"Hey," Pete says, "your brother and Iero are totally fucking."
Mikey doesn't look up from Alicia's copy of Cosmo.
"Seriously," Pete says, louder, "we're contagious." He sounds far too pleased by this, gleeful and more than a little manic. Mikey flips the magazine closed over his fingers. Pete is silhouetted against the sun, his hands planted jauntily on his hips. "It's like a sex disease."
"I don't think that means what you think it means," Mikey says.
Pete grins. "Twice is coincidence, but three times is conspiracy."
"How do you even know this?" Mikey demands, and immediately regrets it. Do not engage, he thinks, but Pete just laughs, carefree and dangerous, and slides out of the sun and into the tiny island of shade cast by Mikey's ridiculous, enormous, rainbow-striped beach umbrella. Only in Florida do the tour grounds come complete with actual fucking beach chairs.
"I know everything that happens on this tour, Mikeyway." Pete swings one leg over the arm of his chair and climbs into his lap. "I have eyes everywhere. I read it on the Internet. Also, Gerard has stopped glaring at me."
Gerard has in fact stopped trying to kill Pete with the power of his mind, but Mikey is not certain that one is indicative of the other. "This equals him fucking Frank how?"
"I didn't say anything about your brother doing the fucking."
Mikey winces, and yeah, he should've seen that one coming. "I know this is a difficult thing for you, but could we not talk about my brother's sex life?"
"You're no fun." Pete pouts, but it's mostly show, because he just shrugs when Mikey raises his eyebrows and says, "They were making out in your bus kitchen five minutes ago. Or rather, they had just stopped making out in your bus kitchen five minutes ago when I went in looking for you. Whatever, I know the signs."
"I doubt it," Mikey says, slouching deeper into his chair. "I don't think—Frank and my brother?" Gee would have said something. Or Frank would've—there's no way he could have missed that. Neither of them is subtle, and even if they weren't, like, Frank and Gerard, they all live in a tiny, crowded, and incredibly public metal tube. Everyone knew that Mikey and Pete were fucking before they'd even fucked.
Pete plants his feet on the ground and shifts forward, pressing up against Mikey's chest. "I'm actually not making this up, dude," he says, unusually mildly. "Why does it bother you? Frank and Gerard are great."
Mikey stiffens, caught between Pete and the chair. "I—" They should have told him. "It's just—" He feels unsettled, uneasy under his skin, and all of a sudden he's weirdly certain that Pete is right. "I don't know," he says, finally. "I just—Florida, I guess."
"Mmm," Pete kisses his neck, a light brush of lips under his ear, "I can help you relax."
"Yeah, okay." It's kind of a no-brainer; Pete Wentz in his lap is still not something to be taken lightly, even when it's too hot and too humid, and they're barely out of sight of the main grounds. He tucks his hands into the back pockets of Pete's cut-offs, and Pete smiles against his neck and pushes back into his hands. "When are you on?"
"Not until four," Pete trails his tongue along the curve of Mikey's ear. "I think we should go to Disney World."
"Tonight," Pete clarifies. "Space Mountain, fireworks, Cinderella's Castle. I want to buy you Mickey Mouse ice cream."
Mikey thinks that four days in Florida is more than enough, without screaming children on summer vacation and the biggest tourist trap in the United States. "You want to see people in Mickey Mouse suits."
"Undeniable," Pete bites his earlobe, "but still, Disney World is like—it's always summer at Disney World."
"Oh," Mikey says softly, involuntarily, and turns his head to catch Pete's mouth. Pete is the easiest kisser Mikey has ever known—easier even than Gabe, who will kiss anyone, anywhere, all tongue and teeth and dirty tricks. There aren't any tricks with Pete, just wet, open-mouthed, shameless kisses that leave Mikey dizzy and desperate.
He sucks on Pete's tongue until Pete nips Mikey's lower lip and then moves his mouth away, trailing kisses along the line of his jaw. "Pete," Mikey says pointedly, but Pete just laughs again and grinds down against him, once, wicked, and then puts his mouth back on Mikey's neck. "Pete," Mikey says again, but he tilts his head back against the chair to give him better access.
