turps

Mostly Pete embraces attention, drinking in the positive and retaining the negative until it festers and needs spewing out through words. Today all he wants to do is get home. He's tired, endless meetings, late nights and lack of sleep leaving him drained and aching as he sips his take out coffee and heads back to his car.

The fans are waiting outside the coffee shop, a small group of girls who whisper together and pretend they don't know who is he while texting on their phones. Pete forces a smile and hopes he won't look too haggard on the inevitable pictures -- he'll have to check the communities tonight to see.

"Pete." Finally one of the girls steps forward. She's got pink streaks in her hair and rosy cheeks, her bracelets jangle together as she walks. Next to her Pete feels dried up and ancient.

Pete stops walking and hopes all they want is an autograph, he can do that in his sleep. "Hi."

The girl smiles, hesitant as if unsure of Pete's reaction. "I was wondering. We were wondering, can we have a picture?"

"Sure," Pete says, and fixes on his smile as one by one the girls approach him, slip their hands around his back and get close. It takes a while to get all the pictures, camera phones held up and Pete's grin frozen as he clings onto his coffee, feeling it go cold.

"Thank you," the first girl says -- Megan, Pete has just autographed her copy of Seventeen magazine. She's clutching her bag with both hands but is also smiling, like somehow Pete's made her day. "We weren't going to come to the coffee shop, but today the bus was late and we decided to hang out. I think it was fate."

Pete shakes his head. As much as he once believed, life has taught him fate doesn't work that way. "More a technical fault with the bus." He smiles again, taking any sting from his words. "It was nice meeting you."

All the girls answer together and Pete takes his chance to escape. For a while the girls keep following, watching him drink his cold coffee and hurry to his car. It's only when he's inside that he relaxes, slumping back in the seat before straightening and starting the engine, counting the minutes until he's home.

He keeps the radio on as he drives, background noise that washes over the thoughts in his head, calming them down as he pulls to a stop outside his own house. It looks deserted, empty and still in the way Pete hates so much. Momentarily he thinks about reversing and keeping on driving. Just keep going, the sound of the road soothing that itch that's taken root in his bones. It's a temptation that's hard to ignore but Pete forces himself to get out of his car, to open the front door to his silent, suffocating house. Which is when he's confronted with a huge gift-wrapped box. It's in the middle of the hall, the silver paper catching the late afternoon sun that floods through the windows. Cautiously Pete approaches, taking in the lack of a gift tag and the shiny red bow.

Hesitantly Pete toes at the box. Usually the record company are good at filtering away any weird gifts from fans, but there's always a chance one has slipped through; the last thing Pete needs is to open the box and find a person curled up inside. He pushes at the box with his foot and it slides across the tiles. Not a person then and Pete gives in to curiosity, unable to resist tugging at the bow and tearing away the paper, revealing a plain cardboard box. Pete opens that box, and inside is another wrapped parcel. Pete grins and opens that too, suspecting Tom or Gabe, someone who would think it's fun to delay the surprise.

There's another box inside that one, and another and another until Pete's kneeling in a sea of shredded gift paper, scraps of silver and blue, pink and red ribbons trailing on the floor. When he eventually gets to the last box it's small, light, and Pete's heart is thundering, because he knows that shape. He rips of the last layer of paper and stares down at the small blue jewelry box.

"Open it."

Pete looks up and sees Kyle standing in the doorway to the den, perfectly still, his expression fixed as Pete runs his fingers over the box. He wants to open it and not at the same time and his hands tremble slightly as he sits back on his heels, feeling unsteady and suspecting he's about to cross some relationship line. Finally Pete opens the box, revealing a key.

"I thought, you spend so much time there anyway," Kyle says, and kicks aside paper to get to Pete. "I thought you could move in with me. Make it official."

Pete makes a hasty decision. Kyle's been there for him for the last year, through good times and bad, plus, living together means less time alone. If Pete doesn't truly love him right now, well, that will come.

Key gripped hard in his hand, the sharp edges jabbing against his skin, Pete says, "Yes."

~*~*~*~

The saleswoman runs her hand over the top of the mailbox and then flicks down the flag with the tip of her finger. "This model is made of durable galvanized steel and all parts are fully guaranteed. Plus, for an additional small fee we can apply your family name to the side." The woman smiles, says, "It's the ultimate in home-owner's chic."

Mikey looks at the mailbox which is a match to multiple others, all seemingly white and shining. He feels out of place in this shop, his clothes too dark, his hair too long and he keeps his hands clenched against his sides. He glances around, hoping to see something less sterile and white. "Do you have any other colors?"

"We do," the saleswoman says and indicates that Mikey should follow. They walk along the line of mailboxes and stop next to ones painted in a variety of pastel shades. "These are part of our Little Sweet Heart range, slightly more expensive but I'm sure you'll agree, worth it. The eggshell blue is very popular."

