JOE JUST LOVES PENGUINS

PATD/TYV: Touched for the Very First Time (1/2)

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 23:43:08 GMT

Touched for the Very First Time
Jon/Brendon * NC-17 * 18,792 words

Disclaimer: Never happened!
Summary: Quarter life crisis AU! Jon and Brendon work at the mall together, but when they try to date, Brendon finds out that he has a lot to learn about sex and relationships.

Notes: Is my drawn_to for formerlydf! I know you wanted happy endings, so I just gave you a happy story filled with happy endings (heh heh heh) and very little embarrassment. I haven't written these guys in a while so I really hope you enjoy it! Huge thanks to ditchwitchbitch for the beta and foxxcub for running this!

Jon asks Brendon out a little less than three months after the sunglasses stand opens up right outside Brendon’s card shop, and a little to the left.

It’s not actually Brendon’s card shop, but he’s worked there for so long it feels a bit like his. It’s actually a Hallmark, and it’s Kristen’s Hallmark, and he knows that Kristen is the daughter of the owners. She’s currently 17 years old and going through a brat phase, or as her parents say, “She’s 17.” Brendon first met Kristen when she was ten and would twirl down the aisles, laughing at the way cards whipped out of their holders.

Now she rarely comes into the store, except to pop her gum loudly as she purchases a card and tells Brendon, “My dad’s the owner,” like she doesn’t know that he knows who she is.

Anyway, Jon’s been working just outside Brendon’s store and Brendon wouldn’t have even noticed (It’s January 3rd which means he’s busy taking down the Christmas decorations and putting up the Valentine’s Day decorations which is a Hallmark holiday, it’s true.) but he passes by the sunglasses stand twice a day, five days a week, when he goes down to the food court to get his usual McDonalds salad. It’s hard not to notice the big circular thing just beyond the couches that kids aren’t actually allowed to sit on. And it’s definitely hard not to notice the scruffy guy in a button down always casually moving the sunglasses around.

It’s especially hard not to notice him when he says, “You’d look great in these,” because it sounds like he says, “You’d look great in me,” and while Brendon hadn’t thought about it before, he’s thought about it ever since.

Brendon doesn’t know this buy, but he’s pretty sure he would look great in him.

And it’s not like his friends are helpful or anything. Every time Spencer comes down to visit, he says obnoxious things like, “The hot guy is staring at you,” or “Your sunglasses boy toy was watching you set up that stupid display,” or “Your fake optometrist accosted me so hard to buy a pair of sunglasses the other day I had to make out with Gert just to get him off me. Then we were kicked out by security because apparently two adults making out inside the mall is okay, but teenagers can drape themselves all over the plants outside and they’re fine.” Spencer’s been a little bit of a misanthrope since he graduated college. Actually, it’s more like Spencer’s been a little bit of a misanthrope since he started working full time. Two months before graduation Spencer would talk nonstop about how awesome his job was going to be when he started it, until Brendon wanted to punch him in the fucking face (This was a bad idea, because Spencer has really strong bones, and also a mean left hook which Brendon didn’t know about, but certainly does now.) and now he’s just miserable in his new position as a camera guy for the local news channel.

“Where is our beautiful Greta?” Brendon asks, looking around. He loves Spencer’s girlfriend. She always has oversized boots on her feet and a huge smile on her face.

Spencer picks up a plush dog clutching a little present – the latest buy three get something free giveaway – and walks it along the counter. “My girlfriend,” Spencer says, exaggerating that fact like Brendon’s actually a threat and not like, discriminately into cock, “isn’t here. I told you. We got kicked out. This was two days ago.”

Brendon leans over the counter and practically rolls along it. “You got kicked out of the mall.” He flops onto his back and then stays there, staring up at Spencer, while old ladies shop for the perfect birthday cards to last them for the next five years. “I can’t believe you’re a college graduate and got kicked out of the mall.” He straightens up quickly and stares Spencer down.

Well, up.

“You got kicked out of the mall,” Brendon says, putting on the voice he always uses to mock Spencer’s college reporter voice, which is eerily nothing like his normal speaking voice. “Film at eleven.”

“I fucking hate you,” Spencer says, in a way that’s so matter-of-fact, Brendon half wonders if it’s true. “Also, you have a college degree and you work in the mall.” That’s a low blow, Brendon thinks, all the lower because it’s so very true. “And I was going to offer to bring you lunch from the Greek place today, but you can forget about it.”

Brendon widens his eyes, looks around for customers (but it’s two in the afternoon on a Thursday, one of his slowest times) and when he sees the two old ladies have migrated to the back of the store, he comes out from behind the register to stand in front of Spencer. He puts his hands on Spencer’s shoulders and shoves on them. Spencer doesn’t budge. His shoulders have been quite strong ever since his junior year, when classes started involving lugging around heavy equipment like cameras and lights and tripods. “Spencer,” Brendon says, slowly and carefully, to make sure that Spencer understands the gravity of the situation. “It’s not funny to joke around about the Greek food. I love the Greek food.”

Spencer pats Brendon’s cheek, because he’s patronizing and a dick. “I know you do, little buddy. I’ll have it for you in the food court. When’s your break?”

And see, it’s a slightly weird day even before Jon stopped Brendon, because usually Brendon is going to McDonalds for a salad, and today he’s going to have Greek food from the place down the street with Spencer, but it’s still the same situation as always.

He’s walking past the sunglasses stand, minding his own business, and the scruffy guy says, “Brendon,” and Brendon, because he’s shocked that people outside of the store know his name, turns to look at him. “Yeah I. I thought I saw it on your nametag.”

Brendon looks down at the tag on his shirt then quickly takes it off and drops it into his pocket. “I. Yeah.” He smiles shakily and tries not to think about unbuttoning this guy’s shirt or putting his mouth all over this guy’s neck. He tries not to guess at this guy’s name. He looks like a frat douchebag who would have sat next to Brendon on the university bus and whispered obscene things at him just to make him squirm. (It was always the good kind of squirming, but Brendon hated that more than the other kind.)

“I’m Jon,” the guy says. He holds his hand out and Brendon says, “I’m not going to buy any sunglasses.” He puts his hand in Jon’s anyway, because it’s there, and he doesn’t want to be rude.

Jon smiles and shakes Brendon’s hand. “Well. I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

He’s being flirted with, and Brendon likes it. “What’s that?” he asks.

“You let me buy you dinner.”

He’s still working hard to not imagine what it would be like to put his mouth all over Jon’s neck, but in Brendon’s head the buttons are slowly being undone anyway. “You drive a hard bargain.”

In his head, Brendon thinks of all the inappropriate ways Jon can respond to that, ‘I have something else hard for you,’ being the one that comes to mind the quickest. All Jon says is, however, “Hey, if I have to throw in a movie too, I might be willing to do it.”

Brendon feels flustered and he feels special. He asks, “What’d you have in mind?” before he’s even aware he’s doing it.

At the food court, Spencer immediately knows something’s up. He says, “Something’s up,” to Brendon, and Brendon shrugs. “You can tell me,” Spencer says. “I’m your best friend. It’s in like, the handbook. If you need to tell me about your gay angst, you can do it.”

The gay angst thing started in freshman English, when this other kid in their class was constantly writing these overly emo poems about being gay in America and how hard it was to come out and how his parents didn’t talk to him for a week, and he had no one but his writing and his dog and his dark empty soul. It was, in fact, how they became friends. Spencer had leaned over and said, “You can share your gay angst with me, if you want.”

Brendon had said, “You can share your straight angst with me,” and there you go: Friendship.

“I don’t have gay angst,” Brendon says. He forks his salad, playing with the still-hot gyro meat on it before leaving the fork standing straight up and going for pita instead. “I have a non-angsty gay date.”

“Well put me in a pineapple and call me Spongebob,” Spencer says. Brendon rolls his eyes. “Is it captain sunglasses hut?”

“No,” Brendon says, because captain sunglasses hut has a name. “His name is Jon.”

“And is he the sunglasses king?” Spencer asks again.

“You know,” Brendon says. “I’m really insulted at the fact that you don’t think two guys can be interested in me at the same time.”

Laughing, Spencer says, “Is it, or is it not, the guy from the sunglasses stand who’s always leering at you?”

Brendon sighs. “It’s the guy from the sunglasses stand who’s always leering at me. And his name is Jon.”

“Jon,” Spencer says as slowly as a person can say a one syllable word. “Let him know that if he hurts you, I’ll have to shove his sunglasses up his ass.”

“We haven’t had that talk yet,” Brendon says. He lifts up a piece of meat while Spencer winces. “You shouldn’t threaten it until we know he won’t like it.” Brendon chews his food with a grin while Spencer tries to crawl under the table to hide.

*

It’s hard to say for certain, but on Tuesday night when Brendon and Jon meet at the mall, there probably won’t be any need for Jon to have sunglasses shoved up his ass. Unless he’s into it, in which case, Brendon would consider it.

Jon’s a really nice guy.

They walk to TGI Fridays and order one of those stupid deals where you get an appetizer and two meals and dessert for some set amount of money. They spend five minutes debating the merits of potato skins versus artichoke dip (they go with the little green bean fries one) and then another five minutes discussing the differences in their taste of beers.

“So,” Jon says when the beer conversation ebbs. “We’re what? Not even up to our appetizer and we’re out of things to talk about?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Brendon says. He carefully spins his glass on the little napkin and asks, “Do you like selling sunglasses?”

“No,” Jon says, and then stares at Brendon.

Brendon blinks then leans back, bringing his beer to his mouth. “Alright. That’s all I had.”

Jon smiles, and it’s pretty and magical and warming. Or maybe it’s the beer. It could all be the beer. Either way, Brendon likes it. “I have a degree in Chinese,” Jon says. Brendon is shocked as shit. “Mandarin. I’m trying to get into an MBA program so that I can do international business.”

“In China?”

“With China,” Jon says. He smiles and says something that Brendon assumes is Chinese. It’s weird hearing those words come from Jon’s mouth. “You wanna know what I just said?”

Part of Brendon is hoping he said something like ‘you’re hot’ or ‘I like you’ or ‘I really want to blow you with my awesome lips of awesomeness.’ But another, bigger, part of Brendon would probably be turned off by how cheesy that is. So he’s glad when Jon says, “I said I’m really fucking hungry.”

Brendon laughs and says, “Which part was the ‘fucking’ in that sentence?”

It’s always an appropriate time to learn bad words in foreign languages.

*

In the beginning Jon came on strong, but once they’re testing out the dating waters, he refuses to let Brendon kiss him.

It’s killing Brendon.

“Spencer. It’s a painful and very unnatural death.”

“It’s not actually unnatural to not fuck someone on like, the second date,” Spencer says. He’s leaning on the counter, hip cocked to the side, while Greta’s picking out a card. She says she feels bad always coming into the store just to talk to Brendon with Spencer, so she always picks out a card while Spencer hangs out at the register. It takes a while, only buying one card at a big card shop.

Brendon rolls his eyes at Spencer and then does his best to level Spencer with a duh-no-kidding stare. “I meant the death itself was unnatural. And I’m talking about kissing. Not… you know.”

It’s one thing if a customer uses the nono language. It’s another altogether if Brendon does it. He has a reputation with the old biddies to protect.

“And you’ve tried kissing him, right?”

Once again, Brendon attempts to destroy Spencer with his eyes. Spencer doesn’t even flinch. He is such an annoying fucker.

“Why don’t you ask him? Be like, ‘I’d like to kiss you now.’” He smiles at Greta as she walks up and then he puts an arm around her waist.

“First of all,” Brendon says, picking up Greta’s card so he can scan it. He changes the price and marks the card on sale for being damaged and hands it back to Greta. “First of all,” he says again. “That’s not a question. And second of all, what loser says that?”

“This loser,” Greta says, pinching Spencer’s cheek. “C’mon, Spen. We gotta run. The matinee waits for no one.”

“Ask for permission before you try to tongue her in the theater,” Brendon says.

Two pieces of candy go flying at Brendon’s head. Spencer’s goes wide, but Greta’s nails him in the forehead.

*

It happens on their sixth date, and Brendon does not have to ask for permission, as it turns out. He’s ready to do it. He’s been practicing. Like, to the point where Spencer’s been threatening castration if he needs to hear the proposition one more time.

It’s not a difficult thing to say, really, especially not after saying it a few dozen times in front of a mirror. In the end, while Brendon and Jon are looking at pictures of Brendon’s niece on his phone, Jon leans in and kisses him.

Brendon drops the phone, but he doesn’t pick it up. He just reaches out and puts his hand on Jon’s cheek, pulls him in more. “I’m so glad you did that,” he says when Jon pulls back. Jon bends to pick up the phone, and when he puts it in Brendon’s hands, their fingers brush unnecessarily.

“I, uh,” Jon says, laughing a little awkwardly. “Your friend told me to. The one with the,” and Jon gestures with his hand across his forehead. Brendon smiles. He’s going to kill Spencer. “He said you were like-”

“Oh please don’t say it,” Brendon says. He would definitely die an unnatural death if it turns out Spencer had told Jon all that he was saying.

Jon shrugs and touches Brendon’s wrist. “Don’t be mad at him,” Jon says. “I promise I wanted to kiss you before I was threatened about it.” Brendon groans and closes his eyes.

It works out nicely for him, though, because Jon uses that moment to lean in and kiss him again.

*

Making out with Jon is, like, the greatest thing ever. Brendon sometimes likes to think about it while he’s at work, though thoughts of Jon’s mouth and tongue always lead to thoughts of Jon’s mouth and tongue on other places of Brendon’s person. Namely the ones you didn’t, you know, name while working in a Hallmark Gold Crown store.

Sometimes Jon brings Brendon sodas during the day, and sometimes Brendon sneaks Jon into the back alley behind the Hallmark so they can make out where no one can see them. Usually these moments occur sometime after the soda special deliveries. He can’t help it; Jon’s very tempting when he’s sliding a sweating paper cup full of Dr. Pepper in Brendon’s direction.

They’re making out on a Tuesday afternoon – and Brendon’s enjoying the mixed flavors of Dr. Pepper and Jon – and Brendon just wants more. He’s got his back against the wall, and Jon’s leaving respectable space between them.

It’s cute, it really is, but Brendon’s had Jon poking into his thigh enough times to know that he wants more, that he’d like to get his hands on whatever Jon’s been using against Brendon’s jeans.

He puts his hands squarely on Jon’s hips, being careful not to lose focus on the kissing either, and pulls.

Jon doesn’t budge.

Brendon squares his hands even more and pulls harder, but still, Jon is like a rock. And not in the good way.

Determined, Brendon leans his body forward, stepping in toward Jon. He’s foiled again, however, when Jon takes a step back, and this time he breaks the kiss. “Brendon,” Jon says quietly, looking down. It’s this weird, remorseful look, and Brendon can’t breathe.

It’s been a month; he’s started to, in his head, consider himself Jon’s boyfriend. He had been hoping that Jon was maybe thinking of doing the same.

“Oh my God,” Brendon says. “You’re like, seeing someone else, aren’t you?” He steps back again, bumping into the wall.

This time, Jon follows him, putting a hand on Brendon’s stomach, which Brendon wills to move lower. The willing is somehow lost, however, because Jon pulls his hand away almost immediately. “I don’t like,” and Jon sighs.

“You don’t like… me?” Brendon asks.

“No!” Jon steps in even closer, and Brendon’s body reacts accordingly. He leans in more, but can still feel the way Jon tenses at the movement.

“What is it?” Brendon asks.

Jon sighs and puts his hands on Brendon’s hips. Brendon tries to push them forward, but Jon is pushing him back against the wall. It’d be sexy, if Brendon had any inclination at all that Jon was going to follow it up with something even remotely sexual. “I don’t… do that.”

“You don’t do what?” Brendon asks. “What? Are you gay from the waist up or some shit?”

He had heard about that kind of bullshit. Dudes who do kissing but nothing more. Brendon liked to consider himself whole body gay, or as Greta says, holistically gay. He’s fully committed to being gay, especially the part that involves both his penis and someone else’s.

Jon shakes his head and pushes a hand through his hair then steps back from Brendon, which is not what Brendon was hoping for. “I’m like, really very gay. Like.” He gestures down, at what Brendon is assuming is his jeans, and then looks back up at Brendon. “I really, I mean.” He licks his lips.

“You want me,” Brendon supplies. Mostly it’s a hopeful action, like maybe if he says it, Jon will realize that it’s true.

“God yes,” Jon says.

Brendon widens his eyes, trying not to look at Jon like he’s an idiot. The relationship is still way too young for that. The ‘you’re an idiot’ phase shouldn’t start until at least two months have passed. “Dude. You can have me,” he says.

Jon’s cheeks redden and he looks down, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You can’t have me,” he says, and Brendon’s brain goes to this weird medieval place like maybe Jon’s betrothed to someone else for a very important reason, like the joining of two kingdoms. Except this is 20-fucking-10 and America. And not the old-fashioned part of America like northern Pennsylvania and the Midwest but Vegas where people live in the now.

“Why not?” Brendon asks.

Jon hesitates and Brendon’s imagination goes on overdrive for two seconds and then his mind goes blank. Literally, he’s not thinking anything but black, like deep space. There’s nothing there, he can’t even imagine anymore. “I’m saving myself,” Jon finally says.

“What? Like for marriage?”

Shaking his head, Jon scuffs his foot into the ground and doesn’t look at Brendon. “No, not that.”

“Good,” Brendon says. “Because who knows when the fuck that’s going to happen.” He steps in closer to Jon and at least this time Jon doesn’t move away.

“But like,” Jon says, putting his hands on Brendon’s hips. He holds them tightly again, though, keeping Brendon a safe distance away from him. It’s like being back at the Mormon dances all over again, except when he was at those dances with the nice Mormon girls, he was never trying to get any closer than the Bible would allow. “I’m waiting for like, a real commitment. Like, the commitment.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They don’t look at each other. Well, Brendon doesn’t look at Jon. He looks at his own shoes, which are bright purple, and cheery, and all about having a good time, which Jon is not.

It’s not that Brendon is a big slut or anything. He can count on one hand the number of guys he’s had sex with, and needs only the other hand to even count the number of guys he’s had serious makeouts with.

It is, however, one of those things that Brendon likes to do when he’s in a serious, committed relationship. His idea of committed is, apparently, different than Jon’s.

“I should go back to work,” Jon says. He lets go of Brendon, hesitates (Brendon’s now watching Jon’s feet instead of his own), and then turns and walks away, back toward the main entrance of the mall. Usually Brendon sneaks him back into the store through the private employee entrance. It’s a total no-no, but Brendon likes to live on the wild side.

He thought that Jon did, too.

Brendon stays out there long enough for one of the old ladies that works with him to poke her head out for him. “You planning on coming back in here?” she asks, all crotchety.

“Yeah,” Brendon says.

It’s still another minute before he lets himself back into the store.

*

“I don’t get it,” Spencer says. He’s leaning forward, hand in his hair and a beer bottle blocking half his face from Brendon’s view. “What’s his like, I don’t know, line or whatever?”

“Apparently it’s anything beyond making out.” Brendon is not even bothering with beer. He has a margarita in front of him. There are some problems that only tequila can make better. The flower stuck in the pineapple is a little disconcerting, however, and the pink umbrella isn’t doing anything to fix his mood.

Spencer shakes his head and takes a gulp of his beer, then sets it down off to the side so Brendon can see his whole face. Spencer has a weird face, with lots of freckles and big, big eyes. It’s possible Brendon should have stopped after two margaritas. Or at least not ordered the big ones.

“I mean,” Spencer says, putting both hands on the table. He sets them down like walls, and Brendon envisions them as the big fucking obstacles between him and what he wants: sex with Jon. “Like, you can say you’re waiting until marriage, and that means when you have marriage, you’re going to have sex. Is he waiting for a commitment ceremony?”

Brendon shrugs. “I guess so.”

He runs his tongue along the edges of his straw until Spencer blanches and says, “Stop that.” Brendon stops. “Well,” Spencer says, drawing the word out. “How much do you like him?”

“Like,” and Brendon sighs, trying to quantify it. Jon’s hot, which helps, but Jon also makes him laugh, and he makes Brendon feel awesome in this weird emotional way. Like when Brendon’s hanging out with Jon, it doesn’t really matter that he has a college degree but he’s still working at the same place he was working when he was still in high school. Jon makes him feel like eventually he’s going to find a way to put his college education to work and he’s going to make something of himself and he’s going to be something. Jon makes him forget that he’s kinda jealous of Spencer, of how even though Spencer really hates his job, he’s still jealous of the fact that Spencer has one that requires a marketable skill. Jon’s like this ray of sunshine in his life that helps Brendon remember that there’s more to life than just working in a card shop, but if right now that’s what his life is all about it, it’s okay. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“Like, a lot a lot?” Spencer asks.

“A really really lot,” Brendon says. He taps his finger against the glass of his margarita and his stomach roils. It’s possible that, while food was a very good idea, eating an entire dish of chile con queso on his own was a very bad idea.

Spencer nods. “You should apologize and try to make it work.”

Brendon jumps away from the table and runs into the bathroom to throw up.

*

Brendon calls out sick the next two days because he can’t call out as an asshole. After two days he needs a doctor’s note, so he comes into work and thinks he’s in luck because it’s Jon’s usual day not to work.

He’s there anyway. It’s not that Brendon didn’t want to see him, because Spencer was right. Jon made Brendon feel too good not to at least try and make a relationship happen. They didn’t need to have sex. And maybe, if like, things went well, they could do other things. Blow jobs weren’t real sex! Hand jobs weren’t real sex! Rimming wasn’t really sex! The amount of things that it was possible Jon would do if Brendon just, you know, eased them into their potential relationship was thrilling.

This could work out. He’d miss the actual sex part (Brendon really is a huge fan of cock (and, he likes to add, a fan of huge cock)), but if Jon kept making Brendon feel like his life was moving in the right direction, something that nobody else could seem to do for Brendon, then it’d be worth it to give up the sex for the happy with life feeling.

He hopes.

Brendon’s Jon-radar goes off after exactly two hours of being at work. He wanders by the front window with some baskets to put near the front and sees Jon there, cleaning the glass of his display cases. Brendon drops the pile of baskets down, and the clatter causes several of the old ladies buying cards to look over at him. “Sorry,” Brendon says, but so quietly that surely nobody can hear him, and then picks up all the baskets.

He walks to the back of the store and finds his manager in the accounting office. “Carol, can I take a ten? I’m on backup right now.”

“Sure thing,” she says, turning away from the computer. Carol, a lady who had been like a second mom to Brendon when he was in high school (and who had tried to set him up with her daughter before he came out of the closet), looks him over once and then clucks her tongue against her teeth. “Tell Jon I said hi, and make sure you set the baskets down before you leave the store.”

Brendon looks down at the baskets in his hand and then looks back at her. “You got it.”

Then he slams his thigh into the baskets, he’s trying to walk so fast to get out there.

It seems like as soon as Brendon walks out of the store, Jon stiffens up. He starts scrubbing the glass harder and doesn’t look up when Brendon leans against the display. “Hi,” Brendon says, leaning in a little closer to Jon. He looks down at the way Jon’s scrubbing the glass and then looks back at him. “Are you trying to Windex a hole in it?” he asks.

Humor always wins people over.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jon says. “Go back to work.”

He switches display cases, moving as far away from Brendon as possible without actually leaving the little enclosure. He’s in there alone. He kinda can’t go anywhere.

For a few seconds Brendon considers doing as Jon said and going back into the Hallmark store. Instead he follows Jon and leans in toward him as Jon starts scrubbing at a new section of glass. “Jon,” Brendon says. He puts his hand on Jon’s, but Jon pulls his own away. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Jon says. “Go away.” He looks at Brendon and Brendon bites his lip. Jon’s eyes are red. He really doubts it’s from weed. “I have to work. I’m the only one here.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says dryly. “I’m sorry to keep you from your multitudes of sunglasses shoppers.” Jon doesn’t look up, which is fine. There’s nothing to see. Just Brendon standing there and trying to apologize. “Okay so listen.” Brendon bites his lip but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really know what to say.

Plus, it’s possible Jon’s not even listening.

“I’m waiting,” Jon says. So he’s apparently listening.

“I’m really sorry,” Brendon says, because it’s the part he doesn’t have to think about. “I acted like a total dick.”

“Because you were thinking with it,” Jon says blandly.

“Well,” Brendon says. “You’re hot. I can’t help it.” He tilts his head down, and he’s pretty sure he sees Jon smile. “But I really like hanging out with you. I really like how like, I don’t know, I just. I like life better when we’re hanging out. And I’d rather have that than like, an orgasm.” He forgets to lower his voice at the last part, and Jon’s cheeks redden as some mall passersby speed up near them. “I just really like you, and I’d rather date you with like, none of those benefits, than like, not date you at all, and get that from someone else.”

This time when Jon looks at him, he’s grinning.

“You know,” Brendon says. “For a guy who’s saving himself for the big commitment, you’re really easy.”

Jon throws the dirty towel in Brendon’s face, but Brendon considers this forgiveness.

*

So dating Jon is pretty awesome. It has its downsides, like the fact that it’s been three months and all they ever do is make out. Jon says that waiting for the other stuff makes waiting for sex seem like not such a big deal. Brendon’s not sure how that works out, but this is definitely increasing the amount of money he spends on lotion. Spencer says it makes sense, because he’s Spencer and he defies all logic. Greta says she’s proud of Brendon for being mature about the situation. Brendon told Spencer he needs to stop discussing his sex life with his girlfriend.

Anyway, dating Jon is pretty awesome. Jon knows all the best places to get Chinese food, and always orders in the language, and knows all the best dishes to get. He also knows all these random facts about movies, and has the biggest DVD collection Brendon’s ever seen, when comparing DVD collections of other people their age. Jon gets one new DVD with every paycheck. “It adds up,” Jon says, when they’re sitting in his apartment and trying to figure out something to watch.

Jon has this strange roommate, this dude named Ryan whose face is about eight years old but his wardrobe is, like, eighty. He reminds Brendon of Spencer in the way he constantly straddles the line between bored and interested in life. Like Ryan can take or leave whatever it is that’s currently happening in front of him, but as long as it’s there, he may as well enjoy it.

Ryan’s an installation artist, and every time Brendon comes over, there’s some weird thing going on. Today there’s a teeny tiny carnival in the front hall. “I know what you’re thinking,” Ryan says, as Brendon gingerly walks past it and into the kitchen.

“I don’t think you do,” Brendon says. He’s thinking it’s a termite carnival to keep them from eating the furniture.

“It’s a termite carnival,” Ryan says. “To distract them from eating our furniture.” Brendon turns to Jon, who’s leaning in the doorway, to give his best ‘is this shit for real?’ face. Jon only shrugs. “They’re really using it,” Ryan says. “I made these magnifying glass goggles for it. Put on a pair and look.”

Again Brendon glances over at Jon, and he shrugs at him a second time. “Well okay,” Brendon says. He takes the goggles that Ryan’s offering and puts them on, then leans in. “They’re on the Ferris wheel,” Ryan says. “The rest is just for show.”

The whole thing seems just for show, but Brendon leans in closely and looks. The goggles work, and he can see the Ferris wheel so it looks, well, it still looks like a miniature Ferris wheel. But now he can see that what he thought were random designs painted on it are actually conspiracy theories written in teeny tiny block print.

When Brendon takes the goggles off, he hands them over to Ryan and says, “How do you know the first people who look at it won’t tell other people the trick?”

“It’s not a trick,” Ryan says. “I’m not a magician.”

Brendon’s not sure what Ryan is, but he mentally crosses ‘magician’ off the list of possibilities. He looks over at Jon, and finally Jon pushes himself to stand up straight and wanders over to Brendon. “Hi.” He leans up and kisses Brendon quickly, and then smiles. “Come to the inner sanctum. I have a new movie for you to watch.”

In this case, watching a new movie actually means sitting on Jon’s bed and making out. With anybody else but Jon, Brendon would be expecting this kind of treatment. He’d be hoping for it, actually. With Jon, he had stopped expecting and given up on hoping. Watching a new movie meant actually watching a movie.

Today, though, it means sitting on Jon’s bed and making out, slow and lazy movements of tongues while Brendon wills himself to keep his hands and hips mostly out of Jon’s personal bubble.

Jon’s personal bubble is very important. It’s like the metaphorical chastity boxers that keeps Jon’s dick safely in its packaging.

Making out with Jon is a brand new experience with Brendon. He hasn’t truly appreciated the make-out session since he had started having actual sex with people. Now he spends a lot of time away from Jon thinking about how his lips tingle after a long session of kissing, or the way Jon’s hands feel while he’s holding onto Brendon. He focuses on what he’s doing with his mouth more, and can concentrate on the act of kissing instead of thinking about how he’s going to get his pants off.

He is, as a matter of fact, focusing so much on only kissing that he doesn’t notice Jon trying to get the button of Brendon’s jeans undone until that isn’t just popped open, but Jon’s already pushed the zipper down. Actually, Brendon doesn’t notice until Jon’s stroking him through his boxers.

At that point he jerks, freezes and then whimpers. “What are you doing?”

Jon stops and looks into Brendon’s eyes for a few seconds before he says, “Since you have to ask, I’m apparently giving you the world’s worst handjob.”

It’s like… he doesn’t even know. He had thought… well yeah that didn’t matter because he had been wrong. “It’s not the world’s worst handjob,” Brendon says. He puts his hand on Jon’s wrist and urges him to keep going. “Not until you break it,” he says, right before squeezing Jon’s wrist.

He really doesn’t want Jon to break it.

“I didn’t think that you’d…”

“I have like, weirdly strict values,” Jon says, once again moving his hand. “But I’m not dead.”

Neither is Brendon. He lets go of Jon and wraps his arm around Jon’s neck instead; this is surprisingly hot.

It’s actually a lot like being 15 again, and having his dick stroked for the first time by someone else’s hand. “Oh my God,” he says, pressing his nose to Jon’s temple. He can barely breathe, and doesn’t hold his hips back when they push up into Jon’s touch. “You should um,” he licks his lips and wiggles his hips a little, says, “Just touch it. Please.”

And okay. He hadn’t said that since he was 15, either.

Jon puts his hand into Brendon’s boxers, strokes once from base to head, and Brendon comes. His embarrassment at the intensity, which was outlandish for a hand job, is only trumped by his mortification at the speed.

“I’ve lit firecrackers that last longer than that,” Jon says, laughing. He’s still slowly stroking Brendon’s cock, which is pretty fucking gross given the circumstances, but he can’t really think properly to do anything about it. Or like, move.

“I hate you,” Brendon whimpers. He continues to cling tightly to Jon, body shaking. “I hate you so hard.”

Jon’s still laughing – Brendon can feel him shaking even though he’s not actually laughing aloud. “By hate me, you mean you’re going to return the favor?”

Now Brendon laughs, and his body is starting to go back to normal. He leans in and kisses Jon, then murmurs against his skin, “I haven’t put my hand on someone’s dick and stopped there since I was like, in high school.”

Pulling back, Jon says, “Then this is going to kill you.” He unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out of his boxers.

It’s hard and pointing right at Brendon.

Brendon can feel himself start to salivate. He licks his lips and looks at Jon, the head just under his eyeline. “You’re killing me,” he says. Jon just grins. It’s maddening.

It’s driving Brendon wild.

First he scoots closer to Jon and just kisses him again. Brendon kisses him hard, bites on his lip, turns the kiss as lewd as Jon will let him. When he can feel Jon melt into it, Brendon breaks the kiss, licks his palm and cups his hand around Jon’s dick. He circles his hand around, thumb and index finger barely touching, and carefully starts moving his arm.

It’s weird. He hasn’t thought about the right way to give a hand job in years either. When you’re gearing up for sex it’s less about giving someone pleasure and more about getting the job done. At least, it always is for Brendon.

With this being the main event, he actually needs to do a good job. Brendon moves his arm slowly. He watches his wrist, the slide of Jon’s cock through his hand, the glint of precome right at the tip. It’s been only minutes and he’s already so fucking turned on again, Brendon wants to let go of Jon and grab onto himself again.

He has some self-control, however, and Brendon manages to hold firm. Erm, tight. Erm, keep his hand on Jon.

“You’ve done this before, right?” Jon asks after a few minutes.

Affronted, Brendon says, “Yes.” He’s done more than Jon! Brendon doesn’t point this out, it seems inappropriate, even in his sex-haze, but you know. He’s done more than Jon.

“Stop thinking about it,” Jon says. “Just, you know.” He thrusts up into Brendon’s hand, and Brendon pushes back down, moving with Jon.

Jon hisses and arches up again. He’s holding onto the sofa, his face is covered with a thin sheen of sweat already, and wow. Brendon did this to him.

Brendon’s doing this to him with nothing but a hand job and some making out.

“You’re so hot,” Brendon says. He twists his wrist more and speeds up his strokes. Jon responds by fucking up into Brendon’s hand and shit on a cracker, Brendon’s ready to go again. He arches his hips up, thrusting in rhythm with Jon’s hips, moving them up when Jon moves his up then bringing them back down when Jon’s comes down.

Later, he’ll have to ask Jon about dick to dick action. If they can’t do that now, Brendon wants to know on what date they can. Then he can start a countdown.

“I’m so close,” Jon whispers, and in his head, Brendon thinks, ‘you need to shut up’ because he’s so close too and he’s not even doing anything.

Jon moans softly and arches up again, and this time his hips stutter to Brendon’s touch. Still, there’s not that familiar wetness that Brendon’s expecting, but he brings his hand down to the base then back up and squeezes and this time Jon jerks hard in Brendon’s hand and he comes too, the liquid spilling out onto Brendon’s hand.

Brendon can barely wait until Jon finishes before he’s wrapping his hand around his own cock and this time it’s a (still embarrassing) three tugs before he’s coming again. “Fuck,” he whimpers, later, when he can breathe again.

“Not yet,” Jon says. He smiles lazily at Brendon, then leans in and kisses him sloppily.

“You wanna hear something funny?” Brendon asks. He’s trying to kiss Jon back and talk at the same time. It really isn’t working.

“You like my plan, don’t you?” Jon asks.

Brendon sighs. He really likes this plan.

*

Brendon really hates Jon’s plan.

He really hates Jon.

Actually he really hates Jon’s penis and the way it’s calling out to his mouth, but apparently they’re not in blow job territory yet.

Also, Brendon hates Jon’s mouth, and how it clearly needs to be on his dick. Sometimes Brendon wakes in the middle of the night, hearing the voice of his dick crying out for Jon’s mouth.

It’s there. He hears it.

He doesn’t mean to complain; the hand jobs are incredible. Jon’s got this timing thing down so that Brendon comes apart for him pretty much whenever Jon wants.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s so fucking hot.

Except, he really wants to go down on Jon.

“I really want to suck Jon off.”

“I’m trying to eat,” Spencer growls. “I really want to do that without throwing it up.”

“Well if I don’t get to suck Jon off, then you don’t get to enjoy your lunch.” Spencer frowns and looks at his rice bowl. “Suck Jon off,” Brendon says again.

“You suck,” Spencer says. He pushes the rice bowl out of the way and leans forward, arms crossed on the table and his chin on his arms.

“I apparently don’t anymore,” Brendon says. He leans forward and is a mirror image of Spencer.

Together they sulk in the mall food court until Brendon needs to go back to work.

</center>*</center>

They don’t join a bowling league, but Brendon and Jon start going bowling weekly. And it turns out, there are other couples bowling on a regular basis on the same night they go. It’s their mutual night off, when both Jon and Brendon have the day off and neither of them open the next day. It’s the perfect time to go out and do something physically exerting. Afterward they walk back to Brendon’s apartment, drunk and happy.

Jon’s a horrible bowler and he’s hilariously not getting any better. Brendon’s not a phenomenal bowler either, but he can usually scrape through an entire game without getting any gutter balls. Jon’s the Gutter Ball King.

It’s kind of ironic, actually, because Brendon spends most of bowling night thinking about sex while Jon just rolls his ball into the gutter time after time after time.

“Are you sure you’re not just doing this to make me feel good?” Brendon asks one night. He’s still thinking about blow jobs from Jon, and he knows he’s thinking about this because sometimes he feels his dick jump when Jon does things like lick his cup or eat French fries. Pretty much anything that Jon does with his tongue is seriously fucking hot.

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks. He stops with a fry pressed against his lip and then follows that up with, “What are you staring at?” There’s some ketchup on Jon’s lip and Brendon kinda wants to lick it off.

He leans forward and does exactly that. It doesn’t go as sexily as he was hoping, but Jon laughs and kisses him, so Brendon calls it a win.

“Okay, so seriously. What are you talking about?” He licks his lip again and then smiles at Brendon.

“Um,” Brendon says because he honestly can’t remember what he was talking about. He’s too busy thinking of Jon’s tongue. “I don’t remember. What’d I say?”

Jon laughs. He leans his head back and laughs loudly so that the people in the lane next to theirs look over at them. “You asked me if I’m doing this to make you feel good.”

Now it’s Brendon’s turn to laugh. He had said that, hadn’t he? Brendon shrugged, tilted his head down to stare at his beer, but then he looked back up at Jon. “Do you really suck that bad at bowling?”

Grinning hugely, Jon nods. “Yeah, I do baby.”

Brendon put his hands onto the table and pushed himself in so that he could kiss Jon. “I like that. Say it again.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jon says with a wily grin.

Again, Brendon kisses Jon. “Not that part.”

“Baby,” Jon murmurs. Smiling, Brendon kisses Jon softly. “Baby,” Jon whispers. He puts his hand into Brendon’s hair and tugs a little. “Baby,” Jon mouths against Brendon’s lips.

Brendon’s dick melts into a puddle, which is the only possible explanation for the dampness he feels in his boxers.

It’s all very sexy until the bowlers next to them start cheering. Then it’s just kinda awkward.

*

Brendon knows that Spencer’s going to propose to Greta for like, a week before it actually happens. It’s killing him so hard, three days before the big night he tells Spencer to keep Greta away from the store. Spencer makes Brendon swear not to tell anyone – including Jon – that there’s a proposal on the way, but he figures that the night of the big question won’t hurt anyone.

They’ve fallen into this kind of pattern that should be disconcerting, but Brendon just likes the comfort of being with Jon. He likes knowing that if they make out long enough, eventually pants will come off, that they’ll have their hands all over each other and it will be slow and it will be awesome.

They’re having a slow make out session on Brendon’s couch, curled into each other, knees pressed together. Jon’s fingertips inch underneath Brendon’s shirt and Brendon puts his leg over Jon’s hip, leaning in toward him.

Jon’s hands tense on Brendon’s hip, holding him back, and Brendon breaks the kiss and moves his lips along Jon’s jaw instead. “I have something to tell you,” Brendon says. Actually he kinda breathes it along Jon’s skin as he presses kiss after kiss along the line of Jon’s beard (he likes the tickle). “I shouldn’t, but I have to.”

“Brendon,” Jon sighs. He pulls Brendon’s hips in closer, which is completely unprecedented, and then says, “I love you, too.”

Brendon freezes and doesn’t move for a few seconds, then slowly pulls back to look Jon in the eye. “You what?”

Now Jon freezes, his fingers gripping Brendon so hard it’s almost painful. “Wait, what were you going to say?”

First Brendon sputters, and then he says, “Spencer’s proposing to Greta tonight!”

“Oh my God,” Jon cries out, and Brendon’s not sure if it’s because it’s coming as a shock (which it shouldn’t, Jon knows them well enough by now), or if it’s because he said the L-word when Brendon wasn’t going to say it. “Oh my God,” he says again, much more quietly. “I can’t believe I said that. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No,” Brendon says. He goes from shocked to amused to, well, you know, in like ten seconds. Maybe less. “You’re not that at all.” He leans in and kisses Jon, smiling against his lips. “I think that’s awesome.” He kisses Jon again and then asks, “Do you mean it?”

Instead of letting Jon answer, however, Brendon just keeps kissing him. Laughing, Jon finally pushes Brendon off of him. “Yes, you dick.” He wipes at his mouth and then shakes his head and actually straightens his shirt. “I just think I would have liked to wait a little longer to say it.”

“Four months isn’t long enough?” Brendon asks. It’s a little disappointing, but now that Jon’s said it, he can’t take it back. Brendon’s holding onto that thought.

Jon shrugs then pushes his hair out of his face. He’s been growing it out, and Brendon swears that Jon gets sexier with extra new half inch of hair. He doesn’t tell this to Jon, but Spencer’s heard plenty about it. Brendon reaches out and pushes some of that hair behind Jon’s ear and then smiles at him; Jon isn’t smiling back. “It’s not, um.” Jon swallows; Brendon can see the bobble of his Adam’s apple. “It’s not long enough for you.”

This time it’s Brendon shouting, “Oh my God!” and then he puts his hand on Jon’s shirt and tugs him in. “No way. I love you, too.” When Jon looks at him skeptically, he says, “I promise.” Brendon leans in and kisses Jon, biting at his lip before pulling back. “Like, come on. You think I’d be with you four months with no sex if I didn’t love you?”

Laughing again, Jon puts his hand on Brendon’s wrist and squeezes it. “Well if that’s the case, we can have sex now.”

It’s to his credit that Brendon doesn’t even get excited about this. Later he’ll want a pat on the back. “Shut your fucking mouth,” Brendon says. “You don’t mean that.”

“You’re right,” Jon says. “I don’t.” He smiles winningly at Brendon and then leans in, slides his hand onto Brendon’s crotch and says, “But if you want, I give a mean blow job.”

“Well, I,” Brendon says and then he rewinds what Jon offered and replays it back in his head. “You said blow job.”

“I said mean blow job,” Jon says. He’s grinning. He’s enjoying this. He’s an asshole.

“Like, your mouth, my dick.”

“Like,” Jon says, licking his lips. “Like, my tongue, my mouth, my lips, your dick.” There’s this weird zipping sound, which Brendon doesn’t realize is coming from his own lap. “And my hands, your balls,” Jon continues, like Brendon hadn’t already been completely excited about this.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Let’s not get him involved.” Brendon groans, and it’s not just because of the bad joke.

It’s partially because of the bad joke, but it’s also at the way Jon pulls Brendon’s dick out of his boxers, at the familiarity in Jon’s touch. “Fuck fuck fuck,” Brendon says, the anticipation doing almost as much for him as Jon’s hand is.

“Not yet,” Jon says. He circles Brendon’s dick with his hand and then twists his wrist, tugging up.

The ‘maybe someday’ lingers unspoken in the air. Brendon hears it for a few seconds, and then forgets about it when Jon leans in and licks around his head. “Oh my God,” Brendon says.

Jon says, “You have to take your pants off.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Brendon says. “Just don’t stop with your mouth.”

If Jon gives a hand job like a pro, he gives a blowjob like an amateur hoping to make it pro some day. It’s possible when he said mean, he really meant mean.

It’s sloppy, there’s more teeth involved than Brendon would like, and he actually outlasts Jon’s jaw so that Jon needs to finish Brendon by stroking him roughly, his arm moving in jerks that almost seem angry.

Brendon would care, but it’s still so fucking hot. He keeps his hand threaded through Jon’s hair and doesn’t bother hiding the embarrassing noises he makes when he comes on Jon’s hand and chin.

Afterward, however, Brendon doesn’t care. He could not give two shits that it wasn’t, like, the world’s best blowjob. He wanted Jon’s mouth on his dick and dammit, that’s what he got.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly. He’s leaning on the couch, looking at Brendon with these big forlorn eyes.

“Um,” Brendon says. “For what?” Last he checked, he had just had an awesome orgasm.

Jon shifts a little and wraps an arm around Brendon’s waist. “For giving you the world’s worst blowjob.”

“Oh that wasn’t the world’s worst,” Brendon says. “I’m sure that’s been given by like, an eight year old child sex slave, or a 15 year old boy giving head for meth.”

“Oh thanks,” Jon says, shoving Brendon.

Brendon shoves him right back, but then curls in toward Jon, still running his hand through Jon’s hair.

He fucking loves Jon’s hair.

Hey! He fucking loves Jon!

“Listen,” Brendon says. “How many times have you done that?”

Jon shifts, tilting his body away, but Brendon just reaches out and puts his hand on Jon’s hip, holding him close. “Twice,” Jon says. “Both times, it ended soon after.”

Brendon bites his lip, then leans in and kisses Jon’s neck. “I won’t do that.” He bites now, and then pulls back.

“I think I used too much teeth,” Jon says.

“Oh,” Brendon says. He can believe that. “You gotta,” and he shows Jon how he tucks his lips over his teeth, makes a perfectly round O with his mouth. “Like that,” Brendon says once Jon’s mimicking him. “Have you ever,” he starts, and then when Jon gives him a look, like Brendon’s the biggest idiot on the planet he just said twice, Brendon says, “Gotten one. Like, how many have you gotten?”

“Oh,” Jon says. He shrugs his shoulders and looks away.

“Oh my God,” Brendon says. He shifts away from Jon, just looking at him. Jon looks sheepish. “Oh my God,” Brendon says again. “Take your fucking pants off. I’m flying you to the fucking moon.”

“Um,” Jon says.

Brendon doesn’t bother giving him time to argue or to think about this. He puts his hands on Jon’s jeans and starts grappling with the zipper. He tugs it down and then pulls Jon’s jeans down, tugging gracelessly until Jon swats his hands away. “Get away, get away,” he says. Brendon pulls his hands off, a little shocked, but Jon just says, “Let me do it before you break it.”

“I’ll just kiss it and make it better.” Brendon can see the shiver that runs through Jon before he starts tugging at his jeans.

Usually Jon takes his time with the whole clothing removal thing. It seems like one of his little tricks for staying technically celibate while still having some sexy times here and there.

This time, Jon rips his clothes off like a blushing bride on her… well, you know. Anyway, Jon tugs his jeans and boxers off, and he’s barely back on his two feet before Brendon reaches out and puts his hand around Jon’s dick. “God yes,” Brendon says. He licks the head and then leans in, immediately taking half of Jon’s cock into his mouth.

Jon grabs onto Brendon’s head, pulls his hair so hard it hurts, and then pushes Brendon’s head forward.

Prepared for this, Brendon rides it out and swallows twice against Jon’s dick. He hears Jon’s voice but he can’t really tell what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter.

Reaching up, Brendon puts a hand on Jon’s wrist and squeezes until Jon loosens his grip. Then Brendon bobs his head up and down, sucking as he does so. Jon fucks forward, three times before he stops and this time tugs backward on Brendon’s head, pulling him off. “God I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I,” but he doesn’t continue the question.

“I’m fine,” Brendon says. “Just.” He puts his hands on Jon’s hips and pushes him to the side, toward the couch. Jon sits on it, spreads his legs, and Brendon leans right back in. “I’m fine,” he says, teasing his tongue along the tip of Jon’s dick. “I’ll let you know if I don’t like what you’re doing.”

“But what if,” Jon starts; Brendon cuts him off by sliding his mouth back down the shaft, all the way down to the base and then swallowing again. He slides his hands along Jon’s thighs, pushing them open a little more, and teases Jon’s balls, stroking them in the same rhythm as he’s moving his mouth.

Jon writhes under Brendon and it’s hot, it’s so fucking hot. He puts one hand between his legs and starts stroking himself too, long smooth strokes.

And okay. He’s been pretty good about the no-sex thing. But he shuts his eyes and imagines, just this once, what it would be like to fuck Jon, to feel Jon all around him like that. Jon would be so tight so fucking tight.

Already close again, Brendon slides his hand up to Jon’s taint, teasing his fingers along the sensitive skin there while he takes Jon as deep as he can. Jon jerks hard, yanks at Brendon’s hair, and Brendon pulls back just enough that the come doesn’t choke him but just collects on his tongue.

He swallows, but holds onto Jon until he’s finished, and then puts both hands on his own dick. “Fuck fuck fuck,” Brendon says again.

Boneless and smiling stupidly, Jon watches Brendon jerk off, thrusting into both fists before he spills again, but this time all over his own hand.

Ten minute later, when they’re still pantsless and breathing heavily on the couch, Jon says, “So that’s what it’s supposed to be like.”

“Yup,” Brendon says. He traces his fingers along Jon’s stomach and isn’t even thinking about sex.

Okay, he’s thinking about it a little. But mostly he’s thinking about how it’s going to be more fun than painful to teach Jon how to give a superb blowjob. He isn’t ignoring the fact that he’ll be able to set all new habits of things he likes.

It’s a little like breaking in a new pair of shoes, and Brendon isn’t nearly ashamed enough at this thought.

“I think I should practice again,” Jon says. He looks at Brendon with eyebrows up, then ducks his head down again.

There’s still too much teeth, but Jon’s mouth is so awesome, Brendon can’t give a fuck.

*

Part 2

PATD/TYV: Touched for the Very First Time (2/2)

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 23:35:18 GMT

Part 1

Usually when Brendon has a boyfriend (all three other times in his life), it goes without saying that there was sex (very good sex) involved. Spencer calls it the 21st century assumption and tried to produce a story on it once, but was shut down by his boss (and then laughed at by the rest of the morning team).

Dating Jon is a completely new experience on a number of levels, and the most disconcerting one to Brendon is the fact that all of Jon’s friends know they’re not sleeping together. They’re mostly cool about it, but sometimes some of them (usually either Dirty Tom or Pete with the big teeth) will say something to Brendon that has nothing to do with sex, and Brendon just thinks, ‘They’re judging me. They’re judging us.’

About eight months into the relationship, Brendon finally says something about it to Jon. It honestly hadn’t been happening that much, but a few random comments is really all it takes for Brendon to think it’s something, and to be bothered by it.

“No offense or anything,” Jon says after Brendon unleashes an embarrassing explosion of word vomit about the problem he has, “but I think you’re being too sensitive about the whole thing.” They’re sitting outside at an Einsteins, enjoying the fall when the weather is still perfect.

“I don’t think I am,” Brendon says. He shreds his napkin and refuses to look at Jon. He really doesn’t think he’s being too sensitive, but he can see how it would look like he is. “It’s just sometimes some of the things they say really feels like that.”

Jon shakes his head. “I think that’s just it. It feels like that because you’re thinking too much about it.”

Now Brendon shakes his head. “Okay, first of all, every time Pete says something that makes me feel weird about it, Lunchbox says something like, ‘I think it’s cool what you guys are doing’ or something, so it’s like, that’s really what Pete’s saying.”

His name isn’t actually Lunchbox. His name is Patrick, and he doesn’t look like a lunchbox, but apparently he used to be kinda a big dude. Now he’s no bigger than Jon (so he’s pretty much the perfect size) but still carries the name with him wherever he goes.

There are a few seconds of silence, and then Jon shrugs his shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “Pete’s probably saying something about it.” Brendon doesn’t really consider this a win, because that still sucks. “But I don’t think Tom is.”

“I do,” Brendon says. He lets it drop and they slurp their drinks – Brendon a coke, and Jon a coffee – without talking for another minute or so.

Finally, when Brendon thinks they’re ready to leave, Jon says, “I still think you’re just being too sensitive about it though. Like, it’s been eight months, I thought you were cool with it by now.”

Brendon sighs. He picks up their trash and walks it over to the garbage, then comes back and puts his hand out for Jon. Familiarly, Jon slides his hand into Brendon’s and then stands, grabbing his coffee as he does so. They walk to the drink station first, and silently refill their cups, then walk out of the Einstein’s and back into the sunshine. “Okay, listen.” He squeezes Jon’s hand while they walk to his car. “I honestly have pretty much forgotten about it. You know?” Jon shrugs, but he probably knows. “Now I’m like… when I start to think like, oh I’m… you know.”

“Horny?” Jon asks, unlocking the car.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He gets in and buckles his seat belt then looks at Jon while he starts the car. “I don’t really think like, time for sex, anymore. Like, I’m thinking about how I’m going to get you to give me a blowjob.” He shrugs and then puts his foot up onto the dashboard. Jon swats at him so he sets his foot back down, but turns his head to look over at Jon again. “I can’t say that I don’t care, because like, deep down I do, but you can’t tell me that you don’t want, you know, the whole thing.”

“I,” Jon says, but he pauses and chews on his lip. “Yeah, okay. I can’t.”

“So I want it,” Brendon continues, “in the same way I want a new job. Some day I’m going to get it, but right now isn’t that time, so I’m happy with what I’m doing.” He sighs and pushes his hand through his hair. “I’m happy with what we’re doing.”

Jon’s quiet for a few seconds. “You just don’t want anybody making fun of you for working in the card shop in the mall.”

Brendon sighs again. “I just don’t want anybody making fun of me for working in a card shop in the mall.”

When they pull up to a stop light a few seconds later, Jon turns the radio on, and instead of talking they listen to NPR.

*

The next day, Brendon’s in the food court talking to Spencer about the conversation. Spencer believes him, that Brendon isn’t that bothered by the lack of sex in the relationship. They’ve known each other long enough to read that kind of shit in facial expressions and weird body twitches. “Maybe you just need a new job,” Spencer says.

Brendon is not expecting this.

“Um,” he says. And then, “What?”

“You said that the sex thing is like the job thing, but like, if you had your way with Jon, you guys would be fucking like, nightly. And morningly too.” Brendon can’t argue with this. Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat and looks down at his lunch. He picks up his fork, looks at it for a few seconds, and then says, “Nobody’s keeping you from getting a new job except for like, you.”

“Yeah okay,” Brendon says stiffly. It feels like a shitty thing to say because it’s true; but what the hell is he supposed to do with a Bachelors degree in fucking history? At the time it seemed like a good idea but after he graduated from college and realized there was nothing for him to do with it except be a teacher or get a masters degree, he realized his teeny tiny little mistake.

Spencer pokes his fork into a piece of chicken and studies it for a few seconds before setting it back down again. “We can like…”

“I like working at the card shop,” Brendon says. He gives Spencer the stare down, like, challenging him to disagree.

“Okay,” Spencer says. He takes Brendon’s shredded napkins and puts them over his plate. “Just like you like not having sex with Jon.”

Brendon glares at Spencer, and then leaves him at the table. Spencer is such a good friend, he doesn’t follow.

*

Brendon’s still feeling awkward, but Jon’s wanted to go out with his friends for a awhile. Brendon doesn’t like going because he still thinks they’re talking shit about his and Jon’s relationship, but Brendon’s willing to do this shit for his incredibly hot and equally awesome boyfriend. His boyfriend who is, by the way, improving in his blow job technique in leaps and bounds.

They’re at the bowling alley because it feels like Brendon’s turf, and Jon’s friends are just visiting. Ryan’s stayed home because he has some sort of installation art convention he’s hosting, but Pete and Lunchbox and Dirty Tom are there, and this dude William who towers over Jon like a skinny towering thing, and keeps wrapping both of them up in warm, handsy hugs. Brendon’s met William before, and he likes William a lot. If any of Jon’s friends are going to put in a good word for the relationship, it’s William. He likes to say things like, “Hey. Different strokes for different folks,” and then elbow Brendon mischievously.

The five of them have one lane and a seemingly endless supply of pitchers of beer. Pete and Tom spend a lot of time making fun of Jon for his bowling skills, and as much as Brendon would love to join him, he feels the need to instead stand up for Jon. William helps too, but ends up giggling into his glass when Brendon says (a little drunkenly), “Oh he’s great with balls.”

Pete whistles low and smirks over in their direction. Jon’s cheeks are red, but he’s grinning at Brendon, and he reaches out and puts his hand on top of Brendon’s. Brendon flips his hand over and squeezes Jon’s, then leans in for a kiss that Brendon happily supplies. “Dude,” Tom says. “He’s a virgin.”

“I was very good with balls when I was a virgin,” Pete says, his voice argumentative. Brendon grins at Pete, but Pete quickly says, “My own.”

And okay. This is what he had been talking about when he said he thought that Jon’s friends were judging them. Of course, he feels like kind of an idiot saying something about what an awesome ball-handler Jon is (and he is an awesome ball-handler), but Brendon’s compelled to back up his boyfriend somehow.

He loves Jon, okay?

Brendon’s about to say something that will hopefully come off as powerful and not defensive and whiny, when Jon says, “Fuck you both,” and okay. Brendon feels his dick stir at that one. “What me and Brendon do in the bedroom is none of your fucking business. But it’s probably better than whatever you’re doing there.”

Okay. Brendon would add to that, but speaking of their abilities in the bedroom, Brendon wants to go there. He licks his lips and looks over at Jon. He clears his throat and is ready to say something else. You know, something that would somehow fix the situation and make Jon’s friends second-guess ever giving them shit ever again. Before he can come up with anything, however, Jon pushes Brendon’s chair away from the table. It slides backward until he’s facing out, looking up at Jon.

“Um,” Brendon says. He licks his lips again and smiles. Jon reaches down and takes Brendon’s hand, tugs up on his arm. It hurts a little, but in the kind of way that makes Brendon want it some more. Jon puts his free arm around Brendon’s waist and pulls him in so their bodies are pressed tightly against each other, and at least now Brendon’s in on it enough to know to lean down and meet Jon’s lips.

Right from the start, the kiss is electrifying. It makes Brendon’s extremities tingle. He puts his hand into Jon’s hair and tugs on it as the kiss deepens. It’s probable that there’s action happening around them, but Brendon’s lost in Jon, the scratch of his beard on Brendon’s skin, the suction of his tongue and Brendon rocks his hips into Jon’s.

