey spent the last two weeks of August not giving a shit about Pete, and he’s spent the last two weeks insisting that Pete was just a summer fling. And now all of a sudden he’s choosing to be upset when it looks like Pete might have finally moved on? It’s a dick move, pure and simple.
Of course, if Mikey’s being a dick about Pete, it’s possible he’s going to be a dick to Frank and set him up. Hell, he’s already sort of done it with Ray. “What, so you're gonna fake crying out of bro revenge sensibilities? Like you got Ray to make his family send me hate messages? Which I’m fucking sure violate terms and conditions of having an account, not that I’m contacting authorities or anything.”
“I didn’t tell Ray to do shit,” Mikey mutters head still muffled by the pillow. “I saw Pete’s lyrics, I saw you three come in. I was waiting so if you were late we’d have detention together and all of you- I freaked out. Had a panic attack. Next thing, I’m at Ray’s, except of course he’s not there, it’s just his mom. And she helped. She’s as good as he is, guess he had to learn it somewhere. But she was really mad too. She drove me home. I guess she ranted after she got back home.”
Frank gets that, at least in theory. It’s hardly the first time Mrs Toro has activated a rage phone-tree. Toros descend like wasps when one of their own is hurt. This time specifically though, the rage doesn’t make sense. His voice is dripping with disbelief as he asks “you got so pissy about Pete no longer doting on you that you went to Ray’s mom?”
At that Mikey sits up and looks at him. Directly at him, eye contact burning a hole in him. “No, you utter fucking asshole! I love Pete!”
“Um.”
If it’s true, he had over a month of days in which to contact him again and make things work. Frank gets now why seeing Pete with someone else would upset Mikey, but he still kinda brought it on himself. He’s opening his mouth to say something to that effect when Mikey looks away and drops his face into his hands.
“I know he didn't love me, he could barely touch me. He was pushing himself beyond his boundaries to have a summer experimentation. And it's fucking September, so. But then it wasn't experimentation. He just didn't like me enough to want to see me naked. Can’t fucking blame him for not wanting to. I’m not fuckin’ Jared Padalecki. Shit, not even Shawn Ashmore. So go be naked with him. And fucking Patrick too. Makes sense, I guess. Everyone always thought those two should be together. Just appreciate it.”
Frank feels like a deer in the headlights, holding perfectly still so he doesn’t accidentally do the wrong thing. He’s got no idea what to say. He’s always known that Mikey doesn't like his legs or his teeth -stupid opinions, truly- but he didn't think Mikey was that insecure about stuff.
“Why are you still here, Frank? Go away. Go be with them.”
Frank doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t just leave.
Mikey falls back onto his back, and rolls to again face the wall. “I’ll be happy for you on Monday. Just give me the weekend. Please?”
Frank pauses for a moment, then turns and closes the door behind him. He’s never heard Mikey’s voice sound like that before. If what Mikey needs from him is for him to go away, that’s what Frank will do. He owes him that, at least.
***
Frank’s original plan is to stay in his bedroom until the end of time. Knowing that somewhere else in the city Mikey is doing the same it feels only right. The plan, such as it is, backfires nearly immediately. He realises that the only thing worse than making his best friend and longtime crush feel that bad about himself is doing so then having to explain it to Mom when she asks why he’s not going over to his best friend’s house as per weekend routine. So Frank leaves, before her motherly radar gets pinged.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do for the day, just that he can’t come back until late evening without getting questioned. He catches the bus that stops nearest his house then focuses all of his attention on silently singing along to his iPod. Personalised karaoke might save him from thinking, something that he really doesn’t want to do right now.
At the stop outside the mall the bus cycles passengers nearly entirely, as many walking out of the back door as step on through the front. The bus continues to idle, Frank’s ridden them enough to know that at certain stops they have to idle for about five minutes. He sits waiting for the driver to change gears until the last possible second, then holds down the yellow strip on the back door until it opens. There’s nothing in the mall he particularly wants to buy, but it’s a decent waste of time.
After a few minutes of walking Frank heads out of one of the mall’s side entrances. He’s too restless to sit on the bus, and he’s too restless to look at mannequins wearing seasonal coloured clothing. He stands there smoking, each exhaled cloud quickly whisking away. He flicks his ash into the weird planters filled with pebbles, and tries to forget last night. The problem is he’s incapable of distracting himself. He needs external stimulation, and window shopping isn’t going to cut it.
