It’s not that Mikey doesn’t know who Pete Wentz is. Everyone knows who Pete Wentz is. He’s like his own private dynamo, the driving force of insanity behind Fall Out Boy and about fifty different other things. And it’s not that Mikey’s interested in him, because he’s not, because Mikey’s still trying to navigate around Gerard’s sobriety while still managing to keep his own at bay. Pete is trouble that Mikey doesn’t need.
Or maybe he’s exactly the kind of trouble he needs. Because Pete’s something that Mikey can get lost in, something he can submerge himself in and lose the rest of the world for as long as he needs to. Gerard needs people like Brian and Bob and Frank and Ray to keep him going on the straight and narrow, and Mikey’s not invited. There’s a gap Mikey doesn’t know how to bridge, and Gerard’s someone he doesn’t know anymore, or maybe he’s a reflection of himself that Mikey’s not ready to see.
“You know what we should do?” Pete sits on the riser and kicks his legs like a little kid. “We should join a gang.”
“I don’t think a gang would have us.” Mikey is frowning down at his bass, trying to tune it despite the blare of the band currently on stage. “We’re not really gang material.”
“We can start our own gang.” His feet move more furiously, swinging in small, tight circles. “You and me.”
“Are we protesting the man? Fighting the system? Demanding we be treated with equality?”
“Bassists are seriously under-represented and maligned in society.”
“You’re a middle class rebel.” Mikey snorts and drinks half of his Diet Coke in several long swallows. “You can’t be a rebel and in a gang.”
“You can in West Side Story.”
“Your life is not a musical.” Mikey leans against the riser and rests his head on Pete’s bicep. “And you can’t dance.”
“I can dance.”
“You dance like a white guy.”
“So do you.”
Mikey lifts an eyebrow at him. “I do not.”
“Okay,” Pete agrees. “You don’t. You get all…grind-y.” He rests his chin on the top of Mikey’s head. “Which is…well, distracting. And hot. I approve of it.” He shifts and drops a kiss on Mikey’s hair. Mikey can almost feel the face he makes at the mouth full of product. “I approve of you, Mikeyway.”
He looks up at Pete, surprised at the intensity in his eyes, though he’s not sure why. Pete doesn’t have a level less than intense. “You’re pretty sweet yourself.” He smiles, his eyes falling from Pete’s gaze to his mouth.
“Sweet little dudes, you and me,” Pete agrees. He licks his lips and then bites the bottom one, sucking it into his mouth. “That’s our gang.”
“Yeah.” He leans in and kisses Pete softly, surprising them both, but not enough that Pete doesn’t kiss back, starting something that takes root in Mikey’s chest and groin, flaring to life. “That’s us.”
Re: FOB/MCR, Pete/Mikey
Or maybe he’s exactly the kind of trouble he needs. Because Pete’s something that Mikey can get lost in, something he can submerge himself in and lose the rest of the world for as long as he needs to. Gerard needs people like Brian and Bob and Frank and Ray to keep him going on the straight and narrow, and Mikey’s not invited. There’s a gap Mikey doesn’t know how to bridge, and Gerard’s someone he doesn’t know anymore, or maybe he’s a reflection of himself that Mikey’s not ready to see.
“You know what we should do?” Pete sits on the riser and kicks his legs like a little kid. “We should join a gang.”
“I don’t think a gang would have us.” Mikey is frowning down at his bass, trying to tune it despite the blare of the band currently on stage. “We’re not really gang material.”
“We can start our own gang.” His feet move more furiously, swinging in small, tight circles. “You and me.”
“Are we protesting the man? Fighting the system? Demanding we be treated with equality?”
“Bassists are seriously under-represented and maligned in society.”
“You’re a middle class rebel.” Mikey snorts and drinks half of his Diet Coke in several long swallows. “You can’t be a rebel and in a gang.”
“You can in West Side Story.”
“Your life is not a musical.” Mikey leans against the riser and rests his head on Pete’s bicep. “And you can’t dance.”
“I can dance.”
“You dance like a white guy.”
“So do you.”
Mikey lifts an eyebrow at him. “I do not.”
“Okay,” Pete agrees. “You don’t. You get all…grind-y.” He rests his chin on the top of Mikey’s head. “Which is…well, distracting. And hot. I approve of it.” He shifts and drops a kiss on Mikey’s hair. Mikey can almost feel the face he makes at the mouth full of product. “I approve of you, Mikeyway.”
He looks up at Pete, surprised at the intensity in his eyes, though he’s not sure why. Pete doesn’t have a level less than intense. “You’re pretty sweet yourself.” He smiles, his eyes falling from Pete’s gaze to his mouth.
“Sweet little dudes, you and me,” Pete agrees. He licks his lips and then bites the bottom one, sucking it into his mouth. “That’s our gang.”
“Yeah.” He leans in and kisses Pete softly, surprising them both, but not enough that Pete doesn’t kiss back, starting something that takes root in Mikey’s chest and groin, flaring to life. “That’s us.”