pants to match

If I can get my act together

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 18:51:37 GMT

There may possibly, maybe be a final installment - that's right! final! THE END - of my Supersaturation series. Full circle back to our favorite little Panic! boys. I'm not promising this will be anytime soon, but I've started it and I've got a few ideas, and I think it'll mostly be ridiculous, but we shall see...

“You are glorious,” Brendon tells Captain Hall, because Captain Hall is like a giant, walking, talking teddy bear and he doesn’t let anyone be mean to Brendon. He even tells Pete not to be a creeper, which is awesome, because it’s not like Brendon minds all of Pete’s ass-slaps, but there’s got to be a line drawn somewhere. And that line has been firmly drawn by Captain Zachary Hall, of the USMC.

Of course, what Brendon finds truly hilarious is that Captain Hall reserves his special you-pervert looks for Spencer.

Hall is new. Brendon would set him straight, except he’s usually too busy laughing.

Bandslash fic: While Stumbling Where Our Hearts Beat Regular Time

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:09:31 GMT

While Stumbling Where Our Hearts Beat Regular Time | PG-13 | ~11,000
Kevin Jonas/Mike Carden | Werewolf AU, also featuring vampires

Kevin had been born this way; he’s been changing since he was thirteen. There’s pain, but it doesn’t hurt. It just *is.* It’s just his bones doing what they’re supposed to do, and he licks blood off his knees and paws before padding over to his half open window and jumping down onto the fire escape.

Important A/N: Firstly, this is NOT an A little Less Sixteen Candles… AU, however, just to confuse and astound you, I’ve used some characters from that verse. Secondly, I did research! But did I do werewolf research? Of course not. I spent an inordinate amount of time researching the fable that Ryan tells Kevin, one single scene (but it’s totally integral!) – the rest, well. I’m a bullshitter, not a fact-checker. I bullshit with confidence; it’s what got me through 4 years of college. This isn’t beta’d, but only because I wanted to get it up in time for Halloween. I at least had starflowers (who is lovely and helpful!) check it for plot-holes :) Title is from Kissing the Beehive by Wolf Parade. Happy Halloween!

While Stumbling Where Our Hearts Beat Regular Time

Kevin does not feel comfortable around Mike Carden. He gets hot and itchy, has to fight the urge to slink away and hide from him, so it’s kind of hard working with him – Kevin does his best to make sure they’re not scheduled in the bookstore at the same time, but with a grand total of four employees, it’s not all that easy to do. And Kevin’s not even sure why he’s so uncomfortable, because it’s not like Mike’s mean or anything. He’ll give Kevin nods and semi-pleasant greetings. There’s just—something. Something in the way he holds himself, the way he looks Kevin in the eyes, that makes Kevin want to, like, roll over and bear his tummy. It’s kind of embarrassing.

And then, one evening, Mike’s friend William shows up. He says, “Hello,” and doesn’t blink and nudges the cold, round tip of his cane under Kevin’s chin and Kevin realizes, duh, he’s a vampire.

*

It takes Kevin two hours. Two hours, after William leaves, tossing a cat-smile over his shoulder at Kevin, letting Mike steer him out the front door of the bookstore. Two tense, verge of panic hours before Kevin realizes he’s had five day shifts with Mike over the past two weeks, and Mike hasn’t burned to a fiery crisp yet.

So. Friends with a vampire. Maybe more than one; vampires are almost as bad as werewolves when it comes to packs and covens.

It’s really not all that comforting.

*

Mike grins at him now. Sharp, knowing grins, but William doesn’t stop by the shop at night again, so that’s something.

Kevin avoids Mike’s eyes as much as possible. He talks to his hands, fingers twisting together, knuckles white from thinning skin, and Mike doesn’t call him on it. If anything, he seems amused. Like he pushes into Kevin’s space just to see him duck his head, just to see him curl into himself, press back against the stacks, the wall, the counter, anything to keep from touching him.

It’s not funny. There’s an almost-permanent ache in his chest, and Kevin has to swallow down small noises, trying to will away the flush he’s sure is blotching all over his pale skin.

*

“Puppy,” William says, and Kevin freezes, a garbage bag in each hand.

In a fair fight, Kevin’s pretty sure he could hold his own against any vampire. The problem, of course, is that vampires don’t fight fair.

William just looks at him, though, a speculative gleam in his reflective eyes. There’s a yellow-orange streetlight at the end of the alleyway, making William look knife thin and imposingly tall, his shadow stretching.

Kevin feels a touch on his mind, brushing against it, feather light, but then William’s shaking his head, grinning wryly, and he says, “Sorry, force of habit.”

He steps closer, and Kevin takes a step back.

Someone moves into the mouth of the alley, and William stops him with a wave of his hand, and Kevin realizes he’s trapped, because he’s never been as fast as his brothers, and he’s certainly not as fast as a vampire. In the time it’d take him to turn and grope for the back door to the shop, William would have his throat ripped open.

“Now, now,” William says, “no need for gruesome thoughts like those. We’re all civilized here.” His teeth flash. “Well, I am. I’ve never been so sure about strays, you see. Properly collared pets are one thing, but other—beasts tend to turn on you when cornered, I’ve found.” He presses a long finger to his chin, tilts his head. “Tell me, puppy, how sharp are your claws?”

The figure behind William shifts on his feet. “Bill.”

William’s mouth falls into a pout. “You’re ruining my fun.”

“Bill,” he says again, a short, irritated growl in his voice.

“Fine.” William huffs, shakes of his intensity like a cloak. “No one understands loyalty, anymore. No one appreciates the love behind a proper threatening, it breaks my tender heart.”

“You’re full of shit,” the guy says, and Kevin’s ninety-five percent certain it’s Mike, back there, and that does not make Kevin feel any better about this situation at all.

William makes a dismissive sound, then taps Kevin on the chest with his cane. “Watch yourself, puppy,” he says, “or I’ll be forced to have you neutered, and, honestly, that won’t be any fun for anyone.”

*

He could quit. He could go home, but his dad’s death is too fresh, and he doesn’t want to fight with his brothers. He’s never seriously wanted to fight anyone, so he calls Joe once a day and Nick twice a week and tells them he’s fine, even though he’d spent his first full moon alone, pacing his apartment.

He’d torn his couch apart with restless energy, but it was better than going outside. He’d heard them, someone, some pack, but he has no idea how to approach them. His only pack has ever been his family.

He doesn’t tell Nick that, though, because Nick would tell him to come home, and he doesn’t tell Joe, because Joe would just call him a pussy.

Kevin won’t go home. Nick and Joe can squabble about his birthright, because Kevin doesn’t want to lead them, but he doesn’t want to grovel at their feet, either – he might be the oldest, but they can be overbearing and overprotective - and this has got to be better. At least for right now.

*

Besides Mike, Kevin works with Ross - a thin, tall guy with bony wrists and shag hair and too much eye makeup - and their boss, Bryar.

It’s weird, because Kevin gets the impression that Mike and Bryar don’t really like each other. Bryar will smile at Kevin and give him friendly shoulder-pats. He’ll laugh and ruffle his hair and make sure he takes his fifteen minute breaks and that he eats his lunch. But Bryar doesn’t smile at Mike, and Mike acts almost hostile towards Bryar, and Kevin always feels like he’s somehow caught in the middle.

“Are they always like this?” Kevin asks Ross, and Ross shrugs.

Ross is usually pretty quiet, but sometimes he’s just the right kind of gossipy.

“Bob’s okay with Mike,” Ross says. He cuts his teeth into his lower lip, darts his gaze to the side, a little wary. “You never stop being family, you know? It’s all the vampires he has a problem with.”

Kevin nods, even though he’s not sure what that means. He thinks the vampire thing is kind of a given, really, and Bryar and Mike look nothing alike at all.

*

Walker comes in at least once a week. Mostly to see Ross, Kevin thinks, but sometimes just to buy a magazine or drop off a cup of coffee for Bryar. Walker’s never there when Mike is. Kevin doesn’t find this strange until Mike is there, and Walker’s affable grin melts from his mouth and Mike’s fists clench.

Walker says, quiet, “Mike,” and Mike spins on his heel and stalks away.

Walker shrugs at Kevin, hands in his pockets, self-depreciating.

Ross snorts. He says, “It’s not going to be that easy, Jon,” and Walker says, “It could be,” with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Kevin ducks his head, pretends he isn’t listening.

“He’s never going to go near Tom again,” Ross says.

“I don’t want him to,” Walker says, but his voice is sad.

There’s a long stretch of silence. Kevin keeps his eyes locked on the pile of books he’s sorting, listens to their steady, even breaths.

Finally, Walker says, “He’s still here, though, right?”

And, apparently, that means something.

*

Vampires unnerve Kevin. For weeks, he doesn’t see William, and then he stumbles on a dapperly dressed guy just outside his walk-up apartment. Pale-faced and smirking, lips an unnatural shade of red. He bows, just slightly, and says, “I’ve got strict orders to escort you to work.” He waggles his eyebrows, and on anyone else it would’ve looked ridiculously seductive. On him, it just makes him look kind of hungry.

“Uh, that’s okay,” Kevin says. He backs up a step, but the vampire is whip-quick and grabs hold of his arm.

“I’m Brendon,” he says. “William sent me. Don’t worry, everything’s on the up and up.”

Kevin doesn’t know what to do. Brendon seems earnest enough, but Kevin knows you should never trust a vampire, so he just backs up again, tries to twist his arm out of Brendon’s grip.

Surprisingly, though, Brendon lets him loose instead of gripping him tighter. He grins, flashing sharp fangs. “Oh, I like you,” Brendon says. He jerks his head towards the sidewalk. “Come on, I promise not to snack along the way.”

Kevin could flee back inside, but he’s already going to be late to the store, and he doesn’t want to call Bryar, doesn’t want to explain how he’s being stalked by eerily polite vampires.

Brendon arches his eyebrows expectantly, rocking back on his boot heels.

Kevin sighs and falls into step beside him.

*

Whenever Mike rolls up his sleeves, Kevin finds himself looking. There are no marks, though, at least none where Kevin can see. No stamp of ownership on the inside of a wrist, higher on his forearm, but he knows that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Mike slants him odd looks, but doesn’t say anything.

And then the odd looks morph into smirks, and Kevin gets majorly flustered, because it almost could be, kind of, misconstrued as, like, Kevin staring at Mike. Mike already tries to invade Kevin’s personal space as much and as innocuously as possible, like he wants to see how many shades of red he can make Kevin turn in a single shift – he steps it up, eyes laughing, and Kevin’s throat goes bone dry.

*

Kevin had been born this way; he’s been changing since he was thirteen. There’s pain, but it doesn’t hurt. It just is. It’s just his bones doing what they’re supposed to do, and he licks blood off his knees and paws before padding over to his half open window and jumping down onto the fire escape.

The city smells worse now than it ever did before. Kevin misses the open farmland of his home, the strong scent of hay, of cut grass, moss and mud, bugs and horses and rabbits. He pauses on the bottom rung of the metal stairs and smells only death.

Too close, he thinks, and growls deep and low in his chest before recognizing William, leaning nonchalantly against dirty brick.

“Oh ho,” William says. “What’s this? Distemper, perhaps. No good, lone puppies get that surprisingly often around us. I thought maybe you were different.” William straightens up. He hefts his cane, idly runs his fingers along the rounded tip. “This saddens me, puppy, it truly does.”

Kevin’s hackles rise. There are several of them, Kevin notices, besides William. He thinks this is some kind of ambush, like they were waiting for him, but he doesn’t know why.

William twists his cane and slips a long, slim blade out of the end, and Kevin finds he can’t move. Can’t do anything but shrink back when William ambles closer, but Kevin’s not helpless. He’s never, ever been helpless, not like this, so he lashes out before the lethally sharp tip even touches him.

As soon as he sinks his teeth into William’s hand, unearthly white, paper-thin flesh breaking open almost too easily, a blur of black barrels into his side, snapping, tearing at Kevin’s shoulder, and Kevin yelps. He yelps and jumps back and knocks his open mouth into the other wolf’s face, pushing, and then there are howls in the distance, loud enough to freeze them both.

Kevin pants into the dark fur, nose full of musk and dead things and it isn’t until the huge gray wolf is practically over top of them, stance wide, head high, that Kevin realizes the black wolf still has his teeth clamped into Kevin’s shoulder.

He gingerly lets go, slinking back, and Kevin whimpers and twists to lick at the wound, the sting that’s traveling up and down his foreleg. When a nose nudges his own, pushing his head away, Kevin notices that the black wolf is gone, as are all the vampires, and he has no actual idea what just happened here.

The gray wolf takes his neck softly between his jaws, urging Kevin to his feet. A smaller, lighter-colored wolf paces behind him, yipping anxiously, and Kevin just wants to go back to his apartment. He just wants to slump down on his ruined couch, but the two herd him in the opposite direction, slipping down shadowed streets, and Kevin struggles through pain to keep up.

*

Mike doesn’t show up to work for three days, and Bryar watches Kevin like a hawk when he finally does. Mike doesn’t look at Kevin at all.

Contrary to whatever Nick says, Kevin is not stupid.

*

“You’re such a loser,” Joe says, but his tone’s pretty affectionate. “I can’t believe you got yourself into the middle of some kind of werewolf-vampire war.”

“I didn’t!” Kevin says. He still doesn’t understand what happened, why William approached him in the first place, why Mike attacked him, why Bryar scowls at Mike with his mouth while his blue eyes keep this soft, worried hue.

Kevin tugs his coat closer around him with one hand, ignores the twinge in his shoulder. His cell phone is cold against his face, but he feels better walking home in the dark with Joe’s voice in his ear.

“It’s not a war, Joe,” Kevin says. “It’s just. Weird.” It’s weird, because Mike attacked him. A werewolf attacked him because of a vampire, and it seems like no one, on either side, is happy about it. Kevin can say that with confidence, given that William’s suddenly appeared in front of him, frowning, rhythmically slapping a dove-gray glove into his palm. “Uh.”

“I don’t like you,” William says.

Kevin blinks. He curls his fingers tight around his cell, but doesn’t hang up. Joe calls his name, but Kevin just stares at William, watches him watching him with eyes narrowed.

“I don’t like you, puppy,” he repeats. “I don’t like you because Mike likes you, which means, sadly, that I must apologize for my behavior the other night.”

Kevin swallows hard. “Okay.”

Joe says, “Okay, what? What?” and Kevin just says, “Hang on, Joe.”

William licks the corner of his lips. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, as well?” he asks impatiently.

“I’m. I’m sorry, too?” Kevin says.

William nods. “Not too painful there, was it? I suggest we put this unpleasantness behind us. I apologized for baiting you, you apologized for nearly maiming me. For the record, puppy,” he says, “I wasn’t going to hurt you. I was testing your mettle. It all went slightly pear-shaped.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to believe anything that comes out of William’s mouth.

William says, “Ta, little one,” flicks the end of Kevin’s nose, and then Kevin blinks and he’s gone.

“Don’t tell Nick any of this,” he says to Joe.

“Duh,” Joe says. “Nick’d be on your doorstep by morning.”

*

Bryar is a man of few words. He keeps an eye on Kevin, though, and walks him home whenever they close the shop together, and Kevin’s not surprised to find him at his door on the next full moon. He’s a little surprised to see Ross and Walker with him, but he probably shouldn’t be.

They eat pizza and Walker shows him his scar, the jagged silver teeth marks on his belly, and Bryar’s the only one who doesn’t blink when Kevin explains how he never turned, how he was born into a family of weres – generation after generation of werewolves, a messed-up legacy, and Kevin gets the feeling that it’s kind of rare here. But it doesn’t matter in the end, because it’s not like any one of them, born or bitten, had a choice.

*

Kevin watches Walker, the little light wolf from before, and Ross tussle on his living room floor. He knows they’d rather be outside, chasing shadows down the narrow streets, stalking through the stands of young maples and oaks planted in the nearby park, but Kevin isn’t leaving the apartment this time, and they seem determined to keep him company.

The big gray, Bryar, is curled up on his couch, surveying them all with eyes at half-mast, indulgently fond.

It’s nice, Kevin thinks, not being all alone.

But then there’s a noise at his window, a scratching, and Bryar’s head jerks up with a throaty growl, the fur of his ruff rimming his head like a lion. They watch, ears pricked, as the pane glides open easily, even though Kevin had made sure it was properly locked before the change. And then Brendon’s grinning face is there, and Mike’s slipping soundlessly over the sill and into the room.

“Brought you a present, friends.” Brendon tips his hat. “Ross,” he says, and Ross snaps his teeth at him in a snarl. “Always a pleasure.”

He’s gone before Bryar even gets to his feet.

Mike is dark and sleek with a narrow snout and big paws. He noses Bryar’s chin, and Ross, long-legged and tawny, wriggles happily on his back and yips until Mike licks under his ear. Walker whines and low-crawls, tail thumping rhythmically on the threadbare rug, and Mike holds out for a full minute before huffing and gently biting the back of Walker’s neck, shaking him with a mock-growl.

Kevin shrinks into the shadow thrown by the wide arm of his couch, curls his tail over his paws. He stares down at the beige carpet and presses up against the shredded upholstery in an attempt to stem the stupid little tremors running through his body, because he’s not afraid of Mike. His shoulder, fully-healed, suddenly aches so hard he can feel it in his teeth.

Black paws nudge into his eye-line, and Kevin holds carefully still while Mike licks over his jaw, one of his ears, then flops down next to him, leaning his weight into Kevin’s side.

He still smells like too much death, like he’s been sleeping with vampires, but he smells like Walker now, too, like Ross, and Kevin’s silent when Mike rests his head along Kevin’s withers, letting out a low chuff of air.

*

The papers are always full of mysterious deaths, telltale punctures marring wrists and necks and thighs, but the pack, Ross tells him, avoids killing anything human. The morning after the last day of the full moon, though, a uniformed police officer is the first customer in the bookshop, a lopsided grin on his mouth, tired eyes full of wary concern.

Bryar’s arms tense around a stack of books. He drops them on the front counter and says, “Smith.”

Smith nods. He says, “Something came in last night, Bryar.” He shoots Kevin a look. “Can we talk alone?”

Bryar crosses his arms over his chest. “Here’s fine.”

“Okay.” Smith sighs. “Okay, right. Southside of the park, down by the runoff drain. Animal attack call came in around three.” He lets the statement hang, and Bryar stares at him, stone-faced, and Kevin thinks there is no way Smith, whoever he is, can outlast Bryar when he wants to be stoic and stubborn.

“Jesus Christ, Bryar,” Smith says finally, but he sounds half-amused. His sleeves are rolled up, he cocks a hip against the counter, one hand braced on the edge, and Kevin sees a scar on the inside of his wrist – a burned scar, like after a tattoo’s been removed, and Smith rubs it idly and grimaces when he catches Kevin looking.

“Um, sorry,” Kevin says.

“They can be very persuasive when they want something,” he says, more embarrassed than bitter.

Kevin’s more impressed, though. He’s never heard of anyone walking away.

“Look,” Smith says to Bryar, “I’m not accusing anyone of anything, but it’s pretty ugly. Something big did this. Something big and mean, so just think about it, let me know if you find out anything. There’s more than just your pack around here.”

“Wasn’t Carden, either,” Bryar says, and Smith says, resigned, “Didn’t say it was. Fuck, give me a mountain lion and I’ll be happy.”

They stare at each other some more, and Kevin wonders at the animosity rolling off of Bryar, because Smith seems mostly okay, aside from the whole misspent vampiric past thing.

Smith taps his fingers on the counter before straightening up, pushing off towards the door. Over his shoulder, he says, “Tell Conrad. And tell Ryan I was by, he’ll want to call and chew me out later.”

*

“Werewolf,” Walker says immediately, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck.

“One of ours?” Ross asks, fingers poised over the till.

“Can’t fucking tell. Siska was nervous about something, though.” Walker shakes his head, leans over the counter and drops his voice on, “Mike never showed up. That last night.”

Kevin’s fingers tighten around his pen, focusing so hard on the ledger the little rows of numbers start to blur. They’d spent all three days of the full moon with Kevin, except Mike hadn’t come around on the third, and Kevin had tried to tell himself he wasn’t disappointed about that. He’d always been really bad at lying.

*

Outside of the change, Kevin’s never really had any heightened senses. Nick could always differentiate scents, Joe can spot a tiny field mouse from over fifty feet away, but Kevin’s just Kevin; sturdy, oblivious, friendly. He wears glasses to read, and any kind of flower stops up his nose and makes him sneeze.

He never notices vampires until they’re right in front of him. He never notices hunters at all.

He’s darted and down before he can even make a sound.

*

Kevin swims blearily back into consciousness and realizes he’s tied to a chair.

“You’re new,” someone says.

Kevin blinks, sees a guy with a lot of hair and a really big gun. He’s pointing the really big gun at Kevin.

“You’re not pack,” he says, “or you’d reek of Conrad. Strays make me nervous. When I’m nervous, I tend to shoot things.”

“Um.” Kevin bites back a squeak when the guy starts waving the gun around.

“Stop scaring the kid, Joe.” A short guy, dark cap, red-blonde hair wisping out the sides, steps into view, clutching a huge book and frowning at him.

“I’m—” Kevin scrambles for words, doesn’t say I’m pack, because he’s not, obviously, he’s technically homeless without his brothers. Ever since William, he’s not fond of the word stray. “I work with Bryar. And Ross.”

“Oh, fuck,” Joe says. “Fuckity, fuck, Patrick, we stole him off Bryar.”

Patrick says, “That doesn’t mean anything,” but he sounds doubtful.

Long hair, blocky glasses, sword strapped to his back, too amused smirk on his mouth – another guy moves behind Joe, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Bryar’s probably going to kill you, Joe. I can’t wait.”

“Fuck off, Hurley,” Joe says, then palms his face and groans. “I’m a dead man.”

“Nah, Bryar likes you.”

They keep coming, Kevin thinks, and he’s still tied uncomfortably to a chair, and with this new guy, dark circles under his eyes, vampire, Kevin finally begins to struggle.

He doesn’t have the preternatural strength, though, like his dad always had, so his wrists just end up raw from the rope, bleeding, his chest heaving in rapidly growing panic, and Hurley wrests the gun out of Joe’s hand and darts him again.

*

When Kevin wakes up, it’s to another unfamiliar face. He’s untied now, though, a heap on the floor, and he pushes onto his elbows.

“You’re Kevin.” He’s scruffy cheeked, sprawled low in a chair, knees wide, a cigarette hooked between curled fingers. His hair’s messy, like he just rolled out of bed, clad in a gray hoodie and worn jeans. “I’m Tom,” he says. “Tom Conrad.”

Kevin doesn’t know what the name means, but he knows it means something – he’s been brought up too often, by too many people. He nods slowly, and stays on the floor.

Conrad smiles. It’s a bland smile, but Kevin instantly relaxes, feels a little warmth spread through his chest. He thinks, alpha, and smiles back.

“You’re a good kid,” Conrad says. He shifts, flicks his cigarette off to the side, gets to his feet. He reaches out, briefly pushes his hand through Kevin’s hair. “I’m gonna let Bryar get you home.”

Bryar’s apparently there, too, since Kevin can hear the yelling as soon as Conrad opens the door to leave.

He hears, “—ucking kid, Trohman, and you darted him twice?”

“Hey, no, that was all Andy—”

“Joe.”

“The second time, the second time,” Joe says stridently. “And he’s a stray, dude, you can’t blame us after the shit that went down in the park.”

And then Conrad says, calmly, “He’s not a stray,” and Kevin’s smile stretches wider; he rubs the heel of a palm over his mouth to hide it, cheeks heating, and it’s never felt like this before, this belonging, this being accepted – he thinks it’s different than when you just are, when it’s all you’ve ever known. He didn’t choose his pack, before. But this one chose him.

*

He’s in the backroom with Ross, tucked into a corner on his break – Ross has a slim book of poetry balanced on his knees, Kevin has his head tipped back, staring up at the tiled ceiling.

Kevin says, “What happened—what happened with Mike?”

He can feel Ross shrug. “William’s really good at getting what he wants.”

“Smith—”

Ross stiffens. “Brendon,” he says darkly. “They can all fuck off and die, as far as I’m concerned, but Mike—” He pauses. “It’s complicated.”

Kevin’s already figured out that it’s complicated. And that it has to do with Conrad just as much as it has to do with William.

“Here’s the thing,” Ross says, slapping his book shut and getting to his feet. He stares down at Kevin. “You don’t give Mike ultimatums, or he’ll make the choices you don’t want him to make.”

*

Mike corners Kevin by the young adult books. He presses him up against the shelves and slips his mouth over Kevin’s pulse and then pulls away, sneering. His hands are fit tight on Kevin’s hips and Kevin’s heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, and he wants—he wants—

“Conrad,” Mike says, and laughs like it isn’t funny at all.

*

Life isn’t fair, Kevin thinks. He’s gotten something he’s always wanted, but Mike turns away from him now, ignores him, and Kevin can’t help but feel like he’s lost something important that he’s never thought of wanting before.

*

“Joe says you’ve joined a pack,” Nick says, and Nick sounds pissed.

Kevin says, slightly confused, “Well, yeah. I thought—I mean, I was supposed to.”

Nick says, “You were supposed to come home,” and he doesn’t say you weren’t supposed to be able to survive without us, but Kevin can hear the words anyway.

“Nick,” Kevin says. “Nick, I. I need this.” He doesn’t say that he’s still scared, that he still doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, that he’s in love with a were leashed by vampires, and oh—oh, gosh darn it, he’s maybe in love, how pathetic is that?

Nick sighs. “You can always come back, though,” he says, and Kevin knows he means forever and ever and whenever he wants.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, and hopes he never has to.

*

It snows during the next full moon. Big, fat, sticky flakes, and Kevin’s outer coat of fur is already soaked and crystallized on the tips by the time they reach the park. There are howls echoing in and out of the trees and Kevin sees flashes of white, of gray, of bodies dark as shadows.

Walker chases Ross into the darkness, and Kevin trots slower after them, content to hang back. It isn’t until he loses sight of them that he realizes Bryar’s gone, too. He stops, cocks his head, ears alert, and listens to the hushed ping of falling snow, the bays and barks in the distance. He shakes, flinging tiny shards of ice off his fur, then flops down under a tree, close to the trunk where the layer of snow is thinnest, and waits.

*

At some point, a little white wolf finds him, tackles him, and Kevin spends an hour dodging through trees and shrubs, nipping playfully at her heels. They run and run and she circles behind a tree, sliding into a one-eighty turn, pouncing on him when his momentum makes him scramble for footing as he spots her game. It’s fun; it’s more fun than he’s had in a while, and he squirms below her, pushing at her jaw with his paws, tail sweeping away light piles of snow, down to the short tufts of tough, yellow-green grass underneath.

He rolls them over, laughs spilling out in rumbling growls, but she wriggles out of his hold and darts off again, Kevin pausing only a second before following behind.

The growls don’t even register at first, there’s so many of them out there, but then a rangy blue-gray wolf lunges out of the dark, legs splayed, back hunched, lips pulled back in a snarl, and the little while wolf backpedals into Kevin, yipping in surprise.

There’s blood on the wiry fur of the wolf’s jaw, Kevin can smell it, and his eyes gleam yellow and mean in the moonlight. Kevin’s seen those eyes before.

Kevin pushes the white wolf down and lowers his own body, waits until the tension in the blue unwinds; waits ‘til he spots a perceptible wag of his tail.

part two

While Stumbling Where Our Hearts Beat Regular Time [2/2]

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:06:36 GMT

part one

Upstate, Kevin’s old pack consists of mainly family, but they’ve always been open and welcoming to strangers. In the years since Kevin first started changing, their pack had grown to over a dozen, with only the core eight actual blood relations. They don’t hunt humans, either, like where Kevin is now, but the difference – the difference is that they’re very isolated, and it’s easy to avoid any human interaction at all on the full moon. There are fields and forests that stretch on for miles. So for some of them, maybe, it’d been more a lack of accessibility than any moral code. Kevin has never really thought about it that way before.

Now, though, with Zac grinning this big, friendly, all-teeth grin at Kevin, leaning back against his kitchen sink – Kevin feels dread settle in his stomach. They won’t let Zac get away with it, if he’s responsible.

Kevin doesn’t want to be mixed up in the middle of this, but he still has a sense of pack, something in him still considers Zac his own, so it’s hard to keep a clear head about it all. Zac has always been a little bit more than Kevin could handle. Always bigger and meaner, too, like some switch flips in his head with his change – a personality split that makes his affable human form that much more disturbing.

Kevin says, “You can’t stay, Zac.”

Zac keeps his grin and says, “Sure I can,” and rings an arm around Kevin’s shoulders, tugging him into his side.

*

There’s word of another attack, this one closer to a residential area, and Bryar pulls Kevin aside to make sure he’s all right.

“I’m fine,” Kevin says.

Bryar eyes him steadily. He says, slow, “Right.”

“I am,” Kevin insists, even though he isn’t, exactly. He doesn’t know how to make Zac leave, and he doesn’t know how to keep everyone else from blaming Zac for the killings.

Bryar’s gaze drifts past his shoulder, and then Kevin feels a warm, calloused hand wrap over his nape, and Kevin melts a little, like his body already knows it’s Mike, even though he can’t see him.

This is new. Mike hasn’t even looked at him in weeks, and now he’s silently pressing up all along his back, and Bryar’s nodding at him, short and decisive, and Kevin thinks maybe they’ve decided something about him.

Mike’s chin is on his shoulder, and then Mike’s voice is in his ear, soft and low. “Who is it?” he says.

“Uh.”

Bryar crosses his arms over his chest and widens his stance, like he’s settling in for a long wait.

“Kevin,” Mike says, and his other hand settles at his waist, fingers brushing his hipbone.

This, this right here, Kevin thinks, is not fair at all. “I don’t know.”

Mike’s nails dig shallow grooves in Kevin’s nape. “That’s a lie,” he says.

“It’s not—”

“Greta says you knew him,” Bryar says, and Kevin hates this. Hates that he feels like he can’t tell them the truth. That Zac, right then, is probably eating all his food, sprawled out on his couch.

“I don’t—”

Mike’s blunt teeth graze the side of his throat, Kevin shivers, then Mike clamps down harder, more pressure than sting, and Kevin’s mind whites out – when he blinks clear again he thinks only seconds have passed, and he feels Mike’s forehead heavy on his shoulder blade, and Bryar’s saying, “Think very carefully about lying to us again,” and Kevin feels like crying and he feels like curling up inside of Mike’s arms and he feels like running away.

He swallows it all back and says thickly, “He’s staying on my couch.”

*

Brendon swings down from his fire escape, landing like a cat in front of Kevin as he passes by. He flips his hat off his head with a flourish, tucks it under his arm. “Interesting company you’re keeping,” he says.

Kevin stares at him. “What?”

Brendon grins, wide and horrible. “You should warn him about strangers in the big bad city, he almost let me inside.”

“What?”

“Oh, seriously, you worry too much.” Brendon waves a hand. “He caught on before it got that far.” He leans his face close to Kevin’s, grin never dropping. “We’re not so bad, you know,” he says.

Kevin can’t blink. He can feel the tip of Brendon’s nose touch his, but he can’t move away. And then Brendon’s jerking back, laughing, and Mike’s shoving at Brendon’s shoulder and calling him a dickwad, and then there’s only Mike, breathing hard, standing on the sidewalk in a thin jacket and jeans with holes in the knees.

Mike growls a little under his breath, then says, “I’m coming up,” and Kevin correctly guesses that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

*

Mike and Zac very obviously hate each other on sight.

Zac shows it in wide smiles and hostile eyes, and Mike just scowls and looks like he’s two seconds away from punching Zac in the face.

Kevin would be amused if he wasn’t very close to having a panic attack.

He hides in the kitchen and dials Joe on his cell and hisses, “Help,” when Joe picks up on the third ring, because it’s the only thing he can think to do.

“What’s wrong?”

Kevin takes a deep breath. “Did you send Zac here?”

“What, did—no, are you kidding, Zac’s an obsessive freak, you know he loves you, right?”

“No, I—what?” Kevin shoves a hand through his hair. “Joe, Zac’s here. He’s been here for two days.”

“And you’re just telling me now?”

“Do not tell Nick,” Kevin says. He’s regretting this whole call now. He really thought maybe—but that’s stupid. Nick and Joe trust him, even if they’d probably panic if he ever missed a check-in call.

Joe says, “I might have to.”

“I’m handling it,” Kevin says. He’s not, but it’s better than having his brothers show up. Then it’ll be a party.

“Kev—”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just, you know, trying to avoid Mike killing him.”

Joe snickers, slyly amused. “Oh.”

Kevin’s cheeks heat up. “It’s not like that.” He doesn’t think it’s like that, but he’s really not so sure.

“Yeah, I’m having a hard time believing that,” Joe says, and Kevin hangs up on him.

*

Kevin has trouble sleeping that night. He strains to hear any noises from the outer room and he tosses and turns, body strung tight with nerves. He’s not even sure why Mike’s still there - the full moon isn’t for another three weeks, and Kevin’s known Zac for five years, he really doesn’t think he’d hurt him.

But Kevin isn’t going to throw Mike out, and Mike seems determined to camp out in his single armchair, so. So now Kevin’s just waiting for some sort of brawl to break out in the middle of his living room.

He sighs heavily, eyes wide on the ceiling. Light from a streetlamp throws patterns in the shape of his windows, and with each blink, the room seems to grow brighter and brighter. He rests an arm over his face, tries to will his muscles to relax, one by one, cataloging all his parts until he gets to his head, his mouth, his nose. And then he feels the bed dip and he jerks tense again, heart pounding.

“What—”

“They can hear your bed creaking in Canada, kid, just fucking go to sleep.”

Kevin inhales sharply. Mike’s shifting on the other side of his bed, he’s lying down, and Kevin is having trouble breathing. “What are you—”

Mike curls an arm over Kevin’s waist, tugs him up against him, turning on his side, his weight warm and solid and—familiar, all along Kevin’s body. Mike spreads a hand on his stomach and says, “Sleep, Jonas.”

Kevin wriggles a little in his grip, he’s at an awkward angle, and he finally settles with Mike spooning up against his back, Mike’s damp breath on his nape. Mike tips his head forward ‘til they’re touching, forehead to the top of Kevin’s spine. Kevin’s pretty sure Mike’s not only still wearing all his clothes, but that he’s not even under the blankets. And Kevin always sleeps in full flannel pajamas in the winter, but this still feels like the most intimate Kevin’s ever been with anybody ever, and Kevin’s had sex. Once. And he was going to marry her, except it turns out she’d had a real problem with, uh, his kind.

“Christ, kid,” Mike’s voice is muffled, “shut your brain off or I’ll shut it off for you.” He mouths the knob of Kevin’s spine; Kevin feels the light scrape of teeth, and he lets out a long breath, feels the release of air all the way down to his fingertips, his toes.

He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes.

*

“You know the story about the man and the lion?” Ross says without looking up from where he’s hunched over the front counter.

“Huh?”

Ross flips his magazine closed, pins Kevin with a look, like maybe he’s judging Kevin’s ability to read. “The man that pulls a thorn from the lion’s paw. That story.”

Kevin bites his lower lip, not sure where this is going. “I guess?”

“Right.” Ross straightens up on his stool and pushes his hair back off his forehead. “The man helps the lion, and the lion decides to let the man live instead of eating him. Later, the man’s condemned to death in the arena, only the lion who’s supposed to kill him is the same one he’d helped earlier. So the lion recognizes him, remembers his kindness, and chooses to greet him as a friend instead. Now,” he taps his fingers on the cover of his magazine, “imagine that the man, under certain conditions, could probably tear the lion apart, and that the lion is actually a sick fuck who’s partial to psycho mind fuckery. Imagine that, and you have Mike and Bill.”

“So,” Kevin says, trying to remember what that fable was about, “they’re friends.” Although that part’s kind of always been obvious.

“Yeah.” Ross snorts. “Yeah,” he says again, “only the problem is, there’s another way that story ends.” He arches his eyebrow pointedly, waits a beat, then goes back to his reading.

“Um.” Kevin gets what’s implied here, but— “What’s the other ending?”

“The lion’s hungry. So he eats him anyway.”

*

Zac hangs out at the bookstore exactly once, but Ross keeps glaring at him and Zac spends a half hour spread out on the floor in the travel section, whining about how bored he is, so after that Kevin isn’t sure what Zac does with his days.

At night, he’s still on Kevin’s couch.

Mike, after that one showdown, is essentially pretending Zac doesn’t exist at all. The only good thing about that is that Mike can apparently only ignore one person at a time, so Kevin’s somehow back on his radar. At least, Kevin thinks this is a good thing. He really, really likes it when Mike isn’t ignoring him.

Mike isn’t being totally friendly with him, but he sits with him at lunch, sometimes, and leaves half open bags of skittles for him when he’s at the register, and he—well, they don’t talk, and Kevin’s pretty sure Mike’s avoiding touching him, but other than that it’s pretty awesome.

Four days before the full moon, Walker swings into the shop, frustration tensing all the lines of his body.

“No one knows anything. That’s the official word,” Walker says. He leans a hip against the counter. “Everyone’s twitchy, Siska and Butcher are holed up with Greta, Frank’s disappeared. You don’t think—?”

Ross frowns. “I don’t think Frank even kills bunnies, Jon.”

Kevin would like to be able to say he doesn’t kill bunnies either, but bunnies are delicious. He can’t help himself.

“Frank’s running an errand for me,” Bryar says gruffly from inside his office. He steps into the doorway, hand braced on the jamb.

Kevin doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him. He scratches the back of his neck and shifts a little and ducks his head.

“What kind of errand?” Walker asks.

Bryar arches an eyebrow. “An important one.”

It sounds ominous to Kevin, but Walker just grins.

*

Kevin jumps a little when Brendon materializes out of the darkness and flings an arm across Kevin’s shoulders. There’s someone hovering behind him, someone in a black suit, dark blonde hair messy under a bowler hat. He’s got his hands in his pockets, grinning just enough to show his fangs, and he somehow creeps Kevin out more than even Brendon.

“I’ve figured something out, Jonas,” Brendon says. He nuzzles into Kevin’s neck, cold and clammy. “Well, I’ve figured two things out, but one of them you’re not getting without a kiss.”

“Nice, Urie,” the other vampire says, and Kevin’s sort of frozen with steadily building horror, but he’s pretty sure he has an accent.

“Maybe a nibble instead,” Brendon amends.

Kevin feels a slight sting at his neck and he automatically jabs out an elbow – it won’t do him much good, really, if Brendon decides he wants a taste.

Brendon just laughs, though, and keeps clinging to Kevin like a monkey. “We need to make a deal, you and I,” he says between giggles.

“Uh, no,” Kevin says.

“Fine, fine,” Brendon says. He doesn’t sound all that upset about it. “I’ll just tell you one, then. Without the snack.” Palming Kevin’s face, he turns his head so Kevin’s looking him in the eyes. “You know, of course, that that was the good one. The juicy one.” He sucks his lower lip under his teeth in a close-mouthed grin; blood wells thickly from where he’s sliced it open, and his tongue darts out, slicking over it. Kevin feels nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.

The other vampire says, “Carden’s probably lurking,” like it’s a reminder, and Brendon leans in close to Kevin, brushes his nose along the side of Kevin’s.

Even without Nick’s strong sense of smell, Kevin has to swallow bile back at the metallic tang of a recent feed.

“I like you,” Brendon says.

Kevin blinks. He’s pretty sure Brendon’s said that to him before.

“I like you, Jonas, because, unlike Bill, I don’t particularly like Mike. He’s an overgrown mongrel who’s worn out his welcome.” Brendon stares at Kevin, eerily amused. “I could take you from him,” he says in a whisper; it echoes strangely in Kevin’s head. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“N-no,” Kevin says, stammering a little. Brendon’s eyes are almost all black, almost all pupil.

“It’ll be fun,” Brendon says. “We’ve done it before.”

Kevin says, faintly, “What?” because what does that mean? Done what before?

“Think about it.” Brendon shrugs a little. “Or don’t, of course, I’m not planning on giving you much of a choice.” He tilts his head, licks the length of Kevin’s cheek, and then he’s gone.

*

Mike practically pounces on Kevin when Kevin arrives at the bookstore for his evening shift. He shoves him into the storeroom and says, “You’ve got blood on your face.”

Kevin rubs at his cheek with the end of his sleeve. “Thanks.”

Mike has really intense eyes. They’re kind of staring into Kevin’s soul. “Something you want to tell me, Jonas?”

Kevin leaves his hand fisted up against his face, cotton sleeve tucked under his fingers. “Um. Brendon?”

Mike looks at him expectantly.

“I just,” Kevin shrugs, arm falling, “got the impression that he, uh, might want to eat me.”

“I see.” Mike’s mouth gets tight and his eyes get scary, but Kevin’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s not mad at him.

“There was some licking,” Kevin says.

“Licking,” Mike echoes, deadpan.

Kevin nods. “Apparently, he doesn’t like you very much.”

Kevin isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but the sudden slow grin and wicked amusement takes him completely by surprise. And then Mike’s got one arm around Kevin’s waist, pulling him close, and Mike tucks his head onto Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin can feel his warm smile against his skin; Mike nips the side of his neck. With his other hand, he smoothes back Kevin’s hair, moves down to firmly grip his nape.

“You were mine before Conrad’s, you know,” he says. He pulls back a little, mouth still quirked up.

“I—” Kevin opens and closes his mouth. He doesn’t really know what to do with that. “I’m not. Conrad’s?”

Mike leans his face closer to Kevin’s, lowers his voice. “Pack, kid. I claimed you first. And Conrad knows it.”

“Oh.” Kevin remembers everything from before, remembers the space Mike had never given him, and feels a hot flush start up from his chest, heartbeat heavy, knocking against his ribs. “What does that—you were pack.”

Mike nods slowly. His fingers slip around, press into Kevin’s lower lip, calluses catching at the corners. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ll work it out.”

*

The morning of the next full moon, Kevin opens his door to find his brothers.

“Crap,” he says.

Joe looks like he’s about to crack up, but Nick’s frowning.

A short guy bundled up in a red parka says, “Hey, I’m Frank.” He waves a hand. “I brought you things. People things, who have some kind of hang-up about personal space, I dunno.” Frank shrugs.

“You jumped on my back, I think I have permanent damage,” Nick says.

Frank punches his shoulder. “Don’t be such a baby.” He pushes past Kevin and drops down onto his sofa. “Doritos, sweet.”

Kevin looks from Nick and Joe to Frank and back again. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

Nick narrows his eyes. “Where’s Zac?”

Kevin scowls at Joe, and Joe holds up his hands and says, “I didn’t tell him,” and Nick says, “Frank told me,” and, “I don’t really appreciate you two keeping all these secrets from me,” with a really pissy and kind of hilarious expression on his face.

Joe rolls his eyes. “Get over it, geez, there’s no way I’m telling you everything, you’re like a giant fun-killer.”

“Joe—”

“A killer of fun,” Joe says.

“He’s right, dude,” Frank says, mouth full of chips. “You strangle the fuck out of fun.”

Nick stomps his foot and waves his arms around a little and Joe covers his mouth with the back of his hand, but his eyes are dancing.

Kevin bites his lip around a smile, because, okay, he doesn’t really want them there, but he has missed them.

And then the bathroom door slams open and Zac steps out with an undersized towel slung around his waist. He shakes excess water from his hair, spots Nick and Joe and says, “Guys! Awesome.”

*

Kevin likes feeling the hard-packed, frozen dirt under his paws. He likes how the cold makes everything smell cleaner, he likes how he can see his breath puff out after a long, satisfying run.

He hangs his head, muscles rippling under his fur, tingling with pleasant warmth in the frigid air. His nose twitches, searching for his brothers. He pauses, though; something’s off.

Zac? he thinks, hearing the muffled noises of something—stumbling, it sounds like, not too far off, and then he smells it. Smells it wrong, like Mike almost, but worse. He growls, a low warning, and whoever it is growls back menacingly under heavy panting – not Mike, Kevin thinks, but it’s so familiar in that moment, he’s not entirely sure.

Dead things. Vampires. Not of vampires, but just vampire and wolf, and it’s confusing, and Kevin starts backing away, wonders if he should just spin around and make a run for it.

Several things happen at once.

A familiar black wolf rips out of the bushes, and Kevin huffs a relieved breath as it skids to halt in front of him, legs splayed in a protective stance. But then William’s there with several others, melting in from the shadows, his lethally sharp blade brandished, and a strong hand comes down to clutch into Kevin’s ruff. He twists his head to see a huge vampire standing over him, definitely not one of William’s gang, in ripped clothes and a killer gold smile. Kevin thinks maybe he could snap his neck with a squeeze of his fingers.

No one else is paying any attention to Kevin, though. They’re staring at the dazed, long-legged wolf on the opposite side of the path – lips pulled back in a snarl, saliva dripping off his canines. Over the scent of death, Kevin can smell sickness.

“Well,” William says, “I think we’ve found our problem.” He steps towards the sick wolf, knife lifted. The wolf snaps out, but doesn’t move to attack yet, and Mike lunges forward and grabs William’s sleeve with surprisingly gentle teeth.

William tries to shake him off, arches an eyebrow at Mike. “He’s a mistake. We all know it. Except for possibly Brendon and Michael Guy, who will be properly punished, you needn’t worry.”

Mike growls, and then another wolf joins in, stepping out of the trees, stockier than Mike, but almost as dark. Conrad.

He knocks Mike with his shoulder as he passes, but Mike doesn’t flinch.

