Silent On the Weekdays || Patrick/Mikey || PG-13
27
Title - "Silent On the Weekdays"
Author -
runthegamut
Pairing - Patrick Stump/Mikey Way
Rating - PG-13
Word Count: 6566
Summary - A high school AU wherein Patrick notices Mikey. It's pretty clearly inspired by this picture.
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - For
artisticmuddle , whom I adore and cannot say enough wonderful things about. You make me push myself harder. Title from Bloc Party's "The Prayer." Beta'd by Deb who is lame and doesn't have an LJ account. Concrit very welcomed.
Patrick doesn’t remember the first time he met Mikey Way. Well, he probably didn’t actually “meet” him with a formal introduction and a handshake or something, which is maybe why he doesn’t remember it. But no, he doesn’t even remember what year he came to know of Mikey’s existence. It could have been this year, he’s not really sure.
If he thinks about it, he remembers one interaction he’s had with the boy in his three years of attending Lourdes Memorial High School. Patrick was rushing out the door of his classroom while Mikey was heading in and they’d collided, sending the stack of notebooks, texts, and folders Mikey had clutched between his hands scattering. Patrick had mumbled a quick “Sorry, sorry,” as he crouched down to help pick them up and Mikey had maybe made some sort of noise, a disappointed or tired sound as he too squatted down to retrieve his belongings.
Patrick hadn’t even really looked at the kid until he raised his eyes as he offered him back the items he’d recovered. Mikey kept his eyes downcast and Patrick thought to himself how entirely unremarkable he was. Not that Patrick was anything special, he knew. But Mikey was nondescript in the sense that he wore the school uniform, not neat, but not sloppy. He was taller than Patrick, but that wasn’t saying much, and under his clothes Patrick guessed Mikey was thin in a way that a teenage boy wouldn’t want to be thin; wiry with awkward limbs and no muscle definition. His hair was plastered straight down the sides of his head and it was maybe a little odd, but it mostly just seemed messy, as though the guy didn’t really care. His most distinguishing feature was his black framed glasses, but Patrick was sporting a similar style so there was nothing too unique about that either.
Mikey seemed tired, put out, sighing in annoyance as he accepted the stack from Patrick. They both rose to their feet and Mikey continued to study the ground as Patrick shuffled awkwardly in his spot, trying to come up with something to say. He suddenly realized he was blocking Mikey’s entrance into the classroom and instead apologized again before quickly heading off down the hall. Patrick thought that if monotone was an expression, it would be Mikey’s default. And that’s all the consideration he’d given the boy, until today.
Math is not Patrick’s forte and it doesn’t help matters that he spends the better part of each class period scratching out ideas for songs into his notebook instead of paying attention to whatever wisdom Mr. Jansen is imparting to them. That is, if knowledge of how to graph sin actually qualifies as wisdom. He mostly keeps his head down and tries to will himself to be invisible, and being in the back of the classroom is certainly to his advantage on that point. Patrick wishes every teacher would assign seats alphabetically because the last name of Stumph guarantees that a good 3/4ths of the class is more visible than he is under this arrangment. The only way he could be luckier is if his last name started with a ‘W’ and apart from Sara Williams in this class, there weren’t any other students with a W last na-
“Michael Way,” the instructor calls and Patrick’s head snaps up from where he is doodling the lyrics of David Bowie’s ‘Five Years’ because he has completely forgotten that Mikey is in this class. So have his classmates, evidently, as the room somewhat bewilderedly turns to look back at the boy who sits somewhat open mouthed in surprise before quickly ducking his head and studying his text, one finger keeping his place as his eyes move over the problem.
Mikey somehow manages to fidget with every part of his body, the bottom of his shoes scuffing over the linoleum floor as he sits forward, managing to hide his face even more from the inquisitive looks around the room. As his finger travels over the page, his free hand rubs up and down the length of his thigh as though he’s trying to wipe the sweat from his palms. His jaw works open and closed as he searches to find the words to speak. Mikey seems to be wilting under the attentive looks from the rest of the group and Patrick feels bad for him and has to turn his focus away. He hears Mikey stutter out an answer and after a pause, Mr. Jansen nods his approval and moves on to the next illustration.
Patrick lets out a breath of relief, his stomach in knots and heart racing. He allows himself one look back at where Mikey sits in the far corner of the classroom to see that the boy’s okay, thinking maybe he’ll even offer him an encouraging smile because, hey, Patrick’s never a fan of being called on himself. Mikey just sits perfectly still, his head down, and Patrick finds himself somehow disappointed that he can’t share that connection with him, like “Hey, I’m shy too, I know how you feel, glad you survived it.” He turns back to his work and decides to pay attention for the remainder of class, just in case Mr. Jansen decided today is the day to pick on the invisible kids.
***
The lunch period is a ridiculously short twenty-five minutes. Once you make your way from your classroom to your locker to drop off your books and then head off to the cafeteria and move through the hot lunch line, at least ten of those minutes have passed by. That gives Patrick a whopping fifteen minutes to find a neutral place to sit, eat his nutritionally balanced (if not delicious) meal, and socialize with his peers.
Never falling into one social group in high school is a good thing, Patrick had determined early on. Even though he never has a built-in group of friends to sit with, no one hates him or calls him names either. He’s somehow managed to skirt the edges of every clique, being friendly enough with everyone but never falling into one himself. It isn’t a bad place to be, and he has a handful of friends that are in the same boat as him that he’s connected with. Really, Patrick is happy to have a few true friends to call his own.
Patrick is enjoying his carrot sticks with ranch dressing at minute number twenty-one of the twenty-five minute lunch period when Pete Wentz bounces over to invade his personal space. Again.
“Hey, Patrick,” Pete calls out in a lazy drawl as he sits down next to him, leaning against the table and reaching over to steal a carrot stick. Patrick doesn’t even bother to object. About three months ago, they’d been paired up to do a project in physics class and Patrick had let Pete take the reins, even though it was patently obvious he had no idea what he was doing. Their rocket had exploded, the experiment was a bust, but Patrick had fun in spite of himself and Pete had somehow decided they were friends now, despite the fact that Pete Wentz was “popular.”
Patrick looks up from his food and sighs, “Hey, Pete,” the same disinterested way he’s been doing since their friendship formed and it always makes Pete smile wider, which makes Patrick’s heart flutter just a little. If he has to guess, he would say that Pete enjoys the implication that there’s someone who has a little trepidation about being around him, who doesn’t think he hangs the moon. Except Patrick kind of does think that. He just isn’t about to let on.
“Dude, what are you doing Friday night?” Patrick opens his mouth to respond but before any words make their way out, Pete’s hand is on his shoulder and he’s leaning in close enough that Patrick can feel his breath on his cheek. “I’m taking you to a club,” he continues as if it’s somehow been decided when really, no, it hasn’t.
“Um, okay Pete. Yeah. Sure. I’ll go to a club with you. Except for the fact that I’m, you know, sixteen and there are no clubs here that let in anyone under nineteen but yeah. Okay. Sure.” He gives Pete a skeptical look that just makes the other boy laugh.
“Patrick, you’re so cute,” Pete coos in his ear and Patrick’s stomach jumps up and then bottoms out because just the way Pete is looking at him as if he’s said something precious and special is something he’ll be thinking about tonight as he’s drifting off into sleep. “That’s what fake IDs are for.”
Patrick has to laugh at that because the idea that he owns a fake ID is just… well, it’s laughable. “I don’t have a fake ID. I don’t even know where to get a fake ID. Nor do I probably have the money to afford a fake ID,” he explains slowly to allow it to sink in. He’d learned during the physics project that once Pete got an idea in his head, he was difficult to dissuade, even though minor details like, well, physics, might contradict him.
“Taken care of already,” Pete replies in a voice that’s both filled with confidence and amusement.
Patrick stares at him blankly for a moment before uttering a confused, “What?” and just as suddenly as he’d sat down, Pete is up again.
