petekey smut

the spark

set during the fall out boy hiatus

When Pete opens the door the last person he expects to see on the other side is Mikeyfuckingway.

But expectations or not, there he is. Hair all scraped back off his face, a grocery bag balancing awkwardly on his shoulder, not smiling but not not-smiling either. And fuck if he isn't a fucking sight for sore eyes.

"What are you doing here?" As usual, the words are out of his mouth before checking with his brain first.

"Nice to see you too, asshole." Mikey retorts, but he's smiling when he pushes past Pete, heading straight into his apartment like he owns the place.

Pete turns, watching him stalk across his living room on those long, lanky legs, still in a state of shock.

"No seriously, Mikey - fuck aren't you on tour?" Pete lets the door close itself, shuffling across the carpet literally scratching his head. He still can't quite fathom that Mikey is here, here in his fucking living room.

"Not anymore." Mikey mutters, settling on Pete's giant leather couch like he owns the place. Pete's eyebrows shoot skyward but Mikey waves a hand dismissively. "Long story. I'll tell you later. But it's fine and it's getting sorted." He pats the couch beside him, reminding Pete that he's still standing in the middle of the room like he needs directions or a map.

Still feeling like he's been bodyslammed sideways, Pete follows the invitation and drops to the couch beside Mikey. "Seriously though Mikey - why are you here? Don't get me wrong it's great to see you, fucking awesome but-" Mikey waves a silencing hand at Pete, breaking him off.

"Dude. The internet. Your blog. Twitter." Pete's stomach drops even as his brain clicks everything into place. Of course. He can't just fall apart privately like a normal person can he? So Mikey knows. Everything.

Mikey's long fingers are twisting together on his knees. He looks up at Pete, tension around his eyebrows communicating a distress not many people would pick up on. But Pete does. It took him a long time to to learn Mikey's face and it's nice to know he hasn't lost the knack. "I figured you needed a friend." Mikey finishes, leaning forward and sorting through the grocery bag.

He pulls out two beers, handing one to Pete in a way that says he has no option but to take it. Pete does, recognising with a twinge that it's the brand he used to drink years ago. With Mikey.

"I've got beer, chips and about two pounds of candy. And roughly nine hours of gore." Mikey throws a pile of DVDs on the coffee table. "Oh, you didn't have any plans did you?" The question is more of an afterthought and Pete has to choke back a bitter laugh. Plans? Hardly. Aside from some hard-core moping and twitter-baiting he's got nothing. Ashlee's shooting, she's always fucking shooting and of course Bronx is where she is. He's not shitty about it, no way, it's how they work. He's just not very good on his own. Never has been.

"No." He admits, leaning slowly back into the couch as he twists off the screwcap, the hiss of the beer opening bringing with it a kind of relief. "I'm all yours."

"Good." A smile twitches Mikey's lips up at the sides and Pete can't fight the answering grin that curves his mouth. There's an ache in his chest, but it's a good ache. One he hasn't felt in a while.

"Where's the remote?" Mikey asks, cracking open the case on a DVD that looks bloody.

"Don't worry, I've got it." Pete snatches up the remote and starts hitting buttons. "You'll never figure it out. It's very complicated." Mikey flips him the bird in reply and it doesn't even register. The old Pete is starting to creep back in and it feels fucking good indeed.