Oh shit, Gerard thought.
"Do you think he heard us?" he asked, biting his lip, still breathing embarrassingly hard.
Frank chuckled. "Do you think he didn't?"
Gerard groaned.
"By the way, I could use some tissues," Frank commented. He held out his hand and grimaced.
Gerard was grateful to be able to roll away. He grabbed a box of tissues from the shelf and handed it to Frank, who took a few, still laughing.
"We had sex on prom night," Frank said. "It's like a movie."
Gerard watched as Frank pulled off his jeans and underwear. They listened to Smashing Pumpkins through the wall, without speaking; the room was dark and warm.
--
He kept thinking they had unfinished conversations they needed to end. There was always one more thing to clear up, something to explain further.
Unsurprisingly, after a while he noticed that Mikey started to avoid him. Once, Pete caught him turning around and walking back in the opposite direction in the hall, and of course he had to run after him and say something. It was his conscience eating into him, causing the mad urge to talk to Mikey, chase after him, maybe try to be nice to him so that he wouldn't be so sad about what Pete had done. Not that Mikey seemed sad, but when Pete got up close he could tell the difference between Mikey now and the Mikey who had kissed him in the back of his car.
Pete was exhausted. He had blinding headaches that kept him awake. That was his excuse.
--
The place wasn't dingy, not sparkling clean either, somewhere in between, but the thought of infections didn't scare him, and they didn't card him. He lay on a comfortable hospital-like table and it hurt like a motherfucker. He grimaced for two hours straight, his back was burning, incinerating slowly, and he was sweating, nauseous, his vision went a couple of times. When it was done, he paid and left with a badly drawn tattoo on his lower back. The high was incredible.
He couldn't keep it quiet, of course. He showed it to Andy first, because Andy was always excitable about new things, and he made big eyes, making Pete feel like a man. "It's feels like a scar," Andy said when he touched Pete's back, "Is it supposed to be like that?"
"I think it'll go down, it's just 'cause it's new," Pete said.
It didn't go down. He could feel it, could trace it with his fingers.
He thought it was only a matter of time before they saw it. He couldn't imagine what they'd do. But it had still been worth it, would still be worth it.
"Where did you get that?" someone asked him when he was getting dressed after gym one afternoon, and when he turned around, Frank Iero was looking at his midriff. "Is it homemade?" he looked up at Pete.
"No," Pete said.
"That's illegal," Frank said, as if that might be news to Pete, or to anyone.
"I know." Pete put his shirt back on.
"One of my cousins is a tattooist," Frank continued. "Yours looks a bit weird, I don’t think it's been done right."
Pete turned around again and thought about saying something scathing about how Frank could get back to him once he stopped being a pussy and had a tattoo done, but then, in a sudden flash, he remembered that Frank was Gerard's friend, and maybe Frank knew about Pete, maybe he was just waiting for a reason to flaunt the knowledge, and in the end he didn't say anything.
"I really want to get a tattoo," Frank said. He was taking his shirt off, and Pete turned away, not so much because of Frank's bare chest, but so that Frank didn't assume Pete was interested in looking at him undressing.
"I'll give you the address," Pete offered, and Frank giggled, a high-pitched noise.
"My mom would kill me." He started putting his shoes in his bag, and that seemed to be the end of the conversation, and Pete hated that he couldn't stop himself from asking,
"You know Mikey Way, right?"
Frank turned back, with one eyebrow arched. "Yeah," he said, cautiously, as if he wasn't sure what Pete's game was.
Pete shrugged. "I just wanted to buy a DVD from him. Do you know his number?"
He didn't need Mikey's number, but he wanted Frank to know that he was interested in Mikey for reasons other than making out.
Frank was biting the inside of his cheek, a small frown creasing his forehead. "Yeah, I have his number," he said. He got out his cell phone and Pete flipped his own open. The number Frank gave him was different from the one he had. It must be to the house. Pete imagined calling and having Gerard answer, or Mikey's dad, who might also have heard why Mikey had taken their car to go driving in the middle of the night. He didn't save the number.