Mikey swallows and for a moment instead of gleaming surfaces and polish he's smelling damp grass and old sweat, Pete's laughter in his ears. They're memories that have become more frequently lately and he blinks, taking a moment to get back to the now. Back to a place where he's surrounded by the kinds of mailbox that they need, something that fits in with his new neighborhood. The problem is, no matter how hard he tries they're not fitting with Mikey himself. He looks around again. "Do you have something darker? Maybe in black or blood red? Or even shaped differently, like a dragon or robot."

The saleswoman's smile fades and she looks pinched around the mouth as she says, "Oh no, we don't have call for that kind of thing." She takes a half step back and then seems to rally. "We do have a model in white that comes with a navy flag. It's right this way."

"No, it's okay." Mikey shakes his head, needing to get out of this shop and the overwhelming glare of white surfaces. "These are not, I mean, I have to live with this. I have to go."

Without waiting for a reply Mikey heads for the door and pushes his way outside. Taking a deep breath of fresh air he hurries away, already pulling out his phone and dialing Gerard's number. Slowing, his phone against his ear, Mikey stops next to a small boutique, looking in at the window display of shoes and dresses.

"Can you meet me for coffee?" Mikey says as soon as Gerard picks up, then groans when someone exits the shop and he hears that Dance, Dance is being played inside.

"Mikey? You okay?" Gerard sounds concerned, his voice pitched sharp. "Have you been petting strange dogs again?"

"No. Yes. No dogs," Mikey says and then adds. "Meet me at the usual place," before ending the call.

The usual place is a coffee-shop tucked away at the end of a busy street. It's small and the tables inside are crowded close, but Mikey likes to sit at the window, sipping coffee and taking a breather from the world. He's been there for almost an hour when he sees Gerard, sunglasses on and hair sticking up like he's just rolled out of bed. Signaling for two more coffees Mikey pushes out a chair with his foot and watches as Gerard steps inside, his brow slightly furrowed like he can't believe that he's not going to find Mikey in some kind of peril.

"Pete's haunting me," Mikey says, before Gerard has the chance to say a word.

"Okay," Gerard says slowly and sits in the seat Mikey pushed out. "Have you been messing with Ouija boards again? Because you need to stop with that shit."

Impatient, Mikey shakes his head. "Not a dead Pete, Pete Pete."

"Oh." Gerard stares at Mikey for a moment then says, "You think Pete Wentz is haunting you."

"I know he's haunting me." Mikey wants to bang his head against the table because lately he's been reminded of Pete everywhere. "I'm hearing his songs all the time, I open a magazine and he's in there. I found my old Clan hoodie when I was unpacking and just now I was buying a mailbox and the range was called Little Sweet Heart."

Gerard's mouth twitches. "You're buying a mailbox? From the Little Sweet Heart range?"

"The old one fell down." Mikey reaches out with his foot and kicks Gerard sharply on the ankle. "Keep to the point."

"Fine," Gerard grumbles and makes a point of bending and rubbing at his foot. He looks over at Mikey. "Pete's in a successful band, he's going to be in magazines and he sends you his music all the time. He always has done."

"It's not the same." Mikey tries to think how to explain that this is different. That these reminders of Pete are hitting a part of himself that he'd thought was dead and buried. "He's haunting me on a new level. One that's telling me something."

"That you're insane?" Gerard suggests, then stops talking when Rose, the owner of the cafe weaves through the tables toward them. Greeting him with a smile she puts down two new coffees and clears the table of empties before walking away.

Mikey curls his hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth. "I'm not insane, Gee."

"I know." Gerard takes a sip of his coffee and then sets down the mug. "But you're not making sense either."

That's not surprising, the thoughts in Mikey's head aren't making sense either, but he knows these signs have to mean something. Mikey looks directly at Gerard. "What if I'm supposed to find Pete's shirt?"

Gerard pushes his sunglasses onto the top of his head. "And what if you do? You're living with Jason now, you've got a house, one that needs a mailbox."

"I know." Mikey groans and pushes his hair out of his face, momentarily surprised it's not stiff with lacquer. "But it's like the Star Wars trilogy, Return of the Jedi is good, it's awesome, but you need to see the original to know how good because that's the start of it all."

"So Pete's Star Wars," Gerard says. He sits back in his chair and meets Mikey's gaze. "Not The Phantom Menace?"

Mikey shakes his head, well aware that Gerard's feelings are colored by being around for those painful weeks when Pete left the Warped tour. "Pete's my friend."

"And what happens if you find the shirt?"

"I don't know," Mikey admits. "But I think I have to try."

