we are bad news (well HE is), [fob, mcr, pete/mikey, bob/frank, pete/frank, part 1/2]
Title: We Are Bad News (Well, HE Is)
Authors: groatypants and apiphileaboo.
Fandom: FOB/MCR (RPS)
Word Count: 13, 900ish.
Rating: R
Pairing: Mikey/Pete (PETE WENTZ, PANTOMIME VILLAIN), Bob/Frank, Pete/Frank
Warnings: Just. Tread carefully. (PEE, YOU GUYS, THIS CONTAINS SERIOUS AMOUNTS OF PEE) Shut up, Jessface, they won't read it -- (Also: Summer of Like, but with some time-line reshuffling because we like writing drinky Gerard).
Disclaimer: It's probably a good bet that this is fiction but YOU NEVER KNOW. You just never know.
It started when Pete accidentally got engaged to Mikeyway. It's not really his fault, he was coming at the time. How was he to know it would end with Frank running naked through hotel corridors wearing only a boy scout's scarf, screaming for lube?
ONE
The moment it begins is an emotional and tender one;
"Fuck, yes, Mikey-- marry me," Pete chokes out, his throat tight and his mind full of important thoughts.
Mikey actually stops blowing him, to answer: "Really? Yeah, okay, yes."
It's not even late at night. It ought to be, but on the road you take time where it comes, and the afternoon was made for blowjobs. Much like Mikey's mouth and Pete's dick. Truly it is a combination made in heaven. Pete looks at his dick. Something is missing and there are noises when there shouldn't be noises - oh, Mikey is talking.
The hell is Mikey talking about? And why is he talking at all? Pete looks down at Mikey, shiny red lips [thisclose] to Pete's dick but not actually on it. "Really! Really, I swear, yes, definitely-- don't stop," Pete says. He is quite sure that whatever he's just agreed to cannot be worse than Mikey stopping in the middle of giving head. He doesn't get a chance to really think before (thank God) Mikey's hands and mouth are back on him and he's coming, just like that. Coming, once more, so hard that he thinks he might have turned his balls inside-out.
"Oh dude, that was fucking, nnrgh," Pete's voice kind of disintegrates into satisfied nothingness. His bones are Jello. His heart is the size of an elephant's ballbag. Life is awesome and this right here is the afterglow. He pats Mikey on the head.
"You mean it?" Mikey's asking, and Pete thinks, of course I fucking mean it, Mikeyway gives great head then, wait, what? And finally:
Oh fuck.
He looks at Mikey's face - nnngggh that mouth - and replays the conversation in his head, carefully editing around the sex bits like a TV censor so he can actually fucking concentrate on the, the, the, y'know, words.
Then he thinks Oh fuck again, because that really is the only possible response.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh SHIT.
TWO
So they're all drinking, because this is a new and original and untried-before solution to boredom on tour. But they are at least drinking in a bar. Kind of. Technically it's a low-ceilinged room in fucking nowhere with someone showing up with bottles of Jack but in theory it's a bar. It has a license. It probably has a license. It would be nice if it had actual glasses but you can't have everything.
And there are cigarettes and there is sweat in the air and someone has taken their trainers off because the stink of feet is totally overpowering the stink of smoke and booze and half of them haven't taken their stage make-up off and Frank has the giggles and his hands locked around a bottle that Gerard is trying to take from him by force. Gerard is not really succeeding; Frank is all but shoving the butt of the bottle into his own spleen.
Pete identifies the feet smell when Gerard's fingers slip on Frank's bottle and he falls on his back with a thump, and it's worth noting that it's not actually feet-- it's just Gerard-smell, somehow doing an impressive impression of trainers worn too long in summer without socks, with only the power of his pits.
And it's all pretty good until Mikey pokes him in the side and says, "Tell them," loud enough for everyone to hear.
He doesn't want to marry Mikeyway. He wants to write break-up songs about him, take him to water parks under the pretence of fun and make himwash, bury his hands in his fucked up hair and fuck him (a lot) and, and, and possibly stalk him a bit, but he does not want to marry him. He is not, after all, a girl.
So he says: "Hemmy peed on my shoes the other day. Like, when I was wearing them." And he does not look at Mikey at all.
He thanks God for liquor when people start laughing. Frank actually slides off from where he’s perched on Bob's back and onto the ground, landing in a heap of giggles, half on top of Gerard. Who still hasn't bothered to move, apparently pleased enough to mumble at the mysterious stains on the ceiling.
"That's how dogs claim things," Gerard stops communicating with the ceiling long enough to contribute. Frank rolls around more violently with laughter, ending up leaning against Pete's feet. He has big, big eyes filled up with laughter-tears and he has Jack Daniels all over his shirt in big amber stains.
Bob reaches down and steals the bottle before any more of it can get wasted.
"Wait," Pete says, because wait, that is awesome, "wait, seriously?" he asks, boggle-eyed. "That is the best thing I have ever heard," and Pete undoes his fly, because seriously! Mikey's right there! Mikey's his! And Frank looks kind of pretty, on the floor looking up with flushed cheeks and laughter-damp eyes. And Gerard is kind of hot too, even though he's probably about five minutes away from puking his guts out and probably it's rude to pee on the brother of the guy you're dating. Whatever. That kind of etiquette is passé.
He's poised and ready. Well, he has his hand on his dick, which is - under almost all circumstances ever - the equivalent.
"No, Pete."
Damn it.
Patrick's hand is on his arm. He didn't even know Patrick was there. Patrick is NinjaStump right now, looming from the shadows to interfere with Pete's dick-related fun. Boo. Hiss.
"But--"
"Pete. Put your dick away." Patrick sounds weary, like he’s repeating a line he’s said many times before. It may be because he is.
Pete's still not into the idea of actually making eye contact with Mikey again, say, ever. Frank is still giggling himself stupid on the floor like he's stuck in a loop, and Gerard is practically comatose, so as he lets Patrick drag him away for attempts at sleep, he goes to wave at Bob. With his dick, because he doesn't believe on getting it out for no reason, come on. But Bob isn't actually paying any attention, just kind of standing there staring, eyes wide, looking down at Frank.
THREE
Pete doesn't really give up all that easy, of course; so it's only the next stop in the tour, the next day, while that conversation's still gotta be fresh in everyone's minds (except maybe Gerard's because it's not all that certain Gerard remembers saying shit or even the last week), when he's sitting in their bus and there's a stack of white plastic cups on the side. Why it's there, no one knows. No one cares.
He takes one of the cups out, shakes it out from the others, snakes his dick out of his jeans and pisses into the cup with Mikey sitting right there beside him.
Mikey watches him but says nothing. Just … fucking nothing. Like he doesn't get it.