"You want a DVD from him?" Frank asked then. He was still frowning, and Pete realized that Frank hadn't known that about Mikey.
"Yeah, he can get most stuff," he explained. "I thought you knew him?"
"Yeah, I - we're on the croquet team."
"Right, you're dating his brother." When Frank flinched, Pete offered up his most disarming smile, "At least that's the rumor. Whatever, everyone gets shit said about them."
Frank nodded. "Yeah, we're hot and heavy," he mumbled, but he looked a bit unnerved. Pete felt vindicated.
--
Pete actually really liked playing soccer. He was good at it because he wanted to be, because he practiced a lot and worked fucking hard at matches, and loved it. He had trouble getting out of bed to show up for games, but once he was on the field, he was happy to be there. He liked locker room talk, he liked the banter, everyone knew the details of his first time with Annie and how into him Andy Hurley's hot cousin had been, and he got awesome stories in return. The porn he owned had been sold to him while he was taking off his knee-pads. He wasn't really a team-player, except on the field. It didn't make him feel less alone, but it helped his mind.
The first time someone called him "fag" while he was unlacing his shoes after practice, he had that awful, sinking feeling in his chest, because he knew the difference between friendly locker-room insults and this. No one picked up on it, but there had been a real edge of hate in it. After, he couldn't remember exactly who had said it, but he thought it was probably the tall Junior, Eric something, who he had incurred a penalty from. The fact that there was a reason didn't make it less of a threat, though, and Pete thought, fuck. Fuck. He couldn't. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He didn't want to learn how to handle it. He wasn't Gerard Way and he had no desire to be.
--
He made out with a girl and was grounded for forever when his parents found out about his tattoo, all on the same day.
He made out with Jen because she was sitting close to him on the grass, kind of leaning against his knees, while the metal of the car was warm against his back, her hair was soft when he threaded his hand through it, smiling down at her. There hadn't even been anything going on that night, they were just hanging out, some people were making out and some of the cheerleaders were teaching some of the guys to do cartwheels, and it had been an impulse to lean over and press his mouth to hers. She was pretty into him. Every time there was a houseparty and alcohol, her friends would try to get them together and some of the cheered now. It made him feel good about everything.
They went for a walk when it got darker and she let him slip a hand under her sweater, pull the bra down and palm her nipples.
It wasn't very late when he got home, so he went in through the front door, and as soon as he closed it, his mom called from the living room, "Pete?"
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"Come here a minute."
His mom and dad were both sitting in the living room and the television was on. Pete threw a glance at the clock on the wall, it was only 8.30, so he didn't think he could be in trouble for anything.
"Yeah?" he said, warily, as he shifted on his feet.
"Come here," she said again, but calmly.
He went over to her when she motioned him over. She sniffed his hair and made him breathe on her. It was the first time they had ever made him do that.
"I'm sorry," she said after, "But you can understand why, can't you?"
He nodded. It was lucky, he thought, that she couldn't tell where his hands had been.
"Okay, you can go now." She looked down at his feet and made a face. "And good god, take off your shoes, they're dirty."
He was just relieved that he was off the hook and that there hadn't been any alcohol tonight, and he quickly bent to take off his shoes, forgetting that the t-shirt he was wearing was a tight fit and that his jeans were riding pretty low. As soon as he turned and bent down, there was a gasp from behind him.
"Oh my god, what is that?" his mom exclaimed.
Pete grimaced. When he stood and turned back around, his dad had put his paper down and they were both staring at him.
"Turn around," his mom said. "Let me look at you. Have you – " She grabbed his arm, and he had no choice but to just stand there as she lifted his shirt then made him turn to show his dad.
"Where did you get that?" his dad asked, voice tight.
"I – " Pete squirmed.
"Did you do it yourself. Did one of your friends make this? Do you have any idea how dangerous – "
"I went to a real place", he said finally, "It's not homemade."
They seemed relieved at that. But not less angry. He was pretty sure he had just lost his car.