Gerard picks up his mug and drains the contents in one. "Well then, we'd better get started."

~~~~~

"We're in here."

Taking off his peacoat Mikey drapes it over the back of a chair. He's spent a long afternoon searching thrift stores with Gerard and now he's ready to watch bad TV and relax. Instead he hears Jason talking and when he heads into the kitchen Mikey finds him sharing coffee with Sara, Jason's new friend who lives two houses down. There's a newspaper open between them and Jason grins as he stands and kisses Mikey on the mouth.

"Mikey, hi." Sara stands too and smoothes down her skirt. "I was just telling Jason the Backstreet Boys are touring, I remember him saying he likes some of their songs."

Jason mimes removing a hat from his own head. "As Long As You Love Me is a classic."

Evading the need to take part in this conversation, Mikey goes to take a bottle of water out of the fridge. Unscrewing the cap he takes a long drink as Jason points at a listing in the newspaper. "So we've agreed on the fourteenth? I'll phone and get us the tickets."

"Sounds good to me," Sara says and looks over at Mikey. "I hope you can get the time off work."

Water spills down Mikey's chin, his startled protest caught in the bottle as Jason looks his way and winks. "I think Mikey's busy that night."

"That's a shame." Sara does sound genuinely regretful, enough that Mikey can fake a smile as Jason says goodbye and escorts Sara to the door. As soon as she's gone he comes back and wraps his arms around Mikey, holding him close.

"Hi."

Mikey raises an eyebrow. "Backstreet Boys tickets, really?"

"I like them," Jason says with a laugh. "And I know you wouldn't want to go."

"They dance, in formation. With hats."

"And Gerard prances with boas," Jason says fondly. "It's all music."

Technically Jason's right, but it'll be a cold day in hell when Mikey goes willingly to that kind of concert. He presses his hand against Jason's back, worming his fingers under his shirt to warm skin. "Don't buy me any merch."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Jason's smiling, his head against Mikey's. "I need to go get stuff for dinner. There's laundry on the bed to put away."

Reluctantly Mikey pulls back. "Slave-driver."

"You know it," Jason says, smacking at Mikey's ass. "Now go, do some work for once."

A last kiss and Mikey goes. Stepping over Bunny who's stretched out on the stairs he makes for the master bedroom, and sees the bed is covered with carefully folded piles of clothes -- Mikey's and Jason's and at the front, stacks of small hoodies and coats. Scooping those up first Mikey steps into the walk-in closet and drops the pile on the shelf set aside for the pets. It's a tight fit, despite a self imposed ban on buying more, Bunny's outfits seem to multiply by the day, and both Winston and Piglet could be outfitted differently every day for weeks. A last shove and all the clothes are jammed in place and Mikey goes back for the next handful.

He puts away jeans next, multiple pairs of black against Jason's pale blue denim and grey slacks, then goes for the t-shirts, stopping short when he sees which one is at the top of the stack. It's the Clan hoodie that Mikey stole from Pete, the one Mikey unearthed from the box only weeks before. Sitting heavily on the bed Mikey picks it up, hands clenched in the fabric as he says quietly, "Okay, fate, you fucking win. I'll keep looking."

~*~*~*~

"I don't know." Patrick keeps staring at the picture displayed on the Sidekick. He's frowning, brows pulled together under his glasses. "You always planned to live in L.A. Not stay here in Chicago."

"L.A.'s for dreamers." Pete takes back his Sidekick and slumps in his seat. There's a half eaten plate of food in front of him and he picks up a fry, sliding it through the pool of ketchup.

Patrick frowns more, his elbows on the table as he leans toward Pete. "You've got dreams."

"I've got nightmares," Pete corrects and drops the fry back on the plate. "Kyle helps keep them away."

Patrick seems unhappy with that answer but it's simply the truth. Pete's dream house has gone the way of his dream relationship, those ideals swapped for a reality that helps him feel safe.

"That's..."

Anything Patrick's about to say is cut off by Kyle, who leans over Pete from behind, gathering him in a tight hug. Only minutes from his set Kyle feels hot and his cheek is damp against Pete's as he says, "What did you think?"

"I loved it," Pete says and turns his head for a kiss.

"You were flat on the third song and the tempo was out for the encore," Patrick says and sits back in his chair in a way that Pete knows he's being restrained with what he really thinks. Not that Kyle cares, grinning as he grabs a chair and sits next to Pete.

"I've been talking to Aubrey, the tour's all set."

"That's great," Pete says, happy that Kyle's band is finally getting the recognition they deserve. "Has he told you where yet? We could've played there."

Kyle shakes his head. "I doubt it. We'll be playing small venues, ones where the fans can really hear us."

Pete pulls back a little, his smile fading. "We've played small venues."

"Yeah, but we're about the music," Kyle says. "We want to stay in touch with the fans, not become sell outs." He leans in and kisses Pete's forehead. "We'll be touring from the first through the next two months."

Pete blinks, his stomach twisting as he works out dates. "That's days after I move in, before I'm touring myself."

"My house is your house, you can put your stuff wherever. And we'll work something out about the tour, you're the star, you can leave between shows," Kyle says and then stands, waving toward his band. "I need to go discuss the set, I'll be back soon."

"But..." Pete trails off, but Kyle's already walking away.

Fingers white against his glass, Patrick takes a drink of water, waiting a moment before he tersely says, "Sell out? Really?"

Pete tries to think what to say, some explanation to wave away Kyle's words, but the explanations won't come. Abruptly he stands. "I'm going for some air."

Smiling at acquaintances on the way, Pete pushes his way outside to the small courtyard at the back of the club. Usually it's filled with people spilling from inside but this late it's deserted and he sits on a wooden bench that's pushed against a brick wall. Chin resting against his hands, he enjoys the feel of the breeze against his skin and listens to the faint music from inside, trying to distract himself from the feeling of being cast aside. Then looks up, unsurprised when the door opens and Patrick appears.

"You can move in with me," Patrick says, and sits next to Pete. "Don't settle for second best."

