Fic: Standing on a Planet that's Evolving and Revolving

[green]

Title: Standing on a Planet that's Evolving and Revolving
Author: Green
Fandom: My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Rating: NC-17
Length: 13,700 words
Summary: High school AU. The evolution of Frank Iero, age 15.
Notes: A big thanks to lilacsinrain for the beta.


Standing on a Planet that's Evolving and Revolving


It was the first day of school – a day filled with manic energy and chatter and 'What did you do over the summer?' and 'Sophie got her braces off' and 'Did you see the new kid?', words all spoken fast as if to make up for lost time.

The new kid was Frank.

Frank didn't mind being the new kid, didn't care about the furtive glances and outright stares. The loud whispers of 'tattoos, oh my god, he's got to be what, thirteen?' kind of bothered him, because he was fifteen and a sophomore, fuck you very much, but he let the rest just wash over him.

This was his fourth school in two years, fifth if he counted Lady of Grace (which he didn't, since that had only lasted a week). He got kicked out of them all. Or rather his parents were subjected to the kind, concerned staff of the hellholes who hinted strongly that Frank might 'find himself a better fit at another institution'.

His parents were getting frustrated and Frank had a bet with himself on how long he would last at this newest one.

It was in the boys' room, between Spanish and Phys. Ed., that Frank met Mikey. Mikey was sitting on the sill of the cracked-open window, staring at some middle distance, holding an all-white cigarette between long fingers. An iPod rested on his thigh as he listened to music. It was loud enough that Frank could hear a slow, tinny beat coming through the blue earbuds.

Mikey glanced over as Frank came in, then away again when Frank stood in front of a urinal and pissed. Frank's eyes kept wandering over to where Mikey sat, and – not wanting to leave just yet – Frank washed his hands. He didn't want 'that hot boy in the window' (or so his brain was calling Mikey) to think he had bad hygiene.

“Can I bum one?” Frank asked.

Mikey shook his head, then took out an earbud. “What?”

“Can I bum a smoke?” Frank asked again. Mikey shrugged and offered him the pack and a lighter.

The first drag tasted weird, the way cigarettes always did when he hadn't had one in awhile. His mom had found his stash and thrown his pack away a week ago, and Frank hadn't had the chance to buy more yet.

“Thanks,” Frank said, and slipped the pack and lighter back onto the window sill beside Mikey. He took a longer drag and leaned against the wall. “I'm Frank Iero. I'm new.”

“I know,” Mikey said. “Mikey Way.” He said his name like one word, Mikeyway, and Frank couldn't help repeating it just like that. He liked the way it moved over his tongue.

Frank nodded to the iPod. “What are you listening to?”

“Pulp,” Mikey answered.

“Oh,” Frank said, wishing Mikey had mentioned a band he actually knew. “Never heard of them.”

“It's britpop,” Mikey said, and offered an earbud.

Britpop wasn't something Frank was particularly into, but he listened because he liked the way he had to move closer to Mikey. He nodded like he was enjoying himself. “Not bad,” he lied. He hated it. “Got anything harder?”

“I've got everything,” Mikey said in a monotone, thumb scrolling on his iPod. “I'm pretty serious about music.”

“Me too,” Frank said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I fucking love music, especially hardcore.”

Mucky Pup's Hippies Hate Water started playing in Frank's ear and he grinned. It was old school Jerseycore, and Frank was impressed that Mikey had even heard of it, let alone had it at his fingertips.

“What else do you have?” Frank asked, reaching for the iPod. Mikey let him take it and scroll through, and Frank let out a low whistle. “Is there anything you don't have? How big is this thing?”

There were some bands and artists of dubious talent – seriously, the Spice Girls? – but Frank was more impressed by the sheer size and breadth of Mikey's collection.

“It's 160 gigs,” Mikey said. “And I like everything.”

Frank scrolled down to Mikey's playlists and checked them out. One playlist said 'Gerard' and Frank felt a stab of something in his gut.

“Who's Gerard?” he asked. A boyfriend, he was sure of it, because you didn't name a playlist after a friend, did you?

“My older brother,” Mikey said. Frank liked the way he said it; there was a lilt to his voice that hadn't been there before. “He's an artist.”

Frank examined the 'Gerard' playlist and found a bunch of conflicting tones. There were Disney songs and emo songs and soft rock from the 80s. There was music from the Chicago soundtrack, and then some other stuff even Frank didn't recognize. “Cool,” he said, even though he thought it was a little weird.

Mikey took his iPod back and shrugged. He scrolled again – aimlessly, Frank thought – and said, “You've got tattoos.” It was a simple statement, but Frank heard the question there.

“It was a bitch finding someone to do them,” Frank said. He was underage, after all. “But a friend's brother finally caved.” He said it proudly, leaving out the part where he'd had to suck the guy off to get him to even consider it. He also didn't mention that he'd blown his savings, too. He wouldn't be getting his own car when he was sixteen like he'd been planning. The ink was worth it, though. It pissed off his parents and looked fucking incredible.

“How many do you have?” Mikey asked. He was definitely checking Frank out, now, looking like maybe he could see right through Frank's clothes.

“Six so far,” Frank said, and lifted his shirt to show off his sparrows. Mikey's eyes swept over Frank's skin, over his belly where the ink was and then lower. Frank grinned when Mikey's cheeks pinkened. “Like them?”

Mikey shrugged. “They're cool.”

Frank liked the casual lift of Mikey's shoulders, the laid-back way he spoke. Mikey was, in their short acquaintance, pretty awesome.

The bell rang. Frank ignored it. Mikey didn't say anything like 'aren't you going to be late for class?' which made him even cooler in Frank's book.

It was Frank's first day. He really shouldn't skip. But it was Phys. Ed. and he didn't want to go. Gym class usually led to some kind of bullying, and Frank had promised his mom no fights on the first day.

Mikey didn't move from his perch on the window sill. He shifted, looked at his watch, and then lit another cigarette.

“You skipping, too?” Frank finally asked. His curiosity was running high.

“Study period,” Mikey answered. “And then I have lunch.” He offered Frank another cigarette without Frank having to ask.

“My lunch period is-” Frank took the schedule out of his back pocket and looked it over. “-the same as yours.”

“I eat lunch on the side steps,” Mikey said, and it was as good as an invitation.

*

Lunch was where Frank met Ray and Bob. Frank's first impressions: Ray had a lot of hair, Bob had a cool lip ring (not as cool as Frank's, but close), and Mikey looked good in the sunlight.

Mikey, if you looked at him closely – which was what Frank was doing all through lunch – was gangly (skinny and long in a way that made Frank want to crawl all over him) and had a dorky smile (when he smiled, that is). He had dark eyelashes. He wore white glasses and jeans that clung to his legs. His band shirt (Frank had never heard of the band) was faded and had a hole near the collar. His hair, though?

Mikey's hair was a travesty. He probably cut it himself. It was short in the back and long in the front, with the bangs doing some sort of aerodynamic triangle thing between his eyes.

Frank was utterly infatuated.

When he took a break from staring, he found Ray looking at him with a small smile playing around his mouth. Frank made a face like 'what?' but then he started to blush. Ray knew. Just for that, Frank stole Ray's apple.

*

Frank went right home after school, which was unusual for him, but no one would have to know. The house was empty, so Frank went to his room to practice his guitar. He had a magazine that was permanently opened to one particular riff he was trying to master.

He practiced for awhile, until Mom came home bearing dinner. Vegetarian for Frank and something else – it didn't matter to Frank, he wasn't militant – for her.

Frank tried not to notice that his father didn't come home at all, but when he practiced his guitar before bed it came out loud and angry.

*

The next day Frank skipped Phys. Ed. again. He was hoping to see Mikey, heading into the boys' room with a big smile on his face.

Mikey was there, but he wasn't alone.

“This is Pete,” Mikey explained.

Pete was short like Frank and wearing so much eyeliner that it gave Frank pause. The other thing that gave Frank pause was the fact that Pete was hanging all over Mikey.

“You don't have class either?” Frank said to Pete. He sounded a little bitchy to his own ears.

“Biology,” Pete said. He grinned, all teeth. “Rather spend time with my boy, though.”

