fic: tear this house apart (pete/mikey)
tear this house apart
pete/mikey
R
haha, seriously, this is basically just an excuse for me to a) write a high school AU and b) write some form of porn to try and get myself back into the swing of it. warning: i really love clichés, and you can really tell. pete's the popular soccer dude! mikey is kind of a geek! they get it on! HURRAH.
~6300 words
Mikey first meets Pete at a party, and they’re both really, really drunk.
Mikey knows who Pete is before that point. It’s impossible to go to his school and not know who Pete Wentz is: senior, soccer star, tattooed and sometimes even eyelinered and somehow getting away with it all. But the only time Mikey’s even had something close to a conversation with him was once when he was waiting for the bus, and even then he didn’t say a word; he’d watched from the other side of the school gates as Pete had shouted something harsh and angry to another guy a fair way away from him, from the soccer team, and then turned around and kicked the gate before snarling, “What the fuck are you looking at?” at Mikey and then stalking off.
Mikey doesn’t really count that as meeting him, as such, so really, the first time he meets Pete is at a party. It’s being thrown by some guy Mikey doesn’t really know, because the football team won a game, or because there’s going to be a game, or something. Mikey doesn’t really know. Mikey doesn’t really know anyone there, in truth. He only shows up because his friend has a thing for a cheerleader and promised to supply booze for both him and Mikey, and it’s not like he’s got anything else to do anyway.
He sort of regrets it once he’s there. He gets too drunk too quickly and spends fifteen minutes waiting to take a piss, and most people there are people on a sports team or at least the kind of people who actually follow the games, so he feels kind of out of place. He doesn’t even know when the last game of any kind was; a guy comes up to him and says, “Great game, huh?” and Mikey says, blankly, “Yeah,” and then walks off, because he’s drunk enough to not even bother trying to be polite.
He ends up in the back yard, sat on the smallest, most pointless wall he’s ever seen, his cup of punch (plus a whole lot of someone’s mom’s vodka) on the floor by his feet and one of the cigarettes he relieved Gerard of before Gerard went back to New York in his mouth as he fumbles with his lighter. He hasn’t got much coordination by now. It’s fucking cold, as well, and he’s shivering a little. He gets it lit, though, and his lighter is back in his pocket and he’s slowly exhaling the first trail of smoke when the back door opens and there’s a sudden burst of music before someone comes out and ruins his peace.
It’s Pete Wentz, and so this is how Mikey really does meet him: reaching down awkwardly to grab his drink for another sip as Pete stumbles outside with a relieved sounding laugh. Mikey doesn’t say anything, because he never has before and he’s not that kind of drunk, but Pete walks right over to him and sits down heavily on the wall next to him. It’s not as though he’s inappropriately close or anything, but he’s closer than Mikey would ever sit next to a stranger.
Mikey takes another drag on his cigarette. Pete says, “Hey,” and then, “So you totally have the right idea, here, man.”
Mikey blinks slowly. He’s not sure that makes much sense, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s drunk or because Pete is. After a second, he reluctantly lifts up the arm holding his cigarette to offer it to Pete, because that’s all he logically thinks Pete can mean.
Pete just laughs, in that too loud way everyone laughs when they’ve had too much spiked punch. “Dude, no,” he says. “They’re so fucking bad for you, I was just talking about being out here and getting away from everyone. It’s a pretty good idea.”
Mikey doesn’t exactly have anything to say to that, but Pete seems to be waiting for an answer. He’s looking at Mikey in an expectant sort of way, anyway, so Mikey figures he must be and says, after a pause that drags on longer than he thinks it should, “Yeah.” He even adds, after another few seconds, “I guess.”
Pete doesn’t say anything after that, though. He sits there, staring at the floor now in silence while Mikey watches a slow frown tug the corners of his mouth down, feeling kind of captivated by it. Then Pete turns, suddenly, facing Mikey once more and looking straight at him, eye to eye as he says, “You know what, I don’t fucking - yeah, I will have some of that, actually. If it’s cool.” He holds out his hand as though he’s going to take the cigarette from Mikey now whether it’s still cool or not.
Mikey inhales once more, deep, and flicks the ash off the end before handing it to Pete and saying, “Sure,” on the exhale.
Pete takes it from him slowly, with all the deliberate care of someone no longer in full control of all motor abilities, but when their fingers brush together with the movement anyway he holds Mikey’s gaze for too long.
Mikey doesn’t know how he got here.
Here is backed up against the outside of the shower door in the fucking bathroom, of all places, in some jock he doesn’t know’s house with Pete Wentz’s hands on his hips and tongue in his mouth. The last thing that’s really clear in his mind is passing his cigarette across to Pete. He remembers their hands touching for what felt like an age, and he knows that Pete coughed when he took a drag and tried to pretend like he didn’t; he remembers laughing at him for it and then feeling sort of uncertain, because laughing at popular jocks a year older than you is just something universally not done.
And then it’s all kind of a blur up to the point where Pete said, “I’m Pete.” Mikey had nodded, because he already knew that, and then Pete had added, “You’re… Mike, right?” and then, “Well, Mikey, your glasses are fucking sweet,” after Mikey corrected him. Pete had reached out and took them off without asking, putting them on his on face and crossing his eyes at the change to his vision. Then he’d put them back on Mikey, almost poking Mikey’s eye out in the process, and instead of taking his hand away he just rested it on Mikey’s cheek, clumsy and sticky from spilt drink, and then what felt like a nanosecond later Pete was kissing him, tasting like Mikey’s own cigarettes and something sweet and vaguely alcoholic.
Pete had seemed just as surprised as Mikey felt when he pulled back after kissing him, after Mikey had just sat there and let him. Then he’d looked at where his hand was still resting on Mikey’s cheek, and then his eyes had dropped noticeably to Mikey’s mouth, and he’d just leaned in to do it again instead of saying something like Mikey was waiting for him to. And then he’d done it again, and again, until he’d whispered in a low voice for Mikey to follow him and got up and headed back inside, still a little shaky on his feet.
Mikey doesn’t know why he did follow him. He doesn’t even remember doing so, pushing through people to make his way from outside to up here. But here he is: breathing way too heavily to seem cool as Pete moves to kiss his neck, then an up and around path to his ear just to mutter thickly, “Fuck.”
Fuck sounds about fucking right. He’s making out with Pete just because he likes the taste of his mouth and the pressure of his kisses even though his teeth are sort of numb and because he likes it, likes it all, and he’s so drunk that it takes him a few moments for him to realise that he likes it enough for it to get him half hard already, just from the way Pete is pressing up against him. He thinks he should stop it now. He should go and get another drink and pretend nothing happened. Instead he rolls his hips up into Pete’s, chasing the friction.
Pete rocks back into him and breathes, “Fuck,” again. The sound is muffled, because he’s still mostly kissing Mikey as he says it, fingers twisted up in his hair to tilt his head down. “Fuck,” and then, “You know, I’m not-” but whatever else he was going to say (and Mikey can guess) is lost because Pete is still grinding up against Mikey even as he says it, one of his hands dropping down to Mikey’s ass to pull him closer.
Mikey feels fucking crazy, even through the alcohol, even though he feels fucking amazing and embarrassingly fucking close at the same time. He’s almost shaking, and he tries to keep kissing Pete because he doesn’t want to hear what Pete might be trying to say even as Pete’s fingers twist in his hair and pull, hard, as Pete’s hips jerk frantically against Mikey’s.
