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Make Me Fall In Love

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3:26 AM, Friday, September 2nd

Bren_Done: has changed the chat name to Pride Parade


Pete Wentz: uh…?


Ryan Ross: Brendon, please!


Pete Wentz: I take it the private chat went well?


Bren_Done has blocked Ryan Ross from the chat.


Pete Wentz: or not?


Bren_Done: night, pete.


Pete Wentz: good night?



6:30 AM same day

Bren_Done: mornin!


Pete Wentz  is typing…


Pete Wentz: Morning.

Pete Wentz: so, are you going to tell me what happened with Ryan last night?

Pete Wentz: are you guys on friendly terms or…?

Pete Wentz: because blocking someone doesn't sound like friendly terms to me.


Bren_Done: nope.

Bren_Done: I admit to being upset about it, though.

Bren_Done: and to fix my -absolute- despair, i'm throwing a huge party.


Pete Wentz: wait, you mean like an actual party, with actual people?


Bren_Done: yep.


Pete Wentz: an actual party with actual food? an actual party with dugs, alcohol, and loud music?


Bren_Done: say actual one more time and I will throw you out of a fucking window.

Bren_Done: but yes.

Bren_Done: minus the drugs, I hope.

Bren_Done: my parents would throttle me if they found cocaine on the floor.


Pete Wentz: actual.

Pete Wentz: dude, did your parents say you could throw a party?


Bren_Done: you little fucker.

Bren_Done: also- nope.


Pete Wentz  is typing…


Pete Wentz: Then how the fuck are you going to throw a party?

Pete Wentz: oh, let me guess, it's the “my parents are gone for the whole weekend” cliché?

Pete Wentz: I don't mean to burst your bubble, Bren, but you also don't have enough friends to have some humongous party.


Bren_Done: cORRECTION:


Pete Wentz: never type like that again. Ever.


Bren_Done: it's the “my parents are gone for the whole WEEK” cliché.

Bren_Done: and that's where you come in, Pete.

Bren_Done: for some ass-weird reason, you literally know the name of everybody in the whole fucking school. You have a shit ton of friends, so you can just invite yours!

Bren_Done: hell, invite the entire school, if you want.

Bren_Done: also, I can tyPE HOW I WANT, FuCK YOU.


Pete Wentz: first of all- you are a massive fucking dork.


Bren_Done: you love it.


Pete Wentz: ya damn right I do.

Pete Wentz: second- are you freaking serious? Don't you see the flaws in your plan?


Bren_Done: not really, no.


Pete Wentz: How am I supposed to convince a shit ton of people to find your house? YOUR house, Bren. I don't mean to sound like an ass, but you have like, three friends. No one knows you.


Bren_Done: yeah, but everyone likes you! They will totally come if you ask them. Tell them we have booze.


Pete Wentz: Well sure, I know them. But you don't! That would mean a bunch of strangers would be coming to YOUR house to party.

Pete Wentz: these people would be going through YOUR living space, drinking YOUR beer, eating YOUR food, and by the next morning, destroying YOUR house!

Pete Wentz: you and I both know your parents would be pissed af to learn you not only had a party, but invited strangers to it.


Bren_Done: dude, I literally don't care. I want to chill with a bunch of people. maybe i'll make some friends, maybe date someone new?

Bren_Done: who knows, man, anything could happen.

Bren_Done: don't you think it will be fun?


Pete Wentz  is typing…


Pete Wentz: Brendon, I think it sounds like a lot of fun! I just don't want you to regret your decision.

Pete Wentz: You don't need to throw a party to make friends, either—or date someone new?

Pete Wentz: If you are ready to move on, does this mean I should delete Ryan's contact from my phone?


Bren_Done: I wont regret this, at all.

Bren_Done: and have you not looked at me? I am the biggest emo freak in school.

Bren_Done: I wear glasses, I refuse to play sports, I think make-up is cool, and I'm pretty gay.

Bren_Done: no one wants to be friends with the nerdy gay kid unless he does something worth being called cool over!

Bren_Done: like throwing a fucking rave or some shit.

Bren_Done: also, I don't care if you want to keep his phone number

Bren_Done: (but being a good friend means deleting him from your entire life, anyways.)


Pete Wentz: Brendon, you can't just DELETE someone from your life.

Pete Wentz: That kind of sounds like murder and under these circumstances, I do not condone it.


Bren_Done: does that mean you wouldn't care if these were under different circumstances?


Pete Wentz: you are not a murderer, and I never said that I WOULD condone it.


Bren_Done: how do you know I'm not a murderer?

Bren_Done: I chainsaw people.


Pete Wentz: oh my god

Pete Wentz: you know what? I digress.

Pete Wentz: I had a point, and your dumb ass distracted me.


Bren_Done: you're welcome.


Pete Wentz: You may be emo—there is no denying that—but you aren't a freak. Glasses don't make you nerdy, either. Glasses are fucking in style now, you dork. Also, this is the 21st century—no one really cares that much anymore if you are gay, or if you wear a little bit of eyeliner.

Pete Wentz: You can make friends all on your own, without a party. You are actually really cool, confident, and nice. That all sounds like friendship material to me, Bren.

Pete Wentz: I suspect the only reason why you don't have more friends is because you were so involved with Ryan, so eager to please him, that you didn't worry about your own social life. And that's stupid.


Bren_Done  is typing…


Bren_Done: oh…

Bren_Done: that's really nice, Pete. Thanks.

Bren_Done: except for the last part—Fuck you.

Bren_Done: anyways, I would prefer if you didn't say his name, or if we didn't talk about him at all.

Bren_Done: his very existence puts a sour taste in my mouth.


Pete Wentz: you probably just need to brush your teeth, B


Bren_Done: oh, haha.

Bren_Done: i've already done that, ass wipe.


Pete Wentz: whatever man

Pete Wentz: you're welcome, by the way.

Pete Wentz: so...are you absolutely sure that you want to throw a big party?


Bren_Done: do penguins fly?


Pete Wentz: uh...no?


Bren_Done: wait, seriously?

Bren_Done: jk, nvm.

Bren_Done: am I hella gay?


Pete Wentz: ???

Pete Wentz: yes?


Bren_Done: then there's your answer!


Pete Wentz: wow. Are you fucking serious?

Pete Wentz: you are a dork. Smh


Bren_Done: you've called me a dork at least three times now. I get it, shuddup.

Bren_Done: I'm gonna skip school today, to prepare for the party

Bren_Done: since my parents are leaving at about ten am or so, I'm going to try my best to milk more money from them—ham up the “fact” that I am sick and I will need lots of money for tea and aspirin.

