pants to match

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: DECMEBER 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!

iCarly fic: Gives Me The Butterflies

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 01:42:19 GMT

Gives Me The Butterflies | PG-13 | 3,000+
Sam/Freddie-ish.

“You used to be dapper,” Carly says. She pokes Freddie in the head, cautiously, like she’s afraid his hair will grow limbs and attack her. “I admired your sense of Yuppie fashion, does your mom know you look like this?”

A/N: Freddie goes to college and stuff happens. So, whatever, for people who don't watch iCarly, Sam is a tiny blonde who can beat the shit out of you with one hand and eat a piece of fried chicken at the same time (she's AWESOME), Carly (Miranda Cosgrove!) is sweet and sassy, Freddie is the tech producer who tapes their web show, and Spencer is Carly's eccentric artist older brother/guardian. This fic doesn't have much of a point, except Sam and Freddie are kind of trying to define themselves without Carly. Title comes from Soundgarden's Outshined.

Gives Me The Butterflies

Freshman year is a new beginning. The giant nametag on his door reads Fredward Benson – directly next to one that says Evan Lewis, already decorated with what looks like tiny dancing penises. Freddie thinks this is going to be a good year, so long as his roommate doesn’t want to beat him up.

They call him Fred during orientation. It sticks.

*

Evan is a huge, tall and huge guy – huge! - who wears a beret and a trench coat and black boots that lace up his calves. He’s okay. He showers regularly, but that doesn’t seem to help the permanent stench that hangs around him, and he’s a music theory major or something, but not a band geek, so Freddie ends up knowing more than he ever wanted to about grunge and nineties alternative rock.

His mind echoes the entirety of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness in his sleep. He dreams about the Gin Blossoms and Nirvana and doesn’t even think it’s weird that they peaked just about the time he’d been born.

*

Carly ends up out east. She sends Freddie video updates of her life from her darkened closet, since she’s apparently rooming with a gorilla. She whispers, face close to the camera, eyes comically wide with fright.

It makes Freddie smile – Carly’s life has never been perfect, but it’s always been charmed. It’s nice to know she’s just as lost as he is, sometimes.

*

Freddie doesn’t hear from Sam at all. This, he decides, is awesome.

*

With the combined powers of Evan and the guy across the hall, Sanji, plus the absence of Sam and his mom, Freddie gains about ten pounds in his first two months of school – the Side Cafe conveniently stays open ‘til ten most nights, and Evan’s a big fan of mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers. Sanji is maybe eighty pounds soaking wet, and he constantly eats donuts.

Freddie doesn’t have that kind of metabolism, apparently, and he doesn’t have Evan’s immense size that lets him get away with packing on a few extra pounds and still look badass.

Freddie’s been missing his mom since September – it’s crazy, his mom’s insane and sends him a new first aid kit every two weeks and organic oatmeal craisin cookies and recipes for whole wheat waffles and fruit parfaits and he very pointedly never mentions how many chicken patties with cheese he eats per week – but suddenly he really misses Sam, too.

*

He never realized before how vital Sam had been to his health, what with all the verbal and physical abuse that makes up their relationship.

He starts running.

He really hates running. His feet and legs and lungs hurt, and he realizes there’s a better, if not ideal solution.

*

“What the heck are you wearing, Fredward?” are the first words out of Sam’s mouth.

“Good to see you, too,” Freddie says. He mostly means it, even though he’d panicked the second after he’d sent Sam the text. The text that had been an innocuous hey, and, you should visit, even though they’d barely exchanged emails over the past month and a half.

Sam reaches across the table and fingers his flannel. “You suddenly become a lumberjack?”

Freddie has assimilated. Evan and Sanji and Sanji’s roommate, Brian, have made it okay to wear sweats and flannel shirts over hoodies and backwards baseball caps and Freddie’s under no illusions that it’s cool, but he was never very cool anyway.

He bats away Sam’s hand and grins. “Did you watch Carly’s latest vid?” Carly apparently still has no idea what to do with her roommate, and has started stocking her closet with pudding cups and plastic spoons.

Sam steals all of Freddie’s fries and says, “It’s pathetic, I thought I taught her better than that,” with her mouth full.

*

“Pearl Jam is for pussies,” Evan says, then snaps his mouth shut when he spots Sam.

“This your roommate, dork?” Sam asks. She kicks her heels up onto his bed, bag of funions resting on her stomach.

Evan’s forehead furrows. “Is that a girl, Fred?”

Sanji, cork-screw curls barely contained by a bandana, says, “Huh?”

“So this has been awesome,” Sam says, slipping down off the bed and getting to her feet, “but I gotta jet. See you, Freddie.”

The bag of funions tips over onto his pillow and Freddie grimaces.

Sam wipes her greasy hands on her pants and elbows her way past Evan and Sanji. Sanji yelps and Sam mutters, “Like to like,” before giving Freddie a mocking salute.

*

It takes less than a minute for Sam to come back, sweeping wordlessly over to the funions, arching a speaking brow at Freddie before grabbing it and disappearing out the door again.

*

“Remember when you had that girl in here?” Evan says later. He’s flipping through his mix tapes, cases clacking against each other.

Freddie looks up from his Geology textbook, watches as Evan fiddles with his boombox. He presses play, then closes his eyes and leans back against the wall next to his desk, fingers tapping idly on his knees.

“Thought you said Pearl Jam was for pussies,” Freddie says. It sounds awkward in his mouth, but Evan doesn’t call him on it.

“Temple of the Dog’s a whole ‘nother beast, my friend,” Evan says, eyes still closed. “But Vedder’s still a douche.”

*

Freddie gets the feeling Evan doesn’t meet a lot of girls. He keeps bringing up Sam.

Sanji’s the one who asks if she’s ever going to visit again, though, and then Evan says, “Yeah,” and, “She’s hot,” and Freddie scrunches his face up and says, “What, what?” because Sam Puckett is not hot.

Sam is scary. All of Freddie’s parts are afraid of Sam.

Sanji nods his head and Evan makes some crude gestures that Freddie guesses are about Sam’s breasts and Freddie is horrified. “Uh, no,” Freddie says.

Evan says, “No what?”

“No, I am never bringing Sam over here again.”

*

Freddie is exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes away from the Bushwell apartment; his mom timed it from the moment they stepped out of their door, all the way up the elevator to his floor in the dorm.

He figures it takes Sam a little longer, especially since she rides the bus.

They meet at the Village and Freddie takes her to the Side Cafe and then to the little candy nook next door. He uses his food flex card to buy her licorice whips and reeces pieces.

They sit in the Quad and Sam’s cheeks are pink from the wind and halfway through a story about how she broke some shoplifter’s arm and stuffed his face in a trashcan – Sam makes mall security sound exciting, actually, it’s kind of the perfect job for her – her cell rings.

She tugs it out of her pocket, makes a face, then presses ignore.

Five minutes later, Freddie’s phone buzzes. It’s Carly, a text, and it reads: is Sam with you?

Freddie doesn’t know what’s going on, but Sam’s watching him, expressionless. “So you’re avoiding Carly?” he asks. He doesn’t hit reply, just curls his fingers around the cell.

Sam shrugs and pours a handful of reeces into her mouth.

*

Sam doesn’t talk about her feelings. If she has a problem with you, she’ll just punch you or twist your nipple or kick you in the balls. And then she gets over it.

She’s being pretty weird and passive about Carly, though.

*

“Sam’s being weird,” Carly says, voice low.

“Are you in your closet?”

“Gorilla’s got a guy over. I figured it’d be best if I pretended I was somewhere else. It’s totally okay, though, I’ve got a light in here now, so I can avoid failing all my classes.”

“Okay.” Freddie’s smiling.

Evan’s got huge headphones on, but he arches an eyebrow at him and mouths, Sam?

Freddie shakes his head and wonders when his happy face ever could have gotten associated with Sam.

“Focus, Freddie,” Carly says. She gets a little shrill, then hushes herself on a mild, “Darn it,” and, “Help me with Sam. You’re seeing her, you can tell me if she’s being weird. She’s being weird, isn’t she?”

“Not really,” Freddie says. He doesn’t know why he says it. She is being weird, but only about Carly, and Freddie doesn’t know if he should mention that or not. In the end, he just says, “I think she misses you.”

Carly sighs. “Yeah. Me, too.”

*

Freddie meets Josh in his American history lecture. Josh asks to borrow a pen and then his notes and then they end up studying together each week, along with these two noisy girls from the back of the class and a big guy, Darren, who doesn’t really talk, but always has all the right answers.

They meet in the student union on Wednesdays.

The last Wednesday before their final, Josh says, “You haven’t gotten the full college experience until you crash a frat party, dude. Five dollars a cup and they don’t care if you’re wearing carpenter jeans.”

Freddie makes a face. “Isn’t the campus dry?” he says.

Josh punches his shoulder. “The trick is to get out before the cops bust it up.”

*

Freddie doesn’t really drink and it’s loud and crowded and nothing like any movie ever told him it would be. There’s barely enough room to move, everyone’s sloppy drunk or getting there fast, and Freddie catches Evan’s eye over Sanji’s head and gestures towards where he’s pretty sure the door is.

Sam has her arms crossed, scowling at him, pressed up close against his side.

*

Evan and Freddie and Sanji and Sam barely get out before the cops show up, before everyone scatters and the narrow streets are filled with laughter and singing and blinking lights – the cops don’t seem to really try to arrest anybody, they just make sure the party’s shut down.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Freddork,” Sam says, swinging an arm around his neck and dragging him down into a headlock.

He half-heartedly pushes at her arm and says, “You’re not a girl,” and he stumbles a little when she abruptly lets him go.

She kicks him in the shin and stalks off down the sidewalk towards the dorms.

Sanji gives him a look, then scurries after her, jogging to catch up.

“What?” Freddie calls after them.

Sanji ignores him.

Sam flips him the bird over her shoulder.

*

It’s weird having mostly guy friends. His floor is coed by wing, but the girls don’t really venture down their hallway. Freddie doesn’t blame them. It kind of smells.

Freddie starts wearing boxers and flip-flops around his room, and then the laundry room down the hall, and then he’s wearing them in the common lounge, under a bathrobe. He’s growing his hair out. He’s formed an opinion on Alice in Chains and Soundgarden, he can pluck out Nothing Else Matters on Sanji’s acoustic guitar.

Evan breaks out the Melvins and says, “Listen, listen,” and, “You’re from Seattle, dude, this is, like, your birthright,” and then he puts on Smashing Pumpkins again and says, “There’s grunge, and then there’s this.”

Freddie sprawls out on his bed, hands resting on his stomach, and hums Tonight, Tonight under his breath.

*

Freddie knows he basically got into the college’s multimedia program because of iCarly. It was pretty much the perfect example of his work – technical web genius for a semi-famous webcast, wowing watchers with corny jokes for four years strong.

And he misses it, but not the way he thought he would.

*

“Thanksgiving’s a big deal,” Carly says.

Freddie says, “I know.”

“It’s a big, big deal,” Carly says. “Big, Freddie.”

“I think I got that,” Freddie says. He doesn’t roll his eyes, even though he wants to, even though she can’t see. She’d probably know, though. Carly can always sense those things.

Carly sighs. “Just—”

“She’ll be there,” Freddie says. Sam will be there if Freddie has to drag her over by her hair and sit on her himself.

*

“There’s something on your face,” Sam says, looking at Freddie with narrowed eyes. “Hold still.”

“Hey, what—”

Sam whacks Freddie with her sandwich.

“Ow,” Freddie says, palming his cheek, more from reflex than anything. It barely stung. “It’s called a beard, Sam.”

“It’s called Shave Right Now Or I’m Going To Beat You With My Other Sandwich.” She points to the plate that technically holds Freddie’s sandwich, but is probably just going to end up as Sam’s second lunch. “You’re lucky I’m letting you get away with the unwashed bum hair. Actually, on second thought, gimme some scissors.”

Freddie ducks away from Sam and says, “Fine, fine, I’ll shave, geez.”

*

“You used to be dapper,” Carly says. She pokes Freddie in the head, cautiously, like she’s afraid his hair will grow limbs and attack her. “I admired your sense of Yuppie fashion, does your mom know you look like this?”

“Har, har,” Freddie says, frowning.

“I let you go to college by yourself and this is what happens?” Carly shakes her head, a bemused curve to her mouth. “Seriously, has your mom seen you?”

Freddie’s mom had cried. But then she’d hugged him and made him eat three apples and went out and bought him hypoallergenic shampoo that Freddie’s pretty sure is supposed to be for dogs.

*

Spencer says, “Pipe cleaners.”

Freddie cocks his head. “What?”

Spencer frames Freddie’s head with his hands. “Pipe cleaners, colored glue, I think we have some felt somewhere. Carly!” he yells over his shoulder, still looking at Freddie.

“Yeah, Spence?” Carly’s grinning, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“I need googly eyes,” Spencer says. “And a picture of a monkey.”

*

Freddie’s mom brings a Jell-O mold with pineapple slices in it for Thanksgiving dinner at the Shay’s.

Sam sits next to Freddie with a mutinous scowl, arms crossed, staring down at the table. Freddie digs his nails into her thigh until she turns a death glare on him and he lets go with a startled noise, throat suddenly dry.

Carly says, “So, um,” and glances awkwardly around the table.

Freddie presses his lips together and says, “Screw this,” and he vaguely registers his mom’s appalled gasp as he grabs Sam’s arm and drags her to her feet.

Sam stumbles against him, still glaring, and Freddie wraps a hand around the back of her neck and kisses her. It’s firm and chaste and Sam’s flailing, even as Freddie moves his grip from her arm to her waist.

And then she’s not flailing, and Freddie feels her palms on his chest and Freddie braces himself to be pushed violently away. When it doesn’t happen, he smiles against Sam’s mouth.

Then Sam’s fingers curl into his shirt and she pulls him closer, harder, and Freddie loses a few minutes to Sam’s tongue.

*

“Um,” Freddie says, dazed, when Sam finally lets him go. He blinks at her. She’s big-eyed for a split-second before her face hardens and she smirks, but her fingers don’t loosen and Freddie doesn’t move away.

Someone clears their throat.

Freddie shifts and sees his mom and Spencer and Carly, all staring at them with various expressions of surprise, amusement and weirdness. Freddie feels his cheeks heat.

“Um,” he says again.

And then Carly jumps to her feet, grabs Sam, and pulls her towards the stairs.

*

This was the plan. At least, if he’d had a solid plan, this would’ve been it. Get Carly and Sam talking, commiserating, being best friends again.

Of course, the second it happened he’d figured Sam would stomp on his foot and chase him into the bathroom with a turkey leg - and then she and Carly would talk about how Sam should reconsider trying to kill him. He never figured she’d kiss him back.

“Um,” Freddie says. He takes a deep breath, feels it all the way down in the pit of his stomach.

Spencer claps him on the shoulder. “Congrats, little dude.”

“On what?”

Spencer quirks his mouth up into a half-smile. “On still being alive?”

*

“Did you mean it?”

Freddie makes a face at his bedroom ceiling. “Huh? No, I. I didn’t really mean to do it.”

“But did you mean it?” Evan says again. There’s the familiar clacking in the background, like Evan’s sorting mix tapes or CDs as he talks.

Freddie says, “I don’t know.”

“Dude, this is Sam. I’d totally mean it,” Evan says, which is typical, because Evan kind of loves Sam, even though she’d crushed his Grosse Pointe Blank soundtrack against his forehead for inadvertently touching her butt. At least, Freddie thinks it was an accident. Evan had grinned so big afterwards; it was kind of hard to tell for sure.

Freddie fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “I guess,” he says, slowly, and his heart pounds, like it’s swollen inside his chest.

Evan hmmms. He says, “Okay,” and there’s a click through the ear piece and he says, “Dookie, man, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this album,” just as Burnout starts, the tape noticeably warped and worn from multiple playings.

“Listen,” Evan says, and turns it up.

*

There’s no knock, his door just swings open and Carly marches in, then throws herself along the end of his bed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Carly says, “but you got weird.”

Freddie shrugs. He’s not going to argue with her. He thinks it’s a combination of living with Evan and being away from his mom – of not having Carly around to impress, of being on his own, of not being a part of something that really wasn’t his, but helped shaped exactly who he was anyway.

The thing is, Sam didn’t really care who he was then – anything she did to him, any name she called him, that didn’t really stop them from hanging out - and she doesn’t really care who he is now. Freddie always thought that meant she was indifferent to him, that he was an okay stand-in for whenever she got lonely, but now he’s not so sure.

“Sam visits you a lot,” Carly says.

Freddie shrugs again.

Carly pokes him with her toe. “Sam’s my best friend,” she says meaningfully.

Freddie says, “So you’re talking again?”

Carly smiles a little. “Thanks to you.”

“My pleasure,” Freddie says, and, yeah, he really kind of means it.

*

Freddie still isn’t exactly sure why Carly and Sam had been fighting, but he figures it’s maybe as simple as Sam feeling like Carly had left her behind.

Freddie gets that. They don’t have the show anymore, and Sam’s never been very good at focusing on the bigger picture.

“You should be a cop,” Freddie says.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, whatever,” she says, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. An I-could-legally-carry-a-weapon-other-than-a-sock-filled -with-butter gleam.

It’s an interesting gleam.

Freddie pushes his plate of onion rings across the table towards her, and Sam digs in like it’s not a big deal.

*

“We should move out,” Evan says. “Next year, dude, we should get a house. Me and you two and Sanji and Brian.”

Sam freezes, Freddie can feel it where she’s leaning back against his knees. She’s got a jar of pickles in her lap, and he watches her knuckles whiten around it, squeezing. But then she just shrugs and digs another pickle out with the tips of her fingers. She snaps into it with her teeth, then tips her head back and grins at Freddie, upside-down.

Evan waggles his eyebrows while she’s not looking.

a list!

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 17:58:20 GMT

* ordered 8 books so far! hurrah!

* trying my hand at something original, even though it basically sucks and I kinda gave up after 7 pages. It's maybe about a dude who's being haunted by his dead gay twin. Other than that, it's pretty dumb.

* also about a page into an iCarly fic that should be shortish, college-age Freddie coping without his girls.

* was briefly inspired to finish Start Where You Begin before I fell asleep last night, and then I opened up the word doc today and just stared at it, so whatever.

* I'm trying to keep up with all the bigbangs, but there's an AMAZING amount of fic, I find that half the time I just stare at my delicious in indecision!