His boy.

“Oh,” was all Frank could say.

Mikey murmured something, too low for Frank to hear, and then Pete was moving away from him and saying, “But I should really go to class.”

Frank stared after him and his ridiculous purple hoodie.

“Don't mind Pete,” Mikey said. “He's just … Pete.”

Which didn't explain anything.

Frank supposed he'd be pining after Mikey forever now, while he and 'just Pete' walked hand in hand through life, blithely ignoring Frank's pain. It was cool; Frank could deal with that. He thought. Maybe.

Mikey offered him a cigarette and he took it and lit up gratefully. There was nothing like nicotine to soothe a broken heart. Except maybe beer.

“A bunch of us get together on Friday nights,” Mikey said. “We just play video games or hang.”

“That's cool,” Frank said, taking another long drag of his cigarette.

“So I asked the guys if they'd mind you coming.”

Frank realized Mikey wouldn't be saying this if 'the guys' – that would probably be Ray and Bob – had said no.

“So, you want to?” Mikey asked.

“Will Pete be there?” Frank asked casually.

“Pete's got a band thing,” Mikey said.

Frank frowned. “He doesn't look like a band geek.”

“No, he's in a punk band,” Mikey said.

Great. Pete had everything.

“What's he play?” Frank asked. “Is he any good?”

Mikey laughed, and Frank went still so he could listen with his whole body. “Bass, and he's terrible.”

Frank let that sink in. Pete was a terrible bassist. It made him feel good hearing Mikey say that; he took a kind of vindictive pleasure in the fact.

“I play guitar,” Frank said. “No band, though.”

Mikey nodded and offered Frank an earbud. He took it and moved closer – listening to music was a good excuse to be close. This time, he moved so that his arm rested against Mikey's. A shiver of warmth crawled up his spine. Mikey remained oblivious, scrolling through his iPod and settling on something Frank loved.

*

And so it went. Frank continued to skip out of class to be with Mikey, and go to lunch with him, and by Thursday afternoon they were walking to the bus stop together after school.

“My mom says it's cool to hang with you guys tomorrow night,” Frank said, scuffing his shoes along the pavement as he walked. He looked down when he said it, a little worried that Mikey would take back the invitation.

Mikey smiled one of his rare smiles and said, “Do you want to spend the night?”

Frank looked up quickly, almost tripping. “Yeah. I mean, if that's all right.”

“It is. You can take the couch.”

“I'll tell my mom,” Frank said. A grin was splitting his face, so wide it hurt his cheeks.

Mikey's bus came first, and Frank sat on the bench to wait for his own. He couldn't stop smiling.

*

Home was quiet; Mom hadn't gotten in from work yet.

Frank reluctantly did his Spanish homework, taking breaks to scribble down the melody that was making its way through his head. He wasn't sure he could play it without a lot more practice, but Ray had mentioned he played so maybe he could help with that.

For the first time in weeks, his father came home before his mom.

“Doing homework?” he asked.

Frank thought it was pretty obvious that he was and didn't answer.

His father rubbed the back of his neck. “How's the new school?”

“Okay,” Frank said, still not looking up.

“Making friends?”

“Yeah.”

His father took a deep breath and then let it out. “I know I haven't been around much lately-”

Frank finally looked at him and said abruptly, “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”

“Well...” his father said, looking uncomfortable. “This is something we should all talk about together. As a family.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Frank said, and stomped off to his room. He slammed his door as hard as he could.

He blamed his father. He blamed the late nights and the loud arguments. He blamed his mom, who cried too much when they fought. He blamed the fact that they'd only had one kid, even though they'd always said they wanted more.

He blamed himself, because if he wasn't getting into fights at school he was skipping or somehow getting detention, always requiring parent-teacher conferences. He blamed himself for getting sick all the time, and the hospital stays that were always stressful on his parents' careers and already strained marriage.

He hated the way his father had said 'family' while he was planning to destroy it.

Frank was angry enough to cry, but that was something he refused to do. He picked up his guitar and started playing. The chords came out messy, rough and aggressive against each other.

He could hear his father's voice through the door. “Frankie...”

He ignored the call and turned up the amp. Eventually, his father went away.

Much later, after Frank had vented his frustrations through his fingertips until they were raw and he was lying foot to headboard on his bed, there was a knock he instantly recognized.

“C'mon,” he said, and his mom walked in holding a plate of food.

“Eggplant parmesan from Barelli's,” she said, setting it down on the cluttered desk.

“I'm not really hungry,” Frank said. His stomach was too twisted for food.

“Dad said you had a talk,” she said hesitantly.

Frank snorted.

She sat on the edge of his bed, leaning over to watch his face. “Want to talk about it?”

“Is he having an affair?” Frank asked bluntly. His throat was as tight as his stomach.

Her lips thinned, the way they always did when she lied. “I don't know.”

She looked drawn, tense, sad in a bone-deep way. Frank closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at her.

“I'm spending the weekend with a friend,” he said. Mikey had only offered his couch for Friday night, but Frank would rather sleep on the street than spend the next few nights at home. He had to get away. In fact, he felt like running away right now.

“Leave a number on the fridge,” she said. “And no drinking. Will his parents be there?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. He had no idea whether it was the truth or not, but she wouldn't let him go anywhere without the promise of adult supervision.

His mom stood up, probably sensing Frank didn't want to have a heart to heart or talk at all about his parents' relationship. “If you want to talk at all, your dad and I will always be here for you.”

Frank didn't even want to think about it, let alone talk.

“Eat something, okay?” she said, then left the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

*

Friday came, gray and wet. The wind and rain matched Frank's stormy state of mind. He trudged to school from the bus stop, shoes soaking up water from the puddles, holding his book bag over his head.

Mikey met him on the front steps. He stood in the pouring rain, his hand held up in an awkward salute to shield his glasses. His shirt and jeans clung to his skin, and Frank could see the outline of ribs through thin black cotton.

“You're fucking soaked,” Frank said. “What are you doing just standing out here?”

Mikey shrugged. “Did your mom say you could stay over?”

“Yeah. I left a bogus phone number for her because I don't have yours,” Frank said, walking up the steps. Mikey followed, his head down against the rain.

“You can call her and give her the right one,” he said. Sensible, that was Mikey.

“I kinda told her I'd be gone the whole weekend,” Frank admitted.

Mikey smiled his regular smile, the one that was just a flattening of his lips into a straight line. “You can stay Saturday night, too.”

“Thanks, man,” Frank said, smiling back.

“My brother's gonna be in town this weekend,” Mikey said. “I can't wait for you to meet him.”

“You said he's an artist?” Frank asked. He liked when Mikey talked about Gerard; he had music in his voice and a shine in his eyes that just wasn't there most of the time.

“He goes to SVA,” Mikey said. “He's going to draw comics.”

Frank liked comics. He had an appreciation for that kind of art. “That's cool,” he said, and meant it. “How much older is he?”

“Three years,” Mikey said. “But we've always been close.”

Frank had already figured that out. Mikey loved Gerard, that much was obvious. It was the kind of sibling relationship he'd always wanted, but never had. He thought it must be amazing to have someone you were that close to. Frank wondered, just for a moment, if his parents would still be breaking up if he'd had siblings.

“You okay?” Mikey asked as he opened his locker. Frank leaned against the wall and shrugged.

“I've got a quiz today in Algebra,” he said. It was as good a reason for his mood as any.

Mikey made a sympathetic face and packed his bag full of books. “What period?” he asked.

“First,” Frank answered. The bell rang, and he hadn't been to his own locker yet.

“Good luck,” Mikey said, closing his locker. When he walked away, Frank watched him, and maybe his eyes drifted down to where the seat of Mikey's pants clung damply to his ass.

*

Frank had signed up for two elective classes: Drama and Creative Writing. Drama was just an excuse to fuck around and talk to his classmates, but Creative Writing wasn't so easy. The teacher, Mrs. Beider, was passionate about writing, and tried her best to instil that same passion in her students. Frank, who thought this class was just going to be an easy A, was starting to dread it.