His dick's floating in a sea of pee in the cup (because he really needs to stop treating energy drinks like they're a food group in their own right) and the cup's hot and Mikey's still staring at him like he's grown an extra head, probably … oh. Pete takes his dick out of the cup and shakes it off. Probably because he thinks this is some sort of STD test thing.
So Pete says, "OH MY GOD THE ITCHING," because Pete is nothing if not a complete and total dick.
Mikey stares at him some more, all smudgy eyes uninterested pout and one condescending eyebrow raised over his glasses, and it's quite tempting to upend it right over Mikey's head now, just to see what he'd do, but Pete just gallops out of the bus with the cup in his hand and a look of determination etched across his face like a parcel tag.
And he steps out into the air and Mikey's behind him and finally he says, "What the fuck are you doing?" In a tone more likely to be found around enquiries about the weather and "nice day for it"s, than questions about what Pete is going to do with a plastic cup of his own urine.
Which is kinda a reasonable question.
Pete lifts the cup like he's proposing a toast and says in a very dignified voice, "I'm going shopping for a man!" Pete brandishes the pee, trying not to spill it over his hand and accidentally claim himself and also ruin his hoodie. By making it stink of pee.
Mikey stares at him some more. You know. For the novelty. "What?"
In a fit of inspiration Pete points the pee-cup in the general direction of the backstage compound and shouts to anyone who happens to be passing - pretty much the whole world - "I'm going MANSHOPPING!"
FOUR
Bob loves that Frank is a physical person, a whirlwind of affection and elbows, a loving black eye and a friendly crash that's the sound of Bob's drums being murdered on stage.
It's just sometimes, he fantasies about telling Frank no.
No flailing, no kicking, no climbing, no piggyback rides, and no fucking spitting.
Nothing weird about that. He's fairly sure everyone in the band has had fantasies about tying Frank down. Hyperactive little shit.
He's also fairly sure no one else in the band jerks off to them. That's the part that's kind of weird.
It's just, Frank is constantly all over Bob, like Bob is his property, to clamber over as he wishes, a big blonde jungle gym, like it's totally his God given right to dig his knees into Bob's sides and shout ONWARD, TO LIQUOR when they're both totally drunk and Gerard's cleaned the bus out of everything alcoholic.
Bob jerks off to the thought of Frank on his knees, naked, pretty green eyes wide and ringed with dark lashes, hands tied in front of his chest with his own stupid pink belt, Bob's hand in his hair, coming on Frank's face. Showing Frank he is owned. He's Bob's.
It's only kind of weird though. Bob can handle it. So he has to go jerk off every time Frank climbs on him and he thinks, God, I could just throw him off right now, flat on your back in the dirt looking up at me. He can handle it.
And then Pete Wentz gets his dick out and ruins everything. Bob suspects that that sentence has been uttered thousands of times, but he's still kind of disgusted that he's saying it himself.
Bob can handle a bit of bandmates and bondage in his fantasy life, but when he jerks off and the image that actually gets him off leaves him feeling shaky, and not just because he's feels like he's come his brain out, it is: naked colourful Frank in his head rolls over, black ink scorpion crawling over the column of his exposed throat, and Bob just wants to take his dick in hand a piss all over him, yellow spattering wetly over Frank's chest and neck, Bob can practically smell himself all over Frank-- claiming him. Mine mine mine-- and he's coming into a hastily grabbed sock that smells suspiciously like it was Gerard's originally, though that could also be because he found it pressed down the side of his bunk mattress where it's likely been for several days since he last used it for just this.
So, Bob starts to feel a little unsettled. Also, kind of pissed off. About pissing on. Hah. Also, kind of inspired.
God, he hates Pete Wentz.
So, while elsewhere at that exact moment Pete is throwing pee at William Beckett (because he can and Beckett brings it on himself by looking like a fucking girl, as Pete explains once people have stopped throwing things at him), Bob Bryar has a lukewarm cup in hand and Frank Iero in his sights.
“Did you just hear someone yell ‘not the face, Pete’?” Frank turns around, shoulders slumped, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyebrows raised. Totally hot and entirely ruining Bob’s plan.
“No….” Bob says, even though he thinks he may have. To reiterate, he hates Pete Wentz and everything is his fault. “And god I hope it wasn’t Mikey, the mental images hurt.”
“What would they-“
“Let’s not mention this to Gerard.”
“I am so telling Gerard,” Frank says, full of unholy glee. Of course.
All of which is distracting Bob from his original purpose, which is rapidly cooling in his hand.
“Frank, turn around,” Bob tries. Because he’s really not sure how to ask Frank if he can throw pee on him and had kind of planned on using the element of surprise. He's heard that the element of surprise is useful when you don't have quite Pete fucking fucking Wentz's levels of pee-related audacity.
God he is so sick of the words "pee" and "Pete Wentz" being in such close proximity.
“Why?” Frank asks, and blows smoke at Bob.
“Just do it,” Bob knows he’s lost.
“Why?” Frank asks again, and the brattiness is rapidly flooding his tone.
“Just, turn around,” Bob says, and gestures with the hand that’s holding his cup and actually sloshes pee over himself, every drop soaking into his hoodie sleeve. Well, he owns himself. Great. It’s not like he can jerk off anymore than he already does anyway.
“Why, why, why?” Frank asks and Bob barely has time to think before Frank’s all over him, knees digging into every soft place on Bob’s torso as he climbs him like a tree, settling on Bob’s back. Bob’s face is burning by the time Frank settles himself on him, plastered against Bob, the crotch of his jeans tight against Bob’s lower back, his sweaty arms over Bob’s shoulders.
Miraculously, Bob doesn’t spill piss over them both. Then realises, damn it, that could have worked. He could have spilled piss over them both. That would have been cheating but - hell, it's not like Wentz wasn't fucking cheating from the get-go.
“The hell are you drinking, Bobert?” Frank says against Bob’s hot ear, pulling the arm he’s holding the cup in up with rough tattooed fingers, sniffing at it over Bob’s shoulder. “Smell like piss.”
Frank is high enough off the ground that he doesn’t even accidentally get any on his shoes when Bob drops it to the dead grass in despair.
FIVE
So Pete's just casually standing there, peeing on Joe's shoes. Joe is stoned and chilling out on a banana lounge in front of a kiddy pool and blow up palm tree, like a mini oasis between buses, see, so he's not all that fussed. Couple of brewskis in a cooler next to him, within arms reach. He looks totally relaxed and ridiculously hot.
"Hey Pete?" Joe asks, kind of kicking his foot a little in the stream.
"Yeah, dude?" Pete replies, eyes focussed on shaking his own dick off.
"Why are you, you know," Joe gestures at Pete's dick, hanging out of his pants.
"Claiming you for sexy times," Pete says, grinning with teeth.
"Oh, alrighty," Joe says, then frowns. Kicks his darker than usual sneaker so a few drops of pee fly off. "Can I have your shoes when we go on later?"