* I'm still only about 9000 words into Mike/Kevin highschool au.

snippet?

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 work station 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.

I bought this

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:38:15 GMT

I have decided that I am going to try reading actual paper books this summer! Instead of fanfiction! I don't know if it'll work, but we shall see. So, anyway, you should tell me what's good to read! I like comedy, teens, romance, time-travel, dogs, horses, sci-fi, historical fiction, etc. I don't like anything heavy or depressing. I don't mind having to think, but I'm hugely disapproving of long, boring descriptions, no matter how accurate or whatever. I'm afraid I have a low tolerance now for epithets, sloppy POVs, use of "lover" (oh god, shoot me), and, seriously, hate, hate, hate something that's overly-wordy for no purpose at all, but just because the author likes to write about flowers or bicycles or sunsets or clothes or quidditch (hi, JKR) - bleh. ANYWAY, I'm sure you all can suggest something to read that isn't going to make my eyes bleed and my brain ooze out of my ears. Summer fun!

I've got 27 pages of utter Kevin/Mike high school AU crap, but whatever, I'm still trucking. I figure I'll just write and write and write and then go back and slice it apart and put it back together into something that maybe makes sense and doesn't suck, but no promises.

Also, I'm SO TEMPTED to write iCarly het, because Sam and Freddie are so adorable together and Sam is like my favorite character on TV right now and iCarly rocks, even J likes it.

Dancing 'verse ficlet: In The Movement

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 01:54:44 GMT

In The Movement | PG | ~1000
Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas | follows Dancing Goes All Night

“Notice how the skinny tie makes him look less like he’s carrying shrunken baby heads around in his pockets.”

A/N: for shutyourface, who thinks Carden “would kill you dead & then go get a burger while your bloody body cooled in the trunk of his car.” This is kind of like cracky schmoop or something, and may possibly only be completely hilarious to me. Please point out any errors!

hilariously perfect manip by celebutaunt!!!

In The Movement

Kevin isn’t surprised by the PR involvement, but the angle they’re taking is kind of strange. They’re not trying to convince him to keep a low profile or deny anything, and they’re not insisting on a big coming out interview or a People magazine spread. Which Kevin wouldn’t be totally against, he’s all for singing Mike’s awesome praises, but he doesn’t really want to make everything a big deal either. It’s just them, they’re in love, and Kevin’s happy enough that he doesn’t have to worry about hiding it.

PR rep number five – the first four, over the past two weeks, just gave him thumbs-ups and told him to keep on keeping on – comes armed with a briefcase and a frighteningly wide grin, but Kevin’s worked with her before, so he’s totally relaxed, thinking about lunch and hoping Joe doesn’t eat all the tuna and ham and BBQ chips.

Sarah leans a casual hip against the conference table and slips a photo of Mike in front of Kevin. Mike’s hot in anything, but Kevin’s particularly fond of his sleeveless tees. He smiles a little and traces the curve of Mike’s bicep with a finger, then gives Sarah a questioning look.

She taps the center of Mike’s forehead. “So you’re dating a sociopath.”

Kevin is not one-hundred percent sure what a sociopath is, but he thinks it has something to do with skinning baby bunnies and lacking a working moral compass. “What?”

Sarah scrutinizes the photo with a knuckle curled up along her chin. “This says baby-killer to me. He’s got the cold, dead eyes of a guy who’s gnawed on his fair share of meaty human bones.”

“What?”

“For survival purposes, perhaps,” Sarah goes on, nodding solemnly, “but with little to no regrets. He doesn’t have a basement, does he?”

Kevin stares at her.

Sarah’s eyes are twinkling a little.

“You suck,” Kevin says.

“You see my point, though,” Sarah says.

Kevin has no idea what Sarah’s point is. “Uh, no.”

“You’re dating this,” Sarah says, gesturing to Mike’s photo, then she pulls out a manila folder and opens it up over top of it, “but we want you to date this.”

Kevin says, “That’s Zac Efron.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think Zac Efron dates guys,” Kevin says, even though that is not actually what he wants to say, which is something more along the lines of, “!!!!” and cannot actually be verbally expressed without multiple swear words that Kevin does not use.

Sarah sighs, then shuffles another photo out from behind the Zac Efron one. “Here.”

“That’s. That’s Mike’s head superimposed on top of Zac Efron’s body,” Kevin says. He bites his lip, because this is starting to get a little funny.

“Exactly,” Sarah says. “Notice how the skinny tie makes him look less like he’s carrying shrunken baby heads around in his pockets.”

Kevin lets out a low breath. “So we’re having a conversation about image,” he says.

“I thought that was obvious.”

“And you want Mike to ditch the dirty jeans and, uh,” he flips through the rest of the photos in Sarah’s file, “naked girl iron-ons and FC hoodies and face shirts and—bottles of JD and tequila.”

She holds up another photo manip. “You can wear matching white pants.”

“That’s me,” Kevin sputters, wide-eyed, because there is something so wrong with Mike’s head on his own body, Sarah is not right in the brain.

“Look.” Sarah drops the photo and spreads her palms out on the table, leaning towards Kevin. “We want you two at the Teen Choice Awards next month, red carpet, the whole shebang.”

“Okay,” Kevin says. He thinks that’s probably doable, so long as he doesn’t use the word shebang when he asks Mike.

“You can hold hands, smooch, whatever, we just need to make sure Mike doesn’t look like he’s a hollowed out shell of evil. How do you think he’d feel about a cowboy hat?”

“Exactly how I feel about cowboy hats,” Kevin says, and Kevin thinks cowboy hats are fine if they’re headed for a rodeo or dude ranch or trying to remain inconspicuous at the Alamo.

Sarah squeezes his shoulder. “I’m kidding, we’re gonna deck him out in a fedora, something pink maybe, we’ll leave the details up to the stylist,” she says.

Kevin blinks. He thinks maybe Sarah doesn’t get that Mike’s an awesome rock star; Kevin’s not going to ask him to wear a pink hat or a shiny suit or a man-purse or whatever like Zac Efron.

“I’d give him a poodle or something, but I’m afraid people would assume it’s his lunch,” Sarah says.

“Uh.” Kevin seriously has no idea what to say here, because what?

Sarah ruffles his hair. “Good chat, Kev. Say hi to the guys for me, okay?” Humming under her breath, she gathers up the photos in a neat little stack and tucks them back into the folder. She snaps her briefcase shut and says, “This’ll all work out fine, don’t worry,” and her heels click rhythmically on the tile floor as she strolls out of the room.

Kevin stares after her a moment, lips pressed together, totally bemused. Then he pulls out his phone, flicks through his pictures until he hits the photo of Mike he has programmed to come up when Mike calls. It’s actually a picture of both of them, one Bill snapped, Mike’s hand buried in Kevin’s hair, Kevin’s fingers curled in Mike’s shirt collar, right at the hollow of his throat, and Mike totally doesn’t have dead eyes - Kevin just can’t see it.

Maybe, though, Kevin concedes, it’s because Mike’s looking at him.

♥ you

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 17:39:37 GMT

Thank you all so much for the notes of sympathy about Happy *bighugs* - I'm looking forward to the summer being much better than this past month(s)

In other news, have a snippet. (why does it feel like Friday?)

“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 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.

the week of suck

Fri, 29 May 2009 17:37:40 GMT

So those of you following my twitter already know, but I lost my house rabbit this week. She was doing fine, BETTER than fine, and then I wake up Monday morning and she's not eating, no waste, and she's just lethargic all over - it got steadily worse throughout the day, and OF COURSE all the bunny vets at my emergency vet weren't on call, plus they were short-staffed because of the holiday. But it got to the point where she was suffering, having trouble breathing, and, bunny vet or not, I knew she wasn't going to last the night, and I wasn't going to just *watch her.* They really didn't know much about rabbits, but even the oxygen tent wasn't helping, and we had to make a decision - wait for the bunny vet to get there in the morning, or put her to sleep. She was in so much distress and it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I just couldn't imagine keeping her like that for hours upon hours, and they couldn't even say if she'd make it or not. Happy was 10 and a half, over the average lifespan. I'd had her since college, she was the first pet who was MINE, and I can remember when she was an itty bitty baby bun. I can remember going to the rabbit society shelter to get her a pal - I can remember the director there actually calling her "socially retarded" when she refused to bond with any of the rabbits we took home to try out with her - rabbits are vicious and territorial, you wouldn't think that to look at them. She had her pal Quincy with her for four years; a big, brown fuzzy lop, already older, and she loved him because he didn't move an inch without her permission - see where I got Ginny's characterization in Otherwise? She loved our cats, tolerated our dogs - was completely bewildered by batshit crazy Mildred the kitten, though. She was a tiny little black 2 and a half pound mini-rex/dwarf mix, with one white paw and a white stripe down her forehead. She hated being held, loved eating rugs, towels, wires, molding, paper, remotes, shoes, sweaters. She loved getting her head petted, and would bite at your toes for attention.

It feels weird, not having to feed her great big huge piles of veggies every night - it was always the last thing I did; it's going to be hard to get over that 10 year habit.

And I feel a little like if my vet had been on call maybe they could have done something, but I don't actually know what. She'd been not doing great for a while, but we were managing, and I've got this horrible niggling feeling that it's - okay, so there's this stuff called Critical Care, and I've been syringe feeding it to her twice a day for the past couple months as a supplement to her diet, and I just got a new bag from the vet of it on Saturday. I finished up the old bag and started the new one on Sunday, and it smelled different and stronger and when I mixed it with water it came out more like a gummy paste than the old bags did. But it was sealed and the date was fine, so I figured maybe they just changed the formula - it didn't smell BAD, just stronger and different. And one of the symptoms on Monday was that her stomach was swollen and getting worse, and I can't help but think, since she was so STEADY before this, that it was the Critical Care they gave me - that it was a bad bag and it totally destroyed her insides and it's SO UNFAIR if it was that, but at the same time I don't want to find out, so I probably won't even mention it. UGH. This is so tough. Happy was a huge stress on my life, she was so hard to take care of - never ever get a rabbit thinking it's an easy pet. Even before she got sick, she was a complete disaster, ruining my things, the rug, the house, but I still wouldn't give up a minute of it.

I've never had an animal put to sleep before - family pets, but not one of mine (Quincy died in his sleep, when he was 8) - and I've never been in the room for it, but I wasn't going to let her go without us being there. It was horrible. I thought they were supposed to just drift off, but it was HORRIBLE, the most distressing thing I've ever seen, and I don't know if it's because she was a rabbit and she reacted differently to the injection, but even J said that it was the worst thing he's ever seen, and that even though the doctor said she couldn't feel a thing, even with her movements, he can't imagine that it didn't HURT.

So she's buried in the woods at my parents with Quincy, the one bunny out of an entire shelter that she connected with. It's a little comforting to think that they're together again, even though I'm going to miss her so much.

Christmas For Happy

Happiness J Gilmore Goslee:

so this is weird

Tue, 26 May 2009 17:22:57 GMT

I'm trying out this cross-posty thing. Can you import comments after you've already imported your comments? Does that make sense?

ANYWHO. Only 14 pages into Kevin/Mike NINJA highschool AU. I'm trying to do a month-by-month thing, so I've got September done and I'm in October, so I've got lots and lots left to write. Yes. Mostly I'm having fun making up band names and mixing and matching bandom folks - Pocket Thief! The Von Dangerfields! - and making them sing weird songs. Fun stuff.

Since I have nothing else going on, how's about we do a question thingy? Like y'all ask me whatever you want about any of my fics in any fandom and I'll try and answer coherently. Sound good? Let's play!

needs more coffee

Mon, 18 May 2009 17:49:48 GMT

wow, okay, it feels really weird updating this instead of just twitter! hmmmmm. I'm on Dreamwidth (same name), and even though I'm not updating it (yet) feel free to friend me over there. And I know probably everyone and their mom is already on it, but I've got ~~two~~ one invite code if anybody wants it - just let me know.

SECONDLY. This new high school Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas fic that I'm writing feels kind of epic. And, like, sprawling. Which probably means lots of rambling, and I've also created a fake blog for it and basically the concept is that Brendon, Kevin, Patrick, Bill and Miranda Cosgrove (hello random! I just love her, she's so adorable) are the school weirdos/losers (although not really Bill, Bill's their token cool guy) and are in a SECRET BAND together called NINJA (all caps, yes) and at night they sneak out and and change up their looks (Kevin straightens his hair!) and go out to watch bands and then review them on their SECRET BLOG and no one knows who they are (and it's a little like Pump Up The Volume in that respect. Vaguely. Not really, but the concept's there) and they only post their music for downloads, they don't perform it live, and they are AWESOME and everyone loves them. And then there's the backstory where Mike keeps saving Kevin from bullies and Mike’s surly and thinks Kevin needs to defend himself, and he pushes him around, only not with intent to harm, leading to rough kisses and “Jesus Christ, kid, you drive me crazy,” and other good stuff. ALSO, Ryan is in a one-man folk band called Tenderfoot Junction, he's SO COOL. I'm having lots of fun with this blog thing, let me tell you. I have to make myself write the story first before I start going crazy with it. More than I already have, at least.

And that is all! Nothing else is going on, I'm lame like that.

Bandslash fic: Dancing Goes All Night

Thu, 14 May 2009 17:46:16 GMT

Dancing Goes All Night | PG | 2,000+
Mike Carden/Kevin Jonas | Coda to Dancing Without Warning

The thing is, if they’d wanted him to actually pay attention to the interview, they shouldn’t have sat him next to the lady with the polar bear cub.

A/N: THIS IS THE VERY DEFINITION OF SCHMOOP. Must needs have read Dancing Without Warning first, obviously. Title still comes from The Art of Dancing by Bronx Cheerleader. Unbeta’d fluff, written in a couple hours, so please point out any mistakes :)

Dancing Goes All Night

The thing is, if they’d wanted him to actually pay attention to the interview, they shouldn’t have sat him next to the lady with the polar bear cub.

*

“Oh, shit,” Bill says, eyes wide on his laptop. His mouth’s twitching at the corners.

Mike says, “What?”

“Nothing. Just, uh, have you talked to your Jonas today?”

Mike arches an eyebrow at him over the rim of his coffee mug. It’s, like, fucking six-thirty in the morning. He has no idea why he’s even awake. He really hates early morning interviews, even if they’re only phoning in.

Bill bites his lip and giggles.

*

The cub’s adorable, with soft-looking white fur, yellow at the ends around its fat paws and muzzle and blue, blue eyes. He’s got his front paws pressed up against a bottle and he’s making these little grunty noises and his round little belly’s grumbling and it’s seriously so cute. Hardcore cute, Kevin just wants to reach out and touch, but he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

Nick jostles his arm, and Kevin flicks his gaze back to Leno, nodding his head like he’s just heard everything that everyone’s said, even though his brain’s on repeat: baby bear, baby bear, oh geez, so cute

They should know better, really. Kevin has such a weakness for fuzzy baby animals, but who doesn’t, right?

*

Bill’s half-laughing, but Siska looks a little pained, leaning over Bill’s shoulder.

“It’s really not that funny,” Siska says. “Or, you know, at all.”

“Come on,” Bill says. He’s got a big, goofy grin on his face. “This is classic. So classic it’s a cliché, you can’t say you didn’t see this coming.”

Mike rubs at the stubble across his jaw. It’s too early for this shit. “Maybe if I knew what the fuck you were talking about.”

*

So he doesn’t mean to say it, but it’s not like he’s even been playing the pronoun game all these months, or denying he’s in a relationship or anything. It’s just that normally they ask Joe these questions and Kevin just bobs his head and smiles and doesn’t volunteer anything about his awesome boyfriend, Mike, who’s in a rock band and who’s super hot and funny and clever and— Kevin’s in love with him, so he’s allowed to be this much of a sap, no matter what Joe says.

It’s just that he probably shouldn’t have said that on air, to millions of viewers. Not that he did, of course. At least, not all of it.

*

“What?” Mike grabs the laptop away from Bill. “What?”

*

It’s a cute baby polar bear cub and it’s gnawing on its bottle and its little bear butt is practically in Kevin’s lap – he’s still keeping his hands to himself, those baby teeth look sharp – so when Leno asks, “Any plans for the holidays?” and Nick nudges his arm again, Kevin’s half-watching the cub as he says, “Mike’s having me for Christmas,” which wouldn’t have been so bad, if Nick hadn’t choked out, “Kev,” and Joe hadn’t snickered and Leno hadn’t raised his eyebrows and asked, “And Mike is?”

*

Mike’s not really sure if he’s upset or not, but whoever the fuck sat Kevin next to the adorable baby polar bear is gonna have Mike’s shoe so far up their ass they’ll be picking leather out of their teeth for weeks.

*

“My boy—” Kevin cuts off with a sudden and terrifying clarity of just where he is and who he’s talking to and how many people are listening. “Uh oh.”

*

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not so bad,” Siska says awkwardly.

“It’s wonderful,” Bill says. He’s practically clapping his hands with glee. Mike’s ten seconds away from punching him in the face.

“I mean,” Siska says, “he didn’t say Mike who.”

*

Nick looks constipated, but Joe’s hysterical, he’s laughing so hard. Kevin doesn’t think it’s funny at all. Mike’s going to kill him, and he doesn’t even want to think about Disney.

Leno looks bemused, and quickly cuts to a commercial break; probably because Kevin’s bright red and close to hyperventilating - and what he really, really needs is Mike or a giant sedative or an anvil to drop on his head.

He clenches his hands in his lap and breathes through his nose.

*

Mike watches the YouTube clip of the interview five times, and each time he gets less and less mad about it, because each time Kevin’s stricken look - right at the end, right when he realizes what he’s said - slices more and more of his insides to ribbons, leaving his throat almost too raw to swallow.

Bill stops grinning idiotically long enough to catch Mike’s chin in his hand, shaking Mike’s head.

“Don’t be an asshole,” he says, like he knows exactly what Mike’s thinking.

*

“We never talked about this,” Kevin says quietly.

Nick sighs. “It’s okay.” He says it like it’s not okay, but they’ll deal.

And Kevin knows they’ll deal, that’s not what he’s worried about, not really. Yeah, it’s probably gonna suck, but, “I never talked to Mike about this,” Kevin says.

“He’s not going to care,” Joe says. He’s absently chucking guitar picks at a trashcan in the corner of their dressing room. “He called you his love muffin in that episode of TAI TV.”