"We have plenty of time," Pete says, punctuating the point with a slow flick of his tongue against the hollow of Mikey's throat. "And besides, you probably don't want to go back to your bus right now."
Mikey yanks his hands out of Pete's back pockets, "Don't fucking remind me."
"I can't help it," Pete says mournfully, "I think it's kind of hot." He pushes Mikey's t-shirt up to his armpits so that he can twist his nipples between his fingers.
"Pete," Mikey says, trying for 'stern' and mostly achieving 'turned on'.
Pete just looks at him, wide-eyed and utterly disingenuous. "But I really like your whole band."
And that is it, seriously, the last fucking straw. "Shut up now," Mikey says levelly, and shoves his hand down the front of Pete's pants.
Pete shuts up gratifyingly quickly, and lets go of Mikey to unbutton his jeans. He isn't wearing any underwear, and as soon as his pants are out of the way Mikey grabs his cock. "Fuck," Pete gasps, dropping his forehead against Mikey's shoulder, "This seriously never gets old."
"What did I just say?" Mikey demands, but it's mostly automatic, because Pete's cock is hot and smooth in his hand. He tightens his fingers and Pete fucks up into his hand, hard and fast and suddenly urgent. "I thought we had plenty of time," he laughs, a little breathless because Pete is grinding down against him on every upstroke, but then Pete braces his hands on the arms of the chair and shoves forward, and Mikey stops laughing because he is suddenly in very real danger of coming in his pants.
Pete lifts his head from Mikey's shoulder. "Come on, Mikey, fuck," he says, zero to three hundred in under a minute, and Mikey jerks him off faster, harder, shoves his cock up against Pete's ass and licks into his mouth, kisses him until he comes.
He rubs his hand off on the back of Pete's shirt without really thinking about anything—he could probably come like this, easy, just a couple more pushes up against Pete's ass—but then Pete abruptly stops shaking and rips open the zipper of Mikey's jeans. "Come on," he says again, still breathless, stroking his thumb over the head of Mikey's cock, and Mikey groans, "Shit, Pete," and comes in about five seconds.
He slumps back against the chair and looks up at Pete, backlit and bright around the edges, fuzzy because Mikey's glasses have slipped down his nose. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and there's something familiar and not-quite-right about the curve of his mouth as he wipes his hands off on his shirt, and then tugs the shirt off over his head. "It's too hot for clothes, anyway," he says absently, and then, less absently, "gotta make the most of socially acceptable summer nudity while I can."
"Yeah," Mikey says. Pete doesn't really care about social acceptability. "Are you really sure—Frank and Gerard?"
"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," Pete says dryly.
"Yeah," Mikey says again, "I don't, but—" Pete and Mikey, Bob and Patrick—what Alicia calls 'Warped Tour interband fraternization' because she's an even bigger geek than Gerard—that's one thing, but Gee and Frank are something else entirely. "It's just weird," he tries, even though weird isn't the right word. "Because it's not—it probably won't be a summer thing."
"Oh." Pete looks a little stricken. "Yeah, I guess—I guess it wouldn't be." He sits back, disentangling himself from Mikey, and then rallies, mouth twisting up into one of his fake, devastating grins, "It's still pretty hot, though."
Mikey frowns back at him, and tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "No more perving on my band mates, seriously. You're a menace, Wentz."
"Whatever, Michael James," Pete scoffs, "you love it."
Yeah, Mikey thinks, and reaches around to slide his hands back into Pete's pockets and pull him close again. "In your dreams," he says aloud, hands tight on Pete's ass. It's too hot to stay wrapped together like this for long, but Mikey doesn't want to let go yet. Fall Out Boy isn't on until four. "So hey," he says, "Disney World?"
"Always summer," Pete agrees, and grins wider, almost real.
"Sounds good," Mikey says, and hangs on.