"Uh," Pete says, "you can have a pair of Patrick's."
Travis does actually catch him. Because Pete sometimes forgets that while he is fast, his legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve-year-old's, whereas Travis's legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve year old. All of them.
Travis grabs him around the waist, winding Pete a little with his own momentum against Travis's forearms, and getting his own piss all over him from where it's soaked into Travis's shirt, now pressed up against his back. Travis hoists him up and spins him upside down so fast Pete's not sure which way is up until it's too late-Travis’s arms are locked around his knees and his head is being dunked into the nearest cooler, half melted ice and the taste of a hundred dirty beer groping hands. He smacks his head on a can and gets filthy water up his nose.
Pete sits down where Travis dumps him, knees folded like a kindergartener, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes with both fists. Pete's hands come away from his face smeared grey-black with eyeliner. Great. He’s got panda eyes. And then he thinks about his hair, fuck.
"My hair, fuck!" Pete says, touching the wet strands that are laying messy and soaked across his forehead.
"You brought this on yourself," Travis says, calmly, looking down from about fifty feet above Pete.
Pete looks up at him and pouts as hard as he possibly can.
"Cheer up, emo panda," Travis says, and laughs at him. "You owe me a shirt, bitch."
Pete shoves the clean (for certain definitions of clean) shirt he's stolen from Mikey over his head and admires himself in the bathroom mirror. It's Mikey's favourite Iron Maiden shirt. Well, Mikey had said whatever when Pete asked if he could borrow a shirt because his was covered in pee, and whatever means whatever, Pete, you can put my favourite shirt on over your pee-soaked self in Pete's language. Which is totally the one true language everyone should be speaking.
So he's standing there, wearing Mikey's shirt, and he thinks, hey wait. Gerard is here somewhere.
When Pete comes out of My Chem’s bathroom, he's holding a borrowed toothbrush holder full of pee. My Little Ponies dance around the outside of the cup, frolicking gaily around Pete’s warm pee.
He feels kind of bad because Gerard is asleep, and looks kind of like a pale round faced angel from some kind of ancient religious painting, except he's fairly sure that angels don't smell like sweated out booze and that indefinable touring WayFunk that Gerard and Mikey seem to be the only people on earth capable of manufacturing. And by "feels kind of bad" he means "feels kind of turned on" (seriously, once you're used to that Way smell, Pete swears it's like a Pavolvian thing, Gerard and Mikey smell the same and Pete's so used to getting sexy in close proximity to Mikey's smell, ipso facto [thank you late-night Wikipedia]: Pete's kind of got a semi).
So one of Pete's hands is holding back the bunk curtain and one is holding the My Little Pony toothbrush holder full of pee and he tilts it so it spills a thin stream down over Gerard's chest, soaking into Gerard's ridiculous skeleton PJs.
He's hoping Gerard doesn't wake up. He's half-hoping Mikey doesn't come looking for him, but he's also half-hoping Mikey does. Pete shakes the last drop out of the cup and it accidentally flicks up, landing softly against Gerard’s cheek. Oops.
Gerard stirs, brow creased, sniffing for a second. Pete freezes. Gerard rubs his eyes and mumbles: "... Bert?"
Pete bolts back to the lounge, both hands clapped over his mouth to hold in the cackling, leaving the empty plastic cup spinning on the ground between the bunks.
Mikey’s still slumped on the couch when he bursts back into the lounge, panda-eyed with huge shades, boneless as a thing with no bones. A jellyfish. A big emo jellyfish.
Pete stands there for a minute, grinning and waits for Mikey to say something. Pete twists his hand up in the hem of Mikey’s shirt, riding it up a few inches so there’s a nice gap of abs and happytrail between his shirt and jeans, stretching it horribly at the same time.
“You don’t even want to know, dude,” Pete laughs a little too loud and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Mikey says. He doesn’t move. Pete’s not even sure he moved his mouth. Pete’s face flushes hot.
“You know what you do wanna know about? I don’t even wanna know either,” and Pete kicks something indiscriminately on the way out, unsatisfied with the soft thump it produces when it hits a wall. He just wants not to marry Mikey, which doesn’t mean he doesn’t want his undivided attention at all times- he forces a smirk onto his face as he stomps down the bus steps, even though he’s not really joking.
Pete's wandering around the backstage area, contemplating who he feels deserves his sacred pee, when like some kind of holy sign from the Gods of Rock'n'Roll and... the Gods of… also pee... he hears the beginning of Give 'Em Hell Kid and when he finally gets a good spot side-stage (standing on a box he probably shouldn't be, but everyone is taller than him, so it's basically their fault if he breaks something), he finds Frank Iero playing to him (the side of the stage he's on, whatever), bent over backwards so his two-tone hair brushes the stage floor, knees bent underneath himself, playing hard and fast, his hands lightning over his crotch, practically asking to be peed on.
Pete steals two cans of Red Bull out of someone's cooler on his way back through the buses. Frank Iero is pretty and Pete is going to have him. He downs the first can in two goes. He is going to have Frank Iero and a massive caffeine high.
Excellent.
So he's going to pee on Frank and the cup in his hand is full of violently yellow pee because he actually stole two more energy drinks from the Gee-Sea-Aich’s bus on his way past so he's had four now which is good because now he has a whole lot of pee in the cup and okay some of it on his hand because his hand might be a little shaky and at some point he's going to have to start using punctuation again inside his own head but fuck if he doesn't need it on the internet he doesn't need it there either Jesus Christ he loves caffeine -
Frank and Bob are both leaning against the My Chem bus, smoking, when Pete catches sight of them. Pete's thinking about strategy: abruptly, various ridiculous scenarios flit through his mind, but he settles pretty firmly on "throw pee, run very fast".
"Hey, Frank!" Pete yells, and both Bob and Frank turn around - Frank looks bored. Bob looks horrified. Pete hadn’t really factored Bob-related interference into his intricate strategy. Bob's wide eyes glance between Pete's face and the cup Pete's holding about six times - then it's kind of like a car crash. Pete is the car and Bob is the dude throwing himself under it in slow motion and Pete knows there is no way of preventing the collision.
They both end up on the ground.
Pete's thrown his pee and his cup directly backwards over his shoulder. There's no startled yelping, so he assumes he hasn't hit anyone by accident, not even Frank. Damn it.
The first thing Bob says to him is: "No."
"It's not like I was gonna get it on you," Pete hisses, getting up with absolutely no help from Bob, who is standing over him staring down. Pete brushes dirt off the back of his head. "And how did you even know?"
"No." Bob repeats and Pete doesn't think Bob's answering him, doesn't think he actually heard him at all, it sounds more like he's making a statement about Pete's existence in general.
"Have you peed on him?" Pete asks, narrowing his eyes.
"No," Bob says. Again.
"Then he's fair game," Pete says, because it's absolutely true and Bob isn't playing by the rules, damn it.
