FicWad

Yeah, it's not Anatomy. Sorry. But you had darn well be thankful, because of all the stories that I've written, I've only finished ONE (discluding oneshots). So...it's quite a challenge for me to keep it going.

But anyway. If you find some of these words oddly familiar, it's because they're lyrics from Fall Out Boy's new album, Ifinity On High (mainly "I'm Like A Lawyer..." "Hum Hallelujah," and "Thanks For The Memories"), which inspired this whole weird thing.

The past and present jumps around a lot. All Warped Tour occurances refer to the past. It's very confusing (this is my rough draft, but I don't have the motivation anymore to edit it too much), but I think you'll be okay. Okay, um...enjoy?

/

It's not unusual to see a girl hanging on your arm for the night. But you've never minded; it's even been a long-standing joke between your spectators: the curiosity of who had a tighter grip on whom, her plastic acrylic nails digging into your flesh in response as your press your arm to your side and trap her. And she smiles and you grin and you talk and she laughs. And her jewelry clinks pleasantly as the green light shines down in the club and adds a desirable spark to your dark hair.

And late into the dark (early in the morning), you disappear. And the next evening, the girl is different. A different name, a different face, a different experience.

Mikey sits and watches, his legs draped over the booth as he sips his drink and chats comfortably with Chris. You smile at him when you pass by, hopping from one table to the other and soaking up the attention you so believe you need. And Mikey smiles back because he feels he needs to (how can he not?), and when Chris leans in and asks comfortably if you two know each other, Mikey nods and downs his drink, never letting it leave his hand, because of course he knows you (how can he not?). And he shifts his eyesight away because you bother him (only slightly, only slightly), and it's just the strangest of things to him.

Then she came. And instead of swinging around his arm, she sat in the booth and talked smoothly to Andy. Mikey was intrigued. Leaving Todd to his drink and girlfriend, he meandered over to Fall Out Boy's little section of the club and sat down next to you, leaning over to nod in the girls direction.

"I haven't seen her around before. Who is she?"

"Hmm?" you hummed through your glass, your eyes dark and deep in the dim lighting. You looked at Mikey, then followed his line of vision until your eyes caught up on the little beauty in the corner. Her black hair cascaded down her face, and her yellow eye shadow glimmered every time she blinked.

"Oh, that's Alicia," you replied with a smile, not taking your eyes away from her. "She's our new tech."

Mikey didn't miss a beat. "You're involved?"

You turned to face him and leant in, letting him smell the liquor on your breath as you spoke enticingly. "Maybe. If something better doesn't come along."

Mikey snorted and held your jaw in his palm like a child, letting your eyes meet his. "You're so subtle."

The music was loud and reverberated through across the walls, moving with the lights, or rather, moving the lights themselves. Your face changed colours with the hues reflecting off of them. Green was prettiest, Mikey thought. The prettiest fake light for the prettiest late night.

You would've moved closer if it was possible. "But you're oh-so flattered, Michael dearest."

"Whatever, Pete," Mikey said to you, crossing his arms. "Everything is fair to you, isn't it?"

You smiled. "All's fair above the waist."

Mikey stared at you, and you barely had time to register the fact that she was watching both of you curiously before you moved forward to whisper into the bassists ear.


/


"Just ask her over, for Christ sakes, Pete."

Patrick had never approved of your past history of women. You didn't purposely have one nights stands, it was just... It never felt right. And there was guilt in the morning along with an empty bed instead of streaming sunlight and coffee for two. It just never fit.

"What, Alicia?" you smirk. The two of you are sitting on a yellow bench, savoring the small silence and lack of activity that came after a magazine interview. The grass is patched brown in spots, and the weeds are far more attractive now that it's all you've come to recognize from home.

"You like her."

It was a statement, pure and simple and not accusatory--just like Patrick. Just like Patrick and just like love and innocence and brilliance, and you suddenly felt guilty about telling him everything. Not regretful, but because he was always the one that had to listen to you. He was always the one that ended up with the folded paper confessions being slipped under his door so that he could transform them into lyrics. He was always the one that would just sit there and watch you as you mulled around daily activities, just to make sure your hand didn't stray to a container of little rattling pills. Always the one to listen and accept and love.

