Speeding in a School Zone
Originally Gerard/Frank, but now with plenty of Pete/Mikey, and a few stealth pairings

Written by languisity and 1001cranes
Crack. More crack. CRACK SALAD WITH CRACK CROUTONS.

Wife and I originally started out writing a geeky-mating-dance Gerard/Frank, which we suddenly decided to transpose to high school. Then the background Pete/Mikey became not so background. Then, since Pete was in the fic, Patrick suddenly appeared! Shenanigans, clearly. Then, as we eventually missed BOTH bigbang deadlines, we said “fuck it all! Crash and burn, crash and burn!” and we cut a Bob/Brian backstory that was AWESOME and full of NINJA GAY – look for that in a sequel sometime, mebbe – and a lot of other, littler scenes that weren’t doing much for the story line. As such, even though it was originally intended for bigbang, its not as long as it used to be, or could have been. *wavy hands* It’s changed a lot in the, oh, six or so times we’ve completely redone it, so we hope, at this point, that it amuses you at least a little.

Because it sure as fuck amused us.

Also, we suck at keeping tense. Sorry.




[So. Gerard and Frank meet not-so-cute.]

| |

Little known fact – the best hiding spot in the whole school was the music room.

The teachers knew all the usual spots. They checked all the hallways, they checked the backstage of the auditorium, they checked the stairwell to the basement on the west side of the building. The even checked behind garbage dumpster. Although, ew, behind the garbage dumpster. Pete was a delinquent, but he wasn’t stupid. And generally not-smelly. Well. Generally.

The music room, however, was only used a few periods a day. In the morning for chorus practice, after school for band practice, and fifth and sixth period for music theory. Perfect for skipping third period English, as it were.

Which was exactly what Pete was doing. Skipping English, in hopes of listening to his iPod and texting Joe until he got him in trouble. But instead of the odd quiet that should have settled in a room too full of things that were supposed to make sound, were made for it, he heard music. Which, okay, music room, yes, but there was a boy sitting at the front of the room bent over a guitar. Fingers plucking out a melody as he hummed softly. It was tentative, but determined, and something about it struck Pete. Something about the music wormed its way into his soul and clamped down, held tight.

Without another moment’s thought, Pete threw himself into the chair next to the boy, "You are beautiful and I love you.”

Ginger-Haired Musical Genius (as Pete had decided to christen him for now and possibly forever) blinked. "I'm fourteen and we just met."

"Yes,” Pete said seriously. “But our souls have known each other since times immorandum.”

"…Immemorial?"

Pete frowned. "A really fucking long time, okay? You're made of stardust and comet tears and I wish to keep you forever in my pocket."

Ginger-Haired Musical Genius set his guitar down carefully, and sent a darting glance towards the door.

Fortunately, Pete could pick out a runner at twenty paces. “You can’t leave yet,” he insisted, grabbing blindly for the other boy’s wrist. “How can I write sonnets to your genius unless you give me your name?”

“I don’t think you particularly need my name to write me sonnets.”

Pete wagged a finger. “Clever. Clever little hobbit. But you will not escape me, my precious.”

GHMG’s eyes narrowed. “Are you making fun of me for being short? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, there are no tiny stones to be thrown.”

Pete was keeping him forever. “You are my squishy,” he said grandly. “And you shall be mine.”

The other boy was making that its-time-to-get-away-from-the-creepy-old-guy face again. His frown deepened. “Why am I squishy? Are you calling me fat now? What the hell?” Pete could feel arm muscles tensing under his hand.

“I didn’t hear any of that,” Pete grinned. “My ears have been plugged with love.” He watched, delighted, as a flush spread over GHMG’s face.

“My name is Patrick Stump,” Patrick said grudgingly. Patrick Stump. Pete wanted to giggle. “And I’m not going on a date with you, dude. I’m not gay.” At this point he seemed mostly resigned to Pete clinging onto him though.

“I’m not gay either,” Pete declared. “Just cuddly. But we have to get married, Patrick Stump. What irreparable damage will you do to our children when I have to tell them the reason Mommy and Daddy have different names is because Mommy doesn’t love them?”

“Mommy doesn’t…? Oh Jesus.” Patrick ducked as far under the brim of his hat as he could. “I am really not old enough for you to be talking like this.”

“I’ll wait until you’re older,” Pete continued earnestly. “How will I be able to look my mother-in-law in the face knowing I took her baby in his tender years?”

Patrick actually started choking. Pete thumped him enthusiastically on the back. Patrick recovered enough to glare. “Tender years? Am I a prime rib?”

Pete ignored his squalling in favor of a full body hug. “We’re going to be best friends.”

| |

Okay, so. Frank was really hot.