“He was joking,” Kevin says. And he’d clearly said it under duress, for Bill, and every single one of their fans thought they were making fun of him – which he really sort of was.

Kevin thinks there’s a part of Mike that will never take him seriously.

*

Mike can be kind of an asshole where Kevin’s concerned, but Kevin tends to be an oblivious douche, so they pretty much even each other out.

“Whatever you’re going to do,” Bill says, eyeing him narrowly. “I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

“Are we sure that’s a good idea?” Siska asks.

Chiz yawns through something that sounds like, “What’s a good idea?” and Butcher’s got his face planted down on the little kitchenette table - Mike thinks he might have slept there - and he flashes them a thumbs-up.

*

Kevin calls Mike, but Mike doesn’t pick up, and he thinks maybe this isn’t the sort of bomb that should be dropped on voicemail. Mike’s a couple hours ahead of him, where they are. He bites at his nails and watches the clock and calls Mike at uneven intervals, but it rings and rings and rings and no one ever answers.

*

When Mike finally looks at his cell, he sees he’s got ten missed calls but no voicemails, and a sloppy text that came in just after five a.m.: ukno I lovee yu

Kevin likes to tell him that a lot. Mike’ll say it, too, but he’s not compulsive about it. He doesn’t feel the need to end every conversation with it or anything, but he gets it. He gets how it’s the ultimate fix, sometimes, especially when he knows it’s a reason as well as an apology.

*

The Jerry lets himself into their suite and drops a stuffed polar bear onto Kevin’s lap.

Kevin says, “I hate you,” but he buries his fingers in the soft plush and presses his nose to the bear’s and says, “I think I’ll call you Mookie.”

*

Mike doesn’t tell Kevin to listen. Kevin probably knows he has an interview, and he might have time to catch it on the web, but he might not, given everything.

Mike doesn’t care.

He can tell him everything later, if he has to.

*

Kevin doesn’t turn his cell off. He should, it’s been going off non-stop, but he doesn’t want to miss Mike if he calls. He hits ignore for everyone, even his parents, and Nick gives him this long-suffering sigh and unplugs the hotel phone.

“It’s late,” Nick says. “Or early, I guess.” He looks tired, but he doesn’t look sleepy. He slumps down next to Kevin on the couch.

“Sorry,” Kevin says dejectedly, staring at his hands clasped loosely in his lap.

“Oh, hey, no.” Nick bumps their shoulders together.

They sit in silence for a few minutes; Joe’s snoring on the other side of the room. He’s sprawled on the floor, head at an awkward angle. He’s got Mookie in the crook of an elbow.

Finally, Nick chuckles. He says, “I can’t believe you accidentally came out on Leno.”

“It’s not funny,” Kevin says, but his mouth’s threatening a grin. It’s so stupid and lame and he’s never ever going to live it down.

Nick laughs harder, curls into Kevin’s side. “It really kind of is.”

*

Bill’s basically the only one awake enough to make any sense, so it ends up being mostly him and Mike, Bill’s cell phone on speaker in between them at the kitchenette table.

Butcher’s still slumped over it, one hand curled around a coffee cup, a cigarette hanging unlit, stuck to his bottom lip.

Mike isn’t really paying attention to the DJ. At least, not until Bill cuts into whatever he’s saying to ask, “Aren’t you curious about how we’re spending our holidays?”

There’s an awkward pause, and then the DJ says, “Uh, sure, what are you guys going to be up to?”

“Well, I’ll be busy being fantastic in Chicago,” Bill says, then arches an eyebrow at Mike. “Mike?”

Mike arches an eyebrow right back, and doesn’t even hesitate on, “I’m having Kevin over for Christmas.”

“Oh?” Bill says, ignoring the DJ’s attempt to interrupt. “And who’s Kevin?”

Siska groans behind them. “Seriously, Bill,” he says, but Mike just grins with half his mouth and says, “That would be my boyfriend.”

*

There’s a contingent on the internet that believes Kevin meant ‘my boy’ in the friend sense.

“Yeah, you and Mike are tight, bro,” Joe says from the floor, and then Nick kicks him in the head and Joe grabs hold of his ankle and bites his calf and Kevin has to shout for The Jerry to come save his baby polar bear from epic ruin.

*

Mike doesn’t really have the same fan base as Kevin, but they’ve been seen together often enough that he doesn’t think it’ll be very long before his fans, at least, figure it all out. He’s not worried either way, though.

“Half the web thinks you’re beffies,” Bill says.

“That’s fine,” Mike says. He doesn’t see how they could, but that’s really just fine.

“The other half thinks Kevin’s boning Zac Efron.”

That, Mike thinks, is not fine. “What the fuck?”

Bill grins at him brightly. “And then the other half—”

“Your math skills astound me,” Butcher says absently. He’s busy coloring Siska’s skin with magic markers.

“—seem to actually know who you are.”

*

“Huh,” Joe says around a pretzel stick. He’s clicking at his laptop with one finger.

“What?” Kevin asks. He’s finally run out of nervous energy; the only thing keeping him awake, at this point, is the cell clutched in his hand – he’s still waiting for Mike.

Joe just smiles and says, “LiveJournal picspams are awesome.”

*

“Do you prefer the term Mevin or Kichael?” Bill asks. He’s got his glasses on, perched at the end of his nose, fingers glancing quickly off the laptop keys as he types.

“I prefer not knowing what the hell you’re doing. Ever.” Mike has an idea; he just doesn’t want to think about it.

“I never realized there were this many photos of you together,” Bill says.

Mike rolls his eyes. The thing is, they never really tried to hide. They don’t actually make a whole lot of sense together, though, not on the surface, so it’s not like anyone ever bothered looking.

*

It’s at the point, really, where Kevin thinks Mike’s actually mad. Like, angry enough to never talk to him again, and that’s something Kevin’s never considered before, but he guesses it’s a possibility.

“It’s not a big deal,” Nick says after Kevin’s poked him awake with his toes. “He’s not mad; he’s probably still sleeping.” He finishes his sentence meaningfully and glares at Kevin’s toes, like he’s thinking about cutting them off and stuffing them inside Kevin’s mouth.

Joe snickers, still hunched over his laptop. “Yeah, Kev,” he says, “I really don’t think he’s mad.”

*

“Face shirts are the new promise rings,” Bill shouts as Mike ducks into the back of the bus, sliding into his bunk.

Mike thinks whoever set Bill up with a fucking Cafe Press account should be shot repeatedly in the groin area. And what Mike needs to do right now is go back to sleep for many more hours, wake up some time in the afternoon, eat some Pop Tarts, and then get blind stinking drunk. This is his plan for the day.

First, though, he digs his cell out of his pocket.

*

Kevin’s got Mookie on his chest and his phone resting on his neck. Only his parents and brothers and The Jerry and various higher-ups in the agency have his personal number, so the calls died down around dawn, after they’d realized they could just talk to Nick instead.

Nick’s voice is a tired hum in the background, and Joe’s fallen asleep again, face mashed into his keyboard. The lights are off, but there’s a wan thread of morning easing through the window blinds, making the room pink-gray and fuzzy to Kevin’s sleep-gritty eyes.

When his cell vibrates against his throat, Kevin’s slow to pick it up, slow to look at the screen.

One new text message, it says, and he thumbs through to see Mike’s name. His heartbeat catches and then speeds up.

hey kid, it says, and then, love u to

Next: In The Movement

new bandslash fic: A Handholding Song

Sun, 10 May 2009 21:00:56 GMT

A Handholding Song | PG-13 | 15,000+
Joe/Bob, Brendon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard (with background William/Gabe, implied Jon/Ryan & blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Butcher/Siska)

“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”

A/N: THE HOBO JOE AU! It’s finished! And it's, like, an uber schmoopy meet-cute, but whatever. So many thanks to insunshine for beta’ing this – I’ve recently realized that I phrase things in epically weird ways, and some of it is just my style, but most of it is just stupid, and she totally calls me on it every time. And! TNBC was real, as was Hang Time, and those were my Saturday mornings for years (years spent in college and beyond! Real-life careers require California Dreams and City Guys, is all I’m saying).

A Handholding Song

“So we’re hiding,” Brendon says, sliding down to sit on the floor next to Joe.

Joe likes Brendon. Brendon’s an awesome kid, and he always gives Joe extra brownies or muffins or whatever with his coffee, even though Joe doesn’t technically work in the building. Although, whatever, Argyle Dude always sits by him on his lunch hour and gives him a couple bucks and half his sandwich, so, like, that totally counts.

Of course, not everyone appreciates Joe and the way Joe can rock an acoustic version of No Diggity or In Da Club, particularly not Smoking Hot Security Guard Bob, who’s back a full five minutes early from his morning break. Which is why Joe is paying Brendon’s coffee kiosk an especially up-close and personal visit on this fine morn. He thinks there’s some biscotti digging into his back.

Joe clutches his guitar to his chest. “Why would you ever say that?” Joe says. He’s resisting the urge to peek over the top of the counter. It’s not like he’s afraid of Bob, but Bob thinks he’s a hobo. 201 West Independence apparently has a strict no hobos in the lobby policy. It sucks, since Joe can only sneak in for some of Brendon’s spectacular coffee on Bob’s breaks or when Ray is working, since Ray’s a pushover. He’s also, like, The Fixer Of All Things, though, and he keeps giving Joe clothes and ramen noodles and free clinic pamphlets – Joe’s not sure which behavior is more insulting, Bob or Ray’s, but either way Joe isn’t a bum.

He’s got an apartment. He shares it with three other dudes, yeah, and he sleeps on a mattress on the floor of Butcher’s room, but he pays rent. Some rent. He gives Andy whatever he has each month; he’s totally contributing to society and shit. He’s bringing peace and harmony to the masses through busking - and by selling the high-grade weed he and Frank are growing in the bathroom. That’s also probably something he shouldn’t mention to Bob. Ever.

And Joe showers daily, thanks very much. Or, like, every other day. He tends to forget to brush his hair, though; it’s kind of out of control, but Joe likes how it’s enormous and flattering to his nose.

There’s a knock on the counter above him and Joe jumps a little, startled, then freezes while Brendon scrambles to his feet and says, “Hi, Bob!” and leans onto his elbows and kicks Joe on the hip with a pointy, meaningful shoe.

After a moment of silence – where Joe imagines Bob doing his I-am-not-impressed frown and eyebrow arch combination – Bob says, “Where’s Joe?”

Brendon shifts and says, “No clue, dude. I definitely have not seen him inside here. In this lobby. At all. Today.”

Joe barely resists the urge to palm his face.

Bob grunts. His grunt is full of weary skepticism. “Okay, right.”

Seriously, Joe’s not scared of Bob, and he totally doesn’t care if Bob throws him out of the lobby again, but Joe hasn’t gotten his second coffee of the day yet, and his second coffee of the day usually comes with one of Brendon’s homemade brownies, with the pecans and fudge.

Plus, it’s getting cold out. Fucking autumn. He tucks his feet in closer and shuffles sideways a little.

Brendon bounces on his heels. “Coffee?”

“No,” Bob says, “thanks.”

Joe hopes Bob doesn’t have anything against coffee – like he’s one of those nut-jobs who doesn’t need the sweet, sweet elixir to become something resembling a human being in the morning.

That would kind of fuck with Joe’s plan to marry Bob and have all his babies.

*

Spencer huffs his hair out of his face and presses the send calls button on his phone just as Ryan pushes through the revolving doors.

“You’re early,” Spencer says, but he’s already stuffing his cell into his messenger bag and getting to his feet, tugging the strap over his head and across his body. He’s not opposed to taking an early lunch, even if it makes for a long afternoon. Siska’s out sick, so there’s no one to send increasingly ridiculous IMs to, and Siska hasn’t figured out how to use his BlackBerry yet.

“I’ve got an idea,” Ryan says, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

Spencer arches an eyebrow.

“Just wait, it’s a great idea,” Ryan says, and he’s not smiling, but his eyes are kind of lit up, and Spencer suppresses a groan. “We ask Brendon to lunch.”

Spencer’s eyebrow goes higher, other one climbing up to join it. “Is this Jon’s idea?”

Ryan shrugs one shoulder.

Jon has this completely insane theory that Brendon and Spencer are in love. Which they aren’t. Brendon’s that friendly with everyone. He’s like a golden retriever, only slightly less hairy. Spencer and Brendon talk about the weather and French vanilla coffee and Hobo Joe, and that’s basically the extent of their six-month-long acquaintance.

Jon, Spencer knows, is a romantic. A fucked-up sap, obviously, given the way he keeps buying Ryan sweater-vests, but a romantic.

Spencer sighs and glances over at Brendon’s cart across the lobby. Brendon seems to be having a conversation with his feet. This actually isn’t so surprising. “Fine,” he says.

“Great,” Ryan says. “You do it.”

Spencer doesn’t even bother arguing, and it’s not like it’ll kill him to go over and ask Brendon to lunch, but it is a little annoying. Annoying that Jon’s convinced one day they’ll, like, catch each other’s eyes and time’ll stop and Spencer’s heart’ll grow two fucking sizes or something.

Spencer has a girlfriend. Spencer has a very hot girlfriend who everyone likes, because she’s a sweetheart, and Spencer’s in love with her, not some spazzy coffee guy who has some truly stupid tattoos on his arm and a penchant for brightly-colored friendship bracelets. Well, okay, maybe he’s not in love with Haley, and they’ve only been dating two months; Spencer isn’t going to jump headfirst into anything, but he at least likes her a whole lot.

Brendon looks up before Spencer even reaches the counter, huge grin blooming across his face and something catches in Spencer’s throat. He silently curses Jon Walker to the seventh circle of Hell.

“Spencer, hey!” Brendon says. He spreads his hands. “What can I get for you?”

Spencer shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good,” he says. “Ryan and I are heading out to lunch, wanna come?”

Brendon’s eyes get as big as his grin. “Dude, that’d be awesome, just let me lock up.” He glances down and says, “Joe, we can totally smuggle you out, Bob won’t have any idea you were ever here.”

Spencer leans over the counter. Hobo Joe has his head tilted back and a coffee cup lifted in mock solute.

“If I wait for the perfect moment, wee Brendon,” Joe says, “meaning when I’m finished my fine and delicious coffee, Bob can manhandle me all he wants.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Spencer says.

Hobo Joe nods. “It’s better you don’t.”

*

Ben looks wholly unimpressed with Gerard’s latest effort. Gerard groans and tosses his charcoal aside and shifts back onto the grass, propped up by his elbows.

“I don’t even know why I listen to you,” Gerard says to Ben, which is a lie. Ben is always right about everything. It’s kind of annoying.

Ben just cocks his head and hops up onto Gerard’s chest, tiny talons pinpricking his skin underneath his shirt.

“If you shit on me we’re having roast bird for dinner.”

Ben still looks bored, like Gerard could maybe turn into a giant cat and he wouldn’t even bat a beady black eye. The thing about budgies, Gerard thinks, is that they’re probably all tiny demons in disguise. Which is cool, so he honestly doesn’t mind sharing his living space with Ben – and Ben’s stuffed penguin, Julia, because Ben’s as co-dependent as Gerard, and Gerard has Ben, Julia and Mikey. And also Baguette Guy, who helps him feed the ducks on Fridays. Gerard’s a big fan of routine.

Whatever. The point is that Ben doesn’t like Gerard’s sketch, and Gerard doesn’t blame him. It’s lame, and there’s not enough blood, or, like, any blood at all. He fucking hates taking commissions.

“I’m a big fat lame-o,” Gerard says and flops totally onto his back, covering his eyes with an arm. His best friend is a parakeet. Okay, well, his best friend is actually Mikey, but he’s not so sure that’s any better, given that they’re related.

Gerard’s existence is enormously pathetic.

“Okay,” Gerard says. “Okay, so we scrap this and tell Saporta to go fuck himself.”

“Dude, who’re you talking to?”

Gerard freezes, cheeks heating at getting caught talking to a bird, and then—then he recognizes the voice. “Baguette Guy!” He moves his arm and grins up at him.

Baguette Guy grins back. “Are you talking to Ben again?”

Gerard’s grin turns sheepish. “Maybe.” It’s kind of weird how Baguette Guy knows his budgie’s name and how Gerard knows Baguette Guy calls his favorite mallard, the one with the gimpy waddle, Reginald, but they’ve never actually, like, introduced themselves. “Where’s your bread?” Gerard asks, struggling up and displacing Ben, who chirps in irritation and flutters up onto his shoulder.

“Did Ben just say ‘asshole’? Didn’t fucking know those things could talk, that’s awesome.”

Gerard shrugs. He’s taught Ben hello and bye-bye and Mikey’s taught him asshole and douchebag. “He can say, like, a couple words,” he says.

Baguette Guy doesn’t have any bread, though, and it’s vaguely upsetting. Gerard starts getting a little anxious - it’s stupid, but Fridays mean bread and ducks and pretty soon all the ducks’ll be gone for the winter and the fucking geese’ll flock past and, like, those fuckers are vicious and scary - but then Baguette Guy spreads his hands and says, “Not Friday, man, sorry.”

“Oh, um.” Something inside Gerard relaxes – seriously, he’s such a freak – and he shakes off his sudden panic as best he can. “S’okay.” He’s sure the dude already thinks he’s crazy, but there’s no reason to, like, draw attention to the elephant on the grass. Or whatever. Gerard never fully got what the fuck the elephant was supposed to be.

Baguette Guy doesn’t seem put off, though; he shifts on the balls of his feet and asks, “Smoke?”

“Fuck yes.” Gerard finished his last cigarette half an hour ago. If Baguette Guy had offered him coffee, too, Gerard would’ve fucking proposed.

He lights two cigarettes and hands one off to Gerard, kicking at Gerard’s sketchpad. “Tame, man,” he says.

“I know.” Fucking Gabe Saporta. Gerard doesn’t know how he lets him talk him into shit like this.

Baguette Guy squints down at the page and scratches his neck. “Maybe if you, like, make her old and shit in the background. Creepy future-look, you know?”

Gerard bites his lip. “It’s a shih tzu. Do they even look any different when they’re old?”

“Zombie shih tzu?”

“I don’t know if I could do that to a puppy.” Gerard likes puppies. In theory. Though he’s theoretically in favor of zombies, too.

Baguette Guy’s watching him expectantly.

“I guess I could try it,” Gerard finally says, slowly, nodding his head a little.