Kevin thinks this is all really bad. Especially since Conrad and Mike and William are all busy staring at each other, and who knows what the other vampires are doing, but no one except Kevin seems to notice when the vicious, sick werewolf moves. When his growls get throatier, and his glazed eyes get wild, and Kevin figures that he’s someone they know, someone in the pack, but he really looks like he’s about to tear someone into tiny, bloody shreds.

Kevin arches around again, mouth snapping, and the vampire holding him loosens his grip in surprise – Kevin doesn’t hesitate, just squirms and lunges and he barrels into the sick werewolf before he can attempt to rip anyone’s throat open.

It’s admittedly not the best plan, but it’s the only one he has.

*

Kevin does not feel good. Kevin feels like crap, there’s a hunter leaning over him, frowning, and Kevin’s – here’s the really scary part – still a wolf.

It’s past sunrise, the window above him framing Patrick’s head with mellow gold. Which means Kevin’s pretty bad off. There’s only one reason anyone ever gets stuck in a change. He tenses, a fresh wave of pain rolling over him. His entire body hurts.

“Stay still,” Patrick says calmly, even though Kevin has no intention of moving. Distantly, he can hear Nick yelling about massive, gaping wounds, and Patrick’s mouth quirks up on one side. “It’s not that bad. You’ll be fine.”

Kevin snorts, then thinks ow, ow, ow, he barely feels Patrick’s hands petting down his side, and Patrick says, “Okay, I’m knocking you out again.”

*

Kevin has very few visitors other than his brothers and Zac. When it gets dark outside again, Greta shuffles into the room with her hand wrapped around the wrist of a pale and shaken Siska.

Kevin has met Siska once, months ago, and he looks how Kevin feels. Dark circles under his eyes, stick-thin, gray.

Greta kneels by Kevin’s side and says, “Oh, baby,” and cards her fingers gently through Kevin’s fur, and Siska hovers behind her, fidgeting.

Greta gives him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Adam,” she says.

Siska shrugs stiffly, and Greta clucks her tongue and leans over Kevin again.

Kevin whimpers, and he thumps his tail along the floor. He likes Greta. She smells nice.

“It’s fine, baby,” she says soothingly. “Adam’s so sorry, he isn’t himself anymore. He couldn’t help it.”

“Greta, don’t.” Siska sounds kind of broken. It makes Kevin squirm inside – he doesn’t blame Siska for this, the scent of wrongness still clings all over him, Kevin can taste it in the back of his mouth.

“Oh, it’s true and you know it, Adam T. Siska,” Greta says sternly.

Siska just sniffs wetly and rubs the backs of two fingers under his nose.

*

As far as Kevin can glean from the snatches of conversation going on around him, a vampire tried to turn Siska, and he ended up turning him wrong. Or maybe werewolves can’t turn properly, Kevin doesn’t know.

It’s almost like rabies, when he changes, or as close to being rabies without actually being rabies.

Nick’s been throwing around the word rabies a lot; it’s kind of stuck in Kevin’s head.

Joe settles next to Kevin on the floor and stretches out his feet, leaning back on his palms. He says, “You almost made Nick cry.”

Kevin shifts so he’s resting his head on Joe’s thigh, and he’s delighted when the slight movement doesn’t cause him to black out in pain. Either he’s getting better – werewolves heal relatively quickly, which is a blessing – or Patrick’s still giving him the good drugs.

Joe sits up, scratches Kevin between his ears. “His eyes got all watery and everything, I thought maybe he was having a seizure.”

Kevin sweeps his tail up and down once, twice.

Joe sighs. “Any day now, Kev,” he says. “Feel free to become a real boy.”

*

Mike sneaks in when he’s sleeping. Kevin knows this, because his blankets always smell like him when he wakes up. He has no idea how Mike does it, and he’d much rather just see him, but it’s kind of comforting anyway.

*

It takes nearly two weeks before Kevin wakes up human again. Two weeks, and he’s got red, angry wounds all down his throat and chest and it still hurts to move, but they let him go home.

Patrick gives him a goody bag of painkillers and antibiotics and Trohman slips him some marijuana, geez, and Bob gives him stoic, mothering looks as he gently eases him into his car.

Kevin wants his bed. He wants his ruined couch and his thirteen inch TV and his stove that has only one working burner. He wants his bathroom with the cracked toilet bowl and his precisely-five-minutes-of-hot-water shower.

Now that he thinks about it, he kind of reeks.

He’s too tired from moving, though, to do much of anything when they finally get him into his apartment building and up the stairs, and he tunes out Nick’s rambling as he wears a path in the rug, pacing back and forth in front of the TV. He only snaps to attention when he hears Nick say, “We’ll give it a week, you should be able to travel by then,” and Kevin goes, “What?”

Nick stops by him, hands on his hips. “Home, Kev,” he says.

Kevin shakes his head slightly – he kind of just makes one abortive movement and a grimace. “I’m not—Nick, I am home.” It’s not the greatest home or anything, he could do with an adult-sized refrigerator and less bugs, but it’s his, and he loves his brothers, but they tend to drive him crazy.

Nick stares at him, mouth tight, until Joe bumps Nick’s shoulder and says, “We’re totally sending Frankie down, then, he’s gonna be thirteen soon, Kev. I’m thinking we might end up with an angry mob, kill-the-beast scenario. He’s been following Trace around for weeks.”

“Joe,” Nick says, frowning.

“Y’all don’t have to worry,” Zac says, coming out of the kitchen, one hand deep into a box of Kevin’s Captain Crunch. “I’m not going anywhere. Kevin’ll be awesome at all times under my watch.”

Kevin doesn’t really know what to say to that. He mutters, “Perfect,” and all sarcasm is lost on Zac, so he only beams at him and gives him a thumbs-up.

*

A big aspect about the city that Kevin’s probably never going to get used to is all the vampires. One of them steps out of a building’s shadow on soft, silent feet as Kevin walks by, twirling a silver-tipped cane. Kevin tenses, then relaxes when he recognizes him.

William cocks his head curiously. “Jonas. I’m afraid you’re being far too indulgent of my nature.”

“Um. What?”

“You should never trust me,” William says, eyes gleaming. “I’ll turn on you at the nearest opportunity.”

Kevin swallows hard. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Fair warning, puppy.” He tips his hat back off his forehead with his thumb. “I’m doing you a good turn. I do appreciate you leaping into harm’s way for us, you know. It’s rather adorable, really.”

“No problem?” Kevin really hadn’t done it for William, but he’s not going to point that out now.

“Oh, and Brendon wants to eat you,” William says flippantly. “He wanted to turn you, but I’ve laid down more stringent rules against that now, after the whole Siska fiasco. Nobody needs that kind of mess.”

Kevin blanches. Because of the Brendon thing, and also because of the Siska thing – Bob says he’s going to be fine, just different, and that they’ll all have to get used to it. It’s still scary.

“What about Mike?” Kevin asks, Ross’s words echoing in his head: lions get hungry. William’s basically saying that.

William shrugs. “Mike’s useful.” He runs a gloved finger over Kevin’s jaw, and Kevin shivers involuntarily. William notices and grins, thin and malicious, fangs pressed into his stretched lower lip. “Don’t worry about him, though. Mike knows enough not to trust me either.”

*

Conrad knows it, Kevin thinks, standing next to Mike, watching him fiddle with the register. Conrad had known it, when he’d accepted Kevin into the pack, but what does that mean?

He asks Mike and Mike arches an eyebrow at him. “It’s his passive-aggressive way of telling me to fuck off,” he says. The words are harsh, but his eyes are kind of smiling. “And also to come home again.”

Kevin rubs a palm over his chest, easing the ache that’s lodged along the healing gashes from leaning against the counter too long. “Home,” Kevin says.

“You’re a lure, kid,” Mike says, hooking two fingers into the top of Kevin’s shirt, stretching the collar, the worn material easily giving to expose the hollow of his throat. “He misses me. He’s just too much of a dick to actually say that to my face.”

Kevin’s cheeks heat. “I’m a—only that?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Stop fishing, Jonas, Christ. Bob thinks you invented Ford cars, it’s like he’s adopted you.”

“Right,” Kevin says, not entirely reassured.

Mike absently fiddles with Kevin’s frayed hem, thumb brushing bare skin. “Ross—well, Ross doesn’t think you’re a complete idiot, and Greta stops by at least twice a day to make sure you’re okay. Hell, even Trohman and Stump like having you around, Trohman gave you his fucking stash.” Mike frowns. “Which reminds me, the next time you see Brendon, kick him in the balls and run for it.”

Kevin blinks. “Okay?” He doesn’t have a lot of confidence in his kicking ability, though. Maybe he should just carry mace.

Mike smirks, tugs on Kevin’s shirt, says, “C’mere,” even though it’s not like Kevin’s resisting.

Mike’s gotta know Kevin would pretty much do anything for him. It’s embarrassing, but Kevin’s always been that way about the people he loves.

Mike’s thumb settles more firmly against his throat, bumping up against his adam’s apple, and he gazes at Kevin’s lips, this seriously intent gleam in his eyes. Every drop of moisture evaporates from Kevin’s mouth, because Mike has never kissed him before. Mike’s touched and bit, hands and mouth and teeth in strangely intimate places – neck, hips, belly, back – but that happens, sometimes, with their kind. Werewolves are close-knit and affectionate, usually in both forms.

Kevin clears his throat, manages, “What about you?”

“I like you just fine,” Mike says. “I thought we already established that.”

Kevin nods, smile blooming. He brings a hand up, grasps Mike’s forearm with light fingers, presses down so the inside of Mike’s wrist rests flat along Kevin’s sternum.

Mike leans in, warm breath ghosting Kevin’s lips. He says softly, “If Efron ever touches you, I’ll break all his fingers. You might want to consider telling him to get his own place.”

*

Mike kisses how he touches, intent and forceful, without any hesitation. He kisses how he bites, too, and Kevin feels the scrape of teeth along his lower lip and lets Mike’s tongue slip inside, licking over lips, teeth, feels a shivery tingle down his spine when it touches his own. Mike’s mouth is a total distraction, because otherwise Kevin would’ve been upset about the Zac thing, he’s sure of it. Maybe. Kevin’s never found overprotection very comforting, but he supposes there’d be a difference between his brothers and Mike.

And then Ross says, “We all use that counter, you know,” and, “Noises! You’re making gross noises, seriously,” and, “Oh, fuck it,” and then Kevin hears Walker say, “Well, it’s kind of hot, right?” and Kevin is probably going to be mortified when he thinks about this later, but right now Mike’s got a hand down his pants and Kevin’s thinking about sliding his mouth down Mike’s throat and maybe doing some biting of his own.

*

Joe doesn’t get sentimental very often. Kevin’s the one who’s always saying I love you, and Joe makes impatient sounds, because Kevin’s just saying stuff that he already knows.

Joe leaves him a voicemail. He says, “I’m glad, you know. You seem happy,” and his voice is small and secretive, and Kevin can see him in his mind, cheeks topped with red, embarrassed by his words. He says, “You needed this,” and, “Nick understands,” but then he ends with, “We’re still sending you Frankie, I wasn’t joking,” and Kevin grins while he listens, and maybe he saves it and replays it a few times, but it’s not like anyone’ll know.

I swear

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 11:53:00 GMT

Wow, so it's like I don't post regular thing-a-ma-jigs here at all anymore, but it's not my fault! All my good thoughts go to Twitter! Anyway, I've got lots of comments to answer AND I'm racing to get a Halloween fic done for y'all - my first time attempting a vampire AU, though it's mainly about werewolves. And it's also Kevin/Mike again. BUT there's all sorts of A Little Less Sixteen Candles... cameos, so that's fun.

Nothing else is going on. J is on his way to try and get his driver's license renewed without any form of identification. I'm planning on laying in bed and drinking coffee and dreaming about donuts I can't have.

Ta!

bandslash fic: The Scene Isn’t What It’s Been

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 17:14:30 GMT

The Scene Isn’t What It’s Been | PG-13 | ~5,500
Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas, The Academy Is…, Jonas Brothers, Cobra Starship, Panic!, Fall Out Boy

Brendon’s more of an in-your-face naked guy, while Mike’s nakedness sneaks up on you out of nowhere. It’s like Kevin doesn’t realize Mike isn’t wearing pants until he realizes Mike *isn’t wearing pants.*

a/n: this ridiculous piece of tour dating – yes, tour dating - was written because I wanted to have Kevin meet Drunk Naked Guy!Carden from DSIDWY and Commando!Carden from Break Away. It’s not necessary to read those fics to understand this one, but you might want to anyway. Cobra Jenga (though not called Cobra Jenga at the time) is something my friends and I used to play in college; it’s stupid fun, but gets expensive when you don’t play with the same exact group of people, especially when you get as specific with the pieces as we always did. Title comes from TMBG’s The End of The Tour. Unbeta’d, because I really didn’t think it was worth it – please point out any mistakes :) One day I will write one of these from Mike’s pov, promise.

The Scene Isn’t What It’s Been

The thing about being newly un-engaged and over twenty-one is that his handlers let him get away with a lot of stuff they won’t let Nick and Joe get away with. Kevin hasn’t decided yet whether this is good or bad, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t have let Bill Beckett talk him into bus hopping for the four hours they happen to be parked in the same venue lot.

He doesn’t know anyone else at this party. He only knows Bill because Bill knows Demi, so he doesn’t even really know Bill all that well. And right now Bill’s licking salt off another guy’s wrist, and a shirtless guy with a parrot is staring at him. Him, Kevin, not Bill. Kevin thinks the licking thing is probably standard.

Kevin’s got a can of soda in one hand, and he’s trying to look as small as possible, leaning back against the bus kitchenette wall – there’s enough people there that everyone’s spilling out into the lot, and Kevin’s seriously considering a retreat. Bill’ll never even notice he’s gone.

Kevin glances towards the door, and when turns back around, the shirtless guy is right in front of him, still staring, and the parrot squawks, “Pete’s a douche!” and Kevin presses back against the wall as hard as he can; he’s never been a big fan of birds.

“Uh.” It is very clear to Kevin, now that the guy is practically on top of him, that the guy is Bill’s very own Mike Carden and that he’s very, very drunk. “You, um, cut your hair.”

Kevin knows Mike even less than he knows Bill. Basically, he’s only seen pictures. Mike is much more intimidating in person.

“Kevin Jonas,” Mike says, and his mouth folds up in what Kevin’s sure is an evil, evil smirk. He sways towards him, and Kevin can smell beer, and he thinks it’s a good bet that if he gets any closer, that bird is going to peck Kevin’s eyes out.

“That’s me,” Kevin says, and he’s so busy watching the parrot in ever-growing terror that he doesn’t realize Mike’s touching him until he feels cool air along his stomach, the scrape of calloused fingers across his bare skin.

“You, kid,” Mike says, twisting his hand so the front of Kevin’s shirt is balled up. “I think you’re all for me.”

“What?” Kevin’s fingers clench on his Coke can. It would suck if he dropped it, but it’s getting really hard to function with Mike’s hands on his belly.

Mike chuckles, says something that sounds like, “Bill’s a jackass,” and then Kevin’s stomach jumps when Mike skims the tip of his nose up his throat, which is really weird, actually, and Kevin’s not sure whether he should push him away or draw him closer. It just—it feels a little wrong. Especially with the bird watching.

And then Mike bites down on the crook of his neck and Kevin says, “Wait, wait, what?” because this doesn’t make any sense.

Mike’s pressed all along his body, hot, and he peels back just enough to shoo the parrot - Little Adam, he calls him - off his shoulder, to pry the soda can out of Kevin’s grip and set it on the counter next to them.

No one seems to be paying them any attention. With the bird gone, Kevin finds he can’t look away from Mike’s chest, and then, when Mike shifts closer again, pushing a knee in between Kevin’s, the curve of his shoulder, burned slightly from the sun. He’s tense to Mike’s languid lean, holding himself rigid while Mike curls himself around him – he thinks it’s the alcohol, and that makes him more uncomfortable than the whole guy molesting a guy thing. Kevin’s never thought of something like this for himself, but he’s never judged anyone else for it.

For a little while, Mike just breathes on him, and Kevin just lets him. If he moves, Mike’s fingers tighten on him, and it’s kind of like a full-body hug, like the ones The Jerry gives out, only it lasts a lot longer, and there’s, uh, more bare skin against bare skin – Kevin’s shirt is rucked up around his armpits, trapped in between them, and Mike still isn’t wearing one at all.

Mike’s lips move against the skin of his collarbone, like he’s forming words, and Kevin’s heart does this weird little nervous flutter and his breathing kicks up.

“Okay?” Mike asks, muffled, and then he pulls away a little and looks into Kevin’s eyes and smoothes thumbs up either side of his neck, and Kevin thinks maybe Mike isn’t as drunk as he thought.

He doesn’t know why, but he nods okay back.

Mike makes a pleased sound – that’s the only way Kevin can describe it, this little growl – and then Mike’s licking into his mouth and there’s this spark of warmth that shoots down Kevin’s spine, and Kevin has never had this for himself before, but apparently he is way into dudes.

He likes the way Mike’s tongue flicks along his, the way his blunt fingers thrust into his hair, the way he forces Kevin’s head to tilt, his mouth to open wider.

Kevin doesn’t know what to do with his hands, hesitantly rests them on Mike’s hips, just above the low waistband of his jeans, and Mike grins into his mouth and says, “There you go, Jonas,” rasps it almost, rocks up into him, and Kevin doesn’t know if he’s talking about the light grip or the way Kevin’s undeniably and embarrassingly hard in his khaki pants.

Kevin has never been kissed like this before. He’s not sure if this qualifies as kissing, actually, it might be too dirty for that, and it’s thrilling and slightly scary and Kevin squirms and wants something more but he’s not sure what that more is, and he definitely doesn’t know how to ask.

Mike stills him with pressure at his hipbones. He says, “All right, kid,” and then there’s a hand at the button of Kevin’s pants, curled over the belt, fingers teasing, and Kevin sucks his stomach in with a noisy gasp and doesn’t think about stopping – maybe because of Danielle, maybe because of his parents, maybe because he’s more messed up than he thought, after everything.

“This is interesting,” Mike says. His teeth close carefully over Kevin’s ear, biting, then he licks at the sensitive, flushed skin right below and asks, “Have you done this before?”

Kevin wants to lie. He wants to say yes and have it not be a lie, but instead he says, shaky, “No.”

Mike hums a little, sweeps slightly open lips over his jaw until he catches Kevin’s mouth again, this time slower, shallower, and for some reason that breaks Kevin open even more than before – he doesn’t know what’s going on until Mike pulls back, until he realizes his shirt’s neatly smoothed over his chest again, and that Mike’s put careful inches between them, catching Kevin’s wrists and tugging them away from his waist, picking up the can of Coke and placing it back in between Kevin’s fingers.

Kevin is—Kevin thinks his face is on fire. He feels small and reprimanded and lost and dumb. He drops his gaze to his shoes and fights to catch his breath. He just wants to leave, but he can see Mike’s bare feet, still standing a couple paces away, and instead he squares his shoulders and looks up to meet his gaze again.

Mike’s staring at him, a half smile on his face. Hair sweaty and messy, eyes heavy-lidded. He says, “How much time do you have?”

Kevin glances at his watch. His bus rolls out at three, but he’s not sure he can stand here for another two and a half hours. “I should, uh, go.”

*

Kevin feels awkward about it all. And embarrassed, and, if he thinks about it too much, mortified, but that doesn’t stop him from letting Mike corner him in the bathroom of a Denny’s in Boise, Idaho.

He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that both their buses are there – he saw Joe and Bill giggling together in a booth before Mike had grabbed his wrist and tugged him along towards the back of the diner.

Kevin isn’t sure what he’s expecting – he’s a little confused by the whole thing, honestly, and the whole thing before, too – so he squeaks when Mike pushes him into a stall, shoves him up against the metal divider, and kisses him, hard.

Kevin surprises himself by kissing hard back, and Mike slurs, “Fuck,” and bites Kevin’s lower lip and just when Kevin’s, like, melting into him, Mike slips his mouth away and presses his forehead into Kevin’s shoulder.

His breathing’s heavy, and he says, “Okay,” and, “I just wanted—” and, “C’mon,” and then he’s urging Kevin back out of the bathroom before Kevin can say anything at all.

They sit with Nick and Butcher and Siska and Mike orders pancakes and coffee. They talk about Fox’s Peter Pan and The Pirates versus Disney’s version and he shares his bacon with Kevin and Kevin just has absolutely no clue.

*

Somewhere in Texas, they pull into a rest stop well past midnight, and Joe roughly shakes Kevin awake and pushes him off the bus with orders to get him Twizzlers or Chewy Runts or Doritos from the vending machine. Kevin’s sleepy and confused, hitches his pajama pants up his hips, and pads through the dry heat on mismatched flip-flops.

There are five other buses idling in the lot, and a mix of voices in the distance. Kevin yawns and scratches his belly. And then someone’s running full tilt towards him - he sees him out of the corner of his eye - and wraps an arm around his waist and yells, “Jesus fuck, move,” so loud it makes his ears ring.

Kevin stumbles a few steps. “Hey.”

“Move, move,” the guy says, his anxious tone spiking fear up Kevin’s spine, and he thinks kidnapping and slasher flick before recognizing Alex Suarez.

He’s still confused, but he’s no longer worried about getting stabbed to death in the middle of the woods.

Flip-flops aren’t great for running, but Kevin makes an effort. He falls a little behind Suarez but follows him gamely around the back of the building, past the fluorescent spot-lights, conscious of some weird giggling out in the darkness. That’s a little creepy. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss the painful death by stabbing idea. If he dies, he’s so coming back to haunt Nick and Joe.

They skid down a sloping embankment and into the tree line, and Suarez bends over, gasping, hands on his knees. He says, “Shit,” and, “Fuck,” and, “Who the hell made those two it?”

Bill materializes out of the darkness. “Urie’s very persuasive,” he says.

“He’s not,” Suarez says, “you just get distracted by his ass.”

Bill nods. “I will admit it’s lovely.”

Kevin says, “What’s going on?” because while he’s not exactly worried anymore, he’s still not sure why they’re hiding in the woods of a rest stop in the middle of nowhere.

Bill swings an arm across his shoulders. “Epic Jailbreak, my friend. The Panic wonder twins are the enemy, and we are your loving saviors.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Highly.”

Kevin crosses his arms over his chest. “Right.” He’s all for having fun, but Bill isn’t making much sense, Suarez is still gasping curses under his breath, and Kevin had been sound asleep twenty minutes ago, so he’s really not in the mood.

“What the fuck are you ladies doing?” Mike, Kevin can admit to himself, looks like some sort of avenging god. Or Rambo.

“Carden,” Bill says, “we’ve saved you a Jonas.”

“That’s fucking awesome, Bills, but maybe you should save your girl chat ‘til you get some fucking cover,” Mike says, and with that scowl Kevin’s thinking John McClane now, like at any moment in the near future Mike could kill a helicopter with a car.

Some sort of animal dies in the distance.

“Was that a monkey or an owl?” Bill asks.

Suarez says, “It doesn’t matter, Pete has no idea what any of the calls mean, anyway.”

“Biiiiiiiilllly,” a voice calls out, a long, amused taunt, and Mike hisses, “Smith,” and his eyes say, “Shut up or I’ll shut you up,” and wow.

Wow, that is so sexy. Kevin thinks he has a problem here.

An hour later, Kevin stumbles back towards his bus, sweaty and barefoot, the hem of his pajama pants rimmed with dust and dirt. His right elbow is bloodied from where he’d taken a dive into the gravel. He’s limping a little.

He can’t stop grinning.

Before he can punch in the lock-code for the door, a solid weight hits his back, pushes him into the side of the bus. Kevin’s been shoved around so much that night, he just huffs a laugh, squirms until he’s facing his assailant – Mike, and Mike’s grinning, too.

He’s got a smudge on his face that could be either dirt or blood and he says, “G’night, kid,” and tilts his head up, presses their mouths together lightly, not even using any tongue, and when he tries to move away, Kevin catches his shoulders and keeps him still and licks open Mike’s mouth, because there’s something like pure, giddy happiness spangling up and down his bones, all his limbs. This has been fun. Kevin rarely has any real fun anymore, not without his brothers.

“Bye,” Kevin breathes against Mike’s lips, and he feels a little silly, exhausted and stupid-tired, but whatever. He plays the endearingly goofy dumb one on TV; he can take it.

*

The picture messages of Little Adam start the next day. Little Adam at the beach, Little Adam and a stuffed bear, Little Adam and Siska; Little Adam on a bike, perched on a sleeping Bill, beak poked in a bag of BBQ chips, biting at someone’s rings – Kevin’s starting to maybe like the bird, he’s kind of cute.

He looks up pet parrots on his laptop and finds a link for That Pet Place and orders a handful of bells, blocks and shiny things. He falters when he gets to the shipping address. Can’t ship to a bus, doesn’t know where Mike lives, or where he’ll even be - he considers canceling the order, but sends a text to Bill instead.

Bill texts back, carden resides on moonbeams & ponies, and then, thankfully, Mike’s actual address.

Kevin ships it overnight.

Two days later, Mike texts, u bought my bird crap, and before Kevin can even type back a yes, he sends, my mom loves u, and Kevin knows his smile is probably just ridiculously big.

*

The next time Kevin sees Mike, they’re a day early to a venue in Louisiana, so he sees Mike on stage. Mike and his forearms, sweaty shirt plastered to his chest, and Kevin scares himself a little by thinking mine.

When Bill spots them in the wings, he says, “Hang on,” to the audience between songs, then strolls over and grabs Joe, curls an arm around his neck and pulls him out on stage. The crowd seems confused, but enthusiastic.

Bill says, “Joe Jonas, ladies and gentlemen,” and then they sing Black Mamba together and Kevin thinks maybe they’ve been planning this; it sounds a little too rehearsed.

Afterwards, after they watch Cobra and Fall Out Boy – and Kevin doesn’t know where Mike went, or any of TAI, really, except Butcher, who’s goofing off with Nick – Gabe herds him into a janitor’s closest and says, “Jonas, Kevin, Kev, I feel like we haven’t spent enough time together.”

Gabe’s a thin guy, but he takes up a lot of room anyway – Kevin’s feeling a little claustrophobic here. “Okay?”

“Suarez likes you.”

Kevin smiles. “That’s nice.” He likes Suarez, too. They’d bonded a little. Hiding from Panic! at the Disco will do that, apparently.

Gabe pokes his chest with a bony finger and nods solemnly. “You know what we must do.”

Kevin has no idea what they must do. He just hopes there are no farm animals involved. He’s heard stories.

“We must find a common interest,” Gabe says. “Tell me, Kevvy, do you have an opinion on Jenga?”

Kevin doesn’t have much of an opinion on Jenga. He figures playing a party game with Gabe is better than, uh, being forced to take hallucinogenic drugs, though – really, Kevin’s heard a lot of stories about Gabe.

The thing about playing Jenga with all of Cobra Starship, two fifths of TAI, and Patrick Stump, is that they’re not actually playing Jenga. They’re playing some sort of hybrid game of skill and dare that, as far as Kevin can tell, has no point except to humiliate each other as much as possible. Awesome.

Kevin doesn’t know what to write on his assigned pieces, so he goes with some pretty tame ones: jump on one foot, burp the alphabet; he gives up after a couple and sneaks his pile into Butcher’s. He thinks there’s a possibility he’s gotten in way over his head when Gabe calls out, “No sexual acts! We’ve got pure little ears to consider.”

A couple rounds into the game, Kevin realizes that no sexual acts means lots of drinking and pissing off Patrick, often both at the same time.

Victoria draws a piece and reads, “Patrick must drink from Gabe’s mysterious cup of alcoholic wonders,” directly after Nate drew, “Two shots of jager for Patrick,” and Kevin drew, “Patrick has to give Siska hugs and kisses,” and Suarez drew, “Patrick has to pound a girly mango wine cooler while shaking his hips to Shakira.”

Patrick says, “I fucking hate all of you,” voice slurring slightly.

“So this is bad news.”

Kevin tilts his head back and grins at Mike. “What?”

“This.” Mike jabs a finger towards the table. “Cobra Jenga, not for the faint of heart.”

“Don’t worry, Carden,” Gabe says, waggling his eyebrows, “we’re being ever so good.”

“Hate you,” Patrick says, and then he pulls out a piece and the entire tower comes tumbling down.

“Patrick has prematurely ruined his pants,” Gabe announces, and Patrick lunges across the table for him.

Mike grabs Kevin’s hand and pulls him up out of the way – Gabe’s laughing, but Patrick really seems intent on kicking the stuffing out of him for real. Kevin’s grateful for the save, particularly since the card table collapses five seconds later, squishing Nate and Siska underneath it, spilling Gabe’s cup of alcoholic wonders and both of Ryland’s beers.

Kevin presses his wrist to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

*

Bill texts Kevin, we’re kissing in kansas, y/y? and Kevin shows Joe, because he has no idea what that means.

Joe says, “Our tours are dating, duh.”

“That. Makes no sense,” Kevin says.

Joe rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Kev, you’re the one who asked them out.”

Kevin is sure that isn’t true. He would’ve remembered asking out an entire FBR tour, right? He asks Nick, though, and Nick just flips through his magazine and says absently, “Well, technically, Bill started it, but then you had to go ahead and make out with Carden, so.”

Kevin feels his cheeks heat. “Um.”

The corner of Nick’s mouth twitches, even though he still doesn’t look up.

Darn it.

*

Kevin’s crouched with Nick and Spencer in the shadows edging a rest stop parking lot two miles south of Lawrence, Kansas. He digs his knuckles into the gravel, watching the lighted vending machine alcove. Ryland and Joe are sitting side-by-side, Brendon’s stretched out on the concrete on his back, and Butcher’s standing just outside the floodlight, guarding them.

“We need a distraction,” Spencer says.

“One for three,” Nick says, and Spencer nods and says, “Right.”

They both look at Kevin.

“Uh, no.” Kevin shakes his head. Why does he have to be the distraction?

Spencer slings an arm around his shoulders and tugs him into his side. “Oh, but you’re their favorite,” he says, grinning mockingly.

Kevin doesn’t think that’s a good reason. In fact, Kevin’s pretty sure that means he should be kept hidden from all TAI eyes. If he gets spotted by Mike or Michael Guy, they’ll take him down hard and never let him go. He’s seen Gabe do that with Bill.

“I could distract them,” Kevin says slowly. “Or—or, hear me out, we could just pretend we didn’t see anybody in jail, and then go hang out in the trees for a while.” Kevin’s jeans are torn. He’s got road rash on his palms from where he’d narrowly missed getting captured by Bill earlier – Bill’s arguably the easiest member of TAI to get away from, he’s usually too drunk to function properly – and he wouldn’t mind a breather here.

Nick just grins over at him. Nick has this way of grinning at Kevin that makes Kevin want to be the self-sacrificing big brother. It sucks.

“You so owe me,” Kevin says, resigned. “You owe me a goat or a puppy or something. Something big.”

Spencer sings the theme from Mighty Mouse under his breath – Kevin thinks he should be insulted by that; he pushes off Spencer’s thigh to stand, knocking Spencer off balance.

When Kevin’s halfway around the lot, skirting the areas just outside the pools of light, he sees a flash of white cutting swiftly through the open field to his left and realizes Mike’s spotted him. If he doesn’t get Butcher’s attention now, he’ll be captured before Nick and Spencer can free the others.

So Kevin runs for it, taking a leaf from Judd Nelson – geez, he loves that movie – and shouting, “I wanna be an airborne ranger!” at the top of his lungs. He sees Butcher start for him, sees Nick race for the jail as he turns away, and then someone tackles him from behind, flattening him into the asphalt. He conks his head so hard he maybe blacks out for a second.

Mike takes his games of Jailbreak really seriously. He’s always focused and scowling, and it’s equal parts hot and scary. But when he rolls Kevin over onto his back, straddling his waist, leaning over him, his eyes are worried, and he says, “Shit, Kev, are you okay?” and there’s this ridiculous blooming warmth in Kevin’s chest, even though he’s pretty sure he’s got a head wound that’s bleeding all over the place.

Mike smoothes a calloused palm over Kevin’s forehead. “Kevin?”

“Nick owes me a goat.”

Mike cracks a grin. “Yeah, okay.”

*

Mike gets handsy when he’s drunk – at least, he does with Kevin. He also, Kevin has learned, gets naked.

In the three months since their tours started dating, Kevin’s managed to witness Brendon being naked without getting flustered – Brendon’s more of an in-your-face naked guy, while Mike’s nakedness sneaks up on you out of nowhere. It’s like Kevin doesn’t realize Mike isn’t wearing pants until he realizes Mike isn’t wearing pants.

“Um.” Kevin is trying very hard to retain his higher brain functions, but Mike’s making it difficult. He’s sucking kisses on Kevin’s collarbone and it feels really awesome. Kevin just wishes there were a couple more layers of clothing in between them, just to help with his sanity. And what Bill likes to call his “virgin sensibilities.” He’s making fun of him, Kevin’s sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.

Mike bites him – Kevin makes this embarrassing keening sound; he’s still not really used to being bitten, or the way it makes his skin kind of tingle – and says, “What?”

“What?” Kevin’s having trouble thinking.

Mike chuckles, hot breath on Kevin’s skin. He unbuttons more of Kevin’s shirt, and Kevin wonders if maybe he should stop him or something, because they’re on the Cobra bus couch and there’s, like, way too much bare skin showing, between the two of them, and oh—oh, wait, “No, wait, you’re, uh, not wearing pants.”

Mike tilts his head back, eyes dark. He smells like rum tonight, which makes Kevin think of pirates, and Kevin has this—no, really, he has to stop reading Chelsea’s trashy romance novels; no good will come of that, he’ll only get teased really, really badly if Mike ever finds out.

This slow, wolfish grin spreads across Mike’s face. “I guess I’m not,” he says.

And then he leans up, hitches closer to Kevin, and kisses him soft and slow. So soft and slow that Kevin goes kind of boneless underneath him and runs his hands up under Mike’s shirt, around his back, and doesn’t even realize he’s helping make Mike even more naked until Mike grins against his mouth and the catcalls grow loud enough to pierce through the Mike-haze in his brain.

*

Little Adam has a limited vocabulary. Mostly, he just calls Pete a douche. Sometimes he’ll say, “Bill rocks,” or, “Santi,” or, “I love you,” and Kevin is actually really surprised he doesn’t know any curse words, considering the company he keeps.

In Arizona, Kevin finds Little Adam in a tree.

“Is that Little Adam?” Joe asks, stopping beside him, squinting upwards.

The orange and yellow parrot is perched on the lowest branch of a young oak, and Kevin wonders how long he’s been there; he thinks they missed TAI by at least two days. He says, “Hey, Little A,” and Little Adam squawks, “I love you,” which, you know, does not make Kevin feel warm and fuzzy at all.

Kevin pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket and texts Mike, are you missing something?

tell me u have him, Mike sends back.

Little Adam says, “Bill rocks!” and flutters his wings and sort of fly-hops out of the tree to land on Kevin’s head.

Their tours have a lunch date in two weeks. Two long weeks, and Kevin has no idea how to take care of a bird. Little Adam has sharp claws and he likes to tug on Kevin’s hair and bite at his fingers, and Kevin’s gotten kind of used to him, but birds still freak him out. Mike’s really attached to Little Adam, though, so there’s nothing for it.

“You,” Joe says, almost laughing at him, “have no idea how to take care of a bird.”

Kevin shrugs. “I’ll figure it out.”

*

Kevin doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but he kind of suspects he and Mike have been dating, more so than their tours. For one thing, he’s pretty sure they’re the only ones making out. Also, he has a feeling that the whole of FBR are cheating on them with Warped. Not that they themselves didn’t have a harmless little dalliance with John Mayer three weeks ago, but—oh, geez. Darn it all, Kevin’s lost his mind. He blames Bill and Joe.

On the phone, he tells Mike, “Joe’s trying to teach Little A to say ‘that’s hot.’”

“I’ll kill him,” Mike says. Kevin can’t figure out from his flat tone if he’s kidding or not.

“Yeah.” Kevin sighs. “Yeah, so.”

He can practically hear Mike’s eyebrow go up. “Yeah?”

Kevin scratches the back of his neck, then blurts out, “Are we dating? Like, um, us. You and me.” He sounds like an idiot, he knows this. His face heats.

There’s a long pause and then a laugh, and Mike says, “Kid,” and then he laughs some more. It’s not really all that encouraging.

“Never mind,” Kevin says quickly. He kind of wants to hang up, but he doesn’t like hanging up on people.

“No, wait, wait, I mean,” Mike takes a deep breath, “is that a serious question?” There’s an undercurrent of intense amusement under his words, and Kevin bristles a little.

“Never mind,” he says again. If Kevin were a mean sort of person, he’d let his stupid bird go, right, but Kevin is not a mean sort of person. There’s a twisted up knot in his stomach, like he ate a pile of pennies.

Mike chuckles – Kevin hears a soft, “The fuck,” under his breath – and then he says louder, “I’ll see you in two days, okay?”

Kevin swallows thickly. “Okay.”

*

The thing about tours is that tours end. When they meet up in Nevada, they’re both on the home stretch.

Mike sits next to Kevin in the diner, thigh pressed all along his thigh. They’re in a half circle booth, and on the other side of Kevin are Victoria and Nate, and Gabe’s trying to squeeze in next to Michael Guy, and Kevin ends up not really being able to move his arms, but he doesn’t really mind all that much. Kevin’s having trouble figuring out what that means, but he knows he’s going to be sad when he doesn’t have this anymore.

Kevin picks listlessly at his fries.

Gabe says, “Last call, my friends,” and lifts his glass of soda up in the air. “It’s been something.”

Behind them, Pete yells, “Hell yeah,” and roughly one entire side of the restaurant echoes him.

*

Kevin usually loves the lull after a tour. Loves lazing around his house, loves sprawling out on his double-bed, loves not having anywhere to actually be for at least a few days. Now, though, he can’t help but think about Mike, and how he hasn’t heard from him in three days, and how Mike’s probably at his own home, not thinking about Kevin at all.

“This sucks,” Joe says, collapsing onto the couch next to him. “I miss Bill.”

“At least it was amicable,” Nick says. “Messy tour break-ups suck even harder.” He’s smirking a little. Kevin gets the feeling that neither of his brothers are taking this seriously enough.

Joe punches Kevin in the shoulder. “Geez, Kev, just call him already.”

It isn’t that simple. Or it is that simple, but what if Mike doesn’t want to talk to him?

“You’re being ridiculous,” Nick says, then tosses his cell onto his lap, and Kevin fumbles it a little when he sees that it’s already calling Mike, and Kevin hates Nick so very much.

He very bravely holds the cell up to his ear anyway.

“Yo,” Mike says when he picks up.

Kevin’s mind freezes. He vaguely registers Joe waving a hand in front of his face.

“Nick?” Mike says.

Kevin finally manages, “Uh, no?”

Mike laughs and says, “Hey, kid,” and this tight coil of tension in Kevin’s chest loosens.

“Hi,” Kevin says, smiling now, and he sinks down lower into the sofa cushions and ignores Joe’s kissy faces, because Mike sounds genuinely glad to hear from him, and that’s awesome.

Joe reaches out and says, “Let me talk to him,” just as Mike says, “So me and Bill are flying in next week, feel like some company?”

Kevin slaps away Joe’s hands, twisting completely off the couch to avoid Joe’s inevitable lunge for him. He lands on the rug with an oomph and an almost breathless, “Yeah, yes.”

They say goodbye and Kevin lays flat on the floor, staring – not at all dreamily, shut up, Joe - at the ceiling, and Nick kicks his side.

“You’re such a doofus,” he says.

As the senior member of the Jonas Brothers, he feels like he should protest that, but Nick kind of has a point.

*

“For the record,” Mike says, crowding Kevin up against the kitchen sink, hands on either side of Kevin’s hips, “we’re still dating. We’ve always been dating. I’m a decent guy, Jonas, I don’t try to charm just any virgin out of his pants. Got it?”

“Got it,” Kevin says. Mike isn’t touching him, hasn’t touched him since they got there, but Kevin feels hot all over; there’s a buzz of white noise in his ears. “You don’t—wait, pants?”

Mike grins, his same evil grin that always seems to crank up Kevin’s heartbeat, but then Bill calls from the other room, “If you’re done molesting innocents, Carden, I believe Nicholas has just insulted my honor. We Boggle at dawn!”

“I’m his second,” Mike murmurs. “I hope you know how to spell.”

“Sure,” Kevin says, the word broken in the middle, ‘cause Mike’s finally moving his hands up under Kevin’s shirt, and he’s mouthing Kevin’s throat, and Kevin reaches up and tugs on his hair, pulls his head back so Kevin can slide in. Can press back against Mike and kiss him and silently give up, yes, pants, whatever, because Kevin hasn’t felt this way about anyone, ever. It’s kind of amazing.

And then Joe yelps, “Oh gross, dudes,” and Bill says, “It’s perfectly natural, Joseph, here, let me show you,” and Kevin buries his face into the crook of Mike’s neck and laughs.

Panic! fic: Sometimes You’re Already There

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 16:47:22 GMT

Sometimes You’re Already There | PG-13 | ~ 6,000
Spencer/Jon, Brendon/Ryan-ish

Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.

A/N: So a little while ago I asked for amnesty for this Ghost Whisperer AU thing I tricked myself into writing, and most of you wouldn’t give it to me. So you only have yourselves to blame. Spencer sees dead people. Crack that gets weirdly angsty at parts. Title is from Not Going Home by The Elected. Quickly written and unbeta'd so please point out any errors!

Sometimes You’re Already There

Spencer has always been very practical. The problem is, there’s his real life, and then there’s Ryan.

In his real life, Spencer runs a bookshop. He employs two out of the three Alexes that hang around after school. His best friend cuts hair across the street, and brings him smoothies or coffee or snacks on all his breaks. He has an embarrassing crush on the guy who comes in once a month to pick up a copy of Country Living magazine.

On the other hand, he sees dead people.

*

At eight pm, Spencer locks up the front of the shop and wanders back towards his office. It’s more of a storage room than an office, but it’s got a desk and a file cabinet and a little fridge filled with beer. Brendon’s got his laptop open, sprawled on the low-slung couch.

“Here we go,” Brendon says. He bats at his neck with one hand, where Ryan’s poking him with a pencil. This is a sure sign that Ryan’s bored. Ryan gets bored pretty easily, for a ghost.

“Here we go,” Brendon says again, “—Ryan, quit it.” He pouts in Ryan’s general direction, since he can’t actually see him.

No, that privilege is all Spencer’s, and he’s never been able to adequately describe Ryan to anyone. He’s sort of like how a riverboat gambler might look if he suddenly decided to become a gay cowboy – pinstripe pants, hobo gloves, paisley vest, neckerchief, headband. Spencer has absolutely no idea when Ryan died. Spencer doesn’t even think Ryan knows.

“Here we go?” Spencer prompts, leaning back against his desk.

“Possibly possessed teenager living in what used to be a morgue at a funeral home,” Brendon says. “The parents made it into his bedroom, how messed up is that?”

“No,” Ryan says.

Spencer shakes his head. “No.”

Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and perches on the sofa arm next to Brendon’s head. He narrows his eyes on the computer screen and says, “All teenagers are possessed, dude, it’s a waste of time.”

“Ryan says all teenagers are possessed,” Spencer automatically translates for Brendon.

Brendon pulls a face. “Ryan can bite me.”

Spencer tells Ryan, “No,” before he can even try anything.

Ryan rolls his eyes and says, “Brendon can kiss my cold, dead ass.”

“I’m not saying that. You two need to find a way to communicate that does not involve me.”

“You need to get him a collar with a bell on it. And a chalkboard,” Brendon says. “Or, you know, he can suck my dick.”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could go back to when Brendon didn’t know about Ryan, just eleven glorious months ago.

“Oh, wait, wait, this guy—he’s got a thing with photos. Photos getting fucked up, look.” He turns the laptop so Spencer can see. He’s on a product forum for digital photography – Spencer has no idea how Brendon finds these things. A combination of random web searches and good luck. Or really bad luck, if you’re Spencer.

“What am I looking at?” Spencer asks.

“That.” Brendon jabs a finger at the screen. ‘That’ turns out to be a photo with a shadowy blob smack dab in the middle. Despite himself, Spencer’s sort of intrigued.

“Huh.”

“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Ryan says.

Spencer just gives him a look.

Ryan frowns at him. “The dude in the icon, Spence, what the fuck.”

The dude in the icon is, presumably, JWalk<3sCats, since he’s holding a kitten up to his face. He’s also, Spencer’s pretty sure, Country Living Magazine Guy. “Shit.”

Brendon grins at him. “Let’s go snoop!”

“You know snooping’s illegal, right?” Spencer says.

“Snooping is only illegal if they know you’re snooping.” He clicks over to JWalk<3sCats profile. “It says here he owns JWalk Studios, downtown Chicago, shouldn’t be that hard to find. We’re gonna be prospective clients, my dear Spence, it’ll be awesome.”

“I hope it’s fetish photography,” Ryan says.

“It’s not fetish photography,” Spencer says.

“Ryan just wants to see my naked body,” Brendon says.

Ryan snorts. “Like I haven’t already?”

“I didn’t want to know that,” Spencer says. He’s relatively certain Ryan’s seen him naked, too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too weird, especially since he’s had Ryan hanging around him since he was, like, eight.