Jon moans into the kiss, and Brendon’s trying to maneuver his leg between Jon’s when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

It’s actually a very insistent tap and when Brendon pulls away, he sees a face he only vaguely recognizes. It’s a face he only vaguely recognizes because it belongs the person who supplies their shoes to them on their weekly bowling excursions. “Excuse me gentlemen,” the guy says, and now Brendon’s feeling embarrassed and horny. “We’re going to have to ask you to keep displays of affection down to a minimum.”

Brendon would be offended, but it’s possible he was dry-humping Jon’s leg, and he wouldn’t want to see that either. “We apologize,” Brendon gasps. He slackens his hold on Jon and wipes at his mouth.

“We were leaving anyway,” Jon says. He starts toeing out of his shoes, and is bending over to pick them up before Brendon realizes what’s going on. He hurries to a chair to take his off and William, dear, blessed William, brings Brendon his street shoes.

When they get back to Brendon’s, Jon pushes Brendon against the door and kisses him until Brendon’s too dizzy to stand on his own. And later, even when they fall into bed, they don’t do anything more than make out and touch each other. It’s awesome, though, and something Brendon’s more than used to; he actually enjoys it.

The next morning, while Brendon is busy scooping coffee into the maker, Jon snakes his arms around him and holds his phone in front of Brendon’s face. “Good morning,” Jon says, pressing a kiss to Brendon’s cheek.

Brendon puts his hand on Jon’s wrist to steady the phone and smiles. Jon’s showing him a text from Pete: Asuming ur no lngr a virg. Congrz.

Laughing, Brendon turns in Jon’s arms and says, “Text him back. Tell him I say there’s more to life than fucking.” To emphasize his point, he puts his hands on Jon’s ass and squeezes, grinding into his front. Jon presses back into Brendon, until the coffee is completely forgotten.

*

The weird thing is that he kinda does like not having sex with Jon. Is it something he would have opted for on his own? Not really. But now that he’s in this relationship, now that it’s just a part of his life, it’s really not so bad. It’s not like he’s not sexually satisfied or anything. And it’s not like Jon’s a bad boyfriend, because he’s amazing.

He’s more than amazing.

They’re having a cheesy celebration of their nine month anniversary – Brendon’s never been with someone this long (they passed Jon’s longest relationship months ago) – and Brendon is still busy thinking about the whole job/sex metaphor. He’s been having weird dreams where he’s a sex worker so that he can quit his job at the card shop, but then Jon leaves him for getting sex elsewhere, even though Brendon’s perfectly happy to wait for Jon.

He doesn’t want to wait for sex, he just wants to wait for Jon.

“You look weird,” Jon says. They’re at this wine tasting place that Jon heard about at the mall. It’s actually pretty cool. They paid 20 bucks each and are having little glasses of wine brought to them, eating cheese and meats and breads and feeling totally like adults.

Nine months with the same person will do that to you.

“Thanks,” Brendon says. He smiles at Jon. “Is this better?” He crosses his eyes and cocks his arms out in strange angles.

Laughing, Jon reaches out and pushes his arm down. “God, no. Stop, you freak.” Brendon puts his arms down and smiles at Jon, then leans forward.

It’s not surprising that he looks weird, since he feels weird. Every time he thinks about how he’s unhappy at the card shop, which he is, he wonders if that means he’s unhappy with Jon.

He really hates how that metaphor got stuck in his head. “I keep comparing work to sex now,” Brendon says.

Jon stops midway to bringing a shmear of brie up to his lips on some of the best bread Brendon’s ever eaten. “Uh. What?”

Brendon shrugs. “Spencer says I need a new job.”

“And you’re thinking of being a sex worker?” Jon asks.

Shaking his head, Brendon smiles and says, “No, that’s like, weird.” He reaches across the table and puts his hand on Jon’s. “I’m saving myself for you.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Jon says softly. He leans in and they kiss. Jon’s lips taste like rich cheese and raspberries, so Brendon leans in a little more to keep the kissing going just a few seconds longer. “Okay,” Jon says when they finally separate. “Is it because of like, what we talked about before?” Brendon nods, ready to explain, but Jon keeps going. “Because like, that was your thought, not mine. You brought it up and like, compared them, and I was just, you know, nodding along.”

“You can’t say it’s not true though,” Brendon says. He sighs and taps his fingers against the table. “Do you want to work at the sunglasses kiosk forever?”

Jon shakes his head and points a grape at Brendon. “But we’re not talking about forever here. We’re talking about right now.”

Actually, Brendon isn’t sure what they’re talking about anymore.

“Are you getting weird because of the sex thing?” Jon asks. Their server comes by just at that moment and drops off the check. Then he runs away. While he talks, Jon fishes in his pocket for his wallet. “And like, you wouldn’t care if you had a job that challenged you?”

Brendon shakes his head, moves it so hard he’s slightly dizzy for a few seconds afterward. “Listen. I really don’t mind. Like, I’m into it now. I barely even think about how we don’t, you know.”

“Fuck,” Jon says, not looking at Brendon, staring at his wallet instead like it’s grown in interesting ways.

“Exactly,” Brendon says. “But like, I feel like it’s my choice too, now. Like, first I wasn’t because you don’t. But now I don’t because I choose not to. I’m, I don’t know. I’m in this for, you know,” he shrugs and then smiles. “I guess you could say I’m fully committed to this, at this point. But I’m not even saying that to try and get you into bed for the really real deal, and I feel like that means something, like I’m truly in it to win it, since I’m not even saying this to like, make it happen. Oh my God, shut up, Brendon.” He sighs and puts his hand over his mouth, like maybe that will help.

Jon looks up at him from his wallet and doesn’t say anything right away. Brendon feels like he just did something wrong, even though there should never be a problem with telling the person you love that like, you’re wanting more, and in the positive kind of way. He waits for Jon to say something, and just hopes that Jon isn’t going to argue with him, or call him an idiot, or break his heart in anyway.

“I lost my credit card,” Jon says. He’s still staring at Brendon like his eyes are once again crossed and his arms really are connected the wrong way. “But that’s like,” he pauses, still just staring at Brendon. “I don’t even know. That’s the awesomest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

Brendon flushes. It feels like the dumbest thing he’s ever said, in all honesty. How was Jon such a freak that he’d be into all that? How does Brendon being an idiot and having word vomit make Jon look at him like he’s made of gold or something.

“Can you um,” Jon says when Brendon doesn’t say anything. “I know it’s my turn, but will you take care of dinner? I want to go outside and call my credit card company.”

“Um,” Brendon says. He blinks twice and then nods. “Yeah. Of course.” He hadn’t been aware that dinner was over, but he’s mostly full anyway. “Go call. I’ll be right out.” When Jon’s gone, Brendon takes care of paying the check, and eats the rest of the meat off the big plate while he waits for his card to come back to him.

Everything he had said is true, of this Brendon is certain. He’s not sure when it happened, but Jon’s celibacy has started feeling like his own. He doesn’t need the kind of sex he used to have all the time, and he feels better with Jon, maybe for it.

Of course, if the reason he feels so good about this relationship is because they’re not having sex, then what will happen when (if?) they start? And is he really thinking in terms of the eventuality of him and Jon sleeping together like that? Is he considering in his mind a possibility of going through some big commitment ceremony with Jon? It’s been nine months and already he’s thinking about promising his life to someone else.

Not having sex makes him crazier than actually having it.

Outside, Jon is still on hold with his credit card company. Brendon takes the keys to Jon’s car and drives while Jon goes through the process of getting a hold put on the card. Brendon drives to his own place and Jon follows him in, asking questions about the most recent usage. He seems satisfied with the responses he gets, however, because he doesn’t freak out or demand charges not to go through or anything.

Brendon feels a little empty, like he made some sort of weird discovery about Jon that makes him sick or disappoints him. Except really, it’s not that at all; it’s Brendon’s overwhelming weirdness over the idea that he’s considering forever. And he is considering forever, and when he thinks about not doing that, it just gives him a chill, because that means he’s thinking about an eventual break up with Jon.

This thought process is like a lose-lose situation.

Brendon leaves Jon in the foyer of his little apartment and goes into the kitchen. He takes the bottle of wine that he and Jon had opened a few days before and drinks straight out of the bottle. As long as nobody’s watching, it’s not so bad.

He’s already put the bottle back, and is trying to catch his breath while leaning on the counter when Jon comes up to him and puts his hand on his stomach from behind. He kisses Brendon’s temple, and then his cheek, and then moves in front of Brendon and kisses him deeply. “What’s,” Brendon murmurs against Jon’s lips. He puts his hands on Jon’s sides and pushes him a little. “What’s this all about?” Jon’s smiling though. He can feel it. “What happened with your card?”

“They put a temporary hold on it,” Jon says. He’s still in so close, kissing Brendon between words, like what he’s saying is sexy and not mundane. “Nobody has it, I may have just misplaced it.” He kisses Brendon again, and again, and presses his hips to Brendon’s and God yes this feels good. Brendon wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and holds him close, finally returning those kisses.

Jon kisses him with a fervor Brendon barely recognizes. He has his hands up under Brendon’s shirt, pushing at it roughly, until Brendon lifts his arms so that Jon can tug it up. Brendon follows suit, putting his hands to the buttons of Jon’s shirt, and he undoes them, one at a time. Jon moans when Brendon slides his hands along his skin, pulling Jon closer with his hands under the fabric. “I love you,” Jon whispers. “So much.”

Brendon moans softly at the words and kisses him harder, rocking his hips in toward Jon’s. He’s so hard, and it happened so quickly, and all Brendon can think is that Jon needs to go down on his knees and suck Brendon’s dick.

Or they needed to take this somewhere where they can suck each others’, preferably at the same time.

It seems like Brendon’s getting what he wants, because Jon shucks his shirt off and then unzips Brendon’s jeans. He pushes them down and then shoves his hands down the back of Brendon’s boxers, grabbing his ass and pushing him closer. Brendon moans again and rocks his hips harder into Jon’s, grinding against where he can feel an erection under Jon’s jeans. This time Jon moans, and Brendon shivers, puts his hand into Jon’s hair and squeezes. Jon moves his hands away, but all that does is make Brendon lean in more.

He wants a blow job, he does, though when he applies pressure to Jon’s head, not a lot, just enough to get his message across, all he gets in response is the sound of another zipper. The next thing he knows, Jon’s pressing against him again, and this time it’s the push of Jon’s cock straining against the fabric of his boxers, pushing against Brendon’s.

Whimpering, Brendon pushes back, grinding their cocks together. Jon squeezes Brendon’s ass harder and now they’re rutting against each other. It feels so dirty and cheap and good it feels so fucking good. Why have they never done this before?

Not thinking about next steps, Brendon slides his hand into Jon’s boxers and uses the other hand to pull them down as he also nudges Jon’s dick out. He strokes it urgently with one hand and with the other he pulls his own out from his boxers. Jon makes this weird noise that causes Brendon to shiver, and he grinds against Jon, moving so that both of his arms are wrapped around him, holding him impossibly close.

They move together like that, their bodies soon rocking in a set rhythm. Brendon’s senses are on overload, and Jon’s movements become more and more spastic. Their kisses grow sloppy and then stop altogether, replaced instead by them sharing breath as they rub against each other.

When Jon’s hips begin to snap almost angrily against Brendon’s, Brendon just holds him tight. Jon whimpers, “Fuck” and “Brendon,” and then “Yes,” and he spills out onto Brendon, his come hitting Brendon’s stomach and dick.

Seconds later, spurred on by the heat and the new slick, Brendon thrusts hard against Jon and he too comes, the orgasm hitting him so hard he needs to let go of Jon with one hand and just hold onto the counter. With his other arm, he clings to Jon, just trying to hold him up as they pant against each other.

“Oh my God,” Jon says a couple minutes later.

Brendon agrees, but he’s still not sure how to talk.

“I don’t know what happened,” Jon says.

And suddenly, Brendon’s worried. He always waited for Jon to make the first move. Jon started the hand jobs. Jon started the blowjobs. Jon had the idea for the mutual masturbation, which ended up being foreplay for what became their first ever 69.

This is the first time he started anything, even if the kissing and the pants had originally been Jon. “Was that okay?” Brendon asks. He’s still panting, but now he’s also worried. “Like, is that something you didn’t want to do?”

Jon shakes his head and he smiles at Brendon. “I can’t say it’s something I wanted to do,” Jon admits. Brendon feels horrible. He feels lower than shit. Or at least, he’ll feel lower than shit later when the afterglow has worn off.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Don’t be,” Jon says. He puts his hand on Brendon’s chest, traces his fingers through the soft patch of hair there. “It’s like, the thing I never knew I wanted.”

Brendon wraps his arms around Jon, then slides his hands along Jon’s back before bringing them down to squeeze Jon’s ass. “You were so hot,” Brendon says. He smiles at Jon and kisses him again. This time it’s less insistent; the kiss is about showing Jon how much he loves him.

In a way, this is the closest Brendon’s ever been to truly making love. And like, he gets it, for the first time.

Getting it causes a shiver to course through him, more powerful than his orgasm just was.

*

Spencer and Greta have this weird, short engagement. They both swear that it has nothing to do with the fact that a month after the wedding came an announcement that she was pregnant. With Jon alone, Brendon admits he knows this isn’t the truth. It really couldn’t be the truth since the short engagement – six months – was pretty much the plan almost from the get-go. And while it’s not the romantic, white, beautiful spectacle that Brendon had kinda been hoping for – Spencer can rock a tux, Brendon’s seen the prom pictures – it’s still pretty, and Brendon maybe cries a little, and Jon laughs at him from the third row while Brendon sniffles and stands next to Spencer.

The wedding’s at a park in the middle of spring, and it’s like the weather knows what Spencer’s like when things don’t go his way. Combined with Greta’s temper, Brendon’s actually a little afraid of the power couple. Anyway, the weather’s pretty perfect for a wedding. There’s just enough of a breeze to make Greta’s hair and veil to swirl around her face like she’s posing for a bridal magazine. Spencer looks, for the first time, almost attractive to Brendon. Like, if Brendon was drunk and desperate, he’d consider hitting that. Later, at the party, Brendon drunkenly tells Spencer exactly this, and while Spencer turns bright red, Greta laughs and puts her hands on her belly. She turns to Jon and says, “Are you jealous?” and Jon says absolutely, and then he smiles, and Brendon feel warm all the way down to his toes.

After the wedding, Jon and Brendon stay at the park to clean up. Greta’s best friend is there for a while, a sweet girl who danced with Brendon three times before Greta pulled her aside and suggested that Brendon is unavailable.

Jon follows Brendon around with a garbage bag while Brendon picks up plates and cups and torn streamers and the other kinds of detritus that are left over after a successful party. “Remind me again why I have to do the bending over part and you don’t?” Brendon’s voice bounces as he does the bending in question, picking up a few crumpled up napkins and dropping them into the bag that Jon holds. Jon’s job is to move the bag to catch the trash that Brendon drops.

“You’re doing the bending because if I was doing the bending, you wouldn’t be able to contain yourself by my oh so tempting ass.” Brendon snorts and wiggles his ass as he walks, then scoops a stack of plates off of a picnic table.

“Who said your ass is tempting?” Brendon asks. He puts the plates into the bag and then takes the bag from Jon and climbs onto the picnic table.

Jon nudges at Brendon’s foot and then climbs onto the bench, sitting between Brendon’s feet. He puts his arms on Brendon’s legs and leans forward, smiling up at him. “My ass is very tempting for you.”

“If your ass was temping to me I would have tried to have sex with you by now.” Brendon widens his eyes at Jon because that was a hardcore burn he just delivered. He only wishes someone were around to enjoy it.

Well, it would be awesome if someone other than Jon was around to enjoy it, though Jon vaguely likes it. He smiles, at least, and shoves Brendon once squarely in the chest and then relaxes again. “Well I think you’re very tempting.” He leans forward, eyes on Brendon, and though Brendon’s dick perks up, excited about what appears to be an approaching blowjob, Brendon’s better senses take over and he hopes to God he doesn’t get arrested.

It’s not like he can say no to a blowjob.

After a few seconds, Jon shifts back up and smiles at Brendon. They stare at each other for a few seconds and Brendon starts to wonder if maybe he missed something. They already celebrated their one year anniversary, and he doesn’t really feel ready for the big commitment talk, which might come up since this is a wedding.

Brendon’s mind starts racing with all the things that this crazy staring contest might be about and just when he’s about to try to distract Jon with flare and pizzazz (or a suggestion to rent a movie on the way back to his place), Jon says, “You know I love you, right?”

It’s more than a little weird to say, Brendon thinks. First of all, yes he definitely knows Jon loves him. But it also makes him start to worry, because what if this is the ‘I love you but I’m not in love with you’ speech, something that Brendon hadn’t really thought about until like, just now; and only because the idea that Jon might say that makes Brendon feel sick to his stomach.

He’s in love with Jon, and while the prospect of doing any sort of big commitment thing really freaks Brendon out, the prospect of actually losing Jon is far worse.

Jon asks, “Right?” and Brendon realizes that while he’s been sitting there having an existential freakout (is that what that is?), Jon’s been waiting for some sort of response.

Brendon smiles and says, “Of course. And I’m in love with you.”

The words fall out of his mouth when he had totally been intending to just say that he loves Jon. Sure, the other thing is true, too, but it’s so much bigger. He’s caught mid-flinch, however, by Jon leaning up to kiss him roughly, one hand sliding behind Brendon’s neck and okay, he had apparently not said the wrong thing. When Jon pulls back, Brendon smiles and licks his lips. “Wow. Hi.” He’s a little dizzy.

“I have like, a thing. To tell you. News.” Jon smiles. “Good news.” Brendon nods, eyes widening, wondering why he hadn’t said anything sooner. “I got a promotion.” Brendon smiles too, because this is awesome. “I’m going to manage the sunglass stand.”

“That’s awesome,” Brendon says, and it is, even though it’s a weird thing to say. The manager of the sunglasses stand. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. Jon seems pretty happy, though, so it must be.

“And there’s more,” Jon says, and Brendon thinks, ‘okay,’ and waits for the more. Except now Jon’s talking about school and his lease and Ryan wanting to live with his girlfriend which Brendon doesn’t really care about except he hates the idea of Jon living with the both of them because Brendon doesn’t really like Ryan’s girlfriend and now Jon’s looking at him all expectant like and Brendon’s missed something.

“What’d you just say?”

Jon smiles. He’s always smiling. Brendon loves his smile. “I said that I got into grad school, for my MBA, and I was thinking I could just give up my apartment and while I’m in school we could live together, in yours.”

Brendon hadn’t really been thinking about that.

Of course, now that it’s been suggested to him, he doesn’t mind the sound of it. Now that he’s thinking about it, it sounds kinda nice. Having Jon living with him would cut down his costs tremendously (by half!), plus it would be fun, plus… “That sounds pretty… you know…”

“Committed?” Jon asks and yeah. That sounds pretty committed.

Brendon nods. They’re totally committed.

It feels good.

*

It happens the night that Spencer and Greta sit them down to say that they’re going to be uncles.

It’s actually the fact that they’re going to be uncles. Brendon was always going to be an uncle. There was an actual joke when Spencer and Greta would talk casually about getting married before actually making it official, and part of the joke was always Uncle Brendon, tormenting the children. Actually, before there was ever a Greta in Spencer’s life, there was an Uncle Brendon to teach Spencer’s future children the lessons fathers don’t want their kids to know.

Anyway, soon after Brendon was let into Greta’s life, so too was the idea of Uncle Brendon. So the fact that Uncle Brendon was joined by an Uncle Jon, really, well.

There’s still another month until Jon’s lease runs out and he moves in with Brendon, but he’s already pretty much there all the time, and it’s where they all are when Greta and Spencer drop the big bomb. Jon’s a little smirky throughout the whole situation, but he doesn’t say anything, not even when Greta punches him in the arm and says to him, “Tell the pregnant woman.”

Jon doesn’t, and when they leave, Jon just smiles stupidly at Brendon while he does the dishes. “What?” Brendon asks. He’s busy lighting candles, because risotto doesn’t agree with Jon’s stomach, but he still insists on making it since it’s the only dish he knows. Nothing’s happened yet, but it’s only a matter of time before Jon starts complaining and then, well, they always wish they had preemptively candled up.

“She didn’t drink at the wedding,” he says.

“Didn’t she?” Brendon asks. He lights the last one and puts the lighter back in the drawer, then picks up the remote to see what’s on TV.

“I wasn’t like, watching,” Jon says. “But now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember seeing her actually take a drink of anything alcoholic. She had drinks in her hand sometimes, but wasn’t drinking them.”

“Hmm,” Brendon says. He’s studying the guide intently, making sure he doesn’t miss anything interesting, like a Survivor marathon, or Three Sheets. “I didn’t realize you were that interested in Greta’s drinking habits.”

“Oh I am,” Jon says, not bothering to hide the laughter in his voice. He turns off the water and Brendon looks at him, smiles. “I’m going to run to the store,” Jon says. He puts his hand on his stomach and says, “I ran out of my risotto pills.”

Brendon smiles and says, “You should have gotten them when you got the risotto ingredients.”

“I thought we had more.” Jon smiles at Brendon, and walks over to Brendon to pull him in for a kiss. “You want me get you anything while I’m there?”

“I can come with,” Brendon offers, but Jon quickly shakes his head.

“I’ll be like, twenty minutes. Finish the dishes for me and then I can offer my thanks to you on the couch.”

“If you’re gassy, I don’t want it,” Brendon says.

Then he laughs. He can’t help it; if Brendon were to make a list of things he never thought he’d say to a boyfriend, that would be on the top of the list. Right up there with, ‘Naw I don’t want to have sex either,’ which, okay, and a few other tasteless wonders that are so strange he can’t even think of them. But there it is, telling Jon that if he’s gassy, he can keep his sexual favors to himself.

“Okay, you go,” Brendon says while Jon laughs. “I’m going to be over in the corner, contemplating what you’ve done to me, and how the brainwashing happened.”

Jon doesn’t disagree. He just kisses Brendon goodbye, and tells him to call if he thinks of anything he wants Jon to bring home.

Brendon can’t think of anything; he just likes how Jon calls the apartment home.

*

True to his word, Jon is back in less than twenty minutes. Brendon’s on the couch watching TV with the lights low and the scented candles lit. The apartment smells a little bit like an overbearing English garden on the sea while a cake is being baked nearby (they can’t agree on a scented candle no matter how hard they argue).

He hears the door open and close, the locks turn, and doesn’t think anything of it. Brendon says, “Hi,” and then quickly switches the channel off of My Fair Wedding with David Tutera. It’s about time he stop thinking it might be fun to be a wedding planner anyway.

Brendon doesn’t want to deal with bridezillas.

Instead of a response, something falls into Brendon’s lap. He looks up at Jon, who’s standing over him, behind the couch, and then down at what fell into his lap. He picks up the little bottle, turns it in his palm once and then looks up at Jon again. “You’re not planning on fixing any doors or anything with this, right?” He holds up the bottle of lube, so that’s it framing Jon’s smiling face in his vision.

“Nope,” Jon says.

“Did you even pick up your risotto pills?”

“I didn’t eat any risotto,” Jon says. He smiles wider. Brendon can feel his pulse racing. He’s nervous.

He hasn’t been this nervous around a bottle of lube since, well, he was wearing Jon’s shoes. So to speak.

“I think it’s really cute,” Jon says, “that you lit a bunch of candles for my first time.”

If Brendon had been drinking anything, he would have spilled it right there.

“Get down here,” Brendon says. “You should get down here right now.”

“Just a second,” Jon says.

Brendon doesn’t want to wait. He wants to get his hands on Jon. He wants to get his nervous, shaking hands on Jon. He’s afraid he won’t be able to perform, that he won’t be able to live up to whatever Jon may have built up in his head. He doesn’t want to disappoint Jon on this first time and he also doesn’t want to hurt him. What if old Brendon comes out to play when new Brendon gets to have sex again? It’s been over a year; what if he can’t control himself?

Jon comes over with two glasses of wine, and Brendon happily takes his, and then drinks two big gulps before he notices that Jon’s holding his glass out and looking a little stunned. “Here’s to committed relationships,” Jon says slowly, staring at Brendon, “and exploring firsts together.”

Brendon licks his lips, and even though Jon clinks their glasses together, he still says, “Here’s to falling in love.”

It’s not weird at all to say it, or to drink down that red wine while staring into Jon’s eyes. And when Jon takes the glass away, sets both down on the table, and then climbs onto Brendon, that’s just awesome, too.

They start in front of the TV, making out fully-clothed on the couch, pressing together, hips rocking in time. The lube had since been put onto the table, and it’s always in the corner of Brendon’s vision. When Jon starts thrusting his hips into Jon’s, moving his body erratically, Brendon stops the kissing and puts his hands on Jon’s sides, pushing him away. “Bedroom,” he says. “We should do this in the bedroom.”

“But your candlelight,” Jon says softly. Even in the dim light, Brendon can see his smile.

“Shut up,” Brendon says. He grabs a fistful of Jon’s hair and kisses him again, then pushes him off. Jon goes into the bedroom, but Brendon stays behind, blowing out all the candles before he follows.

It’s hard not to laugh when he walks into the bedroom and sees Jon, sprawled across the bed, in nothing but his boxers and his socks. “I hope you’re taking the socks off,” Brendon says.

“My feet will get cold,” Jon whines, moving his feet away from Brendon.

Brendon tosses the lube at Jon and then reaches for his feet anyway. He takes the socks off and then puts his hands on Jon’s boxers, takes those off too. “You’re really fucking sexy,” Brendon says. The words feel weird coming out of his mouth, but it’s true. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before.”

“I know I’m weird,” Jon says. He shifts a little on the bed, like he’s dying to cover himself up. He used to try, to hide his erections from Brendon until it was ready to be put to use, but Jon had finally stopped, had even stopped telling Brendon to shut up when he complimented his body.

Shaking his head, Brendon tugs his own shirt off and drops it onto the ground. “I just mean someone who looks like you hasn’t done this before. I can’t believe every person on the planet isn’t trying to get into your pants.”

Jon smiles at Brendon and pulls him closer. “Well you’re the only you on the planet, so.” He lets that trail off and Brendon flushes, tilting his head down. He gets a gander at Jon’s dick, hard and pressed against his stomach, already leaking. “So get in my pants.”

“They’re on the floor,” Brendon says. “You put them there.”

Finished with the jokes, Brendon stands up and shoves his jeans down, taking his boxers with him. He’s naked fast and climbs onto the bed with Jon, kissing him almost immediately. As soon as Brendon is over him, Jon wraps a leg around him, arches up. Smiling into the kisses, Brendon puts his hand on Jon’s hip and pushes him back down. “Relax,” Brendon says. “Turn over.”

At first, Jon doesn’t seem to want to. He hesitates, looking up at Brendon, and keeping that leg wrapped around Brendon’s waist. He doesn’t say anything, but at this point, Jon doesn’t have to. “If you don’t want to,” Brendon says, “you don’t have to. But if you do, you should be on your stomach.”

Jon licks his lips and then smiles at Brendon. “Okay.” He leans in for one more kiss, which Brendon gladly gives him, and then pulls back and away from Brendon. Jon rolls over, and Brendon hitches his breath in, because Jon’s ass is just. It’s his. To use.

He had forgotten how badly he wanted this.

Brendon puts his hands on Jon’s ass first and just massages it, squeezing his ass and thighs in his hands, pressing kisses to his skin and smiling at the surprised sounds that Jon makes when he bites his thigh, or teases his tongue into Jon’s ass.

“Fuck, Brendon,” Jon moans, and Brendon fucks hard into the bed. “More, Bren. Please.”

Brendon thinks about using his mouth first, getting Jon all wet just with his spit before using the lube. But he’s in too much of a hurry, and he doesn’t want to push himself to a limit where he might hurt Jon. So Brendon just puts lube onto his hand and trails his finger around Jon’s hole. “This is going to hurt,” he says. “Actually, the whole thing may not be good for you.” He kisses the small of Jon’s back then bites teasingly at his thigh. “But I love you, no matter what.”

“I might love you when you’re done,” Jon gasps. “But only if you shut the fuck up and get on with it.

Eyes shut, Brendon teases one finger into Jon.

He’s so fucking tight. Seriously, he’s so tight it practically hurts Brendon, he’s only on one finger. He should have done this before, fingered Jon like this, but he hadn’t thought to ask or suggest, and Jon wouldn’t have thought to ask.

Now they’re stuck doing too much in one night, and Brendon knows he can’t go back now. Jon wants it, he’s ready for it, and dammit, Brendon’s dying for it too. Brendon twists his wrist, pushing in beyond the second knuckle and suddenly he’s got one full finger in Jon. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Jon doesn’t say anything. He just gasps and pushes back against Jon’s finger, arching his back and okay, Jon seems to be doing okay. Brendon pulls his hand back, and Jon follows a little, whimpering as Brendon’s finger comes out. “Don’t worry,” Brendon says. “There will be more.”

Jon mostly seems to enjoy two fingers. He pushes back into it, only whimpering a little at the first penetration and then again as Brendon’s knuckles push through. It’s when Brendon re-lubes and tries to push three fingers in that Jon pulls back, leaning forward, away from Brendon, that he thinks maybe they really aren’t ready for this. Brendon pulls his hand back and kisses Jon’s thigh, whispers, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

There’s a weird guttural sound that comes from the bed, and Brendon isn’t sure how to take it. Then Jon moans, “Just do it, please,” and Brendon isn’t sure if Jon means with his dick or his fingers, but he’s the expert in the bedroom, and Brendon knows that if Jon can’t handle three fingers yet, well, his dick isn’t going to go in any easier.

“Almost there,” Brendon says. He applies more lube just in case and then slowly works three fingers in. There’s almost an entire minute where Jon seems to be moving away from Brendon’s touch, then suddenly something switches and he pushes back, leaning in toward Brendon’s fingers and half the time it took to get his fingers partway in, he pushes them all the way in, straight to the hand. “Oh my God,” Brendon says.

“Holy fuck,” Jon says. He rocks backward onto Brendon’s fingers and then twists his body around. “Bren, fuck.” Brendon twists his wrist, rubs his fingers along Jon’s prostrate and Jon arches again, shaking. “Fuck. Bren.” He pushes up onto his hands and knees and pushes back hard on Brendon… and this is not what Brendon had pictured, when he had pictured this moment.

“Are you,” Brendon starts, but Jon quickly says, “I’m okay,” and so, okay. Jon’s okay.

“Okay,” Brendon says. He twists his fingers up again, bumping them into Jon’s prostate a few times before pulling his hand out quickly. “Okay. I’m gonna. I just need more lube.” He pushes Jon’s hips down a little but then just rises up onto his knees. “I’m going to go slowly, and I’ll use the whole bottle if I have to.”

He just doesn’t want to hurt Jon.

Brendon coats his dick with the lube and then puts his wet hands onto Jon’s hips. “You ready?” he asks. Jon doesn’t really say anything. At least, he doesn’t answer with any sort of recognizable English. Instead he just pushes back and moans, and Brendon takes this as a sign that Jon’s ready. “Here I go,” he says. He puts his hand on his dick and guides it to Jon’s ass and oh God, this feels like heaven. He pushes the head into Jon and Brendon bites down hard on his lip as he first slides in and fuck fuck fuck fuck this is better than he thought it would be.

He’s concentrating on moving slowly, carefully, on not hurting Jon and on making this an awesome experience. And then Jon goes from shaking and cringing away from Brendon to moaning and pushing in toward him, and something inside of Brendon seems to go off. His hips snap, and he pulls Jon’s hips back toward him.

Jon cries out, and Brendon lets go of him quickly, but then Jon says, “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t please don’t stop,” and he pushes back in toward Brendon.

Brendon doesn’t. He thrusts forward, moving slowly now, and when Jon starts to move just a little bit with his thrusting, Brendon reaches around Jon and wraps a hand around his cock. “God Jon,” Brendon whispers. He kisses Jon’s back and with every slow thrust he makes, he strokes down and then up along Jon’s dick. He wants to say more. Brendon even tries to say more, but nothing can come out of his mouth.

He’s having sex with Jon.

And here he’d taken to considering himself celibate.

It doesn’t take long for Jon to come once Brendon’s jerking him off too. And once Jon is collapsed on the bed, Brendon pulls back out and finishes himself off as well, coming all over Jon’s ass and back. He’d feel bad, but he’s really too in the moment to even notice what he’s doing. Plus, afterward he slides over Jon, so it’s all on his stomach and groin.

They lay there like that, panting in unison, until finally Jon says, “Oh my God.” Brendon smiles, but he can’t really say anything yet. “I have a question,” Jon says. The words take several times to come out, and he breathes deeply between most of them.

“Hmmm?”

There’s another minute of waiting while Jon collects his breath enough to ask. But before he does, he rolls over onto his side, and Brendon slides off of him and onto the bed. They’re facing each other, and Brendon’s thigh is in a wet spot he’s not sure is lube or Jon. He mostly doesn’t care. “Why did I wait so long to do that?” Jon finally asks when Brendon had just about forgotten why they were being so quiet.

First Brendon thinks about the question, but then he just starts laughing. Jon smiles and asks, “What?”

“I think it was like that because you waited.” Brendon leans forward and kisses Jon, then wraps a leg around his hip. “And I’m not saying it wasn’t good or anything, but it’s going to get so much better.”

Jon smiles wider, and kisses Brendon again. “So you’re not leaving me now that you’ve stolen my cherry?”

Smiling too, Brendon pushes his hand through Jon’s sweaty hair and says, “It’s going to take more than just the world’s fastest sex to get me to leave you.”

Jon’s jaw drops. “Hey!” He hits Brendon’s shoulder, but Brendon just pulls him in for another kiss, climbing on top of Jon in the process.

Afterward, when they had cleaned up, changed the sheets, and then gotten the new set almost as messy as the first, they’re curled up against each other and half asleep. “I’m glad I waited for you,” Brendon murmurs stupidly into the darkness. He’s spooning Jon, their legs twisted into each other, but his head is on the pillow and tilted back so he doesn’t breathe in any of Jon’s hair and chokes and dies.

He blames fatigue and sex for being so open about his heart.

“I’m glad I waited for you,” Jon says.

“You weren’t waiting for me,” Brendon corrects. He puts his hand on Jon’s, and puts both on Jon’s heart. It’s beating in there, and in the same rhythm (Brendon likes to think) as his heart.

“I was,” Jon says. He turns his head and kisses Brendon’s throat until Brendon drops his head down for a real kiss. “I was waiting for you.” He kisses Brendon again and smiles against his lips. “Now all we need to do is get you a real job.”

With a sigh, Brendon breaks the kiss. “You had to go there,” he says, frowning a little.

Jon presses his hips to Brendon’s, rocks them a little. “I’ll make it up to you in the morning.” He kisses Brendon’s collarbone and then whispers, “And every morning forever.”

Brendon can barely hear it, but he does. “You promise?” he asks.

Instead of answering, Jon just kisses Brendon again. And a long while later, when they finally pull apart, Jon already half asleep as he settles back into Brendon’s arms, he thinks yeah.

Forever.

fin

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 07:49:57 GMT

I just sent my drawn_to assignment in to beta, but more importantly, ditchwitchbitch has posted the prequel to the fic of my heart and here it is: Finder's Keepers!

I'm so glad I finished my D_T because now I can read guilt-free! :D

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 05:58:30 GMT

It's quite possible that my drawn_to fic is the hottest thing I've ever written. Now all I have to do is actually finish it. 9K words and I'm only about halfway through... maybe two thirds?

OMG zombie hunters

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 06:11:37 GMT

I feel like posting excerpts is how I'm staying accountable with this fucking thing. Current word count: 15K

It takes several minutes (Joe feels stuck there out of mere curiosity alone), but finally the door opens and some guy shorter than Pete and with wilder hair than Joe opens the door and says, “Can I help you?”

“Um,” Pete says.

“Well,” Joe says.

They don’t need help, but it is a little, you know, weird. “Who are you?” The guy asks, and then, “And are those really necessary?” Joe looks over at Pete and assumes that the guy is asking about the guns, but then he says, “If you’re going to come inside, leave the hate sticks out here.”

“I’m Pete,” Pete says. “This is Joe. We’re professional zombie hunter.” He smiles brightly and Joe rolls his eyes.

Yeah. Professional zombie hunters. “You want to see our business cards?” Joe asks dryly. Pete elbows him in the arm and then Joe says, “We don’t leave these anywhere. But we also don’t use them on living creatures.” It’s mostly true, but it seems like the best answer to give this guy.

It seems to work, too, because after a few seconds of hesitation he steps away from the door and says, “I’m Andy. Come on in. Welcome to Fuck City.”

Joe falters on his way in, and Pete bumps into him in the process, but they make it inside and Andy shuts the door behind them, closing the door with five locks. It takes Joe back to their night in the locksmith place, and he thinks about that room full of keys and how it feels like years ago when it wasn’t at all. Just weeks ago. Maybe less than that, it’s so hard to tell with time anymore. There’s almost no point.

They follow Andy downstairs to the basement where there are a handful of other guys all arranged on couches and the faint smell that Joe takes a while to place to one of those earthy natural foods stores where the employees have dreadlocks. Joe has this image of Greek orgies followed by tofu barbecues and his stomach turns a little bit; it’s not a pretty picture. “Guys,” And says. “This is Pete and Joe. They’re zombie hunters from Los Angeles.”

“Welcome to the Midwest,” one says, tipping his head.

“Welcome to Fuck City,” says another. This one’s not wearing a shirt. Joe’s thinking he can wash his clothes on the guy’s stomach. He’s very impressed.

“We don’t normally approve of like, guns and shit,” Andy says. “But I don’t know if I can fit the undead into a no-kill philosophy.”

“They’re already dead,” Pete agrees.

sneak peek: Joe/Pete Zombie hunters

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 08:44:10 GMT

I'm very nearly at 10K words on this zombie hunter fic, which just absolutely baffles me. Anyway. Here's a little excerpt. It's so far simply called:

The sun is barely up when Joe’s awoken by the sound of a very angry male voice instructing him to, “Wake the fuck up and tell me your name.” He opens his eyes slowly and immediately puts his hands up, showing off that he had no weapon handy and that he clearly means no harm. The guy is holding a rifle up, aimed at Joe’s forehead, wearing a hat low over his forehead and is frowning with an intensity that Joe can’t help but find a little impressive. If frowns could kill, well, you know. “What’s that under the covers?” the guy asks and Joe glances down then back up at the guy, a blush spreading over his cheeks.

“It’s his dick,” Pete says from beside him. “Look, if you’re going to kill us, then do it, but I don’t think you want to, and we’d prefer you didn’t, and we just wanted to sleep here. If this is your territory, we’ll get out of your hands, and leave you the cookies we were going to have for breakfast.”

“Patrick!” The voice is sweet, and belongs to a girl, and Joe hopes that whoever she is, she has some sort of power over Patrick, because he’d rather like to live to see the end of the day, actually. He’d also like to have the cookies, but Joe can prioritize. “Put the gun down, come on.” She comes out from behind this Patrick fellow, and she is tiny and adorable. “You guys don’t mean any harm, right?”

“They have guns, Cass,” Patrick says. “Big ones. People with big guns don’t walk around not meaning any harm.”

“They’re for zombies,” Joe says quickly. “As long as you’re alive, we don’t want to hurt you. You’re not the undead, are you?”

“See?” Cass says. “They don’t want to hurt us because we’re alive.” She turns her attention to Joe and smiles at him. He’s quite charmed. “We’re not the undead.” Turning back to look at Patrick, Cass puts her hand on the barrel of the rifle and pushes it down. “I’m Cassadee,” she says, smiling back at Joe and Pete. “This is my knight in shining armor, Patrick.”

“Hi,” Patrick says, looking not at all pleased at the situation, but turning red at the way Cassadee addressed him.

“I’m Pete,” Pete says. “This is Joe, my knight in soiled boxer shorts.”

“I hate you,” Joe growls.

“And you are completely adorable,” Pete continues, like Joe hadn’t said anything. “Both of you. I’d love to put some clothes and then have breakfast with you guys. And so would Joe.”

“I bet he does,” Cassadee says. She smiles at them and then pushes at Patrick. “Meet us over in the kitchen section when you guys are presentable. She beams at Patrick and takes his hand, pulling him along with her.

Once they’re alone, Pete says, “They’re cute.”

“I really thought that guy was going to kill us,” Joe says. He stands up and pats his boxers down. “And I didn’t soil myself, dick.”

Pete snickers and stands on the bed, leans in and kisses Joe. “Do you want me to let them know when we go out there?”

“No,” Joe says, pulling on a t-shirt. “That’s okay.”

“Okay,” Pete says. “Let’s get dressed, grab the cookies and go out there.”

“We’re sharing the cookies?” Joe asks, trying to keep the whimper out of his voice. Sadly, he fails.

“Of course we are,” Pete says. “We’re gentlemen.”

FOB: Have You Ever (or ... and Patrick is a Werewolf!)

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 16:50:14 GMT

Have You Ever? (or ... and Patrick is a Werewolf!)
Joe/Patrick (Pete/Ashlee) * R * 9181 words

Disclaimer: I disclaim.

Author's Notes: Written for bandom_hc (see below). Thank you to ditchwitchbitch and rain_dances for the assistance in this and of course to likealocket for her superb beta-work. She is amazing and I love her. I know nothing about werewolf lore and it's possible I poached a few things from smeyer, which I certainly find highly embarrassing, but what can I do? I should have written about vampires.

I hope this satisfactorily fulfills the request. I did my best. No warnings. It's pretty innocuous.

Summary: 428. Anyway, so Joe has been pining after Patrick for years, but is convinced that Patrick has a thing for Pete/is with Pete/something-about-Pete! Pete and Ashlee get married, and Joe is convinced that Patrick is just being a gracious loser in congratulating the happy couple. Joe and Patrick either get intoxicated and have sex, or have sex sober, either way - but Joe is convinced that Patrick is just on the rebound! He is VERY SAD because clearly this doesn't mean as much to Patrick as it does to him (CLEARLY!!!) and stops talking to Patrick, instead spending even more time than usual getting high and wandering off for ~*alone time*~. maybe he gets hurt, maybe not. Then there is a happy ending where it is revealed that Patrick has been pining after Joe for years too, et cetera! (Bonus points if Patrick has to catch Joe in some sort of cage to get Joe to hear him out, re: Patrick's actual feelings. Super extra hilarious bonus points if the reason Patrick has a cage that size is because he (or Pete?) is sekritly a werewolf.)

It’s true; the first time Joe sees Patrick, it’s in a Borders, and he thinks he’s someone else.

He thinks it’s Greg Marris, neighbor, senior, basketball player and toyer with Joe’s emotions. Greg had once given Joe a hand job in the alley behind their houses and then ignored Joe every day after that at school.

When Patrick turns out not to be Greg Marris, Joe allows himself to get involved in conversation first about Neurosis, and then the hardcore scene, and then the music scene in Chicago, and before he even truly knows what’s happening, he’s got Patrick’s demo in his backpack and his phone number in his pocket.

Pete likes the demo, so Joe makes arrangements with Patrick to come over so they can meet, and he assumes that Pete and Patrick won’t get along. Two big personalities don’t usually mesh well, especially not in something as small as a band. But Joe was hoping that afterward maybe he and Patrick could make plans. They could hang out, like, after school and shit.

Maybe something could happen.

It works out okay, though. Pete’s kind of enamored with Patrick, and Patrick’s totally receptive to the idea. And Joe’s… glad. He’s glad to be in a band. He’s glad to see the things he wanted working out so well.

It’s hard to be disappointed that the guy you want to marry and adopt babies with is apparently one of the needed puzzle pieces to being in a successful band.

You can’t have everything.

Joe decides he’s just going to be happy to be in a band with Patrick. If he can find it in himself to be happy when he and Pete inevitably find relationship bliss together, even better.

*

If anything, Joe is shocked by how quickly he can get over Patrick. It’s like in Back to the Future, how they’re always saying that if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. That’s how it is for Joe. He put his mind to it, and he accomplished.

Sometimes he finds himself wondering, practically sees a giant what-if in the air. Especially when Pete is constantly dating people who aren’t Patrick, even as he continues to cling on and hang all over Patrick.

Joe even starts to feel a little bad for Patrick. Here’s a guy being led on by another guy who is dating other people, usually girls.

And he knows that this bothers Patrick. They catch eyes sometimes, over fret boards or disgusting truck stop food. Patrick’s just looking at him with this sad expression, like he’s so heartbroken; can’t Joe see how heartbroken Patrick is?

Usually afterward, like not right away, but maybe after ten or so minutes have past, Joe likes to spend extra time with Patrick. He calls it special 1984 time, to celebrate the two members of Fall Out Boy born in 1984. Pete calls it loser time and Andy calls it weird, but it always makes Patrick smile for a while.

It makes Joe smile too, being able to make Patrick happy. Not in like, a cheesy in-love kinda way, but just in that very real, very platonic, he likes doing stuff for his friends kinda way. It feels good.

It feels awesome, actually.

And if sometimes, it seems like if anything, Patrick is more upset than before, well, that just means Joe has to work extra hard to make sure that Patrick is able to get over this Pete.

At some point, he’ll get over the Pete thing.

*

Joe’s been on a tour before, but touring is still not at all what he thought it would be. He always envisioned big buses and screaming fans and pyro and epic hair and instead it’s a van filled with seven guys who haven’t showered in a combined total of three weeks living off of peanut butter and licorice and a lot of asking his dad for money.

Anyway, Joe’s driving and Patrick’s sitting shotgun eating sunflowers seeds, and he’s spitting the shells into a cup of Coke Joe’s pretty sure Pete fell asleep drinking. They’re playing Would You Rather, speaking in hushed tones because Pete’s asleep in the middle seat, and he gets so little sleep as it is.

They all do, really.

Andy’s in the back, curled up in blankets, and Mike and Tony, tour manager and merch dude respectively, are in the back back seat. Joe can hear Tony snoring all the way up front.

The heat is broken, and Joe is wearing almost everything he packed, and the radio’s broken so the van is almost silent except for their conversation, the sound of wind around the van and Tony’s snoring. “Would you rather,” Patrick starts, speaking slowly. Joe shifts his gaze to Patrick for a few seconds and then refocuses on the road. “Never be able to play guitar again, or never be able to speak again?”

”Speak,” Joe says. “Too easy.” Beside him, Patrick sighs. “Would you rather,” Joe begins, “Be in a moderately successful band for a few years and then be fairly unsuccessful at having normal jobs for the rest of your life, or never be in a band, but have a successful career doing whatever else kind of office based job?”

“Hmm,” Patrick hums. He chews quietly on a seed for a few seconds before bringing the cup to his mouth and spitting shell into it. Joe’s a little grossed out, which is saying a lot, considering he thought Patrick was cute when he was puking up every ounce of food he had eaten after some bad Taco Bell. “Would it be this band or some other band?”

”What does it matter?” Joe asks. He keeps his tone soft; he’s serious. “I figured you’d rather be in a band at all.”

From the corner of his eye, Joe sees Patrick shrug. He doesn’t say anything right away, and just when Joe is thinking it might be time for him to continue the conversation because apparently Patrick has fallen asleep or turned off or something, Patrick speaks. “I don’t want to be in another band, so.” He waits and now Joe doesn’t know what to say to that. Patrick is such a phenomenal musician, it’s ridiculous that he wouldn’t want to be in a band that didn’t have him and Andy and Pete in it.

And then Joe realizes: oh… with Pete in it.

“So you’d choose moderately successful Fall Out Boy over no band and success in some other career.”

“I’d rather do this for the rest of my life than be a dentist,” Patrick says. He scratches at his head and then clears his throat, glancing out the window before putting more seeds into his mouth.

This time Joe shrugs. “I’d rather do this for the rest of my life than go to medical school but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be worth it to be a good psychiatrist.”

*

Patrick’s got this look on his face, like he might throw up if anybody comes up behind him and shouts boo, or talks about crimes against animals or something. He has his hands on his stomach, his head down, like he’d be concentrating on his Supras if his eyes weren’t shut tight. His hat’s pulled down low, glasses crooked, jacket pulling at his shoulders where it’s straining a little at the seams to cover all of him. It’s Patrick’s usual countenance at the beginning of a tour, and it’s something everybody has grown used to, and nobody bothers him, not even Pete.

Joe watches him from his seat in the corner, absently noodling his fingers over the strings of his guitar, though his attention isn’t at all on what he’s doing and is instead entirely on what he’s looking at, on Patrick.

It’s not Joe’s normal pre-show routine, because it’s not always safe to stare at Patrick so obviously, like he’s the second coming of Jesus, or Moses, or whatever.

Nobody’s around though; Andy’s outside working out, Pete’s elsewhere torturing Dirty. It’s a beautiful summer day and everybody’s enjoying what this city - maybe in Washington, maybe in Oregon, Joe can’t remember and it doesn’t matter much anyway - has to offer. Or at least, they’re all enjoying what the weather has to offer, because it’s only a few hours to show time and there’s a concern that if they leave the venue they won’t be able to get back to it without making a spectacle of themselves. So they’re stuck outside, in the grass. But it’s beautiful grass, so it doesn’t matter much.

Anyway, everybody’s outside except for Joe and Patrick. Patrick, who’s silently freaking out – that’s easy to see – and Joe, who’s taking advantage of a few minutes to stare and enjoy the view without worrying about what someone else might say, Andy’s concern or Pete’s confusion or Dirty’s annoying ability to say the most embarrassing things to Joe, always.

Patrick opens his eyes and Joe looks down, plays out a riff before glancing back up at Patrick, nonchalantly, like he hadn’t just been staring, and he says, “You want something? Tea? Water? Blowjob?” He smiles wryly at Patrick, like he was just kidding, like he’d never want to actually go down on Patrick, like it isn’t something that he thinks about at inconvenient times, such as trying to sleep in his bunk, or doing interviews with local newspapers, or when he’s onstage performing.

“Yeah if you,” Patrick starts, looking over at him more. He pushes his hat up so that Joe can see his face, and then his, so he can see Joe’s, and smiles. “Like, tea maybe? Something black, you know.”

”I know,” Joe says. He stands, holding his axe by the neck for a few seconds before carefully setting it down on his seat. “You like your tea black, like you like your men.”

”Har har,” Patrick says while Joe leaves to go back to the hallway where he knows the food is. He stands over the table, looking over the array of sandwich goodies, fruits and vegetables, chips and nuts. Joe gets the tea first, some sort of English or British or Irish something or other, and then grabs a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. He goes back into their dressing room and hands Patrick the tea before popping a few nuts into his mouth – peanut and cashew. Patrick says, “Put those nuts into your mouth a little more enthusiastically.” He smirks as he tips the cup up to drink his tea.

Joe hmmms and doesn’t say anything; he just stares at Patrick’s mouth and tries not to use his imagination.

Patrick’s not so much drinking his tea, as he’s staring morosely at it. Joe knows this because he’s been watching for the past five minutes. Pete’s still not back, though Andy’s been in and out since Joe got the tea. He said, “Tea? Really?” and then disappeared again. Joe doesn’t mind.

He noodles with his guitar, watching Patrick more than he’s concentrating on the fret board. “You okay?” he asks, fingers sliding along the strings so the squeaks roll through his body.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. He slurps loudly at his tea and then makes a face and sets the cup down. “Tea’s cold,” he says.

“In five minutes?” That just doesn’t seem right. Joe gets up to move to the tea, but Patrick picks it up and holds it to his body. “Not cold just, you know, not hot anymore. Tepid.”

“That’s a good word,” Joe says. “I like the word tepid.”

Patrick finally smiles. It’s wary and forced and not altogether the most encouraging thing ever, but it’s a smile. Joe takes it. “I’m glad,” he says. Joe nods and pushes a hand through his hair.

“Check out this riff,” Joe says. He slides his fingers over the strings and watches Patrick for his reaction. It always goes the same way. Patrick listens with his eyes closed, his head tilted up. He listens like he’s drinking, Joe thinks. He seems to hold his breath, and Joe watches Patrick watch the ceiling, almost not even paying attention to what his fingers are doing. “And then,” Joe says, drawing out the final note. “Here’s the kicker.” He runs quickly through the chord, down down down an octave and holds out that note, gives it a little vibrato. “It’s like sex with a guitar.” He smiles at Patrick, relaxing his grip on his axe. “I just laid you, Patrick.”

“Mph,” Patrick says. He stands up abruptly and pushes his hat down lower on his head. “I’m going to get more hot water.” He’s gone unreasonably quickly for Patrick, and Joe scratches his head.

“I’ll just assume you liked it,” he hollers after Patrick.

Patrick is weird during the show. It’s easy to tell. Joe knows what weird-Patrick is like. He spends plenty of time letting Pete have his way with him (so to speak), but when Joe spins too close or leans in toward Patrick, he’s denied every time. It’s kinda a bummer, because Patrick and Joe, they have their guitarist thing. But it’s okay. He runs back to the other side of the stage, and people scream for him, hands moving up to the sky. Joe loves his job, even when his singer isn’t feeling the love.

*

Pete’s dick is all over the internet, and Patrick is very loudly attempting not to see it. Actually, all of them are going out of their way to not accidentally come across pictures of Pete’s dick.

They’ve all had the “pleasure” of seeing it live and in person more than a few times, so it’s not like they’re missing out on anything. It’s just, there’s something different about this. Well there are many things different about this, including the fact that Pete’s not standing over Joe with his dick in his hand laughing and yelling, “It’s the one-eyed monster! It’s the one-eyed monster!”

Things like that make this situation different.

Patrick’s the loudest, though. Andy and Joe laugh about not wanting to see it, but after Andy slips and admits that he googled and looked, Joe feels like he can fess up to also looking as well.

They’d seen worse, they both decide.

When Joe comes out and asks Patrick though, like maybe he wants to talk about it or something, Patrick is appalled that Joe would even consider actually looking at the pictures. (Joe is very glad that he didn’t tell Patrick that he had seen them.)

It’s a little weird, though. Joe would imagine that Patrick would want to see the pictures. But maybe by admitting to looking, it’d feel like admitting to liking him.

That happened to Joe once, in the eighth grade. Mindy Sellers was wearing a shirt that you could see down when she was bent over her desk. All the guys were talking about it. Joe had an epic crush on Mindy. It was the kind of crush that was called a crush because it crushed his soul.

He invited her to his Bar Mitzvah and she RSVPed no. Soul crushing.

Anyway, he was probably the only boy in his grade who didn’t at least try to peer down her shirt to see the well-defined treasures underneath the wool of her sweater. He just couldn’t; trying to do it would be like admitting he had a crush on her.

Now he knows he could have looked, it wouldn’t have mattered. He could have blended in with the other boys and nobody would have known about the unrequited love; but he knows if he had the chance again, he still wouldn’t do it.

He likes to say it’s out of respect, but mostly it’s the other thing.

“That’s very respectful of you,” Joe says slowly to Patrick, not wanting Patrick to know that Joe knows his secret.

“Well he’s my best friend,” Patrick says. “And I’ve seen enough of his dick to last a lifetime.”

*

It’s not that Joe has no faith in Pete’s ability to maintain a relationship; he just has no faith in his ability to have a relationship with a girl who’s going to understand him to the point where they can at some point have marital bliss together. The difference is huge; it’s the difference between him having faith in Pete, and him having faith in Ashlee.

Joe’s got Marie, now, which is weird. For one thing, it’s weird to be seeing a girl who looks at him like he can do anything. He doesn’t mind it, he loves it, but it’s a little intimidating. He knows at some point he’s going to do something that disappoints her. He doesn’t doubt Marie’s ability to love him forever; he doubts his ability to be happy with her, when Patrick is always so close by.

Ashlee has two faces, Joe’s noticed. She’s smiling when Pete’s around, and she’s frowning when he’s not. He starts to feel better about things when he notices the way Ashlee’s face falls when Pete walks away, how she watches him until he’s out of sight, and how she lights up when he returns. Joe goes with Brian once to pick up Ashlee and Marie at the airport; Pete can’t make it because he’s doing a last minute interview. They get Ashlee first and she looks ready to cry when she sees Joe and Diaz. He puts an arm around her, hugs her to him, and says, “Pete’s so bummed. I bet he’s giving shitty answers to get back at them for springing this on him.” Ashlee smiles lightly, wipes at her eyes, and Joe turns his head like he doesn’t notice.

“Thanks Joe,” she says. He likes this girl.

She greets Marie like everything’s great, and walks with Brian, a few steps ahead of them, and doesn’t say boo about the fact that Pete should have been with them.

They all know Ashlee’s pregnant before anything is announced. Marie whispers it to Joe one night when they’re in bed trying to sleep. Her question confirms the fact that Pete had been acting weird, as he had thought. “Did she tell you?” he asks, their voices the only sound in the darkness.

“She isn’t drinking anymore,” Marie says. “And she touches her stomach. Like,” and she takes Joe’s hand and puts it on her abdomen. He presses his hand into Marie’s skin and for a few seconds wonders what it would be like to get Marie pregnant, have a baby with her, start a little half-Jew family. He thinks about what Patrick would say to it; the news would probably make him happy, but the thought of that makes Joe’s stomach twist until he wants to throw up. “I don’t mean like she ever drank too much, you know?” Marie keeps going, now stroking her fingers along Joe’s hand. “But like, when you’re pregnant, you stop. For the baby. You know.”

Joe doesn’t know, but it makes sense. She takes a deep breath, like she’s going to say more, but Joe says, “I couldn’t imagine having a kid,” he says. “That’s like. It’s an after-band thing.”