This was slightly redundant, Gerard knew. Frank smacked him over the head with his hotness when they first met, and it’s kind of been a recurring loop in Gerard’s head ever since. Gerard wanted to accuse Frank of psychically beaming his hotness into Gerard’s head, but, hello, even Gerard wasn’t that socially inept.

Except maybe he was, because near the end of the third week of school Frank poked Gerard in the arm – with some fairly sharp lab tool of some kind, actually – and said, "Dude, if I'm bothering you, I can go be partners with, like, Bob. I'm pretty sure he'd smack me down if I bothered him. No mixed messages." Frank smiled and shrugged, but it looked a little sad. In fact, it might be the saddest thing Gerard has ever seen.

He wanted to tell Frank that he was wrong, that Gerard wasn't ignoring him. It’s mostly that he was too interested -- not in the creepy stalker way, he doesn't want to watch Frank breathe while he's sleeping or anything – but Gerard was trying to be stealthy. Stealthy and cool and every other thing he's been told he'll never be, and he thought he was succeeding. Apparently not. He opens his mouth to tell to Frank that he’s kind of a social retard, and explain, and shit, but what comes out instead is, "A goldfish has a memory span of three seconds." It's the longest sentence Gerard's said to Frank since they were paired up. It's also the most ridiculously retarded one.

Frank blinked.

“Much like me,” Gerard blurted. “I mean. You’re not bothering me, I just get kind of caught up in my head, I guess? I was trying not to be a total spazz.”

Frank grinned.

Gerard though this was probably when he moved from crush territory to being head over fucking heels.

| |

Patrick wasn't used to being the center of anyone's attention or the kind of person that other people liked to show off, and Pete Wentz had managed to change that in a day. In three days he'd managed to make Patrick the guy that everyone felt the need to wave and nod at on their way to class. And in a week, Pete had Patrick's mother believing that Pete was someone she actually wanted hanging around Patrick. In their home. In Patrick's room.

"I don't even know where he came from." Patrick leaned heavily against Joe. Joe was a good friend. Joe was solid. Joe could also be a bitch with pointy elbows when you got in the way of his gaming. "Ow, ow, you fucker." Patrick shifted to rub at his side.

Joe shrugged. "Where does anyone come from?"

Andy snorted. Andy came package-deal with Pete, but Patrick liked him well enough so far. He had already taken Patrick to this really good vegan diner on Sixth. "Deep."

"Like the fuckin'… moors of Scotland, bitch,” Joe muttered.

For a while there was only silence, the plastic click of video game controllers being abused. Then – "He's always on me,” Patrick said desperately. “It's fucking bizarre."

Andy quirked an eyebrow at the screen, doing something complicated with his controller that ended in Joe cursing the son of his cousin's first born goat before saying, "What's more bizarre is the way you're talking about him like he's not in the room."

That, apparently, was Pete's cue. He sniffled dramatically, and dropped the magazine he'd been thumbing through to hang off the bed, reaching out for Patrick. "Ignore me not, Peppermint Patty."

"Go away," Patrick said, looking Pete straight in the eye, and wondered if he just wasn't saying it right because all Pete did was grin.

"Come on, Rumple Stumpskin. Come sit on the bed with me. We'll hold hands and think pure thoughts."

“I’m pretty sure you’ve never had a pure thought in your life.”

"Oh, but your virgin spirit cleanses my soul."

"His soul, Patrick," Joe echoed, trying not to giggle.

Sometimes Patrick hated Joe. "I hate you so much, Joe."

Joe hadn't heard or didn’t care or both, because he didn't answer.

Pete rolled around until he was hanging upside down and snagged the hem of Patrick's shirt. Patrick swatted him away. "But you love me."

"I loathe you." Patrick did not pout. He frowned. Intensely.

Pete went limp, letting his arms drop to the floor. "You don't," he said, and smiled. It was a small smile, questioning.

"You can't hate Pete," Joe mumbled, distracted. “S’like. Hating puppies. Retarded puppies, but that just kind of makes you cuddle them more.”

"Nobody hates Pete," Andy added.

"I do," Patrick muttered darkly, but when Pete climb off the bed to snuggle up to him, twisted and tangled together, Patrick didn't say no.

| |

It wasn't that Mikey was a total space cadet. Really, he wasn’t. It just took him a little while longer to realize things sometimes. Like, for example, that they were halfway through lunch before it even clicked that his brother had brought someone over to eat with them.

"Who are you?" Mikey asked, surprised.

New guy didn't answer at first, too busy trying to steal Gerard's food, and Mikey raised his voice, trying again. "You. With the... You. Who are you?"

"Me? Frank," he said, without looking up. Then – "Gerard's friend."

"Gerard has a new friend," Ray said stiffly, but he sounded oddly relieved.