“Will you,” Pete mutters, and then seems to get distracted by kissing Mikey again, his lips missing Mikey’s mouth and sliding wetly across his cheek. “I want - you need, you’ve gotta touch me,” he gets out between breaths, and then grabs Mikey’s hand and places it firmly over his crotch. He groans, and then says, “Wait, wait,” and moves it out the way a little so he can unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down and shove them down just enough to give Mikey easy access. Mikey lets his hand slip up just under Pete’s shirt as he watches, trying to breathe properly and seriously, seriously not fucking convinced this is what he signed up for. Pete’s skin is burning under the flat of his palm.
He doesn’t stop Pete from guiding his hand down inside his boxers, though. His fingers brush through coarse hair and then he wraps them around Pete’s dick without really thinking about it, and Pete swears as his hips twitch forward. Mikey’s never done this before to another guy and it’s fucking weird, like jerking off but from all the wrong angles, but it’s not bad. He slides his thumb over the head of Pete’s cock and it’s wet at the tip, which helps his hand move, and the fact that Pete’s all worked up like this because of him is kind of. It’s kind of hot - unexpected, but hot, and Mikey’s drunk enough not to care about much else.
He’s not sure what he’d do were he in any other state, but he’s turned on and drunk so Mikey just says, boldly, a little breathily as well, “Will you,” and then nods towards where he’s stroking Pete’s cock as steadily as he can.
Pete looks up at him at that, and his eyes are dark but huge and he looks, for a moment, like he’s just going to say no. If he does, Mikey hopes he’ll be able to just walk off and leave Pete here like this, but then Pete says, low and rough, “I’m not - okay. Okay,” and then fumbles with Mikey’s fly.
Mikey’s can’t even be embarrassed by the noise he makes when Pete’s fingers wrap around his cock, because he’s so hard it’s almost painful now and it feels so fucking good. For a second he thinks about what they were doing before, and wonders how much better it would feel if they were grinding against each other and it was just skin on skin and nothing else, but he’s pretty sure that would involve more coordination than they have between them, getting clothes off fully and moving in a rhythm. He just rocks his hips up into Pete’s fist and hopes he won’t embarrass himself by coming too soon. Pete’s mouth is moving over his neck, and Mikey feels the scrape of his teeth and tries to keep breathing, to keep his hand moving even though there’s barely any room between them.
Pete comes first, but only just; he groans really, really loudly when he comes, even though the sound is muffled a bit against Mikey’s neck. It’s hot on Mikey’s hand and it doesn’t feel much different from when Mikey comes from jerking off, but it’s still fucking weird. Mikey barely makes any noise, in contrast; just a hitch in his breathing and a soft moan, years of jerking off while sharing a room ingraining the need for quiet deep down inside of him. He’s probably got the best tactic. They’re in a fucking bathroom, after all; there are probably people queued up outside waiting to get in.
Mikey can’t think about that. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the shower door behind him and listens to Pete breathing like it’s hard work. Pete hasn’t said anything since he took his hand off of Mikey’s dick and wiped it on some toilet paper, and Mikey’s not about the break the weird silence first. It’s crazy, like it’s only just sinking in now: he just jerked Pete Wentz off in some kid’s bathroom. Pete Wentz just jerked him off. He’s never said a word to Pete before all this.
When Pete turns back to look at him, Mikey does up his pants. He doesn’t feel any better afterwards, but it prompts Pete to do the same, which helps the awkward feeling just a tiny, tiny bit.
“So,” Pete says, and his voice sounds kind of wrecked. Mikey tries not to focus on that. He tries to focus on the floor somewhere around Pete’s feet, and suddenly realises that he’s got smudges all over his glasses. “Look, Mikey, I know I sound like a jerk but don’t - you can’t say anything to anyone about this. This isn’t. I’m not.” He gestures between them. “You know. Like that.” He runs his hand through his hair, and it doesn’t make it look anymore under control, any less like Mikey was just running a hand through it as Pete nipped his bottom lip.
Mikey shrugs. He can’t think of a single thing to say. It’s almost like his brain isn’t working, as though he just downed another few cups of punch to make him feel like this. He wonders, stupidly, what happened to his last cup, whether it’s still out in the backyard.
“You know,” Pete adds lamely.
Mikey doesn’t say anything. He carries on not saying anything, even when Pete leaves the bathroom with a look both ways and shuts the door firmly behind him. He tries to work out whether he wishes he forgot things when he got drunk - he never does, even if he remembers some things all in the wrong order - and can’t work out if he wants to forget this or not.
He breathes in deeply a few times, and then walks unsteadily out of the bathroom when someone knocks insistently on the door and gives him a weird look as he goes.
**
The first time Pete sees Mikey and knows it’s him and isn’t drunk, it feels a little bit like a punch in the gut. He’s been doing his level best not to think about being in the bathroom with Mikey at that party, and it’s been working fairly well; drunken hook ups are drunken hook ups, and they don’t count for shit in the real world. He knows that. But he passes Mikey on his way out from soccer practice and for a second all he can think of is the sharp angles of Mikey’s hips beneath his hands and the low, tiny moans that it sounded like he couldn’t help and he almost stops walking, for a moment. He doesn’t look at Mikey’s neck, because he doesn’t want to know if he left a mark.
He ignores it. He ignores Mikey. He tells himself that the twist in his stomach is just left over anger from the lecture his coach was giving him again, about how he shouldn’t ever party and how he should get more sleep and how he needs to cut back on the attitude, and even though Mikey is obviously waiting around for a ride or the bus, he pointedly does not considering offering him a ride home. Mikey’s just some kid, just some weird, quiet kid, and Pete doesn’t even know him.
The next party Pete’s invited to, he almost doesn’t want to go to. Just in case. He’s not even sure if Mikey’s going to be there, but he’s had no less than three dreams where he’s woken up hard with the lingering memory of glasses and long fingers in his mind, and he doesn’t want anything else to happen if he gets too drunk again. It’s not fair that he dreams about him when he finally manages to get to sleep; he doesn’t want to fuck anything up in real life, as well. Pete’s into girls. He knows this; he’s confirmed it well enough over the past couple of years.
Mikey Way was just a drunken mistake. It’s not going to happen again because he’s not going to let it happen again, because he doesn’t want to, pure and simple. He’s not going to let one drunken fucking mistake stop him partying and having fun.
It’s okay, anyway, because when he shows up there’s no sign of Mikey or anyone even remotely like him. He takes the drink that Gabe presses into his hands as soon as he gets there and even manages to drink it, despite the way it burns on the way down, and he turns down Joe’s offer of some weed even though Joe’s offering it for free, because he likes Pete, and then spends twenty minutes flirting kind of outrageously with a girl with too much eyeliner before playing spin the bottle and making out with three girls and Gabe. Someone wolf whistles and Pete laughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when Gabe winks at him afterwards. It’s fine.
The girl with all the eyeliner comes to find him after the game of spin the bottle, and he lets her pull him in close to her and he kisses her when she looks at him in just the right way. He’s not really into it, though, and he can’t work out why; she’s hot enough, and she’s not a bad kisser, it’s just - nothing special. He tells her he has to go to the bathroom and turns around just in time to see Mikey Way laughing at something a guy with really crazy, insane hair is saying.
Pete wants to kick something. He settles for doing two shots of vodka and chasing them with a beer and then actually going to the bathroom, and pissing for about ten minutes straight.
