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| Title: Kill The Cool Kids. [Maybe Today, 10/10] Author: ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} takkatakkatakkaPairing: Brendon Urie / Mikey Way, William Beckett / Ryan Ross Plot Summary: Mikey Way paints his sneakers and ties ribbons onto his umbrella and uses coffee as a projectile. Brendon just kind of meanders around, watching Will & Grace, serving Mikey diet cokes and being in love. And then Brendon gets himself involved, and what follows is potassium-vampires, evil granola, al fresco lounge sets, and one very hissy Ryan Ross... Chapter Summary Say hello to the happyhappy ending. Rating: PG-15? mentions of the big dirty. POV: Third, Brendon-centric. Disclaimer: It still isn’t true. Maybe… [It isn’t.] Dedications This is dedicated tearfully to all of you wonderful, wonderful people who have commented me. I love you. Very especially those of you I ended up having crazy-random long conversations with [you know who you are]. And those of you who quoted me. You’re all mini Jesuses. Warnings: HighSchool!MikeyWay who isn’t shy or grumpy. Believe. A/N: Final Chapter. *sobs.* Again; you’ve been great, guys. If you haven’t read this yet… I’d like you to. I’ve endeavoured to pack it full of quirkiness and dork-humor and phrase-chorus-things, and I want it to be another nice little thing in your life. Have fun with it. Tell me about it. I love you. One – Maybe, Baby Two – The Great Pretender Three – Some Might Say Four – Stupid Kind Of Love Five – Feels Like Tonight Six – I’m Asking You Seven – Make Damn Sure Eight - In Your Face Nine – The Sky is Probably Blue Mikey says, maybe it was under the table in the library, when Brendon said, “Are you sure it’s the table that’s the problem?” Brendon said that straight after Mikey had said, “Tables don’t make good canvases.” It was at the beginning of that Chem lesson. Mikey says, maybe that was when the shoe finally hit the door. Mikey’s metaphors don’t make a lot of sense, but Brendon still gets what he means and it makes him happy, maybe right through his buzzing brain. Brendon doesn’t even remember saying that, but maybe he was too nervous at the time to put any conscious effort into his memory. And maybe his brain didn’t pick up the slack. He forgives it, because right now he has someone to remind him. It’s six in the morning, and Mikey hasn’t got his glasses on, and he looks maybe a little younger, with his squinty eyes blinking down at Brendon. Except he’s stroking Brendon’s hair like maybe Brendon’s the kid, so maybe not. “So what was so great about when I said that?” Brendon asks. Mikey takes a big, breathy laugh, which raises Brendon’s head with it, because Brendon’s head is on Mikey’s chest right now. Maybe Brendon shouldn’t think about that, though. Not right now, when he maybe needs to focus. Mikey’s chest… Maybe Mikey just said, “I don’t know. Your voice just went all low and serious, like, ‘Ah yes, Mikey’s table drawings, I see.’ Oh yeah, and your jeans were really tight that day.” Brendon can’t be sure that he said that, though, because he got distracted ghost writing on Mikey’s stomach. Maybe he should really pay attention. Without turning around to look at him, Brendon says, “Is it okay that sometimes I don’t pay attention?” Mikey tilts his head, maybe considering it. “It’s okay if the reason you aren’t paying attention is because of my general hotness.” Brendon’s maybe been distracted by Mikey’s ribs again, so he just says, “Mm, okay,” which makes Mikey laugh really loudly for a really long time, and Brendon maybe hits him, just a love-pat, to demonstrate his annoyance at not being able to lie on Mikey’s chest anymore. Mikey stops laughing again, slowly, like maybe Brendon did something wrong, and then says, “What, so this is an abusive relationship now?” his smile is a little cuter than maybe it would be if he had his glasses on, so Brendon just leans up a little, mumbling, “Relationship,” really quietly, just to prove that maybe it was the most important word in that last sentence. Mikey smiles into the kiss and then they go quiet except maybe the occasional deep breath through one of their noses. The room still isn’t silent, though, because of course Mikey has these huge speakers right next to his bed that he swears he stole from an office building in the city one night. Brendon thinks maybe he’s making that up, but he flexed his ‘muscles’ when telling Brendon the story so maybe there’s some truth in it. Anyway, they’re hooked up to Mikey’s iPod [Mikey calls it his ‘pod of I’], and there’s music playing. For a second, Brendon thinks, maybe Mikey made a playlist, of songs to play when we finally get together. The song that comes on right after he wonders that is ‘United States of Whatever.’ So maybe not. Mikey pulls away from Brendon, laughing a little, but also maybe blushing a little. “Sorry. I think that was on a mix-tape Frank made me.” He reaches for his iPod, and just manages to hit the skip button. But now he’s stuck leaning over the bed without any real sense of where he is. Brendon maybe chooses to sit back and torture him instead of helping. Maybe this is and abusive relationship. Yay, relationship! Brendon says, happily, “Are you okay?” Mikey just says, “Mmph. Glasses.” He shrugs. “I can’t see them,” he says innocently, maybe picking Mikey’s glasses up from the floor where they got thrown off last night [last night!] and twirling them between his fingers. Mikey just lunges for him across the bed, snagging the glasses with one hand and pinning Brendon down with the other. Brendon maybe squeals a little, but it’s maybe mostly because they haven’t put shirts on yet and Mikey’s skin is on his skin and it’s just nice. Like when you bury your hand in beach sand in the summer, just because of how it feels on your fingers. Soft and warm and maybe a little safe. Mikey slips his glasses on and then resumes looking down on Brendon in a maybe really hot way. Talking fast, as if maybe Mikey could seriously hurt him, Brendon says, “You can’t take advantage of me. I’ll scream, and wake up all your family and then they’ll hate you.” He nods furiously to prove the point. Mikey smiles, not moving except to hold up a finger. “Correction,” he says, “They would hate you. We have some sort of weird, tribal loyalty that would compel them to eat you. But no, you won’t wake them up. Gerard will be awake anyway, and these parents have, like, immunity to noise. Believe me. We tested them once. Frank, screaming, right in my mom’s ear. Nothing.” Brendon remembers Frank screaming at that maybe terrible, maybe wonderful concert, and then says, “Wow.” He means wow at Mikey’s mom not waking up, but he also maybe means wow at Mikey’s nose like, an inch away from his own. Maybe less than an inch. A millimetre. Brendon says to Mikey, “I’m going metric for you.” Mikey nods, like Brendon hasn’t just said something completely random, and murmurs, “Okay, good.” Then he pushes himself up a little, to give Brendon some room, and his warm weight is gone from Brendon and it’s maybe more comfortable but also maybe less… balmy. He wants the closeness back. The soft warm beach sand, with less grains and more person. It isn’t that tough to deal, though. Mikey’s still hovering over him, smiling down, with his glasses still maybe about to fall off of his nose, and he says, “What about your parents?” Brendon shrugs. “What about them?” Mikey laughs, again, and completely pulls away, falling back to the other side of the bed, and resting his head on a pillow, staring at the ceiling. Mikey’s pillow and sheets are embroidered with a map, what Mikey had explained last night to be the tube map of the London Underground. Mikey says, “Tell me about them.” He sits up on his elbows again, looking at where Brendon’s maybe having a little difficulty extracting himself from the blanket, and says, in a maybe seductive tone, “I want to know you, baby.” Brendon knows it’s only a joke, but that doesn’t stop his stomach from doing maybe the tiniest warmest nicest little thing, maybe like when he sees Gerard’s car or something. He strokes the thick blue line on the sheet under his fingers and thinks about Mikey saying ‘Victoria Line.’ Brendon says, “They’re just parents,” and crawls up to lie next to Mikey, head next to him on the pillow, staring at the ceiling together. Mikey’s creative license has not been restricted to his walls. The hectic graffiti that adorned the underside of that table in the art history section, the graffiti that Brendon’s comments on hooked Mikey silently without them even knowing, well, that’s here too, all over Mikey’s ceiling in dashed, uneven lines of vibrant pavement chalk. Actually, on the space of ceiling right above the bed someone’s drawn out a game of hopscotch. Next to the headboard of Mikey’s bed is written, “Mikey and Ryan will rule the world and people will pay to see photos of this message.” It’s dated from maybe about six years ago and it makes Brendon laugh, thinking of Ryan younger and maybe a tiny bit less eloquent. Brendon says, “My mom makes cupcakes, like, all the time. And my dad works a lot, but he tries to talk to me when he’s home.” Mikey turns away from the ceiling, smiling. “Oh yeah? When I came round on Sunday, she offered me a cupcake.” Brendon breathes out through his teeth, maybe making the same sound Pete Wentz did all those centuries ago, the ‘chhh.’ He says, “When you came round on Sunday,” and then stops to hit Mikey again because seriously, when Mikey came round on Sunday. Mikey laughs. “I was so fucking soaked.” “Yeah, and who’s fault was that?” Brendon feels like maybe he’s turned into Mikey’s mom or something, but whatever. “You didn’t put your jacket on ‘til you were on my street.” One of Mikey’s eyebrows goes up. “You were watching me from the window?” Brendon realizes his stupid mistake and yes, okay, maybe he was watching Mikey from the window but haven’t they already established that maybe Brendon is a love-sick idiot and can maybe move past that now? And why does Mikey have to be intelligent enough to make that connection? Why? “Maybe.” Mikey laughs. “It’s cool. I would’ve watched you, too.” The little flip in Brendon’s stomach when Mikey says that, maybe the eighty ninth one since they got into Mikey’s room last night, hopefully that little flip goes unnoticed. Mikey’s still talking. “I thought you were going to bitch fit me when I walked in. You were so… argh on Saturday night.” He looks at Brendon expectantly, like maybe he stands a chance of getting Brendon to admit that the reason he was so angry on Saturday night was that Mikey had left him on his own for like, seven minutes. Yeah, no. Brendon just says, “I wasn’t argh. I was hmph, maybe. But not argh.” And then, like an afterthought, he says, “Your brother’s band is good.” Mikey smiles, maybe a little bashfully this time, as if maybe any compliment paid to Gerard is a compliment paid to Mikey as well. Brendon makes a mental note – must pay Gerard more compliments. Mikey says, “I’m actually in their band. Like. I’m a member. Of it.” Brendon’s too busy trying to pull Mikey’s arm out from where it’s folded under Mikey’s head to register how Mikey isn’t really looking at him anymore, or to decide that maybe he shouldn’t push the issue. So he does push the issue. He says, finally managing to extract Mikey’s arm and laying it out so it’ll make a comfortable pillow, “You’re not.” Mikey nods, and it makes Brendon’s head jiggle a little, which is maybe awesome. “I am. I play bass for them. Just, like… Not that night.” “Oh yeah?” Brendon says, thinking, aha, another reason why Mikey is maybe a little too awesome for his own good. But that’s okay, I can help him handle it. Handle it, haha, last night. Brendon keeps talking through this, to prove that maybe somewhere inside he’s still sane. “How come you weren’t playing, then, hot stuff?” Haha, Brendon just called Mikey Way hot stuff. Mikey mumbles something. Brendon takes this as an opportunity to maybe sidle closer to him, and Mikey’s arm-pillow curls up around him, pulling him closer, which is nice, except Mikey’s still not looking at him. But maybe Brendon can deal, okay? If he can just have the warm weight of Mikey right next to him, he can deal with not Mikey’s eyes. Although maybe they’d be really nice too – like, the full set. Of Mikey’s body. Body… Focus, Brendon. After a second where Brendon maybe blows a tendril of Mikey’s hair just to see it move, he says, “What?” Mikey says, “Imnnnprrrrnnnuu.” Brendon is reminded of the first time they spoke when Mikey picked up his glasses and bestowed him the gift of sight and Brendon just mumbled for a while after calling him Mikey Way. The way he mumbled then, where you’re maybe speaking but you maybe don’t want the other person to hear what you’re saying? That’s how Mikey’s talking now. So, Brendon says, “You smell nice, but I can’t hear you.” He’s hoping that maybe if he throws a compliment into the mix Mikey will be able to talk normally again, although in hindsight whenever Mikey compliments Brendon he becomes a nervous giggling wreck and can’t speak for a while anyway, so maybe not. But the point still stands that it’s true. Mikey smells like old scarves and crumbled biscuits and Brendon’s sweat. Tingly. After a reluctant pause, Mikey says, “You know how when like, I don’t know… you write a poem or something? And you like it, and someone’s said it’s good and whatever? And you read it out to some people and they like it? But then you get asked to read it in front of someone who could really judge you on it, who it really matters if they might not like it? Like… that. I didn’t want to play in front of you.” The last sentence comes out in a rush, and maybe Mikey said it so fast Brendon didn’t quite hear it properly. Well, maybe he did, maybe he heard it fine, but he could do with hearing it again anyway, so he says, “Hm?” against Mikey’s neck and then when Mikey says, “I didn’t want to play in front of you,” again, Brendon kisses the little space between his collarbone and the base of his neck because, yeah. He made Mikey nervous. His arms are trapped somewhere between Mikey and Mikey, and they ache a little, but it’s so okay it’s weird. Maybe he’s becoming a