"Yeah. But, you know..."

You trailed off, gesturing hopelessly as you raised your eyes to her, the black hair shimmering as she fiddled with a guitar cross-legged on an unused amp.

"Peter Wentz!" Patrick says, feigning melodramatic shock. "Are you telling me that you've discovered a potential long term relationship?"

You snorted, running your hands carelessly through your hair before remembering it was styled for the upcoming shoot, and how pissed your hairdresser was going to be. "I don't know. If she doesn't know who I am, then maybe."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Patrick smiled.

"And you give me too much, 'Trick."


/


"Who's that?"

Her hand is linked with yours and she rests her head on your shoulder, nudging it slightly to get your attention.

"Hun?" you ask, snapping out of your daydream. The booth was comfortable and the atmosphere was wildly relaxing. She had been on your arm for months now, and rather than becoming a dead weight like the others, her body was an extension of your own self. It felt like hours. Her black and white shirt shone purple.

You peer into the dense noise and music and lights that separate you and the person she laid eyes on. You voice drops lower as you recognize that profile.

"Oh, it's, um, Mikey Way."

"You know him?" she asks, scratching the side of her face gently, while you watch with a small smile. Incredible.

"Yeah. He's the bassist for My Chemical Romance. We used to hang out all the time during Warped."

"What happened?" she asked curiously, leaning in to nuzzle against his neck, and you placed your head against hers, running a thumb across her knuckles.

"Nothing," you sighed, feeling your stomach drop at how entirely untrue that statement was.


/
/flashback/

"Peter! Pete! Petey Petey Peter!"

You turned, not really caring that your face was contorted into a bewildered look and how strange you must look, because... what the hell? Who calls you like that?

He ran up, panting slightly, black hair lying in a disheveled heap all along his pudgy face. His eyes were glossed and his smile was crooked, vision darting. It was Gerard. It was Gerard and he was drunk. Like usual.

"Peeeeete, baby, have you seen Mikes?"

You unconsciously tugged at the hem of your shirt and bit your lip, glancing around nervously. You hated dealing with people like this; you thrived on evenly drunk or evenly sober conversations, and this wouldn't do. You tried to spot Ray or Matt or someone in the crowd that might be able to distract Gerard long enough for you to scramble out of there.

But it was Warped and the crowd was just a crowd. Nameless faces that you had never seen before and faceless names that belonged to people you just knew, but you had no clue as to who they were.

Gerard was waiting patiently, swaying slightly and flashing you a rather disturbing smile.

"Uh, yeah. He's back in the bus."

Gerard's head cocked. "No he's not. I just came from the bus. The Mikeyless bus. Mikey wasn't there. No he's not."

"No, no. He's in, um..." you bit your lip again. "Fall Out Boy's bus. My bus. Sleeping."

Gerard paused for a second, his thoughts slowly catching up to what you said until a grin spread across his face.

"Petey Weetey, are you snogging my little brother?"

"No! No, Gerard, he... look, he had a little too much to drink last night, and he followed me back to the bus, so I let him sleep there. It's not big deal."

Gerard shut his eyes for a second, and you were horribly afraid that he was going to pass out, but he snapped out of it and leaned in closer, looking around in a bitter sweetly comic fashion for eavesdroppers before whispering.

"Are you two BFF's?"

You sighed and tried not to think of how you wouldn't be able to sleep in your bunk for months because of the smell that would remain there after Mikey left, clinging hopelessly onto your sheets, itching into the back of your head.

"Yeah, Gerard. We are."


/


You couldn't find her anywhere. Her hotel room was empty (as was yours), and her cell phone vibrated softly on the counter along with the heavy metal ringtone. You stood in the doorway, staring at it with your own phone open and her number on the screen, until hers fell off the edge due to the vibrations and came crashing down to the floor. Your heart felt the same.

"Check down in the restaurant," Andy told you. "I think I saw her having lunch with the bassist."

I'm the bassist. You thought miserably. Me. Mine.

You heard her pretty laughter before you saw her pretty face, and your fingers twitched as you reminded yourself that it should be the other way around. The table was set for two, and there was a basket of fruit in the middle, which they were munching on happily, talking and laughing and smiling and being completely content. Without him.