Frank knows how to get to Pete’s house from the mall. It’ll take longer -a lot longer- walking than it did in his mom’s car, but he’s not exactly in a time crunch. He tries to ignore the voice that reminds him this is exactly what Mikey spitefully told him to do.
He’s listened to Offspring’s greatest hits CD once and is halfway through it a second time when he comes to a halt on Pete’s step. Frank rings the doorbell and waits for his call to be answered. When it’s been a good minute and no one has come, Frank powers down his iPod, pushes his headphones down to curl around his neck and presses the doorbell again. This time he’ll be able to hear if it doesn’t, if it’s been disabled or something, and go straight to knocking.
ding dong
“Shit,” he mutters. That’s clearly not the answer. Which only leaves a few more options, none of which he particularly likes. Maybe the Wentzs don’t answer doors, thinking everyone is a religion freak or someone begging donations. Maybe no one is home, and his hour plus walk has been a waste. Maybe Pete saw all the hate on his timeline. After Frank had deleted it all, only to come back an hour later and see his timeline repopulated with nastiness, he’d had no choice but to delete his account. Frank digs out his cellphone and sends you home? and hopes it’s the first option.
Pete doesn’t bother to text back. Instead Frank can hear the thuds of someone quickly navigating a set of stairs, and a moment later the door opens. Pete’s mouth splits into a grin and he pulls Frank in for a hug, completely uncaring that Frank’s shirt is translucent with sweat.
After a quick kiss they pull apart. “You walk here?” Pete asks, glancing slightly beyond Frank for a car.
“I wanted to hang out?” he replies inadequately. If Pete doesn’t know about ...things from Facebook stalking, Frank doesn’t want to talk about them.
“Party time? Well, it’s unscheduled, but we can make it work. Lemme just call Patrick and ask if we can come over to his house.”
“Why his?” Not that Frank minds switching. He’d even be willing to walk, if he had to. He’s just wants to know. There are so many things Pete and Patrick know about each other that he doesn’t. He has to ask if he ever wants things like hanging out at Patrick’s, not Pete’s, on Saturday afternoons to be automatic.
“My parents are married with three kids. Patrick’s are divorced with three kids. Mine give a shit on scheduled intervals, which is pretty good. But Patrick’s usually aren’t even home, which is better. The siblings are in elementary, so they have to stay with the parent that’s home, and Trick usually stays in the empty house.”
“That’s cool.” Well, maybe cool. Frank’s not sure he would want to be in that situation. There’s a difference between wishing your parents would fuck off and having them literally not be there. Frank’s not sure he could live alone, not until he’s at least graduated college, and even then he’d always sort of thought of living with Mikey or Ray. There’s no question though that it is convenient.
Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Pete disappears. He didn’t tell Frank to follow him, so Frank doesn’t. He jams his hands in his pockets then takes them out to resettle his headphones before finally deciding to slip his shoes off. There’s no welcome mat so he’s grinding his heels into the beige carpet. If his mom saw him right now she’d probably smack him.
Pete comes back a minute later doing a weird shuffle that Frank’s seen before. More than likely Pete’s tried to jam his feet into his sneakers without undoing the laces, but the abused backs of the shoes have crumpled under his heels and only his toes are in the shoe. Frank can’t blame him, he can’t even remember the last time he undid his properly, his bow is more of a crusted over knot. Pete grabs a zippered hoodie from the closet beside the door and hooks it over his arms. “Patrick says he’s meeting us at his dad’s.”
Pete reaches beyond him to grab the doorknob. “Aren’t you gonna-” Frank cuts himself off. No, Pete’s not going to tell his parents where he’s going. He should know that by now, without having to abort stupid questions.
Pete drives up the driveway and parks tight against the garage. The front door is unlocked, and against all rules of logic and sanity Pete doesn’t hesitate to go in. He doesn’t even curl his hands into fists in case he has to suddenly do battle with a mass murderer making his bloody way out of the house. Frank forces himself to go in next, wishing he had a crowbar for the inevitable.