masochist, Brendon thinks. But the only pain he likes is the sort of pain that allows him to be in the right position for Mikey to kiss him again, like that. Which he does, a second later. Then Brendon, for some reason, says, “I wrote you a poem,” and he’s not quite sure why. Maybe it’s the warmth of the room at six in the morning, or the sight of the streetlight outside Mikey’s window blinking out, or Mikey’s hand on his thigh. Maybe that was what made him say it. Mikey blinks and pushes his lips together like maybe he’s trying not to laugh, but maybe it’s the sort of laughter you do when you’re really, really happy about something. Or maybe Mikey’s just laughing at Brendon because Brendon wrote him a poem. But he’s allowed to do that now, because Ryan said Mikey finds Brendon adorable and that’s just enough. Mikey says serenely, “You wrote me a poem.” Brendon just nods and then pulls away, which is maybe really difficult because as soon as he’s out of arms reach Mikey starts making lazy grabby hands at him, and it’s really, really hard to resist. He starts to rifle through his bag, which is on the floor under Mikey’s desk, next to something that looks worryingly like a crystal ball. He finds it after maybe a few seconds frantic searching, frantic because it’s cold over here away from the tube-map sheets and tingle smells and Mikey. He’s got the poem, the one he wrote in Math the day after Mikey took him to Spencer’s place and then brought him home again. It’s maybe a little crumpled, and the pink blobs that were supposed to be boxes of granola on fire look even worse than last time, but the words are still there, un-faded. There’re the four lines of lyrical genius he added after sitting with Mikey that lunch period, and then the final line he scrawled after finding Pete Wentz here and maybe going kind of crazy bitch. When Mikey reads the poem out, his arm’s around Brendon and he laughs so hard it shakes Brendon’s shoulders too, and it’s so difficult to be offended when someone he’s maybe in love with is so close to him he’s shaking when they touch him. Even if maybe Mikey thinks Brendon’s poetry skills aren’t that good. Although, maybe he’s only laughing at the last line, in which case maybe that’s really cool, because it means everything Brendon was worried about on Sunday night is completely void. Mikey kisses Brendon’s forehead, and it’s maybe kind of awesome how he can just do that now, and he says, “We have to show this to Ryan. Oh god, he’d kill you. Or try to excommunicate you, or something. Can you pass me that pen?” Brendon’s eyes widen a little bit at the thought of maybe showing this to Ryan, and then he reaches over to the table next to Mikey’s bed and tries to find a pen amongst the badges and CD cases and earmarked books and fragmented seashells. There’s only one pen there, and it’s pink, in the shape of a ballerina, complete with a frilly feather tutu sticking out the middle. He hands it to Mikey, who nods and says, “This is Carina.” Brendon just kind of shrugs helplessly again, as Mikey takes Carina and uses her ball-point feet to add one more line on the end of the poem, the kind of line where when Brendon reads it they have to stare at each other for a while to prove this is real and not some cruel, maybe about to end dream. It isn’t. * The sound of Mikey’s alarm four minutes later is nearly enough to make Brendon cry, and it’s maybe only because of the distinct nature of the sound that he doesn’t. It appears to be a looped recording of Gerard singing the chorus of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade.’ He’s a lovely singer, and his artistic flair rends the cover a musical delight [this is how Mikey puts it] but Gerard’s screeching over the static signifies the end of the night, maybe for real, which kind of sucks, along with the whole, getting out of bed and being awake thing. Although, it’s still Mikey dragging Brendon out of bed and Mikey’s shirt Brendon gets to borrow and Mikey’s door Brendon gets shoved against during their official ‘good morning.’ Still Mikey’s forehead on his, still Mikey whispering, “Can I make you breakfast? I want to make you breakfast,” so maybe Gerard warbling, hey world, here I am, maybe it doesn’t mean the end of the night, but the beginning of the day. Or the morning. Or both, or either, or neither or nether or maybe what-the-fuck-ever, Mikey’s tongue is in his mouth and that’s what’s important, right now. They go downstairs. Mikey’s house is quiet and the atmosphere downstairs is like thin curtains pulled over weak light and maybe aromatherapy candles. Maybe bayberry and lavender, or violet. Not that Brendon would know. The candles, two of them, thick and purple, candles that wouldn’t be out of place in the ‘relaxation room’ of a health farm, they’re lit on the kitchen table, placed either side of where Gerard is sitting cross legged, Indian style, fingers resting on his knees in a lotus position, with his eyes flickering closed, an old Jazz station playing on the radio in the background. It’s a little weird how reassuring that is for Brendon. Reassuring that this new chapter of Brendon and Mikey comes with subtexts of absolute surprise and maybe interspersing oddities, so they aren’t going to run out of interesting stories for each other any time soon. It’s maybe something to do with loving every aspect of Mikey’s life, including his older brother meditating at seven in the morning on the red and yellow kitchen tablecloth. Well, maybe Brendon’s over-thinking this, but honestly, it’s a little hard to stop his brain going into overdrive about every little thing when Mikey keeps looking at him like that. Before Brendon can dwell on that look any longer, Mikey pulls him into the kitchen unceremoniously, and starts to pull out a frying pan and spatula, leaving Brendon to stand awkwardly next to the silent Gerard for maybe two seconds or so. There’s a picture, stuck to the fridge, an angled, dark drawing of smirking Gerard and beaming Mikey standing in front of two more cartoon-like figures, maybe their parents, and it’s kind of like anime, although Gerard has declined to draw their mom in the traditional, huge boobed, short skirted style, thank God. Brendon thinks of the photo they have at home, on their fridge, of him and his family that summer at Disneyland. The similarity’s a welcome comfort. Then Mikey turns back to him and says, “Sit here. Near me, sit near me,” pointing to the space of counter-top next to where he’s cracking eggs into a pan. When Brendon’s settled, sitting as close to the cooking Mikey as he can be without maybe sitting on the fucking grill, and musing about how Mikey’s still taller than him, despite the height of the marble counter he’s been placed on, Mikey says conversationally to Gerard, “Did you get any sleep at all?” Without opening his eyes, Gerard raises a slow couple of fingers and says, “Twenty-two minutes. Two forty seven to nine past three. The twilight minutes.” Mikey nods approvingly. “Hey. That’s progress.” He turns back to Brendon and says, “Come help fry eggs now.” Gerard and Mikey are maybe the only teenagers in existence to wake up an hour before their parents do, on purpose. If it counts as ‘waking up,’ since apparently Gerard hasn’t really properly slept for months now. From the table, Gerard opens his eyes and smiles at Brendon, mumbling, “Yeah, you know eggs, diner kid.” Then, a second later, like maybe he’s said something really wrong, “Sorry, sorry. Insomnia makes me rude. Just… let me re-associate myself with the world.” Brendon nods understandingly, pretending he’s maybe able to empathize with Gerard, when really the idea of Brendon having insomnia is similar to the idea of Jon getting with Ashlee Simpson; unprecedented, completely impossible, and maybe a little distressing. Apparently, ‘helping’ Mikey fry eggs is the same as frying the eggs for Mikey while Mikey sways around the kitchen trying to sing along to whatever weird jazz song this cranky old dj has deemed appropriate for this time of morning. It’s like Mikey-scat, and Brendon wants to record it and play it at night, like when people play foreign speaking tapes in their sleep to learn the language. Occasionally, Mikey will come over and poke the eggs with a fork, as if he’s checking up on them, like, hm, yes, good. He occasionally pokes Brendon’s side with the fork, as well, lightly. Brendon will maybe forgive him. Gerard says, with a fragmented, light-hearted voice, “So did you guys sleep at all?” Brendon coughs, maybe once quietly, and then maybe about five times loudly, turning away from the pan as he does so out of habit and maybe so glad that he’s got his back to Gerard right now he doesn’t care that he’s been roped into doing the cooking. Mikey smiles into the huge mug of coffee he’s stirring and says, “Nope.” Brendon turns to accept the steaming drink off of Mikey maybe just at the right, or wrong, time to see Gerard nod tranquilly and say through his teeth, “You’re lucky I’m kind of doped on sleeping pills right now, or I’d probably hurt someone out of trauma.” Brendon concentrates really hard on cooking the eggs. This gets steadily more difficult with Mikey’s chin on his shoulder, even though Mikey insists he’s just observing Brendon’s cookery technique. Maybe the thumb stroking Brendon’s hip is just another bonus of that. Brendon just concentrates really hard on the pan and not burning himself and hoping maybe Gerard has closed his eyes again. * Gerard blissfully declares the eggs to