Bren_Done: So you need to invite everyone at school to my house while I'm absent. The party is tomorrow at 9 in the afternoon, okay?

Bren_Done: invite everyone, except for You-Know-Who.


Pete Wentz: Voldemort?


Bren_Done: I will slash your fucking throat if you ever make a joke like that again.

Bren_Done: and don't ever say his name, jfc!


Pete Wentz: violent much? And voldemortvoldemortvoldemort


Bren_Done: uhg

Bren_Done: have fun inviting people to my awesome party, and enjoy going to hell.

Bren_Done: sorry, my finger slipped. I meant “school”.

Bren_Done: (you're going to hell, too, though.)


Pete Wentz: yeah, yeah. See ya later, bro.


Brendon—6:42 AM

  Brendon drops his phone on his bed side table, sighing. He refuses to believe he is heart broken, and he refuses to let his and You-know-who's break up force him into sadness. No, Brendon is going to get his skinny white ass out of bed, throw a party, and make a bunch of friends. He glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand, and the display tells him that the bus would soon be approaching the bus stop down the road. His mother would realize in a few minutes that he hasn't gotten up, and come to check on him.

  “Brendon?” His mother's worried voice reaches his ear, and he almost grins.

  “Speak of the devil,” He murmurs in amusement. When he hears her high heels clicking up the wooden stair case, he grabs his phone and holds it against his forehead, rubs it against his cheeks. He had left it on charge well after 100%, just so it would get nice and hot. When His mother taps a hesitant knuckle on the bedroom door, he drops the phone, drags the blanket to his chin, and pulls a pained face.

  “Mom?” He asks meekly, and the door slowly pushes open.

  “Bren, dear?” She asks with concern. Brendon lets out another sad moan. She tip-toes the best she can in those ridiculous high heels, making her way to Brendon's bed. He lets out a grunt when she drops beside of him.

  “Oh, baby, what's wrong? You don't sound well!” She exclaims, plucking his blanket off of his face to peer down at him. Brendon gently shakes his head, trying to look as if the very action made him sick. His mother reaches a perfectly manicured hand towards his face, and he momentarily wonders if his Phone's battery heat would have been enough to make his face warm. She pats either side of his face with a small frown.

  “Brendon, this better not be a trick. Your face isn't even that warm,” He gentle voice turned into a more stern one. Thinking quickly, he realized that he would have to think of another way to not go to school, as he so clearly couldn't fool his mother. An idea occurs to him, and he tries not to let his cunning show.

  It was almost too easy to make tears drip quickly from his cheeks. His mother, absolutely startled, grabs her son and pulls him to her bosom.

  “Tell me what's wrong, now! You are scaring me! Are you really sick, baby? Does something hurt?”

  “My heart hurts,” Brendon chokes, and tries not to think about how easy it was for these tears to become real, how easy it was to just suddenly feel absolute heart break. Dammit! Brendon thought he was over this two hours ago! Brendon really wasn't the type of person to be sad. Sure, he could be pretty quick tempered, but Brendon was generally a very happy, arrogant, yet friendly person. He never really cries. He never really feels sadness. Right?

  “That's not good, Brendon!” His mother shrieks, pulling away and looking him over. “What kind of pain is it? Where exactly is it?”

  “My heart,” He whimpers again, “it's broken.” Fuck this.

  “I-what?” His mother stares dumbly at him, not expecting that. As stated previously, Brendon is a really rambunctious and silly person, and his mother would have never thought that Brendon would feel heart broken; much less cry when he is.

  “My heart is broken,” He groans, trying to flop sideways. His mother holds fast to his arms, shaking her head in anger.

  “Was it Ryan? What did that little shit do to you-?”

  “Mom!” Brendon complains, sniffling hard. He doesn't want his mother to speak bad about his ex. He doesn't want to even talk about him at all, but if Brendon is to skip school, he is going to have to talk about his...feelings.

  “What? Brendon, please,” She begs, and her son sighs quietly, letting his fringe cover his eyes.

  “Ryan and I had a really bad fight last night, and we broke up. I haven't slept any at all, and I have two classes with him, and lunch,” He trails off, picking at a non-existent loose thread on his blanket. “I just don't want to see him, not yet. If I don't go today, then I can mentally prepare myself the whole weekend. I can be ready on Monday.” Well, it wasn't a complete lie, Brendon supposes. Even if he was forced to school, and couldn't throw a party, he would have just skipped second and third period just to avoid Ryan until he was ready.

  “Oh, Brendon, sweetie, don't worry, it will get better!” His mother encourages, carding her fingers through her son's long, and extremely messy hair. Her fingers find a small knot, and she works her hands through the lock to untangle it.

  “Can I skip, please? Just for today! I really don't think I'll make it,” He pleads, clasping his hands together and swerving her attempts to brush through his hair again. His mother gives him an expression he likes to call the “Mom Look”, the face she pulls when she is trying to decide if it would be responsible to let her son skip school. The face she makes when she is trying to decide if she should take her role as a parent, or as a friend. Apparently, by the way her eyes soften, she decides to be the friend.

  “Just one day, Brendon Urie. Don't you even think about making this an all the time thing, and you better make good use of your day, today!” Oh, I will be, Brendon thinks with a hidden grin. He quickly scrubs the tears from his eyes as his mother prattles on about leaving for the airport with her husband, and about how she is going to leave her son plenty enough money to keep Brendon from getting bored or starving. When she realizes Brendon wants her to go away, now, his mother sighs and plants a big red kiss on his temple.

  “I love you, dear. Go ahead and get some sleep, and text me every day, you hear? I'll see you next Friday. I will leave plenty of emergency cell numbers. If you feel the need to invite friends over, call and ask me first! If you go to someone else's house, make sure you tell me, and make sure the house is locked up! And-”

  “Mom, I know, I know. Let me go back to sleep, please!” Brendon complains in a ridiculously obnoxious voice. His mother huffs, looking a bit miffed, before making her way out of the bedroom.

  “I love you,” She repeats, and Brendon mutters something similar back to her. The door snaps into the door frame, and Brendon searches frantically for his phone to message Pete while scratching the quickly drying lipstick from his face.



7:12 AM same day

Bren_Done: Just letting you know that I convinced mom to let me stay home. I'm such a charmer, I swear. Have fun gathering potential friends for me, Emo King.



Pete Wentz—7:30 AM

  Pete sits at the normal breakfast table, alone. He jiggles his leg in anticipation as he stares with focused eyes at the door, uncaring for his packaged cereal and apple. Finally, the person he was waiting for lumbers sleepily from the breakfast line. The boy picks and weaves his body between the crowded, circular tables to get to the one in the very back, looking more than disgruntled.

