Archive of Our Own

The first time Gabe sees Mikey Way, the kid's standing up against the wall at one of Humble Beginnings' crappy basement shows, his eyes closed and his head bobbing to the music.

That's all right; it's half of what Gabe looks for when he looks out from the stage into the crowd. And tonight it is a crowd, better than any night he can remember. Word of mouth is making its way around that this particular shitty basement band is less shitty than the rest. They might have something.

The kid is listening and his head's nodding on the beat, but his skinny hips aren't moving and his arms are locked across his chest, crossed tight like they're armor. Gabe looks him over and picks something to remember--the kid's hat, a red knitted beanie, ugly as sin, over sculpted-unruly hair--and turns back to face front into the next song. He'll look for the kid at the afterparty. If he doesn't show, forget him.

**

He does show, and that's where Gabe gets his name. Mikey Way--not Mike, always Mikey--who acts like he might be kind of a big deal in his local scene, which isn't here. He drove a ways for this, which makes him a stranger on Gabe's turf, and puts Gabe within his rights to go get up in his face.

Gabe would do it whether he was in his rights or not, but it's nice not to run the risk of someone kicking his ass for stepping up on this guy and saying, I'm Gabe Saporta, who the fuck are you?

He doesn't say that, actually, not in words; he lets his body language carry that part when he leans in, his hand on the wall above the kid's shoulder, close enough that his thumb brushes a stray tuft of unruly dirty-blond hair. "Saw you at the show earlier."

The kid's eyes narrow a little behind his glasses, then meet Gabe's gaze, clear and unflinching. "Yeah. That's how I knew about the afterparty."

Smartass. Very cute. Gabe scratches his fingers a little against the wall, making Mikey's eyes dart to the side and then back again. "You weren't dancing."

Mikey frowns, shifting his weight so his body angles away from Gabe's hand. He takes a sip from the red Solo cup in his hand, which brings it close enough that Gabe can smell rum and cola. He imagines the sweet burn on Mikey's lips and tongue, sliding down his throat and spreading slow through his body. Gabe's been experimenting with edge for two and a half weeks, and this stupid skinny kid licking rum off his lips might very well be the end of it.

"I don't always feel like dancing," Mikey says finally, blinking slowly at Gabe over his cup.

"You too good to dance to my band, Mikey Way?"

"I can't tell if you're trying to pick a fight with me or about to kiss me. Either way, I'm kinda flattered but not really into it. Can I just get you a drink instead and we'll pretend to be friends?"

"I'm edge," Gabe says after a moment, pushing his hand off the wall and standing up straight.

"That must suck for you," Mikey says earnestly, taking half a step forward like he's reclaiming his space.

"You can get me a Diet Coke, though."

"Watching your figure, huh?"

"Shit yes, motherfucker." Mikey still has baby fat in his cheeks and his jaw. It kind of works for him. "Vegan, too. It's all part of clean living and personal holiness."

Mikey stares at him, wide-eyed and blank, then takes another drink. "I don't know what that means. I'll get you a Coke, though. Then you want to go outside and smoke? It's fucking loud in here."

"Yes," Gabe says, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket. "I'll meet you there."

Mikey's eyebrow lifts. "Personal holiness forbids drinking but allows smoking?"

"Personal holiness is complicated."

"Straight-edge allows smoking?"

"Fuck those guys and their rules."

Mikey laughs, a honking little giggle, and moves away toward the kitchen. Gabe watches him go, noting that he does very much have hips, when he wants to. He should be encouraged to dance.

**

Outside, in the circle under the streetlight, Mikey lights both their cigarettes and they swap the requisite bullshit. Age, schools, family outlines. Mikey knows Gabe's little brother from around and about. Ricky has a bigger reputation than Gabe does; something's going to have to be done about that.

They both have divorced parents, and they both want to chase music more than they want to do anything else. Gabe's a little ahead of Mikey on that curve, though, given that he actually has a band and plays.

"I have a guitar," Mikey says, shrugging and ashing his cigarette into the gutter. A car drives by, honking at them, a bunch of fucks yelling out the window, and Mikey absentmindedly flips them off without dropping his smoke. "I just kinda suck at it. And I don't have a lot of time. I work and shit."

"And doing your hair probably takes up a lot of time," Gabe says, straight-faced as he can get, and Mikey sets his cigarette between his lips the better to flip him off with both hands.

"I don't know if I want to play guitar in a band, though," Mikey says, leaning back against the streetlight. "I could do, like, A&R, or be a manager, or something. I just want to be around it. I could produce, maybe. When I graduate, I'm gonna track down an internship. I don't care how many dicks I have to suck."

Gabe blinks, looking down the length of his cigarette at him. "That's very...I mean, that's just right out there, dude."

Mikey shrugs, his jaw settling in a belligerent set that Gabe can recognize as something he does himself when a situation deserves it. "Whatever. I don't care. I just want in. Fuck whoever thinks it doesn't count."

"Didn't say that. Didn't say anything." Gabe shrugs and drops his filter to the sidewalk, grinding it out under his heel and chasing the taste from his mouth with a sip of Coke. "When you're a bigshot A&R guy, you can sign my band, cool?"

"You're gonna get signed a long time before that, dude."

"Then I'll hire you as my full-time dick-sucker."

Mikey cracks up, bending over double, his ass still against the streetlight post, but his feet splayed and his knees turned in. He's got that softness in the face, but the rest of him is all angles and limbs. "Deal."

"I seriously am gonna put that in my rider when we get big. I want M&Ms in the dressing room and a chair for my full-time dick-sucker."

"They get their very own chair. Fancy." Mikey's phone rings in his pocket and he straightens up to fish it out, tilting his head back and blowing his last bit of smoke out toward the light. "It's my brother. I gotta take this."

Gabe nods and takes a step back, half-turning so he's facing the street and not watching Mikey talk. He can hear him, though, making plans to walk a half-mile up and meet his brother at a diner and then go home for...something. A movie, maybe? Gabe doesn't recognize the name, but it involves words that make him suspect geek shit.

"I gotta go," Mikey says, snapping his phone closed and sliding it back into his pocket. "He's only home from school for the weekend, so we've gotta hang out while we can."

"Dude, when I leave the house, Ricky's going to throw a fucking party at not having to see me all the time."

Mikey smiles and shrugs. "I did when he first left. But we're cool. And he doesn't get home that often. I'll see you around."

He walks off, all gangly limbs and flat ass in tight jeans and hips that definitely need to dance. Gabe's pretty sure I'll see you around is code for probably never. But who knows, Jersey's small and the scene is smaller.

And he has a party to get back to.

**

For once, he's wrong; now that he knows the face, he sees Mikey Way everywhere.

Mikey fucking Way, he quickly learns to call him. Mikey fucking Way, who charms all the bouncers and security guys in Jersey. Mikey fucking Way, who's building up quite a little network of bartenders who know him and magically don't see the X's on his hands. Mikey fucking Way, who ends up with a little cluster of girls around him by the end of every show--sometimes including the ones who were staring up at Gabe on the stage half an hour earlier, for which Mikey is going to pay, one of these days, for real.

But they don't cross paths beyond a nod and wave for quite a while, what with one thing or another. Humble Beginnings is taking off, which is awesome, but it's also Gabe's senior fucking year at school, so he has to sit the SATs and apply to colleges and make real fucking sure he passes all of his classes or his dad is going to have him killed and run up a flagpole as a message to Ricky and everyone else they know. His dad even comes to the shows and force-marches him out to the car afterward to drive him straight home, no afterparties. It's a lockdown of epically unfair proportions.

When he gets the early-acceptance notice from Rutgers, though, the lockdown is lifted.

"I'm proud of you," Diego says, pulling him into a hug. Gabe lets himself lean into the contact, the way his dad is patting him on the back with one hand while the other holds him close. Making his father proud might not be cool--okay, it's definitely not cool, the guys really want him to write more songs about hating parents because that's where the sweet spot is--but fuck, he loves his dad. The guy went through a lot of shit to give his kids a good life and getting into a fucking good college is, quite possibly, the first thing Gabe has ever done to pay him back for any of it.

So he's definitely not cool, but he's happy. That's a fair trade.

"So I can go out tonight, Papi?" he asks when Diego lets go, flashing him his biggest, best grin. It's the one that gets him out of doing math problems in front of the class, and into Melly Delfino's pants in the back room of the Dunkin' Donuts. It's some of his better work.

Diego sighs and rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. "Be safe and be careful and be home by two."

"Three?"

"One-thirty."

"Two it is." Gabe heads for the door, shrugging into his jacket and yelling up the stairs at Ricky. "I'm going out, loser, don't touch my shit."

"Fuck off," echoes down to him, followed by Diego's weary, "Mijos," just before he slams the door and jogs down the driveway to his car. He is going to go out, he is going to party, and he is going to get himself very nicely laid. A celebration and a preview version of Rutgers at once. Being out of high school is going to be awesome.

**

The first person he sees when he walks into the all-ages show at Colson's is Mikey fucking Way, standing back by the hallway to the bathrooms, holding the rim of a Solo cup between his teeth while he writes something on the back of a girl's hand.

If Gabe had the marker, he would've followed the message on her hand by drawing a smiley face on her boobs, which are very pale and very round and very popping out of her top, but Mikey apparently plays a more subtle game.

"Mikey Way!" Gabe shouts, crossing the room to them. He throws his arm around the girl's shoulders, then lets her go when she makes a face and sidles away. Worth a shot. "Mikey Way, it has been too long."

Mikey stares at him for a minute, then blinks, then smiles, like he had to reboot a system and warm up or something. "Gabe Saporta. Hey. You guys aren't playing tonight."

"Somebody give this man a prize," Gabe says, rolling his eyes and poking at Mikey's chest. Mikey obligingly rocks backward with the little push, and Gabe keeps going, trying to see how much it takes to make him stop. "You are correct, Way-dude. We are not playing tonight. I'm here for the show."

"That's cool." Mikey endures a few more pokes, then twists sideways and folds his arms over his chest protectively. "It's been a while."

"It has. Months, actually." Gabe looks him up and down, noting that the baby fat is mostly gone, the t-shirt is vintage, the jeans are lower-slung. It works for him. "I mean, I've seen you around, but you haven't talked to me at all."

"You haven't talked to me either."

"I've mostly been, you know, playing songs on my guitar."

Mikey blinks at him again, then shrugs. "That does tend to take a lot of attention."

"Thank you." Gabe grins at him and after a beat, Mikey grins back, dropping his arms to his side and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. "You want to get out of here?"

"No. The band hasn't played yet. You know, the band we're here to see?"

"Right." Gabe grins and looks over his shoulder toward the stage. "Can't blow off a show."

"It would be wrong. Morally and ethically."

"Do you know the difference between those two?" Mikey shrugs one shoulder and Gabe bounces on his toes, then steps closer, pivoting around him at the same time. "Do you want me to tell you?"

Mikey looks at him, his eyes sharp and bright, assessing. Gabe never knows what to do with people with sharp eyes. On the one hand, he wants to congratulate them like a comrade in arms, someone who isn't as stupid as most of the people he knows, someone who maybe sees shit once in a while. On the other hand, it makes them a potential obstacle to his getting his own way.

"No," Mikey says.

"Fine. Be like that. Are you going to dance tonight?"

"I might. I'm kinda feeling it. Is there a reason you're, like, circling me like a sheepdog?"

Probably definitely an obstacle, this one. But a fun obstacle. "The fuck do you know about sheepdogs?"

"I watched Babe, dude. Bah-ram-ewe. Cute little pig motherfucker. Seriously, though, what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"It's like you circle and crowd in and try to use the fact that you're tall to intimidate me or something. You are really fucking tall. But you're skinny as shit and also that's just weird. Quit it."

"I swear, whatever you're talking about, it's not on purpose." Gabe realizes he's doing it again and checks himself mid-motion, rocking back on his heels. "Maybe you're paranoid. Seeing things. Imagining things."

"Maybe. But no." Mikey waves his hands in broad, vague arcs. "I'm a master of body psychology. I can read people."

Gabe kind of loves this kid. "Oh, really."

"Yeah."

"How'd you learn that?"

"Years of being a loser and trying not to get my ass kicked at school. And I watch Oprah a lot with my grandma."

"Is your grandma hot?"

Mikey frowns and bumps his glasses up on his nose. "Don't be gross."

"I'm just asking. Parents love me. I bet grandparents would, too."

Gabe really kind of loves this kid's honking, stupid giggle. "My grandma would see through your shit so fast, dude. She has no patience for crap."

"I bet she'd get along with my abuela. Except my abuela thinks I hung the moon and stars, so they'd disagree about that."

Mikey's lips move silently, sounding out the word abuela. Gabe sets his shoulders, waiting for the questions--will they be rude or just awkward? always fun to try to guess--but after a beat Mikey shrugs and looks over at the bar. "You want me to see if I can get us some drinks?"

"Edge," Gabe reminds him.

Lines form across Mikey's forehead like he's in physical pain. "You really need to get over that."

"Never. I'm committed. My body is a temple."

"That's weird."

"Get me a ginger ale with a lime, asshole."

Mikey shuffles off toward the bar and Gabe watches his hips as he goes, careful not to think about anything at all.

**

It's a good show, a good night, but by the time they start filing out of the club, Gabe's feeling restless and twitchy. What he's got isn't enough. The show wasn't enough, the rush of the dance floor wasn't enough, the girl he found on the dance floor and talked underground hip-hop with at the bar wasn't enough. She's awesome, and he got her number, but she's not giving signals to go off together, and he's too restless to take charge of it himself, to finesse and steer the night. He wants to blow off some steam, to fuck around and play, not lead a dance.

He finds Mikey standing out on the sidewalk, lighting cigarettes for a half-circle of girls. Mikey's smiling just slightly, his lips curved up and his thumb holding steady on the lighter. The flame reflects off his face like he's some kind of devil fairy prince. Gabe doesn't believe in anything like that, but Mikey's face is almost convincing.

Devil fairy princes would never wear that hat, though. Gabe's pretty sure about that one.

"Mikey Way," he says, louder than he needs to, moving up behind his quarry and putting an arm around Mikey's waist. He pulls Mikey back against him and blows on the curve of his ear. "We meet again."

Mikey's little smile doesn't waver, but he lets his thumb slip off the lighter, killing the flame. "Hi, Gabe."

"We've gotta talk about your fashion sense, dude."

"Nah." Mikey rubs his head against Gabe's cheek, which means rubbing that nasty hat against him. Gabe smacks him on the hip and Mikey giggles.

The girls are looking at them with open curiosity. Gabe amps up the show, sliding his hand up under Mikey's t-shirt. "You ran away from me in there."

"Not true."

"It felt like it. You took off and disappeared."

Mikey rolls his eyes and presses the hot end of the lighter to Gabe's wrist where it emerges from under his shirt. It hurts like a bright light going off behind Gabe's eyes, illuminating the inside of his head and sending roaches scrambling to get under the furniture. "Dude!"

Mikey turns to face him easily now that Gabe's arm isn't around him and Gabe's body is out of his space, pulled back in shock at the pain. "You ready to get out of here?"

"I don't know." Gabe stares at him, not sure if he has to redo every way he's filed the kid in his head already. Maybe Mikey Way is a stone-cold psychopath. "You going to do crazy shit like that again?"

The corner of Mikey's lip quirks up, raising with his eyebrow. "Probably not. It's sort of a one-time dramatic gesture. To make a point."

"What was your point?"

"Ask before you grope, man." Mikey smiles at the girls and gives a little wave. "See you, guys." Then he starts off down the sidewalk. A beat later, Gabe follows, because fuck if he understands Mikey Way at all, but the kid's more interesting than anything else he's seen tonight, hands-down.

"Your place or mine?" Mikey asks. "I'm too broke to go anywhere else."

"What've you got at home?"

"Movies. Internet."

"Same. I'm like six blocks that way."

Mikey nods thoughtfully, shoving his hands in his pocket. "I'm in another zip code."

Gabe punches him in the side, then slings his arm around Mikey's shoulders and pulls him in close as they walk. "Smartass."

**

Gabe wakes up face-down on the couch, the TV set on mute but flickering with the Weather Channel. There's a smear of drool across his cheek where it rubbed against the cushion where his open mouth had been resting before he woke up. His mouth tastes like old pizza and dirty socks. And he's alone.

He sits up slowly, wincing as his shoulder pops. Fuck. He hates passing out in weird places and waking up groggy. He does it all the time, but still--hate.

"Ow," he mumbles, looking around for the remote. Not on the table, not on the couch. He finally finds it lying on the rug, next to a throw pillow that Mikey must have been using. Gabe remembers that, now that he thinks about it. He and Mikey watched two movies, Gabe curled at one end of the couch and Mikey stretched out on the floor, his hair slowly losing its sculpted stiffness as he laughed with his head against the rough, embroidered surface of the pillow. Gabe liked watching the overly-careful edifice of hair break down, and liked even more that Mikey was using that stupid pillow so Gabe didn't have to.

He remembers Mikey taking the remote after the movie and switching to the Weather Channel, saying that the patterns and lack of a plot helped him fall asleep. He had trained himself to find the garish colors and boring hosts very soothing. He might start a blog about it.

Gabe had made him mute it so he could sleep, which Mikey declared unfair and mean, but it was Gabe's house, so Mikey could just suck it. They'd stared at each other for a minute, after Gabe said that, until Mikey looked away and shrugged and hit the button on the remote. Weird. Not anything to think about.

Apparently Mikey had left the TV on when he woke up. Or maybe he'd just left without ever going to sleep, waiting for Gabe to pass out and then booking it out the door or a convenient window without ever saying goodbye. Gabe presses the heels of his hands over his eyes and pictures Mikey hitchhiking back toward the Turnpike. If anyone he'd ever met could pull it off without ending up dead in a ditch or sold as a sex slave...

Actually, it probably wasn't Mikey Way.

The clock on the cable box has declared 5:37 ever since one of Ricky's friends hit it with a Frisbee ages ago. Gabe shuffles to the door, squinting in pain as he opens it and light from the kitchen windows pours in. Fuck. It is well and truly morning.

He can hear voices from the dining room. Ricky, their dad, and then a long, awkward laugh like Woody the fucking Woodpecker. Gabe moves to the entryway into the dining room and studies the scene, wondering if maybe he should just go back to bed.

Mikey's sitting at the table, with both hands wrapped around one of Diego's giant coffee mugs, staring over the rim of it wide-eyed while Gabe's dad points at the painting on the wall and tells a story Gabe can identify by heart from the first three words he hears. Tía Rosa and the year and a half she didn't speak to Tía Anita. Six of the paintings in the house came from that period of hostilities.

"It's really cool," Mikey says, bumping the rim of his mug against his nose to push his glasses up. "The colors. And the texture. My brother could talk about it more smart. He's an art student."

"Does he get you into awesome parties at school, Mikey?" Ricky asks, grinning and reaching across the table with his fork to snag--

"You made crepes?" Gabe blurts, drawing everyone's attention to him standing there in the kitchen doorway like a sleepy, confused jackass who has been completely left out of breakfast. "You made crepes and nobody even woke me up? That's so not cool, Papi."

"We saved you some," Mikey says. Gabe flips him off, then drops his hand at Diego's warning look.

"Good morning, Gabriel," Diego says. "You slept well?"

"Okay. The couch is lumpy."

"That's why you have a bed. And there's a guest room for visitors."

"The floor was cool," Mikey says quickly, pushing the plate of crepes toward Gabe. "It's a really comfortable rug. You have a lovely home."

Mikey Way is a kiss-ass. Gabe is going to find some way to kill him and consume his power.