Surprised, Pete bursts out laughing, an ugly sound in this quiet space. "I'd drive you crazy within days."

Patrick shrugs. "I know, it still stands."

It's a tempting offer. Patrick's one of his best friends and they work well together, but not twenty-four seven, that amount of togetherness would drive Patrick insane. Pete sighs and slides to the side, his head against Patrick's shoulder. "Kyle loves me."

Patrick draws in a deep breath, says, "If you ever change your mind..."

"I know your number."

For long minutes they sit in silence. Pete's eyes half closed as he enjoys the moment, the nearness of Patrick helping ease the constant static in his head. It's peaceful, calm in a way he doesn't often achieve, and Pete only moves when he sees something small skitter across the cobbles. At first he thinks it's a flyer from inside but then it gets caught against a terracotta flower pot and Pete sees it's a five dollar bill. Eyes widening, he sits upright.

"Go get it, I won't tell," Patrick says, sounding amused, but Pete doesn't move. Now that he's looking closely he can see the note is new, the sides perfect as the wind picks up and sends it tumbling forward again. There's no written name; but there could have been. Pete remembers hot days and long nights, feelings of adventure, friendship and blossoming love. They're familiar feelings, ones that he revisits often while picking over everything that he's thrown away. But usually those memories strike at the dead of night, not like this, when Patrick's at his side and Pete can think that maybe, just maybe this is a sign.

"I need to find Mikey."

"What?" Patrick turns slightly and looks away from the five dollars to Pete. "You mean Mikey Way? The Mikey Way you broke up with years ago? The Mikey whose number is in your phone, and his email and twitter, that Mikey Way?"

"Of course that Mikey," Pete says, surprised that Patrick could even think there was another Mikey. Impatient he pushes his hair out of his eyes. "I told you the story, about the money and..."

"The name and shirt, I know," Patrick finishes. "I just don't see how it matters. You're friends with Mikey, you always have been, you could call him now if you wanted."

"No." Pete stands and starts to pace, trying to put jumbled feelings into words. "This is different."

"How?" Patrick demands. "Because you've seen a five dollar bill? You see them everyday and it doesn't mean anything."

"Not like this." Pete keeps pacing, thinking back over the last few days. "Yesterday I saw the video for I'm Not Okay. It was playing on some foreign music channel in the middle of the night."

"So? That video gets played all the time."

Pete stops pacing, standing perfectly still as he looks at Patrick. "So what if it means something?"

Patrick rubs at his face, says, "All it means is you're self-sabotaging again. If you don't want to go forward with Kyle don't, but stop looking for excuses to go back."

Arms crossed over his chest Pete watches as the five dollar bill blows away. No matter what Patrick says, he knows it does mean something.

~*~*~*~

Frank's sprawled on the sofa, an open magazine on his stomach, his head against a cushion as he watches Mikey and asks, "Wouldn't it be easier to call and ask him for one? The fucker's probably got closets stuffed with Clan merch."

"He hasn't got the shirt I want," Mikey says, and selects the next EBay listing for Clandestine apparel. He's having no luck, all the shirts he's seen are the wrong design, but he can't seem to stop clicking, one link after another, always with that faint hope that this time it'll be the one.

"Fuck, no." Frank makes a pained sound and swings himself upright, the magazine falling to the floor. "Tell me you're not looking for the shirt. The one you talked about for-fucking-ever."

Mikey rubs at his eyes and pushes away his laptop. "I didn't talk about it forever."

"Yeah, you did." Frank sits on the edge of the sofa and points at Mikey. "And Gerard did too, it's all we heard for weeks, fucking fate, you moping and Gerard wanting to beat Pete up. Fuck that shit, why look for it now?"

Mikey considers his reply, because Frank's not Gerard, he'll want more than vague feelings. "Because I need closure, if I can't find it that's it. We're done."

"And you weren't done before?"

"I thought I was," Mikey says, and thinks of a carefully crafted friendship, green tea Kit Kats and phone-calls to Pete. "But no."

"You're playing with fire," Frank warns. "If you do ever find it you could lose everything you have."

Mikey pulls his laptop back toward him, says, "I know."

~*~*~*~

Unclipping Hemmy's leash, Pete drapes it over the back of a chair and checks that the water bowls are full. For a moment he watches Hemmy drink, water dripping from his muzzle onto the mat. When he's sure he's not going to drain the bowl Pete leaves him to it, kicking off his sneakers and heading for the den. He finds Kyle sitting in front of the coffee table, tour related print outs spread in front and around him.

"Hey," Kyle says, and smiles at Pete. "You've been a while."

Stepping over stacks of paper Pete sits on the sofa, his legs curled up and toes pushed into the soft cushions. "I drove to the dog park next to my old place." Pete prefers it there, where there are dogs and owners he recognizes and the small coffee kiosk close by, one where the staff greet with a smile and no one cares who he is. It takes longer to drive there, but it's a place where Pete feels relaxed, one of the few lately.

"Right." Already Kyle's attention is back on the print outs and Pete sits in silence, listening to the rustle of papers and the clicking of Hemmy's claws in the kitchen. They should be calming sounds but Pete's mind is racing, and he jumps when Kyle suddenly turns. "You okay?"

"Just tired." It's a constant state for Pete lately, worse than it's been in months. He spends most nights wandering the house, a place that's supposed to be his home now but doesn't feel like it at all. Everything feels wrong, the furniture, decorations, even the air that he breathes. It sticks in Pete's throat and he spends hours sitting alone in the dark, his only company his laptop and phone. Tucking up his knees, Pete rests his feet against Kyle's back. "I need to get away for a while. Tomorrow, after you've left."

Kyle frowns. "You're going on tour soon. Isn't that enough getting away?"

"It's a different kind of getting away," Pete says, and folds himself forward so he can wrap his arms around Kyle. "I need to get away for me. From me."

Kyle curls his fingers around Pete's ankle. "As long as it helps."

"It should," Pete says, and can only hope that it's true.