Mrs. Beider was handing out plain notebooks today, saying these were their new journals. They were to write in them every day, for the first ten minutes of class. She wouldn't read them, she explained, and would only look every so often to make sure they were being used.

Frank wasn't sure if he trusted her or not.

His first entry was simply: going to mikeys this weekend. mom and dad getting a divorce. can I curse in here? because it fucking sucks.

It was straight and to the point. Frank didn't see any point in writing more, so he spent the rest of his allotted time jotting down chords.

Then they studied poetry. So far they hadn't had to write anything, but Frank could feel it coming. He figured he'd write a song if he had to. Something angry and cool, maybe, full of what adults liked to call 'teenaged angst'. Nothing like Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine, because that didn't even make sense to Frank. He was sure his own poetry wouldn't mention sunshine in any way.

But then he thought of Mikey in the sun: the light on his skin – dancing – and the breeze moving through his hair.

He would never commit that to paper, though.

The melody he'd been hearing for days now drifted through his mind again, and he opened his journal to take it down.

*

Bob, Mikey, and Ray were on the couch, and Frank could have fit in there if he really tried, but the floor was just fine. Mikey had said they just hung on on Friday nights, but he hadn't said anything about horror movies. Frank was fucking stoked.

They were watching Night of the Living Dead, the 1968 Romero version. The rain hadn't let up outside, and Frank thought it added to the mood.

He leaned against the couch, legs crossed, and tipped his head back to grin at Mikey. “This is fucking awesome.”

Mikey smiled back, bigger than usual. He pressed his leg against Frank's side and said, “Yeah.”

It made Frank feel ridiculously warm inside.

After the movie, Bob and Ray hung out for a little while, just shooting the shit and talking about a new video game they were going to pick up on Monday. When they went home, Frank moved to the couch beside Mikey and picked up a half-empty bag of Fritos.

“I thought your brother would be here,” Frank said.

“He has to drive down,” Mikey explained. “Sometimes he doesn't get in until midnight.”

Frank looked at the clock; it was only nine.

“Do you want to go to a show with me tomorrow night?” Mikey asked, leaning closer and shoving his hand into the Fritos bag.

“Fuck yeah,” Frank said. “Is it all ages?” He had a fake ID, but it usually got laughed at.

“Yeah. The band is pretty good. I've seen them twice before.”

Frank leaned back against the sofa and looked at Mikey. The TV was still on, the only source of light in the room. Mikey's face was white with blue shadows and his glasses reflected the screen as double squares. Frank's stomach flipped and he thought, We're all alone now.

The side door snapped open and closed, and Frank heard stomping. The living room light turned on.

“Hello?”

Mikey shot up from the couch and grinned, wide and expectant. “Gee!”

Frank turned to get his first look at Gerard, blinking in the sudden light, and his first impression was wet. Gerard was wet, black hair dripping in his eyes, clothes clinging to him in a way that reminded Frank of a dog with all its fur matted to its body.

But then Gerard looked up at Mikey and smiled, and Frank's first impression melted away. Gerard was pretty. He had pretty eyes and a pretty smile, and maybe Frank was thinking the word 'pretty' too much, but it certainly fit.

“Hey you,” Gerard said, and Mikey said, “Hey.”

Frank felt like he was intruding on something special, so he hung back and didn't say anything. He watched Mikey's face and the emotions that rolled over it instead. Contentment was there, and love, and happiness. Frank had never seen Mikey so expressive. He decided he liked Gerard, even if he turned out to be a douche, if he could do that to Mikey.

“This is Frank,” Mikey said.

Gerard came over and held his hand out, like they were all grown-ups and this was a business meeting. “I'm Gerard.”

Frank smiled at him and shook his hand. He glanced at Mikey and noticed he looked nervous. He kept smiling.

“Mikey said I could spend the weekend,” Frank said, “but I don't want to cut in on your time together.”

Gerard smiled. “It's cool. I'm mostly gonna hide in the basement anyway.”

Mikey laughed and shook his head.

“Is there food? I'm starving,” Gerard said.

“We ordered pizza,” Mikey said, nodding to the box on the coffee table. “There's some veggie left.”

It had been really cool that Mikey had ordered a whole separate pizza for Frank. Just the thought made Frank smile again.

“Are you a junior, too?” Gerard asked around a mouthful of pizza.

“Sophomore,” Frank said. He liked that Gerard didn't make any assumptions because of his size.

“Yeah? Me too,” Gerard said with a smile.

Frank liked him. Gerard started talking about comics and the mutant idea he had for his own graphic novel, and Frank listened and butted in with a few suggestions. He didn't know if Gerard would take them, but he seemed interested in what Frank had to say about comics.

By the time Frank was ready to sleep, Gerard had already disappeared downstairs and Mikey was yawning.

Mikey brought Frank a blanket and Frank settled down on the couch to sleep, trying not to think of Mikey in his own room, in his own bed.

Even though he was tired, it took a long time for him to drift off.

*

The next day was lazy. Mikey's mom ('Call me Donna, sweetie') made herself scarce in the morning and went out shopping in the afternoon. Frank and Mikey played Rock Band, bitched about the amount of homework their teachers gave them, talked about Ray's ineptitude with girls, and marveled at Bob's ability to turn any surface into a drum. Frank loved talking to Mikey, not just because he liked him but because he was funny, too. Mikey would interject hilarious comments into the conversation, but because his voice was so dry, it usually took a beat or two for Frank to get it. But when he did, it made him laugh, high and happy. Mikey smiled at him when he got his jokes, like he wasn't used to anyone – but Gerard, probably – getting them.

By the time night came around, they'd gotten to know each other pretty well.

Gerard came out of hiding to drive them to the all-ages club. Frank answered some questions about being a vegetarian on the ride over, and both Gerard and Mikey were completely cool about it.

The show was great. The bar they ducked into was packed, kids everywhere. Frank recognized a few of them from school.

Mikey seemed to know everyone. He moved through the crowd easily, walking looser and less awkwardly than usual. Frank thought, He belongs here.

The music was pounding and the lights were down even though there was no one on stage. Frank looked around and found the DJ booth, then felt his heart sink. Pete was spinning, wearing a lime green hoodie and ridiculously large sunglasses. Mikey followed Frank's gaze and smiled.

Frank's stomach dropped out.

“I didn't know he'd be here tonight,” Mikey said, and made his way over to the DJ booth. Frank didn't follow, just watched from a safe distance.

Then Pete was hugging Mikey and kissing his cheek, obviously happy to see him and entirely too possessive for Frank's taste. Frank turned away and made his way to where some kids were moshing.

He threw himself into the circle, stomping and bumping violently against the other kids, trying to pound Mikey out of his head. He felt like punching something, so he punched into the air, narrowing missing someone's head.

Miraculously, he didn't start a fight.

The music ended, and Pete's voice sounded over the crowd, announcing the next band.

Sweat was running down Frank's face. He ran a hand through his damp hair as Mikey sidled up to him.

“Having fun?” Mikey asked. “Looked like you were.”

Frank nodded his lie, and Mikey peered into his face like he was looking for something.

“Look, Pete and me-”

Whatever Mikey had been going to say was drowned out by the first chord. Frank shrugged and paid attention to the band; he didn't want to hear about Mikey and his boyfriend anyway.

The band wasn't awesome, but they were pretty good, and the guitarist had some interesting riffs that Frank thought he could try to copy the next time he grabbed his guitar. One song led into another, without much pause between them, and Frank got caught up in the music.

Then the lead singer screamed, and Frank found himself screaming back with everything he had. His body hummed with it, and his opinion of the band changed. The driving beat of the drums, the barely-present bass, the melodic quality of the guitar, the angry vocals – it all came together into music that moved him.

Frank jumped and then bumped against Mikey, and he noticed Mikey was looking at him instead of the stage. Frank grinned, quick and manic, then focused on the band again. Something electric was happening, a current that flowed with the music into the messy, untamed crowd, and Frank loved it. He could only think: this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. There was nothing but the music; all of Frank's negative shit was pushed out of his mind.

When it ended, Frank felt the loss. Slowly, he came back to himself.

“Good, huh?” Mikey said to him.

Frank grinned and bumped his shoulder. “Understatement. They were awesome.”