Gerard's eyes narrowed, but he was blushing a little. Mikey watched him. Watched the way Gerard started to relax against Frank, then tense, then relax again. He watched the way Gerard laughed a little too loud and then ducked his head so Frank couldn’t see.

Mikey sent Ray a look, and raised an eyebrow.

Both of Ray's rose in return. "Oh. Gerard has a new friend."

Oh boy. Mikey was really going to have to start paying attention.

| |

Frank usually ended up doing most of the class work. Which was potentially a mistake, Gerard knew. Frank was a walking disaster. If something was breakable, he would try and juggle it. He burnt things. He exploded them. He was also really ridiculously enthusiastic about putting everyone in mortal peril. Like right now, for example. Right now he was smiling at a test tube of acid, a smile made of rainbows and sunshine and awesome, and Gerard forgot to be afraid. He smiled back dreamily, pen poised over a sheet of notebook paper. While Frank did all the messy bits, Gerard took the notes. Well, they were kind of notes. Gerard tended to get distracted and draw little pictures of Frank in the margins, then had to hide the papers out of shame. Which was why he maybe missed exactly what happened next.

There are maybe six different versions of the story, but they all end the same. Frank was dancing or just breathing or just being Frank (it was hard to tell what the difference was sometimes) and Bob was unlucky enough to exist in the same universe. It happened fast. Frank's hand twitched, gravity existed, the acid spilled all over the both of them, and the next thing anyone knew Bob was cursing and shoving them both into the emergency shower.

At first, Gerard was fairly certain that Bob was pulling Frank into the shower to kill him and wash the evidence down the drain. When Mr. Ripley started ushering everyone out of the room, he even started to protest. This is Jersey. These things happen!

Mr. Ripley rolled his eyes over Gerard’s head before sending Victoria down to janitorial to get someone to clean up the acid, and Nate down to the locker room to pick up Bob and Frank’s gym clothes.

While waiting in the hall, Gerard tried really, really hard not to think about Frank naked in the shower. Mostly because he was naked in the shower with Bob. Because, okay, maybe this was weird and creepy, but why couldn’t Frank have spilled acid on Gerard? Not that Gerard would’ve remembered the emergency shower – he would have just flailed and screeched a lot – but whatever. Frank was in the shower with Bob. Bob, who was, like, big and blonde and kind of muscle-y, and had really piercing blue eyes, and had never ever in his life looked as much like a dork as Gerard managed to do on a daily basis.

So, yeah. Even though the thought of Frank in the shower – naked – was doing things to the pit of Gerard’s stomach, so was the thought of Bob being in there with him.

| |

[After class...]

Frank was caught between a Bob and a wall of lockers and he was honestly more afraid than he’d ever been of anyone in his entire life, including the time he tried to disrobe Sister Anne-Marie during Sunday School Class because he wanted to see what kind of underwear nuns wore. (He was almost successful too, for the record. No one told him nuns wore layers.)

"If you ever do anything like that again..." Bob started.

There was a long enough pause for Frank to start squirming and before he knew it, he was babbling and filling in the blanks himself. "You'll eat my liver? String me up on the flagpole? Kill me and dump my body in the quarry? Murder me and stuff me in five different lockers?" Frank had all these really gory pictures in his head, bits of him dismembered, or burnt with acid, his eyes popping out. He should possibly stop watching horror movies.

Bob blinked. “Uh. No?”

“Oh.” Frank was strangely disappointed. “I… cool?”

Bob shook his head. “Just don’t – Watch yourself next time, okay? Acid, Frank. Acid.”

“Right.” Frank bobbed his head up and down. “No, right, I get it. No more acid samba.”

Bob was still shaking his head when he walked down the hall.

| |

When Bob came out of the acid-spilling accident without even the smallest of chemical burns, Gerard became firmly convinced that Bob is indestructible. Like, solid. Ben Grimm without the outward mutation, or something. Maybe like Wolverine, which, dude, how cool would that be? Frank came thisclose to be shredded with adamantium claws! Not that Gerard wanted Frank to be shredded with adamantium claws. That was basically the opposite of what he wanted. But it would still be pretty cool.

Gerard spent a week staring at the back of Bob’s head. Bob appeared completely unaware, but Gerard wasn’t quite sure. He ignored the weird looks Frank keeps giving him. Frank was the one naked in the shower with Bob, okay? If Frank was going to be a jealous boyfriend, he should just tell Gerard to step off. Until then, Gerard was allowed to stare.

One day, in the middle of Mr. Ripley’s lecture about balancing equations, Gerard threw a pencil at the back of Bob’s head.

Frank choked.

Bob turned around and looked at Gerard.

This time Gerard was the one who choked. He didn’t look at Bob anymore.