Evidently Frank’s imagination is too strong, or at least too warped. They get their shoes off and into the living room no problem. Once they’re inside Frank thinks this Stump house is probably the original house. Unless the parent that owns it is just overcompensating. There are growth charts carved into the doorframe of the kitchen, and the carpet has food stains, and those hard bit of grey that come from glue stick sliding off the page and landing on carpet. He doesn’t ask Pete, and probably won’t ask Patrick either. His parents split up went pretty decently, considering the nature of the event, but not everyone reacts well to the ‘we still love you, but we hate each other’ conversation.
There’s no sign of Patrick, apart from the door being unlocked. Pete leads him to a room on the second floor. Patrick’s sitting at his desk. He clashes horribly with his pumpkin walls. It’s almost cute. So is the hello kiss Pete gives Patrick before bothering to take off his sunglasses.
The next three hours comprise of two Freddy Kruger movies, one bowl of M&M sprinkled popcorn, one bowl of cheese sprinkled popcorn, about a thousand kisses, and four orgasms because Pete is a cheater.
As the credits roll, Patrick shirks his duty of getting off the bed to exit out of VLC Player to look at both of them across the bed. “Instead of just hanging out we should go somewhere on a date.”
“Where do you wanna go?”
“I dunno. I came up with the date idea, one of you be a good boyfriend and take me somewhere.”
“I’ve got a good dating technique.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Frank looks at Patrick but he doesn’t seem to have any idea either. Pete leaves the room for a second and comes back with the phone book. Frank can’t even remember the last time he used one, though he’s sure one gets delivered to his house each year. Pete tosses it with a thunk to Patrick’s desk. He opens it to a random page and scans it. “There we go. Desi Pizza and Sweets. We’re gonna go check out Desi Pizza and Sweets and I’m sure there will be something glorious there.”
Frank checks over his shoulder at the listing. “I’ve never even heard of that street.”
“Good thing I’m the driver.”
“We’re going to starve to death,” Patrick groans, utterly resigned to the idea of a cross town roadtrip.
Pete grins. “Don’t worry, we can always resort to cannibalism.”
It takes a while to get there. If Pete ever loses track of his location he doesn’t say anything, but with Patrick ready on standby to roll his eyes he’s probably not going to say he’s lost even if he is. The place looks decent from the outside. Big windows show off big dark tables and waitresses all in blue. Even if it was a pit they’d probably dine in anyway, just for the experience of following a random whim to its conclusion.
Just beyond the front door is a podium with a sign on it that says please wait to be seated. As far as waiting areas go, it’s pretty decent. No length of padded bench to sit on, but the walls are distracting enough. It’s like someone went to Etsy and bought one of every print that came up once they typed ‘pizza’ or ‘dessert’. They wait about thirty seconds, looking at the artwork before Pete focuses in on the distance and nudges Patrick.
“Is that,”
“Shit, I think it is.”
With the kind of unspoken mutual agreement Frank has with his own friends, Pete and Patrick both move into the seating area and head towards the couple in the corner booth. Frank goes with it, hoping their obvious disregard for the restaurant’s rules won’t get them kicked out. It takes him a second to place the male half of the couple in the booth as one of the more constant guys in Mikey’s pictures. Disashi Lumumba-Kasongo, if Pete’s Facebook pictures were tagged properly.
“Fancy meeting you here!”
Disashi checks his watch -tonight is apparently blast from the past night, Frank can’t remember the last time he saw someone wear a watch- and then tilts his head like he’s confused. “You’re early. Like, way early. Our next scheduled hang out is in ten months. Or like the camp song said, it’s been awhile since I first saw you.”
The girl punches Disashi lightly in the arm. “Introductions, please.”
Disashi explains to his girlfriend “That’s Pete. That’s Patrick. That’s. I dunno who that is.”
“I’m Frank.”
“I’m Sashi, and this is my girl Katrina.”
She laughs, big hoop earring bouncing. “He’s my boy, really.”
Pete grins, teeth flashing snow white in the intimate lighting. “Yeah, I know how that is.”
“Where’s Mikey at?”
“I. Uh.”
Patrick steps in with the ease that comes with years of helping Pete. “We don’t really see him anymore.”
“Shit, really? I always figured you’d get off your dumb ass and join Pete and Mikey. You’re telling me Mikey fucked off so you got this guy?”