Mikey smiled back, a real smile where he showed his teeth. “I thought you'd like them.”

“Are you kidding? I love them. When are they playing again?”

“Don't know. I guess you can ask,” Mikey said, nodding to the band who were now circulating and handing out glossy cards.

Frank headed their way, but noticed Mikey wasn't following. No, Mikey was going back to Pete, and jealousy twisted Frank's stomach.

The guitarist was closest, so Frank made a beeline straight to him.

“You guys were really awesome,” Frank gushed to him as soon as he was within speaking distance. The guy looked up and grinned, kind of crooked and shy, and it reminded Frank of Mikey.

“Thanks,” the guy said, offering Frank a card. Frank took it and looked it over, saw the dates on it and the MySpace URL, and nodded.

“This was my first time seeing you, but man, you guys have it,” Frank said. “Did you write the melodies yourself?”

Frank watched in fascination as the guy suddenly became more focused on him, his eyes sharpening and his body tilting into Frank's space.

“I did. Do you play?” the guy asked.

Frank liked that he could say, “Yeah, a little. I'm still learning, but I'm starting to write my own stuff.”

“I'm Jones,” the guy said, and Frank didn't know if that was his first or his last name but he guessed it doesn't matter.

“Frank,” he said. He spared a look back at the DJ booth, and immediately wished he hadn't. Mikey was sitting behind the tables with Pete in his lap, and they both looked completely intent on each other.

When Frank looked back at Jones, he noticed the guy was really looking at him, eyes grazing over his ink and his tight tee-shirt, up to his face to rest momentarily on Frank's lip ring. Frank knew the signs; Jones was checking him out. He thought for a minute that even though he was here with Mikey, he wasn't here with Mikey. He thought about the fact that Mikey was, instead, pretty fucking close to Pete right then. And Jones was a good guitarist, and he was hot.

Frank licked his lips and looked back. “I have to piss,” he said, and then turned to go to the men's. He felt more than saw Jones follow.

It was quick and messy. Frank liked to kiss his hookups, but Jones rocked back when Frank went for his mouth. Frank shrugged it away and concentrated on getting them off. He was ready to give head, actually looking forward to it, but Jones just wanted his hand. So they jerked each other off, Frank leaning against the sinks and thinking desperately of nothing but the music and the hand around his cock.

When it was over, Jones took off and Frank washed his hands. He stared into the dirty mirror, taking in the slightly dazed expression on his face, the glassy eyes, the unsatisfied quirk to his lips. He hadn't been expecting a phone number, but he would've liked a thanks, at least.

Mikey was waiting outside the men's when Frank walked out. He didn't look judgmental, didn't joke and call Frank a slut like he was used to from friends, but there was something else in his eyes Frank couldn't quite parse.

“Ready to go?” Mikey asked, pushing off against the wall and falling into step with Frank.

“In a hurry?” Frank asked. “Thought you'd want to spend more time with Pete.”

Mikey shrugged and didn't answer.

“You okay?” Frank asked. “You guys didn't get in a fight, did you?”

The smile Mikey gave him didn't reach his eyes. “No.” He spoke in the monotone Frank was getting used to. “So I see you really liked the band.”

Frank wondered if it was a jab, but the way Mikey said it, like he was talking about the fucking weather, put his mind at ease. He grinned and said, “I like good music.”

Mikey gave his head a shake and looked down at his feet. “I already called Gerard to come get us. Want to wait outside?”

Something was off with him, but Frank didn't know him well enough to recognize what it was.

“Sure,” Frank said, following him out. “I need a smoke anyway.”

They stood outside. Several people were there smoking, and some of them were passing out fliers for upcoming shows. One group of girls were very obviously drunk and hanging on each other to keep from falling flat on their faces. Frank looked at Mikey, expecting to exchange an amused look, but Mikey was looking down at his scuffed sneakers and not paying attention.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and Frank watched him try to blow smoke rings on the exhale. There was a tense set to his shoulders, and Frank wondered if he and Pete had fought after all. They'd looked happy enough before, though, so that probably wasn't it.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Frank asked him.

Mikey shrugged. “Sure.”

Then Gerard drove up and stopped in front of them, ducking his head to look at them through the open passenger side window. “Taxi's here,” he said.

Frank slipped into the back seat and Mikey got shotgun. Gerard asked them how the show was.

“Fucking amazing,” Frank said.

Mikey did the understatement thing again and said it was fine. Gerard looked at him sharply, asking if he was okay. Mikey shrugged and Gerard squeezed his shoulder before driving off. “We're talking later,” he promised.

Frank wondered what it would be like to have someone that concerned about him. He was still wondering when he took the couch while Mikey and Gerard ran off to talk in the basement. He wondered, as he fell asleep, if he was missing something.

*

When Frank came home Sunday night, his mom was sitting at the kitchen table, a mostly-empty glass of wine in front of her.

“Your dad moved out,” she said.

Frank went into his room and punched the wall.

*

Frank felt unsteady, as if the world were tilting constantly under his feet. School wasn't even normal yet; he still felt foreign, and the whispers of 'new kid' continued. He knew it would die down eventually, but for now he was still an alien, intruding on everyone else's turf.

Mikey wasn't in the boys' room when Frank checked, which was probably for the best. Frank didn't want to take his bad mood out on Mikey.

So instead of staying in the boys' room, Frank trudged to Phys. Ed. “I wasn't feeling up to it,” Frank said to the coach when she asked why he'd been absent the past week. “I get sick easily.”

She already had a note from Frank's file explaining the Epstein-Barr. Most people didn't know anything about it and would take the most outrageous claims as fact. If Frank said he felt like maybe he was getting sick and didn't want to overtax himself, it was taken with sympathy.

“Can you participate today?” she asked.

Frank made a show of giving a brave smile and nodding.

He ran laps for the first fifteen minutes. He hated it at first, but then the rhythm of his feet pounding the gym floor started to seep into his bones and he relaxed. He thought of drums, of the show Saturday night, of Jones, of Mikey's weird aloof thing, of his mother's drawn face and bloodshot eyes, of his fist through the sheetrock in his room. He kept running: running away and running towards something he couldn't see.

It was after, in the locker room, when things changed.

Frank was changing out of his gym clothes when the first taunts started. He didn't move at first; he was used to being picked on because he was small. But his endorphins were running high and he'd just spent the past hour going over and over his life in his head, so when one big guy loomed over him, he shoved.

Big Guy shoved back, and the others laughed and cheered him on.

Frank was the one who threw the first punch, but soon it didn't matter because the two of them were scrapping and fighting on the tile floor.

Frank headbutted the guy in the face and heard a sudden cry of pain. He hoped he'd broken the guy's nose.

Another guy decided to stand up for Big Guy, and Frank took fists to his eye, his nose, his lip. He could feel blood running over his face, made worse from the sweat. A foot kicked out into Frank's stomach and he doubled, holding himself at the waist.

Seeing Frank on the floor, moaning in pain, was enough for the group. They left, leaving him alone.

After he was able to get up, Frank cleaned himself up as good as he could on his own. He refused to go to the nurse – hopefully, he wouldn't get called to the office for this.

He kept his head down when he sat on the side steps for lunch.

Mikey did a double take, his eyes narrowing. Frank shrugged at his look.

“Who was it?” asked Bob.

“Some guys in P.E.,” Frank answered.

“How many of them were there?” Ray asked.

Frank shook his head. “I don't know. Six? Only two of them really did anything.”

Ray whistled. Mikey offered Frank his Little Debbie snack cake.

“Do you know their names?” Bob said, not dropping it like Frank would have liked.

Frank shook his head again and shrugged. “Doesn't matter. As long as no one tells. My mom'll give me shit for fighting again, though.” If she notices.

Mikey leaned against Frank's arm. He was warm from the sun, and just that little touch was enough to make Frank forget about his battered face. He leaned back, just friendly, and smiled even though it hurt his mouth.

*

Weeks moved by slowly.

Frank remained 'the new kid' because no other new kids came to school. He knew it would last awhile. The school started feeling normal and less alien, and Frank looked forward to seeing his friends every day.