Baguette Guy beams. Like, his whole face lights up and his dark hair’s sort of hanging over his eyes, mashed down by a knit cap, and it’s right about then that Gerard realizes he puts maybe entirely too much stock in the opinion of his budgie and a hot stranger.

Time to remedy some of that. He holds out a hand and says, “I’m Gerard.”

*

Frank bangs through the front door and yells, “I’m home, bitches!”

Butcher doesn’t even glance up from his—Frank doesn’t even know; it looks like he’s carving some ricola-horn shit out of huge fucking chunk of wood. Frank doesn’t question it, though, ‘cause Butcher promised to make him a new guitar the next time Morris lets him loose in the shop.

“So Gerard,” Frank says, hopping over the back of the couch and sprawling all over the smelly but comfy cushions that usually serve as his bed - when Bill isn’t passed out on it or when Joe’s up too late for Frank to successfully stealth-snuggle onto his air mattress with him. Joe’s a cuddler, but only when he’s dead asleep.

“What?”

“The guy who sketches at the park with the bird,” Frank says. “His name’s Gerard.”

Butcher finally looks at him. “Gerard Way?”

“Um, what the fuck?” Frank sniffs a plastic cup, decides it’s probably just water, goes to take a sip, then thinks twice about it, ‘cause plastic’s, like, a fucking fun factory for bacteria and Joe has some hygiene issues. “I have no idea, man, does Gerard Way have a fucking tiny blue parakeet?”

Butcher arches an eyebrow and carefully sets aside his… maybe it’s a huge fucking pipe or something. That’d be sweet.

“Gerard Way,” Butcher says, getting up and going over to the giant plastic storage container of monthly mags, since everyone in the apartment seems to have a problem – Andy’s got a fucking D&D gamer subscription, Frank signed Joe up to Cat Fancy last spring, the telemarketer just has a fucking sexy voice, they’ve all agreed – and dumps it out over the coffee table.

“Gerard Way,” Butcher says again, “backed by Saporta, famous for The Black Parade, oft seen with the lovely Lyn-Z—aha.” He pulls out one of his Douchebag Today art magazines or what-the-fuck-ever, flips some pages and then waves the results under Frank’s nose.

Frank grabs it out of his hands, scowling.

“This isn’t—huh.” The guy in the black and white photo spread looks slick, artfully mussed, sophisticated, hot. It’s Bird Dude alright. Frank’s always thought Bird Dude was awesome, but he also comes across as kind of a complete fucking neurotic mess. This—this is his Gerard - same big eyes and wide smile and tiny, pointy nose - but it isn’t, not really. “Well, fuck me. And he’s dating a girl?”

Butcher shrugs.

“Shit,” Frank says. That’s just heartily disappointing.

*

Joe lasts approximately ten minutes after Brendon leaves, hiding out behind the counter. He finishes his coffee, tosses the cup in the silver chrome trash can just to the side of Brendon’s kiosk, then shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling.

He grins at Bob.

Bob looks like he maybe wants to kill him with his bare hands.

Joe waves.

Bob’s expression goes just a shade darker, and Joe takes a split-second to think maybe he’s pushed the dude too far – manhandling, he’s fond of, but Joe doesn’t want to, like, actually get hurt here.

He takes a step back and grabs for his guitar. Bob doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d destroy a man’s livelihood. Joe figures his best defense is to hide behind his moneymaker.

“Bob,” Joe says when Bob’s close enough to hear him, his hand resting on the pommel of his baton, still thankfully holstered at his waist – and Joe thinks the baton’s pretty funny, but he’s not ever going to make a rent-a-cop joke in Bob’s presence.

Bob doesn’t say anything. Joe’s gotten Bob to say maybe four words directly to him in the three months he’s been haunting 201. Bob’s hulking and laconic and he’s got a suspicious looking mark on his lip, like maybe he’s got a lip ring, like maybe he’s secretly even more awesome when he isn’t at his day job.

Joe, despite his earlier bravado, stutters over a, “I’ll just, um. I’ll see myself—out?” and wheels around towards the door, nervously tugging his scarf – a knit number that Ray gave him the week before, and Joe’s may be a little insulted by all the bum assumptions, but Ray gives him some badass clothes; half the awesome t-shirts in his and Frank’s collection are from him – tighter around his throat.

Bob’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, steering him steadily past the revolving doors and out into the mellow October sunlight.

He blinks a little, and by the time Joe spins around again, Bob’s already back inside. As always, their encounter wasn’t as fun as he’d been hoping it’d be. Sucks.

Sighing, he drops down onto the sidewalk, propped up against the carved stone balustrade curving left at the bottom of the front stoop, shifting his guitar into his lap. He strums a few chords, thinks about playing a Run DMC song, only that’s not as fun without Frank, and starts on an original instead. Joe’s awesome at writing songs. This one’s about how much of a douche Bill is when he’s drunk.

“I like that.”

Joe glances up to find Frank’s Bird Dude standing in front of him, Ben perched on top of his head.

“Thanks, man,” Joe says. “I call it Stop Drunk Dialing My Mom.”

“I like it better than Butcher Has A Hate Thing About Your Shoes.”

Joe bobs his head. It’s a high compliment, since Joe knows Butcher Has A Hate Thing is one of Bird Dude’s favorites.

Bird Dude hunches his shoulders, chin disappearing into the folds of his hoodie. He’s got a sketch pad clutched to his chest and something dark smudged across his forehead. It looks like Ben’s eating pieces of his hair.

“Um.” Bird Dude digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled paper. “Can you—can you give this to Frank for me?”

“Sure.” Joe flattens his hand on the strings, making a hollow thump. “But, like, you might see him tomorrow.”

“I might not, too,” Bird Dude says with a shrug, then bends down and stuffs the paper plus a couple bills into Joe’s upended hat.

“No problem.” Joe salutes with him with his pick.

*

Brendon is in love with Spencer Smith. It’s stupid, because Spencer has a very hot and sweet girlfriend and would never ever be interested in Brendon in, like, a million and one years, but Brendon is still head-over-heels in love with him.

He settles down next to Patrick on the front steps of 201 and leans onto his shoulder.

“Hey,” Patrick says thickly through a bite of his sandwich.

Hobo Joe is on his feet, jiving to a ditty about how much he loves fried chicken. Brendon cannot relate, as he is currently a vegetarian. Patrick smells like maple-glazed turkey and bacon. Brendon buries his nose in Patrick’s polo and pretends that he doesn’t miss meat like burning.

“See you inside,” Spencer says, pressing an overly-familiar hand to the top of Brendon’s head as he walks past them and up the stairs. Brendon thinks Spencer’s overly-familiar hand is awesome.

Lunch had been the kind of torture that he dreams of, with Spencer laughing at his jokes and flicking his hair out of his eyes in that totally fucking hot way that he does; with Ryan texting Jon and relating all of Jon’s texts back to them with a wry half-smile. Jon is Brendon’s very favorite person that he’s never met. Brendon’s half convinced Ryan’s made Jon Walker up completely, except he doesn’t actually think Ryan has that good of an imagination.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks. He carefully wraps up the uneaten half of his sandwich and sets it aside, along with a bag of sourdough pretzel knuckles.

“Nothing.” Brendon’s totally not going to be a girl about this. He’s not going to pine from afar or whatever. He’s going to get over himself and, like, ask out one of the Alexes from the mailroom.

Patrick makes a skeptical harrumphing sound, but just tips his hat back with his thumb. “So what did you think of Greyskull last night?”

“Killer, man,” Brendon says, straightening up from his slouch. “They rocked the fuck out. I can’t believe Bob didn’t tell us.”

“Bob doesn’t tell anybody anything,” Patrick says, then calls over, “Play the one about your cat, Joe,” and Brendon thinks he mainly does that ‘cause he knows it’s secretly Brendon’s favorite.

Joe says, “I changed the chorus, you’re gonna fucking love it,” and gives them a thumbs up.

*

“I’m gonna marry Bob and have all his babies,” Joe says, slumping down further into the sofa.

Frank giggles.

“Fabulous,” Bill says from beside him. And then, “Who’s Bob?”

“My future husband,” Joe says, and then Bill uncrosses his legs and Butcher groans and leans out of his armchair to slap at his knees and say, “Fuck’s sake, Bills,” because everyone knows Bill never wears any underwear with his fucking skirts, since he says his boxers bunch and briefs are just unmanly, never mind the fact that wearing a skirt makes him sort of a girl anyway.

Bill calls them kilts, but they’re really just pleated uniform skirts that Butcher’s sister tossed after graduation.

“Oh, wait. Wait, wait.” Joe hitches his hips up and digs into his back pocket. “Got something for you, Iero.”

Frank’s got half a handful of grated mozzarella up to his mouth, little pieces sprinkling his t-shirt, plastic bag cradled between his thighs. His “What?” comes out garbled.

Joe waves around the paper. “From Bird Dude.”

“Gerard,” Frank says, only he says it morosely. Bitter, even.

Butcher snickers.

The paper flutters down into Frank’s lap and Frank snorts as he looks it over. “It’s a half-assed gallery invite.”

“Dude.” Butcher snatches it off Frank and whistles. “Fuck, it’s for The Basement, we’re totally going.”

“We?”

“It says bring whoever, Iero, I’m not missing a Saporta gig just ‘cause you’re a pussy,” Butcher says, dropping the invite back onto Frank’s lap. “There’s fucking lines around the block for these things.”

“Well, I’m certainly game,” Bill says.

Bill is always game, this doesn’t surprise Joe. The Basement’s pretty awesome, though; not quite a night club, not quite an art gallery. Pete had snuck him in once, and Joe’d been mightily impressed with the sheer amount of neon lights involved in the décor around the bar area.

Joe knocks Frank’s shoulder, leans close to read over the invite, and says, “You love Bird Dude. You love his budgie, man, just go to his fucking show, say hi—oh, hell yeah, free food, I’m in, too.”

*

On Wednesdays, this kid always shows up in the afternoon, backpack slung over his shoulder. Albino pale with a shock of bright red hair, clothes that practically swallow him whole. He’s gangly enough that Joe figures he’s thirteen or fourteen, even though he’s still pretty small. He’s got a fairly large range of sullen expressions, and the first time Joe saw him he’d thought for sure the kid was gonna take off with his hat full of pocket change.

“How’s it hanging, Sanford?” Joe asks. He’s strumming a mellow morning song and hums over the part about Bill having his dick all over Frank’s pillow in deference to impressionable young ears.

“It’s Ford,” Ford says darkly, frowning down at his shoes, and Joe lets his hands fall off his guitar, because Sanford always gets a reluctant smile out of him.

“Dude,” Joe says, eyebrows arched. “What’s up?”

Ford scuffs the toe of his chucks on the sidewalk and stuffs his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “Nothing.”

Joe’s not exactly awesome with kids, but he knows not to push. He shifts over and says, “Well, come play with me then, I’m making you do the handclaps.”

“For what?” Ford says. He sits on the bottom step, bony elbows on his knees.

“Don’t know, let’s do Alice In Chains.” He plucks out a melody. “Rooster?”

“There’re no handclaps in Rooster,” Ford says.

Joe shakes his head. “Feel the beat, man, there’s always handclaps. I thought you said your dad was a drummer.”

“Dad doesn’t do handclaps,” Ford says, and there’s that frown again, wavering on the cusp of a scowl. Joe figures that’s where the trouble’s originating from, the infamous father.

Joe’s seen his mom, this Amazonian redhead with amazing tits, but he’s never seen his dad around. That doesn’t mean Ford doesn’t usually have a million worshipful things to say about him, though. It’s like all the emo teen melts out of him, leaving behind a kid who still maybe thinks his dad’s some kind of superhero.

Except that doesn’t happen today. Huh.

Before Joe can start the beginning riff, Ford says, “I turned thirteen last week.”

“Happy birthday, kid,” Joe says.

Ford glares at his hands. “Dad said I could go watch him play after I turned thirteen, only he won’t let me go to The Basement tomorrow night.”

“Whoa.” First of all, his dad’s playing The Basement? Totally cool. Second of all, “You don’t want to go to The Basement, I’m with your dad on this one.”

Ford transfers his glare to Joe.

Joe points a finger at him. “Your first show shouldn’t be at The Basement. You should hold out for Angels and Kings.” Joe’s heard rumors about Saporta. Exposure to Saporta at such a young age could cause blindness or seizures or some shit. “Now follow my lead or you’ll fuck up my tips.”

Ford’s mouth flattens into its normal disgruntled line.

Joe just flashes him a grin.

*

Somehow, the mysterious Jon Walker has gotten a hold of Brendon’s cell number. Brendon honestly doesn’t know how, it’s not like he’s ever given it to Ryan or Spencer, and Jon’s currently in, like, Bangladesh or something.

First, it’s only: dude its jwalk

And: kitten time, with a little picture of a tiny, big-eared spotted cat.

But then it’s: u should ask spence out

And: he thinks ur cuuuute

Brendon’s cheeks heat and his palms get a little sweaty, but he still texts back: fuck off, and: hehas a gf fucker

fight for ur man u big girl, Jon sends.

Brendon bites his lower lip. It’s ridiculous. He glances up and watches Spencer across the lobby, biting his nails and staring off into the middle distance. His hair’s caught in his headset, and when he happens to catch Brendon looking at him, his whole face creases into a sudden grin. Fuck.

I hate u, Brendon texts Jon, then shoves the cell into his back pocket and hops off his stool.

Brendon has the dubious honor of being Gabe Saporta’s stepbrother.

The downside of this is that Gabe can be alternately both sadistic and oblivious, and he’d once locked Brendon in a supply closet with the captain of their high school football team who, contrary to rumors Brendon’s convinced Gabe started himself, did not actually like cock.

The upside is that Gabe’s ridiculously generous and loyal and always has Brendon’s back, which is how the captain of their high school football team ended up with a permanent limp.

Plus, Brendon always gets into The Basement for free.

Brendon’s cell vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it and makes his way over to reception. He wiggles his toes in his sneakers and thinks about what exactly he wants to say in response to Spencer’s expectant eyebrow arch, and then he just blurts out, “Greyskull’s playing The Basement this Thursday.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, because they all kind of knew that, what with Bob working there and all and Patrick spreading the buzz.

Brendon nods. “Wanna go?” he asks, then feels like a tool and immediately backtracks with, “I mean, you can bring Haley and Ryan or whoever.”

Spencer taps his fingers on his ink blotter. “I thought it was a gallery showing, though,” he says. “Think Bob’ll put us on the list?”

“Um.” Brendon doesn’t actually want to bring up Gabe. Brendon never wants to bring up Gabe, no matter how much he loves him. Or has to love him, whatever, it’s been, like, twelve years since that fateful day when his dad went crazy and married Gabe’s mom. He says, “We’re good. We’d be good, I mean.” He fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “No problems.” Brendon is officially a spaz, geez.

Spencer says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Brendon bounces a little and clutches the edge of Spencer’s desk.

Spencer shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

*

Gerard never knows what to wear to these things, even though he’s been showing his stuff for going on five years, and showing his stuff with Gabe for nearly two of them.

He always agonizes over his closet for, like, an hour, and calls Mikey every five minutes and Mikey tells him to wear what-the-fuck-ever and to stop harassing him and to eat something before he works himself up into passing out.

Gerard ends up pulling on his favorite black pants and a t-shirt that he doesn’t think has any holes in it - except for the one under his arm, but no one can see that anyway – and eating a can of cold spaghettios.

Ben watches him from the back of a kitchen chair, all judge-y and shit, since he knows he’s not allowed to go. Gerard really wishes he could bring him, but Ben gets nervous around crowds and, like, starts pecking out people’s eyes. Which in theory is pretty fucking awesome, but in practice gets a little messy.

“Ford’s coming down to watch you,” Gerard says.

Ben tucks his head under a wing and starts preening. Gerard frowns. He hates it when Ben ignores him.

Gerard’s cell phone goes off at the same time as the knock at his apartment door. Ford’s knock is perfunctory, though, and by the time Gerard’s got his shoes and jacket on, Ford’s settled on his couch with a soda and the TV remote.

“Okay,” Gerard says. He clasps his hands together and stands in front of the couch. “You need to call your mom at nine.”

“Sure,” Ford says absently, craning his neck so he can see the screen around Gerard’s body.

Gerard huffs a sigh. Ford’s extra pissy tonight, Bob warned him. Gerard’s cell buzzes again – Brian’s text says hurry thfuckup – and he gestures towards a bag sitting beside the TV. “Mikey brought his PS3 over for you.”

Ford shouts, “Yes!” and Gerard hops out of the way, alarmed, as Ford dives for the console.

Mikey, Gerard concedes, is a genius.

*

Joe’s a big fan of finger foods. He’s a lover of shrimp and cocktail wieners and bacon-wrapped scallops and tiny spinach quiches and veggie dip and little blocks of jack cheese.

“Pigs in a blanket, dude,” Joe says to Frank. “Food of the gods.”

Frank grins at him over a cracker piled five-high with cheese.

The place is packed, but lit better than it had been during Joe’s previous visit, which is probably because of the art plastered all over the walls. Joe isn’t particularly cultured, but he can appreciate a good zombie massacre. Bird Dude has some talent, Joe isn’t going to lie.

Speaking of - Joe nods a hello at Gerard as he sneaks up behind Frank.

“Awesome show, dude,” Joe says. He waves a baby carrot at him.

Gerard beams. His hair is crazy and his cheeks are flushed. “Thanks. Glad you guys could make it.”

Frank tries to scowl, Joe can see the crease forming in between his eyes, but Joe knows he’s too damn impressed, and sated on cheese and fruit, so it doesn’t actually work all that well.

And then Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and says, “I finished the zombie puppy, wanna see?” and he’s dragging Frank off before Frank can even protest.

Frank tosses a half-desperate look over his shoulder at Joe, but Joe just bites into a wiener and grins.

There’s a low hum of music in the background, but it’s nothing overpowering as Joe makes his way down the buffet table. He packs a plate full of extras and strolls over to lean against a wall, in between a giant painting of a craggy old man and one that depicts some crazy Hell battle with awesome blood splatters and skeleton beasts and shit.

That’s where Bob finds him.

Joe’s got a buffalo wing between his teeth when his light’s blocked by Bob’s hulking frame, and while his body buzzes with silent appreciation – he was right about the lip ring, and Bob’s hair is angled across his face; the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing really fantastic forearms and thick wrists – he recognizes Bob’s expression; he’s only seconds away from being escorted not-so-politely from the building.