“I’ll come pick you up at like 7, cool? Tell your mom you’re spending the night or something because we’ll probably be out late.” Pete gives his shoulder a squeeze and grins down at him. “It’ll be fun, dude. Stop looking at me like you’re going to die. Remember how awesome the science experiment turned out?” he adds as he walks away.
“We failed the science experiment!” Patrick calls after him but Pete just laughs and heads on his way.
Patrick stares down at his tray as his heart races. He’s never been to a club, but he isn’t really sure he wants to go either. First off, there will be a lot of people there. A lot of people who will be judging everyone based on their appearance and no, just no, Patrick isn’t down with that. Second off, he isn’t dancing. And if he isn’t dancing, what’s the point of going clubbing? Well, drinking maybe, but he’s too young to be doing that, even with a fake ID that says he’s 19.
And is he spending the night at Pete Wentz’s house? Because that… might be a problem, he thinks. Well, not so much a problem as a restless night of tossing and turning with massive hard-on as he tries to ignore the fact that the hottest guy in school is sleeping in the same room with probably far too little clothing on. Unless they aren’t spending the night at Pete’s house, in which case where will they be sleeping if they are in fact sleeping at all? His head is spinning.
Patrick wipes his mouth and balls up his napkin, tossing it onto his tray. He isn’t hungry anymore and looking at the food on his tray is making him queasy. He has three days to figure out what the hell is going on, assuming he can even get any answers.
***
Friday comes too quickly. It sneaks up on him somehow and he isn’t really ready for it. He has a quiz in math class that he’d tried to distract himself with by studying for the night before, but he’d done a shitty job at both studying and distracting himself and now he’s sitting in class staring blankly at the circular graphs before him and wondering how this will ever be even remotely relevant to his life. He exhales sharply and starts plotting points on the graph, occasionally shooting looks around the room as everyone else seems to be effortlessly making marks on their papers.
Glancing over his right shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Mikey who appears to be the only other person in the room not writing. Patrick watches for a moment before realizing he’s asleep, his breathing regular and even, his lips parted just slightly. He smiles to himself that at least one other person is more bored by the subject matter than he is and goes back to trying to think up something to write on the paper so he doesn’t turn in a blank quiz.
When the bell rings, he drops his pencil into his bag and shuffles his way to the front of the classroom, lining up behind the rest of his classmates to turn in the quiz. Patrick gives his paper one last look before setting it on the stack when Mikey rushes up to the desk and drops his paper on top of it. Patrick glances at it, notices Mikey’s problems are completed and graphs are drawn in carefully, and his heart sinks because he is definitely getting the lowest grade in the class on this quiz when even the guy who slept through it did better than him.
Patrick turns toward Mikey who is about to head out the door and before he can even consider whether he should speak to him, he hears himself say, “Late night studying?”
Mikey stops in his tracks and looks back at Patrick with what Patrick imagines would be a curious expression, if Mikey actually emoted with his face. “I don’t study on Thursdays,” is the only explanation he gives, but he holds Patrick’s gaze for maybe a second longer than necessary before turning and heading out of the room. Patrick’s stomach aches.
***
In the intervening time between his initial conversation with Pete and 7pm Friday night, Patrick has found out the following details:
(1) Pete has somehow procured for him an ID from a guy who knows a guy who looks just like Patrick and is 19 years old. Or so Pete claims.
(2) The club they’re going to is 19+ and serves alcohol, which Patrick is not drinking, no way, no how, not even if Pete somehow manages to get him a drink. Because being drunk at a club with Pete Wentz is maybe the worst idea ever, no matter how badly he might want to be in order to forget his discomfort and maybe even work up the courage to tell Pete how beautiful he is and, yeah, that right there is really the main reason he’s refusing to drink.
(3) Patrick is going to tell his mother he’s spending the night at the Wentz home and in fact he sort of is, but not exactly. They’re going to hang out at Pete’s place and do whatever, until 10 or 11 when they can sneak out the basement window to head to the club. This part Patrick’s not so sure about because although Pete is claiming the basement window is plenty big to squeeze through, the fact remains that Pete is insanely thin and also has a couple inches in height on Patrick which might make some difference when trying to climb up and pull your way through a window that is roughly a foot and a half wide and 6 feet off the ground.
As it turns out, Patrick manages his way through the window just fine, minus a snag on his favorite pair of jeans when they catch on one of the many nails that surround the window in a failed attempt to seal the frame closed to keep Pete from sneaking out at night. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Wentz have simply given up and accepted that Pete cannot be contained and they all have a mutual agreement wherein Pete pretends he won’t sneak out at night and they pretend not to notice that he does. It’s an interesting dynamic and Patrick’s not sure how he feels about being involved in it.
Once safely in Pete’s car and heading off toward downtown, the initial concerns about being caught by Pete’s parents trapped halfway through the basement window over the washing machine having subsided, Patrick begins to let it sink in where they’re actually going. He’s busy running through the scenarios and tightly gripping the door handle, contemplating whether he can survive jumping from a moving vehicle at 35 mph when Pete hits him in the arm.
“Hey, you alright? You haven’t had a word to say in the last ten minute minutes besides ‘mhmm’ and ‘uh huh.’ Something wrong?” Pete looks at Patrick with his brow furrowed.
Patrick wasn’t aware that Pete had actually been speaking, and he belatedly panics over what he might have been ‘mhmm’ing and ‘uh huh’ing to. For all he knows Pete could have been talking about how he figured out that Patrick has a crush on him and that it’s completely reciprocated and can they please have sex already. Which is a nice thought, if an unrealistic one.
“I’m okay,” he fibs, easing his hand from the door to clasp with his other hand in his lap. “Just thinking about what’s going to go down when we get there. If I’m actually going to pass for this guy.” Patrick pulls the license from his pocket and frowns down at it. “Because, Pete? Along with the fact that this dude is brunette and doesn’t wear glasses, he’s listed as 5’10”.” Patrick bites his lip and sort of hopes they don’t let him in so they can just go back to Pete’s place and Patrick can stare inappropriately at how tight Pete’s jeans are, because he hasn’t done that enough already tonight, no, not at all.
Pete just laughs at him though, slapping a hand down on the back of his neck. It’s too hot there and it’s distracting Patrick, but it’s a welcome distraction because at least he’s not thinking about what will happen in the next hour anymore. “They don’t check that stuff,” Pete is assuring him. “They only look at the birth date, and they like glance at the picture, but it’s close enough. You’ll be good. Trust me, I’ve gotten in with worse.”
Patrick hangs his head and studies the driver’s license in his hands. He focuses on memorizing the social security number, just in case they quiz him at the door. He knows that’s wholly unrealistic, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t have an actual fake ID made from his own picture like Pete does, and at least the memorization is keeping his mind from dwelling on any impending social disaster he might stumble into.
Pete turns the car into the club’s parking lot and Patrick looks up at the sudden change of speed and the influx of light into the vehicle. There are kids clustered around the parking lot in groups, leaning against cars and talking. Pulling the door open, Patrick is immediately struck by the contrasting groups of people here. There are kids of every ethnicity, in all styles of dress, some of whom look like Pete with eyeliner and bared hipbones, but somehow none of them look like Patrick with a ball cap and Bowie shirt under a denim jacket. He suddenly feels really exposed and he contemplates telling Pete he’s ill, maybe even forcing himself to throw up there in the parking lot so he doesn’t have to go inside. Unfortunately, he can’t form words yet so he just obediently follows Pete through the club’s entrance.