“Know what? That Ryan watches me jerk off—oh, hey, can ghosts, you know,” Brendon makes an obscene hand gesture and Spencer covers his eyes with a palm, because he can’t believe his life.

*

Spencer has known Brendon for the better part of two years, and they really are best friends. He’s the sort of guy who gets completely under your skin – like Gabe, only more endearing. Brendon doesn’t take no for an answer, and he’s unbelievably trusting, and even without Ryan’s almost constant teasing Brendon probably still would’ve taken Spencer’s I-see-ghosts claim for the truth.

Spencer wouldn’t have said anything to Brendon about it at all except a) Brendon is his living best friend, and b) he’d had a dead dude following him around for nearly a week.

It turns out the ghost had been his downstairs neighbor, the one with the dog Brendon liked so much. Once Brendon agreed to adopt Dylan, the guy had just disappeared. Spencer’s never really sure where they go. He likes to think they drift off to a better place, but Ryan’s been there for going on fifteen years, and Spencer has a feeling he’ll never get rid of him.

So Brendon now thinks it’s awesome and fun to search out hauntings and talk to ghosts and shit. Spencer’s just really surprised neither of them have been arrested yet.

JWalk Studios is in a slightly rundown building in a slightly rundown part of town.

“Classy,” Ryan says, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“You didn’t have to come,” Spencer says.

“Of course I did. This is the best part of my day, do you think Brendon’s going to use the Russian accent again?”

“No,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a pointed look, “Brendon is not going to use the Russian accent again.” 

“Oh, come on,” Brendon says. “My accents are awesome.” 
Spencer ignores that patently false claim and says, “So what’s our story?”

Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s. “We’re doing a photo shoot. I made an appointment and everything, it’ll be perfect.”

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “And why are we getting our pictures taken?”

“Does it matter?” Brendon shrugs. “Dude’s not gonna care, right? Oh, oh,” he waves a hand around, “we can be lovers, that’s awesome, I’m awesome.”

“We can’t be lovers,” Spencer says. He makes a face, because ew. There might have been a time when Spencer was attracted to Brendon, but that was before he’d seen him eat an entire pot of spaghettios.

“This is fantastic,” Ryan says, a little too gleefully for Spencer’s comfort.

“No,” Spencer says. “No, it’s not.”

*

Country Living Magazine Guy looks like shit.

He shakes Brendon’s hand and says, “Hey, I’m Jon,” and smiles. But it’s a weak smile, and they’re dark smudges under his eyes and his hair looks like maybe he woke up three days ago and hasn’t touched it since.

Which, okay, there’s obviously something wrong here, but he’s still supposed to be a professional, right?

He’s still hot, though. Spencer feels an embarrassing flush start up from his throat when Jon switches his attention off Brendon and onto him.

Jon cocks his head. “I know you from somewhere,” he says, then snaps his fingers a lot and says, “Wait, wait, Bookworm, right? You work the counter.”

“I, uh—”

“He owns the whole store,” Brendon says, throwing an arm over Spencer’s shoulder and squeezing. “It’s where we hang, you know, when we’re not going out and, um, holding hands and playing putt-putt.”

Brendon’s idea of dating was clearly forged in the fourth grade.

Spencer scowls and shrugs Brendon off him.

Jon quirks an eyebrow at them, but looks too tired to actually care about anything at all. “Uh, okay. Should we get started?”

*

No one in their right mind believes Spencer can see dead people, at least not right away. Brendon hadn’t exactly been a hard sell, but even he kind of laughed him off at first, like maybe Spencer was joking, even though the last thing Spencer would ever joke about is fucking ghosts. Spencer doesn’t mind that, though. It’s the crazies who look like they’ve been waiting their whole life for Spencer’s revelation of weirdness that bother him the most. Crystal-wielding hippie séance groupies, and the people who prey on them. Like Gabe Saporta.

“I believe I have something of yours,” Gabe says, pushing open Bookworm’s front door. The bell jingles, then jingles again when Ryan taps it with a finger. He likes to be announced.

“Charlatan,” Ryan huffs.

“I heard that,” Gabe says. He tugs on the collar of his Members Only jacket. Seeing Gabe and Ryan together is always a trip; Gabe’s 80s fitness guru style to Ryan’s—whatever.

“Fake,” Ryan says. One of his favorite pastimes, besides taunting Brendon, is following Gabe around. Gabe can hear him, but he can’t see him; it’s kind of weird. He owns Madame Gabriel’s Cave of Psychic Wonders next door, pretends to be a gypsy, and, as far as Spencer can tell, hardly ever actually talks to any dead people except Ryan.

“I’m not a fake, my friend. The spirits speak to me, they tell me secrets of the Beyond.” Gabe wiggles his fingers and grins a shark grin and Ryan’s scowl deepens.

“The spirits hate you,” Ryan says.

Spencer knows the spirits hate Gabe because he never tells the truth. The truth, Gabe always says, is never what people want to hear.

Spencer – however unwilling - caters to the dead, but Gabe caters to the living.

“Anyway,” Gabe says, leaning a hip against the front counter, “Bill’s told me you’ve been hanging around Jonny Walker.”

Spencer blinks. “What?”

“Jonny Walker. Handsome fellow, loves cats and rooster kitsch, on the short side of short.” Gabe hovers a hand around his waist, which is an exaggeration, even if Gabe himself is close to eleven feet tall.

“You know him,” Spencer says, slowly.

Gabe shrugs. “Old friend of Bill’s. Bill had an extremely messy falling out with this dude, Conrad. Walker didn’t officially choose sides, but stuck close to Conrad anyway, and then the guy up and disappears.”

“Jon?”

“Conrad,” Gabe says. He presses a finger to the side of his nose. “If you ask me, he’s dead.”

Spencer shakes his head. Something’s tormenting Jon Walker, yeah, but Spencer hadn’t found any evidence of a ghost when they’d been at his studio. A human ghost, at any rate. There’d been lots and lots of cats. All over the place.

“You’ll see, Smith, the Cobra knows all,” Gabe says, and Ryan chucks a book at his head.

*

Brendon gets weepy. Ryan finds this hysterical, so Spencer’s usually caught looking constipated, trying not to laugh along with Ryan when Brendon explains to a loved one how the ghost of their sister just wants to give them one last hug.

Seriously, Spencer’s a pretty shitty medium.

Afterwards, Brendon pokes him in the belly and calls him a shithead. Spencer can’t help it, though. He’s known Ryan for far too long.

*

Brendon says, “All right, I’ve got it.” He’s got his elbows on his knees, leaning over the laptop open on Spencer’s battered coffee table.

“Got what?”

“Clearly a venereal disease,” Ryan says. He’s looking up at the ceiling, frowning, which means he’s brooding about Brendon’s date last night.

Spencer grimaces. “Please.”

Half of Ryan’s mouth quirks up. “No, really, you should have seen the guy’s dic—”

“Not listening, not listening,” Spencer says, clapping his hands over his ears. He does a few la, la, las for good measure.

Brendon looks at him funny. “What—oh, wait, Ryan totally watched me fuck, didn’t he?”

“Not listening,” Spencer says, because at some point his brain is going to melt from all the truly gross images Ryan and Brendon have collectively put in there – he doesn’t deserve this.

“Ryan wishes he could have this sweet ass,” Brendon says, and Ryan flips him off and disappears and Spencer does not want to think about what that probably means about Ryan and his wishes. It’s fucked up, is what it is.

“I hate everyone,” Spencer says.

“That’s nice,” Brendon says. “Do you want to hear about my awesome find now?”

“If it’s about a dead person, not really.” In the olden days, back when he was in high school, ghosts came and found Spencer. And then apparently word got around that Spencer could be sort of a bitch – he’d been thirteen, what teenager wants spooks hanging around, ruining everything? - and had a bitchy ghost sidekick and the flow shrunk down to a trickle, and never picked up again, even when Spencer – allegedly – mellowed with age. If he didn’t have Brendon, he’d probably only talk to a few ghosts a year, maybe less.

Brendon ignores him and says, “There’s a dead guy still sending Twitter updates. It’s freaking people out.”

Spencer sighs and rubs his fingers over his forehead. “Could be a hack.” It probably is a hack. Most ghosts don’t know how to manipulate solid matter – Ryan’s kind of an anomaly. “Whose Twitter is it?”

Brendon beams at him. “Pete Wentz.”

*

Spencer wishes they’d never tracked down Pete Wentz’s parents, and then his friend Joe, and then Pete Wentz, because Pete Wentz is like Ryan, only he’s a fuckton more annoying.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Pete says. “I’ve got a shitload left to do, dude, my life was not meant to be like this.”

“You don’t have a life, Pete. You’re dead.” This is possibly the fifteenth time Spencer’s tried to explain this. It’s getting old.

“Exactly. Exactly, Spence, you see my problem.” He spreads his hands. “What’s Patrick going to do without my wit? My unique view of the world, my amazing dialog—”

“Fucking god, shut up,” Spencer says, because all Pete’s talked about for the past two days is his best friend Patrick and his dog.

Ryan, sitting on the front counter, swings his legs back and forth and grins. Ryan’s having a grand old time. Spencer wants to punch him.

“Um.”

Spencer jerks his head up to see Country Living Magazine Guy, Jon Walker, holding the door open – it hasn’t quite reached the bell yet. Spencer’s face flushes. He desperately wishes one of the Alexes was there, or Brendon even, because now it just looks like he’s been talking to himself.

Of course, it’s not like Jon doesn’t already think he’s crazy. Spencer doesn’t usually deal with animal ghosts, so it’s not his fault that he’d thought all the fucking cats were real. He’d said, “Cute cat,” about a little gray tabby, reaching out to pet it, and Jon had just looked at him blankly, because Spencer had been petting fucking air. Jon Walker’s apparently, like, a magnet for fuzzy incorporeal felines. Spencer’s pretty sure that’s where all the black smudges are coming from on all his photos. There’s no way he’s going to actually tell him that, though.

Pete wolf-whistles. “Hello, Mr. Adorable. Think he’d go belly-up for pets if you scratch behind his ear?”

Spencer grits his teeth and tries his best to ignore him. This is awesome. He’s got two inappropriate ghosts on his hands. He really hopes they don’t catfight over Brendon.

“No, really, it’s like he just rolled out of bed, look at that scruffy hair,” Pete says. “He’s got puppy dog eyes! I think he needs a hug, dude, you should totally volunteer for some cuddles.”

It takes all of Spencer’s willpower not to tell Pete to fuck off.

Ryan’s disappeared, but Spencer can hear him laughing.

“Hey,” Jon says, and then he smiles, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges, and something inside of Spencer just melts. Oh, this is trouble.

“Hi,” Spencer says, and, “Can I help—” just as Jon shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and says, “So, we’re having a séance next door,” and Spencer just wants to kill everyone. Or, actually, wow, that’d probably be his worst nightmare. He seriously can’t catch a break.

*

“This is stupid,” Spencer hisses in Gabe’s ear. The scent of burning incense is so strong inside the shop that Spencer has to fight off a coughing fit.

Gabe bats him away and places both his hands on the giant, brass cobra that’s coiled in the center of the table. It’s fat and squat, hood up, facing Gabe. “The Cobra, gracious and wise, will guide his spirit towards us.”

“Full. Of. Shit,” Ryan sing-songs from behind Spencer.

The only good thing about this, as far as Spencer is concerned, is Jon’s warm hand in his. Bill, Gabe’s co-conspirator and business partner of sorts, is across from them, looking sullen but determined. Pete’s sitting cross-legged on a side table filled with knick-knacks, watching them with big, fascinated eyes.

“This is awesome,” Pete says, “I’ve never been to one of these before.”

“Everyone must be quiet,” Gabe says pointedly, before clearing his throat and doing his Mekka Lekka Hi crap. Long live Jambi.

Gabe likes to keep it vague, which is why he says, “I call to the guiding souls of the dead to bring forth the spirits close to us,” and doesn’t just ask for this Conrad guy.

Bill’s grandmother shows up, like always. She looks pissed at Gabe. Like always.

And then come all the cats. Seriously, there’s a least ten of them, all shapes and sizes and colors, and one even curls up purring in Spencer’s lap.

Gabe cocks his head and asks, “Was that a meow?”

*

Spencer isn’t going to say that Tom Conrad isn’t dead. Conrad could be dead – his ghost doesn’t have to hang around. That doesn’t always happen. So Spencer isn’t going to commit to anything, but he does put out some feelers, just to see what he can find out.

His best feeler is basically Brendon.

In the meantime, though, he has got to get rid of Pete.

“Tell me what you need,” Spencer says. He’s willing to do anything to get Pete out of his hair. Pete watches him sleep, he knows he does.

Pete says, “Patrick.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “Let’s go.”

*

Pete is the only ghost that Spencer’s met, other than Ryan, that can manipulate solid matter. Spencer’d always thought it was an age thing, but Pete’s only been dead for a couple months, so he really has no idea now. It should be helpful, at least, though he’s at a loss as to why Pete hasn’t just tried that by himself already, maybe written Patrick a note.

“I didn’t want to freak him out,” Pete says, bouncing on his heels on Patrick’s front stoop.

Spencer arches an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t think the mysteriously updating Twitter did?”

“Well, I mean,” Pete shrugs, “I didn’t want to spook him.”

“Right,” Spencer says dryly, then rings the doorbell.

Patrick Stump - aka Pattycakes, aka Lunchbox, aka Rickster, aka Stumpy Von Stumperson; Pete has a whole list of nicknames for him, it gives Spencer a headache – is little and plump-cheeked and wearing entirely too much denim.

“He’s depressed,” Pete says, frowning. “That’s his tenth grade jean jacket, the sleeves don’t even fit him anymore. I hope he doesn’t try to grow a mustache.”

Patrick pushes chunky black glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, “Yeah?”

“Trick, Tricky,” Pete says, and throws himself at Patrick and Patrick kind of stumbles backwards as Pete’s incorporeal body catches on him for a split-second before falling straight through.

“What the fuck?” Patrick says. There are dark circles under his eyes, Spencer notes, and he really, really hates this part. He should have brought Brendon.

He never knows exactly what to say, how to start the conversation, how to avoid getting a door slammed in his face. Brendon can be amazingly charming – no one ever stiffly and politely asks him to leave.

“So, uh, Pete Wentz,” Spencer says finally.

Patrick’s eyes narrow.

“Tell him I love him,” Pete says.

“He—”

“Tell him I’ll never leave him,” Pete says, waving his arms around. “Tell him forever means forever, tell him to take a shower or something and burn this jacket, geez—”

“Pete,” Spencer says, exasperated, and Patrick’s narrow stare turns slightly confused and concerned.

Patrick asks, “What’s going on?”

“Look,” Spencer says, “Pete’s still here,” and then Patrick punches him.

*

“Ow,” Spencer says, gingerly touching the tips of his fingers to the hollow of his cheek.

Brendon’s hovering over him, pushes his hand out of the way and presses an icepack to his face.

“Ow,” Spencer says again, this time from the firm cold pressure against his skin. “How come you never get punched?”

“I’m awesome,” Brendon says absently. “Now hold this still.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” Pete says to Spencer, even though he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds delighted. Tickled.

Spencer lowers the icepack and glares at him.

Pete shrugs. “I’ll take anger over the sad, tragic puppy routine,” he says. “Patrick always had an awesome temper.”

Spencer’s not impressed.

The bell at the front of the shop jingles, reminding Spencer that he has an actual business to run that has nothing to do with ghosts. He drops the icepack on the corner of his desk and says, “I’ve got customers,” and stalks huffily out of his office.

*

Spencer misses the olden days. He misses the years and years where it was just him and Ryan and the occasional lost soul. There was no Brendon and his trusty laptop. No Gabe with his scarves and turbans and color-coordinated track suits. People were intimidated by his serious scowl and his awesome hair, and now he has a beard and a crackpot reputation among the other shop owners along the strip. He doesn’t see how that’s possible, with Gabe right next door, but even the Starbucks’ counter staff whisper about him behind their hands. It’s really fucking tragic.

“I used to have a life,” Spencer says, picking at the label of his beer. “A life that did not involve reuniting loved ones with loved ones who are dead.”

“Deal with it,” Ryan says. He’s being particularly pissy tonight, but then Brendon begged off movie-watching in favor of dinner with Gabe’s friend Ryland.

“A life where I didn’t get punched by random strangers,” Spencer goes on. Patrick and Pete are a problem. He needs to figure out how to make Patrick listen, before Pete makes him an alcoholic. Ryan doesn’t like it when he drinks.

Ryan sighs. “You like it.”

“I do not,” Spencer says, affronted.

“You like it, you like helping people.” Ryan pokes his side. “You’re a squishy marshmallow inside, and it makes your heart swell, admit it. I’ve even see you tear up.”

“Once. Once, Ryan.” And it was a dead kid and her mom; he’s maybe not Brendon, but he’s not made of stone.

“If you didn’t have this, Spencer,” Ryan says, “you’d have no idea what to do with yourself.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’d sell books.” He’s got a business degree. He’s got a relatively successful shop. He doesn’t need this.

Ryan plucks the bottle of beer out of Spencer’s hands and sets it aside. “Whatever,” he says. “Just watch the movie.”

*

“Holy shit,” Jon says. “Nice bruise.”

Spencer blushes. “Thanks.” He rings up the Country Living magazine and tries not to stare at the orange tabby draped across Jon’s shoulders. They’ve never shown up with Jon before, but Spencer thinks they’ve finally figured out he can see them. The tabby looks right at him, slowly blinks round, green eyes. There’s a huge blue Persian sitting perfectly still at the end of the aisle behind Jon, watching, waiting. He flicks his fluffy tail and licks his chops.

Spencer very pointedly switches his focus back to Jon.

Jon’s mouth spreads up into a grin. A grin paired with those crinkly eyes, teeth biting into his lower lip. God, he’s adorable, Pete was so right about that.

And then Brendon yells from the back, “This isn’t fair, they’re double teaming me, Spencer, make them stop,” and Jon ducks his head, palming the back of his neck.

He says, “Oh, I’ll—that reminds me. I’ve got your photos? They turned out—I mean, you’re a cute couple.”

Spencer feels like he’s swallowed an orange, and who says that anyway? Does anyone really mean that, when they say cute couple? He shakes his head, silently curses Brendon and Ryan and fucking Pete, and manages, “We’re not really dating.”

Jon keeps his head dipped, looks up at him through his lashes. “Sweet.”

Spencer nods. “Yeah,” he says, and now he’s grinning so hard his face hurts. A lot. He winces and palms his jaw.

Jon leans forward onto the counter, palms against the edge, fingers curled over. They tap a little, agitated. “So, um, Gabe says maybe you can help me out with all the cats.”

*

Patrick tries to shut the door in his face, but Spencer jams his foot in at the last second, and holy fuck that hurts.

“Shit,” he says, eyes watering.

Patrick swings the door wider, but only, it looks like, to gather more force for another slam, and Spencer yelps, “Wait, wait, just hear me out. Please,” because he thinks maybe little bits of his bones are broken.

“Why?” Patrick says.

Spencer takes a deep breath and says, “I know. I know it sucks, it fucking sucks, I get that, but I’m not lying.”

Pete’s subdued today, kicking at pebbles along the walk behind Spencer. Patrick’s eyes unfocus, slipping past Spencer, like maybe he can sense something in the scuffing stone, the skitter of dry leaves, that isn’t just the wind.

Patrick looks tired.

“It was an accident,” Pete says softly from beside him.

“He says it was an accident.”

Patrick’s eyes snap to his. “It wasn’t a fucking accident,” he says, sharp.

“It was,” Pete insists. “I wasn’t thinking right, I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking ahead, I wasn’t thinking at all. It was an accident.”

“He wasn’t thinking,” Spencer says. “He wasn’t thinking about it being death.”

Pete wraps his arms around his middle. “I wanted everything to just—go away for a while. A day, an hour, a fucking minute, I didn’t want anything to matter anymore.”

Spencer isn’t much of a toucher, but he reaches out to curl a hand around Patrick’s arm; this is how Brendon does it. He says, “He wanted the world to stop, he just never thought it actually would.”

Patrick blinks, fighting tears. “That’s stupid. That’s fucking stupid, Pete,” he yells, and Pete curls tighter into himself, says a quiet, “I know.”

Patrick swipes at his eyes, says angrily, “Where is he? Not that I fucking believe you, but if he’s here, where is he?”

“Uh.” This is where the solid matter thing comes in. He looks at Pete and silently reminds Pete to concentrate, because Ryan says the bigger the object is, the harder it is to really touch, hold on to. “He’s here,” he says, and then Pete moves forward and very carefully folds Patrick up into a hug.

Spencer turns his head and looks away.

*

Ryan had been right. Ryan had been fucking spot on. This, whatever this is. It makes him miserable and twists him up inside. It drives him crazy, but Patrick’s crying and laughing at the same time, slumped down nearly boneless on his front stoop, and Pete has his face buried in Patrick’s neck, fingers tight in his shirt, and Spencer’s sitting in his car, watching, and it’s like he’s found this momentary peace, this deep well of satisfaction and, fuck yeah, his eyes are tearing up a little. This is what he was born to do, and he loves it.

*

Jon’s apartment is worse than his studio.

“Are any of these real?” Spencer asks. There are three cats on the kitchen table, one on top of the refrigerator, two sprawled across the couch, one perched on top of the TV. He can hear some meowing from the hallway, too.

“Two are,” Jon says. He rocks back on his heels, and he’s only half-smiling. He’d told Spencer that he really can’t see or hear them, but he can sense them, and it’s kind of fucking up his life. “And I’ve only had one cat before Clover and Dylan, so I don’t know where they’re all coming from.”

Spencer doesn’t even try to pick out the live ones; they all look the same to him. He’s also not sure how he can actually help. He’s really never dealt with animals before. He fidgets on his feet and stares around the room.

Jon moves closer to him and knocks their shoulders together. “You really can’t see Tom, right?” he says.

Spencer shakes his head. “I haven’t.” He hasn’t, but Brendon hasn’t had any luck tracking him down, either, so.

“Right.” Jon bobs his head. “Right, okay, the cats.”

Spencer gives him a sheepish grin. “I’m not really sure how much help I can be.” Cats are stubborn and independent when they’re alive.

“Dude, anything, I can’t sleep anymore, they’re driving me crazy.”

“Well. What do you do with Clover and Dylan?” Spencer asks.

Jon looks at him blankly.

“When you want them to leave or move or—” He cuts off at Jon’s expression. “You don’t do anything at all.” Spencer can see this. Jon’s a pushover for fuzzy animals, they walk all over him.

A brown, white and gray tabby winds itself around Spencer’s ankles, and Spencer figures that’s exactly why they’re all here.

“They want attention,” Spencer says. He kicks his leg out a little; he can’t touch the little cat, but it doesn’t seem to like the change in the air – it gives him a baleful look, then saunters away, tail up. “And you let them do whatever they want.”

“I can’t actually see them,” Jon points out.

Spencer shrugs. “Maybe you just need a bigger place.”

Jon laughs and says, “Okay,” and, “I’ll think about it,” and Spencer can’t help grinning back at him, blushing, half in embarrassment over the whole situation – does Jon really believe that Spencer can see all these freaking cats?

And then Jon says, “You know, I’m—I really want to kiss you now.”

“Uh.” That pretty much caught Spencer completely by surprise. “All right?”

“Good. Good, so.” Jon catches Spencer’s arm, tugs him around so they’re facing each other, and Spencer doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, it’s not like he’s never done this before.

Spencer’s got a few inches on him, so Jon has to lean up, and Spencer has to duck, and it’s pretty perfect when Spencer’s mouth catches Jon’s chapped lips – when Jon makes this little sound in the back of his throat and shifts his weight against Spencer’s chest.

“The cats listen to you, right?” Jon says against his mouth. He’s got his hands up under Spencer’s shirt, palms flat along his back.

Spencer swallows and thinks about the little brown, gray and white cat and he says, “I’m not sure they even like me.” He grips Jon’s hips, tries to move even closer.

Jon groans and tips his forehead onto Spencer’s shoulder. He says, “You’ll have to hang around more, then,” words muffled by Spencer’s shirt.

Spencer thinks that’s a fine idea. Right exactly then he wants to practice shooing them out of Jon’s bedroom. That is an awesomely fine idea. He’s going to tell Jon that. Or maybe just show him.

*

Jon turns up at Bookworm three days later with Conrad at his elbow; Spencer recognizes him from the photos in Jon’s apartment. Conrad is scruffy-cheeked and unsmiling, and Spencer has a split-second of panic that Conrad’s ghost has finally manifested itself, finally gotten around to haunting Jon, but then Jon introduces him with this goofy, happy grin, and something in Spencer’s chest loosens. 

He’d been dreading it, he realizes. There’s perverse satisfaction in what he does, yeah, but he hadn’t wanted that for Jon. Conrad looks vaguely pissed, worn out, like he doesn’t want to be so close to Bill, but this is still so much better.

Spencer doesn’t ask Jon if Conrad’s told him where he’s been all these months. It’s none of his business, first of all, but mostly Spencer doesn’t really think it matters.

*

What strikes Spencer as weird, after all this, after witnessing Pete and Patrick’s reunion, is that Ryan doesn’t touch Brendon. Pencil jabs, pranks, wordless taunting, but no actual touching. And Ryan can do it, does do it with Spencer. Ryan’s never been super demonstrative, but he pokes Spencer and pats him and occasionally loosens up enough for a hug. It’s odd and suspicious, and Spencer doesn’t want to ask Ryan why, because he’s pretty sure he already knows. There’s nothing he can do about that.

“I kind of miss Pete,” Spencer says.

Ryan looks at him incredulously.

“What?” he says, defensive. He knows it’s weird, but he does miss Pete. Maybe not a lot, or all the time. Just—sometimes. When Ryan gets quiet, and Brendon doesn’t find anything new.

“Bingo.” Brendon looks up from his computer screen. He grins – still completely oblivious to the mustache Ryan had sharpied on his face when he’d fallen asleep on the couch earlier; it’s kind of hilarious - and says, “I’ve got the magic touch, dude.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve me getting sucker punched, kicked or spat on,” Spencer says. The spitting is new. This is why he doesn’t like little kids.

Brendon says, earnestly nodding, “I make no promises.”

Spencer sighs. One of these days they’re going to end up captives in a crazy person’s basement. Or in jail. “Fine.” It’s not like he was really going to say no, anyway.

Bandslash fic: NINJA

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:32:16 GMT

NINJA | PG-13 | ~32,000
Kevin Jonas/Mike Carden (also: Kevin/Zac Efron, Brendon/Spencer, Bill/Miranda, Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick)

There are grooves in Kevin’s fingers from where he’s gripping his bass, soft, but calloused underbellies digging into the strings. It’s enough pain to ground him; he releases the strings backwards, the positioning a direct reverse of the beginning of In Front And Heavy. This is it. There’s no going back, even if one of the kids singing along in twenty minutes recognizes the curve of Miranda’s mouth, the timbre of Brendon’s voice, the strawberry blonde curl of Patrick’s hair under his knit cap; Bill’s splayed, spidery legs, Kevin’s wrists, fingers – the white band of skin that isn’t hidden by a thin band of silver.

*We are your losers, your loud weirdoes, your science stars, your shy, retiring band geeks*, Kevin thinks, and sets off for the stage.

A/N: This is it. The completely pointless, self-indulgent high school AU about a secret band playing secret music and writing a secret blog. I kind of hope you enjoy it. Massive thanks to insunshine for the excellent beta-work, and also to starflowers, who cheered me on through this entire thing. This actually had a different title, but then I thought, fuck it, because it's always been NINJA in my head. (ps – more notes at the end about who’s who in some of the blogged about bands, if you’re curious)

NINJA

SEPTEMBER

*

NINJA alert
EMC’s dropping a new NINJA track September 23RD!! Listen for Worthwhile (Ninja) on G103’s Local Smackdown

– billiam @ emc

*

Kevin isn’t expecting junior year to turn out any different than any other, so he’s not disappointed. He hugs his books to his chest, keeps his head down in the halls and still manages to piss off Lacey just by breathing.

On Wednesday, two weeks into the school year, Kevin’s late for lunch and Lacey comes out of nowhere – Kevin’s been on the lookout, he doesn’t see how he missed him – and grabs hold of his arm, swinging him into the lockers. Kevin holds his hand out to take the brunt of the impact, palm stinging against metal, wrist aching. He winces, and Lacey leans into him, grinning manically. It’s almost friendly, except for the death-grip he’s got on his arm and the hardness of his eyes.

Someday, someone needs to clue Kevin in on why Lacey hates him so much, because it can’t just be the purity ring thing. It hasn’t always been like this. Freshman year, they’d been sort of friends. Freshman year, Kevin had been friends with a lot of guys he’s not friends with anymore. Most of them don’t want to kill him, though. Most of them just don’t bother with him at all.

That’s just fine, because Kevin’s got Brendon and Patrick and Miranda and Bill. It’s not like he’s completely friendless here.

“What’s up, Jonas?” Lacey asks, grin sharp.

Kevin’s totally going to have a bruise later. He really wishes Miranda was there, because Lacey’s very obviously afraid of her. As he should be; Miranda’s his best friend, but she can be totally scary sometimes.

“Um.” Kevin bites his lip, fighting a grimace of pain.

Nolan’s shifting behind Lacey, looking uncomfortable. He gives Kevin an apologetic half-smile, but doesn’t actually stop Lacey from pushing Kevin harder into the lockers. There’s a padlock digging into Kevin’s left kidney, and all his books slip out of his hands, his papers slip-sliding under both their feet as Kevin unwisely decides to push back. Unwise, because Lacey’s fake grin morphs into a scowl, and he lifts a hand, like he’s actually going to punch Kevin, right in the middle of the hallway.

Kevin scrunches his eyes shut, but the blow never lands.

He cracks one eyelid, and then both of them fly wide, because Mike Carden’s got Lacey’s wrist, holding his fist back.

Carden, a senior, a totally cool senior, is—Kevin’s actually not sure what Carden’s doing, but at least he hasn’t been punched. Yet.

“Fuck off, Carden,” Lacey says, trying unsuccessfully to shake off Carden’s hold.

“Sure I will. If you want to get fucking suspended for fighting again, go ahead and punch the kid,” Carden says, and he lets go, and Lacey seems extra mad for the interference, so Kevin’s life is definitely over. This is it. He’s going to get a broken nose and hemorrhage to death; he always was a bleeder.

But Lacey just pushes Kevin again, and Kevin staggers and trips on his science notebook, falling to the ground, head glancing off the same padlock that’d been digging into his back.

Lacey laughs and saunters off and Kevin’s left with a healthy dose of humiliation and Carden gazing down at him blankly, eyes disinterested, mouth a flat line.

“Thanks?” Kevin says, pushing his hair back off his forehead. He’s really kind of confused. Carden barely ever acknowledges his existence, even though he’s sort of friends with Bill.

So it’s not all that surprising when Carden just shrugs and walks away.

*

“Lacey’s an asshole,” Miranda says. Her eyes are narrowed, like she’s plotting Lacey’s painful, messy death. Miranda’s a science wiz. She can totally come up with something that’ll hurt Lacey a whole lot, Kevin thinks.

“Totally,” Brendon says, then knocks his hand into his juice and spills it everywhere. Brendon’s wiping at his jeans, tongue between his teeth, and Patrick ducks his head further into his book, cheeks red.

This isn’t because of Brendon, Kevin knows. Brendon’s always a mess, they’re all pretty much used to it.

It’s because Pete Wentz is blowing kisses at him from across the lunchroom.

“Wentz is an asshole,” Patrick says darkly.

“I dunno,” Brendon says in between licking at his sticky fingers – Kevin catches Smith staring, wide-eyed, and very carefully pretends he doesn’t notice; Smith’s new, and Lacey had snapped him up for his posse two days into the school year – “I kind of like Pete. He’s funny.”

Bill slides his tray onto the table next to Brendon. “Who’s funny?”

“Pete.” Brendon bobs his head, giving Bill a crooked smile.

Bill looks ridiculous in head to toe black – he says it reflects his tortured artist soul, but Bill’s got a goofy smile and a tendency towards hallway dancing, so it really doesn’t make any sense.

“Pete’s hilarious,” Bill says. He points at Patrick. “He loves you.”

Patrick sinks down lower in his seat. “Whatever.”

“And,” Bill presses his palms flat on the table, “we have a gig. Thanksgiving, if we want it, though they did offer something earlier. November will give us plenty of time to plan our grand unveiling.”

“Uh, no,” Kevin says, because that’s the deal. They don’t have gigs. Kevin’s parents would kill him, and he’s pretty sure Brendon’s would too. Plus, Kevin kind of thinks that if anyone knew he was in NINJA—well, they’d maybe lose a lot of fans. Kevin holds no illusions of not being unimaginably lame in real life.

Brendon bites his lip and looks torn, like he thinks playing a gig would be awesome, but maybe not worth getting disowned for.

Miranda says, “Where?”

“CarPort. They emailed EMC this morning. We’ll be up after Heartsore, it’ll be epic, gentlemen—”

Miranda clears her throat.

“—and beautiful lady,” Bill amends with a gracious nod.

Patrick says, “Huh,” and tips his hat down, staring at the lunch table, and Kevin feels his heart climb up into his throat.

“No,” Kevin says. “We really can’t.”

Patrick cocks his head. “We could,” he says slowly. “Maybe.”

Brendon snaps his fingers a lot and says, “Wait, wait. Disguises guys! We can, you know, not be us.”

“We’re never us when we’re out,” Miranda says. “Doesn’t mean people won’t recognize us if we’re, you know, right in their faces.” She wrinkles her nose, leaning towards Brendon across the table.

“Real disguises,” Brendon says, batting her away, “like costumes. It’ll be fun.”

Bill hooks an arm around Brendon’s neck, tugs him in close. “Exactly, my friend. I’d call you a genius, except you seem to have wet yourself.”

“It’s juice,” Brendon says brightly.

Bill pats the top of his head. “That doesn’t actually make it any better.”

*

Brendon’s a folk singer at heart, and Patrick has motherfucking range so they maybe go a little crazy with Worthwhile (Ninja). Bill has a tambourine and the hook with Miranda – there’s a spicy thum-thum-thum on her rhythm guitar – and Kevin plays one bass part and hums another, laughing halfway through.

So one of the biggest problems with possibly performing live is that Patrick’s a musical genius and Patrick sings lead on half their songs, and Patrick’s the drummer.

“We’ll set up a mic,” Bill says.

He’s hunched over his laptop, responding to comments on Eat More Cats, their stellar music blog. They’ve got 953 friends, and no one knows who the heck they are - that they’re pretty much Randolph High’s resident losers; except for maybe Bill, he’s got too much flare. Kevin thinks it’s kind of awesome.

“That’s great,” Miranda says, “but what about the keyboard on Mean Street Highway and the one about Kev’s hair?”

Bill glances up. “I could ask Mike to take over Brendon’s guitar.”

“Or not,” Kevin says, because Carden makes him nervous, and the last thing he needs is Carden knowing he’s in NINJA, really and truly.

“That one’s not about Kevin’s hair,” Patrick says.

“It’s about Kevin’s hair,” Bill says. “It’s about how much you love Kevin’s hair, admit it, Stump.”

“I hate all of you,” Patrick says, disgruntled, and snags the laptop away from Bill. “We’re agreed that Tenderfoot rocked last night, right?”

“Tenderfoot fucking blew my mind,” Bill says.

“EMC’s giving it four and a half stars for effort and amazing-ness,” Brendon says, waving his hands around. “I deducted points for the obvious use of animatronics.”

“Ryan Ross is not a robot, Brendon,” Patrick says. It’s an old argument, though, so he doesn’t put much heart into it.

Kevin fiddles with the strings on his bass and tries not to think about how early it is in the year, and how this is the only thing that makes him happy, and how it sucks that he can’t just play, that his parents would flip if they knew he had anything to do with NINJA and Eat More Cats. It’s risky enough, sneaking out after dark two or three times a week. Sooner or later, Nick and Joe are gonna catch on, and Kevin’s going to have to come up with some hefty hush-money or something – Bonus already knows, but Bonus is, like, awesome and six and Kevin’s always been his favorite.

Kevin idly watches Brendon help Miranda with her make-up – she looks a lot older when she’s got gunk all over her eyes, Kevin’ll say that for it. And he’s going to have to flatiron his hair soon, if they want to get out of there by ten.

In a way, it’s kind of thrilling. No one would really recognize any of them unless they really looked – Bill and Brendon both lose their glasses, Brendon trades in his polos for girl-size band shirts, Patrick dons a fedora instead of a baseball cap, Miranda tarts up her eyes, long dark hair rolled into big, fat curls, and Kevin gets to wear tight pants and neckerchiefs, hair straight and falling over his face. He’s awfully fond of this certain pair of white pants. Kevin could never pull them off, normally, but at night, anonymous, he can wear whatever the heck he likes.

He smiles.

“What’re you grinning at, dork?” Miranda says, huffing her hair out of her eyes. She’s wearing an oversized, bright pink NINJA WHO? t-shirt, one side rucked up on her hip with a butterfly clip.

“Nothing,” Kevin says, still grinning as he ducks his head.

*

TENDERFOOT JUNCTION @ THE CELL
Ryan Ross is not a robot – no, for real, Bden [prove it! – bden] – but his first performance as solo artist Tenderfoot Junction was still damn near perfect. He’s got the range of a wolfhound with an unsteady, mellow pitch, and he managed to charm the pants off us last night with his knobby fingers, old blueridge acoustic, and sweet sassy lyrics about leather boots, hips and toothy smiles.

Old fans of Ross might miss the bitter showiness, the Casio beats, the misogynous dance-pop that defined the ironically named Summer Daze, and while Ross’s new stuff isn’t necessarily better, there’s a simple honest quality to it - discounting the abnormally large amount of nonsense; although even the nonsense, on some instinctual level, seems to take on a certain shape of truth.

Talking flowers, magical caves, peace, love and happiness in the guise of gumdrops and magnified multifaceted insect eyes: Ross has the good stuff, deep down inside, don’t let the sweater vests fool you. Think folksy blues with a solid rock background – jumble in (alleged) copious amounts of weed. If The Beatles ever adopted a gangly, too pale kid from Las Vegas and gave him a funny haircut, Ryan Ross would be it.

There are rumors of a collaboration with local pop-punk trio Samhell. Sharp eyes caught Walker stalking Ross in between sets - now that's something I want to see. Sean Van Vleet's eerie vocals, Walker's simple melodies underscored and amp'd by the relentless enthusiasm of Andy "Butcher" Mrotek, mixing and mingling with the oddity that is Ross - at the very least, it'll be entertaining as hell.

TENDERFOOT JUNCTION @ THE CELL: SEPTEMBER 16TH 10:00PM
Set list:
+ Wolves Are Held Back
+ Moontime Butterflies
+ Red
+ Count Your Charms
+ What's My Age Again
+ Spencer Bought Me This Watch (???? courtesy of Bden, we have no idea what the fuck this one's called)
+ Since She Says Tomorrow
+ The Song About Wax Statues And Having Sex (thank Billiam for this one)
+ Cool Run Home [aka the John Candy song - k2]
+ Biting Grins and Skeleton Bones
+ Absolute Mayhem

stay classy, omaha
- trick @ emc

*

The CarPort’s unusually packed for a Thursday night, mainly because Arma’s playing, and Wentz always draws a crowd. Arma Angelus is not Kevin’s favorite band, though, so he’s tucked into a corner, nursing a bottle of water. They’ve all got fake IDs, though the bouncers at the bars they frequent - all three of them - never actually look too closely, and Kevin’s the only one who only uses it to get into the bar; even Brendon usually snags at least one beer. Kevin doesn’t like the taste, or the way it makes him stupid.

His thumb plays with the soft, white band of flesh on his ring finger absently. He can see a flash of Miranda’s pink shirt through the crush of bodies, but everyone else has scattered. Patrick and Brendon have probably headed to the front of the stage. Patrick can claim he hates Wentz all he wants, but he’s never missed an Arma show.

“Hey.”

Kevin slants a look to his left. There’s a boy there, dark, v-neck tee exposing the prominent bump of his collarbone. He’s bright-eyed, even though his mouth is playing it cool. Kevin instantly likes him. “Hi.”

Still no smile, but he leans towards Kevin, their shoulders bumping, and Kevin follows the line of his mouth with his eyes, the corner of his own tugging upwards, a warm, fuzzy glow pooling in his belly.

This is another thing he wouldn’t normally do.

Kevin reaches out, tucks two fingers into the guy’s belt. It’s fun and easy, the way they fit up against each other, and Kevin doesn’t move away until Bill finds him later, hooking an arm around Kevin’s neck and pressing a sloppy kiss to his temple.

He says, “C’mon, loverboy,” and tugs him out onto the dance floor, laughing. Kevin easily slots himself in between Miranda and Brendon, arms in the air.

*

“I saw you Wednesday,” Smith says, and Brendon freezes, Capri Sun halfway to his lips.

“What?” he says and shoots wide, panicky eyes towards Kevin.

“Wednesday. At The Cell.” Smith shifts awkwardly on his feet, color high, like he’s embarrassed. He palms the back of his neck. “It was. You were at Ryan’s show.”

“Ryan,” Brendon says, then nods slowly. “Okay.”

Kevin shrugs and says, “I don’t think it was him. Sorry.”

“No.” Smith shoots Kevin a pissy look and flicks his hair out of his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, then huffs out a breath and stalks away.

“That was. Weird?” Brendon says, toying with his straw.

“He likes you,” Kevin says.

Miranda nods her head. “Yep.”

Brendon’s brow furrows. “Nah uh. He’s one of Lacey’s goons.”

“Not really.”

Miranda picks at her sandwich, and Kevin watches her fingers, mesmerized. She hasn’t taken off the sparkly blue nail polish from the night before yet, and Kevin’s getting flashes, like his other life is bleeding into this one – he feels like slumping down in his seat and giving the room a languid, confident smile, but that would most assuredly be a challenge to Lacey, and he doesn’t feel like getting his head dunked in a toilet today. It’s too nice out.

“He’s new,” she says. “He didn’t know any better, and now he’s stuck with Lacey. It’s pretty crappy, actually. You should be nice to him.”

Brendon makes a face. “I was.”

“He was trying to flirt,” Miranda says, and Kevin would ask how she could possibly know that, except the nighttime Miranda can flirt better than regular Bill – not nighttime Bill, he makes it an art form – even though she’s got a look that can slice any boy or girl in half, a look that’s caused Lacey to dub her Scary Ice Bitch and flinch whenever she goes near him.

“Badly,” Kevin adds. “He was flirting really badly.”

“Who was flirting badly?” Bill asks as he and Patrick take opposite seats at the table. Bill nudges Brendon’s shoulder. “Was it you? This must be remedied, you know, bad flirting should never be tolerated, especially in someone I hold so dear.”

“It wasn’t me,” Brendon says, lips pursed. “But thanks.”

“It’s Smith. He has a thing for Brendon,” Miranda says. She points her fork at Brendon. “Seriously, you should think about it, he’s hot.”

Brendon just looks really confused. “Okay. Except I’m straight.”

Miranda barks a laugh, ducks her head down to press her mouth against her arm.

Brendon frowns. “Hey.”

Miranda shakes a little, like she’s trying to get a hold of herself, then tilts her head sideways and takes a ragged breath. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry, I didn’t think. I mean—you’re not serious, right?”

“I don’t get it,” Brendon says, still frowning.

The sad thing is, he really, really doesn’t get it, Kevin knows this.

“Spencer Smith is indeed a catch,” Bill says. “Also, if you’re going straight, Urie, you might want to reconsider the random boy make-outs. You’re sluttier than Jonas here.”

“Above the waist doesn’t count, right Kev?” Brendon says, and Kevin says, “Keep me out of this,” because Kevin is most definitely gay. He’s never said it out loud, maybe, but he’s never bothered to deny it.

“You sound like Wentz. It doesn’t work for him, either,” Miranda says.

Brendon huffs and says, “Wentz is dating a girl.”

“Wentz wants to marry Patrick, he has an entire blog dedicated to it,” Bill says, and Patrick palms his face and groans.

“I hate my life,” Patrick says.

“Oh, you lie, you love it—wait, wait, Spencer Smith?” Miranda says. “Wasn’t he the drummer for Summer Daze?”

Kevin thinks back, but all he remembers about Summer Daze is the costumes and face paint – he’s pretty sure the drummer had a tiny mustache and goatee.

“Ryan’s Spencer, oh, that makes so much sense, he bought him that watch,” Brendon says, nodding. “He saw us at The Cell for Tenderfoot Junction.”

“Great,” Patrick says.

Brendon waves his hands around. “No, no, don’t worry, I cleverly deflected him with trickery—”

“He played dumb,” Kevin says. “I don’t think Smith bought it.”

“I don’t know, Brendon’s dumb is pretty convincing,” Miranda says.

“Stop picking on my tiny friend,” Bill says, wrapping an arm around Brendon and tugging him close. Brendon burrows his head under Bill’s chin and shoots Kevin a smile and an eyebrow waggle.

Kevin shakes his head. His friends are ridiculous.

*

POCKET THIEF AND THE CAB @ CARPORT
There’s truly nothing sweeter than Miss Greta Salpeter’s sugary piano pop (see Greta’s side project, Glitter Girls, with Heartsore keytarist VickyT), so it’s difficult to imagine - but no less awesome to witness - the kind of show Pocket Thief turns out.