He got to know Ray and Bob by spending more time with them. Ray was a giant dork, but he played guitar better than Frank and even taught other kids for money. He said he'd teach Frank for free.

Bob was into jazz. Frank had never met a kid who was into jazz before; he'd always thought that was for old people. But Bob, when he got on the subject, spoke animatedly about jazz styles and percussion and all kinds of historic influences Frank had never heard of before.

Frank decided he really liked them. Mikey chose his friends well.

“You going to finish that sandwich?” Ray asked. Frank looked at his peanut butter and jelly and shrugged, handing the other half over to Ray. His nose was starting to run and he couldn't really taste it anyway.

He prayed he wasn't getting sick. He wasn't coughing yet, so that was a good sign. He wished he'd thought to drink some orange juice this morning before school.

“You okay?” Mikey asked. “You look-” He finished the sentence with a wave of his hand.

Frank nodded. “I think I'm getting a cold or something.” He hoped that was all it was.

As the lunch hour ticked by, Frank started feeling worse.

Mikey put his hand – cool and caring – on Frank's forehead and said, “Jesus. You're burning up.”

“Shit,” Frank said. When the bell rung and he stood, he nearly toppled over. His head swam. “Dizzy.”

Bob put his arm around Frank's middle and said, “Let's get you to the nurse.”

“I'm fine,” Frank mumbled, leaning into Bob and feeling anything but.

“Sure, tough guy. Let's go.”

*

Frank avoided the hospital, narrowly, by fighting with his mom. She must have figured if he had the fight in him to argue, he could stay home. Frank didn't have enough left in him to be grateful.

He had trouble sleeping. The cold made its way into his lungs, making it difficult to breathe, and even with the steroids and nebulizer treatments, he had to work to push out every breath.

Two days into his illness, Mikey came to check on him. Frank was too weak to sit up and greet him, but Mikey didn't seem to mind. He sat on the edge of Frank's bed and looked at him awkwardly for a few minutes, then rested his hand in Frank's hair.

“We've missed you at school,” he said.

Frank grunted, then coughed. Mikey pushed some hair off Frank's forehead, so gentle, and Frank closed his eyes.

“Lay down with me?” Frank asked, his voice rough and weak.

Mikey didn't say anything until Frank opened his eyes again and looked at him.

“Okay.”

“Tired,” Frank said. “Can't sleep, fucking-” He coughed again, holding his stomach. It hurt.

“Scoot over a little,” Mikey said, and Frank did, slowly moving his body to make room for him.

Mikey stretched his legs out on the bed and lay back until his head was on the edge of the pillow.

“Your mom says you get sick a lot,” Mikey said.

Frank pressed against him, draped his arm over Mikey's middle. “Yeah.”

Mikey sighed, as if giving up on some mental fight, and wrapped an arm around Frank. “I'm sorry you feel like shit.”

“Better with you here,” Frank said, closing his eyes again.

Mikey's hand was making small circles on his back, relaxing him. Frank cuddled closer. He was close enough to hear Mikey swallow.

“Good,” Mikey said.

Frank felt himself drifting for a moment, and Mikey said something else but it was just on the edge of Frank's consciousness, too far away to understand.

He fell asleep.

*

Mikey wasn't there when he woke up, which was fine with Frank. He thought back on the cuddling and Mikey's cool hand in his hair and rubbing circles in his back, and felt embarrassed. It was as close as they had ever been, but it was because Frank was weak and ridiculously sick. It was something he'd want to try when he was well, but with Pete in the way, he doubted it would ever happen.

He felt better, until his father came to see him. Then his lungs seized up and he had a coughing fit that had his father backing slowly out of the room and calling for Mom.

“Maybe I shouldn't have come,” his father murmured, still loud enough for Frank to hear.

“He's angry and he's sick, and maybe you should have come when he was well and the two of you could actually talk,” his mom said. There was a deep anger to her voice, the way she sometimes got when Frank had just done too much for her to take. Except now it was directed at Dad, and Frank felt a malicious glee. He wanted her to be angry. He wanted her to stop it with the sad, lost expressions and just fucking lose it once in awhile.

They continued to talk, but Frank couldn't hear them any longer.

He noticed his lungs felt better once Dad was out of the room. He shook his head, tried to take a deep breath, and put some more Albuterol in the nebulizer. He hated the breathing treatments, they made him feel shaky, but they did help him breathe.

Even from upstairs, Frank could hear the front door slam. Mom came back up slowly – he heard the creaks of the stairs under her feet.

“So,” she said, sitting on the side of Frank's bed. Frank didn't answer, just looked at her, breathing in and out into the mouthpiece of the nebulizer.

She sighed. “I should have asked you before I invited him over.”

Frank shrugged.

She looked everywhere but at him, eyes roaming around the room, from the posters on the wall to the hole he'd put in the sheetrock. “You seemed to do better when your friend was here,” she said awkwardly. Then, “Is he your boyfriend?”

Frank studied her face. She didn't look pissed anymore, just curious, although she wouldn't look at him. He shook his head slowly.

“When I checked on you, you two looked … cozy. I just wondered.”

Frank shrugged.

“It's okay if you're gay, Frankie,” she said. “You don't have to hide it from me.”

A laugh bubbled up in his throat. She sounded so awkward.

He took the mouthpiece away and said, “I'm bi. But Mikey and me are just friends.”

She looked at him then, her eyebrow raised high.

“Really. Mikey's got a boyfriend and everything.”

Maybe something in his voice gave him away, or maybe she just had an instinct for these things, because she said, “But you like him.”

It made him blush. He hadn't in a million years thought the first person he'd admit this to would be his mom. “Yeah, I do.”

She nodded, as if everything made sense. “I had a boyfriend when I first met your dad.”

Frank thought, And look how well that turned out, but he wasn't feeling mean enough to say it.

“His name was Rory. The last I heard from him, he'd gone into law enforcement. Anyway, your dad was patient and friendly, not pushy. He dated other girls, too, didn't wait around for me or anything. But he was always there when I needed him, and one day I just realized I was in love with him and dumped Rory.”

“I don't think Mikey's going to dump Pete,” Frank said. “I think he really likes him.”

“You never know what will happen,” she said.

Frank's nebulizer started to spit and sputter, signaling the end of the treatment. He reached over and turned the machine off.

“Do you regret marrying Dad?” he asked.

She shook her head, not even thinking about the question. “Never. We were in love and had seventeen good years. And we had you,” she said. “I could never regret that.”

“I just don't get how you can have all that history and just stop loving each other,” Frank said. “Just... stop.”

“Oh, baby,” Mom said. “We still love each other. We're just different people now, and love … love just isn't always enough.”

It sounded like shit to Frank. He still blamed them, his father especially. “But he's the one having the affair.”

Mom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn't want you to find out about that, because then you'd blame Dad.” She ran a hand through Frank's hair, looking worn. “The affair is a symptom, not the cause. We were already drifting apart.”

“There's counseling,” Frank said. “You could have done that. Anything, I don't know.”

“We went to that retreat last year,” she reminded him. “We both hated it.”

Frank looked away from her. He didn't want to talk anymore, didn't want to hear her excuses. “I'm tired.” He was more than tired, he was sick, and sick of being sick, and sick and tired of hearing his mom defend the divorce.

“Okay,” she said, standing up. She didn't leave right away, just stood there and watched his face, as if she'd learn something there. “I wish you weren't so angry.”

“I'm allowed to be angry,” Frank said.

“Of course you are,” she said. “I just mean-”

“Don't,” Frank said, rolling on his side away from her. It didn't help his breathing at all, but he wanted to make sure she got the point. “I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

He didn't see her go, but he heard the snick of the door as it closed. He lay awake for hours, his anger ebbing and flowing, thinking of how two people who loved each other could just stop being a family, stop living together, take up with new people, and ruin his life.

*

“I told your teachers you were too sick to do homework,” Mikey said when Frank got back to school.

“You went around to my teachers?” Frank asked, a little mystified and a lot touched.

“Yeah. And they were all pretty good about it, especially Mrs. Beider,” Mikey said. Then, “I didn't know you were in Creative Writing.”

He must have gotten his schedule from the office.