The music is pounding in the small room where bouncers check IDs, but it’s muffled somewhat by the heavy door that leads into the club. Pete hands his fake ID over confidently and they barely glance at it before accepting his money and stamping his hand. Pete pauses a moment to wait for Patrick, whose hand trembles more than he would have liked it to when he hands over the license to the large man in the SECURITY shirt. The guy frowns down at it and Patrick thinks for sure he’s busted and contemplates running for the door, when the man takes the money Patrick’s holding in his other hand and gives him back change. He’s openly gaping at the other bouncer as he stamps his hand with a picture of a martini with a line through it. Pete has the wherewithal to grab Patrick by the wrist and yank him forward through the door before Patrick does something brilliant like thank the security guys for letting him in.
Inside the club itself, the music is deafening. There’s a crowd around the bar holding up money and Patrick looks at it with wide eyes before turning his focus to the left where a guardrail separates the main area of the club from the dance floor down below. Various people lean against the rail and look down into the sea of people moving along to the pulsing bass line. Patrick is struck by the sense that this is an audition, that the people below are performing for the crowd above and hoping to meet with its approval. It’s sort of fascinating and he relaxes slightly under the knowledge that he can choose to remain up here and be one of the judges, not the judged.
Pete motions over to the corner of the club where it seems he sees someone he knows and Patrick nods back, knowing it’s probably fruitless to try to have a conversation here amid all the noise. He gestures to an empty spot along the railing and Pete returns his nod, an unspoken agreement to meet back there later.
Patrick leans against the rail, crossing one foot behind the other as he studies the crowd. He can’t identify the music they’re playing, just a tumbling of techno beats all interspersed and never ending, a song that continues from the time the club doors open at 9 until last call at 2, he imagines. He gets lost listening for the changes in the music because they’re subtle but after a time the whole song sounds different from what it was ten minutes earlier. Patrick’s eyes troll over the dancers below who mostly consist of groups of girls clustered together dancing and laughing and a few guys who are trying to work their way into the group, targeting one girl or another in particular.
From this vantage point, Patrick feels comfortable, invisible, like he does in school. He’s almost forgotten that he’s even here as he watches the figures move below him when he spots a couple in the middle of the floor that is unlike any of the other people.
First off, they’re male. Secondly, they’re dancing together. One is a giant and he’s gregarious, his head tilted back, laughing, as one hand pins the smaller guy to him while they grind their hips against each other. The other is thin, lean muscle over a lithe frame and he’s almost disinterested in the scene, sipping on a drink as he casually grinds back against his partner. There’s something about his expression, his movements, that seems familiar to Patrick but he can’t place it in this context. He’s squinting and trying to make it out when there’s laughter suddenly loud in his ear and he jumps back, startled, to find Pete smiling wide at him.
“What, you’ve never seen two dudes dancing together before?” Pete yells into his ear in order to be heard over the din. Patrick actually hasn’t, no, but he doesn’t want Pete to think he’s not down with such things happening, because very clearly he is. He just doesn’t know how to say it.
“No,” he yells back. “It’s not… I was trying to figure out why that guy looks familiar to me,” he explains, turning back to watch the boys move against each other.
“Who?” Pete asks, incredulous. “Mikey Way? He goes to school with us.” And it’s all Patrick can do not to gape openly at Pete or laugh in his face. Instead, he stares at the two boys because, yes, in fact that is Mikey Way down on the dance floor grinding into some random guy, on display for the whole club to see. Patrick stares harder, if possible, trying to make sense of how the same shy, quiet kid from his math class could be the one before him in a t-shirt so tight Patrick guesses he could probably make out the outline of his nipples if he was close enough.
Patrick turns to look back at Pete, trying to make sense of it when Pete continues. “He goes out all the time. He’s like a fixture on the scene.” Patrick figures that the expression on his face must reflect his utter confusion because Pete raises his eyebrows and cranes his neck forward. “You didn’t know that? Yeah, he’s at clubs like Thursday through Saturday each week.”
Patrick reaches up and unconsciously runs a hand over his long sideburn as he contemplates the information. “I thought he was shy,” he exclaims, trying to explain his confusion.
Pete smiles back at him in the way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and causes Patrick’s heart to flutter. “Well, at school, yeah. He’s not so shy when he goes out though. Trust me.” Pete arches his eyebrows and punches Patrick in the arm and Patrick suddenly does feel sick, actually sick, not just the kind of sick one pretends to be to get out of going to a club.
“Bathroom,” he yells at Pete, who points toward the far wall of the club. Following his finger, Patrick makes out the entrance to the men’s room and ducks away to maneuver through the people loitering around the club. Pushing through the doorway and hurrying to the sinks, he bends down and splashes water on his face before grabbing a fistful of paper towels and wiping himself off.
The bathroom is eerily empty: stall doors hung open and the urinals vacant. The sound of the club’s music is muffled somewhat through the door as well, so it seems a good place to stay for a moment to clear his head.
Patrick turns and leans against the counter, trying to figure out what’s making him ill. He knows Pete gets around a bit when it comes to making out with both girls and guys, so the implication that he made out with Mikey shouldn’t be that surprising. He begins to wonder if his reaction has anything to do with Pete at all when the club music is suddenly filling his ears again as the bathroom door swings open. Patrick turns to see Mikey inside the doorway, stopping as soon as their eyes meet, his recognition of Patrick immediate. Probably, Patrick thinks, because unlike Mikey, he has one persona for all occasions.
“Patrick, right?” Mikey asks as he blinks at him, his blank expression not betraying any surprise the other boy might have registered at seeing Patrick, who is admittedly not a scene kid, here in a club bathroom on a Friday night. “In my pre-cal class?” he questions, as though he isn’t quite sure even though they had spoken in class earlier that day.
“Uh, yeah,” Patrick replies, patting the front of his thighs, unsure what to do with his hands. He settles at hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Yeah, you slept through the quiz today and I think you still got a better score than me,” he tries to joke.
Mikey smiles at this and Patrick notices that his teeth seem crowded in his mouth, like it’s too small to handle all of them. More importantly, Mikey’s whole face lights up when he smiles and Patrick suddenly can’t breathe, has stopped breathing, and just stands there as his heart pounds. “I don’t study on Thursdays,” Mikey says simply, referencing their earlier conversation. “That doesn’t mean I don’t study at all.”
Patrick nods slowly in understanding. “Right,” he replies. “You come here on Thursday nights, which is why you were so tired today that you nodded off during the quiz,” he deduces.
Mikey mimics Patrick’s slow nod, still smiling. “That’s right,” he says, sounding a little pleased that Patrick has connected the dots. He walks up to the mirror near Patrick and tilts his head as he looks himself over. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he offers.
“Yeah, it’s my first time here,” Patrick admits, as he turns back around to face the mirror again, shooting glances over at the other boy. Mikey is wearing the slightest hint of eye makeup, eyeliner mostly, he observes. “Pete Wentz dragged me here for some reason.”
Mikey looks across the mirror to Patrick’s reflection. “Oh? I didn’t know you two were…” Mikey blinks again and lets the thought die in the air.
“Friends?” Patrick supplies tentatively. “We’re friends. Just friends.” He closes his eyes a moment, wishing he hadn’t added the last bit which made him both sound pathetic and like he thought maybe Mikey was implying they were more than friends, which is clearly absurd. Opening his eyes again, Patrick allows himself to lower his eyes slightly, noticing that he cannot, in fact, make out the outline of Mikey’s nipples through his shirt. He’s strangely disappointed by this fact when he realizes he most definitely can see the outline of a hip bone where Mikey’s shirt has ridden up and his pants hang low. His face blushes although he fervently argues with his skin against doing so.
“Oh,” Mikey replies quickly, his eyes downcast as he fiddles with the faucet of the sink, not turning the water on, just running his hands over it. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and Patrick turns his head to watch, unsure of what he should be doing or saying now. Mikey’s expression is as unreadable as always. “Friends are good,” he adds.
“Yeah. Friends are good,” Patrick repeats, thinking this is the most benign conversation he’s ever had and wondering why he has to be so goddamned awkward, especially in the presence of any guy who he finds attractive.