He still wondered though. Because, seriously. Solid.

| |

To the wonder and amazement of the rest of the school, somehow Frank and Bob end up friends. (Gerard personally thought this was because they were naked in the shower together. Who wouldn’t want to be Frank’s friend after that?) Bob started hanging out with Frank after school, and eating with them for lunch. They even had to move to a bigger table at lunch.

(“Gee has another friend?” Mikey asked innocently.

Ray shrugged. “An alarming trend.”)

| |

Patrick went to open his locker, but there was a Pete standing in front of it.

"Move." He sighed, reaching out as if the push Pete out of the way, but ultimately stopped short. Patrick didn't want to touch him if he didn't have to. It only seemed to encourage Pete.

"But I'm here to help you on this most joyous of days, dear Patrick."

"You're going to help me by standing in front of my locker?"

Pete rolled his eyes and sighed noisily. "No. I'm helping you by walking you to class to protect your virtue, and carrying your books to protect your… curvacious figure."

Patrick was seriously considering trying to beat some sense into Pete. That involved touching Pete though, and that was still a decidedly gray area.

"What?" Pete squawked, which meant Patrick had been giving him a Look and didn't even realize it. That had been happening way too much lately. "You're very... soft. It's nice. Like you were made for cuddles," Pete said, grinning, and his left hand reached out to hang in the vicinity of Patrick's right hip. Patrick took a long step back and clutched his books to his chest.

Patrick thought someone behind him actually made the “aw” sound. If he ever found out who it was, someone was getting smacked. Fuck. It was probably Joe.

"I am... I don't... what?" There was a faint ringing in Patrick's ears. That really couldn't have meant anything good. "Fuck off, Pete."

"Only if you'll fuck off with me, Stumpalina."

Patrick was struck with sudden inspiration. “Okay," he said, amiably enough, and could've cheered, because – for once – Pete was the one caught off guard.

"Okay?" Pete echoed, blinking rapidly, but recovered quickly, smiling. "I mean, of course you'll come with me. You will be my Patrick and I will be your Pete, and we will be best friends forever and ever. Et cetera." Then he narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to me, Patrick Martin Stump?”

Patrick gave Pete his very best wide-eyed and innocent look. “Who is the creepy stalker in this relationship?”

“Yeah, well, my creepy stalker senses are tingling,” Pete said wryly, but he relaxed again, before picking up the smallest of Patrick’s books and attempting to balance it on his head. “Can you believe they used to train princesses by doing shit like this to them?”

Patrick shoved the rest of his books into his bag and hefted it onto his back, wincing when the book slid from Pete’s head to the floor.

“Patrick!” Pete hooted, trying to pick the book up between his feet. “Patrick, I don’t think I would be a good princess!”

“No shit,” Patrick shot back, but couldn’t help grinning in return.

| |

Frank met Gerard at lunch like usual, sliding into the seat next to Gerard the way he always did, scooting in close enough for their knees to touch. This time, though, Gerard goes stiff. Frank was always touching him – always touching everyone, really, which was why Gerard was so depressed about it. It didn’t mean anything. Frank was very tactile. Also possibly the offspring of a monkey and limpet – it was one of the more feasible explanations, anyway.

Gerard sent what he hoped was a withering glare in Frank's direction but it came off as more petulant, and Frank smiled through it, pressing closer to Gerard's side. Gerard made a tiny frustrated sound and tried to scoot away, but ended up smushed against Ray instead.

“Here.” Frank threw one arm around Gerard’s shoulder and poked a soda can into his side with the other, smirking when Gerard jumped. “I brought you a drink.”

Gerard opened his mouth to say thanks – his mother raised him right, seriously. Or at least she tried – when Frank scrambled across the table and launched himself into Bob’s lap.

Gerard looked from the can in front of him to where Frank was practically nestled in Bob’s lap, and back again, and he could scream. What he did was slam the stupid can of Mr. Pibb on the table, lips pulled taunt, eyes narrowed.

"Would it kill you," he started, and it was like he lost all control over his voice. It was too high and too loud. "Would it fucking kill you to be considerate of other people's feelings? Huh, Frank?"

One corner of Frank's mouth was quirked up in that way that said he didn't understand what the joke was, but he was willing to bet it was at least a little funny. "Dude, it's just a soda."

"Did you even stop to think that, hey, I might not actually like Mr. Pibb?" Everyone was staring now and Gerard couldn't have stopped himseld if he tried. "I could want, like a... a fucking Fanta. Ever think of that, Frankie?"

"No,” Frank said slowly. “No, I didn’t think of that. I thought I was bringing a can of soda over to my friend.”

Gerard was perfectly aware he was acting like a douche. It’s just, like – why couldn’t Frank be considerate of other people’s feelings and bring the right kind of soda and not get into emergency showers with people? Was that so much to ask? So, yeah, acting like a douche, but Gerard kind of refused to stop once he was started, so.