"I should get going." Mikey eases out of his chair. "I gotta catch the bus to the train and go up to the city to see Gerard. We're going to eat pretzels today. It's a whole thing. We've been planning it."

"That sounds like a nice day," Diego says gravely, but his eyes are laughing, like Mikey is just delightful. Gabe can't figure out any reason for feeling a little disgruntled that his dad and brother apparently agree with him. Mikey is awesome: a Saporta family resolution.

Mostly Gabe just hates to share. But he can if he has to.

"Bye, dude," Mikey says, giving Gabe a little wave. "I'll see you around, right? You, too, Ricky."

"Yeah," Gabe says, trying to override Ricky's "Totally!" Mikey smiles a funny, lopsided little grin before he turns to Diego.

"Thanks for breakfast, Mr. Saporta."

"Doctor," Diego corrects him, but he's smiling, too.

"Right. Sorry. Dr. Saporta."

Diego shakes his hand. "Come by whenever you'd like."

"I'll tell my brother about the paintings. I really think he'll be impressed."

"Bring him by, too, if you'd like."

"Sweet." Mikey waves again, tugging his hat down over his messy nest of hair. "Bye."

They sit around the table in silence for a minute, until Gabe sighs and stabs his fork into the crepes.

"Just say it, you like him better than me. I can tell. Whatever."

"He's sixty times more awesome than you," Ricky says. "At least."

"He's a nice boy," is Diego's noncommital contribution, but he's still smiling, and Gabe can tell when his dad likes his friends instead of just tolerating them because they keep Gabe from climbing the walls and setting fires.

"He's cool." Gabe chews for a minute, trying to figure out if he should say anything else. If he even knows how to put what he likes about Mikey into words.

Mikey vibrates on the same frequency as Gabe's skull when his thoughts are racing too fast and bouncing off the bones that trap them. Mikey doesn't break stride when Gabe's rambling and jagged and trying to find a place to put all his limbs so they don't come exploding off his body with the sheer excess of energy. Mikey laughs at dumb jokes and makes dumb jokes of his own and dances like he means it.

"He can keep up with me," Gabe says finally.

Ricky rolls his eyes, so Gabe has to punch him, but Diego nods like it was a perfectly logical thing to say.

**

Gabe runs into Mikey at Dunkin' Donuts on a summer morning, when the air already tastes like sunbaked asphalt and it's obvious it's going to be a too-hot misery of a day. Gabe dressed for it in advance, in his old gym shorts that fit him just past the edge of obscene now and a tank top from the one summer he went to basketball camp before he realized that, despite what his classmates told him, being tall did not mean he was required to play that fucking sport. He'd cut the sleeves open halfway down his sides and ripped the neck into a V. It still covered too much skin for the weather.

Mikey's in tight jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and another fucking beanie. Either he has a death wish or he's some kind of robot with super-coolant in his veins.

"Mikey Way," Gabe says, hooking his fingers in Mikey's back pocket. "Are you trying to die of heatstroke, my little friend?"

"Hi, Gabe." Mikey leans back against his chest and Gabe throws his free arm around him, pressing it against the flat of Mikey's chest. "I'm fine. How're you? You look all sporty. Sportage."

"What're you doing up here in this zip code so early?"

Mikey raises his eyebrows slowly. "I slept over with a friend."

"A lady friend?"

"Mmm." Mikey shrugs. "How're you?"

"I'm in need, brother."

"Of what?" Mikey taps Gabe's wrist and Gabe lets go, letting Mikey straighten and turn to face him.

"An iced coffee and a doughnut. I'm dying for some sugar."

"And caffeine. Me, too." Mikey shoves his hands in his back pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels, glancing over his shoulder at the counter. "It's been a while, dude. Where you been? You want to hang?"

"Just busy." Graduating, spending a month with his mom, which sucked, and a month in Uruguay, which didn't. He can't tell if Mikey gives a shit about the details or not, and it's always safer to keep that kind of stuff, the stuff people can leave a bruise on if they want to, close to the chest. "And I'm always down to hang, M-Way. You know that."

Mikey smiles, crooked and goofy, showing off his wonky teeth. Gabe wants to reach out and tap on them. "We could sit in my basement all day. It's cool there."

Gabe rolls his eyes and shoves at Mikey's shoulder. He can't keep his hands to himself around Mikey, which says more about how they're probably friends than anything else would. People who matter get touched, like they're passing energy back and forth with the skin-to-skin, good energy that Gabe can feel giving him bounce and keeping him grounded at once.

People he doesn't like, he keeps his hands to himself. He can feel them sucking everything right out of him. Creepy fucking vampires.

"Is that a judgment on my basement?" Mikey asks dryly. "Because fuck you, dude."

"It's summertime, Mikey. Let's go down the fucking shore, not hide in your basement like the undead."

"Used needles and dirty condoms and water that people piss in is all better than my basement?"

"We'll go to one of the rich-people beaches. And it's the fucking ocean. Whales pee in it. Sharks. People piss is nothing."

Mikey stands up straighter and pokes him in the chest. "Yes! That's another thing, motherfucker! Sharks!"

"Gentlemen," comes a voice from behind the counter. "Could you please get a grip on your language?"

"Sorry." Mikey tugs his hat down lower over his ears, and Gabe bites down on his tongue, watching him. Oh yeah, there's already sweat glistening on Mikey's forehead, this is ridiculous. He's taking this kid to the beach.

"I'm afraid of being eaten by sharks," Mikey says firmly. "If we see a shark, you have to promise to fight it for me."

"I'll punch the shark in the eyeball. I promise."

"Then I'm down." Mikey steps up to the counter and orders his coffee and doughnut. Gabe hooks his fingers in Mikey's back pockets again and steps up close behind him, resting his chin on top of Mikey's head.

"I can't wait to see you in trunks, Way."

"Fuck you."

"Language."

Mikey's warm pressed against Gabe's chest, and he smells like musty, unwashed body, stale smoke, and unless Gabe is very much mistaken, Drakkar Noir. Gabe is going to get him out in the waves, dunk him, and hold him under until he has approximated a bath.

"I haven't been down the shore since we were kids," Mikey says, almost to himself. Gabe rubs his chin against his head, showing he's paying attention, and Mikey bumps back against him. "Since before our parents split up."

"You using the royal we, there?"

"Me and Gerard." Mikey's still for a moment, then steps away to claim his coffee. "Shit, it's been forever."

Gabe gets that feeling, and he doesn't--the change is permanent and nothing's going back again, but it wasn't so long ago that he can't remember it. He's a little jealous of Mikey's ease.

"It'll be fun," is all he says, stupid nothing words, but they make Mikey smile at him, so they're okay.

**

They stumble home from the shore when the sky's going bruise-dark behind the sunset, their bodies stinging with sunburn and rimed with salt. Their skin is baked gold under the red; they both did pretty good without any sunblock for a while there, until they didn't.

This time, Mikey's place is closer, and Gabe doesn't ask or wait to be invited. He follows Mikey from where they parked on the street, stumbling over rough places in the pavement and dodging the circles off streetlights just because he can.

Mikey's house is small and sturdy and faded at the edges, an old, post-war, cookie-cutter, suburban split-level with a car in the driveway and a big tree in the front yard that kids haven't played under in a long time, if they ever did. Mikey undoes three locks on the front door to let them in and holds the inside door with his hip for Gabe to get past before he locks them all up again.

Inside it smells like patchouli strongly enough that Gabe's nose wrinkles automatically. Mikey shrugs. "My mom likes it. Reminds her of her hippie youth."

"It's cool." Gabe moves into the living room, eyes widening at the number of framed photos on the tables and walls. "Wow."

Mikey shrugs again and moves past him, toward the kitchen. Gabe recognizes the set of his shoulders--Go ahead, make fun of how I live, where I come from. I'm waiting for it, asshole.

Yeah, Gabe gets that.

"Is your brother home?" he asks, stepping up to look at the pictures on the nearest wall. The one closest to his eye level is a pale, round-faced kid in a cap and gown. Has to be the great Gerard.

"He's at our dad's." Mikey comes back with two cans of Diet Coke, some of the tension eased. "They're going to a Bon Jovi show. For real. Bonding time."

"Sweet." Gabe cracks his can and takes a long drink, closing his eyes. Fuck. Hydration. What a concept. And focusing on that is easier than being careful not to look around while Mikey's watching him.

"C'mon." Mikey starts off down a narrow hall. Gabe expects to find a door to the famous basement, but instead they go to Mikey's bedroom.

Music posters, dirty laundry, bookshelves covered in dust, and a desk covered in soda cans. Gabe feels right at home. "Nice."

"Home sweet." Mikey flops down on the bed, then pulls a flask from under his pillow. "You mind?"

"Go ahead." Gabe isn't sure where to sit, or stand, or what he should do with his hands. He isn't sure about the funny, hot little twist in his chest at seeing Mikey sprawled out on the bed. He isn't sure about anything. He takes another gulp of his Coke and tells himself to stop being such a goddamn weenie.

"Today was fun," Mikey says after a while.

"Yeah." Gabe steps closer to the desk, studying the posters taped up over it. "Shit, the Pumpkins at the Garden?"

"Fucking sick show." Mikey's quiet for a minute, and when Gabe glances back to him, he finds Mikey watching him wide-eyed and steady.

"What?" Gabe asks finally.

Mikey lets his gaze drop and takes a drink from his flask. "Nothing."

"Hanging out in your bedroom with boys is kind of asking for it, isn't it?" He can hear his own voice spitting the words at Mikey and it--it sounds nasty, and cold, and that isn't what he means.

Mikey doesn't say anything, just stares at his flask, and they sit there while the moment stretches out past the point of plausible deniability.

"You're not gonna, like, spread this around, are you?" Gabe asks, and Mikey gives him a look that could melt glass.

"Fuck you, seriously."

"Look--"

"Like I don't know you could get my ass kicked. You're Gabe fucking Saporta. I know."

"Mikey--"

"I'm nobody. I got it."

Gabe steps toward the bed. Mikey takes another drink and stares at him in open challenge, his fingers tight around the flask.

"You're not nobody." Gabe feels stupid. "I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm just a dick when I don't know what I'm doing, I guess."

Mikey's eyebrow goes up. "You don't know what you're doing right now?"

"No."

Mikey takes a drink, still staring at him. "You're either going over there--" He nods at the open door. "Or you're coming over here."

Gabe doesn't remember taking the last step that closes the gap, but if anyone ever asked him what Mikey was drinking that night, he could answer. Cherry vodka, I could taste it on his teeth, with sea salt and sweat on his lips.

Cherry vodka margarita. That's Mikey Way.

**

College life is awesome, with the girls and the constant parties and nobody ever telling him to sleep. He can run on wired-up raw-nerved energy until he collapses, and then he can sleep for two days, get up, and start over again.

His classes are either almost interesting or so easy they don't cramp his style. He can spend his focus on important shit, like girls, trips to clubs in the city, DJ gigs, and talking music with that squirrelly little asshole from his intro comp class, Rob. He likes Rob. He and Rob are going places.

He likes the way Rob thinks about stuff. Rob knows other guys who he swears he needs to introduce Gabe to as soon as they're all semi-sober and in one place. Gabe can't say he isn't in a hurry--he's always in a hurry, always, sometimes it feels like his heart is going to race until it explodes out of his chest with his need to go faster than this--but he's trying not to push. Be still and the universe will provide. Zen mind, beginner's mind, bassist's mind, he sucks at this mind, but luckily there are girls (oh, there are girls) to take his mind somewhere else entirely.

There are boys, too--two boys, fumbled experiments at parties--but Gabe knows as soon as he curls his hands around the flat bone of their hips that they won't be like Mikey. There isn't the unspoken mutual knowledge of living in a gray space, an in-between. These guys called that being a coward. Maybe it is, Gabe doesn't know. All he knows is that with Mikey it was easy, once he took that step--easy, and quiet in a safe way, and no crushing feeling that he was letting somebody down.

College assures him that he's exactly as much of a fairly shitty person as he's always suspected, and that no one will notice or care if he talks fast and loud and pretty enough. The words still tumble and race in his head as fast as they can, echoing off his skull until he feels like he'll fall apart if he doesn't get them out, so none of that is hard.

And he believes, is the thing. He believes a lot of stuff like an electric coil in his chest, behind the muscle and over the heart. It burns and tears its way out when he isn't careful.

"You're the trippiest straight-edge guy I know," Rob says. "Go ride your fucking bike into some trees or something, don't come back until you're tired."

Gabe has never been tired, and never will be, not if he has anything to say about it.

**

He sees Mikey sometimes, at the shows around campus. He looks thinner, sharper-edged, and he moves faster around the floor, weaving his webs of networks and contacts. They don't talk much; nods, smiles, quick brushes of the hand, and then they're both on the go, running on all cylinders to keep from ever, ever going backward.

They email, short random bursts of news and gossip and three AM thoughts. And as fall turns into winter, everything hunkering down and going quiet to wait for the ice, Gabe sends him one saying he'll be home for a long weekend, and if Mikey can swing a trip up to Springfield, they should hang out.

He thinks that means something other than walking into his dad's house to find Mikey and Diego sitting on the couch together, deeply engrossed in a telenovela that Gabe recognizes from his trips to Uruguay, one that is most certainly not aired on any channel they get. Diego and Mikey are both clutching mugs and staring slack-jawed at the screen, with an ease and comfort that pings all of Gabe's alarms that he has been entirely replaced.

"Gabriel," his dad says once Gabe's cleared his throat loudly enough to be noticed. "There you are." He pauses the DVD and rises from the couch, coming to Gabe and wrapping him in a warm hug. "I was beginning to worry."

"Traffic," Gabe says, leaning heavily on his father for a moment before he lets his eyes stray to Mikey. "What's up, Way?"

"Hey, dude." Mikey lifts his mug in salute. "You want some tea?"

"You and my dad drink tea and watch telenovelas?"

"He gets them for me from the Internet." Diego beams at Mikey. "Genius."

"South American TV companies are way less assholes than Disney," Mikey says, getting up from the couch in a flurry of bony limbs going every which way. "I'll get you some tea. It's rad."

"Mikey is delightful," Diego informs Gabe, and Gabe isn't sure if he wants to laugh or hit his head against the wall. Mostly laugh. Mikey kind of is delightful. That's why Gabe wanted to hang out with him this weekend, after all.

"He is," Gabe agrees, and Diego squeezes his shoulder with a fond smile. Gabe studies his father, looking for changes. He always does this when he sees Diego again after being away, looking for any signs that the world as he knows it might be trying to turn different or fall apart.

Today there's nothing, except maybe that Diego is happier and more relaxed than the last time Gabe was home. "You look good, Papi. Like things are going well."

"They are. I miss you, but I'm proud that you're at school, and I'm sure I'll be even more proud when your grades come in for the semester."

The important part of reacting to that kind of statement is not to react at all. Gabe learned that at a young age. He's a pro by now. "Ricky's not giving you a hard time?"

"He's fine. Everything's fine, Gabriel, don't worry so much. The world does keep turning without your supervision."

Mikey comes back in the room with another mug of tea, holding it out to Gabe with his crooked half-smile. "It's hot. Be careful."

"Thanks." Gabe takes a sip and tries not to make a face. "So are we going out tonight, M-Way, or are you and my dad watching more TV?"

"I'm cool with either," Mikey says, but Diego laughs and shakes his head.

"You two go out. Have fun. I have other things to do and I won't make you spend your weekend with me."

"I want to spend time with you--" Gabe starts, fingers tensing against his mug, but Diego shakes his head again.

"We'll spend tomorrow together. Tonight, have fun with your friend."

"There's a DJ at Riot who's supposed to be sick," Mikey says. "I know the door guy."

"You probably know the bartender, too."

"Yeah. And the sound guy. He's awesome."

Gabe rolls his eyes and sets the mug of tea down, glad for the excuse to ditch it. "Everybody knows Dave. Come help me get ready."

Gabe's room is dusty, and he can tell at a glance that Ricky's been going through his clothes and his albums, which is going to have to be punished with death. Mikey hums softly when he steps inside, then goes straight for the bookshelves, running his fingers down the spines.

"Eclectic," he says after a minute of study.

"I like to keep people guessing." Gabe moves to the dresser, poking through his t-shirts. "Fuck, I'm gonna break Ricky's face. Stealing my shit."

"He's trying to gain your power," Mikey says solemnly, fingering through Gabe's shelf of vinyl. "These are awesome."

"Have you not been up here before?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

Mikey shoots him a look over his shoulder, one that Gabe might call sultry if he used words like that. "Any reason I should have?"

"Don't be weird."

Mikey laughs. "Yeah, okay. But, like. Are we going to hook up tonight? If not, I'll try to meet somebody at the show, you know?"

"I don't know if I can hook up with my dad down the hall." College has this whole thing with the joys of not having to calculate acceptable risk. He's gotten used to it.

Mikey's brow furrows. "This is not a problem that I have." He rubs his jaw, his thumb grazing his lower lip in a way that's got to be deliberate, to remind Gabe of what it feels like against his, hot and spit-slick and swollen. "There are other places. There are cars. Bathrooms."

"Bathrooms?" Gabe laughs and shakes his head, stripping his hoodie off. "You turned eighteen and went all girls gone wild, huh, Mikey Way?"

"I've gotta do something or I'm gonna go crazy." Mikey sounds philosophical and sincere, without a trace of shame, and it's enough to make Gabe stop getting undressed to look at him. Mikey's hand is splayed over the album spines, his eyes unfocused, like he's off in his head somewhere and not in the room with Gabe at all. "You know?"

"Yeah." It's a fucked-up feeling, heat and pressure inside, everything moving too fast--everything, breath blood thoughts cell division. "I do. Hey."

Mikey's eyes snap back into focus and he lifts them to Gabe's face, eyebrow quirking up in a solemn asking that Gabe wants to answer so bad--but doesn't know how. Not really.

"Come here," he says, and Mikey shuffles across the floor on his knees, holding his arms out to steady himself. Gabe catches his chin when he's close enough, tilting his head up so he's looking Gabe in the eye.

Mikey smiles a little, less a curve of his mouth than a quiet sunburst of lines at the corners of his eyes. "This is a compromising position."

"I wanna hook up tonight."

"Sweet." Mikey turns his head deliberately, kissing the inside of Gabe's wrist and then biting it, worrying the curve of bone between his teeth. "Me too."

**

The DJ is Travie fuckin' McCoy, which doesn't impress Mikey at all, even when Gabe explains that he knows the guy, that he's run with him up in the city. "You're awfully jaded for a kid," Gabe says, dodging through the crowd to get to the booth.

"I'm not a kid."

"You're a skinny-ass white boy and a kid, Mikey Way, and you'll still be both those things when you're thirty."

"I'm not going to live to thirty, asshole."

Gabe stops and looks at him. "That's morbid."

"Live fast, die young." Mikey blinks slowly at him through his stupid cats-eye lenses. "James Dean?"

"I don't do old-ass American shit."

"Ask my mom about him sometime."

"That's not what I'm going to be asking your mom about." Gabe grabs his crotch in illustration and Mikey rolls his eyes, moving past him and working his way up to the booth like he's swimming. That easy.

Travie looks down with confusion that turns to amusement when he sees Mikey and then wary appreciation when Mikey purses his lips around his straw and wiggles his fingers at him. "The fuck are you, kid?"

"Travie Lazarus," Gabe yells, pushing his way up behind Mikey and boosting himself up off the floor with his hands on Mikey's shoulders. Mikey wobbles but doesn't fall, jerking his head back to thump Gabe's chest until he lands again. "This is my boy Mikey Way."