And Mikey is, actually, really attractive. He isn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before, but he wouldn’t ever be thinking he was nondescript again. His nose is somehow both prominent and delicate at the same time, and his jaw line is strong, defined. From behind his glasses, his eyes almost appear to be a golden brown with maybe a hint of green, and his mouth… His mouth is perfect, what Patrick assumes people mean when they talk about a rosebud mouth and he wonders what it would be like to kiss it, just once.
"You know what would be nice, though?” Patrick wonders aloud, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. “If a guy would be interested in being more than friends. Like, interested in me for something besides just hanging out and watching movies and playing Guitar Hero.” And just like that, Patrick has said out loud for the first time in his life that he’s gay.
“You play Guitar Hero?” Mikey asks without missing a beat, and the smile is back, and Patrick can feel it in his toes. “I bet I could kick your ass,” he adds, laughing softly and looking slightly mischievous.
“Oh yeah?” Patrick folds his arms across his chest and juts his chin out, turning sideways against the counter, the corner of it digging into his hip. He feels slightly emboldened. Just slightly.
“You should come over sometime and we’ll see,” Mikey offers quickly, as though he’s trying to say it before he can take it back. He then returns his focus back to his hands, running them over the smooth metal of the sink’s faucet again.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Patrick agrees, smiling back, but he’s suddenly aware that Mikey hasn’t done anything while in the bathroom besides talk to him and he thinks maybe he’s in the way of something. “Um, did you come in here to like… cuz if you need your privacy I can just…” Patrick nods to the door.
Mikey sucks on his lip again and shakes his head. “I just come in here sometimes to get away from all that out there, be alone,” he explains, waiving a hand toward the door. Patrick registers his use of the word ‘alone’ and is about to move toward the door when, as if reading Patrick’s thoughts, the boy raises his eyes to lock with Patrick’s. “You don’t have to go, though.”
“Oh, okay.” It’s Patrick’s turn to look down now as he toes his shoe against the tile. “So that guy you were dancing with?”
“Gabe,” Mikey replies. “We’re just friends too.”
Patrick chances another look up when the door to the bathroom flies open once again and a group of raucous drunks files in, pushing each other and laughing as they clamor toward the row of urinals. “Want to go get some air?” Patrick asks loudly over the noise and Mikey smiles in response, nodding quickly.
Patrick follows the taller boy back out into the club, spotting Pete who is now talking to a group from school back over in the same corner he had originally headed for. He thinks about running over to tell him he’s stepping outside but decides he can always text him later or something if they can’t find each other. As the crowd starts to get thicker, Mikey suddenly slows and reaches back, curling his fingers around Patrick’s hand to lead him through it.
Patrick’s palm is warm, probably sweaty, and there’s a lump in his throat he isn’t sure he can swallow down. He keeps his eyes on Mikey’s sharp shoulder blades as he trails behind, shifting his hand slightly for a better grip when Mikey moves his own hand to interlace their fingers. Patrick’s face is bright red under the dimmed club lights.
Stepping outside, the cool March air chills all the places where he hadn’t even realized he was sweaty, but he’s thankful because it could hopefully take the color from his cheeks. Mikey slips his fingers out of Patrick’s and drops his hand as he heads into the parking lot. Patrick tries to tell himself that he isn’t disappointed.
Mikey strides through the lot on longer legs than Patrick possesses and Patrick starts a slow jog to catch up with him. Heading around the back of the building, Mikey stops and leans back against the wall, panting puffs of warm breath to mist into the air. “It’s cold out,” he observes, his mouth forming a small smile that doesn’t show his teeth.
“Yeah,” Patrick laughs. “It’s still March and-Hey, you’re wearing short sleeves,” Patrick realizes belatedly. He feels bad now that he’d suggested heading outside, but Mikey could have said no and he hadn’t so… “I’m sorry. We didn’t have to-“
“No,” Mikey cuts him off, shaking his head for emphasis. “I’m fine. It’s good.” He bounces slightly on his toes as he wraps his arms around himself to keep warm.
Patrick begins to take off his jacket to offer it to the other boy. “Here, put this on,” he starts when Mikey shakes his head again.
“Then you’ll be cold, so that’s not really an answer.” He smiles wider and Patrick can see the glint of his teeth peek out from underneath his quivering upper lip.
“No, dude, you’re shivering.” Patrick steps forward to… He isn’t really sure what, exactly. To put his arms around Mikey to get him to stop shivering is his thought. Only in execution does he realize that he is now pressed up against the other boy’s frame, they are both sweaty, and Mikey is shaking harder now. Patrick lifts his face up to say something but instead kisses him full on the mouth.
It takes Mikey a moment to untangle his arms from himself, but when he does, Patrick feels one hand rest casually on his hip while the other strokes up and down his side slowly, inside his unbuttoned jacket. He doesn’t pull away from the kiss and, much to Patrick’s surprise, is returning it.
Patrick allows his jaw to drop open slightly, his lips parting. Mikey has the same idea and suddenly there is warmth sliding over his tongue as he rolls his tongue against the Mikey’s. His shaking hands travel from Mikey’s back around to his waist, one hand covering the exposed patch of skin at Mikey’s hip while he raises the other to gently rest it against the side of the other boy’s face. He’s no longer aware of the chilled air around them, just of this, Mikey’s mouth against his, the bump of their noses or glasses as they adjust position to try to deepen the kiss, the thudding of his heart against his ribs so hard he’s sure Mikey can feel it pressed up against him.
The kiss continues on somewhat frenzied and Patrick thinks if he dies right here, right now, it wouldn’t all be half bad because he had this moment at least. A buzzing in his pocket causes Patrick to finally pull back to take a deep breath and look at Mikey with glazed eyes. He’s flushed and aroused, so hard he thinks he’ll burst, and Mikey is smiling at him still. He wants to kiss him again, but he knows if he does, he won’t have the self control to stop and behind PaPa’s Planet is not the ideal location for serious make out sessions or more. Instead, Patrick reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Flipping the cover open, he notes the time and how he’s completely lost track of it, now close to 1am. A message from Pete inquires as to his whereabouts and if he’s alright and Patrick looks sheepishly as Mikey.
“Pete’s looking for you,” Mikey guesses. He nods his own confirmation and pushes himself off the wall. “I should probably get going too.” Patrick frowns at that and Mikey smiles wider. “We should do this again sometime. Indoors.”
Patrick smiles back and gives an emphatic nod. “After you kick my ass in Guitar Hero,” he agrees.
"Yes,” Mikey laughs. “Maybe tomorrow.” He stands with his knees together and his hip angled to the side and Patrick hadn’t been aware before that moment that the way a person stood could be endearing.
“Tomorrow meaning today or tomorrow meaning tomorrow?” Patrick wonders, noting it’s technically Saturday already. He matches Mikey’s grin.
The other boy contemplates it, trying to make sense of the riddle. “Tomorrow meaning today,” he decides. “Tonight? Are you busy?”
Patrick chuckles at this because his usual Saturday night consists of fighting over the television remote with his brother, who’s home from college. “I’m free. I’m definitely free. Won’t you be going out though?” He raises his eyebrows as Mikey looks away and gives a slight shrug.
“I don’t have to if I have a better offer,” he replies, looking back to Patrick hopefully.
“Uh…” Patrick chuckles. “If I’m a better offer, than yeah, you do.” He looks back down to his phone and hits the button to add a contact before handing it to Mikey. When he’s finished entering his number, Mikey returns the phone and kisses Patrick, soft and quick.
“Go find Pete,” Mikey grins. “He’s probably worried. And call me tomorrow.”
Patrick watches as Mikey begins to walk away. “Today,” he corrects and hears Mikey’s laughter disappearing behind the building.
This is the first fanfic I've written, so if you got this far, thank you for reading. Basically, there isn't enough Patrick/Mikey fic out there so I gave in and tried to write some. Any feedback is very much appreciated.