“Maybe I wanted a Fanta, Frank. Maybe I like Fanta and it wouldn’t have killed you to get me some, okay, ‘cause… ‘cause that’s what a real friend would do.”

“Fuck you,” Frank gritted out through clenched teeth, his hands fisted at his sides. “I brought over Mr. Pibb as a gesture, douchebag.”

“It’s not much of a gesture if it only lends to your selfish desires,” Gerard said snottily.

At this point Frank was practically vibrating with the need to punch Gerard in the fucking face. He decided to react in a more proactive manner – Ray had been coughing discreetly every few seconds and Mikey’s eyes ere about to swallow his face – by clambering off of Bob’s lap and stomping away. “Fuck you and your selfish desires,” he spat. What a fucking douche.

For a long moment no one said anything. Then Bob reached across the table, grabbed the can of Mr. Pibb, and popped the cap.

Mikey stared at him. “Did you just…”

Bob shrugged. “I think we’ve already established Gerard won’t be drinking it.”

| |

Frank biked home from school that day, extra quick up the hills and then coasting down with his eyes closed. He threw his bike into the garage, stomped past where his mom and dad were talking in the kitchen, and threw himself on his bed before scowling at the ceiling.
Fucking... Gerard. Fucking Gerard, with his stupid fights and his stupid... face. Frank didn't even know what he'd done wrong, and while he was apparently smart enough to know it wasn't about a fucking Fanta, he still couldn't seem to figure out anything beyond that. It was just... Gerard. He didn't make any sense. Trying to understand him was like reading a map written in black crayon on black construction paper. In the dark. Blindfolded, and with his hands tied behind his back. Only more frustrating.

Frank snorted and pulled out his phone, clicking through the messages – not because he was looking for one from Gerard, because he wasn’t – but Ray might want to hang out again, and it’d been awhile since he’d talked to Nick.

Nothing. There was one from Matt, though, about a show he was going to tonight.

Frank tilted his head sideways, considering.

| |


"Mikey, hey."

"Uhm," Mikey stuttered a little. "Gee is kind of..."

"I don't care," Frank said, ignoring the little knot in the pit of his stomach. "I was going to see Shatterbright at the Sunshine Pill, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along."
“Oh.” Mikey stared at Frank a minute before shrugging. “Sure. Gimme five minutes?”

“Yeah. I’ve got my mom’s car, so. I’ll just be in the driveway.”

No sense sticking around where Gerard could see, after all.

| |

Frank practically bounced into the club, bundled nerves and pent up energy. This week had turned into a special hell-- acid aside, because even if he still had a few red patches on his arms from chemical burn, that had been awesome -- and he was determined to work it out in the pit. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Mikey was still behind him, and hadn’t accidentally gotten himself into a fight by tripping into someone – or even just tripping over himself, since that was Mikey’s usual M.O – or something equally ridiculous.

Mikey caught up to Frank and elbowed him in the side.

Frank elbowed him back. “I’m heading into the pit. You wanna…?”

Mikey shook his head and made a little shooing motion. "Wall’s cool."

Frank didn’t wait another second, just pushed his way through the crowd and dove into the rough crush of bodies, pushing and pulling and moving together.

| |

A half hour later, after he'd screamed his voice raw, Frank half-pushed, half-stumbled his way out of the chaos, sweaty and bruised and all the better for it. He drifted a little, vague thoughts of looking for Mikey somewhere in the back of his mind, but he found Pete instead.

Pete and Frank ran into each other at the clubs a lot, and there weren't a lot of high school guys with tattoos, so they were sort-of friends, or at least something more than acquaintances. Pete Wentz was one crazy fucker, but Frank could appreciate that. Even if he maybe was checking out Mikey.

“Hey,” Pete said, yelling right into Frank’s ear, jammed up too close next him. “How’ve you been, dude? I haven’t seen you around lately.”

Frank shrugged. “Alright. Just…” He made a wiggling sort of hand motion he’d probably picked up from Gerard. Fuck.

Pete nodded. “Yeah.” Then he nudged Frank with his elbow, lightly, grin widening. “So who is she?”

“She?”

Pete brayed his donkey laugh, and Frank couldn’t help grinning even though he still didn’t have any idea who Pete was talking about. “The girl you came in with? Kind of tall, sleek. Looked a little like a lesbian?”

It took about two seconds for Frank to realize Pete was talking about Mikey, and after that he honestly couldn’t hold back the snickers.

“What?” Pete asked, frowning. “She’s totally a lesbian, isn’t she?”