  “Good morning, Patrick!” Pete yells excitedly, pushing his bag off of the seat next to him in hopes that the boy would take it. Patrick does not sit next to Pete, instead choosing the spot directly in front of him, so his back was to the sunlight pouring through the large windows. Pete lets on that he doesn't mind, though he does.

  “Not in the mood for yelling, Pete,” Patrick grumbles, trying his best to keep a polite and friendly voice. He shrugs his heavy backpack from his shoulders, and dumps his cereal and fruit onto the center of the table.

  “Sorry,” Pete grumbles, but refuses to let his happy mood dissipate. “Is everything alright? Bad night's sleep?”

  “Yep,” Patrick grumbles, no intent on elaborating. Pete continues to grin at the adorable, small teen slumped over the table. Pete is so distracted by his overwhelming crush that he didn't even notice when someone plops next to him.

  “Tell me about it?” Pete pipes cheerfully, and Patrick groans, knowing his best friend won't relent without an explanation.

  “That stupid dog next door got loose and came into our yard, barking up a storm,” Patrick begins, glaring at the grainy, beige surface of the table. “Believe it or not, the dumb animal managed to get into the house and woke everyone up. Mom wouldn't let anyone go to sleep until we caught the dog, gave it back to our asshole neighbors, and cleaned the house!”

  “You always have such great adventures when I'm not around,” Pete muses, thinking of all the times he's stayed with Patrick and nothing super exciting happened. Although, that's how Pete liked it, if he was honest. He liked just being alone with Patrick, watching movies or playing games, studying together.

  “It was not an adventure, it was a disaster. I'm so tired,” Patrick complains, falling over onto the table once more. A scoff sounds next to Pete, and finally the 'Emo King' notices the person sat next to him.

  “You had a bad night? At least you didn't get dumped at three in the morning,” Ryan grumbles. Pete shrinks away from the boy, wondering if he should ignore him or not.

  “Something happen to you and Brendon?” Patrick inquires, voice muffled from his sweater sleeve; Pete tries not to think about how absurdly cute it was when Patrick buries his face into his arms.

  “Yep. He dumped me because apparently I'm a prick and I manage to say dumb shit,” Ryan snorts. Ryan already has what many call a “resting bitch face”, but there was something even more...bitchy about him today. Maybe it was the pompous pink scarf with matching pale rose skinny jeans. Maybe it was the sneer he cast down at his cream-painted nails, or perhaps it was the fact that Ryan is sometimes...just a fucking bitch.

  Ryan is generally a good guy, if we are being honest. He just gets into these really annoying moods where he tries to be a poetic little shit all the time. He will correct your grammar, scowl when you don't have enough “Passion” (uhg, Pete thinks, theatre kids), and becomes the fashion police when your outfit isn't to his liking. Ryan wants things his way or the highway, and he can be cocky as hell.

  Pete tries to not think badly about Ryan, because as mentioned before, the teen really is a good guy, sometimes. Pete tries to be friendly with Ryan mostly because of Brendon—and if it wasn't for Brendon, Pete never would have gave Ryan a second kind thought. Ryan is considered popular by some, due to his “extreme musical talent” and his “acting skills”. Pete has always been sketchy of Ryan, ever since the boy rejected every show of affection from Brendon when they were in public.

  At first, Pete believed it was just because Ryan may not be out yet, and hell, he could understand that. Even so, Pete remembered that Ryan had made it very clear to a freshman girl he was gay, and it spread like wildfire around the school. Ryan honestly didn't seem affected by it, and still refused any display of affection with Brendon. Pete remembers holding a crying Brendon in their sophomore year in Pete's bedroom; The latter believing that Ryan didn't care for him.

  “Pete, I'm talking to you!” Ryan complains, waving a hand in front of Pete's tanned face. Pete blinks in surprise, realizing he was staring blankly at Patrick, who looked concerned. Pete turns his attention to a mildly annoyed Ryan.

  “Ah, sorry. What?” Pete asks. Very eloquent of you, Pete thinks in amusement, enjoying the irritation that flickered across Ryan's face.

  “I asked you when Brendon was getting here,” Ryan grumbles, narrowing his eyes. Pete just shrugs and grabs the small juice carton he had snagged in the breakfast line; he works on opening it when he answers.

  “Bren didn't wanna come to school today,” Pete replies simply. Ryan's eye twitches.

  “Why?”

  “He hates you.”

  “Excuse me!” Ryan barks, and Patrick jumps, sending a scared glance to Pete. Pete catches the surprise and concern on his friend's face, before turning an angry look to Ryan. Pete was ready to say something rude since this pink stringbean startled Patrick, but Pete was interrupted before he could say anything.

  “You're excused,” A voice cuts, and Pete and Ryan snap their heads in the direction of the voice. Gerard Way plops into a seat next to Patrick, and his younger brother, Mikey, flanks the strawberry-blond's other side. Ryan bristles at their presence.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Ryan snaps. Oh, boy, he sure is moody today, huh?

  “Gerard fucking Way, the sass queen,” Gerard states, sending the petulant teen a smug smile. “And I'm not here to talk to you. I'm just here for moral support.” Gerard points to Mikey, who gives his brother an eye roll.

  “You talked to me first,” Ryan whispers childishly, before turning back to Pete. Pete was more interested in why his ex—and now one of his closest friends—needs moral support.

  “Hey, Patrick, sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour,” Mikey begins, earning a chuckle from Patrick. “But I didn't finish the home work last night, because I have no idea what the fuck is even going on. Help?” Mikey finishes, producing a packet of rolled papers from his hoodie pocket. Patrick nods, taking the assignment from Mikey. The Way brothers and little Patrick begin to look over the Packet when Ryan decides to bother Pete again with his very existence.

  “Why the fuck does Brendon 'hate' me?” Ryan demands, trying to decide if he is mad or hurt by the accusation.

  “Hell if I know, but he is treating your name as if it's Voldemort's—”

  “Don't say his name!” Patrick gasps, and Pete gives him a warm look before muttering an apology.

  “But why?” Ryan whines. Uhg, that's another thing Pete learned after years of friendship with Ryan; the little twat wants to know everything right then and there, and if he doesn't receive more knowledge, the 'genius' acts like a pouting toddler.

  “Bro, I just told you I don't know why. Whatever happened between you two in the private chat last night, it stayed between you both. All I know is that Brendon is not okay, and he's decided to skip school to plan something really stupid,” Pete snaps, inhaling through his nose. He is literally not in the mood to deal with this jerk. Ryan sadly lets the subject fall flat, giving his milk carton a dejected look.