"No."
"Whatever, Bryar. We'll see," Pete says darkly. Drat, foiled! Pete wishes he had a curled moustache and pointy beard of evil to stroke while he contemplates his revenge. He makes do with stroking his chin thoughtfully. It kinda helps move the thoughts along.
SIX
It's a good gig. The crowd are full of energy, Gerard is full of preachy fire, Frank seems to be spending most of his time on his knees, which is not good news for Bob's libido but seems to be keeping the twelve-year-olds in the front row deliriously happy.
Bob's got other shit on his mind, though; it's a gig, and the one predictable thing about Frank Iero is that at some point he will wheel over to the drums and be annoying as a very annoying thing and climb all over the drum kit because words like "expensive" and "get off my fucking drums" don't penetrate when he's high on sing-a-long adrenaline. Predictable in this case means he can plan ahead, and planning ahead in this case means that just by his foot, out of the way of pedal-range but close enough that he can swoop down and grab it when he needs to, is Plan B.
Plan B is a white plastic cup from backstage. Plan B is three-quarters full of Bob's pee. That's a lot of pee, but Bob wants to make sure, and he was feeling sick last night, so he drank a lot of water, and he's been holding it in, and ... there's a cup of pee, anyhow. And as soon as Frank gets his unfairly hot and distracting butt over to the drums and starts climbing on them Bob will have a perfectly rational excuse to tip pee over him.
... okay, maybe not perfectly rational. But an excuse.
They're thundering towards the end of Thank You For The Venom. Bob's wondering if Frank's going to come over and be a pain in the ass between songs or during one, if he's going to have to try to stumble back into the rhythm or whether he'll have a moment to fling his pee without fucking up a song, when there's a movement in the corner of his eye.
At first Bob thinks, roadie.
It's not a roadie.
It's Pete fucking Wentz. He deserves that epithet. Bob's already tense, his rhythm's there but it's not quite on anymore, and he tries to glance at the jerk without actually acknowledging that he's there -
The song winds down. Gerard compliments the audience on being awesome and randomly cuddles Frank from one side, so if Bob throws pee on him now Frank'll probably just be grateful for anything that drowns out the WayFunk.
- Frank breaks away, already plucking at strings as Gerard introduces the next song (The Ghost of You, something easier on Bob), and spirals aimlessly back towards the drums.
Bob's ready, tense as a drumskin, thinking he should pick up the cup now, but then he'd look all premeditated, because of course otherwise it'll seem perfectly innocuous that he just happened to have a beaker of urine by his drums -
- like a cheetah in a fitted cap Pete Wentz shoots out of the wings, scoops up the cup and flies past the drumkit, nearly colliding with Frank as he holds the plastic vessel aloft like a trophy.
"GOT YOUR PEE!" Pete shouts. The crowd won't hear him, not from this distance, but the guys almost certainly can.
Bob wonders if prison is bad, and if he will be sent there for long after murdering Pete Wentz with a drumstick.
Meanwhile Pete bounds to the front of the stage, sploshing amber everywhere, shouts "CATCH BOB'S HERPES!" and tosses the cup into the crowd.
Fortunately for the twelve-year-olds in the front row, Pete throws like a fucking girl; the cup falls short, splattering the legs of one of the security guards and wrenching a fit of the horrible hyena-giggles from Pete fucking fucking Wentz's mouth.
Gerard's a bit non-plussed but he recovers okay, introducing Pete to the crowd - like they need telling - and asking him to come play a bit with them; Pete gets excited and clappy, and that's when - ohthankGod - stumpy little Stump-meister darts out of the wings, mouths an apology to the band, and drags Pete away (waving, of course, the little shit) by his scruff like a bad puppy. Bob likes Patrick, but he’s fairly sure he must have some deep and abiding mental problem to put up with Wentz this long.
Bob settles back, ready for the song, and catches Frank giving him a curious look. Well fuck.
That Wentz really is a bag of dicks.
SEVEN
The sun beats down on another nowhere town, and somewhere in the backstage area where the grass is brown and shrivelled, Pete Wentz stalks the blasted earth, a plastic vending machine cup clasped in his hand, the cooling warmth of his own tangy piss heating the palm of his hand through the thin white walls of the vessel.
He is going to find Frank Iero and he is going to claim Frank Iero and then Bob can't have him. He bites down on the "muahahaha" that should automatically follow such a thought, giggles to himself, and stalks forwards around the mysterious ping-pong table and its abandoned paddles.
The atmosphere is such that everyone might be asleep, resting from the midday sun (it really is fucking hot), except the people who actually do shit, like sound techs and lighting guys and stage managers and roadies and … people … who do shit …
From the other side of the backstage area Bob emerges from the portapotty, clutching in his hand something white and small and suspiciously cuplike. He stands in the doorway, blinking, bleary, and blond, and spots Pete. Pete can see his eyes narrow, and the whistling begins somewhere away to his left.
He's just about recognised it as the High Noon theme and located the source when the roadie grins at him and goes away to pick up something heavy. Pete stares back at Bob, only Bob's not in the threshold anymore, he's on the heat-murdered grass moving with purpose and a plastic cup of piss in his hand.
There should be tumbleweed, Pete realises. He also narrows his eyes, because it's sunny and his sunglasses have gone for a walk somewhere, possibly on Joe's face, and Bob's right there - he could just throw this pee over Bob, but that would be a waste. And Bob would still have his own pee, and Pete would have to drink more water really fast and jump up and down and then go and find Frank and Bob would have a head-start.
Two arcs of golden-yellow man-stinky liquid fly in intersecting parabolas (Pete and Wikipedia are friends at 3am) of urine, like two big gay rainbows, and instead of splashing in a confused mess on the grass and probably burning through it they sail past each other and Pete's t-shirt is soggy and smelly and warm with fresh Bob-pee.
"THIS MEANS NOTHING!" Pete shouts, holding the t-shirt away from his chest. "YOU CAN'T HAVE ME! PATRICK WILL BITE YOU - " Although as soon as the words are out of his mouth he knows what he actually means is that Mikey will cry, and now there's a dilem---
Oooh
Bob's frantically rubbing fresh chemical-laced Pete-pee out of his face, spitting and blowing like he's been underwater, his hair dripping with it, and swearing like a trooper. Or, more accurately, like a drummer who has just been hit in the face with cup of piss intended for his bandmate.
"THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING EITHER," Pete shouts desperately, backing off as fast as he can without actually tripping over his own feet. "I DIDN'T WANT YOU - "
Bob shakes his head hard so droplets of piss fly everywhere, accidentally claiming trailers and passing technicians and some guy from some magazine with a fake pass as all being part of Pete's ever-expanding harem, which any other time would be awesome. Only not right now.
Pete looks at the plastic cup still in his hand. He throws it over his shoulder, flips the bird at Bob, and breaks into a skittish run.
