Maybe I like the abuse

whining makes no difference

fuck u mikey

Piss. It smelled like piss, grime, and the kind of cheap booze that you make in your mom's basement when you're desperate to drown out the sounds of your mom and the her divorce lawyer fucking upstairs. It fit the place-a putrid scent that tinged your nostrils and made you cringe.

That's what you first took in when you made your way down the paint-chipped steps into the loud, dingy basement with pipes running across the top that looked like they would break and flood the room every goddamn time someone flushed the fucking toilet. But they didn't. Not that anyone could care, you had a hard time believing anyone would notice with what was really happening in the room. They were focused on other things. Such as the scrawny, short punk kid on the stage (if you could even call it that-a few plants of wood assembled last minute spray painted black)in the corner of the damp basement, running around and screaming into the microphone to the suicide-level mosh pit of high, drunk, and overall fucked up college kids  as they grabbed the stage with white knuckles and punched one another. It was chaotic; truly a fucking frenzy.

But you didn't come for the pit.

No, you came to see him. The kid from your small town, who quietly sat in the back of your fucking bible study group when you were fifteen, because everyone from your old catholic school, Her Lady Of Sorrows, was buzzing about how quiet little Frank Anthony Iero Jr. was now a filthy, no good punk. And, honestly, seeing him onstage now, spit flying from his pierced lip with his shockingly red mohawk-it was hard to not believe them.

But it wasn't a bad look on him. Not by long-shot. And after that one sloppy hookup you two shared before 11th grade graduation, you knew you had to see if it was possible for the asshole to get even hotter.

By the time you get your hands on some of the disgusting homemade liquor and breeze through a blunt, the shows over and it's that time in the night where people start to get so high that they fuck in the middle of the room. Like, deadass, you see some trashed blonde chick basically grinding with this shorter kid and their grunts remind you of the cavemen humans evolved from.

You see him easily, sitting on one of the couches that looks like it'd seen hell and lived to tell the tale-or had just clawed to death by one-too-many cats. Your pick. (But the first theory is the one you think is cooler.) When you make your way over, wondering if he'll even remember you, he glances up and catches your eye-the dopey smile on his face shows, he does.

"Hey-Shit, dude! The hell you doin' in PA?" Frank cracks a sly grin, eyes taking you in. How does some soft, god-loving kid who got picked on and shoved in lockers turn into a slimmed-down frontman of a post-hardcore band? Not to mention his fucking clothes-a tight white Circle Jerks shirt with torn-to-shit jeans, barely hanging onto his small hips if not for the studded fucking belt. Your cheeks grow warm when you realize you've been staring.

"Oh, uh, yeah-I was gonna come up anyways and, uh, some buddies from back home said you were... Fuck, I'm stoned, but-you're, like, really good, Frankie," The old nickname from school slides past your lips without a second thought, making the nineteen year old chuckle shyly. "Ah, shut up, don't gotta yank my dick... Oh, shit-" Frank grabs-no-pulls you forward by your shirt as two fucking drunk douchebags nearly ram into you, too caught up in arguing over who took the last blunt. You snicker, mumbling to mostly yourself, "Oops!" Frank is stunned for a moment by "Dumb" and "Dumber" literally fist-fighting over kush, but then he cracks up, too.

Your smile spreads over your face and body, feeling suddenly very warm from the stuffy sex-driven air and the alcohol in your system, letting you easily link your arms around Frank's neck, not missing the way his breath catches as his pronounced Adam's apple bobs. The fucking twink.