  Pete almost feels a strike of pity. Maybe he is just being extremely biased right now, because his best friend is sulking at home, all heart broken. It is completely possible that Pete is comparing all of the little annoying things Ryan has done in the past, to the sudden break up, and making them seem bigger than they really were. Maybe Pete was always looking for a reason to hate Ryan, and now he has a chance. That's probably not fair. Pete gives Ryan a sympathetic pat on the back.

  “I'm sorry Ryan. Who knows, maybe you two will get back together?” Pete kind of hopes not, but he doesn't voice his true feelings. Ryan just shrugs him away with a snotty scowl, and Pete quickly decides he doesn't care anymore. Act like a bitch, get treated like one. He instead watches as Patrick tries to explain something to Mikey, who is having an extreme giggle fit while Gerard barks at him to take the question seriously.

  “What's so funny?” Pete asks, taking note of the pretty red creeping across Patrick's face.

  “Sex,” Mikey answers, giggling again. Pete raises an eyebrow, hoping that will be enough to get an explanation. What's so funny about sex?

  “I don't understand what's so funny,” Pete finally admits, and Gerard rolls his eyes.

  “Mikey is actually a fifth grader stuck in a tall teenager's body,” Gerard explains, but that just raises more questions than it answers.

  “I'm laughing because of Patrick!” Mikey snickers. Said person becomes a darker shade of red.

  “Why?”

  “He is just so flustered about sex! It's just cute,” Mikey gasps. Patrick narrows his eyes and gives Mikey a furious look.

  “I don't actually have to help you, you little shit,” Patrick snarls, glaring at the taller boy. Damn, Patrick sure looks beautiful when he is angry, Pete thinks distantly. Gerard snorts and leans around Patrick to laugh at his brother.

  “Mikey, I've told you time and time again not to laugh at people, or you won't have friends!” Patrick frowns at Gerard's wise words. He doesn't want to seem mean, and Mikey really is his friend. He'd hate to give the guy the impression of dislike.

  “Uhg, give me the fucking paper, and I'll do the work myself. Stop pestering me, and I may actually put down the right answers, and write in a calligraphy that closely resembles yours,” Patrick pulls the homework away from Mikey, who just beams as the assignment is carefully tucked away in Patrick's bag.

  “See, Gerard? Patrick still likes me! Maybe your advice is absolute shit.” Mikey cheers, and Gerard just pokes a tongue childishly at his annoying sibling.

  “I won't like you for long if you keep yapping in my ear,” Patrick growls sleepily, and Pete is once more distracted—and a bit turned on—by Patrick's angered voice. Dammit, he's gotta do something about this silly infatuation. Pete is relieved when the five minute bell rings, and he can get away from the suffocating attraction he has towards one of his best friends. He shoves his untouched food into his back pack, and tosses his juice box into the garbage can.

  Pete tells his friends—and Ryan—good bye, with promises to see them later, before bolting to English IV.



Pete—8:36 AM, first Period—English IV

  Pete stares longingly at the empty desk beside of his own, the one that Brendon normally sits in. The teacher drones on and on, and Pete finds it rather hard to pay attention when he can't even see her. Ms. Effler strides presumptuously around the back of the room, her voice being drowned by all the quiet chatter in the back rows.

  Wishing for the hundredth time that Brendon was here to at least make the class less boring, Pete slumps over on his desk with an exhausted sigh. Someone pokes him hard in the back, and Pete swivels around to give the offender a piece of his mind. His eyes meet a pair of large, light brown ones. The boy has chin length black hair, a small posture, and his outfit choice is only what Pete could describe as “Punk”.

  “What do you want?” Pete grumbles, and the boy shifts awkwardly in his seat. Pete's tired brain couldn't put a name to this kid's face.

  “Ah, the teacher said you're my partner today,” The kid snaps back, and Pete frowns at how offended the boy sounded. Pete straightens up, sits more comfortably in his seat, and holds out a hand.

  “Sup. I'm Pete.” The boy looks disdainfully at Pete's hand, unwilling to shake it.

  “I know who you are,” The boy scowls, clearly annoyed. It is already a month into the semester, and Pete has sat in front of him the entire time. Shouldn't they already know each other's names?

  “Uh, cool,” Pete says, taken aback. He looks down awkwardly at a piece of paper on the boy's desk, searching for a name. He doesn't find one, which is annoying. “What's your name?”

  “Frank Iero,” The boy mutters, his leg shaking with pent up energy. Pete shakes his head, feeling guilty at the light fading from the boy's eyes.

  “Hey, I'm sorry. I should have known that,” Pete admits, trying to get the kid to look at him, “ You're the dude who scored the winning—uh—thing during volley-ball yesterday, right?” Frank gives Pete an amused look, but nods all the same.

  “'Winning Thing'? Well, I guess you could say that. I just slapped it out of my face,” Frank says, waving his hand dismissively. Pete chuckles, and gives a small shrug.

  “Sorry, I don't really play volley-ball. But that sounds like a great defense tactic to me,” Pete admires. Frank shrugs, and hunches over his paper.

  “Yeah,” Frank comments absentmindedly, ready to move on. “So, where do you want to start?” Pete blinks stupidly at his partner.

  “Ah, about that. What the fuck are we doing?” Frank refrains from rolling his eyes.

  “We are supposed to go over our answers. The ones we got from the slide,” Frank says, pointing to his paper. Pete's eyes open wide as he whips around to look at his blank sheet of paper, and then at the projector screen; the teacher had taken the slide show down, and in its place was a digital timer.

  “Ah, dammit,” Pete moans, looking back at Frank with apologetic eyes, “Look, I wasn't paying attention. I'm just really tired, man—I'm so sorry! You'll have to do this without me, I guess.” Great, here's to another failing grade. Pete just hopes that Frank won't get in trouble over it. Frank senses Pete's disappointment, and lets out a small sigh.

  “It's fine, man. Here, just copy mine—I'm pretty sure I got all of those questions right,” Frank didn't sound too sure of himself, but when Pete beamed at him, he decided it was okay. Pete quickly scribbled down answers that closely resembled Frank's, and once he was finished, the two just sat out the rest of the period and talked.

  “So, not to be rude or anything,” Pete begins, and Frank narrows his eyes suspiciously, “But why do you eat lunch alone?”