“I thought it'd be an easy A,” Frank said with a rueful smile. “But she actually makes you do stuff.”

Mikey laughed. “I think I got you out of Phys. Ed. for awhile, after I told the coach how bad off you were.”

Frank made a face. While he was glad Mikey had visited when he was sick, he was still embarrassed about it – he didn't like anyone seeing him that weak, and he felt weird about the cuddling. Not bad weird, and Mikey hadn't seemed to mind, but still.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” he said. “Sorry if I was weird.”

“Everybody gets weird when they're sick,” Mikey said with a shrug, and that was the end of it.

Until, “What do you mean, weird?” Ray asked.

Frank felt himself blushing. Mikey just shrugged again. Ray looked at them both, like he was seeking out answers in their expressions. Then he smiled and told Frank he had a new opening on Wednesdays, if Frank wanted to learn more guitar.

“Thanks, man,” Frank said. “Really.”

“It's cool.”

“I'll find a way to pay you,” Frank said, even though his mom had been bitching about bills ever since his father left.

“Don't worry about it,” Ray said with a smile. “I get enough from other kids.”

“After school or after dinner?” Frank asked.

“Either is fine,” Ray said. “You can stay for dinner, even. My mom loves feeding people.”

“Cool. I'll ride the bus home with you, then,” Frank said.

*

Throughout the day, his teachers all expressed their sympathy over his illness, making Frank uncomfortable. He could see you poor, sickly boy in their eyes. In the past, that attitude usually led to him fighting the next group of bullies he came across, showing he was fine, he was strong, he was a scrapper.

But he didn't want to get expelled from this school. He had friends here. He had Mikey. He was starting to accept he would never have Mikey the way he wanted him, but he had him as a friend, and that was good, too.

“Selfishness,” Mrs. Beider was saying, writing the word on the board. “We are all selfish creatures. But to acknowledge it takes an inner knowing...”

The day's assignment was to write about recent instances in their lives in which they had been self-involved. The exercise, Mrs. Beider explained, was supposed to help them recognize that 'rational self-interest' was natural, but that it couldn't help but get in the way of the way they related to others.

Frank spent the first half of the class listening to her talk and then staring at his empty notebook.

He'd always heard the statement 'teenagers are selfish'. From teachers, from his parents, from other kids' parents, and even from other kids. He'd never thought it was true, but the way Mrs. Beider explained it, he probably was selfish.

He thought about his parents. He thought about the anger – why was he so angry? He wasn't angry for them, hadn't thought about what they must be going through. When he saw his mother's drawn face and unshed tears, he didn't feel for her; he just got angrier. He blamed and raged, and in turn the blame and rage ate at him and made him worse.

He didn't know where to start to write about that, though.

My parents are getting divorced he wrote, and the sentence stared at him until the bell rung.

“I didn't finish,” he told Mrs. Beider when the rest of the class had cleared out.

She took his single page with its single sentence anyway. “I'll let you work on it tomorrow,” she said, and handed him his journal. “Try writing about it in here, first.”

Frank bit his lip. “I don't even know where to start.”

“That's what the journal is for,” she said. “Write down everything you're feeling, until you know where to start.”

It sounded weird to Frank, but he shrugged and took the notebook. “Thanks for letting me have it outside of class,” he said.

“You're welcome,” she said. He guessed that was the end of it.

After school, the weight of the notebook seemed palpable. In a strange way, Frank couldn't wait to get home and write in his journal. If he wrote something too personal, he could always rip it out.

No one was home when he unlocked the door, so he went straight to his room and took out the notebook.

He wrote for two hours. He wrote about his parents and getting kicked out of schools, about bullies and hookups and music. He wrote about Mikey, and how he'd like to wipe Pete's stupid eyeliner off with fists and pavement.

His handwriting was bold and angry, as messy as his insides. He wrote 'fuck' a lot. And when he was done, when he read over what he had written there, he felt a twist of shame.

He'd been selfish. He'd been more than selfish, way past the 'rational self-interest' Mrs. Beider said was natural. Maybe it was true that most teenagers were selfish, but Frank didn't have to follow that mold. He liked to do things no one else was doing. He liked being different. So why did he have to be such a cliché?

When mom got home, she brought Greek: vegetarian for Frank and lamb kabobs for herself.

“Thanks,” Frank said, and hugged her.

She hugged back, surprised. “Good mood?” she asked.

“Not really,” Frank admitted. “But- I've been pretty shitty lately.”

Mom made that face she always did when Frank cursed, but she didn't call him on it. “You've been angry.”

“Yeah, but for all the wrong reasons,” Frank said. “I've been really selfish, and I haven't once asked you how you are feeling.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I've never heard you talk like this before.” She put a hand to his forehead. Frank wasn't sure if she was joking about a fever or if she was genuinely concerned.

“Um. So how are you feeling?” Frank asked. “About the divorce?”

Mom sat down at the table and opened a white carry-out bag, sorting hers from his. “Sad,” she said. “Really just … sad. I'm grieving the end of the marriage.”

“Not even a little angry?” Frank asked, taking his food.

“I was at first,” she said. She looked at him and smiled, probably to show she was okay after all.

“What changed?” Frank asked. He wished he could get over his anger as easily.

“I guess I just accepted it.” She shrugged and took a bite of her kabob, casual and too easy.

“How, though?” Frank wanted to know.

“I worked through it,” Mom said simply. “I told myself it was okay to feel whatever I was feeling, and gave myself permission to be angry, and then it just … tapered off. The anger turned to sadness, with a lot of guilt and depression thrown in before I accepted it, and now I guess I'm getting better.”

Frank nodded. Had he given himself permission to be angry, or had he just raged against the circumstances?

“And I've had much more time to get used to this,” she added. “I've seen it coming for much longer than you have.”

“I should've paid more attention,” Frank mumbled.

She leaned over and smoothed his hair. “We tried to hide it. We did, for as long as we could. There was always the chance we'd work it out, and we didn't want you hurting if we could help it.”

“Both of you?” Frank asked.

Mom smiled. “Both of us. You don't know how many nights your dad and I talked about you, about how you'd take this...”

Frank swallowed away the lump that was forming in his throat. “I didn't think Dad cared that much.”

“Oh, baby,” Mom said softly. “He loves you.”

A shrug was the only answer Frank could think of.

“We're trying to decide on the best custody arrangement for you,” she said. “Your dad thinks we should try the week on, week off approach. He's got an apartment not far from your school, so that much is worked out.”

“A week with you and then a week with Dad?” Frank said. “That doesn't sound so bad.”

Mom smiled. “I'll call him and let him know.”

“I'm still angry,” he said quietly.

“I know, baby,” she said. “But we'll get through it.”

Knowing that his dad wanted shared custody of him made him feel a little better, though. It wasn't like he was cutting them out of his life. His mom talked about it like they really wanted to work things out together for Frank's benefit, and that toned the rage down, made it almost reasonable.

He spread hummus on his pita and took a bite. He was glad his mom liked Skopelo's; they had the best roasted red pepper hummus.

She took him off guard by saying, “So what's going on with Mikey?”

Frank froze, pita halfway to his mouth, and said, “What?”

“Is that too prying?” she asked, her expression mischievous.

He shook his head and then, not knowing what to say, shook his head again.

“Does he still have a boyfriend?” she asked.

Frank shrugged. “Yeah. Mikey doesn't really talk about him, though.”

“Maybe it's not that serious,” Mom said. Frank heard the unstated 'Maybe you have a chance.'

He shook his head. “I think I've been a shitty friend,” he said. “I mean, I only started hanging out with Mikey because I wanted...” to get in his pants “to be more than friends. But I think now I'm gonna try to hang out with Pete, too. If Mikey likes him, he must be cool and all.”

“That's a very mature outlook, baby,” Mom said. Frank thought she didn't have to sound that surprised. “I'm proud of you.”

Frank shrugged and finished off his pita.

“I haven't gotten any calls from the school since you started,” Mom said. “It's
been a welcome change.”