"Hey." Mikey lets the straw slip out of his mouth, leaving a wet trail down his chin. Dirty fucking boy. Gabe's starting to think about bathrooms after all. "Sweet set, man."

"Thanks." Travie reaches over Mikey's head to hit Gabe's shoulder, giving him a meaningful, questioning look that Gabe ignores. "You coming to the party, Saporta?"

"What party?"

"What fucking party. The after-party, moron."

"Oh that party. Maybe. Can my boy come?" Mikey rolls his eyes, but he leans back against Gabe, too, sprawling on his chest like Gabe's got every right to paw at him and claim him for his own.

"Your boy can bring all his friends if he goes and gets me a drink."

"Vodka cranberry?" Mikey asks, wide-eyed and putting on a show Gabe can't quite identify. He knows it's a routine, but he can't name the source. It makes him itchy.

"Rum and Coke," Travie corrects, tapping Mikey on the nose with a lot of familiarity for having known the kid for thirty seconds. He might just know Mikey's type, a little voice thinks in the back of Gabe's head. It makes him flinch as he shoves the thought down and locks it up. He doesn't want to be like that about Mikey.

"You've got such a type, Gabey," Travie says once Mikey saunters off toward the bar. It's too close to an echo of Gabe's own thoughts for him not to jump.

"A type of what?"

"Girls and boys. You like 'em skinny, a little bit pretty, and easy as hell."

"Well." Gabe can't think of an argument for that. "Yeah."

"So you're not even going to pretend you're not going to get him wasted and feel him up at the party?"

"He gets himself wasted."

"Oh. All right then." Travie laughs and smacks Gabe on the shoulder, flicking a few switches on the board. "You know I'm just playing with you, man."

"Yeah. You know, me and Mikey are just playing, too."

It sounds good. It sounds plausible--even true. Maybe it actually is. Gabe watches Mikey cut through the crowd again, all limbs and hips and a smooth certainty that Gabe wants to know the taste of, so he can fake it better himself.

**

The afterparty is at Dave's girlfriend Shonna's house. Gabe likes Shonna--she's a drummer in a local punk band and she once won a bar bet by bench-pressing him, which was pretty awesome. Most of the party is dedicated to non-edge things that Gabe finds boring to watch until they get to the point where people start doing stupid shit. Shonna always makes sure there's plenty of stuff on hand for the non-drinkers, though, so he lifts a Diet Coke and a bag of corn chips and shadows Mikey through the party, waiting half-patiently for him to be alone.

Mikey's a fucking social butterfly. It becomes pretty clear pretty quick that the only way Gabe's going to get him alone is to follow him into the bathroom.

Mikey jumps a little when Gabe presses up against his back and steps into the bathroom with him, deftly replacing Mikey's hand on the doorknob with his own and pulling the door shut with a solid click. "Well, hi, dude."

"Hi, Mikeyway."

Mikey tilts his head back, squinting up at Gabe. "Thought you weren't into bathrooms."

"You seem to be my exception."

Mikey grins, a sharp flash of teeth. "I'm your exception for a lot of things, aren't I?"

The words hit Gabe in the chest, cutting off his air and his finely-honed ability to bullshit. He stares down at Mikey, letting his arms slip free as Mikey pulls away and boosts himself up onto the edge of the counter, then scoots back until he can lean his shoulders back against the mirror and spread his knees wide.

"C'mere," Mikey says, patting the edge of the counter in the open V of his legs. "Come keep me company."

Gabe takes a step toward him, not close enough to get caught. That's how it feels right now, like Mikey's going to catch him. Wrap him up and put him in his pocket. Or maybe eat him alive, taste all of Gabe's insides and outsides. Mikey could be danger under camouflage.

Mikey rolls his eyes. "You look like you're afraid I'm going to bite you."

"You might."

"Have I any of the other times we fooled around? Dipshit."

"I'm used to people being afraid that I'm going to seduce them, you know. Get my crazy all over them or shit like that."

"I'm not afraid of anything." Mikey stretches his leg out, bumping his foot against Gabe's knee. "And you don't have any crazy that I can't handle. Come here. I want to kiss you."

And that--that's better, for something in Gabe's head; that's honest and direct, that's not a game. He steps up to the counter and lets Mikey hook his legs snug around Gabe's thighs, holding him there. He rests his hands on top of Mikey's on the counter, lets Mikey turn his palms up and hold on to him when he wants. Mikey touches him lightly, deftly. Letting Mikey take charge feels good.

"Bathroom sex lacks dignity," Gabe says.

"Fuck dignity." Mikey leans in and kisses him, soft and slow, his mouth thick with booze and mixer. Gabe can pick out at least three flavors. That's disgusting.

"Should make you use Listerine before I kiss you," he mumbles, leaning in closer, letting his body weight push Mikey back toward the mirror.

"Are you calling me dirty?" Mikey sounds a little breathless, a little like he's laughing. Gabe pulls back, frowning and replacing his mouth with two fingers against Mikey's lips.

"Don't, okay? I don't want to play games."

Mikey turns his head to the side, forcing Gabe's fingers away. "It's all a game, man."

"I don't..." Gabe exhales roughly. "Fine. Whatever."

Mikey looks up at him and the words on the tip of Gabe's tongue--Fuck this, fuck you, I'm going home--die away. Mikey's fucking eyes. Wide and dark and with mysteries in the depths. Gabe hates himself for the things he sees in Mikey's eyes. "I just want to kiss you."

Gabe nods and leans in, finding Mikey's mouth again, telling himself not to think this time, not to try to figure out anything here. There aren't any patterns. There aren't any secret messages. There's Mikey's mouth, his mouth, Mikey's fingers still tight and hot against his. The edge of the countertop biting sharply against his hips, Mikey's legs snug around the back of his thighs, the throbbing noise of the party just on the other side of the wall. Concrete things. Simple things.

Gabe's curse is that he always wants to see layers in everything. If you sink down past the surface, anything might have a story that's different from the first glance. There could be whole worlds under there. Looking for them is something he does without even realizing he's doing it.

He's trying not to right now, though. He isn't going to find any meaning here. It's just Mikey and him, kissing in a bathroom. That's it.

He's concentrating so hard on that that it takes him a minute to realize Mikey's let go of his hands and is undoing his zipper.

Gabe breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Mikey's, trying to catch his breath. "Yeah?"

"Obviously." Mikey bumps their noses together and slips the button on Gabe's jeans, pushing the denim inside and grinning in approval at Gabe's boxer-briefs. "Hi there."

"Please don't have conversations with my junk."

"No games, no conversations. Got it." Mikey rolls his eyes and kisses Gabe again, letting his teeth catch Gabe's lower lip. It's a distraction right on the edge between painful and sweet, just right for keeping him from reacting too hard when Mikey slides his hand down inside his underwear and wraps it around Gabe's dick.

It takes Gabe a while to get off--the angle's weird, and it's hard for him to really get into the zone when people keep yelling out at the party, or banging on the bathroom door telling them to get the fuck out. Mikey doesn't seem to care, though. He just keeps jerking and kissing and rubbing his legs against Gabe's thighs and his ass, muttering little words of encouragement like Gabe's running a marathon instead of getting a handjob in Shonna's bathroom. There's some kind of weird fucking poetry here. Party Zen.

He fully intends to return the favor for Mikey, but Mikey beats him to it, jerking off into the sink while he cups the back of Gabe's head with his free hand, holding Gabe in a long, demanding series of kisses. He keeps not-quite-biting, those sharp little snags of his crooked teeth, and Gabe knows that when he looks at himself in the mirror afterward, his mouth is going to be red and swollen and fucked-up. Everyone's going to be able to tell that there was a party on in this bathroom.

"Hey," Mikey says, while Gabe's washing his hands and staring at himself in the mirror, mesmerized by his own lips. Mikey's doing up his zipper, smiling to himself like he just won a fucking prize. Not the lottery; he's not that happy. But maybe a free Slurpee, or something. "Hey, dude, did I tell you I put in for early decision at Rutgers?"

"For real?"

"Yeah. Couple months ago. Probably gonna get it. Then I can just, like, take the rest of senior year off, you know? Coast." He tugs his jeans up higher on his skinny hips and flashes Gabe a quick grin, already reaching for the door. "I'll see you around campus and stuff. It'll be awesome."

Gabe doesn't see Mikey for the rest of the party, not until he's headed out the door around three AM. Then he notices Mikey tucked neatly into the corner of one of the couches, Travie leaning heavily against him, Travie's face pressed into the curve of Mikey's neck. Mikey's smiling, blank and blissful, his lips parted and one hand curled snugly around the waistband of Travie's jeans.

It's not hard to guess that Mikey's going to make his way home in the morning with a hickey and a pill hangover, and Travie's going to head back to the city with a new number in his phone.

Gabe doesn't feel anything about that. It doesn't mean anything anyway.

He goes to temple with his dad on Saturday morning, and he goes back to school with enough cash in hand to take Rob and his musician friends out to dinner. He's got an idea to sell them on, and everybody's more likely to listen to the idea guy if he's the one buying drinks.

**

He doesn't see Mikey as much at school as he kind of thought he might. As far as he can tell, Mikey's majoring in arts and parties, which doesn't bring him anywhere near the philosophy department. Or the library. Not that Gabe spends much time there either, because, for real, he has shit to do.

Shit that includes band practice for his new thing. He thinks they'll be ready to book shows right about the end of fall semester, which is awesome. Maybe not awesome for his grades on finals, but he can work it out. Sleep is for lesser men, or for when he's old.

Just because he doesn't have a band on the go doesn't mean he's out of the scene, though, and that's where he sees Mikey when they do cross paths, slipping through the crowds at shows. Gabe's got a decent set of connections for DJ gigs lined up, too, and he can't say for sure that Mikey comes to his shows specifically, but he sees him in the crowd more than he thinks can be total chance.

The week before Thanksgiving, Mikey comes up to the DJ booth and rises up on his toes to set a cup down in front of Gabe. "You looked thirsty."

"Still edge, Mikey Way."

"It's ginger ale."

"That doesn't even have caffeine in it. That's a douche drink."

"Oh my god." Mikey rests his chin on the railing around the booth and stares at him, eyes wide behind his glasses. His pupils are blown out and he's weaving on his feet. Gabe pushes down on the urge to take care of the kid. Mikey Way does not need his help. He doesn't need anybody's help. That's his whole shtick.

"I brought it to you as a gift," Mikey says aggrievedly. "Come on, dude."

"Fine." Gabe picks up the cup and downs it in three long swallows. "Thank you. Much appreciated. Next time, make it a Red Bull, huh?"

"Got it." Mikey doesn't move, his eyes tracking Gabe as he turns his attention back to his work. Gabe ignores him for a while, until the feeling of being watched like that starts to make him itch.

"Do you need something, Way?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Gabe stares at him for a minute, then turns his eyes back to the turntables. "I'm not."

"You are too."

"I said I'm not."

"I said you are too."

This has the potential to go on all night. "I'm kind of busy right now, dude."

"Okay." Mikey nods and eases himself back off the railing. "I'll talk to you after."

"Yeah. Fine."

"I mean it. I'm gonna hang around until you're done."

"I said fine."

"Okay." Mikey wanders off into the crowd and Gabe rolls his eyes, hitting the buttons on the board a lot harder than they really deserve. Fuck. Mikey wants to have a conversation. Gabe's not in any kind of mood for a conversation. Then again, Mikey's fucked up enough that he probably won't even remember. He'll get distracted halfway through the rest of the set, go home with somebody else, and Gabe will be able to pack up and get back to his dorm in plenty of time to read half a chapter of Nietzsche and get some sleep.

He underestimated Mikey's ability to latch on to an idea like a bulldog with a bone. When Gabe steps out onto the sidewalk with his gear under his arm and his check in his pocket, Mikey is sitting on the curb, texting away on his phone, heels firmly hooked into the tires of Gabe's bike.

"Dude," is the best Gabe can manage. All he can do is stand there and stare. He really doesn't want to have a conversation now, he's tired and trying to psych himself up for Nietzsche. "How did you even know that's my bike?"

"How do you even ride a bike carrying that shit?"

"It's a skill. I practice a lot."

"What happens if you drop your shit?"

"It breaks and I'm out a lot of money."

"So you've got an incentive not to drop it."

"I really do."

"We're covering incentives and shit in my econ class." Mikey nods, eyes still on his phone, then shoves it in his pocket and gets to his feet. "So, where do you want to go to talk?"

"Do we have to talk?"

Mikey stares at him for a minute, then a smile spreads slowly across his face. "Nope."

"I didn't mean it like that."

The smile vanishes. "Why not?"

Gabe doesn't like to think of himself as a mean person, but goddamn he wants to make this stop. "I don't like being sloppy seconds. Or, you know. Fifteenths."

Mikey's face goes carefully blank, the sharp jerk of his eyes to the left the only sign that Gabe's words have any impact. "I don't get why that means we can't be friends. Or why you have to, like, ignore me all the time."

Gabe exhales sharply and sets his case down on the ground safely out of the way before he kicks the wall. "Fuck, Way, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"We were friends with benefits. Hooking up was awesome, but we had fun just, like, normally, too. And then all of a sudden you stopped talking to me or even acknowledging I exist, because you...don't like that I hook up with other people? That doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah, well, I'm not used to being in that position. Turns out I don't like it. So I took myself out of it. Are we done?"

Mikey's brow furrows up. "That position?"

"Are we done?"

"Holy shit, Gabe Saporta." Mikey crosses the sidewalk to him, slowly and carefully, placing each foot like he's stepping around landmines. "You...you don't like..."

"I'm going home."

"You're not used to not being chased."

Gabe's hands curl into fists at his side. He forces himself to breathe out and uncurl them, bit by bit. The universe is not served by violence. "When you put it that way, I sound like a douchebag."

"You really do."

"I'm not a douchebag."

Mikey shrugs and holds up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Little bit."

"Fuck you."

"I'm into it, dude. I'd even pretend to chase you, if it gets you hot."

Gabe feels like Mikey hit him, with a brick instead of his skinny-kid fists. "Seriously, go to hell, Mikey." He grabs his case and goes to unlock his bike. Forget Nietzsche. He's going the fuck to bed and sleeping all the way through to Thanksgiving.

**

Thanksgiving at the Saporta house is very low-key. They're all home, and they do have dinner together, but it's not a thing.

Gabe's up in his room, pretending to draft one of his finals and looking at porn when his dad knocks on the door. "Gabriel? Mikey's here to see you."

The door opens and Mikey comes inside before Gabe has a chance to either put down his notebook or close the laptop screen. Mikey blinks at the extreme close-up of tittyfucking and tilts his head to the side, considering it. "Have you ever wondered if that feels good to the girl at all?"

"That's really not what's crossing my mind when I'm watching porn."

"Hmm." Mikey sits down on the bed next to him, tugging his legs up to his chest. "Hey."

"Hi." Gabe closes the laptop and his notebook. "Shouldn't you be in the middle of intense family time?"

"Mom thinks I'm at Dad's. Dad thinks I'm at Mom's. Gerard's with his girlfriend's family." Mikey shrugs. "I went to Pizza Hut and now I'm here."

"That's...a really sad, bleak little story, man."

"Not really. I could've told either of them I wanted to be at their house and they would've kept me. It's cool. I kinda felt like being alone to think and stuff."

"Oh." Gabe twists his fingers around his pen, trying to think of anything to say that won't come out with him sounding like an asshole. He can't come up with anything. Asshole it is, then. "Well, if you want to be alone, why are you here?"

Mikey hugs his knees tighter. "I finished the alone part, and now I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"You know what."

Gabe sighs and leans back against the headboard. He shrugs. "I don't know what to say. I was a jerk."

"I guess I could've taken what you were saying more seriously." Mikey's teeth worry at his lower lip. "But yeah, you were a jerk."

"I feel like I keep ending up being a jerk to you."

Mikey shrugs. "Not any more than anybody else."

"Still. It's not...it's not cool." Gabe takes a breath and lets it go. "I...you're my friend, Mikes. I like you. A lot."

Mikey almost smiles. "I'm glad. I like you a lot, too."

"I don't like to share. I guess."

That prompts a real smile. "I don't like to feel tied down."

Gabe looks sideways at him. "In a kinky way?"

"Dude." Mikey laughs. "We're being for real right now, come on."

"Right. Right. Okay." Gabe sighs and pokes his pen into the bedding. "I don't know what to tell you, man."

"We're friends." Mikey points at him. "Right? You just said."

Gabe nods. "Yeah. We're friends."

"And you'll quit avoiding me?"

"I haven't been..." Maybe subconsciously he has. Subconscious shit is the worst. "Okay, yes, I'll quit avoiding you."

"Good." Mikey nods decisively and then flops down on his back, stretching his legs out and turning his face toward Gabe. "Why'd you leave the band?"

"You heard about that?"

"Of course I fucking heard about it, and then I went to two of their fucking shows and there was some other guy on bass. Shit. What happened?"

Gabe glances around, like there might be someone listening in. Ears everywhere. Secrecy is key. At least, that's what he told Heath, who seemed to buy it. "I've got a new thing going."

"A new band?"

"Yeah. And I think it's going to be fucking hot shit."

"Is it punk? Hardcore?"

"Kind of? But, like. With some pop sensibility mixed in. More emotional depth."

"Fuckin' emo." Mikey starts to smile, bringing his hand up to hide his mouth. "You want to pour out your heart."

"Shut up."

"You want the kids in the crowd to understand your soul."

"I don't even believe in the concept of the soul!"

"Liar liar, pants on fire, Saporta."

Gabe launches himself down the bed, grabbing Mikey and trying to pin him. Mikey laughs and squirms, pushing at Gabe's chest. "You want them to know your deep inner pain."

"I hate you."

"You don't." Mikey goes still, looking up at Gabe with suddenly-serious eyes. "That's cool. You're brave."

"What?"

"Putting your heart out there and shit. It's brave."

"I don't know how much heart I'm going to put into it. It's songwriting. Fiction."

"Sure. Okay." Mikey gets one hand free and rubs his thumb slowly over Gabe's lower lip. "You should kiss me."

Gabe's breath catches in his throat, and he's suddenly very aware that he's lying on top of Mikey, holding him down. "I don't know about this, Mikey."

"I know you don't know. You don't have to know."

"It scares me."

Mikey shrugs, a tiny jerk of his shoulders. His thumb lingers at the center of Gabe's lip, not quite slipping past his teeth. "You can use that for one of your songs."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe not with your dad downstairs." Mikey wiggles his eyebrows and Gabe actually feels himself blush, fuck. He pulls away, turning his head from Mikey's touch, and Mikey smiles sadly. "Why is it so awful that I want you?"

"It's not. It's totally not. I just...I don't know what to do with this, Mikey."

"You kiss me. You touch me. We both feel good. We crash out for a while, then you go back to your homework and I talk telenovela with your dad before I go home."

Gabe stares at him for a minute, then has to laugh. "You're so..."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"In that case, I totally agree." Mikey holds his hand out. "It doesn't have to mean anything, dude."

Gabe doesn't know if that's what he wants or the exact opposite, but he's tired of trying to put it in words and Mikey is looking at him with those fucking eyes, it's like they glow, like there's something in them Gabe can't say no to. He doesn't even want to say no.

So he takes Mikey's hand, and lets Mikey pull him in.

**

February is fucking disgusting that year; all slush and sleet and raw, miserable wind. Gabe changes his laptop's wallpaper to a picture his dad took of one of Uruguay's beaches, because he likes to twist that knife in himself sometimes. If he dropped out of school, he could go to Montevideo right now, in the Southern Hemisphere summer, instead of waiting for fucking July when it'll be as miserable down there as it is up here right now.