“No!” Frank managed to push past the giggles. It was hard. “No, no, no. Mikey’s not a lesbian. Not at all.” The hopeful look on Pete’s face is almost too much to take, oh God. It was probably totally asshole-mean, what Frank was about to do, but it was just too funny to pass up. “In fact, you know what? Lemme go introduce you.” Frank grabbed Pete’s wrist and started to drag him through the clumps of people, shoving his elbows into ribs and spines. Being tiny had its advantages, and Pete was barely taller than Frank.

They found Mikey by the bar, tucked in on himself but managing to look more nonchalant than dazed and confused. How Mikey managed to exude ‘cool’ when he apparently once nearly killed himself by taking a shower with a space heater, Frank will never know.

"Mikey," Frank shouted over the noise, smiling so hard he though it was going to split his face, "This is Pete. Pete, meet Mikey.”

Pete grinned, wide smile flashing red and yellow from the overhead lights. Mikey blinked.

"So, hey!" Frank stepped back and Pete stepped forward. Mikey crowded in on himself, gaze darting from Pete to Frank meaningfully. "I'm gonna leave you two lovebirds here alone," Frank drawled the last word and waggled his eyebrows. "Make with the getting to know each other."

Mikey’s eyes were broadcasting something along the lines of ‘wait, what? Don’t leave me!’ but because he was too stubborn to actually say something, Frank dashed off, cackling to himself.

| |

Pete crowded in too close to Mikey, grinning big and bright, and the first thing he said was, "So... come here often?"

Mikey rolled his eyes.

Pete nodded in sympathy. “I know, lame. I’m really just trying to cut back on being a creepy stalker, because if you did come here often, I totally would have noticed before now.”

“That’s… honest.”

Pete beamed, and inched his way closer to Mikey. “I’m definitely that.”

Mikey didn’t even feel like reclaiming his personal space. Well. Much.

| |

Gerard poked sullenly at the toaster. What was it about toasters, anyway? The toast either came out barely warm, or completely crispy, and it required, like, constant vigilance to get some toast worth eating, and who the hell wants to bother with that when they just woke up in the morning?

While Gerard glared at the toaster, Mikey came up behind Gerard and nudged him with his elbow. Gerard almost toppled over. Mikey should know better than to do that shit before Gerard had two cups of coffee in him.

“Where were you last night?” Gerard asked snottily.

Mikey hesitated before shrugging. “Out.”

Gerard was trying to pretend that his brother hadn’t snuck in at three in the morning last night, and then jerked off. Twice. It wasn’t helping his mood.

“Well, if you’re gonna do it again, make sure Mom doesn’t catch you,” he added gruffly. Mikey gave him a shuffling, awkward one-armed hug.

“I know you really like Mr. Pibb,” he said simply, and then walked away.

Gerard gaped after him. “What is that supposed to mean?” he yelled, stamping his feet. Seriously, he needed more like three cups of coffee to deal with Mikey when he got like this.

Mikey just shrugged. “I think you know.”

“Well I don’t,” Gerard said stubbornly, and punched the toast back down.

Mikey rolled his eyes.

| |

It was like the world was conspiring against Gerard. Or at least his friends were. Frank and Gerard had studiously ignored each other all through Science class, both getting actual work done for the first time all year. Gerard didn’t even know he was capable of taking such meticulous notes on molecular bonds. (He honestly could have gone through life without knowing, truth be told). And ignoring Frank had had been going perfectly, Gerard thought, until lunch. For some reason, everyone was sitting at one of the smaller tables. Ray, Mikey, and Bob were squished together on one side, and Frank-- of course Frank was there-- was sitting across from them. Ray was trying to look innocent, Mikey looked blank as usual, and Bob just look tired.

"Just sit down already," Bob said after a minute of Gerard hovering nearby. Gerard frowned, but sat down next to Frank, even if he did sit as far away as possible.

“Now talk,” Ray said, looking at Frank and Gerard, expression expectant. Bob nodded, one hand in Ray’s bag of Cheetos, the other point sternly at the space between the two.

Frank crossed his arms and scowled. Petulantly. “Giant bastards.”

Gerard couldn’t help it. He giggled. Frank snuck a little sideways glance at him, one corner of his mouth curled up before they both remembered they were fighting, frowned, and looked away.

“Uhm,” Gerard said. Frank snuck another look at him from under his bangs. “Frank, uhm.” He coughed. "I was being an ass. And I'm sorry because I didn't mean. I mean it wasn't. I didn’t…" Gerard flailed. Shit. Shit, motherfucker –

Frank put one hand over Gerard’s mouth. “Dude. I get it, okay? You’re totally forgiven.”

Gerard’s eyes went wide. Frank’s hand. On his mouth. Frank’s. hand. “Mmph?”

“And, uhm.” Frank pulled his hand off of Gerard’s mouth and grinned sheepishly. “I’ll make sure and bring you Fanta from now on, okay?”