He doesn’t know why he ends up in the backyard. Maybe just because there are too many people inside and it makes it too hot, and because half of them are annoying as shit. In retrospect, he’s probably just hot because of the alcohol rather than anything else, but whatever; he’s outside, and of course Mikey comes out for a smoke while he’s out there. It’s a fucking shitty habit. Pete half wants to grab the cigarette out of Mikey’s hands and crush it on the floor beneath his shoe, especially when Mikey doesn’t say anything but offers him one with a quirk of his eyebrow.
“I don’t fucking smoke,” Pete says, really just because of what happened between them last time when Pete went for that, and he heads back inside without another word even though he doesn’t really want to be in there.
He doesn’t know how much Mikey has had to drink, but Pete’s finding it hard to remain even remotely upright when he corners Mikey later on. He asks him, “Why are you here?”
Mikey blinks at him and then says, “Because my friend asked me.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Pete says. “It’s like you’re everywhere, and I don’t.” He stops. He has to stop, because he thinks if he carries on talking he might throw up everywhere. When he’s sure he’s got that under control, he carries on. “I don’t know why,” he says, and he means he doesn’t know why he keeps noticing Mikey when he wouldn’t have known him from the next guy a couple of weeks ago.
“Sorry?” Mikey says coolly, and sounds like he doesn’t mean it in the slightest.
Pete sort of wants to hit him. He sort of wants to kiss him more, though, and he settles for walking towards him until Mikey is backed up against the nearest wall and he doesn’t know why. He really hopes no one else is looking, as he leans in and up and kisses him, clumsy on the corner of his mouth.
And then he has to spin around and hurry to the bathroom, because he really is going to throw up and he’d feel bad if he did it in the hallway. He doesn’t see Mikey again after that, and he wakes up the wrong way around on someone’s bed and thinks he might need to throw up again when he thinks about the night before.
The problem is, Mikey really is everywhere. He’s sat with some guys Pete recognises but doesn’t know by name at lunch, and Pete has to walk past them. He’s waiting around for the bus when Pete leaves school unless Pete has had to stay behind for soccer practice, and even then he’s sometimes there, although Pete’s not sure why. Mikey doesn’t look like the type to belong to any club. He’s there when Pete walks the hallways from class to class and he’s there every fucking time Pete closes his eyes, with his stupid hair and his glasses and his fragile feeling frame, all wide eyes and pale skin that Pete wants to mark all over.
A guy who Pete’s talked to about tattoos a few times during shared detentions called Frank invites him to a party. Frank doesn’t hang out with the same sorts of people Pete hangs out with, but he’s a cool enough guy with a good taste in music and Pete’s seen him around with Mikey a few times. Pete says yes.
He’s already a little drunk when he shows up. He’s probably pretty obvious in the way he looks around, looking to see if Mikey is there yet. He’s not, that Pete’s aware of, so Pete just drinks some more; he can’t work out if it’s Dutch courage or if he’s just lame enough to want something to happen but needs the opportunity to blame it on being drunk. He’s fully aware that he needs to get the fuck over himself and either admit he likes Mikey - that there’s something about this quiet, contained guy, who hasn’t once asked Pete if he routinely hooks up and then ignores people, that gets under his skin and makes him want to know more despite everything he used to think about himself - or needs to stop thinking about him.
It would be easier if he settled on the latter. But then Mikey shows up, and Pete watches Frank throw himself at him and watches as Mikey stumbles back and laughs and knows that it probably won’t be. It’s not like he’s ever made anything easy for himself, though. He shouldn’t be fucking surprised.
He’s sure Mikey notices him, but Mikey doesn’t say anything. Pete tries to get involved in other conversations, even though he doesn’t know most of the people there, and a lot of them give him odd looks for it. He waits until he sees Mikey go outside before he tries to talk to him, but Mikey goes outside with Frank this time, and Pete gets out there just in time to see Frank hand him a cigarette before getting one out for himself. Frank offers one to Pete when he sees him, and Pete shakes his head.
“He doesn’t smoke,” Mikey mutters. He doesn’t sound bitter, even though Pete knows he would if he were in Mikey’s place.
Pete wonders if Frank is going to ask how Mikey knows that, or ask what Pete is doing outside in the first place, but Frank just shrugs and says, “So how’s Gerard doing at college?” to Mikey.
Mikey starts telling Frank all about Gerard, and Pete doesn’t listen because asides from a vague memory of Mikey’s weird older brother a few years back, he doesn’t know who Gerard is. He watches Mikey, instead, and the way his smile makes his eyes crinkle in the corners behind his glasses, and if he’d been wondering why he was here before, he’s pretty sure why, now. He wants to say something funny, something to make Mikey smile like that, but he’s not quite drunk enough to not know that he’d probably just sound like a douche with any joke he cracks. He keeps quiet, leaning against the nearby wall and pretending he’s not paying attention.
“Well, I’m gonna head back inside and make sure none of those fuckers have trashed my house,” Frank says. He holds out his hand for the butt of Mikey’s cigarette, which Mikey puts out on the wall before handing to him, and then buries that and his own in a nearby plant pot. He grins at Mikey, and then nods at Pete as he passes him, and then it’s just Pete and Mikey and the most awkward fucking silence Pete’s ever been a part of.
After a while, Mikey says, “What are you - is there something you want?”
Pete doesn’t know how to answer that. Pete thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have been drinking before this conversation, because then he might actually have something to say, but then he’d probably just end up defensive and angry. Instead he just sort of blurts out, “Can I kiss you again?” without really thinking about it, and in the horrible, long silence that follows, he tries to work out if defensive and angry would have been any worse at all, on any level.
Mikey breaks the silence by laughing at him, which doesn’t help at all; now Pete is embarrassed and angry and why the fuck did he come to this party, anyway? He’s got a match tomorrow and it’s not as though he’s really friends with anyone here; he’d probably get the shit ripped out of him if the rest of the team knew he was here, and.
And then Mikey shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess,” with his mouth still quirked upwards at the corner like he’s still silently laughing at Pete, and Pete doesn’t care.
He tilts his head back to down the last of the beer he was still carrying, sets it carefully on the floor and then walks towards Mikey until he can cup a hand around the back of Mikey’s neck and pull him down a little to kiss him. Mikey tastes a little bit smoky but mostly of beer, and as soon as Mikey’s mouth opens under his Pete surges forward to kiss him harder. Mikey stumbles backwards slightly under the momentum. Pete settles his hands on Mikey’s shoulders so he can turn them, and then guides Mikey around until his back is against the wall.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Pete mutters up close to his mouth, and apparently whatever he was thinking before about knowing when to keep his mouth shut doesn’t apply anymore, because he can’t shut up now. “You’re so fucking, I don’t know, I don’t know.” He brushes his thumbs under Mikey’s cheekbones. “I don’t even like guys, I swear, I’m not even just saying it but you just. You make me want you so much.”
Mikey’s voice is a little shaky, but he says, “Dude. Shut up.”
Pete laughs, and whatever it is, he fucking loves Mikey in that one small moment, and leans in to kiss him again. He runs his tongue over the roof of Mikey’s mouth and then moves away. “You taste really good,” he says stupidly, then moves back in to kiss over his jaw, to use the hand at the back of his neck to tilt his head back and kiss down his throat as well. He doesn’t know if he left a mark last time; he didn’t want to, but this time he sucks at the skin just above Mikey’s collarbone until he’s sure there will be some trace of him left. Mikey makes a ragged noise, and Pete doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to hear more. He just wants more.