Leading with Terrible Crimes of Terrible Beauty, they started off strong and got even louder, making the little-known opener, The Cab, pretty much forgettable (though not, we noted, through any fault of their own - their music’s solid - but way poor event planning by CarPort).

The biggest surprise of the night was how Iero’s manic energy – his spitting, stage writhing, habits of licking Greta’s neck and humping Nate’s kit - took a backseat [or a side seat, you can’t keep Frank down - bden; nor would you ever want to - billiam] to the performance of recent replacement bassist Gabe Saporta (formally of the disbanded Midtown). Saporta’s vocals meshed awesomely with Greta’s, bringing new life to old classics – Ripcord; Fuck You, Dynasty; Big Trouble; Break; Sympathy For Dead Mothers – and towering over everyone else in the band. Seriously, he’s got to be at least seven feet tall, and Pocket Thief lives up to its name, full of tiny, tiny people.

Even more fun: the visible dislike Saporta and Iero seem to have for each other. Instead of creating discordance, though, they just rocked harder – the push and pull, the unsaid dare-you making them both wilder, more unhinged. It’s a wonder Greta wasn’t squished right off the stage. Though Greta held her own, as usual, with heels sharp enough to slice your heart, wrapped in enough leather to choke a cow - her voice was husky and raw by the end of the second set, but it didn’t matter, because everyone was singing along.

POCKET THIEF AND THE CAB @ CARPORT: SEPTEMBER 19TH 9:30PM
The Cab’s set list: missing. It was Bden’s job, but he was too busy being spectacularly gay (yes, Bden, give it up) with many beautiful boys.

Pocket Thief’s set list:
+ Terrible Crimes of Terrible Beauty
+ Ripcord
+ Break
+ Mistaken For Gold
+ Big Trouble
+ Fuck You, Dynasty (now confirmed: yes, this is indeed about the show)
+ Sympathy For Dead Mothers
+ Signal Fires
+ Down
+ Lake Effect

- rand @ emc

*

OCTOBER

*

Kevin doesn’t understand it, but Joe, a lowly freshman, is widely known as being cool. He’s got the same brushed silver ring on his finger, goes to the same church every Sunday, but here’s Kevin, Loser, and there’s Joe, Popular Guy. It makes no sense, in any universe, especially since Joe doesn’t even actively try to fit in.

“I’m more handsome than you,” Joe says, leaning back against the dirty brick wall, just outside the gymnasium. “Is Brendon giving us a ride?”

Kevin rolls his eyes. He’d be offended, except they kind of look almost exactly the same. It’s weird. “He should be,” he says. Brendon has a minivan affectionately dubbed the Purple Beast. It’s kind of embarrassing, but it’s wheels, and Brendon’s the only one of his friends that’s mobile.

Joe bobs his head and says, “You have no life. You don’t do anything, and when you do do something, it’s with all your loser friends who also do nothing.”

Kevin knows better than to argue with that. “All you do is hang out at the roller rink every Friday.”

“Because the roller rink is awesome,” Joe says. “Duh.”

“I like Bonus best, you know,” Kevin says.

“Who doesn’t?” Joe says, fidgeting. “Seriously, where’s Brendon? The longer we stand here, the easer it’ll be for Lacey to spot us—dude, it’s like he’s got a vendetta against you, like you shot his dog or something.”

“I have a theory about that,” Smith says, appearing out of nowhere, and Kevin maybe jumps three feet in the air.

“Holy crap,” Kevin says, hand to his chest.

“Sorry.” Smith shrugs, like he isn’t sorry at all.

Joe looks at Smith curiously. “So you have a theory?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Smith cocks his head at Kevin, eyes him speculatively. “Pretty sure I’m right, too, Lacey’s kind of a social fuckwad.”

“I noticed,” Kevin says, even though he’s not exactly sure what Smith’s alluding to here. It’s not that hard to see that Lacey’s got some mental problems.

Smith nods, but doesn’t expound on his theory, just smiles wide and enigmatic and Kevin shakes his head. Whatever. It’s not like Kevin really needs to know Lacey’s motivation here, they’re never going to get along.

“I’m going to,” Kevin points towards the heavy metal doors leading back into the gym hallway. “Look for Brendon, make sure he didn’t get lost in the bathroom.”

“Check the one by the pool,” Joe shouts after him. “The last stall has a sticky lock, it’s where he was at lunch yesterday.”

Kevin bites his lip around a grin. And then the doors close behind him with an ominous clang, leaving him in the cool, dim corridor, smelling faintly of must and sweat. Kevin doesn’t have much of an opinion about gym class - he has it with Brendon, who’s a total fail at all athletics, but Kevin’s passable at just about everything – but the gym area after school always gives him the creeps, like something horrible is always about to go down. It doesn’t help that Lacey’s cornered him there more than a few times over the years.

Kevin checks the pool bathroom, finds it empty, then makes his way towards the wing that houses their lockers, upstairs and past the history classrooms.

It doesn’t honestly surprise him that he runs into Lacey halfway up the stairwell. It does surprise him that he’s hassling Brendon, though, pushing him up against the railing, fist curled in the collar of Brendon’s polo.

“Hey,” Kevin says.

Lacey’s face is pressed close to Brendon’s, skin bright red, and Brendon’s eyes are narrowed, one palm pressed flat against Lacey’s chest.

“Hey,” Kevin says again. “What’re you—” He reaches out and knocks Lacey’s shoulder, and Lacey jabs back with an elbow and whirls around, hand sliding off Brendon’s shirt but still balled in a fist. Kevin’s standing too close, and it happens too fast and unexpected for him to step out of the way.

His head snaps back as Lacey’s knuckles collide with the crest of his cheek, just under his right eye, and, the thing is, Lacey’s never hit him before. Threatened to, lots of times, but his fist’s never connected with Kevin’s face, something’s always gotten in between them. So maybe Kevin should’ve been expecting this, but somehow he really, really hadn’t been.

“Ow,” Kevin says, hand cupping his cheek gingerly.

Lacey looks a little stunned himself – whether because he actually hit Kevin or because Kevin took it, Kevin isn’t quite sure.

“Holy shit, Kev,” Brendon says, voice tinged with awe.

Lacey flexes his hand. “Uh.”

Kevin thinks for a split-second he’s going to apologize, standing there, awkwardly shifting on his feet, big eyes locked on Kevin’s face, but then the bottom stairwell door slams open and Carden and Smith are there, Joe hovering behind them. This is exactly how Kevin had wanted to end his day. His head is throbbing; he just wants to get out of there.

“What the fuck,” Carden says flatly.

Smith shifts his gaze from Lacey to Brendon to Kevin and back to Brendon again, and his mouth gets tighter and tighter.

Brendon fiddles with his popped and rumpled collar. “So, um, no need to—”

“Are you kidding me, Jonas?” Carden says. “How the fuck do you manage to survive on a daily basis?”

Which, okay, is unfair. It’s not like Kevin walked into Lacey’s fist – although he kind of did, but whatever.

Lacey smirks.

Carden glares at him. “You better have a good fucking explanation for this, Lacey. I swear to god—”

“He walked into my fist!” Lacey says.

Brendon’s snort sounds like a giggle, and this is maybe the stupidest situation Kevin’s ever been in, and that’s including the conversation he had last week with Bill about shredded cheese.

“It was an accident,” Kevin says, though he’s not sure why he has to cover for Lacey – he just kind of gets the weird feeling that Carden’s ready to jump in and defend his honor or something. Which on one level is awesome – he’s a little giddy at the thought, though it could be the blow to his head – but on several other levels is just pathetically embarrassing. Kevin can take care of himself.

“And Kev took it,” Brendon says proudly.

“Thanks, Bren.” Kevin isn’t sure if he means that sarcastically or not, but Carden arches an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah?” Carden asks, and Kevin’s kind of glad his face is red already, so the blush traveling up from his throat is hopefully not noticeable at all.

Oh my god, Kevin thinks, I totally have a crush on Carden. This is going to suck so hard.

*

“Over nine hundred downloads in the first two weeks. That’s better than when we dropped Honorable Mention,” Patrick says, just as Kevin hits the landing of Bill’s basement.

Bill sighs dramatically and says, “We should be charging people, you know. Fund our nighttime excursions.”

“Which isn’t the point of NINJA,” Miranda says, then tips her head back and spots Kevin lurking in the doorway. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

Brendon pushes past Kevin. “He had a disagreement with Lacey’s fist.”

Patrick growls.

“No, don’t worry, it was awesome,” Brendon says. “Kevin didn’t even flinch.”

“I flinched a little,” Kevin says. He can see this whole thing getting wildly out of control with Brendon at the helm. He really hopes Lacey doesn’t feel the need to retaliate with something stronger to keep his rep intact. Like a shovel. “Plus it really hurts.”

“No, shit,” Miranda says, getting to her feet and stalking over to him. She cups Kevin’s chin and presses on his cheek with light fingers. “You shouldn’t get a black eye, though.”

“Wait, wait, I haven’t even told you the best part,” Brendon says, waving his arms around. “Carden made him apologize.”

Bill wrinkles his nose. “Mike made poor innocent Jonas apologize to Lacey?”

Kevin glances down at his shoes and mutters, “Other way around.”

There’s a weighty pause. And then a suspiciously Miranda-sounding giggle.

Bill says, “Well,” and, “It seems as though Smith isn’t the only boy out there having trouble with the whole flirting concept.”

Kevin’s cheeks burn. “That’s not what happened,” he says. There’s no way Carden had been flirting with him over that. Carden just feels sorry for him. He thinks Kevin’s a total, helpless loser.

“Anyway,” Miranda says. She pokes Kevin in the stomach. “Help me with my nails?”

“I’m not painting your feet,” Kevin says.

Miranda ignores him and says, “I’m thinking purple sparkles, to go with my kick-ass new eye shadow.”

“It disturbs me, Miranda,” Bill says. “This penchant you have for dark colors and heavy make-up. It’s like you’re Gerard Way circa 2007, back when he thought skeletons and zombies and Liza Minnelli were good ideas.”

“Gerard still thinks skeletons and zombies and Liza Minnelli are good ideas,” Patrick says.

Bill waves a hand. “Well, yes, but he’s much more fashionable about it now.”

Brendon frowns. “I don’t remember Gerard ever wearing any sparkles.”

“They were called Unicorns of Destiny,” Bill says. “It’s implied by the name.”

“They weren’t—” Patrick cuts himself off, tugging his hat down over his forehead with an annoyed huff.

Kevin shares a grin with Miranda behind Patrick’s back. It’d been mainly a joke, back when Frank Iero was in Virgil with both Gerard and Mikey Way – he’d introduce their second set as Unicorns of Destiny and make them all wear rainbow-colored painters’ caps. Personally, Kevin always enjoyed that a lot better than Virgil, but it might have had something to do with the giant crush he’d had on Mikey Way’s smile.

“Where are we going tonight?” Kevin asks. It’s Monopoly night at the Jonas household, so he’ll have to get ready at home instead of at Bill’s.

“We’ve got The Cab and Larry Says Hi at Bootstrap, or The Von Dangerfields at CarPort,” Patrick says.

“Oh, The Von Dangerfields, definitely,” Brendon says, nodding.

Kevin feels a little bad for The Cab. It’s not even that he doesn’t like them; it’s just that he likes all the other bands a lot more. “Von Dangerfields,” Kevin says.

“We haven’t seen Larry Says Hi in months, though,” Miranda points out.

“The Von Dangerfields, Miranda,” Bill says.

“I’m just saying,” Miranda drops down onto the couch next to Patrick. “The Von Dangerfields’ll be at The Cell next week. And Zac Efron’s hot.”

“Which I’m certainly not denying,” Bill says. “In my purely heterosexual opinion, Zac Efron is smoking. He also wants into Kevin’s pants.”

“Uh.” Kevin does not see how that’s relevant or true. “What?”

“I’m overruling everybody,” Patrick says without looking up from Bill’s laptop. “I like The Cab. We’re going to Bootstrap.”

*

Bootstrap Ten is an over-18 club, and they generally let them all in without IDs as long as they don’t ask for an over-21 wristband. Bill always asks for an over-21 wristband.

Kevin lets Miranda drag him up front for The Cab, even though he isn’t thrilled about it. They’re okay, but Kevin’s overall opinion of them is that they have great hair, and that the bassist is douche. Kevin’s seen their newest guitarist, Crawford, perform before, though, back when he was in ZFF, and he’s nothing short of amazing. He nearly reaches Ray Toro infamy on his solo, and Kevin’s impressed.

Patrick clearly is, too, from the way he gushes afterwards, leaning against a wall near an open side door – the night is chilly and the inside of the bar is muggy hot; Kevin shivers but the fresh air feels good.

“I mean,” Patrick says, “technically, he could be better, so Toro’s got that on him—”

“You’ve got that on him,” Miranda says.

Patrick’s cheeks pink. “Well, um.”

Kevin thinks it’s funny, the way Patrick’s completely confident about everything he does except when someone else points out how awesome he is.

Patrick clears his throat. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Bill says, draping an arm across Patrick’s shoulders. “He gets three hundred points for enthusiasm. I think it’s the hair.”

“Well, hello there, friends.”

“Zac,” Bill says, making a face over Kevin’s shoulder, and Kevin freezes up when he feels a hand low on his back. “You’re looking—orange.”

“Can’t let the winter blues bring you down, dude,” Zac says, really, really close to Kevin’s ear.

Kevin relaxes incrementally into the touch. Zac is hot; Kevin’s not going to deny that. He shifts a little so he can give Zac a smile, and Zac smiles back, somewhat sexily – enough that Kevin thinks maybe Bill’s right. Zac’s been friendly with him before, but there’s always been a goofy edge to it – although there’s still a goofy edge, the guy’s orange.

Kevin doesn’t normally make out with people he knows. Mainly because he doesn’t hang out with people he knows, not outside of his little group of friends.

The bands are a little different, since most of them are older, and when they’re not older, they’re from different schools and different zip codes – even when he talks with them, they really don’t know who Kevin is. And they basically try to keep their distance from the handful of semi-successful band members from Randolph High – Wentz, three-fifths of The Cab, Kitty and Trohman from Heartsore. Everyone in the now defunct Virgil don’t count, since they’ve all already graduated, and they all knew who they were, anyway; it had been really tough for Patrick to keep his fan-boy self in check over them.

Zac’s part of a weird little group that knows exactly who they are, knows they’re NINJA and that they write the reviews for Eat More Cats. He knows he’s Kevin and K2 and that he goes to Randolph High, but he doesn’t know he’s actually a giant loser. Zac, apparently, wants into Kevin’s pants. It’s kind of cool.

Zac slides his hands around Kevin’s waist and leans heavily against his back. He widens his stance to catch Zac’s weight and firmly ignores Bill and Bill’s meaningful eyebrow waggles.

Zac digs his chin into Kevin’s shoulder and noses his cheek and Kevin’s stomach tightens.

“Let’s dance,” Zac says, and Kevin lets Zac pull him out onto the floor.

*

Kevin likes it slow. He likes it loose and meandering, shies away from anything intense, because this is just a little fun; a little something he doesn’t normally let himself do, but he’s not going to go wild. So maybe he’s dancing arguably too close to Zac, one hand on the back of his neck, the other curled into his collar – and maybe he lets Zac slip a hand up under the hem of his shirt, flat against his bare skin. It’s not a big deal.

Zac grins into the side of his jaw. “You’re really awesome,” Zac says, and Kevin thinks that even though Zac’s totally, unequivocally hot, he’s really just a big orange dork, and Kevin honestly likes him.

“Thanks,” Kevin says.

Vanessa taps her mic and says, “Paging Mr. Efron, please get your cute butt to the stage,” and Zac gives Kevin’s ass a friendly squeeze before bounding away.

“Catch you later, Jonas,” Zac shouts over his shoulder with a jaunty wave.

Bill slings an arm around Kevin’s neck. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that,” he says.

Kevin shrugs.

“You’re just lucky I spied Brendon sucking face with Corbin five minutes ago. It was hilarious. His hair was eating Brendon’s entire head.” He tugs Kevin around. “To the bar, my friend, I’ve got the tiny cell phone pictures to prove it.”

*

For approximately three days, it seems like Carden’s constantly watching Kevin in the halls and common areas, mouth pulled down in this scary, disapproving scowl. Kevin has no idea what’s going on, but it’s starting to unnerve him.

Patrick glares Carden down for him when they get to lunch. Kevin’s tried it, but Bill says Kevin’s got the glare of a baby Labrador, and it just makes him want to smush his face and cover his nose with kisses. Whatever. Bill’s weird.

There’s no doubt Patrick’s glare is more effective, though, since Patrick is already disgruntled eighty-five percent of the day due to Wentz. He’s had lots of practice.

“Why are we making mean faces at Carden?” Brendon asks.

Patrick huffs. “He’s bothering Kevin.”

Brendon bobs his head. “I see,” he says, and Bill says, “He’s doing nothing of the sort. He’s keeping an eagle eye out for Lacey, you realize. He’s sure to double-up his attacks on Kevin’s personage for being a hot-ass now that he’s got jealousy mixed in with all that raging homosexual denial.”

Kevin blinks. “What?”

“You didn’t honestly think Lacey hated you, Kevin,” Bill says. He steals some of Patrick’s fries, deftly avoiding Patrick’s punch towards his kidneys.

“Well, uh. Yeah.” Kevin figured that was the whole point of making his life a living hell for two and a half years. And also, “Jealousy?”

Bill rolls his eyes and reaches across the table to ruffle Kevin’s curls. “You are so dense, Jonas,” he says.

Kevin frowns and ducks away. “Whatever. I’ve been beaten up, you have to be nice to me.”

“I don’t have to,” Bill says. “Luckily, I like you enough to be nice to you anyway.”

Kevin risks a glance towards where he knows Carden is sitting with Michael Guy and Wentz and Trohman. Carden’s got a half-grin on his mouth, nodding at Michael Guy, and Kevin rubs two fingers over his forehead, sighing.

“In a totally unrelated note,” Miranda says, “we got an email from Blackinton.”

“The Von Dangerfields!” Brendon says. He dances a little in his seat and does some jazz hands that Kevin is totally embarrassed about; he covers half his face with one hand.

“He wanted to make sure we didn’t miss their show tonight.” Miranda looks pointedly at Patrick.

Patrick jabs a fork at her. “It was worth it,” he says.

“Completely worth it,” Bill agrees, “I’m posting blurry make-out pics on EMC, and what’s-his-name, the bendy blond dude who licked Zac’s face—” Bill gives a thumbs up. “Larry Says Hi knows how to entertain. It’s like if Virgil went Christian power-pop.”

Brendon pulls a face. “Ew.”

Miranda pegs Bill with a fry.

*

Kevin groans, leaning his forehead against the grimy bathroom mirror – if he was coherent at all, he’d be completely grossed out, but his head hurts too much to care. Kevin doesn’t drink, but somehow, someway, Ryland Blackinton had gotten him plastered the night before at The Cell. He’s magic. Sneakily evil and magic.

“Dude, you look like something my cat threw up,” Trohman says from behind him.

Kevin does not know what to say to this – yes, he’s pretty sure he feels like something Trohman’s cat threw up, but Joe Trohman doesn’t generally, under normal circumstances, speak to Kevin. Firstly, because he’s a senior, and secondly because he’s best friends with Pete Wentz, who doesn’t know Kevin’s an actual person. Or visible to the human eye. They’re never mean to him, though, so that’s a plus.

“Uh.” Kevin tries to straighten up, but it’s like his entire upper body weighs two thousand pounds.

Trohman pats his back. “Never figured you for a drinker.”

Kevin swallows down some bile. “I’m, uh, not—”

“Ryland’s magic and evil, I totally get it,” Trohman says, and it takes a minute for Trohman’s words to sink in, but then Kevin really feels like throwing up.

Darn it. Kevin presses his palms into his eye sockets and hisses, “Joe. You can’t—”

“Pete’s got me on Patrick watch, only reason,” Trohman says, hands up and open, placating. “I’m not gonna spread it around that you’re a lush.”

Which had not been Kevin’s immediate worry, but it’s nice to know. “Thanks,” he says thickly.

Trohman eyes him speculatively in the mirror.

“What?” Kevin finally asks.

“Nothing.” He cocks his head. “You just look totally different with your hair straight, you know? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s the point,” Kevin mumbles. They’re going to have to do major damage control here, he thinks, if Wentz is stalking Patrick to bars. He’s not all that surprised Wentz has gone that far, but it’s going to mess with all their plans. He’s not actually sure how they can fix this.

Trohman claps him on the shoulder and grins. “Next time, dude,” he says, “drink a fuck-ton of water before you pass out.”

*

“It’s not the end of the world,” Miranda says at lunch.

“Wentz is stalking me,” Patrick says. His words are muffled, though. He’s got his face buried in his arms, folded over the tabletop.

“That isn’t actually news,” Bill says. “The greater concern here is that our alter-egos have been compromised.”

“They just think we like bands. Which we do. It’s not a big deal,” Miranda insists, biting into an apple.

Kevin’s stomach growls at the juicy crunch of it, but he’s not actually up to eating anything yet. He sips at his water and keeps his eyes at half-mast, blocking out the harsh fluorescent overhead light.

“You look awesome,” Brendon says, settling down across from him.

“I hate you,” Kevin says.

Brendon makes kissy faces at him before digging into his lunch bag. “So what’s wrong with Patrick? Did Puppies And Kittens break up again?”

“Puppies And Kittens shouldn’t be together in the first place,” Miranda says.

Patrick’s head pops up, half his face red from the weave of his shirt. “Bullshit. Puppies And Kittens are underrated geniuses, there’s nothing more phenomenal than the chord progression at the beginning of Claustrophobia.”

“Let’s talk about how much Claustrophobia is a rip-off of Baba O’Reilly,” Miranda says smugly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Patrick looks apoplectic, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, hands flailing.

Kevin watches Bill arch an eyebrow at Miranda as Miranda arches one right back. They’re now in for an entire lunch period of Patrick ranting, but at least he isn’t moaning about Pete anymore.

*

THE VON DANGERFIELDS @ THE CELL
Like always, the crowd that showed up for The Von Dangerfields was collectively laidback. Decked out in board shorts and bare feet, despite the chilly weather, the quartet known for easy beats and surf rock settled cross-legged on the stage floor, encouraging the rest of the room to join them.

Blackinton and Suarez’s simple harmonies soared over Kennerty’s ukulele and Gaylor’s five million bongo drums. Throw in a shaker or two – Blackinton even picked up a throatier, deep-bellied uke to compliment Kennerty’s plinky strums – and maybe it’s a little early for summer, but no one was complaining.

These are the kind of performances I adore - The Von Dangerfields are excellent to sing along to, you can’t beat the rhythmic handclapping, and the crowd just seemed to reflect the good cheer that radiates off the stage - Kennerty’s smile alone has been known to light up an entire room.

The casual, relaxed vibe lasted through the whole first set, then they came back from a short break with their edgier tunes, their amps and guitars and bass and drum kit. It was no less fun, though, and even Trick got his groove on, singled out by a special lady [this is a boldfaced lie – trick; secret luuuuuuuvers! - bden] and, who was that? Travis McCoy of Heartsore? [shut your hooker mouth – trick]

While Trick was living it up on the dance floor, yours truly was getting the scoop on their rumored EP. With favored tunes like Beach Sandwich and Barefoot Boogie, look for the self-released The Von Dangerfields Live available at local shows next month.

THE VON DANGERFIELDS @ THE CELL: OCTOBER 22TH 10:00PM
set list:
+ Kitten
+ Beach Sandwich
+ Samson and Delilah
+ Listen Up, Betty, ‘Cause I Can’t Slow Down
+ Aquamarine
+ Blush a Little More
+ California Dreams
+ Barefoot Boogie
+ Damp
+ Hot Sexy
+ Make-out Club
+ Not Just a Pretty Wave
+ Single Combat Frisbee

- billiam @ emc

next

NINJA 2/4

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:27:18 GMT

go back

*

NOVEMBER

*

NINJA alert
Guess who’s coming to dinner? Mark your calendars, ladies and gents, for NINJA’s first ever live performance, Thanksgiving night at CarPort. Watch me rock my tambourine.

- billiam @ emc

*

Kevin doesn’t remember exactly how he ended up in woodshop – something to do with conflicting schedules, since he’d originally signed up for graphic arts - but he loves it. It’s hands down his favorite class, and he’s actually awesome at it, which is an unexpected bonus.

“That’s kind of ambitious,” The Jerry says, looking over his shoulder.

Kevin spreads his hands out to flatten the curling edges of his blueprint. “Only two more tiers than my last one,” he says. “I like a challenge.”

The Jerry grunts, then moves over to the workstation next to Kevin’s. The Jerry’s a huge bear of a guy, thick neck, barrel chest, with ice blonde hair that’s parted down the middle, falling past his ears. He’s like a Nordic god, Kevin thinks, a Viking, only without the beard. He’s a defensive tackle for the varsity football team, and for some reason he seems to like Kevin. Or have some sort of elevated tolerance for him, at least, and he’s always visibly impressed by Kevin’s birdhouses. As he should be, since Kevin’s birdhouses rock.

Besides The Jerry, Kevin has woodshop with a slew of sophomores and Smith, who’s completely hopeless. Mainly, Mr. Samberg doesn’t let him near any of the heavy machinery. Or even a hammer, since last time it slipped out of his hands and nearly hit Mr. Samberg in the face. Smith spends most of the period varnishing left-over bookshelves or TV stands and texting on his cell.

Mr. Samberg, on the other hand, spends most of the class beat-boxing and making up songs about how awesome wood is.

So woodshop would obviously be Kevin’s favorite class even if he didn’t happen to be great with his hands.

The best is that they have the class last period, so Kevin can stay late if he wants to. He usually does, since Brendon and Joe both have show choir – seriously, Kevin doesn’t understand Joe’s popularity at all. They wear sparkly vests and top hats, it’s ridiculous.

When the bell rings, Kevin has all the measurements he needs and he starts over towards the stacks of wood instead of following everyone else out the door. The Jerry ruffles his hair as he lumbers past.

“So.”

Kevin glances up to see Smith leaning against his work table. “Yeah?” he asks warily. He actually agrees with Miranda about Smith, but Smith is still pretty intimidating. His expression’s almost always stuck on a disgruntled default, which kind of cancels out the whimsical nature of all the sparkly t-shirts he likes to wear. But then Smith smiles at him and Kevin blinks, poleaxed, because that’s a heck of a grin. Kevin’s willing to bet it’s even more potent than Kennerty’s. Maybe even Gerard’s, too.

“Brendon,” Smith says, and Kevin finds himself grinning back.

“First of all,” Kevin says, “you should probably stop hanging out with Lacey.”

*

The problem with having Smith join them for lunch is that they can’t talk about NINJA or any other bands or shows or anything, really, and so the first few days are kind of strained.

Finally, Bill snaps and says, “If all of you don’t stop being incredibly boring, I’m going to go sit with Mike and Michael Guy.”

Patrick tugs his hat down over his eyes and sinks lower in his seat.

Brendon darts his gaze shiftily around the table. “Uh.”

“You realize I’m not actually stupid,” Smith says absently. And then, “My best friend is Ryan Ross.”

“Uh,” Brendon says again. He grabs hold of Kevin’s arm and digs his fingers in.

“For the record,” Smith says, looking up, blue eyes actually twinkling, Kevin thinks – Brendon squeaks a little in Kevin’s ear, startled - “he’s not a robot.”

Bill gives Smith a speculative look. “We’d explain everything, of course, but then we’d have to kill you.”

Smith nods, grinning. “Understood.”

Patrick makes disgruntled noises and scowls at Bill and says, “Seriously? This is how we’re playing it?”

Bill shrugs, bites into his sandwich, and gives Patrick a mangled, “Sure.”

Miranda sighs and says, “Well, whatever, we need to talk about tonight and how much Kill All Your Friends is going to rock.”

Kevin watches in fascination as Patrick’s face gets this dark shade of red that’s almost purple. His fingers are white-knuckled on his soda can. “I’m blaming you if Wentz finds out,” he says. “I can play all of your instruments, remember, I do not need you.”

Smith very nicely pretends that he’s not listening to their every word. Kevin notices the big grin Brendon flashes Smith and ducks his head to hide a smile.

*

KILL ALL YOUR FRIENDS @ CARPORT
While we still morn the untimely demise of Virgil, there’s no denying that Kill All Your Friends has that little something extra – namely, one Bob motherfucking Bryar. On point and strong-armed, ten times cleaner than anything Pelissier could have churned out - Trick totally has a new crush [one day I’m going to kill all of you – trick].

Skeptics of their fairytale theme – Billiam, for one – were eating their words by the end of the night. Kill All Your Friends brought just the right level of gore and despair, the right amount of the fantastical – remnants of the light-hearted Unicorns of Destiny, you can bet K2 was grinning all the way through both sets. But it was, unsurprisingly, the distinct lack of Mikey that left a strange taste in our mouths. Technically, Cortez is a fine fit, but the entire dynamic is different; just something we’ll all have to get used to.

Toro rocked harder than ever, though – with even more awesome rock-god thighs - and Gerard still tackles the whole show with arms, legs and mouth wide open. Kill All Your Friends is not Virgil part 2 - don’t show up expecting the simple hard rockin’ of Amber and Fall Home - but be prepared to have your face blown off.

Close friend of the band and former Virgil member Frank Iero of Pocket Thief was seen skulking around backstage in between sets, proving once and for all that while Virgil might have disbanded, Frank and Gerard’s rumored smackdown holds little to no truth. When broached with a Virgil reunion, Gerard wouldn’t rule it out, but made sure to note how dedicated Iero is to his current band – bittersweet news for fans of both.

KILL ALL YOUR FRIENDS @ CARPORT: NOVEMBER 12TH 10:30PM
set list:
+ Movement Of The Dead
+ Slander
+ Undertow
+ Let Left Alone
+ Paths of Twilight
+ Tuesday’s Gone
+ Singled Wolves
+ Rising
+ Aimless Heart
+ Fixed On Three Stars
+ Numberless

- rand @ emc

*

The buzz around NINJA is kind of surreal. It’s always been weird, but now with the announcement of their upcoming, actual in-person show, talk of NINJA has tripled, and Kevin’s starting to panic a little. Not only about the performance, but about the fact that a good portion of their audience will probably be from Randolph.

Patrick has a strange look on his face when he takes the seat across from Kevin. He dumps out his lunch and says, “Ashlee held me hostage for fifteen minutes in Chemistry while she rambled about how much Rand rocks.”

“Hell, yeah,” Miranda says.

“Then she made me play marry, fuck or kill.”

Kevin now recognizes the strange look as trauma.

Patrick stares at his apple.

Bill says, “Well,” and, “Inquiring minds, Patrick,” and taps his fingers on the table, grinning.

The tops of Patrick’s cheeks turn pink. He mutters something under his breath, and Bill jostles his elbow.

“What was that?”

Patrick narrows his eyes at him. “Kevin, Miranda, and You.”

“You don’t mean that,” Bill says airily.

Miranda says, “Sweet,” then, “Hey, wait, you’d marry Kevin?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Patrick says, hunching low in his seat.

Kevin rubs his palm over his nape and ducks his head, then kicks a foot up against Patrick’s.

Patrick flashes him a tiny smile from under the brim of his hat.

*

“I thought we were ninjas, not cat burglars,” Miranda says, fingering her honest-to-goodness ski mask.

Kevin isn’t really sure he’ll be able to play his bass with a full face mask on.

“I’m going to sweat,” Brendon says, frowning.

“You’re going to sweat anyway,” Bill says. He’s got skin-tight black jeans and a black turtleneck on, which actually isn’t too different from his normal clothes. His mask is folded back across his skull and he strikes a pose with his tambourine.

“I’m going to pass out,” Brendon says. “I’m gonna lay down on stage and die in this. I need to perform in, like, scraps of clothing, with maybe a misting fan attached to my mic stand.”

Patrick grabs the knit mask out of Brendon’s hands and tosses it aside. “We’re not wearing ski masks,” he says. He’s got his brow furrowed and a mutinous twist to his mouth, and Kevin knows they’re definitely not wearing ski masks, because Patrick can be stubborn. When he digs his heels in he usually gets what he wants.

“We could—half-masks,” Brendon says. “Like superheroes, guys.”

“I’m really enjoying this debate on what we should wear,” Miranda says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and fiddling with her amp, “but maybe we should concentrate on the fact that we’ve never performed live before? I’m kind of worried about how Brendon isn’t actually an octopus, no matter how many limbs it seems like he has – what are we doing about the piano?”

“I know the guitar parts on Lefty Persuasion,” Bill says. “And there’s no reason why everything has to sound exactly the same, you know. We can improvise. Also.” He curls a finger over his upper lip, tilts his head back. “I’m going to wear a mustache.”

“Please don’t,” Patrick says.

“Too late. It’s decided,” Bill says. “I’m going to make Kevin wear one, too.”

Kevin blinks. “Uh.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to wear a fake mustache, but Bill’s sort of hard to say no to.

Miranda strums a chord and messes with her pedal. “Kevin’s not wearing a mustache,” she says.

“Are you volunteering to be my mustache buddy then?” Bill asks Miranda, grinning. He saunters over and hooks an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll tickle when we kiss, like whiskers on kittens.”

Miranda elbows him in the side; Bill half-stumbles away from her with an oof, mouth still curved up in amusement.

“So if anyone’s interested,” Miranda says pointedly, “I’m going to play Weak In The Knees now.”

*

Out of all his friends, Kevin is closest to Miranda. He’s known her since kindergarten; they used to play in each other’s sandboxes, Miranda once made Joe eat a ladybug. He’s gotten the chicken pox from her, she was his very first kiss, and she’s the only one who knows about his completely inadvisable crush on Bill in the ninth grade. It’s really no good to ever have a crush on Bill – he’s flighty and mostly-straight and carries around a picture of Isabella Rossellini in his wallet, which makes him unexpectedly classy as well.

“There’s something up with you,” Miranda says, banging her locker shut.

Kevin straightens up from his slouch along the wall. “Well, yeah,” he says. He’s been steadily getting more and more freaked out about their Thanksgiving show.

“No.” She eyes him up and down, presses a finger onto her lower lip. “No, it’s more—you’re acting like that time, freshman year—”

“Don’t. Oh, please don’t.” Kevin grabs her arms and looks deep into her eyes and says, “That is something we never speak of.”

Miranda fists his shirt and leans in and says, voice low, “You’ve got a crush.” She’s grinning, right up in his face, like she’s exactly right, never mind the fact that she is.

Kevin has no idea how Miranda knows that, though, because it’s not like he runs into Carden very often, and he never stares at him at lunch and he never brings him up and he absolutely, positively never flushes when Bill talks about him. Really.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kevin says. He bites his lip and tries to look earnest.

Miranda has crinkles at the corners of her eyes, which means she’s completely delighted, happy, and in the mood to gossip. “I think you should call him.”

“I don’t—” He pauses, snaps his mouth shut, cocks his head, then says, “What?”

“He’s hot, he likes you, he’s fun,” Miranda says.

Kevin isn’t going to deny Carden’s hot, but he’s getting the feeling that maybe they aren’t thinking about the same guy here. “Um.”

“Zac’s pretty perfect for you, actually, and if you’re too much of a pussy to call him yourself, I’m going to tell Brendon to text Corbin your number and have Zac call you.”

“Zac,” Kevin says. “Zac Efron.” He feels like he needs to clarify this, not because he’s especially surprised by Miranda’s claim, but because he could use the time to switch gears. Zac, not Carden. This makes sense.

“Yes.” She’s got a stop-being-deliberately-dense look in her eyes, but it’s tempered with her you’re-so-cute-when-you’re-befuddled smile.

Kevin shrugs a little. “Okay.”

*

Kevin doesn’t really date. It’s not like he thinks his parents would mind – although there’d be rules and curfews and they’d all have to meet him and it’d be a nightmare - but he’s kind of got enough of a social life without adding dating into the mix. Even if his social life is largely a secret. He’s busy. And it’d be hard to have a boyfriend who he couldn’t see for most of the weekend. It’d be like leading an even more double life than he already does.

With Zac it’s a little different, since Zac can hang out with them during shows, even their own.

Kevin is quietly freaking out, because Patrick is loudly freaking out, and he figures they don’t need two of them hyperventilating into a paper bag fifteen minutes before they’re set to go on.

“This is the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had,” Patrick snarls at Bill. He’s pale and sweaty, gasping a little, his eye-mask pushed up under his hat, hands fisted on his thighs. He’s a curled-over heap on the floor in the hallway leading to the back of the tiny CarPort stage.

Bill doesn’t look very offended; he just pats Patrick on the head and says, “Breathe, my friend. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Kevin clutches the arm of his bass with white-knuckled fingers and follows Bill’s coaching, too.

Zac swings a friendly arm over Kevin’s shoulders and says, “You’re going to be totally awesome, guys,” grinning widely, hair flopping over his forehead.

Kevin relaxes into his side and Zac presses an enthusiastic kiss to his temple. Kevin has to admit this dating thing is pretty cool. Zac has, like, zero angst attached to him – he’s simple, like a puppy.

“Thanks,” Kevin says, low, so only Zac catches it.

Zac hip-checks him lightly. “Dude, crazy awesome, no worries. And even if you suck, you’ll have me, Corbin and Vanessa down front cheering for you, anyway. And Lucas, for what it’s worth.”

“I’m worth everything,” Lucas says, bouncing up behind them. “What’s going on? Panic attacks? Has anyone thrown up yet?”

“Alright, alright,” Bill says, clapping his hands. “Everyone who’s not NINJA, shoo. Band meeting, before Trick passes out.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Patrick says, but his voice is weak and muffled by his arms.

Bill says, “That’s right, keep up those positive thoughts.”

“Good luck,” Zac whispers in Kevin’s ear, then slides away, tugging Lucas with him back down the hallway.

Brendon huddles close to Kevin’s side, vibrating. “I have never been so excited in my entire life, Kev,” he says.

Miranda catches Kevin’s eye over Brendon’s head. She grins, giving him a thumbs up. She’s wearing a billowy black shirt over black tights, but she’s bedazzled her half-mask with pink rhinestones. It matches the bandana Bill’s tied and knotted around his left thigh, just above his knee. They’re the only ones who bothered with color – Kevin has on dark navy jeans, but he doesn’t think anyone can tell.

They can’t hear anything from where they are. The club’s packed, Heartsore had been awesome, riling up the crowd, but right now there’s only the echo of their breathing bouncing off the thin linoleum tiles, and the occasional whimper from Patrick.

“We’re doing this,” Brendon says.

There are grooves in Kevin’s fingers from where he’s gripping his bass, soft, but calloused underbellies digging into the strings. It’s enough pain to ground him; he releases the strings backwards, the positioning a direct reverse of the beginning of In Front And Heavy. This is it. There’s no going back, even if one of the kids singing along in twenty minutes recognizes the curve of Miranda’s mouth, the timbre of Brendon’s voice, the strawberry blonde curl of Patrick’s hair under his knit cap; Bill’s splayed, spidery legs, Kevin’s wrists, fingers – the white band of skin that isn’t hidden by a thin band of silver.

We are your losers, your loud weirdoes, your science stars, your shy, retiring band geeks, Kevin thinks, and sets off for the stage.

*

It’s harder for Kevin to sneak out of his house than to sneak back in. So he maybe gets a little careless; the house is usually dead quiet, and everyone in his family is a heavy sleeper. He says goodnight to Bill as they split paths to their respective houses after Brendon drops them off, then practically trips over Nick’s feet on the front porch. He’d stopped using the tree outside his bedroom to come back home nearly two months ago. Clearly, this was a bad decision.

“Uh.”

Nick purses his lips and looks up at him curiously. He’s sprawled in the low-light of three AM, sky spangled with stars and a full moon, pajama pants hitched high – his pale, bony ankles are showing above his slippers. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Hey, Nick,” Kevin says, shifting awkwardly, holding his case up defensively against his stomach. Nick is twelve, but he has this thing where he occasionally makes Kevin feel five years younger than he is.

“I’m starting to think Joe’s an idiot,” Nick says. “You just missed him, by the way. He thinks you guys were awesome.”

Kevin doesn’t exactly know how to respond to that. He goes for a pretty dumb, “What?”

Nick rocks up onto his feet, grabs hold of Kevin’s wrist. “Bill is not all that discreet, is what I’m saying.”

Kevin knows this. Bill has been their neighbor for ten years – it’s probably the only reason they’re friends, considering the fact that Bill is so much cooler than him – and the entire Jonas family knows Bill doesn’t have a discreet or subtle bone in his body, with little to no shame. “Um.”

“You’re in a band. It’s, like, all Bill talks about when he doesn’t think anyone is listening,” Nick says. “It wasn’t all that hard to figure out it was NINJA.”

“Right,” Kevin says. He guesses it’s not worth denying it at this point - and he also thinks Nick’s probably known for a while, and hasn’t let it slip to their parents yet. He’s feeling marginally safe. “And you haven’t told Joe?”

Nick shrugs. “It’s kind of funny watching him hero-worship you, man. You’re his favorite. I can’t wait ‘til he figures it out.”

“Yeah,” Kevin says. There’s a little part of him that wants to tell Joe himself – Joe thinks he’s so lame, right, and maybe he is, but Kevin just rocked his ass off in a tiny, packed club, Kevin is living his dream, Kevin is secretly awesome. Joe’s going to be so jealous.

*

DECEMBER

*

Patrick and Kevin are both in jazz band. Jazz band is only marginally better than regular band, mostly because they don’t practice every day, and they don’t have to march. They’re both, basically, only in jazz band because of their parents.

Kevin repeats his new mantra, I am secretly awesome, in his head as he fits together the pieces of his oboe. He wishes he had a cooler instrument – Patrick gets to play tenor sax. It’s 1980s cool, but it’s still better than the oboe.

In third grade, back when they’d had to choose their instruments of social destruction, oboe had been a funny enough word to get him into this mess. At least he has the bass – secretly awesome, he thinks – to save him.

The Randolph High jazz band normally has two shows a year – in the spring, for Band-o-Rama, and their Winter Wonderland concert, right before the holidays.

“We are so going to rock Sleigh Ride this year, dudes,” Kent says, cleaning out his spit valve.

Patrick grimaces. Kevin gets it; Sleigh Ride’s a staple piece, they could probably all play it in their sleep – Kent’s a freshman, though, and Kevin’s pretty sure he’s just excited to do the horse bit at the end.

“Aw, hell,” Lindsey says. She points at the chalkboard across the room with her cello bow. “They changed the concert to the eighteenth.”

“No way,” Kent says, “that’s bullshit, man, we’ll miss NINJA.”

The hair on the back of Kevin’s neck prickles. He always gets a weird chill when people bring up NINJA around him. It’s only been a week and a half since Thanksgiving, but so far almost everyone seems oblivious to the fact that the entirety of NINJA sits at the table in the lunchroom that’s cradled between the theater enthusiasts and that loner who allegedly eats his own snot.

Pete Wentz has figured it out.

Patrick has expressly forbidden anyone to say anything, but Wentz has totally figured it out; he’s worn his TRICK NINJA shirt almost every day, and there’s epic winking going on, so he’s either figured it out or he’s developed an unfortunate facial tic.

“Wait,” Patrick says. He tips his hat back a little and widens his eyes at Kevin.

Stupid jazz band. This is maybe going to be a problem.

*

“This is tricky business,” Bill says, trying to balance one of Patrick’s drumsticks in between his nose and upper lip. “I predict wacky hijinks.”

Bill’s basement has become NINJA Central. Well, it was always NINJA Central, but now there are boxes of merch everywhere, since Bill’s decided they can turn a profit this way, instead of just having a Café Press account. They all chipped in for capital, and Bill’s dad invested, although everyone knows Bill’s dad isn’t going to ask for any money back. He’s one of their biggest supporters. Which is a good thing, considering he could just take five steps across their side yard and spill all to Kevin’s parents.

“How wacky are we talking?” Miranda asks.

“Speedy, inconvenient costume changes in the back of the Purple Beast,” Bill says. “Pete Wentz.”

“I don’t know if Pete Wentz can actually be called a wacky hijink all by himself,” Brendon says.

The drumstick falls to the thin rug with a clatter, and Bill arches an eyebrow. “I’m fond of Pete, you know, but he’s definitely a wacky hijink all by his lonesome. Let us not forget the spaghetti sandwich incident of ’07.”

“He’s the only one who came out of that food fight unscathed,” Miranda says.

Wentz had walked out of the cafeteria with zero mess on him, smiling toothily. Kevin had smelled like rotten tomatoes for the rest of the day and the entire student body had looked like they’d somehow miraculously survived some sort of chainsaw massacre; rumor has it Wentz fired the first shot, but he hadn’t even gotten a single drop of sauce on him.

Bill nods. “Exactly my point.”

“Look,” Patrick says huffily. “Look, we need to stop talking about Pete Wentz and, I don’t know, maybe figure out how to play two shows at the same exact time.”

“Magic,” Brendon says, and does some jazz hands.

Kevin would laugh, except Patrick cuts him a warning glare – Wentz really has him on edge, though Kevin doesn’t blame him; he’s seen Wentz’s blog. They’re just lucky Wentz has only stepped up his campaign to marry Patrick and raise Canadian babies on a miniature pony farm in New Hampshire, and that he hasn’t mentioned NINJA yet. “They’re not exactly at the same time,” Kevin says instead.

“Half hour overlap,” Patrick says, “they might as well be.”

“We’ll just have to push back NINJA,” Miranda says. “We’ll go on a little late, I can’t see that being a problem.”