His brain defies logic and forces Joe to picture him and Patrick in the back of a bus, playing with some little kid who is clearly theirs, and Joe feels like a douchebag. He rolls into Marie and presses his face to her neck, murmurs, “But we should practice just in case,” like sex will just make everything okay.

*

They fly into LA a week before the wedding. There’s no real purpose to do it, except Joe wants to be around for Pete and Patrick, and Marie’s dying for some sunshine after being stuck in the gallery and in New York all winter.

It’s a win/win situation for the two of them, really.

Three days before the wedding, Marie checks into a day spa to, “get beautiful for you,” as she tells Joe, and Joe calls Patrick because Pete’s too busy getting ready to get married and Andy’s a little bit frightening in LA.

They meet for lunch first, and miso soup, then edamame, and then sushi with chopsticks until they’re both laughing with soy sauce dripping down their chins. Afterward Patrick and Joe walk to a record store together, and while they’re going through the used CDs in cardboard boxes, Joe pulls out a copy of Neurosis and shows it to Patrick. “Well fuck me running,” Patrick says, and Joe smiles. “Look at that shit.” He takes the disc out of Joe’s hand and flips it over, reading the back of the package, and then flips it over again. “We should get this,” he says to Joe. “It’s like, a memento or something.”

“Oh Patrick,” Joe says. He’s grinning, arms now crossed over his chest, and he’s leaning on the table with all the boxes of old CDs. “When did you become such a sentimental gramma?”

Patrick snorts and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I don’t know, I think it had something to do when I…” he pauses, thinking, and then shakes his head. “Yeah, that was going nowhere.”

“Thank God,” Joe says. He takes the CD out of Patrick’s hands and says, “I’ll get this for you.” It’s the least he can do, given the big day occurring soon. He holds onto the CD and moves over to the next box and says, “Hey, speaking of being sentimental,” he says, and then stops, looking up at Patrick.

When Joe’s silent for a while, Patrick finally says, “Yes?” and Joe feels like he can go on.

“How are you doing?”

“Um,” Patrick seems confused. But he gets like that sometimes. He’s not really one for small talk. “I’m fine,” he says slowly. “I guess. Why?”

“Big day,” Joe says. He watches Patrick’s eyes; those are where the truth is always hidden.

Patrick’s eyes appear to be saying something about how Joe’s a weirdo. His eyes must be lying. Patrick is good. “Well it’s not my wedding,” Patrick says. He shrugs and moves over to a different box.

“Are you okay with that?” Joe asks, following. He puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick immediately stiffens. “Like, Pete’s getting married. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. He rolls his shoulder, nudging Joe’s hand off of him. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Joe doesn’t answer that question. He simply says, “Well, if you need to talk, I’m here for you.” He squeezes Patrick’s shoulder, then ducks out of the way of Patrick’s elbow from the extra contact.

It’s a little sad, Joe thinks later as he heads back to the apartment. Patrick is in denial about his feelings for Pete, and he’s about to be punched in the face with them.

“So sad,” Joe says.

*

At the wedding, Joe stands beside Patrick and feels the tension rolling off him in waves. He feels bad, he does; but he also feels great for Pete. Joe has never seen Pete look as happy as he does with Ashlee, saying his vows, sneaking those touches to her abdomen. (Joe confronted Pete about it soon after Marie’s revelation. First Pete denied it, but then he sighed and asked how he knew.) He holds onto Hemmy’s leash and smiles at Marie a lot but mostly he just keeps an eye on Patrick.

Patrick has that same pained look that he has before shows, like he knows he should be enjoying himself but he really just looks like he wants to die. Still clutching Hemmy’s leash, Joe reaches forward and tries to slip his hand into Patrick’s. There are two, maybe three, seconds where Patrick squeezes onto Joe’s hand and clings to him. Then he lets go and pulls it away altogether, and Joe’s left feeling a little bit dumped. He looks back out at the seats and catches Marie’s eyes. She bounces her eyebrows at him, like maybe she knows Joe’s secret.

He turns his attention back to Pete and Ashlee and tries not to let his gaze drift.

At the reception Joe gets sloshed and starts hanging all over people. It’s what he does. Boozed up, he forgets how awkward he feels and that he worries about everything. He hangs on Andy and Pete and Marie and he hangs on Patrick, arms wrapping around his belly and practically shouting into Patrick’s ear, “Can you believe our little Petey’s getting married?”

Patrick laughs, but even in Joe’s stupor he can tell that it’s hollow, or like a hologram, or something. “I actually can’t,” Patrick says. He pulls away from Joe and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Maybe you can marry Jessica,” Joe says, pointing at her, even though she’s clearly doing fine with Tony.

“Maybe not,” Patrick says back.

He shouts to be heard over the music. “You should get over your broken heart,” Joe says. He puts a hand onto Patrick’s shoulder. He just rests it there, but Patrick seems to sag a little anyway. “Eat ice cream and shit.”

Patrick doesn’t quite shout, but he speaks loudly. “I’d rather not eat shit,” Patrick says. He pulls his shoulder away from Joe’s grip and says, “Go dance with your wife.”

“My girlfriend,” Joe corrects. He looks over at where Marie is sitting, talking to a woman who’s probably old enough to be one of their moms. “Just my girlfriend.”

“Go dance with your girlfriend,” Patrick says. He puts his hands on Joe’s back and gives him a shove.

Joe stumbles forward and then saunters up to Marie. “Hey baby,” he says. “Want to dance?”

She laughs and they dance and they dance and they dance. It’s the best party Joe’s been to in a long time, but the worst hangover he’s had since he turned 22.

*

The day after the wedding Joe has a headache and his stomach roils. He and Marie pad around the condo softly, shifting past each other like objects in orbit or something. Midway through the afternoon she stops and puts her hand on his wrist, asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m hung over,” Joe says. He is, too. He still feels shitty. He feels like he could eat an entire stack of pancakes, or maybe most of the menu at IHOP or something. “That’s all.”

“I just,” she says, but Joe’s phone rings.

He puts his finger up and snatches at it, says, “It’s Patrick,” by way of explanation than answers.

Patrick says, “You hung over?”

Joe says, “What does that even mean anyway? Hung over. That’s like, the weirdest phrase ever. Hung over. It’s weird.” Marie’s looking at him, her brow furrowed a little. Joe shrugs.

“You’re weird,” Patrick says. “How long are you guys in town?”

“Marie has to go back to work,” Joe says. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. Joe feels kinda bad. He should be there for Patrick. It’s been a hard time for him. He’s looked pretty bad lately. Like, worse than usual.

“I could stay,” Joe says. Marie frowns and he turns away from her, leaning on the kitchen counter instead. “Like, if you wanted. Keep you company for a bit here while Pete and Ashlee are off honeymooning.”

He expects Patrick to say no, because Patrick’s that guy who pretty much refuses all offerings of help. So Joe’s shocked as hell when Patrick says, “Yeah. Cool.”

Joe nods quickly and says, “Alright. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

They say bye and hang up, and then Joe turns back to Marie. She says, expression blank, “You’re staying here.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Patrick’s like. He’s in love with Pete. I don’t want him to like, do something drastic. Or something.”

“In love with Pete,” Marie says slowly. She looks at Joe for a few seconds and then sighs heavily. “Oh, Joey.” She pulls her hair back with both hands and then turns and walks out of the kitchen. A few seconds later the sound of the bedroom door slamming trails into the room and Joe sighs.

He had been hoping for a nap.

*

Joe stays in LA longer than he had been planning. Marie’s always busy with work in New York and Patrick seems like he needs Joe. They hang out a lot, watching TV on someone’s couch, or playing dueling guitars. There’s a lot of vegan cooking, which Joe’s not into, and a lot of drinking, which Joe IS into, and most importantly, there’s a lot of Joe making sure that Patrick is okay.

He tries, for example, not to bring up Pete’s wedding, or the fact that Pete’s married. It might rub things in or something. Instead they just hang out on the couch, or go to the movies, or sit outside by the pool that they never use.

They play a lot of ‘Would You Rather’ and ‘What If’ games, like they’re back out on tour, in the van, navigating highways while Andy and Pete are sleeping in the back.

They play a lot of ‘Do you remember…?’ which is the most fun for Joe. And when Pete is brought up, he always changes the subject.

He finds himself changing the subject quite a bit. Joe’s in Los Angeles for three weeks before he thinks that maybe he should start thinking about heading back to New York, and to Marie.

*

When they’re on break, sometimes Patrick just disappears. Joe usually doesn’t notice, because he’s with Marie. But now that he’s in Los Angeles specifically to hang out with Patrick, it’s kinda obvious. He makes a few phone calls to see if anybody knows where Patrick is, but nobody does.

It’s just two days, and then Patrick’s back, standing on Joe’s doorstep, looking maybe a little bloated, so Joe asks, “Hey where were you? You sick?”

“I’m,” and then Patrick pulls his hat down over his forehead more and says, “What?” They’re still standing at Joe’s doorway; Joe’s standing in the center, not letting Patrick in, though he’s not even thinking about it like that. He’s just standing. He’s just… confused.

“You look a little,” Joe gestures at his face, like that just says everything, and continues with, “You know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick responds, in a way that says he clearly doesn’t know.

Joe thinks that this isn’t working. He tries a different tactic. “You like, disappeared.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says again. “I’ve actually been here the whole time.” And then he gestures at the door. “Can I like, come in?”

Joe steps back and Patrick walks in, and shuts the door. “You ever,” he says, stopping suddenly to shove his hands into his pockets. “You ever like, want to tell someone something, but you don’t want to because it’s like, this huge secret?”

Yeah, Joe thinks he might have experienced that a few times.

“And like,” Patrick continues, “it’s just eating you up inside and there’s nothing you can really do about it except like, keep living with it, because you can’t tell anybody.”

“Uh,” Joe says. “You want something to drink?” He takes one step away from Patrick, toward the kitchen, and then says, “You can tell me, you know.” He thinks, Patrick can tell him that he’s in love with Pete. Joe can take it. He’s all man. He’s ready for this.
Patrick presses against the wall, like Joe is threatening him; all he’s doing, though, is offering Patrick some water. Maybe he should up it to a beer. They’re on a break. They’re young.

“Or like,” Joe says.

“I don’t have anything to tell you,” Patrick says. He’s defensive, like Joe’s not only pushing him up against that wall, but he’s also accusing him of something. Joe doesn’t have anything to accuse Patrick of, except maybe being weird.

Patrick’s pretty fucking weird, like, a lot of the time.

“You can tell me,” Joe says again. “I’m going to get you some water.”

“I don’t need any water,” Patrick says; since he’s clearly speaking crazy, however, Joe goes into the kitchen to get them some water.

He uses the glass of icy cold fresh mountain spring water (actually water from the Brita filter in his refrigerator) to lure Patrick into the living room where there’s a couch for getting information out of people. Joe’s going to use it.

For a few seconds he just watches Patrick drink his water while he uses this time to think of the best way to get information out of Patrick. He needs to be gentle, maybe a little wheedling. This needs to be the kind of soft-handedness that he uses to get sexual favors that will go unreturned.

“You can tell me you’re in love with Pete,” Joe says. Then he winces, because that wouldn’t even get him a teasing pat on the crotch. Just a bed on the couch; at least he’s already on it.

Patrick, astonishingly, looks legitimately confused, like Joe didn’t just hit the nail on the head. “I’m not in love with Pete,” he says.

“Sure you’re not,” Joe says. He still has time to salvage the situation, let Patrick know that Joe is a safe person to confess all his deepest and darkest secrets to.

“I’m really not,” Patrick says. “Like, I threw up a little in my mouth when you said it.”

“Patrick,” Joe says. He says it kindly, and a little sympathetically, like oh you poor Patrick, you don’t know what you’re talking about. “There are only two reasons to use a hypothetical. One is when you’re bored, and the other is when it applies to you. Like when Marie asked me if I’d ever consider moving out of Chicago.” Ten minutes and a blowjob later, they were planning the move to New York and becoming New Yorkers. Just like that.

It’s possible that he catches a roll of Patrick’s eyes, but it’s probably just because Patrick is annoyed at how completely transparent he is. “So because I ask you about having some deep, dark secret, I must be in love with Pete?”

To be fair, and Joe likes to be fair, when Patrick puts it that way, it sounds a little crazy. But only when Patrick puts it that way.

Otherwise, it makes perfect sense.

“Yes.”

Patrick shakes his head and drains his water glass. He hands it to Joe and stands up, adjusts his hat. “You’re the smartest guy in this band, and you’re still an idiot.” Patrick shakes his head and pulls his shirt down. “That’s like, really sad.”

“It is,” Joe says. He stands too, then bends and sets the empty glass down onto the coffee table before straightening again. “I’m just saying,” he says, trying to use his psychiatrist voice. It’s the voice he would have used on his patients if he had gone on to medical school like he had thought about for like, five minutes in the eighth grade. “If you had a secret. About like, you know, anything. Like being in love with Pete or like, something else. You could tell me, you know?” He swings his arm around and knocks Patrick in the bicep. Patrick immediately puts his hand up to his arm where Joe’s fist had landed. “I’m your buddy.”

Still holding onto his arm, a little excessively, Joe thinks, Patrick says, “Yeah, thanks.” He nods toward the door and says, “I should probably leave.”

“You just got here,” Joe says. They have so much to talk about. Patrick has a secret that he’s keeping from Joe. Trohman policy dictates that Patrick not leave until he’s bared his soul to Joe and they’ve also figured out a way to make his life right again. Usually weed is involved, but he’s nearly out and Joe’s guy is out of town.

It’s important to ration during a drought, you know.

Joe follows Patrick to the door and leans on the wall for a few seconds while Patrick flicks all the locks. He straightens when Patrick turns and says, “You ever know something but you don’t realize you know it, and you just live in this weird state of denial about this ultimate truth, and you just keep making these weird mistakes because you can’t face the truth of what’s really going on?”

After heaving a very long, but very sympathetic, sigh, Joe says, “Patrick, are you actually in love with Pete, and I just helped you get to that epiphany?”

Patrick sighs a weary sigh that definitely has no sympathy in it. He steps in toward Joe, kisses him awkwardly, and then lets himself out.

Like that’s convincing, Joe thinks, touching his lips as he locks up behind Patrick.

*

Three days pass and Joe doesn’t hear back from Patrick again. He knows he hasn’t disappeared because sometimes Joe drives by Patrick’s place and his car is there, or he sees lights on and the paper’s never in the driveway or anything.

Anyway, three days pass, and in the middle of the night of day three, early in the morning of day four, if you will, Joe wakes up from a disturbing dream and says, “Oh God.”

He’s in love with Patrick.

*

It kinda makes sense, like, when Joe stops to think about it. It answers a few questions that he had, here and there, like why he always irrationally hated everybody Patrick dated ever, why he never minded not having the spotlight the way he minded Pete and Patrick sharing it, the way sharing a bus with just Pete annoyed Joe most when they were sitting blearily in the front lounge and just watching the country pass by.

It also explains a few things about Marie. Or more specifically, the door-slamming that always seemed to follow otherwise innocuous conversations about the band.

“This is why I’m the smartest one in the band,” Joe tells himself in the mirror.

Not liking to talk to himself, he calls Patrick, who doesn’t answer.

Patrick calls back a minute later (Joe didn’t leave a message), and Joe says, “So I figured out what you were talking about with the whole thing about having the secret that you’re keeping from yourself.”

“Oh good,” Patrick says.

“And you can tell me about being in love with Pete,” Joe says. “I can handle it. You know? I’m strong.”

Patrick hangs up on him.

Joe smiles because it’s kinda endearing. It’s such a Patrick thing to do.

*

Joe flies to New York to break things off with Marie. She mostly seems annoyed that it took Joe so long to figure himself out. He’s a little sad because she’s cool as hell and he doesn’t want to not have her in his life anymore.

“Oh honey,” she says. “If I can’t find anybody by the time I’m 30, I’m having your baby, just so you know.”

“Um,” Joe says, because they’d never had the kid conversation before.

“Don’t um me,” Marie says with a smile. The conversation should be less weird since she’s smiling and clearly not saying this to be evil. “I want a kid some day and I love your family and I love you and since you and Patrick can’t have butt babies since neither of you have a uterus, if I can’t find somebody to have babies with by the time I’m 30, I’m having one of yours. You owe me.”

Joe’s not sure that he does, but the idea of having babies is a lot less scary when there’s no commitment behind it.

It doesn’t sound like there’s a lot of commitment behind this one.

Joe takes the Puss-man back to Los Angeles a few days later. He cries more than Marie does.

*

Back in Los Angeles, Joe putters around his apartment for a few days just getting adjusted to being there. He calls Patrick after four days and suggests they hang out.

Patrick asks, “Did Marie just break up with you?”

“I broke up with her,” Joe says, in case it’s important.

“And now you’re calling me,” Patrick says, dryly, like he’s not at all as thrilled with Joe’s line of thinking as he ought to be.

Unless Joe was wrong, oh God.

Oh God. What if he’s wrong?

“Yeah…” Joe says, when Patrick doesn’t say anything else.

“Fuck you,” Patrick says. Then he hangs up.

“God damn it,” Joe says.

He was wrong.

*

Three hours, half a pizza, and a bowl later, there’s a knock at Joe’s door. He glances down at the pizza box and then at the door. “What the…” He already has his pizza. Did he black out and order Chinese? Stupidly, he opens the door without looking through the little peephole, but it works out okay.

Patrick breathes out, “You’re so stupid,” and this is true, yes, though highly uncalled for, but it doesn’t matter, because then Patrick’s mouth is on Joe’s and well. It’s just one of those things where he didn’t really know how badly he wanted something until he had it.

Making out with Patrick is like, the greatest thing that Joe never knew he was missing.

Making out with Patrick kinda turns into covering each other on the couch, Patrick’s mouth on his neck, his hands in Joe’s hair, and Patrick’s thigh… God Patrick’s thigh. Right between Joe’s, moving slowly, maddeningly. “Nnnnngh,” Joe says, dropping his head back onto the couch.

He arches his hips up, pushing against Patrick. He’s never done this before, but it’s awesome… whatever it is.

Afterward, Joe is on his back on the floor, sweaty and gross. He hasn’t been this gross since, well, he hasn’t felt this gross in quite a while.

“Wow,” Joe says.

“You’re on the floor,” Patrick says.

“Yeah.”

He lies there a little longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how the warmth in his pants is slowly cooling, and how it’s possible that he’s not going to be able to take them off later.

“Do you wanna come up here?” Patrick asks.

Joe thinks about it. Being on the ground is uncomfortable, but he’s feeling too loose and groovy to actually get up and do anything about it.

“I’m okay,” Joe says. “You wanna come down here?”

“I’m okay.”

He’s more than okay. Joe keeps this to himself.

*

They don’t stay there for very long; Patrick has a gig producing… something or other. Joe can’t remember. It’s always producing something when it comes to Patrick. Usually it’s just whoever he’s producing for that changes. And sometimes not even that.

It’s quarter to eleven when he gets a phone call and Joe answers without looking to who it is. “Holla,” he says. He’s watching Eight Mile on USA. Edited movies are hilarious.

“It’s Patrick.”

Joe straightens up. He adjusts his hat. Then he remembers that he’s all alone. “Hi.”

Part of him is hoping that Patrick’s going to say something about having more sex. Maybe even sex that involves partial to full nudity. Then the rest of him recoils because he’s never been in close proximity to another man’s uncovered manhood and it just seems… kinda strange.

“You wanna-”

“Yes,” Joe breathes, already reaching for his keys.

“- come over?” Patrick laughs lightly. “Okay.”

Joe smiles and ducks his head down. “I’ll be right there. I have frozen non-dairy treat I can bring.”

“Just bring yourself,” Patrick says.

Joe dies a little. Then he grabs his keys and leaves.

*

Patrick answers the door shirtless, looking a little scruffy but not, you know, completely unappealing. “Dude,” Joe says. He launches himself at Patrick, which is something that always works well in the movies, but when Joe’s legs wrap around Patrick’s waist, they both just fall to the floor. Patrick yelps and arches up while Joe’s forehead hits the ground. So do his knees.

This goes much better in the romantic comedies. Though usually his part would be played by the Grey’s Anatomy chick or Sandra Bullock; maybe this is why it doesn’t work as well.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Patrick groans from underneath Joe.

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Me, too.” He flops onto his back and sighs, then turns his head to look over at Patrick. “Did I break anything?”

“No,” Patrick says. “I’m fine.”

“I meant on me,” Joe says. He smiles. He hopes it’s mischievous. “I thought we could play doctor.”

Patrick sighs. Joe can see the heavy rise and fall of his chest, plus his breath huffs out like he’s been put out a lot. “You’re a pervert.”

“It’s part of my charm.” Joe puts his chin on Patrick’s arm, then says, “Dude, you’re hot.”

“Diet and exercise,” Patrick says.

That wasn’t what Joe meant but… yeah. Patrick’s hot in that way, too.

Joe struggles up and turns toward Patrick. “I actually meant like. You’re burning up. Like, I give you fever.”

“Fever in the morning?” Patrick sings.

“In this case it’s more like all through the night,” Joe suggests.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. “Stop with the playing doctor thing. It’s weird. Your dad is Dr. Trohman.”

Okay. Now it’s weird. “No, Rick. Seriously. Like, to the touch. Burning up. Fry an egg. Like douse you in water and get steam.”

Patrick pushes himself up and turns to Joe. “I want to show you something.”

“Is it your cock?” Joe asks.

He winces, because he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. At least he didn’t say anything about how he hoped it was Patrick’s cock. That was like, a step (or eight) too far.

“You’re close,” Patrick says. He stands and starts walking deeper into the house, leaving Joe no choice but to get up and follow him, trying to figure out what being close to a cock is.

They’re entering Patrick’s bedroom when Joe says, “Your balls?” because what else is close to a dick? Unless Patrick is planning on showing him some awesome meatless hot dog, and he probably wouldn’t be doing that in his bedroom. Joe’s not an ace detective, and it’s too late for riddles, and he’s clearly sex addled.

“You should really stop talking,” Patrick says. Joe clamps his mouth shut and steps forward, still following Patrick, even though it means being led into the closet.

“Is this-” he starts, but Patrick cuts him off: “Shut the fuck up for once.”

Joe does.

There’s really nothing to say though. Patrick’s closet has a gigantic cage in it. It’s weird because like, Joe can’t imagine what kind of dog would need a cage like this. Maybe one of those Alaskan dogs with the beer barrels. Or a mastiff. A beer barrel dog would be cooler though. Fetch would be a lot more awesome if it involved beer.

“Are you getting a-”

Joe starts, but Patrick puts his hands on Joe’s chest and shoves him into the cage, saying, “Will you just shut the fuck up already?” in a tone of voice that is usually reserved for Pete, unruly studio equipment, and stop lights that are out to get him.

Sitting in a cage, however, shuts Joe up in a way that even he can’t overcome. He pulls his knees up to his chest and looks up at Patrick, waiting.

It’s a little like a movie. Less like a romantic comedy, though, and more like a horror film. Or a war film, and Joe’s a POW in Patrick’s crazy sex war. Okay, now that’s just porn. A crazy vampire war film. Vampires are so in, man, and so Patrick has this cage to keep the vampires… no. A zombie war film. Joe smiles because YES a zombie war film. Of course, that means it’s possible that Patrick might be a zombie.

“Are you a zombie?” he asks. Patrick’s not doing anything anyway. He’s just standing over Joe, taking deep breaths.

It’s actually a little disconcerting.

Because this is real life and not a movie and Joe’s in a cage and Patrick is possibly a zombie (though he doesn’t recall if zombies breathe, so maybe his brain is safe to wrinkle for another day) and definitely losing his shit.

“I’m not a zombie,” Patrick says. “I’m a werewolf.”

Joe laughs.

Patrick is not a werewolf.

“You shut the fuck up,” Joe says. “And let me out of this cage. You’re not a werewolf. You can’t bite little children and suck their blood.”

“That’s vampires, you idiot,” Patrick says, and Joe thinks that maybe the werewolf thing makes sense. It would explain Patrick’s quick draw temper! “And there’s nothing about doing anything to kids in the werewolf handbook.”

Now he knows Patrick’s kidding. “There’s no such thing as a werewolf handbook,” he says. Patrick gestures to the pile of blankets that Joe’s on, and when he lifts up some of them, he sees a book: The Illustrated Guide to Werewolfing, 10th Edition.

“There are ten editions of this?” Joe asks, incredulous.

“Eleven actually,” Patrick says. “But that one’s signed, so I don’t want to replace it.”

Joe turns the book over in his hands and flips open the cover. A few pages in, right on the cover page, there’s a bright red scribble underneath a scrawled message that says, To Patrick: Keep hitting those high notes. “That’s funny,” Joe says. “The high notes.” He leans forward. “Do you howl at the moon?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Patrick says. His eyes flash. It’s a little scary, and a little cool.

“Kill me, or turn me into a bloodthirsty werewolf like you?”

Patrick sighs and walks out of the closet.

The downside is that he shuts the door behind him.

*

Joe wishes he had his phone.

If he had his phone he’d know how long he’s been locked in the closet.

He’d also be able to call Patrick, to tell him the joke’s over and that it’s not funny, and to come back and let him out of the cage.

He’d also be able to call for help, which would be a more rational decision, actually.

Also, Joe needs to pee. He’d aim for the corner if he knew how long he’d be in there. Peeing in someone’s closet is only funny if you’re not locked in it.

*

The door opens and Joe jerks toward the door. “Dude,” he says. “Piss. I have to. Seriously.” He puts his hands on the cage. “For the love of all that is holy, and I do mean your shoe collection, let me out of here.” He points at the organized collection of shoes, indicating that they are in pissing distance and he’s not afraid to whip it out and make a urinary attack.

“I want you to listen to me,” Patrick says. “And then I’ll let you out.”

Joe sits up a little more, still clinging to the cage. He purses his lips and looks at Patrick. He’s trying to look pathetic, so maybe Patrick will feel bad for him and let him out first. Then he can run away, call the police, and enroll in college since he’s going to need a new career.

Patrick has clearly lost his mind.

“Okay, good,” Patrick says. Joe sighs, because his plan was foiled, and he needs to work on his plan-making skills. Or just never become a crime-fighter or whip-wielding archaeologist.

Joe turns his head up toward Patrick and he manages to say nothing. Not even about the fact that his dick is throbbing with his intense need to piss.

“I’m not in love with Pete,” Patrick says. He speaks slowly, like Joe doesn’t quite understand English unless it’s spoken low and dramatically. “I’m in love with you.” Joe gives himself a pat on the back for not snorting his disbelief at that one. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”

This is ridiculous. On a number of levels. And Joe’s going to list them all, except that Patrick interrupts him. “Don’t talk,” he says. “Just listen.” Joe shuts his trap and frowns. This cage sucks. The metal’s hurting his knees. “I know you think that I’m in love with Pete, but he doesn’t have what you have. He doesn’t…” Patrick sighs and makes this face that Joe knows means he’s trying to work up the ability to say something he doesn’t want to say. He does it a lot when Joe comes to him with riffs that he doesn’t like. It now serves as an awesome warning, sparing Joe’s feelings just a little bit. “He doesn’t do it for me, you know?”

“I do it for you?” Joe asks.

Patrick sighs. “I don’t like, make it a habit of having sex with guys in the band,” he says and this isn’t really news to Joe or anything, he just never looked at it like that.

“The cage doesn’t have anything to do with the sex though, right?”

“How fucking addled are you?” Patrick asks, flapping his hands in the air.

“Patrick!” Joe whines. “I have to piss like a fucking giant pissing monster. I am using all of my brain power to concentrate on not wetting my pants or watering your carpet. Let me out so I can have a conversation with you.”

Patrick sighs again, and Joe could think it’s funny that Patrick’s in love with someone who makes him so crazy. “Just, tell me this.” He stares at Joe, and Joe stares back, waiting. Finally Patrick says, “Who’s in love with you.”

“The world,” Joe says.

“JOSEPH.”

“You are,” Joe says. “You have a big fat mancrush on me. You want to have furry, man-eating anal babies with me. I get it. Now let me out of the fucking cage so I can piss and we can consummate our love.”

Patrick’s opening the cage door as he says, “Wow. I’m suddenly so in the mood.”

Joe shoves Patrick out of the way, calling out, “Glad I can do it to ya like that.”

He slams the bathroom door and as the tension slowly drains from his body – holding it in is very stressful – he smiles to himself. It’s kinda cool. The werewolf thing is weird, but maybe he can borrow the handbook. Maybe there’s a handbook for being the anal baby impregnator of werewolves. He’ll have to ask Patrick. Like, after the post-coital snuggling.

Dogs like snuggling, and werewolves are part of the dog family. Therefore…

When Joe comes into the bedroom, he says, “It’s funny, because I’ve never been a dog person before.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Patrick says. He takes his shirt off after saying it, though, so Joe’s pretty sure that the meaning isn’t behind the words.

“You and me baby,” Joe sings. “Ain’t nothing but mammals.”

“I hate you so much,” Patrick says. He says it while cupping Joe’s dick and gracelessly invading his space, so Joe isn’t too concerned with the status of their relationship.

“You don’t,” he says. He kisses Patrick, long and slow, and presses their hips together. Maybe the heat thing is because of the werewolf thing. Or maybe it’s just what happens when the two of them get together. He pulls back from the kiss and smiles. “You love me so hard you can’t stand it.”

Patrick smiles.

And he licks Joe’s nose.

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 03:58:59 GMT

Um. Somebody stop me from writing zombie hunter!Joe fic.

Naow.

And... there it goes.

FOB: The Grass is Always What You Wish For (2/2)

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 18:20:23 GMT

Part one

If Joe had any idea what time it was when he fell asleep, he'd know how long he slept. As it is, his stomach is growling, his head is heavy and his vision is a little blurry. He blinks a few times, willing his contacts to make his eyes focus, and once they do, he stares up at the ceiling some more. "Fuck my life," he says, even though that's completely cliche and Joe hates cliches.

He scratches at his forehead and doesn't think about the fact that his entire body feels like it weighs more than it ought to. He kicks once then realizes that the covers aren't even over him. "I need to fucking brush my teeth." He frowns a little at the raspiness of his voice and then gets up, goes into the bathroom. Without his glasses, and with his contacts all fucked up, Joe is blind, but he can't seem to put his hands on his contact stuff so he just goes back to his room and gets his glasses from the nightstand.

Maybe it's his inner haze, his complete and total confusion with life, but his apartment looks different. It looks... off. Not quite how he remembers it. And not just because there is a Pete curled up on the couch, with Hemmy curled up with him. "Pete?" Joe asks, because he does not remember Pete being over there when he went to bed. And he certainly doesn't remember Hemmy being along with him. "Pete?" Joe asks again.

Again, Pete is still, and Joe sighs then goes into the kitchen. The refrigerator definitely isn't as he recalls it, but he takes the organic orange juice out anyway and drinks straight from the container. Then he nearly chokes on it when he hears Pete say, "Okay, that's a line you just can't cross, Trohman." Joe caps the glass bottle and puts it in the fridge.

"What?" He wipes at his mouth and shuts the door. "What are you doing here?"

Pete laughs, his familiar donkey bray. "I live here." He says it like Joe should know this. Like Joe's the weirdo for not remembering. "You crashed here? Remember?" Pete presses his fingertips to his forehead but never stops smiling at Joe. "Then you slept in my bed so I had to sleep on my couch, which, okay. Now I know why you didn't want to crash on the couch, I guess."

"I'm," Joe says. He licks his lips. He's confused. His mind is completely boggled. "I'm sorry?"

Nonchalantly, Pete shrugs. "No worries. You know I'm happy to help. But dude," and he steps forward, puts his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Not my orange juice." He smiles at Joe and then opens the fridge and takes the bottle out, uncaps it and takes a few deep swigs before putting it back. "Shouldn't you be getting home anyway?"

It's possible that Joe should be home; it's even more possible that Joe doesn't know where home actually is. "Um," he says. And then, "Yeah, totally."

Pete nods and then walks past Joe. "Will you throw the paper toward the front door on your way out? I'll get it once the army of mongers has disappeared."

"Um," Joe says, and then, "What?" And then he shakes his head. "Forget it."

Joe feels awkward as he moves through the condo - his condo - picking up things that look like his, and then he opens the front door while Pete hands him a pair of sunglasses. "Don't forget your hater blockers."

"Oh right," Joe says. He smiles at Pete and says, "Thanks for um. Letting me crash."

"Welcome," Pete says. He's already closing the door, and Joe feels less than welcome.

Which is an odd sensation, since this is his condo. As far as he's concerned. "Later, Joe. Tell Chelle I said hi"

"Later," Joe says, then "What?" but the door is already closed. He turned and cameras flash at him, voices shout at him, and the night before hits him so hard he actually takes a step back and hits against his door. Pete's door. "Oh sweet baby Jesus," Joe says.

---

On the upside, weird-life Joe drives the same car that old-life Joe drives. And it shouldn't be a surprise that the GPS in the car, when given the command to go home, leads him to old-life Pete's house. The car in the garage when Joe tries to pull in (he tries to pull in on the already-full side) is a shock to his senses, however. He assumes he has a roommate, and smiles thinking that maybe Alex is living with him. Or if he has Pete's life now, Korean Tom Cruise is living with him. Or maybe it's Kadaver, or some new buddy he’ll have to get used to, with whom he’ll no doubt have some history that he doesn’t actually remember because he hasn’t fucking lived it. Oh sweet baby Jesus.

Or maybe, and Joe's heart clenches a little, maybe it's Marie's car. And with Joe sorta living Pete's life, he and Marie got married years ago.

He forces himself not to think about what he and Marie would be like as parents (Pete's life, you know) and instead just opens the door and walks in. "Hello?" he looks around, and then smiles when his cat runs up to his feet and sniffs at him for a second. The little orange face is a little wary, but it's definitely Joe's cat, from his previous life, from Chicago and then New York and then Chicago again. "Hey there," Joe breaths, glad to at least have this one small piece of normalcy. "I've missed you." He drops down and scratches his fingers along the smooth orange and white back for a few seconds and then stands up again, yells, "Anybody home?" He’s afraid to throw out names, since he doesn't know who actually lives there. With him.

"In here!" And it's a girl, Joe can tell. But it's not Marie. Joe can tell that, too.

It's like being dumped all over again. And even though Joe knows from watching Pete that being on top of the world doesn't keep you out of the depths of despair, that doesn't mean that it doesn't come as a shock when it feels like his heart falls into his feet.

He clearly needs to get over her. It must say a lot when you're not even meant to be in the alternate reality you've accidentally created for yourself.

"I was at Pete's," he says, like he does this all the time. "Ended up crashing there."

"No worries," he gets in response and at least she's laidback. Maybe she's the perfect girl for Joe. "I had a girls’ night and then watched some Food Network until I crashed too." And the Food Network? Maybe she's definitely the perfect girl for Joe.

He comes into the room and stops. "Oh hi," He says. "Michelle." Trachtenberg.

She smiles, all big teeth and bright eyes and nice cheekbones and it's not that he doesn't find her attractive; it's that he doesn't like to sleep with people who've slept with Pete. And Michelle's slept with Pete. "You sound so serious," she says. Michelle gets up off the couch and walks up to Joe like she owns the place, puts her hands on his waist and kisses him while he's busy being horrified. "Hello Michelle," she says, mimicking Joe, and then she smiles again. "It's kinda cute though."

Michelle reaches up, gives Joe's hair a quick tug and finally he comes back to life from Statueland and tilts his head out of the way. Her smiles falters for a second and she asks, "What's wrong?"

“I think I’m sick,” Joe says. He pushes her away and takes a step back. “Like, not hungover sick.”

Smiling, but not as big as before, Michelle nods. “Okay Joe…” she licks her lips and puts her hands together. “I’m just going to…” she gestures back at the couch, at the movie that’s paused on the TV – Joe hates TV, except for the Food Network – and then pushes her hair behind her ears. “Just, you know, yell if you want anything.”

He’s almost home free, but Michelle leans in and kisses him again. “Love you, Trohface.”

Joe barely makes it into the bathroom before throwing up.

---

After brushing his teeth and changing his clothes, Joe sits down on the bed with his chin in his hands and thinks. He wants to lay down but there’s a side of the bed that’s unmade and all Joe can think is that Michelle fucking Trachtenberg was sleeping there and he thought she was cute for like, maybe five seconds so why the hell is he clearly in some sort of long term relationship with her.

His breath hitches.

What if they’re engaged, like he was to Marie? What if they’re married?

He assumes there’s no baby around because otherwise she would have said something about it (right?) but he didn’t even think to look for a ring to see if he had asked Michelle to be Mrs. Joe Trohman. Oh God even the thought of it makes his stomach roil all over again. Joe puts his hand on it, takes a deep breath, and waits for it to calm before continuing on with his thoughts.

“What would they do on Law and Order?” he says, then looks around, like someone is there to hear him.

“They’d investigate,” he tells himself, and Joe stands up, taking a cursory glance around the room.

It actually looks a lot like his bedroom in Chicago, which makes him think that maybe he even got Lisa to help him put this place together here in LA. “Okay,” he says. “This is my house.” He goes to the dresser and opens up a few drawers, finds his t-shirts folded up nicer than he’s ever had them. “And these are my clothes, and Michelle must do my laundry.”

She called him serious when he called her Michelle; he must have some sort of nickname for her? He sighs and pushes his hands through his hair. “Keep going.” The closet is mostly full of her clothes, though he has a section of suits and hoodies hanging up, ready to be worn. Joe sees his favorite hoodie and pulls it out, slips it on. Sure it’s hot as fuck but in times like these, people need things that are reliable and loved and worn. He wraps his arms around himself and breathes in the scent of the wrong fabric softener. “Do I still smoke?” Joe steps back and then looks around, letting his eyes move over the contents of the closet until he finds what seems like the perfect hiding place. Inside of it is some sort of female thing (Joe’s guessing because it certainly doesn’t look like a man-type item) and after swallowing back a little more vomit, Joe puts the cover back on the box and shoves it back where it belongs.

He never had a problem with Michelle, but now he kind of hates her.

“Hey, Mi-” he stops when he realizes that that’s too serious for her. If he was dating Michelle, what would he call her? “Hey Chelle?” he tries again, and she hollers back, “Yeah?”

“I uh, can you help me for a sec?”

She’s in the bedroom in only a few moments, hands on her hips and once again smiling at Joe. “Feeling better already?”

“No, I just…” he scratches his head and tilts it a little, looking at Michelle. He reminds himself it’s not her fault. “I can’t find my um…” he pauses, and seriously. What if he doesn’t smoke?

“Your weed?” she asks.

Joe wants to cry, he’s so excited.

“What happened?” she asks. But she goes to the dresser and opens up a drawer that Joe hadn’t looked in (he hadn’t looked in most of them, actually) then pulls out the same box he uses in Chicago. “Here. Right where you keep it.” She licks her lips and hands it over, then puts her hands back on her hips. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah I just,” Joe looks down at the carved wood and then back at Michelle. “Pete had said something about hiding it, so I thought I’d… check.”

She shrugs and starts pulling her hair back, turning to go into the bathroom as she talks, “Well he wasn’t here all day yesterday. And believe me, I know this.” She walks out again, tying her long hair up into a pony tail. “I was home all day.”

Joe nods, staring at her, and she widens her eyes at him, calling him out (so to speak) on his staring. “I’m going to take a nap,” he says.

“Lemme know if you’re gonna smoke,” she says, heading out of the bedroom. “I bought, I want in.”

She closes the door behind her, and Joe shakes his head out. And then he jerks and says, “Wait, Chelle!”

Seconds later the door opens again, and she leans back into the room. Now she sounds a lot less enthusiastic when she says, “Yes Trohface?”

He looks her over, trying to make it seem like he’s just a boyfriend admiring his girlfriend and not some dude checking to see if there’s a ring on a girl’s finger. “Just wanted to see you smile,” he says weakly.

Michelle smiles at him – she beams at him, actually – and then tugs on the door. “You’re so cute sometimes,” she says. And then she shuts the door behind her, leaving Joe to take his nap.

At least there’s no ring.

When Joe opens the box… nothing happens. He needs to find his pipe. What if it’s at Pete’s? He needs to… well, he at least needs to talk to the genie. He wants to know if he’s stuck there, in this alternate weirdness where he’s dating some girl that Pete slept with for like, a minute and a half. And if he’s kinda living Pete’s life, and Pete’s kinda living his, how much history do they even have?

Joe wanders around the bedroom, looking through things, peeking into drawers and going through the closets. There are parts of the bedroom that feel completely normal, and then he remembers that it’s bigger than what he’s used to, and on a different street than he’s used to, and also shared with someone he hasn’t spent enough time with to actually want to live with that person and it all just falls apart.

Mostly though, he asks himself that if he was a bong, where would he be hidden?

---

He’d be hidden in his guitar room, as it turns out. Joe kinda likes this guitar room. He assumes it’s also an office, because in addition to having the bulk of his guitar collection, the room has a nice computer set up, a few pieces of recording equipment, a ton of manila folders with impressive-looking labels on them (things like “gross income 2009” and “fourth quarter production figures” and “bad ideas in need of good homes”) as well as a sketch pad sitting on the desk with Joe’s signature dragon doodles. He flips through the pages then opens up the desk drawers and finds the bong in the bottom drawer, along with some markers and a sock puppet. Even if Joe knew who to ask, he still wouldn’t do it.

After making sure the door is closed, Joe gives the bong a rub and smiles when almost instantly the genie floats out of it. “My lord,” he says, but Joe waves him off. “Yes?”

“What is going on?” Joe asks. “What happened to my life? And why is Pete living in my house? And why is my girlfriend one of his ex-girlfriends?” he hisses the last question, not wanting to offend Michelle. She’s a very nice person; it isn’t her fault that she is tied up in what kinda feels like Joe’s personal hell.

“Your wishes,” the genie says.

Joe’s jaw drops. He does not recall wishing for Pete’s life. “I never wished for Pete’s life,” he says.

“You wished for a new life,” the genie says. “And you imagined this one.”

Joe wants to say that that’s not true, but as the night comes back to him, he thinks it might be possible that the genie’s onto something. He certainly didn’t wish to be living with Michelle fucking Trachtenberg. But then again, he doesn’t need complete sobriety to know THAT much. “I wasn’t wishing for any particular life,” Joe finally says. “And I didn’t verbalize it,” he argues, which is probably a lot more solid than denying that he said something he may have said.

The genie appears to be unflappable, because he just crosses his arms and says, “You wished for another life with this one in mind. And so this life you received.” The genie bows his head and says, “My lord.”

“Get outta here,” Joe says. “I don’t want this life, I want my own life back.”

“A wish cannot be undone,” the genie says. “Do you want to use your third wish on that which you seek?”

The yes gets tripped up in Joe’s mouth. For the most part, yes he very much wants to use his third wish to undo what he’s done and blah blah blah go back to his old life where he’s just been dumped but he’s Joe and he knows where he keeps his stoning equipment.

At the same time… there’s a teeny tiny little part of him that thinks that this might be cool. Most of him – maybe 95% - has never wanted to trade places with Pete ever. He hates the paparazzi, having his picture taken and not having his privacy. At the same time, there’s something kinda cool about the flattery that comes along with being that wanted by the tabloids.

Plus, and this is the kicker, Joe has a lot to say. Maybe with Pete’s life he can finally say it.

“I guess not,” Joe says. He sighs heavily and picks up the axe sitting closest. “But stand by. I might change my mind later.”

“As you wish,” the genie says. Joe frowns, but he’s already gone, back into his pipe (presumably).

Joe doesn’t think it’s that awesome that he has a genie with a sense of humor.

---

Joe’s phone rings nonstop. It actually buzzes nonstop because he doesn’t bother to even to even turn the ringer on anymore. It finally stops buzzing when Joe turns it to silent and shoves it into his back pocket for a little bit of out-of-sight-out-of-mind action. As far as Joe can tell, all of his side projects were once Pete’s, but with a Trohman twist. The clothing line is mostly t-shirts and hoodies with pictures of zombies and dragons doing funny things. The label imprint appears to be a bunch of metal bands that he vaguely remembers knowing about back in his old life.

He calls Bob to find out when their next appearance is, and Bob asks first about AK, so he figures he must be part owner in that, too. It’s pretty cool, but mostly Joe is overwhelmed with the amount of responsibility this all places on his shoulders. It seems like he won’t have time for his weed.

He’ll make time, it’ll just be more difficult.

Joe calls Bob, who says, “What up, my main Jew?” which is pretty much the same thing he always says when Joe calls. It’s a welcome return to normalcy, and Joe smiles.

“What are we up to this month?” Joe stammers. It’s the kind of question he usually doesn’t ask Bob. He usually just checks in with Patrick, who sighs loudly and sends him the calendar he’s typed up.

Apparently, new-life Joe does this fairly often, however, because Bob just laughs and says, “You’re the only person I know who can lose an email, Trohman. I sent you a revised schedule yesterday.”

“It’s a gift,” Joe says. “Can you just tell me?” He’s pretty sure the password to his email account isn’t MarieMoon.

Bob sighs heavily, like Joe demands so much from him (Joe wonders if he does), and then he says, “Next week you start tour rehearsals. You’ve got three more days of that and then we go down to San Diego for night one of the I Know What You Did Last Night Tour.”

“And by we you mean not you.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Unfortunately, instead of clearing things up, Joe just has a million more questions like ‘How long are we on tour?’ and ‘Are we supporting a new album?’ (new life, new album?), but he settles on, “And what day is today?”

Bob laughs and says, “Dude, some day you’re going to have to lay off the weed.” He says, “It’s going to get you into more trouble than it already has.” He hangs up on Joe and for a few seconds he thinks maybe Bob’s right. Look at the trouble he’s gotten into already.

Then he thinks: Bob doesn’t know that.

---

In his new life he doesn’t keep his Macbook password protected, so Joe Googles himself, which is something he swore he’d never do, and researches his new life. Sure, he feels like an egocentric asshole typing his name into the little Google search box, but desperate times, they call for, you know, stuff.

With the door to his office closed, Joe reads about his life, about his position as the frontman of the band, taking his place among the ranks of great, outspoken guitarists in history. Pete still writes lyrics (he Googles Pete, too), but in this world, Pete is soft-spoken and almost shy. “I use my words for our lyrics,” Joe reads on wikipedia. “That’s enough for me.”

Just like Pete in his old life, new-life Joe has incriminating photos. He has several, actually. There’s a set of him, very early 20s judging by the ink, stoning at a party. His mom probably still hasn’t forgiven him for that one. The other set is of him enjoying the company of a female companion. Or, three pictures in he sees, two female companions.

His mom definitely hasn’t forgiven him for that one.

On the upside, his dick in this life is as big a mystery as it was in his old life. On the downside… wow, that’s seriously embarrassing. Joe can feel his cheeks heating up just thinking about it.

Michelle pokes her head into the office and asks, “Feeling better?” Instinctively he shuts his laptop, feeling guilty, though there’s no reason to. Michelle comes over, puts her arms around Joe’s neck from behind, and kisses his cheek while he tries to pretend that this isn’t seriously grossing him out. “Watching porn again?” She nuzzles into Joe’s cheek, slides her hands along his chest, and Joe wants to tell his dick to stop reacting because the rest of him wants to vomit.

“No,” he says, really meaning ‘get off me’ and ‘I don’t love you’ and ‘you’re kinda grossing me out,’ but she only hears, ‘no, I’m not watching porn,’ apparently, because she shoves at his chair to push him away from the desk, aiming her ass to sit on him in the process.

Joe plants his feet, but she manages to slide in anyway.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michelle asks. She puts her hand on his cheek, looks him in the eye and for a few seconds Joe sees how he could fall for this girl.

He sees how new-life Joe could fall for this girl, because the brain of old-life Joe is definitely still sending grossed out messages.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Joe says, gripping the armrests of his chair so he doesn’t put them on Michelle’s thighs, which seems like the natural place for them to go.

Michelle beams at him. “Okay, good. Because we’re going out tonight with Zac and Vanessa, and it’s our last chance before you leave me all alone for three long months.” She pouts at him as she says it, apparently showing Joe exactly how sad she is about his upcoming tour.

Joe hates pouting.

“Uh,” Joe says. “Efron and Hudgens?” He can’t even imagine hanging out with them. Though to be fair, he has a hard time imagining hanging out with Michelle, and that’s apparently going well.

“Duh,” Michelle says, smiling.

“I really don’t want to go,” Joe says. He feels bad about it after the fact, but he really just doesn’t want to go.

“But you love Zac,” she says, and Joe nearly chokes. “Just last week you were saying you guys were the Bromance of the Century.” The scary thing is that her impersonation of Joe saying that seems pretty spot-on. “You don’t want to miss out on hanging out with your brofriend.”

Mostly, Joe wants to know how Pete gets John Mayer for a buddy and he gets Zac fucking Efron. He wants a do-over so he can bromance someone cool, like Seth Rogen. Or… Seth Rogen.

“Is there any way out off this?” he asks weakly.

Michelle leans in and kisses Joe again, and seriously, are they teenagers or something? “Only one,” she says. She puts one hand in Joe’s hair and the other on Joe’s chest, leaning in toward him.

Joe has no recollection of dating Michelle, but he’s seen that look before. In other eyes. “We should go,” he says, struggling to get up. “It’s rude to cancel, especially at the last minute. And then I’m going to be gone for a few months.” He pushes at Michelle again, and says, “We should go.”

“That’s in three hours,” Michelle says, pushing back. “There’s still time.” She puts her hand in Joe’s hair, pulling on it gently, and kisses him again. Joe thinks, ‘Oh God.’

“I have to get that,” Joe says. He shoves at Michelle so that she slides off of him, and grabs at his ass where his phone is still on silent and wanders out of the room. “Patrick!” he says loudly so Michelle thinks that the call is real (in case she was wondering), but then quietly he says, “I don’t know what to do.”

He talks to himself for five minutes.

---

The first half of dinner, Zac spends a lot of time making jokes to Joe, things that he assumes are inside jokes. They have that little well-timed pause, which Joe quickly picks up on. He starts laughing and nodding and high-fiving as it seems appropriate, and the girls are watching, smiling, laughing along with them.

The second half of dinner, when Michelle starts sliding her hand onto Joe’s knee, his thigh, touching him more than Joe wants to be touched (which is actually at all, if truth is to be told), he starts drinking. At one point, she actually puts her hand on Joe’s arm and gives it a squeeze. “Baby,” she whispers. “Don’t drink too much.”

Zac smirks a little and Joe smiles at Michelle. He leans in and kisses Michelle quickly but then takes another gulp of his drink. He can only hope that he drinks too much.

He drinks too much.

Joe stumbles out of the restaurant, leaning on Michelle as they walk, and happily drops his keys into her hand. “You’re driving Michellicious.” She laughs and holds onto Joe, so he’s doing something right.

When they get back home, Joe continues his stumbling into the house, practically trips up the stairs to the bedroom, and passes out on the bed. When he wakes up at 2 am needing to piss, he considers his move a victory. He got out of sex with his girlfriend – Joe never thought he’d be that guy.

To be fair, Michelle doesn’t feel like his girlfriend.

---

Mission unsuccessful: Joe wakes up to Michelle’s mouth on his cock. He reaches down and grips her hair, hips arching up and then falling back down. Then he kicks Michelle away, rolls off the bed and stumbles to the bathroom to throw up in the sink.

---

Later, when Joe’s had some water and aspirin, and Michelle no longer has a bag of frozen peas pressed to her cheek, she says, “Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “No! It was a great, I mean,” he purses his lips and presses his hands together. “You were on the road to a really great-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Michelle says. Joe clamps his mouth shut. “But thank you.” He smiles. “I just mean…” she sighs, tilting her head up, and then looks at Joe again. “You’ve just been really weird ever since you got back from Pete’s yesterday.” Joe tightens his mouth because it’s ridiculously and disturbingly true. “And you know I trust you, right?”

Joe doesn’t know this. He nods anyway, because it seems like the right response to make to that statement. “Nothing like…” she pauses again, gaze tilted up, tongue to her upper lip and then she looks at Joe. “Nothing happened while you were there? Or like, supposed to be there, right?”

To be fair, Joe doesn’t really know, but he knows that his weirdness is mostly because he doesn’t really belong there. Joe shakes his head, quickly, because he doesn’t want Michelle to think that he cheated on her or anything. Sure, it’s always possible that cheating occurred, but as long as Joe isn’t entirely positive, he’s just going to go ahead and assume that it never happened. “No,” he says, then smiles at Michelle. “I promise.” He licks his lips, inhales deeply and then lets it out. “I’m just… feeling kinda weird.” He reaches out, hesitates for a moment and then puts his hand on her cheek. “It’s not your fault. Like, I know it’s a stupid line but it’s totally me. I’m just feeling weird. And I have been since I woke up yesterday.”

She smiles, and again Joe is reminded that the him in some alternate reality is clearly crazy about this girl, and again, Joe can see why. “It’s not me, it’s you?” Michelle wrinkles her nose, but she appears to be smiling.

“It’s not you,” Joe says. “It’s me.”

Michelle leans in and kisses Joe, but he doesn’t kiss her back. She doesn’t do a good enough job to hide the concern on her face afterward.

---

They don’t talk about it again, and Joe doesn’t say anything about the fact that Michelle is gone, out shopping with friends apparently, when he wakes up the next morning. The weekend rolls along like that as well, with the two of them doing a careful job of avoiding each other as they move through the house and go on with their lives. Joe stays inside mostly, acutely aware of the cameras that are outside waiting for him, and already he’s realized it’s not quite as validating as it maybe looked from the other side of the fence.

One of the days that Michelle’s out of the house, Joe settles down on the couch with **** in Phoenix and watches it, jaw dropped as the DVD is completely different from any show he ever remembers playing, ever. Between each song Joe’s carrying on with banter, his words not any more witty than Pete’s (though certainly no worse than some of the shit that flies out of his mouth), but mostly it’s just weird to see Pete standing in the shadows, watching Joe, watching Patrick. Mostly watching Joe.

Weirder still is watching the way he and Patrick vamp against each other, Joe paying Patrick similar attentions to those that Pete always paid him. Joe keeps his lips to himself, he notices, but there’s a substantial increase in the amount of playing on his knees, Joe sees, and this is, well, it’s a little weird for him.

He calls Patrick and stumbles over his words for a few seconds while Patrick laughs and asks him how much weed he smoked that day. At least it’s something normal, something he’s used to. It’s often the joke, not quite as funny as when it flies almost spitefully from Andy’s mouth, but when Patrick is stuttering it out, wanting to know exactly how many ounces Joe had managed to blaze through, Joe laughs. “It’s funny that you ask,” he says, and Patrick doesn’t even believe that Joe hasn’t smoked anything since Pete’s.

Joe can barely believe it either.

Mostly, he’s saving the small stash he found in his room, and he’s not sure where he gets it. The Blackberry he still has with him at all times contains what seems like hundreds more numbers than the one he remembers pre-genie, and he only recognizes a few of the people he knew before.

“Do you believe in magic?” Joe asks Patrick, and through the phone, Patrick’s laughter sounds canned. “I’m serious,” Joe says. “Like, genies and shit?”

“I do not believe in the Arabian Nights,” Patrick says. “But if you want me to start calling you Aladdin, you know I will.”

Joe does not want Patrick to start calling him Aladdin. “I’m calling Pete,” Joe says, like it’s a threat. Like it’s something that Patrick would be against.

In a weird way, however, it seems like maybe Patrick is on the verge of telling him not to. He only says that Joe should tell Pete he said hi, and to call him back already. “He’s not calling you because he doesn’t love you,” Joe says, something that’s funny in how untrue it is.

“Well, Pete can’t love everybody like he loves you,” Patrick counters.

Joe snorts. “Ha ha,” he says dryly, but Patrick doesn’t laugh with him, just says bye, a little sadly, and hangs up.

Pete answers on the first ring, sounds breathless, busy; when Joe asks, however, he says, “No no,” and “Always time for you” and “What’s up?”

“Something weird happened,” Joe says. “Can I come over?” Pete hesitates, then agrees.

---

Pete listens quietly as Joe explains everything to him, feeling shameful when he admits to being jealous (just a little) at Pete’s (old) life. Pete fills in the blanks, explaining to Joe the things he wanted to know (Pete had dated Ashlee for three months before he ended it, wanting to create his own spotlight, and not live in Ashlee’s), as well as things he didn’t want to know (Joe and Marie had dated for a little over a month before she left him for the same reason). Hesitantly, Joe asks if there are any Fall Out babies (there aren’t), and then admits that where he comes from, Pete has one.

They’re seated on couches that Joe recognizes from Pete’s house in his old life; he has memories of wrestling Hemmy there, and playing video games, and watching documentaries when Pete didn’t feel like working and didn’t feel like being alone. The two of them alone - or with Bronx in a crib in another room - just being comfortable in each others’ presence; just being a comfort for the other.

As they talk, Pete says things like “your world” and “your time,” but Joe thinks in terms of his reality versus Pete’s (this one’s) reality. “I guess I don’t understand,” Pete starts once they’re all talked out, “why you don’t just wish to go back to the way things were. Like, okay, you don’t like being here, and you don’t want to be with Michelle and celebrity boyfriends with Zac, that I get. But if you hate it so much here then just go the fuck back.” He gestures with his hands, an agitated movement. “I mean fuck, Joe. Just do what you always do. Do whatever makes you happy.”