“Frank’s not a Mikey replacement, Sashi.”
“Yeah. No one could beat Mikeyway.”
“I didn’t mean it like-” Pete stops as the waitress behind him with a platter of pizza makes her displeasure known. They move out of her way.
Sashi doesn’t offer to share the booth, and they don’t ask. Pete crosses to a table across the room and they all sit. They chat casually, mostly about food, as they flip through the menus. Most restaurants split their menus into breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinks. That’s not something this place is concerned with. Desi’s menu is split into pizza, pie, cake, and dairy. It’s kind of stoner heaven, and looking around Frank would be willing to bet three quarters of the customers are currently high. Hell, the waitress that comes to take their orders has white girl dreads.
Even through his bites of the best cheese pizza he’s ever eaten, Frank can’t stop thinking about Disashi’s comments. Frank’d thought they’d had a love V at camp; Pete the centre point between Mikey and Patrick. Mikey’d thought the same. But their summer friends, the ones with the true perspective, they thought poly. And Patrick knew that word, knew that concept. It’s possible Patrick just looked it up in the week between their first time and the car conversation. But it’s equally possible he looked it up on one of the slow speed computers in the tiny library at camp. It’s possible he’s wanted this for a long time, since before Frank showed up on the scene.
Frank shouldn’t be here. It should be Mikey. Yes, he feels as happy with them as he ever did with Bob. Maybe more; this relationship has joy, not interested aggravation. But his wanting doesn’t really matter. Just because he wants to be here and joyous with them doesn’t mean he deserves it.
The bathroom is near the front door. Frank thinks he’s going to take a piss to give himself time to settle his thoughts before they show on his face and Pete and Patrick ask him questions he’s not ready to answer, but no. Somehow he’s bypassing the door with the crude art of a slice of cake with a penis and shouldering through the glass door. He’s outside. He’s separated from them, and it already hurts, but he knows it’s right.
He paces the concrete slab in front of the restaurant for a minute. A cigarette would be great, but he’s pretty sure his box with two left was left at Patrick’s. It’s not the only thing he’s missing. His wallet is on the table, beside Pete and Patrick’s, along with Pete’s shitty sunglasses, and his own fingerless gloves. It’s not much of a decision to abandon both items. The thirty dollars is not worth going back in.
one of you text Mikey he texts.
Patrick’s message comes first. what are you talking about?
Frank sends back Mikey loves both of you.
The dramatic kid inside him wants to find a sea to throw his phone into so that he may never speak again. The realist in him just powers it down and slides it into his pocket. It’s time for more brain numbing walking.
This time he ends up in a park. It’s one of the newer ones, with woodchips instead of sand. They look kind of gross, lumpy and dark brown with water, but they compress under his sneakers as he walks over them instead of remaining hardpacked. They’re probably safer for kids when they fall down. Frank kicks a section spitefully, digging the plastic tip of his converse into them and pushing some of the chips aside. When he was a kid it was all sand, or sometimes just plain concrete. No one ever worried about whether his generation would get bruises. If parents are worried about something as simple as a scraped knee, what are they going to do when it’s 2022 and their child comes home sobbing because they’ve broken their goddamn heart?
He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t just stand here. It’s weird, bordering on creepy. Lucky he’s short enough that he can be a junior high kid, and twelve is just young enough to be playing. Frank looks around the equipment, casting his eyes for something to do. He’s always been a fan of the tulip seats, but a six year old is riding the other one, and the mother standing there might stab him if he sits near the child.
The next best thing is the climbing apparatus. It’s a lot better than plain monkeybars, it’s half of a globe, with each rod large enough to fall between. The bars are cold. If he had his fingerless gloves it would help. Though, realistically he probably wouldn’t wear them. He can’t remember ever wearing mittens during recess, even if his hands were bright red and sore by the time the fifteen minutes was up. His mom used to yell at him whenever he had frostbite, like the strength of her voice could warm his fingers and the curls of his ears. Frank hooks his knees over one bar and hangs on a few feet down.