“Speedy! Wacky! Costume changes!” Bill says, arms waving.

Sometimes Bill’s just as much of a cartoon character as Brendon. Kevin figures that’ll probably at least be good on stage.

*

As much as Kevin loves woodshop, Fridays and buzz saws don’t always mix, particularly when he’s had a late night. He’s yawning his way through a blueprint – a gingerbread cottage birdhouse, complete with little wooden gumdrops on the eaves; it’s going to be awesome – when The Jerry thumps a fist on his table.

“Twofer Love, right? Heartsore,” he says.

“Um. What?”

The Jerry shrugs. “You were humming.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Twofer Love.” Crap. Crap, crap, crap, Kevin thinks, he was humming Heartsore?

“Dude, their show last night rocked.” The Jerry swipes some hair out of his eyes, looks over at him curiously. “Were you there?”

Kevin grimaces. He’s pretty sure he should say no. He says, “Yeah,” and kind of wants to smash his hand with a hammer, but—yeah. There’s a part of him that wants to maintain some cool in The Jerry’s eyes, maybe foster it outside of woodshop. Being secretly awesome has limited appeal, and The Jerry seems to genuinely like him. Patrick is going to kick his ass when he finds out.

But The Jerry just says, “Cool,” and turns back to his own project.

Kevin’s fingers tap out the rhythm of Kansas City over the little lines that sketch out the cross-thatched, graham cracker roof.

*

GLITTER GIRLS AND HEARTSORE @ BOOTSTRAP TEN
This much sugar should maybe breed disdain – instead, Greta (of Pocket Thief) and VickyT (of Heartsore) pack you so full of sweet, you don’t even realize the roof of your mouth’s sliced open and stinging until hours later, when their lyrics hit you right where it hurts.

On the surface, it’s sugary pop. Take their words at face value and you’ve got love and puppies and rainbows. But clever twists, like in Rock’ell and Unicorn Moon, in Time Love After - deaf ears and cracked plaster sunshine - and Hug; the upbeat tempo and major chords trick you into thinking this is something simple, when underneath it all VickyT and Greta have got some mysterious bitterness going on.

Glitter Girls isn’t so much a stretch for them, then – Pocket Thief’s hard, dark themes, paired with Heartsore’s hip-hop, party, dance vibe. Though McCoy would probably argue the simplicity of that description; Heartsore is, and definitely always has been, McCoy’s baby.

While Glitter Girls warmed the crowd up, Heartsore lit a fire. Edging up on the harder side of pop-rock, mainly due to the skillful hand of Joe Trohman on lead guitar, Heartsore had everyone singing along, sampling from such fine classics as Superstition, Another Night in Bangkok, and Little River Band’s Reminiscing - plus a straight-up cover of Whitney Houston’s How Will I Know.

Pulling double duty didn’t seem to slow VickyT down, her energy never flagging, and Greta stepped up to the mic during Heartsore’s set for the hook in Seven Years Bad Luck – McCoy, alternately, came out and remixed the chorus for Glitter Girls’ Jelly Donut Boy. Two great tastes that taste great together.

GLITTER GIRLS AND HEARTSORE @ BOOTSTRAP TEN: DECEMBER 10TH 9:30 PM
Glitter Girls set list:
+ Time Love After
+ The Word
+ Ten Around
+ Hug
+ Rock’ell
+ Magnetize
+ Jelly Donut Boy
+ Peppermint
+ Unicorn Moon

Heartsore set list:
+ Another Night
+ Twofer Love
+ Knock Me Out
+ Kansas City
+ The Cheese Told Me To Write This Song (possibly not the correct title, but Joe kind of mumbles, and I could have sworn there’s a bit about muenster and pepper jack in this)
+ How Will I Know
+ Seven Years Bad Luck
+ Nothing Wrong With Afternoons
+ It’s Simple
+ Lock Your Doors, We Make No Promises

same bat channel,
- trick @ emc

*

When Lacey corners Kevin in the downstairs boys’ bathroom, Kevin realizes that Lacey hasn’t really bothered him since he’d accidentally punched him back in October. He’s made some long-distance faces at him, but he hasn’t been nearly so threatening as usual.

Of course, Kevin doesn’t usually use the downstairs boys’ bathroom, because Lacey’s often found slacking off in there, so Kevin isn’t exactly sure what kind of brain fart he had that made him decide to walk in right then, but he’s seriously regretting it.

“Hey, Jonas,” Lacey says, lips curled up maliciously, eyes narrowed.

They’re a good distance apart, but Kevin feels like he’s being pressed up against the grimy tile, anyway; there’s a weight on his chest, and he’s finding it hard to breathe. He’s not afraid, exactly, but it’s like his face remembers how much it hurt to have a fist jammed into it, and his body’s trying hard to avoid a repeat.

“Lacey,” Kevin says. He nods a little. He has outward calm in spades, only his insides are squirming. He really hopes his eyes don’t reflect his panic.

Lacey advances with a smirk, but Kevin doesn’t give him an inch – he holds his ground, right next to the line of urinals, sinks angled to his left, and then Lacey flattens his palm on Kevin’s chest and shoves him backwards.

It isn’t a very strong shove, but Kevin’s footing had been nervous to begin with, there’s a constant, mysterious, disgusting wetness on the bathroom floor, and he’s got old sneakers on, rubber soles worn traction-less – there’s a slow motion dawning of embarrassment and horror as he stumbles, and the last thing he registers, before the back of his head connects with a burst of pain on the porcelain rim of a sink, is Lacey’s wide, surprised eyes.

*

Kevin slowly regains consciousness, the harsh fluorescent light swimming into his vision, spotted by pulsing specks of black, and the first thing he notices is that Lacey’s propped up across from him, nursing a bloody nose.

The second thing he notices is Carden.

Carden is hunched down beside him and cradling the back of Kevin’s head with one hand – down low, right above his nape – frowning, and Kevin would be so totally mortified if his skull didn’t feel like it was in two separate halves.

“Ow,” Kevin says, slightly nauseous.

Carden says, “Yeah,” and uses his other hand to probe lightly through his curls, until a fresh spark of pain makes Kevin wince. “Nurse, Jonas. Let’s go.”

“What about me?” Lacey whines, voice clogged and nasally, fingers pressed up against his nostrils. “You fucking sucker-punched me, asshole.”

Carden ignores him and levers Kevin up onto his feet, arms around his back to keep him steady. He watches Kevin carefully, like he’s waiting for Kevin to black out again, like he doesn’t trust Kevin’s balance.

Kevin’s dizzy, but he’s ninety-five percent certain he’s not going to pitch over. He’s hyperaware of Carden’s hands on him, though, and it sucks, because Zac’s awesome and fun, but he doesn’t make Kevin feel this way – hot and short of breath and awkward. “I’m okay,” he says thickly.

Carden snorts.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Kevin says. He just wants Carden to let go of him. There’s this weird tingling, tightening of his skin where Carden’s fingers are grazing, just under the hem of his t-shirt, and a puddle of guilt warms in his stomach – he shouldn’t like Carden manhandling him this much, or at least he shouldn’t like it more than the idea of Zac doing the same thing.

“Well, you’re not bleeding,” Carden says, but it doesn’t sound like an agreement.

“I’m bleeding,” Lacey says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Carden says, but his words aren’t heated, he’s mostly just focused on Kevin.

Kevin drops his gaze to his shoes, face hot.

Dumbly, he lets Carden steer him out of the bathroom and into the hall; he doesn’t know how long he was out, or when Carden found them, but the hallway’s packed. He’d gotten a hall pass from Lit and his books are still in room 103, and he squishes up against the wall when Michael Guy and Siska jostle close to Carden.

Carden has a hold of his wrist, though, and he elbows Michael Guy out of the way. He says, “Fuck off, Chiz,” and Michael Guy eyes Kevin up and down and says, “You look green, are you gonna throw up?”

Kevin swallows and would shake his head if he didn’t think that would actually make him throw up.

“I fucking hope not,” Carden says for him.

If he threw up all over Carden, this would officially be the worst day of his entire life.

When he spots Brendon in the crowd, he almost passes out in relief. Brendon bounces over, grinning until he gets close enough to see Carden’s fingers shackling his wrist, and probably the gray cast to Kevin’s face.

“What happened to you, dude?” Brendon asks.

Kevin lurches into his side, arm wrapping around Brendon’s shoulders, and he’s not even a little disappointed that Carden’s grip suddenly slips easily off. “Can you take me to the nurse, Bren?”

Brendon darts his gaze back and forth, between Kevin and Carden, but then he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

*

The speedy, inconvenient costume changes actually ends up being kind of fun. Besides getting Patrick’s elbow jabbed into his still-tender head wound, that is.

The biggest problem, of course, is Kevin’s hair.

“This isn’t going to work,” Kevin says.

“What isn’t?” Brendon says, looking at him through the rearview mirror.

Patrick smacks the back of his head and shouts, “Eyes on the road, eyes on the road!” as they nearly side-swipe a Honda coupe by drifting lanes.

Kevin holds up the bottle of curl relaxant Miranda had gotten for him. “This hair stuff,” he says. His head’s dripping with it and it smells really bad and there’s no way this is going to work.

“Oh, wait, wait,” Brendon says, “check my bag, I brought you a present.”

“I’m not wearing a fake mustache,” Kevin says, but he obediently starts digging through Brendon’s messenger bag. His fingers catch on something soft under Brendon’s books, and he pulls out—a stretchy, black headband with WAKE UP written in white across the front, and NINJA around the back. “You want me to wear our own merch?” He’s not exactly sure how this’ll help with his limp, greasy curls, either.

“Exclusive, dude, just for you, ‘cause you totally seem like a headband guy, right? I made Bill a bandana for his Carpe Ninja song, too.”

Kevin kind of gets it. Maybe. He’d written most of Wake Up by himself, with a little help from Patrick, back when they weren’t even really a band yet. He doesn’t understand why Brendon thinks he’s a headband guy, though. “Uh. Thanks?”

“You’ll look like a sweaty rock star,” Brendon says, nodding. “No one’ll recognize your hair.”

Kevin tugs on the sweatband, pulls it down so it flattens the hair on top of his head, wet curls licking up around the bottom, curving over his neck and temples.

Next to him, Patrick isn’t making any sounds at all, but Kevin’s pretty sure he’s laughing at him.

“Shut up,” Kevin says.

“No, right, you’re definitely a headband guy,” Patrick says, grinning. He’s completely dressed and ready, half-mask dangling around his neck, a black newsboy cap on his head.

Kevin rolls his eyes, but he manages to finish changing, tugging on his boots – his really awesome dark brown leather boots, with square toes and wedge heels and fancy tooling down the sides - just as Brendon screeches into the back parking lot of The Cell.

Bill’s hanging out the backdoor, mask askew. He waves at them. “There’s approximately one million people in the audience,” he says when they stumble out of the minivan. “One million and one, if you count Zac.”

“The Cell fits two hundred max,” Patrick says.

Bill swings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him up against his side. “They’re all chanting for you, Trick, particularly this lad in the front with funny hair and too many tattoos. Pete something or other?”

Patrick punches him in the gut. “You’re not funny.”

“He’s got a Marry Me, Trick sign, it’s tragic and hilarious.”

“He does not,” Patrick says, horrified.

Bill hums a few bars of I Wish I Were A (Trick Ninja) while Patrick ducks his head, cheeks flaming.

Brendon bumps a shoulder into Kevin’s and says, “Hey, so, don’t we have a show to do?”

*

Kevin almost has a heart attack when he spots Carden in the crowd. His fingers fumble for a split-second and then Bill arches a concerned eyebrow at him, but everyone goes on, and everyone ignores it when he skips his next set of background vocals because his throat’s dried up – Carden’s staring at him.

Kevin is extremely conscious of the fact that he’s wearing a sweatband around his head, and that his eyes are stinging a little from the relaxant dripping down his face. He takes a deep breath and turns towards Patrick, giving the rest of the club his profile.

Patrick’s singing, tipping his face up towards the mic that’s set up by his kit. His eyes are half-closed and he’s completely oblivious to everything but the music. He’s not letting Wentz - who doesn’t have a sign, Bill was lying, but is still up front and center, arms in the air - distract or embarrass him.

Kevin’s heart stops rattling around erratically in his ribcage, slows down until it echoes the bass line and Kevin can breathe again.

He sees Zac when he swings back around. Zac, completely insane, trying to dance with Lucas and Vanessa but really just jumping up and down, waving his arms and grinning up at Kevin.

Kevin really likes Zac, he’s kind of awesome, but when Kevin closes his eyes, sings, “Go lucky charming, walk home with me,” underneath Patrick, it’s like he can still feel the weight and heat of Carden’s gaze, curious and interested, and he can still pinpoint exactly where he is in the room.

*

“I’m pathetic,” Kevin says.

Brendon’s squished into his side, head on his shoulder. “No, you’re not.”

“For serious,” Kevin says. He slumps down and shifts so his head tips into Brendon’s, rocks his forehead across Brendon’s temple. They’re sitting on the stoop out the backdoor, and Kevin doesn’t know what Brendon thinks they’re doing, but Kevin is definitely hiding. Pathetic.

The air’s cold, almost biting, and his sweaty stage clothes aren’t helping. He shivers, and Brendon presses even closer, threads an arm through his, grabs his knees and tugs their bent legs together. Brendon doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, which is a good thing, since Kevin has absolutely no clue.

Kevin breathes heavily and watches his breath condense into smoke and disappear.

And then the door clangs open behind them and Zac says, “Oh hey, there you are, what the fuck, it’s fucking freezing, you guys are crazy.” He moves in front of Kevin, grinning down at him, hands tucked up into his armpits. “Come on, dudes, inside.”

Kevin bobs his head and climbs to his feet, pulling Brendon with him. “All right, yeah, let’s go.”

*

Right around Christmas, Joe starts looking at him funny, and Kevin breaks down after about two days of it and finally says, “So you figured it out.” He doesn’t elaborate, because he doesn’t want to spill any info just in case Joe hasn’t figured out what Kevin thinks he’s figured out. Maybe he realized Kevin has a massive and embarrassing crush on Carden.

Kevin really hopes that isn’t what he’s figured out, though.

Joe nods very slowly. He says, “I have two Wake Up NINJA shirts.”

“I know.” Kevin had thought it was really funny too, when Joe had excitedly displayed his purchases for him to see two weeks ago. Really, really funny, in a that’s-so-freaking-weird kind of way.

“I can’t believe—how did you manage to hide this?” Joe asks.

Kevin shrugs. It wasn’t all that hard, really. There really isn’t any reason for anyone to suspect – no one would look at him and think, hey, maybe this loser’s in NINJA. If they bothered to look at him at all.

Joe suddenly grins; this wide, almost manic smile. “This is awesome,” he says. “I mean—”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Kevin says. “Dad’ll kill me if he knows I’ve been sneaking out. No one can know about this, Joe.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “What’s the point of being in an awesome band if you can’t tell anyone?” he asks.

Kevin ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not like I’m doing this to be popular or anything.” Sometimes he thinks it would be nice for people at school to know or whatever, but he’s really not—he’s doing this because it’s fun, and because he’s good at it.

Joe punches him in the arm. “You’re seriously an idiot, man.”

“Shut up,” Kevin says, but he’s smiling.

next

NINJA 3/4

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:20:16 GMT

go back

*

JANUARY

*

SAMHELL @ CARPORT
Just about four months after we first spotted Walker lurking around Tenderfoot Junction’s debut, Ross took the stage with pop-punk trio Samhell in what was heralded as a “special guest star” role, taking over lead guitar from Van Vleet on a couple tunes - Reminiscent of Your Eyes Five Days From Now, Behind That Summer, This Is My Small Heart – and layering in rhythm guitar tracks that honestly seemed to add something pretty phenomenal to Try Too Hard To and Downtime Is For Losers. What vocals he leant were mellow enough to emphasize Van Vleet, cozying up to share a mic with Walker - it’s always hard to tell with Ross, but I think I spotted a glimmer, a gleam, if you will, in his eyes. I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say Ross was having fun.

All in all, the music was solid, Samhell fare, something you can jump around and shake your rump to. Despite having sprained the ligaments in his right wrist a week prior, Butcher played the hell out of his drums one-handed. The arrangements were a little different to compensate, but no less awesome - Butcher remains one of the best drummers on the scene, and the short-shorts and bare chest certainly don’t hurt.

Of course, the shocker of the evening came when Walker gave the out-of-the-fucking-blue announcement that he’s leaving Samhell [wtf, jwalk? – bden]. We don’t know what he’s thinking, honestly, since Samhell’s one of the greats in a tri-county area full of marginally-known bands, but we salute you, Jon Walker, and wish you well - my money’s on Tenderfoot Junction magically becoming a duo, but there’s been no word, rumors or otherwise.

And if there are any hard feelings between Van Vleet, Butcher and Walker, they made sure not to show it.

SAMHELL @ CARPORT: JANUARY 9TH 10:00 PM
Set list:
+ Reminiscent of Your Eyes Five Days From Now
+ Try Too Hard To
+ Sometimes I’ll Say Yes
+ Locked Into Wide Open Spaces
+ Behind That Summer
+ This Is My Small Heart
+ A Little Bit Taller
+ Downtime Is For Losers
+ Apply More Pressure
+ Say Goodbye (The Ice Cream Sandwich Song)

too hip to be square
- rand @ emc

*

Kevin actually has no idea what Spencer and Brendon are doing. Or, really, Kevin’s pretty clear on what Spencer’s doing – Spencer isn’t exactly the open book Brendon normally is, but he’s pretty much got hearteyes for Brendon; it isn’t hard to guess his intentions. It’s Brendon Kevin’s clueless about.

It snows early in the month, and Kevin’s a big fan of snow.

Brendon is too, for approximately the first twenty-four hours, but then he starts whining about being too cold, and snuggles up on anything with a pulse. Currently, Kevin has Brendon practically in his lap. Spencer is sending him dirty looks across the basement.

“Maybe you should go warm yourself with Spencer, Bren,” Kevin says.

Brendon tugs on Kevin’s arm until he obligingly drapes it across his back, and Brendon squirms closer into his side. “Why?”

It’s impossible that Brendon hasn’t noticed how Spencer feels about him. Brendon’s sort of flaky, but he’s never been this completely oblivious. He pokes at Brendon’s stomach. “No, really, I think he’s trying to kill me with his brain.”

Brendon pulls back, glances quickly over at Spencer, then shrugs – tightly. He purses his lips and tenses up, and Kevin thinks it’s the weirdest reaction ever, considering the fact that Kevin knows Brendon thinks Spencer’s awesome; he tells Kevin that all the time.

“You think he’s awesome,” Kevin says, and he’s grinning, but Brendon just tenses up even further and shifts away from Kevin and stares at his hands.

“Whatever,” Brendon says.

Bill, who’s been blatantly listening in, leans over the back of the couch and flicks Brendon on the side of the neck. “Wee Brendon here is still under the delusion that he’s straight, Jonas, and not completely in love with a boy.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, and Brendon doesn’t say anything, and then Bill flounces off with a huff, and Brendon doesn’t say anything some more.

“So,” Kevin says finally, drawing out the word.

“We’re friends,” Brendon says. “He’s just really cool, and we’re friends.”

Kevin nods. He’s not sure if Brendon really believes that or not, and he’s not sure which of those would bring Brendon the most grief. All joking protests aside, there’s no way Brendon thinks he’s actually straight anymore, not after—not after hooking up with Lucas last week, on top of the hundred and one boys he’s already kissed.

Kevin’s got his own messed-up boy issues, though, so he’s not going to badger Brendon about his.

*

Kevin’s really getting the hang of performing live. He wasn’t expecting to, but he loves the stage, he loves the attention, he loves getting to play awesome music that he helped create – and he loves that people actually love it, too. That they have fans. Fans who know all the words to their songs, that sing along and want to hug him and tell him how awesome he is.

The half-mask he has to wear itches, particularly after shows when he’s a complete and sweaty mess, but it’s worth it.

“Hey.”

There’s a hand low on his back, but Kevin doesn’t jump until he turns around. Because then he sees Carden. Carden, who’s standing really close and who’s looking at him with narrowed eyes, but doesn’t seem to realize who he really is. Which makes Kevin feel slightly disappointed and also super lame for feeling slightly disappointed.

Kevin takes a little sidestep and dislodges Carden’s hand. “Um.” Would he recognize his voice? “Hi.”

A not entirely uncomfortable silence draws out between them, and then Carden says, “You’re pretty good.”

Kevin knows he’s pretty good, but the compliment still makes his insides flutter, and he doesn’t realize Carden’s leaning in towards him until he slides a hand up his arm, their hips bumping together.

“What are you—?” He cuts off when Carden’s fingers skim over his cheek, sliding under his mask and rub a little, back and forth. It makes Kevin freezes up.

“This has gotta be uncomfortable,” Carden says, smirking.

Kevin licks his lips. “It’s fine.” His skin is tingling and Carden has calluses and Kevin has a boyfriend.

A boyfriend who is not there.

And Kevin’s a really horrible person, because he lets Carden slip in a little closer, and if Bill hadn’t chosen that moment to curl up next to him and push a slick, cool glass of soda into his hands, he doesn’t know what would have happened. He isn’t exactly sure what Carden had wanted, so.

Bill says, “Oh, this can’t be good,” and Carden holds up his hands, palms out, still smirking.

Carden says, “Sorry,” and Bill says, “You so are not,” but his voice is smiling.

It’s almost as though Carden knows who Bill is. They’re friends; Kevin thinks they hang out a lot. But Kevin really hopes Bill hasn’t come out and told Carden who they are. He doesn’t ask, though, because he kind of doesn’t want to know for sure.

*

During school hours, Bill has given up his sleek, bohemian chic, his emo black, for button-downs and carpenter pants. He sticks his pockets full of paint brushes and pens and wears a white cap with a feather in it, and Kevin has no idea why.

He’s got paint all over him when he wanders into Kevin’s house after school, so Kevin figures he forgot to wear his smock again.

“I’m working on my amazing and fantastic lunchroom mural, Kevin,” Bill says, “it’s all jungle cats and giant insects and sharks.”

Kevin says, “Didn’t Mr. Timberlake say you had to use our mascot?”

“Pfft.” Bill waves a hand. “Sheep are boring.”

Kevin has to agree. Sheep are adorable and fluffy, but they’re kind of boring as far as mascots go – he’s not sure how it’s possible that their football team is so awesome, since they have to put up with all the Fighting Sheep cheers.

“Now, tell me,” Bill says, hitching himself up on a stool at the kitchen island, “while we’re alone—”

“We’re not alone,” Kevin says. He glances pointedly at Bonus.

Bonus is quietly eating a Fruit Rollup – well, he’s kind of eating it; he’s sticking the cut-out pieces all over his face – sitting on the counter by the sink. He bangs his heels on the cabinet below him and grins at them.

“Frankie doesn’t count, do you, Frankie?” Bill asks.

“I’m not a real person yet,” Bonus says obediently, nodding, and it’s something Bill tells him all the time; luckily Bonus hasn’t repeated that to their dad yet.

“Anyway,” Bill says, threading his fingers together in front of him. “Anyway, fill me in, how’s our wonderful Mr. Efron?”

“Fine,” Kevin says. It’s not like Kevin doesn’t want to talk about this in front of Bonus, it’s just that he doesn’t want to talk about this at all.

Bill bobs his head. “Uh huh, I see. You’re going to have to be more specific, though, or I’ll be forced to embarrass you in public by bringing this up with Zac.”

“Um.”

“Spill, Jonas,” Bill says. He leans forward, grinning. “You, my friend, have an unsatisfied air about you.”

“I really—this is really inappropriate, Bill,” Kevin says.

“Of course it is. Of course.” Bill eyes him speculatively. “You should really say something to him, though.”

“Bill.” Kevin rubs a hand over his forehead. He knows he should talk to Zac about it, but he’s sixteen – it’s not a big deal, they’re not going to get married or anything, they’re just having fun. It’s no grand love affair, but he wasn’t expecting it to be.

“Between you and Brendon.” Bill shakes his head, feather flopping over his left ear. “I truly don’t know how I ended up with such wretchedly stubborn and delusional friends.”

“Who’s delusional?” Miranda says, walking into the kitchen and dropping her school bag by Bill’s feet.

“Kevin. And Brendon. And Patrick too, come to think of it.” Bill presses a finger to his lips, expression thoughtful. “You and me, Rand, we’re the best of us.”

“Well, yeah,” Miranda says. She’s grinning at Kevin, though, chin hooked over Bill’s shoulder.

Kevin rolls his eyes.

“So are we going to work on our lit papers? Because ZFF’s on tonight, and we still have to write up a post on ASL, and Wentz actually talked to Patrick today, so we don’t want to miss that fallout,” Miranda says. “I think there was special touching, Patrick was bright red all through math. It was kind of amazing.”

“This is what I love about you,” Bill says. “We can tease Patrick together. It’ll be like a real date, we can even hold hands.”

Miranda says, “Exactly what I always wanted,” and Kevin’s not sure if she’s joking or not.

*

AMERICAN SWIMMING LESSONS @ THE CELL
One of our very favorites, the duo American Swimming Lessons finally took the stage Thursday night after a yearlong hiatus. We never realized how much we actually missed Gomez and Ritter’s special brand of folksy-pop until they brushed off their guitar and bass, their keyboard, their shakers, and wowed the crowd with a new number they called Next Time You Need To Run. I still don’t exactly get how they do it – how they manage to balance all their instruments with only four, supposedly-human hands – but all that just adds to the amazing.

Mixed in with their shiny new songs, definitely worth the almost-forever wait – breakup rumors started last spring and held on tight all through the summer - were some old favorites: Sometimes People Have Issues, Re-Quest, I Lit A Fire Fire Fire.

Selena Gomez was as cheeky (and gorgeous) as ever, and Tyson Ritter looked like he needed a couple more hours sleep, but you can’t deny their chemistry. Let’s hope they never sleep together; we all remember the fallout after the Cyrus fiasco [oh, that’s just gross – k2; we know you hate miley, rand, stop spreading nasty but hilarious incest rumors – billiam; I want to rip out her whiny little larynx, but other than that, we’re totally cool - rand].

ASL wrapped up the night with a quick and dirty a cappella round they taught the crowd, splitting the room down the middle – and you can’t shake the feeling, there’ll be too much time to say no, say yes – the words sweet and eerie. An odd, but not entirely low note to end on.

AMERICAN SWIMMING LESSONS @ THE CELL: JANUARY 21ST 10:00 PM
Set list:
+ Next Time You Need To Run
+ Sometimes People Have Issues
+ Re-Quest
+ At The Sound
+ Jingle
+ Whatever That Says About Me
+ I Lit A Fire Fire Fire
+ Old World Stories
+ Then Last Year Ended
+ Get Tired
+ For You (Or Not You)
+ Can’t Shake The Feeling

- rand @ emc

*

“The problem with ZFF,” Bill says, staring at the stage with what Kevin thinks is fascinated horror, “is that they’re like Menudo, only with a markedly less melodious sound.”

“I don’t think they kicked Crawford out for being too old,” Patrick says. He doesn’t seem completely convinced of his words, though. “Or Wheeler, either.”

“Or Lyn-Z,” Miranda says. She chews absently on her stirrer straw, then twirls it around in the air, flicking sticky drops of rum and Coke over the bar. “Hey, wasn’t Gerard in this once?”

“I think Gerard was a founding member, back when they were actually, you know, good,” Bill says.

“They’re not that bad. They’re just kinda, um, loud?” Brendon sticks a finger in his ear and winces when Musso hits a high, incomprehensible note.

He’s not a bad singer – though his older brother’s better, and Kevin’s pretty sure Mason had been in this band once upon a time, too - it’s just that everything’s really, really loud, and the kid they replaced Crawford with kind of has no idea what she’s doing.

“I don’t remember them being this terrible before,” Miranda says.

“Crawford,” Patrick says.

“Yeah.” Kevin nods; Crawford made up for a lot of the mediocre music ZFF has been churning out over the years. “And I don’t think Osment and the drummer are actually playing the same song.”

Miranda cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “You may be right about that.”

“I need to be much drunker for this,” Bill says. He downs his drink and rattles the ice in his glass. “Much, much drunker. Who’s with me?”

Ryland Blackinton’s evil magic aside, Kevin really, honestly doesn’t drink that much. “I want something sweet,” he says. If he has to sit through another hour of this, he needs something that’ll muffle all the sound to his brain.

The problem with ZFF, Kevin thinks, is that they’re one of the oldest names around. They’ve got a tried and true fan base, and instead of being put off by the rotating members, most of them tend to think it’s cool – or maybe just reliable. Other bands split up, dissolve, disband, but ZFF just keeps on chugging along – the tides turn, the earth spins, animals die, trends fade, but ZFF is always there, whether you want it to be or not.

So the crowd’s not huge, but it’s respectably-sized and raucous, and it takes five minutes for Bill to flag down the bartender.

Kevin ends up sharing a couple somethings that are fizzy and fruity with Brendon, and spends the rest of the night leaning into Bill. He thinks, this is my life, and there are moments when he’s sort of in love with it.

*

On Saturday, Kevin crawls out of bed sometime after noon, and then he lays sprawled on the floor, still exhausted, thinking that he’d probably feel more rested if he’d woken up at eight instead of sleeping in. There’s a muted thump in his head, not quite a headache, something that’ll probably disappear after he chugs a big glass of water.

Eventually, he pulls himself up and drags his body into the bathroom – the house is quiet, he thinks everyone is out until he stumbles across Nick in the living room. Nick just pauses his video game and arches an eyebrow at him.

“I’m going over to Bill’s,” Kevin says.

Nick’s eyebrow goes higher. “In that?”

Kevin shrugs and scratches the strip of belly exposed by his slightly shrunken sleep shirt and downward slide of his pajama bottoms, the elastic at the waist stretched from too many washings. Bill’s seen him in worse than his pajamas, and Bill’s house most likely has Bill’s dad, and Bill’s dad makes really good pancakes. Plus, Bill’s dad loves him. He thinks Kevin’s a good influence.

It isn’t until Kevin’s halfway down Bill’s basement steps that he remembers something about Bill working on a history project that afternoon, and it isn’t until he hits the bottom that he remembers who Bill’s history project partner is. Wonderful.

Kevin isn’t all that great at pretending, but he tries really hard to act like he isn’t wearing a tumbling kitten motif on his lower half. He crosses his arms over his LIFE AFTER NINJA t-shirt and says, “Um. Hi.”

Bill smirks. “Jonas.”

Carden gives him a bland look from where he’s lounging – that’s the exact word for it, lounging, like a big careless cat or a deceptively sleepy bear or something – on the couch, a text book open on his lap. He says, “Nice pants.”

Kevin feels his cheeks flush. “Thanks,” he says, because he’s polite, even though he knows Carden’s making fun of him. He fidgets, not sure what to do, and it sucks, because this is his turf, this is where he’s comfortable, and Carden’s making him squirm, making him feel awkward and intrusive.

Annoyed with himself, Kevin huffs out a breath, ignores Bill’s amused eyebrow waggles, and drops down onto the couch. Next to Carden. And he’s totally fine about it. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m interrupting.”

“We can take a break,” Bill says.

“For lunch?” Kevin asks brightly. His stomach feels hollowed out and fluttery. Because he’s starving, and not because Carden’s shifted so his knee’s folded up, resting a hairsbreadth away from Kevin’s thigh.

Bill taps his pen on his chin. “Linner, maybe. Lupper?”

Kevin can sense Carden’s hard gaze on the side of his face, but he refuses to look away from Bill. “I don’t care what you call it if I can have some of your dad’s pancakes.”

“Well, I’ll just go see if he’s willing,” Bill says, and he winks at him and flounces over to the stairs before Kevin can yell, wait, stop! and, don’t leave me alone with Carden! Which is probably a good thing, if only because Kevin doesn’t actually make a fool out of himself by begging Bill to take him with him.

Kevin stares fixedly at the orange tabby on his knee. His fingers twitch a little where they’re resting over a red ball of yarn.

Carden continues to not say anything to him, working on a truly impressive scowl. Kevin can feel it heating the side of his face.

When Bill stomps back down the steps, Kevin gives him a strained grin and Bill darts his gaze back and forth between him and Carden. “I suppose I shouldn’t have even bothered,” Bill says, exasperated.

Kevin says, “What?” and Carden says, “Shut the fuck up,” and kicks at Bill’s ankles when he strolls past and collapses back onto his armchair.

“No, seriously, this is getting ridiculous,” Bill says, then flicks his fingers at Kevin and says, “Dad’s not home.”

“Right.” Kevin nods. “I’ll just, uh,” he gets to his feet, hitches his pj bottoms up from where they’ve slipped down over his hips, “get out of your way then.”

*

FEBRUARY

*

“Valentine’s Day is lame,” Brendon says.

Patrick says, “Amen,” and holds up a fist for Brendon to bump, but Miranda frowns and says, “You don’t mean that.”

“It is,” Brendon insists.

Miranda shakes her head. “Seriously, any holiday where you get candy? There’s no way you think that’s lame.”

“Love is lame,” Brendon says. He slumps down on the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. “And any holiday about love needs to take a shot to the gut and be buried six feet under. And then danced on. By a man-goat.”

Kevin sighs. Brendon’s been like this ever since Spencer started hanging out with Haley. Haley’s kind of really pretty and sweet, but Kevin doesn’t think it means anything – Haley’s in Spencer’s Spanish class, despite being in a grade below them, and they usually spend half the lunch period talking in badly accented Spanish and giggling.

“You’re depressing me, Urie,” Bill says from his sprawl on the floor. “Rand, darling, you should sacrifice yourself for my good cheer. Be my Valentine?”

Miranda chucks a pick at him, but then she grins and says, “Let’s go ice skating. I’ll buy you hot chocolate, and we’ll Eskimo kiss in front of the snack bar.”

“Fav-or-ite,” Bill sing-songs.

Patrick makes a growly sound, hunched over a guitar.

“Oh, you’re just grumpy because Pete’s wooing Ashlee this week. And speaking of wooing.” Bill shifts up onto his elbows and arches an eyebrow at Kevin. “Three rose requests came across my desk for you, Jonas.”

Kevin blinks. “Three?” Kevin never even gets one.

“I thought I’d warn you,” Bill says. “You’ll turn atomic in embarrassment anyway, but at least you’ll be somewhat prepared.”

For two dollars, anyone at Randolph High can buy any other student a rose, to be given out on Valentine’s Day – or what passes for Valentine’s Day when the actual day falls on a weekend. Kevin has no idea who at school would give him roses, not unless Zac got someone to buy them for him by proxy. But Zac really isn’t a buying flowers kind of guy. They really don’t even have any Valentine’s Day plans; Kevin’s just going to go watch Larry Says Hi play. He promised Joe he’d sneak him into Bootstrap. So, basically, Kevin’s spending the night with his brother. And probably, the way things are looking, Patrick and Brendon, too. It’s not a big deal.

“What do the notes say?” Kevin asks.

“I can’t tell you that,” Bill says, mock-aghast. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

*

It’s raining.

It’s raining and it’s cold, the end of Kevin’s nose is numb, and for some reason Kevin had thought it was an awesome day to take his bike to school. Of course, it had been crisp and refreshing out that morning. It’s the rain, basically, that ruined everything.

And now he has kittens.

Kevin has three kittens and he has no idea what to do with them, but he can’t really just leave them there. They’re tiny and gummy-eyed and soaking wet, and Kevin’s just trying to figure out how to stuff them all down his shirt and keep them there while biking home.

He’s sitting by the equipment shed off the side of the soccer field; he figures his jeans were already a lost cause, the wet grass isn’t going to hurt them. The kittens, two orange tabbies and a calico, are a squirming, mewling mass on his lap. He’s hunched over a little. There’s an overhang, but it’s not big enough to keep the water from dripping off onto his head. Kevin is fully expecting to get sick from this.

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Kevin jerks his head up. Carden is looming above him, half under the overhang. He’s got an army jacket on, rain beading up on the canvas. Carden’s fingers are pinching a cigarette, hand half curled over the tip to keep it dry.

Carden stares down at him. He shifts a little, gaze dropping to the kittens in Kevin’s lap, then he rolls his eyes. He flicks his cigarette out into the rain and grabs the handlebars of Kevin’s bike from where it’s leaning up against the side of the shed. “Come on,” he says, and then he starts off across the field without looking back.

“Uh.” Kevin scrambles to his feet, juggling the kittens. Two of them have fallen asleep, lumped together. The third paws at his sweatshirt, and its mouth opens in a soundless, pathetic meow. “Yeah, I know,” he whispers, then follows Carden up into the parking lot. He at least needs to get his bike back.

When he gets to Carden’s car, though – an old, beat-up Bronco – Carden’s already trying to stuff his bike in the backseat.

“It, uh—there’s a lever to make it fold up,” Kevin says.

Carden gives a noncommittal grunt, but he steps back and lets Kevin move forward – and Kevin drops the squirmy, awake kitten in Carden’s hands on his way past, and when he turns back around again, Carden’s sort of—grinning down at it, and Kevin’s heart hitches, then starts pounding. It’s almost painful, being this breathless, but Carden is grinning at a kitten, and Kevin’s pretty sure he’s never seen that look on Carden’s face before.

Kevin takes the kitten back and Carden gets his bike into the truck, and then Kevin’s sitting in Carden’s passenger seat and he has no idea what to say.

Carden isn’t helping. He just turns the heat up to high and taps his fingers in time with the radio.

He thinks it’s weird that Carden doesn’t ask for directions, but then he remembers that Carden knows he lives next to Bill, and then he panics, because he suddenly realizes there is no way his parents are going to let him keep three kittens. Darn it.

Carden slants him a glance. “I can hear you freaking out, Jonas,” he says.

Kevin breathes and thinks, okay, and thinks he can get Bill to take one, because Bill’s a pushover for tiny, fuzzy animals, and if he gives one to Bonus, his mom’ll totally give in, and then he ends up saying, “Do you want one?”

Carden doesn’t say anything.

He pulls up in front of Kevin’s house ten minutes later. He twists so he’s looking steadily at Kevin, one hand draped over the steering wheel.

Kevin says, “I’ll just, uh,” and pops the door open, leaving the kittens on the seat as he struggles to get his bike out of the back. He pushes it into the garage, then hustles back to the idling Bronco, and when he ducks back inside again, the two orange tabbies are blinking sleepily at him, leaning into each other. He can see just the tips of the calico’s ears in between Carden’s legs.

Kevin bites his lower lip. “Um.” He scoops up the two remaining kittens. “Thanks? For the ride.”

The continued silent stare makes a weird mixture of terror and want pool low in his belly, and Kevin hastily scrambles back out onto the sidewalk and shuts the door.

*

Bill calls his kitten Steve.

“Steve is clearly the smartest kitty to ever be a kitty,” Bill says. He kisses the top of Steve’s head and then snuggles him into the corner of the couch before picking up his laptop. “Now,” he says. “Puppies And Kittens, yay or nay?”

Miranda sticks her tongue out and waggles a thumbs-down.

“I don’t know, I kind of thought they were amazing,” Brendon says.

Patrick opens his mouth, but Bill cuts him off with, “We all know what you think, Stump, which is why you’re not allowed to write this review.”

“I liked them,” Kevin says. Kevin usually really enjoys Puppies And Kittens. They’re pop-y and fun, no matter what Miranda says.

Miranda says, “No, for real, it’s like I dropped acid and ended up at a Glenn Miller concert,” and Patrick turns fuchsia, mouth pinched. The skin under his eyebrows is a contrasting bright white.

Kevin’s never actually sure if Miranda hates Puppies And Kittens that much, or if she just enjoys seeing Patrick lose his temper. He accidentally punched Bill out once. Bill had gone down like a broken doll - they all probably shouldn’t have found it as funny as they had, but Bill’d barely been unconscious, and the stunned look on Patrick’s face had been priceless.

“You know what I enjoy?” Bill says. He’s got his hands resting nonchalantly one over the other on his stomach, but his eyes are sharply teasing, zeroed in on Miranda. “I greatly enjoy Miss Maja’s legs. They’re the main appeal of PAK, don’t you agree, Kev?”

Miranda’s making unhappy faces at Bill.

Kevin wisely says, “No comment.” He’s staying out of this one. He really doesn’t get why everyone always insists on sticking him in the middle of their fights and arguments. It’s really unfair.

Bill leans forward, bent over his laptop, and starts typing - exaggeratedly, with two fingers – and narrates, “While my sweet, delicious Rand calls them lame—”

Miranda throws an empty can of Coke at Bill’s head.

*

PUPPIES AND KITTENS @ BROWNIES 10TH AND MARKET
While my sweet, delicious Rand calls them lame and pretentious, the self-proclaimed ‘music collective’ [music collective my ass, they’re like if Chicago ever decided to become a shitty Who cover band - rand] known as Puppies And Kittens played to a packed house last night - they had to turn late-comers away, and crowds were lingering in the parking lot, listening in through the open doors.

Boasting an impressive brass section, a classically trained pianist, and front woman Maja Ivarsson - best known for her work in the late, great hardcore band, Greyskull - Puppies And Kittens has pizzazz, flare, and, okay, so the British Invasion influence is readily noticeable - Chad & Jeremy, The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, The Who. It’s garage rock, early punk, only with a trumpet, trombone and sax. It probably shouldn’t work. According to Rand, it doesn’t.

Trick can talk your face off about the beautiful melding of progressive rock and 60’s punk, about how they’re innovative geniuses, and that Claustrophobia is one of the best songs of any kind out there today - I suspect he just has a stunning crush on guitarist Cassadee Pope [I don’t even know why we’re friends - trick].

You can’t deny they know how to entertain, though. Keep up those high kicks, Maja. Keep ‘em up.

PUPPIES AND KITTENS @ BROWNIES 10TH AND MARKET: FEBRUARY 5TH 9:30PM
set list:
+ Looking Glass
+ Forgiven
+ Claustrophobia
+ 10
+ Red Zone
+ Glad To Be
+ Can’t Change A Dollar
+ Snapped Bones
+ You Call This
+ Aching Underneath

billiam @ emc

*

Disaster strikes in the form of student teacher Gabe Saporta.

Or, okay, not actual disaster, since Saporta just stares at them a little weirdly and grins wide, creepily-knowing grins. And it’s Mr. Timberlake’s sci-fi lit class, so it’s not like anyone pays attention. He just makes them watch B horror movies while he locks himself in the Randolph High Rag room with Mr. Samberg and that really weird French teacher, Hader.

“I think he’ll keep his mouth shut about it,” Miranda says in a hush. They’ve got their desks pushed together in the back of the room. The lights are off, they’re watching Rocket Attack, USA, and Saporta’s a dark outline, white teeth gleaming from the black and white screen, sneakers propped up on Mr. Timberlake’s desk.

It makes Kevin nervous, but he thinks Miranda’s right. Saporta’s kind of crazy and sadistic, but he’s respectful. In his own weird way, anyway.

That isn’t to say Kevin’s all that surprised when Saporta pulls him aside after class and says, “Someday, I will ask you for a great favor. And you will grant me this favor, young Jonas, for being so very awesome in this moment, right now.”

Kevin nods. “Uh huh, okay.”

*

Kevin usually doesn’t mind Valentine’s Day, but that’s because he’s never part of the madness that is the Student Council rose fundraiser. Mainly, it’s just Bill skipping through the halls with baskets of flowers all day, humming My Funny Valentine. That’s something Kevin has always enjoyed watching.

Not this year.

Apparently, for an extra five dollars, you get serenaded.

By the time Bill and his Student Council cronies catch up with him, Kevin’s in Mr. Timberlake’s sci-fi lit class. Kevin figures this is karmic retribution for something he’s done in another life. Like maybe he ate babies or assembled a robot army to take over the world. Something horrible enough to deserve Bill, Wentz and Siska singing Air Supply to him while Saporta claps his hands with glee in the background. Bill’s the only one who can carry a tune, and Kevin’s bright red by the time they’re done, he’s hiding half under his desk.

And then the roses come, and then they’re moving on, thank god, because apparently someone paid them to sing Too Close to Keltie, so. Some of the weighty embarrassment is shifting off Kevin there, and moving towards the front of the room. Wentz even does some grinding. The teachers should probably stop them, but Samberg, Timberlake and Hader are peeking around the doorjamb of the Rag room and giggling.

Miranda has one rose. “From Bill,” she says, cheeks pink.

Two of Kevin’s are from SA, and one is completely blank. “Who’s SA?” he says.

Miranda gives him a bland look. “Secret Admirer,” she says. “Duh.”

There’s applause as Wentz, Bill and Siska finish up, giving out the last of their flowers. Bill ruffles Kevin’s hair as he sweeps past him again and blows a kiss at Miranda.

Miranda’s face gets even redder, and Kevin eyes her curiously. “What’s going on with you two?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says. She’s smiling, though. A dreamy kind of smile, and Kevin is mildly horrified. They’d made a pact. A pact about Bill, and how Bill’s the sort of guy you love, but not love - and Miranda had been the one to point out how having a crush on Bill was fruitless and dumb, and they’d pinky sworn never to get into that mess again. Granted, it helps that Miranda’s a girl. Kevin figures that was one of the bigger stumbling blocks for him back in freshman year.

“Really?” Kevin says.

Miranda tucks the stem of her rose into her copy of Death Rat. “Really, what?” Her innocent tone is a little too innocent. She knows exactly what.

Kevin stares at her.

She makes faces back at him until he cracks up, because Miranda is so ridiculous sometimes. He laughs and drops his head into his hands and then Miranda tips her forehead onto his shoulder and sighs.