Where he comes from, Pete will sometimes jump from zero to pissed in three seconds, so he’s less taken aback by the sudden change in Pete’s demeanor than he is bummed at the fact that he’s not even getting the sympathy vote from his best friend.

Joe sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t very happy then either.” Pete snorts. “I wasn’t.” Joe shoves his hand through his hair again and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

“Wouldn’t I?” Pete bites. He looks at Joe, clearly seething, but he doesn’t stand up; he barely even moves. “God. Unwrap yourself from you for like, five fucking seconds and see the rest of us. See me.”

To be honest, Joe has no idea what he’s talking about. Sure, the entire conversation has been about him, but Joe’s the one having an existential crisis, and not Pete. If Pete ever woke up in an alternate universe where he’s, like, different and needs to talk about it, Joe would be happy to do it. “See you what?” Joe finally just asks.

Pete makes a strangled noise and then picks up a magazine and throws it across the room. Hemmy looks over, startled, then snorts and leaves the room.

“Dude,” Joe says.

“What?” Pete snaps.

Joe doesn’t even know. He stands and says, “Maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should,” Pete snarls. “Go back to your own time. At least you apparently knew what a good thing you had before you went and fucking ruined it.”

Joe would hit Pete, but he’s a pacifist. And besides, it would probably hurt him more than Pete, so what good would that do?

---

Home kinda sucks too, though, so Joe drives straight past the turn into his neighborhood and then keeps going. He avoids the highways and moves from street to street, weaving in and out of them, like the grid LA is on was made for his getaway and not for the ease of drivers. He travels La Brea and Pico and Santa Monica, finally taking that west until he gets to the beach. He doesn’t bother going there, though, and drives south to Venice and then keeps going. There are still cars that he can tell are following him but he doesn’t bother with evasive movements to get away. He’s not this interesting; he never was.

He drives to a movie theater and parks his car, covers his face with his hand as he jogs to the door and buys a ticket for whatever is showing next.

Inside the building, Joe buys a pretzel and a bottle of water and then finds his theater. He sits in the back and puts his feet up on the seat in front of him and marvels at the number of kids in the theater until he realizes that he’s sitting in the latest Pixar release.

The movie makes him cry.

When the lights go up, Joe stays in his seat and pushes his hand against his forehead. He still doesn’t want to go home, but that isn’t the real question.

“Sir,” someone says, and Joe squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again. A guy in a suit barely older than him, maybe not even older, tentatively says, “It’s over, you have to go home now.”

Joe sighs. “I know.”

---

Before he goes home to find the pipe, to use his last wish and go back to the way things were, when he was miserable but not in the magazines, Joe goes back to Pete’s house.

Pete opens the door slowly, and frowns at Joe from the doorway. “What?”

“Can I come in?”

Joe steps forward, but Pete bars his path, mouth in a resolute line. “What do you want, Trohman?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe says. He wraps his arms around his body and holds onto his t-shirt, like this offers him some sort of protection from Pete’s anger and disappointment. He takes another step forward, and Pete wavers in the doorway but still doesn’t move. “I didn’t realize what I was doing. I’m not,” he sighs and lets go, pushes a hand through his hair and then tugs at his beard a little. “I’m not used to you like…” he gestures at Pete, and he’s not sure what words he’s looking for, but the idea of need is floating around a lot, like that’s supposed to be in there somewhere.

“Me what?” Pete asks. His voice is still crisp, but his eyes are wide, a vulnerability showing there that Joe isn’t used to. “You’re not used to me what, Joe?”

Joe doesn’t really know. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and it’s sharp like a drill. “You needing me,” he says, his voice softening at the end. “I guess.”

Pete scoffs. “Needing you?” His eyes widen, and he hangs on the door now, letting it flap a little bit. “You’re not used to me needing you?” He rolls his eyes and presses his forehead against the door. “Fuck you, Joe.”

This is not the response that Joe was expecting. He starts to say something, but Pete interrupts:

“I mean seriously. You’re my fucking guitarist, and you’re the reason we’re here.” Pete takes a deep breath, the shake in it cutting into Joe as deeply as his words, but whatever it is he means to say, he trips over those words and shakes his head. It’s clearly another thought entirely when he asks, “How could I not fucking need you?” He starts to shut the door and then opens it again, glaring at Joe now.

Well, kinda glaring. It loses a little bit of its bite, Joe thinks, with Pete looking so sad. “You’re such a fucking douche bag,” Pete says. He kicks gently at the door frame and says, “I hope I’m not like you where you come from.”

Pete shuts the door, and Joe doesn’t really know what just happened; except that he probably deserved it. “You’re not,” he finally says to the door. It’s possible he hears Pete on the other side of the door. He hears something, but he tells himself that the snuffling is Hemmy sniffing near the door, and not Pete.

It can’t be Pete.

---

Back at home, Michelle is sitting at the kitchen table and frowning. “Hey,” Joe says. He’s hurrying upstairs to his - their - room, but he stops when he notices something strange about the situation. He walks backward into the kitchen and stares at Michelle. “You’re naked,” he says.

“I’m wearing heels,” she says. She stands up and kicks a leg up just a little bit and yup, those are high heels she’s wearing.

“And makeup too,” Joe says. He’s trying not to look, especially now that he’s decided he needs to go back. Technically Michelle is his girlfriend, but he’s a different person in this place, universe, whatever. Looking at Michelle naked is like looking at some other dude’s girl; he feels bad about it. Plus, his heart belongs to someone else, someone back home. He tugs at his beard and asks, “What’s up?”

“Are you?” Michelle asks. She takes a step closer and Joe automatically takes a step back. Lip quivering a little, Michelle stomps her foot and says, “What is wrong with me all of a sudden.”

Joe widens his eyes and puts his hands out, shaking his head. “Michelle. Chelle. Licious. Listen.” He licks his lips and struggles for a lie, anything to not make one more person cry today. “I know this is weird,” he starts, his brain screaming to stop, to start over, to lie with all that is in him. “But I’m not the Joe you’re used to dating.”

“I know,” Michelle says, crossing her arms over her chest. Joe feels a twinge of relief at her movement, which is quickly overshadowed by confusion. She knows? “The Joe I’m used to dating can’t keep his hands off me.” She reaches out quickly and takes Joe’s wrists, tugging quickly to put his hands on her breasts. He pulls them off immediately and she sighs. “You can’t keep them on me.”

Joe pulls a chair out and sits, then nudges Michelle’s toward her. “Listen. I know this is weird, but back where I’m from, I live in Chicago. I’m not the front man for Fall Out Boy. I don’t have a billion side businesses, I’m not friends with Zac, and you and me, we’re not together.” He sighs and leans forward, Michelle frowning at him. Joe tries to take her hand but she pulls it away from him; he deserves it. “I bought this pipe to smoke, and when I touched it a fucking genie came out, straight out of Aladdin. And first I wished to have my fiancee live in Chicago with me.” Michelle’s jaw drops and Joe nods. “I know. I had a fiancee. Anyway, so that got all fucked up so then I went to LA and Pete has a kid there and I accidentally wished for his life and ended up here.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Michelle stares at Joe for a few seconds and then stands up, while a tear slides down her cheek. “If you don’t love me anymore, Trohman, you should just fucking tell me, instead of making up some stupid fucking lie.” She stands and shoves her chair in toward the table. It hits the side and falls backward with a clatter. “You are such a pussy.” She takes off a shoe and Joe thinks that she might throw it at him. His muscles tense, waiting to duck.

She doesn’t. She chucks it at the floor and takes off the other one, throws that at the stove. She runs up the stairs and presumably up into their room.

Joe stays in the kitchen for a few minutes, taking deep breaths. He thinks about staying and trying to clean things up, but thinks better of it. So instead he goes upstairs and shuts himself into the office.

Before getting the pipe out, Joe writes himself a note. Theoretically, this alternate universe should no longer exist once he’s gone, once he’s made his wish. But he doesn’t know much about physics, and on the off-chance that his wish has somehow created this new universe, or that at least there’s some outgoing Joseph Trohman who’s going to come back to this life, Joe wants to make things as easy as possible on him. Michelle’s pissed at you, Joe writes, then chews on the pen a little bit. You deserve it. Make it up to her. Oral sex is a must. Joe folds the paper and sets it on his laptop, then unfolds it and adds at the bottom: She’s a keeper. Marry her before she gets away.

It seems like they were happy before Joe came in and fucked everything up; why not?

Joe refolds the letter and puts it back on his laptop, then opens the desk drawer and pulls the pipe out of it. He rubs it a little and the genie pops out, stretching first and then crosses his arms over his chest. “Your wishes,” he starts but Joe waves him off.

“I know,” Joe says. He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “Remind me, once I’ve used my third wish, your pipe is just a normal pipe?”

“It is, my lord,” the genie says. Joe doesn’t bother correcting him this time.

“Okay.” Joe takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes tightly. He thinks about how he wants to word this and then opens them again to look at the genie. “For my third wish, I want to go back to my old life, the way things were.”

For a few seconds he thinks maybe he should include the Marie stuff, just put himself back in New York - he liked Brooklyn, he did - but then thinks that maybe Marie had a point; that if Joe was serious about marrying her, he would have done it already.

He had his chance and he blew it.

“Please, just take me back.”

The genie smiles at Joe and nods his head. “You got it, boss.”

---

Nothing happens.

“What the fuck?” Joe asks, but he’s alone in the office. He looks around, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’s magically in Pete’s office or something. But no; everything is still his. He picks up the note and then drops it, annoyed, onto the desk chair. “God damn it,” Joe says. “You’re the worst genie ever.” Joe looks down at the pipe in his hand and then back up at the ceiling.

With a resolute sigh, Joe goes to the door and opens it. The hallway stretches out before him, his favorite LA artwork on the walls. Joe turns back and behind him is now his bed, made and messy from sleeping on top of it. Mr. B. is sitting in the window, flicking his tail back and forth.

Joe scrubs at his eyes and smiles.

He’s home.

---

After breakfast, Joe drives to the Coffee Bean, and then to Pete’s. When a bored-looking photographer asks Joe how long he plans on being in LA, he says, “End legalized discrimination in the United States. Support gay marriage,” then hurries up Pete’s walk where the photographers can’t trespass.

It’s possible that Pete hasn’t slept, but he grins when he sees the large coffees in Joe’s hands. He takes one and wraps his free arm around Joe, whispers, “I love you,” into Joe’s skin.

Joe shivers once and then hugs him back before pushing him away. “I had an adventure,” he says. “You have to sit for this shit.”

---

They sit together on the couch while Joe explains what happened. Pete seems to try hard not to laugh, but not hard enough, because he does anyway. “Zac fucking Efron?” he asks. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Joe says. He can maybe see the humor in it, maybe, but really, it’s just too soon to think it’s all that funny.

“You had a bromance,” Pete says, almost wistfully. “I feel like I should call John and tell him.”

“I will kill you,” Joe says; what his tone lacks in enthusiasm he makes up for with determination. Pete bites his lip but can’t hide his growing smile.

Pete’s not done yet: “And I called you a douche bag? Really?”

Joe shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “I guess I was being one.”

“I don’t think you’re a douche bag,” Pete says quickly. “A little misguided, perhaps, but not a douche bag.” Joe smiles and Pete grins widely at him.

“I’m touched,” Joe says.

“You should be.”

“I’m leaving,” Joe says. He pushes himself up off the couch and then takes his coffee from the table.

“Thank God,” Pete says. He stands up, too, and then walks Joe to the door. “For what it’s worth,” Pete says, “I’m glad to have you back.” He shrugs. “Even though I didn’t know you were missing.”

Joe shrugs. “I’ll take it, I guess.”

They stop at the front door and Pete hugs him again. He says, “Welcome home, Space Traveler,” into Joe’s skin, and Joe shoves him off with a laugh. “Time Traveler’s Wife, then?”

“Fuck you,” Joe says.

“Fuck your mother,” Pete quips back.

Joe points a finger at Pete. “You love my mom,” he says.

“I’m a mother lover,” Pete answers, swiveling his hips. “Get outta here,” he says. “I only love you for your coffee delivering purposes.”

Joe opens the door but then turns to Pete again. “I’ll call you later,” he says.

“Good.” Pete smiles. “We need to use your new pipe.”

Laughing, Joe lets himself out.

---

A week passes, and Joe stays in LA. He sees friends he hasn’t seen in a while, he answers emails he owes to people. He sends Pete sketch after sketch after sketch of zombie and dragon designs he wants to see on new Clan gear. As a joke, he says in an email that he needs his own imprint within Clandestine, so he can have his own small line of metal shirts.

Within ten minutes, Pete shoots back that it’s a great idea, and to have Joe’s people call his people.

Joe isn’t really sure it is a joke.

---

It’s after a week that Joe finally gets curious enough to pick up the pipe again. He had set it in his bathroom after getting back from Pete’s and then left it there. Sometimes he’d stare at it while sitting on the throne, and nearly touched it a few times while brushing his teeth, but he was still in awe of it, maybe even more so now that the magic, for him, was spent.

Joe picks up the pipe on a Thursday morning, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

It’s weird, because nothing happens; and it’s weird that nothing happening can be constituted as weird. Joe doesn’t think too hard about it; he doesn’t want to get a headache.

He takes the pipe downstairs and puts it on the kitchen table, sits down by it. It’s still a cool fucking pipe. The dragon leers at him, mouth open, tail flapped almost sassily out. He’s thinking about smoking with it, sharing some weed with Pete, when it occurs to Joe that if Pete held the pipe to smoke, he’d be the genie’s newest master.

Eyes shut, Joe imagines what that would be like, then opens them again to the brush of fur against his leg. Mr. B. launches himself up onto the table and nearly brushes up against the pipe, just missing it as Joe snatches it away from him. The captain of the fuzz army looks at Joe, maybe even glares at him, then jumps right back off the table and wanders out of the room. Joe sets the pipe back on the table, but just takes his shirt off and wraps it up. He’ll bring it back to that dealer in Chicago, see if he can get his money back. Or at least trade the pipe in for something safer. Like an ottoman.

---

Patrick calls and says, “I heard you tripped on the wrinkle in time.”

“I really hate Pete,” Joe says.

“I told you not to buy that fucking thing,” Patrick says. “But you never listen to me.”

“I hate you too,” Joe says before hanging up on him.

---

Andy calls and says, “I hear you’re hallucinating.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” Joe says. “Actually, I wouldn’t say that at all.”

“Maybe it’s time you laid off the mind-altering substances,” he suggests.

“Now who’s hallucinating?” Joe asks.

---

A month passes and Joe is still in LA. The pipe is in his suitcase - it’s the only thing in his suitcase - but he doesn’t feel a real sense of urgency to go back to Chicago. Patrick has since come to LA to do some producing for his latest rap obsession (Joe appreciates rap, but he can’t keep most of the artists straight unless someone slides a new album into his hand and tells him to buy it; even then, things are a little sketchy). Andy’s still in Wisconsin, but his free love quasi-commune gives Joe the willies, as much as he loves Matt, Kage and Ryan.

His mom calls and suggests that as long as he’s not on tour, he come home for his brother’s graduation.

Pete says he’ll go with Joe, “for moral support.”

“I don’t need moral support,” Joe says. “It’s just a graduation.”

“This is your brother’s second degree,” Pete says. Joe can actually hear him packing a suitcase for Chicago. “You’ll need someone to hold your two Grammies when you talk.”

Joe blinks. “I’m assuming you’re talking about my grandmothers, because, in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve never won a Grammy.”

“All the more reason for me to go with you, Trohman.”

The problem with Pete’s logic, Joe thinks as they share a cab to the airport, is that it’s not based on normal logic, so it’s impossible to argue rationally.

---

Pete no longer has a house in Chicago, so they set up shop in Joe’s. They arrive late at night the day before the ceremony, and both crash, curled up on either side of Joe’s bed, almost as soon as they’re there.

The next morning they drive over to Joe’s parents’ house to join the caravan of people heading to the university to see Sam hooded by his favorite professor. Joe says, “You didn’t need to do this.”

“I know.” Pete smiles at him. “I wanted to.”

Joe shrugs and doesn’t say anything else while he navigates the familiar streets. “Well, thanks for coming,” he says.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Joe can see Pete nod stiffly. “What?” he asks.

Pete doesn’t say anything right away, and when Joe pulls up to his parents’ house, neither get out. “I guess I did need to,” Pete says. He shrugs at Joe and then smiles. “For me.”

Joe smiles as well, says, “I’m glad you don’t think I’m a douche bag.”

“I could never think that.”

Joe shrugs and then turns his head away. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late. The Trohmans do not run on Jewish standard time.”

They get out of the car, and as they walk to the front door, Joe slides his hand into Pete’s.

Pete doesn’t pull away.

Fin.

FOB: The Grass is Always What You Wish For (1/2)

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 18:19:38 GMT

The Grass is Always What You Wish For
Pete/Joe, Joe/various females * R * 20,796 words

I disclaim. If you are or know any of these people, now is your time to exit quietly.

Summary: A purchase at an antique shop ends up including a genie and three wishes. But you know what they say about making wishes. With special guest stars: cast members of 17 Again.

Author's notes: I'm being vague up yonder on purpose. My apologies in advance. Big thanks to little_whittles for the "technical assistance." HUUUUGE thanks to likealocket for her (as always) stupendous beta. At some point she's going to get sick of my emails that say, "It's a stylistic thing" and quit on me, but until she does, I love having her help.

The bowl is gorgeous; there’s no other way to really look at it. A person could even call it sexy (if he wanted to fuck a bong, which is really fucking bizarre by most standards). Its roundness supports the dragon that curls around it, an open mouth providing a place for perfectly packed herb. He doesn’t even need to close his eyes to see the way the flame will dance outside of that dragon’s fucking mouth, smoke curling up from its gaping maw. It’s going to be so fucking beautiful Joe can barely stand it.

“Patrick.” He reaches out, gesturing at Patrick to come over; or at the place where Patrick last was, at least. “Rick. C’mere.”

The stem rises out from the coils of the dragon’s tail, the tip of which hangs out, almost like it’s providing a little thumb rest for him, to more easily hold the pipe. He reaches to touch it, to run his fingers along those delicate scales, then jumps back when Patrick says, “Dude, seriously?”

Joe turns, his hand to his chest and breathing hard. “Jesus, Patrick. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Jesus, Joe,” Patrick says in an unnecessary mimic of Joe. “We’re in an antique shop and you find the one bong in the place.”

Joe puts his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and pushes him back a few steps, shushing him as he does it. “It’s a pipe, Patrick. A pipe. Bongs are for people interested in smoking illicit substances, which I, of course, am not.” He gives Patrick a look that’s meant to be read as something close to, ‘if you get me kicked out of this shop before I can purchase this magnificent stoning device I will remove your reproductive organs in your sleep, so help me God.’

Patrick steps back, hands up and spread, an expression of innocence on his face.

Turning back to the dragon, Joe once again reaches out to pick up the pipe, to better inspect it, to check that it’s in proper working order. Before he can, he’s scared for a second time, now by a voice that sounds like it belongs to a very large man who lifts 250 pounds while singing the hero part in German operas. The Hulk, perhaps, but theoretically less green. “Please do not touch that.”

The voice actually belongs to a man who resembles a pre-Hulked out Bruce Banner (fifty years later) more than the large green monster himself. Joe needs to tilt his head down in order to look the man in the face. “I would request that you do not touch that,” the man repeats. Joe shoves his hands into his pockets and then rocks up onto his toes. “Can I help you?” The question is there, but it doesn’t really sound like the man actually wants to help Joe, except to possibly help him out of the store.

“I’d like to, um,” Joe says, stammering over his words. “I’m interested in buying it, and I wanted to see if it was, you know, airtight.” It seems like a reasonable request to make about a pipe, but even as he’s saying it, it’s sounding like a pretty stupid thing to try.

The man seems to agree with Joe on his level of high idiocy. “You would use this?” he asks, an eyebrow rising at his words. “Sir, this is an antique. You do not put tobacco in it and smoke it. You display it.”

Behind them, Patrick snorts, and Joe sees him turn away, a hand over his mouth. “Oh,” Joe says, speaking slowly. He really wishes he could somehow reach Patrick to kick him in the shin. Or the fucking face. “I would never put tobacco in that and smoke it.”

Patrick coughs now, and shakes his head at Joe. The creepy old man turns and looks back, and Patrick reaches up and fixes his hat, hiding his face. “Twenty five hundred dollars,” the man says, turning back to face Joe.

“I’ll take it,” Joe says, without even thinking twice about the purchase, that it might be, you know, incredibly, ridiculously stupid.

From under his hat Patrick makes a sound distinctively similar to a velociraptor dying a very painful death.

---

“I can’t believe you bought that,” Patrick says as they walk out of the shop and back to their cars.

Dreamily, Joe says, “I can’t either.” He’s clutching the package to his chest, unwilling even to allow the bag to hang from his wrist, lest it bang one of their legs and break the pipe - bong – inside. “I’m waiting for my inner Jew to snarl out and give me debilitating guilt cramps, but you know what?”

“What?” Patrick asks, sounding way more miserable than someone who escaped from the greatest antique shop in the history of antique shops having spent nothing.

“My inner Jew is mostly just excited about stoning later.” Patrick groans and pushes his hat down lower, then nudges it right back up seconds later. “It’s in the Bible,” Joe continues. “Jews. We stoned a lot.” He makes a motion like he’s throwing something, and Patrick puts his hands over his ears and walks faster away from Joe. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Joe shouts, even though he knows he’s not going anywhere.

Patrick doesn’t even seem to care anyway.

---

Back home, Joe unwraps the dragon and sets it down on the counter. Mr. B uses a scratching post to launch himself up onto the marble and walks slowly toward it, neck outstretched for preliminary, exploratory sniffing. “No, no, no,” Joe says, putting his arms around the cat and lifting him carefully from the counter. “That’s not a toy.” He holds the cat in one arm, scratching his furry head with his other hand, and stares at the dragon. “That’s a piece of art though, isn’t it?”

Joe sighs happily and then sets Mr. B down, and he canters off, tail in the air. Joe turns back to the bong and looks at it again, then sighs happily. “You are so beautiful.” He shakes his head and reaches out, then jumps a little when his phone rings in his back pocket. The tune coming from his ass is Child of Mine, which means it’s lil Marie with her after-work check-in. “Hey you,” Joe says, eyeing the bong hungrily before turning away from it. “How’s my little girl in the big city?”

She laughs, he smiles, and for a time, forgets about the dragon.

---

They chat for an hour and Joe hangs up the phone smiling and hungry. He makes dinner – organic soup – and then eats it leaning on the island, watching Mr. B chase an imaginary bug.

After washing and putting away the bowl and spoon Joe finally gets his baggie (smallest cookie jar on the kitchen counter – the biggest one is filled with oatmeal, and the medium one has Joe’s super secret Tropical Skittles stash) and approaches the dragon with reverence. “Hello, beautiful,” Joe says. He tosses the weed onto the counter and picks up the bong. “I’m gonna make love to you tonight.”

He runs his fingers along the dragon’s body for a few seconds, tracing down from tail to neck, and then he reaches for the base in the mouth. The dragon rattles, and from out of the mouth – where he’s going to place his perfectly packed herb – flows this eerie blue light. No, Joe squints and leans in closer to see that it’s actually smoke.

No. It’s not smoke; it’s not acting like any kind of smoke Joe’s ever seen. Joe likes to consider himself an expert of sorts on smoke.

This smoke – or whatever it is – is wafting and gathering and… solidifying? “Jesus fucking Christ,” Joe says.

He’s pretty sure he’s not actually high. Yet. At this rate, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to be getting high at all; at least, not with his beautiful dragon.

His beautiful dragon which is, strangely, possibly the source of what appears to be a cross between Mr. Clean and a smurf. A cross, by the way, that now even includes feet, and is sitting on his counter.

Sitting nakedly on his counter.

“Um,” Joe says to Mr. Clean-Smurf.

Mr. Clean-Smurf is making Joe feel a little inadequate, what with the muscle tone and the overall looks department. He wants to let the fact that he’s got a much better head of hair than Mr. Clean-Smurf does (being bald, it’s not that difficult) make him feel better, but even Joe knows that in a fight, muscle mass beats manly mane every time.

In a voice much more fitting to the physique than the old antique store dude, Mr. Clean-Smurf says, “Your wishes three you have at hand. My Lord, I am at your command.”

Joe blinks and then says, “Come again?”

“Your wishes three you have at hand. My Lord, I am at your command.”

Again, Joe just doesn’t get it. “I don’t,” he says, and pushes his hand through his hair. It isn’t exactly that Joe doesn’t get it, though. It’s just he’s pretty sure there’s no such thing as genies. He’s seen Aladdin, and even when you take out the fact that like, this genie isn’t Robin Williams, isn’t singing a song or telling a joke or wearing a little vest like a trained monkey, it’s still almost achingly familiar. But at least the blue thing was what Joe had always imagined. He sighs. “Am I high?” He really just wanted to do a little stoning and then crash out while watching The Closer.

Mr. Clean-Smurf peers down at him, looking very high and mighty for someone who (a) was inside a bong not two minutes ago and (b) is currently buck ass naked on some dude’s heretofore clean counter.

“You appear to be on the ground,” Mr. C-S says. “Do you wish to be high?”

Joe wishes a lot of things, actually. He wishes he had never bought that fucking dragon. He wishes that he knew what the hell was going on. He wishes that there wasn’t a bare fucking ass on his counter that he prepares his fucking food on. “Not right now,” Joe says. He scratches at his head and says, “Can you like,” and he gestures at the… at the thing and then at the floor. “Off my counter please? And don’t you have any clothes?”

Seriously, had Joe ever given any thought to having a genie, he wouldn’t have imagined nudity involved. Unless, of course, in his pre-Marie days, he would have wished for a group of naked women to do dirty things to him all at once; that would have been some wholly acceptable nudity.

Maybe he could wish for Marie to have a job in Chicago. Then Joe wouldn’t have to pretend to like living in New York! He could just live in Chicago all the time and stop doing the back and forth thing!

“My Lord?” Mr. C-S says and Joe shakes his head out. “Is something amiss?”

“I missed what you said,” Joe says. “You’re a little um,” he gestures at the ‘man’ and then covers his own crotch with his hand. “Did you say you have clothes?”

“I have none,” the thing – yeah, thing – says. “Do you wish for me to have clothes?”

Joe rolls his eyes. This three wishes thing may be preposterous but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to take advantage of this. “I see what you’re doing there.” He doesn’t bother trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I don’t wish for you to have clothes,” Joe continues. “But if you’re going to stay here, I really need you to put some on, or like,” Joe shrugs and says, “I don’t know, get back into your little pipe so I can think without your fucking meat staring me in the face.”

With what looks suspiciously like an eye-roll to Joe, Mr. Clean (the genie?) snaps his fingers and is now wearing what looks to be Joe’s favorite shirt and is squished into his jeans. “You’re going to stretch that shit out,” Joe says, gesturing at the genie. The genie snaps his fingers again (definitely with an eye-roll this time) and instead of changing clothes, he changes shape, looking more or less now like someone who could be Joe’s cousin.

He’s also no longer blue.

“Is this preferred, my Lord?”

“Yes it’s preferred,” Joe sighs. “And please, call me Joe.” The genie opens his mouth but Joe cuts him off: “No it’s not a wish but just. This my Lord shit. It’s weird. You know? This is the United States. It’s the 21st century. It’s time to like, you know.” He rotates his hand like that will mean something to the genie, like maybe despite living in a bong, the genie will know the international symbol for ‘move on,’ even if it’s not really the phrase he’s looking for.

He doesn’t really know, and clearly neither does the genie, because they just stare at each other, matching confusion written on their faces.

“Joe’s my name,” he says. “So you should call me that. And like, I’m assuming you’re my genie until you grant my three wishes, and then you disappear back into this sweet little pipe here until like, it ends up in someone else’s hands?”

The genie looks at him, eyes wide and jaw dropped. For the first time this mythical man isn’t making Joe feel like an idiot, which is a little sad, considering that Joe is a real person, while the genie spends at least part of his time as some sort of vapor trapped in an ornate piece of glass.

“How have you heard of me?” The genie asks.

“Um,” Joe says.

---

He rents Aladdin from the grocery store because his mom has the DVD he and Sam used to watch, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to explain wanting to borrow that shit, and while the genie watches the movie with unwavering attentiveness, Joe’s able to study him.

Of all the weird shit that has ever happened to Joe – and plenty of weird shit has happened to him, thank you Fall Out Boy – this is so much weirder than any of that other stuff, Joe isn’t even sure what to do with this. So naturally, only one thing comes to mind.

He goes upstairs to the kitchen and calls Pete.

“Wassup?” Pete whispers into the phone.

“Naptime?”

Pete grunts. “He cried for an hour and a half and fell asleep twenty minutes ago. If I wake him up, I will kill myself.”

“How long do you have him?”

“Rest of the week,” Pete says, resignation in his voice. “Ashlee’s got two more shows then she’ll be back to take him home.

Knowing that Pete prefers not to talk about the divorce, Joe changes the subject. “Something weird’s happened to me.”

Even across the country and over a phone line, Joe knows that Pete’s smiling. “What happened?”

“I think I bought a genie at an antique store.”

There’s a long moment when neither of them are saying anything; Joe’s busy thinking about how ridiculous he must sound and Pete’s busy thinking… well, Joe’s not really sure what Pete’s thinking, but it’s pretty easy to imagine that he’s thinking that Joe’s either gone completely around the bend, or Joe’s finally dipped into something a little stronger than his wacky tobacky.

“Pete?”

“How do you buy a genie?” Pete’s voice is louder, and then Joe hears the click of a door closing. “I mean seriously. How do you buy a fucking genie?”

That’s an excellent question. Joe shoves his hand through his hair and sighs. “Patrick and I were at this antique store, he wanted like a rug or something. But I saw this sweet pipe, dude. It’s amazing, and it like has this dragon and-”

“Joe,” Pete says, cutting him off. “What does this have to do with your genie?”

“That’s just it,” Joe says. “I went to, you know, use the pipe and when I touched it, this like. There was blue smoke, man. And then it became like, it became this dude Pete. And he had this rhyme thing, but he said I had three wishes. I have three wishes, man. What the fuck!”

“Dude what’s going on?” Pete asks. Joe sighs because seriously, he just told him what‘s going on. In English, even.

He sighs and pushes his hand through his hair again, gets his fingers tangled in the curls and tugs them out roughly. “Dude. This is on the real There’s a genie on my couch watching Aladdin right now.”

“Does he look like Robin Williams?”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Ha ha ha,” he says. “No, he actually looks a little like me right now. But seriously. Pete. I have a genie in my house. He is on my couch wearing my clothes. What do I do?”

Pete snorts, like this is a stupid question, like everybody should know what to do when they have a genie hanging out on their couch, watching their TV and wearing their clothes, and then says, “Make three wishes.” Okay so maybe it was a stupid question, but what if he wishes wrong? What if he like, wishes to always have weed for the rest of his life, and the next time he goes to the airport he gets arrested for carrying? Shit like that happens when people have wishes.

Okay, most people aren’t actually walking around with a genie at their disposal to grant wishes, but in all the stories Joe knows the people who make their wishes always regret what they wish for. He should wish for something simple, like to always be able to get a kosher dog whenever he wants one, or make the Republican party suddenly accepting of gay marriage (though knowing the luck of wishes, they’d probably go ahead and outlaw straight marriage while they were at it, and Marie would be pretty pissed at him if that happened - after years of being engaged, he’s pretty sure she’s getting antsy to officially be Mrs. Joe).

“Just,” Pete continues, and Joe perks up, listening to Pete. “Be careful dude. You know what they say.”

“I know, I know,” Joe says. “Be careful what you wish for because it may come true.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Pete says. “The grass is always greener on the other side. Remember that.”

“Why should I remember that?” Joe asks.

The door opens at Pete’s house, and Joe can hear the sounds of a toddler crying. He winces and feels bad for Pete. Taking care of a two year old is never ever a good time, especially when you’re by yourself. “Just… in case. When you’re doing your wishing.”

Joe sighs and thumbs the phone off, then wanders back downstairs, where the genie is swaying along to the evil Jafar music, an almost-childlike smile on his face.

This is just not a good sign.

---

After the movie ends, Joe sits down on the couch with the genie and puts the bong between them. “Okay,” he says, looking first at the dragon and then at the genie. “So I guess that like, this is your home?”

“It is, my Lord.”

“Dude,” Joe says in warning.

“Joe,” the genie says, his voice practically quivering.

“Thanks,” Joe says. He pushes his hands through his hair, wishing he had a hair-tie for it. Then he pauses, mid-shove, and stares at the genie. But he apparently can’t read minds because his hair doesn’t magically get pulled off his face. Joe lets go and puts his hands in his lap. “Okay so,” and he clears his throat. “How many other masters or whatever have you had?”

“Eleven,” the genie says.

Joe jerks, surprised. “Seriously? I’m the twelfth master you’ve had? How does that even happen? How aren’t there like, fucking wars being fought over you?”

“I don’t know what warfare about which you speak,” the genie says, and Joe makes a mental note to curb his language around the genie. Also, he bites the inside of his lip so he won’t laugh at his little wish-granter. “And as you can imagine, my… Joe, it’s to the advantage of my master that I be kept a secret.”

“Otherwise they’ll end up in a loony bin, I bet,” Joe says. He feels a pang of guilt over calling Pete about it, but then decides that if there’s anybody in his life that he can trust with something like this, it’s Pete. “Are there any rules? Can I wish for more wishes?”

The genie shakes his head and seems to puff out his chest a little. “You may not wish for more wishes. You may not wish for love. You may not wish for death.”

“I don’t need love,” Joe says quickly, thinking of Marie, and of his earlier idea of wishing that she worked in Chicago. “I’m already engaged to the most perfect girl in the world. And I don’t want anybody dead.” As it turns out, fame really is the best revenge he could have taken on anybody who was a dick to him ever. “How long do I have to make these wishes?”

“You have as much time as you need,” the genie says. His voice is serene, soothing. Joe has half a mind to make two wishes and then just keep the genie around for therapeutic purposes. He likes his psychiatrist enough, don’t get him wrong, but the man sounds like he’s constantly suffering from post-nasal drip and it’s the most annoying fucking thing Joe’s ever encountered. It’s not bad enough for him to quit and find a new shrink, but it’s pretty fucking annoying.

Joe clears his throat and presses his hands deeper into his lap. “Last question, sorry about this. Once I have my three wishes, what happens to you? And… and the dragon?”

“I go back inside for good,” the genie says. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks expectantly at Joe. “You may keep the pipe as long as you desire, but never again shall you see my blue fire.”

“Sorry,” Joe says quickly. “More questions. What’s with the sporadic rhyming thing you do?”

“Presentation,” the genie says, flatly.

“Huh,” Joe says.

---

They argue over whether or not the genie should go back into the pipe for the night, but when Joe pulls out the sofa to reveal a bed, the genie gives up trying to say no. In the middle of the night, however, when Joe slips downstairs to attempt to finally try smoking out of the dragon, his new friend pours out of the opening (dressed this time, thank God), and says to him, “Yes, my Lord?”

“Um,” Joe says. “Just checking.” He sets the pipe down and scratches at his head, then adjusts his boxers. “Thought I might have been dreaming. You can…” he gestures vaguely with his hand, indicating that the genie ought to go back into the pipe. “I’ll make a wish tomorrow, though. I’ll think of something.”

He goes back upstairs, leaving the genie and the pipe downstairs, and lays awake thinking about all the things he could wish for.

Part of Joe wants to just wish for the end of wars. He could wish for world peace, that Palestine and Israel could get along, that people would stop suicide bombing, that all fundamentalists (all of them, including the people who were members of his own tribe) would put down their craziness. He wants to wish for the situation in Africa to clear up, for child armies to be disbanded and the brainwashing replaced with a good education. He wants every public school to be as awesome as his was, and for every kid to have music education. He wants there to be cures for Cancer and AIDS, and for them to be widely available to everybody, not just everybody who can afford it.

But part of him just wants to go with simple wishes: have Marie close by always, rid his brain (and Pete’s too) of its slight chemical imbalance, help his dad get healthy through magic, his band to be nominated for a Grammy.

He goes to sleep thinking he knows what he’s going to wish for, and smiles into the pillow.

---

Before making any decisions, Joe calls Pete again. “You sound tired,” Joe says when Pete answers.

“I am tired,” Pete says. “How’s your genie?”

In the background Joe can hear the sounds of Wonderpets, something that has been inflicted on Joe enough times to know what a horrible circumstance it is to have it on anywhere in the house. He pities Pete, sometimes. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but he’s fine. He’s in his pipe.” He sighs. “He says I can’t wish for more wishes, I can’t wish for love, and I can’t wish for death.”

“Are you sure he isn’t Robin Williams?” Pete asks. “Did he ask you to use your third wish to set him free?”

“Actually,” Joe says. “I’m pretty sure he likes being a genie and living in the pipe. I practically had to force him to spend the night in the sofa bed. And when I woke up this morning, he wasn’t there.”

Pete snorts. “You mean when you got up in the middle of the night to take a shot at that bong you bought. Spent too much on, by the way.”

“Patrick called?” Joe asks. “Oh, and fuck you,” he says before Pete has the time to answer. He winces at Pete’s braying horse-laugh coming at him over the phone. “So anyway, so I was thinking that I might like, ask for Marie to work in Chicago and like, I don’t know, maybe that we could be nominated for a Grammy or something.”

“Noooo,” Pete whines. “Don’t do that!” Joe blinks, because why the fuck not? “Dammit Joe,” Pete says. “Now if we ever do get a nomination, I’m going to assume that it’s because of you.”

Joe rolls his eyes and adjusts his hat. “Okay fine. I won’t. Seriously. Don’t worry about it. It’s not happening.” He bites on his lip for a second and then says, softly, “But I am going to ask for the Marie thing.”

“I don’t think you should,” Pete warns. “Remember, these things never turn out the way you want them to.”

“That’s in books and movies,” Joe says. “And what do you think is going to happen? She’s going to hate living with me and want to break up? Better now than after we’re married.”

And okay. He bites his lip even harder because that came out all wrong. Plus, it was like, completely insensitive. “I didn’t mean it like that,” Joe says, his voice softer than before. “Pete, dude, I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Pete says. “But like, not even that. What if like, I don’t know. The reason she comes to live in Chicago is because she gets hit by a bus crossing the street in New York?”

If Pete was trying to get back at Joe, that worked. “What?” Joe asks, appalled. “Pete how can you even say that?”

“I’m just saying,” Pete begins, “that you ask for something and when you get it, it’s not what you really wanted. It’d be like, I don’t know, a fat person asking to never have to worry about dieting again. And the wish is granted by the person having a heart attack the next day. Or gets a tapeworm and they’re not getting any nutrients at all and they starve. Or they develop an eating disorder. Or-”

“Okay,” Joe says. “I get it.” He sighs and licks his lips. “I’ll make sure to be specific, and I’ll be careful about what I wish for.”

“I think you should take that back to the antique shop,” Pete says. “And just get rid of it. That shit is bad news bears.”

Joe could do that. Or… he could do something a lot better with it, like use up all his wishes and then smoke the shit out of that pipe. “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” Joe says. “I gotta go.”

Pete must know he’s lying, because he has a sour note of resignation in his voice when he says, “Yeah, okay,” and hangs up.

Leaving the phone upstairs on his bed, Joe goes down to the kitchen and sits at the table, staring at the pipe for a while and mulling over the perfect way to word his wishes.

---

It’s late afternoon when Joe finally awakens the genie. He comes out of the pipe, stretching his arms out in a big yawn, and then snaps to attention in front of Joe. “Your wishes three you have at hand. My Lord, I am at your command.”

“At ease,” Joe says, which only produces a puzzled look on the genie. “Relax.” Joe blows out a huff of breath and pushes his hands into his pockets. “Okay, this is important that you get this right, okay? Because I don’t want my fiancé getting pissed at me and dumping my ass, got it?”

The genie nods and doesn’t look any more relaxed than he did before Joe told him to do so. “Okay,” Joe says, pushing his hands onto his jeans. “I wish… oh. Is there any special way that I have to do this?”

“No, my Lord,” the genie says. “Begin ‘I wish’ and then continue on from there.”

Joe nods and pulls his hands out of his pockets to scrub them down his jeans. “I wish,” he says slowly, “that Marie would come back to Chicago to live, for work related purposes.”

The genie shuts his eyes for a few seconds and then opens them again. “It is done, my Lord. Your wishes two you have at hand. My Lord, I am at your command.”

“Wait wait,” Joe says, putting his hands out. “I don’t, I mean.” He gestures wildly at the genie. “Where is she?”

“It’s been done,” the genie says. “Have you another wish, my Lord?”

Joe sighs. “No.” He gestures at the pipe and the genie floats back into it. Joe stays at the table, frowning at the pipe.

He waits for something to happen, for Marie to come home like she’s been at work all day, but nothing does. His house remains empty.

---

Joe’s already on his way upstairs to get his phone, contemplating grilling a burger for dinner, when he hears it start to ring, Child of Mine, right on time. He jogs up the rest of the stairs and launches himself onto the bed, opening it before it can go to voicemail. “Hey,” he starts, but is quickly cut off.

“They fired me,” Marie shouts, or sobs, or something. At least, Joe’s pretty sure that’s what she said. He’s basing this more on the fact that it felt like someone kicked him in the nuts than in actually being able to understand Marie while she’s hysterical.

And she is definitely hysterical.

“They what?” Joe asks.

He can barely breathe. His head is spinning. It’s like he’s on a bad trip except Joe’s never tried that shit because he may be crazy but he’s not that crazy. All he can think is that’s not what I meant because deep down he knows that this is totally his fault.

“They fired me,” Marie shouts, maybe screams, and then the crying starts all over again.

“Baby,” Joe says, turning on the soothing part of his voice he’s pretty sure is there sometimes. “Babe, Mare, deep breaths, come on. Tell me what happened.”

It’s hard for Joe to understand the whole situation, what with her sobbing in New York, and him being eaten alive by guilt in Chicago. She says something to do with restructuring, and her department being obsolete. “There’s no other place out here to go,” she says, crying all over again. “I’m lucky I got this job.”

Joe aches for her, a feeling almost as powerful as the guilt; almost, but not quite. “Come back to Chicago,” he says softly. “You can look for work here. My mom’ll help, you know she will.”

“I didn’t want that,” Marie says. “I wanted to do it myself.”

“I know,” Joe says. He puts his hand to his head, and then tugs roughly on his hair. This is all his fault. “But come back home anyway.”

---

They don’t talk long this time; Marie’s got plans to meet some girls for drinks to numb the pain, and he knows this means he won’t be hearing from her for the rest of the night. Joe immediately calls Pete, who sounds even more tired than before, and possibly more frustrated: “What, Joe?”

“I got Marie fired,” Joe says. “I fucked up.”

Pete sighs heavily. It’s like a loud roar in Joe’s ear, which hurts, and he figures he deserved that. “What happened?” It doesn’t take long for Joe to tell him the whole story, and when he’s finished, Pete sighs again, and says, “You gotta get rid of that shit.”

“I can’t wish for him to undo it,” Joe says, shutting his eyes. “You know she’d never go back, even if they begged.”

Again, Pete sighs, but this time it’s less damaging to Joe’s eardrum. “I know,” he says. “Maybe you can like, wish to make it like you had never asked for it.”

Joe could, except for one little problem. “I really don’t wish that though,” he whispers. He needs to whisper it because it’s such a shitty thing to say, but it’s true. He’s heartbroken that Marie just lost her job; but he doesn’t really wish for her to no longer be coming back to Chicago. He’s fucking glad.

“You’re such a selfish prick sometimes,” Pete says.

“I know,” Joe says. “I learned it from you.”

At least Pete doesn’t argue. But he does say, his words muffled by the sound of Bronx crying, “I gotta go. B just woke up. I don’t know what is with this kid.”

“He’s yours,” Joe says before hanging up.

---

Maybe this makes him a bad future-husband, but Joe doesn’t wish for the damage to be undone. He goes to New York and helps Marie pack, he sets up a lunch between her and his mom so Marie can find a job in Chicago, and he even buys Marie’s favorite flowers to have in the bedroom when she arrives in the city, but he doesn’t wish that he hadn’t done it.

And he spends her entire first three days hanging out with her in the house, watching romantic comedies (afterwards he considers himself an expert) and not saying anything about the fact that she won’t take off her pajamas. Like, at all.

Unemployment only lasts for two weeks, and then there’s a third week where she has the job but hasn’t started yet. And then suddenly Joe’s back to being alone during the day, with Marie off working – being his Sugar Mama, as Joe liked to joke – until six, seven, even eight o’clock. It isn’t exactly what Joe was hoping for when he had made his wish, but it is nice to go to bed in their city with her again.

Joe doesn’t do anything more with the genie. He doesn’t know what else he’d want to wish for, and is fairly nervous about making any more wishes until he’s certain, and he’s really not sure if the thing that happened to Marie is his fault or not and, well, okay the thing that happened to Marie is totally his fault but it seems like it worked out pretty well because she seems like she’s pretty happy being back in Chicago so that they can both be closer to their families all the time. So okay, the Marie wish pretty much turned out as he had wanted (minus the part about his fiancé being a workaholic), but Pete had been right, Joe wrong, Marie didn’t always seem very happy with the whole situation (which opened up an entire other can of worms that Joe doesn’t really want to think too much on) and since that first slightly disastrous wish he’d been exercising caution with this whole genie situation.

Everything goes well for about two months. Marie comes home at around eight every night and sits on the couch with him with her feet tucked under his thighs and works on her laptop while Joe watches whatever variation of Law and Order is on at the time. Sometimes they talk about Marie’s day at work but most of the time, she works and he watches TV. Sometimes he reads comics and tries to talk to Marie about the artistic value of the books, but most of the time… she works and he watches TV. At the end of the night she does her weird nighttime routine, which pre-New York she would laugh and say was to make sure she was still beautiful on their 50th anniversary, but now she calls a professional necessity (not that Joe is taking notice of these sorts of details, or anything) and Joe takes a few private minutes with his old stoning device and stares longingly at his no longer new but still epically beautiful dragon bong/genie home. He still needs to ask his new friend if he can use the pipe after the wishes are spent, but he feels odd calling out the dude when he still doesn’t know what it is he wants to wish for, and the best way to word a wish to make sure nothing bad happens.

Besides, logically, there’s nothing that forces him to make his wishes all at once, and two wishes might come in handy some time in the future. Sure, he promised Pete that he wouldn’t wish to win a Grammy, but maybe he can use a wish to get some sort of awesome opening act for a future tour, or a summer spent filling in as guitarist for a Metallica cover band or something. The wishes are his to use however he wants, and how he wants to use them is to just wait and see.

Anyway, two months pass and Joe spends a lot of time telling himself that they’re better than they are, when Marie comes home more excited than she’s been in like, a long time and says, “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first?”

The good news is, as it turns out, very, very good. The bad news is, as it turns out, very, very, incredibly dynamically bad.

“The good news,” Marie says, even though Joe remembers asking for the bad news first (it’s nice to wash down the bad with the good, he likes to say), “is that I was offered this amazing promotion.” She reaches out and puts two hands on Joe’s wrist. It feels almost unfair, since it’s that thing she does whenever she wants something that Joe probably vehemently does not want, and Joe always, always gives in. He can’t help it; she’s just so damn cute.

“That’s great,” Joe says, glancing down at her hands on his arm and then looks back at her. His smile is genuine, but he’s increasingly worried about whatever this bad news is. Usually Marie’s really awesome about his bad-news-first philosophy, and this sudden deviation away from it is making his balls shrivel a little in fright. “Like seriously, that’s awesome. But um.” He licks his lips and puts his hand on Marie’s, squeezing both in his one. The diamond on her engagement ring scratches at his palm, and in a strange way it’s a comforting feeling; it’s a reminder that Marie said she’d marry him, said that she’d be his Mrs. Joe forever. “What’s the bad news? Longer hours or something? Do you have to work weekends? Is it a lot of traveling?”

She licks her lips now and looks down so that Joe is staring at the top of her cute little head. “A lot of traveling in the beginning, Joe,” she says. Marie pulls one hand out from under his and puts it on top of the little pile on his arm. “It’s in London, Joe.” She finally brings her head up and looks him in the eye and says, “I’m moving to London.”

“But you just came back here,” Joe says. It’s a pretty stupid response, all things considered, but it felt like his brain shut off as soon as she said ‘London,’ so that’s the best he can give. Also, his brain may have ceased functioning because his world turned upside down or something. It’s hard to tell – everything happened too fast.

Everything is still happening way, way too fast.

“I know I did,” Marie says.

“And you were…” he sighs, and once again can’t look her in the eye. “You were doing really good in the new place. You… you loved it. You said you loved it.”

“I do love it,” Marie says. “And I’m going to love this new position even more.”

He sighs. “Your new position in London.”

“Yeah.” She squeezes Joe’s hand and then runs hers through her hair. It’s the left one, and the diamond glitters in the light. It’s not a big rock – she always said she didn’t want big. Maybe that was Marie’s way of saying that she would like a big diamond but she’s too cute and sweet and modest to ask for it.

He should have gone bigger.

“Earth to Joe,” she says with a smile. “Come in Captain Trohman.” She runs her hand through Joe’s hair and he instinctively leans into the motion, eyes closing. “I have to do this, babe.”

“What about,” Joe starts, but he takes a moment to just enjoy this quiet moment with her. Except he can’t have the important conversations with her while she’s being, like, herself. He reaches up and takes her hand, gently pulls it away from his head. “What about our wedding, Mare?”

They’re almost settled on a location, almost down to a decision on where to actually have it. And then from there, they could get their date, and from there, flowers and food and whatever else you’re supposed to do when you get married.

“You’re not ready, Joe.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but she puts her finger to his lips and smiles at him, and for a few seconds Joe wonders how long she’d been planning this conversation with him. It seems way too rehearsed on her part. And he’s being pretty fucking predictable. At any rate, he’s totally ready. He’s more than ready. Joe was ready to marry Marie from the very first second he saw her with her ring on. He was ready to marry Marie before he even asked. If she had said they should do it as soon as he asked, he would have been happy to drag her to City Hall or Vegas or wherever it is people go when they’re getting married in a hurry and just, you know, fucking do it.

“You’re not ready,” she says again. “If you were, you would have known that now is the perfect time for us to get married. You’ve had this break scheduled, we had plenty of time to plan. Joe, we could be married right now. We could be celebrating our first anniversary by now.”

“That’s not fair, Mare,” he says, and it isn’t. It would have been a scrunched up planning time, and it’s the middle of the summer in Chicago, and dammit, “We still haven’t even figured out who’s going to marry us.”

She doesn’t say anything, just looks down again and toes at the ground a little bit, like an actual mare impatient with the situation at hand.

His breath catches in his throat, as a new realization hits. “Are you calling it off?” There’s a pretty big part of Joe that doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I’m putting it off,” she says.

“How long?”

Marie doesn’t answer him right away, which makes Joe worried. Her answer feels like the nail in his coffin: “Indefinitely.”

She swears it’s not a breakup, but when he finds Marie’s engagement ring in the bathroom after bringing her to O’Hare, he says to the mirror, “This feels like a breakup to me.”

---

Joe calls Pete.

It would probably be less complicated to call Patrick, especially given the fact that Patrick could say something productive like “want me to come over?” since he’s still in Chicago and Joe’s in Chicago due to unfortunate Marie circumstances.

It’s almost enough to make him miss their sweet pad in Brooklyn.

Calling Patrick doesn’t lead to suggestions that include, “I have the good weed,” so he calls Pete because when Pete has weed, it’s always good.

“I think Marie left me,” Joe says when Pete picks up.

There are essentially two Petes left, as far as Joe is concerned. There used to be more; there used to be a ton of Petes, depending on what sort of mood he was in, what medications he was on, and how he was self-medicating as well. Now there’s with-Bronx Pete and without-Bronx Pete.

He’s talking to without-Bronx Pete, and without-Bronx Pete is out at a party. “What?” Pete shouts into the phone. There’s loud music playing and maybe he’s at a club. Pete was always the club type. Joe’s more of a dive guy, wanting something laidback when he wasn’t into something thrashy. Pete likes the bump and grind of a club where people go to get lost. Joe appreciates the smooth sounds of jazz, where people go to get found.

“I think Marie left me,” Joe says again. He practically shouts it, which does no good for his twisted, wretched soul.

He needs to leave the metaphysical section alone when at Borders, and stick to his mysteries.

“Hold on,” Pete shouts. “Lemme get somewhere quieter.”

Joe holds, tapping his fingers against the counter and watching Mr. B. slash his tail wildly against the tile, like he’s intent on cleaning some spot behind him. And finally, Pete comes back with the music several decibels lower and asks, “Okay, who is this?”

Sighing, Joe puts his hand to his forehead and says, “Marie left me.” Saying he thinks makes it seem like he might be wrong, and there are only so many times you can tell someone something and pretend that you’re wrong when you know that you’re right.

Pete asks Joe for evidence of his conclusion (in those words exactly too, “Can you produce the evidence that led to this conclusion?”) and then when Joe finishes, says, “Wow. What a woman.” Then, just to make sure Joe understands (he assumes), he says, “Marie definitely left you.”

This isn’t really what Joe wants to hear, but it’s nice to know he’s not being paranoid or jumping to strange conclusions. Then again, without-Bronx Pete isn’t always the greatest thinker in the world. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to call up Patrick. Sure, he wouldn’t have suggested getting drunk or stoned (both of which sound like pretty good ideas to Joe) but at least he’s always rational when he’s not working on music. This doesn’t actually leave a lot of time for rationality, but in theory, it’s there.

“I don’t know what to do,” Joe says. He leans against his counter, one arm crossed over his chest, the other pressed against his body as he holds the phone up to his ear. “She was my life for like, for years, Pete. I don’t know what to do now.”

“I know,” Pete says, and even though this is without-Bronx Pete, Joe knows that he does. “You should come out to LA. We’ll hang out a bit.”

“I don’t know,” Joe says. He really doesn’t know. His family’s still here. Patrick’s still here. Nick’s still here. Alex is still around. He’s got people in Chicago, places to go and people to see and this big empty house that he had bought and fixed up to share with Marie with the mezuzah on the door that now he’d have to get rid of and he’ll have to go to Israel Connection to get a new one and he hates Israel Connection where the old biddies that work there stare at his tattoos like he’s some great sinner and not, you know, just a regular sinner. “I don’t know,” he says again.

Pete lays down his trump card: “I’ll get some weed. The good shit. You know I always get you the good shit.”

He does always get Joe the good shit, which is probably why Joe agrees to go out to LA. “I’ll book you a ticket,” Pete says.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’ll do it anyway.” Pete’s confidence is always a little thrilling. Sometimes it’s scary, but always at least a little thrilling. “That way you won’t cancel since it’s my money and your Jewish guilt will take over.”

Joe smiles. “I wish you wouldn’t take advantage of my religious influences like that.” He doesn’t actually care, and he is smiling now.

“Come to LA, Pete says again. And bring the thing. I wanna see it.”

“Okay.”

“And bring Mr. B., too. I’ll let him beat up Hemmy again.”

“Okay, Pete,” Joe says, stronger this time. He’s smiling now, though, so calling Pete was still the right idea.

It seems like less of a right idea when in the morning he has an email notification for a flight to LAX leaving O’Hare a mere four hours later. Mr. B. doesn’t really appreciate being thrown into his cat carrier, but Joe’s also pretty sure his little genie friend doesn’t appreciate being tossed into a suitcase, so nobody leaves the house very happy, except Joe, who’s already feeling a little better (a natural reaction to weed provided by Pete and getting out of a former love pad) as he jogs down the stairs to get to his brother’s car, parked outside.

Sam doesn’t ask questions on the drive, for which Joe is grateful, and promises to get the mail and bring it inside every day. He also promises to have a few wild parties, to which Joe says, “Not too wild,” and then the rest of the conversation is about how old and boring Joe’s gotten.

It feels nice. For an hour, Joe forgets that his world has turned upside down.

---

In LA, Pete doesn’t bother with pretenses. They go to Joe’s place and Pete tosses a baggie of what Joe hopes is some Vancouver herb onto his kitchen table and then goes back to the car to get some grocery bags of food. “You didn’t have to go shopping,” Joe had said when he saw them.

“I didn’t,” Pete had said. “They’re from my house.”

The Doritos are a little stale, but when you’re nice and out of your head from what turned out to be very potent Vancouver herb, it really doesn’t matter.

“Dude,” Pete says when the stoning is beginning to wear off and Mr. B. has determined the room safe enough to doze in again. “You know what’s so awesome right now?”

“The fact that there’s still half a bag left?” Joe’s thinking about that other half bag. They need a food break, maybe some pizza, or Thai. Or Korean, he hasn’t had Korean in for-fucking-ever.

