How To Be A Real Boy

"Do you really think they'll be OK?" William mused worriedly, rinsing his toothbrush.

"Relax, they'll be fine," Gabe sighed from the bedroom, stretching out over the bed. He loved Bill's bed; it smelled like a back alley. "This is Pete and Patrick we're talking about here; they were attached at the dick before they started fucking, I don't think they could break up even if they really wanted to."

"I hope so. Pete's liable to try to kill himself again if Patrick doesn't take him back." William wandered back into the bedroom, scratching at his taut belly under his tee. "Though if Pete's calculations are correct, the tattoo should definitely seal the deal."

"Oh fuck yeah, Trick's gonna melt when he sees that. He better come over and show us tomorrow." Smiling up at the skinny man, Gabe pulled him down onto the bed with him. "We should get some ink, too. You and me."

"What the fuck would I need a tattoo for?" Will chuckled, allowing his limbs to get entangled with the other man's. Sometimes he thought that the two of them must look like a spider during sex, all limbs and fangs and sharps angles.

"Just so you can say you have one, duh. I'm thinking..." He glanced down at the point where his left hip was connecting with Beckett's right. "A heart. Right here. You get one half, I get the other. Like that Aerosmith video."

Will snorted at the suggestion. "Maybe if you can think of something that won't remind me of Alicia Silverstone every time I look at it."

There was a pregnant silence as William rested his head on Gabe's chest, trying to get comfortable. He didn't like this new tattoo idea. Yeah, what he really needed was half a broken heart poked into his skin as a permanent reminder of an affair he shouldn't have become attached to. It's not as though he could say that out loud, of course, that would just make things worse.

"What's wrong?" Gabe sighed in slight annoyance.

"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"You're oozing melancholy. I haven't felt so much misery in one place since the last time I hung out with Mikey Way."

"Everything's fine." William wished he could make it sound at least halfway sincere.

"Stop lying." Gabe lifted his chiseled chin and looked him in the eye. "You're obviously upset, and if you're upset, I'm upset. C'mon, talk to me about it, we're both adults. Male adults, for that matter."

When Bill's silence continued, Gabe growled and pulled away, disentangling himself. "I wasn't completely serious about the tattoo, OK? If that's what the problem is, I'm sorry I said anything at all. It's stupid, I can see that now." He sat at the end of the bed, his back to Beckett. "Why the fuck would you want to permanently connect yourself with me in that way, anyway?"

Will's eyes widened upon hearing this, his stomach bunching up into knots. "...what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm really fucking pissed that I have to leave next week," Gabe seethed, hands digging into the mattress angrily. "I'm gonna spend the whole fucking tour missing you. And it doesn't even matter, because you don't even seem to mind that I'm going. I suggested the tattoo because this time with you's meant a lot to me... and I don't ever wanna forget about it..."

Lip quivering, William threw himself at Gabe's back, wrapping his arms around his shoulder desperately. "You've thought this whole time that I didn't care?!"

"...yeah... not so sure anymore, though," Gabe smiled, reaching up to rub his friend's arms. "So, I'll take it you'll miss me, too?"

"Of course, you stupid fucker," William grinned into his neck, squeezing tighter. "I thought you were the one that didn't care you were leaving. I didn't want something that was gonna make me miss you if you weren't gonna miss me."

"Well, now that you know I will, do you wanna go for it?"

"Possibly. Just not a heart. Still too fucking cliche."
-
It was raining by the time Brendon arrived at the hotel, his feet considerably sore. The argument from the party had continued down the stairs of William's building, outside onto the sidewalk and three blocks down the street until he'd finally become fed up and walked away, turning a deaf ear to his friend. By some miracle, he hadn't been mugged for his wallet the whole time he'd wandered Beckett's neighborhood, hands in his pockets, contemplating just what his course of action was going to be.

His parting shout to Ryan had been, "I quit!" Given time to think, however, Brendon wasn't sure he'd meant it. It wasn't in him to actually quit the band, especially since he didn't have anything to fall back on and he was really not liking the idea of starting college now. And he couldn't just leave the guys, who knows if they'd be able to find another singer? Besides, they were like his brothers now. Well, Jon and Spencer were.

To be honest, he wasn't sure what the hell he felt for Ryan.

Wiping his feet as best he could, Brendon trudged dejectedly through the lobby of the hotel, head down and hands in his pockets. Ryan had managed to pick the most uppity establishment possible, and the concierge kept giving them dirty looks whenever they walked through. Even the poor bastard that pressed the buttons for you on the elevator gave his dirty jeans a scornful look as he climbed aboard.

Room 217 was at the end of a very long hallway. Grumbling to himself, Brendon pried off his sneakers and soldiered forth, hoping that for once Ryan would be asleep and that he could shower in peace. When he finally got inside, however, the bed was empty and he could here the shower running. Against his better judgement, he entered the bathroom.