Title - "Silent On the Weekdays"
Author -
runthegamut
Pairing - Patrick Stump/Mikey Way
Rating - PG-13
Word Count: 6566
Summary - A high school AU wherein Patrick notices Mikey. It's pretty clearly inspired by this picture.
Disclaimer - Not real. Never happened. Fake fake fake.
A/N's - For
artisticmuddle , whom I adore and cannot say enough wonderful things about. You make me push myself harder. Title from Bloc Party's "The Prayer." Beta'd by Deb who is lame and doesn't have an LJ account. Concrit very welcomed.
Patrick doesn’t remember the first time he met Mikey Way. Well, he probably didn’t actually “meet” him with a formal introduction and a handshake or something, which is maybe why he doesn’t remember it. But no, he doesn’t even remember what year he came to know of Mikey’s existence. It could have been this year, he’s not really sure.
If he thinks about it, he remembers one interaction he’s had with the boy in his three years of attending Lourdes Memorial High School. Patrick was rushing out the door of his classroom while Mikey was heading in and they’d collided, sending the stack of notebooks, texts, and folders Mikey had clutched between his hands scattering. Patrick had mumbled a quick “Sorry, sorry,” as he crouched down to help pick them up and Mikey had maybe made some sort of noise, a disappointed or tired sound as he too squatted down to retrieve his belongings.
Patrick hadn’t even really looked at the kid until he raised his eyes as he offered him back the items he’d recovered. Mikey kept his eyes downcast and Patrick thought to himself how entirely unremarkable he was. Not that Patrick was anything special, he knew. But Mikey was nondescript in the sense that he wore the school uniform, not neat, but not sloppy. He was taller than Patrick, but that wasn’t saying much, and under his clothes Patrick guessed Mikey was thin in a way that a teenage boy wouldn’t want to be thin; wiry with awkward limbs and no muscle definition. His hair was plastered straight down the sides of his head and it was maybe a little odd, but it mostly just seemed messy, as though the guy didn’t really care. His most distinguishing feature was his black framed glasses, but Patrick was sporting a similar style so there was nothing too unique about that either.
Mikey seemed tired, put out, sighing in annoyance as he accepted the stack from Patrick. They both rose to their feet and Mikey continued to study the ground as Patrick shuffled awkwardly in his spot, trying to come up with something to say. He suddenly realized he was blocking Mikey’s entrance into the classroom and instead apologized again before quickly heading off down the hall. Patrick thought that if monotone was an expression, it would be Mikey’s default. And that’s all the consideration he’d given the boy, until today.
Math is not Patrick’s forte and it doesn’t help matters that he spends the better part of each class period scratching out ideas for songs into his notebook instead of paying attention to whatever wisdom Mr. Jansen is imparting to them. That is, if knowledge of how to graph sin actually qualifies as wisdom. He mostly keeps his head down and tries to will himself to be invisible, and being in the back of the classroom is certainly to his advantage on that point. Patrick wishes every teacher would assign seats alphabetically because the last name of Stumph guarantees that a good 3/4ths of the class is more visible than he is under this arrangment. The only way he could be luckier is if his last name started with a ‘W’ and apart from Sara Williams in this class, there weren’t any other students with a W last na-
“Michael Way,” the instructor calls and Patrick’s head snaps up from where he is doodling the lyrics of David Bowie’s ‘Five Years’ because he has completely forgotten that Mikey is in this class. So have his classmates, evidently, as the room somewhat bewilderedly turns to look back at the boy who sits somewhat open mouthed in surprise before quickly ducking his head and studying his text, one finger keeping his place as his eyes move over the problem.
Mikey somehow manages to fidget with every part of his body, the bottom of his shoes scuffing over the linoleum floor as he sits forward, managing to hide his face even more from the inquisitive looks around the room. As his finger travels over the page, his free hand rubs up and down the length of his thigh as though he’s trying to wipe the sweat from his palms. His jaw works open and closed as he searches to find the words to speak. Mikey seems to be wilting under the attentive looks from the rest of the group and Patrick feels bad for him and has to turn his focus away. He hears Mikey stutter out an answer and after a pause, Mr. Jansen nods his approval and moves on to the next illustration.
Patrick lets out a breath of relief, his stomach in knots and heart racing. He allows himself one look back at where Mikey sits in the far corner of the classroom to see that the boy’s okay, thinking maybe he’ll even offer him an encouraging smile because, hey, Patrick’s never a fan of being called on himself. Mikey just sits perfectly still, his head down, and Patrick finds himself somehow disappointed that he can’t share that connection with him, like “Hey, I’m shy too, I know how you feel, glad you survived it.” He turns back to his work and decides to pay attention for the remainder of class, just in case Mr. Jansen decided today is the day to pick on the invisible kids.
***
The lunch period is a ridiculously short twenty-five minutes. Once you make your way from your classroom to your locker to drop off your books and then head off to the cafeteria and move through the hot lunch line, at least ten of those minutes have passed by. That gives Patrick a whopping fifteen minutes to find a neutral place to sit, eat his nutritionally balanced (if not delicious) meal, and socialize with his peers.
Never falling into one social group in high school is a good thing, Patrick had determined early on. Even though he never has a built-in group of friends to sit with, no one hates him or calls him names either. He’s somehow managed to skirt the edges of every clique, being friendly enough with everyone but never falling into one himself. It isn’t a bad place to be, and he has a handful of friends that are in the same boat as him that he’s connected with. Really, Patrick is happy to have a few true friends to call his own.
Patrick is enjoying his carrot sticks with ranch dressing at minute number twenty-one of the twenty-five minute lunch period when Pete Wentz bounces over to invade his personal space. Again.
“Hey, Patrick,” Pete calls out in a lazy drawl as he sits down next to him, leaning against the table and reaching over to steal a carrot stick. Patrick doesn’t even bother to object. About three months ago, they’d been paired up to do a project in physics class and Patrick had let Pete take the reins, even though it was patently obvious he had no idea what he was doing. Their rocket had exploded, the experiment was a bust, but Patrick had fun in spite of himself and Pete had somehow decided they were friends now, despite the fact that Pete Wentz was “popular.”
Patrick looks up from his food and sighs, “Hey, Pete,” the same disinterested way he’s been doing since their friendship formed and it always makes Pete smile wider, which makes Patrick’s heart flutter just a little. If he has to guess, he would say that Pete enjoys the implication that there’s someone who has a little trepidation about being around him, who doesn’t think he hangs the moon. Except Patrick kind of does think that. He just isn’t about to let on.
“Dude, what are you doing Friday night?” Patrick opens his mouth to respond but before any words make their way out, Pete’s hand is on his shoulder and he’s leaning in close enough that Patrick can feel his breath on his cheek. “I’m taking you to a club,” he continues as if it’s somehow been decided when really, no, it hasn’t.
“Um, okay Pete. Yeah. Sure. I’ll go to a club with you. Except for the fact that I’m, you know, sixteen and there are no clubs here that let in anyone under nineteen but yeah. Okay. Sure.” He gives Pete a skeptical look that just makes the other boy laugh.
“Patrick, you’re so cute,” Pete coos in his ear and Patrick’s stomach jumps up and then bottoms out because just the way Pete is looking at him as if he’s said something precious and special is something he’ll be thinking about tonight as he’s drifting off into sleep. “That’s what fake IDs are for.”
Patrick has to laugh at that because the idea that he owns a fake ID is just… well, it’s laughable. “I don’t have a fake ID. I don’t even know where to get a fake ID. Nor do I probably have the money to afford a fake ID,” he explains slowly to allow it to sink in. He’d learned during the physics project that once Pete got an idea in his head, he was difficult to dissuade, even though minor details like, well, physics, might contradict him.
“Taken care of already,” Pete replies in a voice that’s both filled with confidence and amusement.
Patrick stares at him blankly for a moment before uttering a confused, “What?” and just as suddenly as he’d sat down, Pete is up again.