“I. I like root beer, too. For the record.”

“Duly noted,” Frank said, and smiled. Gerard grinned back.

“Hug it out, bitches,” Bob said wryly, and ate the last of Ray’s Cheetos. Mikey was already texting on his Sidekick.

Gerard scooted a little closer to Frank, and pretended he didn’t see Ray beaming at them happily.

| |

"Patrick!" Pete yelled, before throwing himself onto Patrick's bed, waving his arms wildly. "Patrick Patrick Patrick!"

"Why hello, Pete," Patrick said dryly. "Sure, come on in. No, I'm not doing anything. Make yourself at home."

Pete shoved Patrick's pillow under his crossed arms, settled his chin on top of them, and sighed. "I am in love, Patrick. The gods of love have touched my heart, and my soul is set aflame. It burns so deep, Patrick. So deep."

Patrick flipped a page of his history book. "That's something you should probably get checked out by a doctor."

Pete ignored him. "She's perfect, Patrick. She was at the Shatterbright show last night, and she was wearing this gray pea coat that made her look like a lesbian, but like a really sleek posh one? And she's really tall. Like, mostly legs, you know. Unbelievable legs. Her hands were really long too. Elegant, but mostly sexy, and I was thinking about how she could…"

Patrick squawked. "Fourteen, here!"

"But her nails were colored in with Sharpie," Pete continued smoothly. "And her smile was crooked like stars."

Patrick bit down on his lip to stop from snickering. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It would if you knew her," Pete sighed. "But no, seriously. Hands…”
Patrick chucked his notebook at Pete's head. "Fourteen!"

"Exactly! You should want to hear about this stuff!"

"Not from you," Patrick declared. "In fact, ugh, not about you either. Stop telling Joe about your sexcapades with whats-her-face. I don't want to hear about them secondhand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Pete said dreamily. “I’m gonna call her and we’re gonna adopt a farm of chinchillas and move to the arctic and make a snow castle of our love and…” The sudden expression of dismay on Pete’s face was almost comical. “Except. Oh. Oh fuck, Patrick. Patrick, I didn’t get her number! I didn’t even get her last name!”

Patrick looked up from his history book, eyebrows raised. “Did you even get her first name?”

Pete’s eyes went a little unfocused for a minute. “Mikey,” he said dreamily. “Mikey…” Then he scowled. “Mikey something.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and sighed. “And what did you and this Mikey do, since you apparently skipped the introduction segment of the evening?”

“Talked, mostly. Made out a little,” Pete said offhandedly. Patrick made an “ew” face. “But Patrick, oh my God, I’m going to have to hang out at the Sunshine Pill every night until forever, until I am an old, old man, only to find out she was lab partner’s second-cousin by marriage visiting from Omaha and in the meantime she got married to a potato farmer and had six kids and cured fucking cancer, or something, and…”

The greatest tragedy of Patrick’s life was the point in his conversations with Pete when he ran out of things to throw at Pete’s head. “Dude, would you chill? You know the only people who go there are locals. She probably even goes to our school, you drama queen. Fuck. I’m telling mom not to give you any more cookies. The sugar does things to you.”

Pete visibly brightened. "A good point, Von Stump. I will stalk her at school and leaves notes in her locker and convince her to adopt blind, Uruguayan babies with me.” He threw himself onto Patrick’s back, only clinging tighter when Patrick flailed. “And your mother will deny me nothing, she adores me.”

“Someone’s gotta,” Patrick grunted, shifting around until Pete’s elbows weren’t piercing any of his internal organs. “Now let me do my homework, or they’ll demote me back to Junior High.”

Pete buried the point of his chin into Patrick’s shoulder and grinned. “Number Four is wrong.”

It was entirely too easy to smack Pete upside the head at this angle.

| |

On Monday, Frank asked Gerard if he knew that, on average, one hundred people each year choke to death on ballpoint pens?

Gerard spat the pen cap out onto the desk. Then threw it at Frank’s head for good measure.

Frank ducked out of the way, grinning.

Gerard let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Because this was going to be okay. It was.

| |

On Tuesday, Frank passed Gerard a note that said did u know if u put alcohol on a scorpion, it will sting itself to death?!

Gerard passed a note back with a drawing of a scorpion, which Frank, to Bob’s amusement and Mr. Ripley’s chagrin, declared to be the most awesome scorpion in the history of ever, and safety-pinned it to his bookbag.

Gerard was in love with a kindergartener, oh God.

| |

On Wednesday, Gerard spent most of class drawing vampires and zombies instead of what ester molecules were supposed to look like. When Frank peered over his shoulder halfway through, Gerard couldn’t help stiffening up. Oops. He was supposed to be taking notes, so they wouldn’t both fail, and…

“Ooh,” Frank sighed happily, in a tone most people reserved for Very Shiny Things. “Ooh, me next,” Frank said, shoving his hand on top of Gerard’s notebook, and giggled. Mr. Ripley gave them a cursory once-over before rolling his eyes and turning back to the blackboard.