All the lights are off when Frank finally comes home. It’s not that much of a surprise. It’s Saturday, around ten. Frank doesn’t really want to think about his mom having a hot date, but if she doesn’t come home it wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocks the front door, happy his keys stayed in his pocket when his wallet left his jeans. There’s no spare he can get to from outside the house. His grandpa has a spare, but any time he’s ever needed one he’s used Ray’s or Bob’s or the Ways.
Frank turns the kitchen light on for a minute so he can grab a juice box. They’ve got multiple flavours, and sure there are half a dozen healthier things in the fridge, but at this point he needs to fall into a sugar coma. Maybe he’ll have Fruit Roll Ups for dinner. He needs to eat something, at least. He’s hungry as fuck, he hasn’t eaten since the handfuls of popcorn when he was with his boyfriends. Fuck. Ex-boyfriends. He was only dating them for three days, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember.
Shit, it shouldn’t be that upsetting. Seventy two hours does not give a man enough time to fall head over heels.
Frank grabs a box of FudgeeOs from the cupboard and heads for the living room. It’s got a larger screen than the computer does, and they own a bunch of shows on DVD. He’s in the mood for a Angel marathon. Season three or four, probably. All misery, all the time.
It’s impossible to say what’s more stereotypical; the shriek he lets out, the step back he takes, or the box that crushes in his left hand as the juice box squeezes and grape juice hemorrhages out the straw. Those are stereotypes for a reason though, and Frank would demand to know who wouldn’t react nervously when something coughed when someone walked into a pitch black room.
“Chill, Frank. It’s us.” Frank’s hand bats at the light switch on the wall. It’s Pete’s voice, but his system is so jacked into fight or flight that his hindbrain is screaming at him to make sure it’s not a demon possessed Pete, or a vampire Pete.
Pete looks normal. So does Patrick, who’s sitting beside him. So does Mikey, who’s on the opposite end of the sectional.
“What the fuck!” He means to continue, with ‘why is Mikey here’, or ‘why are you sitting with the lights off’, or ‘get out’, but they all want to take precedence and nothing comes out.
“Be more specific.”
“Why the hell were you all sitting in the dark? Did you want me to piss myself? Fuck.”
Frank lets Mikey take the dripping juicebox from him as he stands and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a roll of paper towels. He crumples a few then tosses them to the purple stain and stands on them, getting the paper to soak up the juice he’s squeezing out of the carpet.
“That was Patrick’s fault. We were watching a movie when we heard the door open, he turned the tv off.”
“I meant to just pause it, but your buttons are in weird places.”
“Okay.” Frank can see that, Patrick’s not the first to bitch about the off brand universal remote. Bob complained every time. “But that forces me to ask, why the fuck were you watching a movie in my house while I wasn’t home.”
“We were waiting for our boyfriend to stop his Australian style walkabout and come home and watch with us.”
“If you thought I was going to change my mind so easily- Which I’m not, by the way. But if you thought that, why would you bring Mikey?”
“Frank, I’m pretty fucking invested in all the shit that’s been happening the last few weeks.”
He knows that. Christ, of course he knows Mikey’s invested. Mikey’s the one that’s had to suffer through Frank fucking things up again and again. “I know that. Why are. I don’t.” It’s so fucking frustrating that he can’t speak in a full fucking sentence when all of this is so painfully clear in his head. “God, would you three just fuck off and go to Patrick’s place and be happy or whatever? You don’t need to be here to be happy. Actually, being here really sucks, if not for you, then for me. Mikey, you wanted the weekend, right? Can’t you gimme the same?”
“We want to be happy with you, fucktard.”
Frank shakes his head. “But- Mikey. Look at him, you know it’s better. It boils down to if you love something, let it go, right? So I’m letting the three of you go, so you can find each other.”
Patrick crosses his arms. “You notice how we’re in your room, finding you?”
“That’s just ‘cause I’m immature and turned my phone off. Once we talk about it you’ll understand.”
“This is me talking,” Pete says. He falls to his knees from the couch and puts one hand on the zippered bulge of Mikey’s crotch, and one on Frank’s. “Enough words?”
“No. You’re saying you want an orgy?”
Pete smiles a little. “I thought I was demonstrating?”
Patrick kicks Pete’s hip, and Frank has a great moment of thinking he’s not the only one before Patrick starts talking. “It’s not an orgy. That’s like Brian Kinney twink club bullshit. This is poly. Four people can still be poly.”