--
He was able to use his car to drive to school and back, but that was pretty much the only time he was allowed to leave the house. He broke the rules in measured little chunks, here and there, very carefully.
He reflected on the fact that it was sort of a relief to have an excuse not to touch Jen's breasts at every opportunity, and he actually got homework done, and he worked harder on the field, burning up energy pent up from sitting in his room in the dark or quietly at the dinner table.
He broke up with her over the phone. She was upset and accused him of only being after one thing, which was kind of funny when you thought about it. He let her believe it, hoping that the word would spread.
The school year was almost over anyway and who knew what would happen over a summer. His problems might all go away by themselves. His only commitment over the summer was going away to soccer camp, which he was looking forward to, because he knew it was going to be fun; it would focus his brain; no tears, no nightmares; the days there were so easy, he wasn't even going to bring any Ativan with him. And maybe when he got back, he would start going to a therapist. His mom and dad would not be hard to convince. He ached to talk to someone, but he wanted a few more months of not knowing.
It was just past 11 pm, and he was lying on the floor with his pants pushed down, his shirt pushed up and a slick mess all over his stomach, still panting, feeling pleasantly warm and heavy. The music on his stereo was playing on low and the glare of the computer screen was the only light filling the room. He shoved the porn magazine away with his foot, pushing it under the bed. It had been okay to start him off, but he'd abandoned it halfway through to close his eyes and press the side of his face to his arm.
He thought he hadn't jerked off this much before in his life. But he didn't have much else to do when he was sitting alone in his room, and sometimes it was the only thing that eased his mind. It wasn't like he was going to get it from somewhere else while he was like this, not that it mattered.
Usually, he felt a bit guilty jerking off thinking about Mikey, because he hadn't exactly earned the right to feel good on account of Mikey after how he had treated him. He wasn't sure if he believed in karma anyway, but it clearly wasn't working.
Sitting up, he reached for some tissues and pushed his pants down further to take them off and throw them in the laundry pile. He was considering sneaking out. It wouldn't really be that difficult, he could creep out of the window as soon as his parents went to sleep and still be at the t-junction by eleven.
While he waited in his room, he texted Mikey. He didn't have Mikey's number stored in his contacts list, but it was still there from a previous call and after a while Mikey texted back who is this? so Mikey didn't have his number stored either. The first text Pete sent had said btw thanks for the Misfits. Fcking good and now he replied PW and Mikey didn't answer again.
After a while of toying with the phone, waiting for Mikey to reply, he put it on the floor by his bed and reached for the jeans that he had laid out on the bed with a t-shirt. He hung the school uniform shirt on a hanger and put his gym bag by the laundry basket and sat down on his bed again. It was getting darker outside and he could hear the television from downstairs.
He picked up the phone again. R u grounded
There was no reply.
Pete shook his head, laughing a little incredulously at himself. He was being dissed by one of the weirdest kids in school. Almost out of self-deprecation, he wrote a new message and sent it off: R u at home? There was no reply of course, so a few moments later he sent another one, Im home. I'm waiting to go out. Party at the t.
He thought that Mikey would probably know that was the place where they had first kissed. He wondered what Mikey would think.
Opening up a new message, he wrote hate feeling lonely among people, u agree? Yeh, like ur gonna answer that. Need an idiots guide to myself sometimes. haha. btw, ur a dickhead. Mikey really was a dick for not answering at least to tell Pete to shut up.
Pete thought about how he had liked when they were sitting somewhere and he was talking shit and Mikey was listening quietly, just breathing softly, close to Pete. He'd always had a feeling Mikey didn't much care about the crap Pete was saying and it was oddly freeing. Sometimes when Mikey talked, whether it was about school or music or Gerard going to art school, Pete would close his eyes and drink it in because he had a feeling not a lot of people got that side of Mikey. He would interrupt to tell Mikey that he was an idiot for caring so much about what Gerard was doing, and Mikey would become sulky and quiet, and they would almost have a fight. Pete remembered how good the kisses felt when there was a sting in Mikey's lips.
He wrote a new message. I don’t think i'll go out.