Gerard blinked at Frank's arm. His brain went through a quick succession of Frank, skin, Frank, skin, skin, skin before taking a deep breath and holding down Frank's wrist with one hand. Frank's fingers twitched and Gerard felt the tendons stretch. It took a minute, or maybe five – Mikey said that Gerard always started to zone whenever he started to work – but then he nodded decisively and started to draw, sharp lines and softer curves in cool ink.

In that far-off, distant sort of place that Gerard always went when he was working, he idly noted that Frank had stopped. His fingers weren't moving. He wasn't fidgeting or breathing loudly just to be annoying. He was quiet. Still. Gerard glanced up just to see, just a little, and Frank's eyes were a little wide, watching Gerard, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth.

Frank licked his lips, Gerard's pen slipped, and Bob coughed.

| |

On Thursday, in the middle of Mr. Ripley droning on about the period table, Frank dropped his chin onto Gerard’s shoulder and said, casually, “Did you know that sperm ejaculates at thirty-five miles an hour?”

Gerard choked on his pen cap while Frank cackled in his ear.

“That’s, uh… speeding in a school zone?” Gerard offered, once he could breathe.

“I’ll speed in your school zone,” Frank said gleefully, and Gerard had to concentrate on breathing again.

Bob gave them a strange look, but still didn’t say anything.

| |

On Friday they had a test all period, and Gerard tried not to blush when Frank’s foot scraped over his underneath the table.

After they’d handed in their test booklets back to Mr. Ripley, Frank leaned in towards Gerard and whispered, “Well, that blew,” close enough for Gerard to actually shiver. Oh my God, he might just have to go die. “At least it’s the last test for three weeks,” Frank continued cheerfully, scooping up his books and throwing them haphazardly into his bag.

“Three weeks?” Gerard repeated, puzzled. Then the light dawned. “Oh. Oh, right, yeah…”

Frank smirked at him. “You totally forgot break was coming up, didn’t you?”

Gerard gave him the stinkeye. “Forget about getting three weeks off from school? I think not.” Gerard had totally remembered that part. Plus, you know, Christmas and presents and stuff. Unfortunately, he was just now remembering that ‘school’ and ‘Frank’ went arm and arm. “Three weeks, though. We should hang out sometime, you know? At least watch movies, or something.” Gerard scraped his foot across the floor. “I mean, I know we haven’t, but…”

“Awesome!” Frank interjected, grabbing hold of Gerard’s arm and rooting around in his pockets for a Sharpie. “Lemme give you my number!”

Gerard stood as still as he could while Frank scrawled his number up Gerard’s arm.

“Can you read it? It’s kind of like… its total chicken scratch,” he added sheepishly. “Gimme yours?”

Gerard’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, or something. It was a bit of a weird feeling. “S-sure.” He took the Sharpie from Frank’s hand and wrote his number carefully between the swirls and scrawls Frank had already placed on his skin. It took him a second too long to let go.

“Awesome.” Frank beamed at Gerard before skipping off down the hall. “Call me whenever,” he shouted over his shoulder. I’m going to be totally bored!”

“Uh.” Gerard blinked. “Uh, okay?” he called after Frank, and immediately felt like a huge liar. There was no way he was going to have the guts to call Frank over break. Gerard started to hyperventilate when he tried to order pizza over the phone, much less talk to someone he actually knew.

| |

A week into break, Gerard woke up to Bob poking him in the back with a drumstick.

“I was afraid I was going to need this,” Bob said grimly.

Gerard gurgled.

Bob sighed, before shoving something hot into Gerard’s flailing hands.

“I warned him that you were going to need coffee,” Mikey said.

Gerard fucking loved Mikey.

“Ray hadn’t heard from you in a week,” Bob said. “But dead bodies kind of freak him out, I guess, so I told him I’d come check on you.”

“Thanks?”

“A word. Progress.”

Gerard gave him the finger.

“And hand signals!”

Gerard slurped the rest of his coffee as obnoxiously as he knew how.

Bob sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Gerard. Dude. You are rank. When was the last time you showered?”

Gerard thought about it for a minute. Then he looked at Mikey, who shrugged. “Maybe Monday?”

Bob wrinkled his nose. “It is Monday.”

“Then last Monday, probably.”

“Jesus. Get your ass in the shower.”

“Gonna come in with me?” Gerard said snidely. “Or is that just Frank?”

Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Man, you’re stupid.”

“Stupid like a fox,” Gerard snapped, but went to take his shower.


Part 2