Frank wanted to tell her about the fight in the locker room, but he held back. She would want to go to the school, to find out the names of the guys, and Frank knew that would lead to a bad time. So he kept his mouth shut and nodded. “I'm doing good in my classes, I think,” he said instead. “I'm taking Creative Writing as an elective. I kind of like it.”

“Writing?” she echoed, sounding surprised.

He smiled and thought of his journal. “Yeah. Mrs. Beider is really serious about it, but it's fun anyway. It's better than regular English; I haven't gotten marked down for a comma splice or a sentence fragment yet.”

“Wow,” she said. “I usually can't get you to talk about school at all, and here you are singing the praises of a teacher.”

Frank laughed and finished off his container of fasolakia. They sat for awhile, until the darkness outside intruded and they had to turn on a light. Mom asked if he had homework, and Frank went reluctantly to his room to do his Spanish.

It had been the most they'd talked since the word 'divorce' had first been uttered. Maybe longer than that, he marveled quietly. It was good to know his mom was there for him, and he made a promise to himself that he'd be there for her more often, too.

*

Mikey went with him to Ray's on Wednesday afternoon. Ray's mom was cheery and fed them a recipe she'd found online. “Ever since you said you were a vegetarian, I've been looking for what to feed you,” she said. “I think you'll like this.”

It was lasagna with carrots, broccoli, and zucchini. It fairly dripped cheese, making every bite chewy and delicious. Frank loved it and raved about it to everyone at the table, thanking Ray's mom enthusiastically.

The guitar lesson went slowly at first, Frank a little self-conscious because Mikey was watching. Then Ray smacked Frank in the arm and told him to pay attention, and from then on it went more easily.

“You're a lot better than last time,” Ray said. Frank had realized that already, but now he grinned.

“I'm not fucking up the chords anymore, you mean,” he said.

Mikey nodded from the corner.

Frank could have explained about his talk with his mom, and about writing his essay. Instead, he said, “I'm feeling a lot less mixed up lately.”

Mikey was looking at him with shrewd, searching eyes. Frank looked back and raised an eyebrow. Mikey copied the motion; his eyebrow-raise was much more impressive. It made Frank grin, then Mikey was smiling back and Ray was smacking Frank's arm again and telling him to, “Pay attention!”

They made it through another chord change, and Frank nailed it. He brought out a notebook and said, “I've had this melody in my head...” ever since I met Mikey.

Ray looked it over and tried to play it. For once, Frank was the one who said, “No, like this,” and showed Ray what he meant.

“This is really good,” Ray said. “Have you thought of words?”

“Not really,” Frank said. “It's just something I kept hearing and had to get down.”

“It sounds like longing,” Ray said, entirely too perceptive.

Frank shrugged. “It's not meant to be,” he lied.

Ray played it again, this time without stopping, and Frank's gaze drifted over to Mikey. Maybe it was the music and maybe it was Frank's face, but Mikey looked like he got it. Frank glanced away quickly, blushing.

Ray looked up from his guitar, at Frank, at Mikey, then back down again. “I'm gonna go get snacks,” he said. He put his guitar down and left the room, leaving Mikey and Frank alone together.

Mikey looked like he wanted to say something, so Frank bit his lip and waited. At least two whole minutes passed before Mikey opened his mouth.

“I don't know if this matters,” he said, “but Pete and me aren't … together. Not anymore.”

Frank didn't know what to think. “You broke up?”

“We were never really together. Not seriously or anything,” Mikey said, which was ridiculous because of course they were.

“Could have fooled me,” Frank said, smiling a little to take the bite out. “What happened?”

Mikey shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “It does. Because I care about you, and if he hurt you I'll kick his ass.”

Mikey looked amused rather than worried.

“And I've been a shitty friend,” Frank said slowly. Like he'd been a shitty son. “I can be pretty self-involved.”

“I've noticed,” Mikey said, but he sounded fond. “It's okay.”

“My parents are getting a divorce,” Frank blurted, then looked down at his guitar and struck an angry chord.

Mikey came closer, crouched down beside Frank's chair, and looked up at him. His eyes were steady. “Do you want to talk about it?”

And Frank realized he was doing it again. “No, I mean, this isn't about me. I'm just trying to explain. I want to be there for you, like I want to be there for my mom. I was a shitty friend, never getting to know Pete, calling him a douche behind your back...”

“Pete is a douche,” Mikey said with half a smile.

Frank wanted to say, I like you. I want to kiss you. I want to be your boyfriend, and go to prom with you, and blow you in the boys' room during your study period. But that was too many 'I statements', and once again very self-involved. He wanted to do this right.

He asked, “So what happened with Pete?”

Mikey shrugged. “I dumped him.”

“Wow. What did he do?” Frank asked.

“It's not so much what he did, but what he didn't do,” Mikey said, and a pink blush crept up his face until it reached his ears.

Frank frowned at him.

“I don't want to sound like an asshole or anything,” Mikey mumbled.

“I'd never think you were an asshole,” Frank said, letting his feelings slide into the words.

“I don't think Pete's gay. Or bi. Or anything but straight,” Mikey said haltingly.

Frank thought of Pete hanging all over Mikey, sitting on Mikey's lap, and made a 'huh?' noise.

“He was cool with kissing,” Mikey said. “I mean, we made out a lot. But once things started getting … you know, heavier? He'd just. He'd stop. And we went out for months, so it wasn't just that he wasn't ready.”

“Wow,” Frank said.

“I gave him a blowjob,” Mikey said miserably, “And he was really awkward about it. He kept thanking me, but … then he ran off and the next time I saw him I broke up with him.”

“Wow,” Frank repeated.

“Yeah,” Mikey said, and blew out a breath.

Frank didn't know what to say. He managed, “That sucks, man.”

Mikey looked up at him. “It did. It still does, really. But I talked to Gerard about it and Gerard always makes things make sense, you know? In his own way.”

“Good,” Frank said. He let his hand fall on Mikey's shoulder and rest awhile.

*

At lunch the next day, Ray kept sending him looks, until finally Frank got up, pulled him to the side, and said, “What the fuck?”

“You should ask him out,” Ray said.

“Who?” Frank said, even though he knew the answer.

Ray rolled his eyes and whispered, “Mikey.”

Frank looked over his shoulder and saw that Mikey was watching. Bob looked very interested in his tuna on rye. Frank sighed and shook his head. “He just broke up with Pete,” he said. “I don't want to be that guy.”

“What guy?” Ray asked.

“You know,” Frank said. “The guy who takes advantage. Or worse, the rebound.”

“What are we talking about?” someone said, and when Frank looked up he saw Pete.

Frank looked at Mikey immediately, feeling strangely protective. Mikey just smiled at Pete like nothing was wrong, and Ray gave Frank another pointed look.

“Dating,” Ray said lightly, taking his seat again.

“Who's dating?” Pete asked, sitting next to Mikey. He wrapped his arm around him and Mikey's expression went from okay to less-than-okay.

“Not us,” Mikey said.

Pete's face fell. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I still love you.” Like he didn't care who knew it. Frank was impressed.

Mikey sighed. “I know.”

Frank wanted to talk to Pete, tell him that sometimes people loved each other but it just wasn't enough. It was weird thinking about him without anger or jealousy getting in the way.

The bell rang, and Pete kissed Mikey's cheek before grabbing his bag and running off. Mikey watched him go, a blank expression on his face.

Frank looked at him, said, “Are you okay?”

Mikey nodded. “Yeah. I mean, we're still friends.”

“Must be hard,” Frank said. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and picked up his book bag.

“It's been a few weeks,” Mikey said. “I've gotten used to it. And Pete's just Pete. You can't stay mad with him.”

“A few weeks?” Frank said. “I thought this just happened.”

Mikey shook his head. “It happened while you were sick.”

“And you didn't tell me?” Frank asked. It hurt, a little, that he had only found out the day before.

“You were taking breathing treatments and shit,” Mikey said. “I didn't want to be crying to you when you felt like that.”

In other words, Mikey cared about him, and thought about his feelings, and was a much better person than Frank was.

“Before or after you came to visit me?” Frank asked slowly.

“What does it matter?” Mikey asked, and sighed. “Before.”