Indeed, the shower was going, but Ryan wasn't in it. He was, in fact, sitting on the fluffy white rug, fully clothed, allowing the water to run and the room to fill with steam. His eyes were red, but had run dry long before Brendon got there. Standing there in the mist, they stared across the space, trying to sort each other out.

Finally, drawing a conclusion, Ryan let a faint smile spread across his lips, shaking his head gently. "What the fuck are we doing?" He whispered with a chuckle, still hugging his knees.

"...I'm really not fucking sure," Brendon giggled back, dropping down to join his friend on the rug. "This has been an exercise in futility-"

"Stupidity-"

"Fuckery-"

"We are so not meant to be together-"

"We're pathetic-"

"Miserable-"

"It was a cosmic typo that we got together at all!" Brendon fell against Ryan, the two of them laughing hysterically and falling back against the tiled floor. When their laughter felt like it had gone on forever and melted comfortably into silence, the pair laid together, staring at each other nonjudgementally.

When it got to be too much, Brendon smirked and asked the obvious question. "So, whaddya think, post-breakup closure fuck?"

Ryan chuckled and pulled him in by his t-shirt until their lips were flush. "Once more, with feeling."
-
For perhaps the first time in his life, Pete was afraid that his plan wouldn't work. A certain percentage of him was still clinging tightly to that infamous Wentz resolve, but a splinter of doubt had been wedged deep into his psyche now and he was fully aware of just how bad it could be if it wasn't enough.

And a future without Patrick was a scary thing to have looming in the distance.

Taking the stairs slowly, stepping on his right foot as gently as possible, Pete heaved a deep sigh. By all accounts, he was still quite young, but this whole business was suddenly making him feel quite old. All those pills, all those poorly thought-out stunts, every stupid thing he'd ever done was catching up with him. If he wasn't so afraid that he'd never get to take these stairs again, he would've taken the elevator.

The door to apartment 12D was unlocked when he got there. Actually, it was open a crack. Which was a good sign, in Pete's head, practically an open invitation to stay in Patrick's world. It was quiet when he got inside, none of the busy contented noises that usually filled the air to be heard. Knowing his Tricky all too well, he made a beeline for the bedroom.

Just like he'd expected, there was Patrick on the bed, the vodka bottle now half-empty in one hand and his hat clutched in the other. His glasses sat on the bed next to him, but there weren't any tears. Patrick was a scrapper, to hell with what the fangirls thought.

"Oh, Tricky..." Pete leaned his head against the doorframe, his heart aching at the sight. Patrick turned to face him, blue eyes watery with emotion. "What are you doing, drinking all that? You know you can't handle your liquor."

"Get the fuck out of my apartment..."

"I know you don't mean that, baby. You would've at least closed the front door if you did." He stepped gingerly towards the bed, sitting on the end carefully. "Are you at least drunk enough to listen now?"

"What's there to listen to?" Patrick clutched the bottle a little tighter, not looking at him anymore. "It was really kind of stupid of me... thinking that... you'd want just... me."

"Oh don't you start with that fucking low self esteem of yours, angel."

"It's not my self esteem, you twat. I know you. You've wanted to fuck Ryan since you first laid eyes on him. You saw him, and it was like... he was a chip off the old block. He was a little fragment of you, and you got off on it."

His mouth went slack, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "...do you sincerely believe I want to fuck Ryan?"

"No, I just like to hear myself talk."

"...God, you really are stupid." Pete couldn't resist a smile as he leaned in to place a kiss gently on his damp cheek. "Baby... baby, I would never fuck Ryan. Ever. Ever ever ever ever ever. He's like a kid brother to me. That would be like if I decided to fuck Andrew, dude."

"...really?"

"Yes, you ridiculous creature!" Pete wrapped his arms around his shoulders fondly, burying his nose in his neck. "Why the hell would I want Ryan, anyway? Didn't you take that quiz Bilvy sent you? Two ukes don't make a whole. I need you, Tricky. You're my other half."

"Stop buttering me up..."

"You're drunk, I don't need to." Carefully, he detached himself from the smaller man and brought his right foot up onto the bed, slowly slipping off his shoe without disturbing the bandage. "Besides, if I wanted to butter you up, I'd have showed you this..."

Patrick watched in inebriated wonder as the older man lifted the bandage. There, in small nondescript block lettering across the curve of his ankle, was a single, nine-letter word.

TREBLINKA.

"Pete..."

"Don't say anything. Just let me say this..." Pete reached up and rubbed one of those perfect pink cheeks tenderly. "If I spent the rest of my life... trying to write the words for how I feel about you... I would never be able to find ones that were good enough. Pure, sweet, and simple... I love you..."

"Oh God, Pete..." Patrick sniffled drunkly, falling forward to hide his face in Pete's chest. "I love you, too..."

"Angel," Pete cooed happily, lifting his face and pressing their lips together sloppily. "Christ, Trick, you should drink that shit all the time. You taste like a 70 proof cupcake."

The two giggled and fell back onto the bed. "Be glad there's no such thing as vanilla vodka dick, then..."

Chicago burned in the background.