“Where can we go?” he asks. Mikey’s eyes are fixed on Pete’s mouth, but as Pete speaks he meets his eyes instead. Mikey looks panicked for a moment.
“What?”
“Where can we go?” Pete repeats. “Me and you, is there anywhere…”
“I don’t know,” Mikey says. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth for a second. Pete wants to do that for him. “It’s Frank’s house, I don’t know if he’d really want us to. You know. Do anything, in his house.”
Pete kisses him again, and he looses track of time, a little; when he pulls back he’s almost out of breath. “There’s nowhere?”
“Maybe… I mean, Frank’s room, maybe. He told no one to go up there because he didn’t want someone to hurl in his bed again, so. Maybe.”
This time it’s Pete who follows Mikey up through the house, and even though it’s messy as hell, Frank’s bedroom is still a lot better than any bathroom. He’s got a bed, for starters. Pete goes in first with a grin he can’t quite rein in when Mikey opens the door for him, and he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Mikey to come over. Mikey sits next to him, which feels a bit awkward.
“So,” Pete says, instead of doing what he really wants, which is to twist his upper body so he can kiss Mikey some more and maybe lean over him until he’s underneath Pete on the bed and kiss him some more like that.
“Uhm,” Mikey says. He laughs quietly.
“Yeah,” Pete mutters. “Hey, come here.” He does twist around then, and cups Mikey’s face with his hand so he can kiss him again, fingers splayed wide across his cheek. He wants to do this forever, stroke over Mikey’s tongue with his own and make the most of it while he can, because he’s pretty sure he’ll fuck up sometime soon and freak out. But he wants more as well, which is why they came up here in the first place, so he kisses Mikey harder and presses into his space until Mikey slowly begins to lean back on the bed. Mikey’s pretty much horizontal by the time Pete gets it together enough to stop kissing him, to take a break just long enough to awkwardly straddle him. It takes a lot of effort and concentration. He kicks something of Frank’s over, but he doesn’t bother checking what.
“Pete,” Mikey gasps, as though he wasn’t expecting it, and Pete tells him quickly, “I’m not having sex with you.”
Mikey laughs at that all over again. “Wasn’t gonna fucking let you,” he says, and Pete likes the way his eyes look when he’s smiling like that. He reaches out to take his glasses off, so they’re not hidden behind the lenses and he can see them better. Mikey blinks up at him and Pete wonders how blurred he looks now as he puts them down on the bed.
“But like,” he says, “maybe we could. I dunno.” He rolls his hips down, rocking slowly against Mikey, and that’s good. It’s better than he remembers it being when they were in the bathroom; more of his weight is on Mikey, here, and there’s more friction. Mikey’s breath catches in his throat.
Pete can’t believe that he’s doing this, rubbing off fully clothed whilst straddling Mikey on a bed. He’s not drunk enough for it, not really; he can feel himself slowly sobering up but that just means it all feels even better, and the prospect of it being weird afterwards isn’t anywhere near incentive enough to stop. He slides his hands tentatively up Mikey’ shirt. Mikey’s all smooth skin and flat planes and ribs for Pete’s fingers to bump over, and Pete’s never felt anything like him.
Mikey’s making tiny noises in the back of his throat with each movement they make, and Pete’s kind of jerking against him more than anything now, and Pete can’t stop the words coming out of his fucking mouth - filthy stuff, stuff he didn’t know he’d even thought about before. “I want to fuck you,” he’s muttering, working his hips desperately, trying to get something, just a little more, “I want you to, I want your mouth on my dick, I want,” and he half expects Mikey to sit up and punch him any second soon for this shit, but Mikey’s just moaning quietly and gasping.
Pete shoves his hand down between them then and undoes his jeans, then Mikey’s, and says, “Can we-”
“I thought you said no sex,” Mikey says, although he doesn’t sound as though he’s against the idea. He sounds strung out, and so fucking hot Pete groans.
“No sex,” Pete agrees. “Just like this, but with no pants.” Pants are fucking stupid. Pete hates whoever invented pants and gave them buttons and zips. It’s over the top fastening. It’s fucking retarded.
Mikey shudders in response. Pete takes that as assent, and he lifts himself up awkwardly, putting all his weight on his knees so he can pull his jeans halfway down his thighs and give Mikey enough room to do the same. Pete notices Mikey’s hands shaking. He slides his fingers through Mikey’s as he settles back down on him, and squeezes tightly as their cocks slide together, only separated by the thin material of their boxers now and it’s so, so much fucking better. In the brief moments of clear, halfway coherent thinking Pete has left he wonders if he should have taken Mikey’s shirt off first, or maybe even his own.
Pete’s going to last for such a short amount of time now that he’d feel embarrassed, if he had the capacity for it. Instead he just tries to keep his eyes open as his stomach twists and his movements get even more erratic and clumsy, because he wants to keep looking down at Mikey; he wants to keep watching him. He can’t remember how Mikey looked when he came last time. He wants to know now, whether that’s wise or just something stupid that’s going to come back and bite him on the ass later on.
“Mikey,” he says. He’s surprised at how low his voice comes out. “Mikey, Mikey, come on, please,” and Mikey comes with a choked, stuttering gasp like it took him by surprise, and Pete can feel it through his underwear, which should be gross but then that’s enough to make Pete come as well, gripping Mikey’s hands so tight he probably hurts him. He slumps on top of him as he tries to catch his breath, letting his lips brush over the mark that’s already starting to show on Mikey’s neck.
“Oh my god,” Mikey says after a while. Pete doesn’t know how long; his sense of time is all screwed up, but they’re both just about breathing normally again. He sort of wants to sleep, but he makes a questioning noise. “Frank’s going to fucking kill me,” Mikey mutters.
Pete doesn’t care. He tucks his face into Mikey’s neck and just doesn’t give a shit, even though there’s slowly drying come in his boxers and it’s really fucking uncomfortable, because this is okay. This is nice.
“He’s going to tell my brother,” Mikey adds. Pete makes another encouraging noise, because saying anything would be too much effort. “And then Gerard’s going to give me a talk. On like. Acceptance.”
“Where’s your phone?” Pete asks suddenly, when he’s gathered enough energy to make his vocal cords cooperate.
Mikey mumbles, “Pocket,” but makes no move to get it for him, so Pete has to do it himself. His fingers are clumsy as hell, but he manages to save his number and make sure it’s the right one under the right name.
“I’m gonna go,” he says. “Because otherwise I’ll fall asleep here, and I don’t.” He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants with Mikey, not really, and he doesn’t want to have to think about anything over awkward morning after conversations tomorrow. He lifts his head so he can kiss Mikey again, lazy and a little sloppy before he leaves. “But, I don’t know, you should drop me a text or something.”
Mikey just nods, and Pete stands up and has to blink his way through the worst head rush in the world before he can do up his pants and walk uncomfortably out of the room. He ignores the few people he passes on his way out, waves goodbye to Frank without going too close to him and then heads home. He doesn’t live too far away, and the cold air is bracing and helps clear his head so much that he’s not thinking about anything, especially not (not even) Mikey Way.