be like falling asleep on a plate, and then says to Mikey, “Ryan has a message for you.” He leans over and hits Mikey on the side of the head, saying, “You’re an idiot.” Mikey nods, not even attempting to dodge Gerard’s hand. “That’s it?” “He also said to tell you that Will thinks Ryan’s hotter than Brendon, so I don’t know, you might want to take that up with him at some point.” Mikey nods solemnly. “Words will be said,” he promises. Brendon thinks maybe he should offer to beat up Bob Bryar for maybe calling Mikey a dweeb in return, except… beating up Bob Bryar is not, like, an option, and right now, for once, Brendon doesn’t actually want to die. Gerard laughs, and the lines under his eyes are maybe starting to fade with each sip of coffee. He says, “It’s nearly seven thirty, you know.” Mikey gasps, making his mouth into a big O and widening his eyes at Brendon and whispering, “Seven thirty!” He maybe looks a little crazy, but Mikey looking crazy is just like, duh now. He stands up, swooping down again to grab the plates off of the table and throw them unskilfully in the sink. Brendon wants to maybe applaud, but he’s still a little nervous about making noise in front of Gerard. And then Mikey grabs Brendon’s arm and drags him to the hall and it’s maybe only when the door gets actually opened that Brendon remembers that yes, there is a world outside, and that world is distinctly chilly. He says to Mikey, “It’s cold.” He should maybe also ask what the hell they’re doing, but his chances of a proper answer are pretty slim, so he lets it slide. Mikey peers outside for a second, at the still morning, and says, “Hm.” Then he comes closer to where Brendon’s still hiding behind the door, wraps his arms around him really fast, like maybe a really welcome ambush, and says, “I don’t know. You feel pretty warm.” Brendon allows them to smile at each other for maybe a moment [maybe a year, but whatever] and then says, “Are you trying… to trick me?” Mikey blinks at him, from behind his glasses, and then says, “Yes.” There’re a few more seconds where Brendon maybe starts to wonder what Ryan Ross would say if he could see them now [probably, “Oh, how unexpected,”] but then Mikey untangles himself and strides away, into another room. Brendon doesn’t know which room, since he isn’t completely familiar with the layout of Casa Way. All he knows is Mikey’s room is upstairs, Gerard’s is in the basement, and there’s a kitchen maybe somewhere in between. Other than that, it’s been kind of hard to register, what with the whole, ohmygod Mikey’s HOUSE aspect of it. And maybe the sex. That thought is maybe enough to make Brendon blush, again, before Mikey comes back from whatever unimportant room he was just in, holding something red, black, and ominous looking. Which is maybe almost like one of Greta’s zebra jokes; what’s red, black, and white? A zebra in a blender. What’s red, black, and in Mikey’s hand? A deerstalker hat. Mikey says conversationally, “Like, fifty nine percent of body heat is lost through the head. So…” he yanks the tartan hat onto Brendon, saying, “Fur lining, and everything.” Brendon blinks from where a huge flap of fur is covering his eyes, and says, “I am not wearing a deerstalker. I am not.” The material is covering his ear either side, but he still hears Mikey say, “Aw, it’s cute,” before dragging him outside, and leaving him powerless to take the thing off. Outside, it feels like maybe October fell in love with the sky and they dyed the mist pink, just because it was something to do together. It’s cold and nice and the hat, although Brendon can’t even think about how terrible it maybe looks, the hat is keeping him warm and they still have an hour before Brendon’s scooter has to ride them to school, an hour which apparently Mikey has to spend working. So that’s another thing Brendon didn’t know about Mikey – he’s a paper boy. Actually, when Brendon, from under the abominable man eating hat, says incredulously, “A paper boy?” as they pick up a huge satchel full of News Of The Worlds, Mikey maybe half-scowls at him and says, “Paper man.” He’s wearing the beanie with the pink cat ears, so maybe the sentence is a little void since they both look so ridiculous. Maybe that should be, ‘ridiculously attractive.’ Yeah, yeah, okay. It’s quarter to eight now, and they’re outside, walking through Mikey’s neighborhood, and it’s maybe the tiniest bit thrilling because Mikey’s arm is still around him and Brendon’s been alive long enough to know that homophobia could still be an issue, but it just makes everything more invincible. Mikey’s satchel keeps thumping against him like a steady cycle, or maybe a heartbeat. Anyway, the morning’s empty apart from maybe the occasional jogging soccer mom, all of whom Mikey salutes as they puff past. They all nod at him, smiling, and most stop to say, “Oh, sweetie, you really need to wear more in the mornings now it’s October.” Mikey nods and says he knows, he knows. A few tell Brendon how sensible his hat is, and congratulate him on wrapping up warm. Brendon mumbles his thanks to them, maybe hating how approving they look, while Mikey chuckles. One of them, who Mikey calls ‘Awesome Beth’ and shares a practiced high five with, she looks Brendon up and down in maybe a scary way and then says, “Oh, Mikey, he’s lovely. You didn’t tell me how lovely he is.” She’s wearing a pink t-shirt that says, “Take Me to the Island,” and one of those iPod straps on her arm, and the music playing into her ears is leaking out a little bit, sounding like roughly the same quality as the gunky speakers at Spencer’s place. The screaming thrash Brendon can hear, it maybe sounds suspiciously like Gerard and Mikey’s band. So Awesome Beth appears to really be Awesome Beth. Mikey nods, like maybe he should be embarrassed but he isn’t, not really. That’s okay, because Brendon’s embarrassed enough for the both of them. That only serves to make Awesome Beth say, “Oh, he’s blushing,” and then make a little clicking noise with her tongue, straightening out Brendon’s hat and smiling affectionately. Mikey says to Brendon, still smiling at Awesome Beth, “Hey, you got off easy. You should have seen her with Ryan.” Awesome Beth claps, and says, “Oh, is that the serious one? I loved him.” She leans in confidentially, and adds, “He needs cheering up, though, Mikey. You make him come and read to my Donny one day. He has such a funny voice. Donny would just love him.” Mikey turns to Brendon again, and says, “Donny’s Awesome Beth’s awesome kid. I’m training him to be a ninja.” Awesome Beth laughs, and Brendon can maybe see her having a ninja-child stashed at home. She looks like the sort of mom who’d support Donny through ninja school and maybe even sew all his black uniforms for him, and help him polish his ninja swords, and spend hours helping with his ninja homework. She’d probably go to all Donny’s secret ninja missions and stand close by, maybe wearing a black scarf and cheering, “Go team!” Awesome Beth smiles again, reaching up to ruffle Mikey’s cat beanie ears, and says, “Say hello to poor Ryan again, from me. Have a nice morning, sweeties,” before jogging off. Brendon watches her leave, and then says, “That woman needs to meet my mom. They’d be BMFLs.” Mikey stops to drop a paper onto the front step of another house, and says, “BMFLs? Brendon’s… Mom’s… What does the F stand for?” He thinks for a second, and then says excitedly, “Is the L ‘lucky’?” Brendon blinks, and there’s a little fur in his eyes. “Best Mates for Life.” They’re standing right on the front step of some guy’s house. Mikey insists on walking to the door of every house on his list, because apparently just throwing the paper on to the porch isn’t right, Brendon. Mikey has to place every single one carefully down, making sure none of the supplements are falling out, and pausing to try and straighten any creases. Each time, this takes about seven minutes, and Mikey has to deliver to about sixty houses, plus he keeps stopping to chat with people. A couple of the residents have left nickels on their porches for him though, and notes saying thank you, so maybe it’s worth it. The way Mikey smiles when another soccer mom calls to him to have a nice day at school, though, Brendon kind of doubts Mikey’s in it for the money. Brendon thinks, people person. Mikey turns to him, tilts his head, and whispers, “Or…” he leans closer, “Or, it could stand for, Brendon’s My Favorite Lover.” The only reason Brendon turns away is because there maybe really is a strand of fur in his eye and if he doesn’t get it out he’ll maybe go blind or something, and how terrible would that be? He cannot allow that to happen. Also, now Mikey might not see him blush, for maybe the sixtieth time this morning. Either way, he looks up a minute later and Mikey says, smiling, maybe changing the subject just so Brendon won’t have to be embarrassed anymore, “Hey, nice hat, where’d you get it?” Brendon pauses for a second, and thinks, what would Awesome Beth do? Then he says, “My boyfriend gave it to me.” Mikey grins, and then they do that kissing thing again and maybe half Mikey’s newspapers fall onto the floor and it doesn’t even matter. * A Poem For Mikey. Mikey Oh Mikey, you really excite me, You paint your sneakers, and sway on the bleachers, I think that you’re pretty, but your car’s kind of shitty, See you at the diner; you’ve never looked finer, Just please don’t marry Pete Wentz. I didn’t. | ||||||
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