“Not sure you have authority here, dude,” Joe says, and, seriously, if Joe were really a hobo, how the fuck does Bob think he got into The Basement? Security isn’t exactly lax.

Bob looks like he wants to argue, though. He says, “Joe,” and rubs a hand over his forehead, like Joe’s mere presence in his life is so fucking tiring.

“Relax, man, I was invited,” Joe says, which is not specifically true, but close enough. “You’re not working, I’m not working—”

“You don’t work, Joe,” Bob says, and hey, a full sentence, awesome.

Joe grins up at him. “You say that because you haven’t heard me play. I’ve got an awesome repertoire. I’ve got groupies,” Joe says. “And, like, special guest stars, you should totally come jam with me one day.”

Bob’s scowling, but Joe can totally tell he’s smiling on the inside. His eyes aren’t nearly so filled with rage, for one. “Angels and Kings,” Bob says finally.

“Uh. What?”

“You told Ford to hold out for Angels and Kings,” Bob says, and holy hat stands, Batman, are they having an actual conversation here? Coolest night ever.

“Sure,” Joe says, shrugging. “Me and Pete are tight, dude.” And Pete occasionally lends him money and never actually expects it back, which is a plus. “It’s a dive, but at least the kid won’t be fucking traumatized.”

Bob nods. He watches Joe with narrowed eyes, mouth pressed together, and Joe widens his own eyes and tries to look like he totally does not need to be tossed anywhere - unless they’re talking, like, a prelude to sexin’ - and Bob makes an amused sound low in his throat.

“Stay out of trouble,” Bob says, and turns, and Joe takes a moment to appreciate his fine, fine ass as he walks away. And then he notices the drumsticks tucked into Bob’s back pocket, and he thinks, shit. Ford, drummer, The Basement.

Joe isn’t dumb, just occasionally a little slow.

And Joe can’t have all of Bob’s babies, apparently, because Bob already has one. Fuck.

*

Ryan steers Spencer around the crowd, pushing him towards the front doors. Spencer balks a little and says, “Maybe we should wait for Brendon.” This isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, and he’s feeling a little out of place. The Basement brings out the all the crazies. Spencer’s pretty sure he spotted some dude in a spacesuit at the end of the block.

“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Ryan says. “I thought you said Bob put you guys on the list.”

“No.” Spencer shakes his head. “No, I said maybe Bob’ll put us on the list.” Brendon hadn’t seemed to think getting in would be a problem, but Spencer has his doubts. He’d rather wait and see if Brendon, like, planned on sneaking them in a backdoor or something. He doesn’t actually want to make a fool out of himself with the bouncer.

It just figures that Ryan doesn’t say a word once they’re standing out front. He pokes Spencer in the back and Spencer heaves a tremendous, put-upon sigh and says, “I think we’re on the list. Spencer Smith?”

The guy flips some pages and shakes his head. “Don’t see you,” he says, and he sounds mostly apologetic, which is nice, if unhelpful. This is ridiculous.

“Okay, thanks,” Spencer says, flicking Ryan an irritated look. “We should call Brendon.”

“Urie?” the bouncer dude says. He snorts. “Kid never remembers to give me any names.”

“Um.” Spencer wrinkles his nose, then spots Brendon jogging down the block towards them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket and a scarf loose around his neck.

“Zack, Zack, wait,” Brendon says, coming to panting stop and hanging off of the bouncer’s arm. “They’re with—”

“I figured, Urie.” Zack rolls his eyes. “Go on in.”

“You’re the best,” Brendon says, giving Zack a quick hug before waving Spencer and Ryan forward.

“Come on, come on,” Brendon says, practically bouncing through the doors. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem,” Spencer says.

Brendon gives him a huge grin and unwinds his scarf, tossing it into the coat check window so it slithers off the counter and onto the floor on the other side. He hops up and leans into the darkened room. “Greta,” he says. “Sweetpea, darling, kindred spirit—”

“I’ve got it, peanut,” a girl, presumably Greta, says, emerging from the back. “Let Gabe know you’re here this time, though. You know he hates it when you lurk.”

Brendon tosses a weird, nervous glance towards Spencer and Ryan, and Ryan hooks an arm around Spencer’s neck. “Strange things are afoot,” Ryan says into his ear.

Spencer makes a face. “I guess you come here a lot?” he asks Brendon, and Greta laughs, like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and then this tall dude with a huge afro swoops in and tugs Brendon against his side, says, “Little man.”

Ryan hisses, digs his nails into Spencer’s shoulder.

“What the fuck, Ross,” Spencer says, trying to shrug him off.

“That’s Travis McCoy,” Ryan says, vibrating a little along Spencer’s back.

The name sounds familiar. Spencer thinks maybe Travis McCoy is in one of Ryan’s bands; the weird, experimental ones that Jon got him into that use a lot of cowbells and synthesizers and beat poetry.

Ryan says, “This is going to be the best night ever.”

*

The front woman of Greyskull is a tiny blonde with kick-ass legs and an accent that emphasizes the simple lyrics just different enough to make them interesting.

Frank’s really not paying them much attention, though, because Gerard’s painted a fucking amazing picture of a zombie shih tzu. It’s freaky as hell, and pretty much the best thing Frank’s ever seen.

“I really like how you exposed the bone here,” Frank says, pointing at the puppy’s chest. “Like you can almost see a piece of his heart.”

Gerard nods, grinning this huge-ass grin that kind of makes Frank’s breath catch. “Someone loved him once,” Gerard says, and Frank grins back at him until he realizes he’s just, like, grinning at Gerard like a great big, creepy shithead, and a flush starts up from his neck.

“Um. Where’s Ben?” he asks.

“Home,” Gerard says. “Last time I brought him to one of these things, he shit all over the buffet and made Brian bleed. From his eyes.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“Totally,” Gerard says, and then it gets awkward, because Frank has this crazy, insane urge to maybe tackle Gerard into a dark nook and lick his face off, but Gerard has a girlfriend. It totally sucks.

“So, uh. Lyn-Z?” Frank says, and then considers punching himself in the face, what the fuck.

Gerard cocks his head. “Yeah? Have you seen her work?”

“No, but. My roommate mentioned her. Butcher’s a big fan of,” Frank waves a hand around.

The tops of Gerard’s cheeks pink. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so.” Frank has no idea what he’s doing here. “Maybe I should let you mingle?”

“Oh no,” Gerard says, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “No, no, I’m not allowed to mingle, Brian says I make everyone uncomfortable.”

Frank bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Okay.”

“No, really.” Gerard nods. He’s frowning, but Frank can see an amused light in his eyes. “I don’t get it. I mean, I paint vampires and shit, but apparently I freak everyone out in person. I don’t even know why Gabe always wants me to come to these things.”

“Maybe it’s the hair,” Frank says.

Gerard makes an alarmed sound and reaches up, runs both hands over his head, making it stand up even more, and Frank just loses it, leaning into Gerard’s arm, giggling, because Gerard’s so fucking adorable, it’s not even fair.

*

Brendon thinks maybe this whole night was a bad idea. It’s impossible to hide from Gabe, first of all, Spencer looks uncomfortable and Ryan’s been staring at him with big, creepy, admiring eyes.

“So you’re Spencer,” Gabe says. He’s leaning forward, nose-to-nose - not because he’s actually a freaky close-talker, Brendon knows, but just because he gets off on making people squirm.

Spencer holds his ground, though, and narrows his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Excellent,” Gabe says. “I approve.”

Brendon covers his face with his hands. Gabe is so embarrassing. Plus, Brendon should never ever drink on family dinner nights. Gabe can pretty much get Brendon to spill anything, including his epic and doomed love for Spencer Smith. And Brendon should totally be grateful Gabe approves, actually, because sometimes disapproval leads to Gabe groping him in public to stake some sort of fucked up claim - he really thinks it’d be easier if he was actually related to Gabe; he’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be any weird incest vibes then.

“So, um, Gabe’s my stepbrother,” Brendon says, cheeks hot.

“Nonsense,” Gabe says, squeezing Brendon up against his side. “There’re no caveats in this family, bro. Holy shit, look at the stems on that dude.” Gabe wolf-whistles, then ruffles Brendon’s hair. “I’m off. Come find me when you leave.”

“Wow,” Ryan says, staring after Gabe.

“Yeah.” Brendon tries on a sheepish smile. Why oh why did Brendon ever listen to Jon Walker?

Spencer looks kind of pissed, maybe, lips pursed, but then he just shakes his head and breaks out into this bright grin, and it’s like the whole entire room lights up.

Brendon’s in such big shit.

part two

A Handholding Song [2/2]

Sun, 10 May 2009 20:50:57 GMT

part one

It rains on Friday. Fucking pours, right in the middle of Joe’s after-lunch set, and it fits Joe’s mood exactly.

He’s strumming a melancholy Homefries For Hangovers when the drizzle that’s been steady all day turns heavy, thick and cold; sheets of it, like the sky’s just cracked completely open. It sucks, but Joe just sighs and scoots back further under the overhang – he’s been up at the top of the steps all afternoon, crouched near the building wall, and he figures Ray must be working, ‘cause no ones kicked him off them yet.

He’s soaked through anyway, though, and thinking about calling it a day. It’s not like there’s anyone out – he made five bucks that morning, and Argyle Dude gave him a grin and a twenty, which Joe figures is recompense for eating inside, dry, and not sharing his lunch.

He sniffles, swipes a hand under his nose, catching water dripping from the hair plastered to his skull. Wet’s not a good look for him, he knows this.

“Jesus Christ.”

Joe sneezes and glances up at Bob. He’s not wearing his uniform, so Joe guesses he was right about Ray. “Heya, Bob,” he says.

Bob reaches down and grabs Joe’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Whoa, dude, it’s fucking torrential out, you’re not even working, don’t you think I could—”

“Shut up,” Bob says. “Cover your guitar if you don’t want it to get ruined.”

Joe’s guitar is already warped – he lost the case years ago, a hazard of street performing – but it’s decent, if a little temperamental. He’s got a sheet of plastic for occasions such as these, and he wraps up his old acoustic, more than a little pissed that Bob’s throwing him out in the fucking rain. On his day off. It’s like—when did Joe ever do anything to make Bob this much of an asshole towards him?

Bob doesn’t let him go when they reach the bottom of the stairs, though, and Joe’s forced to double-up his steps to keep pace, not have his arm wrenched out of its socket.

“Is this where you pull me into a dark alley and beat the shit out of me?” Joe asks. He’s mainly being funny. He doesn’t honestly think Bob’s gonna wail on him. For the most part.

Bob slants him an unreadable look, but he lets up on his hold a little and slows down. He tugs Joe closer against his side, though, arm sliding over Joe’s shoulders, like his already sopping wet hoodie could shelter him from the rain. The gesture makes Joe smile a little, even if it’s pointless.

“An umbrella would be awesome,” Joe says, still grinning even when Bob snorts and yanks on a clump of his hair.

Joe’s apartment is ten blocks behind 201 and three blocks to the left.

Bob keeps straight down Independence, then silently steers him into a four storey walk-up, a neat and tidy square of brick, the first floor windows underlined with dirt boxes and slow-dying mums.

“Swank,” Joe murmurs.

The foyer smells musty and damp from the humidity. Joe follows Bob up the stairs, both of them dripping all over the well-worn carpet. At the second floor landing, a door pulls open with an anxious, “Bob!”

“Bird Dude,” Joe says, nodding.

Gerard blinks. “Um. Hi, Joe,” he says, then turns to Bob and wrings his hands and says, “Did you see Frank? Oh, wait.” He switches his gaze to Joe again. “Was Frank out today?”

Joe shrugs. Before it’d started drizzling, he and Frank had rocked some early morning Anthrax, but Frank’s, like, a delicate fucking flower, so he’d wussed out before he could catch a cold and fucking die or something. “He’s at home,” Joe says.

Bob gives him another look, what the fuck, like he thinks Joe’s lying.

“Oh, come on, we’re not homeless, okay,” Joe says. He hugs his guitar close to his stomach.

“No,” Bob says slowly, “you just sleep on the floor of your friend’s apartment.”

Joe’s brow furrows. Who the hell has Bob been talking to? “I live there.” An air mattress is still a mattress, and he’s got his duffel stashed neatly in the bottom of Butcher’s closet.

Bob rolls his eyes and mutters, “Christ,” under his breath, then says, louder, “Come on,” and starts up the stairs again.

Joe wants to be offended, but he’s soaked and cold and it’s Bob, so whatever. He says, “See you, Gerard,” because he’s got manners - sometimes, at least - and shuffles after Bob, sneakers squelching with each step.

*

Brendon normally likes rainy days, because it makes the inside of the building cozier, the piping hot coffee somehow more delicious.

Today, the rain just seems to be making him itchy. He’s—unhappy, he thinks is the word for it. Brendon really hates being unhappy.

“What’s up with you, dude?” Ray says, setting down a pair of threes.

Brendon shrugs. “Nothing. D’you have any queens?”

“Go fish.” Ray tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Nines?”

Brendon slides one across the counter with a sigh. Ray is uncannily good at this game.

“Seriously, man. I’ve never seen you this down,” Ray says.

Brendon makes a face and looks off towards the front of the lobby. It’s not like he can pinpoint an exact reason, except for how he totally can: its name rhymes with fail-y and it’s sitting on Spencer’s desk, laughing, with a short skirt and a bag of gummy worms. Legs and candy, Brendon doesn’t really blame Spencer for being unable to resist. It still really sucks, though.

He’s thinking about maybe joining Hobo Joe outside for a while when he realizes Hobo Joe is no longer under the building awning. Huh. “Where’d Joe go?” Brendon asks.

“I called Bob. Are we still playing?”

Brendon blinks at him. “You called Bob?”

“Well, um.” Ray scratches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Huh.” Brendon bites his lower lip, but can’t help the grin creeping across his face. That’s really kind of funny.

Ray says, “You know. It’s raining. I figured Bob could take him home for a little while.”

A giggle slips out, Brendon ducks his head a little. “Okay.” That’s kind of hilarious, actually.

“I mean.” Ray grins at him. “It’s not like Joe has the biggest and most obvious crush in the entire universe on him.”

“You’re right,” Brendon says, very carefully. “Because that would be awkward.”

Ray bobs his head, hair flopping all over the place. “Totally.”

“So, ah.” Brendon clears his throat, giggles some more, then presses a hand to his mouth and clears his throat again. “Got any fives?”

*

Haley’s an accountant on six. She’s been in 201 for three months, just about as long as Hobo Joe’s been haunting their front steps, and she’s awesome. She’s funny and hot and shares her candy and Spencer’s had sex with her four times in the supply closet down the hall and to the left, and once in the executive bathrooms up on ten.

So he has absolutely no clue why he opens his mouth and says, “This isn’t working,” like a giant fucking moron.

Haley’s teeth click around a gummy worm and Spencer winces involuntarily.

She chews slowly, watching him with a blank look, then smoothes out her skirt and slips to her feet. “Okay,” she finally says.

Spencer palms the back of his neck. He can feel his face heat up and his heart’s in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Haley nods. She starts around him, then stops by his elbow, presses a hand to his shoulder. She opens her mouth, closes it again and shakes her head, lips pursed.

This is kind of out of nowhere, he thinks, but at the same time it’s kind of not. Fucking Jon Walker. He plants these little, inconspicuous bombs, these tiny ridiculous thoughts that fuck up your life, seriously, he needs to kick Jon’s ass when they’re on the same continent again.

He slumps down and thumps his forehead onto his desk.

Absently, he works his cell phone out of his pocket, slides it open and texts Jon: u r the worst friend ever

untrue, Jon sends back almost immediately, i’m awesome.

Spencer laughs, short, but weirdly unstrained, and types: broke up w haley

good, Jon texts, because Jon is an ass. go sweep bden ofhis feet!! hes little its ttly doable

seriously u suck, Spencer sends, and Jon replies with a pic of a big-eyed monkey sitting on top of Tom’s shoulders and picking at his hair with the caption: monkeys attaaaaack!

Spencer sighs – there’s something seriously wrong with Jon Walker - but he’s smiling when he looks up across the lobby, watches Ray and Brendon playing cards over Brendon’s kiosk counter.

It’s still raining out, and the fluorescent lights overhead seem brighter than usual, making his eyes sting a little.

He can hear Ray’s voice, but can’t make out the words. Brendon pouts and slides another card off the pile in between them, stuffing it into his already thick hand. Brendon always loses at Go Fish, it’s like the entire world of matching pairs is against him, but he loses spectacularly when battling Ray.

Brendon glances up and waves at him and Spencer leans back in his chair, taking in Brendon’s bright eyes, the upward curve of his mouth. Brendon’s pretty hot, honestly. This sweeping him off his feet deal that Jon’s pushing isn’t exactly the worst idea in the world.

Spencer smiles and waves back.

*

Frank huddles on the couch, wrapped up in a thick blanket, and gives Butcher puppy-eyes. Butcher isn’t looking at him - too busy making a bongo drum or something, Frank’s not sure, it could be a hat – but Frank knows he can feel the puppy-eyes. They’re totally potent, Frank can totally rock the helpless orphaned waif look, and the corner of Butcher’s mouth is twitching.

Frank sends out hot chocolate and cookie vibes. There’s a damp chill in the apartment, and Frank doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his couch cocoon.

“It’s not going to work, Frank,” Butcher says.

“It’s totally going to work,” Frank says, still staring at the top of Butcher’s bent head. He just has to wait it out.

The door bursts open and Bill sashays in, shaking his wet hair like a particularly fashionable Afghan hound. He’s in pants for once, which is surprising, but not as surprising as the guy who follows Bill into the apartment, taller than Bill by increments, slightly crazy around the eyes. Gabe Saporta. Frank recognizes him from his posters.

“Hello, minions,” Gabe says, spreading his arms wide. “How are we this fine afternoon?”

Butcher blinks up at him, snorts, then goes back to his—maybe it’s a bucket? Frank doesn’t know what they’d need a bucket for, but the kitchen floor is kind of gross. He wouldn’t be against it getting a good mopping.

Frank tugs his blanket closer and shrinks back along the arm of the couch. He’s totally not sharing. Bill always mooches his stuff. Frank’s been wrapped up naked with Bill too many times to count. It’s really not as pleasant as it sounds; Bill’s got sharp elbows and knees, and a tendency towards open-mouthed snoring. Bill, though, is much more amendable to Frank’s needy whims than the Butcher.