The next morning, Pete wakes up the right way around on his own bed, and drinks three glasses of water while he keeps his phone near him, watching the screen.
pete/mikey
R
haha, seriously, this is basically just an excuse for me to a) write a high school AU and b) write some form of porn to try and get myself back into the swing of it. warning: i really love clichés, and you can really tell. pete's the popular soccer dude! mikey is kind of a geek! they get it on! HURRAH.
~6300 words
Mikey first meets Pete at a party, and they’re both really, really drunk.
Mikey knows who Pete is before that point. It’s impossible to go to his school and not know who Pete Wentz is: senior, soccer star, tattooed and sometimes even eyelinered and somehow getting away with it all. But the only time Mikey’s even had something close to a conversation with him was once when he was waiting for the bus, and even then he didn’t say a word; he’d watched from the other side of the school gates as Pete had shouted something harsh and angry to another guy a fair way away from him, from the soccer team, and then turned around and kicked the gate before snarling, “What the fuck are you looking at?” at Mikey and then stalking off.
Mikey doesn’t really count that as meeting him, as such, so really, the first time he meets Pete is at a party. It’s being thrown by some guy Mikey doesn’t really know, because the football team won a game, or because there’s going to be a game, or something. Mikey doesn’t really know. Mikey doesn’t really know anyone there, in truth. He only shows up because his friend has a thing for a cheerleader and promised to supply booze for both him and Mikey, and it’s not like he’s got anything else to do anyway.
He sort of regrets it once he’s there. He gets too drunk too quickly and spends fifteen minutes waiting to take a piss, and most people there are people on a sports team or at least the kind of people who actually follow the games, so he feels kind of out of place. He doesn’t even know when the last game of any kind was; a guy comes up to him and says, “Great game, huh?” and Mikey says, blankly, “Yeah,” and then walks off, because he’s drunk enough to not even bother trying to be polite.
He ends up in the back yard, sat on the smallest, most pointless wall he’s ever seen, his cup of punch (plus a whole lot of someone’s mom’s vodka) on the floor by his feet and one of the cigarettes he relieved Gerard of before Gerard went back to New York in his mouth as he fumbles with his lighter. He hasn’t got much coordination by now. It’s fucking cold, as well, and he’s shivering a little. He gets it lit, though, and his lighter is back in his pocket and he’s slowly exhaling the first trail of smoke when the back door opens and there’s a sudden burst of music before someone comes out and ruins his peace.
It’s Pete Wentz, and so this is how Mikey really does meet him: reaching down awkwardly to grab his drink for another sip as Pete stumbles outside with a relieved sounding laugh. Mikey doesn’t say anything, because he never has before and he’s not that kind of drunk, but Pete walks right over to him and sits down heavily on the wall next to him. It’s not as though he’s inappropriately close or anything, but he’s closer than Mikey would ever sit next to a stranger.
Mikey takes another drag on his cigarette. Pete says, “Hey,” and then, “So you totally have the right idea, here, man.”
Mikey blinks slowly. He’s not sure that makes much sense, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s drunk or because Pete is. After a second, he reluctantly lifts up the arm holding his cigarette to offer it to Pete, because that’s all he logically thinks Pete can mean.
Pete just laughs, in that too loud way everyone laughs when they’ve had too much spiked punch. “Dude, no,” he says. “They’re so fucking bad for you, I was just talking about being out here and getting away from everyone. It’s a pretty good idea.”
Mikey doesn’t exactly have anything to say to that, but Pete seems to be waiting for an answer. He’s looking at Mikey in an expectant sort of way, anyway, so Mikey figures he must be and says, after a pause that drags on longer than he thinks it should, “Yeah.” He even adds, after another few seconds, “I guess.”
Pete doesn’t say anything after that, though. He sits there, staring at the floor now in silence while Mikey watches a slow frown tug the corners of his mouth down, feeling kind of captivated by it. Then Pete turns, suddenly, facing Mikey once more and looking straight at him, eye to eye as he says, “You know what, I don’t fucking - yeah, I will have some of that, actually. If it’s cool.” He holds out his hand as though he’s going to take the cigarette from Mikey now whether it’s still cool or not.
Mikey inhales once more, deep, and flicks the ash off the end before handing it to Pete and saying, “Sure,” on the exhale.
Pete takes it from him slowly, with all the deliberate care of someone no longer in full control of all motor abilities, but when their fingers brush together with the movement anyway he holds Mikey’s gaze for too long.
Mikey doesn’t know how he got here.
Here is backed up against the outside of the shower door in the fucking bathroom, of all places, in some jock he doesn’t know’s house with Pete Wentz’s hands on his hips and tongue in his mouth. The last thing that’s really clear in his mind is passing his cigarette across to Pete. He remembers their hands touching for what felt like an age, and he knows that Pete coughed when he took a drag and tried to pretend like he didn’t; he remembers laughing at him for it and then feeling sort of uncertain, because laughing at popular jocks a year older than you is just something universally not done.
And then it’s all kind of a blur up to the point where Pete said, “I’m Pete.” Mikey had nodded, because he already knew that, and then Pete had added, “You’re… Mike, right?” and then, “Well, Mikey, your glasses are fucking sweet,” after Mikey corrected him. Pete had reached out and took them off without asking, putting them on his on face and crossing his eyes at the change to his vision. Then he’d put them back on Mikey, almost poking Mikey’s eye out in the process, and instead of taking his hand away he just rested it on Mikey’s cheek, clumsy and sticky from spilt drink, and then what felt like a nanosecond later Pete was kissing him, tasting like Mikey’s own cigarettes and something sweet and vaguely alcoholic.
Pete had seemed just as surprised as Mikey felt when he pulled back after kissing him, after Mikey had just sat there and let him. Then he’d looked at where his hand was still resting on Mikey’s cheek, and then his eyes had dropped noticeably to Mikey’s mouth, and he’d just leaned in to do it again instead of saying something like Mikey was waiting for him to. And then he’d done it again, and again, until he’d whispered in a low voice for Mikey to follow him and got up and headed back inside, still a little shaky on his feet.
Mikey doesn’t know why he did follow him. He doesn’t even remember doing so, pushing through people to make his way from outside to up here. But here he is: breathing way too heavily to seem cool as Pete moves to kiss his neck, then an up and around path to his ear just to mutter thickly, “Fuck.”
Fuck sounds about fucking right. He’s making out with Pete just because he likes the taste of his mouth and the pressure of his kisses even though his teeth are sort of numb and because he likes it, likes it all, and he’s so drunk that it takes him a few moments for him to realise that he likes it enough for it to get him half hard already, just from the way Pete is pressing up against him. He thinks he should stop it now. He should go and get another drink and pretend nothing happened. Instead he rolls his hips up into Pete’s, chasing the friction.
Pete rocks back into him and breathes, “Fuck,” again. The sound is muffled, because he’s still mostly kissing Mikey as he says it, fingers twisted up in his hair to tilt his head down. “Fuck,” and then, “You know, I’m not-” but whatever else he was going to say (and Mikey can guess) is lost because Pete is still grinding up against Mikey even as he says it, one of his hands dropping down to Mikey’s ass to pull him closer.
Mikey feels fucking crazy, even through the alcohol, even though he feels fucking amazing and embarrassingly fucking close at the same time. He’s almost shaking, and he tries to keep kissing Pete because he doesn’t want to hear what Pete might be trying to say even as Pete’s fingers twist in his hair and pull, hard, as Pete’s hips jerk frantically against Mikey’s.