  Frank just stares at Pete, wondering what he should say. Frank doesn't really have many friends, if he is honest. It's not that he isn't friendly or anything of the sort, he just generally doesn't like people. People are unpredictable. People will turn around and stab you in the back if you look away for even one minute. That fear has always kept Frank from getting close to others, and among other—personal—reasons. Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't want to make friends. His motto includes the following: If people don't make friends with you, there is no reason to make the first move. As one would imagine, no one wants to make the first move and be friends with the short punk kid who sits in the back of the room.

  “I don't have any friends in that lunch period,” Frank decides. It wasn't a complete lie. He didn't have any friends at all—save for an acquaintance or two—therefore he didn't have any friends in lunch. Pete just smiles and gives Frank a poke.

  “Well, now you do!” Pete cheers, and Frank stares at him with surprise.

  “Are you saying you are...my friend?”

  “Yep! You can meet me at the doors to the cafe, if you want,” Pete offers, supplying one of his winning smiles. Frank gives Pete a look of doubt, before nodding. Hell, Pete made the first move towards friendship. Might as well take the chance.

  The bell buzzes violently overhead, and Pete pops out of his seat to eagerly shove his things into his bag. Waiting for Frank, the pair turn in the classwork and rush out the door. The hall is teeming with loud teenagers, the sounds of lockers slamming or the curses of students who couldn't open them reach Pete's ears, but he doesn't seem to mind. Pete skips forward, only a bit taller than Frank, eagerly waving to different people. Frank fumbles behind his new friend, not in the mood to get squashed by the brutes around him.

   Pete stops in front of a small group of people, grinning as he gets really close to a boy baring a similar height to Frank.

  “Patrick! How was Pre-Cal?” Pete asks, nudging his friend. Patrick, who is in a much better mood compared to this morning, gives Pete a thumbs-up.

  “Pete!” Patrick cheers in a similar fashion to his friend, “It was great.” It really wasn't great, but Pete didn't need to know that. Satisfied, Pete turns to the two other boys rummaging in their shared locker next to Patrick.

  “Mikey! Gerard!” Pete yells, his enthusiasm causing a few people to turn and give Pete a weird look.

  “How can you be so excited this early in the morning?” Mikey barks, trying to cram an art textbook onto a pink locker shelf. His brother keeps nervously flitting around Mikey, displeased that the book was about to be nearly damaged. Pete shrugs.

  “Its only Nine-Thirty,” Pete answers, and then jams a thumb at a nervous Frank. “I also made a new friend.” At that, Gerard decided to abandon Mikey; Whatever happened to the book, happened. There was nothing to be done about it.

  “Was this decision yours, kid? Pete is great at annoying people until they become his friend,” Gerard explains, and Pete scowls.

  “That's not true! He totally wants to be my friend!” Pete then turns to Frank, who all but shrinks away. “Right?”

  “Ah, yeah. Friends. We are...that.” Frank twirls his pointer finger counter-clock wise. “Yay?” Gerard laughs whole heartedly, and claps a hand onto Frank's shoulder.

  “Any friend of Pete's is a friend of mine,” Then, Gerard turns to Pete, “Except for that cunt at the breakfast table.” Patrick gasps, his notebooks dropping to the floor. Pete dips down to sweep them in his arms, as Patrick puts his hands on his hips.

  “That's not a very nice word! And Ryan isn't that bad…”Patrick trails off as Pete holds out the handful of notebooks. Patrick blushes. “Oh, Thanks, Pete.”

  “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” Gerard sasses, throwing his hands in the air and cocking a hip. Frank giggles at the boy's excitement.

  “Gerard, calm down,” Mikey grumbles, finally cramming the book into the messy locker. He gives his brother a side ways glance, seemingly confused that anyone could have fun at too-early-o'clock-in-the-morning. The bell screams it's warning above them, and Gerard sends a wink to the still-giggling Frank.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go to class, Moikey.” Gerard demands, ruffling his sibling's hair.

  “Don't call me that,” Mikey whines, pulling away from his brother's affection. Gerard walks in the opposite direction, Frank's eyes following after him. Patrick and Mikey walk into the Science Pod, leaving Frank to scurry after the excited Pete. As the two make a direct bee-line towards the boy's locker rooms, Pete bumps shoulders with Frank.

  “Look at that! Now you have a few new friends,” Pete cheers, before stopping. “Oh, wait, have you met any of them before?” Frank snickers.

  “I have a class with all of them, so I know who they are,” Frank was going to rub it in, since Pete seems to think that Frank is a friendless loser (he doesn't think that), but from the look on Pete's face, Frank decides against it. “Ah, but I've never talked to them before. So thanks?”

  What are you supposed to say when someone helps you make friends? Was it socially acceptable to say thank you? Whether it was or not, Pete didn't seem to mind that he was being thanked, since “Thanks” is a word he hears directed at himself all the time. Pete sure is a nice guy.

  The two quickly get dressed in proper gym attire, and the two go their separate ways. In rows of six, all the students stand on one end of the court in lines, waiting for orders from the Wellness instructor. They spend the better half of the class period doing warm-up exercises and running laps around the gymnasium. Finally, when all the students are sweaty and complaining, the students are allowed to team up to play Volley-ball.

  “Hey Pete!” Pete groans, recognizing the voice. Ryan jogs over, wearing baggy, black sweatpants, and a loose band tee. He pushes his hair away from his face to reveal a grin. “We are on the same team! Maybe now that we have each other, our shitty group will be able to win!” Ryan thumbs behind him, and Pete looks over the group.

  Frank stands unsure in the back, wearing Grey basketball shorts and a blue tank top. Beside him, stand two girls clad in pink, both texting furiously on their smart phones; they have no interest in playing. Leaning against the net—much to the Instructor's disdain—stands an obnoxious boy with thick rimmed glasses and a scowl.

  “Hey, I think we have a great team,” Pete defends meekly, although he isn't sure about his statement. Ryan snorts and tuts his disapproval.

  “Doubt it.” That's the only thing Ryan says before the opposing team are given the ball. Their server gives a powerful Whack! and the game begins. It starts out with a bunch of giggles from both teams, members yelling “Sorry! The ball is hard to control!” or “I play video games, not sports!”

  After a while, Ryan seemed to get tired of running around while the rest of the team shied away from the ball. For the hundredth time, he chases after the ball when it goes out of bounds. Since no one knew how to play, apparently, the students abandoned the rules and were just hitting the ball back and forth for fun; only Ryan was getting frustrated that no one knew the rules.

  “My wrist is bruised and I'm tired of running after this stupid thing,” Ryan declares, thrusting the ball into Frank's hands. Frank, who had been hanging in the back to avoid action, stared at Ryan with fearful eyes. Ryan begins to push Frank into the right corner, a bit closer to the net. “You serve, and I'll worry about everything else. Don't screw up.”