~~~~

"You're insane." Patrick pushes his glasses back with one finger and adds, "You're living in crazyland and you can't even see it."

Pete shakes his head, not because he disagrees with Patrick, just that he knows the whole situation is insane. "I keep seeing him everywhere. On the TV, on the radio, I was buying coffee yesterday and the girl in front was wearing a My Chem hoodie."

Patrick pushes himself away from Pete's car. "So call him. Email him. Do anything but fly off to chase memories."

Pete gets out of the car and leans back against the door. He's exhausted and confused and all he can think of is the world is sending a clear message, one that Pete can't ignore. "I have to know, Patrick. If that means going to L.A. and hoping fate brings Mikey to me, that's what I'll do."

"You don't even believe in fate, not any more," Patrick says and takes a step closer. "Everything you've achieved you've done through hard work and determination. Fate's got nothing to do with it. If you want to see Mikey, go to his house, he'll give you his new address."

Pete wishes it was that easy, but it's not. Fate ended their relationship and it's fate that's in control right now. "I can't do it that way. He has to come to me."

"Fine," Patrick says finally, and pushes Pete away from the door. "But I'm driving to the airport, and I'll need to pack a bag."

"You're coming with me?" Pete springs forward and wraps his arms tightly around Patrick. "Thank you."

"God forbid I let you live in crazyland alone," Patrick mutters, and holds on to Pete for a long time.

~*~*~*~

Arms full of bags of chips, Mikey pushes open the door with a bump of his hip and goes outside onto the porch. It's crowded, Gerard, Frank and Ray sitting on the porch swing while Bob and Brian are sitting on the ground, their backs against the railing. Dropping the chips Mikey sits in the space between Brian and Bob, still unsure why everyone suddenly turned up at his house.

"Nice hosting skills," Bob says and grabs one of the bags. "Where's the dip?"

"In the kitchen," Mikey says easily, taking a bag for himself. "Get off your ass if you want it."

Bob opens his chips and eats a handful then says, "Jason would bring the dip."

"Jason's busy being a corporate drone," Mikey says. "So suck it up and deal."

Bob eats another chip, biting down with a crunch. "It's too hot to move."