“Will you,” Pete mutters, and then seems to get distracted by kissing Mikey again, his lips missing Mikey’s mouth and sliding wetly across his cheek. “I want - you need, you’ve gotta touch me,” he gets out between breaths, and then grabs Mikey’s hand and places it firmly over his crotch. He groans, and then says, “Wait, wait,” and moves it out the way a little so he can unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down and shove them down just enough to give Mikey easy access. Mikey lets his hand slip up just under Pete’s shirt as he watches, trying to breathe properly and seriously, seriously not fucking convinced this is what he signed up for. Pete’s skin is burning under the flat of his palm.
He doesn’t stop Pete from guiding his hand down inside his boxers, though. His fingers brush through coarse hair and then he wraps them around Pete’s dick without really thinking about it, and Pete swears as his hips twitch forward. Mikey’s never done this before to another guy and it’s fucking weird, like jerking off but from all the wrong angles, but it’s not bad. He slides his thumb over the head of Pete’s cock and it’s wet at the tip, which helps his hand move, and the fact that Pete’s all worked up like this because of him is kind of. It’s kind of hot - unexpected, but hot, and Mikey’s drunk enough not to care about much else.
He’s not sure what he’d do were he in any other state, but he’s turned on and drunk so Mikey just says, boldly, a little breathily as well, “Will you,” and then nods towards where he’s stroking Pete’s cock as steadily as he can.
Pete looks up at him at that, and his eyes are dark but huge and he looks, for a moment, like he’s just going to say no. If he does, Mikey hopes he’ll be able to just walk off and leave Pete here like this, but then Pete says, low and rough, “I’m not - okay. Okay,” and then fumbles with Mikey’s fly.
Mikey’s can’t even be embarrassed by the noise he makes when Pete’s fingers wrap around his cock, because he’s so hard it’s almost painful now and it feels so fucking good. For a second he thinks about what they were doing before, and wonders how much better it would feel if they were grinding against each other and it was just skin on skin and nothing else, but he’s pretty sure that would involve more coordination than they have between them, getting clothes off fully and moving in a rhythm. He just rocks his hips up into Pete’s fist and hopes he won’t embarrass himself by coming too soon. Pete’s mouth is moving over his neck, and Mikey feels the scrape of his teeth and tries to keep breathing, to keep his hand moving even though there’s barely any room between them.
Pete comes first, but only just; he groans really, really loudly when he comes, even though the sound is muffled a bit against Mikey’s neck. It’s hot on Mikey’s hand and it doesn’t feel much different from when Mikey comes from jerking off, but it’s still fucking weird. Mikey barely makes any noise, in contrast; just a hitch in his breathing and a soft moan, years of jerking off while sharing a room ingraining the need for quiet deep down inside of him. He’s probably got the best tactic. They’re in a fucking bathroom, after all; there are probably people queued up outside waiting to get in.
Mikey can’t think about that. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the shower door behind him and listens to Pete breathing like it’s hard work. Pete hasn’t said anything since he took his hand off of Mikey’s dick and wiped it on some toilet paper, and Mikey’s not about the break the weird silence first. It’s crazy, like it’s only just sinking in now: he just jerked Pete Wentz off in some kid’s bathroom. Pete Wentz just jerked him off. He’s never said a word to Pete before all this.
When Pete turns back to look at him, Mikey does up his pants. He doesn’t feel any better afterwards, but it prompts Pete to do the same, which helps the awkward feeling just a tiny, tiny bit.
“So,” Pete says, and his voice sounds kind of wrecked. Mikey tries not to focus on that. He tries to focus on the floor somewhere around Pete’s feet, and suddenly realises that he’s got smudges all over his glasses. “Look, Mikey, I know I sound like a jerk but don’t - you can’t say anything to anyone about this. This isn’t. I’m not.” He gestures between them. “You know. Like that.” He runs his hand through his hair, and it doesn’t make it look anymore under control, any less like Mikey was just running a hand through it as Pete nipped his bottom lip.
Mikey shrugs. He can’t think of a single thing to say. It’s almost like his brain isn’t working, as though he just downed another few cups of punch to make him feel like this. He wonders, stupidly, what happened to his last cup, whether it’s still out in the backyard.
“You know,” Pete adds lamely.
Mikey doesn’t say anything. He carries on not saying anything, even when Pete leaves the bathroom with a look both ways and shuts the door firmly behind him. He tries to work out whether he wishes he forgot things when he got drunk - he never does, even if he remembers some things all in the wrong order - and can’t work out if he wants to forget this or not.
He breathes in deeply a few times, and then walks unsteadily out of the bathroom when someone knocks insistently on the door and gives him a weird look as he goes.
**
The first time Pete sees Mikey and knows it’s him and isn’t drunk, it feels a little bit like a punch in the gut. He’s been doing his level best not to think about being in the bathroom with Mikey at that party, and it’s been working fairly well; drunken hook ups are drunken hook ups, and they don’t count for shit in the real world. He knows that. But he passes Mikey on his way out from soccer practice and for a second all he can think of is the sharp angles of Mikey’s hips beneath his hands and the low, tiny moans that it sounded like he couldn’t help and he almost stops walking, for a moment. He doesn’t look at Mikey’s neck, because he doesn’t want to know if he left a mark.
He ignores it. He ignores Mikey. He tells himself that the twist in his stomach is just left over anger from the lecture his coach was giving him again, about how he shouldn’t ever party and how he should get more sleep and how he needs to cut back on the attitude, and even though Mikey is obviously waiting around for a ride or the bus, he pointedly does not considering offering him a ride home. Mikey’s just some kid, just some weird, quiet kid, and Pete doesn’t even know him.
The next party Pete’s invited to, he almost doesn’t want to go to. Just in case. He’s not even sure if Mikey’s going to be there, but he’s had no less than three dreams where he’s woken up hard with the lingering memory of glasses and long fingers in his mind, and he doesn’t want anything else to happen if he gets too drunk again. It’s not fair that he dreams about him when he finally manages to get to sleep; he doesn’t want to fuck anything up in real life, as well. Pete’s into girls. He knows this; he’s confirmed it well enough over the past couple of years.
Mikey Way was just a drunken mistake. It’s not going to happen again because he’s not going to let it happen again, because he doesn’t want to, pure and simple. He’s not going to let one drunken fucking mistake stop him partying and having fun.
It’s okay, anyway, because when he shows up there’s no sign of Mikey or anyone even remotely like him. He takes the drink that Gabe presses into his hands as soon as he gets there and even manages to drink it, despite the way it burns on the way down, and he turns down Joe’s offer of some weed even though Joe’s offering it for free, because he likes Pete, and then spends twenty minutes flirting kind of outrageously with a girl with too much eyeliner before playing spin the bottle and making out with three girls and Gabe. Someone wolf whistles and Pete laughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when Gabe winks at him afterwards. It’s fine.
The girl with all the eyeliner comes to find him after the game of spin the bottle, and he lets her pull him in close to her and he kisses her when she looks at him in just the right way. He’s not really into it, though, and he can’t work out why; she’s hot enough, and she’s not a bad kisser, it’s just - nothing special. He tells her he has to go to the bathroom and turns around just in time to see Mikey Way laughing at something a guy with really crazy, insane hair is saying.
Pete wants to kick something. He settles for doing two shots of vodka and chasing them with a beer and then actually going to the bathroom, and pissing for about ten minutes straight.