As soon as he sent it to Mikey, he decided it was true. He didn't want to feel that lonely, not tonight.
He put the phone on the floor and lay on the bed for a while, staring up at the dark ceiling, touching his mouth. There were no replies all night, not that he had expected there to be.
He fell asleep around 4 am, which was pretty good and he almost felt rested the next morning.
--
They were winding down after a practice, the whole team sitting on the grass in the sun. When he took a sip from his drink, someone said something and nodded meaningfully at the way he was sucking on the straw, and Pete felt his face heat up with embarrassment, with guilt, admission, and blind rage. He was suspended from practice for two weeks and Eric bled all over the school colors.
--
When he came home, his parents had already been told. His mom was in the kitchen. She gave him a long, warning look when he put his bag on one of the stools by the counter. "Hi," he mumbled.
"Care to explain yourself?" she said.
Pete untangled the bag straps, opened the bag, took out a book, and fiddled a bit with the zipper before closing the bag again. "I don't have a good explanation," he mumbled.
She sighed deeply. "Then I don't know what to say. What do you suggest I say?"
He didn't want to look at her. He could feel her eyes on him. "Don't know," he said.
"You think it's a wise thing to do, hitting people? You think it makes you a tough guy?"
Pete shook his head. He barely even remembered doing it. He'd snapped.
She shook her head too. "We don't know what to do anymore, Peter. There doesn't seem to be anything we can do. Or what do you think?"
He looked down, feeling his face heat up. "No," he mumbled.
"You wanted to go to that soccer camp this summer, didn't you?" she continued.
Pete felt his chest tighten. When he looked up, she was stirring the casserole. He didn't know how to make her not say what she was about to.
"You obviously can't go if you're going to behave like this." She put the lid back on and turned to him. "The guys there don't need to have someone like you spoiling it for everyone else."
Pete swallowed. He thought, she doesn't know, she has no idea. "Mom," he said. He was feeling desperate, "Please. Please. "
"Peter." She sounded really exasperated for the first time, no more cool, steady tone. She was upset. Well, so was he. He couldn't help her.
"What if I get a job and pay for it myself?" he dared to ask.
"Are you not hearing what we are telling you?" She shook her head. "You don't really think we are just going to let you go off to soccer camp like nothing's happened, do you?" He could smell her perfume across the breakfast bar, mixed with the smell of spices and beef casserole. She wasn't looking at him, though. It was as if she didn't dare to or she wouldn't be able to say what she was about to. "Look, your dad and I have been thinking. It might be good if you – there's another type of camp that we think would – "
He felt the room grey out at the edges, the bubbling of the pan suddenly become deafening. He didn't want to hear what she was about to say. He bit his lips, but couldn't stop the sudden well of tears filling up in his eyes, like he had been hit. "Mom," he whimpered.
She stopped talking then, didn't finish the sentence. There was a silence filling the kitchen. Pete wiped his hand across his eyes.
"Come here," she said, and he went over to where she was standing by the stove and let her put her arms around him. "Honey, we just... we don't know what to do."
He closed his eyes and pressed his face into her shoulder. He wanted to tell her he didn't know what to do either. He longed for her to bring up the make-up and the tattoo so that he could tell her how it made him feel. He wanted to tell her about Mikey, just to have someone to talk to, someone who would listen and understand.
But he didn't and she didn't. They just hugged.
--
Pete kicked the bolt off the window. It dropped out and clattered to the floor. He kicked the other one and it loosened enough that he could pry it off with his fingers and open the window. He crawled through and hunched low by the cars for a while, debating whether he'd be able to take it without catching anyone's attention.
He decided against it and started walking. After half an hour of walking down the highway he was offered a lift. Someone thought he was lost, and he gratefully accepted the ride. If they turned out to be a pervert he would kick their teeth in like he had the bolted window.
He gave them the address as if it was his own and was dropped off and told to be careful.
Mikey's window was slightly ajar, but so was Gerard's and they were next to each other so Pete had to be quiet. He climbed the patio with no problem and pushed himself up on top, creeping slowly across the roof, past the first window, stopping by the second.