Pete shakes his head. “No way, that is not...” he pauses and then nods. “Yeah, okay that’s awesome too. But not at all what I as thinking.” He holds a finger up to Joe, like he’s about to tell him a very important point, and then pauses again. Joe waits, because sometimes Pete’s thoughts are all over the place. Like fucking butterflies, man. Like the butterflies at the museum in New York, and you have to get a butterfly net and you have to fucking catch them with the net but they’re all over the place because they’re fucking butterflies and they’re like, ‘No, don’t put me in your net!’ and you’re like ‘No little butterfly, I’m not trying to hurt you. Your wings are so pretty.’ It’s really not at all like being at the museum, because at the museum there were no nets, just tons of brightly colored butterflies everywhere, making Marie laugh and her eyes sparkle.

That was a great day.

He waits for Pete to get the net and catch the thoughts. “We’re both single,” Pete says.

“What?”

“We’re both fucking single.” Pete punches Joe in the thigh, like Joe deserves punishment, like being single isn’t punishment enough for his fiancée walking away from him like a thing you can just walk away from. The fucking butterflies, man. They were still at the museum. Maybe. “When’s the last time we were both fucking single?”

Joe opens his mouth to answer, and then shuts it again. Because really, when was the last time they were both single? “Dude,” he says. He has no idea when that was, to be honest. Pete was always with someone, and then Joe was with Marie and it was like, it was like they were always with someone. “We need pizza.”

“Dude,” Pete says. He smiles at Joe, so wide that Joe’s eyes hurt a little bit. “We really do. No pig for you.”

“Fuck you and your pig,” Joe says. “I’ll eat your dirty meat.”

They order pineapple.
---

“I want to see your thing,” Pete says.

They’re pretty sober now, and Joe thinks he’s way too sober to be showing his thing to Pete. “What?”

“Your thing,” Pete says again. “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

“Oh,” Joe says. He hadn’t really ever thought about it that way and now that he is, well, it’s a little bizarre. “Don’t ever call it that again, please.”

“Okay,” Pete says. “Now whip that shit out.”

Sometimes Joe just doesn’t know about Pete.

He carefully pulls the pipe out of his suitcase, using a t-shirt to do it, and then sets it down on the table. Immediately Mr. B. jumps up and sniffs at it, so that Joe has to nudge him away. “I don’t know how a cat would make wishes,” Joe explains to Pete.

“Are you sure there’s a genie living in there?”

“You wanna see him?” Joe asks.

He regrets it as soon as he says it. It’s not that he thinks there are going to be any adverse effects to this. In the story of Joe’s life, Pete is hardly a villain. Sure, he’s that guy that gets Joe into trouble often enough, but it’s because he’s the dopey friend that likes to do stupid things, not because he’s the guy that likes to get Joe into trouble. Plus, at the end of the movie that is Joe’s life, he knows that Pete’s standing beside him and grinning, or in jail sitting next to him and grinning. It’s been over ten years and Joe can’t imagine his life without Pete.

So no, the regret has nothing to do with thinking Pete might have some dastardly plan with his genie; he just doesn’t want to hurt the genie’s feelings, when it all comes down to it. If Joe were a genie, he wouldn’t want his masters to be calling him up out of his cozy little bong home so that he can be displayed like a exhibit at an art gallery. Or something else that displays things and not at all an art gallery.

“Would it be weird?” Pete asks. Joe looks at him, and his face must look as confused as his mind, because Pete continues. “I mean like, I don’t know. If you get him to come out but not to wish anything, just to show him to me. That would be like, I don’t know. That’d be weird, right?”

Relieved, Joe sighs. “Right,” he says.

“Tell me again,” Pete demands, pushing himself up onto Joe’s counter and banging his feet into the cupboards.

“Stop breaking my shit,” Joe says, “and then I’ll tell you.” Pete stops the banging. “I wished for Marie to come back to Chicago for work related purposes, because I didn’t want anything bad to happen, like her to come back in a body bag or something, you know?” Pete nods. “So I wished for the work related purpose thing, and she gets fired that same fucking day. So she comes back to Chicago which, fine. We get rid of the place in New York, and my mom helps her get a job back home. But then with this new job she gets a promotion that sends her to London. Like, what the fuck is that? She just came back to Chicago and now she’s going to London? And leaving her fucking ring behind?”

Joe can feel hyperventilation coming on before he does it. It’s weird, because he doesn’t really hyperventilate much, or ever, but it’s there, making him dizzy and tired. Like an anxiety attack was just waiting in the wings, because its entrance would be announced eventually and it can come out with a roar and an explosion of pyro. Pete rubs Joe’s back and says things that aren’t at all soothing, but in a soft, smooth voice until Joe laughs. “What the fuck is that?”

“Voice tone,” Pete says. “I could tell you about fucking your mom in a soothing voice, and you’d feel better.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Joe says. But in fairness, he feels better. And all Pete had to do was talk about s’mores and the Goofy Movie.

If Pete had started talking about fucking Joe’s mom, however, he would definitely not have felt better.

---

Pete crashes at Joe’s and in the morning they go to Starbucks.

It’s weird being back in Pete’s world. Joe had forgotten all about it when he was in Chicago and New York. He has people who recognize him, sure, but he doesn’t have a legion of photographers waiting to catch him with someone, or see him do something stupid, like trip and fall or breathe wrong. There was one time where he thought a photographer was hiding behind a bush, but it turned out to be a squirrel that had gotten its hands (paws?) on some espresso beans or something, because it was going absolutely insane. That shit was hilarious.

Being out with Pete is insane, too, because it’s like the paparazzi have all had too much coffee. They ask stupid questions like what Pete and Joe are up to (they have Starbucks cups in their hands, what does it look like they’re up to?) and how long they’re in LA (Pete lives there, so a long fucking time), and has Pete seen Ashlee lately, (“Fuck off”). “Sorry about this,” Pete says while he navigates through the people standing around his car with cameras, Joe trailing along behind him.

In the passenger seat, Joe sips his drink and murmurs, “It’s okay.” It’s actually kind of cool. A few of the photographers called him by name, asked him what he’s doing in LA, if he was planning on cutting his hair again any time soon. It’s definitely annoying, he can see how it’s annoying, but he’s not entirely irritated with the process. It’s weird, but acceptable.

If anything, he’s fascinated.

“I just feel bad,” Pete says. “My sister can’t even come out and visit. She can’t take it.”

“She can come visit me,” Joe says. “I’ll take care of her.” He blinks, and then smiles.

“I hate you,” Pete says.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

---

Pete drops Joe off at home and then goes back to his place to do whatever it is that he does when he’s ‘feeling creative.’

Joe sits at his kitchen table with music on loud and the pipe in front of him. A sketch pad is open in front of him because Pete, in an offering of some kind, had asked for some design ideas for a new line of Clan gear he wanted to call ‘metal chic.’

He scuffs his feet along the floor and traces his pencil aimlessly over the paper but all Joe really ends up drawing are pictures of his pipe and self portraits that make him look like the grim reaper on the day a cure for cancer is discovered. Reaching out, Joe brushes his eraser along the pipe and leans back in shock when his little genie friend pops out and sits on the table next to the pipe. “Your wishes two,” the genie starts but Joe waves him off and the genie clamps his mouth shut.

Absently, Joe wishes that would work on his band, then clamps his own mouth shut in case his mouth decides to work without his brain and he says something like that. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know. Two wishes. I don’t think I’m ready for that yet, though.”

The genie blinks at him and Joe gestures at the chair across from him. “You wanna sit? Like, in a chair? Get comfortable?” The genie blinks at him, so Joe stretches his leg out and nudges a chair away from the table. “I just like…” he trails off and doesn’t know how to admit to a genie that he was lonely, and that’s why he brought the genie out. He nods at the genie, who sits in an actual chair, and then picks up his pencil and taps it on the paper.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“What’s what like, my Lord?” Joe gives the genie a look, and he rolls his eyes (the genie reminds Joe of Patrick, sometimes), and then says, “What’s what like?”

“Being a genie,” Joe says. He puts his hands together, fingers linked, and leans forward. “What’s it like being shoved inside that pipe and then coming out and granting wishes. It sucks, right?”

The genie doesn’t say anything right away, and at first Joe thinks he’s being ignored. But then he says, “What’s it like being human?” and Joe nods. He gets it.

“I dig it,” he says.

The genie says nothing in response, and instead just looks at him.

It’s a little unnerving, but Joe can deal. He stares right back. He’s awesome at this game. It’s all about the fact that he can’t focus on anything for long periods of time, so he just fades out and comes back a few minutes later, declared champion of the staring contest. He’s going to win this game.

The genie stares at Joe, unblinking and solemn. It’s not like playing the staring game with his friends; they make funny faces at each other to get the other person to break. It's unnerving and Joe turns his head away with a frown. It's times like these, he thinks, that Marie would say, "What are you thinking about?" and she'd know that his ready response of, "Nothing," would be a lie. The genie says nothing, and after a few minutes he turns his head and sees that the genie is still sitting placidly in front of him.

"I don't get you," Joe says. The genie frowns. "I don't get wishes. I mean, what's the point of having them if they just fuck things up? You get the thing you don't want. You may as well just wish for the opposite of what you want so your life doesn't end up more fucked up than it was in the first place." The genie says nothing and Joe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I was in love, you know. I was in fucking love and ready to spend my life with the most perfect girl I've ever met, and it's ruined now. She's gone." Frustrated, devastated really, he pushes a hand through his hair and sniffles. He will not cry in front of this genie. He will not cry in front of anybody.

The genie says something, so quietly, so unexpectedly, Joe doesn't even hear it, so the genie repeats: "How do you know she's gone for good? She has said nothing of this, yet you have taken the circumstances and twisted them so." Joe frowns, shakes his head. "My lord," the genie starts again, but Joe cuts him off.

"Stop fucking my lording me," he snarls. Joe never feels this angry. He's hot and uncomfortable and feels out of control. He hates feeling like this, the burning in his chest and the way all of his muscles feel coiled up and ready to spring out of his body. "Just. Fucking stop." The genie clamps his mouth shut. "She left her fucking ring in Chicago. She went to London and she left her ring there."

"She never said it was over," the genie says and Joe wants to punch himself in the face because that's actually true but here he's been calling it over ever since. He never called to say he hoped her flight got in safely, and she never called to say that it did. "You've willed it over, and so it is."

Joe gets up from the table, kicks at a cupboard and then limps to his bedroom to roll a joint. He stones in silence, watching the smoke curl up in front of his eyes, tilting his head up so he can pretend to watch it hit the ceiling and move toward the window. He imagines the smoke trapped inside the room, trying desperately to get out. He looks down at his arms and sees the muscles straining to break free, to escape, and he can picture his brain trying to wrap around the idea of having a genie who doesn't grant wishes but instead makes weird things happen and then says other things that makes those things seem like they're the right things in the first place.

Joe's life is so fucked up.

He has everything he ever wanted out of a career and now, if the genie is right, he's somehow willed the sweetest part of his life away forever.

"This fucking sucks," he says to the room, to the smoke wafting above him. "I just fucking wish." He sighs and pictures Marie's beautiful smiling face. He pictures her in London, drinking tea and wrapping a scarf around her neck and going to work in faux fur-lined jackets. He pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "I wish this wasn't my life," but he doesn't so much wish to be over in London with Marie, which is weird, and instead just wishes that the life he's living is no longer his life.

He carefully sets the joint - only half-smoked - down on his dresser and lays on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks about hanging out with Pete all day, about dodging papparazzi and the heady feeling that must come with, feeling that wanted without needing someone like Marie to have so much importance. It must be nice, he thinks as he shuts his eyes and attempts deep breathing, like his therapist always told him to do.

"It must be really fucking nice," he says to the smoke as the combination of the weed and the breathing put him to sleep.

Part two

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 05:34:48 GMT

Patrick answers the door shirtless, looking a little scruffy but not, you know, completely unappealing. “Dude,” Joe says. He launches himself at Patrick, which is something that always works well in the movies, but when Joe’s legs wrap around Patrick’s waist, they both just fall to the floor. Patrick yelps and arches up while Joe’s forehead hits the ground. So do his knees.

This works much better in the romantic comedies. Though usually his part would be played by the Grey’s Anatomy chick or Sandra Bullock; maybe this is why it doesn’t work as well.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Patrick groans from underneath Joe.

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Me, too.” He flops onto his back and sighs, then turns his head to look over at Patrick. “Did I break anything?”

“No,” Patrick says. “I’m fine.”

“I meant on me,” Joe says. He smiles. He hopes it’s mischievous. “I thought we could play doctor.”

Patrick sighs. Joe can see the heavy rise and fall of his chest, plus his breath huffs out like he’s been put out a lot. “You’re a pervert.”

“It’s part of my charm.” Joe puts his chin on Patrick’s arm, then says, “Dude, you’re hot.”

“Diet and exercise,” Patrick says.

That wasn’t what Joe meant but… yeah. Patrick’s hot in that way, too.

Joe struggles up and turns toward Patrick. “I actually meant like. You’re burning up. Like, I give you fever.”

“Fever in the morning?” Patrick sings.

“In this case it’s more like fever all through the night,” Joe suggests.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. “Stop with the play doctor thing. It’s weird. Your dad is Dr. Trohman.”

Okay. Now it’s weird. “No, Rick. Seriously. Like, to the touch. Burning up. Fry an egg. Like douse you in water and get steam.”

Patrick pushes himself up and turns to Joe. “I want to show you something.”

“Is it your cock?” Joe asks.

He winces, because he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. At least he didn’t say anything about how he hoped it WAS Patrick’s cock. That was like, a step (or eight) too far.

“You’re close,” Patrick says. He stands and starts walking deeper into the house, leaving Joe no choice but to get up and follow him, trying to figure out what being close to a cock is.

They’re entering Patrick’s bedroom when Joe says, “Your balls?”

P!ATD: You Said You Needed Some Space (Yeah. Right. Space.)

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 04:01:51 GMT

You Said You Needed Some Space (Yeah. Right. Space.)
Jon/Spencer * PG-13 * 2,122 words

Don't own them, never met them, never happened, etc.
Spencer attempts to survive the week after the announcement.
Too soon? Perhaps. If you don't want to read it, don't read it. I used this to cope and it helped. Big thanks to foxxcub for the beta, and this one's for her and the rest of the Jon/Spencer crowd. Now we have more to work with, not less. Title from "Shadow" by Dominic Monaghan.

Two weeks. Five days. Eight hours. And thirty-seven minutes.

It’s been that long since Spencer has spoken to Jon. And by spoken, one can include email, texting, tweeting, gchatting, telepathy and smoke signals.

The camel’s back is broken by a distraught call from his mother. Spencer considers not accepting the call, especially since Crystal had already sent him four text messages:

- RYAN DOES COKE?????
- Mom saw pic
- Calling u. watch out.
- Mom. Not me. J sends luck.

He takes the call because that’s what he does. He takes care of things and people and takes the difficult phone calls. Spencer closes his eyes and slouches down on Brendon’s couch and puts his hand over his eyes and listens to his mom ask him all the questions he doesn't want to answer; he only hesitates for a split second when she asks if he’s doing coke. He can say no and not feel guilty, because it was only those two times and the last time was almost a year ago, and at some point you go from doing it to not doing it, and his mom didn’t ask if he had.

Thank God his mom didn’t ask if he had. You don’t lie to Ginger. She finds out, and then you’re fucked.

Afterward he leans forward and puts his head between his knees, taking deep breaths. His mom means well, she does. She’s used to him being the responsible one, being a caretaker, being a mini (and masculine) her. And it hadn’t been easy, oh no, watching Ryan slide down the road that Spencer had opted to leave. But he never found the right words to get him to stop, to remind Ryan of what he used to stand for. If anything, it seemed like everything Spencer tried only made the situation worse.

So when Jon slipped his hand into Spencer’s, lacing their fingers together, and whispered, “You can’t move mountains,” Spencer had let go and allowed Ryan to fall.

Nothing had ever been more painful.

And then this happens, and suddenly there is more painful.

He calls Jon, who picks up on the third ring. It’s a breathless answer, and Spencer closes his eyes, pictures Jon fighting his way out from under animals in order to get to the phone. He imagines the way Dylan would be indignant, and Clover would be shocked but just resettle, and Marley probably would think it's walk time. He waits a few seconds, almost hangs up, and then tightens his hand on the phone when Jon asks, “Are you okay?”

Spencer sighs heavily. He squeezes his eyes shut, puts his hand into his hair and fists the thick strands as he pushes his foot down into the ground as hard as he can, toes curling in the thick carpet. “No,” he finally breathes, voice shaky.

“Can you come out here?” Jon asks and Spencer doesn’t think that he can. They have a tour to prep for. He and Brendon are going on a tour and they haven’t done enough yet to be ready to go on a tour as half their original band. They’re going on a tour with Blink-fucking-182 and half a billion people are going to be there, and he and Brendon just lost three years. “Do you have tour prep?” Jon asks when Spencer says nothing.

“I have tour prep,” Spencer says.

“Rob’s out here,” Jon says.

“We have to train new guys,” Spencer says. He feels bad for laying on the guilt, but he’s going to be selfish this time around. Just this once.

Jon sighs. Heavily. The sound whooshes in Spencer’s ear, and he just switches hands because his palm is too sweaty to hold onto the phone. “I’ll get a flight Friday afternoon,” Jon finally says. “With the time change, I shouldn’t be there too late.”

Spencer sighs too, and he finally straightens up, but then goes past ninety degrees so he’s leaning against the couch, his head on the back of it. It’s uncomfortable, but he can’t bring himself to move again. “I love you,” Spencer says.

“I owe you,” Jon says.

“You don’t.” He doesn’t, and Spencer doesn’t want Jon flying in because he feels like he should.

Jon’s response is clipped, distracted. “I have to go,” he says. “Spence I miss you.”

There’s not even a click, just a silence and Jon is gone. Spencer drops the phone and it clunks down to the ground between the wall and the couch. He puts his hand back onto his forehead and says, “I miss you, too.”

*

Brendon looks at him funny but doesn’t say anything, and Shane pulls him aside later and asks, “Too soon?”

Spencer shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say because he doesn’t think it needs explaining. Their band is breaking up and he needs his boyfriend. Haley called after a day and asked why Ryan hadn’t learned from them, and Spencer hadn’t been able to answer that question any better than any of the other ones that he’d been asked since the announcement, since the photos. Talking to his ex isn’t quite the same (not the same at all, actually, thank you) as talking to Jon is. He needs Jon.

“We can go somewhere else,” Spencer says, looking at his feet. “Hotel or something.”

Shane sighs, and Spencer watches his feet shift. He thinks Shane might be wearing his shoes, and hopes that fucker isn’t stretching them out. He likes that pair. “Don’t be stupid.”

*

Spencer gets to the airport an hour before Jon’s plane is expected to get in, because he can’t putter around the house anymore. Brendon keeps looking at him funny, and Shane doesn’t bother hiding the pity in his face when he looks at him (Spencer took his shoes back). He pays too much for a Dr. Pepper and a basket of fries, then sits close enough to the security checkpoint that he can see when bunches of travelers are coming through, but isn’t near the crowds of the people who are waiting, like him.

He uses his phone to check the status of the plane, and when there’s only five minutes until the scheduled arrival time, he stands, leaving his trash on the table, and goes to the screens. Jon’s flight is flashing that it arrived almost ten minutes ago, and his stomach flops down and settles in his groin.

Two steps away from the monitors and there's Jon, looking worn. His hair is longer than Spencer ever remembers seeing it, curling enough that Spencer wants to touch it, run his fingers through it, pull on it just a little bit. Jon holds his phone up as he walks to Spencer, says, “Dead.” Spencer smiles because of course there’s a reason why Jon didn’t call.

“Hi,” Jon says when they’re together. Spencer doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and curls his body in so they’re closer to the same height. “I missed you too,” Jon says, putting one arm around Spencer’s back. “Now please take me home."

Spencer pulls back first, but he smiles fondly at Jon before taking his rolling suitcase and tugging on it. “You want to stop,” Spencer starts, but Jon interrupts him, asks Spencer to just take him home instead.

They walk in silence, fingers brushing, but Spencer keeps his eyes on his feet as he goes, sometimes catching sight of Jon’s toes in his flip flops before focusing on his own steps again. At one point Jon puts his hand on Spencer’s arm and tugs.

“You’re going to walk into someone,” he says. Spencer lets Jon guide him through the airport.

In the car, while Spencer fiddles with his iPod, Jon asks, “Are you okay to drive?”

Finally, Spencer looks at him again and just smiles. “Okay, okay,” Jon says, and then settles back while Spencer navigates out of the garage and onto the street.

“I’m glad you came out,” he says while they idle at a stop light. “Thank you.”

“I wanted to,” Jon says. He pushes his hands along his thighs and says, “I don’t owe you.”

“Well,” Spencer says. “You do a little.”

He’s already looking at Jon when his head swings over in his direction. “Dick,” Jon says, smiling. Spencer’s heart pounds. He reaches out and puts his hand on Jon’s leg and squeezes, holding on until Jon puts his hand on his, until the light changes and Spencer needs to navigate traffic with one hand.

Having Jon with him makes Spencer feel a little more complete. Like, okay, maybe everything he’s ever known is flipped on its ass, and he’s not sure what’s going to happen after the new album comes out, and he’s thinking maybe he should start researching colleges just in case, and he’s thinking that it’s not really fair that drummers can’t just go and have a solo career like Brendon and Jon and Ryan can. If Darren can’t do it, Darren who sings and plays keyboard and piano, then Spencer sure as hell can’t. Ryan’s totally fucked him, fucked him back when they were kids picking out a new hobby to annoy Ryan’s dad with.

He squeezes tighter onto Jon’s leg, being careful not to get them into an accident, clenching his fist until Jon says, “Ow, Spence, ow,” and pulls up on his hand.

”I can’t go solo,” Spencer says, staring straight ahead. “Darren can’t. I can’t.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, and Spencer’s kinda glad. At the next stop light he looks at Jon and says, “I need this band.”

Jon lets go of Spencer’s hand, and he puts it back onto the steering wheel, puts his foot on the accelerator before the light changes and is inches away from hitting the car in front of him before he stops again. “I’m sorry,” Jon says.

“So’m I,” Spencer says.

Now the light changes and he doesn’t do anything, his foot resting on the brake until the driver behind him honks.

*

Brendon and Shane aren’t at home, so Jon and Spencer settle on the couch, curled up on each other. Jon is able to do this thing where he appears bigger than he is, and he curls up around Spencer, holding him in, holding him down. Spencer loves this; it makes him feel smaller than he is, more comfortable in his own skin. He rests against Jon and traces shapes into his shirt and mumbles things about going solo and finding a new band, and every time he brings up Ryan or drugs or learning guitar, Jon shushes him, runs a hand through Spencer’s hair, says, “Don’t.”

And it’s nice, having someone who’s playing this role for him. “This is better than fighting,” Jon says.

“We didn’t fight.”

”We would have,” Jon says. “You would have had to choose between Brendon and Ryan.” Spencer pushes his lips together but says nothing. “You hate that.”

He does.

“I would have had to choose,” Jon continues, “and I would have tried to do what you want without knowing what you want.” He chuckles lightly. “We wouldn’t have been happy, Spence,” Jon says.

”This is much better,” Spencer says dryly.

“It will be,” Jon says. He puts his hand on Spencer’s head, lets his fingers get lost in the hair.

“You hope,” Spencer says.

Jon doesn’t say anything right away, and Spencer stops breathing, waiting to hear some sort of response. He wants reassurance from Jon. Someone who lived through the breakup of a band, who watched his best friend go through this, who watched Panic kick out Brent and was still happy to join up with them, who was there when Fall Out Boy and The Academy Is… were still getting onto their feet. Jon, who has this weird kind of resilience Spencer needs to assume comes from living in Chicago. Jon, who’s never found an instrument he couldn’t play, who doesn’t need to toot his own horn but wants to find his own melodies in life. Jon, who creates poetry out of the visual and makes Spencer’s heart stop with his songs. He just needs to know that they’re going to be okay at the other end of this, and that maybe in ten years they can look back on this moment and laugh at how pathetic they both (Spencer) were (was).

“I hope,” Jon says.

Spencer presses his face into Jon’s neck and forces himself to breathe.

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 18:22:47 GMT

BBB REC: Beyond the Sea by ditchwitchbitch (I hope I got that right).

For those of you who are so inclined, it's Pete/Patrick (and very well done), but more importantly (for me), she writes a PHENOMENAL Joe.

Other pairings are: Pete/Joe, Ryland/Alex, Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, Patrick/Brendon, Joe/Greta, ficjournal/thisfic and just a hint of Andy/Mixon. Oh and Gabe/VickyT. I think.

Go read. They're in Ireland. They're marine biologists. GO READ.

OH! And in case anybody is interested... I have a few fics in the hopper that just need to be beta'd and posted (including my erstwhile BBB submission). Yes, I'm as surprised as you are.

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 13:15:48 GMT

While I search for a muse that doesn't come with a heavy sadface (my latest fic is "15,000 words of Joe being depressed"), rec me something good to read. Preferably involving Joe, Jon or Spencer, or some combination of the three. Hope all are well. Miss writing for you.

- me

FOB/CS: 11 Reasons Why Patrick and Pete Moved in Together

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 07:34:52 GMT

11 Reasons Why Patrick and Pete Moved In Together
Pete/Patrick (Joe/Suarez)
PG-13 for language
I disclaim
Pete attempts to convince Patrick to move in together.
So a while ago, adellyna wanted to see the conditions under which Patrick and Pete actually move in together within the context of the My Has Has Three Corners 'verse. Naturally, I obliged. So, written for adellyna, and then pushed through quickly to post on her birthday, here she is. Happy birthday, dahling! Huge thanks to likealocket for the beta-job even as she was moving and having massive internet issues. You're the GREATEST my friend.

It's embarrassing, really.

They're at dinner, Patrick and Pete and Joe and Alex, having a perfectly reasonable conversation about how the summer Olympics have dumber sports than the winter Olympics ("Nothing is dumber than speed walking," Joe argues. "Okay?") when Pete decides to go all subject changey on him and says, "Trick. We should move in together."

"Speaking of things that nothing is dumber than," Patrick says, and Joe hides his laughter behind a pint of beer. "Where did that even come from? Is there an Olympic moving event?"

"That would be so cool," Joe says.

"There could be classifications like in track," Alex fills in. "The One Bedroom Apartment Men's Move Out. And the Five Bedroom Mansion Teams Division." Joe laughs and rests his head on Alex's shoulder for a few seconds, before being gently nudged off.

Pete huffs and leans forward, palms on the table. "Guys," he says, slowly, like he's dealing with lesser intelligence or something. Which.... okay. "Guys, I'm seriously serious."

"This is serious business," Joe murmurs, clearly not understanding the urgency of the situation quite as keenly as Patrick does.

"No, he's right," Patrick says, looking first at Joe and then at Alex. He cannot believe he is even having this conversation. In front of their friends. In a public place. "This is serious." He turns to Pete, glaring now. "You are seriously mental, do you know that?"

Digging his fork into his salad, Pete shrugs. "Well I mean," he starts. "I am crazy about you." He gives Patrick a weak smile, but Patrick is having none of this, and gives Pete his sternest frown. "We've been together for a little while now," Pete offers.

Patrick interrupts: "Only seven months," and he doesn't let Pete go on. "Where did this even come from? Two minutes ago we were talking about beach volleyball and now you want to move in with me?"

"I've wanted to for a while," Pete says, and the look he gives Patrick is kind of a mix between heartbreaking and heartmelting. "And it was listening to them talk about watching TV together at night." He nods at Alex and Joe as he talks, and Joe takes Alex's hand, looking guiltily anywhere but at Patrick, who hopes that Joe didn't have anything to do with this foolishness.

That's the second stupidest thing Patrick's ever heard, coming in closely behind the suggestion that they move in together at all. "We can do that anyway. We do do that anyway." Pete opens his mouth to say something, but Patrick puts his hand up, cutting him off. "Give me one good reason why we should move in together."

"I could give you nine," Pete scoffs.

"Why nine?" Alex asks. He glances over at Joe, and then back at Pete.

"Ten is such a cliche," Pete says, grinning at Patrick.

"I want eleven," Patrick says. "Give me eleven good reasons why we should move in together."

He nods, and waits, and Pete waits, and Joe waits, and Alex clears his throat before excusing himself to go to the bathroom.

Figures, Pete can't even come up with any real reasons. Patrick frowns. "I thought you could give me all these reasons why we should move in together." He leans his shoulder in toward Pete and bumps him, then straightens back up again.

Their server approaches and sets a black folder down, the receipt neatly tucked inside it. "Oh, I can," Pete says. He pulls his wallet out and slides his credit card into the folder, then holds it out of reach from Patrick and Joe until their server comes back and takes it away again. "I just want to take my time on this, since it's important." He leans in toward Patrick, one elbow on the table. "When I give you eleven good reasons why you should move in with me, you have to do it." He licks his lips and smirks. Patrick kinda wants to punch Pete in the face; but afterward, he definitely wants to have lots of sex with him. "Deal?"

Knowing that there is absolutely no way that Pete could come up with eleven good reasons for them to move in together, he nods shortly. "Deal."

"I'm bearing witness on this," Joe says, grinning. "This is going to be so good."

Pete grins at him, too. "I know. I can't wait to move him into my house."

And while Joe begins giving Pete notes on how to live with Patrick, he starts to think that maybe - just maybe - he's not giving Pete the credit he deserves.

---

Patrick was absolutely not giving Pete the credit he deserves.

And he really shouldn't be surprised that by the time he gets home (Pete said he had an early breakfast meeting, and had to leave at the crack of dawn, so there was no point in Patrick coming home with him, or the other way around), Pete has already left a message on his answering machine.

"Reason number one," he practically crows in his message. "If we were living together, I wouldn't have wasted ten minutes convincing you that we shouldn't go home together tonight. We would have just gone home. And then we could have been together tonight, instead of this happening."

And that is definitely the sound of a zipper going down, and with anybody else, Patrick might assume it's being faked, to prove a point. But Patrick knows, because he knows Pete, that this is really truly happening. "God Patrick," Pete says, already gasping. "If you were here now, I'd be on my knees for you. Swallowing your cock." He gasps again, and whimpers, and Patrick stops the message too late for it to matter.

Now he's hard, too.

---

Reasons two and three come while Patrick is at work. They come in a spreadsheet, sent via email to Joe, for no apparent reason other than Pete wants to keep Joe involved. Because he's a dick.

"I think this is for you," Joe says.

Patrick glances quickly at the spreadsheet Joe's holding as he leans, annoyed, on the wall of Patrick's cubicle. "What is it?"

"Personal information I never give to anybody," Joe says. He shoves the paper at Patrick's face and then turns to shuffle back to his cube.

The spreadsheet has a detailed comparison of the costs of Joe's home - gas, electric, cable, rent - next to the same information from Pete. On the other side of Pete's column is a blank column, labeled with Patrick's name, along with instructions on how to find out how much money they would save if they were living together.

As soon as Pete picks up his phone, Patrick says, "You don't have to tell me how to do basic math," Patrick says.

"I just figured you didn't know," Pete says calmly. "Since you're so against moving in together." Frustrated, Patrick sputters and puts his head in his hand.

Patrick can practically see Pete's big fat stupid grin as he waits for Patrick to come up with some sort of witty response. He's got nothing, really. "Okay so reason number two is that we'd save money?"

"It is," Pete quickly agrees.

Patrick grins. "Well I don't want to move in with somebody for something like money." He's about to argue that love needs to be involved, but there's no question that there is no lack of love between him and Pete, for some stupid reason that Patrick can't quite comprehend at times like this.

"I don't either," Pete says. "But imagine the bump in our quality of life if we were sharing the responsibilities of maintaining a home?" And before Patrick can actually imagine anything, Pete continues, "First of all, we'd have more money and opportunities to do things together. Second of all, we'd have more money and opportunities to take care of the little things that normally we have to let slide, like taking care of a toothache," which okay, was a low blow, a month is not too long for a tooth to hurt, and that only happened the one time. "And thirdly, you know you stress about getting your bills paid at the end of the month all the time. Imagine how easy it would be if the two of us were working on it together. And now imagine how much better everything would just seem." He takes a deep breath and then says, "That's my reason number three."

When Pete finishes talking, Patrick closes his eyes. That was a pretty good reason number three; much better than reason number two, actually. And more logical than reason number one. "That's only three reasons," Patrick finally says. He grips his phone because already he can feel himself wavering, but no. Seven months is just not enough time to be with someone before moving in together. Patrick needs more time; everybody should take more time. "But they're duly noted." He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "I gotta go, Pete. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you, Pattycake," Pete coos into the phone.

"Don't call-" Patrick starts, but Pete's already hung up. Patrick sighs and sets his phone down.

Then he shoots off an email to Joe, reminding him as to whose side he should be on.

---

A week passes without Pete saying anything else about moving in together, which should be a comfort to Patrick, but it just sets him on edge. This probably means that Pete is planning something incredibly stupid.

A week and three days after reasons two and three, Pete and Patrick go out to a movie and then grab some dinner to bring to Pete's.

They're making out on the couch when Pete murmurs "bedroom" and Patrick doesn't need to be asked twice. He does, however, do a double-take when in the bedroom, on the ceiling, he spies a colorful piece of art that includes a fork, a cow, a moon and a dish all in questionable positions. Patrick's never been on an acid trip before, but he imagines that if he had been, it would look an awful lot like Pete's ceiling. "Pete," he says, even as Pete is pawing at his clothes. "Pete, what is that?"

"My new art," Pete whispers, sliding his hands under Patrick's shirt.

It feels good, it does; Patrick shivers it feels so good. But the dish, man, the dish is seriously leering at Patrick. "But I mean seriously. What is it?"

"It's my new art," Pete says again. He pushes Patrick's shirt up, and Patrick goes through the motions of sitting up, of raising his arms so Pete can tug it off, but the art. It's still there. It's still right fucking there. He falls back down on the bed and okay, that thing that Pete's doing to his nipple with his tongue? That's very good. That's very, very good.

Patrick closes his eyes and moans, pushing his hands through Pete's hair and arching his back. Then he opens them again and okay, he doesn't know what that fork is doing to the cow but it absolutely cannot be kosher.

It's all a very unsexy mess, even with Pete breathing heavily on him. "Pete, I just. Can't we." He nudges at Pete, and Pete pulls back, grinning at him.

It's all very unlike Pete to grin about sex being stopped in the middle, unless- "Oh my God. You asshole."

"Reason number four," Pete says contritely. "If we're living together, you have a say in all of my home decor decisions, and can keep me from making disastrous ones."

"You could just not make bad decisions," Patrick says, shifting over so that he won't have to look at the painting anymore. "You could just not buy ugly shit. Or you could just ask for my opinion anyway."

"My home," Pete says, snuggling up to Patrick and pressing his face in Patrick's neck. "My bad decisions." He kisses at Patrick's neck, letting his hands run over Patrick's stomach and then down to his fly.

But Patrick knows that the stupid fork is still leering at him. "Pete," he gasps, putting his hand on Pete's. "Let's go back into the other room. Please."

"Just close your eyes," Pete says, kissing Patrick's chest.

Patrick closes his eyes, but he can still see the fork. "I can't," Patrick groans.

Pete laughs. And can't stop.

---

If Patrick thinks four is stupid, five is even worse. Pete shows up at his door with a Costco card in his hand, and happily hands it over to Patrick. "What is this?" Patrick asks. Immediately, he knows it's a stupid question to ask someone like Pete.

"It's a Costco card," Pete says. "So we can buy in bulk."

Flabbergasted, Patrick blinks stupidly before saying, "But why would we need to buy in bulk?"

Pete looks at him equally stupidly and says, "Oh. If we were living together, we could buy in bulk. And have big trips to the Costco where we feast on samples before we go home and argue over where we're going to put the giant vat of mayo we just had to buy." He smiles winningly at Patrick and for two seconds he's convinced. Then Patrick remembers they're talking about Costco and not anything relevant.

"Pete," he starts, but Pete is off and running.

"If we're not living together, it's just a waste of food. And a waste of money because I bought the card and I have it for a year Patrick." He presses the card into Patrick's palm and looks at him with widewide eyes. "Patrick, I'm already wasting money per reason number two. If you keep up with this stubbornness, I'm going to be broke, and out on the street, and then you'll have to take me in. And then we'll be living together anyway." Patrick doesn't think it would work out quite like that. "Don't make my destitution come into this, Patrick. That's just sad."

"You're just sad," Patrick says. "Go away."

"Give me back my Costco card," Pete says, putting his hand back out for it. "I'm getting a hot dog."

Sitting in the warehouse and eating kosher dogs with "complimentary" pops beside them, Patrick is forced to admit that reason number five is a pretty good one.

Pete puts ketchupy fists in victory.

---

Three nights later, reason number six is Pete's insistence that since he's the guest at Patrick's home, he doesn't need to help with dinner or its cleanup, do the dishes, or be of any sort of assistance whatsoever. It's bullshit, and they both know it, so when Pete smugly tells Patrick that if they lived together, this wouldn't happen, Patrick actually kicks Pete out of his apartment.

Which is reason number seven, though Patrick doesn't particularly see a downside to being able to kick Pete out of his apartment.

Patrick is arguing this point with Pete via email when Joe steps into his cube and sits down heavily in Patrick’s extra chair. "What's up?" Patrick asks without looking around. His fingers move angrily along the keys, as if the force of his typing will somehow make the email mean more. Or something.

"I don't know," Joe says and Patrick stops typing for a few seconds, listening to the silence that follows Joe's words.

There's something not right, he can feel it straight off, so he types out a quick 'BRB JOE' to Pete and sends the email on its way before turning to face him. "What's up?" he asks again, and this time it's sincere.

Joe takes a deep breath and doesn't say anything at first. He picks at a loose thread in his pants at his knee and drops his head down, hair falling in his face. "Alex is being weird," he finally says, when Patrick thinks he may have to bust out the early lunch routine. "Like, I don't." He sighs and picks his head up, frowning.

"You don't what?" Patrick asks, glancing up once when somebody walks by his cube. He looks back at Joe and tilts his head to the side. "Dude, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," Joe says in that way that he has when he does but he just doesn't want to say anything. He sighs and stands, pushing up with his hands on his thighs. "I'm sorry 'Trick," he says.

Patrick watches him walk away, and is about to go after him when his phone rings.

He makes a mental note to go to Joe about this later.

---

Reason eight, Pete admits, is the fact that if they were living together he wouldn't have to come up with eleven reasons they should move in together. "That's weak," Patrick says. They're relaxing on the sofa in Patrick's living room, but Patrick is mostly concentrating on his cell phone, silently staring back at him. He called Joe earlier, worried about him after he hadn't shown up to work, and still hasn't heard anything back. "You can do better than that."

"I know I can," Pete says. He pokes at Patrick's thigh and then rests his chin on Patrick's shoulder. "But it's still a valid joke. This is hurting my brain."

"You're a really bad advertiser," Patrick says absently, "if you can't even sell me on moving in with you."

Pete's finger jabs roughly into Patrick's thigh, and it's the complete opposite of sexy. "That was just mean," he says. "Now what's up with the staring at the phone? He'll call."

"I know but..." Patrick sighs and Pete presses his mouth to Patrick's cheek, letting it sit there. "Pete," he says, "that's gross."

"Reason number nine," Pete says after pulling back from Patrick. "If Joe's relationship is falling apart, we could invite him to stay in OUR guest room."

Patrick snorts. "Yes. Because guys that are in dying relationships totally want to go and hang out with a couple completely in love." As soon as the words are out of his mouth he feels his cheeks flush. He's pretty sure he's never said that before. And he's a lot more sure when Pete crawls onto his lap and kisses Patrick so hard his brain shuts down.

He comes to when his phone rings.

---

Joe doesn't officially move into Patrick's apartment, since it's weird to call it 'move in' when he's just sleeping on Patrick's futon and keeping two suitcases tucked in Patrick's office. He certainly stops sleeping at home, however, the same day Alex admits that he's met someone else, and he thinks it's real.

Pete and Patrick spend the first week making sure that one of them is always over at Patrick's, just in case. Pete doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to for Patrick to know he's thinking that this is reason number ten, and Patrick can't really disagree. Of all the reasons Pete's given him so far of why they should move in together, being able to be around for their friends is the best so far.

After a week Patrick starts spending more time at Pete's, giving Joe some space. "This is a good reason for us not to move in together," Patrick says. "This way I have someplace to go when Joe wants to be alone."

Pete looks at him, but doesn't say anything, and replayed back in his head, Patrick can admit it doesn't make a lot of sense. "You know what I mean," he finally says.

"I do," Pete says. "You're a good friend. It's why I love you."

"I thought it was because I cook for you." Patrick smiles at Pete and then leans in for a kiss.

Against Patrick's lips, Pete murmurs, "I like that too, but I love how you are."

Patrick melts into him.

---

A little over a month after the breakup, Joe comes home from the grocery store with an armful of free apartment guides, along with the frozen pizzas and bags of vegetables he had gone to get. "Doing some light reading?" Patrick asks when Joe drops down onto the couch, the stack still in his arms.

"I can't sleep on your couch forever," Joe says. He glances over at Patrick with a frown. "No offense."

"None taken," Patrick says, and he agrees. "Want some help?"

Joe nods, but they're only flipping for a few minutes before Joe flops to the side, his forehead banging against Patrick's shoulder. "I can't do this," he moans.

"Maybe there's a place available here," Patrick says. He places his hand on Joe's head and pats it gently. "Want me to ask at the office?"

"Yeah," Joe says, his voice is muffled by Patrick's shirt.

"You want a beer?" he asks after a quiet minute.

"Yeah," Joe says.

Patrick waits another minute or so and then says, "You wanna get off me so I can get it for you?"

Joe grunts and doesn't move.

---

The next day at the office, Patrick calls his apartment manager to ask about any spaces available. Afterward, he takes his cell phone, goes outside and calls Pete. He answers with, "Hey there sexyface."

"Please tell me you got caller ID," Patrick says. "Because if you're answering the phone like that, I'm going to have to wonder what kind of advertising you guys are really doing over there."

Pete laughs and doesn't bother answering Patrick's question; he says, "What's up?" and is then silent with the exception of heavier than normal breathing.

"What are you doing?" Patrick asks. "And can you please stop?" Pete laughs, but his breathing normalizes and Patrick continues. "I called my apartment office and there aren't any open spaces right now."

"How can there not be any apartments available?" Pete asks. "Your complex fucking sucks."

Patrick rolls his eyes and puts his hand to his forehead. "He needs a place to go," he says quietly. "I want Alex to get out of their fucking condo."

"He's not going to," Pete says. "I gotta go. I'm sorry."

"Love you," Patrick says. He hangs up the phone and scrubs his hand over his face.

He takes half the day off and goes out to the pier to sit on a bench, eat cinnamon almonds and think.

---

Pete is already at the apartment when Patrick gets there; he and Joe are eating pita chips and hummus. "Hey," Pete says. "Joe and I are having a party." Joe lifts a glass of wine in agreement.

"I can tell," Patrick says. He smiles and then makes room for himself on the sofa, puts his feet on the low table in front of them. He presses a hand to Pete's knee and squeezes it quickly, then turns to Joe. "I stopped by the management office before I came home."

"Oh yeah?" Joe says, his mouth half-full of hummus. "Any good news?"

"Yeah." Patrick squeezes Pete's knee again, and he can feel Pete stiffen beside him. "One place opened up."

Joe sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and grins. "That's awesome. We can be neighbors."

"Yeah um," Patrick turns to Pete and smiles at him. "I found an eleventh reason to move in with you."

Pete grins wide, and leans in toward Patrick. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Patrick leans in and kisses Pete quickly, then pulls back. "If the offer still stands, I'd like-"

"Yes." Pete says quickly. He puts his hands over Patrick's and squeezed it hard. "Yes. I'd love that. Yes. You should."

Patrick laughs and nods, then lets Pete pull him forward with his hand behind his neck. They kiss, and kiss hard, and Patrick finds himself melting into Pete. He's scared about taking this next step, especially given what's just happened with Joe.

And yet... he's happy with his decision. And now that he's made it, he's looking forward to doing it. He puts his hand into Pete's hair and tugs on it a little, so that Pete moans softly.

"I'm going to go," Patrick hears Joe say from a million miles away. "I'm going to go right now."

FOB/PATD/MCR: The Simple Voice of Nature and Reason Will Say, 'Tis Right (1/2)

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 07:46:19 GMT

Title: The Simple Voice of Nature and Reason Will Say, 'Tis Right
Pairing: Jon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Brendon/Ryan, Joe/Bob (Bryar), Frank/Gerard
Bands: Mostly FOB & PATD, with some MCR, TBS and The Used thrown in for some fun
Disclaimer: Though this is based on fact, I still disclaim
Warnings: It's a war fic, folks. There's at least one character death in here. It's also vaguely stylized, pulled hopefully with a modicum of accuracy from letters and journals written during this time period.
Summary: The Revolutionary War - bandom style.

A/N: 15,508 words. This is a labor of love. And I emphasize LABOR. Huge huge huge thanks to likealocket nad adellyna for the beta and handholding, plus all of my other friends who had to listen to the months of me whining about this. Also a shout to eleanor_lavish who alerted me to this challenge in the first place. I love this story, and want to rock it to sleep and sing it lullabies and let it spit up on my shoulder, but I know it won't work for everybody. I just hope it works for you.

Title taken from Common Sense by Thomas Paine.

Completed for the periodbandom challenge. A little late, but better late than never.

March 4, 1770

Brendon snatches up the pamphlet as soon as the coins change hands, and then holds it tightly, grinning at Brent. “Faster,” he says, something close to a laugh in his voice. “Our treasure we’ve got.”

“Your treasure,” Brent says. He isn’t quite used to the stolen shoes he wears, a size too big for him. “Fish wrappings to Darren.”

“Aye, that may be.” Brendon is still smiling. He has what he had been looking for. He quickly steps over a pile of horse droppings and looks back at Brent to make sure that his companion misses it as well. “That may be, Brent. But for now, it’s our treasure.”

“Your treasure,” Brent says again.

Brendon shoves the folded paper into his jacket and tips his hat quickly at a lady and gentleman walking from the other direction. They ignore him, like the boys had just done the droppings, and Brent casts a rueful look at Brendon. “You should have held your cap out,” he says. “Maybe we’d have a shilling or two for our bread this evening.”

“Tonight,” Brendon says with an awkward flourish. “We feast on the riches of words.” Brent shakes his head but his smile belies his bad mood. “And today Pete attended a town hall. He may have brought back with him scraps generously set out for the taking by our friends, the wealthy merchants.”

“You mean he may have stolen us our dinner on his way through the market.”

“I do indeed,” Brendon says. He puts his hand on a low brick wall and pushes himself up and over it. Brent follows clumsily, and they continue down a darker, dirtier road to Pete’s flat.

---

Pete lives in Boston for the town halls. Were it not for these forums at which even the lowly are sometimes permitted to speak their minds, he would find some other, more desirable place to live. Perhaps, even, he would run off and join those strange Indians, who give of their possessions and walk so proudly amongst themselves and amongst the colonists. They must be men without sin, Pete thinks, and by God to be able to live among those who have sinned not.

He aches to join them; but he aches to see changes made in Boston too, for the entire colony really. Another writer has done it again, he knows. He heard the murmurings, had taken the pamphlet and stared at the letters, letting them wash in front of his eyes.

One day, he thinks, he will sit Brendon down and get him to teach Pete his letters.

Until then, he’s willing to wait until Brendon and Brent come back, so that Brendon can read to him. He hopes they bring food.

---

Spencer thinks of himself as a ghost sometimes. He knows it’s sinful to think this way, but he wonders, sometimes, if he didn’t step aside for the wealthy, the landowners, the merchants and heirs and the decision-makers; would they walk right through him?
On Sunday he’ll pray again that he be saved from himself, from this exile in Boston and from the terrors of his own mind. But first, he must procure for them some sort of meal. The others will forget and they ate the last of their bread the previous day. Well, they ate half of the rest of their bread the previous day and then Brendon and Pete shared it with some street urchins with big eyes and dirt-covered cheeks.

Sure, they’re the best people Spencer knows, but did they really have to give away a day’s worth of food?

He waits, watching; and when a comely servant girl is pulling out her master’s shillings to make purchase of some loaves, he pulls one from the cart and slides away from the scene, putting the loaf into the large pocket that Brent had sewn into his trousers – into all of their trousers, actually for just such occasions.

Spencer continues to wander, sometimes stopping to haggle a price before saying that his master would never permit, and he keeps walking. To wander through but not at least attempt to purchase something is to draw attention to himself. To stop and argue over the price of eggs before sliding a hunk of cheese from someone’s supply is to get away with food for a week.

On his way out, Spencer lets his fingers ensnare a burlap sack. In an alley he peeks through the sack and lifts his head to the sky, his first real smile of the day facing the rooftops above. Coffee, sugar and three apples.

“Thank you God,” he murmurs before taking his spoils home with him.

---

Brendon and Brent reach the flat first. Brent jimmies the door open – Brendon thinks he can do anything with his hands – and locks the door behind them. “I hope Pete brings food,” Brendon says. He leans against the wall before sliding down and relaxing on the floor. Brent sits down across from him, the soles of their shoes touching. “Do not you agree?”

“We had food,” Brent says. He stands again and goes to the wash basin in the corner, sniffs at the water then washes his hands. He dries them on his shirt before looking at Brendon again. “We had food until you and Pete gave it away.”

“They were hungry,” Brendon says, pushing himself up. “We couldn’t not give them food.” He pouts his lower lip out and Brent turns his head; but they’re interrupted by the door opening again.

“Pete,” Brendon says, going to the door to help Pete with all of the food he… hasn’t brought with him. Brent opens the window for fresh air. It’s needed when all four of them are in the flat. And now it’s only a matter of time before they’re all inside.

He really hopes that Spencer comes bearing dinner.

“I brought you something,” Brendon says.

“Is it something we can eat?” Pete asks. He sets the pamphlet down on the table and then looks at Brendon expectantly, but the younger man’s face falls. “What is it?”

“It’s…” Brendon puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze through the thin cotton. “It’s… that.” He puts his own copy down beside the first.

“Oh,” Pete says. “This… we don’t need two.”

Brendon shakes his head and picks up one of them. “Shall we start then? Whilst we wait for Spencer.”

Nodding, Pete takes Brendon’s arm and pulls him closer to the window. “We must,” he says. “We’ve got but one candle left.”

“I pray Spencer brings candles,” Brent says.

Brendon thinks that there’s no God watching over them; but he doesn’t say this. He just smiles at Pete by the light of the window and opens the pamphlet. He begins.

---

It always becomes dark too quickly for Spencer; and he doesn’t feel safe along these streets at night. He tarried too long in the market but some things cannot be helped.

Suddenly he hears footsteps behind him and Spencer grips his stolen sack closer to his body. He may not have come across its contents legally but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let another urchin steal it from him.

He is damned, Spencer remembers; damned to whatever Hell he has fallen into, despite the blessings it’s brought him. The footsteps approach and Spencer moves faster.

“Spence!”

Now stopped, Spencer turns slowly, blinking quickly and waiting for the person to come upon him. There are few who know Spencer’s name though he lives in fear of the day his father comes to take him back to New York, where there’s nothing for him but a legacy of serving others.

“Who goes there?” Spencer finally asks when he can no longer wait. If the person identifies himself now, Spencer thinks, he still has time to run away.

“It’s Darren,” he says, and Spencer relaxes. “I thought that was you, skulking about the marketplace.” He approaches, finally, and Spencer nods at him before they begin walking again. “Stealing wares again?”

“Not from your cart,” Spencer says, reflexively pulling the sack still closer.

Darren scoffs. “From my merchant kindred.”

There’s a moment during which there’s nothing but the sound of feet pressing into snow and the even breathing of two not-quite-companions walking together. “They are not your kindred,” Spencer finally says. “You’re as much in their service as my father is to his master.”

Again, a silence. They speak slowly, saving their energy to keep warm and to get home. “You listen too much to that Wentz,” Darren finally says. “Next he’ll be joining this convoluted revolution idea.”

“There’ve been worse,” Spencer says. He stops in front of the building and looks at Darren. “Are you coming up?” Darren holds out a package, the previous days’ newspaper with the telltale grease of fish good for only a few hours longer. “Onward, then.”

---

The hard kick at the door shocks all three men out of their reverie. “Who knocks?” Pete calls out, standing up and bringing the candle to the door.

“It is Spencer,” Spencer says. He kicks the door again, though now it’s unnecessary. “I’ve found a stray. He offers his services as best he can.” Pete opens the door then, and Spencer smiles at him, warm in the candle’s soft glow. “Darren brought us some fish. If we cook it in the next three minutes, it might not kill us all.”

“A worthy gamble!” Pete throws the door open wide and glances over his shoulder at Brendon and Brent. “Stoke the fire, gentlemen. Tonight we feast!”

The fire is contained in a tin and they take turns holding the fish (there are two, small) over the fire until the flesh inside is nice and white. “Spencer, don’t allow Brendon or Pete near the bread,” Darren says, carefully doling out fish to the others before directing his next sentence to those in question. “He told me what you two did.”

“They were hungry,” Pete defends.

---

Joe and Frank work side by side, bringing in the main sail. Landfall, no matter how often it occurs, causes a shiver of excitement to run through them. This is something they share, something they have in common that separates them from many of the other men on The Summer Dawn.

“In what shall you partake first?” Joe asks, gritting his teeth and bracing his feet against the dirty wood of the floor of the vessel that is his home. “I dream by nights of fresh fruit, juice dripping down my chin.” He smiles at Frank, whose cheeks are puffed out from exertion. “Of tobacco untouched by the sea and her air.”

“You ought to learn to eat with more cleanliness,” Frank admonishes. “I pray simply for correspondence from my family.”

Joe looks at Frank blankly a moment, over the ropes and then shakes his head, puts his knife ‘twixt his teeth. It’s easier this way. He grunts at Frank, tightens his muscles, and tugs hard on the rope in his hands rendering the main sail useless until when they embark on their next journey to England.

“The tobacco will be good too,” Frank says when their grunting has ceased. Around his knife, Joe smiles.

In the hold, Ray, Mikey and Andy work together to secure a printing press on its way from England to the colonies. “Is this necessary?” Ray gasps, finding a better hold of the heavy, metal contraption.

“Yes,” Mikey says. His face is red with the trouble he puts into the work, and Andy can only grunt in response. “How else will the masses shout their dissent?”

“They still won’t,” someone says from the stairs. Ray can look, but none of the others can. “You are a fool to think that these will come unto any power but that of the wealthy.” He comes down the stairs now, leaving room for another man to enter the hold, both moving toward a collection of wine casks.

Ray snorts. “You are not a dreamer, Lazarra.”

“Oh he dreams,” the other man says. “But of worthy pursuits.”

“Of the sea,” Mikey intones, not at all impressed with the sea-hunger that plagues so many men of his occupation. “Don’t we all?”

“No,” Adam says, and beside him, Fred laughs. “I dream by night of women. Scores of them.” Andy’s ears prick. “Waiting for me nightly, to come and satisfy them.”

“One at a time?” Ray asks. “Scores of women, that will take you weeks.”

“One at a time,” Adam says. “Or in any other fashion they may request.”

“Aye,” Andy says. They set the printing press down near the stairs, needing to change their hold before they continue outside. “You speak of a worthy dream, my friend.”

“There will be no women, or any other worthy pursuits,” Mikey warns, “if we do not presently bring up this press. Help us, or do not; please let’s not be distracted by our cause.”

“Someone else’s cause,” Adam says; but he and Fred set down their cask and assist the others in getting the printing press into the sunlight and under the studying eyes of hungry gulls.

---

Bob stands at the harbor and waits. He can wait all day, if he must. Yesterday The Summer Dawn made berth and he knows that presently the crew of the great merchant vessel will come landward as their cargo did previously. And he shall find his men, and will extract from them what they owe to their country, to their king.

They may live by sea, but there are things more important than the sea; such as paying honor to one’s homeland and to one’s monarch, chosen for them by God Himself, as he sits in his Palace on High.

They are a disheveled army, and Bob tugs on the lapel of his coat, straightening it, before studying again the list in his hands. They go first to a small building just off the harbor; and he knows it is there that they collect their wages. Bob moves, to stand near the door, where they cannot continue mainland but walk past him.

And he, Robert Bryar, an Englishman through and through, a servant of the good King George, will collect from them the taxes that they owe to the crown.

As the men come out, worthy East India Seamen all, they quit pocketing their coins and walk to Bob resolutely. It is their yearly tradition, one in which Bob delights. They know their mark and he his, and they make their exchange and Bob wishes them well and sends them on their way to spend the rest of their shillings on whichever debaucheries they can find in the underground of these otherwise glorious colonies.

His body tenses at the sight of one in particular. This one man, a con if he knew one, can slip past him better than any other man Bob has ever known. The sum next to his name is enormous, surely more than the pittance he is even now receiving from his work on the vessel.

Bob will take from him what he can; he will do this duty with which he has been charged, in honor of His Majesty back home. He clears his throat and stands completely in the path as Joseph Trohman and his friends step out of the small hut.

“Trohman,” Bryar says, his voice loud enough to cause others passing to turn and gape.

“Bob Bryar,” the man responds, clearly unaffected by Bob’s most booming shout. Already Bob can feel his resolve wavering.

Should he not be standing there with the bravery of God, as he is on a task of the King, set on the throne by God Himself in all His Glory? “You owe a measure of shillings to the King,” Bob says. He puts his hand out, pressing firmly against Joe’s chest, stopping not only him but his small army of compatriots.