Not that he's going to be able to go at all if Midtown gets a summer tour. Shit. On the one hand, he wants his band to be big; he wants that like he wants nothing else in this world or the purely theoretical next one. On the other hand...

He rubs his thumb over the curve of sand against the water, leaving a streak on the screen. God, he wants to go home.

The next best thing to home is live music in a loud club full of people who want to lose their minds. He digs back through his email until he finds a message from Travie listing off a couple of dates he's booked for DJing in the city. There's one tonight, at a club he knows--and, more importantly, where they know him. Awesome. That'll help fight off the cabin fever.

He flops down across his bed and calls Mikey, because a train companion and post-show hookup are never bad things. "Dude," he says as soon as Mikey picks up. "Show tonight in the city. We're going."

"Cool."

"Walk over at six, okay?"

"I'm actually back in Belleville, dude."

Gabe pulls the phone away from his ear and frowns at it. "Why?"

"Gee and I are hanging with our dad for a few days."

"Don't you have classes?" Mikey's silence is really fucking eloquent. "Yeah, all right, that fucks me up a little bit, but I can swing it. You owe me dinner, Way."

"Sure I do." The tone says Bet you collect in the form of a blowjob instead. Gabe's not going near that just yet.

"I finally get to meet the mysterious Elder Way, huh?" he asks instead, picking at the edge of his pillowcase. He needs to do laundry. His sheets, now that he's thinking about it, still smell like Mikey from the last time he crashed there.

"Gerard or Dad?"

"Both at once, I guess. Give me the address."

The house is only about six blocks from Donna's, in the same post-war split-level neighborhood. Gabe's busy looking for house numbers and checking his hair in the mirror. He's paying attention, just maybe not quite as much as he could, until the heavy thud rolls through the car and he hears a shrill yelp from the vicinity of his front bumper.

Shit.

Gabe throws the car into park and scrambles out, staring for a moment at the black-clad lump in front of his tires before he runs to the front porch and bangs on the door. Thanks to whatever higher power takes an interest in his problems, Mikey answers instead of Mr. Way. "Saporta," he says, smiling awkward-sweetly in that way that would make Gabe's heart pick up if it wasn't already doing ninety because he hit a guy with his car. "Ready to roll?"

"There was some creep dressed in black lurking in your driveway."

"Yeah. I know."

"I hit him with my car."

"Oh, shit. That's my brother. Is he okay?"

"I don't know. I didn't check."

"Holy shit." Mikey pushes past Gabe and jogs over to the driveway. "Gee? Gerard? Say something, dude."

The figure on the pavement is lying on its back now, staring up at the sky with a cigarette poking out between its lips. Gerard, apparently, is a pale, round-faced kid who doesn't really look anything like Mikey, as far as Gabe can tell. He has messy black hair, huge eyes, and doesn't show any inclination to stand up. "Holy shit is right," he says around his cigarette. "You fucking hit me, man."

"I couldn't see you." Gabe leans over Mikey's shoulder and scowls at Gerard. "What the fuck are you doing standing around in a driveway at night dressed all in black?"

"Smoking, asshole. Couldn't you see my fucking cigarette?"

Not while he was fixing his hair. He's not going to say that out loud. "Guess not, obviously."

"Fuck." Gerard stares up, his eyes wide and bright, and puffs smoke at Mikey. "Dude."

"Are you hurt?" Mikey asks, leaning back against Gabe and shoving his hands in his pockets. He must be pretty sure of the answer already, because he doesn't seem too alarmed. Gabe slides his arm around Mikey's waist and rests his chin on top of his head.

"I'm fine."

"Can you stand up, then? Just to, like, prove it?"

Gerard rocks back and forth, like a turtle that's stuck upside-down. Making about as much progress as a turtle, too. Gabe has to shut his eyes tightly to keep from laughing at him. Mikey must feel the pre-laugh tremor run through him, because he jabs his elbow back sharply into Gabe's ribs.

"Do you need a hand?" Mikey asks gently, and Gerard nods, his cigarette drooping toward his chin. Mikey moves away from Gabe and helps him up, and Gerard brushes his clothes off with the extreme care of the very drunk. Ah. That makes things make more sense.

"Nice car," Gerard says, turning his wide-eyed gaze toward Gabe.

"Thank you."

"You ever thought about, like, painting a giant Batman symbol on the hood?"

"No," Gabe says as evenly as he can. "I haven't."

"You should. It'd be sweet." Gerard looks at Mikey again. "You guys going to the city?"

"Yeah." Mikey takes Gerard's cigarette and steals a puff, then neatly places it back in Gerard's parted lips again. "You want to come with?"

Gabe jerks in surprise, opening his mouth and then forcing himself to shut it again, pressing his teeth into the inside of his lip. Okay then. If Mikey wants his brother along as a cockblock, that's just fucking fine.

"Yeah?" Gerard's eyes brighten and he beams at Mikey with a level of affection that startles Gabe. He didn't think Mikey let anybody look at him like that. "You sure, man?"

"It's cool, right, Gabe?"

"Sure." Gabe shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. The guy's already drunk and they haven't even left yet, anyway. And he seems kind of awkward and weird. Maybe he'll at least be good for a few laughs.

"Let me grab my wallet." Gerard hurries into the house and Mikey turns to Gabe.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "I know you didn't invite him or whatever, but he's been having some shit going on and I think a show would be really good for him. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

Now Gabe just feels like a dick. "Sure, it's cool. Don't worry about it. Is he okay?"

"He gets, like." Mikey frowns and shrugs, bumping his glasses up on his nose with a jerky motion that Gabe's learned to interpret as him being nervous. "Depressed and stuff. He'll just lock himself in the basement for days, at Mom's. I came home because he told me he couldn't get out of bed, and we came over here 'cause sometimes a change of scenery helps, and Dad didn't mind, but I think a show will be even better than, like, trading the couch at home for Dad's couch, you know? People and music and--" He cuts himself off as Gerard comes out onto the porch again, closing and locking the door carefully behind him. "Ready to go, Gee?"

"Yeah." Gerard's pulled a black newsboy cap down over his hair. He looks at Gabe intently and holds out his hand. "I didn't hear your name?"

"Gabe. Gabe Saporta." Gerard's handshake is cold and a little greasy. His smile's sweet, though. A little lopsided, and he smells like he just fell out of a still, but Gabe feels even worse for planning to make fun of him all night.

"Oh, you're Gabe! Mikey's told me so much about you! He played me all your songs."

Gabe shoots a glance at Mikey. "All of them?"

"Every one," Gerard says with utter seriousness. "I like your style."

"Well. Thanks." Gabe nods and glances at the car. "Should we get going? There's going to be a fuckload of traffic at the tunnel and shit."

"Yeah. Totally." Gerard climbs into the backseat without hesitation, and Mikey slides into the passenger seat and spins the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

"What's the show?" he asks, glancing at Gabe with a little smile that Gabe would've thought of as promising if not for the fact that Mikey's brother was now in the backseat.

"Travie's spinning."

"That's always rad."

"That's what I figured. And I had to get the fuck out of the dorm or I was going to lose my shit."

"I hear that." Mikey leans his head against the window and Gabe manages not to point out that Mikey is never in his dorm. He either crashes with his fuckbuddies or doesn't go to school at all. That seems like something he shouldn't say in front of the brother, either.

**

The club is packed solid, wall-to-wall bodies dressed to thrill. Gabe loves being out in a crowd like this, dipping in and out of the energy, using it to shut up his ever-racing brain.

He lost Mikey and Gerard pretty early on. They both made a run for the bar as soon as they were inside the doors, while Gabe hit the dance floor. Travie's on a break now, and the club's canned shit isn't Gabe's style. He runs his hands through his hair, digging his fingers into the sweat-soaked curls, and lets his gaze wander slowly across the room. He should be able to find Mikey by looking for a clump of people giggling and flirting, and Gerard by playing a game of "Which one doesn't belong?"

Someone bumps up hard against his back, and he turns to find Mikey standing there with a little smile. "I was just looking for you, dude."

"I figured." Mikey presses a water bottle into Gabe's hand and takes a sip of his own drink. "You looked good out there."

"Were you dancing? I didn't see you."

"I was observing." Mikey waves one hand, the other clutching his drink. "Meditating. Listening. All that good stuff."

"And loading up," Gabe says, gulping down half the bottle of water and upending the rest over his head. "What's that, your fourth drink?"

"Haven't been counting." Mikey shrugs easily and looks around, imitating Gabe's slow scan of the room. "You seen Gerard?"

"Nope."

"Hm." Mikey's brow furrows and he pulls his phone out, tapping a quick message. "He might've gone outside."

"Why would he do that?"

"Smoke. Get out of the crowd. He gets antsy." Mikey's phone lights up promptly, and he smiles. "Oh, okay. He ran into a girl he knew from school. They went looking for a Duane Reed. He'll be back soon."

"Your brother's having better pick-up luck than either of us? That's really wrong, man."

One of Mikey's eyebrows goes up. "Were we supposed to be picking up other people? Because I could've done that. A lot. I thought I was going home with you."

Gabe shrugs and puts on his best don't-give-a-shit smile. "Works for me."

Mikey laughs and shakes his head. "You're so fucking insecure, Saporta."

"Let's not do this again." It weirds him the fuck out how Mikey can see right through him. He doesn't want to lose his shit again, though. If he's going to keep any kind of upper hand in this...whatever it is, he needs to be cool. Mikey respects that. Or maybe more accurately, Mikey doesn't respect anything else.

"Right on." Mikey finishes his drink and bumps his shoulder against Gabe's, flashing him a grin. "Travie's getting back up there. You should dance some more. I'm gonna go outside and wait for Gee."

"You should come dance, too."

"I'll dance once Gerard's location is secured." Mikey crushes his cup in his hand. "It's a brother thing. Don't worry about it."

"I definitely have never had that problem with my brother."

"Ricky is not Gerard, my friend."

Gabe can't really argue with that. He watches the back of Mikey's jeans make their way across to the bar and then to the door. He's guaranteed a good ending to the night. He just has to make it there in one piece.

**

Getting there in one piece ends up being trickier than anticipated. Gerard is a world-class cockblock. He's not doing it on purpose, so Gabe can't pay him off or anything. All he can do is stare in wonder while Gerard rambles on and on at Mikey and Corinne, the girl from his art school, who apparently took him to Duane Reed to buy condoms, but Gerard is still here, talking, instead of back at her apartment and getting down to business.

Gabe can't believe this guy.

He takes a slow sip of Red Bull, watching in quiet despair as Mikey nods at something Gerard says and then whispers in Corinne's ear. Presumably translating from the Gerard, or promising that his brother will catch on to the sex situation soon. Soonish. Any minute now.

"Something wrong, man?" Travie comes up behind him and swipes Gabe's drink from his hand, taking a gulp and making a face. "That shit's nasty. Get me something worth drinking, huh?"

"Get it yourself." Gabe shakes his head. "This is the weirdest fucking thing I've seen in months, man."

"What?" Travie follows Gabe's gaze. "Shit, I thought Mikey was your boy, Saporta. Looks like he's angling for a threesome with those two."

"That's his brother."

"Haven't heard that one before, but okay."

Gabe sighs. "I think he's trying to get the two of them to go off together, but the brother's just, like, not picking up any signals."

"And meanwhile you're standing over here with your dick going soft."

"Exactly." Gabe kills the rest of his drink. "Maybe I should just fuck it and go home."

"Hey. That's no way to talk. If your boy ditches you, you come with me, I'll fix you up."

"You're a gentleman, Travie."

"Fucking right I am." Travie squints at the trio again. Gerard's waving his hands in the air, illustrating some complicated point, and Corinne is laughing. Mikey's gazing at his brother with bright eyes and a small smile. "Okay, bring me up to speed, what's the brother's story?"

"Gerard? He's an artist. Graduated from School of Visual Arts, I think. She was one of his classmates."

"Oh! Art students. Shit, man, I got this for you. Give me five minutes." Travie punches him in the arm and crosses over to the group, greeting Mikey with a hug and shaking hands with Gerard and Corinne. Gabe watches in blank fascination as he easily works his way in between Gerard and Mikey, throws his arm around Gerard's shoulder, and takes control of the conversation in a few sentences. Gerard's eyes are all wide, and he's staring up at Travie like he's something absolutely amazing.

Corinne's got the same look on her face, now that Gabe thinks about it. She keeps scooting in closer to them, eventually nudging Mikey away altogether.

And oh, right, of course. That's Gabe's fucking cue.

He cuts across the room and curves his hand lightly around the back of Mikey's neck. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Did you set this up?" Mikey nods at Travie, who still has his arm around Gerard. Mikey's voice is dry, but he's smiling when he glances up at Gabe. "Very smooth."

"Actually, Trav did that all on his own. I'm impressed myself." Gabe rubs his thumb up and down the bumps of Mikey's spine. "Let's go, Way."

"Where are we gonna go?" Mikey's voice is warm and lazy, and he leans back into Gabe like his bones are melting. "You really want to wait the whole ride to your place?"

"I've got a key to Travie's, actually."

"Isn't he going to be pissed if he comes home and we're there?"

Gabe looks at the way Gerard is leaning into Travie's side, his eyes half-lidded now and his mouth slack. He looks at the way Corinne is grinning at both of them, and how her nipples are clear through her tank top. "I'm pretty sure Travie's all set for the night, man. In the sense that he's not gonna need to come home."

"For real? Oh. Shit." Mikey starts to giggle and turns so he can hide it agains Gabe's shoulder. "Shit, I totally did not pick up on that at all. Shit. Gee's going to get all kinds of laid."

"So are you, if you'd start fucking walking instead of voyeur-ing on your brother, pervert."

"Blow me."

"Move your ass."

**

Gabe wakes up with his face jammed into the corner of Travie's shitty futon and Mikey's elbow jammed into his kidneys. It's not comfortable. Fortunately, Travie's apartment is just as shitty and has basically no windows, so there's no sunlight to fuck with him. He works his way free of Mikey, finds the bathroom for the necessaries, and then comes back out to look for his phone.

His phone and Mikey's are lying together on the box serving as a table at the end of the futon. He picks up both, squinting at the screens and hoping they agree on what time it is. Mikey's lights up with an indication that he has five texts from Gerard. Gabe knows he probably shouldn't open them, but he wants to know--and anyway, what if it's an emergency or something, Mikey would want him to look.

Im hungover as fuck where are you?

Do you think corinne likes me or did she just forget i graduated already?

Mikey WAKE UP ALREADY

You are a lazy ass and im not going to tell you about my 3some

Ok im at a starbucks call me when you get this fucker xo

So not an emergency, exactly. Interesting stuff, though.

He sends Travie a message--Thx for the crash space enjoy the wet spot!--and leans over the back of the couch to give Mikey a wet willie.

"I fucking hate you," Mikey says from the floor a minute later. "Your dick is never going anywhere near my mouth again."

Gabe remembers the enthusiasm that Mikey had brought to his mouth on Gabe's dick the night before. He's pretty sure it's not a hobby Mikey's just suddenly going to give up. "We should get some coffee and find your brother."

"He'll be wherever the coffee is." Mikey rubs his face with one hand, sticking the other down his jeans to scratch his balls. "Well, let's go then."

"Don't you want to pee and wash your face and generally act like a civilized human being?"

Mikey pauses with his hand still half-covering his face and gives Gabe an icy look. "You're paying for the coffee."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're being a dick for no reason, and because I sucked your cock last night, so you can fucking well pay for coffee."

"I'm feeling a lot of hostility in the room." Gabe reaches out and starts fixing Mikey's hair, tweaking the over-moussed strands back into an approximation of how they started. "We'll get chocolate and caffeine in you soon. Find your brother."

Mikey grunts and starts tapping at his phone. "Quit grooming me like a chimp."

"You'd be a cute chimp."

"Fuck you."

"It's not like I'm picking bugs out and eating them."

"I don't have bugs."

"You'd better not. If you give me crabs, I'm suing, Mikey Way."

Mikey gives Gabe a look Gabe has never seen from him before. It's actual outrage, complete with flared nostrils. "I do not have crabs, that is a fucking lie, I told Craig and Vanessa that if they were going to go around telling people that I was going to--"

"Dude! Dude." Gabe grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. "That's not what I meant. I was teasing you about grooming like chimps."

"Oh." Mikey's shoulders slump a little, but he doesn't try to push Gabe off. "That's okay, then."

"Let's go get you some coffee. You'll feel better."

Mikey looks at him seriously. "I really will."

**

The trip back to Jersey and then to the Way house is mostly taken up by Gerard telling stories about how great Mikey is. Gabe didn't really expect that. Usually when he tells stories about his own little brother, it's about what a complete and total pain in the ass Ricky is and how he would like to trade him for a nice guitar or maybe a flat of Red Bull.

"Fall semester of my senior year, I had to take this critique seminar," Gerard says as Gabe pulls up to Mr. Way's house. "It was awful. Nobody liked my shit."

"They didn't understand your shit," Mikey says helpfully, looking back over his shoulder at Gerard.

"They did understand it. They just hated it. And I had to sit there for, like, an hour, three times in the semester, and just take it. Listen to all their bullshit opinions and I wasn't allowed to defend my stuff at all except an extemporaneous five-minute defense at the end of the hour after I'd sat through all that."

"The first time, he cried." Mikey doesn't say that with the level of glee Gabe would have. And Gerard just nods instead of punching his brother in the neck. Definitely a different brotherly dynamic going on there.

"And Mikey made you feel better?" he asks finally, turning the car off for lack of a better idea.

"Oh, yeah! I called him after the seminar and he got on the train that same night, every time. Brought me Cheetos and orange soda and stayed with me and we watched movies and he let me talk about my real projects, not my classwork stuff." Gerard fumbles in his jacket pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes. "He's the best."

"That's great." Gabe nods a few times and glances at Mikey. "So...am I just dropping you off, or what?"

"You can come in!" Gerard kicks the door open and climbs outside to light up. "Hang out. Watch some TV. See Mikey's etchings."

"Shut up, Gerard." Mikey climbs out of the car and knocks Gerard's cigarette out of his hand as he passes. "Yeah, come in, dude. We've got snacks."

The inside of the Way house, paterfamilias edition, doesn't have dolls or photos. It's clean and cramped and generally bare. Mikey seems less defensive of it than he did of his mom's house, which makes sense if they don't actually live here much. It would never occur to Gabe to defend his own mom's house to anybody.

There's a big-screen in the living room, and a couch that's folded out into a bed, set up with Star Wars sheets and a faded comforter. "Shit, we didn't put this away yesterday," Gerard mutters, hurrying over to fold it up.

"You guys both sleep on the foldout?" To his own ears Gabe's voice sounds neutral, but Mikey flinches a little. Right. Touchy spots. "You keep a stash of Diet Coke here, too, Mikeyway?"

"Yeah. I'll grab you one." Mikey disappears toward the kitchen and Gabe helps Gerard fold up the couch, replacing the cushions and fluffing the throw pillows before putting them at each end.

"Thanks for being so great to Mikey," Gerard says, glancing up at him with a tiny smile that Gabe can't help but return.

"Everybody's great to Mikey. He's a cool guy. I haven't done anything special."

"He talks about you a lot, and it's always how talented you are, how fun you are, how he likes to hang out with you."

Gabe blinks. "For real?"