“I’ll come pick you up at like 7, cool? Tell your mom you’re spending the night or something because we’ll probably be out late.” Pete gives his shoulder a squeeze and grins down at him. “It’ll be fun, dude. Stop looking at me like you’re going to die. Remember how awesome the science experiment turned out?” he adds as he walks away.
“We failed the science experiment!” Patrick calls after him but Pete just laughs and heads on his way.
Patrick stares down at his tray as his heart races. He’s never been to a club, but he isn’t really sure he wants to go either. First off, there will be a lot of people there. A lot of people who will be judging everyone based on their appearance and no, just no, Patrick isn’t down with that. Second off, he isn’t dancing. And if he isn’t dancing, what’s the point of going clubbing? Well, drinking maybe, but he’s too young to be doing that, even with a fake ID that says he’s 19.
And is he spending the night at Pete Wentz’s house? Because that… might be a problem, he thinks. Well, not so much a problem as a restless night of tossing and turning with massive hard-on as he tries to ignore the fact that the hottest guy in school is sleeping in the same room with probably far too little clothing on. Unless they aren’t spending the night at Pete’s house, in which case where will they be sleeping if they are in fact sleeping at all? His head is spinning.
Patrick wipes his mouth and balls up his napkin, tossing it onto his tray. He isn’t hungry anymore and looking at the food on his tray is making him queasy. He has three days to figure out what the hell is going on, assuming he can even get any answers.
***
Friday comes too quickly. It sneaks up on him somehow and he isn’t really ready for it. He has a quiz in math class that he’d tried to distract himself with by studying for the night before, but he’d done a shitty job at both studying and distracting himself and now he’s sitting in class staring blankly at the circular graphs before him and wondering how this will ever be even remotely relevant to his life. He exhales sharply and starts plotting points on the graph, occasionally shooting looks around the room as everyone else seems to be effortlessly making marks on their papers.
Glancing over his right shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Mikey who appears to be the only other person in the room not writing. Patrick watches for a moment before realizing he’s asleep, his breathing regular and even, his lips parted just slightly. He smiles to himself that at least one other person is more bored by the subject matter than he is and goes back to trying to think up something to write on the paper so he doesn’t turn in a blank quiz.
When the bell rings, he drops his pencil into his bag and shuffles his way to the front of the classroom, lining up behind the rest of his classmates to turn in the quiz. Patrick gives his paper one last look before setting it on the stack when Mikey rushes up to the desk and drops his paper on top of it. Patrick glances at it, notices Mikey’s problems are completed and graphs are drawn in carefully, and his heart sinks because he is definitely getting the lowest grade in the class on this quiz when even the guy who slept through it did better than him.
Patrick turns toward Mikey who is about to head out the door and before he can even consider whether he should speak to him, he hears himself say, “Late night studying?”
Mikey stops in his tracks and looks back at Patrick with what Patrick imagines would be a curious expression, if Mikey actually emoted with his face. “I don’t study on Thursdays,” is the only explanation he gives, but he holds Patrick’s gaze for maybe a second longer than necessary before turning and heading out of the room. Patrick’s stomach aches.
***
In the intervening time between his initial conversation with Pete and 7pm Friday night, Patrick has found out the following details:
(1) Pete has somehow procured for him an ID from a guy who knows a guy who looks just like Patrick and is 19 years old. Or so Pete claims.
(2) The club they’re going to is 19+ and serves alcohol, which Patrick is not drinking, no way, no how, not even if Pete somehow manages to get him a drink. Because being drunk at a club with Pete Wentz is maybe the worst idea ever, no matter how badly he might want to be in order to forget his discomfort and maybe even work up the courage to tell Pete how beautiful he is and, yeah, that right there is really the main reason he’s refusing to drink.
(3) Patrick is going to tell his mother he’s spending the night at the Wentz home and in fact he sort of is, but not exactly. They’re going to hang out at Pete’s place and do whatever, until 10 or 11 when they can sneak out the basement window to head to the club. This part Patrick’s not so sure about because although Pete is claiming the basement window is plenty big to squeeze through, the fact remains that Pete is insanely thin and also has a couple inches in height on Patrick which might make some difference when trying to climb up and pull your way through a window that is roughly a foot and a half wide and 6 feet off the ground.
As it turns out, Patrick manages his way through the window just fine, minus a snag on his favorite pair of jeans when they catch on one of the many nails that surround the window in a failed attempt to seal the frame closed to keep Pete from sneaking out at night. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Wentz have simply given up and accepted that Pete cannot be contained and they all have a mutual agreement wherein Pete pretends he won’t sneak out at night and they pretend not to notice that he does. It’s an interesting dynamic and Patrick’s not sure how he feels about being involved in it.
Once safely in Pete’s car and heading off toward downtown, the initial concerns about being caught by Pete’s parents trapped halfway through the basement window over the washing machine having subsided, Patrick begins to let it sink in where they’re actually going. He’s busy running through the scenarios and tightly gripping the door handle, contemplating whether he can survive jumping from a moving vehicle at 35 mph when Pete hits him in the arm.
“Hey, you alright? You haven’t had a word to say in the last ten minute minutes besides ‘mhmm’ and ‘uh huh.’ Something wrong?” Pete looks at Patrick with his brow furrowed.
Patrick wasn’t aware that Pete had actually been speaking, and he belatedly panics over what he might have been ‘mhmm’ing and ‘uh huh’ing to. For all he knows Pete could have been talking about how he figured out that Patrick has a crush on him and that it’s completely reciprocated and can they please have sex already. Which is a nice thought, if an unrealistic one.
“I’m okay,” he fibs, easing his hand from the door to clasp with his other hand in his lap. “Just thinking about what’s going to go down when we get there. If I’m actually going to pass for this guy.” Patrick pulls the license from his pocket and frowns down at it. “Because, Pete? Along with the fact that this dude is brunette and doesn’t wear glasses, he’s listed as 5’10”.” Patrick bites his lip and sort of hopes they don’t let him in so they can just go back to Pete’s place and Patrick can stare inappropriately at how tight Pete’s jeans are, because he hasn’t done that enough already tonight, no, not at all.
Pete just laughs at him though, slapping a hand down on the back of his neck. It’s too hot there and it’s distracting Patrick, but it’s a welcome distraction because at least he’s not thinking about what will happen in the next hour anymore. “They don’t check that stuff,” Pete is assuring him. “They only look at the birth date, and they like glance at the picture, but it’s close enough. You’ll be good. Trust me, I’ve gotten in with worse.”
Patrick hangs his head and studies the driver’s license in his hands. He focuses on memorizing the social security number, just in case they quiz him at the door. He knows that’s wholly unrealistic, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t have an actual fake ID made from his own picture like Pete does, and at least the memorization is keeping his mind from dwelling on any impending social disaster he might stumble into.
Pete turns the car into the club’s parking lot and Patrick looks up at the sudden change of speed and the influx of light into the vehicle. There are kids clustered around the parking lot in groups, leaning against cars and talking. Pulling the door open, Patrick is immediately struck by the contrasting groups of people here. There are kids of every ethnicity, in all styles of dress, some of whom look like Pete with eyeliner and bared hipbones, but somehow none of them look like Patrick with a ball cap and Bowie shirt under a denim jacket. He suddenly feels really exposed and he contemplates telling Pete he’s ill, maybe even forcing himself to throw up there in the parking lot so he doesn’t have to go inside. Unfortunately, he can’t form words yet so he just obediently follows Pete through the club’s entrance.