“I owe nothing,” Joe says. He puts his hand on Bob’s wrist and pushes it until Bob loses his grip. “Taxes for tea I cannot drink? And stamps I have no use for? And land on which I barely have the time to tread and certainly property which I do not own!” He laughs at the end, shaking his head.

“Step aside, Bryar,” Andy says from behind Joe. He pays his taxes yearly, but never when first asked. He seems to think he needs to make Bryar work for his gold. “Before your shoes are contaminated with the filth of we seamen. Or stay and take your shillings from those blinded by the light of the King; but our eyes are open yet we are not blinded.”

“Not yet,” Mikey says. He glares at Bob before pushing past him. “Better yet, take yourself back to England where those loyal to the crown are close enough to breathe in the stench of his evening gas.”

Dumbstruck, Bob steps aside and lets the men through. Though there are six of them, he sees only the back of one man, who owes more money than he is worth; and Bob will find a way to extract every cent from Trohman.

---

Gerard waits beside horses in the dimming light, knowing that soon his brother and his band will venture into the streets of Connecticut. He has news, a new direction; a new idea and he wants to share it with Mikey before Mikey ventures alone north to Massachusetts.

He knows that Mikey, his baby brother, yes, but so much older than him in many ways he senses, lives a double life. There is the Mikey that Gerard knows in Boston: quiet, morose, and sleeps a lot. But there is also – he knows – the Mikey who is a seaman. This Mikey voyages with other men for months at a time. Gerard couldn’t imagine it. He was born a farmer, and he cannot – he cannot - fathom how to function in any other manner.

He had tried, Lord knew that Gerard had tried to live a life in the city. But the grime and crowds of Boston had been sickening; and working for another man, selling the fruits of someone else’s labor is no way for a farmer to live. Gerard is a farmer. And he must work the ground.

How it should happen that his brother should grow up to be a man of the sea, Gerard just cannot fathom. Yet still he clings to the hope that he can persuade his brother to give up the water to earn his keep on the land.

Mikey approaches with five men in his company; all look equally scraggly and worn. And all laugh, brightly, as if this is not a solemn time of death and ill will toward men with few means. “Is that!” Mikey calls out, and he quickens his step, leaving his friends well behind.

“It is indeed,” Gerard responds. He opens his arms for Mikey and he too quickens his pace until both run, crashing against each other in an almost-boyish hug. “My baby brother, back from the sea.”

Pulling back, Mikey squeezes Gerard’s shoulder and then pats his cheek once before looking his brother over. “You have not changed, Gerard,” he says. “Save for your location! What brings you to Connecticut? Have you been run out of Massachusetts?”

Gerard looks behind Mikey, at the men gathered and watching. “Stories later,” he says. “But first, pray, introduce me to your friends. All seamen, I take it?”

Though there are only a few, the sight is still overwhelming. He does not yet know if he can trust these men. Yet are friends of his brother’s not to be trusted?

He turns his attention back to the men, noting first one and then another, eyes falling on one man in particular, covered in the dark ink of someone who had been on the wrong side of the sea.

“Aye,” Mikey says. He turns toward them, gesturing that they should come closer. “Every one.” He introduces them in turn: “Ray Toro, Frank Iero, Andy Hurley and Joseph Troman, Spurner of the King’s tax collector.”

“We all have a God-given gift,” Joe says, stepping forward, one hand to his chest. “I am so fortunate that mine is avoiding taxes paid in His name.”

“Though not for his purpose,” Andy adds. He reaches out, shaking Gerard’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet any man related to Mikey Way,” he says.

“It is indeed,” says the man in ink, Frank Iero, reaching out as well for a warm handshake. “But as Mikey asked, what brings a man of the country to our harbor? Are not the fish brought to you from the boats?”

Gerard turns toward Mikey, a smile on his face though one far more wary than it had originally been. This meeting is not going at all the way Gerard had imagined it would. “What say all of you to some refreshment before we begin?”

“If you are suggesting that you treat us all, than I say I am in,” Joe the Spurner says. “If you are suggesting that we attend a tavern and achieve our bread through honest hard work, I hate to inform you my friend that you are speaking to the wrong band of merry travelers.”

They share looks and laugh, Mikey casting a glance at Gerard to judge his response. “So it is like that,” Gerard says. He gestures down the road. “A half hour in this direction, if I remember correctly, we shall chance upon a store of illicitly attained bread and ale, ready for our consumption.”

“He has the ability to see into the future,” the last man – Ray – says. “I know better than to challenge the dark arts, so I say we follow the elder Way wherever he may lead us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Frank says. He looks at Mikey, then at Gerard with piercing eyes. “But I am not one to look a gift thief in the mouth; nor am I one to judge where my food comes from.”

“We all know you care not what goes into your mouth, Iero,” Mikey says. He smiles at Gerard then, sliding an arm into his brother’s a moment. “Let us be off, then, and lead us toward our accidental dinner.”

They walk, then; and Gerard knows that he is getting himself in way over his head.

---

True to Gerard’s word, after thirty minutes’ entertaining walk, they stray from the path and from a bush Gerard pulls a sack of food. It’s clear that he had not planned on feeding more than himself and Mikey; but they have a feast anyway, the seven of them, carefully sharing all that Gerard had been able to supply. Ray produces from his jacket a flask and they toast to the Brothers Way, to the land and to the sea, to the king and his tax collectors and to the street urchins with their hungry eyes and their hats in their hands.

“Now, brother, I pray you, what brings you to Connecticut? I had all plans to hasten to you this very evening.” Mikey leans back against a tree now, accepting a cigarette from Joe.

---

Brendon didn’t need to be awake to know that Pete is gone before sunrise. Darren left the evening prior well past midnight and now Brent and Spencer are still sleep, curled in on each other for warmth. Brendon buzzes with anticipation. Pete says there is going to be action.

Pete says there is going to be a change made.

Pete says Brendon can’t miss it for anything.

When the church bells toll, Brendon gets down onto his hands and knees and pushes first Spencer and then Brent. “Wake up the both of you,” he commands. Their response is minimal so Brendon opens a window, letting in gusts of cold air instead.

“Pete says there’s going to be a mob,” he says. “Let us join in.”

“Let’s not,” Spencer says. He sits up, pushing a hand through dirty hair. “I’m to the market today.”

“You left a stone untended did you?” Brent murmurs from the cocoon of his arms.

Spencer’s cheeks flush and Brendon puts his foot on the center of Brent’s back. “You and I will join Pete. Spencer will make sure that the three of us remain fed.” He smiles at Spencer, who smiles back. The water in their wash basin is frozen, Spencer knows, just from the chill in the air. He gets up and locates his shoes, slides his feet into them and then smiles at Brendon. “See you tonight then?” Brendon asks.

“Tonight,” Spencer says. He puts his hand to the door and shoves at it before turning once more to his friends. “God bless you both,” he says.

“There’s no God here!” Brent cries out.

Spencer scoffs and shuts the door.

---

The crowd is hungry. They are hungry for change, for a few extra pounds, for food and for jobs and for the freedom that they were promised. They press forward and Pete taunts the soldiers, joined by other boys and they laugh. “Can you do nothing?” Pete shouts. He reaches down and scoops up snow, balls it up into his hand and throws it as hard as he can at one of the soldiers.

His aim is good and the packed ball breaks with a muffled crack on the shoulder of a British soldier. “You will just stand there then while your King sends you to this Hellhole to watch us all rot?”

Pete lobs another and this time others follow suit.

Brendon watches, half in amazement of what Pete has started, half in amazement of the sight of these small white cannon balls aimed at the soldiers. Beside him, Brent shifts; Brendon knows when his friend is uncomfortable.

Truth be told – and Brendon is a fan of The Truth – he gets nervous at things like this too. He knows that one day he’ll trip and fall. He’ll be trod upon or arrested or beaten or worse – he’ll be killed somehow. Brendon knows he’s got potential; he knows there’s a higher purpose running through his veins, mixing with his blood.

One day he’s going to figure out what that purpose is.

A shot rings out and it echoes through all of Brendon until his teeth rattle and his heart hurts. He feels the sting burn his skin even as he sees a man – a black man – maybe two meters away from him fall to the ground.

The crowd bristles and lurches; Brent grabs at Brendon’s arm and they run, dodging people. And still the shooting continues and Brendon’s lungs burn from fear and not from tiredness. Brent – hanging onto his arm – slows him down, falls. Brendon stops, he turns and he gasps, taking a step back and then another in horror.

He is responsible for this, he knows it. Brent had held back every moment and now to see him like this – a bullet nestled somewhere and life already nearly spent – Brendon can hardly stand. He grabs hold onto somebody who pushes him off and Brendon falls to his knees. “Brent,” he says and Brent looks at him and shakes his head. “Brent,” Brendon says again but already he can tell, it’s too late.

Steam rises from the wound and Brendon falls forward, leaning in toward Brent, holding onto his friend’s body. Brendon is only down for seconds though, before he is kicked in the stomach by a member of the mob. He leans forward more, forehead pressing against Brent for tense moments before he leans back and then stands.

He takes one step, then two, always walking backward, afraid of taking his eyes away from Brent; but Brendon trips, falls again, landing hard in the snow, his legs curved over the body of another victim. “Lord save me,” he hears from the snow and Brendon moves his legs, gets onto his knees and crawls toward the person’s head.

“Tell me sir,” Brendon asks. “Are you a British soldier?”

“I’m neither a soldier nor a citizen.” The voice is raspy and Brendon knows that this man is in pain. What is he doing, questioning him as such? “My name is Jonathon Jacob Walker,” the man says. “If you are a good Christian, you will help me, or put me out of my misery. But I pray you, please ask no more questions.”

For Brendon, there is only one choice.

---

“You found him how long ago?”

Spencer is clearly appalled and Brendon grunts that he cannot blame him. When he could not bring this Mr. Walker home on his own, he hid the man in an alley and found Pete. Together they brought him home, carrying the unconscious victim as quickly as they could.

“Hours,” Brendon says. “The crowd,” he sputters. “And the snow.” He puts his arms out.

“He acted as quickly as he could,” Pete explains. He is busy melting snow into water in the hopes that eventually they can bring it to boil. “And we carried him equally as fast.”

As he works, Pete curses. He curses the snow that it won’t melt faster. He curses the fire that it isn’t bigger. He curses the tin that it won’t allow for a larger fire. He curses the British for saddling the Colonists with outrageous taxes and he curses the colonial elite who keep men like Pete down for not having money or station.

He, who could be a fine representative for the people of Massachusetts, if only he would be allowed to do so. There would be more doctors, and people like Spencer could learn to be one. And Brendon could be a lawyer. And Brent would still be alive, because there would be no need for a riot such as this one. Grown men would be able to read and farmers would be able to own their own land and not be beholden to wealthy landlords.

The snow disappears and Pete announces: “It’s melted.”

“Good.”

Spencer frowns and leans over the man more; using the least-soiled rag they have to wipe clean the wounds. Open wounds are, fortunately, at a minimum Spencer says. The true injury is the seriously broken leg, resting at a precarious angle that makes Pete both nauseated and pained. “He’s lucky he wasn’t shot,” Spencer says, and Brendon flinches.

They all do.

---

The silence burns Brendon and he stands by the open window, shivering, until Spencer snaps at him to shut it.

“The water’s nearly to a boil,” Pete says. Brendon measures the distance from the flat to the ground before he carefully shuts the window and finds a way to assist.

---

Spencer works diligently all afternoon and then through the night, cleaning, setting and frowning. Pete and Brendon take turns running outside to get more snow, to steal more wood. They take turns sleeping. They take turns urging Spencer to eat something, to sleep something, to take care of himself.

First it’s a matter of setting the leg. Then it’s a matter of quitting Jon’s shock. Then it’s a matter of fighting the infection that sets in two days later.

Jon falls asleep on a Tuesday and wakes on a Thursday; Spencer conversely does not sleep until Thursday afternoon, when Brendon pushes him over and Spencer cannot even hold himself up. “Watch him,” he says to Brendon, who smiles back at him. “Please.”

“I will keep both eyes on your patient, Doctor Smith.” Brendon’s tone implies jest, but Spencer knows that he will attend to every tiny need that Jon has.

When he wakes, the sun is rising, and Spencer pushes himself up from the floor. He is cold and feels bleary.

“Good morning to you, good doctor.”

Spencer jerks and then smiles at Jon, who is sitting against the wall, legs out in front of him. The leg that Spencer set is propped up just slightly, more haphazardly than Spencer would have done, but what else could he expect from Brendon? “I trust you’re feeling better?” Spencer says. He speaks softly, coming closer to the injured man.

“Aye.” Jon nods and puts his hands to the floor, as if to get up, but Spencer shushes him down. “If there is something you need, pray just let me know and I will get it.”

The smile Spencer receives both warms and calms. “I need for you to eat something,” Jon says. “Brendon tells me that you weren’t eating whilst I was ill.”

“I ate,” Spencer says, though what he ate somehow ceases to come into his head; perhaps there is merit to what Jon has just said. “Can I at least bring you something?”

Jon closes his eyes, resting his head against the wall behind him. “First you eat, than I shall eat.”

“Have we anything?”

“Pete has discovered a new method,” Jon says, and Spencer smiles to himself, because Jon speaks as if he’s been in the flat for years. Spencer hopes this one day becomes the case. “He sweet talks naïve servant girls.”

And true enough, the food Spencer finds in their small breadbox, while not a feast fit for George himself, is still plenty enough to keep the four of them satisfied for several days. This is a luxury that Spencer has not been able to claim, possibly in his life. “I should argue against such cruel practice,” Spencer says, cutting off two slices from the loaf he finds. “But my stomach tells me that my arguments would be insincere.”

“An unbecoming quality in a man, I assure you,” Jon says from the floor. He watches Spencer move slowly to prepare a breakfast for the two of them. “As is hesitation. I pray you, bring your plate that we may enjoy a breakfast before Brendon awakes and realizes he has lost his patient.”

Smiling now enough to make up for his previous week of frowning, Spencer brings the plate back to the floor and listens to Jon relay his life story as they see to their hunger in quiet conversation.

---

After a month of careful management, even Spencer is ready to admit that there is nothing more that can be done for Jon. It takes another week for Spencer to come to terms with how important it is that Jon isn’t sent out of their flat to take care of himself as he was before the riot.

Spencer asks to keep Jon as one might ask to keep a hound that has followed one home from the market. “He’ll soon be able to walk,” Spencer says to Pete. “But where has he to go? And to whom? Like us, he has left his past life behind and he is reborn here with nothing but his skin. Pray you open up your doors permanently to him. We’ve the room, now, and perhaps this is God’s hand acting upon us.”

The death of their friend had been hardest on Brendon, who had traveled to Boston from Maryland with Brent. The following day he had gone back to where the riot had taken place, hoping to find Brent’s body, to bring it back to them; but the only trace there of any sort of struggle was the hint of blood-stained snow now covered up by a night’s fresh load.

Spencer too had become quite attached to Brent and had struggled – once Jon’s health had been seen to – with the meaning behind the senseless death. He keeps this turmoil a secret, knowing that Brendon holds himself responsible for the tragic ending to such a promising life. Or one that could have been promising, if allowed to thrive.

But Spencer thinks that perhaps he knows the truth. He feels cruel and selfish over it, yet another sin of which he will eventually have to purify himself. Brendon found Jon through Brent’s death. Was Jon not sent to them to make up for what God had taken away? It is the only response that makes sense to Spencer; it therefore must stand true that this is God’s will and that Jon was sent to fill the hole that had been carved into their hearts when the British soldiers had so cruelly opened fire on men armed only with snow.

Pete looks at Brendon and then over at Jon, asleep in the corner, before turning his attention back to Spencer. “I find it difficult to believe that you would ask such a question, my friend.” Prepared to set forth another argument, Spencer puts his hand to Pete’s shoulder, but Pete covers that hand with his. “The question of Jon staying has been answered since the start. For as long as Jon wishes to remain in our company, he shall be with us as one of our equals.”

Grinning, Spencer turns back to look at Jon; and is surprised to see Jon looking at him. “It is safe then,” Jon says, pushing Spencer’s coat off of his body. “I can admit that I’m feeling wholly myself again.” Laughing, Spencer goes to Jon and wraps his arms around their new companion. “Bearer of false witness,” he says, though his eyes are shining, his entire face involved in his smile.

“String me up and call me a sinner,” Jon says. “But please, I pray you, first provide a last supper that I may die with a full belly.”

---

August 17, 1773

Joe is unabashedly hesitating disembarking from the ship, waiting even until Frank nudges him. “He’s waiting for you,” Frank says, his smile wicked. “Have not you fought against him long enough?”

“Bryar will give up,” Joe says through clenched teeth. “And I shall keep my money. If I cannot spit in George’s face, than I shall use his money for my own pleasure.”

Frank stands beside him, rocking heel to toe and then back again, with his hands clasped behind him. Bryar is below, watching the ship; it feels like he’s watching Joe, and Joe ignores this feeling. “I meant the King,” Frank says. He looks over at Joe, and Joe steadfastly looks straight ahead. He does not look at Bryar. He absolutely does not. “By and by, meet us at the pub. A seat will be saved for you.” Frank pats Joe on the back before walking away from him.

Frank is a traitorous snake.

---

Joe is the last member of the crew off of the ship. He is all but kicked off by the captain, and so he breezes past Bryar, heading first to the small office where he will collect his wages, and then exits, walking straight into Bryar. “Trohman,” Bryar says, grabbing onto Joe’s arm and holding him tightly.

“Bastard,” Joe growls. He tugs his arm but Bryar holds him steadily. Joe is strong; but Bryar – somehow – is stronger.

“I’ve the amount you owe in taxes right here,” Bryar says, pulling a piece of paper from his coat. “Let’s not make this difficult, yes?”

Joe snorts once, and considers spitting on Bryar before deciding against that. “Perhaps I shall set my life to making this hard for you,” he says. Bryar quirks an eyebrow at Joe, who swallows hard and looks at his hand on Joe’s arm, and then back at his face, refusing to back down from his statement.

Droppings fall from the sky, and land on the lapel of Bryar’s jacket. Bryar hisses and steps back, letting go of Joe.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Joe turns on his heel and flees, jumping over boxes, upsetting a servant with an armful of wares, and disappears down the street.

---

In the pub there is a pint waiting for him. At least, Joe assumes it is for him, and he sits down in front of it and takes a large gulp, panting out a few deep breaths before looking around. "That Bob Bryar will be the death of you yet," Ray says, pulling the glass out of Joe's grip and then holding it to his chest. "Or did he finally take what he wants, your reason for needing my ale and not getting your own?"

Unashamed of his ale-pinching ways, Joe shrugs and slides his hand around Frank's mug instead. "Once again my cunning ways were too much for him," Joe says before taking a gulp.

"And too much for Frank," Mikey says, approaching the table. He has a letter in his hand, and he slaps it down upon the table. "My brother, my friends, has lost his mind." He looks around the table, waiting for some form of confirmation, but they all stare blankly at him. Joe drinks more of Frank's ale.

"Go on," Ray finally says. He still has his ale pressed closely to his chest, which Joe thinks is a little dramatic. He'll mock Ray for it later, if he can remember to. He has very firm plans to get completely soused on this their first night back in the colonies.

Mikey pushes the letter further into the middle of the table, then takes Andy's mug from him. Joe grins widely at Mikey, while Andy squawks his disapproval. "He says he's going west, and asks that I join him." Mikey gestures at the paper with his free hand while he takes a gulp of Andy's ale and then hands it back to him. "I know not whether he is more mad for wandering into the territory of the Indians, or for thinking I might want to join."

The men at the table break out into laughter that borders on raucous, but Frank interjects to ask, "From where is he leaving? And when?" He keeps his eyes on Mikey as he pulls his ale back from Joe and takes a gulp.

"Boston, naturally," Mikey says. "And in two days' time." He nudges Joe and says, "Let's get our own, and drink to Gerard's growing insanity."

Joe prefers things that are free, but he also prefers having his own drink. He stands and follows Mikey to a bar on which many a night he has lain his head, and they order a round for themselves and their friends. When they come back, however, Frank is gone, his things disappeared.

"Where's," Mikey begins, but his eyes widen. "Has he?"

Solemnly, Ray nods. "As mad as your brother," he says.

Joe pulls what would have been Frank's mug closer to himself, but his eyes widen when the door to the pub opens. "Bloody..." he murmurs. He takes one last, long gulp of his ale and then pushes himself up from the table. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he says. "I've a goose chase to stay out of." He grabs his rucksack and heads toward the door, and spends the rest of the night attempting to disappear.

January 12, 1775

Ryan stands at his window, hands clasped in front of him, his perpetual frown creasing his otherwise smooth face. “This damned city,” he says. “This damned colony.”

He sighs and sits at his desk, already writing notes for his next pamphlet. Common Sense will take time, he knows, and proper thought. He licks his quill, dips it in ink and then lets the tip hover over his page.

Perhaps it will take a bit more time.

---

They sit now, the three of them, Pete and Brendon and Jon; talking quietly about the revolution, debating whether or not it will happen. Jon thinks it’s a pipe dream, the food of dreamers. But he’s quick to assert that he prays by night that one day he may be such a dreamer as they.

Pete thinks that it will happen if people are strong, and that once the colonies are out from under the thumb of King George, they can move away from their classist system and become a truly free nation.

Brendon wants to believe what Pete believes; but most of the time, he just wants a jacket that fits and oil enough to stay up reading. Brendon wants to go to practice law; but he’ll settle for having a job that offers more than a few shillings a week.

Ryan Ross’ latest sits on the floor closed and tempting, but they wait for Spencer to return from his trip foraging. The window is open wide, letting in freezing cold air but also enough light that Brendon doesn’t need to strain to read. So they sit close together and rely on each other for warmth, as they always rely on each other for strength.

Spencer kicks roughly at the door and Jon pushes himself up to open it for him. His gait has improved staying with his new friends. Though he still walks with a limp, Jon is as gainful a man as he ever was. That is to say, no longer is it his injury that keeps him from work; merely his low station.

“No luck again?” Jon asks, taking the loaves from Spencer and leaving him to hang the coat they share. He returns with fewer and fewer provisions each time and this is no exception.

“Aye,” Spencer says. “Only that which keeps me from the stockade.”

“Come,” Pete says when the air becomes thick with the tension of hopelessness. “Let’s feast instead upon the words of the English language’s greatest chef.” He glances over at Brendon now, picking up the pamphlet, and smirks at him. “That is what you called him, is it not Brendon?”

“I,” Brendon says, snatching the pamphlet from him. He sighs, gesturing at the pamphlet, opening it to the first page. “The man who writes these words is the greatest of men. I must meet him.” He glares at Pete. “That is all.”

Though Pete shakes his head at Brendon, his smile belies his true feelings. “The lowly student who thinks he can meet Mr. Ross is the greatest of fools. And I am privileged at least to know him already.”

Chuckling, Spencer sits beside Brendon and rests a hand on his wrist. “Pray now, quit with Pete and get you to reading. We’ve only so much light and,” he gestures at the pamphlet now, flipping through the pages. “There’s much yet to read.”

Brendon glares once more at Pete before he maneuvers to receive the most possible light on the page, and then he begins: “Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins.”

---

When the light fades, Brendon sets the pamphlet down and shuts the window. Jon cuts bread for supper and provides for them what he can, from what Spencer has found for them, and from what Pete can talk out of servant girls dawdling on trips to the market.

Seated around their candle on the floor, Pete talks now about the great things that are to come. They are coming toward freedom, he can see it; he can taste it. Jon’s eyes glow in the candlelight and nobody notices when Spencer passes his extra rations in his direction; nobody ever does.

---

Ryan doesn’t like venturing into the streets of Boston. He prefers to have others do it for him. He prefers to stay at home and write from the safety of his dominion.

It’s that the poor have become so riotous. The elite fear the poor whites getting together with the others, those that are undesirable. The uprising would be massive and would tear down the system that keeps the colonies running in this Hellhole.

It’s only been fourteen months and it’s been fourteen months too long, Ryan thinks. He quickens his pace, not wanting to be in amongst this crowd. He doesn’t trust their savage looks; but mostly he doesn’t trust the stink of desperation that rises from the snow.

From the north he hears the creakcrashbang of a carriage being pushed over and Ryan ducks down an alley. Most don’t know who he is, but all the same he doesn’t trust being a man of estimable wealth out in this crowd. The street to which the alley leads looks no safer and this time the shouts are more defined; the ravings of one man as opposed to the crying out of several.

“Will you let them bury us here in the snow?”

The crowd responds with an angry roar and Ryan wonders if he can get lost within it and remain safe.

---

The riots grow fiercer as the lower class colonists get angrier. The wealthy hide in their homes and Pete shakes his fist at them, Brendon standing beside him and laughing. But it is Pete who puts his hand on Brendon’s shoulder and squeezes it. “Look not,” he says. “But your Ryan Ross stands not far from us.”

“Wentz,” Brendon admonishes. “You haven’t been one for storytelling.”

He points, not caring if Ryan sees Pete’s finger directed at him. “Aye, you speak the truth. As do I.” Brendon turns his head and sees the face whose portrait already hangs in many a shop window as an emblem of the colonial spirit of freedom. He puts both hands on Pete’s arm and pushes it down. “Now you stare the truth in the face. Come now, shall we meet him?”

Already he walks toward the pamphleteer, and Brendon clasps onto the threadbare coat that Pete has nicked from the entrance of the meeting hall just that morning. “Nay!” Brendon cries out, holding tightly. Pete laughs in response and shakes Brendon off, then strides toward Ryan.

---

Ryan sees them approach and he knows not whether to turn and run or to stay where he is. It’s the leader himself, the man he had seen standing on the steps and shouting. He looks not angry but rather… amused? And Ryan reckons that perhaps he has already lived enough life.

But as the space between them closes, he realizes that perhaps not; he glances around, looking for another alley in which he can hide, but there is none. He swallows hard, gritting his teeth and hopes for naught but a verbal lashing.

“You must be the fabled Ryan Ross,” the man says. He is jovial enough and Ryan thinks that perhaps this is not his time to be taken down. “My name is Pete Wentz, and my friend here,” gesturing at a man who is not at all ‘here’ but instead several paces ‘there,’ “is Mr. Brendon Urie, who up until now was the most educated man I know.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, smiling at the man. “And have you thus met someone who surpasses Mr. Urie in education?”

“Aye,” Pete says. “And I am quite pleased to meet you, Mr. Ross. As is Mr. Urie.” He barely manages to grab the wrist of Brendon’s shirt and pull him closer.

“Ryan Ross,” the other man, Urie, says. “I mean. Ross. Erm. Mr. Ross.”

“Ross is fine,” Ryan says, taking his hand and shaking it. “Wentz here says you are a man of high education?”

Brendon’s cheeks redden but he holds Ryan’s stare, a difficult task. “I am educated, yes.” He speaks slowly, clearly unsure of how to word this. “But my education was cut short due to, ah, circumstances.” He glances at Pete momentarily and then back at Ryan.

There’s a long moment during which nothing is said, but Ryan remains with one hand clasping Brendon’s. “And what, pray tell, can cease a man’s education?”

“He was betrothed,” Pete cuts in. “A lovely servant girl. And he ran. Seeking a higher station. And romance. And adventure.”

“Pray you be quiet!”

But Ryan is laughing.

---

Brendon is taken aback: Ryan Ross is laughing.

Ryan thinks that Pete is a strange man with stranger ideas (he says such, much to Brendon’s chagrin), but he seems to approve of this as they lunch in his flat.

Ryan Ross’ flat.

He also seems to think nothing in particular at all about Brendon, and his whole world becomes a maelstrom of emotion over this. Why doesn’t he notice and what is he thinking and how did he end up here at all?

This man’s words, Brendon feels with his entire body, are the most beautiful part about him but they are followed quickly with the man himself. Brendon cannot look at him for fear of staring. He is the greatest of fools – as Pete said – and he would be satisfied to die now were it not for his desire to see this revolutionary idea through to its end (whatever it may be).

“So, you will be fighting, then,” Ryan asks, turning now toward Brendon after a lengthy discussion with Pete over the current lack of representation for the majority of colonists. “In this great war that our man Wentz here sees so clearly in the future?”

It is one of those things that Brendon hadn’t really thought about. He’s held a musket – once – Spencer owns one and keeps it in the flat. But the idea of firing on a man – any man, even a British soldier – makes his stomach turn. He wants this new world that Pete promises by night but he doesn’t know if he is willing to do anything for it. Perhaps anything but that. “I am,” Brendon begins, his fading voice an indication that there is more to follow that though. He thinks fast, trying to come with a way to describe his feelings without coming off as a coward. “I am sure I would be honored to take part in such a cause,” he finally says. “Though I’m loathe to take the life of another man, having watched the life of my best friend taken in front of me.”

Pete explains: “Brendon is a revolutionary revolutionary. He likes not the taste and feel of violence.”

“And do you?” Ryan asks, looking at Pete.

It’s an accusatory question and Brendon can now breathe without choking on the air he takes into his lungs. “I revel in the forces of change,” Pete says. “Let not only one part of society reign over the other, but let instead the collective power of the weak rain down upon those who would keep us in the muck.”

Again, Ryan laughs, and Brendon thinks him a peculiar fellow. Pete worries not about it, instead smiling at Brendon as though they share a secret knowledge about this man. They do not. “You, my friend, ought to meet one Mr. Patrick Stumph. He’s-”

“His reputation precedes him, I assure you,” Pete says. Now his eyes shine; to meet this Mr. Stumph – the great orator who brings men from their knees to their feet, who calls for revolution, who seeks naught but liberty – to meet this man would be the greatest gift God could bestow upon him.

“I could arrange a meeting,” Ryan offers. He throws the idea out there, like he offered the men tea with sugar – sugar! – earlier in the afternoon. “You two could exchange words the likes of which poor Brendon and I will never have heard before, nor ever again.”

Brendon swings his head toward Ryan, eyes widening at the thought. He would be invited too? To spend an afternoon in the company of this magnificent writer without Pete around to serve as buffer? “He would be delighted,” Brendon says before Pete can respond. “Mr. Stumph’s fame as an orator is a deserved one, and surely Pete here could learn much from him.”

“Thank you, Brendon,” Pete says, not entirely civilly. But Brendon beams his pleasure.

“You two,” Ryan says, laughter buried somewhere deep within the words. He stands, putting his hands together before calling for a girl to come in and take their dishes. She smiles at Brendon before exiting. “I am glad to have met you two. We shall be friends for our lives. Be they long and filled with good deeds, or short and filled with revolutionary glory, I shall be thankful to have you two on either side of me.

Brendon’s stomach twists. He doesn’t remember leaving or getting home. Only the warmth of Ryan’s hand on his as they shake their goodbyes.

---

Jon relishes his time alone with Spencer, and rarely is it had. Usually Spencer is gone, seeking for them sustenance. And if Spencer is not gone, usually Pete is around. And if not Pete, then Brendon.

And there was the one time Jon ventured outside for a walk to stretch his leg, to test it out, and when he came back, Spencer had come home and was sleeping in Jon’s space.

Neither of them ever said anything about it.

While stuck in the flat, he cleans it, daily restoring it to its far-from-pristine order. In the long winters he empties and refills their wash basin, melts snow for drinking and disposes of their waste. These trips up and down the stairs serve as the last semblance of rehabilitation for him. Spencer insists that he set the leg incorrectly; but Jon has more faith than that.

In time he’ll be able to walk again normally, and like the others, he’ll find a more productive way to contribute than by serving as house boy to his friends.

At the jiggle of the door handle, Jon turns. Brendon and Pete are out together, and Pete has the only key. Moments later Spencer walks in, kicking the door shut behind him. “It’s but early for you,” Jon says, when nothing else comes to mind.

“Aye.” Spencer is breathless, and he collapses onto a chair. “I was being followed and could not stay.” He puts his hand to his chest and leans back in his chair, long hair falling backward. Jon comes closer, pulling up another chair to sit across from him. “I couldn’t get anything, though I tried. They may know me.” He looks at Jon now, grimacing. “If they know me, we’ll have need for a new plan.”

“Have we need to continue petty thievery?” Jon asks, and Spencer’s face falls. “I mean.”

“I know,” Spencer says, cutting him off. “Brendon’s meager earnings go toward our rent. Mayhap Pete can spend less time inciting violence and more time coercing food from unsuspecting maids.”

“You don’t approve of Pete’s actions?” Jon asks. He had never thought before that perhaps the entire household did not approve of itself. Since coming into their home he had joined in on the shared ideology, the revolutionary ideals, and the desire for a society that honored all men of all station. “I always thought…” his voice trails off.

Spencer looks away. “I know not of what I approve.” He turns to look at Jon again, and Jon licks his lips, seeing the words though they are not said.

“Aye,” Jon says. “When you settle on an opinion, I would be keen to hear it.” He licks his lips again and then stands. “I need to get snow,” he says. “I’ll be back in an hour’s time.”

---

When he leaves, Spencer puts his head in his hands. He prays for answers or for an end to his wicked thoughts. And when one does not come, he prays harder, getting down on his knees now, prostrating himself toward God.

And after an hour, no answer has come to him. But the door creaks open and Jon comes in, a bucket of snow in one hand and a cane in the other. “Jon,” Spencer says, though he does not move from his position. “Jon, I have received no answer.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he sets the bucket on the table and starts a fire, lighting up kindling at the bottom of a large pot. “Shall you pray longer, then?” He takes the bucket of snow and begins transferring it into a pan to place on the pot.

“No.” Spencer stands now, moving toward Jon. “The answers will never come.”

“So then…?”

“So then,” Spencer says, but he finishes his statement by taking the lapels of Jon’s coat and pulling him in, kissing him roughly over the fire. Jon drops the pan and snow into the pot, putting his hands instead on Spencer’s arms. He holds him tightly, for balance, for leverage, for the satisfaction of a desire he’s long had.

“We’ll need more snow,” Jon says when they break.

“Later,” Spencer says.

The sparkle in Spencer’s eye is wicked, and something that Jon has never seen of him before. He anticipates seeing more of it; more of him.

Jon crumbles.

Part 2

FOB/PATD/MCR: The Simple Voice of Nature and Reason Will Say, 'Tis Right (2/2)

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 07:43:42 GMT

Part 2 / Continued from here

June 1, 1775

It’s become a game for Joe. With the embargo, there are fewer ships sailing back and forth to England. With fewer sailing ships, there is less need for capable merchant sailors. With less need for capable merchant sailors, Joe and Mikey, Andy and Ray, they have more time to spend on land. And though Joe is quite aware that life would be simpler were he to leave the city and go elsewhere, down to Virginia, perhaps, or into Maryland, or Pennsylvania, he couldn’t go so far from the water, so he stays in New York.

He stays in New York, though Bob Bryar prowls, seemingly looking just for him.

Ray and Andy, even Mikey have all paid their taxes, but not without having some fun with Bryar.

Joe, however? Joe is not paying his taxes. The King, that mad waste of skin and space, cannot do with Joe’s money what Joe can do with Joe’s money. Ole George would use Joe’s money to fund his ridiculous wars. Joe can use his money for ale and for pleasure. “So you see,” he concludes. “Bryar cannot lay a finger on my money.”

“If you paid your taxes,” Andy reasons with him, leaning forward so that he can peer under the table where Joe is sitting. “Perhaps you could sit at the table, and not underneath it.”

Bryar has a way of popping up in places that Joe is, and coming up to him, and ruining Joe’s good times. If he’s to be forced to remain on land, Joe’s going to enjoy himself. “It’s rather comfortable down here,” Joe says. He shifts a little, knocks his head on the table, and dust flies at him. It floats into his beer, which Joe eyes before drinking. “If Frank were here,” he says, frowning at the dust that sticks to his throat. “He would join me.”

“But he’s not,” Mikey says. He leans in now, spectacles cracked and dirty. “He’s with Gerard.” He’s frowning too; and Joe reaches out and pats Mikey’s cheek; or he tries to, he ends up half-slapping, half-cupping Mikey’s cheek instead.

“They’re making each other happy,” he says.

Mikey snorts, and opens his mouth to say something else, but a voice that’s familiar, so familiar it haunts Joe’s dreams – and sometimes, in a more pleasurable way than Joe would like – says, “Are the dust mites that entertaining, Way, that you would speak to them and not to Hurley?” To emphasize his point, and more than that, to harass Joe, Bryar pounds on the table with his fist. “Come on out, Trohman, and pay up. Squatting in the dust is beneath even a dirty sailor such as yourself.” He pounds the table again, and Joe spills his ale. “Or if you’d rather, Hurley may be worth your taxes.”

To his credit, Hurley is struggling against that loyalist bastard, Howard, holding him tightly and not at all gently. So he ought not to be blamed for not warning Joe that Bryar was on his way. After extricating himself from under the table, Joe stands up to Bryar, dust in his hair and on his clothes, and pokes a finger into his chest. “George is not worth Hurley. Your business is with me and not with him, who pays the taxes England doesn’t earn.” He growls and attempts to look his fiercest, though loses the facade quickly when Bob grabs his arm and tugs him toward the door.

“Leave them, Jepha,” Bryar says, and Joe doesn’t even have time to turn around and check on his friends before his face hits the door, then cool night air and mostly darkness.

---

They’re in an alley, one in which Joe can recall having his cock sucked by a boy (man) with a mouth like a, well, not anything positive. Not really. But a man has needs.

Right now Joe’s needs include pulling his arms out of Bryar’s grip, or at least convincing him to loosen his hand a little. If possible, also no longer being pressed up to the wall of a shop like he and it were having a romantic rendezvous. “I can’t get to my money,” Joe gasps, “with this wall on my face.”

Bob presses him harder against the wall, and it shouldn’t be arousing, it shouldn’t, so Joe redirects the anger – and shame – he feels toward himself at Bob, and presses back against him. Hard. “Your disloyalty to the crown will get you nowhere,” Bob tell him. His breath is hot on Joe’s neck, and Joe shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“My loyalty to the crown will not give George these colonies,” he says.

He’s pushed harder into the wall again, his cheek cold and scratched on the rough brick. “Your loyalty is an insignificant drop in the bucket,” Bob says. “Just like you.” He pushes harder into Joe, and there it is, shocking. Bob is enjoying this as much as Joe wishes he wasn’t. Joe shivers, and not from the cold.

“We may be insignificant,” Joe gasps, pressing backward again. If Bob grinds back, Joe ignores it. “We’ll band together like a tidal wave, and give your king not the taxes he wants but the treatment he deserves.” He’d spit in Bob’s face if he could, but the wall is right there, so instead Joe mashes his foot on Bob’s and finishes, “That of a common whore.”

Joe’s arms are loosed, but before he can do anything, Bob’s firm hand is on the back of his head, the wall is coming fast at his face, and then black.

---

Joe wakes in a bed in a room worth more than he can afford. His head pounds, and he goes back to sleep.

---

When Joe wakes again, he blinks slowly and then groans. His head is pounding, to the point that he can’t appreciate the luxurious bed he’s in. “What…” and he sighs, flopping back down onto the mattress. He shifts again and realizes that his shirt is gone, as are his trousers, though his britches are thankfully still on. From outside the door, he hears voices, familiar ones, and it all comes back to him in waves of images.

Bob leering down at him as he hid under the table.

Being pulled outside into the dark night.

The wall, cold and rough, pressed against his face.

Joe slides out of the bed and looks around, relieved to see his clothes on a chair. He pulls them on, moving slowly to keep his sore muscles from screaming at him. And his hand is on the door when he pats himself down with the other and realizes that his money pouch is gone.

Bristling, he pushes the door open and spites the pounding in his head to roar, “Bryar!”

There’s a chuckle, condescending to Joe’s ears, and he recognizes Jepha’s voice, saying, “Bryar! Your prisoner’s awake.”

“Patient,” Bryar is correcting when Joe walks into the room. It’s sparsely decorated, just a few chairs and a bureau that looks to have been passed down a few generations. On the wall is a musket that appears to have never been used. Leave it to Bryar to waste such a prize. “He’s our patient.”

“You did this to me,” Joe says, walking right up to him. “And stole my money from me.”

“That was the King’s money,” Bryar says. “I only took what was owed to King George.”

This time Joe does spit, and Jepha stands, but Bob puts his hand out to keep him seated, using the other to wipe the spittle from his cheek. “I owe him nothing,” Joe says. “He does nothing for me.”

“He keeps your ships sailing,” Jepha says, before Bob can argue. “And it’s his armies that fight against the natives here. It’s his crops that you eat, and his goods that you sell, and his ships that you sail on.”

Joe turns to Jepha then. “It’s on the boats of the East India Company I sail, and it’s the labor of the colonists that I bring to England, and goods that we rightfully purchase that I bring back again. And without the King, we could still fight those natives off.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Jepha scoffs.

“I’d like to see my money again,” Joe says, turning to Bryar. “I believe you have the myth flipped about. Robin Hood steals from the rich and gives to the poor, not from the poor for the rich.”

Bob crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “Your taxes have already been logged and are officially part of the treasury of the monarchy. Should you choose to forcibly take your money, you’d be guilty of both assaulting an office of the King, and also stealing from His Royal Highness, King George, which is punishable by death.” He pushes a finger into Joe’s chest, and Joe angrily shoves it away. “Is your life worth the few shillings I was able to remove from your person?”

Angrily, Joe bristles. “My life is worth nothing now, without my freedom.” Now he presses a finger tip into Bob’s chest. “Just as yours is. You call me a prisoner, but I am walking out of this house. You are trapped in your position doing the dirty work of a King who cares nothing for you. Sleep on that bed of nails tonight.”

He turns then and walks to the door, his shoulder pressing into Jepha as he walks by.

Hungry, sore, and tired, Joe leaves Bob’s flat and doesn’t bother looking to see where he is until he’s been walking for ten minutes.

He’s completely lost.

It takes hours, but when Joe finally finds his way home, his friends are up in arms, collecting their things, scrambling about. “What’s the matter?” Joe asks, his money, for the moment, forgotten.

“Fighting has begun,” Ray says gravely. “We’re joining up.”

For the second time in 24 hours, Joe’s world goes blank.

---

“Fighting has begun,” Pete says to the quiet room. Jon drops the pan he is using to heat water, and Spencer turns pale. Brendon doesn’t say anything, just stares out the window, and with one glance Spencer knows that he already knew. “I’m joining up,” Pete says. “Who’s going with me?”

“I am,” Jon says immediately.

Quickly, Spencer looks over to Jon. “You can’t,” he says. “You can’t walk properly.”

“I am,” Jon says forcefully. Pete glances over at Brendon, then busies himself at the window, fighting with the latch to let in some air they don’t need. “I have to fight for the cause.”

“You can’t even walk up the stairs,” Spencer argues, gesturing at the door. “I set your leg wrong and you can’t walk up stairs, so you can’t go trampling through the woods like one of the natives. It won’t work.”

They stare each other down, and Brendon and Pete remain silent.

Silent, that is, until Pete says, “I can’t go by myself. I, who have pushed for this.”

“I’ll go,” Brendon says quietly. “I’ll fight.”

“No,” Spencer says. He frowns and stands, getting to his proper height. “You have to stay here and be a lawyer, and take care of Jon.” Jon reaches out to him, but Spencer pushes his hand away. “I’ll go with you.”

---

Even Spencer will admit he’s astonished at the quickness with which Jon is able to drag him downstairs and into the street for their harried conversation, still clinging to his cane as he is. “You can’t go,” Jon says.

“Pete’s right,” Spencer argues, though without any real drive behind it. “The loudest shouts for revolution have been coming from our quarters. If he arrives alone, that says a great deal. To him, at least. And that’s.” He sighs, looking up toward the flat then back at Jon. “He’s done so much for all of us. Now one of us has to do this for him. I have to do this.”

Jon leans heavily on his cane and looks around, then steps closer, putting his other hand on Spencer’s chest. “What about Brendon? Why can’t Brendon go?”

Turning away, Spencer sighs. “He’s going to be a brilliant lawyer some day,” Spencer says. “We can’t send him off to war to die.”

Jon closes his hand on Spencer’s shirt, tugging on him. “You’re going to be a brilliant doctor some day,” he says. He tries to go on, but Spencer cuts him off:

“All the more reason to go,” he says.

Jon frowns, then nods. And then he clings to Spencer, because he knows it’s true.

---

They leave from Ryan’s house, and with very little fanfare. Patrick is there too, ready to take Jon to his home, and Brendon’s things are already inside; he will be staying with Ryan. Jon is dying for a few minutes alone with Spencer, but Pete is too busy delivering instructions to him, the proper care and handling of Patrick Stumph. “I know,” Jon says. He uses his cane to nudge Pete away. “Go say your goodbye. I have words to share with Spencer.”

Pete bats his eyelashes at them, but he does what Jon asks, stepping over to Patrick instead and leaning in, whispering words that make Patrick’s cheeks turn red. Jon turns from them, however, and smiles softly at Spencer. “You stay safe,” he says.

“I will,” Spencer responds. He takes Jon’s hand in his, holding it discreetly between them.

At Spencer’s words, Jon’s heart falls, until it’s a sickness in the pit of his stomach. “Do not say that,” Jon says. “You know not if it’s true.”

After a quick glance first to the right and then to the left, Spencer leans in and kisses Jon softly. “I’ll return home to you,” he tells him.

They pause, Jon unable to say anything, and Spencer probably unwilling to say anything more. Filled with doubt and sadness, but mostly love, Jon finally takes a deep breath and says, “I pray you will,” his voice hitching at the end.

Spencer smiles at Jon, and then squeezes his hand before pulling away. “Pete, let’s be off. We’ve quite a walk ahead of us.”

---

The others may be satisfied to borrow muskets from those who are too aged to fight, but Joe has a better plan in store. Aye, it is more risky, and in fact, it should be considered stupid. But Joe was never one to do the smart thing.

The door to Bryar’s flat opens easily enough, and the light of the moon shines in through the unblocked window. And there, glittering from the wall, is the prize that Joe seeks.

If Bryar will take from Joe what he pleases, then so too will Joe take from Bryar what he needs.

Even on his toes, Joe can’t reach the musket. He pulls an ottoman from in front of a chair – he can remember Bryar sitting in it, talking his loyalist foolishness with Jepha – and brings that over to the mantle. When he stands on it, and rises up onto his toes, he can reach the musket to pull it off the wall.

Only once he has it, the weight puts him off balance, and Joe falls off the ottoman.

This wouldn’t at all be a problem, were it not for the porcelain dish on the mantle, which looked rare before it crashed to the ground. Seconds later, Joe hears Bob shouting; he scrambles up and then, when pain courses through his leg, falls right back down again. This time he lands hard on the musket and the shards of dish.

He is thus when Bryar comes into the room, a candle in his hand and his sleep clothes rumpled on his body. “Trohman,” he says, not sounding at all surprised enough, Joe thinks.

Joe is quite surprised.

---

The most surprising part is being woken up by a crash, to find his grandmother’s dish – the one with the family crest painted on it – in pieces on the floor in front of the mantle. The least surprising part is that Trohman was trying to steal something from him at all.

Also rather surprising for Bob is the fact that he finds himself setting up a pallet for Joe to sleep on, because he can’t move. And in the morning, Bob makes him coffee, which Joe sourly refuses, and then sends for the doctor to take a look at him.

Not fifteen minutes later, Jepha arrives too, looking alarmed. “Bob, what,” he begins, and then stops when he sees Joe on the sofa, looking both pained and annoyed. “Well, well,” he says, looking at Bob. “Attempting another tax collection, were we?”

Bob puts his hands up, innocently enough, and trying not to be amused at the whole situation. He really just wants to throw Trohman out onto the street, and yet. And yet. Bryar is a Christian. And a servant to the King. He ought to show compassion to everybody; even to ruffians such as Joseph Trohman, who aren’t deserving of walking upon the same ground as He. “He came himself,” Bob says. Trohman huffs, but says nothing.

“Oh, did he?” Jepha asks. Bob doesn’t like his tone, but neither, it seems, does Trohman, who once again huffs from the corner.

“He broke my grandmother’s dish.”

“I was trying to steal your musket,” Trohman corrects.

“A rebel and a thief!” Jepha actually looks pleased at the idea.

“I’m not a thief,” Trohman says. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

“But you were trying to,” Jepha says.

“Yet he didn’t,” Bob says, another surprise.

Jepha looks at him, his own shock on his face. “I should go,” he says. “I’ve a job to do.” he stands, tips his hat in Trohman’s direction. “Gentlemen,” he says.

---

Trohman’s leg is broken. Which is, well. It is what it is.

Trohman’s leg is broken, and the doctor says he oughtn’t to be moved.

Trohman’s leg is broken, and he doesn’t actually have a home to live in.

Trohman’s leg is broken, and suddenly he’s Bob’s new flatmate. Because Bob is a Christian, and a servant to the King, chosen by the Lord.

Bloody hell.

---

November 28, 1776

Jon enjoys living with Patrick. It’s not the same as living with Pete and the guys, with Spencer, but it has its merits. For one thing, though Jon serves as an errand runner for Patrick, it hardly includes the amount of work that living in the flat had involved. Patrick has someone around for that; Jon does the things for the revolution.

On the best days, he gets letters. Spencer writes home in the messy, scratchy scrawl of someone who had stopped learning to write before he had ever truly learned; and Patrick helps him read them.

Patrick had helped him read them. After the first halted, fumbling, embarrassing letter, Patrick helps Jon perfect his reading, until he can take the letters to his room and read them in bed.

Dear Jon,

War is Hell.

I haven’t a coat for the winter, nor always munitions. Half our militia is dead or missing. The rest are wounded, yet we march anyway. Always there is work for me. Here I am a real doctor.

We are set in for the winter. Too many men, not enough space, not enough food. And we wait. For what, we know not.

I am missing you, Jon. More every day. Yet I fear, were I to see you soon, our cause would be for naught. This carnage would be for waste. I will come back to you, Jon. And never will I leave you again.

Love,
Spencer

Post Script: P sends his regards to P.

Jon keeps the letters tucked under his mattress, a small book of sentiments and a recounting of the war from Spencer’s point of view. At night when he can’t sleep – which is most nights – he pulls them out and reads through them, sometimes falling asleep among the sheets of parchment, and only waking up to the crinkle of his treasures. Then he folds them back up and hides them again, and limps off to go about his day.

Dear Jon,

The woods all look the same and they remind me almost of you, for some reason. We camped for three days with no food but the bark and the roots around us. Three men have since died. I no longer feel pain for them. I take their munitions, and a pair of socks. They have holes, but all do.

This past week we have marched miles. It seems madness that we should do nothing but march. The British would overpower us if we did not. They overpower us now. Say not a word to others, but I doubt sometimes our great General. Washington will see us through, I know this. And yet sometimes…

There is something afoot, we shall be moving again soon, I think. And then more, and then more, and then more. I will keep safe. And I will keep you in my thoughts. And please you keep me in your prayers, have you any left to give.

Missing you,
Spencer

The day that Jon receives a letter from Spencer with no note for Patrick in it, he tells his first lie to Patrick.

March 15, 1777

Joe is no longer certain of anything, anymore. He would leave Bob’s, yet he has no place to go, nor has he any way to scratch out a living without his sailing. The seas aren’t quite as safe as they once were, and he no longer as spry as he once was, damn his leg.

Jepha says that Joe is kept around for entertainment; and Joe feels that Jepha is an ass. He is, however, Bob’s best friend and therefore is to be kept appeased. Bob continues to collect taxes while Joe makes it a habit of being in his house.

Without a job, Joe has no taxes to pay. Living off of the work that Bob does, Joe’s life is paid for by King George. In this way, he feels, he too is participating in the revolution.

During the day, Bob is off on business. Joe sees to the flat, ensures that no looters come in and prepares – in a manner of speaking – the meals. By nights, Jepha joins them, and he and Joe argue late into the night. His loyalist views have yet to sway Joe, though with enough ale and a warm enough fire, he can be persuaded to agree that the loyalists aren’t all wrong. And Jepha, by times, can be persuaded that the rebels have a case to be argued.

It is on one such night that Jepha stumbles out the door, yelling obscenities at Joe, who stays curled up in a chair, wrapped up in a blanket. Bob slams the door shut, and the whistling of freezing air moving through stops. “It’s cold,” he says.

From his chair, Joe nods.

“We’ve no wood,” Bob says.

Joe is quite aware; he spent a better part of the day seeking some out. “There is a shortage,” he says.

“There is a shortage,” Bob says, “because your rebels would rather play games in the forest than do work within it.”

“There is a shortage,” Joe replies, smartly, “because we are creating our own navy, with which to defeat your King.”

Bob laughs, and Joe tilts his head away. He stands, taking the blanket along with him. “I’ll be to bed,” he says. “The morning comes early.”

“The morning comes late in the winter,” Bob says. He follows Joe into the room and doesn’t turn away when Joe pushes the covers of the bed back. “Cold again tonight,” Bob says.

“Blow out the candle,” Joe says from the bed, “before you get in.”

---

To say that Pete is dirty when he shows up on Patrick’s doorstep is quite an understatement.

He’s filthy. His makeshift uniform has long been torn to pieces and subsequently replaced piece by piece with clothing from both the English and the colonists. The red coat he refused to put on but surely an English soldier’s trousers are no worse than those he was given when he first signed up.

The doorman wrinkles his nose when he sees Pete, but he acknowledges him too. “Mr. Wentz,” he says. “To what do we owe this surprise?”

Pete is tired and sore. His arm hurts from the grazing of a knife, his cheek from a well-aimed punch. He had come out on top in the end and walked away from the battle – walked away from the army – and never looked back.

Resting the butt of the rifle on the ground, Pete leans a little on the weapon, his hand curved lovingly around the neck. “I seek an audience with the master of this castle,” Pete says, referring to a flat that has become run-down since the war first started. “Might I have a word with Master Stump?”

The doorman does not look amused, but it’s his job to announce visitors, and so he turns and goes inside, leaving Pete to stand and sweat on the doorstep.

Less than a minute passes before the door opens again and Patrick appears hastily in front of Pete. He says nothing at first; he just stares at Pete, eyes wide. Then he speaks: “Wentz,” he says. “You’re injured.”

“A little,” Pete says. “But not badly.”

Patrick brushes Pete’s words away and reaches out, putting his hand (unfortunately) on Pete’s injured arm. “Ow,” he says, but Patrick speaks over him. “Come inside. Let’s clean you up. Are you wounded?”

“I am,” Pete says, allowing Patrick to pull him inside, and also smiling at the repetition of the conversation. The house is warm, oppressively so, and Pete blinks against it. “But not badly.”

“We’ll see,” Patrick says.

He has water and soap; he has beer which Pete drinks happily, in large gulps. Patrick uses gentle hands to clean him, and Pete barely puts up a fight. While they clean, Pete talks mostly. Patrick wants to hear about the war but Pete keeps his stories confined to the week he spent trying to get from his last battle to Patrick’s house.

And when he has no more stories, Patrick says, “And Spencer?”

Pete puts on a stony silence, and he takes a large gulp from his drink.

In the hallway, Jon slumps against the wall and puts his hands to his face.

---

Sometimes Ryan thinks the revolution was a mistake. The words they shout, they sing, they praise… they are his words and yet.

And yet.

Ryan doubts.

He hears tales from Philadelphia, from General Washington’s ragtag army. He knows the men have no socks, no shoes; they have no uniforms and insufficient armaments. And yes, now they are seeing successes scattered and slipshod around the country side, and yet.

And yet.

Ryan doubts.

And then there is a dark night with a clumsy knock on the door, and in his foyer all too quickly is Jon Walker, shaken to pieces and clinging to Brendon. Against Brendon’s back Jon presses rumpled, wet pieces of paper with messy penmanship, Ryan can see, scrawled across. They are on the floor at Brendon’s feet as well, and Ryan picks one up and reads… Dear Jon, I miss you when the night is at its darkest, its coldest, and the loneliness set-… he stops, folds the paper and leaves the room to make Jon some tea.

Later, when Jon is breathing naturally, and sitting on the floor at Brendon’s feet, twined between Brendon’s legs, which strikes Ryan through with both sadness and jealousy, Jon says, “Pete’s back. Without Spencer.”

This news is not a surprise to Ryan; but the pain he feels that one of them is yet missing, is. “He’ll come back,” Ryan says, though he doesn’t know that this is true.

He feels responsible for these two men who are broken apart at the possible loss of their friend. “He’ll come back,” Ryan says again, and yet he no longer feels it.

Jon stays the night, and the next day he goes back to Patrick’s, only to return in the evening with his things. Ryan and Brendon, they have a routine; they have the two of them, and Brendon’s learning, and Ryan’s writing, and monitoring the revolution. And yet here is Jon, a victim of the cause. He stays with them, moving into their modest routine, learning with Brendon at times, and at others, sitting by the window, waiting.

Waiting.

---

May 2, 1778

The knock comes at twilight, as the sun is hiding behind buildings, as Pete is watching the streets from the window. He has yet to forgive himself for leaving the battle, for leaving without finding Spencer first, and he blames himself for the fact that Jon left and went to Ryan’s to stay with him and Brendon. When he sees them, he knows the arrangement is a good one, perhaps even for the best. But the look on Jon’s face, it makes Pete again and again rethink the revolution.