“Bill,” Frank whines and flutters his eyelashes at him, sending him the same vibes he’s been aiming at Butcher’s head for the past half hour.

“Cookies,” Bill says after a slight pause, arms crossed and one hip cocked.

Gabe snuggles up behind him, arms draped over Bill’s shoulders. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at Frank. There’s a speculative gleam there, and then his face clears, smoothes out into a huge grin. “Hot chocolate,” he says.

Gabe’s very obviously a good guy. Frank likes the cut of his jib.

“I wanna subscribe to your newsletter, dude,” Frank tells Gabe, nodding, and Gabe flicks non-existent lint off Bill’s collarbone and says, “Doesn’t everyone?”

*

Bob has no fucking idea why, but he likes Joe. There’s just something about him, about the way he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about what people think of him, about the way he deliberately bugs the shit out of him – Bob knows it’s deliberate, to get his attention, he’s not dumb – about the way he deals with his kid.

Ford likes Joe, and Joe’s been more than decent to Ford, doesn’t brush him off or get annoyed when he hangs around. That goes a long way with Bob.

Bob’s beginning to think he’s made a huge mistake, though, bringing Joe home. Joe looks like a drowned cat, hair curling wetly against his skull. He’s got a towel around his neck, decked out in a pair of Ford’s sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Bob’s, neck stretched so wide it’s slipping down Joe’s shoulder.

He’s smiling at Bob around a cup of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, and Bob feels like a fucking tool. Like Joe’s playing him somehow, even though he can’t figure out the angle. What possible thing could Joe gain from trying to provoke Bob into beating him to death? Not that Bob’s thinking about doing that. Bob likes him too much, and what the fuck is that, seriously.

“Where’s Ford?” Joe asks, placing his mug on the table but keeping his hands wrapped around it, fingers overlapping.

“His mom’s.” Bob’s leaning back against the sink arms crossed over his chest. He stares hard at Joe, but Joe’s cheerful grin doesn’t waver.

“Awesome,” Joe says, with way more enthusiasm than Bob honestly thinks that answer warranted, but whatever.

“Okay,” Bob says, draws out, one eyebrow arched.

“So, hey, can I use your shower?”

*

“This was your idea,” Gerard says, hunching his shoulders.

Ben, tucked in his hood at the crook of his neck, takes a nip at his ear.

“No, for real, I’m blaming you.”

Ben chirps, “Douche,” and pecks at his earlobe again.

Gerard feels like an idiot, soaking wet, standing in front of Frank’s door, shifting back and forth on his feet. He’s trying to decide whether to knock or not. Because he’s an idiot. He’s there. He’s made it that far – and Joe hadn’t even made fun of him when he’d asked for his address, so Gerard should just do it. Just knock. Just knock and say hi and it’ll all be cool.

Before he can even raise his hand, though, the door jerks inward and he’s blinking down at a shirtless guy with long hair and a scruffy beard, square black-framed glasses over clear eyes.

“Man,” he says. He’s got baggy basketball shorts on and he yawns, scratching fingers over his abdomen. “Been lurking like a creeper. Who’re you here for?”

“Um. Frank?”

The guys nods, moves to the side and waves Gerard in, and Ben takes that as invitation to dive-bomb, tearing out from under Gerard’s rain-heavy hood and circling the room, nearly clipping the guy’s nose as he wings past.

“Holy shit.”

Gerard just says, “Sorry, sorry,” and catches the guy’s arm as he stumbles backwards, and then Frank’s voice is ringing out from, like, the kitchen maybe, “Ben! Little dude, ow, ow, fucker, what the—”

Gerard turns bright red. He hates Ben so very much.

Frank’s grinning when he rounds the doorframe, though, Ben perched on top of his head, a green and brown blanket wrapped almost mummy-like around him.

“Gerard, hey, what are you doing here?” Frank asks, and the thing is, Gerard has no fucking clue why he’s there, except it’s Friday and they couldn’t feed the ducks and Gerard feels off-center.

“Ben missed you,” Gerard says, proving, yet again, how incredibly lame he is.

“Obviously. I fucking rock, dude,” Frank says, still grinning. His nose is red and he sniffles, rubbing the end of his blanket under his nose, and Gerard melts a little inside.

Gerard nods. “You do,” he says, and Frank gets a funny look on his face, so Gerard thinks maybe he said that a little too earnestly - but Frank fucking rocks, there’s no denying that.

Frank shakes his head, and Ben hops down to his shoulder, feather’s bristling. “Come on, we’re gonna watch Rachel Ray and destroy Butcher’s kitchen, it’ll be epic.”

“He’ll kill you,” the shirtless guy says, but he says it absent-like, and he slides on a pair of flip-flops. “I’m heading up to Mix’s, don’t set anything on fire.”

“No promises, Hurley,” Frank says, giving him a mock salute.

Gerard clasps his hands together and thinks about how this is clearly the best day of his entire life, and he doesn’t even care how much of a loser that makes him. He says, “I’m not allowed to use the toaster.” It’s Brian’s rule; he keeps burning his fingers. He makes Mikey follow it, too, but only because of the fork thing.

Frank says, “Fucking A,” and, “We’ll use the stovetop, Butcher’s even got one of those burner griddles,” and, “If you hold the gas open long enough before the lighter catches, the flames totally get air, dude.”

“Cool,” Gerard says. “Are those cookies?”

*

Gabe never shows up at Brendon’s work.

This is a blessing, because Gabe has terrorized every part of Brendon’s life since he was thirteen – twelve, actually, if they’re counting that year their parents were dating – and Brendon suspects it’s only because Gabe hadn’t been entirely sure where he worked, and wasn’t interested enough to find out. Gabe’s always intense and absent and nosy and incurious, all at once.

Brendon kind of wants to slide under his counter when Gabe pushes through the revolving doors of 201, soaked to the bone but smiling huge, followed by a willowy guy in a poncho.

Ray eyes him curiously as he sinks lower and lower onto his stool, like he can hide behind Ray’s fro, then glances over his shoulder.

Gabe makes a beeline for Spencer, though, which is just as bad, and panic starts swirling in Brendon’s chest, because Gabe at the club is one thing, where it’s loud and distracting and anything he says or doesn’t say can easily be brushed off or misheard – the lobby echoes with their footsteps. It’s an ominous sound. Brendon might throw up.

Ray says, “Isn’t that—”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, jumping to his feet. The screech of his chair makes him wince, but Gabe’s eyes snap to his.

Gabe’s wily, though, and a great big asshole. He just grins, gives him a slight head-tilt as he leans into Spencer’s desk.

“This is bad,” Brendon says. He can’t hear them, but Spencer’s got a wavering smile on his face, and Gabe’s friend is fluttering his hands, looking disturbingly smug.

Spencer’s eyes flick towards Brendon.

Horror wells over him. He wishes he was close enough to jump Gabe and press both his hands over his mouth.

Spencer blanches.

Brendon considers choking himself to death on a swizzle stick.

And then Gabe chucks Spencer under the chin and whirls around, attention zeroing in on Brendon. Brendon shrinks back into his kiosk, like maybe he can blend in with the faux wood cabinets and make himself disappear.

By the time Gabe gets to him, he’s almost entirely under the counter, fingers gripping the edge, white-knuckled. Gabe leans over and waggles his eyebrows. “Brendon, bro, you’ve nothing to worry about, dude, I totally took care of everything.”

“Oh no.”

“He’s been properly warned,” Gabe says. “It’s all squared away.”

Brendon doesn’t like the sound of that. This is shaping up to be exactly like that incident in junior year, when Gabe had gotten Brendon banned from the school paper after threatening to cut off Senior Editor Cecil Wallachuck’s balls for staring just a shade too long at his little brother’s ass.

Brendon drops down to sit on the floor, and Ray squints at him. “All right?”

“Peachy,” Brendon says. He briefly considers asking Gabe exactly what he said to Spencer, but he doesn’t actually want to know. He’s pretty sure his imagination is much tamer than anything that came out of Gabe’s huge mouth.

“I’m the best fucking brother in the universe,” Gabe says, then slants a look at Ray and says, “Hello,” and, “I don’t believe we’ve met,” and, “There’s something about your hair that I greatly admire.”

Brendon hides his face in his knees.

*

Bob’s made a big mistake, bringing Joe home. This’s exactly what happened at Andy and Butcher’s place. Joe has a habit of settling in.

Plus, it’s the weekend, so Joe doesn’t need to head back to 201 ‘til Monday morning. He’s got two full days of Bob ahead of him, providing Bob doesn’t physically throw him out. It’s a risk, but Joe’s really gotten the feeling that Bob doesn’t mind him all that much. Something to do with the borrowed clothes and the coffee and the soup and the cookies and the reruns of Magnum: PI.

The trick is to fall asleep on the couch. Joe happens to know that he looks particularly fetching while asleep – Bill’s told him often enough, and Frank keeps trying to sneak cuddles – so chances are Bob’s not gonna want to disturb his angelic slumber.

At some point, though, Bob nudges him into semi-consciousness and shuffles him off to a bed – Ford’s, he thinks, since he’s pretty sure Bob’s outgrown the half-naked girl posters on the ceiling thing – and that’s an awesome sign. A sign of complacency, a chink in Bob’s armor, a tiny, little crevice Joe can worm his way into; like rust or something, only infinitely more sexy.

Another awesome sign is waking up Saturday to pancakes and a table set for three.

Joe scrubs the side of his head and Bob’s eyes settle somewhere around his hair, so he figures the fro’s looking extra spiffy.

Bob just says, “Breakfast?” though, in this gruff morning voice that Joe can feel all the way down at the bottom of his spine.

“Food would be good,” Joe says, nodding.

Ford’s already at the table, iPod on, bobbing his head, one foot rhythmically tapping his chair leg. He gives Joe a wave and then Bob tugs one of his earbuds out and says, “Not at the table,” and Ford makes a face but obediently turns his music off and sets it aside.

“Sanford,” Joe says, reaching out to bump his fist.

Ford grins. “Hi.”

“You’re in a better mood.” Joe sits across from him, watching Bob out of the corner of his eye, standing over by the stove.

Ford half shrugs. “Guess so.”

Bob cuffs the back of Ford’s head as he slides a plate of pancakes onto the table, gives Joe a smile with his eyes, even though his mouth’s down-turned at the corners.

Joe’s heart skips a fucking beat.

This, this right here, is kind of what he wants for the rest of his life.

*

“Why so fucking glum, dude,” Frank says, dropping down onto the steps next to Joe.

Joe’s frowning, playing Fucked Up Love Song already, the one he wrote about Hurley and Mixon and their weirdly intricate heterosexual lifemate status.

Joe shakes his head. “Just found out I’m a family sort of man,” he says. “Fucks with your world view, you know?”

“Shit,” Frank says.

Joe closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his forehead. “I might need to get a fucking job, Frankie, how is this my life?”

Frank blinks at Joe, mind fucking boggled. As far as Frank knows, and Frank knows a lot, Joe hasn’t held a steady tax-paying job since 2001. He’d dropped out of college, quit his internship, and headed for the streets. Frank’s always sort of admired his gumption.

“Dude,” Frank says forlornly, clasping Joe’s shoulder. It’s a sad, sad day when Joe has to go and, like, fucking assimilate. “Are you sure?”

Joe hums a few bars of Let’s Get Nasty, Except For Bill, then thumps the flat of his hand against the strings. “He’s got a kid, a steady income, an ex-wife—”

“Huh.” Figures a security guard would be fucking responsible, right.

Joe points at him. “I don’t even have a bank account.”

Frank nods, pushes up the arms of his sweater and leans his elbows on his knees. Frank doesn’t have a bank account either, because it’s too easy for people to, like, fucking steal your identity or whatever. Frank deals with cold hard cash, so The Man can’t keep tabs on his life. Frank’s a free spirit. Frank jams out with Joe at 201 or stakes out his own turf by the fountain down in the park, and pulls in enough coinage to get him coffee, smokes and a couch – although it’s actually only a couch cushion, Hurley claims, but whatever, he shares it with Bill.

“Hey.”

Frank glances up and smiles at Gerard, shifting back and forth on his feet in front of him and Joe. “Hey, Gee,” he says. “Got any requests?”

“Oh, um,” Gerard rubs the side of his forefinger across his lower lip, “I actually just wanted to see if, uh, you wanted to grab dinner? Later?”

Frank wrinkles his forehead. Hanging out with him on Friday had been fucking sweet - they almost made Butcher cry, and that’s really fucking tough to do. So he’s getting some mixed signals here, what with Gerard having a girlfriend and all, but he’s pretty sure Gerard’s asking him out on a date.

Joe jostles his arm meaningfully.

“Sure,” Frank says finally. “That’d be awesome.”

Gerard’s face nearly splits in half with this huge grin, and Frank can’t help thinking that Gerard’s really fucking pretty, for a dude.

“Cool,” Gerard says, and Frank nods and grins and they stare at each other for way too long, but only Joe’s there to witness it, and Joe can’t fucking talk, after all this fucking job shit he’s spewing.

“Cool,” Frank echoes.

Joe mutters, “Oh yeah, cool,” under his breath, and Frank elbows him hard in the ribs.

*

Brendon spends most of his weekend in a state of anxious panic. So when he walks into 201 Monday morning he’s amped up and fidgety and looking everywhere but Spencer’s desk. That Spencer is currently sitting at. Brendon can feel the burn of Spencer’s eyes on him as he does his best to amble perfectly naturally over to his coffee kiosk.

He trips over a crack in the marble tile and goes down hard. Brendon is motherfucking smooth.

He squeezes his eyes shut, down on his hands and knees, and when he blinks them open again, Spencer’s shoes are right in front of his nose.

“All right?” Spencer asks.

“I am awesome,” Brendon says, clambering to his feet. He swipes his stinging palms on his pants. “Totally fine.”

Spencer’s got his skeptical face on, the one he always uses on Sisky when he comes back late and mussed from his mysterious lunch dates, smelling like wood chips and Old Spice. “Right,” he says.

Brendon presses his lips together and bounces on his toes.

Spencer glances off to the right, scratches the back of his neck, then says, “Your brother’s, uh, strange,” almost carefully, like he’s afraid of offending Brendon.

Which is crazy. This is Gabe. Gabe pretty much invented strange.

“He sells his underwear on eBay,” Brendon says. Not only his underwear, but Brendon doesn’t feel comfortable discussing that outside of the family.

Spencer nods. “I can see that.”

“Yeah, so.” Awkward. Brendon doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act around Spencer, now that Gabe—well, if he hasn’t out right told Spencer about his great and epic love, he damn well obviously implied it.

“Huh,” Spencer says.

Brendon squints up at him. “What?”

A grin creeps across Spencer’s face. “Nothing.”

“Okay.” Brendon feels like he’s missing something. Something huge, maybe, it’s like an itch in the back of his brain, but Spencer just shakes his head, cheeks the slightest bit flushed.

Still. Brendon finds himself grinning a little, too, as Spencer walks away.

*

Jon texts Spencer: bdens sweet on u

duh, Spencer sends back, because he could’ve figured that out on his own, thanks, probably even without the whole Gabe Saporta threatening him thing. Spencer isn’t exactly scared of Saporta, but he’s definitely wary. Saporta’s got that I’ll-hire-people-to-kill-you-even-though-I- could-take-care-of-you-myself kind of vibe going on, but at the same time he’s sort of epically friendly. He reminds Spencer of Brendon in that respect. Or a dog. A particularly evil-minded dog. Like Cujo.

Spencer doesn’t like the way his thoughts are going. Maybe he is a little scared of Saporta.

Then Jon texts, told bden ur sweet on him2, and Spencer has the sudden and perfectly rational urge to bludgeon Jon to death with his own camera.

“I’m going to kill your boyfriend,” Spencer says to Ryan. They’re eating lunch over his desk, because Ryan’s hoping Saporta’ll stop by again, since he’s just a big, creepy fanboy at heart. This is why he never really made it in Hollywood.

Ryan chokes on a fry and scowls at Spencer. “Jon’s not my boyfriend.”

Spencer smirks. “And yet you knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan says mildly, and, “You can’t kill him, he’s in Kuala Lumpur.”

“He’s going to die by my hand, mark my words,” Spencer says, nodding sagely. “How the fuck did he get Brendon’s number?” Spencer doesn’t even have Brendon’s number. He’s pretty sure Ryan doesn’t, either.

Ryan shrugs. He takes apart his burger and picks at the meat patty with his fingers, getting ketchup everywhere, because occasionally Ryan’s really disgusting. Spencer thinks he gets it from Jon, and all that time they spent together on the sets of TNBC, far away from Spencer’s soothing, civilized influence.

Ryan’s cell buzzes with a text and an evil smile breaks out across his face as he reads it. He flicks a glance at Spencer, then calls out across the lobby, “Hey, Brendon, want to come over for dinner tonight?”

Brendon eyes widen and he says, “Sure?” and Ryan arches a mocking, take-that eyebrow at Spencer.

Spencer’s mainly just amused, though. Ryan thinks he’s getting away with something, but Spencer knows where he keeps all one hundred and four episodes of Hang Time, and he’s pretty sure Brendon would just love to see Ryan’s awkward teenage years chronicled for all time on a teenie bopper show about basketball.

*

Bob glares at Joe when he opens the door, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to go away, either, just opens the door wider and steps aside. How fucked up is it that he’d been hoping for this? That, okay, he’d possibly been disappointed when he’d gotten off work, and Joe had already been gone?

“So what’s for dinner, Bob?” Joe asks, flopping down on the sofa in a casual slouch.

Funny thing is, though, Joe’s avoiding Bob’s eyes. He’s staring at the blank TV, and Bob’s an observant guy, he doesn’t miss the way his fingers clench in the baggy material of his jeans, like he’s steeling himself up for something. Like maybe he’s nervous. If Bob were a nice sort of guy, he’d probably try to ease Joe’s mind here – although about what, Bob’s not so sure, since it’s not like Bob’s going to throw him out now, he’d let him stay there the entire weekend.

Instead, Bob stares at him so long, stares at his profile, the frozen curl of his mouth, he swears he can see Joe’s pulse pick up, fluttering at the base of his throat, just under the brush of his fucking ridiculous hair.

Ford is watching Ben for Gerard again.