"Yeah! Totally. He thinks you're great." Gerard makes a face. "I probably shouldn't have said anything. He'll be pissed. He has this whole thing about being Mr. Cool Unimpressed Guy. Don't tell him, okay?"

"Got it," Gabe said, offering his hand for a high-five. Gerard slaps his palm and goes to get the remote, leaving Gabe standing by the door to smile at Mikey as he comes in.

"What?" Mikey asks, raising an eyebrow as he hands over the cold can.

"Nothing." Gabe cracks the top and glances around. "So, something about etchings, huh? Is there actually anywhere with privacy for that?"

Mikey laughs softly. "No. But if you let me hitch a ride back to school with you..."

"My room or yours?"

Mikey bumps his shoulder against Gabe's and goes to join his brother on the couch. "Yours."

**

Gabe pushes and Mikey gasps, twisting under Gabe's weight and grabbing at the pillow. "Jesus."

"Stop moving," Gabe mutters, and pushes again, working into Mikey. "Hold still or you're gonna make me lose it."

"You stop moving."

"Uh, if I stop moving we're never going to get anywhere." Gabe thrusts, a short sharp roll of his hips, and Mikey buries his face in the pillow. "Better?"

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Okay." Gabe kisses the back of Mikey's neck and tightens his hands on his hips, trying to find a rhythm. "I'm just gonna keep doing this, then."

In Gabe's head, if he has to think about it at all, everything they did before was messing around and this is fucking. They are really and truly fucking. He is fucking Mikey, he is having sex with Mikey in his dorm-room bed, Mikey is gasping and whimpering and sweating all over his sheets. It's new and different. It's awesome.

It's a line he's pretty sure they can't ever un-cross, and that's just going to have to be okay.

Mikey turns his head to the side and takes a deep gulp of air. "Y-yeah. Yeah. Keep doing that."

"I am."

"I mean don't stop unless I tell you you can."

"Why would I stop?"

"Shut the fuck up, Gabe!"

Mikey's voice is almost a whine, definitely closer to a plea than an order. It makes Gabe's stomach twist hot and tight and really, really good. He pulls Mikey's hips back against him and keeps thrusting, speeding up as he feels himself getting close. Mikey's dropped to half-hard, his dick smearing precome against his inner thigh as it jerks back and forth with Gabe's thrusts. Gabe can smell it, salty-sour and probably getting all over his sheets along with Mikey's sweat. He's going to be smelling Mikey for days.

That thought takes him right up to the edge, another few thrusts puts him over, and he collapses against Mikey's back, taking him down to the bed while the shivers pulse through him and he catches his breath. "Holy shit," he mumbles against Mikey's shoulder. It's sweaty and the muscles under the skin are trembling. Gabe bites it just because it's there.

Mikey twists under him again. "Let me turn over," he says, and Gabe does, catching the base of the condom as he pulls out so there won't be even more of a mess. Mikey sprawls out on his back, wrapping his hand around his dick and starting to stroke himself while Gabe cleans up.

He comes back to the bed and straddles Mikey, leaning down to kiss him and batting his hand away from himself. "I'm gonna do this," he mumbles against Mikey's mouth. "You're always so fucking fast on the trigger."

"I just want to come already. C'mon."

Gabe kisses him again and jerks him off; he's still pretty awkward and embarrassed every time he tries to go down on Mikey, but this, this he can do with confidence. Mikey's all sweaty beneath him, flushed and rocking up into his hand, and he likes it, he really fucking likes how it feels when Mikey comes for him.

He grabs the box of tissues from the bedside table to clean up himself and Mikey. "Don't wipe that on my sheets, dude, I can't do laundry until next week."

"You suck at romance." Mikey looks around for his glasses. Gabe places them carefully on Mikey's nose, then pushes them up into place. It makes Mikey scrunch his face up like a bunny. Fucking cute.

He stretches out in the bed beside Mikey, catching his hand and squeezing gently. "Cool?"

"Cool." Mikey closes his eyes and sighs. "I'll need a Coke in a couple minutes, but not yet."

"I'm going to take that as a big compliment to my skills."

"What skills?"

"Shut up." They both laugh, and Gabe turns on his side, pressing up close to Mikey and breathing him in. He smells like sweat and smoke and cheap deodorant. Mikey.

Gabe's phone chirps from the bedside table. "You want me to get that?" Mikey asks, stretching his free hand up to touch the wall.

"Please. Just tell me what it says." Gabe doesn't want to open his eyes yet. Opening his eyes is a step toward both of them getting out of bed and doing things like getting drinks, or dinner, or studying. Gross.

He hears Mikey fumble the phone against the table, then click it open. "From somebody named Keith. 'Sat 9 pm Manhattan location.' Is that a band?"

"No."

"Manhattan Location would be a good name for a band."

"It would."

"Should I text him back?"

"Nah. He's just letting me know."

"Letting you know what?" Mikey sounds half-amused and all stubborn, like he's not going to let this go until he knows what's going on. "Are you dealing and not cutting me in on it, Saporta?"

"No. Shit, don't say that so loud. Someone might hear you."

"Half the dorm is dealing. And it didn't bug you when they heard us fucking." Mikey jabs him in the ribs and Gabe closes his eyes tighter. "What's happening Saturday at nine in a Manhattan location? Tell me."

Gabe groans and turns onto his back, trying to protect himself from Mikey's bony protrusions and stabbing fingers. "A poker game."

"What?"

"A poker game." Gabe throws his forearm over his eyes. "I play poker in the city. Like. Backroom games."

Mikey's silent for a long moment. Gabe's pretty sure he's staring, but he's not going to look. "For real?"

"How do you think I'm paying for school?"

"I figured your dad--"

"My dad has plenty of other shit to pay for without worrying about me. I'm not gonna be a burden on him."

"I'm like 99% sure he wouldn't think of your education as a burden."

"I don't care." Gabe sighs and pulls his arm away, finally looking at Mikey. "It's just a stupid poker game. I do like one or two a week. They're in different places around the city or north Jersey. This one's in Manhattan."

"They're organized by people who send texts that sound like code and shit." Mikey's eyes get wide. He looks really fucking innocent for a guy who's still naked and sweaty from being fucked in this bed not fifteen minutes before. "Are they, like...mob?"

Gabe rolls his eyes. "There's no mob anymore."

"Um. Dude. I'm from here, remember?"

"It's not mob. It's not illegal. It's just, you know. Poker."

"High-stakes poker."

"I guess." Gabe sits up and reaches for his boxers. "Let's go get something to eat. Fucking you burned up a lot of calories."

"I want pizza."

"You always fucking want pizza." Gabe gets dressed and watches Mikey do the same, trying not to let his eyes linger on the line of his back and the angle of his hips.

"It's always good." Mikey grabs Gabe's hand, squeezing it tightly and then letting go. He heads for the door without looking, and Gabe breathes out slowly through clenched teeth, telling himself it doesn't mean anything, there's nothing to worry about, everything's cool.

**

In retrospect, Gabe knows he should've been suspicious of Mikey giving in so quickly. Mikey is nothing if not tenacious. He hangs on like a bulldog.

But he's not suspicious, not until it's too late. Friday night, Mikey tracks him down at his DJ set, camps out by the table until closing time, and follows Gabe back to his room for head and video games. He sleeps over. He wakes Gabe up with a handjob and then treats him to vegan pancakes, then oh-so-casually suggests they watch some movies together in Gabe's room. It's not until Gabe glances at the clock and sees that he needs to get ready to head up to Manhattan that he realizes he absolutely just got played.

"Mikey," he says, hitting pause on the remote and turning to glare at him. "Seriously?"

"What?" Mikey blinks at him, as innocent as he gets.

"Did you have a bunch of sex with me and hang out here all day just to get me to take you to the poker game?"

Mikey's eyes narrow and dart left and right. Gabe can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to decide if it'll do him more good to confirm it or deny it.

"Can I come?" he asks finally.

Gabe shakes his head and yanks his jeans up. "No."

"Come on. I just want to see, not play."

"They wouldn't let you play. Nobody walks into this game. You have to be invited."

"Who invited you?"

Gabe sorts quickly through his closet, looking for the dark blue button-down that makes him look five years older. "None of your business."

"Let me come. I'll behave. I swear."

"I can't believe you bought me breakfast and sucked my dick just so you could go to a poker game."

"Don't be a jackass." Mikey's voice is sharp enough that Gabe stops buttoning and looks at him. "You know it wasn't just so I could do anything."

Gabe takes a slow breath, holds it, and lets it go without saying anything.

"I like you," Mikey says, still sharply. "Maybe it wouldn't kill you to be okay with that."

And what the fuck is Gabe supposed to say to that?

"Yeah, okay," he mutters, finishing the buttons and looking around for his hair gel. "But you need to borrow one of my shirts. These people are serious about the level of class in the room."

To his credit, Mikey doesn't grin or gloat. He just nods and comes over to the closet, studying his options for a minute before carefully choosing a dark gray shirt.

"And keep quiet," Gabe says. "Just sit quiet and watch. Seriously. I won't get invited anymore if you bug them."

"I'll be seen and not heard." That shirt makes Mikey look five years older, too. It works for him. "I promise."

Gabe stares at himself in the mirror for a minute. This is Mikey taking another step onto hidden ground. The twist in Gabe's stomach might be that, or it might be because he isn't sure how much of this he wants Mikey to see. Then again, it's not like Mikey's innocent. He knows that. Mikey's probably seen worse.

It's just a poker game. It might make sense if he was this ashamed at the idea of his dad seeing it. He cares what his dad thinks about him. But Mikey...Mikey's his friend. His hookup. His fuckbuddy. Mikey's not anything solid. Not anything that lasts. So this doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

He nods to his reflection and turns to Mikey again. "Come on, then. Let's go."

**

Gabe doesn't believe in good luck charms, but he might have to revise that opinion for Mikey, because he is fucking killing tonight.

"Three queens," he says, flashing the smile he doesn't let cross his face during play and laying his cards out on the table. "I believe this one goes to me, too."

It's hard to decide which thing he's enjoying more: how pissed-off the other guys at the table or getting or how Mikey is watching the game with wide-eyed fascination that gets more focused on Gabe alone with every hand he wins. Mikey apparently has a thing for winners.

"This fucking kid," he hears one of the guys mutter to his buddy. Nope, Gabe is definitely not making any friends at this table. He'll worry about that later, if they cut him out of the next game. If they don't, he won't worry about it at all.

Keith exhales breath that stinks of the fake-mint nicotine gum he chews through all the games. "I'm dealing. Shut up, all of you."

They fall silent and Gabe can hear Mikey's chair scraping against the floor as he pulls it closer to the table. He glances over his shoulder and catches Mikey staring at him, lips parted a little, eyes bright. He is so fucking into this. Maybe letting him come along wasn't a big deal after all.

"Gabe," Keith mutters, tossing cards down. "Darren, Seth, Mark, Dave."

Gabe knows Mark and Dave; they're in and out of the games on roughly the same schedule he is. They're from the city, he's pretty sure; they don't talk much, don't complain when they lose, don't gloat when they win. He's basically learned how to behave himself at these games by watching them. Well, watching them and heeding any warning Keith throws his way.

Darren and Seth are new since only about two or three games ago. They want to win more than they do, they talk a lot, and they don't like Gabe. Gabe doesn't particularly give a shit. He's playing for next semester's books and laundry money right now, and he does a lot of laundry. They can fuck themselves.

"First bets," Keith says. He sounds bored, but Gabe knows he's not. Keith is never bored. Keith is zeroed in on the five of them like some kind of laser-guided shark who will rip their intestines out at the first sign of any trouble or sleight of hand. Gabe has a healthy fear of Keith.

Darren, apparently, does not. "How about you make the kid take a handicap, Keith? He's making you look bad."

"He's not making me look anything." Keith cracks his gum and shrugs. "You want to play? Play. You want to walk? Walk. Makes no difference to me."

"I'm playing." Darren tosses his chips to the center. "I'm just saying, you might want to check his sleeves."

"I'll roll 'em up if he asks me to," Gabe says, placing his own chips. "I've got nothing to hide."

"I doubt that," Seth mutters. Gabe hears Mikey's chair shift again, but he doesn't look back. He sets his teeth against each other and stares down at his cards, instead. Out in the real world, he has less than no problem with being the one to start the trouble. In here, though, he keeps his mouth shut and sits still. Keith is built like a guy who hits things for a living. Gabe is not eager to be the one to test whether he actually does or not.

They play two more hands; he wins the first and Mark wins the second. That doesn't put Darren or Seth off of glaring at him as he gathers up his chips and turns them over to Keith's buddy at the bar for cash. Not a bad haul at all, this game. He's going to wash his sheets every Saturday whether they need it or not.

"Go buy yourself some tacos, Mexican," Darren says as he and Seth walk by. Gabe pauses in counting his twenties, staring at their backs as they walk away.

"And some for your girlfriend," Seth calls back, and Gabe starts walking, because as soon as they're out the door they're off Keith's turf and he can start shit all he wants.

Before he gets very far, though, Mikey's on him, hooking his fingers through Gabe's belt loops and dragging him back toward the bar. "Fuck off, let me go," Gabe says, swatting at him with the hand that's not still clutching his cash. "Those fuckers just--"

"Don't care." Mikey pushes him down on a bar stool. "Call Travie."

Gabe blinks. "What?"

"Call Travie. Tell him we need to use his place again." Mikey rocks back and forth on his heels. "Shit. Nobody told me poker is fucking intense. That was hot. I mean. That was really hot. Do you get turned on playing? Is it just me? Shit. What are you looking at, call Travie, come on."

Gabe digs his phone out of his pocket. "We could go back to the dorm, you know..."

"That's really fucking far away. Trains and shit. I don't want to wait that long. Seriously, if he won't let us use his place, we're taking that cash and getting a hotel, because I am not waiting until we get back to Jersey for you to fuck me."

Conversation stops all along the bar, and Gabe forces himself not to smile as he punches out a text to Travie. "Dude, you are really loud."

"I have needs. Needs that need to be met right now. You still have a key, right?"

"Yeah, I kept it." The phone lights up with Travie's answer: what do you need my place for? im in brooklyn, do what you want.

what do you think? xoxo

not in my bed shithead. ill be home in the morning stick around for breakfast

Gabe shoves his phone back in his pocket, followed by the cash, and gets to his feet, offering Mikey his arm. "Shall we? I'm being romantic this time, just for you."

"Fuck romance." Mikey grabs his hand, twists their fingers together, and pulls him toward the door. "Let's go."

**

Gabe wakes up to the smell of a Sharpie harsh in his nostrils. Travie's leaning in close to him, brow furrowed, the tip of the marker an inch from Gabe's face.

"Fuck you, if you wrote on me I will fucking kill you." Gabe kicks at him and Travie falls back, laughing.

"Calm down, princess. You're fine."

"I'm serious, McCoy, if you drew a dick on my face, I will fucking..." Gabe half-falls off the couch and stalks off to the bathroom, flipping Mikey off as he passes. Mikey's huddled in Travie's papasan chair and giggling like a maniac. Gabe's never going to fuck him again.

There's no Sharpie on his face; apparently he beat Travie to the punch. He splashes water on his face, trying to shake the fog of waking up abruptly, pees, washes his hands, and goes back to the living room, ready to do battle again.

Mikey tosses him his t-shirt. "Get dressed. Travie's taking us to breakfast."

Gabe looks at Travie and raises his eyebrows. "As in, you're paying?"

"That's what taking you to breakfast means, isn't it?"

"Since when do you have money?"

"I've got things happening. Wheels are in motion. Magic's in the air. Do you want breakfast or not?"

"I do."

"Put some goddamn pants on, then."

Travie's breakfast spot of choice is a shitty diner, so he's not exactly being a big spender. Still, it's coffee, toast, and an omelet that's functionally free. Gabe douses his plate in hot sauce and digs in, steadily ignoring the little question in the back of his head about why Mikey slid into the booth next to Travis instead of with him.

"I thought you were vegan," Travie says, squinting across the table at Gabe's plate.

"I am."

"Those are eggs."

"Eggs don't count."

Mikey laughs, kicking at Gabe's feet under the table. "Pretty sure they do, dude. That's what separates the vegans from the vegetarians, right? Eggs? And milk, I guess."

"I, personally, do not count eggs." He tries to hook his ankle with Mikey's, but Mikey squirms away and focuses on his giant stack of pancakes, smiling that stupid goofy grin that shows his crooked front teeth. Gabe's pretty sure he still has the imprint of those teeth in his lower lip.

"Why not?" Travie asks, clearly not actually interested but willing to run this one down to the ground on general principle.

Gabe rolls his eyes and takes a bite, chewing slowly before he answers. "Because I don't get enough goddamn protein without them and, like, pass out and shit."

This time, Travie and Mikey both laugh, leaning into each other and shaking their heads. Gabe flips them both off and cuts his omelet into pieces with the side of his fork. Passing out sucks. Flexible ethics have a long and meaningful tradition. Fuck these guys.

Travie starts talking about his next gig and Gabe welcomes the change of subject. Talking music is always safe. Mikey seems to agree, pulling away from Travie and leaning forward with his elbows on the edge of the table. He gestures when he talks, waving his hands through the air with no grace and high energy. Gabe can't quite look away from them, the span of his palms, the length of his fingers, the memory of how soft the skin of his palms is against Gabe's arms or his dick or pressed over his mouth.

Gabe's in the middle of a monologue about what he's planning with Midtown when he realizes that Travis has his hand on Mikey's thigh. Mikey's still leaning forward, and listening to Gabe wide-eyed and steady, but he's definitely not pulling away from the touch. Gabe chokes on his words and takes a sip of water, looking away for a moment before cutting his eyes back and catching Travie's gaze.

Travie looks at him blankly. Zero comprehension of what Gabe's trying to put down. He's all calm and chill and he raises his eyebrows a little when Gabe sits in silence and just looks at him.

"You going to finish that thought, man?" he asks, snapping his fingers on his free hand like he's calling Gabe back from where he's gone. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Gabe says, blinking and sitting back. He looks over to Mikey, whose brow is furrowed a little with confusion or concern. He's still not pulling away from Travie's hand, though. And that's...wow. Well. That's fine, then. He doesn't have a claim, he knew that all along. Mikey's told him so, not in so many words.

Mikey likes him the way Mikey likes everybody. Easy. Arm's length.

That's fine.

"Um." He drops his eyes to his plate and takes another sip of water. "Shit, I've totally lost my train of thought. Sorry."

"It's cool." Travie takes a drink of his own and looks away, scanning the room for their waitress. "Tyler sounds like a pain in the ass. Get him in line quick. Establish your dominance and shit."

"You mean like peeing on him?" Mikey asks, and Travie laughs, and suddenly Gabe really has to be somewhere else.

"I gotta catch my train," he says, getting to his feet and fumbling for his wallet. "Shit. Forgot I need to...see my dad. Today. Now, actually. I'm a headcase today. I'll just leave cash, okay?"

"It's my treat," Travie says, standing as well, frowning a little. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm good. I'll see you, okay? Mikey. I'll see you too, at school and stuff. You guys...have fun. Have a good day." He bites down on his tongue before he can say anything else, anything more pointed--Use protection, you guys!--waves awkwardly, and heads for the door.

He has to wait forty-five minutes for a train. He alphabetizes half a newsstand and reads a discarded issue of Cosmo. There's all kinds of shit he should be doing with his hair and isn't.

He doesn't go to see his dad, when the train finally comes. He goes back to his dorm and sleeps for a few hours. Then, before he can start to think, he grabs his songwriting notebook and gets to work.