Part two.
Authors: groatypants and apiphileaboo.
Fandom: FOB/MCR (RPS)
Word Count: 13, 900ish.
Rating: R
Pairing: Mikey/Pete (PETE WENTZ, PANTOMIME VILLAIN), Bob/Frank, Pete/Frank
Warnings: Just. Tread carefully. (PEE, YOU GUYS, THIS CONTAINS SERIOUS AMOUNTS OF PEE) Shut up, Jessface, they won't read it -- (Also: Summer of Like, but with some time-line reshuffling because we like writing drinky Gerard).
Disclaimer: It's probably a good bet that this is fiction but YOU NEVER KNOW. You just never know.
It started when Pete accidentally got engaged to Mikeyway. It's not really his fault, he was coming at the time. How was he to know it would end with Frank running naked through hotel corridors wearing only a boy scout's scarf, screaming for lube?
ONE
The moment it begins is an emotional and tender one;
"Fuck, yes, Mikey-- marry me," Pete chokes out, his throat tight and his mind full of important thoughts.
Mikey actually stops blowing him, to answer: "Really? Yeah, okay, yes."
It's not even late at night. It ought to be, but on the road you take time where it comes, and the afternoon was made for blowjobs. Much like Mikey's mouth and Pete's dick. Truly it is a combination made in heaven. Pete looks at his dick. Something is missing and there are noises when there shouldn't be noises - oh, Mikey is talking.
The hell is Mikey talking about? And why is he talking at all? Pete looks down at Mikey, shiny red lips [thisclose] to Pete's dick but not actually on it. "Really! Really, I swear, yes, definitely-- don't stop," Pete says. He is quite sure that whatever he's just agreed to cannot be worse than Mikey stopping in the middle of giving head. He doesn't get a chance to really think before (thank God) Mikey's hands and mouth are back on him and he's coming, just like that. Coming, once more, so hard that he thinks he might have turned his balls inside-out.
"Oh dude, that was fucking, nnrgh," Pete's voice kind of disintegrates into satisfied nothingness. His bones are Jello. His heart is the size of an elephant's ballbag. Life is awesome and this right here is the afterglow. He pats Mikey on the head.
"You mean it?" Mikey's asking, and Pete thinks, of course I fucking mean it, Mikeyway gives great head then, wait, what? And finally:
Oh fuck.
He looks at Mikey's face - nnngggh that mouth - and replays the conversation in his head, carefully editing around the sex bits like a TV censor so he can actually fucking concentrate on the, the, the, y'know, words.
Then he thinks Oh fuck again, because that really is the only possible response.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh SHIT.
TWO
So they're all drinking, because this is a new and original and untried-before solution to boredom on tour. But they are at least drinking in a bar. Kind of. Technically it's a low-ceilinged room in fucking nowhere with someone showing up with bottles of Jack but in theory it's a bar. It has a license. It probably has a license. It would be nice if it had actual glasses but you can't have everything.
And there are cigarettes and there is sweat in the air and someone has taken their trainers off because the stink of feet is totally overpowering the stink of smoke and booze and half of them haven't taken their stage make-up off and Frank has the giggles and his hands locked around a bottle that Gerard is trying to take from him by force. Gerard is not really succeeding; Frank is all but shoving the butt of the bottle into his own spleen.
Pete identifies the feet smell when Gerard's fingers slip on Frank's bottle and he falls on his back with a thump, and it's worth noting that it's not actually feet-- it's just Gerard-smell, somehow doing an impressive impression of trainers worn too long in summer without socks, with only the power of his pits.
And it's all pretty good until Mikey pokes him in the side and says, "Tell them," loud enough for everyone to hear.
He doesn't want to marry Mikeyway. He wants to write break-up songs about him, take him to water parks under the pretence of fun and make himwash, bury his hands in his fucked up hair and fuck him (a lot) and, and, and possibly stalk him a bit, but he does not want to marry him. He is not, after all, a girl.
So he says: "Hemmy peed on my shoes the other day. Like, when I was wearing them." And he does not look at Mikey at all.
He thanks God for liquor when people start laughing. Frank actually slides off from where he’s perched on Bob's back and onto the ground, landing in a heap of giggles, half on top of Gerard. Who still hasn't bothered to move, apparently pleased enough to mumble at the mysterious stains on the ceiling.
"That's how dogs claim things," Gerard stops communicating with the ceiling long enough to contribute. Frank rolls around more violently with laughter, ending up leaning against Pete's feet. He has big, big eyes filled up with laughter-tears and he has Jack Daniels all over his shirt in big amber stains.
Bob reaches down and steals the bottle before any more of it can get wasted.
"Wait," Pete says, because wait, that is awesome, "wait, seriously?" he asks, boggle-eyed. "That is the best thing I have ever heard," and Pete undoes his fly, because seriously! Mikey's right there! Mikey's his! And Frank looks kind of pretty, on the floor looking up with flushed cheeks and laughter-damp eyes. And Gerard is kind of hot too, even though he's probably about five minutes away from puking his guts out and probably it's rude to pee on the brother of the guy you're dating. Whatever. That kind of etiquette is passé.
He's poised and ready. Well, he has his hand on his dick, which is - under almost all circumstances ever - the equivalent.
"No, Pete."
Damn it.
Patrick's hand is on his arm. He didn't even know Patrick was there. Patrick is NinjaStump right now, looming from the shadows to interfere with Pete's dick-related fun. Boo. Hiss.
"But--"
"Pete. Put your dick away." Patrick sounds weary, like he’s repeating a line he’s said many times before. It may be because he is.
Pete's still not into the idea of actually making eye contact with Mikey again, say, ever. Frank is still giggling himself stupid on the floor like he's stuck in a loop, and Gerard is practically comatose, so as he lets Patrick drag him away for attempts at sleep, he goes to wave at Bob. With his dick, because he doesn't believe on getting it out for no reason, come on. But Bob isn't actually paying any attention, just kind of standing there staring, eyes wide, looking down at Frank.
THREE
Pete doesn't really give up all that easy, of course; so it's only the next stop in the tour, the next day, while that conversation's still gotta be fresh in everyone's minds (except maybe Gerard's because it's not all that certain Gerard remembers saying shit or even the last week), when he's sitting in their bus and there's a stack of white plastic cups on the side. Why it's there, no one knows. No one cares.
He takes one of the cups out, shakes it out from the others, snakes his dick out of his jeans and pisses into the cup with Mikey sitting right there beside him.
Mikey watches him but says nothing. Just … fucking nothing. Like he doesn't get it.
His dick's floating in a sea of pee in the cup (because he really needs to stop treating energy drinks like they're a food group in their own right) and the cup's hot and Mikey's still staring at him like he's grown an extra head, probably … oh. Pete takes his dick out of the cup and shakes it off. Probably because he thinks this is some sort of STD test thing.