They got up and started walking reluctantly into the building. Frank wanted to know more, more about Pete and why Mikey had come to visit him when he was sick in the first place, and how Mikey felt and thought right now.

But Mikey said, “I've got to get to History,” and left Frank standing there next to his locker.

*

Saturday night was becoming show night, when Frank and Mikey went out and supported local bands. Some of the bands sucked but a few were just awesome.

Tonight's band was mediocre, but the music had a good beat and Mikey and Frank were dancing. Not too close; Frank was trying to respect boundaries even though he wanted to grind against Mikey until they were nothing but one sweaty, oversexed body.

So Frank did the next best thing and danced with someone else, then another and another. He tried not to pay attention to who Mikey was dancing with.

Someone came behind him and ground against his ass. When they kissed his neck, Frank closed his eyes and let his head rest against a tall shoulder. They moved together, until he heard, “Turn around,” against his ear.

He did, and looked straight into Mikey's eyes.

“This a joke?” he asked, loud over the music as his stomach did a flip. He thought, just for a second, that Mikey was laughing at him.

But Mikey shook his head and danced closer, his hands on Frank's hips. Frank went with it for the moment, wrapping his arms loosely around Mikey's neck, and watched him closely.

Frank had never been good at nuance or subtlety, and he felt he was missing something important. But when Mikey tilted his head and pressed his lips against Frank's, Frank-

Frank pulled away and walked quickly – okay, ran – out of the club.

He lit a cigarette as soon as he was outside, walked into the alley, and banged his head back against the brick wall. It hurt, but so did this thing with Mikey. It had always hurt, as much as it felt good.

“What the fuck, Frank?”

Frank turned and saw that Mikey had followed him out.

“I should be asking you that,” Frank fired back. “What was that back there?”

“I thought it was a kiss,” Mikey said, clearly irritated. It was rare that Mikey let his feelings known, only let them seep into his voice and face when he really meant it, and that made Frank even more confused.

“I don't want to be your rebound,” Frank mumbled.

“Jesus fucking Christ are you stupid,” Mikey said. “You wouldn't be. You aren't. You're... you're Frank, and you're my best friend.”

Frank snorted. “Then why do you want to kiss me?”

“Because I like you, fuckwit,” Mikey shot back. Then quieter, “And I know you like me.”

Frank knocked his head back against the wall again, and Mikey grabbed him, pulled him close.

“Don't be an idiot,” he said. “You'll hurt yourself.”

“I'm not good boyfriend material,” Frank said. “I'm selfish-”

“I know,” Mikey said, holding on to Frank's shoulders. “I don't care.”

Frank opened his mouth to say, No, you don't know the half of it, I really am- but then even his thought was cut off as Mikey kissed him.

Mikey's lips were cool but his tongue was hot, and the odd combination made Frank want to know more, to find out everything, and he kissed back. He pulled Mikey closer until their bodies pressed tight, sweaty shirts sticking together, denim rubbing against denim.

Frank felt the wall bump against his back as Mikey pressed him into it, and then Mikey was kissing him harder, sliding his hands down Frank's sides and then up under his shirt.

“Your tattoos drive me wild,” Mikey whispered, touching Frank's stomach lightly. Frank moaned and arched into Mikey's hands, fighting the urge to rut against him.

“You were right,” Frank panted against his mouth. “I'm fucking crazy about you, Mikeyway.”

Mikey grinned, sharp and quick, and tugged at Frank's lip ring with his teeth.

“Gerard's gonna be here to pick us up soon,” Frank finally said after they'd been making out for what felt like hours. “I don't want to piss him off.”

Mikey shifted his hips, and Frank felt his erection against his thigh. “Yeah, okay, just...”

And Frank understood, Frank knew how good this felt. He didn't want it to end, either. “We can do this at home,” he said reluctantly. Mikey nodded, rested his head against Frank's, and nodded again.

“Okay. I'm holding you to that.”

*

Mikey and Frank waited patiently for Gerard to finish talking. He was on a rant about the casting of Captain America, really on a roll, and Mikey and Frank exchanged looks throughout. The looks said:

-Is he for real?

-I can't believe it's after midnight and he's still talking about Cap.

-I can't believe we were kissing.

-I can't believe we're going to do it again.

-I can't believe he's this invested.

-Am I your boyfriend now?

-Can we just leave him here to rant at the walls?

-Isn't he tired?

And on, and on, until Mikey finally said, “Look, Gee, we're going to my room now.”

Gerard blinked and said, “Together?” Then, “Oh! I'm sorry, I'll just go to bed...” He smiled at them both, doting, proud, protective, and added, “Do you have condoms?”

Mikey groaned and shooed him away.

“We won't need condoms, will we?” Frank whispered, partly joking but partly worried. Not that he was against full on, balls-deep sex, he just wasn't ready for it yet.

Mikey shook his head and led him up the stairs into his room. “I just want us to feel good,” he said, and pushed Frank down onto the unmade bed.

“Me too,” Frank said, then let Mikey climb on top of him and kiss him senseless.

They made out for awhile, turning on their sides and back again, really getting to know the feel of each other's bodies, until Frank finally rolled on top of Mikey and straddled him, grinning down. “I like this.”

Mikey grinned back at him and said, “I like this, too.”

His hands roamed up under Frank's shirt until Frank just gave up and took the thing off. Mikey traced his tattoos with light fingers until he giggled and let him know he was ticklish. Mikey smirked but firmed his touches, hands sliding up to pinch Frank's nipples.

Frank moaned and arched against Mikey's hands, then settled back down to kiss him. It was wet and sloppy and just perfect, like they were made to kiss each other.

“I've wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you,” Frank admitted, his eyes closed and his lips brushing against Mikey's as he spoke.

“Me too,” Mikey said, and kissed him some more.

They started rocking against each other, slowly at first but then faster as they both sought more friction. Mikey lightly bit Frank's neck.

“I don't wanna come in my pants,” Frank said, “but if you do that again, I might.”

“Do you want to...” Mikey said, trailing off at the end.

“Get naked?” Frank said, grinning. “Yeah. We can do that.”

He wriggled out of his tight jeans at the same time Mikey was getting out of his, and when he looked down again, Mikey was naked except for his tee-shirt. Frank gave him a challenging look and then Mikey took his shirt off, too.

There was so much skin, and Mikey was pale and skinny and all Frank's to touch. He didn't though, not right away; he let his eyes drift down Mikey's body first. When his gaze met Mikey's cock, his mouth watered.

“Can I blow you?” Frank asked, still staring.

Mikey swallowed audibly. “If you want.”

Frank slid down the bed and nuzzled Mikey's cock, then licked a wet stripe up its length. “I want,” he said, then took the head into his mouth, sucking lightly.

Mikey sunk a hand into Frank's hair and held him there, watching him. Frank looked up at him, knowing his pupils were probably dilated, large and black with something that could only be called lust.

Mikey swallowed again and licked his lips. “More,” he said, and Frank obliged, taking him deeper, running his tongue against the underside. Mikey made a low noise and said it again, “More,” and Frank bobbed his head and moaned around him.

Frank shifted until he could rub off against the sheets, getting off so thoroughly on sucking Mikey off that he couldn't do anything but hollow his cheeks, take Mikey deeper, and then rock against the bed. He did it slowly at first, but then as Mikey moaned and urged him on he went faster, so it was suck-rock-deeper-thrust, again and again until he felt Mikey tense under him.

“I'm gonna come,” Mikey said, voice barely above a whisper.

Frank took him even deeper, until he could feel Mikey in his throat, and then Mikey was coming in his mouth, messy and fabulous.

Frank swallowed, then wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked fast and hard, until he was coming right after. He looked up at Mikey's dazed expression, licked come from his lips, and smiled. “Good?”

“Uh huh,” Mikey said, and pulled Frank up, until they were snuggled together, close and comfortable.

“Can I call you my boyfriend now?” Frank asked against Mikey's neck.

“You'd better,” Mikey said, then yawned loudly.

Frank smirked and squeezed him. “I wore you out.”

“And you have to be smug about it, don't you?” Mikey said.

“Go to sleep,” Frank laughed. He felt lighter than he had in months.

“Mmm,” Mikey said, getting the last word in.


END