**

This time, he knows better. He doesn't avoid Mikey. He answers his texts and emails, puts him off with really good reasons when he can and meets up with him public places when he can't. He doesn't bring him home and doesn't go home with him, but he's pretty sure he's cool enough about it that Mikey doesn't catch on.

And he's trying to work it out in his head. He is. Can he do what Mikey's doing, what Mikey seems to want, where they're together when they're together and when they're not, they're...not? It shouldn't be that fucking difficult. It's what guys do. Gabe's seen movies. He has watched TV. He is a card-carrying member of the douchebag class.

Apparently he's not very good at it, though. Or not very good at it when it comes to Mikey, anyway. Or not very good at it when it comes to Mikey anymore. He isn't sure. He isn't sure which is worst.

Midtown keeps him busy. Thank God. His brain's spilling over with words begging to be lyrics, asking so sweet and pretty to be wrapped around a beat and a guitar line. There's something here, something that could be really good if he can figure out how to plug into it. They could fit together, him and this sound. They could be a band together.

He's careful not to explain it that way to Rob and Heath and Tyler. Rob would roll his eyes and let it pass. The other two would probably deck him on general principle. Fuck, if he wasn't the one feeling it, he probably would deck himself on general principle, or drown himself in the Hudson.

The point is, he's making huge progress on lyrics. They're coming together into skeleton songs. By a few weeks after the poker game, he's bugging Rob for a meetup to help him cull through the notebook and pick which ones to work on first. Rob keeps blowing him off for shit like "work" and "sleeping" and "seeing his girlfriend." Rob has no commitment to the vision. Gabe's going to punch him in the dick when he finally sees the stupid asshole.

Finally, he gets Rob pinned down to meet him at a bar in town. Not their usual hangouts, not one of the places they've played, but an older-people bar, because that's likely to be quieter, less distracting, and have booths that they won't stick to in unnerving ways.

They're supposed to meet at five, but Gabe heads over as soon as he gets out of class at three. He's restless and can't sit still anyway; his usual state of affairs, but turned up past eleven these days for some reason. Music is buzzing in his head and demanding to get out. Maybe he should run a couple of miles to wear himself down, but he likes the energy, the manic buzz. It'll run out soon enough and he'll sleep for a week and stare at his notebook like he's never seen it before. Might as well enjoy this part before he gets to the bit that sucks.

He takes a seat at the bar, winding his legs around the slats of the stool and ordering a Diet Coke. He texts Rob that he's there and skims the bar menu, silently eliminating pretty much everything except the waffle fries. Next time they go on tour, he's probably going to end up living on waffle fries. He will be swollen with grease and not in possession of arteries, but fairly happy, when he dies. That comforting thought settled, he glances around, scoping out the room like any good attention-whore would. He doesn't expect to know anybody here, but sometimes the world surprises.

He sees them first; Darren and Seth at the end of the bar, with a row of beer bottles in front of each of them. Fucking fuck, that's definitely a surprise from the world. Not a happy one. Gabe angles his seat away, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV above the bar and wishing Rob would hurry his ass up and get there. He doesn't want to watch hockey and he doesn't want to have a conversation with those assholes. He's voting down his two apparent options if he hangs out here.

"Hey," he hears Seth call. Of course he doesn't have any luck. The Saportas used up all their luck for generations in moving from country to country. There's a philosophy term paper there for sure.

"Hey, dude. I know you." Gabe keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, determined to roll through and play it cool. He didn't cheat at that game, and he doesn't have to talk to anybody he doesn't want to. Seth can fuck right off. The only time Gabe would be pretty sure he has to take bullshit from a guy in public is if he'd slept with his girlfriend. And since he hasn't been screwing around with anybody except Mikey for a while now--and lately not screwing around with anybody because of his Mikey-inflicted existential crisis--he's pretty sure he's in the clear.

"Hey. Saporta, right?" Seth is leaning down the bar down, projecting his voice good and loud. "Saporta. Gary?"

That's just insulting. He turns in his seat to face them. "Gabe."

"That's right. Knew I knew you." Seth takes a drink, while Darren rolls his beer bottle between his palms. Gabe isn't entirely sure he isn't watching some kind of local theater version of Roadhouse. "You cheat at poker here, too?"

Gabe looks around the room. "Nobody is playing poker here. And I didn't cheat."

"Sure you didn't."

Fuck this and fuck Rob. Gabe slides off his stool, slipping his hand in his pocket for his phone. "Nice seeing you guys. Hope you'll be at the game next week. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes."

"Oh, c'mon. Have a drink. We're just talking."

"Fuck your drink."

"Wow." Darren laughs and takes a drink. "Fuckin'...cholo thug, here, man."

It takes a minute before Gabe can get enough air into his lungs to answer. "Are you kidding me?"

"Ay, dios m&acutei;o!" Seth giggles, clicking his bottle against Darren's.

"That's not even the right stereotype, you fucking morons. I'm Uruguayan. And I'm Jewish. For fuck's sake."

"Andale, andale, arriba!" Darren yelps, and Gabe doesn't really think, just picks up the empty bottle belonging to the guy next to him and throws it at Darren's stupid fucking face.

He can get kicked out of a bar with dignity. That's not really a big deal. The bartender tells him to get out, he goes; he texts Rob, he stands on the corner waiting for the next goddamn bus, and when it doesn't show after ten minutes, he starts walking. He'll cross paths with Rob eventually, Rob will pull over and let him in, they'll go to another bar or Rob's apartment and Gabe will vent about racist fucking idiots and Rob will ignore him and they'll write a song or two and everything will be fine.

This has happened before. Gabe knows how to handle it. The echo of the words will be out of his head and only burning in his chest a little bit by the morning.

He's two blocks from the bar when the bottle hits him across the back of his head; he only knows that's what it is because it hits the ground a moment later and shatters, where he can see it from the corner of his eye as he falls. He hits the ground hard, his arms caught uselessly between the sidewalk and his chest instead of coming out to break his fall. It's just enough to keep his face from cracking against the concrete, for whatever small favor that's worth. Probably spares him a broken nose.

They're not really interested in sparing him much else, though. He curls up around himself and takes the hits, shielding his ribs and his face as best he can, and waits it out until he blacks out in the gutter like a goddamn fucking clich&acutee;.

**

He wakes up aware that he's in pain and not much else. His face hurts, his head, his back. His arms. Shit, his hands hurt. If they broke his fingers and he can't play, he's going to go on a fucking killing spree.

He flexes his hands slowly against his chest and exhales in shaky, sobbing relief as they bend the way they're supposed to. Okay. Everything else is negotiable.

He sits up, gasping in pain, and forces himself to move every limb one at a time. Everything hurts and a lot of things are bleeding, but nothing's missing and nothing's broken. "I think that makes me the winner," he says, testing if speaking out loud works. His jaw and where his skin stretches across his lips hurts like a motherfucker. Great.

His wallet's still in his pocket, but his phone isn't; turning his head in a slow, careful arch finds it a few feet down the sidewalk. He must not have been out for very long if it's still there and nobody called the cops on him. The screen's not broken: another piece of good luck. He's definitely the winner here. The winner of the loser sweepstakes.

There's a message from Rob informing him he's an asshole for not being in front of the bar where he was supposed to be, and that he, Rob, is going home and will call him tomorrow. Not like Gabe could carry on much of a conversation right now, anyway, or get in Rob's car without messing up his obsessive neat-freak seat covers.

He stares at his phone and wonders how you tell if you're concussed. Or just going fucking crazy because you got the shit beat out of you by a couple of throwback racists who can't handle losing at poker when Gabe didn't even cheat.

He punches up his contact list and scrolls to Mikey before he even really thinks about it.

"What's up, dude?" Mikey's voice always sounds weird over the phone, higher-pitched and like the pauses are some kind of performance art. "I hope you're calling for sex, because I am totally up for that tonight."

Also Mikey's just weirdly creepy and direct on the phone. Any night but tonight, Gabe would make fun of him for it. "Mikey? I need some help."

"With your penis? Cause I'm on that."

For fuck's sake. "I need you to come get me, man."

A performance-art pause, while Gabe pokes at his teeth with his tongue and hopes none of them will move.

"Shit, man, you okay?"

"I got in a fight." It sounds better than I got jumped. Lets him hold on to a tiny bit of dignity.

"Shit. Where are you?"

Gabe squints up at the signs and gives him the cross-streets, then hangs up before Mikey can say anything else. He props himself up against the wall to wait, digging his lighter and last cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up with careful precision. He draws the smoke in slow and deep and then gasps in pain as inflating lungs run into bruised ribs. "Motherfucker," he hisses, and throws his lighter toward the street.

He's still on the same cigarette when the piece of shit car Mikey drives when he's home stumbles to a halt at the curb. Way better time than humanly possible. Mikey must've been at a party in town. And sure enough, the version of Mikey that peels itself out of the driver's seat is groomed to the nines and wearing feel-me-up jeans. Gabe's lucky he answered the phone.

He doesn't feel lucky. He feels grateful. "Hey, M-Way."

"Gabe, what the fuck?"

"I'm fine." Gabe stands up straight, testing himself, then takes a step. "I got my ass kicked, but I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

"It's not that bad."

"You're bleeding all over the place. Your face. Shit."

"Do you have anything I can sit on? Like a towel or a blanket or something?" Mikey stares at him blankly, and Gabe bites back a frustrated noise. "Maybe in the trunk?"

"We don't really carry that kind of stuff. Maybe there's a garbage bag or something." Mikey goes around to look in the trunk and Gabe leans against the car, eagerly taking the distraction of wondering why the hell the Ways would carry garbage bags in their trunk. Are they hiding bodies on a regular basis?

"Newspapers," Mikey says, coming back with a handful and spreading them on the passenger seat. "Okay, that's good. Get in. I'll take you to the ER?"

"Just take me to my dorm."

"Gabe. Dude."

"I'm fine."

Mikey reaches out hesitantly and Gabe jerks away from him, getting into the car and slamming the door.

They're both silent while Mikey gets in the car and starts the engine. Gabe grinds his teeth steadily against his lower lip, telling himself to stay quiet, and not to cry, fuck, he is not a child. He is a grown-ass adult and this is just shit that happens. The world sucks sometimes. Toughen up, Saporta.

"You should go to a hospital," Mikey says softly, reaching out again until his hand hovers just over Gabe's skin. "I'll drive you."

"No." He isn't going to a hospital, where this will all turn into official records and notes and files and get made real. Absolutely not. "I'm fine."

"Dude, I think you need stitches. You definitely need bandages and shit. And, like, to have these cuts cleaned out so they don't get infected."

"I'm not going to a hospital, Mikey."

"Okay. Okay." Mikey takes a deep breath, drawing it through his teeth. "I'll drive you home, then. Your dad can--"

"No." Fuck, that's the only idea worse than a hospital. His dad. "I'm not fucking letting my dad see me like this, Mikey, are you out of your mind?"

"Shit." Mikey stares out the window, staring around the parking lot. "Okay. I'll take you to my grandma's."

"What's your grandma going to do?"

"Clean you up, bandage you, maybe give you stitches. All the stuff I just said, Gabe."

"She knows how to do that? She's a nurse or something?"

Mikey shrugs and shakes his head, digging his keys out of his pocket. "No, but she's been around for a long time, she knows how to do things. Come on. You're bleeding all over the place."

Gabe sways on his feet a little, not quite giving in. "She'll keep her mouth shut?"

"Dude. Don't insult my grandma when I'm volunteering her to help you." Mikey puts the car in drive. "Just...shut up already."

He really is bleeding like crazy, and he doesn't have a better idea, so he shuts up and lets Mikey drive.

**

Elena's a quiet, dark-haired woman, Mikey's height, with Gerard's chin. Seriously, it's kind of freaking Gabe the fuck out, how she has the lower half of Gerard's face. He can't stop staring at her while she cleans up his cuts and scrapes. She doesn't seem to mind, though.

"I don't think you need stitches," she says, applying some kind of sticky ointment to the gash on his forehead and then pressing a square of gauze to it. "But you need to use this every day to keep it from scarring. You don't want a scar on your face, I assume. You're one of Mikey's friends and they're all really big on staying pretty."

"A scar on his face might be kind of badass," Mikey says from his seat at the table, where he's been watching and handing Elena things as she asks for them.

Elena is, apparently, where Mikey learned how to do a withering stare. "See if you think that when you're fifty."

"I'll use the stuff," Gabe says, closing his eyes as she smooths the tape down to hold the gauze in place. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Are you in any trouble?" she asks softly, and he closes his eyes tighter, refusing to let the sudden sting of heat in them win out.

"No, ma'am. I'm fine."

"All right." He can feel her step back, away from him, and he keeps his eyes closed for a minute longer, fighting for control and reminding himself that she's only sympathetic because she trusts Mikey. She doesn't know Gabe at all.

"Can he have some painkillers, Grandma?" Mikey asks, and Gabe opens his eyes, rubbing them carefully with the back of his hand. "He's going to be sore tomorrow, you know?"

Elena doesn't look up from where she's putting things back in her first-aid kit. "You think I should give him some pills?"

"Yeah. Just for a couple days."

She lifts her eyes and pins Mikey with a look. "These aren't for you? Or your brother?"

Mikey's face reddens, but he doesn't look away. "No, ma'am."

"Just for him?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No, ma'am."

She studies him for another moment, then nods and leaves the room. Gabe frowns and wraps his arms around himself. "What was that about?"

Mikey shrugs and slumps low in his chair. "Gerard and I took some from her cabinet a couple times. We lied about it."

"What happened?"

Mikey's eyebrows lift, his eyes widening behind his glasses, staring off unfocused. "She was really pissed. Like. Really."

"Did you learn valuable life lessons?"

"I learned not to fucking steal from my grandma, for sure."

Gabe nods and closes his eyes again. "That's valuable."

He feels Mikey's hand settle on his shoulder, light but warm. He doesn't know if he wants to lean into it or shrug it off and tell Mikey to go fuck himself. Maybe he wants to do both. His teeth settle into his lower lip again, fitting into the same sore places they made earlier. "This sucks."

"Yeah." Mikey rubs gentle little circles. "Did you get a good look at them?"

"I know them."

"You do? From where? School?"

"The poker games." Gabe shrugs, but just a little. Maybe he doesn't want to dislodge Mikey's hand as much as he wants to keep being petted. Fuck. "It's not a big deal."

"It's a really big deal, dude. They beat the snot out of you."

"And they got it out of their systems and they won't do it again."

"Um." Gabe very carefully does not look at Mikey, but he can hear the skepticism in his voice. "I really don't think you know that for sure."

"I choose to believe it." Gabe hears Elena's footsteps in the hall and looks up sharply, hoping Mikey will take the cue and be quiet.

"Here you go." Elena settles a prescription bottle in his hand. He can see six or eight pills rattling around inside. "You won't get any more of these from me, so use them wisely. Please don't share with my grandsons."

"No, ma'am. Thank you."

Her hand settles lightly on his wrist, and he blinks hard at the sudden rush of heat behind his eyes. His brain is a traitor, pulling up sudden sharp memories of both his abuelas, and his mother, and even though the former are thousands of miles away and he's so mad at the latter he doesn't care if he never speaks to her again, he hurts all of a sudden with how much he wishes at least one of them was here right now. Just for a stupid hug and telling him everything's going to be all right in words that mean something between them alone. Cadence and stupid little-boy nicknames and shit. Stuff Mikey's grandma can't possibly give him, even though she's being so nice and touching him like he's one of hers, too.

"You need anything to drink?" she asks softly. "Or eat? I've got Girl Scout cookies, coffee, milk, wine. Maybe orange juice."

"I'm all right, ma'am."

"Please don't say that just to be polite. I'm not just being a nice old lady, you're also a little shocky and food or a drink would help."

For some reason hearing that helps him pull himself together, a little bit. "Cookies and orange juice would be really great."

"I thought so." She pats his wrist again and moves away toward the refrigerator, saying something low and sharp to Mikey as she passes his chair. Whatever it was, it makes Mikey snap to attention and leave the room.

Gabe sits up straighter, glancing at the door she disappeared through, then after Mikey. It doesn't quite feel like he's trapped, but like he could be. Like it's a possible next step. Of course, if that is the next step, then he's being trapped by an old lady and a guy with ticklish knees and a bad sense of balance, so things could be worse.

"I sent him to make up the bed in the guest room." Elena places the cookies and orange juice on the table next to him. "You'll stay here tonight."

"You don't have to do that, ma'am. I can go back to my dorm. It's fine."

"I'll feel better knowing you've got someone keeping an eye on you. And even better than that knowing that it's me."

The fact that he was raised not to argue with his elders kind of sucks right now. "What about Mikey?"

"The couch folds out. He's been sleeping on it since he was little."

"Him and Gerard." He smiles despite himself, and she smiles back, her sharp eyes softening.

"They're good boys," she says, taking one of the cookies. "They need a slap upside the head every so often, but who doesn't?"

"They're great. I really like them. Both of them."

"You and Mikey are good friends? You must be, if he brought you here."

He can't hear anything hiding under her voice, any hint that she means anything other than what she's saying. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe he's paranoid. It's not like there's a scarlet G, or B, or whatever. Nobody knows and if they did, most of them wouldn't give a shit.

"Mikey's friends with everybody," he says, because he can't think of anything else.

"He wasn't always. He was a very shy boy. Gerard, too."

He thinks about them standing in the driveway of their dad's house, how their bodies curled in toward each other like standing up straight would expose too much surface to the world. All he can do is shrug and drink his orange juice. She knows them better than he does, of course.

Mikey comes back in and snags a cookie, leaning on the back of Elena's chair. "Guest room and the couch are all set."

"Thank you." She smiles up at him and he beams back, and Gabe's chest aches again, because fuck, he wants his family.

He pushes the thought back, hard, and drains his glass. "Could you show me where the room is? I'm really tired, actually. Thanks for letting me stay, ma'am."

"Of course. No thanks necessary." She reaches out and squeezes his hand, and his breath catches painfully in his throat. "Get some rest."

"Yeah." He stands up as fast as he can and follows Mikey down the hall. The guest room is painted pale blue, and the bedding is printed with faded flowers. There are stuffed bears everywhere, holding the smell of dust and age. The bed is soft, though, and he buries his face in the pillows for a minute, fighting his body's instinct to relax. It's going to hurt when he does.

"Yell if you need me, okay?" Mikey says softly from where he's lingering in the doorway. "She sleeps with a fan on. I'll hear you first."

"I'm fine."

"Just if you need anything."

Gabe doesn't miss the change. He looks up, catching Mikey's eyes in the dim light. "Yeah. I...yeah. Thanks, Mikey."

That gets a smile, close-lipped and crooked. "You can take me for breakfast tomorrow."

**

He doesn't have to pay up on that, of course, because Elena feeds them breakfast. Microwaved waffles with chocolate syrup and more orange juice. Gabe has no complaints.

They get in Mikey's car after, and Gabe settles back in his seat, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to watch the road go by on the way back to school. Which is why it's easy for him to miss the fact that they're not going to Rutgers at all.

He opens his eyes and stares at Mikey's mom's house. "What?"

"You need more company."

"I'm--"

"If you say you're fine, I will smack you in the face."

Gabe blinks. "You can't do that. My face is all fucked up."

"So don't say you're fine, dick. Come on."

It's such completely nonsensical logic that Gabe has to fold in admiration and follow him into the house. There's no sign of Donna, but a dirty cereal bowl, a half-full coffee pot, and an empty can of Diet Coke suggest that Gerard is somewhere around.

"Basement," Mikey says, nodding at a door off the kitchen, and Gabe follows. The famous Way basement is dark and packed solid with crap. He's not sure what half of the stuff is, and he's not entirely sure that owning a sword of that size is totally legal without a permit.