Ford isn’t around, and it’s like Friday night, only Joe isn’t relaxed and sleepy on his couch, isn’t so pliable in his arms that Bob actually has to force himself to tuck Joe into Ford’s bed, keep his hands to himself.

Bob believes in fair play. Bob doesn’t take advantage, and here’s Joe, alert and challenging and wary and Bob walks over and settles down on the coffee table, in between the spread of Joe’s legs.

“What’s up with you?” he says.

Joe shifts, like he’s trying to move away, but Bob catches his knees, presses his palms down to keep them still. Bob doesn’t get why, but Joe’s face softens fractionally, smile more natural, humor lighting his eyes. He shifts again, but forward this time, sitting up straighter and catching Bob’s wrists before he can pull away. Not like Bob was going to anyway.

“I’ve had a thought,” Joe says. “A kick-ass thought, you should hear me out.”

Bob arches an eyebrow.

“Wait, just wait,” Joe says, grin going goofy, and he tugs on Bob’s left hand, seems surprised when Bob loosens his grip enough to let it slide down Joe’s thigh. “Um.”

Bob waits.

Joe stares down at his hand, then glances up at him, wide-eyed, and Bob feels a little smug.

“Yeah?” Bob prompts.

Joe clears his throat, says, “I think I should get a job.”

Huh. That. Is not at all what Bob had expected. “You have a job,” he says, which is kind of dumb, because Bob’s often pointed out the fact that Joe does not actually have a job – he’s not even sure busking is legal - but at the same time, what the fuck. “Where’s this coming from?”

Joe’s face falls a little before he rallies his expression, turning up the cheer but tilting his head to stare off into the kitchen. He hitches a shoulder. “Nowhere, man, just thought—I’m not stupid, dude, it’s not like I couldn’t get a job if I wanted one.”

“Never said that,” Bob says. He has no fucking clue what’s going on here.

“So.” Joe clears his throat again. “Yeah.”

Bob squeezes his thigh, a steady pressure until Joe turns dark eyes back on him. Bob kind of wants to beat him until he makes some kind of sense; Bob’s like that. Or maybe he isn’t, because Joe’s a daily pain in his ass, and he just asks, “Chinese?”

*

Frank never thought he’d find the sight of Bill in pants disturbing, but, “No, seriously, what happened to your skirts, dude?” he asks.

Instead of his usual indignant rant about his Scottish heritage, Bill says, “That was mere plumage, my dear Iero, something daring to attract my ideal mate.” He gets a truly horrifying dreamy look on his face. “Besides, Gabe’s the jealous type, and my legs are fantastic. He’s awfully fond of my cock, too.”

Frank holds up a hand. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Bill shrugs, and he has a point; he’s got great gams, Frank isn’t going to deny that, and it’s not like Frank isn’t intimately acquainted with Bill’s dick – just about everyone in the apartment has had several unpleasant, too close for comfort moments with it; Bill doesn’t actually have any shame.

He doesn’t call Frank a girl, either – like Butcher and Joe would – when Frank insists Bill answer the door when the knock comes, right around the time Gerard’s supposed to pick him up. Frank ducks into the hallway and waits for Bill’s, “Hello,” and, “You must be Gerard,” and, “There’s a distinct lack of bird, but you seem the sort who’d have one,” and Frank thinks maybe he made a bad decision, letting Bill interact socially with the dude he thinks he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He doesn’t want Bill to scare him off; Gerard seems like he’s kind of easily startled.

Frank moves out of his hiding place nonchalantly, like it wasn’t actually a hiding place, and Bill’s right, there’s no Ben perched on top of Gerard’s head. This is disappointing – Frank likes Ben’s moxie, his righteous sense of mischief – but Frank supposes it’s the crowd thing again. That, and restaurants probably aren’t down with birds.

“Hi,” Frank says, and Gerard beams at him. Frank loves Gerard’s smiles. It’s like he doesn’t bother hiding anything, all open and honest and shit. It does stuff to Frank’s insides.

“Frank,” Gerard says, and Bill just stands there, hangs onto the doorknob, eyeing Gerard narrowly.

Finally, he says, “What’s the deal with this female. This Lyn-Z person?” and Frank palms his face, what the fuck, Bill.

Gerard freezes. “Uh, what?”

“Are you or are you not dating a girl?”

Frank peeks out between his fingers. Gerard just looks honestly confused, and in that moment Frank kind of loves Bill a whole fucking lot - he’d tongue kiss him hard and messy if he wasn’t afraid of communicable diseases and Gabe Saporta.

“Not?” Gerard says, then looks at Frank. “What?”

Frank bounces on his feet and grabs Gerard’s arm. “Just ignore Bill, he’s a sociopath. We try not to let him have any knives or opinions.”

Bill sends him a knowing and arch look behind Gerard’s back, and Frank’s going to owe Bill his first born or something for being so fucking awesome.

*

Ryan’s all boney angles, all awkward freshman math geek to Jon’s sophomore basketball star – which is hilarious, especially since Jon hasn’t really grown any taller in the intervening years – and it’s adorable. Spencer will never not think so.

“This is the greatest show ever,” Brendon says.

Ryan scowls, slumped down on the couch.

“I know,” Spencer says, grinning. It’s the best show in the history of shows, all because of Ryan and Jon and, okay, it’s an extremely cheesy send-up to Saved By the Bell – totally better than The New Class - but Ryan and Jon’s characters are so clearly flirting with each other all the freaking time, he’s not surprised the writers were shoving girls down ‘Adam’s’ throat left and right.

“Right now,” Ryan says petulantly, arms folded over his chest. “Right now, we could be watching Tom take on Mardi Gras in Panama while Jon does voice-overs about lizard people.”

“We could,” Spencer says. “But it wouldn’t be as much fun.” Which isn’t strictly true, since Tom and Jon’s little-known travel show is mainly hilarious and full of misinformation and wacky hijinks.

Brendon laughs and ducks his head down into the fold of his arms over the coffee table. “Oh my god, Ross,” he says, words muffled.

He doesn’t elaborate, but Spencer doesn’t think he has to. On screen, ‘Turner’ has on a paisley necktie suspiciously similar to the one Ryan had worn just last week.

“I hope neither of you are planning on sleeping tonight,” Ryan says in a flat tone of voice that suggests he’s considering stabbing them to death even if they can still see it coming.

Brendon half-turns his head to look at Spencer; they’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees nearly touching. “Should I be worried?” he stage-whispers, grinning.

Spencer ignores Ryan’s indignant huff, leans into Brendon’s side, props his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, lips brushing Brendon’s ear. “Nah,” he says. “He wouldn’t want to get blood on his awesome new alpaca sweater-vest.”

Brendon bites his lip; Spencer can only see the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, a little more subdued.

Spencer thinks, okay, and slips his hand up to rest on the inward curve of Brendon’s thigh.

*

Bob is sending out confusing signals. Joe’s a pretty straightforward guy, but he’s not sure if he should just come out and declare, like, his fucking intentions or not. Like, fucking kiss him or something, because there’s a chance Bob’ll break his face for that. Bob seems mainly tolerant of Joe, but there’s tolerant and then there’s Actually Gay. Or something. Bob’s a little handsy, though, so Joe’s feeling the gay vibes, even with his oh-so-obvious heterosexual past.

The whole reaction to Joe’s job plan is the most worrying, since Bob was entirely fucking bewildered, Joe could see it on his face, like he couldn’t come up with a single reason why that was important.

“So,” Bob says after a lengthy silence, both of them immersed in pork lo mein, Joe immersed in thoughts of Bob’s mouth and Bob’s surprisingly deft hand with chopsticks. “Wanna explain to me this sudden interest in gainful employment?”

Joe blinks. He’s totally not used to that many words coming out of Bob’s mouth. “Uh.” This is his chance. He should just say, ‘I’d like to adopt your son and be worthy of your dick,’ except he’s aware that bringing up Ford and cock in the same sentence is probably not the best idea. Also, there’s that whole possible punching thing.

Bob’s got his I’m-waiting face on.

Joe scratches his chin, thinks, fuck it, and leans over the coffee table to press his mouth to Bob’s. Only Bob’s mid-chew and his kiss lands off-center, because Joe is just that awesome.

On the plus side, Bob doesn’t look any closer to a homicidal rage.

Firmly in the negative, though, is the blank, stone face he’s sporting.

Joe’s kind of frozen, thinks, Oh shit.

And then Bob says, “Still not getting the job thing,” and Joe sags back against the couch in relief, letting out a strangled, ragged laugh.

*

Gerard doesn’t even think about taking Frank anywhere other than the Watson Diner on Front Street, because that’s where he always eats, except once they’re inside he has a mild panic attack about how rundown and crummy the place looks. The food’s okay and the coffee’s the best in a five mile radius, but Frank deserves awesome service and clean tables and vinyl seats that weren’t molded sometime before 1975.

It’s too late now, though, and Frank’s bouncing into a booth at the far corner of the smoking section and Jenny already has two cups and a pot of coffee on the table before Gerard’s fully into the seat across from him.

Frank grins at him. “Cool place,” he says, and it doesn’t even look like he’s lying.

“Right?” Gerard says, grinning back. It is cool, even if the Formica on the table is dingy brown and riddled with carved graffiti. There’s a jukebox in the corner that only plays Swedish pop. Chandra posts any napkin doodles she finds on the corkboard behind the register – Gerard’s got quite a few up there – and Leigh mainlines jellybeans from a jar on the counter in lieu of smoking; her voice has the husky rasp of a lifelong smoker, even though she’s been out of the habit for as long as Gerard’s been going there.

Picking up a laminated menu, Frank says, “So what do you recommend?”

“Pancakes.” You can’t go wrong with pancakes, really. There’s a stuffed mink on the wall by the grill wearing a pair of Blue Blockers – Gerard doesn’t exactly trust anything here with meat in it.

Frank bobs his head. “Short stack it is, then,” he says, and then he takes a swig of his coffee and says, “Wow,” and, “That’ll strip my stomach lining but good,” and, “This’s some fucking fantastic caffeine.”

Gerard’s pretty sure he’s in love.

*

Bob is not dumb or slow. He’s just cautious. Cautious, because being reckless had given him Ford, and he loves Ford and he wouldn’t trade him for anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had regrets over the years. That doesn’t mean raising a kid hasn’t been motherfucking hard, and that some days he’d give anything to go back to his freshman year of college, before any of the shit with Lisa had happened, and, like, fucking wise up; he’d gladly kick his own ass, if he could.

But he can’t, and he has an awesome kid and a crappy job and a band that doesn’t stink and most days he thinks that’s fine.

It’s dark in the apartment. The TV’s flickering black and white, an old John Wayne western – Bob doesn’t get the appeal, but Joe seems enthralled.

Bob says, “Joe,” and Joe twitches, almost a flinch.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Joe says.

Bob doesn’t see how that’s possible, since Bob isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to say. “Right,” Bob says.

Joe turns to look at him, and Bob can’t read his expression, there’s not enough light, but his mouth is smiling.

“Sure,” Joe says, nodding. “This is where you tell me I’m a bad influence on your kid—”

Bob arches an eyebrow. He actually thinks the opposite of that one – Ford’s been in a much better mood the past week, and Bob thinks it’s got more to do with Joe than with Mikey’s PS3. Probably.

“—and that I’m a bum, right, and not worth your time—”

“Hey.”

“Dude, seriously, you think I don’t know about the Hobo Joe stuff?”

Bob can feel a blush heat up his neck, even though Joe doesn’t sound offended or anything - he’s still smiling. Bob clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “I wasn’t going to say any of that.”

Joe blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Bob rubs a hand over his nape. “I’m in a band,” Bob says carefully. “I have a steady job, because otherwise I couldn’t have custody of Ford.” What he doesn’t say is, yeah, I’m a responsible fucking adult because my ex-wife is a bitch, because that would be uncharitable and immature.

Joe stares at him. “So, what. You’re saying you’d be playing bongo drums on the street if you didn’t have a kid?”

“No.” Bob would probably still have a crappy job, he likes having a nest egg, but it’d be a whole fucking lot less stressful. Or maybe he’d be doing the band thing full time, who knows, he’s not gonna dwell on what-ifs here. “I’m saying you do what makes you happy, Joe. I don’t fucking care, so long as you stay the fuck out of my lobby.”

“Ray lets me hang,” Joe says, but he relaxes a little, lets his shoulder brush Bob’s.

Bob doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure Joe isn’t going to make another move, though, and Bob’s perfectly fine with that. Bob has some moves of his own.

He yawns, stretches his arm above his head, and drops it down along the back of the couch, just barely touching Joe’s neck.

“Smooth,” Joe says.

Bob smiles. He crooks his elbow so his wrist rests on Joe’s collarbone.

“Seriously, have you been on a date since 1985?” Joe asks, but he spreads his legs so his knee’s riding up along Bob’s thigh. “Where’s our coke with two straws?”

“Joe,” Bob says.

“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”

Bob bites his lip. He is not going to laugh.

“Ford’ll do the handclaps, dude. That kid’s a fucking handclapping prodigy.” Joe grabs Bob’s dangling hand, tugs it down so he’s leaning full-on Bob’s chest, Bob’s arm pressing against Joe’s sternum. He tips his head back and beams up at Bob. “I’ll mold him into the perfect traveling musical hobo, it’ll be awesome.”

Bob says, “I’ll kill you.”

“It’s a risk. If you take up with me,” Joe says, and he’s maintaining his levity, but there’s still something serious about the set of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Bob shrugs. “Not really worried.”

*

It’s a pretty great night, Brendon thinks, even though Ryan’s in a giant, pissy sulk and has locked himself in his bedroom. It just means there’s more Spencer for Brendon, and Brendon can laugh at Turner’s cowboy boots and hobo gloves and math prowess without fear of immediate retribution. Later, Brendon knows nothing can save him. He’d totally been hysterical over the whole winter formal episode; Ryan’s probably plotting how to poison him to death without leaving any incriminating evidence.

What’s both awesome and confusing is that Spencer is suddenly all over him, touching and leaning and breathing on him, and it’s hard to take any of Jon’s text messages serious – he keeps sending him photos of Virgin Mary statues in various holiday-themed hats – but Brendon’s thinking maybe the whole Spencer being sweet on him thing is more true than not. At some point, Brendon hides in the bathroom and texts Jon, help, and, Spencers hands!!!

And Jon texts back: hashe touched u in ur special place

Brendon stares at his phone for a full minute, then slides it shut and tucks it into his back pocket. That’s enough of Jon, really.

Spencer flicks his hair out of his face and grins at him when he comes back into the den, eyes soft and a little bleary. He lazily pats the floor next to him and Brendon snags a pillow from the couch on his way down, hugs it to his chest and settles cross-legged by the coffee table again.

Spencer slumps into him like a sleepy puppy. It’s late, and Brendon near-whispers, “You like me, Spencer Smith. You think I’m cute.”

“I’m going to kill Jon,” Spencer says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s actually going to kill Jon, and he rubs his nose on Brendon’s arm.

Brendon starts to drift off sometime in the middle of the episode where Coach finds weed in Adam’s locker and Turner takes the fall for him so he doesn’t miss the big game. He says, sleepily, “They’re in love, right?” and Spencer nods along his shoulder, Brendon can feel the soft slip-slide of his hair against his neck.

“Totally,” Spencer says, then yawns noisily. He threads his fingers through Brendon’s, flexes them slightly before settling them both on his knee. “Totally, madly in love.”

the favor of the century!

Sat, 09 May 2009 13:39:23 GMT

I'm totally using my LJ for evil -

My brother has a small web development company that just launched a new application on Facebook that allows you to leave web based sticky Notes on any website and share them with your friends. You need to install the IE toolbar (only takes a second, and I know, seriously, I wish this was compatible with FireFox, but right now they're just launching it on IE) to create and see Notes. Here's the app on Facebook. SERIOUSLY GUYS! At least try it out and let me know what you think of it? It would help him out immensely - promote it, too, the more friends you have using it the more notes you can share!! They're coming out with a Twitter version next week sometime, too. OMG I SOUND LIKE AN AD! EVIL.

ALSO, Hobo Joe either later this afternoon or tomorrow, woohooo!!

clutches chest

Fri, 08 May 2009 23:00:26 GMT

Twitter is down for maintenance and I'm at loose ends!! I don't know what to do with myself. I DON'T KNOW WHAT ANYONE IS DOING AND IT'S TRAGIC!!!

On the flip side, who wants Hobo Joe?

EDIT: it's BACK. sweet, sweet Twitter, never leave me again

EDIT2: okay, what the fuck, they're just teasing me now

the fast and the furious fic - Brian O'Connor: Undercover Hall Monitor

Thu, 07 May 2009 15:13:25 GMT

Too Cool For School -or- Brian O’Connor: Undercover Hall Monitor
2,000+ | PG-13 | Brian/Dom

With his other hand, Dom palms the back of Brian’s neck, presses their foreheads together. “You’re alright, junior-year,” he says.

A/N: This is a PARODY of the first movie – like a ten second send up or something - masquerading as a shitty high school AU, with bonus Rome, because he cracks me up. This is completely dumb, makes little to no sense, but it made me giggle. I wrote it within the span of scant hours, I may’ve been high: read at your own risk.

Too Cool For School -or- Brian O’Connor: Undercover Hall Monitor

“You’re a fucking narc, bro,” Rome says, smacking Brian in the back of the head.

“Nah.” Brian slams his locker shut and shoots Rome a cocky grin. “I do this, Tanner’ll spit-shine my recommendation,” he says. West Point’s a bigger deal to his dad than Brian, but he figures he’s got nowhere else to go.

“Whatever, man, Toretto’s going to kick your ass, and I’m gonna sit back and fucking laugh.”

“Bitch,” Brian says, still grinning.

“Watch your mouth, white bread, or I’ll kick your face in,” Rome says, but he’s got a big-ass grin on his mouth, too, teeth flashing. He palms Brian’s head, ruffles his hair. “Guess I gotta watch your skinny-ass back, right?”

“I’ll be fine.” Brian shoves his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. “Dom’s a pussycat.”

“Oh yeah,” Rome says, nodding. “Big ole pussycat, sure. Careful he doesn’t shred all the skin off your balls.”

Brian arches an eyebrow. “You’re one weird-ass dude, bro.”

“You know it.”

*

Dom Toretto usually holds court in the second floor boys’ bathroom in the science wing, but Brian isn’t stupid enough to think he can just stroll on in there without getting beat down, especially after the whole dating Dom’s sister thing.