He slumps down more in his seat so he can whisper, “You’re spending Valentine’s Day with him.”

“I know.”

“Bill’s a bad idea.” Bill is one of his best friends, but he’s a definite bad idea.

“I know,” she says. “He named his kitten Steve. He gave me a fake mustache.” She waves a hand around. “He made out with Lovato at the ASL show, then told me I looked like a sexy version of Courtney Cox.”

Kevin doesn’t really know what any of that means, in the grand scheme of Bill and Miranda. He nods, though, and says, “Just be careful.”

*

Patrick is a tense ball of sullenness. He didn’t even bother with contacts – he’s got clunky back frames on and the same trucker hat he wore to school. Patrick is always really conscious of his NINJA persona - of keeping the nighttime version of himself separate from Patrick Stump, High School Student - so Kevin’s kind of at a loss.

Joe’s bopping around excitedly next to them, but he freezes when Kevin feels a pair of familiar arms wrap around his waist.

“Uh,” Joe says.

“Hey there, handsome friend,” Zac says. He digs his chin into Kevin’s shoulder, then waves to Joe and Patrick. “Handsome friend’s handsome friends.”

Kevin bites his lip. He sort of forgot about this, and how Joe doesn’t exactly know about his whole dating Zac of Larry Says Hi thing. “Zac,” he says. “This is my brother, Joe.”

“Family!” Zac says. He lets go of Kevin and holds a fist out for Joe to bump. “All right, dude.”

Joe looks a little bemused, but he says, “Hey.”

“I’m glad you guys came,” Zac says, slinging an arm across Kevin’s shoulders. He tugs him in close and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I gotta go help set up, but we’ll hang after, okay?”

“Yeah,” Kevin says, and ducks his head a little to avoid Joe’s stare as Zac bounces away.

“You and Efron,” Joe says after a long, thoughtful pause.

“Yep.” Kevin nods.

Patrick rolls his eyes and says, “Can we get drunk already?” which is kind of very un-Patrick-like. Patrick drinks, but he’s never as single-minded as Bill is about it.

“So are you, like, having a bad day?” Joe says before Kevin can stop him, because, oh my god, you don’t just come out and say stuff like that to Patrick.

Patrick scowls at Joe. “No.”

Joe screws his face up and leans towards Kevin and stage-whispers, “Seriously, Patrick’s so having a bad day.”

“And you’ll be having my foot up your ass if you don’t shut up,” Patrick says, but then he just huffs out an irritated breath and says, “I’m going to find Brendon,” and stalks away.

Kevin is pretty sure Patrick’s bad mood has to do with Wentz, and the fact that Patrick didn’t get any roses at school. He could be wrong, it’s not like Patrick’s ever welcomed Wentz’s advances before, but he doesn’t think so.

Joe looks at him with a funny smile on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging. “It’s just that—it’s like you’re secretly awesome, right? Zac Efron?”

Kevin has always thought that Joe thought he was a gigantic loser dork. Joe’s the cool and popular one and Nick’s the level-headed, self-confident one and Bonus rounds them out by being super badass awesome, even when he colors all his fingers with magic markers or glues his socks to the basement wall. Kevin never thought Joe would admire him – he’d figured the accidental hero-worship would fade once Joe knew he was K2 of NINJA.

It’s nice. He’s the big brother – it’s nice to actually feel like one for once.

*

LARRY SAYS HI @ BOOTSTRAP TEN
While we’re inclined to like Larry Says Hi simply because of the hot ass that is lead singer Zac Efron, there’s no better band to spend the holiday of love with. Sappy to the core, the power-pop they usually churn out is good enough to warm even Trick’s bitter soul [fuck. you. – trick].

Full of pep and verve, Larry Says Hi bucked convention and spent the hour and a half they were on stage this past Valentine’s Day taking requests from the crowd, never skipping a number, even if it meant making up half the lyrics. Hudgens stepped forward to take on Love Stinks, Grabeel and Efron managed to mangle Let’s Get It On – much to Trick’s horror [there’s no excuse for not knowing that one – trick] - and even Tisdale bent a mic over her kit to try her hand at Puddle of Mudd’s Control. One word for that: masterful.

Of course, Grabeel clung to Bleu like a limpet for half the set – which this fella is not bitter about at all, folks, no sir. I even got my hands down K2 Junior’s pants [seriously, bden, :( – k2]. Love was totally in the air.

LARRY SAYS HI @ BOOTSTRAP TEN: FEBRUARY 14TH 10:00 PM
Set list:
+ Love Is A Battlefield (pat benatar)
+ Love Will Tear Us Apart (joy division)
+ Love Stinks (the j. geils band)
+ I Don’t Want To Be In Love (good charlotte)
+ Let’s Get It On (marvin gaye)
+ I Don’t Wanna Think About You (simple plan)
+ Control (puddle of mudd)
+ Don’t You Want Me (the human league)
+ Supermassive Black Hole (muse)
+ You Oughta Know (alanis morissette)
+ Escape (The Pina Colada Song) (rupert holmes)

- bden @ emc

*

MARCH

*

Jesse Lacey has very obviously lost his mind. He’s completely unhinged. There’s no other explanation for it.

“Um. What?” Kevin is not entirely sure he heard him correctly.

“Yes or no, Jonas, do you want to go to the prom with me?” Lacey is frowning, one hand on his hip, fingers jittering, the other curled into the strap of his messenger bag.

It’s like one big mental disconnect.

“I.” Kevin hugs his books to his chest defensively. “I don’t think so,” he says.

Lacey narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw. “Right,” he says, and then he shoves Kevin backwards.

Kevin stumbles over a half-deflated volleyball, bangs up against a rack of basketballs before losing his footing over a battered catcher’s mitt and dropping down on the floor of the athletic supply closet. Lacey gives him a tight, evil smile before slamming the door shut. Kevin has a really horrible feeling – mainly from the, “Go to hell, Jonas,” Lacey shouts through the thick wood - that it locks automatically.

He struggles to his feet, kicks his books aside and isn’t surprised when the door won’t open. Great.

His cell has one tiny bar, but he manages to send off a text to Bill. It says, trapped in ball closet, send help pls

Bill doesn’t even ask. He just texts back, hold on, bb, and Kevin settles back down on the floor to wait.

He figures it’ll be a while, since Bill’s still working industriously on his lunchroom mural – he’s adding dinosaurs now, velociraptors with huge claws and crazy eyes, and Mr. Timberlake keeps signing off on all his revisions, so Kevin’s pretty sure the vodka rumors about him and Samberg and Hader are true; it’d also explain those Laser Cat videos going around YouTube – so he jerks a little when the door rattles only five minutes later. It could be Lacey, coming back to yell at him some more.

It isn’t Lacey, but it isn’t Bill, either.

Carden leans a shoulder up against the doorjamb and says, “Huh.”

Kevin tries for a smile and slowly gathers up his books. “Um.” Carden has never been mean to him – the exact opposite, in fact, even if he always acts like it’s physically paining him to help Kevin out – but Kevin’s extremely conscious of his crush, here in this small, hot, stuffy room, so he thinks it’s best if he uses caution in all his movements. He doesn’t want to end up stumbling into Carden or something. He doesn’t know what would happen then, but it probably wouldn’t be good.

“I thought Bill was joking,” Carden says.

Kevin very carefully gets to his feet and dusts off his jeans. “Nope.”

Carden arches an eyebrow. “Want to tell me what happened?”

That surprises Kevin, trips him up a little. He blinks. “Not really?”

“Wrong answer,” Carden says. He says it lightly, but he’s also blocking Kevin’s way out of the closet, and Kevin doesn’t think he’s going to move until he gets what he wants.

Kevin swallows hard and curls a hand over his shirt collar, absently scratching the hollow of his throat. He says, “It’s nothing. Lacey, uh, just doesn’t like hearing no, I guess.”

Something scary flickers in Carden’s eyes and he says tensely, “What did he want you to do?”

Kevin feels like maybe they aren’t on the same page here. The I-will-fuck-someone-up tone of his voice is pretty thrilling, though.

“Prom,” Kevin says.

“Prom,” Carden echoes incredulously. “He. He asked you to the prom? Lacey?”

Kevin nods.

“That’s fucked up,” Carden says.

Kevin doesn’t necessarily disagree, but he can’t help being a little insulted. So he got asked to the prom – it’s not unheard of. He’s not completely unappealing, he doesn’t think; he’s just sort of unnoticeable. That doesn’t mean someone asking him to prom is, like, ridiculous or anything.

“Yeah,” Kevin says stiffly. He clutches his books and stands in front of Carden, waiting for him to move.

Carden crosses his arms, eyes narrowed, and says, “What?”

“What?”

“You’re pissed.”

“No, I’m not,” Kevin counters automatically, even though, yeah, he’s upset. Obviously.

“You are.” A sneaky smile blooms across Carden’s face. “You’re totally pissed.” Carden seems especially gleeful about that.

Kevin says, “I’m not pissed.” He almost stamps his foot. It’s a close call. “Can I leave now?”

Carden steps aside, sweeping a hand. “Sure thing, kid,” he says, still blatantly amused, and it’s weird, seeing an actual animated expression on his face, something that isn’t bored or irritated.

“Thanks,” Kevin says. He can hear Carden chuckling behind him as he stalks off down the hall.

*

“I think I’m going to ask Audrey to prom,” Brendon says, pushing sweaty hair off his forehead. They’ve just finished practicing Hey Sunshine.

Kevin presses his lips together and carefully doesn’t look at Miranda. He can see her making faces out of the corner of his eye.

Bill huffs out a breath, unfolds himself from where he’s been perched on Kevin’s amp, and grabs hold of Brendon’s arms. “Listen to me,” he says firmly, bending down so their noses touch. “Girls completely frighten you. Girls are pretty and soft, so this baffles me about you, but you’re utterly and totally uncomfortable around any girl except for Miranda. You are gay.” Bill shakes him a little, and Brendon’s eyes go wide. “You are incredibly, hugely gay, and you’re in love with Spencer. Just go with it, Urie.”

“I’m.” Brendon open and closes his mouth, then says, “What?”

“Gay.”

Brendon shakes his head. “No, I’m—”

“Gay,” Bill insists. “Not even bi, my friend. You are so, so gay, and if you ask Audrey to prom I will slap you.”

“I just—”

“Slap! I’ll take my open palm to the baby-soft skin of your face, Urie, carefully heed my warnings.”

Brendon pouts.

Miranda snorts a laugh into her hand, and Kevin still refuses to look at her. He can feel Patrick glaring at them all from behind his kit.

“Well, I’m not going to ask Spencer,” Brendon says petulantly.

“Spencer’s going to ask you,” Bill says, and Kevin doesn’t know whether he has insider information or if he’s going to make Spencer ask Brendon – he doesn’t think it matters. “And when Spencer asks you, you are going to say yes.”

“You know how much I love talking about the prom,” Patrick says, tipping the brim of his hat back with one of his sticks. “But if you guys want to see The Upstanding tonight with all your limbs intact, you might want to shut the fuck up.”

Bill says mildly, “You seem to be getting angrier lately, Patrick. I think you need to get laid.”

“I will end you,” Patrick says through his teeth.

“Patrick,” Bill says, “sweetheart—”

Kevin lunges forward and claps a hand over Bill’s mouth. There’s Patrick-baiting, and then there’s having a death wish. “Let’s just, uh, finish practice, okay guys?”

Brendon says, “Yes, please.”

Bill’s eyes are dancing at Kevin over his palm. When Kevin lets him go, he says, “I know what I’m doing, Jonas,” grinning, and Kevin says, “I’m sure you do.”

Bill’s probably the only one of any of them that actually does.

*

THE UPSTANDING @ CARPORT
We here at EMC have always been big fans of Jenny Lewis - she’s unassuming, she’s beyond talented, she’s adorable - but the musical freak-show that is The Upstanding has us completely baffled.

While she’s on lead guitar as well as behind the mic, the vocal stylings of Miss Lewis were—we hesitate to say complimented, but there’s certainly something unique in the duet that is Lewis and McCracken. McCracken’s fresh off a stint as front man for the aptly named Thrasher; we don’t exactly know what he’s doing here.

Joining them on stage last night was everyone’s favorite ex-Cyrus member, Trace, and rounding out the unlikely group was baby-faced Wilson (who has a myspace dedicated to surprisingly awesome experimental drum solos).

It all came together in one amazing and bizarre show that we’re still not quite sure whether we want to see again or not. McCracken harmonized on tunes that could only be described as gentle. Lullaby For No One’s Daughter was exactly what it sounds like - wistful, mellow-bodied, full of soul. Even the fast-paced Lost Your Temper had round edges, and What I Do To Kill Time was eerily beautiful - it was like a head trip, seeing this play out on stage.

All that we’ve ever loved about McCracken - and even Trace, with his spider-like limbs and disturbing fixation on underage sex - was obscured by an indie rock haze with folksy undertones. Weird.

The Upstanding has one more date at CarPort before the end of March. Come see the softer side of Bert McCracken.

THE UPSTANDING @ CARPORT: MARCH 13TH 9:30PM
Set list:
+ Seismic
+ Pretty Thief
+ Lullaby For No One’s Daughter
+ Sara Ann’s Coming Home
+ Catch Me Up
+ Lost Your Temper
+ What I Do To Kill Time
+ Past The Garden of Eden
+ Those Bells Weren’t Ringing
+ Last Time

- billiam @ emc

*

Kevin doesn’t really talk to Zac a whole lot. They make plans to see each other, they hang out, but their relationship is almost a non-relationship. Kevin knows it’s not serious, so it doesn’t really bother him.

He’s kind of confused, though, when Zac calls him up and says, “I talked to Bill. No hard feelings, okay?”

“Okay,” Kevin says - it’s a reflex; he actually has no idea what’s going on.

“Good. That’s good.” Zac sounds marginally upset; the usual smile in his voice isn’t there, Kevin can tell.

He doesn’t really want to ask, “What are you talking about?” so instead he says, “Okay,” again, and it’s not until Zac hangs up on him that he realize that they—they’re broken up. And that, somehow, this mysterious break-up involves Bill.

Kevin hits speed dial six.

Bill answers his phone, “Go for Beckett,” and Kevin says, “Did you break up with Zac for me?”

“Well, someone had to,” Bill says, “and you certainly weren’t going to do it.”

Kevin doesn’t get angry very easily or often, and especially not at Bill. Bill always has his back. There’s a tightening in Kevin’s chest, though, and he thinks he should maybe find it wrong that he’s more upset that Bill broke up with Zac for him than the fact that he’s broken up with Zac at all.

“Bill, you can’t. You can’t just do that,” Kevin says. Zac’s a great guy, and now he’s probably never going to talk to him again. At least, maybe if Kevin could’ve done it himself they could still be friends.

“I did you a favor,” Bill says, but for once he doesn’t sound sure.

“It’s—” It’s not okay, but Kevin doesn’t know how else to deal with this. It’s not like he’s never going to forgive Bill or something. “It’s fine,” he ends up saying.

Bill’s quiet. Finally, he says, “It’s not fine, Kevin, and I’m sorry.”

Kevin lets out a noisy breath. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t even mean to do it,” Bill says, and, yeah, Kevin can see that happening accidentally. Bill doesn’t always filter his mouth. He embraces his mistakes wholeheartedly, though; there’s no point in getting upset with what can’t be changed, he always says. Bill clears his throat. “It’s for the best, Jonas, you’ll see.”

*

“The Cab broke up,” Bill says, frowning at his computer screen. “Or, well, Crawford left, and then Singer apparently had a big blow out with Colligan, and Colligan’s a douche, so of course Johnson and Marshall sided with DeLeon.”

“They should just get a hold of Greenwald, name themselves The Alexes, and call it a day,” Miranda says absently.

“Do you know this for sure, or are you basing this off their twitters?” Patrick asks.

“I know this for sure, because I’m amazing,” Bill says. He shifts on the couch and swings an arm over Kevin’s shoulders.

Kevin leans into him automatically, and Bill flashes him a smile. For Bill, the smile’s practically tentative; he’s been tip-toeing around Kevin for the past couple days, but he doesn’t really need to. It’s pretty impossible for Kevin to hold any sort of grudge.

“Anyway, Wentz just emailed us,” Bill says.

“Uh oh.” Miranda leans forward and snatches the laptop off Bill’s knees. “What’s he want?”

“Patrick,” Brendon says, then ducks out of the way, giggling, when Patrick chucks a drumstick at him.

“He wants NINJA to play the senior prom,” Bill says.

“Fuck no,” Patrick says.

“Um.” Kevin thinks playing the senior prom would probably be an even worse idea than playing their usual haunts – at least there’s a limited amount of kids from school who see them in bars, just those with fake IDs or secret ins, but the entire senior class would be staring them down at the prom. If they did do this, though, there’s a good chance Bill won’t bug Kevin about attending his own junior prom. Even if he’d still been dating Zac, that’d be totally out of the question.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” Bill says. He pokes Kevin in the stomach. “One last hurrah, before I head off to college.”

That’s kind of a sore point. Bill’s the only senior in NINJA. Kevin says, “We’ll have the entire summer together,” but he doesn’t put much heart into it. It always depresses him to think of playing without Bill, and then it depresses him some more to think maybe NINJA’ll just stop being NINJA entirely.

Patrick tugs on his hat and won’t meet anyone’s eyes - Kevin thinks he’s probably thinking the same thing as him – and finally he says, “Tell him we’ll do it.”

Bill eyes him warily. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Patrick says, and then his mouth curls up at the corners. “Hell yes; we’re NINJA. And if you go off to college and forget about us, you motherfucker, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Always threatening death, dear Patrick,” Bill says brightly.

“It’s his way of saying he cares,” Miranda says. She purses her lips, staring down at the laptop, and then her eyebrows shoot up and she grins over the screen at them. “So if we’re really playing prom, guys, we totally need new costumes.”

*

Just about the only times Spencer has ever really talked to Kevin was when they were in woodshop together. It’s not that they don’t get along, but Kevin thinks they’re both a little too conscious of the days Spencer spent in the company of Lacey, and how mostly he didn’t do anything to stop—whatever the hell Lacey thought he was doing with Kevin. After the whole prom thing, Kevin’s not as sure as he used to be about Lacey’s complete and total hatred of him.

Kevin’s working on a sweet little bluebird house, nice and simple. He’s making it for his mom. He’s not actually in woodshop anymore - his counselor said he couldn’t take the same class for two semesters – but Mr. Samberg still lets him use all the supplies after school, because Mr. Samberg admires his dedication to the craft.

“Nice,” Spencer says. Spencer isn’t in woodshop anymore, either, but they all know where to find Kevin when the bell rings.

Kevin shoots him a thumbs-up before turning on the sander. He could probably do it by hand, but the electric sander is pretty awesome. It only takes a few minutes, and then he pushes up his goggles and finds Spencer still standing there, hip up against his worktable. “What’s up?” he asks.

Spencer rubs the back of his neck, a strange look on his face. “So I, uh, might have kissed Brendon.”

Kevin waits for something more. When Spencer just shifts awkwardly on his feet, Kevin says, “And, um, what?”

“Nothing, just. He said he wasn’t gay?”

“Oh. Oh,” Kevin shakes his head, “Bill’s going to freak out,” he says, and then bites his lip to keep from giggling, because it’s not funny. Completely not funny.

“What?”

“Brendon has some issues,” Kevin says, but, despite everything, he doesn’t think Brendon’s issues are so much about Brendon not being gay, but about Bill not being right. Especially considering how easily and often ‘Bden’ hooks up with random guys. Brendon’s pretty happy-go-lucky, but he really hates being told what to do. That’s the main reason why he doesn’t get along all that great with his parents.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that out already,” Spencer says. The tops of his cheeks are red. Kevin can’t tell if he’s angry or embarrassed.

Kevin’s not all that great at heart-to-hearts. He doesn’t really know what to say to people who aren’t Miranda or Bill. And Kevin doesn’t actually know what Brendon’s thoughts are about Spencer, but he can make an educated guess. Still. Brendon can be stubborn and contrary – it’s just that his proximity to Patrick hides it well. “Look, um, this might not be great advice, but you should probably not push him about this.”

Spencer gives him a resigned nod. “All right.”

“Not the, uh, kissing,” Kevin says, feeling his face heat. “You can do that all you want, just don’t argue about—”

“Semantics,” Spencer says, eyes smiling like he finally gets it.

Kevin swipes his thumb along the recently-smoothed eaves of his birdhouse. “Right,” he says. “And you might want to avoid talking about prom.”

*

“How do you feel about crashing a house party?” Bill asks, leaning up against the wall next to Kevin.

They’re squeezed into the hallway behind the stage at Bootstrap; Pocket Thief is playing, Kevin can feel the vibrations in his teeth. He adjusts his mask with nervous fingers and says, “Uh, whose house party?”

“Pete’s,” Bill says, grinning winningly.

Patrick looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, fidgeting with his drumsticks and trying not to throw up; he’s pale and sweaty. “No way.”

“You’re going to have to face him sooner or later, Trick,” Bill says.

“Wait, wait,” Brendon says – he’s got his mask pushed up into his messy hair; he’s been trying to grab the exposed pipes above their heads for the past half hour, and he’s got his arms stretched out, poised in a half-crouch - “you mean, like, as ourselves?”

Bill adjusts his bandana so the NINJA runs along the inside of his thigh. “Yes, as ourselves. We’re not playing, Brendon, you’ll just be—welcome, unexpected guests.”

Kevin’s not so sure about the welcome part. Especially since this will very obviously be a senior house party. If he has to go, he’d kind of rather go as NINJA. “Are you sure we can’t wear our masks?”

“First of all,” Bill says, wagging a finger at him, “That’s lame. And secondly,” he goes on, “how many people do you think we’re actually still fooling?”

Kevin thinks that’s a stupid question – if everyone really knew who they were, they wouldn’t have half as many followers. Kevin’s still invisible at school.

He also thinks Bill’s up to something. He’s grinning far too brightly at them; it’s exactly how he looks when he’s just slipped Kevin the Old Maid.

Miranda says, “I’m in,” and shrugs. “Wentz has been throwing these things for years, I’m curious.”

Patrick has a pinched expression on his face, but he nods.

Brendon does jazz hands before jumping for the pipes again – the universal Brendon-signal for okay, yes.

Bill looks at Kevin expectantly. “House party?”

Kevin shifts on his feet. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “When?”

“Spring break, the ultimate booze-fest. Pete’s parents won’t even be in town.”

“Great,” Kevin says. It sounds truly fantastic. He hopes Joe doesn’t beg him to bring him along.

When Pocket Thief stumbles offstage five minutes later, Saporta bursts through the back door and says, “Students of the Cobra and young Mr. Beckett,” arms flung wide. He’s sweat-soaked and ten feet tall and he crushes Kevin to his chest before reaching next to him for Bill.

“It’s a fucking amazing crowd out there,” Saporta says. “Go forth and rock the fuck out.”

*

Kevin’s fingers are tingling. His arms are sore, there’s an ache in his thighs, and his chest’s tight, like he can’t breathe too deeply, like his heart’s three sizes too big. Adrenalin, he thinks, a giddy thrill pumping through his veins.

Before shows, he’s usually just as freaked as Patrick, nauseous, shaky with nerves, but afterwards—afterwards, he feels like he was born just for this. It’s amazing, that high, the light-headedness, the glow, and he doesn’t even notice Carden until he’s right in front of him.

“Jesus,” Carden says. He grabs hold of Kevin’s arms and pushes him back – the wall by the bathrooms is probably disgusting, but all Kevin notices is the edge in Carden’s eyes as he leans in, says, “Christ, you drive me fucking crazy.”

Kevin has a split-second to think, wait, what? before Carden’s digging his fingers into Kevin’s biceps and slicking his mouth open with his tongue, teeth scraping his lower lip. He breathes out through his nose – he’d gasp if Carden was giving him any sort of leeway here, but Carden just pushes closer, and Kevin’s mind goes completely offline.

Kevin has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but when Carden breaks off with an obscene groan, Kevin realizes he’s twisted further in, a hand up the back of Carden’s shirt, hips touching, and Carden’s grinning at him, sharp, like Kevin’s tasty dessert after a skimpy meal.

And then Kevin panics, grasping at his face to see if his mask’s moved, if Carden has any idea, and Kevin’s usually okay with people liking him because he’s K2, but he thinks maybe if Carden figured it all out now – if he looked at Kevin with any sort of shock or disgust after nearly sucking all the breath out of his body, Kevin doesn’t think he’d survive that, heart intact.

Carden’s still got him trapped, though, and every breath Kevin takes presses their chests together. Carden mouths at Kevin’s jaw, hand smoothing up along Kevin’s arm to curve over his shoulder, under his t-shirt.

Kevin says, “Um, what are you—”

“Do you know,” Carden says softly, “how fucking sexy you are up there?”

This is amazing, Kevin thinks, and, this is horrible, Kevin thinks, and it’s embarrassingly similar to some of his more risqué daydreams about Carden. Only in those, Carden actually knows who he is, and he doesn’t care. Which will never happen, because Carden thinks he’s an idiot who gets knocked out by sinks and locked in closets and stuck in the rain.

And then he thinks, so what? and sneaks his hand up farther, so his whole arm’s hot along Carden’s spine, and he tugs on the ends of Carden’s hair until he moves up to kiss him again.

*

NINJA Alert
Attention Randolph High seniors: if you pay us, we will come. Senior Prom ’10.

- billiam @ emc

next

NINJA 4/4

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:15:04 GMT

go back

*

APRIL

*

I ATE MOE @ THE CELL
Fittingly, think early All-American Rejects, before Ritter turned poet, before Gaylor and Kennerty learned to surf that metaphorical wave – I Ate Moe has that simple flare, brought to the table not only by the lyricism of former AAR guitarist Nick Wheeler, but by whippoorwills and slow-dying mums and Blake Sennett.

If you’ve been to an I Ate Moe show before, you know you’re in for plenty of high school angst, first loves, bent-wing butterflies, and backstabbing best friends. If you’ve never seen them, watch out for Sennett’s smoky baritone. It gets in your brain, makes you whimper like a homeless puppy, crave cheap cigarettes and Jack and Cokes. It’s like alt-country for the bubblegum crowd, emo without the shoe-gazing shuffle [it’s M83 without the long-ass electronica solos – trick]. It’s kind of addicting.

Unfortunately, Faller and Luciani still look like they’re simply filling in holes, despite having joined I Ate Moe over three months ago. Technically fine, they just don’t seem to love what they’re doing; the same heartfelt earnestness portrayed by Sennett, eyes closed and voice burning, isn’t reflected back by anyone but Wheeler and his trusty guitar. It’s only cheese if you think it’s cheese. We’ll give them a little longer to settle in, but it won’t surprise us if Sennett and Wheeler give them the boot – I Ate Moe deserves some dedication.

It helps that Sennett and Wheeler are sweethearts, on and off the stage.

I ATE MOE @ THE CELL: APRIL 9TH 10:00 PM
Set list:
+ Over You
+ Clouds Hanging On
+ Persistent Memory
+ From Center City
+ No Time For Sunshine
+ Leslie
+ Love Is
+ Slow Dance
+ On A Whim
+ Counting Blades of Grass
+ Whistler

shine on, cats and kittens,
- rand @ emc

*

“Nathan asked me to the junior prom,” Miranda says, sitting across from Kevin at their lunch table.

Bill’s head snaps up from where he’s been hunched over his sketchpad, but he doesn’t say anything. Which is weird, because Bill usually has something to say about everything.

“Nathan,” Kevin says. “Nathan Kress?” Nathan’s a little guy with big smiles; Kevin’s always liked him.

Miranda nods. “I said yes.”

Kevin notices the way she’s not looking at Bill. He feels like Miranda’s just put him in the middle of a war zone, but he’s not exactly sure why.

“I don’t know why you’d want to go to our prom and the senior prom,” Brendon says, jamming his straw into his packet of Capri Sun.

Kevin watches Spencer freeze behind Brendon, make a face, and then slip into a seat next to Miranda.

“You’re going to the senior prom?” Spencer says. Carefully. With his eyes focused on unpacking his bag lunch.

Kevin’s starting to feel really uncomfortable with all this tension pinging off of everyone but him. And Patrick, except Patrick hasn’t shown up yet.

Brendon flicks a glance at Spencer and says, “Well, I’m definitely not in a secret band, so I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be playing in a secret band at the senior prom.” He waggles his eyebrows at Kevin. “Check that,” he says. “I’m smooth.”

Spencer bites his lip, corners of his mouth twitching.

Patrick stomps over and drops his tray onto the table with a clatter. He’s got—Kevin’s pretty sure that’s a giant hickey on the side of his neck, and Patrick doesn’t look happy. He says, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and avoids everyone’s eyes. He sounds gruff and angry, but he’s pink in the cheeks.

Because Bill has problems, he says, “Are you aware you have a—”

“Bill,” Patrick says, staring very intently at his sandwich. His hands are white-knuckled around his soda can.

“Did you get attacked by a vacuum?” Bill asks. He reaches out to poke at Patrick’s neck, but Patrick slaps his hand away.

Patrick sighs, though, some of his anger deflating. He sounds more bewildered than anything when he says, “He has a girlfriend.”

“Pete has a friend who is a girl,” Bill says.

Patrick shrugs, shoulders tight.

It’s weird, because Kevin could have sworn Patrick really didn’t like Wentz at all. Kevin’s apparently not very good at reading people, though - Lacey, case in point; he’s still not exactly sure what happened there - so he doesn’t let it bother him.

“You know what I’m excited for that isn’t prom? Band-o-Rama,” Brendon says, waving his hands around. “It’s like Carnival for your ears. Also, corn dogs.”

“You only say that because you’re not in band,” Patrick says. He looks relieved at the change of subject, though, and they all know Band-o-Rama is kind of fun. Better than their winter concert, at least, with the added bonus of games and food.

And it’s gonna be extra cool this year because Patrick convinced Mr. Mayer to let them do a Puppies And Kittens cover.

“Spencer’s gonna win me a goldfish,” Brendon says.

Spencer blinks. “I am?”

“Yes.” Brendon nods. “And we’re going to name it Sam.”

*

The only things of note that happen at Band-o-Rama is that Saporta shows up with Greta and VickyT - there’s a minor stampede to give them hugs and tell them how awesome they are – and Kevin ends up in the tuba closet. He’s starting to see a theme here.

Saporta says, “Pimpin’ ain’t easy,” when he wanders up to Kevin. And then he fingers Kevin’s oboe and makes some vaguely obscene facial expressions. “What’s this fine looking instrument?” he asks.

“An oboe.” Kevin’s oboe is not a fine looking instrument. Saporta’s just crazy. And then Kevin freezes up a little, because Lacey’s strolling towards them.

“Jonas,” Lacey says.

Kevin starts inching backwards, because the last thing he wants to do is talk to Lacey. “I need to, uh, put my oboe away,” he says, and it’s the truth, because he doesn’t want to lug it around for the rest of the night, but he still knows he’s running away. There is no part of Kevin that feels like standing up to Lacey, he doesn’t care how pathetic that makes him.

He should’ve figured Lacey would follow him, though. It seems like a really stupid idea now, getting cornered in the tuba closet.

“Look,” Lacey says, hands up and palms out.

Kevin forces himself not to clutch his oboe case to his chest. His back’s up against a shelf, though, as straight as he can make it, and Lacey’s just inside the door – if Kevin makes a break for it, he can probably get past him with maybe only a fist in the kidney.

Lacey says, “Look,” again, and then, “I’m sorry.” He actually sounds sincere. Not like that time he’d punched him and then Carden’d twisted his arm up behind his back and told him to apologize or else.

Kevin blinks. “Uh. What?”

“I’m sorry for, you know,” he waves a hand, stepping further into the closet, “everything.”

Kevin nods very, very slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Lacey echoes. He’s starting to get a little too close for Kevin’s comfort.

“Right, so.” Kevin tries to sidle past, but Lacey grabs his wrist to stop him, then twists a fist in the front of his shirt, and—and then he’s kissing him, and Kevin wants to know when this happened, and why. He’s not too stunned to struggle, though, and he elbows Lacey in the stomach and jerks away to say, “Oh my god, what?” He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Lacey’s got wide, dark eyes. He actually looks a little panicky, which is weird, since Lacey’s had no compunction against bullying Kevin before, and this is—well, to Kevin it’s almost worse, but he doesn’t think Lacey should see it that way.

And then Lacey says, “I’m going to, ah, go,” and takes off down the hall.

There was a time not too long ago, Kevin thinks, when his life actually made sense.

*

When Bill calls him up and very carefully pronounces, “Why don’t you come over, Jonas?” Kevin knows he’s drunk. This isn’t so surprising. It’s a Sunday, but it’s a spring break Sunday, and it’s still kind of early, but it’s after dinner – he doesn’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary until Bill meets him at the door, leaning heavily against the knob, eyes half-mast and shadowed and mouth a soft frown.

Bill’s a happy drunk. Bill loves the world when he’s been drinking; he sings songs about rainbows and presses sloppy kisses on foreheads and declares himself an equal opportunity snuggle bunny.

Bill, right now, is morose.

He’s also not alone; there’s laughter and music drifting up from the basement as Bill waves him inside.

Kevin tries not to let it bother him – that Bill has friends over, friends who aren’t Kevin and the rest of NINJA. He knows they’re close, but Bill’s got a year and some on him; he’s got senior friends, people who don’t even know who Kevin is. So Bill can have a party without him, it’s not a big deal. Kevin’s actually not so sure he should take the invite and join them.

Bill grasps his arm and pulls, and all Kevin can think to say is, “I hope you hid the NINJA merch.”

“It’s all cleverly camouflaged, Kev,” Bill says, a finger to the side of his nose, “don’t you worry.”

Bill pushes him ahead of him down the stairs and calls out, “I’ve got a present,” and Kevin feels his face heat.

The basement is smoky. Sweet-smoky, and Kevin’s not really familiar with it, but he suspects it’s weed. Michael Guy and Carden are sprawled on the sofa, and Siska’s on the floor, head propped up on Conrad’s thigh. They’ve got Motor Storm on demo on Bill’s PS3 – no one’s playing, though there’s a controller in Michael Guy’s lap.

Siska waves at him.

Whatever they’ve been smoking is gone now, from what Kevin can see, and he takes a shallow breath before moving further into the room, Bill hanging all over his shoulders. He’s slumped into the back of Kevin’s neck and he snuffles against his nape. It’s just weird. He really hopes Bill isn’t crying on him.

“Stop being a pussy, Bill,” Michael Guy says.

“Fuck off,” Bill says, voice muffled. He sounds really sad and it’s starting to freak Kevin out. Bill’s Together Guy. Nothing ever fazes Bill; this has shattered Kevin’s entire worldview.

“Bill,” Kevin says, kind of softly, “what’s going on?”

Bill straightens and slinks around Kevin. He drops down into the armchair and his jaw’s a hard line as he says, “Kress.”

“Kress,” Kevin echoes. He scratches the side of his neck and tries to ignore Carden. Carden totally has a staring problem – Kevin thinks Carden does it just because it very obviously unnerves him, and Kevin fights off the urge to snap at him. Unfortunately, even being in the same room as Carden makes him jumpy, makes him think about his mouth, and how—how Carden had licked the corner of his lips and called him princess, and somehow managed to not make it sound like an insult at all. Kevin clears his throat.

“Nathan Kress. He’s poaching,” Bill says. “I’ll need accomplices to help hide the body.”

Kevin wrinkles his nose. “Nathan’s all right, though,” he says. If Miranda has to date anyone, Nathan’s probably a safe choice.

Siska laughs, pressing his face into his arm.

“I hate to be redundant,” Bill says haughtily, “but fuck off.”

“Um.” Kevin thinks about retreating back up the stairs, but Bill would probably take that as abandonment and hunt him down and lecture him about loyalty, using Harry Potter references and Gerard Way’s speech at the last Virgil show – he’s done that to Patrick and him before, before they were NINJA and he’d assumed they were way more dedicated to jazz band than they actually are.

Carden snorts, and Bill wags a finger at him. “D’you really want to go there, Carden?” he says.

Carden glares at Bill, and it’s like an invisible weight’s lifted off Kevin’s shoulders; his insides loosen.

Kevin says, “So you like Miranda,” because occasionally he catches on quick, even when Bill’s being cryptic.

“Miranda is my soulmate,” Bill says, nodding solemnly.

“Why don’t you tell her that, then?” Miranda likes Bill, Bill likes Miranda – it seems all pretty straight forward to Kevin, even though Bill’s normally got the attention span of a gnat when it comes to relationships.

“Because he’s a fucking pussy,” Conrad says.

Kevin feels like pinching the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t. Seriously, why does everyone put him in the middle of these things? The only person Kevin’s ever dated was Zac, and, looking back on it, he’s not sure that even counted.

“Anyway,” Bill says, “I need a plan.”

“Stop hooking up with skanks,” Siska says. “That’s a plan.”

Kevin is feeling really out of place. He loves Bill, but not high with all his senior buddies. And Carden’s back to looking at him – looking at him like he wants to take him down with a well-placed bite to his flank. Kevin thinks maybe Siska’s the only one of Bill’s friends who actually likes him.

“Maybe I can talk to Miranda for you?” Kevin says. It’s a desperate ploy to get out of there. He can feel the disapproval roll off Conrad in waves, but Kevin’s pretty sure that’s because Conrad wants into Bill’s pants. He’s not entirely comfortable knowing that, either.

“You, dear Kevin,” Bill says grandly, “are a champion,” and then he’s distracted by Siska howling – Kevin is not even going to ask – and Kevin makes a strategic retreat up the stairs.

He briefly catches Carden’s gaze before he turns, but Carden just sketches him a slightly mocking salute.

*

Kevin doesn’t actually want to talk to Miranda for Bill, but he doesn’t have much of a choice at this point. He’d offered and Bill is one of his best friends, so he has to do something, even if he suspects Bill doesn’t even remember their conversation now.

He says, “So, um.”

Miranda pauses mid-pull on her knee-high boots, sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s got a black mini-dress on, long strands of shiny obsidian beads looped around her neck. “What’s up?”

Kevin tugs on the hem of his Police shirt. “Bill’s jealous,” he says.

Miranda grins and stretches back on the mattress. “I know.”

“You know.” Kevin worries his thumbnail between his teeth, watching her. Finally, he says, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Well, not really. I mean, Nathan asked me out and I’d hoped--”

“Bill’s a mess, Miranda,” Kevin says. He knows Bill kind of deserves it, though; Bill gets drunk and latches onto anyone with breasts and then he searches out Miranda and sloppily professes his undying love. They never took him seriously before.

Miranda gets to her feet, shimmies her dress in place and tugs her hair back in a low, messy knot at her nape. “Bill and I are friends.”

“You like Bill,” Kevin says. He didn’t imagine that Valentine’s Day conversation. There’d been pining going on there.

She narrows her eyes. “We pinky swore. We pinky swore, because Bill’s a cartoon character.”

“Yeah, um,” Kevin rubs fingers along the base of his throat, “except I think Bill’s serious about this.” He hates this. He hates getting in between his friends, and it’s none of his business and if this all blows up, everyone’s going to be miserable. He sighs. “Never mind.”

Miranda nods, bites her bottom lip. “Are you wearing that tonight?”

Kevin looks down at his t-shirt and tight black jeans. “Yeah?”

“It’s This Is Thunder, Kev, we at least need to,” she cups his face with warm hands, “glam up your eyes.”

“Oh, no.” Kevin doesn’t like the speculative way she’s looking at him. He never should’ve said something about Bill.

She’s got an evil little grin on her glossy mouth. “Eyeliner. Something shimmery for your skin.”

Darn it. She’s probably going to make him dance with her, too.

*

Kevin absolutely does not want to be at Pete Wentz’s spring break house party. He really doesn’t. He’d rather be home or at Bill’s, writing up a review of last night’s This Is Thunder show. Playing Brendon at Guitar Hero, even though he always loses. Letting Miranda paint his toe nails, even, or mess up his eyes again.

He’s pretty sure Patrick doesn’t want to be there, either. He looks miserable, squished on a couch next to a couple of seniors Kevin recognizes, but he can’t remember their names.

Kevin absently crunches his soda can between his fingers. He’s leaning against the living room wall, trying to blend in, but he doesn’t think he’s very successful. They’ve been there for about an hour - Bill had disappeared soon after they’d arrived, and Brendon, Spencer and Miranda are over in a corner with Trohman and Kitty, laughing. They seem comfortable, at least.

And then Wentz swoops out of nowhere and grabs Patrick’s cup, downing the contents in three big gulps. Patrick stares up at him, and Wentz says, “Rickster, dude, come with me, you need a tour,” and waggles his eyebrows at Kevin - Kevin would find it funny if it didn’t mean he was totally alone, after Wentz drags a strangely unresisting Patrick off, with - Dallon? - Dallon giving him a drunken grin.

“I don’t get you.”

Kevin jumps before he can help it. He slants Carden a glance. “You don’t?” he manages.

Carden shifts, one shoulder leaning against the wall, so he can look right at Kevin. He takes a sip of his beer, and Kevin’s rigid, keeping careful inches away from him.

“This,” Carden says. He lifts a finger off his cup, gestures to the space between them. “I’m picking up some mixed signals.”

Mixed signals? Does he know about Kevin’s stupid crush? Oh, that would suck; he can feel a blush start up from his chest and sweat beading up under his shirt. There’re tremors in his fingers; he keeps them firm around his Coke can.

Carden reaches out with his free hand, and Kevin jerks back, banging his elbow into the wall, and Carden drops his arm, curses under his breath.

“I’m, I don’t—”

“Whatever, Jonas, I can take a fucking hint,” Carden says, and then he straightens up, shakes his head and stalks off.

“Well,” Bill says, popping up in front of him. “That was a lovely little scene. I’d like to say I’m surprised, but the level of social ineptitude exhibited by the both of you right then was all too expected, considering this past year.”

Kevin scowls, because he’s pretty sure Bill just insulted him, but he’s still kind of confused by everything - Carden’s upset with him, that much is apparent.

“I told him to be more straight-forward, but does he listen? Of course not.” Bill sighs and pushes his hair back off his forehead. “Kevin,” Bill says, “Mike likes you.”

“What?” The music’s loud, Kevin’s not entirely sure he heard Bill right.

“Carden? Hot body, crazy eyes?” Bill hooks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction that Carden had disappeared. “He wants to marry you and adopt obscene amounts of Cambodian babies.”

“No.” Kevin shakes his head. Carden thinks he’s a moron.

“You do recall all those times you made out with him, right?” Bill says.

“He—that was after NINJA,” Kevin says. In a dim dark bar, and it was only once, and every other time he’s seen Carden, Carden always looks about ten seconds away from declaring Kevin the biggest waste of space in Randolph High. He scratches in between his eyes. “That wasn’t me.”

Bill looks at him curiously. He curls a finger over his bottom lip, cocks his head. Finally, he says, “We really should work on your self esteem.”

*

THIS IS THUNDER @ THE MANSION
Lambert has some impressive lungs on him, with flamboyant outfits to match. It doesn’t much matter who’s backing him - he’s been in bands before, musicians utterly forgettable in the wake of the force that is Adam Lambert, performer - but there’s no denying the awesome that is This Is Thunder: pocket-sized Allen on lead guitar, the queen of cute, Allison Iraheta [I’d like to squish her and keep her as my very own - billiam], on drums, and Desai, who makes up for being a half-assed bass player by being quirky and lovable onstage.

They’ve only been playing together for the past two months, only been out there performing live for three weeks, but there’s a camaraderie between them that’s refreshing. And while Lambert very well could drown them out, it’s extremely telling that he doesn’t. He even duets a few new tunes with Iraheta - No More Sunshine, Wandering Down - and Allen and Dasai’s vocals are just as sweet harmonizing backup.

We foresee many more This Is Thunder shows to come; it seems like Lambert’s finally settling down with a family of his very own.

THIS IS THUNDER @ THE MANSION: APRIL 22ND 10:00PM
set list:
+ Over and Over
+ Session 5
+ No More Sunshine
+ Except Tomorrow
+ Told You So
+ Chances Are
+ Wandering Down
+ Shake It Up
+ Sometimes
+ Listen Close

- rand @ emc

*

MAY

*

The theme for the 2010 Randolph High Senior prom is the wild wild west.

“Are we talking Will Smith, metal spiders, long-ass boring wild wild west?” Miranda asks, flopping back on top of one of the lunch tables.

Bill switches out paintbrushes, tucking a blue-tipped one behind his ear. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think Pete’s thinking tumbleweed, spurs, six-shooters and brothels. Whether or not the faculty will go for that remains to be seen.”

“Oh, come on. Timberlake’s letting you paint—is that a flying dog?” Miranda tilts her head, purses her lips.

“It’s a luck dragon,” Bill says.

Bill’s almost entirely done his mural. Kevin thinks it’s awesome, but he also thinks Principal Walken’s going to flip out when he sees it. It’s kind of gory, what with all the feasting dinosaurs.

“I’m not wearing a cowboy hat,” Miranda says.

“Noted,” Bill says absently, which is weird, for Bill. Bill should’ve said something about sheriff badges and ten gallons and Patrick’s mouth. Instead, he flicks his brush, splattering red paint over what looks like an ewok.

Miranda makes a face at Kevin.

Maybe Bill’s just really into getting his mural done - he graduates in a few weeks, after all.