For a moment, he didn't really know what to do. It was after midnight and there was a chance Mikey was asleep, but there was also the chance that he was awake and Pete wasn't sure which he preferred. He tapped his nails against the glass lightly, then held his breath. Nothing happened. The blinds were pulled and he couldn't see into Mikey's room. The thought hit him that Mikey might not be alone. He imagined crawling through and seeing Gerard sitting there with a game controller. Then he remembered that the computer was in Gerard's room and there was a possibility that Mikey was in there instead, which Pete decided would probably be the best scenario. That would mean he could climb in and sit nicely waiting until Mikey came back, and he also wouldn't be so wind-swept and sweaty.
Carefully, carefully, he pushed the window all the way open and slid one foot over the ledge, ducking in under the curtains, landing softly on the floor.
Mikey was sitting curled up against the head of the bed with a magazine opened in his lap, staring at Pete.
"Hi," Pete mumbled. He stood up and brushed the dirt from the patio roof off his knees.
"Hi," Mikey said.
Pete gestured at the window. "Sorry, I." There was no good way to end that sentence, he realized, and instead he just jammed his hands in his pockets. "I knocked."
Mikey was still looking startled, but he was also looking curiously at Pete.
Pete sat down on the edge of the bed, and met his gaze. "Did I scare you?"
For a moment it looked as if Mikey was about to smile. He nodded. "Yeah. Fuck."
Pete couldn't help smiling back. He assumed he must have scared him; he had just jumped in through the window in the middle of the night. He was impressed that Mikey hadn't screamed. "Sorry," he said again. "I just wanted to talk to you."
"Okay." Mikey was a little guarded, but not more than usual.
Pete wasn't sitting close enough to touch him. Mikey was still sitting against the headboard. Pete pulled his knees up and rested his head on his hands. "It wasn't really a setup."
Mikey nodded. "Okay."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"Okay." Mikey nodded again.
Pete pushed a hand over his hair and took a breath. He moved a little so he was still comfortable, but could look at Mikey. "I'm sorry I was a dick to you. Honestly. Everything's been really fucked up lately and it's not just about us, that's, like, the least of the stuff. My parents want to send me to a fucking, I don't know, juvenile delinquent camp or something because I beat up this guy on the team for no real reason and got suspended."
"From school?" Mikey asked.
Pete shook his head. "No, the team. I won't get to go to soccer camp this summer either, which I really wanted to." Mikey didn't look very sympathetic, but Pete hadn't thought he'd be; he doubted Mikey wanted to spend his summer at croquet camp. "Anyway," he sighed, and it all came trickling out, the whole truth, "They're really upset because they found out that I tried on make-up and I got a tattoo and there's been other things too, and I know they want me to change back, but. The only thing they don't know about is you, pretty much."
"Really?" Mikey blinked. His eyes were friendly and Pete thought that he was pretty in the dim light.
"Yeah." He touched his hand to his jaw and grimaced. "Did your brother tell you he beat me up?"
Mikey nodded. "Yeah, but. After."
Pete smiled a little. "I wasn't prepared. I could have knocked him on his fucking ass, but, yeah, he got me pretty good."
"Where's the tattoo?" Mikey asked.
Pete blinked. "Um," he said. "On my back." He rolled over and pushed his shirt up. The tattoo still looked like shit, but he wasn't tired of the thrill yet. It was at the small of his back, but high enough that it shouldn't be visible unless he was stupid enough to crouch down in a small t-shirt and no belt.
"Cool," Mikey said.
Pete peered at him over his shoulder. "They fucked it up a bit. It feels like scar tissue."
Mikey reached out a traced the ink with his finger. Pete shivered. "Yeah, it does. Did it hurt?"
Pete nodded. "That's part of it, though."
Pete turned around again, but he noticed that Mikey stayed where he was, leaning slightly forward, and Pete felt suddenly warm. Mikey's touch had sent sparks across his skin.