"Then you're shit out of luck." Mikey leans back, trying to get comfortable.

"I've made a list," Ray says, and Mikey sees that he's got a notebook on his lap and a pen tucked in his hair. "It's got all the thrift shops here and in Chicago in case Pete gave it away on his home turf. If we strike out there I'll reassess."

Mikey sits upright and cranes his head so he can see the list -- the very long list. "What? Why would you do that?"

"To find the shirt, of course," Ray says, as if Mikey's said something particularly stupid. "I've crossed off the ones you've already checked with Gerard."

"I don't, why..." Mikey trails off. It's not like he minds Ray knowing he's looking for the shirt, it's just -- he never expected Ray would even care about him finding it, never mind make a list.

"Fate's bullshit, you make your own choices in life, it's got nothing to do with fate," Brian says and reaches out to snatch some chips out of Bob's open bag.

"I had my fill of fate back at Warped." Bob swats at Brian's hand and turns to look at Mikey. "You know the chances are you'll never find that shirt? It's probably a rag by now."

"Or being used to rub one off on, some fan fantasizing about Pete," Frank says, laughing when Gerard elbows him in the side.

"There's always a chance," Gerard says and leans forward. "Things happen in life that we can't explain. If Mikey is meant to find it he will."

"And in the meantime we'll help." Ray holds up his list and points at the first name. "The first set is in L.A., it shouldn't take long to check them all out."

"Sure it won't," Bob says and above his sunglasses his brow is creased. "I'll just walk in and ask if five years ago some midget with big teeth handed in an ugly shirt. Nothing to it."

Mikey pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. "I thought you didn't believe in fate?"

"I don't," Bob replies simply. "But you do."

"Which is why we're going to help you look," Ray says and pulls the pen out of his hair. "The nearest thrift store is at Riverside Drive."

Frank jumps to his feet, making the swing sway wildly. "Then we'd better get going."

~*~*~*~*~

Pulling their hire car to a stop at a service station, Patrick keeps his hands resting on the steering wheel. "Tell me again why you don't just phone him."

Pete's got his feet up on the dashboard and he arches his back. "Because that's cheating. Fate has to bring him to me. Either Mikey himself or the five dollar bill.

Patrick uncurls his hands and takes off his hat, rubbing at the red line on his forehead "You still haven't told me what happens if you do find him. You're living with Kyle now. Your stuff's in his house."

"I know." Pete watches people walk into the Starbucks, always on the lookout for Mikey's awkward gait. "But all I can think about lately is Mikey. The time we spent together and how despite everything we're still friends. He's special, he's always been special."

Patrick pulls on his hat and turns sideways. "I get that, but you said he's with someone else. Even if you do find him you can't go in and break them up."

Nauseous, Pete swallows hard. "I wouldn't do that. I just need to know, Patrick. If I ran away from something that was meant to be."

"Another thing to beat yourself up about," Patrick says. "That's not healthy."

Pete knows that too, it's why he doesn't reply, just keeps watching as people exit the shop. Most are holding cups of coffee, men and women in groups and alone. But beyond them, like an overlain memory of the past all Pete sees is Mikey. His eyes dark and serious, his smile hidden behind his cup as he drinks.

Pete misses him. So much that it physically hurts.

~*~*~*~

Mikey's no stranger to thrift shops, but he's never visited so many at one time. Five shops down and all he can smell is old clothes as he methodically looks through a rack of shirts. Arriving at a particularly lurid blue Hawaiian shirt he's about to push it to one side when Gerard steps close.

"Wait, that looks awesome." Taking the shirt off the rail Gerard holds it in front of himself and poses in front of the mirror. "I'm buying this."

"You could make it work," Mikey says and looks over the center clothes racks to where Frank's trying to get Bob to try on a pink flowery hat. It's not going well, Bob looks more likely to throttle Frank than try on the hat; Ray's examining shelves of books, pretending he doesn't know them at all. At least Brian's still looking. He's talking to the woman behind the counter, where, if the last shops are any indication, he's interrogating her about stock records and bills of sale. Not that he's had much luck. So far none of the shops have even heard of Clandestine merch, never mind sold any.

"We'll keep looking." Gerard's pulled the shirt of the hanger and has it draped over his arm. He walks next to Mikey, standing so close that they're touching. "If it's out there we'll find it."

Mikey slumps a little, knowing Gerard will take his weight. "What if Bob's right and it's a rag? Or it's framed on someone's wall or shoved in a closet. It could be anywhere."

"That doesn't mean you give up." Gerard slips his arm around Mikey, ignoring the curious look of the one customer who hadn't already hurried from the shop. "You had the feeling you had to look, and you can't ignore that. If we ignored feelings we wouldn't have the band, and Brian wouldn't be our manager or Bob our drummer. You have to trust in yourself."