The music is pounding in the small room where bouncers check IDs, but it’s muffled somewhat by the heavy door that leads into the club. Pete hands his fake ID over confidently and they barely glance at it before accepting his money and stamping his hand. Pete pauses a moment to wait for Patrick, whose hand trembles more than he would have liked it to when he hands over the license to the large man in the SECURITY shirt. The guy frowns down at it and Patrick thinks for sure he’s busted and contemplates running for the door, when the man takes the money Patrick’s holding in his other hand and gives him back change. He’s openly gaping at the other bouncer as he stamps his hand with a picture of a martini with a line through it. Pete has the wherewithal to grab Patrick by the wrist and yank him forward through the door before Patrick does something brilliant like thank the security guys for letting him in.
Inside the club itself, the music is deafening. There’s a crowd around the bar holding up money and Patrick looks at it with wide eyes before turning his focus to the left where a guardrail separates the main area of the club from the dance floor down below. Various people lean against the rail and look down into the sea of people moving along to the pulsing bass line. Patrick is struck by the sense that this is an audition, that the people below are performing for the crowd above and hoping to meet with its approval. It’s sort of fascinating and he relaxes slightly under the knowledge that he can choose to remain up here and be one of the judges, not the judged.
Pete motions over to the corner of the club where it seems he sees someone he knows and Patrick nods back, knowing it’s probably fruitless to try to have a conversation here amid all the noise. He gestures to an empty spot along the railing and Pete returns his nod, an unspoken agreement to meet back there later.
Patrick leans against the rail, crossing one foot behind the other as he studies the crowd. He can’t identify the music they’re playing, just a tumbling of techno beats all interspersed and never ending, a song that continues from the time the club doors open at 9 until last call at 2, he imagines. He gets lost listening for the changes in the music because they’re subtle but after a time the whole song sounds different from what it was ten minutes earlier. Patrick’s eyes troll over the dancers below who mostly consist of groups of girls clustered together dancing and laughing and a few guys who are trying to work their way into the group, targeting one girl or another in particular.
From this vantage point, Patrick feels comfortable, invisible, like he does in school. He’s almost forgotten that he’s even here as he watches the figures move below him when he spots a couple in the middle of the floor that is unlike any of the other people.
First off, they’re male. Secondly, they’re dancing together. One is a giant and he’s gregarious, his head tilted back, laughing, as one hand pins the smaller guy to him while they grind their hips against each other. The other is thin, lean muscle over a lithe frame and he’s almost disinterested in the scene, sipping on a drink as he casually grinds back against his partner. There’s something about his expression, his movements, that seems familiar to Patrick but he can’t place it in this context. He’s squinting and trying to make it out when there’s laughter suddenly loud in his ear and he jumps back, startled, to find Pete smiling wide at him.
“What, you’ve never seen two dudes dancing together before?” Pete yells into his ear in order to be heard over the din. Patrick actually hasn’t, no, but he doesn’t want Pete to think he’s not down with such things happening, because very clearly he is. He just doesn’t know how to say it.
“No,” he yells back. “It’s not… I was trying to figure out why that guy looks familiar to me,” he explains, turning back to watch the boys move against each other.
“Who?” Pete asks, incredulous. “Mikey Way? He goes to school with us.” And it’s all Patrick can do not to gape openly at Pete or laugh in his face. Instead, he stares at the two boys because, yes, in fact that is Mikey Way down on the dance floor grinding into some random guy, on display for the whole club to see. Patrick stares harder, if possible, trying to make sense of how the same shy, quiet kid from his math class could be the one before him in a t-shirt so tight Patrick guesses he could probably make out the outline of his nipples if he was close enough.
Patrick turns to look back at Pete, trying to make sense of it when Pete continues. “He goes out all the time. He’s like a fixture on the scene.” Patrick figures that the expression on his face must reflect his utter confusion because Pete raises his eyebrows and cranes his neck forward. “You didn’t know that? Yeah, he’s at clubs like Thursday through Saturday each week.”
Patrick reaches up and unconsciously runs a hand over his long sideburn as he contemplates the information. “I thought he was shy,” he exclaims, trying to explain his confusion.
Pete smiles back at him in the way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and causes Patrick’s heart to flutter. “Well, at school, yeah. He’s not so shy when he goes out though. Trust me.” Pete arches his eyebrows and punches Patrick in the arm and Patrick suddenly does feel sick, actually sick, not just the kind of sick one pretends to be to get out of going to a club.
“Bathroom,” he yells at Pete, who points toward the far wall of the club. Following his finger, Patrick makes out the entrance to the men’s room and ducks away to maneuver through the people loitering around the club. Pushing through the doorway and hurrying to the sinks, he bends down and splashes water on his face before grabbing a fistful of paper towels and wiping himself off.
The bathroom is eerily empty: stall doors hung open and the urinals vacant. The sound of the club’s music is muffled somewhat through the door as well, so it seems a good place to stay for a moment to clear his head.
Patrick turns and leans against the counter, trying to figure out what’s making him ill. He knows Pete gets around a bit when it comes to making out with both girls and guys, so the implication that he made out with Mikey shouldn’t be that surprising. He begins to wonder if his reaction has anything to do with Pete at all when the club music is suddenly filling his ears again as the bathroom door swings open. Patrick turns to see Mikey inside the doorway, stopping as soon as their eyes meet, his recognition of Patrick immediate. Probably, Patrick thinks, because unlike Mikey, he has one persona for all occasions.
“Patrick, right?” Mikey asks as he blinks at him, his blank expression not betraying any surprise the other boy might have registered at seeing Patrick, who is admittedly not a scene kid, here in a club bathroom on a Friday night. “In my pre-cal class?” he questions, as though he isn’t quite sure even though they had spoken in class earlier that day.
“Uh, yeah,” Patrick replies, patting the front of his thighs, unsure what to do with his hands. He settles at hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Yeah, you slept through the quiz today and I think you still got a better score than me,” he tries to joke.
Mikey smiles at this and Patrick notices that his teeth seem crowded in his mouth, like it’s too small to handle all of them. More importantly, Mikey’s whole face lights up when he smiles and Patrick suddenly can’t breathe, has stopped breathing, and just stands there as his heart pounds. “I don’t study on Thursdays,” Mikey says simply, referencing their earlier conversation. “That doesn’t mean I don’t study at all.”
Patrick nods slowly in understanding. “Right,” he replies. “You come here on Thursday nights, which is why you were so tired today that you nodded off during the quiz,” he deduces.
Mikey mimics Patrick’s slow nod, still smiling. “That’s right,” he says, sounding a little pleased that Patrick has connected the dots. He walks up to the mirror near Patrick and tilts his head as he looks himself over. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he offers.
“Yeah, it’s my first time here,” Patrick admits, as he turns back around to face the mirror again, shooting glances over at the other boy. Mikey is wearing the slightest hint of eye makeup, eyeliner mostly, he observes. “Pete Wentz dragged me here for some reason.”
Mikey looks across the mirror to Patrick’s reflection. “Oh? I didn’t know you two were…” Mikey blinks again and lets the thought die in the air.
“Friends?” Patrick supplies tentatively. “We’re friends. Just friends.” He closes his eyes a moment, wishing he hadn’t added the last bit which made him both sound pathetic and like he thought maybe Mikey was implying they were more than friends, which is clearly absurd. Opening his eyes again, Patrick allows himself to lower his eyes slightly, noticing that he cannot, in fact, make out the outline of Mikey’s nipples through his shirt. He’s strangely disappointed by this fact when he realizes he most definitely can see the outline of a hip bone where Mikey’s shirt has ridden up and his pants hang low. His face blushes although he fervently argues with his skin against doing so.
“Oh,” Mikey replies quickly, his eyes downcast as he fiddles with the faucet of the sink, not turning the water on, just running his hands over it. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and Patrick turns his head to watch, unsure of what he should be doing or saying now. Mikey’s expression is as unreadable as always. “Friends are good,” he adds.
“Yeah. Friends are good,” Patrick repeats, thinking this is the most benign conversation he’s ever had and wondering why he has to be so goddamned awkward, especially in the presence of any guy who he finds attractive.