  Pete gives Frank an encouraging nod (and a quick “Wait!” so one of the girl's could finish her tweet). Frank holds the ball out with one hand, much the same way he had seen Ryan do, before he gently tosses it in the air. He brings his other hand underneath the ball, bopping it cleanly over the net.

  “Nice!” Pete cheers, diving forward as the ball is spiked back over the net. Pete jumps and gives the ball a mighty smack, where it lands hard on the ground. Ryan fist pumps the air, clapping Pete hard on the back.

  “Now that was a great play!” Ryan admires, and before Frank could feel anything more than fleeting pride, the game had started up again.



Brendon—10:30 Am

  Brendon wiggles into a pair of jeans, humming a random tune under his breath as he works to get dressed. Pleased that he has clothes on, he jams his feet into a pair of battered Chucks, before skipping down stairs.

  “I'm gonna have a party!” Brendon sings to himself, very pleased. He grabs the envelope of cash his father had left on the coffee table, before darting out the front door. After checking he had locked the door, he takes off down the road. The best part about living in a cul de sac, Brendon decides, is that his neighborhood is just down the road from the nearest grocery store.

  After a quick run, and a bit of jay walking, Brendon made it to the Food City in under ten minutes. Brendon cheerfully grabs a shopping cart and swerves down the food isles. He throws random bags of chips into the buggy, along with several 2-liter sodas and assorted snacks. He makes his way across the store—on the back of the cart, may the author add—so he could buy streamers and other party decorations.

  Brendon ends up spending nearly 300 dollars on food and decorations, but he isn't upset. If anything, the amount of money he spent just pleases him even more. It is universally known that the more money you spend, the cooler you are. Right? Since Brendon has no intentions on trying to carry twenty-four bags and a gallon of milk(That wasn't for the Party; Brendon realized he didn't have anything to put in his cereal), Brendon just steals the shopping cart.

  Like an over excited child, Brendon runs as fast as he can, before jumping onto the back of the cart. He lets out a scream of joy as the buggy flies in front of angry drivers and past startled joggers. Brendon is lucky enough to stop the cart before it crashes into the curb, and then he is off again, zooming closer to his house. He pushes the stolen item into the house and sets about to put up groceries and hang the decorations.

  Brendon hangs black streamers from the ceiling, wraps them around the banister as an open invitation to use the bedrooms up stairs (Brendon giggled a bit immaturely at the thought, and then momentarily wonders if he would be using his own bed for the same reason). He makes use of the purple streamers by creating curtains over every door way, and tosses a few on the ground just for the hell of it.

  He spends an hour blowing up colorful balloons, and then another ten minutes searching the garage for his dad's disco ball and a strobe light. He hangs the Ball in the living room(as it's the biggest room in the house), and skillfully hides the strobe light on the mantle, so the light would catch the disco ball just right.

  As Brendon sprinkles confetti over every available surface in the house, Brendon whips out his phone to message Pete.



11:56 AM

Bren_Done: pete this is an emergency

Bren_Done: text back right now


Pete Wentz: dude I'm in pre-cal

Pete Wentz: this better be important


Bren_Done: its very important, scouts honor.

Bren_Done: do you know where I can get a smoke machine for a cheap price


Pete Wentz: dude what the fuck


Bren_Done: I bought a shit ton of cool decorations, but i'm pretty sure i'm missing a smoke machine.

Bren_Done: or a fog machine?

Bren_Done: I don't really know what they are called, but I need one.


Pete Wentz: do you have decorations up now?


Bren_Done: yeah, why?


Pete Wentz: send me a few pictures, so I can decide if a fog machine would be going over board.

Pete Wentz: you don't want to seem like you're trying too hard, you know? Won't look cool.


Bren_Done: oh, that makes sense. I knew I kept you around for a reason.


Bren_Done  is typing…


Bren_Done  has sent ( 10 ) attachments!


Pete Wentz: holy shit, your house actually looks cool.

Pete Wentz: yeah, sorry mate, but I think a smoke/fog machine would just cover up your hard work

Pete Wentz: this party might be cool, after all!


Bren_Done: thank you for your lack of faith.


Pete Wentz: shut up and actually be thankful, B.

Pete Wentz: I'll have you know that I've already invited a shit ton of people.

Pete Wentz: I went to the bathroom about ten minutes ago and actually heard a few freshman planning on sneaking out to get to the party!


Bren_Done: don't you mean “Wentz” to the bathroom?


Pete Wentz: are you fucking kidding me

Pete Wentz: that's the only thing you care about

Pete Wentz: my lack of pun-skills?


Bren_Done  has changed  Pete Wentz 's screen name to  I Wentz 2 Pee .


I Wentz 2 Pee: are you fucking kidding me.


Bren_Done: I don't see you changing it.

Bren_Done: but seriously, Thanks Pete.


I Wentz 2 Pee  has changed his screen name to  Thanks Pete .


Thanks Pete: you're welcome.


Bren_Done: dude, that lacks finesse


Bren_Done  has changed  Thanks Pete 's name to  Thnks Pt .


Thnks Pt: ah, much better.

Thnks Pt: //sarcasm

Thnks Pt: I gotta go, man. The teacher looks suspicious.

Thnks Pt: i'll see you later.


Bren_Done: Bye



Mikey—12:30 Am, 3rd Period—Trigonometry

  Mikey slumps in his seat, wishing the damn teacher would show up on time for just one day in her miserable life. He doesn't much like his teacher.

  “Uhg,” Someone voices to Mikey's left, and though his ears perk at the noise, he has no intention on locating who the voice belonged to. “I was stuck in the locker rooms with this fag in 1st today. It was fucking disgusting, being that close to a nasty queer.” Mikey bristles at the slurs, but says nothing. Don't get involved, a wise voice orders. Instead, Mikey picks at the fraying cover of his textbook.

  “Omg,” A girl whispers, and Mikey cringes. Do people actually say 'OMG' out loud? “Like, what did you do?” Without looking, Mikey can imagine the girl's eyes getting wide, shock on her face.

  “I didn't do anything. That's why I smell so bad—I didn't want to take a shower, knowing that faggot could have been peaking around the corner.”

  “You are so brave, though! That must have been scary!” The girl chirps, and there are a few rumbles of agreement. Mikey closes his eyes and clenches his jaw.

  “No way, it wasn't scary. I mean, sure, all gay people are just fucking perverts, but I could have handled the freak!” The guy boasts, and Mikey begins to shake in anger. That isn't true! Those are slurs, insults, you fucking pig! There is nothing wrong with being gay! Mikey thinks, now gripping his led pencil to avoid doing something stupid.