Mikey obviously isn't fazed by any of it. He crawls into Gerard's bed and stretches out next to his brother, squinting at the TV set up at the foot of the bed. "One, two, or three?"

"Two," Gerard mumbles around a handful of M&Ms, staring wide-eyed at the screen. "The best one."

"It is not."

"Fuck off."

"The first one is a classic--"

"Fuck off, the second one uses multiple timelines the most effectively."

"It's overly long and kind of stupid."

Gabe tunes them out after that, concentrating instead on staring at the screen and trying to figure out what the movie is. He doesn't catch on until Lea Thompson shows up. Oh. Back to the Future. Or, Back to the Future II, apparently.

"The first one's better because of the guitar solo," he says when they stop for a minute to eat more candy.

"Ha!" Mikey leans over Gerard to get a high-five. "Knew you'd be on my side."

"You blinded him with your weird makeout mojo," Gerard mutters, then yelps when Mikey smacks him open-handed against his stomach.

"Is that a rare Way judo move?" Gabe asks, taking the M&Ms from Gerard's hand.

"It's just Mikey being a dick." Gerard huffs and rearranges himself against his pillows. "God."

Gabe sits down on the floor, leaning back against the bed, hating himself just a little bit for how much better he feels being here than he did at just the thought of going back to his dorm alone. Sitting with the Ways is warm, a little smelly, a little funny. There are snacks. It's safe. Comfortable.

Mikey kind of knows him, apparently.

"Run it back to the beginning, huh?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder at them. "Let's watch the whole thing. I haven't seen it in ages."

**

Back at school, things are harder. Or maybe just weirder. He goes to his classes and he studies and he practices with the guys, but it's hard to concentrate. It's not like he's having flashbacks or whatever. The whole thing wasn't that big of a deal, after all. But he just...his mind wanders. Nowhere in particular, just off into a gray fog. He lies down in bed and stares off into the fog and loses hours that way.

The only thing he wakes up for is band practice and their shows. Just baby steps so far, basement shows and the little places scattered around Jersey, but...but they are steps. And when he's got the mic or his bass in his hand, when he's fronting, the fog clears away for a little while.

Mikey texts or emails him at least once a day, and he responds now. Not because he's forgotten about Mikey pressed up next to Travie and smiling like that, but because when he remembers that, he also remembers Mikey standing in the doorway of Elena's guest room, and looking down at him from Gerard's bed. Mikey's his friend, even if he isn't his boyfriend. Mikey really gives a shit about him.

He probably doesn't even want a boyfriend. Or he wouldn't know what to do if he had one. This is better. Having a friend is better.

He gets a few texts about poker games, too, but he doesn't go. His bank account isn't exactly flush, but it's not empty, either. He'll go back to the games when he needs to, and he'll worry about the weird way his chest clenches when he thinks about it then, too.

Days of class and practice and gray fog goes by and after a while he looks up from his bed and realizes it's Friday afternoon. He rolls off the mattress and gets his duffel bag out from under the bed, throwing t-shirts and jeans in haphazardly before his brain catches up with itself. If he gets on the road in the next ten minutes, he'll be home by sundown. Diego hasn't bothered to light Shabbat candles in years, but the idea of getting home before they would be lit feels more right, and he's too tired to fight with himself right now.

"Gabriel," Diego says when he comes in the door, startled and pleased. He pulls Gabe into a hug and Gabe closes his eyes, clenching his jaw to keep any traitorous sounds from escaping and fighting back the sudden heat behind his eyes. "I didn't know you were coming. Did you call earlier? I was out."

"No, Papi. Sorry. Surprise."

"Don't apologize. It's good to see you. I just don't have anything for dinner. I was going to make myself a sandwich or cereal or something." Diego steps back and runs his hands up and down Gabe's arms. "We'll go out, instead. S&acutei;? Your choice."

Gabe hasn't given any thought at all to dinner. Eating just hadn't been as important as just getting home. "Oh. Um. How about the Indian place? I could go for that."

"Sounds fine. I'll get my keys." Diego goes and Gabe looks around the room, studying the house like it's a Magic Eye game, waiting for something new to pop out of the walls when he unfocuses his eyes. Nothing does, of course; it's just his father's house. Just the home he chose for himself, the one he helped make, the one he wanted. The feelings knotting up his throat don't make any sense, but maybe that's normal. Maybe fumbling toward safety when you're under water and blind can't make any sense. That would be against the natural order of things.

In the car and over dinner, they talk about school and Midtown and his dad's practice. Easy things. Gabe knows he's off his game, answering too briefly and without enough color; he can see concern growing in Diego's eyes and at the edge of his smile. His dad knows him too well. But he can't lie, can't pretend he feels better than he does. Whenever he tries that with his dad, it blows up in his face. And he's too tired anyway.

"Maybe you should go to bed when we get home," Diego says, as he counts out cash over the receipt. "You look tired, mijo."

"I am tired. It's been a long week, I guess."

"You might be coming down with something. Drink more orange juice, get some Vitamin C."

"Yeah. I will." Gabe's quiet on the drive home, watching his father's fingers tap against the steering wheel and fuss with the radio. It's set on one of NPR's classical shows, the kind that usually Gabe switches away from as soon as Diego's distracted by a left-hand turn. It's kind of comforting tonight, though. Music that hasn't changed in a hundred years. Gabe's pretty sure he listened to these exact same songs when he was a little kid, lying there red-faced and sobbing after he'd been put to bed after a tantrum. Violins echoing through the house, like they're echoing through his head now.

"Hey, Papi?" he says when they reach the house. "Wake me up when you get up tomorrow, okay?"

"I'm getting up early, Gabriel. I'm going to temple and Torah study."

"I know. I think I'll come along with you?"

Diego's eyebrows go up to his hairline. He looks at Gabe with open skepticism and Gabe bites down on his tongue, fighting and failing to keep heat from rushing up into his face. Yeah, his father knows him well.

"You're coming to temple?" Diego asks with exaggerated politeness.

"Well." Gabe shifts his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. "No. Not temple. I'll go to Starbucks while you're at temple."

"That's what I thought."

"Come get me for Torah study, though. I'll come to that."

Diego nods and points at him. "You'll be polite this time?"

"As polite as anybody else is being."

Diego rolls his eyes. "That's setting the bar fairly low."

"I know. You old guys are mean."

Diego mimes a swat at him that turns into pulling him over for a hug. "I'll see you in the morning."

**

The week's parsha is Balak, which has always been one of Gabe's favorites; it's so weird and has the kind of God he would believe in if he was going to believe in any God at all. Plus there's a bit with a donkey. He always liked those.

He sits in the back with his hands carefully folded in his lap, careful to keep his eyes lowered so he won't be called on to offer any opinion. He doesn't want to talk, and he's not sure what he would say, anyway; what is there to say about Balak, except that killing a woman because her boyfriend defied God's command is pretty fucked up?

The others have plenty to say, though. They always do. Gabe used to come every week with his dad, when he was younger; it was their special time together, Torah study and then a snack on the way home. It always seemed strange to him that they could argue about the same stories every year, that Jews had been doing that for thousands of years--the same stories! Over and over! How could there possibly be anything left to say?

Diego told him it was part of the faith, part of the tradition. When Gabe walked away from the religious side of Judaism, that was part of how he justified himself: what was the point of a religion without answers, where you could argue about the same thing for millennia and never come to a fucking conclusion?

Right now, though, it's a comfort. He closes his eyes and listens to the voices rise and fall, point and counterpoint, laughter, soft grumbles of agreement and disagreement. Men and women who are dear friends, who have known each other for years, and newcomers, people getting ready to convert or people just new to the neighborhood. And they're all tied together by this thing, these stories, and the permission to talk about them as much as they want, with no right answers.

He just listens, and for a while something in his heart aches so much he thinks he might make a noise despite himself. And then it eases off. Of course; this is why he wanted to come along, even though he was as surprised as Diego when he asked. These are his people; people like him, different in one of the ways he is different, who understand that part of him and will always take him in because of it. Even if the rest of the world hates him for it, he can always come here, and this conversation will be going on, like it has since his childhood, like it has for thousands of years.

It's like the comfort of the violins on the radio, only more, because it's people, and it's older. He can feel the weight of it on his shoulders. Before, the weight was a burden, a weight that he had to step away from to breathe; today, for now, it's a blanket. And he's grateful.

After study, they drive home, with Diego detouring through a Dunkin' Donuts drive-through. "I already had Starbucks, Papi," Gabe says, leaning across the car to squint at the menu board anyway.

"We always got a snack on our way home." Diego smiles at him. "Let me have my nostalgia, mijo."

"You remember that, too? I was just thinking about that earlier."

"Gabriel, I remember all of the things we would do together. Those memories are the reward parents have when their children leave home."

"You also remember all the dumb stuff I did, I'm pretty sure."

"No. I've forgotten all of those." Diego touches Gabe's shoulder gently. "You'll tell me if there's anything I can do to help, s&acutei;?"

Gabe swallows hard, staring at the pictures on the menu board. "I don't think there's anything."

"But if there is. You'll tell me?"

"Yeah. Yes."

"Thank you." Diego ruffles his hair, his fingers lingering, and Gabe eases back into his seat, clearing his throat before he can lose it.

"I'll have a chocolate frosted, I think, Papi."

Diego's hand drops to the seat, but his voice stays gentle. "How about two?"

Gabe has to smile, even though his throat and his eyes hurt from keeping himself in fierce control. "Two would be good."

**

A few more weeks roll by and it's finals. Gabe goes with his usual routine of studying just enough to do well without being outstanding. This isn't what he's going to do with his life, but he likes it enough to show it some respect. Plus he isn't going to disappoint his father by failing. The two pillars of his life: respect for the bullshit, and making his dad proud. No telling how long those are going to work as a life plan.

The morning after his last test, he's face-down in his bed, fully intending to stay there all day until and unless he absolutely has to drag himself to the bathroom and somewhere he can buy a sandwich. He's got a firm plan to kick off the summer in style. But his phone is ringing.

"Hi," Mikey says with the usual lack of preamble. "You up?"

"No."

"Get up. Get dressed."

"Give me one good reason."

"Concert tickets. I have them."

"Keep talking."

Mikey hums softly. "Thursday."

"That is today, yes."

"No. Thursday the band."
Gabe sits up and rubs the back of his neck. "Just spill it, Way, I don't want to decode you piece by piece."

"Thursday's playing a show tonight. I have two tickets. You and me are going to go."

"Where is it?" Gabe can work himself up enough for clean pants and fixing his hair if it isn't too much of a drive.

"Washington, DC."

Gabe takes his phone away from his ear and blinks at it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Mikey's voice is tinny and weird from that distance. "Dude. Road trip. Come on."

Bringing the phone back to his ear, Gabe asks, "Who's going to pay for a fucking road trip to DC? Gas costs money, Mikes."

"I'm operating on a charitable grant from the foundation of my grandma loving me a lot."

"As long as you're not stealing shit from her."

"Fuck you."

"And I think she likes me better, anyway."

"Fuck you twice."

"You said she was real impressed by me sending her flowers after she fixed up my face. I bet she's into me, Way. I bet I could call her up and ask her on a date and she'd--"

"I call you offering free tickets and a road trip where I'll pay for gas, and you thank me by talking about doing indecent things with my grandma. I see how it is."

"Who said indecent? I'd treat her like a lady."

"Fucking right you would."

Gabe laughs and gets out of bed, grabbing at the t-shirt hanging over his desk chair. "What time should I pick you up?"

"Now."

"Gonna be a little longer than that."

"Yeah, okay. We're at our dad's."

Gabe pauses, t-shirt dangling from his fingers. He has learned some lessons about Way-ology. "Is Gerard coming with us?"

"What? No. We're just both here. He and Dad are going to monster trucks tonight."

"You're passing up monster trucks to hang with me? I'm flattered."

"Yeah, well." Mikey pauses for just a moment, barely long enough for Gabe to realize it's a real pause, not just him getting distracted. "Figure your semester kinda sucked. And I fell into these tickets. And Grandma wrote me a check. So. You know. Cosmic alignment and shit."

"Yeah. All that shit."

"You totally believe in it."

The thing is, Gabe does. "I'll be there soon as I can. Just gotta shower and get dressed and throw some stuff in a bag."

"Cool. Bring good CDs. I'm not listening to radio bullshit all the way to Washington, man."

Gabe hangs up on him, because insulting his taste in radio pre-sets is something he does not take from anybody, not even Mikey Way. Driver's privilege.

**

When he gets to the secondary Way outpost, Don is the one standing in the driveway smoking. Gabe very pointedly does not hit him with his car.

Don nods to him as he unfolds himself from the driver's seat. "Mikey's friend?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be careful on the Turnpike. Construction."

Gabe makes a face. "Always, right?"

"Yeah. Sons of bitches." Don shrugs, the casual what-you-gonna-do of a Jersey native, and Gabe returns the gesture. He learned that one early on.

"Mikey's inside," Don says, glancing at his watch. "I'm headed out. Just let yourself in. Make sure Mikey locks up behind you. Gerard never remembers to latch the door."

"Okay." Gabe waves goodbye as Don climbs into his car, then hurries up to the porch and lets himself inside. Nothing's changed since the last time he was here, not even the Star Wars sheets on the foldout. Gerard is lying on them on his stomach, shirtless, staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed at an episode of a soap opera.

"Which one is this?" Gabe asks, squinting at the screen. He doesn't know the American soaps from the telenovelas, but he can fake it.

"Days of our Lives. Shit is getting real."

"Okay." Gabe nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Where's Mikey?"

"Doing his hair." Gerard waves vaguely down the hall. "He'll be out in a minute."

"Cool." Gabe sits down on the edge of the bed and watches along with Gerard for a few minutes. Soap opera actors are interesting. He kind of thinks it's a career path worth considering if music doesn't work out. Not that music isn't going to work out. But just in case. Never hurts to have a backup plan. And he could totally stare off into space, monologue, and then shed a single tear. He would be fucking awesome at it.

"I fucking hate this show." Gerard sighs and waves his hand at the screen. "But I can't stop watching, y'know? I've gotta know what happens."

"I feel like that about college. I know I'm doing music, not anything that needs a degree, but I've gotta see how it ends."

Gerard snorts and digs in his pocket for a cigarette. "I could spoil you for how it ends, man."

"I hate spoilers."

"Gerard's like the fucking spoiler king," Mikey says, coming into the room tugging his t-shirt over his head. "I'm ready."

Gabe stands up and rumples Gerard's hair. "See you, G. Weezy."

Mikey leans around him and steals Gerard's cigarette. "Be back sometime tomorrow."

"Cool." Gerard nods and opens his mouth for the return of his smoke. "Dad left you forty bucks by the phone, did you get it?"

"Yeah. Tell him thanks for me."

Gerard waves his hand. "Drive safe and stuff."

"We will." Mikey nods at Gabe. "Let's get going."

"Don't you have a bag or anything?"

Mikey stares at him blankly. "Why?"

Right. Gabe shakes his head and starts for the door. "I'm not sharing my toothbrush, Way."

"Vodka totally cleans your teeth."

"Pretty sure that's not true." Gabe digs his keys out of his pocket while Mikey pulls the door shut. "Oh, your dad said to have you lock that?"

"Gerard's home."

"Something about Gerard not latching the door."

Mikey rolls his eyes. "He's not as helpless as Dad thinks he is."

"I'm not gonna argue." Gabe leads the way to the car. "Did I tell you we're booking studio to track an EP?"

"No shit?"

"None."

"That's awesome." Mikey slides into the passenger seat and grins at him. "I can't wait to hear it. Shit. You guys are awesome. You gotta get merch, too, okay? I want a fucking Midtown t-shirt."

"You'll get the first one off the presses." Gabe starts the engine. "You got directions?"

"Get on the Turnpike. Go south until you hit Delaware. Turn right kinda."

"I will punch you in the cock."

Mikey grins and slides his seat back, stretching out his legs. "No, you won't."

**

Mikey spends the show with his hand in Gabe's back pocket. They're pushed over to the side of the shitty little venue Thursday's playing; it's about the size of a closet, with a pillar blocking the left-hand side of the stage. The lighting rig is visibly held together with tape and at least one piece of string. Gabe's going to tell Rob to make sure they book this place when they hit the road for the summer. Fucking epic.

They're standing by the wall opposite the pillar, looking across the stage on an angle. When Gabe moves his hand to take a drink, his fingers brush Mikey's chest, over and over again.

"Geoff sounds good tonight," Mikey says into Gabe's ear, hooking his chin over Gabe's shoulder. "Tucker's a little off, though."

"He's been having some shit with his parents." Gabe lets the empty cup slip from his fingers to the floor. "But they sound better than last time I saw them. Coming together."

Mikey hums in agreement and Gabe closes his eyes, letting the bass hit him in the chest. He remembers Geoff calling him up, telling him he had a project going and he was having a show in his fucking basement to debut it to the world. Midtown should come over and play, too. Free beer and he could use any bedroom he wanted.

He ended up not using any of them. He went back to Mikey's car with him. Least impressive lead singer ever.

He's at peace with that right now, standing there in the dark watching Geoff belt it out and feeling Mikey pressed up against him, warm and lanky and all there.

Mikey turns his head and breathes warm against Gabe's neck. "What do you want to do after this?"

"Guess we can just get back on the road."

"Fuck that."

Gabe laughs and glances at him. "What, you want to look at monuments and shit?"

"Yeah."

"I've seen them all, Mikey. I came here in high school. They're not that exciting."

"Some of us went to public school." Mikey wrinkles his nose at him. "We didn't get those kinds of opportunities."

"I got sent home for hooking up with a girl in the hotel room."

"I never got that opportunity either." Mikey sighs dramatically, rubbing his hand slowly against Gabe's ass. "Guess you'll just have to make it up to me."

"Getting us sent home for hooking up at the monuments?"

"Yeah." Mikey grins and pulls away, moving back toward the bar. "Exactly."

Gabe watches him go, then looks back up at the stage. Rob's booking their summer tour in pieces, and Gabe wants to call him right now, tell him to get it together right away, that they should hit the road early. He wants to be on a stage, lights against his eyes, bodies swaying to his words. He wants his bass against his thigh and songs under his fingers and all that power under his skin, just waiting for him to let it go through him and light up the night.

He feels better standing here with the music moving through him than he has in ages. He can breathe. There's nothing dark and cold lying in the back of his head. This is his place, his home. This is...ah, fuck. This is his beshert. His destiny.

Mikey weaves back up to his side, a cup in each hand. "This is the last of Dad's contribution to this road trip, right here."

"We spent forty bucks on drinks?"

"Some of it was for McDonald's back wherever we stopped for that."

"Shit." Gabe takes his cup and downs it in three long swallows. "Hey."

"What?" Mikey is frowning into his cup. "Asshole made this mostly tonic. And ice. Fucking rip-off."

"Mikey."

Mikey looks at him, brow furrowed in irritation. "What?"

Gabe cups Mikey's chin in his hand. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Bringing me down here for this."

Mikey blinks at him, and Gabe can see when he gets it, when his eyes soften and smile lines fan at their edges, when his lips quirk up. "So you feel better?"

"Yeah. I do."

"I'm glad." He bumps his glasses higher on his nose with the back of his wrist. "I thought maybe you needed a change of scenery and a good show."

"I definitely did." Gabe leans in close, not quite kissing him, not letting his lips meet Mikey's skin. He just breathes against the soft skin by Mikey's ear, just imagines he can hear Mikey's heart through the bone and veins. "Thanks."