"Oh, Pete! It's about time you got up. Like to join us?"

Her smile was genuine, and her voice and hand movements were sincere as she motioned to the empty chair beside her. Mikey was chewing on an apple slice, but he smiled nonetheless, nodding at you. You tried to return it, but it felt like too much energy. It felt like lying.

You looked at her as you sat down, hoping she would say something else. Hoping she wouldn't call you Pete. Hoping and praying that she'd call you baby or sugar or honey or anything else. Anything that would claim possession. You needed it. You name drew more attention in the industry than your very person, but falling from her lips, it sounded pointless. Meaningless. Hurtful.

"How long have you two been down here?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Her eyeliner was smudged and her hair hadn't been brushed since the previous night. You weren't sure if that bothered you that she was so comfortable around him already, or whether it consoled you that she didn't bother to dress up and impress him.

She had Pete Wentz, right? She had you. What was he?

"Oh, almost two hours," she said, making a face at the clock and stifling a yawn. "I think we're driving all the hostesses crazy because we won't leave," she laughed.

"The one with the ribbons in her hair is my favorite," Mikey commented. "She tried to convince us that they stopped serving coffee at 11:00."

Alicia burst out laughing, a sweet sound, before pointing across the small table at Mikey and choking out, "Oh, man, Pete, you should've seen her face when Mikey told her that he could wait until tomorrow, but he was just going to keep ordering complex smoothies for the rest of the day! She was so pissed."

"Hey! She brought me more coffee, didn't she?" Mikey asked, raising his hands.

Her put her elbows on the table to lean in and talk to him. She leant past you.

"Oooh, you know what you should've done? Here, this is great, listen--"

Their voices became nothing short of white noise to you. The sound filtered in broken and abused and in cut up strips, replayed backwards and scratched with rust and familiarity. You wanted to reach up and touch her back, touch her hand, hold her, kiss her, feel her smile against you, but her attention on you was gone. Mikey smiled easily and lazily as he sipped his coffee and listened to her, adding side comments and laughing. Her eyes were shining. Your fingers and hands lay useless in your lap.

Your best friend.

Who does he think he is?


/
/flashback/

"And just where are you off to?"

You looked back to find Mikey staring at you, his jeans dusted with dirt and his dark glasses over his eyes to block out the blinding sun. So far, this year had been the hottest Warped Tour on record, and they were all suffering. Fans were passing out left and right from lack of proper hydration, and the stage shows were suffering as the band members poured sweat (especially Gerard, who insisted on wearing suits).

"Backstage, maybe," you replied. "I'm not sure. I just want to go somewhere."

"Oh," he said, taking another gulp of water as he looked around at the surrounding mass of crowds and merchandise tables. He was silent after that, and you were just turning to leave before his voice reached your ears yet again.

"Want some company?"

You smiled. "Sure."

You couldn't remember the last time you wanted company when you didn't know where you were going.


/


You all went out to dinner the next night. You, Mikey, Alicia, Ray, and Patrick, who tagged along because he stated "having nothing better to do," which depressed you for some reason.

No one really ate. You sat between Alicia and Mikey in the booth while Ray and Patrick sat in the chairs across the table, and few words crossed the table as you looked down at your menus. Feeling more uncomfortable than you thought you would, you made Mikey get up and excused yourself to the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror was foggy and scratched, but you couldn't tell if it was your face, your resolve, your demeanor, or the just the glass. After a few minutes, you supposed it didn't matter because, hell, it's what you always looked like. Who cared what the mirror thought. The water was cold on your face and it stung and you shivered, hoping that this wasn't happening.

When you came back, Ray was talking about how they compiled set lists to Patrick, who was listening intently. Alicia was next to Mikey now, showing him the awkward way her finger bent sometimes. He made a face and pretended to gag, to which she laughed and punched him in the arm. You sat down next to her as she turned to smile at you, her eyes glimmering. She really was lovely, you thought.

"Hey, they came to take the order while you were gone, so I went ahead and got you something, okay?" she said, and you asked her what she had ordered for you.