  “What would you have done?” Another guy asks, “You know, if he would have come onto you or something.”

  “I'd probably beat his face to a fucking pulp. And then tell Coach that we have a rapist, get him expelled or something. Dirty sinner fucking deserves it—” The boy cuts his sentence off when a pencil smacks him in the jaw. He leaps in surprise, his green eyes looking around dumbly for the object that hit him. Then, the boy's eyes lock with Mikey. Fucking Christ, I just hit the school's Pitcher with a fucking Pencil. Oh my god.

  “Did you-Did you just throw a pencil at me?” The guy asks, mouth gaping. Mikey squares his posture, trying to look more confident.

  “No, I didn't,” Mikey states, snootily turning up his nose. The boy grabs the pencil from the ground, stands up, and leans over Mikey.

  “Oh really? Then how did this pencil smack me in the face?” The boy snaps, clenching his fist.

  “That, my friend, is not a pencil,” Mikey shrugs nonchalantly. The boy gives him a look of bemusement.

  “Pray tell, Way. What is it, then?”

  “It's an 'Asshole missile',” Mikey explains, “It has coordinates set so when it's launched, it hits the biggest asshole in the room.” Everyone stares dumbfounded, before a few giggles erupt randomly around the room. Asshole, as Mikey will now so fondly call the boy, growls and shoves Mikey's things off the desk. Mikey just whines in protest.

  “And that, you dumb shit, is why the missile chose you!” Mikey complains.

  “Why the fuck do you think you can talk to me this way, you little skank?” Asshole snarls, and Mikey gives him a confused look.

  “Skank?” Mikey inquires, raising an eyebrow. Asshole nods enthusiastically, and snaps Mikey's pencil.

  “Oh, no, you called me a skank and broke my pencil,” Mikey calls in monotone, shrugging without interest. “I am speaking to you the way you deserve to be spoken to. I bet you that poor kid you're talking about wouldn't touch you with a fucking thirty-foot pole.”

  “I see, you are a fag supporter—which makes you a fag, too!” Asshole cheers, looking around the room to see if someone would challenge him.

  “Dude, where is your logic with that?” Mikey asks, feeling stricken that someone could be such a close minded asshole, “I support vegans, but that doesn't mean I'd give up a steak at any given moment!” Mikey grumbles more under his breath, but Asshole didn't care; he looked as if Christmas arrived early.

  “So you do like meat!” He guffaws, and Mikey slams a palm to his forehead.

  “I'm surrounded by idiots!” Mikey exclaims, but he loses his attitude when he feels hands grab his shirt and push him to the floor. Mikey groans pitifully, hands reaching out to find his glasses.

  “Do you know what I do to fags like you?” Asshole sneers, and students begin to chant encouragement. Asshole's foot stomps down on Mikey's outstretched wrist, and Mikey yelps.

  “Oh, do you need these glasses?” Asshole asks, faking astonishment as he bends down to pick them up.

  “Yes, I do,” Mikey snarls, glaring blearily at the jerk standing on him.

  “Too bad,” Asshole giggles in a sing-song voice, and the class titters in amusement.

  Frank, who had been sitting in the back of the class, lets out an annoyed huff. Why the fuck is everyone always preying on the little guy? (although, to be fair, Mikey is fucking tall as shit.) Why is everyone always picking on the gay kids? The nerds? The unique and happy? Decisively angry, Frank decides to protect his new friend—well, he hope that Mikey reciprocates friendship, considering their meeting was fleeting today in the hall. Frank grabs his textbook and makes his way to the front of the classroom, where Mikey lies with his hand caught under some asshat's shoe.

  “Hey, dickweed,” Frank barks, and the attention is shifted to him. He stares up at the asshole's face, hoping to look intimidating despite his size.

  “Are you talking to me, freak?” Asshole barks. God, this guy is so fucking clueless.

  “Dude, how thick can you get? Of course I'm talking to you, pecker cheese!” Frank snaps, and points to Mikey's hand. “Get your foot off of him, give me his glasses, and get in your seat; or else I'll stomp your ass all over this school,” Frank orders, puffing out his chest. Asshole grins.

  “Oh really? A small, itty, bitty baby like you is going to hurt me?” He laughs. Frank sighs, and plucks Mikey's glasses from the guys hands.

  “Hey!” Asshole snaps as Mikey's free hand reaches for his spectacles to put them on.

  “Last chance to get off of Mikey,” Frank threatens, but the guy digs his toe into Mikey's wrist. There is a soft popping and Mikey lets out a shriek. “You asked for it,” Frank murmurs.

  Frank has always prided himself in being fast, energetic, and skilled at causing damage when he gets excited. Frank has caused many fights, and ended almost all of them without injury. He tackles people for the hell of it, just because no one suspects him, and he is just too fast. So, it was no surprise that Frank is able to successfully ram a knee into this asshole's stomach.

  The guy doubles over, coughing, when Frank swings his textbook and brings it up into Asshole's nose. The guy rights himself from the impact, only to teeter backwards and stumble into another student's lap. He holds his shirt to his nose, trying to staunch the steady stream of blood. Frank steps over discarded bags, and he lashes out, grabbing the boy by his curly blond hair.

  “Treat others how you want to be treated,” Frank hisses, “Well, I guess you did just that. Get out of here now. If you pick on Mikey again, and I hear about it, I will erase the white board with your bloody face, got it?”

  “You're fucking insane!” The guy moans, tears squeezing from his eyes.

  “You're damn right I am,” Frank snarls. Then, as if nothing happened, Frank walks back to his desk, sets his book down, and continues the homework assignment he decided to not finish yesterday. No one dared look at him, and when the bully scurried from the classroom, everyone began nattering away once more, no longer interested in the fight.

  As Frank pecks numbers into his calculator, he senses a presence hovering next to him. Looking over, he makes eye contact with Mikey.

  “Hey,” Mikey says, sticking out his hand. His wrist is red and swelling a bit, and Frank could almost swear the dirty imprints of a shoe were marked on the boy's flesh. “I'm Mikey Way. I think we met in the hallway after 1st.”

  “Yes, we did,” Frank approves, gingerly taking Mikey's fingers, “I'm Frank.”

  “Well, Thanks for helping me out,” Mikey sounds awkward as they let go of each other, and Frank shrugs.

  “No problem, man. That 'asshole missile' thing was funny,” Frank compliments, and apparently he said the right thing. Mikey beams and shoos a kid out of her seat so he could sit next to Frank. The girl gets up without complaint, and the boys chat easily after that. If I knew that was how you make friends, I would have done it much sooner, Frank thinks.