"Any time," Mikey says softly. He looks up at Gabe, his eyes wide behind his lenses and his thick lashes, and yeah--yeah. That's love, Gabe knows it. The thing he is feeling is love. He knows it when he feels it for family and for the bickering voices over the parsha and for a crowd rising and falling with a beat and for music under his skin. And he knows it here, and that's the magic, the thing he suddenly knows as sharply as he knows his own breath--that it's all the same thing.

**
It turns out that old white marble shit is just about as exciting at night as it is during the daytime. They light it up at night, which is kind of pretty, but not pretty enough that Gabe feels the need to suggest they go look at the war memorials, too, or whatever.

"I think the squirrels are getting kind of suspicious," Mikey says once they've finished looking around the Lincoln Memorial. "We should hold still so they don't attack."

"You're afraid of the squirrels?"

"Sure." Mikey sits down on the steps and stretches his legs out, tilting his head to stare at the Washington Monument in the distance. "I can pretend if you can."

"Death by squirrel would suck." Gabe sits and curves his hands beneath his thighs, trying to keep himself from being restless. "They'd nibble you to pieces with their creepy teeth."

"Looking for your nuts."

Gabe snorts, Mikey, giggles, and Gabe grabs at him, catching him around the side and pulling him closer. "You're a dork, Way."

"Yeah, yeah." Mikey's quiet for a minute, shifting around trying to find a position where the marble edge of the steps isn't digging into his bony limbs. Gabe could tell him he isn't going to have any luck, but he just holds him closer until Mikey sighs and rests his head on Gabe's shoulder.

"I feel like we should be having, you know, big thoughts about the future, or something," Gabe says after a minute. "Is that what you're thinking about?"

"Mostly I'm thinking that that monument is like a big, giant dong."

"Lincoln's going to come over here and kick your ass, Mikey."

"It's phallic, man, I don't know what you want me to say."

"Are you trying to talk me into having sex with you right here in front of Lincoln?"

Mikey laughs, shaking his head and pulling back a little. "No. These steps are really fucking uncomfortable and the squirrels are watching."

"You and the squirrels."

"My sworn enemies."

"So your answer is no, then. No big thoughts about the future."

Mikey sighs and sits up, dragging his fingers through his hair and shrugging. "I don't really do big thoughts about the future, dude. That's not me."

"Well, it's not exactly my favorite hobby, but, you know, inspirational setting and whatever, I thought maybe we could have a philosophical discussion."

"You're the philosopher." Mikey shakes his head and fumbles in his pocket, producing a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "That's not me either."

"What is you?" Gabe furrows his brow and holds his hand out for a cigarette. "Are you. You know."

"I'm..." Mikey pauses to light up, ignoring Gabe's outstretched hand. He exhales smoke and shakes his head, dropping the lighter into Gabe's palm and then pushing the pack across the steps toward him. "I'm nothing exciting. I'm gonna spend my whole life in Jersey. Work for Eyeball if I'm lucky, work at my uncle's repair shop if I'm really super-not, probably work in IT or something if I finish college. I'm not, like, dreading it or whatever. I like Jersey. I like what my life's probably going to be. But it's not going to be like yours, or Geoff's, or Gerard's. You guys..."

"We're just Jersey losers, too, Mikey."

"No, you're not. You and Geoff are going to be rock stars. Gee's going to be an artist. It's, like, it's all over you. You can feel it. You can smell it."

"That's BO and shitty cologne, dude."

"Fuck you." Mikey takes another drag and waves his hand. "You guys have dreams and ambitions and talent and it's going to get you out. I'm not that guy. I'm, like...I'm a vampire. I follow you around and live off that shit that you've got in you, I use it to keep me going, but I'm not one of you and I'm never gonna be."

Gabe stares down at the lit end of his cigarette, bright and moving closer to his fingers. "You're wrong."

"Fuck I am. You'll see." Mikey leans back against the steps, bracing himself on his elbows, flicking ashes over the marble. "Only you won't, 'cause you'll be off being famous, being a big deal. You won't even remember me."

"Dude."

"I'm not mad. I'm not jealous." Gabe kinda believes him, just from his voice--he doesn't sound mad or jealous, he sounds like he's just saying facts. Depressing, defeated facts. It's creepy. "I'm not somebody who sticks."

"The fuck you aren't. You stick to me."

Mikey blinks at him, then giggles, shaking his head and tossing his cigarette down the steps. "Gross."

"No, not like that. Dirty. Mikey. I mean you...you're gonna stick around. In my life. I'm not gonna let you just..."

He falters to a halt and waves his hands, like that's going to make it make sense, complete it. Mikey stares at him and then smiles, just a little bit, not quite reaching his eyes.

"I wish I could be like you guys," he says, "but just getting to be around you, getting my vampire on, that's pretty good, too."

"That's not how it's going to be."

"Let's meet up in ten years and see." Mikey reaches out, brushing his fingers over the back of Gabe's wrist. "If I'm right, you've gotta give me a taste of the rock star lifestyle. If you're right..."

"Then you can blow me for old time's sake."

Mikey laughs, throwing his head back. "It's a deal."

"Shake on it."

They shake hands, and Mikey holds on, tugging at Gabe. "Blowing you in front of Lincoln might be kind of hot after all. It'd be a good story."

"Dude. I don't think we can do that."

"Who's going to tell? The squirrels?"

"That dude with a flashlight over there."

Mikey follows his gaze and drops his hand, giggling again. "Well. Shit."

"Gentleman," the guy calls, turning his flashlight toward them. "I suggest you move on."

"Okay, okay." Gabe gets to his feet and offers Mikey his hand, biting down on his lip to keep from laughing any louder. "We're going."

"Do you even remember where we left the car?" Mikey asks, leaning his shoulder into Gabe's as they walk away.

"Up by the club."

"Do you remember what street that was?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

"We've gotta find the Metro again. Kind of a pathetic excuse for a subway."

Mikey was proven worse than right when they did find the Metro again, because it was closed for the night.

"I didn't even know a subway could close for the night." Gabe stared at the closed gates. "What the fuck good is that?"

"This sucks." Mikey turns on his heels in a slow circle, staring at the dark, silent buildings. "And everything's closed. What kind of a city is this?"

"An awful one." Gabe shoves his hands in his pockets. "Okay. Um. I don't know what direction we need to go in to start walking, even."

"Do you have cash for a taxi?"

"No. Do you?"

"No. My cash all went to drinks and shit."

Gabe exhales through clenched teeth. "Let's walk until we find somebody."

**
They make it to Delaware with two coffee breaks and one stop for Gabe to put eye drops in. "I'll drive for a while if you want," Mikey says, walking a slow circle around the car while Gabe blinks rapidly against the saline. "I can get us home."

"I've heard about your driving skills."

"From who?"

"Gerard and also just random guys in bars."

"Gerard shouldn't be talking trash."

"Yeah, well. He can be bribed with pizza."

"Gonna have to have words with him." Mikey jerks his head left and right until his neck cracks. "Hey, your phone's buzzing."

"Grab it for me?"

Mikey gets the phone and throws it past Gabe into the tall grass at the edge of the road. "Oh. Shit. Sorry."

"Fucking fits with the rest of today." Gabe wades into the weeds, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Good thing you've got no throwing arm, Way."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

Gabe thumbs through his messages, swatting at the bugs rising up around his face. He missed two from Rob and one from Ricky while he was hiking around DC, one from Keith probably during the show itself, and the most recent one is from Travie, telling him to call him when he has a minute.

"Mikey, you can handle driving in a straight line til the next rest stop, right?"

"Probably."

"Good enough." Gabe climbs into the passenger seat, punching redial to Travie.

"What's up, man?" he asks, gripping the door handle as tightly as he can while Mikey peels out of the parking lot.

"Hey, Saporta. That was quick."

"Yeah, I'm on the road with M-Way."

"Sounds like a good time."

"It is." Mikey guns the engine and switches lanes. Gabe closes his eyes tightly. "Awesome time, actually."

"Yeah, I bet." Travie laughs softly.

Should've seen that coming. "So, what's up?"

"You guys should come up to the city."

"Why?"

"Besides the obvious that it's better than Jersey?"

"Well, yeah."

"One of my professors is having me housesit for him. I've got an apartment for a month."

"No shit?"

"It's fucking sweet as hell."

"I thought you dropped out of school."

"I did. He's a nice guy. And I have the kind of face people trust."

"Says who?"

"Ask Mikeyway."

"Ha." He walked right into that one. "So you want us to come up and hang?"

"Yeah. We'll party. Hang out. C'mon, man. Get up here."

Gabe held the phone against his shoulder. "Mikey, you want to go stay in a fucking-sweet-as-hell apartment with Travie for a couple days?"

Mikey's eyebrows arched up and he vigorously changed lanes. "Is that a trick question?"

"You don't have a change of clothes or anything."

"You're, like, obsessed with that. I can borrow stuff from Travie."

"So you want to just head up to the city right now?" Gabe frowns, bumping the phone against his jaw. "I don't have any obligations this week. Heath's got some family thing. We go into the studio Monday, though, so I'll have to be back for that."

"Yeah. We can go now. I'll text Gee and let him know."

"Don't text him right now. Eyes on the road." Gabe brings the phone back to his ear. "Trav?"

"Yeah, man."

"We're on our way. We'll get there sometime this afternoon. Text me the address, cool?"

"Will do."

Gabe hangs up and slouches low in his seat, fighting the desire to close his eyes. "Road trip, extended edition."

"Neither of us has any cash." Mikey grins. "We'll have to be Travie's kept boys."

Gabe actually laughs. It's as much a surprise to him as to Mikey. "Your gig, not mine."

"Ouch." Mikey's still smiling, cautiously, as he glances over at Gabe. "We could also just go to an ATM."

"That works, too."

"You want to drive again?"

"You can have til the next rest stop, as long as you don't hit anything."

"What am I going to hit?" Mikey guns the engine and Gabe closes his eyes tightly. "It's an open road."

"No, it's not."

"Life is a highway, dude."

"Please stop."

Mikey giggles. It's fucking cute enough that Gabe lets him drive all the way to the Turnpike.

**

The apartment is, as advertised, pretty fucking sweet for an art-school professor. "Gerard would cream his pants over this place," Mikey says, leaning against the full-length windows along one wall. "The light and shit."

"You can invite him up if you want." Travie lounges on the couch, the little smile on his face saying he's very aware of what an image he is against the red leather. Gabe rolls his eyes at him every time Travie glances his way, then flips him off when he laughs.

"You want another go at Gerard?" Gabe asks, balancing on the arm of the couch where he can twist the ends of Travie's dreads between his fingers. "Once wasn't enough?"

Travie laughs and looks up at Gabe, shrugging slow and easy. "Let's just say...ow, dammit, Way."

"Don't answer that," Mikey says warningly, leaning over the back of the couch to hit Travie again. "Do not answer that. I don't want to know."

"It's a compliment to your whole family, man," Travie says with mock innocence. Gabe rolls his eyes and slides off the couch, walking over to the kitchen to poke through the cabinets.

"Are we allowed to eat whatever we want?"

"Yeah, but I'm gonna need that for the rest of the month, so we'll get something while we're out tonight."

"We're going out tonight?" Mikey asks, letting Travie pull him over the back of the couch and on top of him.

"Course we are." Travie rumples Mikey's hair. "I'm DJing. I'll get you both in with me."

Gabe leans against the counter and watches them, the way Mikey's body curls against Travie's, relaxed and comfortable. "Do you get a bar tab Mikey can put his drinks on?"

Mikey stretches his arm up, middle finger extended. "Don't be a dick."

"It's a valid question."

Travie laughs and lets go of Mikey. "Ignore him, M-Way. He's just cranky." He tilts his head to look back at Gabe. "Course I got a tab."

"I'm not cranky."

"You're always cranky, Saporta. Get over it."

Gabe bites down on his tongue hard. Get over it. Right. He needs to get over a lot of things. "I'm totally down for going out tonight."

"Thought so." Travie settles back on the couch. "But that's later. Right now we can do something else."

"Not right in front of me, I hope."

Mikey flips him off again. "We're all going to nap."

"Together?" Travie asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Is there a master bedroom in this place?" Mikey sits up and looks around. "Are we allowed to use it?"

"Clean sheets and everything."

Gabe pushes off the counter and walks down the hall. "The magic words. I get first dibs."

"Fuck off, man, we all get dibs." Mikey follows him, dodging around Gabe's shoulder as the door opens to dive past him onto the bed. "Awesome."

"You're gonna get Way-funk all over it."

"I don't care. I'm tired." Mikey stretches out and blinks up at Gabe. "Come on."

Gabe shakes his head and climbs into the bed, lying face-down next to Mikey. "Shit. Beds are awesome."

"Mm." Mikey sighs, his fingers finding Gabe's arm and tapping restlessly against it. "You pissed at me?"

Gabe lifts his head enough to glance at the door and be sure Travie isn't listening in. "No, Mikey."

He isn't, is the weird thing. He probably should be. It would make more sense to be. But this is Mikey. Take him or leave him.

"We're friends, right?" he says, turning his head the other way to meet Mikey's gaze.

"Yeah." Mikey nods, curling his fingers around Gabe's elbow and hanging on. "We're good friends, dude. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Probably one or two more. Minimum."

"You're a slow learner."

"That's one way to put it." Gabe sighs and turns face-down again. He hears Travie's footsteps crossing the room, then feels the mattress shift as he climbs in on the other side of Mikey. "Sleep now. No talking."

"Yeah."

Mikey's hand is still tucked into Gabe's elbow, and he can imagine Travie's arm thrown over Mikey's waist, tying them all together while they breathe in unison.

**

Gabe spends the set behind the turntables with Travie, watching the crowd on the dance floor. Mikey is down there, weaving his way between people, dancing.

"You want to spin while I take a break, man?" Travie bumps his shoulder against Gabe's, leaning in close. "I need another drink."

"You've still got half a drink in front of you." Gabe leans into the pressure of Travie's body, feeling the solid warmth, letting it hold him up while he holds Travie up.

"When I'm done with this one, then. You want to?"

"Yeah." Gabe tracks Mikey across the floor, making his way to the bar. "Yeah, sure."

Travie digs his chin into Gabe's shoulder, not easing up until Gabe shifts his weight and looks his way. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're staring."

"I'm not."

"Gabanti."

"You guys going to...get together?"

"What?"

"You and Mikey." Gabe shrugs, turning to look at Travie. "You're into each other."

"And you're into him." Travie turns away to tend the equipment. "But you won't, like, tell him that or anything."

"He knows it."

"Cause you actually told him?"

"No, cause we have sex like all the fucking time."

Travie moves into the next song and takes a sip of his drink. "You guys are friends, right?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"And you and me, we're friends."

"Is that seriously a question?"

"No. It was a statement. Chill the fuck out." Travie takes another drink, rolling his eyes. "You want to fuck me?"

"No, Travis. No, I do not."

"You want to date me?"

"No."

"You want to date him?"

Gabe opens his mouth to answer, then stops, closes it again. "I don't know."

"Yes. You fucking do know. You chickenshit." Travie waves his hand at the floor. "Man up and go talk to him and fucking ask him out before I punch you in the face."

Gabe follows his gesture, finding Mikey on the floor again. "He says he's like a vampire. That he slides in and out of people's lives and doesn't stick."

"Okay." Gabe looks at him and blinks, confused, and Travie shrugs. "You think that's true?"

"No. It's depressing and morbid and...not true."

"So tell him that, too. Do I have to hold your hand through everything?"

Gabe leans against the table, pressing his tongue against his teeth while he turns the question over in his head. "You think he wants that?"

"You won't know until you try." Travie drains his glass and drops it over the edge of the railing. "Go away now and do it. Before I change my mind and keep him for myself."

"Dude."

"Go away."

"So fucking bossy." Gabe steps back, bumping his shoulder hard against Travie's as he moves. If anybody can figure that out as a thank-you, Travie will.

He can still see Mikey down on the floor, grinding up against a girl in a silvery dress that glows under the lights. Mikey's head is tilted back, his eyes closed, his face open and relaxed and free. It reminds Gabe of the first time he saw the kid, and thought he should always dance. He was right about that. Maybe he'll be right about this, too.

**

Gabe catches Mikey between songs and tugs him toward the door. Mikey blinks at him, puzzled, but comes along. "Smoke?" he yells, leaning in against Gabe's arm.

"Yeah." Gabe nods and steers him outside onto the sidewalk. He stands against the wall and watches Mikey against the backdrop of the street and the lights beyond. "Hey, Mikes?"

Mikey's head is bowed over his pack of cigarettes, fumbling to get the last one out of the wrapping. "What?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Light me first?" Mikey pumps his fist in triumph as he frees the cigarette, then leans in close to Gabe. "What's up?"

Gabe flicks the lighter and watches it cast shadows against Mikey's bones. "You're not a vampire."

Mikey blinks over the rims of his glasses at him. "Um. Okay."

"I get that you have self-esteem issues, and shit. But you're not a vampire."

"My self-esteem's pretty okay."

Gabe frowns at him. "Do you remember the entire conversation we had about this last night?"

"I'm trying to get you to pretend you don't remember it. Since apparently I sounded like an idiot."

"Mikey." Gabe sighs, shoving the lighter back into his pocket. "You didn't sound like an idiot. You sounded...sad. And like you don't know how great you are."

Mikey sighs and turns away, blowing smoke at the street. "Dude, let's just..."

"You're not going to slip out of my life, Mikey. You can try. But I'm not gonna let it happen." Gabe reaches out, catching Mikey's chin and turning it back toward him. "You're my friend. You're...you're special. And I fucking like you. Okay?"

Mikey looks at him for a minute, eyes hidden behind the lights reflecting off his lenses. "You won't let me get away? Kinda creepy, dude."

"Yeah, well. That's like my motto. Kinda creepy."

Mikey smiles slow and wide. "I fucking like you too."

"Awesome." Gabe rubs his thumb over Mikey's cheek. "I'd like to like you in an official capacity."

The smile fades, Mikey's brow furrowing. "But..."

"But nothing." Gabe settles his thumb over Mikey's lip, holding him quiet. "Trust me on this one, huh? I've got good taste."

Mikey shakes his head and answers without pulling away. "I've seen how you dress, Gabe. You have awful taste."

"Just say you'll date me, Way. I wanna take you home to meet my dad."

"I've met your--"

"It's symbolic."

"You're so full of bullshit." Mikey's smiling again, full-on grinning really, and Gabe kind of thinks he wants to make that happen as much as he can.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a you're full of bullshit." Mikey leans in and kisses him, blowing smoke into his mouth. "But also, yeah. Since you asked nice. Ish."

"Awesome." Gabe frames Mikey's face in his hands. "You want to go get something gross to eat and then abuse Travie's housesitting gig?"

"Definitely." Mikey bumps his hip against Gabe's. "Tell Travie we're ditching him."

"Sweet." Gabe pulls his phone out and sends Travie a text. find somewhere else 2 go 2nite! xoxo

fucking hate u, comes the reply. have fun. bkfst 2mrrw.

"He's buying us breakfast against tomorrow," Gabe says, offering Mikey his arm. "Let's go, sweetheart."

Mikey hooks his elbow with Gabe's and rolls his eyes. "Dude, you're not gonna call me that."

"What should I call you instead?"

"Not that."

"Baby?"

"No."

"Sugardick?"

"No." Mikey starts off down the street, dragging Gabe along. "Is this what being stuck to you is like?"

"Aw, Mikey." Gabe shakes his head. "We're just getting started."