But no. This isn’t just for them. This isn’t just about Jon and Spencer, Brendon and Ryan, him and Patrick. This is about everybody else, and all who would follow after, that they would no longer have to live under the tyranny of the king. That they may fight their own battles, work alongside the French, and perhaps, perhaps…

But no. Pete isn’t going to think about that. He is about to move away from the window, fix a light and work on his reading – Patrick says he reads like he has done it all his life, now – when he hears the knock. It’s more of a scratching, really, and at first, Pete ignores it. Just a trick of his ears, as has often been the case since he returned home from the militia.

He checks the door just to be sure, and when he opens it, Spencer falls backward, and then catches himself and looks up. “Pete,” he says. He passes out, and Pete shouts, “PATRICK!”

---

Jon is fast asleep on the couch when the pounding on the door starts. He wakes with a start, reaching for something, but there’s nothing there. And again he’s sure that it’s loyalists. Or it’s the British army. Or it’s someone else, whom he doesn’t even know.

The knocking begins again and he gets tangled in blankets trying to move. He recognizes the voice that accompanies the knocking. “Jon! Brendon! Ryan! Jon! Let me in!”

Struggling with the blanket, Jon stands and drags it halfway to the door before dropping it. Pulse racing, he tugs the door open. “Get your coat,” Pete says. He’s breathless and looks half-crazed, and Jon doesn’t even think twice about it, even as Ryan and Brendon are coming through the hall to see what the commotion is. “Get your coats,” Pete says again. “He’s back.”

Jon trips over the table and falls onto the couch.

---

It’s a bad night for Jon to re-aggravate his leg, but he uses his cane to push himself through the cool Boston streets faster. Each limped step repeats the name: Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. Ahead of him, Pete talks quietly to Brendon, every so often glancing back at him. Ryan stays with Jon, an arm around him to help him get there faster and yet it’s not fast enough. Never fast enough.

And after several hours (twenty minutes), they’re at Patrick’s door, Patrick standing outside of it waiting for them. “I’ve seen worse,” he says, but steps aside when Jon pushes in.

“Spen,” he starts. And then again, “Spencer.”

“He’s asleep,” Patrick says, coming up behind Jon. “Do you want-”

“I’ll stay here,” Jon says, cutting him off. “I want to be here when he wakes.”

“I’ll get you a cover,” Patrick says.

---

Jon dozes off sometime after the sun rises, but he wakes again when the light is still shining through the eastern windows. He has his head on Spencer’s stomach, and it feels as if a weight’s been lifted off of his shoulders; a weight he hadn’t realized existed until it was gone. “Spencer,” he whispers.

Rusty, rumbly, darker than he remembers, he hears, “Jon?”

Grinning, Jon presses his face into Spencer’s stomach. The hand in his hair moves. “I’m right here,” Jon says. “I’m right here.”

fin

Meme time!

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 05:04:01 GMT

1) make a list of fifteen characters first, and keep it to yourself for the moment. (that way you're not leading the questions asked to fit the characters.)

2) ask your flist to post questions in the comments.

for example: 'one, nine and fifteen are chosen by a prophecy to save the world from four. do they succeed?'
'under what circumstances might five and seven fall in love?'
'which character on the list would you most want on your side in a zombie invasion?'
'write a drabble in which three and five fight crime.' (...possibly not technically a question.)

3) after your flist has asked enough questions, round them up and answer them using the fifteen characters you selected beforehand, then post them.

from clumsygyrl

+ 2 and 5 are married and have been for a while. 2 wants to have a baby but can't. they ask 11 to carry it for them. do the 3 fall in love together or how does it play out?

Okay so, I have to start off by saying that Frank and Spencer being married is absolutely an ADORABLE image. Don’t you think? I feel like it’s got that Brendon/Spencer allure, but with more of an edge. Like, an actual edge. Anyway, so of course Frank would want to have a baby and of course Chris… Faller… would carry it for them. Sadly, I just don’t think that Frank and Spencer would let anybody else into their little lovenest, except for their new baby. I think, however, that they’d want Chris to stick around, to be an uncle to their baby forever.

+ 12, 13, 1, and 5 are doused with sex pollen! oh no! 12 and 1 are exes. do they rekindle the flame or do they pair off with the others?

Okay so. First of all, that would be some sex pollen on Ty, Patrick, Greta and Spencer, so you all need some time to let that settle. Go ahead. I needed some time.

Alright, now that you’re back, I have to say, I don’t think they do. Greta really likes Ty, but what she realizes is that she needs someone closer to her own age. Plus, as it turns out, Ty likes the cock! He uses Patrick as his springboard into weiner, and goes back home to his Nicky, which is fine because Patrick his Joe and Pete back home, you know? And anyway, Greta and Spencer are obviously just waiting until they’re both single so they can date, get married, and have adorable babies.

+ scandal! 9 gets 4 pregnant! how'd it happen? do they end up together? does 9 leave 4 or does 4 say "fuck you 9!" and goes off being a single parent. what happens when 7 comes in to help?

Well, since this is Nicky and Jon we’re talking about, naturally a lot of alcohol and weed is involved. Nicky sticks around – he wants to help, it’s his baby, but Jon doesn’t make it easy. In the end, Nicky needs to go through Jon’s friend Bob Morris convinces Jon that Nicky means nothing but good things for him, and that they may not have it altogether, but together they have it all.

+ 8 just finds out s/he's 15's sibling! how does this affect 8 and 3's relationship?

Obviously, it’s rather disconcerting when Bob Bryar finds out that Brendon is his brother. And it’s all well and good until it turns out that Victoria, Brendon’s one and only, has a thing burly guys. Brendon won her over, but secretly she’s never felt he was man enough for her and now that Bob’s around, well, things get a little sticky.

+ marry/fuck/kill - gun to your head. 6, 10, 12?

OH MY GOD. TOO EASY, DRILL SERGEANT.

MARRY JOE. FUCK TY. KILL PETE. SORRY PETE. SO SORRY.

And from bloodygoodgirl

Four, five and six are teach at a college. What courses do they handle and who gets hit on by the students the most?

Okay so the thing of this is? Naturally I just extended my My Has Has Three Corners to like, you know, some-odd years later. When they’ve all moved on. Or something. Professor Walker teaches Political Science. He used to work in politics, you see, but he was sick and tired of the, well, politics of it all. Professor Smith teaches Geology, and he’s amazing at it. He has the entire class eating out of his palm, and his graduate research trips always involve a lot of alcohol. However, nobody is more popular than Professor Trohman, architecture teacher extraordinaire. Nobody’s really sure why Trohman is so popular, except that he never ever tells his students that their design won’t work. He lets them figure it out for themselves. His students always get the best internships, too!

One and thirteen are the leads in what play?

My first instinct was to go with either Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado About Nothing… but then I was thinking about it, and with Greta and Patrick in the leads? Well, it can’t NOT be a musical. So naturally I opted instead for Rent, which has more than two leads, but Patrick would be an AMAZING Roger, and Greta would be an OUTSTANDING Maureen. So. There’s my answer.

For mrsquizzical who doubts her abilities, and ought not to.

so, breakdown in communication. what happens when 6 is trying to tell 3 they're in love with them, but 3 thinks they're passing on a message from 8, and is letting them down gently.

Okay so first let me just give you the cast of characters, so you can let your heart break like mine did:
so, breakdown in communication. what happens when Joe is trying to tell Victoria they're in love with them, but Victoria thinks they're passing on a message from Bob Bryar, and is letting them down gently.

I just. *HANDS*

Okay SO. Victoria thinks this is, you know, okay. But she really liked Joe. But obviously Joe doesn’t feel that way about her, so she tries dating Bob for a while. But it really doesn’t work out. And Victoria spends a lot of time telling Joe how she doesn’t really like dating Bob, but Bob seems to be really into her. And finally one day Joe just kisses her because he can’t take it any more. He and Bob get into a fight, but Victoria chooses Joe and Bob ends up meeting another girl anyway.

Okay and for crooked_halo8

1, 3, 4, 7, 9, 11, 13, and 14 play 'West Wing.'

Who is: Pres., Vice Pres., Chief of Staff, Deputy Chief of Staff, Communications Director, Deputy Communications Director, Press Secretary, First Lady

So like I said, I’m already writing this. This is what I’ve got:

Greta – First Lady
Victoria – Press Secretary
Jon – Deputy Chief of Staff
Bob Morris – Chief of Staff
Nick Wheeler – Deputy Communications Director
Chris Faller – Vice President
Patrick Stump – Communications Director
Darren Wilson – President

I know, it’s weird. Darren as president. But hear me out: he’s just multitalented. I mean, so is Greta, but I DEFINTELY see her as Dr. Salpeter, giving her husband, the president, illegal injections for his MS! And okay, so then we have Jon and Nick being BFFL which is ADORABLE, and Bob always behind President Wilson PLUS Victoria embarrassing Patrick by letting him know that she is CRAZY about the baldness of his head. UNGH.

2, 5, 6, 8, 10, 12, and 15 play 'The Office.'

Who is: Michael, Dwight, Jim, Pam, Ryan, Jan, Darryl

Frank – Dwight
Spencer – Jim
Joe – Darryl
Bob Bryar – Jan
Pete – Michael
Tyson – Ryan
Brendon – Pam

I don’t know why this was so hard (that’s what she said). Naturally Spencer and Brendon were Jim and Pam, and I just wish there was a Roy availability! Anyway, can’t you just imagine Frank and Spencer sitting next to each other and just BATTLING constantly? Sure my first pairing in this mess is Frank/Spencer, but in the same way they would work SO WELL, they would be such great foils AGAINST each other. And of course Spencer would sit at his desk and moon over Brendon who wears cute sweaters. Anyway, I also have to add in the fact that everybody needs to imagine Joe carrying a little keyboard around. Plus – Tyson the Fire Guy? YES! Oh, and Bob is straightlaced enough to be Jan. And eventually lose his mind.

For eleanor_lavish

First of all… MY LIST IS SORELY LACKING IN GUTTENBERG. I’M SORRY.

Seriously, 4 and 9 are leaders of a covert spy operation. Do they get along like Mike and Ike or is there a constant power struggle? Their team of 1, 14 and 11 are eclectic but get the job done. What are each of their specialties? Who is most likely to get captured by the nefarious number 2? Which member of the team has a past with number 2 that might get in the way of their rescue??

Okay seriously, can we take a moment to imagine the EPIC FAIL that would be a covert spy operation led by JON FUCKING WALKER AND NICKY FUCKING WHEELER? Anyway, they totally get along swimmingly, and the only time they argue is over who gets to do the dangerous stuff! And then they usually just get high and flip a coin. And you’re right, their team of Greta, Darren and Chris Faller ARE eclectic, but they work really well together anyway. Greta’s a locks genius, PLUS she’s hot as hell and can seduce any body, any time, any place. Seriously. She once seduced Lance Bass. She never sleeps with them, of course. She just slips them a roofie, and steals whatever she needs. Darren is a technology genius, but nervous. They try to keep him away from people whenever possible. If anybody’s going to give the three of them away, it’s him. Chris is a weapons expert, and also a master of disguise. Seriously: He is a MASTER of disguise. You know that couch you’re sitting on? It’s Chris. Naturally, Darren is most likely to get captured by the nefarious Frankie Iero, and it’s completely because he doesn’t have the wiles to get away from him. Greta, of course, has a past with Frankie, and it’s touch and go for a little while. She plays at wanting him back, and they all think he’s going for it, but then it turns out that he doesn’t. It’s almost lights out for Greta, but Darren saves her by hitting him in the back with a chair.

And for likealocket:

9 and 12 are both in love with 5. Who wins the girl/guy and how/why?

First of all, the idea that Nick and Tyson are in love with the same ANYBODY is just HEARTBREAKING. Having said that, I think that if this was the setting of a romantic comedy, it would be absolutely hilarious. Anyway, so they’re both in love with Spencer and I think in the end Nick needs to win him. Because of course the whole point of it is that Nick never thinks he stands a chance against Ty, so of COURSE he would need to win out eventually. And the thing is? He doesn’t even do anything special. He’s just his ole Nicky self, and Spencer finds that IRRESISTABLE.

Epic College AU time! 10 and 4 are roommates. 4 is a little bit in love with 8, his/her bio TA. 10 kinda likes 15, whom he/she met at 14's party last Friday. How does 4 woo 8 (and still pass bio)? Does 15 really call like he/she promised 10? Will 6 continue to sleep on their couch since 6's roommate 2 puts a sock on the door when 2's significant other 13 stays over, which is like, every night? Discuss!

Okay so Pete and Jon are roommates, which naturally is the stuff that dreams are made of. Jon being a little bit in love with Bob Bryar is, you know, different. But Bob being a bio TA is – for some reason – totally awesome. Pete at first was kinda annoyed by Brendon, but by the end of the night, Brendon’s natural enthusiasm for life kinda got to Pete, so naturally he gave up his number when Brendon asked for it. Darren just rolled his eyes, but thought it was pretty cool.

Anyway, so Brendon totally calls Pete, like, it’s not even a question! And Jon tries to woo, he really really does, but Bob isn’t having it until Jon is the last person who turns in his final. And then, since it’s scantron, and the class is over, Bob nails him right there in the classroom. And it’s AWESOME.

Yes, Joe continues to sleep on the couch when Patrick comes over and boffs hardcore with Frank every night. What’s worse, though, is that he’s secretly in love with Patrick. I bet you didn’t see that coming! ;)

meme time!

Sun, 21 Sep 2008 21:04:00 GMT

I'll be posting something fairly soon - yea! But first, a meme:

1) make a list of fifteen characters first, and keep it to yourself for the moment. (that way you're not leading the questions asked to fit the characters.)

2) ask your flist to post questions in the comments.

for example: 'one, nine and fifteen are chosen by a prophecy to save the world from four. do they succeed?'
'under what circumstances might five and seven fall in love?'
'which character on the list would you most want on your side in a zombie invasion?'
'write a drabble in which three and five fight crime.' (...possibly not technically a question.)

3) after your flist has asked enough questions, round them up and answer them using the fifteen characters you selected beforehand, then post them.

Happy Birthday Trohface!

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 23:28:14 GMT

Thanks for being my favorite muse, and so much fun to write about. ♥, me.

I hate how much I love this photo, given the reason he took it. She came back to you, Joe!

Beep beep.

The fact that this photo was taken at Pete's Obama event makes this photo infinitely sexier. Plus bonus Nick. Hi Nick!

\o/

Joe's pout is absolutely gorgeous, but it does not compare to his smile. Look at that. Flowers bloom to that smile.

I was there. And afterward, when my friends would say, "Did you see when Pete..." or "Did you see when Patrick..." the answer was always "No." How anybody could have turned attention away from Joe, I just don't know.

I just love his spirit. Mmkay?

This one will forever be one of my favorite pictures of Joe.

Can has fountain now pls?

Very little pleases me more than a man in glasses.

This photo absolutely was an inspiration for my NANOWRIMO novel that I *didn't* end up finishing. Is he or is he not ready to go join the army?

This photo makes me wish I had been a Fall Out Boy fan sooner.

I don't really understand his fascination with putting his face into cameras. I absolutely don't mind it.

Seriously. Did I mention his pout? I mean. Seriously. This man was MADE to carry angst.

But I'm not the only person who loves him.

Oh no. Pete loves him too.

If Patrick is Pete's BFFL, Joe will forever be his (big) little brother.

Patrick loves Joe too.

But okay. Just because today is Labor Day (and I hope everybody is thinking about the laborers of industrial age and beyond who risked their lives so we could have labor laws to keep us safe and treated fairly!) and Joe's birthday, doesn't mean I can slack off on working. Tally ho!

PATD/The OC: The Space Made Empty

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 17:30:56 GMT

The Space Made Empty
Spencer/Seth * R * 3,123 words

I disclaim!
Ryan Atwood’s first day at Harbor School is Spencer’s first day there without Ryan Ross at his side.
Written for likealocket who really wanted to see Spencer Smith and Seth Cohen go head to head. So to speak. She is away from the internet for a while, so I post. This is just how I roll. Thank you to adellyna who made sure I stayed in the present and confused me with commas. If you haven't seen The OC, that's okay. A few references might fly over your head, but take my word for it: They are really funny. Cut most definitely from Phantom Planet's "California"!

Ryan Atwood’s first day at Harbor School is Spencer’s first day there without Ryan Ross at his side. Ryan’s dad refused to pay for him to go to private school run by a bunch of ‘commies,’ though Spencer is pretty sure there isn’t a communist anywhere within a five mile radius of the campus.

They have no classes together, but he spends all day hearing about some guy named Ryan and getting excited about it, like maybe Ryan’s back at school and hasn’t told Spencer because he wanted it to be a surprise. Though why Ryan would wait the entire day just to tell him is beyond Spencer.

So in seventh hour AP European History he sits down beside Seth Cohen – whom he’s never met but whose name has been attached to this new Ryan fellow’s – and tries to strike up a conversation. “How was your summer?”

“I’m not talking about Ryan,” Seth says, opening up a notebook. “So just. Don’t ask.”

Spencer’s heard things about Seth Cohen. They don’t really run in the same circles, because Seth is an actual nerd and Spencer’s just a band geek, but he’s heard things. And now he can only assume that they’re all the truth. “Dude,” he says. “I just asked you about your fucking summer.”

He picks up his shoulder bag, crosses the classroom and sits next to Brent who doesn’t know a damn thing about Ryan Atwood but also isn’t entirely without social skills. Just moderately.

---

“I’m irreplaceable,” Ryan says later that night. They’re both sprawled on Ryan’s bed, heads over the end of it and hair drifting downward. “So shut up.”

“They replaced you,” Spencer laments again. He tries to put the back of his hand over his forehead to symbolize how sorrowful he is over this, but he’s still too tired over the long bike ride stretching from gate to gate in the 100+ heat of Orange fucking County. “With a criminal.”

They have about another hour before Ryan’s dad comes home from work, so Spencer will leave in forty five minutes. “See? I’m so hard to replace, they had to get someone with a criminal record.” He sighs. “They were probably so happy to get rid of that fucked up Ross family too,” he says.

“He can’t be a criminal,” Spencer says. “15 year olds aren’t actually criminals.”

“Spence,” Ryan says. Spencer turns to look at him and Ryan’s face is beet red. It’d be funny if Spencer’s face didn’t look the same way, which it probably did. “15 year olds can totally be criminals. That’s what juvie is for.”

Spencer shudders. “Maybe I should transfer out of Harbor and go to school with you.”

“Yeah,” Ryan snorts. “Because you’re not going to run into any criminals in a public school.”

There’s an excellent point to that statement. Even if Spencer doesn’t like it.

“It’ll be okay,” Ryan says. “Though I’m going to miss you when you like that other Ryan better.”

Spencer will not like the other Ryan better.

---

In AP English on the third day of school, Seth Cohen sits down heavily beside Spencer and sets his bag on the table. Spencer has his earbuds in while he finishes his algebra homework. 3-4 is a killer, but he’s totally getting an A this year. He can feel it.

Seth taps him on the shoulder, so Spencer takes the earbuds out and looks over at him. “What?” he says, because why should he be friendly when Seth is like the exact opposite?

“I just totally apologized to you,” Seth says, sounding offended that Spencer was listening to music instead of to him, like Seth hadn’t just sat down next to some guy who was happily listening to Phantom Planet and doing homework in school and just started talking without even checking. “I laid out my soul to you and you weren’t even listening.”

Spencer pauses his iPod. “You just laid out your soul without checking to see if I was listening.” He rolls his eyes and doesn’t hide it.

“Forget it,” Seth says. He gathers up his things and switches to a different table.

“Check to make sure you’re not listening to your iPod next time you try to talk to yourself,” Spencer calls out to him.

Jon Walker smiles from across the room, glances over at Seth and then at Spencer and then rolls his eyes. Jon’s a pretty popular dude, as non-athletes go, but something tightens guiltily in Spencer’s stomach anyway, when he sees that response.

---

There’s this guy at the public school named Pete Wentz. And apparently it’s been scientifically proven that the sun rises and sets out of and into his ass (respectively). At least, this is the idea that Spencer gets from listening to Ryan go on (and on and on) about him.

Spencer doesn’t mind. They’re not like that. They’re just best friends until eternity but they’re best friends at different schools so of course other friends will need to be made. There are lunch tables to think about, after all, and study sessions; so it’s only natural that they’d have to make other friends when they’re separated like this.

Spencer hasn’t; but if he did, it would be totally natural.

There’s also this guy at the public school named Brendon Urie. From what Spencer understands about him, he’s the single most annoying person to ever stumble across the face of this planet. Ryan’s face actually turns red when he talks about Brendon. Spencer thinks it’s cute that Ryan has a crush.

“I don’t have a crush,” Ryan insists for the third day in a row.

“Is that why, when you’re not talking about Pete, you’re talking about Brendon?”

“He just.” And Ryan stops, putting his hands into the air instead. “Okay Captain Talks-About-Seth-Cohen-All-Day.”

Spencer’s cheeks heat up. “I do not talk about him all day.”

“Every goddamn day is like a news report about how Seth Cohen has slighted you.”

Which is a little bit true, actually. But seriously. Spencer just does not understand how somebody could be such an ass all the freaking time. Like maybe if Seth just pulled his head out of his crack for two minutes, he’d notice that not everybody at the school is a spoiled vapid rich kid, and that some think that Newport and Harbor are just as lame as he does. “Whatever,” Spencer finally says.

“Nice comeback,” Ryan says.

“Tell me more about Brendon,” Spencer snaps.

---

In history, when they have to pair off and work with partners, somehow Spencer ends up with stupid fucking Seth to do a report on the Spanish Inquisition. They meet up at Spencer’s house the next day and before Spencer can get to the door, his mom is there offering Seth chocolate chip cookies that are clearly freshly baked (and she never makes Spencer cookies!) and he hops over the last three steps in time to hear his mom say, “Oh don’t just take a few. Take the whole plate, honey.”

“Thanks Mrs. Smith,” Seth says while Spencer walks into the foyer.

“Mom…”

“Excuse me,” she says, completely ignoring Spencer – her own flesh and blood – and speaking instead to Seth. “I’m embarrassing my son by my mere existence.”

“Oh no problem,” Seth says. “My mom does that all the time. You two would probably get along.”

Spencer dies a little because no way is his mom hanging out with Kirsten Cohen. He heard about what happened to Jimmy Cooper and they were best friends.

“Mom we just have homework to do,” he says, which is the magic word.

She flutters her hands at them. “Go up and work then. And if Spencer’s sisters are flirting too much, Seth, you guys just let me know and I’ll take care of it.”

Okay seriously. Any time now, someone can come along and just bang kill him dead. “Oh not to worry,” Seth says. “Girls don’t find me at all attractive. I think it’s my finely crafted Jew fro.” He puts his hands around his hair which Spencer thinks seriously isn’t as big as he’s pretending it is and also not as impressed by it as Seth clearly is.

Again, Spencer’s mom flutters her hands. “Nonsense. You’re a handsome boy.”

“MOM.”

“Oh go,” she says, gesturing at the stairs.

They do. Seth carries the plate upstairs.

In the bedroom, Spencer shuts his door and then rests his head on it for a moment, the paper of his Death Cab poster crinkling at his touch, as if Ben Gibbard can just make everything go away.

“Cool room,” Seth says. The plate of cookies is now on the bed, and Seth is wandering around the room, looking at things. Practically touching things. “Your mom totally likes me.”

“She does not!” Spencer snaps, trying not to reach out and stop him from touching things. “She’s just embarrassing and friendly.” Or embarrassingly friendly.

“Hey,” Seth says, stopping at a photo of Spencer and Ryan. Spencer stands behind him, looking at it.

In the photo they’re 10 and 11 and just arrived at summer camp. Arms around each other, backpacks and duffel bags at their feet and they don’t have a care in the world. Spencer loves summer camp. He’s totally going to work there some day.

“Is this Ryan Ross?” Seth asks.

Shocked, Spencer nods, then says, “Yeah. We’re best friends.”

“He like. Disappeared.”

“He’s going to public school,” Spencer says. He takes the photo from Seth and sets it face down on the desk, where it was standing before Seth felt the need to touch his things. Then he moves to the bed and gets a cookie, sitting down hard enough to disturb the balance of the plate.

Seth follows and takes another cookie before sliding off his shoulder bag. “What’d he do? Get kicked out? Affair with a teacher? That’s hot.”

Spencer scowls at Seth and Oh my God why aren’t they already working on their fucking project? “No,” he says. He grabs his bag from beside the bed and starts to sift through it. “His dad thinks Harbor is run by Communists.”

Which, okay. When he says it like that, it’s less tragic, more funny. Like, very funny.

“That’s funny,” Seth says. He sits down on the floor, leaning on the bed, and opens his book to the pages about the Inquisition. “My dad thinks the school is run by Right-wing Conservative nuts.”

“I’d like to see your dad and his dad in a UFC Death Match.”

He says it without thinking. And seriously. Who talks about dads fighting? Especially after the whole thing with Marissa and Holly’s dads. Spencer is such an idiot. “Maybe we should just work on this stupid report?”

“This guy is such an anti-Semite,” Seth says, flipping through pages. “He totally assigned me this because I’m Jewish.”

Spencer tilts over the bed to look at Seth, because… is he serious? Seth’s grinning up at him, eyes shining a little, and once Spencer swallows hard and clears his throat, he smiles too. Seth’s totally kidding.

---

They get an A+ on their report (when Seth has a purpose, he’s not at all a spaz) but Seth laments after the fact anyway, because neither of their dads came out of the closet while they were working on the project.

“I mean seriously Spence,” Seth says as they walk to lit mag together (yeah, he joined, but it’s not because of Seth but because Spencer sometimes likes to write and he really likes to read and he also likes to edit things. Spencer’s an awesome editor), as always talking expressively with his hands and clueless as to where they might go, such as practically up the ass of Mr. Way, the art and drama teacher. “How awesome is that? Luke spends years calling me queer and then we find out-”

“His dad is,” Spencer says, entirely bored with this conversation. “Seth. Come on. How long are you going to be marveling at this?”

Seth checks his watch. “A little longer, I think.” He smiles at Spencer, but before Spencer can respond, Anna bounces up to them. “Hey guys.” She falls in beside Seth and suddenly Spencer remembers he promised Ryan that they would go sailing after school.

“You like sailing?” Seth asks, turning his body completely toward Spencer. “I love sailing!”

“That’s cool,” Spencer says. He gestures at the door. “But I gotta go. He’s probably waiting at the pier.”

“Bye Spencer,” Anna says before turning to Seth, putting her hand on his wrist.

---

Spencer totally hates Anna.

For starters, she’s weird.

And for another thing, she’s totally fucking weird.

“You’re so fucking jealous,” Ryan says. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, long legs swinging absently against cabinet doors. Spencer’s not allowed to do that at home, because he might scuff the doors. This is exactly why Ryan does it. “You’re so fucking jealous your face is practically green.”

“I’m not fucking jealous,” Spencer snaps. He drinks his bottled water with a vengeance, as if to prove how not jealous he is.

Ryan snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”

Spencer sighs and crumples toward the counter, resting his arms on the marble and then dropping his head on them. “I hate you,” he says, his voice bouncing off the counter and coming back at him.

“But you love Seth Cohen.”

At least this time Spencer doesn’t argue.

---

So this is what it’s like in English now: Spencer doodles poorly drawn dogs in capes while Seth weighs the differences between Anna and Summer. Spencer says he has no opinion, which he thinks is fair, since his opinion is that both are annoying as hell and Seth can do better (with him).

It kinda sucks, and Spencer kinda hates Ryan a little bit, because if he hadn’t been on this weird you-love-Seth-Cohen kick, Spencer would have been happy to finish out the semester paddling down the river known as Denial.

Except one Friday while they’re packing up their things, Seth says, “Ryan’s working all weekend. You want to go sailing?” And Spencer chews on his tongue, because that’s not at all how he likes to be offered plans. He raises an eyebrow at Seth, which will hopefully cover up the fact that YES, he does, and instead merely point out that Seth is a cad, and Spencer can do better than him (not that he wants to). “I mean,” Seth says, pressing his eyes shut and then opening them again, wide. Spencer blinks slowly. “You wanna go sailing on Saturday? I haven’t gone out on a non-lesson in weeks. I’m jonesing for the wind in my fro.”

“You are seriously way too invested in your hair,” Spencer says, punctuating his point by tossing his head to get his over to the side. Punctuating, or contradicting, one of the two. “And yeah, I’ll go with you.”

Seth grins at him, smacks Spencer on the back, and then shouts, “Oh hey Summer!” and runs off, holding onto his shoulder bag.

On his way out the door, Jon Walker bumps him and says, “Be cool, dude.”

Sometimes Spencer hates Jon Walker.

---

“You’re going sailing with Seth Cohen?” Ryan is lying upside down on Spencer’s bed while Spencer does homework. The problem with going to two different schools at this point – in addition to the whole being separated thing, and the Pete Wentz thing, and Brendon Urie, God’s gift to Ryan Ross – is that Spencer has at least a ton more homework than Ryan does. Literally, Spencer thinks he takes home two thousand pounds more homework on a weekly basis than Ryan does.

“I’m doing homework,” Spencer says. Seriously. Who cares about Shakespeare anyway? He was clearly just a perv who was possibly gay and definitely wanted to get his homosexual anxieties out of his system by way of the theater. Because there are no homosexuals there.

Ryan grunts. Spencer can’t see him, because Spencer is bent over his desk, doing homework, which is what sixteen year old boys do on Friday afternoons. Or maybe that’s just Spencer. “I didn’t mean right now,” Ryan says.

“I’m doing homework,” Spencer announces again, because it’s Friday afternoon and if he can just get this finished, he’ll have the whole weekend for sailing and Grand Theft Auto.

“Yes. You’re a nerd. Thank you. You’re going sailing with Seth Cohen?”

Spencer slams his pencil down, and hopes that Ryan feels the smack of that tiny piece of wood all the way through his also tiny bones. “Ryan. Jeez!” He turns and glares at Ryan, who sits up and gives Spencer a beatific, red-faced grin.

“I’m just saying,” Ryan says. “You’re going to be spending all day tomorrow with Seth Cohen, probably shirtless. I hope you’re wearing a cup.”

“Tell me more about Brendon,” Spencer hisses.

---

It’s perfect sailing weather, and then afterward it’s perfect flopping down in the sand weather, and shit-talking about school weather, and for Seth, it’s perfect comparison weather. “Okay so,” he says. “Your best friend’s name is Ryan. My best friend’s name is Ryan.”

“Your only friend’s name is Ryan,” Spencer interjects.

“You are here,” Seth says. “And I have Anna.”

Eyeroll safely hidden by his ray-bans, Spencer lifts his arm and waves his hand around, gesturing that Seth should continue.

“You’re on lit mag, I’m on lit mag,” Seth says.

“Anna’s on lit mag.”

“Anna does not appropriately appreciate the Green Lantern. And I’m sure you do, Spencer.”

Spencer isn’t sure what amount of appreciation would be considered appropriate in Seth’s eyes, but since he doesn’t think he gets anywhere near that level of appreciation, he just nods slowly.

“You’re a cool dude with awesome hair,” Seth says. “I’m a cool dude with awesome hair.”

Also, Seth is incredibly annoying, and Spencer isn’t at all. He leans forward and presses his lips to Seth’s while he’s comparing their taste in music. And then when he pulls back, Seth keeps talking.

Spencer’s heart falls down to his feet. He’s never done anything like that before, for that exact reason, he wouldn’t know what to do if rejected. And now, rejected, he doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey,” Seth says, when he finishes naming every band they like in common. “You want to go back to my place and listen to music?”

“Um,” Spencer says, because really, he wants to go over to Ryan’s and wallow, and never hear about Brendon Urie or Seth Cohen again.

“And when I say listen to music,” Seth says, standing up. He puts his hand down for Spencer. “I pretty much mean make out.”

Spencer stands quickly and thinks he can go over to Ryan’s on Sunday.

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 02:41:25 GMT

Since I'm having a hard time getting inspired to work on any of my WsIP, I'm doing this meme instead:

Ask me a question about one of my stories. It can be absolutely anything in any story. Whatever you ask, I will attempt to answer truthfully.

You may ask about fic I've written, fic I've promised to write, WIPs, anything you'd like.

I feel like I should put up some previews for pieces that I'm working on, but oh well. Have at!

FOB/PATD: Pythagorean Theory

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 03:32:04 GMT

Pythagorean Theorem
Joe/Brendon * NC-17 * 802 words

I disclaim
From My Hat Has Three Corners 'verse. Joe's on a business trip and calls home.
Written because adellyna thought I should write some phonesex. So, here it is. And then I made her beta it for me. :)

He calls with no sense of urgency, a long-winded message in his head all planned out. It’s midnight in Phoenix, which means it’s one – no two – hours, damn fucking stupid state with its damn fucking weird time zones, and Brendon is probably asleep. It’s a school night.

So Joe is, naturally, speechless when Brendon answers the phone, voice breathy and soft. “H’lo?”

“Hey…” Joe softens his voice in response, his I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-to-wake-you voice. He’d like to get it patented. “Did I wake you?”

“Mph,” Brendon says and lets out an unsteady breath. “Um,” he says, and then, “No.”

And okay, now that Joe is listening, he hears the hitch and he searches for a reason and asks, “Were you working out?”

Brendon takes in a sharp breath. “Um, no?” He hesitates. Joe scratches his head, and Brendon says, “I was thinking of you.”

“Oh,” Joe says, and then, “Oh,” and then finally, “Ohhhh.” He licks his lips and sits on the bed. “Were you?”

And the pause is unmistakable – Joe has seen Brendon use nonverbal cues while on the phone many times before. “Bren,” he says. “I can’t see you.”

“I was,” Brendon says, and then, “I wish you could.”

And Joe sighs, says, “I wish I could, too.” He hates conferences. He hates them with the fire of a thousand suns. “What were you thinking?”

“Joe,” Brendon says, his voice soft, almost whiny. “I was thinking about you.”

“What were you thinking?” Joe asks. “What was I doing?” And when Brendon doesn’t respond, Joe swallows hard. He asks, “You?”

The only response Joe gets is a gasp on the other end of the line; which is more than enough for him. “Brendon,” he says.

“Take off your pants,” Brendon says. “Please.”

Joe does.

“Okay,” Joe says. “What were you doing?” He slides his hand into his boxers and wraps it around his cock, already starting to harden. He squeezes once, then gasps, bites his lip, asks, “Brendon, what was I doing?”

“Fuck,” Brendon whispers and Joe shuts his eyes, brings his hand up to the base and then back down to the head, squeezing a little. “You were fucking me.”

“Mmmmm…” Joe says. “How? Where?”

First Brendon gasps; then he says, “Patrick’s.”

Joe’s hand slides off the end of his cock, confused at that. “What?”

“The house,” Brendon says. “The bathroom.”

And okay. Joe’s listening.

“I’m bent over the counter,” Brendon gasps and Joe bites his lip, stops only to lick at his palm so he can get a better motion going. “And – fuck – I’m watching you in the mirror.”

This time it’s Joe’s turn to gasp, and he pushes his boxers down to his thighs and fists his erection with one hand, the other still clasped tightly to the phone. “Fuck,” he says, and Brendon says, “Yes, you are.” He whimpers, and Joe does too, and Brendon keeps going. He tells Joe, “You watching me watching you. Do you remember Joe?”

Joe remembers.

Their first New Year’s Eve, stumbling back to Brendon’s after a party; neither can remember whose idea it was, and it doesn’t matter. He remembers Brendon’s face as he comes, one hand white-knuckled against beige porcelain, the other behind him, fisted in Joe’s hair.

Joe remembers.

“Where are your hands?” Joe asks. He likes the image of Brendon’s white knuckles; he’d rather have in his head whatever Brendon is doing now.

“I’ve,” Brendon starts, and he gasps. “Three fingers.”

Eyes shut, Joe can see Brendon: on his bed, twisted up, one hand behind him, the other holding the phone up to his ear. On his baby blue sheets – Joe knows – Brendon’s dark skin stands out.

“God,” Brendon gasps.

Joe says, “Fuck.” He runs his hand over the head, then down the shaft again, using pre-come to keep his movements slick. “Fuck, Brendon.”

“Joe,” Brendon says, whimpers really, and then for thirty seconds Joe listens with eyes shut tight to Brendon’s breathing, panting harshly into the phone. And then he gasps again, a low “ohh,” slipping out with it, and Joe can perfectly see what Brendon looks like when he comes.

“Bren,” he says, the name catching in his throat.

“Do it, Joe,” Brendon whispers, his voice raspy.

Joe does.

When he can speak again – a full two minutes later – he starts with a sigh. “I’m going to be back in town tomorrow,” he says. “Before you’re done at school.”

“I’ll go straight to your place,” Brendon says.

“Maybe I’ll wait in the bathroom,” Joe whispers.

“Maybe I’ll send you an E-mail about what you can do with a rhombus,” Brendon purrs, and Joe bites his lip. That isn’t fair.

“I love you,” Joe says.

“You more,” Brendon says. “I’m falling asleep.”

“Go,” Joe says. “Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

Joe doesn’t hang up until he hears Brendon do it.

FOB/PATD: My Hat Has Three Corners

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 06:46:41 GMT

My Hat Has Three Corners
Joe/Jon, Pete/Patrick, Ryan/Spencer, others * NC-17 * 25,304 words

I disclaim
Boy meets boy, boy falls for boy, boy loses boy, boy gets over boy. Sometimes the best revenge is finding Mr. Perfect.
Written for bandombigbang, so first of all, we should thank the mods for getting this organized and taking care of this. THANK YOU to trackscovered and adellyna for making the AMAZING fanmixes (My Hat Has Three Corners and You Can Do Better (Or: Falling In Love is the Best Revenge) (respectively)), and to xingou for the GORGEOUS fanart. You both are AMAZING. And then, of course, HUGE thank yous to likealocket and adellyna for the beta, as well as to eleanor_lavish and little_whittles who helped talk me through this. This is the universe that spawned this and this.

They meet at Pete’s annual Superbowl party. Everybody’s there and they – Ryan, Spencer, Brendon and Jon – show up last. “We got lost,” Ryan explains while Brendon collects coats and allows Patrick to show him where they go.

Pete introduces them to Joe. “Joe, this is Ryan,” he says. “He works at Kramer and Benis with me.” Joe nods. “And this is Spencer, his one and only, and this is Jon, and that was Brendon.”

They say hi; then face each other awkwardly.

“I stole Patrick from Joe, once upon a time,” Pete says, breaking the silence.

“He didn’t,” Joe clarifies. They were never together. They just happened to be together when Pete approached Patrick in Borders one afternoon.

“I stole Spence from Ryan,” Jon says, smiling at Joe.

“But I got him back,” Ryan says. He holds up his hand to show how it’s clasped tightly with Spencer’s, as proof.

“I um,” Joe shifts his feet but keeps his eyes on Jon. “I really never had Patrick.” He really never did. The closest they had ever come to anything was once accidentally jerking off at the same time while they were roommates in college.

Jon smiles at him and Joe excuses himself to claim his seat before anybody else does. Jon follows, taking a folding a chair next to Joe on the couch. Joe asks Jon how he knows Spencer and Ryan, and it turns out that Jon’s a talker. Joe doesn’t really mind.

Ryan works with Pete at the advertising agency. Spencer is his boyfriend, and Brendon’s new to Chicago and still doesn’t know anybody there, though it’s been six months, Jon explains. He actually likes football and invited himself along when Spencer mentioned this at work. They, along with Brendon, teach high school at the place where Joe had gone to school and Jon reports through quiet laughter that Mrs. O’Malley – who had been a new teacher and a babe when Joe went there – has not aged at all gracefully.

Midway through the first quarter they’re shushed when Gabe hisses, “The game’s actually on,” so Jon turns his attention to the television.

During the second quarter, Patrick moves from the kitchen to the backyard so he can grill up hot dogs and hamburgers. They eat dinner – all of them – watching the Puppy Bowl instead of the halftime show. “I hate aging rockstars,” Patrick says, slapping Pete’s hand away from the onions. “They’re depressing.”

Brendon loves the Puppy Bowl. So does Frankie.

Mikey wins the betting pool at the end of the first quarter, and then at the end of the half as well, so he crows about being $50 richer until Maja suggests a tactical maneuver with his balls that freaks out even Gerard to the point that he can’t defend his baby brother.

“You are such a wuss,” Mikey snaps, while Maja glowers at him.

“I’m totally okay with that,” Gerard says. “At least my testicles will still be in their appropriate sizes and shapes.”

This insane amount of luck is completely unfair, because Mikey only bought one square and Joe bought five so he excuses himself outside to go smoke. Jon follows, and when Joe offers him his pack, Jon says, “No thanks, I’ve got my own,” and holds out a joint.

They go to the farthest corner of the yard and smoke it together.

Sitting on a low wall and freezing his ass off, Joe relaxes into a bush and says, “I don’t even like baseball.”

“It’s football,” Jon says, and Joe laughs. “You’re cute,” Jon says.

Joe chokes on the smoke.

They end up missing the entire third quarter. They do, however, come back inside in time to see Pete handing Mikey another $25 for another scoreless quarter. “Didn’t you say you never win this shit?” Joe asks, throwing himself onto the sofa. He practically lands on Brendon, who awkwardly shifts out of his way. “It’s not fair, is it?” he asks Brendon while Jon sits on the other side of Joe, making himself comfortable in Joe’s old spot.

“Um,” Brendon says. “I don’t know the rules.”

“The rules should be that the person who buys the most squares wins some money,” Joe suggests loud enough so that Pete can hear. The living room opens up to the kitchen, so Joe doesn’t actually have to shout, so much as he needs to direct his voice away from the TV.

“The rules should include that there’s no whining when you don’t win,” Pete says, arms wrapped from behind around Patrick who’s doggedly trying to unwrap a plate of cookies at the kitchen island.

In the fourth quarter, each team manages to score exactly ten points, so Mikey takes home the entire pot of money from the pool. He, Gerard and Frank make a quick escape after that, and Mike and Chris leave soon afterward as well, though they’ve only a short walk to their house a few doors down.

When Joe stands up to leave, a little wobbly, Patrick looks at him with wide-eyes. “You okay to drive?” he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Did you even watch any of the game?” Joe asks him, bringing some dirty plates into the kitchen. In the living room, Pete and Ryan are either arguing with Victoria and Spencer over the Bulls or the running of the bulls – it’s hard to tell which.

Empty bottles clatter loudly in the trash before Patrick answers: “I watched the Puppy Bowl.” Joe rolls his eyes in response and then picks at a bowl of cinnamon twists. “I get enough of sweaty dudes tackling each other from all the porn Pete makes me watch.”

“I’m going to go,” Joe announces. “I’m going to go right now.” He points at the door to clarify his message.

Pete and Patrick say goodbye to Joe at the door, but somehow Jon slips outside to walk Joe to his car. “Do you live far?” he asks.

Joe shakes his head. “Just.” He gestures west. “The apartment building a few streets over. There’s a bar across the street.” Jon didn’t ask him any of this, but Joe just keeps going. “It’s called My Brothers.”

Nodding, Jon slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve seen it.”

They stand at his car and Joe feels incredibly awkward. But Jon’s cute and funny and has access to good weed so Joe’s pretty much okay to stay out here for a little while longer. “Do you want my number?” he asks as Jon’s pulling his hands out, saying, “I thought maybe we could…” and then they laugh and Joe blushes.

“I’d really like your number,” Jon says.

Joe gets into the car and scribbles his number onto a credit card offer, then hands the envelope to Jon. “Just don’t like, apply for the card in there. I know it says gold, but I’m paying off student loans.”

“I won’t,” Jon says, laughing. He leans on the door and Joe watches his breath rise in the air, it’s so cold out. “It was nice meeting you Joe,” he says.

Jon's breath is visible, white puffs of air that get closer and closer; Joe has some clue as to what's going to happen next, but it's still a pleasant surprise when Jon's lips are on his. The kiss only lasts a few seconds, and then Jon's pulling back. He's shutting the door. He's walking away.

Joe waves to Brendon, who's standing in the driveway, and then he slams the car door and leaves.

He doesn't pump his fist until he gets inside his apartment.

---

“So you had a good time last night,” Patrick says, stopping by Joe’s cube midmorning. He’s telling Joe, and not asking him, so Joe’s ears turn red wondering what Patrick knows. “Everything,” Patrick says, reading Joe’s mind. “But I always knew you were kinda easy.” His tone isn’t accusing, just a little bit… pitying.

“I’m not easy,” Joe hisses. He glances around, looking for their manager, but when he doesn’t see anybody, he leans in close. “It was only a kiss,” he says.

“Only a kiss,” Patrick repeats, rolling his eyes at the thought.

“It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss,” Tyson sings as he walks past. He air guitars, too, and Joe puts his hand to his forehead.

“How’d you find out?” Sure, Jon had seemed a little bit chatty when they were talking, but Joe hadn’t imagined that it would translate to coming into the house and announcing that they had kissed.

It practically wasn’t even a kiss. It was more of a general meeting of the lips.

“Brendon and Jon were arguing about it,” Patrick says.

Joe screws up his face. “That’s weird,” he says. “It seriously wasn’t like. I mean.” He licks his lips and puts his hands up. “It practically wasn’t even a kiss. It was like a gramma kiss.”

Patrick pushes away from the makeshift wall and stretches, walking backward toward his cube, a few down from Joe’s. “That’s disgusting, thanks Joe.”

“No problem,” Joe says.

He goes back to his work but now he can’t concentrate on it. He pushes the sketches to the side and spends the next hour wondering what kind of dude Jon is, and if he’s getting mixed up in something he shouldn’t be.

By the time Patrick walks back over, Joe’s decided not to take Jon’s call. “If he calls,” Joe says. “I’m not answering. What if he’s psycho obsessive?”

“He’s not psycho obsessive,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “Come on. Let’s go eat.” Joe whimpers a little. How can he eat when he’s dealing with a psycho? “I promise I’m not in collusion with your new boyfriend to woo you in the break room.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Joe murmurs, but it also just sucks that Patrick can read him like a book.

---

When Joe comes home he has one message on the machine. It takes him ten minutes to listen to it – he’s still convinced that Jon is a psycho stalker – but it’s just an offer from a credit card company.

He uses his company cell phone to call his house phone to make sure it’s still working (it is) and then makes dinner.

The phone doesn’t ring.

He eats in the living room, sitting on the sofa with the news on.

The phone doesn’t ring.

He takes his dog for a walk, the phone in his free hand.

It doesn’t ring.

He watches the Bulls lose to the Cavaliers and nurses a beer. The beer is for boredom.

The phone doesn’t ring.

He goes to bed early and stares at the clock for an hour.

---

“He didn’t call last night.”

Patrick looks up from his computer screen. Joe can see he’s got at least 30 unanswered E-mails from the time he left the office the night before.

“What?” Patrick asks, not sounding amused or like he even cares at all.

“Jon. From the party.”

“I remember,” Patrick says. He leans back, toying with the mouse but looking at Joe. “He didn’t call? That means he’s not stalking you.”

“Well, I know,” Joe says. He toes the ground, hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks.

“Oh my God,” Patrick says. “You’re becoming psycho obsessive guy.”

He totally is. “I am not,” Joe says.

“You are,” Patrick says. He turns his attention back to his computer. “Get away from me. You’re creeping me out.”

“Yeah okay,” Joe says. He takes a few steps out of his cube then turns. “Lunch?”

“Totally,” Patrick says.

---

On Wednesday night, when Joe gets home from work, he has three messages on his machine. The first is a timeshare company interested in giving him three nights free in a hotel if he’s interested in taking a look at their new location in Wisconsin.

He also has a message from Jon. Joe, hey. It’s Jon. Walker. From Pete’s party. Anyway, um. Hope you’re having a good week. I, um, had a good time at the party. Hoped I could see you again. That’d be good. Um. Anyway. Yeah. Call me. If you want. I mean. Yeah okay. This is Jon. Bye.

Joe puts his hands out. “I want to call you,” he says over the machine announcing the time the call came in. “I need your number dickhead!”

The third message is Jon again, with his phone number.

Joe high steps around the apartment, his fists in the air, then picks up his dog and holds her to his chest. “Hear that?” She licks his nose. In celebration, Joe assumes.

Having gotten all of that out of his system, he picks up the phone, plays the third message again, and dials as he listens to Jon’s tired-sounding voice relay the numbers to him.

“Hi,” Joe says when Jon answers on the third ring. “It’s Joe. From-” he doesn’t get very far though.

“Oh yeah hi,” Jon says. “Sorry about um. The message. Well, messages.”

“No it’s cool,” Joe says. He puts his hand on the counter, lifts up onto the balls of his feet and then relaxes.

They make plans for Saturday night. Joe doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.

He’s nervous and he’s excited.

He goes into the bathroom and throws up.

---

Joe’s last relationship hadn’t ended well.

Like, at all.

It had been good for a while. For a long while, actually, it was really awesome. It had been Patrick and Pete and Joe and Alex and they did stuff together, the four of them. They went to dinners and movies and parties and even a few vacations. Sometimes, after too many beers, Joe would tell Patrick how he thought he was done with the dating scene for good; that he and Alex would last forever.

Alex met someone else, which sometimes happens. And it sucked. Alex was really nice about it, too, apologetic, and there were tears and they weren’t all Joe’s. So Joe got drunk on Patrick and Pete’s couch and despaired over Alex finding someone taller and funnier than him.

“I’m sure Ryland’s not funnier than you,” Patrick had said, switching out Joe’s empty for a full bottle of beer.

“But he’s taller than me,” Joe had argued.

“Height’s not everything,” Pete said, sitting with Joe and putting his hand on his head.

“You would say that,” Joe said.

So it hadn’t ended well and that was mostly Joe’s fault, but his judgment was marred by a broken heart.

Now he’s nervous about this thing with Jon. Because, okay, Joe thinks Jon’s pretty cool. There’s definitely possibility there, and this makes Joe nervous. What if he likes Jon? Life would be a lot easier for Joe if they met up and it turned out that Jon isn’t at all as fun and interesting as he was at the party. Like it was just the pot and the game and the activity and maybe Jon was nervous and showing off for Ryan’s friends, or something.

Patrick calls about an hour before Joe’s supposed to meet Jon downtown. “Don’t be nervous,” he says when Joe answers.

“I’m not,” Joe says.

“You are,” Patrick says. “Just. Not everybody’s going to like someone better,” he continues. “I mean. Look at me and Pete. Pete doesn’t like anything more than me, including himself.”

Pete’s a little special. Joe tells Patrick this, and Patrick can’t deny it. “Look, Patrick, thank you. But I’m fine. I promise.”

On the other end, Patrick sighs. “I don’t mind if you lie to me, Joe,” he says. “But don’t make a promise like that.”

Joe sighs. “I’m fine. Patrick. I’m going to be fine.” He doesn’t promise anything this time.

“Call me if you want,” Patrick says. “Afterward. Like, if you want, you should. Or whatever. We’ll be awake.”

“Patrick…” Joe says.

“There’s like a marathon on TV,” Patrick says. “Project Runway. Or something else on Bravo. Pete’s really excited about it.”

“Patrick…”

“Have fun tonight, Joe,” Patrick says, resigned. “I’ll be, you know.”

“Good night, Patrick,” Joe says sternly. He hangs up and puts his face into his hands. He wills himself not to be a girl about the date.

---

Jon is waiting outside when Joe walks up to the restaurant. “Hey,” Jon says. He pulls Joe into a hug, and he’s startled, but Joe totally covers well. “It’s good to see you.” He puts a gloved hand on Joe’s face, just a quick second, and then pulls back. “I already put my name in but I think it’s like, another ten minutes. Do you want to get a drink?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. He can barely think, he’s too overwhelmed. He hasn’t been on a date since Alex. He doesn’t think dating post-college is the same as dating during college. “That sounds great. Hi. I mean.” He smiles and shakes his head, softens. “Hey. Jon.”

Jon smiles at Joe and then opens the door for him, standing back so Joe can walk in first. Joe thinks he’s definitely going to be a girl tonight.

They sit at the bar and drink Kiltlifters while Jon tells Joe stories from the classroom. He has favorite students and can quote them. He talks with his hands and nearly knocks over his and Joe’s beers on more than one occasion before a girl in a short skirt comes to bring them to a table.

“I love this place,” Jon says, opening his menu. “Have you ever been here?” Joe hasn’t, though he’s always wanted to try it. “The pizza’s not, like, the best in Chicago,” Jon explains, pushing a menu toward Joe. “But for fancy gourmet shit, it’s pretty much the bomb.”

Joe snickers. “Did you just call it-”

“Shut up,” Jon says, his lips twisting up in a teasing sneer. Joe grins at him and tilts his head down to scan over the menu. “I hang out with teenagers all day.”

They decide to split an order of wings, and then a pizza that boasts both rotisserie chicken and roasted potatoes. “It’s like Shabbat dinner on a pizza,” Joe observes, once the server has taken their menus away and brought each a fresh beer. “Except for that whole sticky matter of the cheese and chicken thing.”

“You’re Jewish?” Jon asks. Joe nods. “That’s cool,” Jon says. Joe shrugs; it is what it is. “So you’re an architect, right? Spencer said that you and Patrick are architects?”

Joe nods and then leans forward in his seat. “I’m. Yeah. I guess.” It’s been a few years, but it’s still a little bit mind-numbing sometimes; the fact that he gets to design buildings. It’s pretty fucking cool.

“How’d you get into that?” Jon asks.

“I really loved Legos as a kid,” Joe says unironically.

Jon laughs into his beer. “No seriously.”

“I’m being serious,” Joe says. He puts his hands around his glass and then leans forward more. “When other kids were, like, playing sports, I was building shit. And like…” he shrugs. “I don’t know. I like designing things. And I love seeing things that I design once they’ve been built.”

Now Jon leans forward. “Would I know any of your work?”

He doesn’t, though between wings he vows to find the corners and addresses that Joe is talking about and look at the buildings he’s designed. “They’re not much,” Joe insists, sucking wing sauce off of his thumb. “I’m still just getting started. I need to improve, like, a lot.”

“I think it’s pretty fucking cool.”

Joe points a spent wing at Jon. “You’re molding young minds. You could be the history teacher of a future President of the United States.”

Snorting, Jon shakes his head. “Nah. I’m the history teacher of a lot of future managers of the Gap.” He punctuates his comment by viciously biting into a hot wing.

“Well,” Joe says, shrugging. He reaches out for the last wing and then peels at the meat on the tiny bones. “America needs more vapid people wearing trendy clothes too, I guess.”

Jon laughs and then brings his finger to his lips, sucks off the wing sauce. Joe’s skin prickles and he sets his wing down, and then gratefully pushes the plate away when the server comes with their pizza and clean plates.

---

After dinner Jon suggests that they walk a bit. And sure it’s cold, but Joe’s having a good time, so he nods and gamely follows Jon. They walk, and walk, and walk, and the neighborhood grows familiar. “Hey,” Joe says, slowing as they near the middle of the street. “What are you…?”

“Is this it?” Jon asks, and he points at a free-standing office space, low – only three stories – and asymmetrical. “Is this one yours?”

Joe nods slowly. “This one’s mine.”

He can’t really believe it either. He mostly didn’t think that Jon had been paying that much attention. And he definitely didn’t realize how close they were to the neighborhood. “This is so cool,” Jon says. He steps closer to Joe and looks up at the building. “How do you come up with this?”

“I just do,” Joe says, shrugging. “How do you handle all those teenagers?”

Jon laughs. “I just do.”

Joe grins. He likes Jon’s laugh. He likes Jon’s smile. He likes the way Jon’s hair sticks up from the wind that blew ten minutes ago. He likes standing in the cold and talking to Jon while his nose slowly numbs into oblivion. Maybe he could stand out here all night, looking at his building – his first completely alone – and in the morning it’d feel like no time has passed at all. “You’re pretty amazing,” Jon says, and for a moment Joe questions if this is happening at all.

“What?” And then Joe smiles, shakes his head. “Naw, but thanks.” He nods at the building. “There are like, a million people who could have done this better than I did.”

“Well maybe, but,” Jon says, and Joe doesn’t get to find out what the ‘but’ was all about, because Jon puts his hands on Joe’s arms and kisses him.

They kiss, standing outside of a building Joe can call his while the wind blows the scent of someone’s gas fire around them. It’s warm, and soft, and lasts until Joe can’t feel his feet anymore. He doesn’t know how they got there, but when the kiss ends, he needs to pull his hands from Jon’s hair. “Wow,” Jon says. Joe agrees.

“You want some coffee?” Joe asks.

“I know just the place,” Jon says.

‘Just the place’ turns out to be Jon’s condo.

“My roommate’s out of town for the weekend,” Jon says. “Tom’s got a girlfriend in Madison.”

“That sucks,” Joe says. He looks around the condo. It’s nice. A little modern for his tastes, maybe. Definitely the habitat of two men. It’s a little bit like what his apartment would look like, if his mom hadn’t raised him to be an obsessive neat freak.

Jon takes Joe’s hand, squeezes it. “Not for us,” he whispers, even though Tom’s not there.

They kiss again, standing in front of a bar – marble top – and lit by blinds-slitted light. They kiss for hours and hours and hours (or for about ten minutes, by the green glow of the microwave clock) and then Jon brushes his lips down Joe’s jaw, to his neck. “Did you want that coffee?” he murmurs.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Joe admits, tilting his head to give Jon more access to skin. Because seriously. If the whole teaching thing doesn’t work out, Jon could just do this for a living.