So Pete says, "OH MY GOD THE ITCHING," because Pete is nothing if not a complete and total dick.
Mikey stares at him some more, all smudgy eyes uninterested pout and one condescending eyebrow raised over his glasses, and it's quite tempting to upend it right over Mikey's head now, just to see what he'd do, but Pete just gallops out of the bus with the cup in his hand and a look of determination etched across his face like a parcel tag.
And he steps out into the air and Mikey's behind him and finally he says, "What the fuck are you doing?" In a tone more likely to be found around enquiries about the weather and "nice day for it"s, than questions about what Pete is going to do with a plastic cup of his own urine.
Which is kinda a reasonable question.
Pete lifts the cup like he's proposing a toast and says in a very dignified voice, "I'm going shopping for a man!" Pete brandishes the pee, trying not to spill it over his hand and accidentally claim himself and also ruin his hoodie. By making it stink of pee.
Mikey stares at him some more. You know. For the novelty. "What?"
In a fit of inspiration Pete points the pee-cup in the general direction of the backstage compound and shouts to anyone who happens to be passing - pretty much the whole world - "I'm going MANSHOPPING!"
FOUR
Bob loves that Frank is a physical person, a whirlwind of affection and elbows, a loving black eye and a friendly crash that's the sound of Bob's drums being murdered on stage.
It's just sometimes, he fantasies about telling Frank no.
No flailing, no kicking, no climbing, no piggyback rides, and no fucking spitting.
Nothing weird about that. He's fairly sure everyone in the band has had fantasies about tying Frank down. Hyperactive little shit.
He's also fairly sure no one else in the band jerks off to them. That's the part that's kind of weird.
It's just, Frank is constantly all over Bob, like Bob is his property, to clamber over as he wishes, a big blonde jungle gym, like it's totally his God given right to dig his knees into Bob's sides and shout ONWARD, TO LIQUOR when they're both totally drunk and Gerard's cleaned the bus out of everything alcoholic.
Bob jerks off to the thought of Frank on his knees, naked, pretty green eyes wide and ringed with dark lashes, hands tied in front of his chest with his own stupid pink belt, Bob's hand in his hair, coming on Frank's face. Showing Frank he is owned. He's Bob's.
It's only kind of weird though. Bob can handle it. So he has to go jerk off every time Frank climbs on him and he thinks, God, I could just throw him off right now, flat on your back in the dirt looking up at me. He can handle it.
And then Pete Wentz gets his dick out and ruins everything. Bob suspects that that sentence has been uttered thousands of times, but he's still kind of disgusted that he's saying it himself.
Bob can handle a bit of bandmates and bondage in his fantasy life, but when he jerks off and the image that actually gets him off leaves him feeling shaky, and not just because he's feels like he's come his brain out, it is: naked colourful Frank in his head rolls over, black ink scorpion crawling over the column of his exposed throat, and Bob just wants to take his dick in hand a piss all over him, yellow spattering wetly over Frank's chest and neck, Bob can practically smell himself all over Frank-- claiming him. Mine mine mine-- and he's coming into a hastily grabbed sock that smells suspiciously like it was Gerard's originally, though that could also be because he found it pressed down the side of his bunk mattress where it's likely been for several days since he last used it for just this.
So, Bob starts to feel a little unsettled. Also, kind of pissed off. About pissing on. Hah. Also, kind of inspired.
God, he hates Pete Wentz.
So, while elsewhere at that exact moment Pete is throwing pee at William Beckett (because he can and Beckett brings it on himself by looking like a fucking girl, as Pete explains once people have stopped throwing things at him), Bob Bryar has a lukewarm cup in hand and Frank Iero in his sights.
“Did you just hear someone yell ‘not the face, Pete’?” Frank turns around, shoulders slumped, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyebrows raised. Totally hot and entirely ruining Bob’s plan.
“No….” Bob says, even though he thinks he may have. To reiterate, he hates Pete Wentz and everything is his fault. “And god I hope it wasn’t Mikey, the mental images hurt.”
“What would they-“
“Let’s not mention this to Gerard.”
“I am so telling Gerard,” Frank says, full of unholy glee. Of course.
All of which is distracting Bob from his original purpose, which is rapidly cooling in his hand.
“Frank, turn around,” Bob tries. Because he’s really not sure how to ask Frank if he can throw pee on him and had kind of planned on using the element of surprise. He's heard that the element of surprise is useful when you don't have quite Pete fucking fucking Wentz's levels of pee-related audacity.
God he is so sick of the words "pee" and "Pete Wentz" being in such close proximity.
“Why?” Frank asks, and blows smoke at Bob.
“Just do it,” Bob knows he’s lost.
“Why?” Frank asks again, and the brattiness is rapidly flooding his tone.
“Just, turn around,” Bob says, and gestures with the hand that’s holding his cup and actually sloshes pee over himself, every drop soaking into his hoodie sleeve. Well, he owns himself. Great. It’s not like he can jerk off anymore than he already does anyway.
“Why, why, why?” Frank asks and Bob barely has time to think before Frank’s all over him, knees digging into every soft place on Bob’s torso as he climbs him like a tree, settling on Bob’s back. Bob’s face is burning by the time Frank settles himself on him, plastered against Bob, the crotch of his jeans tight against Bob’s lower back, his sweaty arms over Bob’s shoulders.
Miraculously, Bob doesn’t spill piss over them both. Then realises, damn it, that could have worked. He could have spilled piss over them both. That would have been cheating but - hell, it's not like Wentz wasn't fucking cheating from the get-go.
“The hell are you drinking, Bobert?” Frank says against Bob’s hot ear, pulling the arm he’s holding the cup in up with rough tattooed fingers, sniffing at it over Bob’s shoulder. “Smell like piss.”
Frank is high enough off the ground that he doesn’t even accidentally get any on his shoes when Bob drops it to the dead grass in despair.
FIVE
So Pete's just casually standing there, peeing on Joe's shoes. Joe is stoned and chilling out on a banana lounge in front of a kiddy pool and blow up palm tree, like a mini oasis between buses, see, so he's not all that fussed. Couple of brewskis in a cooler next to him, within arms reach. He looks totally relaxed and ridiculously hot.
"Hey Pete?" Joe asks, kind of kicking his foot a little in the stream.
"Yeah, dude?" Pete replies, eyes focussed on shaking his own dick off.
"Why are you, you know," Joe gestures at Pete's dick, hanging out of his pants.
"Claiming you for sexy times," Pete says, grinning with teeth.
"Oh, alrighty," Joe says, then frowns. Kicks his darker than usual sneaker so a few drops of pee fly off. "Can I have your shoes when we go on later?"
"Uh," Pete says, "you can have a pair of Patrick's."