He doesn’t know why he ends up in the backyard. Maybe just because there are too many people inside and it makes it too hot, and because half of them are annoying as shit. In retrospect, he’s probably just hot because of the alcohol rather than anything else, but whatever; he’s outside, and of course Mikey comes out for a smoke while he’s out there. It’s a fucking shitty habit. Pete half wants to grab the cigarette out of Mikey’s hands and crush it on the floor beneath his shoe, especially when Mikey doesn’t say anything but offers him one with a quirk of his eyebrow.
“I don’t fucking smoke,” Pete says, really just because of what happened between them last time when Pete went for that, and he heads back inside without another word even though he doesn’t really want to be in there.
He doesn’t know how much Mikey has had to drink, but Pete’s finding it hard to remain even remotely upright when he corners Mikey later on. He asks him, “Why are you here?”
Mikey blinks at him and then says, “Because my friend asked me.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Pete says. “It’s like you’re everywhere, and I don’t.” He stops. He has to stop, because he thinks if he carries on talking he might throw up everywhere. When he’s sure he’s got that under control, he carries on. “I don’t know why,” he says, and he means he doesn’t know why he keeps noticing Mikey when he wouldn’t have known him from the next guy a couple of weeks ago.
“Sorry?” Mikey says coolly, and sounds like he doesn’t mean it in the slightest.
Pete sort of wants to hit him. He sort of wants to kiss him more, though, and he settles for walking towards him until Mikey is backed up against the nearest wall and he doesn’t know why. He really hopes no one else is looking, as he leans in and up and kisses him, clumsy on the corner of his mouth.
And then he has to spin around and hurry to the bathroom, because he really is going to throw up and he’d feel bad if he did it in the hallway. He doesn’t see Mikey again after that, and he wakes up the wrong way around on someone’s bed and thinks he might need to throw up again when he thinks about the night before.
The problem is, Mikey really is everywhere. He’s sat with some guys Pete recognises but doesn’t know by name at lunch, and Pete has to walk past them. He’s waiting around for the bus when Pete leaves school unless Pete has had to stay behind for soccer practice, and even then he’s sometimes there, although Pete’s not sure why. Mikey doesn’t look like the type to belong to any club. He’s there when Pete walks the hallways from class to class and he’s there every fucking time Pete closes his eyes, with his stupid hair and his glasses and his fragile feeling frame, all wide eyes and pale skin that Pete wants to mark all over.
A guy who Pete’s talked to about tattoos a few times during shared detentions called Frank invites him to a party. Frank doesn’t hang out with the same sorts of people Pete hangs out with, but he’s a cool enough guy with a good taste in music and Pete’s seen him around with Mikey a few times. Pete says yes.
He’s already a little drunk when he shows up. He’s probably pretty obvious in the way he looks around, looking to see if Mikey is there yet. He’s not, that Pete’s aware of, so Pete just drinks some more; he can’t work out if it’s Dutch courage or if he’s just lame enough to want something to happen but needs the opportunity to blame it on being drunk. He’s fully aware that he needs to get the fuck over himself and either admit he likes Mikey - that there’s something about this quiet, contained guy, who hasn’t once asked Pete if he routinely hooks up and then ignores people, that gets under his skin and makes him want to know more despite everything he used to think about himself - or needs to stop thinking about him.
It would be easier if he settled on the latter. But then Mikey shows up, and Pete watches Frank throw himself at him and watches as Mikey stumbles back and laughs and knows that it probably won’t be. It’s not like he’s ever made anything easy for himself, though. He shouldn’t be fucking surprised.
He’s sure Mikey notices him, but Mikey doesn’t say anything. Pete tries to get involved in other conversations, even though he doesn’t know most of the people there, and a lot of them give him odd looks for it. He waits until he sees Mikey go outside before he tries to talk to him, but Mikey goes outside with Frank this time, and Pete gets out there just in time to see Frank hand him a cigarette before getting one out for himself. Frank offers one to Pete when he sees him, and Pete shakes his head.
“He doesn’t smoke,” Mikey mutters. He doesn’t sound bitter, even though Pete knows he would if he were in Mikey’s place.
Pete wonders if Frank is going to ask how Mikey knows that, or ask what Pete is doing outside in the first place, but Frank just shrugs and says, “So how’s Gerard doing at college?” to Mikey.
Mikey starts telling Frank all about Gerard, and Pete doesn’t listen because asides from a vague memory of Mikey’s weird older brother a few years back, he doesn’t know who Gerard is. He watches Mikey, instead, and the way his smile makes his eyes crinkle in the corners behind his glasses, and if he’d been wondering why he was here before, he’s pretty sure why, now. He wants to say something funny, something to make Mikey smile like that, but he’s not quite drunk enough to not know that he’d probably just sound like a douche with any joke he cracks. He keeps quiet, leaning against the nearby wall and pretending he’s not paying attention.
“Well, I’m gonna head back inside and make sure none of those fuckers have trashed my house,” Frank says. He holds out his hand for the butt of Mikey’s cigarette, which Mikey puts out on the wall before handing to him, and then buries that and his own in a nearby plant pot. He grins at Mikey, and then nods at Pete as he passes him, and then it’s just Pete and Mikey and the most awkward fucking silence Pete’s ever been a part of.
After a while, Mikey says, “What are you - is there something you want?”
Pete doesn’t know how to answer that. Pete thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have been drinking before this conversation, because then he might actually have something to say, but then he’d probably just end up defensive and angry. Instead he just sort of blurts out, “Can I kiss you again?” without really thinking about it, and in the horrible, long silence that follows, he tries to work out if defensive and angry would have been any worse at all, on any level.
Mikey breaks the silence by laughing at him, which doesn’t help at all; now Pete is embarrassed and angry and why the fuck did he come to this party, anyway? He’s got a match tomorrow and it’s not as though he’s really friends with anyone here; he’d probably get the shit ripped out of him if the rest of the team knew he was here, and.
And then Mikey shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess,” with his mouth still quirked upwards at the corner like he’s still silently laughing at Pete, and Pete doesn’t care.
He tilts his head back to down the last of the beer he was still carrying, sets it carefully on the floor and then walks towards Mikey until he can cup a hand around the back of Mikey’s neck and pull him down a little to kiss him. Mikey tastes a little bit smoky but mostly of beer, and as soon as Mikey’s mouth opens under his Pete surges forward to kiss him harder. Mikey stumbles backwards slightly under the momentum. Pete settles his hands on Mikey’s shoulders so he can turn them, and then guides Mikey around until his back is against the wall.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Pete mutters up close to his mouth, and apparently whatever he was thinking before about knowing when to keep his mouth shut doesn’t apply anymore, because he can’t shut up now. “You’re so fucking, I don’t know, I don’t know.” He brushes his thumbs under Mikey’s cheekbones. “I don’t even like guys, I swear, I’m not even just saying it but you just. You make me want you so much.”
Mikey’s voice is a little shaky, but he says, “Dude. Shut up.”
Pete laughs, and whatever it is, he fucking loves Mikey in that one small moment, and leans in to kiss him again. He runs his tongue over the roof of Mikey’s mouth and then moves away. “You taste really good,” he says stupidly, then moves back in to kiss over his jaw, to use the hand at the back of his neck to tilt his head back and kiss down his throat as well. He doesn’t know if he left a mark last time; he didn’t want to, but this time he sucks at the skin just above Mikey’s collarbone until he’s sure there will be some trace of him left. Mikey makes a ragged noise, and Pete doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to hear more. He just wants more.