He reached up and Mikey leaned down and they kissed, soft and warm, lips sliding together. Pete closed his eyes. He pulled back when he couldn't balance anymore and sat back. "Can I sleep here?" he asked. "I'll sleep on the floor, just don't step on me tomorrow." He doubted Mikey would tell him he couldn't stay over.
Mikey nodded and he had turned a bit red. "What about your parents?" he mumbled. They were both whispering because it was late and the house was quiet.
Pete bit his lip. "I don't know," he said, truthfully. He would have to deal with that tomorrow.
He got up from the bed and Mikey stood up too. Pete pulled the quilt off the bed and Mikey handed him a pillow that was warm and was going to smell of Mikey and Pete stood holding it for a while, because it started to feel a bit weird. "Thanks," he said. He hadn't been thinking when he set off; he was wearing a hoodie sweatshirt with nothing underneath. "Uh, can I borrow a t-shirt?"
Mikey nodded. He opened the dresser drawer and handed Pete a black Anthrax t-shirt.
"Thanks," Pete said as he took it and pulled his own shirt over his head. He put the quilt on the floor before he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them off. Mikey was already wearing pajama pants while Pete was standing in the middle of the room in just his boxers, and he noticed that Mikey was looking at him. He hesitated, gripping the t-shirt, but not putting it on. Mikey wasn't staring, but he wasn't trying not to look at him either. Pete thought back and wondered if Mikey had ever seen him this naked. He didn't think that he'd even taken off his shirt while they made out and he knew he definitely hadn't taken off his pants.
He suddenly didn't want to put on the t-shirt Mikey had given him. He wanted Mikey to keep looking at him.
"Um," Mikey said when Pete took a step forward.
They kissed softly, standing in the middle of the room, and Mikey was dressed, but Pete was half-naked and Mikey's hands were on his skin, had to be, there was no safe place for him to put his hands.
"Hey," Pete said, as he kissed the side of Mikey's mouth, angled his head, and slid his hands up under the back of Mikey's t-shirt so they were both touching skin.
He didn't really think about it when he pushed Mikey down on the bed. There wasn't much left to the imagination this time, just Mikey's pajama pants and Pete's boxers between them, and Pete had to tear his mouth away and groan when their dicks slid together. He put a hand over his mouth, because it had been too loud, and when he looked down, Mikey's face was red and his mouth was parted; he closed his eyes when Pete moved his hips.
Pete mumbled, "Shit." He hadn't planned this, but he knew it must seem like he had.
They grinded against each other until they were both flushed and panting. Then Pete raised his head and pulled back. This wasn't the time.
"Where's the bathroom?" he asked.
Mikey blinked up at him, a little surprised, but he gestured at the door.
"Be right back," Pete said and got up from the bed. He didn't bother to try to cover up his erection, because even if Mikey hadn't seen it, he'd felt it.
"Wait," Mikey whispered, "You have to lock both doors."
Pete was grateful that Mikey had remembered to tell him that. He imagined what would happen if Gerard suddenly walked in and found Pete jerking off in their bathroom.
He tried to be quick. He'd been close after just a few minutes of grinding and it didn't take long once he got his hand on his dick.
When he got back, Mikey had rolled over on to the side of the bed, looking like he was about to go to sleep and Pete thought, huh, maybe he hadn't been as affected, but as soon as he got into the bed, Mikey mumbled, "Uh, I have to pee too," and scrambled up, and Pete thought that was kind of cute. He timed how long Mikey took in the bathroom. 1.35 minutes. Pete took it as a compliment.
He got up from the bed when Mikey came back, and started arranging the quilt on the floor.
Mikey was looking a little dazed. "What are you doing?" he asked.
Pete looked down at his makeshift bed, "Just. This."
"You can sleep in the bed." Mikey looked at him.
Pete met his eyes. "Okay," he said.
They both got under the covers. It was a bit warm and uncomfortable, but after a while they had managed to arrange their limbs so they were touching, but not too entangled. Pete thought he hadn't felt this tired in a long time, even though his heart was beating hard and giddily and he kind of wanted to stay awake.
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