"Oh, honey, don't worry about it. I know what you like here."

And suddenly, as she turned back to Mikey to watch him stack candle holders on top of each other, you wished she had called you Pete. Because that's all you felt like to her.

Pete.

Who was he?


/


You took the uneaten food home in a little box that you carried in a white plastic bag. It smelled like dinner. You know it wouldn't taste like it though. It was just food.

Mikey saw you two to the door of the room you shared.

"Tomorrow at brunch, yes?" Alicia laughed. They had been meeting up for brunch for the past week now. You wondered when they had started talking, and figured it had been just that one night when you refused to go out with her. Patrick had stuff to work on, and he wanted words. Your job was cut out for you.

She had always been the first to spot him when they went out. He was always there, at the shitty club underneath the hotel they were staying at with four other bands.

"Sure thing," Mikey answered.

"'Night Mikes," you said, your voice a little louder than it needed to be. You honestly hadn't meant that, but your hands were shaking and you were afraid that your voice might quiver. And then all hell would break loose.

Mikey smiled from the doorway. "See you tomorrow, Pete."

And Alicia shut the door, sighed, and fell into bed. "Man, I'm beat. Why didn't you even introduce me to him before?" she asked, grinning at you with tired eyes. "He's a cool guy."

"Yeah..." you muttered helplessly. She didn't speak again, and you continued to stare at the bag of food you brought home. You knew you'd never eat it. You knew that she'd never eat it. But you felt more compassion for that damn food than you ever had for anything else at that very moment, realizing with a burning shame that it was just like you to bring home food that you'd never eat from a restaurant that you never really liked all that much anyway.

She had her back to you now, so you left the food on the table and crawled up beside her, wrapping your arms around her waist and pressing your face against the back of her neck.

"I love you," you murmured in her flesh, but she didn't answer.

She was already asleep.


/
/flashback/

"Where are you going?"

"I should probably find Gee..." Mikey stood up, stretching. The horror flick was only halfway over, and yet the entire party had dispersed. Warped was finally over, and they were celebrating with one last night.

You took the opportunity to lay back on the couch and stretch out your legs. "I already saw him. He's passed out in The Used's bus."

"Oh?" Mikey raised his eyebrows, looking mildly interested.

"Yeah. So stay here. I have no company."

Mikey thought it over for a minute, weighing the pros and cons, before becoming entranced by the movie once again and slowly moving back to sit down almost mechanically. You pressed your legs to the back of the couch to give him room to sit as he muttered "Okay," in an offhand manner, the gore on the screen interesting him far more than The Used.

You watched him as he stared at the movie, sitting against your thighs, and your shirt was riding up just enough to feel the studs in his belt against your hip. Reaching up slowly, you gripped his shoulder and pulled gently. He put up no resistance, letting you drag him down against your chest, until he lay next to you, still watching the screen almost hypnotically.

But it was okay, because when you buried your head in his neck, he reached back and fingered your hip silently.

No one came back that night.


/


"Pete. I have to... listen? Please?"

You ran a hand through your hair and bit your lips, squeezing your eyes shut. "No, Alicia."

"Pete, I have to get this out. It feels wrong not to--"

You stopped her by looking away. "No, really, Alicia. It's okay. You don't need to explain. I mean, I know how corny that sounds, but..."

She wasn't crying. That hurt.

Who was he? Who were you?

Pete Wentz? The amazing Pete Wentz? Your girlfriend wasn't even crying after four months.

"Hey. Pete. Listen," she hugged you, the first hug you'd shared in the past few days as it became apparent that the feelings between them weren't evenly divided.

"Thank you for everything, Pete," she whispered. "The love, the times. Thanks for the memories."

You pulled away gently, shrugging. "They weren't that great."

She looked at you curiously, and you leaned in close to her. The room was silent. You had thrown that stupid food away days ago, and now the walls and tables and beds were empty and blank.

"You guys will make a cute couple," you mused, kissing her softly. "He tastes like you."

Her eyes glimmered again, but widened. You smiled and touched her cheek.

"Only sweeter."


/


Hell, you thought, sitting alone and listening to the creak of bugs outside your window, Two out of three ain't bad.