“Where can we go?” he asks. Mikey’s eyes are fixed on Pete’s mouth, but as Pete speaks he meets his eyes instead. Mikey looks panicked for a moment.
“What?”
“Where can we go?” Pete repeats. “Me and you, is there anywhere…”
“I don’t know,” Mikey says. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth for a second. Pete wants to do that for him. “It’s Frank’s house, I don’t know if he’d really want us to. You know. Do anything, in his house.”
Pete kisses him again, and he looses track of time, a little; when he pulls back he’s almost out of breath. “There’s nowhere?”
“Maybe… I mean, Frank’s room, maybe. He told no one to go up there because he didn’t want someone to hurl in his bed again, so. Maybe.”
This time it’s Pete who follows Mikey up through the house, and even though it’s messy as hell, Frank’s bedroom is still a lot better than any bathroom. He’s got a bed, for starters. Pete goes in first with a grin he can’t quite rein in when Mikey opens the door for him, and he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Mikey to come over. Mikey sits next to him, which feels a bit awkward.
“So,” Pete says, instead of doing what he really wants, which is to twist his upper body so he can kiss Mikey some more and maybe lean over him until he’s underneath Pete on the bed and kiss him some more like that.
“Uhm,” Mikey says. He laughs quietly.
“Yeah,” Pete mutters. “Hey, come here.” He does twist around then, and cups Mikey’s face with his hand so he can kiss him again, fingers splayed wide across his cheek. He wants to do this forever, stroke over Mikey’s tongue with his own and make the most of it while he can, because he’s pretty sure he’ll fuck up sometime soon and freak out. But he wants more as well, which is why they came up here in the first place, so he kisses Mikey harder and presses into his space until Mikey slowly begins to lean back on the bed. Mikey’s pretty much horizontal by the time Pete gets it together enough to stop kissing him, to take a break just long enough to awkwardly straddle him. It takes a lot of effort and concentration. He kicks something of Frank’s over, but he doesn’t bother checking what.
“Pete,” Mikey gasps, as though he wasn’t expecting it, and Pete tells him quickly, “I’m not having sex with you.”
Mikey laughs at that all over again. “Wasn’t gonna fucking let you,” he says, and Pete likes the way his eyes look when he’s smiling like that. He reaches out to take his glasses off, so they’re not hidden behind the lenses and he can see them better. Mikey blinks up at him and Pete wonders how blurred he looks now as he puts them down on the bed.
“But like,” he says, “maybe we could. I dunno.” He rolls his hips down, rocking slowly against Mikey, and that’s good. It’s better than he remembers it being when they were in the bathroom; more of his weight is on Mikey, here, and there’s more friction. Mikey’s breath catches in his throat.
Pete can’t believe that he’s doing this, rubbing off fully clothed whilst straddling Mikey on a bed. He’s not drunk enough for it, not really; he can feel himself slowly sobering up but that just means it all feels even better, and the prospect of it being weird afterwards isn’t anywhere near incentive enough to stop. He slides his hands tentatively up Mikey’ shirt. Mikey’s all smooth skin and flat planes and ribs for Pete’s fingers to bump over, and Pete’s never felt anything like him.
Mikey’s making tiny noises in the back of his throat with each movement they make, and Pete’s kind of jerking against him more than anything now, and Pete can’t stop the words coming out of his fucking mouth - filthy stuff, stuff he didn’t know he’d even thought about before. “I want to fuck you,” he’s muttering, working his hips desperately, trying to get something, just a little more, “I want you to, I want your mouth on my dick, I want,” and he half expects Mikey to sit up and punch him any second soon for this shit, but Mikey’s just moaning quietly and gasping.
Pete shoves his hand down between them then and undoes his jeans, then Mikey’s, and says, “Can we-”
“I thought you said no sex,” Mikey says, although he doesn’t sound as though he’s against the idea. He sounds strung out, and so fucking hot Pete groans.
“No sex,” Pete agrees. “Just like this, but with no pants.” Pants are fucking stupid. Pete hates whoever invented pants and gave them buttons and zips. It’s over the top fastening. It’s fucking retarded.
Mikey shudders in response. Pete takes that as assent, and he lifts himself up awkwardly, putting all his weight on his knees so he can pull his jeans halfway down his thighs and give Mikey enough room to do the same. Pete notices Mikey’s hands shaking. He slides his fingers through Mikey’s as he settles back down on him, and squeezes tightly as their cocks slide together, only separated by the thin material of their boxers now and it’s so, so much fucking better. In the brief moments of clear, halfway coherent thinking Pete has left he wonders if he should have taken Mikey’s shirt off first, or maybe even his own.
Pete’s going to last for such a short amount of time now that he’d feel embarrassed, if he had the capacity for it. Instead he just tries to keep his eyes open as his stomach twists and his movements get even more erratic and clumsy, because he wants to keep looking down at Mikey; he wants to keep watching him. He can’t remember how Mikey looked when he came last time. He wants to know now, whether that’s wise or just something stupid that’s going to come back and bite him on the ass later on.
“Mikey,” he says. He’s surprised at how low his voice comes out. “Mikey, Mikey, come on, please,” and Mikey comes with a choked, stuttering gasp like it took him by surprise, and Pete can feel it through his underwear, which should be gross but then that’s enough to make Pete come as well, gripping Mikey’s hands so tight he probably hurts him. He slumps on top of him as he tries to catch his breath, letting his lips brush over the mark that’s already starting to show on Mikey’s neck.
“Oh my god,” Mikey says after a while. Pete doesn’t know how long; his sense of time is all screwed up, but they’re both just about breathing normally again. He sort of wants to sleep, but he makes a questioning noise. “Frank’s going to fucking kill me,” Mikey mutters.
Pete doesn’t care. He tucks his face into Mikey’s neck and just doesn’t give a shit, even though there’s slowly drying come in his boxers and it’s really fucking uncomfortable, because this is okay. This is nice.
“He’s going to tell my brother,” Mikey adds. Pete makes another encouraging noise, because saying anything would be too much effort. “And then Gerard’s going to give me a talk. On like. Acceptance.”
“Where’s your phone?” Pete asks suddenly, when he’s gathered enough energy to make his vocal cords cooperate.
Mikey mumbles, “Pocket,” but makes no move to get it for him, so Pete has to do it himself. His fingers are clumsy as hell, but he manages to save his number and make sure it’s the right one under the right name.
“I’m gonna go,” he says. “Because otherwise I’ll fall asleep here, and I don’t.” He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants with Mikey, not really, and he doesn’t want to have to think about anything over awkward morning after conversations tomorrow. He lifts his head so he can kiss Mikey again, lazy and a little sloppy before he leaves. “But, I don’t know, you should drop me a text or something.”
Mikey just nods, and Pete stands up and has to blink his way through the worst head rush in the world before he can do up his pants and walk uncomfortably out of the room. He ignores the few people he passes on his way out, waves goodbye to Frank without going too close to him and then heads home. He doesn’t live too far away, and the cold air is bracing and helps clear his head so much that he’s not thinking about anything, especially not (not even) Mikey Way.
The next morning, Pete wakes up the right way around on his own bed, and drinks three glasses of water while he keeps his phone near him, watching the screen.