And Mikey is, actually, really attractive. He isn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before, but he wouldn’t ever be thinking he was nondescript again. His nose is somehow both prominent and delicate at the same time, and his jaw line is strong, defined. From behind his glasses, his eyes almost appear to be a golden brown with maybe a hint of green, and his mouth… His mouth is perfect, what Patrick assumes people mean when they talk about a rosebud mouth and he wonders what it would be like to kiss it, just once.
"You know what would be nice, though?” Patrick wonders aloud, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. “If a guy would be interested in being more than friends. Like, interested in me for something besides just hanging out and watching movies and playing Guitar Hero.” And just like that, Patrick has said out loud for the first time in his life that he’s gay.
“You play Guitar Hero?” Mikey asks without missing a beat, and the smile is back, and Patrick can feel it in his toes. “I bet I could kick your ass,” he adds, laughing softly and looking slightly mischievous.
“Oh yeah?” Patrick folds his arms across his chest and juts his chin out, turning sideways against the counter, the corner of it digging into his hip. He feels slightly emboldened. Just slightly.
“You should come over sometime and we’ll see,” Mikey offers quickly, as though he’s trying to say it before he can take it back. He then returns his focus back to his hands, running them over the smooth metal of the sink’s faucet again.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Patrick agrees, smiling back, but he’s suddenly aware that Mikey hasn’t done anything while in the bathroom besides talk to him and he thinks maybe he’s in the way of something. “Um, did you come in here to like… cuz if you need your privacy I can just…” Patrick nods to the door.
Mikey sucks on his lip again and shakes his head. “I just come in here sometimes to get away from all that out there, be alone,” he explains, waiving a hand toward the door. Patrick registers his use of the word ‘alone’ and is about to move toward the door when, as if reading Patrick’s thoughts, the boy raises his eyes to lock with Patrick’s. “You don’t have to go, though.”
“Oh, okay.” It’s Patrick’s turn to look down now as he toes his shoe against the tile. “So that guy you were dancing with?”
“Gabe,” Mikey replies. “We’re just friends too.”
Patrick chances another look up when the door to the bathroom flies open once again and a group of raucous drunks files in, pushing each other and laughing as they clamor toward the row of urinals. “Want to go get some air?” Patrick asks loudly over the noise and Mikey smiles in response, nodding quickly.
Patrick follows the taller boy back out into the club, spotting Pete who is now talking to a group from school back over in the same corner he had originally headed for. He thinks about running over to tell him he’s stepping outside but decides he can always text him later or something if they can’t find each other. As the crowd starts to get thicker, Mikey suddenly slows and reaches back, curling his fingers around Patrick’s hand to lead him through it.
Patrick’s palm is warm, probably sweaty, and there’s a lump in his throat he isn’t sure he can swallow down. He keeps his eyes on Mikey’s sharp shoulder blades as he trails behind, shifting his hand slightly for a better grip when Mikey moves his own hand to interlace their fingers. Patrick’s face is bright red under the dimmed club lights.
Stepping outside, the cool March air chills all the places where he hadn’t even realized he was sweaty, but he’s thankful because it could hopefully take the color from his cheeks. Mikey slips his fingers out of Patrick’s and drops his hand as he heads into the parking lot. Patrick tries to tell himself that he isn’t disappointed.
Mikey strides through the lot on longer legs than Patrick possesses and Patrick starts a slow jog to catch up with him. Heading around the back of the building, Mikey stops and leans back against the wall, panting puffs of warm breath to mist into the air. “It’s cold out,” he observes, his mouth forming a small smile that doesn’t show his teeth.
“Yeah,” Patrick laughs. “It’s still March and-Hey, you’re wearing short sleeves,” Patrick realizes belatedly. He feels bad now that he’d suggested heading outside, but Mikey could have said no and he hadn’t so… “I’m sorry. We didn’t have to-“
“No,” Mikey cuts him off, shaking his head for emphasis. “I’m fine. It’s good.” He bounces slightly on his toes as he wraps his arms around himself to keep warm.
Patrick begins to take off his jacket to offer it to the other boy. “Here, put this on,” he starts when Mikey shakes his head again.
“Then you’ll be cold, so that’s not really an answer.” He smiles wider and Patrick can see the glint of his teeth peek out from underneath his quivering upper lip.
“No, dude, you’re shivering.” Patrick steps forward to… He isn’t really sure what, exactly. To put his arms around Mikey to get him to stop shivering is his thought. Only in execution does he realize that he is now pressed up against the other boy’s frame, they are both sweaty, and Mikey is shaking harder now. Patrick lifts his face up to say something but instead kisses him full on the mouth.
It takes Mikey a moment to untangle his arms from himself, but when he does, Patrick feels one hand rest casually on his hip while the other strokes up and down his side slowly, inside his unbuttoned jacket. He doesn’t pull away from the kiss and, much to Patrick’s surprise, is returning it.
Patrick allows his jaw to drop open slightly, his lips parting. Mikey has the same idea and suddenly there is warmth sliding over his tongue as he rolls his tongue against the Mikey’s. His shaking hands travel from Mikey’s back around to his waist, one hand covering the exposed patch of skin at Mikey’s hip while he raises the other to gently rest it against the side of the other boy’s face. He’s no longer aware of the chilled air around them, just of this, Mikey’s mouth against his, the bump of their noses or glasses as they adjust position to try to deepen the kiss, the thudding of his heart against his ribs so hard he’s sure Mikey can feel it pressed up against him.
The kiss continues on somewhat frenzied and Patrick thinks if he dies right here, right now, it wouldn’t all be half bad because he had this moment at least. A buzzing in his pocket causes Patrick to finally pull back to take a deep breath and look at Mikey with glazed eyes. He’s flushed and aroused, so hard he thinks he’ll burst, and Mikey is smiling at him still. He wants to kiss him again, but he knows if he does, he won’t have the self control to stop and behind PaPa’s Planet is not the ideal location for serious make out sessions or more. Instead, Patrick reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Flipping the cover open, he notes the time and how he’s completely lost track of it, now close to 1am. A message from Pete inquires as to his whereabouts and if he’s alright and Patrick looks sheepishly as Mikey.
“Pete’s looking for you,” Mikey guesses. He nods his own confirmation and pushes himself off the wall. “I should probably get going too.” Patrick frowns at that and Mikey smiles wider. “We should do this again sometime. Indoors.”
Patrick smiles back and gives an emphatic nod. “After you kick my ass in Guitar Hero,” he agrees.
"Yes,” Mikey laughs. “Maybe tomorrow.” He stands with his knees together and his hip angled to the side and Patrick hadn’t been aware before that moment that the way a person stood could be endearing.
“Tomorrow meaning today or tomorrow meaning tomorrow?” Patrick wonders, noting it’s technically Saturday already. He matches Mikey’s grin.
The other boy contemplates it, trying to make sense of the riddle. “Tomorrow meaning today,” he decides. “Tonight? Are you busy?”
Patrick chuckles at this because his usual Saturday night consists of fighting over the television remote with his brother, who’s home from college. “I’m free. I’m definitely free. Won’t you be going out though?” He raises his eyebrows as Mikey looks away and gives a slight shrug.
“I don’t have to if I have a better offer,” he replies, looking back to Patrick hopefully.
“Uh…” Patrick chuckles. “If I’m a better offer, than yeah, you do.” He looks back down to his phone and hits the button to add a contact before handing it to Mikey. When he’s finished entering his number, Mikey returns the phone and kisses Patrick, soft and quick.
“Go find Pete,” Mikey grins. “He’s probably worried. And call me tomorrow.”
Patrick watches as Mikey begins to walk away. “Today,” he corrects and hears Mikey’s laughter disappearing behind the building.
This is the first fanfic I've written, so if you got this far, thank you for reading. Basically, there isn't enough Patrick/Mikey fic out there so I gave in and tried to write some. Any feedback is very much appreciated.