"I do, it's just." Frustrated, Mikey presses his hand against his keys that are jammed in his jeans pocket. "I don't even know what'll happen if I do find the shirt, I just know I need to."

Gerard squeezes Mikey, says, "Then you need to keep looking, don't look for complications before you need to."

Mikey smiles, the smallest curl of his lip. "I guess."

"You know," Gerard corrects, then stands upright and holds the Hawaiian shirt in the air. "Look at the sweet shirt I found."

Brian looks over, his expression turning to one of horror. "Oh hell no!"

His smile growing, Mikey turns back to looking through the shirts.

~*~*~*~

"Do you know how many Starbucks there are in the city?" Patrick demands. He's holding a carrying tray containing two coffees, a paper bag balanced between the cups and his chest. Carefully he hands them all to Pete though the open window. "There's at least twenty just in this area. This idea's insane, you're insane."

Placing the paper bag on his knee, Pete takes a sip of too-hot coffee and glances up at the flyer that he's got tucked into the car's visor. He's tempted to touch again, re-read the words he's already memorized but resists when Patrick gets back into the car and takes his coffee. "It's not insane, it's fate."

Patrick stills the cup close to his mouth, says slowly, "Fate's a flyer that you found in a bathroom?"

Resistance crumbling, Pete pulls out the flyer, fingers against its grimy surface. "If the urinals weren't backed up I wouldn't have gone in the stalls and found this."

"Just so you know, the fact you picked that up remains disgusting," Patrick says, lowering his hand. "God knows what it's covered in."

Pete rubs his fingers together. "It's got that slightly grainy feel of dried piss."

Patrick opens his mouth then snaps it shut before saying, "You know what? I'm not saying anything. If you want to fondle piss-soaked Starbucks flyers go ahead."

"You're all heart," Pete says and then tucks the flyer away again before rubbing his hands on his jeans. "It has to mean something, Patrick. Why else would it be in there?"

"Fine, right, it means something." Patrick sighs softly. "But why this one?"

Pete considers a moment, but the thing is, as soon as they drove past he knew. "This one feels like Mikey's kind of Starbucks."

Patrick stares at Pete. "What does that even mean? It's a Starbucks, they're all the same."

"It's the surroundings that count." Pete tucks up his legs, his cup resting against his knees as he uses one hand to indicate around them. "We're close to the main shopping area but well away from any schools, the line is moving quickly meaning a speedy caffeine hit and most importantly, there's that."

Patrick looks where Pete is pointing. "A comic book store?"

Pete nods. "A Starbucks opposite a comic book store. This place practically has Mikey's name on it."

"If he's still into comics and if he's in L.A., he could be anywhere," Patrick says. He takes the bag from Pete and takes out a sandwich, setting it on the dash. "We'll stay as long as it takes to eat but then I'm going to book into a hotel. I'm not spending all night staking out coffee shops when you could pick up your phone and find out where he actually is."

"I told you..."

Pete doesn't get to finish before Patrick's interrupts. "I know, it's fate, I get that it's fate, but fate doesn't include me sitting in a car for hours on end. We're going to eat then we're leaving to get some sleep."

Pete grins. "You're hot when you're angry."

"Shut up, Pete." Patrick pulls back the plastic on his sandwich and pokes at the bread with his finger. "No distractions. We're eating then going."

Reluctantly Pete uncovers his own sandwich. He's not hungry in the slightest and despite feeling exhausted he knows there's no way he's going to sleep. There are too many thoughts buzzing in his head and an almost irresistible urge to keep on looking, but he won't. Not when Patrick's eyes are so shadowed and he's holding himself so stiff after such a long day.

They eat in silence until finally, no matter how small Pete makes his bites, they have to go. Throwing the garbage in the overflowing trashcan, Pete takes one last look around, flashing a grin at a young girl who's eating a muffin, chocolate smeared around her mouth and crumbs down the front of her yellow dress.

Finally they leave.

*~*~*~*~

Twelve thrift shops and they've found nothing -- strike that, Gerard's found a shirt and Ray has two books that he's carrying in a small plastic bag, but no Clandestine shirt with the inside tag signed.

If he'd been alone Mikey would have given up hours before, but there's something about being together that's made the looking fun. Listening as Frank harasses Bob and Brian tries to accidentally on purpose leave Gerard's shirt behind, but even that fun can only last so long. It's getting late now, the shops pulling down their shutters and Mikey checks the time as they head back to the cars.

"Who's going to drive me for coffee?" Mikey's closer to Ray's car but he's already moving toward Brian's before anyone replies.

"I could go for coffee," Gerard says. He looks at Mikey. "We could go..."