Travis does actually catch him. Because Pete sometimes forgets that while he is fast, his legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve-year-old's, whereas Travis's legs are equivalent in length to the average twelve year old. All of them.
Travis grabs him around the waist, winding Pete a little with his own momentum against Travis's forearms, and getting his own piss all over him from where it's soaked into Travis's shirt, now pressed up against his back. Travis hoists him up and spins him upside down so fast Pete's not sure which way is up until it's too late-Travis’s arms are locked around his knees and his head is being dunked into the nearest cooler, half melted ice and the taste of a hundred dirty beer groping hands. He smacks his head on a can and gets filthy water up his nose.
Pete sits down where Travis dumps him, knees folded like a kindergartener, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes with both fists. Pete's hands come away from his face smeared grey-black with eyeliner. Great. He’s got panda eyes. And then he thinks about his hair, fuck.
"My hair, fuck!" Pete says, touching the wet strands that are laying messy and soaked across his forehead.
"You brought this on yourself," Travis says, calmly, looking down from about fifty feet above Pete.
Pete looks up at him and pouts as hard as he possibly can.
"Cheer up, emo panda," Travis says, and laughs at him. "You owe me a shirt, bitch."
Pete shoves the clean (for certain definitions of clean) shirt he's stolen from Mikey over his head and admires himself in the bathroom mirror. It's Mikey's favourite Iron Maiden shirt. Well, Mikey had said whatever when Pete asked if he could borrow a shirt because his was covered in pee, and whatever means whatever, Pete, you can put my favourite shirt on over your pee-soaked self in Pete's language. Which is totally the one true language everyone should be speaking.
So he's standing there, wearing Mikey's shirt, and he thinks, hey wait. Gerard is here somewhere.
When Pete comes out of My Chem’s bathroom, he's holding a borrowed toothbrush holder full of pee. My Little Ponies dance around the outside of the cup, frolicking gaily around Pete’s warm pee.
He feels kind of bad because Gerard is asleep, and looks kind of like a pale round faced angel from some kind of ancient religious painting, except he's fairly sure that angels don't smell like sweated out booze and that indefinable touring WayFunk that Gerard and Mikey seem to be the only people on earth capable of manufacturing. And by "feels kind of bad" he means "feels kind of turned on" (seriously, once you're used to that Way smell, Pete swears it's like a Pavolvian thing, Gerard and Mikey smell the same and Pete's so used to getting sexy in close proximity to Mikey's smell, ipso facto [thank you late-night Wikipedia]: Pete's kind of got a semi).
So one of Pete's hands is holding back the bunk curtain and one is holding the My Little Pony toothbrush holder full of pee and he tilts it so it spills a thin stream down over Gerard's chest, soaking into Gerard's ridiculous skeleton PJs.
He's hoping Gerard doesn't wake up. He's half-hoping Mikey doesn't come looking for him, but he's also half-hoping Mikey does. Pete shakes the last drop out of the cup and it accidentally flicks up, landing softly against Gerard’s cheek. Oops.
Gerard stirs, brow creased, sniffing for a second. Pete freezes. Gerard rubs his eyes and mumbles: "... Bert?"
Pete bolts back to the lounge, both hands clapped over his mouth to hold in the cackling, leaving the empty plastic cup spinning on the ground between the bunks.
Mikey’s still slumped on the couch when he bursts back into the lounge, panda-eyed with huge shades, boneless as a thing with no bones. A jellyfish. A big emo jellyfish.
Pete stands there for a minute, grinning and waits for Mikey to say something. Pete twists his hand up in the hem of Mikey’s shirt, riding it up a few inches so there’s a nice gap of abs and happytrail between his shirt and jeans, stretching it horribly at the same time.
“You don’t even want to know, dude,” Pete laughs a little too loud and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Mikey says. He doesn’t move. Pete’s not even sure he moved his mouth. Pete’s face flushes hot.
“You know what you do wanna know about? I don’t even wanna know either,” and Pete kicks something indiscriminately on the way out, unsatisfied with the soft thump it produces when it hits a wall. He just wants not to marry Mikey, which doesn’t mean he doesn’t want his undivided attention at all times- he forces a smirk onto his face as he stomps down the bus steps, even though he’s not really joking.
Pete's wandering around the backstage area, contemplating who he feels deserves his sacred pee, when like some kind of holy sign from the Gods of Rock'n'Roll and... the Gods of… also pee... he hears the beginning of Give 'Em Hell Kid and when he finally gets a good spot side-stage (standing on a box he probably shouldn't be, but everyone is taller than him, so it's basically their fault if he breaks something), he finds Frank Iero playing to him (the side of the stage he's on, whatever), bent over backwards so his two-tone hair brushes the stage floor, knees bent underneath himself, playing hard and fast, his hands lightning over his crotch, practically asking to be peed on.
Pete steals two cans of Red Bull out of someone's cooler on his way back through the buses. Frank Iero is pretty and Pete is going to have him. He downs the first can in two goes. He is going to have Frank Iero and a massive caffeine high.
Excellent.
So he's going to pee on Frank and the cup in his hand is full of violently yellow pee because he actually stole two more energy drinks from the Gee-Sea-Aich’s bus on his way past so he's had four now which is good because now he has a whole lot of pee in the cup and okay some of it on his hand because his hand might be a little shaky and at some point he's going to have to start using punctuation again inside his own head but fuck if he doesn't need it on the internet he doesn't need it there either Jesus Christ he loves caffeine -
Frank and Bob are both leaning against the My Chem bus, smoking, when Pete catches sight of them. Pete's thinking about strategy: abruptly, various ridiculous scenarios flit through his mind, but he settles pretty firmly on "throw pee, run very fast".
"Hey, Frank!" Pete yells, and both Bob and Frank turn around - Frank looks bored. Bob looks horrified. Pete hadn’t really factored Bob-related interference into his intricate strategy. Bob's wide eyes glance between Pete's face and the cup Pete's holding about six times - then it's kind of like a car crash. Pete is the car and Bob is the dude throwing himself under it in slow motion and Pete knows there is no way of preventing the collision.
They both end up on the ground.
Pete's thrown his pee and his cup directly backwards over his shoulder. There's no startled yelping, so he assumes he hasn't hit anyone by accident, not even Frank. Damn it.
The first thing Bob says to him is: "No."
"It's not like I was gonna get it on you," Pete hisses, getting up with absolutely no help from Bob, who is standing over him staring down. Pete brushes dirt off the back of his head. "And how did you even know?"
"No." Bob repeats and Pete doesn't think Bob's answering him, doesn't think he actually heard him at all, it sounds more like he's making a statement about Pete's existence in general.
"Have you peed on him?" Pete asks, narrowing his eyes.
"No," Bob says. Again.
"Then he's fair game," Pete says, because it's absolutely true and Bob isn't playing by the rules, damn it.
"No."