*

Wentz shows up at their lunch table right when they’re gathering their trash and declares Patrick his very best boyfriend forever and ever. “Seriously, Pattycakes,” Wentz says, threading his fingers through Patrick’s. “I’ll be, like, your sexy sidekick, it’s gonna be sweet.”

Patrick grumbles and says, “You’re not a sidekick, you’re a frontal kick to the groin,” but he doesn’t shake Wentz off. He’s pink in the cheeks, and for once doesn’t seem furious with the world at large, so that’s nice.

Brendon and Spencer look cozy, too, arms brushing.

And Carden’s ignoring Kevin, which Kevin really hadn’t thought was possible - he didn’t realize before that apparently Carden actually did pay a lot of attention to him at school. The sudden lack of this attention is kind of weirdly disconcerting. He knows Carden’s mad at him for whatever happened at Wentz’s party, but he’s still confused. It’s not like—it’s not like Kevin’s the kind of person that Carden would actually want to hang out with, right?

Kevin sighs and follows everyone out of the lunchroom.

Bill hooks his chin over Kevin’s shoulder and leans into his side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kevin says.

Bill pulls back, stops him just outside of the doors with a hand on his arm and gives him a surprisingly shrewd look. “I’m well aware of what nothing looks like.” He pokes the wrinkle of skin in between Kevin’s eyebrows. “This isn’t nothing.”

Kevin presses his lips together. “Lacey kissed me,” he says, and Bill’s chokes out a laugh.

“Well. That’s kind of hysterical. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No.” Like Kevin’s going to tell anyone; that’s crazy. Anyone other than Bill, at least.

Bill shakes his head. He mutters what sounds like, “Lacey, Mike, half the girls’ rugby team, that Viking Gerald,” under his breath - Kevin’s pretty sure he didn’t hear him exactly right - and then says, louder, “I know you’re shocked, Kevin, but you’ve got this innocent baby lamb aura that seems to attract wolves in fucking droves.”

Kevin blinks. “What?”

“Self-esteem, Jonas, I believe I told you to work on that.” Bill throws an arm over his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your sixth period class. I’ll wax poetical about your strong bassist forearms and you can carry all my books.”

*

Brendon is thirty times more hyper than usual when they’re setting up for the prom, and there’s a chance Patrick might kill him if he doesn’t stop fiddling with his drum kit. Patrick’s face’s red and his jaw’s clenched and he doesn’t look all that happy to be wearing a huge black cowboy hat, either.

Bill had passed them out - only Kevin got a white one, and Miranda didn’t get any kind of hat at all.

“We’ve got a half hour before everyone starts showing up,” Bill says, clapping his hands together. “I suggest we use this time to get very, very drunk.”

“Bill,” Patrick says.

Bill flicks the brim of Patrick’s hat. “This is prom,” he says. “I’ve come prepared with a flask, Trick, and Michael Guy’s in charge of spiking the proverbial punch.”

“If you’re drunk on stage, Bill, I will punch you in the throat,” Patrick says.

“Prom’s no fun if you’re not three sheets to the wind,” Bill says. He waggles his flask in the air.

“In the throat,” Patrick says tightly. Then, cryptically, “Also? That thing that you wanted me to do? Do you really want me to still do it?”

“You’re a wee dirty fighter,” Bill says, pouting, but he tucks the flask back into his jacket pocket.

*

It’s weird, but Kevin didn’t really expect to see Carden there. His heart flips into his stomach when he spots him by the ballroom doors, and it’s not until Michael Guy and Siska and Conrad stumble laughingly into him that the moths kick up. He realizes he’s relieved; relieved that they seem to have all come stag. Carden, standing arms crossed in a dark gray suit over a worn t-shirt, has a sullen cast to his face.

Kevin can tell when he spots him by the stage, the hitch in his shoulders, and Kevin lifts his hand in a little wave. Carden’s eyes narrow before he turns away.

Kevin frowns. He slips a hand over his face—yep, mask is firmly in place. He’s got his ten-gallon hat on and his dark suit pants. He’s got his Big Texas belt buckle and his fitted vest, and a sheriff’s badge pinned over his breast pocket.

“Huh.”

“What?” Bill asks, bumping their hips together.

“Nothing. Just, uh, Carden’s—” Kevin bites his lower lip. “He looks—” he cuts himself off. What’s he going to say? Carden looks mean? Pissed? Bored? Like he wants to kick Siska’s ass? Like he wants to kick Kevin’s ass?

Bill sighs. He clasps Kevin’s shoulder and shakes him. “You are so dense. You’re incredibly, impossibly dense, I honestly don’t know how you’ve survived sixteen years with all your healthy parts.”

“I’m not—”

Bill gives him a little shove and says, “Go talk to him.”

The room’s steadily getting more crowded, there’s a DJ set up in the corner, already pumping out tunes, and the entire room looks like an upscale saloon or cat house, with lots of heavy brocade and dust - Kevin isn’t sure how Wentz pulled this off.

He settles on going to get a drink, and if he happens to bump into Carden along the way, well. Ashlee catches him first, though, pulls him into a hug and tells him how much she loves his boots and presses a kiss to his jaw. And then he’s talking to Trohman and Marie and by the time he gets to the drinks he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to turn right back around and head for the stage - which is when he gets jostled by a flailing - dancing? - Siska and stumbles into Carden.

Kevin hopes his mask hides his blush. Carden’s got his hands banded around his upper arms, holding him steady, but then he drops them like Kevin’s burning hot and backs up, scowling at him.

Kevin rallies with a, “Oh, hey, thanks,” and a wide grin, stepping into Carden’s space almost involuntarily.

Carden doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t look particularly inviting either, and Kevin’s grin falters.

“Um. Hi?” This is usually the part where Carden gets in his face and calls him sexy. Granted, NINJA hasn’t played yet.

“Yeah, okay, I’m not up for being jerked around tonight, Jonas,” Carden says. He doesn’t look at Kevin when he says it, either.

And Kevin isn’t jerking him around, what does that even mean? “What, wait, I’m not—” Kevin trips over his words, freezes when all of Carden’s actually sink in. “Jonas?”

Carden barks a laugh, but he doesn’t sound amused. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Kevin winces. He says, “I’m, uh—” but then Brendon’s bouncing over and he rings an arm around Kevin’s neck and says, “Show time, K-bird,” and Kevin’s not sure if he’s relieved or not when Brendon drags him away.

*

Kevin plays on autopilot until Bill hits the back of his head with the flat of his palm and says, “Smile for your public, Jonas,” into his ear.

And then he lets the music ripple through him and he doesn’t forget about Carden, but he can push it back - he can concentrate on Bill and on Brendon and the way Brendon dances during Three Feet Under. He can grin at Miranda, press their shoulders together, share a mic during (Ninja) Lessen. He lets Bill shake his tambourine in his face and drape across his back and mouth Patrick’s part on High And Mighty into the skin of his throat.

Halfway through their second set, right when they’re set to play All But (Ninja), Bill turns to Patrick and gives him a mysterious nod. Patrick salutes him with a drumstick and slips out from behind his kit. He picks up the guitar Brendon uses on Going Back To The Future.

Kevin shoots Miranda a questioning look, but she just shrugs.

Patrick adjusts his hat and strums a chord. It’s all very suspicious.

And then Bill says, “This is for my forever love,” into his mic. “My mustache pal, the NINJA temptress of my dreams.” He takes Miranda’s hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and Kevin can see Miranda fighting off a smile. “You are,” he starts singing, “my fire.”

Miranda groans and covers her face. That doesn’t stop Bill from singing an acoustic version of I Want It That Way, though.

*

“When I told you to talk to Mike, Kevin, I didn’t mean stand around stammering while Mike glares little pieces off your body.”

Kevin fiddles with his water bottle. “That isn’t what happened,” he protests. It’s kind of what happened, but it’s embarrassing, so he’s totally okay with denying it.

Bill arches an eyebrow. “I have very keen observational skills,” he says. “Also, Saporta saw you. He’s chaperoning for laughs.”

Kevin’s seen him. He’s wearing a fringed vest and a handlebar mustache and he keeps cutting in on couples on the dance floor.

Bill sighs. “I see that I’m going to have to actively intervene now.”

“Please don’t,” Kevin says. He doesn’t want to be humiliated any more than he already has been. Carden’s figured out who he is, and he’s not impressed. “It doesn’t matter. He only liked me when I was—”

“I’m not sure whether I’m more amused or frustrated,” Bill says. He jabs a finger into Kevin’s chest. “There is no was here, Jonas. Suppose for a second that our costumes were fooling anyone.” He leans in close, all teeth. “Mike’s a very close friend of mine. I know you’re overly cautious about this, Kevin, but I never actually felt the need to keep any secrets from him.”

*

Carden finds Kevin outside. He’s on the wall around the hotel garden, heels kicking into the smooth stones. He’s not hiding exactly, but he’s thinking himself down from a mild panic attack - Carden knows. Carden has known all along. He can’t help the butterflies that are tumbling around his insides. It’s weird, and he’s a little terrified that he’s messed everything up because he’s even more dense, really, than Bill accused him of being.

Kevin doesn’t know what to say, either. He never knows what to say around Carden – he doesn’t know why Carden isn’t totally turned off by that. Kevin’s completely bewildered by Carden’s apparent—thing for him. Even more than he is about Lacey, in some ways. Lacey’s a douche. Carden’s as cool as Bill, maybe cooler.

Kevin pulls at his mask, elastic digging into the back of his neck. He blows his hair off his forehead with a half-exasperated breath. Carden’s not looking too hostile, so Bill probably talked to him, and Kevin’s torn between embarrassment and relief.

“You’re fucking strange, kid,” Carden says.

Kevin bobs his head. “Okay.”

Carden tugs on his sleeve until Kevin turns his head, looks over at him. Carden’s smirking. “You realize,” he says, “all you do is straighten your hair and slip on this.” He flicks the mask. “You’re fucked if you think that really changes who you are.”

Kevin flinches. “I know.”

Carden snorts, says, “Seriously, you drive me fucking nuts.” He slides a palm over Kevin’s nape, ducks in and presses their mouths together.

Kevin stops breathing, lips parted.

Carden says, low and amused, “This is where you kiss me, Jonas.”

Kevin shakes the tentativeness out of his limbs, swallows Carden’s chuckle, lips buzzing. He reaches up and grasps the collar of Carden’s jacket and ignores Carden’s grin in favor of slicking his tongue along the curve of it – Kevin is an awesome kisser, he just needs some good motivation.

“Shit,” Carden breathes. “You’re a little dangerous.”

Kevin feels dangerous. It’s pretty cool.

“Bill told me subtle doesn’t work on you,” Carden says.

“I’m kind of dense,” Kevin says. He doesn’t actually mean to say that, but the smile Carden gives him is worth it; genuine, reaching his eyes, happy - which is weird, coming from Carden, but also really awesome.

“Yeah.” Carden nods, curls a fist into Kevin’s vest, tugging him even closer. “So let’s make sure we’re seeing this the same way now.”

Kevin presses his forehead to Carden’s and says, “I think we are. But we might have to make out some more. You know, just to be sure I’ve got the right idea about everything.”

“Secret trysts are frowned upon, lads.”

Kevin jerks away from Carden, looks up at Saporta looming over them.

“Not by me, of course,” Saporta says, twirling one end of his mustache between his fingers, “but it’s my duty to mete out punishments for such unsuitable prom behavior.”

“Fuck off,” Carden says.

Saporta eyes Carden up and down. “Young Mr. Beckett warned me about you.” He points towards the doors. “Back inside.”

Carden scowls but grabs Kevin’s hand, urging him to his feet.

Saporta winks at him when they walk by. And slaps his ass. Kevin manages to hold back a yelp, but only because he’d been expecting it.

*

Kevin’s not even sure of the time when he hops out of the Purple Beast and waves goodbye to Bill. It’s early, and he thinks it’s lighter than it was when they left the after party, but morning isn’t creeping into the horizon yet.

“You look smug.” Nick’s sprawled across the rattan love seat, legs hooked over one arm.

Kevin pauses mid-step. “Um.” He doesn’t feel smug. He feels kind of blissed out; like it’s the end of an amazing night.

Nick grins at him, then shifts on the couch, curling up his legs to make room for Kevin.

Kevin drags himself up the rest of the porch steps and drops down next to Nick with a tired sigh.

“Did you get laid or something?” Nick says, pushing at him with the flat of his bare foot.

Kevin shoves him off and Nick pushes back and they tussle a little, until they’re both slumped back, panting, and Kevin grins up at where the sunlight’s just fanning out from behind Bill’s house, purple light dulling stars.

“Bill goes off to college in the fall,” Nick says. He lets the statement hang, then rolls his head towards Kevin’s and grins at him. “You know Joe’ll be angling for that open spot on NINJA.”

Kevin groans. “No way.”

“He was singing All Night Ninja in the shower earlier, he did Trick’s high parts and everything.” Nick nudges his shoulder. “Send him home past the twenty-four hour, small voices, loud places, in early—”

Kevin claps a hand over Nick’s mouth, feels him finish the verse, laughing, against his palm.

Nick reaches up and tugs him off. “It’s either that or he’ll start noise about the Jonas Family Singers again, Dad’s gonna love it, we can be a praise band!”

“If I tell you about my awesome night, will you shut up?”

Nick mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

*

NINJA @ RANDOLPH HIGH SENIOR PROM
A glorious tribute to prom’s everywhere, and much to the obvious affront of stick-man Trickster, NINJA started out the night with a true classic, the anthem of all hep youths, The Four Season’s December, 1963. I danced my tight, supremely fine ass off, and you can bet Mr. JT was busting his own move in the hotel foyer, as sentinel of the front desk -no teens were getting laid on our watch.

NINJA brought the glory, my pretties. They fought for my honor.

Never underestimate the power of Billiam; the tambourine’s a sassy, temperamental instrument, and there’s none better at harnessing that awesome as the unofficial NINJA frontman. Rand, his forever love, improv’d a scorching guitar solo in the middle of This Is Your (Ninja) Story - granted, I might’ve been blinded by the little number she liked to call a dress, and all those lovely flashes of thigh.

Trick’s the magic man, the puppet master, the sultan of swing, and he even came out from behind his beloved kit to help Billiam woo his lady. Rand had a special gleam in her eyes during the entirety of BSB’s I Want It That Way, like she was gearing up to kick Billiam’s ass later - yes, I agree, he’s one lucky, lucky man.

Everyone’s favorite stage capuchin, Bden - cute as a pony and just as likely to lip your hair - revved up the crowd, not only with NINJA hits, but with timeless classics such as Shout and Mambo #5. And let us not forget the abnormally stoic K2, he of the strong, rock-god thighs - do I smell a heart-clench? Never fear, young ones. I’m a student teacher - I’m pretty sure I’m licensed to take care of this shit.

Oh, what a night.

and when the dawn sky is dark, children, look to the Cobra
- gabriel @ emc

END.

Extended A/N:

While the character of Miranda originally started out as Miranda Cosgrove, she kind of took on OC proportions; plus it made me a little squeamish to hook her up with Bill – even though they’re all around the same age in this, Miranda Cosgrove is actually 16 in real life, and Bill’s, like, way older. Nathan Kress, however, is Miranda Cosgrove’s co-star in iCarly. So you can basically imagine whatever you like about Rand, it could go either way.

Blake Sennett is from Rilo Kiley and his own band, The Elected, AND he was a child star – I Ate Moe is a reference to his show, Salute Your Shorts.

The entirety of Larry Says Hi is the cast of High School Musical.

Selena Gomez, one half of American Swimming Lessons, is Wizards of Waverly Place’s Alex Russo, possibly my favorite character on TV to date. She has grown into her head, and is a pretty, pretty princess.

ZFF – which was, indeed, started by one Gerard Way and his then girlfriend Lyn-Z – actually stands for Zombie Friends Forever, but no one ever uses it anymore. Right now it’s filled with mediocre Disney stars – you know how they try to get all their kids to sing, whether they actually can or not? Yeah, like that. Mitchell Musso and Emily Osment are from Hannah Montana, plus whoever else you want to imagine in there. Gerard is half horrified by what they’ve done to his precious ZFF, but he feels like he needs to be supportive of the young’uns.

Maja IS Puppies And Kittens. Everyone else is unimportant (though Rand probably has little voodoo dolls of all of them; and I did reference Cassadee Pope, that adorable girly from Hey Monday.)

Everyone in This Is Thunder is from American Idol, obviously.

Teachers Samberg and Hader are from SNL, and they are my very favorites. LASER CATS.

I don't know if I mentioned this before, but The Jerry is actually someone I made up and got attached to, so I've reused him a lot. He's super awesome.

I think I touched on everything out of the ordinary, but let me know if you want to know more! I spent way too much time just daydreaming about these bands.

Bandslash fic: Never Needed It Now So Much

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 22:26:47 GMT

Never Needed It Now So Much | PG-13 | ~3,000
Kevin Jonas/Mike Carden | the high school AU that isn't NINJA

“Um.” Kevin twists his fingers together and tries to think of a non-pathetic way to beg Carden not to kill and eat him. He’d totally be gamey and, like, like—juicy and tender, *oh sweet baby Jesus*, who the heck is he kidding? Kevin would be *delicious*, he’s all solid and active and healthy and stuff, it’s like his mom’s been feeding him up for years and years for this exact moment. Have another apple, son, someday a scary-intense, super hot guy is going to *eat you alive*.

a/n: quick and dirty au ficcy thing, starring Carden, Kevin, Chislett and Brendon. Kevin's paranoid, and Carden might be trying to kill him. Or something. Title is from The Go! Team, please point out any mistakes, and also go join sodamnskippy: I'm going to pimp that for forever :)

Never Needed It Now So Much

Honestly, it wasn’t Kevin’s fault. Or, okay, it was totally Kevin’s fault, but it was an accident, so Carden should really, really, really think twice before beating the snot out of him.

“Um.” Kevin twists his fingers together and tries to think of a non-pathetic way to beg Carden not to kill and eat him. He’d totally be gamey and, like, like—juicy and tender, oh sweet baby Jesus, who the heck is he kidding? Kevin would be delicious, he’s all solid and active and healthy and stuff, it’s like his mom’s been feeding him up for years and years for this exact moment. Have another apple, son, someday a scary-intense, super hot guy is going to eat you alive.

Kevin winces when Carden slaps a palm flat onto the tile wall next to his head.

If Kevin wasn’t about to die, he’d probably appreciate the way Carden’s t-shirt is molded to his chest; the way his sopping jeans are lagging down at his hips and—wow. Wow, Carden has some pretty hipbones. Kevin swallows hard. He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth and only realizes he’s staring at the black band of Carden’s underwear – he’s staring at his underwear, there is no way he’s going to live through this – when Carden pointedly clears his throat.

Kevin’s panicky gaze darts up, wide-eyed, to Carden’s face. He’s practically expressionless, hair dripping over his forehead; he’s head-to-toe soaking wet, and it’s all Kevin’s – accidental – fault.

Kevin is a dead man.

This calls for some quick thinking.

“Hey, uh,” Kevin says, “is that the bell?” and dodges sideways and runs.

*

“Oh. Oh, darn it.”

Carden arches an eyebrow at Kevin. He’s considerably more dry, but that doesn’t fool Kevin. He knows exactly why Carden’s there, at the bike rack, holding onto Kevin’s very own bike by the handle, a poor, innocent bike hostage.

“So we need to talk,” Carden says, and is that what the hoodlums are calling it these days? Talking?

Kevin takes a giant step backwards. And bumps into something that’s, uh – he risks a quick glance over his shoulder – yep, Chislett-shaped.

“Accident!” Kevin says, heart in his throat. Oh god, Chislett’s going to hold him down while Carden kicks him, this is going to hurt really badly, he knows this.

Both Carden’s eyebrows go up. “Okay.”

He doesn’t seem concerned. Or else he has no idea what Kevin’s talking about, but whatever, it’s not like he forgot that just that morning Kevin had pushed him into the pool. Accidentally! Accidentally pushed him into the pool.

Despite having three brothers, Kevin has no fight instinct. He’s really good at flight, though – he’s the oldest, he gets blamed for a lot of stuff, but only if he’s there. It takes great skill to be The Wind. He’s fleet of foot and slippery and Chislett isn’t even really holding on to him. Ha.

Kevin twists around and takes off for the back parking lot. If Brendon hasn’t left yet he’ll totally give Kevin a ride.

*

Kevin’s going to wait it out. He might miss dinner, but at some point Carden’s going to have to go home and leave his bike all alone, and then Kevin can leave too.

The one day Brendon decides not to hang around, hoping for a glimpse of Ryan Ross. Just his luck.

He kicks his feet out, skittering a stone across the asphalt. He hears a crunch and freezes.

More crunches, like sneakers on gravel.

Carden hadn’t come looking for him, had he? Of course he had.

Kevin holds his breath, pulls his legs back, makes himself a tight ball in the shadow of the auditorium.

Carden’s got his arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he stares across the parking lot towards where Kevin’s hidden. He doesn’t think he sees him, though, there’s a glare from the afternoon sun.

Kevin bites his lip.

Carden cocks a hip, mouth sour, and Kevin thinks he’s absolutely crazy for thinking he’s in anyway attractive. Carden plays guitar in an Anthrax tribute band. He hides out behind the school during study halls, sipping at forties out of paper bags and chain-smoking. He’s got chapped lips, dark circles under his eyes, stringy hair and, like, the most amazing forearms in the history of forearms.

Carden tips his head back, drops one arm, shoves the other hand through his hair, then turns and walks back the way he came.

*

Kevin usually snags an entire plate of cookies for himself after school – otherwise, Frankie just eats them all. He holes up in his room with his cookies and milk and watches TV and thinks about calling Brendon to whine at him, but doesn’t.

After an hour, he’s dozing, laying back on his bed, half empty plate perched on his stomach – he’s not even sure what he’s watching, he thinks maybe it’s an old episode of the Suite Life.

His mom yells, “Kevin, one of your friends is here,” up the stairs, and Kevin yells back, “Okay,” without moving much more than his pinky to lower the volume on his TV.

It’s probably one of the Alexes or Brendon and his binoculars, and as the door creaks open Kevin even starts, “You know, your creepy stalking of Ross isn’t very health—” He cuts off with a yelp, tumbling off the far side of the bed, cookies flying everywhere, because Mike freaking Carden is standing there, just inside his bedroom, and in what world, Mom, what strange and wondrous world is Carden one of his friends?

“How do you know where I live?” Kevin says, and considers calling Joe for help. He doesn’t, but only because Joe would just laugh at him.

Carden moves further into the room and sits on the edge of Kevin’s bed. He picks up a cookie off the comforter, eyes it, then shrugs and takes a bite.

Kevin comes up on his knees and calculates the distance to the door in his head and thinks about the chances of Carden having locked it, and whether or not it really matters, since Carden probably has the reflexes of a rabid wolf – he makes a break for it anyway, and ends up flat on his stomach on the rug, with one of Carden’s knees in the middle of his back, one of his hands pressing down on his neck.

“This is a good cookie,” Carden says absently.

Kevin is glad. Kevin is super glad that Carden is enjoying that cookie; he can have as many cookies as he wants, so long as he doesn’t snack on Kevin, too. He says, “I can, um, get more?”

There’s a long pause, then Carden says, “Nah, I’m good.”

Carden takes his time, finishing the cookie.

Kevin just lies there, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the carpet, one arm trapped underneath him. He wiggles his fingers a little.

Carden says, “So I was thinking about beating the shit out of you,” and Kevin’s entire body flashes hot, then cold, and he holds really, really still with terror.

Kevin’s throat is dry and he tries to swallow but it hurts, and he rasps out, “My mom’s downstairs.” Carden can’t beat him up in front of his mom, that’s just wrong.

Carden snorts. “Okay,” he says, and, “You’re a strange kid, Jonas.”

Kevin doesn’t see anything strange about not wanting to get hurt. That’s just common sense. “It was an accident,” Kevin says softly.

Finally, Carden’s leg lifts off him and Kevin can shift and move; he risks leveraging himself up on his elbows, risks looking over his shoulder at him.

Carden shrugs and reaches for another fallen cookie, then gestures towards the TV. “You’re watching Disney?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kevin says, a little bemused that Carden obviously recognized the show.

“Come on.” Carden nudges his thigh with the toe of his sneaker.

Kevin slowly, warily sits up, and then Carden tosses him a cookie.

*

Kevin has no idea what’s going on.

In the hallway, before homeroom, Carden walks by and bumps his shoulder, flashes him a grin, and Brendon pauses mid-word and gives Kevin crazy eyes.

“What was that?” Brendon asks, flailing his hands around.

Kevin says, “Nothing,” because he’s sure this is some special brand of torture. Carden’ll pretend like they're friends, lull Kevin into dropping his guard, and then he’ll totally and completely humiliate him.

“That’s Carden,” Brendon says, like Kevin doesn’t know. Like this isn’t Kevin’s living nightmare.

It sucks so hard, that a guy Kevin likes and admires – okay, well, maybe not admires, it’s not like Kevin wants to be Carden; Carden smells like smoke and Kevin doesn’t even like Anthrax, but he’s a guy Kevin totally thinks is badass and hot and cool, and he’s gearing up to crush all of Kevin’s hopes and dreams. There is no other explanation for this.

Kevin doesn’t have much of a social standing in school beyond LOSER, but at least he has a future. There was going to be senior year, eventually, and then college and maybe graduate school and he was totally going to learn how to play the ukulele at some point, and possibly the accordion.

But now. Now there is only doom.

*

Kevin’s trying very hard to ignore the way Chislett’s camaro is stalking him down the street. It’s creepy. He doesn’t like the way Carden’s hanging out the window, either, calling his name.

And then Chislett doesn’t even stop, but Carden’s popping open the passenger side door and rolling out – Chislett’s going so slow, stalking Kevin, that Carden doesn’t even stumble.

Carden paces Kevin, hands in his pockets. He says, “Hey.”

Kevin suddenly wishes he lived far enough away from Brendon that Brendon would’ve had to drive him home. That way, he wouldn’t run afoul of people who have it out for him. Or dogs - old Mr. Walken’s Chihuahua charges the fence, yipping, and Kevin jumps sideways, he never gets used to that.

Carden catches his arm and laughs at him and says, “Whoa.” His fingers are warm and tight around his wrist and one part of Kevin is totally glee-facing about holding hands, but there’s a bigger part that’s warning Kevin to start gnawing his hand off now, before Chislett gets out the tire iron or, like, face paint.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Carden asks.

Kevin shakes his head. “No, thanks.” He’s not getting in a car with Carden and Chislett.

Kevin is very conscious of the fact that Carden is still holding onto him. The tips of his fingers are tingling, and he can feel his entire head flushing hot and Carden just shifts closer, so their shoulders are bumping.

“Um.” Kevin stops. He thinks if he keeps walking, he’ll just trip over his own feet.

Carden arches an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”

“What are you—”

Carden grabs his chin, tilts his head down so he’s staring right into his eyes. Carden has this creepily intense stare, too. He’s really good at not showing any emotion at all, like he’s dead inside, and Kevin should not, under any circumstances, find that hot. Then Carden grins with half his mouth, a little mocking, and says, “I’ve got no fucking idea why someone hasn’t already done something about you, Christ, you’re just—” He shakes his head, and Kevin doesn’t know if he’s being serious or not, or what he’s actually talking about – done something about Kevin? What, like end him?

Kevin’s not sure he even wants to know.

*

Carden eyes up Kevin’s Transformers on his desk, and Kevin wills him not to touch any. If Carden has to break anything, Kevin’s going to make the ultimate sacrifice here for Megatron.

Kevin admits he kind of has a thing for bad guys. It’s sort of sad.

When Carden reaches a hand towards Starscream, Kevin blurts out, “Are you gonna kill me or not?” because Starscream is delicate, and Kevin doesn’t trust him.

Carden turns around slowly, smirks at him. “Or not.”

Kevin bobs his head and dips his gaze to his bedspread. Okay. Okay, so no killing. Maiming might still be on the table, though. Or maybe even a good old-fashioned bullying. Kevin’ll take a swirly over a punch to the face, but he’s not thrilled about it.

When he glances up again, Carden’s way too close. Like, kissing close, and where the heck did that come from?

Kevin’s eyes go wide.

Carden’s smirk turns evil.

There’s a moment where Kevin’s not even sure he’s breathing.

Then Carden fists his hand in the front of Kevin’s t-shirt, tugs him down to the floor, and reaches out for the TV remote.

*

It’s baffling. Kevin likes that word: baffling.

Kevin’s mom loves Carden. She thinks he’s charming, she whispered it to him in the kitchen, and doesn’t she see how he’s just biding his time, plotting, making sure Kevin’s ruin is totally complete?

Carden cocks his head at him, eyes shadowed in the dying light. The front porch light’s still off, but Kevin’s pretty sure Frankie’s watching them from the window.

Carden had stayed for dinner. He’d let Kevin’s dad grill him about school and work and no one had commented about the fact that Carden looks kind of like an unwashed bum. A sexy unwashed bum. A sexy unwashed, chain-smoking bum – Carden digs a single battered cigarette and lighter out of his front pocket and lights up.

“I can see you’re confused, kid,” Carden says, “so this is how it’s gonna go.”

“What?”

Smoke curls out from Carden’s mouth. It’s kind of mesmerizing.

Carden says, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Kevin echoes absently.

“We do this at my house.” He flicks some ash into Kevin’s mom’s hibiscus.

“We—wait, this?” What is this? Dinner? Setting the garden on fire? Is this, like, some kind of initiation? Is Kevin in a gang now?

Carden huffs a laugh. He drops his cigarette and pokes the center of Kevin’s forehead and says, “What the fuck goes on in your head, Jonas, are you panicking right now?”

“I’m, yes,” Kevin says, because why wouldn’t he be panicking? What kind of question is that?

“Fucking nuts,” Carden mutters, then brings one hand up to slip under Kevin’s shirt, slide across the bare skin of his hip, tucking the tips of his fingers down the back of Kevin’s jeans.

Kevin frowns. He isn’t crazy. All his thoughts and worries are entirely reasonable, given the circumstances, except—Carden’s other hand slips over his belly and Kevin sucks in a breath, can’t stop a shiver, and Kevin’s starting to get the feeling that, well—“Your house, wait, are we going out?”

Carden really has a dirty grin, Kevin thinks. He walks his fingers up Kevin’s chest, wriggles the others along the dip of his spine.

Kevin wisely takes a hold of Carden’s arms, up under his t-shirt sleeves, before he loses all balance. “Huh,” Kevin says.

Carden’s teeth close over the edge of his jaw, a soft bite, a flick of his tongue. “Slow,” he says.

“I’m not,” Kevin says. He’s not slow or nuts or anything. Carden just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Kevin dumped him in the pool.

Carden’s mouth closes over his; Kevin opens up and there’s even more tongue and—he’s making sounds. All kinds of embarrassing sounds that make Carden grip him harder and murmur, “Jesus Christ,” and Kevin is apparently easy. He’s gonna have to work on that.

*

Kevin thinks it’s a mistake to let his guard down. This could be an elaborate ruse. An elaborate ruse of kissing and groping and, like, meeting moms. And movie dates and handholding and whatever - Kevin’s cautious, but Carden’s kind of distracting. His hands have callouses on them and he’s really into biting.

“What you are,” Carden says against Kevin’s throat, “is out of your fucking mind. It’s pretty endearing.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to beat me up,” Kevin says. He pokes Carden in the tummy and wriggles out of Carden’s grip, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling, slumped in the opposite corner of the couch.

“Awww, baby,” Carden says, and Kevin knows, knows with all his heart, that Carden’s baby is more mocking than anything else. Carden may enjoy sticking his hands down Kevin’s pants, but his favorite pastime is making Kevin feel like a moron. Carden’s lucky Kevin finds that endearing.

“Shut up,” Kevin says, then climbs over onto Carden’s lap, legs on either side of his thighs, because Kevin can totally be distracting, too.

*

“So, no, really, what’s going on with you and Carden?” Brendon asks. He’s posing against his locker, hips jutted out, because Ross passes down this hallway on his way to lunch and Brendon is desperate.

“We have an agreement,” Kevin says. An agreement where they make out and Carden uses the phone to ask him places instead of just creepily stalking him everywhere. It’s working out well.

“Okay,” Brendon says. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” Yeah, it kind of is.

new bandslash fic: Revival

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 02:41:23 GMT

Revival | PG-13 | 4,000+
Kevin Jonas/Mike Carden

Mike looks from Kevin to Nick to Joe, who’s behind Nick, to Nick and then to Kevin again. “Oh, fuck me,” he says. “You’re a Jonas brother.”

A/N: Silly little small town AU, where TAI, Gabe and Greta live in a small town, and the JoBros are still the JoBros, with minor adjustments. There are FOLK BATTLES. And Joe reads a book. Written over the past day, quick and dirty; let me know if you spot any mistakes! (also, you should go join sodamnskippy and have your own fun with these two!)

Revival

“Where the heck are we?” Joe asks. “Is this right?”

Nick doesn’t glance up from his laptop. “Yes.”

Kevin presses his forehead against the cool glass. It’s snowing out. Old fashioned lamp posts are glowing from every street corner, white twinkle lights strung in every store front. Kevin likes it, even though the lack of people is a little creepy.

“Where is everyone?” Joe says.

“There’s a guy.” He’s huddled into a hoodie on a corner, smoking. Messy, dark blonde hair falling over his face, a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Yeah, one. Which means he’s either a demon of the night or a psycho killer who’s just taken out the entire town.”

“Shut up, Joe,” Nick says absently.

“No, seriously, why would they want us here? Dad must really hate Kevin.”

“Hey,” Kevin says, frowning.

Nick sighs, scratches the bridge of his nose and looks over at Joe. “Greta wants us here, and Dad doesn’t hate Kevin, stop giving him a complex.”

“I don’t have a complex,” Kevin says. He’s the oldest. He should be the most well-adjusted out of all of them. Even if he does sort of want a monkey.

“Dad’s trying to phase Kevin out of the band,” Joe says, and Kevin lunges across Nick’s legs for him.

Nick snaps his laptop closed and presses it to his chest and says, “Watch it!”

Joe laughs and laughs with Kevin’s hands tightening around his throat and says, in a slightly strangled voice, “He’s gonna bring in Frankie, he’s already better than Kevin at vocals.”

“You suck,” Kevin says, shaking him a little.

Nick knocks his hands away - Kevin really wasn’t trying to kill Joe. Just stop him from breathing for a few minutes.

The Jerry turns around in the passenger seat and glares at them. “Stop it, or I’m going to push you all out on your asses in the snow, and you’ll walk to Miss Greta’s.”

Joe makes a face and sinks down in his seat with a huff.

*

“This is your fault.”

“This isn’t my fault,” Joe says. “Is The Jerry even allowed to toss us out of our own car?”

“The Jerry can do whatever he wants,” Nick says. He sounds halfway between disgruntled and disinterested as he trudges off down the sidewalk.

Kevin shivers and tugs his jacket tighter around his body. He isn’t really dressed for the weather. “Do we know where we’re going?”

“1014 Libertine,” Nick says. He stops at the corner, shoves his hands in his pockets.

Joe glances up at the street sign. “Know where Libertine is in relation to Birch?”

“Nope.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously, this place is deserted. You know what I’m thinking?”

“Humanoid cyborgs enslaved the town and are making them work in underground diamond mines for shares of fresh vegetables?” Kevin says.

Nick blinks over at him, head cocked. “Really?”

Joe smacks Kevin’s forehead with his palm. “Duh, Kevin. Cyborgs? Please. This is so the work of the walking undead. It’s even more obvious now. Do you hear that?” He cups a hand over his ear.

“Hear what?”

“Creepy ominous silence.”

“It’s snowing,” Nick says. He rubs his hands together and blows on them a little. “Are you hoping for some winter crickets?”

Joe waves his arms around. “Then you tell me. Where is everyone?”

“The Tar Pit, probably.”

“Whoa.” Kevin wheels around, slips a little on the snow and grabs for Nick’s arm to steady himself. “You’re Australian.”

“Close enough,” the guy says. He’s the same one from earlier. Kevin’s really digging his scarf up close. There’re tiny blackbirds all over it.

“How do we know you’re not a zombie?” Joe asks.

Nick slaps a hand over his eyes and groans.

*

Kevin likes Michael Guy. He’s pretty nice and doesn’t blow cigarette smoke in his face and he takes them with him to the Tar Pit, which is actually a cozy little bar with bright lights and loud music and it seems like the entire town is packed inside.

He chews on the end of his cigarette and glances them up and down and says, “You’re those Jonas kids,” and he doesn’t seem impressed or anything, which is awesome. He seems mostly noncommittal about them on the whole, just jerks his head towards the door and says, “Go on. Nobody’ll bite,” and then he flashes this big smile, like maybe, maybe someone will. Kevin’s not sure how he feels about that.

Joe just shrugs and heads inside.

Kevin grabs onto Nick’s hand and sticks close. If he had a monkey, this would be easier. It’s not like Kevin’s shy, but monkeys are, like, the ultimate ice breaker - all the fun of being recognized without the possible derision for who they actually are. Oh, you’re a Jonas Brother? Hey, check out your monkey! No, I no longer want to mock your tight pants and fancy amulet. And it’s not an amulet, anyway. It’s just something pretty.

Inside is almost too warm. There’s a small, empty stage and round tables scattered around the floor. Two of the tables on opposite sides of the room have people on top of them. One each, specifically, both holding guitars, and everyone else is pulled up close, some sitting, some standing.

“What’s going on?” Joe asks.

A tall guy in vintage Gazelles - Kevin’s been wanting a pair for forever - says, “Bill and Mike.” He slides the sunglasses down his nose and peers at them over the rims. “Ah, the rare fresh blood. Don’t let Billy see you.”

Joe wrinkles his nose. “Why not?”

“Friday night folk battle,” Michael Guy says. “It’s always a tie.”

“No one ever changes allegiances on folk battles, my new friends. You’re born into your covenant. Either you’re a Bill man, like myself, or you praise the devil.” He’s got a beer bottle curled in his hand, and he lifts one finger off it to point at them. “Which isn’t half so fun as it sounds.”

“Sing the car song, Mike,” someone calls out.

“Kill it, Mike,” Michael Guy yells.

Kevin’s a little confused, but he settles in to watch.

*

So, as far as Kevin can figure out, the willowy guy is Bill and the scary hot guy is Mike.

They play folksy songs at each other all night amid cheering and jeering, catcalls and boos.

At one point, Gabe starts trying to talk Bill out of his clothes.

It’s pretty much the most fun Kevin’s had in months.

*

“You, I don’t know.”

“Um.” Kevin gives scary hot Mike a wavering grin. “I’m Kevin.”

Mike narrows his eyes and leans in, palms the bar on either side of Kevin’s arms. “You look—familiar.”

He smells like beer and sweat, his hair’s damp and curling over his neck and temples, and Kevin has to stop himself from squirming in closer, what the heck? That’s new.

“Here’s your coke, Kev,” Nick says, holding it up in front of his face, forcing Mike to back off. He’s frowning when Kevin glances over at him.

“Thanks,” Kevin says.

Mike looks from Kevin to Nick to Joe, who’s behind Nick, to Nick and then to Kevin again. “Oh, fuck me,” he says. “You’re a Jonas brother.”

“Hi.” Kevin gives him a little wave like a giant dork. He really wants Nick and Joe to go away so Mike can lean into him again or something. That was kind of fantastic. Kevin doesn’t exactly know where this is coming from, but he’s not gonna fight it.

“Hey,” Bill says, coming up behind Mike. “Wow, I thought Greta was making a funny.”

Nick says, “Not so much,” in his you’re-making-me-constipated voice.

“So you’re—cousins?” Bill tips his head to the side.

“Yeah,” Joe says, nodding. Distant cousins, like Greta’s their granddad’s cousin’s granddaughter, but they’re family just the same.

Mike’s looking at Kevin like he isn’t half so interested now as he was before, and Kevin resists the urge to stamp his foot. Seriously, this wouldn’t have happened if he had a monkey. A tiny little marmoset or something. A conversation piece.

“Boys!”

Kevin looks up and sees Greta pushing her way through the crowd, The Jerry lumbering behind her. She throws herself at Nick when she gets close enough, says, “Boys!” again and grins at them all, and Kevin hasn’t seen her in two years, so this is kind of neat.

Greta is pink-cheeked from the cold and she lets go of Nick to press her mittened hands to Kevin’s face. She squishes his cheeks together and it’s just like they’re both eight again.

“Poodle,” she says.

He scoops her up into a hug. “Sunshine.”

So they’re in the middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving and a couple weeks hiatus. Kevin’s sort of looking forward to it.

*

Mike, Kevin decides, is his ultimate goal. He has no idea what he’ll do with him when he gets him, but Kevin is aiming to have Mike—around, or something. He may’ve been engaged half a year ago, but that doesn’t make him any more knowledgeable about this kind of situation. Mainly because Danielle was not a dude, but also because Kevin’s pretty kick-ass at kissing and not much else. Something tells Kevin that Mike’s not exactly looking for a twenty-two year old virgin. This is disappointing.

“What’s with the sourpuss, Poodle?” Greta asks, dropping down in the seat across from him at the kitchen table. She curls her hands around a mug and mock-pouts at him.

Kevin shrugs.

Greta prods at him with her slippered feet, but Kevin just says, “It’s nothing.”

Joe walks in, looks at Kevin, stops dead in his tracks and does a double-take. “Whoa,” he says.

“What?” Greta says, glancing between them.

Joe shakes his head. “Kevin’s in love.”

*

For the record, Kevin is not in love.

Kevin might very well be infatuated, though.

It’s not like he wants to compose musical odes to his hair or anything, Nick – they’ve got an entire portfolio dedicated to Miley’s long flowing locks and her eyebrows and the peach fuzz on the back of her arms, because Nick is weird.

Even though Mike’s hair is kind of awesome.

*

Kevin learns from Greta that Mike is twenty-six. All he wants out of life is to make Bill weep like a little girl on folk battle night. He works as a short-order cook at the diner part time, and he writes books with Michael Guy.

“Greta says you write books,” Kevin says, falling in step with Mike as he swings out of the diner. Snow crunches under their feet, and Mike’s silent for the first block.

Then he digs out a cigarette and says, “Yeah,” around the end.

He says, “You mind?” before he lights it, and Kevin does not normally find smokers attractive at all, but his, “No,” comes out kind of breathy.

Mike slants an arched eyebrow at him, but doesn’t slow his pace.

“So this little lost puppy act is cute and all, but did you want something?” Mike finally asks.

Kevin shoves his hands in his pockets. “Um.”

“Come on,” Mike says, just when Kevin’s sure he’s going to tell him to go away, and jerks his head towards a tiny bookstore on the left. He even holds the door open for him.

*

“Here you go,” Mike says. He’s not quite grinning, more like a half-smirk.

Kevin looks down at the pile of books in his arms. He shifts them a little, reading through the titles. “You write,” his eye catches And On A Sunny Pony by Michael Guy Chislett and Mike Carden, “books about horses?”

“Cowboys, Jonas, get it right.”

*

Kevin stays up late and reads Two Guns For Hire, about a wandering cowboy and his horse and his half-wolf.

Greta sneaks into his room around midnight with mugs of hot chocolate and candy canes. She folds up next to him on the bed and leans into his shoulder and says, “I love that one,” and, “Have you gotten to the part with Liam, yet?” and then settles back with Kevin’s copy of Drifters.

Twenty minutes later, Kevin gets to the part with Liam. “Oh,” he says. His face gets hot. “This is—”

“Mmm hmm,” Greta says absently, twirling the candy cane in her mouth.

Apparently, these stories are a little gay.

*

Nick looks across the table from him at breakfast and says, “So you’re bisexual now,” and Kevin nearly chokes on his toast.

Greta pats his back and very pointedly doesn’t laugh.

Joe stumbles in five minutes later and slumps down into a seat, makes a sound like he’s dying. He says, “I’m so bored,” and, “Why are we here?”

“You’re here because I missed you, because it’s the holidays, and because you needed a break,” Greta says, sliding a plate of pancakes onto the middle of the table.

Joe grabs one and eats it plain, grumbling, “I didn’t need a break,” under his breath.

“Here,” Greta says, dropping The Westerly Wind – the one about a young impoverished gentleman, traveling east to west in a wagon train, Kevin had wanted to read that one next - beside Joe’s plate, “read that, if you’re bored.”

Joe makes a face, picks it up to read the back cover. “What is it?”

“A book,” Nick says, deadpan.

“No duh,” Joe says. He flicks Nick’s ear.

Nick slaps at his hand.

Greta sighs and says, “Boys,” and moves the coffee carafe out of the way.

*

Friday night, they’re at the Tar Pit again.

Kevin likes the way Mike sings. He doesn’t think Bill has enough conviction in his voice, and he argues with Gabe for a half hour over Mike’s third song of the night, the higher one that’s a little above his range, that Kevin thinks is stronger because of its imperfections.

“Billy has perfect pitch,” Gabe argues, but Kevin still thinks Mike’s more interesting, and it isn’t just because he likes the way Mike’s hands look on his guitar strings.

“And Bill’s insanely handsome,” Gabe says.

Kevin thinks Bill is pretty, not handsome, and nowhere near as hot as Mike. He could be biased.

Afterwards, Mike slumps against the bar next to him and downs a bottle of water in one long swallow.

Kevin watches the line of his throat. His palms get sweaty.

Mike grins at him, then orders a whiskey. He sucks on the ice cubes and Kevin curls his hands over the bar railing and wishes he knew what he was doing.

*

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Kevin says.