Luckily, Brian has fourth period English with Mia.

“Hey, beautiful,” Brian says, dropping down backwards in his seat, elbows resting on Mia’s desk.

Mia arches an eyebrow. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

“Aw, Mia, don’t be like that.” Brian goes for the big-eyes, the half-pout. They may not be dating anymore, but that doesn’t actually make Mia immune to his considerable charms, Brian knows this. He can always coax a brownie out of her at lunch.

Mia rolls her eyes.

“Come on, you and me, let’s hang out after school,” Brian says.

“Brian,” Mia says. She taps her shell-pink nails on her notebook. “What are you up to?”

Brian grins winningly. “Nothing. Can’t I spend some time with my best girl?”

“You are so full of shit, O’Connor,” Mia says, but Brian’s charming – he’s clearly too awesome and too cool for Echo Park High School. He knows a yes when he hears one.

“You’re the greatest,” Brian says, and leans forward to peck Mia on the cheek.

She pushes him away, hand flat on the center of his chest. “Down, boy,” she says, dark eyes lit with amusement.

If Brian wasn’t so very gay for her brother, he’d be all over that.

*

“Look, this isn’t his style,” Brian says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling of the vice principal’s office. The tiles are stained in weird, ominous shapes and he pulls a face and looks back at Tanner. “Senior pranks require a certain amount of school spirit. Dom’s already out of here.” Dom’s gone, Brian thinks. He’s just hanging around because his dad expects a diploma.

Tanner gazes at him tiredly. “I thank you for your learned opinion, Mr. O’Connor,” he says, “but let’s stick to the plan.”

Brian shrugs. “Sure thing.” Personally, he thinks the dudes to watch out for are the Trans, but he’d rather worm his way into Dom’s good graces than Johnny’s. Lance is kinda creepy; he’s always staring at Brian’s ass.

Principal Bilkins shifts into the doorway, blocking out all light and goodness from the world. “You have thirty-six hours, O’Connor,” he says.

Brian wrinkles his nose. He’ll have this wrapped up in ten.

*

Rome shoves a spoonful of pudding into his mouth and says, “So rumor is they’re gonna take Bilkins’ car for a joyride. Park it in, like, the fucking pool afterwards or something.”

Bilkins has a glossy-black, low-slung ’74 GTO. Dom’s got a healthy respect for cars in general, Brian knows, and Bilkins’ GTO is sweet. If it’s going in the pool, Dom’s gang isn’t going to be the ones doing it.

Rome jabs at Brian with his spoon. “Toretto’ll go to jail, that shit goes down.”

“It’s not Dom,” Brian says.

Rome eyes him speculatively. “You gonna own up to being Tanner’s little inside man, bro?”

Brian shrugs. He doesn’t think it’s important, actually. He’s just gonna ride this one out, grab his prize, and move on.

*

The good thing is that Brian’s already got a history with Dom. There’s a foundation there, some sweet groundwork, since Dom took a rare shine to him while he’d been chasing Mia. There’d been lots of manly back-pats and arms around necks and kisses on foreheads. You know. General teenage tomfoolery.

The bad thing is that all that groundwork got shot to hell when Brian allegedly broke his baby sister’s heart – which is a crock of shit, Mia did most of the breaking, and Brian thinks mainly he was upset because he wouldn’t get to hang out with Dom anymore.

And then there’s Vince, who has always hated Brian and wishes him to the fiery pits of hell on a daily basis. With his fists.

Mia quirks her mouth up on one side, slants Brian a look as they draw up to the second floor boys’ bathroom. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah,” Brian says, trying on an easy grin that doesn’t feel so easy. Nerves are jangling up his spine; he hadn’t been expecting that.

“Okay,” Mia says, pushing on the door. “Your funeral.”

*

The first thing Brian sees is Letty, and vice versa. Gorgeous Letty, with her curves and sour mouth and soulful eyes. She’s perched on a sink, legs crossed, and she’s glaring at him.

Leon follows her gaze first, and then Jesse, and then Dom, who eyes him narrowly and holds the top of a stall door closed.

There’s a flush and then a, “Hey, what the fuck,” as the door rattles. So. Vince. And Dom’s sparing him a beating, however briefly, which just warms the cockles of Brian’s heart.

“What’re you doing, O’Connor?” Dom says, voice that deep, dark rasp that does things to Brian’s insides, insides no where near his heart.

Mia places a hand on Brian’s arm and says, “Dom.”

“Mia,” Dom says, deceptively calm. There’s a tick at the corner of his jaw. Times like these, Brian finds it hard to believe Dom beat the ever-living shit out of Kenny Linder for smiling at him wrong. “You taking up with this punk again?”

“Geez, Dom, no,” Mia says, and her nails cut into Brian’s arm.

“What’s junior-year want, then?” Dom asks. There’s a little give in the stall door, Vince starts cursing so hard Brian’s hard pressed not to blush, and Dom gives him an evil little smile.

“I have to have a reason to see you guys now?” Brian says. He doesn’t even have to fake the tiny thread of hurt. It’s been a couple weeks since the whole Mia thing, and he’d honestly thought Dom liked him.

Dom raises an eyebrow. “Talk fast, Bri, sooner or later Vince here is gonna figure out how to crawl under the door.”

Vince stops caterwauling, there’s a foreboding pause, and then Vince’s scruffy, menacing face appears near the floor.

“Oh, Christ,” Brian says, but he doesn’t run. He can take Vince. It’ll hurt, yeah, but better that than let Dom think he’s a fucking coward.

Vince’s on him within seconds of scrambling to his feet. He gets a sharp right hook in, but Brian dodges just enough to slide under his guard, thrust his fist into Vince’s stomach.

And then Vince full-on tackles him and they both go down.

*

Dom claps his shoulder and laughs. “You got balls, O’Connor,” he says. “Always thought so.”

Brian scowls around the ice-pack pressed to his cheek, but inside he’s secretly preening.

They’re in Dom’s kitchen, two open Dr. Peppers on the counter. Dom leans back and crosses his arms and watches Brian. Watches him with keen eyes and a rare half-smile on his face. And then he unfolds and straightens, curls careful, thick fingers around Brian’s wrist, tugs the ice-pack away from his face.

With his other hand, Dom palms the back of Brian’s neck, presses their foreheads together. “You’re alright, junior-year,” he says.

Brian spends a longer-than-advisable moment staring into Dom’s eyes, so close he maybe gets a little dizzy, but Dom doesn’t call him on it, and he doesn’t pull away. Brian clears his throat. “Um.”

Dom’s fingers flex, curl tighter around his nape.

Brian’s eyes widen, and he lets out a breathless, “Dom.”

“Now he gets it,” Dom says softly.

Oh yeah, Brian gets it. He grins, too wide, and tangles the fingers of his free hand in the front of Dom’s loose white t-shirt.

Dom glances down at his hold, then gives Brian a sly, measuring look. “You know what you’re doing?”

Brian hitches a shoulder. “Maybe you should show me.”

*

The Toretto house is never empty, and tonight’s no exception. It’s packed, in fact, a pre-grad blow-out, and Dom’s dad is out of town.

Rome calls around eight. “This is fierce, bro,” Rome says. “Bilkins is fucking brassed off, on the rampage.” Bilkins is Rome’s neighbor – sucks for him, handy for Brian.

“Yeah, man,” Brian says absently, staring across the room at Dom and Leon.

“Are you fucking listening to me, white bread?”

Brian’s eyes narrow. Dom looks shifty; he jerks his head towards Letty, avoiding Brian’s gaze. Next to him, Mia leans into Brian’s shoulder, and Brian thinks something’s definitely up. “What you say, Rome?”

“I said Bilkins’ in lockdown. You better hope this ain’t your boy, Bri, shit's about to blow.”

*

Brian keeps an eye on Dom all night – Brian wants to physically latch onto him, curl fingers into the waistband of his jeans, knuckle the small of his back, but his face hurts and he doesn’t feel like fucking dealing with Vince - but he loses track of him sometime after eleven.

He calls Rome, but Rome says Bilkins house is pitch – eerily quiet, too black.

And Brian panics, because everything is suddenly so clear. Dom fucking hates Bilkins and Dom’s out of here in ten days and this is it. This is the best senior prank in decades, Dom’s gonna leave his mark, a giant fuck-you to the principal and Brian wasted so much time thinking for sure that it wasn’t Dom. He didn’t want it to be Dom, and now they’re all fucked unless Brian can get them out in time, before Bilkins and Tanner find them, before they call the fucking cops.

He finds Mia in the kitchen, pouring a drink, and her grin freezes on her face when she sees him, sees his expression.

“Mia—”

“What’s going on, Brian?” Mia says, mouth tight.

“Mia, Bilkins knows. Fuck, do you know what’ll happen if they get caught? They won’t graduate. Dom’s eighteen, Mia, he’ll be tried as a fucking adult. They’ll get him on grand theft auto. Help me the fuck out here, Mia, where are they?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me about this, not now, okay?” Brian cuts in, desperate. “I promise you can kick my ass all you want later.”

Mia shakes her head. “But if Bilkins knows, they won’t get within ten feet of that car.”

“Except Bilkins’ been gunning for Dom all year.” And instantly Brian knows it’s true, that this’s been a fucking sting; that they’ve all played right into Bilkins’ hands. “They’re going to let him take it, set the cops after him, Mia.” Brian grabs both of Mia’s arms. “Tell me.”

*

Brian breathes a sigh of relief when he spots Leon’s yellow coupe in the lot behind Wal-Mart, parked angled out, ten spots away from Bilkins’ Pontiac. He swings his truck in behind the GTO and Dom and Vince straighten up from their cocky stances along the back spoiler.

“Dom,” Brian shouts, yanking open his car door and jumping out, gaining Dom in four long strides. He doesn’t bother to keep any distance between them, even though there’s a fifty percent chance Dom’ll break his face for this. “Dom, you gotta get out of here.”

“What?” Dom says.

Brian grits his teeth. “Dom, I’m—I’m a hall monitor.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Dom says, half bewildered, half really fucking mad. He grabs Brian’s wrist, pulls him closer.

“It means he’s a motherfucking Tanner plant. I told you he was no fucking good,” Vince yells, racing across the parking lot towards Leon and Letty. “Fucking come on, Dom.”

“That true, Brian?” Sirens wail in the distance, closing in, and Dom’s grip on Brian’s arm tightens. “You call the cops on me?”

Brian’s heart stutters. “No. Fuck no, Dom, but you gotta get out of here.”

Dom hesitates. Leon’s wheels squeal as he peels out, Vince hanging out the window, still yelling at Dom, screaming obscenities at Brian.

“Go,” Brian says, chucking Dom his keys, and he doesn’t beg to go with him, no matter how much he wants to. He’s pretty sure Dom isn’t going to be able to forgive him for this. “I’ll tell them it wasn’t you. All they have are rumors, Dom, I’ll say it wasn’t you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dom says, his fingers white around Brian’s keys. “They can’t prove anything.”

Brian nods. That’s right. They’d need Brian as a witness, and at this point Brian doesn’t give a shit about Tanner’s recommendation, not if it comes from alienating Dom.

Dom grins - a sudden, reckless grin - just as the flashing lights crest the top of the hill. Then he tosses the keys back to Brian and says, “You drive.”

look, I realize I keep coming back to this, but just hear me out...

Tue, 05 May 2009 17:11:49 GMT

WHEN IN DOUBT, PUT THEM ON SGA.

No, wait, really, DOM AND BRIAN ON ATLANTIS. MAKE THIS HAPPEN. BRIAN CAN BE IOA!!!! DOM CAN BE A MARINE! THEY RACE PUDDLEJUMPERS OR SOMETHING, WORK WITH ME HERE!!

In other news: I'm two half-scenes away from finishing up Hobo Joe \O/

hobo joe snippet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sun, 03 May 2009 02:59:44 GMT

basically, this has turned into another everybody's gay meet-cute like the apartment AU, only with a slightly less interesting plot. soon to be finished, I have FAITH:

“Why so fucking glum, dude,” Frank says, dropping down onto the steps next to Joe.

Joe’s frowning, playing Fucked Up Love Song already, the one he wrote about Hurley and Mixon and their weirdly intricate heterosexual lifemate status.

Joe shakes his head. “Just found out I’m a family sort of man,” he says. “Fucks with your world view, you know?”

“Shit,” Frank says.

Joe closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his forehead. “I might need to get a fucking job, Frankie, how is this my life?”

Frank blinks at Joe, mind fucking boggled. As far as Frank knows, and Frank knows a lot, Joe hasn’t held a steady tax-paying job since 2001. He’d dropped out of college, quit his internship, and headed for the streets. Frank’s always sort of admired his gumption.

“Dude,” Frank says forlornly, clasping Joe’s shoulder. It’s a sad, sad day when Joe has to go and, like, fucking assimilate. “Are you sure?”

Joe hums a few bars of Let's Get Nasty, Except For Bill, then thumps the flat of his hand against the strings. “He’s got a kid, a steady income, an ex-wife—”

“Huh.” Figures a security guard would be fucking responsible, right.

Joe points at him. “I don’t even have a bank account.”

Frank nods, pushes up the arms of his sweater and leans his elbows on his knees. Frank doesn’t have a bank account either, because it’s too easy for people to, like, fucking steal your identity or whatever. Frank deals with cold hard cash, so The Man can’t keep tabs on his life. Frank’s a free spirit. Frank jams out with Joe at 201 or stakes out his own turf by the fountain down in the park, and pulls in enough coinage to get him coffee, smokes and a couch – although it’s actually only a couch cushion, Hurley claims, but whatever, he shares it with Bill.

QUICK CONCERT RECAP!

Sat, 02 May 2009 07:07:03 GMT

met up with _slashygoodness (Allie) in line, where we marveled at all the horrendously Gabe-inspired fashion choices on teenies, waited HOURS to get into the venue, where we tried our hardest to get up to eckerlilas and shutyourface by the barrier - we almost made it! Three people behind them! And then Hey Monday came on and I kind of wanted to punch some people around me, and then Cobra Starship came on and I thought I was either going to a) die, b) throw down with the mom behind me, or c) throw down with EVERYONE around me and then die. Dudes, seriously, we were packed in like sardines and then people started PUSHING and I almost fell so many times and I started getting claustrophobic. I lasted maybe half the set, then took off, leaving _slashygoodness to brave it alone. I felt like a swamp, all over my entire body, just from that short amount of time I was down there. So I got a bottle of water, went to the merch tent, felt like a mom, hanging out at the tables with all the 'rents - you know, the usual. While I was up there, Gabe was amazing and so close and awesome. I wish I could have focused on the performance more instead of trying to save my life!

Allie lasted until after Metro Station (which, dudes, Trace is so scary, I stayed in the merch tent for that, bought myself the Cobra Starship thriller hoodie, plus it was raining at that point) and she found me during, um, was All Time Low next?

ANYWHO, we watched Fall Out Boy from a safe but respectable distance from the stage. Everyone around us were Wentz haters, though. They knew all the words to all the songs, but every time Pete talked they'd yell out for him to shut the fuck up and how annoying he is and how much they hate him - I wanted to punch them in the face. He's not my favorite, okay, but he's Pete Wentz.

Patrick was adorable. We hardly saw Andy's face. I found myself focusing on Joe and his tamed fro a lot, imagining him with Bob. It's a sickness! I can't help myself! I enjoyed all the old songs they played, since I haven't really listened to the new album all that much. The best was being there with someone who honestly loved the band - we were both singing along the whole time, Allie took a gazillion pictures.

Then! Afterwards! We met up with eckerlilas and shutyourface and danacias and... Alex? (omg, I suck at names), and headed out to the Melrose diner, because we couldn't think of what else would be open, and I may be from here, but I still have no idea how to go ANYWHERE in the city. We discussed pancakes. Scrapple was explained (delicious!). Basically, it was a lot of fun and laughing and I'm so glad I went and got to meet these girls because this is something I just don't normally do ever.

Now, to bed!

six words: my chemical romance die hard au. or is that seven?

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 02:54:45 GMT

So I'm not good with people! I'm actually really terrible with people! So, um, Shonna, Lesa, Allie - I'm either going to say really stupid shit or not say anything at all (I clam up! It's embarrassing!), so I apologize in advance if I act like an asshaty spaz on Friday. Hopefully I will be fine! It's, like, the way the wind's blowing any given day or whatever. ALSO: FALL OUT BOY. GABE. I AM ALREADY WORRYING ABOUT THE BATHROOM SITUATION (PUBLIC TOILETS ARE FRIGHTENING).

Which does not actually bring me to my next point, but: in one scene in Hobo Joe I felt like I was making Bob just the littlest bit John McClane-like, and THEN IT CAME TO ME: MCR DIE HARD AU.

You can either go with Die Hard With A Vengeance, where Frank is Zeus! Bob and Frank!! They have to figure out clues and Bob wants to beat Frank a lot and it's awesome! Or you can do Live Free or Die Hard, where there's Bob, and there's hacker Mikey! Gerard can be there, too, there's no rules here! BOB CAN KILL A HELICOPTER WITH A CAR IT'S TOTALLY WITHIN HIS MEANS. Gerard can wring his hands a lot and Mikey can be all computer geeky and blase, like, OOPS THAT BLEW UP OH WELL HEY MAYBE WE SHOULD GO VISIT WARLOCK (WHO IS FRANK!)

WHY ARE YOU NOT ALL RUSHING OFF TO WRITE THIS!?

ALSO: FAST AND FURIOUS? BEST MOVIE EVER. Or, I just have a weakness for Vin Diesel. This is possible. But, seriously, the SEXUAL TENSION, I'm not just making it up. It's even better than all that eye-fucking in the first one, I really wanted to watch it over and over again. And then read more Brian/Dom fics (which I think I've finally run out of, someone get on writing more please and thank you!)

MOTHERFUCKER!!!!

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 12:44:02 GMT

my blackberry fucking DIED on the train this morning!!!! so that means either there's something wrong with my phone or something wrong with my charger - either way, I'M CURRENTLY CUT OFF FROM THE ENTIRE WORLD!!! No Twitter, no fic reading, no texts, no emails - although I could go the oldfashioned online route for that one - BUT STILL. THIS IS VERY TRAGIC.

It's funny how attached I am to this thing, when I didn't even have a cell phone until.... college? After college? PATHETIC.