"...to that one on Saticoy. That's what I was thinking," Mikey finishes. "I haven't been for a while."

Brian pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the car. "Coffee and comics, you'd better be putting out tonight."

Mikey gives Brian a long look. "I know Gerard won't mind but Jason might. I'll have to call him first."

Arms crossed on the roof of the car Brian says, "One day I'll teach you a lesson and take you up on that shit."

Mikey smiles slightly. "I'll look forward to it."

"Jesus fuck." Brian rests his forehead against his crossed arms. "Why do I bother?"

"Because you love me," Gerard says, grinning over at Brian.

"Yeah. I guess that's it," Brian says, his voice muffled by his arms.

"I should get home." Ray's standing between the two cars and looking at Frank and Bob. "You still want a ride?"

"Yeah," Bob says, and, in a deft move, anticipates Frank's rush to ride shotgun by grabbing him under the arms and depositing him back on the sidewalk.

After that it's less than a minute before Mikey's in the back of Brian's car, waving out of the window with one hand while pulling out his sidekick with the other. Checking his messages he sends some quick responses before scanning through twitter, amusing himself with the @replies, most of which are a combination of people professing love or saying he sucks.

"You'll drive yourself insane with that," Gerard says, and turns to the side so he can look over his shoulder at Mikey.

"They're funny." Mikey tilts the screen of his sidekick so Gerard can see. "This one says they'll die if I reply."

"Tell them you want proof of death first," Brian says, scowling as they creep forward in the traffic. "No death certificate, no reply."

Mikey leans back and stretches his legs along the seat. "How am I supposed to tell them that without replying?"

Gerard nods. "It's an impossible loop. You can't reply to say you won't reply without replying in the first place."

"It's a conundrum," Mikey says and then adds, "Pete hasn't posted." Mikey scrolls back to Pete's last tweet, concerned when he sees the date. "He hasn't for days."

"Didn't he just move in with that guy?" Gerard asks. "They're probably holed up having sex. You know how he throws himself into things."

Brian holds up a hand. "I know you're about to say something scarring about Pete and sex. Don't. I don't want to know."

"Shutting up now," Gerard says and then immediately twists himself around even further, the seat-belt digging into his neck. "He'll be fine."

"Yeah," Mikey says, and it's not that he thinks that Pete's actually in any danger, it's just weird to not see him post somewhere. "I'll send him a text, see what's up."

Brian looks over his shoulder. "Ask him about the shirt while you're at it. See if he actually donated the damn thing."

Mikey shakes his head. "Can't. That's like getting cheat codes online."

One hand on the wheel, Brian starts to slow even further when they approach an intersection. "No, it's you cutting through the bullshit."

Brian's right, Mikey knows that but he also knows asking Pete would result in airing old feelings and Mikey's not ready for that. This way he can look while keeping an emotional distance. Thumbs flying he sends a message to Pete. "I asked if things are okay."

"Tell me if he replies," Gerard says, his nose close to the window as they turn into the Starbucks parking lot and join the line for the drive thru.

"I will," Mikey promises and pushes up his hips so he can put away his phone, watching outside as they inch past a family, the young girl clutching a half-eaten muffin, her dress and face smeared with chocolate.

~*~*~*~

They've booked into one of the best hotels in the city, but Pete's paying no attention to the surroundings. The antsy feeling of before has abruptly drained away and as he stands at the window looking down at the sprawl of lights that signify the city, he knows the possibility of bumping into Mikey or coming across the note is minute. It's a hard conclusion, especially combined with painful comparisons, where Pete's realizing his relationship with Kyle is a pale imitation compared to the past.

"This is stupid." Turning away from the window, Pete throws himself on the bed next to Patrick, making him and his laptop bounce. "I need to stop chasing dreams, they never come to anything."

Patrick closes the lid of his laptop and sets it to one side. "That's not true. You've achieved plenty of dreams."

"Not this one." Pulling up his legs, Pete slumps to the side and leans against Patrick. "We were never meant to be more than friends. I need to remember that. Fuck fate."

"It's best that way," Patrick says. "You make your own choices in life. Having them pre-determined would suck."

Pete thinks about all the hardships he's lived through and the days of triumpth, both personal and with his band. It's a history that he's proud of and that pride has to extend to the future, where any choices he makes are his own. "Fate sucks."

"It does," Patrick agrees, and reaches out for the TV remote. "How about we celebrate that with bad TV and room-service?"

"I need to buy a charger," Pete says, glancing over at his phone. He feels lost without it, also stupid for leaving the charger behind when he fled Kyle's house, intent on getting to L.A.

"What you need is to stay here and eat," Patrick says and flicks through the channels, light from the TV flickering across his face. "Your phone can wait."

Pete reaches out for the room-service menu, says, "I guess."

Part 3