“Good,” Jon whispers, tugging on Joe. “I don’t have any coffee.”

They fall on the sofa and Joe thinks it’s good that Jon doesn’t have any coffee. He thinks the couch is pretty awesome too, made out of some sort of fabric. He really likes Jon’s roommate, Tony or whatever his name is. And he really likes Jon’s condo.

He really, really likes Jon. And whatever Jon is doing with his tongue? He likes that too.

---

When Joe pulls his buzzing phone out of his pocket, it’s telling him that it’s 1:15 am. But at least Patrick has the decency to have sent a text. Howd it go?

“Who is it?” Jon whispers.

They’re not naked, but Joe doesn’t really know where his shirt is any more. And his slacks are unzipped, the fabric of his boxers in some sort of origami-style disarray. “It’s Patrick,” Joe says, and he whispers, too, because his voice in the room would be strange.

He hasn’t made out for three hours since college. Sure, his lips are now chapped, his throat is impossibly dry and he thinks that maybe he’s got bruises on his hips from Jon holding him so tightly (not too tightly, though), but it’s all worth it.

“Does he want to know if I’ve drugged and molested you?”

Joe looks at Jon, lit only by the slats of moonlight. “Were you planning on it?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to,” Jon says. He looks up at Joe, but his face is in shadows so Joe doesn’t know if he’s kidding or not. Joe’s breath hitches. “I’m kidding,” Jon says.

“I knew that,” Joe says, defensively, because he didn’t. “Just a sec.” He types out a response to Patrick, shows it to Jon: V v well.

“Two V’s,” Jon says. He presses a kiss to Joe’s shoulder and runs a hand along his stomach. “I like that.”

“I do too,” Joe says, putting his hand on Jon’s, guiding it over his skin. Jon laughs, his mouth pressed against Joe, and the vibrations make Joe’s head spin. The phone buzzes again and Joe looks at it.

Breakfast?

“What’s it,” Jon starts, but Joe cuts him off: “He wants to know if I want breakfast in the morning.”

“Tell him you’re having breakfast with me,” Jon says. He lowers his head to bite at Joe’s stomach, to nuzzle at the meeting of skin and boxer, the dark line of hair that leads underneath. Joe whimpers and drops the phone, but Jon reaches over and picks it up again, places it back in Joe’s hand. “Breakfast with Jon,” he whispers, breath passing lightly over Joe’s skin. “Then turn it off.”

Joe types lunch, hits the silence button and then lets Jon pull him off the couch and into the bedroom.

---

The only thing Joe regrets in the morning is the fact that he’s certain he had the best blowjob of his entire life, and he can’t really remember much about it. There’s a distinct image in his head of Jon taking Joe’s pants off, of him pulling the boxers down so slowly that Joe made embarrassing noises. And he remembers that Jon didn’t laugh at the noises, though he did bite at Joe’s thighs until Joe begged for him to stop, to please just fucking stop and to please fucking get on with it.

He remembers the blue glow of Jon’s bedside clock, and the way Jon looked at him as he took Joe into his mouth. And he remembers his fingers moving through Jon’s hair, and Jon’s hair was a lot softer than Joe had though the first time he put his fingers in it. And then all he remembers is a total eclipse of the sun, a star collapsing in on itself, and then his entire skeleton melting into oblivion.

(It’s been a while.)

There’s also a dim recollection of Jon’s cock, but this is mostly brought on by a familiar soreness in Joe’s jaw, and the distinct memory of Jon’s fingers moving through his hair, and a span of time during which all air smelled like Jon and made his dick ache.

In the morning they’re both naked, not really curled up around each other, though Jon’s arm is flung over Joe’s side, and their legs are sorta tangled together. And the sheet is kinda mangled around them, and the comforter has been kicked down to the bottom of the bed.

And Joe really needs to pee but he doesn’t want to disturb Jon, but he seriously can’t seem to get his leg out from the sheet which seems to have twisted itself around both of their ankles, effectively tying them together. Joe swallows hard and sighs.

“Good morning,” Jon says from behind him.

“I have to piss,” Joe says.

In the morning, Joe does not have his A-game.

Jon is a forgiving, sensitive and kind man, who helps disentangle Joe so that he can hurry into the bathroom. It’s only a little awkward that Joe’s standing naked with someone else’s dirty towel at his feet, dick in hand, when he thinks he’s in serious danger of falling in love.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, coming back out of the bathroom. He’s the perfect picture of nonchalance. He could walk out of this thing and never look back if he wanted to. It’d be nice if he could have the chance to find out if this man who gives awesome head could also be that amazing at other things with his tongue and other parts of his body, but if Joe doesn’t get to find out, there are worse things in the world (like genocide and child soldiers). He can totally have this ended on him, without any misgivings or tears, once he’s had his breakfast, which had been promised to him the night before.

This he remembers. Joe does not forget things when they could result in pancakes and/or waffles.

“Do you like pancakes?” Jon asks.

Joe does.

They go to a little diner not too far from Jon’s condo, which Jon swears has the best hash browns that Joe will ever eat. Hash browns don’t come with the cinnamon French toast, so Jon reaches his fork across the table so Joe can have a taste.

“What do you think?” Jon asks while Joe still chews.

He nods, mouth full, and then smiles once he’s swallowed. “Really good,” he says.

“I’ll have to bring you back here again,” Jon says.

Joe nods and tries not to choke on his orange juice.

After breakfast (Jon pays), they stand outside and talk for a little bit longer. “I had a really good time,” Jon says when Joe pulls the collar of his coat around himself a little more. “Last night. And this morning. And…” He grins at Joe, his cheeks coloring just a little bit.

“I did too,” Joe says. He licks his lips and nods. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me too,” Jon says. He hesitates and Joe steps closer.

They meet in the middle, teeth bumping before the kiss can even begin, but then it’s there and it’s real and it’s lips and tongues too and it doesn’t matter if it’s 9:30 in the morning. Joe steps closer, slides his hands under Jon’s coat and Jon presses his hips in to Joe’s.

Joe wonders if maybe they’re going to turn around and walk back to Jon’s place. And the fact is, he wouldn’t mind. But then Jon breaks away, touches Joe’s shoulder and takes a step back. “I’ll call you,” he says and Joe lifts an arm, waves. “Fuck,” Jon says, grinning. “I’ll call you today. After lunch.”

It’s an hour from the diner to Joe’s apartment, what with walking, the El, and then more walking. Joe doesn’t remember any of it.

---

At lunch, Pete and Patrick play good cop/bad cop. Patrick's the good cop. Pete's the bad cop, if bad cop means thoroughly annoying. Joe refuses to answer any questions, on the basis that it's his life (dammit), and Pete was more than a little creepy when going after Patrick. At least Joe and Jon met through mutual friends. Patrick swoops in and attempts to save the day, but all he really does is give Pete the absolutely horrible idea to call up Ryan and investigate. Joe loses his appetite, though the pasta is delicious.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says later.

"Can't you put a leash on him or something?" Joe wants to know.

They’re standing at the sink together, cleaning up, while Pete is holed up somewhere, no doubt embarrassing the living daylights out of Joe. “I could,” Patrick says, setting the last dish onto the drying rack. “But if the point is to punish him, that’s not the best way to go about doing it.”

“I’m going to go,” Joe says. “I’m going to go right now.” He points at the door. “Tell Pete I said fuck you.”

“See you tomorrow,” Patrick says as Joe leaves.

---

They see each other again on Wednesday night. In that time they’ve had three awesome phone conversations, the last of which culminated with Joe coming all over his hand, and Jon whispering that he wished he was around to lick him clean.

This absolutely did not help the situation.

They meet at My Brothers for beers and Joe spends an hour telling Jon about growing up and Hebrew School and then has no idea where the time went. “Why did you let me do that?” he asks, laughing into his beer so that Jon won’t notice the spreading blush.

“I liked listening to it,” Jon says, and Joe needs to find a menu or something in a hurry. The pink is spreading. He can feel it. “It was fun to listen to.”

“You wanna get outta here?” Joe asks.

“Yes.”

Joe orders Chinese takeout from the restaurant two doors down and they drink one last beer while they ruminate on why the Bulls are never going to be as good as they were during the Jordan years. “Jordan cannot be your answer,” Joe argues.

“It is,” Jon says. He squeezes Joe’s hand and smiles widely at him. “Has it been 25 minutes yet?”

“No,” Joe says. He grins at Jon, lifts Jon’s glass (Joe’s is empty) and finishes what’s left in it.

Jon puts his hand on Joe’s leg, slides it up his thigh and then squeezes. “Let’s go.”

Outside, Jon presses Joe to the wall of the bar and kisses him until Joe can’t see straight. “Ngh,” Joe says, and Jon’s response is to grind his hips into Joe’s. Joe doesn’t mind in the slightest. “Jesus,” he moans. Well, that’s what he would have said if Jon hadn’t been trying to lick the last traces of his beer (literally, Jon’s beer) out of his mouth.

“I want you so badly,” Jon whispers, pulling back just enough to actually get the words out. His breath, warmer than the air, floats white between them.

“We have the thing,” Joe says and Jon shakes his head. “It hasn’t been 25 minutes yet,” Joe offers.

Jon grins, nods toward the alley. “C’mere.”

Joe does.

Alex hadn’t exactly been vanilla, but he also wasn’t entirely spontaneous. For Joe and Alex, spontaneous was, say, cooking dinner, then deciding to go out instead. Driving to the theater to see a comedy, and opting for action once they got there. Driving to a concert venue and buying tickets at the box office instead of preordering.

Never before has Joe been pressed against the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant (or a pet shop, it’s hard to tell with these strip malls), with decaying pallets on one side of him and a garbage can on the other while being on the receiving end of a (phenomenal) blowjob. Jon has a different way of doing ‘spontaneous,’ clearly. “Oh my God,” Joe says.

He presses his fingers into Jon’s hair, holding onto his head before pushing him closer. “Oh my God,” Joe says again and Jon hums in response.

It’s probably not the aesthetic, but Joe comes hard, his head hitting the cold brick as he does so. Jon presses a hand to his stomach to hold him up, and Joe doesn’t think he can walk home. “You’re so hot,” Jon says as he licks Joe clean.

“Mph,” Joe says.

Jon laughs, and keeps his hands on Joe as he stands up. “You have this amazing way with words,” he says, pressing a kiss to Joe’s lips. “It really turns me on.” He kisses Joe again, this time deeper, and when Joe tastes himself in Jon’s mouth, he just presses his thigh between Jon’s legs, giving him friction that Jon so deeply deserves. “Has it been 25 minutes?” Jon asks, whispering the words against Joe’s lips as he rocks against Joe’s thigh.

“Mph,” Joe tells him.

“Let’s go.”

Back at Joe’s apartment, he blows Jon against the door while their food gets cold.

They eat absolutely everything they order but the eggrolls. Joe starts to eat one, but Jon looks at him, winks, and says, “Déjà vu,” which really makes chewing just… repulsive.

Jon helps Joe wash the dishes (Joe is defiantly against letting them sit for longer than it takes for them to make out while ice cream melts) but then they bring their making out straight from the kitchen into the bedroom.

Well. The word straight should be used loosely, as they hit the wall several times and Jon’s back hits the door jamb sharply as they enter the bedroom. But once there, Jon slowly takes off every stitch of Joe’s clothes, runs his hands through Joe’s hair, and then nudges him onto the bed. Joe doesn’t know if Jon’s performing for him as he takes off his own clothes, but what he does know is that Jon has wicked hips made for naughty things, many of them done to him while they remind Joe’s bed that it’s good for more than just sleeping.

When Jon finally collapses on top of Joe, he kisses the closest sweat-slick skin, and smiles. “So, I heard your friends were checking up on me.”

As it turns out, Jon is equally talented at killing a mood as he is at creating a mood it. “Um,” Joe says. He swallows. “Pete’s not really my friend. He’s just this guy that stalked my best friend through a book store once. We’re still trying to get a restraining order.”

Jon tilts his head up, slides along Joe’s body until their lips can touch. “It’s okay,” he whispers and Joe smiles. “It’s kinda cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Joe whispers back. “I’m rugged and manly.”

Smiling, Jon kisses him again. “Fine. Then your friends are kinda cute.”

They kiss again, and Joe thinks he could totally do this for, like, forever. And then he worries that maybe he’s falling for this guy, which… he’s already desperately close. “Do you um.” He licks his lips, getting Jon’s in the process and smiles, kisses him again. “Do you need to like, go home or anything?”

“Are you kicking me out?” Jon asks, his palm still firmly settled on Joe’s sternum, possibly contributing to the quickened heartbeat therein.

“No,” Joe whispers. He runs his hand along Jon’s back and seriously. Jon has the nicest back, like, ever. “Just. If you have to work in the morning.”

“It’s okay,” Jon says. He kisses Joe again and really. Joe is all about this kissing. “I can leave from here.” He shifts, slides one leg over Joe until he’s straddling Joe’s hips and this is like. This is like amazing. “I want to fuck you,” he whispers.

Joe dies. “I don’t have any condoms.”

Jon smiles, a bit ruefully, hesitates, and then leans in and licks at Joe’s lips. “Another time then.”

Joe dies again.

---

It takes about two weeks for Jon to offhandedly refer to Joe as his boyfriend, at which point Joe has absolutely no choice but to bring Jon over to Pete and Patrick’s for dinner. He makes copious threats on Pete’s voicemail throughout the day, most of which involve leaving Pete without the equipment necessary to fornicate, “I don’t care how sad it makes Patrick!”

During the two weeks they talk about absolutely everything under the sun (and around it – Jon has a fascination with astronomy, which led to the Jon and Spencer debacle of 2006) except whatever it is that Jon had heard about Pete asking about him. “We’re almost there,” Joe says, looking over at Jon quickly before back at the road. “There’s still time to, you know, warn me.”

“Shouldn’t you be warning me?” Jon asks, laughter in his voice. “I’m meeting your friends. You’re supposed to be giving me tips.”

“You’ve already met them,” Joe says.

“Yes, but not as your boyfriend.” Jon puts his hand on Joe’s thigh and squeezes it. “Not as your lover.”

Joe shivers and licks his lips at the thought of it. Joe had made sure to bring condoms to their third date, but there was no need. Jon brought him back to his place (Tom was in Madison again) and he had plenty, two different kinds of lube and some sort of warming gel that seriously is made of tiny bits of heaven, Joe is sure of this.

The first time had been embarrassingly quick – Alex liked to bottom, so it had been a very long time since Joe’d been properly fucked (and Jon made sure to do a very thorough job) – but by the time the sun rose (Three! Times! Total!), Joe finished second.

Jon had patted him on the back and said, “Way to go.”

Joe doesn’t think that anybody has actually called him a ‘lover’ before but he likes the sound of it. He’d like to get it on a business card: Joseph Trohman, Lover. Or: Joseph Trohman, Lover of Jon Walker.

Of course, that might suggest that he loves Jon, which he doesn’t. He totally doesn’t. He’s rather fond of Jon, yes. He likes Jon a lot, yes. He thinks Jon’s the hottest thing that he has ever had the pleasure of sticking his dick into, yes. Oh and the sex? The sex is amazing. The sex is the most amazing thing to which Joe has ever had the pleasure of contributing – and Joe has designed buildings.

But he doesn’t love Jon. Oh no, sir. Not Joe. Not after two (and a half) weeks.

“Hey, Joe,” Jon says, and Joe shivers and looks at Jon.

“Yes, dear?”

“I know they’re your best friends, but I think you just missed the turn.”

Joe turns the car around.

“Any last minute tips?” Jon asks as they stand on the doorstep and wait to be let in.

“If you see Pete crouching,” Joe says. “Just play dead.”

The house has more red and pink than usual in it, but Joe pays very little mind to this until during dinner, when Patrick asks if they have any plans for Valentine’s Day. “It’s in two days,” Patrick adds, before holding a bowl out to Jon. “Peas?”

“Please,” Jon says. He smiles at Pete and then, as he spoons peas onto his plate, looks back at Patrick. “I actually have some plans for him,” now glancing across the table at Joe, “if he doesn’t have any plans already.”

Joe can feel Pete’s eyes on him – Patrick’s too, actually – but he keeps his gaze locked on Jon’s. “He doesn’t,” he says.

“I think he does,” Pete says, and Joe isn’t sure if that’s a dig or not. He ignores it.

Patrick shoots Pete a look so hot, their food possibly reheats. “What are you guys doing?” he asks.

Jon smiles at Joe, the kind of smile that makes Joe’s cheeks heat up to the point where he’s uncomfortable. “He can tell you about it in the morning.”

“So you must really like our little Joey,” Pete says.

Patrick can’t reach Pete under the table, but Joe can, and he kicks Pete’s shin as hard as he can.

“Ow,” Pete says.

“I really do,” Jon says. He puts his hands in front of his lips, but when Joe looks at him he can tell that Jon’s smiling. “I really like him a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Patrick says, speaking before Pete can. “He deserves an awesome guy. More potatoes?”

On the way back to Joe’s, Jon cannot stop laughing. “I am so sorry about Pete,” Joe says. He cannot stop apologizing. “I don’t know what got into him. I am so sorry. I can’t promise he’ll never do it again but eventually he’ll get used to you.” Joe doesn’t actually know this, as Alex was already in the picture when they met Pete, and Alex was part of Pete’s master ass-kissing plan. Alex was actually a major part of it.

“Well I’m clearly not as awesome as your ex,” Jon says through his laughter. “Seriously. Pete, man. He’s a cool dude, but wow.”

“I really think he was dropped on his head as a child,” Joe says. “Or like, I don’t know, he ate paint chips.” He reaches out, takes Jon’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “But I mean seriously. He really did stalk Patrick through a bookstore, and didn’t seem to care that for all practical purposes, he had a boyfriend.”

Jon finally goes quiet.

“Oh fuck,” Joe says.

He’d slow the car, but they’re nearly at his building anyway, so he waits until he can pull into his assigned spot, and then he turns in his seat and faces Jon. “I didn’t mean it like that, dude. I’m sorry.”

“No it’s,” Jon says. He’s facing the window, looking out of it. “It’s a douchey thing to do.”

“Yeah but,” Joe unbuckles his seat belt and leans across the seats, putting both hands onto Jon’s thigh, leaning on him. “Jon, Jonny, come on.” And at least Jon turns to look at him. “I didn’t mean it like that, okay?” He smiles now. “I don’t think you’re a vagina cleaner, I promise.”

It takes a moment, but Jon smiles. “I’m not.”

“You’re not,” Joe repeats. He leans forward and kisses Jon softly, and then again, and then again, and then they’re making out in Joe’s car.

Joe hasn’t made out in a car since he was 19 years old.

When they finally pull apart, Joe has a cramp from leaning the way he had and Jon is
possibly sitting in such a fashion to ensure that Joe can see his erection. “Come on,” Joe says, unbuckling Jon’s seat belt and letting his hand brush against the bulge in Jon’s pants in the process. “I have something I want to show you upstairs.”

“Is it your cock?” Jon asks.

“Dammit, Jonny!”

It’s his cock.

---

“You awake,” Jon asks once they’re settled into bed; still slick with sweat but come-free and with brushed teeth. He’s on his side, an arm wrapped around Joe who’s lying on his back. Joe’s pretty sure Jon can feel his heart beat, based on the way Jon’s tracing his
fingers along Joe’s ribs. Joe murmurs in response. “Tell me about Alex?” Jon asks.

If Jon can feel Joe’s heartbeat, then he can probably hear when it skips a little at the question. “Why?”

“Because,” Jon says, and he slides up, presses his lips to Joe’s chin a moment. “He was like, your great love. I want to know what my competition is like.”

“He’s not your competition,” Joe says. He holds Jon tighter, and turns to face him. “He’s a chef,” he finally says.

“A chef?” Jon sighs. “I can’t beat that.”

“You don’t have to,” Joe says. He tugs on Jon’s arm and then smiles at him. “Come on. I like my Jonny just the way he is.”

Smiling, Jon leans in, kisses him softly. “I make mean toast.”

“You make amazing toast,” Joe says.

“I mold young minds,” Jon says.

“Frighteningly enough, yes you do.”

They kiss again, and again, and again; and Joe can’t remember the last time he got this little sleep. But it’s truly awesome.

“What are we doing for Valentine’s?” he whispers against Jon’s lips.

“You’ll find out in two days,” Jon whispers back. He slides his hand down Joe’s stomach, curls it around Joe’s half-hard dick and swipes his thumb over the head. “Hmmm?”

“Yes…” Joe murmurs.

Part 2

FOB/PATD: My Hat Has Three Corners (2/3)

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 06:34:28 GMT

Joe knows it’s going to be one of those days when flowers are delivered first thing in the morning. It’s not that he doesn’t like Valentine’s Day; it’s that he thinks it’s lame. Even with Alex, Joe was never overly enthusiastic about the holiday. If you love someone, you should tell them every day, right?

Fortunately this year, Joe doesn’t actually love anybody. Well, he loves Patrick. Sometimes he loves Pete. He loves his mom and dad and brother and his grandparents. He actually probably loves the lady who lives next door, the one with the cats that Jon’s become so attached to.

He doesn’t love anybody romantically though. He hasn’t known Jon long enough for that and seriously. Just. He doesn’t.

“Trohman!” On a normal day, Wheeler has one of the biggest grins that Joe’s ever seen. On a normal day. “Special delivery, from a Mr. Jon Walker.”

“Oh my God,” Joe says. The flowers aren’t anything special. Except that it’s 8:30 in the morning. And there are flowers being delivered to him. “What does the note say?” Joe asks.

“It’s your fucking note,” Nick says, turning off the charm and the smile. “Here. Take these. I have phones to answer.”

“He’s usually so pleasant,” Joe murmurs.

The note is sweet, and very, very short.

JJW
♥s
JMT

Joe isn’t sure if his breathing should seize up or not.

He also can’t do any work. Not with that message floating around in the universe, like the free floating hairs left after Maja brushes her hair.

“Nice flowers,” Patrick says later, wandering by Joe’s cube. He has a chocolate in one hand and a coffee in the other. “From Jon?”

“I don’t know what the note means,” Joe moans. He holds it out to Patrick and continues to stare at the flowers.

“J-J-W hearts J-M-T. That’s cute.” Patrick holds the note back out to Joe, but Joe doesn’t take it. “That’s cute, right? Those are your initials? You haven’t been lying to me all these years?”

The sugar-induced sense of humor just is not helping. Joe likes Patrick better when he’s letting Joe be the funny one. “Hearts,” Joe says. “There’s a heart there. What does that mean?”

“Um,” Patrick says.

“Love? Is he saying he loves me?” Joe is panicked. He is stricken. He’s so totally in love with Jonathon Jacob Walker, he may need to take a sick day just to be able to come to terms with it.

Patrick shrugs. “I guess so?”

“You guess so?” Joe stands, putting his hands on his low desk. Patrick holds out the chocolate to placate him, but Joe is having none of that festive foolishness. “You guess so?”

But at least Patrick doesn’t take the bait. “You really like him don’t you?” Joe crumples into his chair and sighs. “You should tell him,” Patrick says. “You may as well. What’s the worst that could happen if he hearts you?”

Joe doesn’t see Patrick leave, but the quiet calm afterward does absolutely nothing for his tormented – and completely attached to Jon fucking Walker – soul.

After taking a(n incredibly embarrassing) poll of the office, Joe’s come to the conclusion that Jon loves him. It’s pretty exciting news. Joe hasn’t been loved like that in a long time. And it’ll be nice not to be tripping over his own confession of endearment every time he means to tell Jon that he likes him. He doesn’t just like Jon; he loves him.

And Jon loves Joe.

Take that, world!

---

Toward the end of the workday, Joe crashes. He calls Patrick. “What if we’re all wrong?” he asks, once Patrick’s finished his longwinded greeting. “What if he just means it to be cute? Because it’s Valentine’s and there are hearts everywhere and he couldn’t draw a cupid or a box of chocolates or a-”

The line goes dead, and Joe cannot believe that Patrick has hung up on him. It’s like the entire world has taken crazy pills. Joe may have taken seven or eight.

Only seconds pass before Patrick is leaning on Joe’s cube wall again, frowning now. “Oh my God,” he says. “Shut up. You girl.” Joe shuts up. “Get up,” he continues. “Go home. Take a bath. Powder your nose. Put on a tampon.” Joe wrinkles his nose. That’s taking it a little far, in his opinion. “Stop fucking thinking about this already.” Joe sighs and Patrick puts his hands on his shoulders. “Look. You’re, like, the coolest dude I know. Any guy who isn’t going to fall in love with you the second he gets to know you is a ginormous idiot.”

“You’re not in love with me,” Joe murmurs.

“Yes. But look at my boyfriend. I’m clearly a ginormous idiot.”

Joe grins. “Love you Pattycake.” He pats Patrick’s cheek.

“I really hate when you call me that, Joe.”

“I know,” Joe says. He shuts his computer down and grabs the flowers, then pulls one out and hands it to Patrick. “Here. Happy Valentine’s Day. From the bottom of my heart.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Patrick says.

Joe does.

It’s only somewhat disconcerting when Joe realizes that he’s being wooed. Jon picks him up and they drive further out into the suburbs, where the big houses are, and they have dinner amongst women in diamonds and men in Armani. They eat fondue, and Jon can’t stop laughing at the way Joe can’t get anything into his mouth. They eat fondue made of the most amazing cheese Joe’s ever tasted (and Joe fucking loves cheese) and then they eat fondue with the most amazing chocolate that Joe’s ever eaten (ditto) and sure, he knows that the next day he’s going to be feeling sorry. But who could care now? Not Joe.

He even forgets, for most of the meal, that Jon definitely hearts him and may or may not love him. “Did you get your flowers?” Jon finally asks, as they play with the ends of strawberries and finish their wine. The bill’s come and gone – Jon paid, Joe apparently is a girl – and now they’re just enjoying the dim lights and the heady scents of the restaurant.

“Oh!” Joe hadn’t forgotten about them. “I…” and he laughs. “Oh fuck.” He had been so worried about what the heart had meant, he forgot to say anything about it. “I did,” he says, softly now, reaching across the table to take Jon’s hand. “And they were the talk of the office.”

“Really?” Jon asks, quirking his eyebrow up.

“Yeah,” Joe says. He smiles at Jon. “I don’t have anything for you. I don’t usually do this holiday.” He sighs. “I’m a shitty boyfriend.”

Jon shakes his head, leans forward. “You’re not a shitty boyfriend.” He leans forward more, touches his lips to Jon’s. “Just in need of some good loving.”

Okay, this time Joe’s breathing definitely stops. “Um,” Joe says.

“Yeah,” Jon says. And apparently he can tell that Joe still isn’t quite grasping onto the line he’s throwing out. “I love you, Joe Trohman.”

Joe’s heart starts up again, and only at about four times its normal rate. “I love you too, Jonny Walker.”

---

Life is like. Amazing. It’s the weekend. They’re on Jon’s couch watching movies on TNT. They’re in a mild state of undress which is fine because Tom’s in Madison again. And Jon keeps doing this thing that involves biting Joe’s ear and also walking his fingertips along Joe’s thigh which, seriously.

Jon loves Joe and Joe loves Jon.

Life is amazing.

Mere seconds pass between the sound of the door opening and a voice Joe’s never heard before calling out, “Honey I’m home,” and then after that, “Jonny, are you guys dressed?” while Jon scrambles a little, tugging at the blanket on the couch and grinning, blushing really, at Joe.

“Um,” he says and Joe shifts, not really quite grasping on until someone only vaguely recognizable is standing in the doorway. “Um,” Joe says again.

“You must be Joe,” the guy says. “I’m Tom.”

Tom has a cat carrier with him with two mewing cats who are anxious to see Jon.

Jon has two cats, but Tom brings them to Madison to see his girlfriend who loves the cats almost more than she loves Tom. (“It’s kinda sad,” Jon says later.)

Life is still awesome, but it has lost a little bit of its shine once they’re fully clothed and sharing breathing space with someone else. Not that Joe is the jealous type, but when he’s been looking forward to a weekend of all-Jon-all-the-time, the interruption is totally not appreciated.

But Tom’s really cool, actually. Joe can see why they get along so well.

So when Jon leaves to pick up some Chinese food from the place that doesn’t deliver (they have the best eggrolls), it’s really no big deal to be left behind with Tom.

“You guys met at um, your friend’s?” Tom asks once they’re alone.

They sit on the sofa together, the two cats – Dylan and Clover – curled up on the cushion between. “Yeah,” Joe says. “My friends, Pete and Patrick, they have this Superbowl party every year.” He nods a little and then the silence is heavy, a little strange. “How did you guys, um, meet?”

Tom doesn’t even flinch. “He’s actually my ex,” the word actually rising in tone at the end, like a question, though Joe knows he’s not being asked.

“Oh,” he says.

“It’s not, like, weird though,” Tom says. “I mean, it’s been years since, you know, anything.”

Joe doesn’t really want to know. He likes to think that the past is in the past. Except, apparently, sometimes the past is in the condo, paying rent, helping with groceries, and schlepping cats to Madison almost every weekend.

“It’s cool,” Joe says. “I mean, I think it’s pretty cool when exes can be friends.”

“Oh,” and Tom smiles, shifting his hips as his cell phone rings in his pocket. “You must think Jon’s really cool then.” He tugs the phone out of his pocket, waves at Joe and says into the receiver, “Hey there sugarlips.”

Appetite gone, Joe tries to curl up with the cats on the couch; they don’t really know him though, and soon he’s just watching TNT alone.

---

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“It’s something. I know it.”

“Shut up, Pete,” Patrick says while Joe presses his hands to his face. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Patrick repeats.

He doesn’t say it, but the room actually vibrates with Pete’s desire to point out that he thinks it’s something.

“I just think it’s weird,” Joe says. He puts his hands out toward Patrick, and ignores Pete. He really does love Pete, but sometimes he’s just the opposite of helpful. “I mean, it’s one thing to be friends with an ex… but to live with them?”

It’s been 48 hours (give or take) and Joe admits he’s maybe bordering on obsessive. And the only reason he thinks this is because he asked every person at the office what they’d do if they find out their significant other was living with an ex. Most people think it’s strange. Nick looked wistfully toward the accounting hallway before snipping at Joe that he had phones to answer.

“Did you talk to him about it?” Patrick asks while Pete huffs on the couch, arms crossed over his chest in a look that would scream you’re not getting any tonight if worn by anybody but Pete.

Pete absolutely cannot resist Patrick.

“Of course he did,” Pete snaps and Patrick looks at him like, you’re not getting any tonight. Patrick can definitely resist Pete (usually) so Pete might be in some trouble. Pete stands, wipes his hands on his pants and then announces, “I’m going to make popcorn.”

“I did,” Joe says once Pete’s disappeared into the big walk-in pantry. “He said it’s not a big deal, they moved in together after they broke up, and then pointed out that I met him while he was hanging out with an ex and I knew they were, you know, exes.”

“Maybe you’re making too big a deal out of it?” Patrick suggests.

“Maybe you should talk to Spencer about it?” Pete shouts from the pantry.

“Maybe you’re not getting laid tonight?” Patrick shouts back.

“I’m going to go,” Joe announces. “I’m going to right now.” He points at the door to make his point more clear.

---

Joe decides not to talk to Spencer about it.

He actually decides not to worry about it at all. Because it’s Jon’s life and he trusts Jon and sure it’s not something that he would want to do but his only practical experience with an ex is Alex and that situation was entirely different than Jon and Tom’s. Jon and Tom were actually only together for three months, Jon had explained, and then decided they were better as friends. A few months after that when Tom needed a place to live, they thought maybe they could work out pretty well as roommates.

They do.

Exactly two blissful weeks pass after the weird Saturday of Tom (as Joe’s taken to calling it); they’re at Joe’s trying to figure out how to hook up his new entertainment system (they can’t) when Jon says, “Oh. We were invited to dinner tonight with the guys.” Jon’s voice is muffled, due to Joe being scrunched between his wall and his television. He doesn’t understand how electricians are able to do this weird thing with wires. He can’t even plug things in.

“Huh?”

“I said,” Jon says, peeking his head around the TV. “We were invited to dinner tonight with the guys.”

“Ooh,” Joe says. He matches up the cords, so that the red tip goes in the red hole and the yellow tip goes in the yellow one and the white with the white. “Finally meeting the friends, I see.”

“You really do that like a pro,” Jon says.

“Don’t change the subject.” Joe smiles at Jon and Jon shrugs, looking almost bashful.

“If I was trying to change the subject,” Jon says, reaching out and sliding a finger under the waistband of Joe’s jeans. “I would have told you exactly how good you are at putting things into slots.”

Joe whimpers and Jon tugs gently.

“The Tivo can wait,” Jon murmurs, as Joe steps out of the tangle of wires and into Jon’s arms.

“TV rots the mind,” Joe concurs.

Ryan, Spencer and Brendon are already at the restaurant when Joe and Jon arrive. “Only five minutes late,” Ryan says, glancing coolly at Jon but then smiling at Joe. “Hey dude.”

“Hey yourself,” Joe says. He glances at Jon. “Sorry we’re late. We were, um.”

“We were hooking up Tivo,” Jon says. He beams at Spencer, at Brendon, even at Ryan who manages to offer an actual smile to him. “Joe’s finally stepping into the 21st century.”

“Well, welcome to it,” Spencer says. He turns to Jon. “They wouldn’t seat us without the whole party, so now we can get our table.”

“Lay it on a little thicker,” Jon says, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Joe doesn’t think they need to lay it on any thicker. He wouldn’t feel so bad if it was actually setting up Tivo that had made them late. But it felt so good, at the time. Okay, looking back on it, he still feels pretty good.

“Thicker?” Brendon asks. He grins at Joe and then spins on his heels, falling backward and into Joe’s arms, moaning. “Woe is I, for I am so hungry. I am wasting away. Woe! Woe!” He opens his eyes when Joe laughs and beams at him; Brendon beams back before Jon helps him up.

“Seriously,” Joe says. “I am really sorry. And I still think my VCR would have been fine.”

“Ryan,” Brendon says, pawing at him now. Ryan takes Brendon’s hand and places it on Spencer’s shoulder. Brendon continues the pawing like nothing had happened. “Spencer. What’s a VCR?”

“I’m younger than you, dumbass,” Spencer says. He says it with a smile.

“You’d think he was a drama teacher,” Jon says to Joe as the hostess comes to bring them to their table.

“He’s not?” Joe asks. He would have thought so as well.

“Math,” Spencer breaks in, turning to look at Joe even as Ryan is tugging him through the restaurant. They’re clearly hungry. “He teaches boring old math. Geometry and Pre-calculus.”

“I love math,” Joe says. Brendon turns and grins at Joe until Jon nudges him forward.

If this is a test, Joe’s passing it. He wins over Ryan by telling every embarrassing story about Pete he knows, which is possibly not playing fair, but this is Pete and he’d do the same thing if he had the chance. He wins over Spencer by winning over Ryan. And he wins over Brendon by working with math on a daily basis.

Actually, he’s pretty sure he didn’t have to win over Brendon at all; he seemed pretty accepting right from the start.

Jon smiles back and forth between Joe and his friends, watching as the banter picks up. “So wait,” Ryan says, holding a roll out toward Joe like a pointer. “He split his pants falling on the ice or bending over?”

Joe shakes his head, laughing too, leaning forward despite the threatening bread in his face. “No, if it had been the ice it wouldn’t be so funny. He bent forward first, split his pants, then bent backward after that and then fell over.” Ryan curls over into Spencer, shaking with silent laughter, while Spencer pats him on the back.

“Can we keep him, Jon Walker?” Brendon asks.

Jon smiles. Joe ducks his head.

The food arrives.

---

“So how’d you think it went?” Joe asks once they’re in the car on the way back to his place. Jon’s hands are tight on the wheel but he smiles reassuringly at Joe. “I mean, I know it went really well. Because I am awesome,” he says grinning wider. The need for assurance will, he assumes, pass sooner or later, but for now, it feels great. “But I mean. How’d you think it went?”

“Like I told you,” Jon says, reaching out to squeeze Joe’s shoulder. “It was really good. They love you.” He puts his hand back on the wheel again, steering carefully. “I think Ryan may like you more than he likes me.”

Sinking into his seat, trying to relax, Joe shakes his head. “I doubt that.”

Jon adjusts the radio, bringing up the volume. “I don’t know. Of the two of us, you’re the one that didn’t steal his boyfriend.”

“Yeah well,” Joe starts. He reaches out and puts his hand on Jon’s thigh. “Why do that when I already have such an awesome boyfriend?”

Ten really awkward seconds pass, wherein Jon doesn’t say anything and Joe wonders what his hand is doing on Jon’s thigh. But then he says, “I have no idea,” and turns his head to smile and Joe, and Joe remembers that Jon loves him.

Take that, world.

Back at Joe’s apartment, Jon puts the car in park but lets it idle while Joe unbuckles his seat belt. “You’re not coming up?” he asks.

“Faculty meeting,” Jon says. “I have to be there at the ass-crack of dawn.”

“Okay,” Joe says, even though he does not get this at all. He goes around the car and then taps on the window so that Jon opens it. “Hey,” he says.

Jon smiles. “Hey.”

“You okay?” Joe reaches in, touches Jon’s cheek for half a second and then pulls his hand back. “I know I did okay. I mean. I think they liked me. Brendon wants to keep me.”

Another smile, this one radiant, and Joe feels it in his toes. “No everything’s fine. C’mere.” Joe leans in and they kiss, something almost sweet before Jon pulls back and smiles at Joe. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

“After school.” Joe pushes back from the car, takes one step backwards as he slides his hands into his pockets.

“During lunch.”

Joe grins, turns. Jon’s friends like him.

Jon loves him.

Take that, world.

---

While Joe is pulling on his coat in order to leave, Patrick comes up from out of nowhere and scares the bejeezus out of him. “You okay?” Patrick asks when Joe yelps and then knocks over his briefcase. It thankfully does not pop open, though it does make a disconcerting cracking sound.

“Yeah,” Joe says. He puts one hand to his chest and looks at Patrick with wide eyes. “I mean. I think I just wet myself. But other than that, I’m great.”

“Pete called,” Patrick says, which really means absolutely nothing to Joe. ‘Pete called’ is about as ordinary an occurrence as ‘the sun rose’ or ‘there was a bum on the El’ or ‘Joe burned his tongue on his latte.’ Some things just happen on a regular basis – Pete calling Patrick at work is at the top of that list. Joe raises his eyebrows at Patrick to please continue. “He talked to Ryan today about your little dinner out?”

“What’d he say?” Joe asks quickly, silently apologizing for every nasty thought he’s ever had about Pete.

“Pete or Ryan?” Patrick asks, and Joe could so kill him.

“Ryan,” Joe snaps.

“Oh I don’t know,” Patrick says lackadaisically. “Pete talked to him.” Joe throws his hands into the air. They come down with a heavy slap to his thighs. “Come out for drinks with us and he’ll tell you all about it.”

“I hate you,” Joe says. He picks up his briefcase again and frowns at Patrick.

“Come hate me over drinks then,” Patrick says.

He does.

First of all, Joe hates Patrick almost as much as he hates Pete.

Second of all, he really hates Pete.

Third of all, none of this is true.

“Tell me again,” Joe says after buying another round for his two best friends.

Pete rolls his eyes and Patrick giggles into his hand. “Joe,” Pete says, calmer than, like, ever. “Joe, I don’t want to. Joe, I’ve told you three times. Joe.”

“Tell me again,” Joe repeats. “I’m buying the next round.”

“No more rounds,” Pete says while Patrick makes some sort of strangled-Beeker noise behind his hand. “Patrick’s completely useless to me when he’s drunk.”

“I’m not,” Patrick starts, his words trailing off as he reaches for some bar nuts, which Pete slides out of his reach at the last second.

“You so are,” Pete says before directing his attention back to Joe. “Seriously. Dude. Is your self worth this low?”

“Yes,” Joe insists. “Tell me again.”

“They like you more than Jon,” Pete sighs into his beer mug. “Which, I don’t know, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Ryan couldn’t even tell me if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Joe sets his beer back on the bar and turns his body toward Pete’s. He tries to nudge the bar nuts toward Patrick, but Pete pushes them away again. “Ryan kinda hates Jon for banging Spencer back in the day.”

“Well wouldn’t you hate him for banging your boyfriend?”

“I am his boyfriend,” Joe says, like this clears it up. He pushes the bar nuts back at Patrick, who happily makes grabbing fingers.

Pete pushes them completely out of reach and then snaps at Joe, “Don’t you know how many germs are in those? People piss, don’t wash their hands and then stick their dirty fingers in there and eat.” Patrick pushes his beer out of the way and Pete leans in closer to Joe. “Look. All I’m saying is, those are three cool dudes. And they really like you. So if you can make this thing work with Jon, then like, you’ve got three new best friends. Which, I mean, Pattycake and I may have to beat them up at some point, for your honor and shit.”

“Awww… Pete…” Joe says. He pats Pete on the cheek. He tries to be gentle but possibly fails; at least Pete doesn’t seem to mind getting smacked in the face by a slightly drunk Joe.

“Well what can I say,” Pete says. He shrugs and doesn’t say anything else, because apparently there’s nothing he can say.

“Thanks,” Joe says. He finishes his beer and smiles at Pete, at Patrick.

“Don’t call me Pattycake,” Patrick says to the bar tender.

---

When the three month mark begins to approach, Joe thinks he might be a little bit in love. Not, like, fully in love, or Lifetime movie of the week in love, or even romantic comedy in love. More like, sometimes he looks at Jon and instead of thinking right now he thinks forever.

This scares the shit out of him.

But also?

It’s kinda like drinking a mug of hot chocolate laced with something. Warming, calming, and dizzy-making.

He wants everybody to feel this awesome.

“Patrick,” he says, leaning on the frame of Patrick’s cube. “I have an idea.”

Patrick looks up at him, the phone pressed to his face, his eyes wide and annoyed. He covers the mouthpiece and glares at Joe. “I’m on the phone.”

Joe slides into the spare chair in Patrick’s cube and smiles. “I can wait.”

It’s probably just Joe’s imagination, but Patrick seems to take a lot longer on the phone than he usually does. Like, he speaks slower. And asks, like, five times, if there’s anything else the person on the other end of the line needs.

Finally, though, he sets the phone down and turns to face Joe. “What’s so important?”

“We should set Nick up.” Patrick stares at him blankly. “With Brendon.”

There’s a pause in which Joe feels absolutely brilliant and can’t wait for Patrick to jump on the idea.

Patrick turns in his seat, picks up the phone and then sets it down again. He turns to face Joe. “What’s so important?”

“We should set Nick up,” Joe says again. He will not be deterred. Patrick’s in love. He must know how awesome it feels. He must want everybody else in the world to have it.

Okay. Joe may have gone a little brain-deficient over Jon. No biggie.

“We should set Nick up with Brendon.”

“Okay,” Patrick says slowly. He leans forward and puts his hands on Joe’s knees, looks up into his face. “Other than the fact that you’ve completely lost your mind, what makes you think that this is a good idea?”

“One, Nick is single,” Joe points out.

“Nick is in love with Tyson, as everybody here knows,” Patrick argues.

“Yeah, but Tyson’s too busy with his boyfriend to notice,” Joe says, unperturbed. “Two, Brendon is single.”

“Brendon,” Patrick starts and then he stops, staring at Joe, this creepy kinda searching thing that is just beginning to make Joe uncomfortable when he looks down and sighs. “Okay. Three?”

“Three,” Joe says and then he slows down because actually, he really only had the fact that they’re both single to work with. “They’re both really nice guys.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Okay so that’s like, I don’t know, a good reason for like, half the population of this Earth to start dating.”

“I don’t know half the population of this Earth,” Joe says as he stands. “Or any other Earth. You’re like, the least romantic person I know.”

“Pete says that all the time,” Patrick says, turning in his chair to face his computer again. “If you can come up for air from your brain-deficient love bubble, Pete and I are having a poker game on Saturday night. Bring your beloved so we can take his money as well as yours.”

Joe would flip him off but this is a place of business, after all. Some decorum must be maintained.

---

They decide to invite Nick. Patrick just wants to appease Joe, so that he’ll shut up about it. Pete just wants to prove Joe wrong, because, as he says over and over again, from everything he knows about Brendon, this is never going to work out. But as long as Brendon is going to be there anyway, may as well invite Nick.

Jon, at least, is encouraged. “I think this is a great idea,” he says, squeezing Joe’s thigh as they pull up to the house.

Joe parks before turning toward Jon, smiling widely. “Yeah? Really?”

“I sure do,” Jon says. He squeezes Joe’s leg again and puts his hand on the door handle.

“I just figured,” Joe says, and Jon slows his movements. “I mean. I’m so happy. You know? And Nick’s a good dude. And Brendon’s, well, Brendon. So I mean. You know.”

Pausing before clicking the door open, Jon smiles. “Yeah. I know.” He slides out of the car and Joe scrambles out too. He grabs the Mexican dip and bag of chips from the backseat and then (carefully) jogs toward Jon, grunting for some help.

Nick doesn’t know how to play poker. He barely knows what the cards mean. “I’ll help you,” Jon says, scooting closer to him. Joe grins around the table, because look how helpful his boyfriend is. He is so fucking helpful.

“Ow,” Patrick says, jerking backward. He glares at Pete, but Pete only widens his eyes innocently back at him and then focuses on the card in his hand, like there’s more than one, and they’re doing something more complex than using high card to determine first dealer.

Ryan has the high card – queen of diamonds – so he deals the cards first. He also wins the first hand, so Pete spends the next three hands finding various ways to call him a cheater, until Patrick wins a hand.

“Bet,” Jon says, reaching over Nick and gesturing at his cards. “Or pass.”

“Which should I do?”

“You should pass,” Jon says, putting his hand on Nick’s to press the cards down.

“Ow,” Patrick says. He glares at Pete again, and this time Pete reorganizes his cards; like there are more than two.

They take a break when the pizza comes and Joe goes outside for a cigarette. He watches the smoke drift up toward the sky and thinks that maybe things are finally falling into place. He’s not going to count his chickens before they hatch… but he’s also been pretty jealous of Pete and Patrick for at least a year. Maybe more; but now? He’s not quite as little green monster about it.

The sliding door opens, and Joe turns with a smile, expecting Jon.

“Hey,” Brendon says.

“Oh,” Joe says. “Hey.”

“Oh,” Brendon says. “Am I, I mean.” He gestures at the table, and Joe shakes his head, kicks a chair out. “Thanks,” Brendon says. He sits down and coughs. “Do you play a lot?” he asks.

Joe smiles. “Are you being facetious?” he asks, because he pretty much sucks.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I am.” He smiles at Joe and Joe smiles right back at him. “Nick’s really nice.”

“Yeah,” Joe says, sitting up. “Why aren’t you in there talking to him?” And then he winces, because he couldn’t possibly have been any less blunt if he had tried. “I mean,” Joe says, stubbing out his cigarette.

“No, it’s cool,” Brendon says. He laughs too. “He and Jon are talking about, um, the yen?”

Joe laughs lightly. “Yeah. He’s into Forex,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” Brendon says. He laughs too.

“Hey,” Joe says. “Shouldn’t you be interested in foreign exchange, Mr. Urie?”

Shaking his head, Brendon puts his hands out. “Oh God, no. I mean, give me exchange rates and I can do it in my head no problem, but God that shit is boring as hell. I’d rather watch a Terms of Endearment marathon on Lifetime.”

“I love that movie,” Joe lies, trying to look offended. Brendon stares at him, his face a compelling mixture of confusion and horror. “I’m kidding,” Joe says. He leans in conspiratorially and continues, “I actually agree with you.” They laugh again, and Joe continues. “But triangles, I know.”

“Oh God,” Brendon says. “I could talk about triangles for hours.”

They’re still talking about triangles when Jon pokes his head outside. “Hey,” he says. “You guys gonna come inside and play some poker, or continue your geekathon out here?”

“Um,” Brendon says, but Joe is already standing.

“Let’s play,” Joe says.

“Let’s play,” Brendon echoes.

It’s their second full tournament and Joe’s actually doing well. He has a big stack of chips in front of him, which Patrick is happily organizing for him. He’s also sitting a little close to Joe for Joe’s comfort (and possibly for Pete’s, what with the way Pete’s glaring in their direction, but he could also be bitter over Joe taking him out with a jack-high full house), but the help with shuffling and stacking is handy, so he doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t actually know how he got so many chips. There was a flush involved, and also a really fortunate situation with a straight, when Joe was doing everything wrong and caught a nine of hearts on the river. Also the whole thing with taking all of Pete’s chips and seriously, maybe Joe just should make sure to always lose to Pete from now on, what with the death looks being shot all over the place.

Spencer is leaning so far over Brendon’s shoulder to see his cards, Joe’s a little surprised he hasn’t fallen out of his seat yet. Jon is still helping Nick out, giving him nudges that Joe’s slowly learning to interpret that mean either check, bet, raise or fold. He thinks maybe he should learn to read his boyfriend a little bit better, but then again, he’s got his own cards (and Patrick breathing over his shoulder) to worry about.

With a hiss, Brendon sets his cards face down on the table and shoves them toward Nick, who’s dealing. “Folding,” he says. “Before Spencer kills me.”

“Good move,” Spencer says, leaning back in his seat again.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “He’ll get rough if you don’t follow his every command.” Joe’s head is ducked, laughing silently to himself, but he still manages to see the way Spencer turns a gleeful smile toward Ryan, and the way Ryan leans in and kisses him. He turns to Jon, but he’s busy counting out chips for Nick; so Joe studies his cards instead.

“Ow,” Patrick hisses into Joe’s ear before scooting even closer.

When Nick pulls all of Joe’s chips to his chest less than a minute later, Pete punches Patrick in the shoulder. “What the hell was that for?” Patrick asks, the question coming in stereo as Joe asks the same one.

“I had a cramp,” Pete says, eyes wide; completely unbelievable.

“I’m gonna have one too,” Patrick says as Brendon deals, Jon shuffling for Nick, “when you want to get laid tonight.” Pete sighs.

Joe gets up. “Where are you going?” Jon asks.

“Smoke,” Joe says. He looks over at Jon to say it, but the sight of him, hunched over Nick, arm slung casually over the back of Nick’s chair, makes Joe’s stomach flop. He turns his head and fumbles for his cigarettes as he leaves.

He’s midway through his second cigarette when Brendon lets himself outside and sits down beside him. “Hey,” He says.

“Hey,” Joe says. He stubs out his cigarette. “Game over?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “We got thr-”

“I don’t really care,” Joe says, softly. He looks at Brendon, though the light is so dim Joe can barely see him. “Sorry, dude.”

It’s quiet outside, too. It’s late at night and all of the neighboring families have gone to bed. All the same, Joe can barely hear when Brendon says, “No, it’s cool dude.”

They sit in silence now, Joe flipping his cigarettes in his fingers while Brendon plays with the lighter that Joe had left on the table.

Leaning outside and hanging onto the sliding door, Spencer breaks the silence. “B,” he says. “We’re leaving.” He speaks to Brendon, but he looks at Joe. “Patrick says he’s not feeling well.”

Smirking, Joe pushes his chair back onto the back two legs. “He just doesn’t want Pete to get laid. He’s starting the theatrics early.”

“Probably,” Brendon says, grinning at him. His teeth shine in the moonlight. He touches Joe’s knee lightly. “Night, Joe,” he says.

“Night,” Joe says. He’s already lighting up again, but Brendon stops in the doorway, so he sets the lighter down, cigarette not yet lit. “Hey Joe,” he says. Joe looks up at him, but says nothing. “I kicked his ass.”

Once Brendon is gone, Joe smiles.

He stays outside until Nick pokes his head outside, says, “See you at work, man.” Joe can’t tell if Nick sounds uncomfortable because he is, or because Joe is. Joe gives himself the benefit of the doubt, and waves at him.

When Joe comes inside, Patrick is limping around the kitchen while Pete and Jon silently put the chips away in the other room. “What happened to you?” Joe asks, leaning on the counter.

“Pete has the maturity of a high school sophomore.”

“That’s very specific,” Joe says.

“Spencer said this,” Pete says, coming into the kitchen. He slaps a hand heavily on Joe’s shoulder.

Joe shrugs. “He should know. He’s the expert.” He shakes Pete’s grip off of him. “We’re going to go,” he continues.

Pete pats Joe’s shoulder again, giving it a quick squeeze. “Have a good night dude.” He looks at Patrick. “Tell Jon I said bye.” Patrick waves a sponge at Joe, his salutation, and Joe waves back, goes into the other room.

“Hey,” he says to Jon. “Let’s go.”

In Joe’s car Jon chatters happily about the World Series of Poker, ruminates aloud about playing professionally.

In Joe’s apartment, Jon gives Joe a play by play on the following week’s lesson plan on the Great Depression and the factors that brought the U.S. into World War II.

In Joe’s bed, he rolls over to Joe, snakes an arm around him and presses a hand to his stomach. “I’m tired,” Joe says.

“Is this about the poker game?” Jon asks, no longer sounding as chipper as he had been.

There’s a moment in which even Joe doesn’t know what this is about anymore. “It’s about me being tired,” he says.

---

At the office, Joe slips into Patrick’s cube while Patrick is on the phone, his back to the entrance and the chair beside it. He drops unceremoniously into the chair, and waits for Patrick .He’s been hiding from Nick all day. He’s a little tired. Also he hasn’t slept much since the poker game. So he’s really more than a little tired.

Joe’s exhausted.

Patrick sets the phone down and turns around, reaching for his filing cabinet, beside Joe. “Jesus, fuck!” Patrick gasps when he sees Joe. “Warn a guy. I almost shit myself.”

Joe shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks.

It takes a moment for Joe to come up with the best way to say what’s on his mind. Eventually, he gives up. “Why does Pete hate Jon?”

Patrick glances toward the ceiling, bites his lip, doesn’t say anything right away. This only makes Joe more apprehensive about the coming answer. He knows he shouldn’t be – this shouldn’t matter. But it does. “Pete doesn’t hate him,” Patrick says. Joe frowns, knows there’s more. “But he thinks you can do a lot better.”

“But he’s awesome,” Joe says immediately.

“He’s really cool,” Patrick says, like he’s being charitable with his words or something. “But not good enough for you.”

Honestly? Joe can’t imagine doing better. He’s a smart guy, but he’s not, like, the funniest guy in the world. And he’s not what most people would consider hot (though Jon likes to whisper into Joe’s ear about how hot he is (but Jon hasn’t done that in a while)). “What?” He shakes his head. “This is me we’re talking about. If anybody can do better, it’s Jon.”

Patrick looks around. “Let’s get lunch.”

“It’s like, eleven,” Joe says. Nick walks by with a box of donuts. “Oh, hey Joe,” he says, too casually to have accidentally stumbled upon him. “Want a donut?”

“We’re going to lunch,” Joe says, standing.

They take the El a few stops and go to a chain restaurant they sometimes stop at for drinks on their way home. They sit down and order before Patrick broaches the subject, and when he does he’s so earnest that Joe kinda wants to melt into the seat out of shame for him. “You’re so much better than him.” He holds his hands up, and Joe doesn’t interrupt him, but he wants to. “I know he’s like, cooler than shit, but so are you.” Joe sighs, tries not to break in, but Patrick shushes him and continues. “Look, I mean,” he sighs. “I don’t know. But me and Pete? We’re not supposed to work. But we do.” He frowns. “Pete should be able to do better, you know?”

“Patrick,” Joe finally interrupts.

“No wait,” Patrick says. He sighs. “I don’t know,” Patrick says then. “I just, I know you think that Jon’s the best you can do, but sometimes the best you can do comes in strange packages.” Their food arrives and he thanks the server before continuing. “I mean, seriously. Have you seen Pete’s teeth?”

Joe tries to smile. He’s lost his appetite.

---

He knows it’s going to happen before it does. For two weeks Nick is strangely cautious around Joe. Quiet Nick Wheeler who always tries to smile for everybody starts trying to get Joe coffee all of the time. If they’re all having lunch in the break room and his phone goes off, he’ll turn beet red, looking at Joe.

So Joe knows it’s going to happen before it happens.

They’re eating Chinese food at Jon’s and watching the news when it does. “I’ve been thinking,” Jon says as a young blond guy forecasts the weather on the screen.

Setting his eggroll down, Joe leans back on the sofa; mostly he wishes this wasn’t happening at Jon’s condo. “Yeah?” It’d feel really good to shout ‘Get the fuck out,’ at him. Or maybe even better to not shout it at all, to just say it and glare. Yeah.

“Just,” Jon says. He sighs. Joe thinks Jon is making this more difficult than it ought to be. Then he thinks this ought to be difficult. It’s on the tip of his tongue to do it first, to break things off with Jon before Jon can break them off with him.

But he can’t.

“I don’t see us having a future,” Jon finally says. “Like, a Ryan and Spencer future.”

There was a time when Joe thought they had a Pete and Patrick kind of future. Maybe; maybe not. Jon doesn’t really have the teeth for it.

“Okay,” Joe says. He stands, picks up the container of General Tzo’s and heads to the door.

He has his hand on the doorknob, the heat of the chicken already burning his skin, when Jon says, “What about your things?”

Joe pauses. “I’ll get them later.”

He leaves, but he goes to Pete and Patrick’s, not to his own home. They don’t ask questions.

Part 3