"Whatever, Bryar. We'll see," Pete says darkly. Drat, foiled! Pete wishes he had a curled moustache and pointy beard of evil to stroke while he contemplates his revenge. He makes do with stroking his chin thoughtfully. It kinda helps move the thoughts along.
SIX
It's a good gig. The crowd are full of energy, Gerard is full of preachy fire, Frank seems to be spending most of his time on his knees, which is not good news for Bob's libido but seems to be keeping the twelve-year-olds in the front row deliriously happy.
Bob's got other shit on his mind, though; it's a gig, and the one predictable thing about Frank Iero is that at some point he will wheel over to the drums and be annoying as a very annoying thing and climb all over the drum kit because words like "expensive" and "get off my fucking drums" don't penetrate when he's high on sing-a-long adrenaline. Predictable in this case means he can plan ahead, and planning ahead in this case means that just by his foot, out of the way of pedal-range but close enough that he can swoop down and grab it when he needs to, is Plan B.
Plan B is a white plastic cup from backstage. Plan B is three-quarters full of Bob's pee. That's a lot of pee, but Bob wants to make sure, and he was feeling sick last night, so he drank a lot of water, and he's been holding it in, and ... there's a cup of pee, anyhow. And as soon as Frank gets his unfairly hot and distracting butt over to the drums and starts climbing on them Bob will have a perfectly rational excuse to tip pee over him.
... okay, maybe not perfectly rational. But an excuse.
They're thundering towards the end of Thank You For The Venom. Bob's wondering if Frank's going to come over and be a pain in the ass between songs or during one, if he's going to have to try to stumble back into the rhythm or whether he'll have a moment to fling his pee without fucking up a song, when there's a movement in the corner of his eye.
At first Bob thinks, roadie.
It's not a roadie.
It's Pete fucking Wentz. He deserves that epithet. Bob's already tense, his rhythm's there but it's not quite on anymore, and he tries to glance at the jerk without actually acknowledging that he's there -
The song winds down. Gerard compliments the audience on being awesome and randomly cuddles Frank from one side, so if Bob throws pee on him now Frank'll probably just be grateful for anything that drowns out the WayFunk.
- Frank breaks away, already plucking at strings as Gerard introduces the next song (The Ghost of You, something easier on Bob), and spirals aimlessly back towards the drums.
Bob's ready, tense as a drumskin, thinking he should pick up the cup now, but then he'd look all premeditated, because of course otherwise it'll seem perfectly innocuous that he just happened to have a beaker of urine by his drums -
- like a cheetah in a fitted cap Pete Wentz shoots out of the wings, scoops up the cup and flies past the drumkit, nearly colliding with Frank as he holds the plastic vessel aloft like a trophy.
"GOT YOUR PEE!" Pete shouts. The crowd won't hear him, not from this distance, but the guys almost certainly can.
Bob wonders if prison is bad, and if he will be sent there for long after murdering Pete Wentz with a drumstick.
Meanwhile Pete bounds to the front of the stage, sploshing amber everywhere, shouts "CATCH BOB'S HERPES!" and tosses the cup into the crowd.
Fortunately for the twelve-year-olds in the front row, Pete throws like a fucking girl; the cup falls short, splattering the legs of one of the security guards and wrenching a fit of the horrible hyena-giggles from Pete fucking fucking Wentz's mouth.
Gerard's a bit non-plussed but he recovers okay, introducing Pete to the crowd - like they need telling - and asking him to come play a bit with them; Pete gets excited and clappy, and that's when - ohthankGod - stumpy little Stump-meister darts out of the wings, mouths an apology to the band, and drags Pete away (waving, of course, the little shit) by his scruff like a bad puppy. Bob likes Patrick, but he’s fairly sure he must have some deep and abiding mental problem to put up with Wentz this long.
Bob settles back, ready for the song, and catches Frank giving him a curious look. Well fuck.
That Wentz really is a bag of dicks.
SEVEN
The sun beats down on another nowhere town, and somewhere in the backstage area where the grass is brown and shrivelled, Pete Wentz stalks the blasted earth, a plastic vending machine cup clasped in his hand, the cooling warmth of his own tangy piss heating the palm of his hand through the thin white walls of the vessel.
He is going to find Frank Iero and he is going to claim Frank Iero and then Bob can't have him. He bites down on the "muahahaha" that should automatically follow such a thought, giggles to himself, and stalks forwards around the mysterious ping-pong table and its abandoned paddles.
The atmosphere is such that everyone might be asleep, resting from the midday sun (it really is fucking hot), except the people who actually do shit, like sound techs and lighting guys and stage managers and roadies and … people … who do shit …
From the other side of the backstage area Bob emerges from the portapotty, clutching in his hand something white and small and suspiciously cuplike. He stands in the doorway, blinking, bleary, and blond, and spots Pete. Pete can see his eyes narrow, and the whistling begins somewhere away to his left.
He's just about recognised it as the High Noon theme and located the source when the roadie grins at him and goes away to pick up something heavy. Pete stares back at Bob, only Bob's not in the threshold anymore, he's on the heat-murdered grass moving with purpose and a plastic cup of piss in his hand.
There should be tumbleweed, Pete realises. He also narrows his eyes, because it's sunny and his sunglasses have gone for a walk somewhere, possibly on Joe's face, and Bob's right there - he could just throw this pee over Bob, but that would be a waste. And Bob would still have his own pee, and Pete would have to drink more water really fast and jump up and down and then go and find Frank and Bob would have a head-start.
Two arcs of golden-yellow man-stinky liquid fly in intersecting parabolas (Pete and Wikipedia are friends at 3am) of urine, like two big gay rainbows, and instead of splashing in a confused mess on the grass and probably burning through it they sail past each other and Pete's t-shirt is soggy and smelly and warm with fresh Bob-pee.
"THIS MEANS NOTHING!" Pete shouts, holding the t-shirt away from his chest. "YOU CAN'T HAVE ME! PATRICK WILL BITE YOU - " Although as soon as the words are out of his mouth he knows what he actually means is that Mikey will cry, and now there's a dilem---
Oooh
Bob's frantically rubbing fresh chemical-laced Pete-pee out of his face, spitting and blowing like he's been underwater, his hair dripping with it, and swearing like a trooper. Or, more accurately, like a drummer who has just been hit in the face with cup of piss intended for his bandmate.
"THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING EITHER," Pete shouts desperately, backing off as fast as he can without actually tripping over his own feet. "I DIDN'T WANT YOU - "
Bob shakes his head hard so droplets of piss fly everywhere, accidentally claiming trailers and passing technicians and some guy from some magazine with a fake pass as all being part of Pete's ever-expanding harem, which any other time would be awesome. Only not right now.
Pete looks at the plastic cup still in his hand. He throws it over his shoulder, flips the bird at Bob, and breaks into a skittish run.
Part two.