  Twenty minutes late to class, the teacher rushes inside, much to no-one's surprise. She apologizes for being late, and then makes amends by not teaching a lesson, and instead lets the students chat quietly as they finish whatever homework they didn't finish.

  The bell rings, meaning it was time for Frank to go meet Pete and not eat lunch alone. The thought makes Frank feel warm inside.

  “Hey, do you have lunch now? We can eat together if you want,” Mikey suggests, and Frank chews his lip, where a clear spacer kept his piercing hole from healing over.

  “Well, I promised Pete I'd eat with him...” Frank trails off, guilty. Mikey just laughs as they trod down the hallway.

  “I'll be eating at his table too. Guess you'll be sitting with me after all,” Mikey snickers. Frank chuckles along with his new friend.



Frank—12:50, 3 rd  Lunch

  Frank, Pete and Mikey sit in the very back of the room, at a table that Pete claims he eats breakfast at, too. (“If you're interested, feel free to sit with us!”) Pete chats idly with Frank, explaining that the guy from second period—Ryan—will probably try to eat with them, and to not be upset. Mikey, however, wasn't listening, nor did he care; he was busy texting his brother.

  “Moikey, dearest,” Pete jokes, throwing a raw baby carrot at his friend, “The first day eating at my table and you ignore me!” Mikey scowls, and sets his phone down.

  “Sorry, man. I'm just texting Gerard.”

  “Yeah?” Pete prompts, and Mikey nods.

  “Yeah,” He repeats. “He heard about that asshole from third period, and he's on an absolute rampage. He is trying to get to lunch, but I doubt he can get out of class to—”

  “Mikey Way!” A voice screams, and said person startles out of his seat(Much to his friend's entertainment).

  “Gerard?” Mikey gasps, peering over his seat to see his brother dash in between tables, trying to get to the one in the back. People stare with confusion before deciding they weren't interested. Frank visibly shrinks as Gerard stomps angrily over, the teen barring his teeth and his fists angrily clenched.

  “Did that bastard hurt you? Is anything bruised? If there is a single hair out of place, I'll kill him!” Gerard snaps, grabbing Mikey off the ground and fussing over him. Frank looks on with huge, frightened doe eyes, wondering if he should speak up or not. Technically, Frank saved Mikey's life, right? But would Gerard see it like that?

  “Gerard, Gerard. Gee. Gee,” Mikey tries to attain his brother's attention, and when he doesn't, he swats angrily at concerned hands. “Gerard!”

  “What!” Gerard yelps back, forehead creased in worry. Mikey's expression softens and he sighs.

  “I'm fine, thanks to Frank. Frank totally kicks ass, and he is basically my hero,” Mikey boasts, and Frank feels his face flush.

  “Frank?” Gerard inquires, looking over at the smaller teen. Gerard's face lights up. “Oh! You, I saw you in the hall today! And we have fourth together!” Frank almost fainted. The Gerard Way noticed him! Frank isn't going to lie when he says he has the biggest crush on Gerard. So the fact that Gerard even remembered that he has typing with Frank nearly made his heart skip a few beats.

  “Yeah, uh—yeah.” Frank's brain was not working properly, and Pete seemed be the only one who noticed. The dear King of Emo smirks evilly into his water bottle, before scooting over one seat. He swallows his drink before speaking.

  “Gerard, man, sit next to me. Specifically here,” Pete says, patting the seat. He gives Frank a wink when Gerard shrugs and plops down beside of Frank. The conversation casually continues, but Frank was too busy wondering if anyone could hear his heart pounding. It's just a crush, on a normal boy. Don't freak out, stay cool, Iero!

  The only problem with this little mantre Frank had come up with, is that Gerard isn't just a normal boy; Gerard was fucking enticing as hell to Frank. Those eyes, his face shape, his way with words, how well he pulls off platinum hair; Frank is absolutely smitten. Frank has had a crush on Gerard since his sophomore year of high school. Particularly when Gerard's band played at the talent show, and Gerard had stared at Frank during the entire song. (A song Frank was sure was about sex.) They certainly didn't know each other's names, but Frank was completely star-struck anyways.

  So yeah, Frank is absolutely head over heels for a boy he has only ever talked to today. At least we are getting somewhere.

  “Shouldn't you be in Pre-Cal or something?” Mikey questions his brother, bringing Frank back to the present. Frank scowls at his silliness, mentally shaking away his thoughts. Who cares if Frank has a crush? It's not like Gerard likes boys anyways, much less Frank.

  “Probably, but I had to check on my little bro,” Gerard says dismissively, “and of course, his hero Frankie.” Once again, Frank nearly keeled over. Gerard gives Frank an appreciative pat on the back, and Frank's thoughts scatter. Did he call me Frankie? Did he touch me? Ohmygodgetaholdofyourself.

  “'Frankie'?” Pete gasps, “Holy shit, that sounds so cute!”

  “Cute nickname, for a cute person” Gerard shrugs, and Frank thought he was going to die. Pete had a knowing grin, and finally Mikey was catching on.

  “Oo, Gerard thinks a boy is cute!” Mikey teases, and Gerard laughs. Is Frank going to die? He feels like he is going to die.

  “Of course I do, I'm gay, dipwad.” Yep. Frank is going to die.

  “This sounds like a dialogue from a shitty fanfic,” Pete chokes, unable to hide his laughter.

  “This entire day sounds like a shitty fanfic,” Frank states, flustered and pleased.

  “How about I make the plot?” Gerard asks, much to everyone's confusion. Gerard scoops Frank's back pack off of the floor, and digs around for paper and pencil. He scribbles something down in a notebook and pushes it towards Frank. “Text me soon, will you? I won't be in Fourth.”

  Then, Gerard stands to leave.

  “Holy shit,” Pete giggles, covering his mouth with his shirt as he laughs. Mikey rolls his eyes.

  “That's Just like my brother. He is so dramatic, what the fuck?” Frank stared after Gerard's retreating form.

  “Hey, there's going to be a party tomorrow at Brendon's, Frank. Ask Gerard to go,” Pete insists. Frank, who still was too caught up in his thoughts—or lack there of—didn't seem to mind when Pete grabbed the pen and paper to write down his own phone number, and the address for Brendon's house. Mikey jots his number below Pete's, shaking his head.

  “I guess we have all had an interesting day, huh?” Mikey mutters, standing to throw his lunch away when the five-minute bell rings. Pete follows in suit, and Frank—who didn't even go through the line—gathers his things back into his bag. He doesn't say so out loud, but he agrees with Mikey.