“This is a given,” The Jerry says. He’s shoveling Greta’s front walk, because The Jerry is a gentleman.

“Cowabunga!” Joe shouts, and then jumps off the front stoop and tackles Kevin into a snowdrift.

Kevin has ice burn on his face and snow down the front of his jacket and his pants are soaked through by the time he wrestles Joe off of him.

“I’m awesome,” Joe says, fists in the air, panting. His breath smokes by his lips, then disappears.

The Jerry dumps a shovel-full of snow on his head.

*

It’s four days ‘til Thanksgiving, and six days until they’re set to head back home, and Kevin’s stalking Mike outside the hardware store.

Through the front window pane, he can see Mike shaking a box of nails in Siska’s face. There’s a bag of rock-salt at his feet, and when Siska twists the box of nails out of his grip, he bends down and hefts the bag up into his arms. Siska rings him up and pushes him out the door.

Kevin stands there, sucking on a candy cane. “Hi,” he says around it.

Mike shakes his head, chuckles. “Whatever.”

He doesn’t act particularly inviting, but Kevin follows him down the sidewalk anyway. He follows him across the street and down three blocks and Mike eventually slows down so they’re side-by-side.

Kevin finds himself at the stoop of a compact house like Greta’s, only with a blue door instead of green.

Mike drops the bag of rock-salt on the top step and says, “Well, come in, then,” without looking back at him.

Kevin feels a little like he’s being lured into a wolf’s den or something. Which is stupid, but exciting. He maybe skips giddily up the steps, but Mike’s back is to him, so it doesn’t matter.

*

Mike’s house has the same floor plan as Greta’s, only there isn’t half so many afghans and pictures on the walls – also, it’s messier. And mismatched. And it smells smoky.

Mike makes him hot chocolate and leans back against the kitchen counter and eyes him over the rim of his mug.

Kevin sips at his and fiddles with the mug handle.

Finally, Mike sets his hot chocolate aside and starts moving towards Kevin – slow, deliberate steps, crazy hot eyes focused on Kevin – and he says, careful and low, “I hope you know what you’re getting into, kid.”

It’s already been established that Kevin has no clue. He’s not bothered by that very much, though.

Kevin lets Mike pluck his mug out of his hands. He lets him touch calloused fingers to his throat, light at first, then harder, thumb flicking out along his jaw. He lets him cock his head, bring his mouth up close and closer, a tease. And then Kevin slips out a breathy whine and fists his hands in Mike’s shirt and takes the initiative by full-on kissing him.

*

Kevin is pretty good at kissing, he knows this. He’s never kissed a guy before, but it’s technically the same as kissing a girl. What’s different is the burn of his lips from Mike’s stubble. What’s different are the big hands framing his face, the hard angles of the body pressing all along his front, the way their hips slot up – that’s very different.

Mike uses his teeth on Kevin’s lower lip, then follows the sting with his tongue. He whispers, “Is this what you want?” onto the corner of Kevin’s mouth.

Kevin turns into it and murmurs, “Yes, please.”

*

Joe, Kevin notices, reads all of The Westerly Wind and doesn’t say anything about it at all.

Nick watches with a weird expression on his face when Joe curls up on Greta’s living room window seat with And On A Sunny Pony. There’s a baby in that one. Kevin finished it the night before.

“I’m not even sure what to think of that,” Nick says to Kevin, clearly bewildered. It’s hard to make Joe sit still, so his confusion is understandable.

“They’re good books,” Kevin offers. He’s on the couch, just cracking open The Westerly Wind. It’s engrossing, the way he can see the world open up for him as Ethan travels west. The people he meets, the quiet, mysterious stranger, the sleek and silent cougar that follows in his wake.

Later, Kevin glances up and spies Nick on the opposite side of the couch, reading over the back cover of Two Guns For Hire, brow furrowed. He’s got his thumb tucked between the pages as a marker, like he’s already halfway through. Kevin thinks that was a good one for him to start with – it’s more about action than romance.

“This book is—” Nick waves the book around.

“I know,” Kevin says.

Nick says, “Huh,” and opens it back up again.

*

“I am thankful for you boys,” Greta says, clasping Kevin’s hand on one side and Joe’s on the other.

The Jerry grumbles something about cranberry sauce and Joe says, “Right, food,” and Nick says, “I’m thankful we’re here,” grinning at Greta.

Kevin says, “Me too.”

The turkey smells really good. There’s fresh bread and cinnamon muffins and thick salted butter. There’s a big bowl of gravy in front of Kevin’s plate, and he’s even thinking about eating some green beans – they look almost edible, piled with French onions and cream of mushroom soup. He’s more relaxed than he’s been in forever, and he doesn’t even really miss his parents.

He misses Frankie, maybe a little. But that’s because Frankie is kick-ass awesome.

*

Greta tugs a shawl around her shoulders and leans onto the porch railing. She smiles up at Kevin and says, “I’m glad you came, Poodle.” 

In the moonlight, the yard looks pristine with snow. There’re footprints everywhere, the edges melted green-brown along the sidewalk, the walkway, but from here it’s perfect.

The stars are rimmed with fuzzy nimbuses. The air’s so cold it bites into Kevin’s lungs.

He kind of doesn’t ever want to leave.

*

“I so won that round,” Bill says, stumbling down from his tabletop perch. He rings an arm around Mike’s neck, pulls him into a sloppy headlock. “Admit it, you’re a mere amateur compared to me.”

Mike snorts and ducks out of Bill’s hold. “Fuck off,” he says, and he’s still grinning when he catches Kevin’s eyes.

Kevin fights off the urge to duck his head, but he can’t quite stop the blush that spreads up from his chest.

“You,” Mike says, “C’mere.”

It’s like Mike’s Fonzie. All he has to do is snap his fingers and Kevin’ll come running. Which, okay, Kevin’s kind of fine with. He sidles up next to Mike, curves into his side.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Mike says. He slips a palm flat against the small of Kevin’s back.

Kevin nods. They’ve got some studio time and then Christmas, then more episodes of JONAS to tape.

Mike noses his cheek. “Take a walk with me?”

*

Mike lets Kevin thread their fingers together and swing their arms a little. They go the opposite way down the sidewalk, the way they’d driven in, past small farms and fields, and neither of them say anything.

The sidewalk disappears and they walk out behind the tiny episcopal church, then stop at a half-fence lining a vast white clearing.

“Butcher’s field,” Mike says, and hoists himself up onto a rickety-looking wooden slat. He tugs on Kevin’s hand, maneuvers him between his knees. He thumbs Kevin’s chapped bottom lip, smoothes the skin ‘til it rests at the corner, and Kevin flicks his tongue out to lick it, wishes he could see Mike’s eyes right then, instead of only darkness and shadows.

Mike just sighs, though, and tips forward until their foreheads are touching. He slips his hand off Kevin’s face, braces his arms around Kevin’s waist, ‘til they’re hugged tight together.

It’s nice.

It’s flurrying, snow pinging as it lands. Kevin wants to say something, but at the same time he doesn’t want to say anything at all.

*

It seems to Kevin, as they make their way back through town, that Mike’s treating this as a goodbye. Like an ending, and Kevin tightens his fingers over Mike’s and maybe starts panicking a little.

He hasn’t been this—content in a while. Kevin isn’t a real down person ever, but everything seems easier now, lighter - and it isn’t just Mike, he knows, but seeing Greta too, and having this time to relax - but he can’t say any of this out loud, because Mike would make fun of him for the rest of his life, he knows this.

“Hey,” Mike says, then softer, “Hey.”

“What? Um.” Kevin swallows hard. “I’m fine.”

Mike arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay.”

Kevin widens his eyes and scrambles for something to say that isn’t don’t leave me! - and yet again wishes he had a marmoset with a peanut or a hat right then - and he spots Joe with an audible sigh of relief, even though Joe yells, “Geronimo!” right before tackling him back onto a kind of hard lump of plowed snow.

*

It’s silly. Mike isn’t leaving him. Kevin’s leaving Mike, if anyone’s leaving anyone, and it’s not like Kevin’s known Mike for more than two weeks.

It’s ridiculous.

He kisses Mike and kisses Mike until he can’t breathe and Greta starts flickering the front porch light.

Mike’s nose is cold against his.

Mike says, “You better get inside, kid.”

“I’ll call you,” Kevin says, backing up the front steps. He stumbles and catches himself before he falls.

Mike slides his hands into his pockets and says, “Okay,” but he says it like he doesn’t really believe it.

“I will,” Kevin says, and Mike just nods.

*

Kevin leans his head against the car window. Joe’s dozing on his shoulder, a tupperware of Greta’s cinnamon muffins clutched in his hands. Nick’s already got his laptop open on his lap.

Kevin is armed with a stack of cowboy books to read and a CD of real live folk battles that Gabe had slipped into his hands with a wink.

It’s early; the whole town is sleepy but awake. Siska waves from where he’s opening the hardware store as they drive by. Michael Guy salutes them with a paper cup of coffee from his stance on a corner.

Kevin doesn’t see Mike anywhere.

He tells himself it’s fine, that he isn’t disappointed. And then they turn down Abbott and start the long drive past Butcher’s field and there’s a lone figure leaning up against the fence, in just a dark hoodie and woolen cap, and Kevin’s saying, “Stop. Stop the car,” before he can even think about it, popping the door open and tumbling out before their driver even comes to a full stop.

Kevin doesn’t pause, just rolls into a jog until they’re almost touching. “I’m going to call you,” he says, and Mike grabs hold of his scarf, twists his fists up into the warm fabric, and he presses their mouths together, more sharing breaths than kissing, and says, “Okay.”

some things

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 20:43:57 GMT

Yes, NINJA is done. No, it's not ready to be posted yet. It's 32,000 words of craptastic highschool AU right now, and it might be paired down some.

I have moved on to small town FOLK BATTLES and were-dogs, though not in the same fic.

Kevin likes Michael Guy. He’s kind of nice and doesn’t blow cigarette smoke in his face and he takes them with him to The Tar Pit, which is actually a cozy little bar with bright lights and loud music and it seems like the entire town is packed inside.

He chews on the end of his cigarette and glances them up and down and says, “You’re those Jonas kids,” and he doesn’t seem impressed or anything, which is awesome. He seems mostly noncommittal about them on the whole, just jerks his head towards the door and says, “Go on. Nobody’ll bite,” and then he flashes this big smile, like maybe, maybe someone will. Kevin’s not sure how he feels about that.

Joe just shrugs and heads inside.

Kevin grabs onto Nick’s hand and sticks close. If he had a monkey, this would be easier. It’s not like Kevin’s shy, but monkeys are, like, the ultimate ice breaker - all the fun of being recognized without the possible derision for who they actually are. Oh, you’re a Jonas Brother? HEY CHECK OUT YOUR MONKEY! NO, I NO LONGER WANT TO MOCK YOUR TIGHT PANTS AND FANCY AMULET. And it’s not an amulet, anyway. It’s just something pretty.

this is not a hardship

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 17:25:33 GMT

You know what you all should do? You should go out and write Kevin Jonas/Mike Carden and then post it at sodamnskippy. You should also join that, by the way. And write. This is the pairing of my soul, friends. The pairing of my soul.

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Kevin jerks his head up. Carden is looming above him, half under the overhang. He’s got an army jacket on, rain beading up on the canvas, and fingers pinching a cigarette, hand half curled over the tip to keep it dry.

Carden stares down at him. He shifts a little, gaze dropping to the kittens in Kevin’s lap, then he rolls his eyes. He flicks his cigarette out into the rain and grabs the handlebars of Kevin’s bike from where it’s leaning up against the side of the shed. “Come on,” he says, and then he starts off across the field without looking back.

“Uh.” Kevin scrambles to his feet, juggling the kittens. Two of them have fallen asleep, lumped together. The third paws at his sweatshirt, and its mouth opens in a soundless, pathetic meow. “Yeah, I know,” he whispers, then follows Carden up into the parking lot. He at least needs to get his bike back.

When he gets to Carden’s car, though – an old, beat-up Bronco – Carden’s already trying to stuff his bike in the backseat.

“It, uh—there’s a lever to make it fold up,” Kevin says.

Carden gives a noncommittal grunt, but he steps back and lets Kevin move forward – and Kevin drops the squirmy, awake kitten in Carden’s hands on his way past, and when he turns back around again, Carden’s sort of—grinning down at it, and Kevin’s heart hitches, then starts pounding. It’s almost painful, being this breathless, but Carden is grinning at a kitten, and Kevin’s pretty sure he’s never seen that look on Carden’s face before.

On the subject of frontal attacks

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 17:14:31 GMT

starflowers has been cheering me on, and I've got about 24000 words of NINJA fic now. And around two and a half months left to write, which will include (but will not be limited to!) prom, band-o-rama, spring break, Bill the-ultimate-cool-dude freaking out, Pete and Patrick finally doing something about Pete and Patrick, NINJA unveilings, and Kevin being stupid about Carden. I can't believe I've written so much about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. This is the ultimate in pointless self-indulgence.

TEASE:

“I think I’m going to ask Audrey to prom,” Brendon says. They’d just finished practicing Hey Sunshine, and Brendon pushes sweaty hair off his forehead.

Kevin presses his lips together and carefully doesn’t look at Miranda. He can see her making faces out of the corner of his eye.

Bill huffs out a breath, unfolds himself from where he’s been perched on Kevin’s amp, and grabs hold of Brendon’s arms. “Listen to me,” he says firmly, bending down so their noses touch. “Girls completely frighten you. Girls are pretty and soft, so this baffles me about you, but you’re utterly and totally uncomfortable around any girl except for Miranda. You are gay.” Bill shakes him a little, and Brendon’s eyes go wide. “You are incredibly, hugely gay, and you’re in love with Spencer, just go with it, Urie.”

“I’m.” Brendon open and closes his mouth, then says, “What?”

“Gay.”

Brendon shakes his head. “No, I’m—”

“Gay,” Bill insists. “Not even bi, my friend. You are so, so gay, and if you ask Audrey to prom I will slap you.”

“I just—”

“Slap! I’ll take my open palm to the baby-soft skin of your face, Urie, carefully heed my warnings.”

Brendon pouts.

Miranda snorts a laugh into her hand, and Kevin still refuses to look at her. He can feel Patrick glaring at them all from behind his kit.

“Well, I’m not going to ask Spencer,” Brendon says petulantly.

“Spencer’s going to ask you,” Bill says, and Kevin doesn’t know whether he has insider information or if he’s going to make Spencer ask Brendon – he doesn’t think it matters. “And when Spencer asks you, you are going to say yes.”

“You know how much I love talking about the prom,” Patrick says, tipping the brim of his hat back with one of his sticks. “But if you guys want to see The Upstanding tonight with all your limbs intact, you might want to shut the fuck up.”

Bill says mildly, “You seem to be getting angrier lately, Patrick. I think you need to get laid.”

“I will end you,” Patrick says through his teeth.

“Patrick,” Bill says, “sweetheart—”

Kevin lunges forward and claps a hand over Bill’s mouth. There’s Patrick-baiting, and then there’s having a death wish. “Let’s just, uh, finish practice, okay guys?”

Brendon says, “Yes, please.”

Bill’s eyes are dancing at Kevin over his palm. When Kevin lets him go, he says, “I know what I’m doing, Jonas,” grinning, and Kevin says, “I’m sure you do.”

Bill’s probably the only one of any of them that actually does.

Podfic: There Should Be A Name For Something Like This

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 01:43:51 GMT

So, at some point my phone does a teeny tiny ding? And I totally flubbed some words but kept on trucking anyway. And I also got seriously hoarse towards the end (there are many outtakes of me coughing. or giggling.) But! Those things aside, I think this was possibly the easiest one I've recorded to date. Oh man, this was my very first bandslash story *sigh* Good times.

fic is here: There Should Be A Name For Something Like This

It was the best idea Brendon had ever had, ever.

download the podfic (perm link courtesy of general_jinjur!)

Please comment if you download! Enjoy :)

Podfic: How not to eat a cat

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 21:10:51 GMT

Fittingly, nunshavingfun has recorded How not to eat a cat, in which Frank is TV's Alf and he really, really, really wants to eat Joe's cat. Or baby cats. Any cats you'd see fit to give him.

fic is here: How not to eat a cat

When Frank crash-lands on earth, he makes the most of it. Sure, his home planet is destroyed, he’s likely the only survivor, and sometimes he stares at his communication console – in patched together pieces, sitting in Bob’s garage – and thinks about all he’s lost, but generally he just hangs around with Joe, bugs the crap out of Bob, and commiserates with the dog about how much they both want to eat the cat. Sweet, delicious cat.

download the podfic (perm. link courtesy of general_jinjur!)

Please comment if you download! Let nunshavingfun know how much she rocks :)

hump day is getting humped

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 18:00:19 GMT

I seem to have contracted poison ivy on my leg, despite not being allergic to it. It's so itchy! I do not like it, friends.

Also, I want to write famous!Kevin/smalltown!Mike fic, wherein Mike and Bill have FOLK MUSIC BATTLES and Kennerty is the new Jon Walker. There will be blizzard-like conditions and snuggling for warmth and the media's all OH NOES, WHEREZ KEVIN?!

Still writing NINJA fic. That will be done eventually. I'm about 50 pages in and I'm in the middle of January.

Should I get rid of my Panic desktop picture? I keep looking at it and sighing. It's so sad.

Also, twitter is a scary, scary place sometimes.

HERE IS A FIC I WILL NOT BE WRITING, AT LEAST NOT FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS. It will eventually involve Kevin Jonas and a baby:

Siska says, “I’m never helping you move again.”

Mike arches an eyebrow at him. Mike’s helped Siska move three times in the past year, once because of a break-up, once because of a lease, and once because of Butcher, Siska’s heterosexual soul-mate. “I am in love with a man in a purely platonic way,” Siska had announced grandly, two weeks after Bill had introduced them at a party. “We’re moving in together and adopting five dogs, it’s gonna be sweet.”

Mike still doesn’t get it.

“There are entirely too many stairs in this place,” Bill says, hip-checking the half-ajar door all the way open, three pizza boxes and two six-packs of Molson balanced in his arms. “Dibs on the sweet thing across the hall.”

“I will kick you in the groin,” a voice says behind Bill.

“That would truly be tragic. For you and all the ladies of this fine city,” Bill says, dropping the pizza on top of a stack of crates that Mike thinks contain most of his clothes.

“I don’t know what’s going on with your mustache, are you a sexual offender?” A dark-haired girl with a huge grin steps into the doorframe. “Hi, I’m Miranda. You all aren’t living here, right?”

“Just Mike,” Bill says. He flutters his eyelashes at Miranda and Miranda palms him in the face and shoves him away.

“Oh, good, I won’t have to bring up Chester the Molester here at the next building committee meeting, then.” She bounces up onto her toes and down again, cocking her head at Bill, grin slightly mocking.

“I like you,” Siska says.

“Just wait until this baby grows out,” Bill says, fingering the fuzz that’s sprouting on his upper lip. “Just you wait.”

Miranda rolls her eyes. “Anyway. Which one of you is Mike?”

Mike says, “Hey.”

“Hmmmm.” She narrows her gaze, speculative, and Mike stares right back. “Hmmmm,” she says again, teeth worrying her lower lip. “You’re a little intimidating. Good thing I’m only scared of lizards and chewing tobacco.”

Mike’s eyebrows go up. “Yeah, good thing.”

fic: Bust Your Move

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 15:48:08 GMT

Bust Your Move | ~3,000 | PG-13
Kevin/Mike

Kevin’s breathing goes all shuddery, bordering on gasping, and Carden oh-so-slowly pets him there, right on the side of his throat, and shushes him and Kevin thinks, a little hysterical, that if he’s trying to calm him down the petting thing is totally not working.

A/N: So, just to confuse you a little, this is an AU of the show JONAS, in which the Jonas Brothers are actually the Lucas brothers, and have a band called JONAS and go to a private school and their friend Stella acts as their stylist and this girl Macy is their biggest, weirdest fan. And a while ago I wrote on Twitter how much more awesome the show would be if Rival!Band!The Academy Is... were in it, and then I promptly forgot about that, and then I wrote this yesterday. Herein lies pointless high school shenanigans, Nick's one-sided feud with Bill Beckett, and making out in cars and ball closets and libraries. Yeah. This is also kind of lame, forgive me.

Bust Your Move

The guy, when Kevin first spots him, doesn’t look out of place exactly. He looks different, yeah, but he’s got the same pants and shirt and jacket on as everyone else. He even looks comfortable in the uniform - slouched against a locker, messenger bag looped over his chest - but there’s still something. Something about him Kevin can’t quite put his finger on.

“Huh,” he says, and then trips over Nick’s school bag.

*

“That’s Carden,” Joe says at lunch. “Dude, he plays guitar in Beckett’s band.”

“Beckett,” Nick says, eyes narrowing.

Beckett’s been a thorn in Nick’s side all year; they might be famous, have an awesome successful band and all, but for some reason everyone in their entire school gets giddy over Beckett and Siska and Chislett and Chislett’s admittedly awesome accent and the two other guys they play with – Butcher, who goes to high school one town over, and Carden. Carden, apparently, just transferred in.

“I hear he eats babies,” Joe says, and Nick stops grumbling under his breath about Beckett and Beckett’s smug looks and totally heinous song writing capabilities to smack him on the back of the head.

*

Stella holds up a shirt. “It’s mauve.”

“It’s ugly,” Joe says.

Kevin agrees, but he keeps his mouth shut and sucks on the straw of his milkshake and stares at the lunchroom ceiling because Stella is scary.

Stella growls.

Kevin flicks a look towards her and she schools her face into a hilarious, painful grin.

“Fine,” she says, but then she suddenly brightens and says, “I’ll just offer it to Beckett.” 

“Beckett,” Nick echoes, only more like Beckett’s a sneaky snake, and Nick wishes he was a mongoose. Mongooses are pretty cool.

“Beckett,” Stella says, grinning.

Nick says, “No way,” and, “Joe’ll wear the stupid shirt,” and Joe just makes big-eyes and says, “Hey!” but no one pays any attention to him.

Kevin’s gaze wanders over towards Beckett’s side of the room, and he starts when he catches Carden staring at him. Or, like, not at him. Them, maybe. All of them, sitting there, with Stella. Maybe he’s staring at Stella. She’s blonde and pretty; you know, if you’re into girls.

Kevin feels his face flush and he resolutely thinks wow, this milkshake’s awesomely delicious and not wow, Carden has really great forearms.

*

Nick tells some tall tales about Beckett. About how he accosts boys and girls alike for nefarious purposes and how he strips for money on the weekends and gets all his lyrics off of magazine ads and fruit roll-up boxes and Threadless t-shirts. Kevin really doesn’t believe any of that, but then he suddenly finds himself pulled into the supply closet in the science hallway, surrounded by Beckett and Chislett and Siska and half a dozen mops.

“Uh,” Kevin says. He clutches the strap of his bag with tight fingers.

Beckett is really great at looming. You wouldn’t think that to look at him. What he lacks in bulk, though, he makes up for in sheer sadistic facial expressions.

“Kevin,” Beckett says. There’s a bare minimum of light, a single low-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling, and it manages to make Beckett’s eyes sink into his skull, like fathomless pools of evil.

Kevin swallows. “Yeah?”

Beckett stares at him a few moments, then he leans down close, nose almost touching Kevin’s, and asks, “Are you seeing someone, Kevin? Are you currently engaged in this little social activity I like to call dating? Perhaps with your little fair-haired costumer?”

“Stella?” Kevin wrinkles his nose. “Uh, no.”

“Excellent,” Beckett says, then he snaps his fingers at Siska and Chislett and reaches for the door.

Chislett rolls his eyes, but they both follow Beckett back out into the hallway.

Kevin just stands there for a while, staring at the bottles of cleaning solutions and rags on the shelves. He has no idea what just happened.

*

Nick writes a new song, and it’s awesome except for the fact that the chorus is all about how much of a hack loser Beckett is. Honestly, Kevin never before suspected Nick could be this mean about something. He starts thinking that maybe if he got them into the same room they’d work everything out and be the best of friends.

This is why he locks them in the inner courtyard together.

He’d have locked them in the supply closet, except this way they can watch.

“This is great,” Joe says. He’s munching on some popcorn, pressed up against the glass.

Inside, Beckett’s draped across the bench, ignoring Nick as he stomps around the yard, waving his arms and ranting. The only thing that could make this better is if they could actually hear what he was saying.

Then Nick stops pacing and stands in front of Beckett, hands on his hips, mouth still moving, and Joe says, falsetto, “Oh, William, why do you insist on denying our epic love?”

Kevin grins. Beckett casually flicks some non-existent lint off his pants and says something that Kevin’s pretty sure isn’t, “But Nicholas, I’m a determined rogue, you shall never find happiness with me.”

“Dear heart,” Joe says for Nick, back of his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon, “I know my maidenly virtue is safe with you, my only wish is to be held in your manly arms.”

Kevin jumps a little when someone behind them snorts. He can just barely make out the reflection of Carden in the window. Dread pools in his belly. His heartbeat goes crazy, but then Carden just jostles past him and opens the courtyard door.

“Yo, Bill,” he says. “What are you doing?”

Beckett arches an eyebrow at him. “My young friend here was just accusing me of compiling songs out of Miley Cyrus tweets.”

Joe snickers.

Carden shakes his head, then gives Kevin a look. A weird, unreadable look that makes Kevin all squirmy and warm inside, and Kevin fiddles with his belt buckle and drops his gaze and tries not to let his entire head flush – it’s bad enough he can feel it creeping out from under his collar, ugh.

*

Frankie’s eating three popsicles at once and hanging upside-down on the couch and staring at Kevin, because Frankie is multitalented.

“You’ve got a crush,” Frankie says. He says it with his eww face on, because he still thinks girls are gross.

Kevin thinks girls are gross, too, but he’s pretty sure Frankie would think what he’s thinking about guys is just as risky in the cootie department.

“I don’t have a crush,” Kevin says.

Joe, in the armchair across from him, stops bouncing his rubber ball against the wall and widens his eyes at Kevin, mouth spreading into a goofy grin. “You do have a crush,” he says.

“If he has a crush on who I think he has a crush on, I’m disowning him,” Nick calls from the other room.

Joe waggles his eyebrows at Kevin and Kevin shouts back at Nick, “I don’t have a crush on your secret boyfriend.”

“Stella’s making him a jacket!” Nick yells. “He called me his poodle-muffin at lunch!” Then he squawks and says, “He’s not my boyfriend, I hate you.”

Poodle-muffin? Joe mouths to Kevin.

Kevin shrugs.

Nick’s Beckett rant lasts for over a half-hour, but by the time it ends they’re talking about bass lines and harmonies and not Kevin’s pathetic, totally-not-a-crush thing he has for Carden. So that’s good.

*

Kevin spends his fourth period study hall in the library, at a tiny table towards the back, and he’s totally not hiding from Stella or Macy or Nick.

It’s a private nook, a little solitary corner, but then suddenly it’s not only full of reference books and Kevin and Kevin’s half-finished history report, but Carden and Carden’s arms and Kevin is not freaking out, even though Carden’s got him caged in up against the shelves, hands palming book spines on either side of Kevin’s shoulders.

Carden grins at him. His messy hair’s brushing his shirt collar and falling over half his face, but his eyes are pretty hardcore intense, and Kevin fidgets, hands up and knotted together, pressed into the center of his own chest.

“Hey, kid,” Carden says.

Kevin lets out a shaky breath. “Hi?”

Carden’s grin gets wider. “Fuck,” he says, low. “You’re kind of a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

“Um, what?” Kevin refuses to acknowledge how being called sweetheart totally kicks up his heartbeat, because that’s just dumb. And girly. And hot, geez.

One of Carden’s hands moves up and around his nape, fingers threading into his hair before curling into a fist. He tugs, not too hard, but Kevin’s head tilts back a little and his hands come up, grasping the front of Carden’s shirt, his tie.

He can feel Carden’s eyes on his neck; Carden loosens his grip and his thumb slides down, presses lightly on Kevin’s rapid pulse.

Kevin’s breathing goes all shuddery, bordering on gasping, and Carden oh-so-slowly pets him there, right on the side of his throat, and shushes him and Kevin thinks, a little hysterical, that if he’s trying to calm him down the petting thing is totally not working.

But then Carden says, “Calm down, kid,” and nudges Kevin’s chin with his nose, which is so—so not what he thought.

Kevin lets out a little laugh and slumps back against the books. “Sorry,” he says, and closes his eyes.

Carden murmurs, “That’s it,” and, “Nice and easy,” and then, just when Kevin least expects it, he kisses him.

*

“Whoa,” Nick says.

“Whoa,” Joe says, leaning in, eyeing up Kevin’s face. He grins. “You dog.”

Kevin licks his lips. His mouth’s a little raw and sore and tingly and Kevin’s still not one-hundred percent certain what’s going on, but he’s pretty sure he has a date.

*

Carden’s wearing low-slung jeans and a dark red t-shirt with faded white lettering and Kevin feels a little overdressed in his brown pants and scarf. Carden just laughs, though, and hooks two fingers into the loop of material at his throat.

His knuckles press into Kevin’s adam’s apple and his heart thuds exactly how it had that afternoon, when Carden had his tongue in Kevin’s mouth and his teeth blunt along his lower lip.

Kevin clears his throat and says, “Do you want to come in?”

“Not really.” Carden softens his words with a half-grin. He slips his grip off Kevin’s scarf and cocks his head towards his car. “Ready?”

Kevin doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready - Carden’s almost too much. He nods yes anyway.

*

Later, the center console of Carden’s Civic is digging into Kevin’s thigh, and Carden’s cursing into his mouth, one hand in Kevin’s hair, the other hot on the bare skin of Kevin’s waist, thumb over his stomach. Kevin, eyes closed, just barely has the presence of mind to grab for Carden’s fingers as they slide down that last little inch to hook into his belt, but then Carden’s hand slips, sneaks down as Kevin grasps his wrist, heel of his palm pressing into what Kevin’s been trying really, really hard to ignore. His hips stutter up and he groans, Carden grins against his lips, and this is way, way, way too much. But he has Carden’s wrist, holds it there, shifts into his hand a little - he can’t help it.

“Hey,” Carden says, drawn out, wet bottom lip soft against the patch of skin right above his chin.

Kevin wants to push him away and he doesn’t want to and he realizes he’s got a hand twisted in Carden’s shirt, fisted right over his heart. “I’m, uh.” He opens his eyes, tries to focus on Carden’s face, so close they nearly cross. “I can’t.”

Carden doesn’t move back. He curls his fingers under the waistband of Kevin’s pants, and Kevin sucks in a breath.

“This is fine,” Carden says.

“No, um--”

“We’re making out, right?” Carden says, coaxes, a low rumble along his jaw. “No harm in that.”

Right. No harm. They’re right in front of his house. Joe’s probably hanging out the window with his phone, taking pictures. Kevin squirms in the bucket seat, forces himself to unclench his fingers from Carden’s shirt, tugs at Carden’s wrist. “I should go in,” he says.

Carden sighs.

Kevin is extremely conscious of where Carden’s hand still is. His face feels like it’s atomic, he’s so embarrassed, and his breath catches when Carden finally, finally moves away.

*

Joe’s smirking at him. “So,” he says. He swivels the chair from side to side, fingers linked across his stomach. “How was your date?”

“Fine,” Kevin says.

“Just fine?” Joe says.

“Yep.” Kevin edges around him, heading towards the stairs.

Joe swings out of his seat and follows. “Awesome,” he says. “Very awesome.”

Kevin nods.

“It looked awesome,” Joe goes on, expression bordering on-- smarmy. “You know. From in here.”

Joe is a weird little voyeur sometimes, Kevin thinks. Also, he thinks, smarmy is a totally sweet word to describe Joe. He’s gonna have to call him that out loud some time.

Upstairs, Nick gives him a dirty look, but all he says, “I have a plan.”

“Leave me out of your crazy Beckett vengeance,” Joe says.

“It’s not crazy,” Nick says, then purses his lips and narrows his eyes down at his notebook, which means Nick knows it’s crazy, but he’s never going to admit it out loud.

There’s always a high probability of shenanigans when Nick gets like this.

Also--hootenannies.

*

“I don’t think hootenanny means what you want it to mean,” Joe says, but he doesn’t look completely certain.

“Whatever,” Kevin says. “I think we should lock them in the courtyard again.”

*

This time, Beckett’s leaning up against the back wall, hips jutted out, huge round sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s grinning at Nick, and Nick’s flapping his hands around like a demented seagull.

“They should write a song together,” Joe says through a mouthful of M&Ms.

Kevin nods, but he thinks something like that might end up in homicide, or Nick crying like a little girl.

“What’s going on?” Stella asks. She’s got something sparkly and red in her hands.

“Beckett’s explaining to Nick why their love can never be,” Joe says. “And that he wants to elope with his father’s goat farmer and have alien babies.”

Kevin pokes the sparkly red thing. “What’s this?”

Stella grins and shakes out the material, draping them over one arm. “I made Nick some pants.”

Kevin is totally behind sparkly red pants for Nick. In fact, Nick in sparkly red pants is the one thing he wants to see most in the entire world. Maybe if they tell him Stella made them for Beckett he’ll actually wear them.

Joe says, “Cool, he’ll need something to cheer him up once Beckett reveals he’s really a woman.”

*

Macy is super nice but scary and enthusiastic and she always squeals in his ear and tries to steal pieces of his shirt. There’s no shame in hiding from her.

There’s a little shame when Carden finds him camped out in the ball closet next to the gym, but mainly because he’s got his iPod on and he’s singing along to A1.

But then Carden’s straddling his lap and licking into his mouth and Kevin remembers that he has an awesome voice, so whatever.

*

It takes maybe a full two weeks for Kevin to realize that he no longer has a crush - he has boyfriend.

“I’m dating Carden,” he says, testing out the words. “Carden is my boyfriend.”

“That’s great. Maybe he can do something about Beckett.” Nick’s voice isn’t nearly as bitter as it used to be. Kevin thinks this is because of all the muffin baskets Beckett sneaks into his locker. Kevin even saw Nick grinning over one of the truly horrendous notes of poetry - I’d give up my cup of noodle / if you say you’ll be my poodle / muffin - that he ties to each one.

Joe says, “So does this mean we’re a gay band now? Do I have to be gay too and, like, make out with Chislett?”

Nick lunges for him, but Joe dodges out of the way, giggling.

“I mean, his accent’s sexy, but I think maybe he’d crush my windpipe,” Joe says. “Also, girls.”

Nick pauses, sighs a little dreamily. “Girls.”

*

Carden totally wears his school uniform well.

He looks seriously fine when he’s got his khakis on and the blue sweater-vest and the sport coat, and he knows it. He gives Kevin these eyes across the cafeteria. These knowing, sly eyes, or maybe he’s just trying to tell Kevin he’s got, like, mustard on his chin.

“Dude, you’ve got mustard on your chin,” Joe says. He paws his own face. “Right here.”

Awesome, Kevin thinks, a little humiliated. When he glances back at Carden, though, Carden’s knowing, sly eyes are grinning, light, and Kevin ducks his head. The back of his neck his hot. He thinks maybe this is going to be a good year.

things to do on a sunday

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:29:20 GMT

I don't get where Ryan's going, I just hope he doesn't crash and burn.

here, have a snippet leading into another Eat More Cats fake blog post. Someday, this story will actually be finished.

As much as Kevin loves woodshop, Fridays and buzz saws don’t always mix, particularly when he’s had a late night. He’s yawning his way through a blueprint – a gingerbread cottage birdhouse, complete with little wooden gumdrops on the eaves; it’s going to be awesome – and The Jerry thumps a fist on his table.

“Twofer Love, right? Heartsore,” he says.

“Um. What?”

The Jerry shrugs. “You were humming.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Twofer Love.” Crap. Crap, crap, crap, Kevin thinks, he was humming Heartsore?

“Dude, their show last night rocked.” The Jerry swipes some hair out of his eyes, looks over at him curiously. “Were you there?”

Kevin grimaces. He’s pretty sure he should say no. He says, “Yeah,” and kind of wants to smash his hand with a hammer, but—yeah. There’s a part of him that wants to maintain some cool in The Jerry’s eyes, maybe foster it outside of woodshop. Being secretly awesome has limited appeal, and The Jerry seems to genuinely like him. Patrick is going to kick his ass when he finds out.

But The Jerry just says, “Cool,” and turns back to his own project.

Kevin’s fingers tap out the rhythm of Kansas City over the little lines that sketch out the cross-thatched, graham cracker roof.

*

GLITTER GIRLS AND HEARTSORE @ BOOTSTRAP TEN
This much sugar should maybe breed disdain – instead, Greta (of Pocket Thief) and VickyT (of Heartsore) pack you so full of sweet, you don’t even realize the roof of your mouth’s sliced open and stinging until hours later, when their lyrics hit you right where it hurts.

On the surface, it’s sugary pop. Take their words at face value and you’ve got love and puppies and rainbows. But clever twists, like in Rock’ell and Unicorn Moon, in Time Love After - deaf ears and cracked plaster sunshine - and Hug; the upbeat tempo and major chords trick you into thinking this is something simple, when underneath it all VickyT and Greta have got some mysterious bitterness going on.

Glitter Girls isn’t so much a stretch for them, then – Pocket Thief’s hard, dark themes, paired with Heartsore’s hip-hop, party, dance vibe. Though McCoy would probably argue the simplicity of that description; Heartsore is, and definitely always has been, McCoy’s baby.

While Glitter Girls warmed the crowd up, Heartsore lit a fire. Edging up on the harder side of pop-rock, mainly due to the skillful hand of Joe Trohman on lead guitar, Heartsore had everyone singing along, sampling from such fine classics as Superstition, Another Night in Bangkok, and Little River Band’s Reminiscing - plus a straight-up cover of Whitney Houston’s How Will I Know.

Pulling double duty didn’t seem to slow VickyT down, her energy never flagging, and Greta stepped up to the mike during Heartsore’s set for the hook in Seven Years Bad Luck – McCoy, alternately, came out and remixed the chorus for Glitter Girls’ Jelly Donut Boy. Two great tastes that taste great together.

GLITTER GIRLS AND HEARTSORE @ BOOTSTRAP TEN: DECEMBER 9TH 9:30 PM
Glitter Girls set list:
+ Time Love After
+ The Word
+ Ten Around
+ Hug
+ Rock’ell
+ Magnetize
+ Jelly Donut Boy
+ Peppermint
+ Unicorn Moon

Heartsore set list:
+ Another Night
+ Twofer Love
+ Knock Me Out
+ Kansas City
+ The Cheese Told Me To Write This Song (possibly not the correct title, but Joe kind of mumbles, and I could have sworn there’s a bit about muenster and pepper jack in this)
+ How Will I Know
+ Seven Years Bad Luck
+ Nothing Wrong With Afternoons
+ It’s Simple
+ Lock Your Doors, We Make No Promises

same bat channel,
trick @ emc

when the robots are truly heartless

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 17:33:47 GMT

Okay, so, yes, I feel like my heart is breaking, and it's ridiculous, because it's a band. A band of people I do not actually know, and it's not like they're all going to drop off the face of the earth (I hope!), but the worst of it is that I can't help thinking that maybe they're not friends anymore! UGH. Whatever, I can still write about them. I predict an overabundance of angsty plot-lines now - more so than usual. Zack, your defense of their announcement is admirable, but it does indeed suck, and, as many people have stated, kind of unprofessional, timing wise. I'm going to go with the so-high-this-seemed-like-an-awesome-time-to-do-this thing.

On other things, my laptop died again, and fed-up and armed with my ext hard drive of everything I needed anyway, I got a Mac. Windows, you crashed my life one too many times. I salute you, but I must leave you behind. So nows I have a macbook pro and it's super neato, and it only took me 4 hours to figure out how to get on the internet - it didn't help that I apparently hid my SSID when I set up my router three years ago - hi, brain, sometimes you go on vacation - but the apple support guys were AWESOME and led me through every single step they could and didn't get impatient with me being a fucking idiot (I seriously wanted to cry and take the stupid laptop back to the apple store, I seriously could not figure it out - so, yes, Apple Guys, you saved me the 119 dollar return fee! *LOVE*).

To celebrate or spit in the eye of the now split Panic, whatever, have a (really rough) fake blog post about Ryan and Jon for my mike/kevin secret band NINJA high school fic (now at the 43 page mark!) Background: NINJA also reviews bands at a site called Eat More Cats. Yes.

TENDERFOOT JUNCTION @ THE CELL
Ryan Ross is not a robot – no, for real, Bden [prove it! – bden] – but his first performance as solo artist Tenderfoot Junction was still damn near perfect. He’s got the range of a wolfhound with an unsteady, mellow pitch, and he managed to charm the pants off us last night with his knobby fingers, old blueridge acoustic, and sweet sassy lyrics about leather boots, hips and toothy smiles.

Old fans of Ross might miss the bitter showiness, the Casio beats, the misogynous dance-pop that defined the ironically named Summer Daze, and while Ross’s new stuff isn’t necessarily better, there’s a simple honest quality to it - discounting the abnormally large amount of nonsense; although even the nonsense, on some instinctual level, seems to take on a certain shape of truth.

Talking flowers, magical caves, peace, love and happiness in the guise of gumdrops and magnified multifaceted insect eyes: Ross has the good stuff, deep down inside, don’t let the sweater vests fool you. Think folksy blues with a solid rock background – jumble in (alleged) copious amounts of weed. If The Beatles ever adopted a gangly, too pale kid from Las Vegas and gave him a funny haircut, Ryan Ross would be it.

There are rumors of a collaboration with local pop-punk trio Samhell. Sharp eyes caught Walker stalking Ross in between sets - now that's something I want to see. Van Vleet's eerie vocals, Walker's simple melodies underscored and amp'd by the relentless enthusiasm of Andy "Butcher" Mrotek, mixing and mingling with the oddity that is Ross-- at the very least, it'll be entertaining as hell.

TENDERFOOT JUNCTION @ THE CELL: SEPTEMBER 14TH 10:00PM
Set list:
+ Wolves Are Held Back
+ Moontime Butterflies
+ Red
+ Count Your Charms
+ What's My Age Again
+ Spencer Bought Me This Watch (???? courtesy of Bden, we have no idea what the fuck this one's called)
+ Since She Says Tomorrow
+ The Song About Wax Statues And Having Sex (thank Billiam for this one)
+ Cool Run Home [aka the John Candy song - k2]
+ Biting Grins and Skeleton Bones
+ Absolute Mayhem

stay classy, omaha
- trick @ emc

working for the weekend

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 17:34:12 GMT

I think this is the slowest I've ever written a fic without having writer's block. I'm around 40 pages in, and I'm thinking I'm only halfway done - so slow apparently means long for me.

Also, in case you didn't know, Kevin Jonas just got engaged. To someone other than Mike Carden! To a girl. My general feeling is: what the fuck? He's 21! He's a rock star! I blame the purity ring, seriously, he just wants to get some. On the other hand, he's still adorable and seems sweet so I wish him the very best.

My pup, Roxy, had acl surgery on her back left knee last Friday. She's drugged out of her mind to keep her calm, and it's so sad! But we cut back on her meds yesterday and she was soooooo hyper and she basically has to be immobile for 6 to 8 weeks, so she was a droopy puss this morning after her sedative. I just want to snuggle her. It's so weird being able to leash walk her, though, normally she just pulls me down. It's kind of nice!

I still have a TON of bbbs to read - I'm in a fast and furious mood again, and I'm re-reading fics because there's nothing new out there. Also, MERLIN! J is in love with the show now, too, so our Sundays are awesome.

That's all. I'm so boring.

I maybe use this icon too much, but it's HI-larious

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 17:51:54 GMT

I'm 12,000 words and 3 and a half months into Mike/Kevin high school AU, and right now Kevin is dating Zac Efron o_O. It's gotten wildly out of control! And it's also completely pointless; I know I say that about a lot of my fics, but absolutely nothing happens in this story. They just all hang out and play music and talk about bands (that I made up), so it's fun for me, but I don't know about anyone else :)

“I’m really enjoying this debate on what we should wear,” Miranda says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and fiddling with her amp, “but maybe we should concentrate on the fact that we’ve never performed live before? I’m kind of worried about how Brendon isn’t actually an octopus, no matter how many limbs it seems like he has – what are we doing about the piano?”

“I know the guitar parts on Lefty Persuasion,” Bill says. “And there’s no reason why everything has to sound exactly the same, you know. We can improvise. Also.” He curls a finger over his upper lip, tilts his head back. “I’m going to wear a mustache.”

“Please don’t,” Patrick says.

“Too late. It’s decided,” Bill says. “I’m going to make Kevin wear one, too.”

Kevin blinks. “Uh.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to wear a fake mustache, but Bill’s sort of hard to say no to.

Miranda strums a chord and messes with her pedal. “Kevin’s not wearing a mustache,” she says.

“Are you volunteering to be my mustache buddy then?” Bill asks Miranda, grinning. He saunters over and hooks an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll tickle when we kiss, like whiskers on kittens.”

Miranda elbows him in the side; Bill half-stumbles away from her with an oof, mouth still curved up in amusement.

“So if anyone’s interested,” Miranda says pointedly, “I’m going to play Weak In The Knees now.”

for your listening pleasure

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 00:32:18 GMT

So toft_froggy won anatsuno's awesome podficing abilities in Sweet Charity and asked for a recording of my Attack of the Giant Robot from Outer Space story, so go here and download and enjoy :) I'm very flattered Toft asked, and very excited to hear it read aloud!