It seems kind of ridiculous to Frank. “So what, you can just keep adding people until there’s ten or fifteen?”
He’s hoping for a laugh. A laugh means they’re seeing reason. Instead Mikey’s looking at him and Pete’s hand is cupping him and Patrick is still talking angrily. “Do you have anyone besides us three? Want to be with, and, and fuck, and laugh at? Do you have ten? Because I’d be willing to meet them.”
That’s just unfair, Frank can’t help but think.
“I’ll be happy to laugh at you both while Pete blows you,” Mikey offers with a bit of a smirk.
“His orgasm face isn’t that ridiculous,” Pete replies.
This is all sort of overwhelming. Frank doesn’t normally consider himself Mr Serious, but presuming that Pete and Mikey think the same way that Patrick does, it’s sort of something they should talk about instead of making sex jokes. Frank’s about to say something when Patrick does it for him.
“Can we all just be intelligent for a second?”
“Really?”
“Fuck off, Trick. Respect your boyfriends!”
Patrick sighs heavily. If, by some insane miracle this does end up working, it’ll probably the the first of a near infinite number of times Patrick sighs. “Fine. Logical, then. Me and Pete are best friends and will be forever, this just adds to it. Me and Frank work. I could easily be with Mikey. Pete and Mikey started all of this. Frank and Pete are great together. So it comes down to if Mikey is attracted to me, and if Frank and Mikey can work.”
Pete interrupts “And Frank loves Mikey, so that’s that side done.”
“Pete!”
“Now is not the time to be subtle about your feelings. Not that you really were. Your crush is as subtle as a brick to the face.”
Clearly Pete’s wrong. Mikey’s stunned.
Patrick glares. “Pete, have some fucking tact or something.”
“What,” he demands defensively. “Tell me now is a good point to lie about shit.”
“I didn’t say lie, I-”
Frank decides to let them bicker as he deals with the most immediately important thing. He turns to Mikey, who looks like he got run over by a truck. “You. Uh. Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, no, it’s just Gerard said something a while back. But I thought he was just being Gerard. He sees love between a piranha and a human leg.”
“What did he say?”
“To not have friends with benefits rebound sex with you, because it would just make things worse.”
“After Bob, you would have...”
Mikey blushes, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve wanted to feel you up since, like, junior high. So. Uh. Yeah. I would have been really into using you. But Gerard helped me not be a douche, so.”
It would probably give the wrong impression if he replies ‘you can use me any time you want’. It would be like making a rape joke or something. Frank still wants to say it. He opens his mouth, fuck only knows how inappropriate whatever comes out will be, and it’s like Patrick somehow knows. He breaks away from his face to face argument with Pete and stands, Patrick’s movement effectively stopping Frank and Mikey’s much belated conversation.
Pete joins them to form a ragged circle, reluctantly moving his hands. “I’m only not groping you because you all are really insistent about the talking. After we talk there will be much more groping.”
Frank can’t really bring himself to veto that plan. He’s not the only one, the room stays silent.
“So what now?”
“Frank and Mikey should go on a date and see if they fit. And then I guess me and Mikey too.”
Frank thinks about watching a movie without Patrick’s running commentary, about eating without worrying that Pete’s gonna choke because he’s got about seven bites of food in his mouth at once, about kissing and having the body against him not smelling like oranges, first or second hand. As much as he wants to bash his head against a wall for not broaching this with Mikey earlier and having something years ago, somehow Pete and Patrick have become just as important.
“I don’t want to date without you two. Can poly have relationships where everyone isn’t with everyone, or is that called something else?”
“Poly can be anything. It’s-”
Patrick cuts off, but the sudden lack of words doesn’t mean there’s no auditory input. Mikey’s kissing him, and he’s doing it loudly, wet and enthusiastic. Pete’s hand slips onto Frank’s ass as they both angle themselves to watch.
Mikey’s lips are shiny with spit when he finally pulls away. “Everyone in this room wants everyone in this room. So everything is going to be okay, and no one will be left out, or sacrifice themselves, or anything else stupid. Okay?”
It’s pretty much the most brilliant thing Frank’s ever heard, now that he can believe it. So yeah, it’s okay.
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