[the (after) life of the party; multipairing, 10340 words]

[parenthetical]

Title: The (After) Life Of The Party
Author: blindmadness
Word Count: 10340
Pairing: In order of appearance: Gabe Saporta/Vicky-T Asher, sort of pre-Alex Suarez/alwaysagirl!Ryland Blackinton, pre-Gerard Way/Lyn-Z Ballato, Ryan Ross/Keltie Colleen, Spencer Smith/Haley SOMETHING (with briefly-mentioned offscreen Jon Walker/Cassie SOMETHINGELSE, Brendon Urie/Joe Trohman, and alluded-to Tom Conrad/Sean Van Vleet), Pete Wentz/Mikey Way, and Patrick Stump/Greta Salpeter
Rating: PG-13, for cursing and brief sex references.
Fandom/'Verse: Bandom; college AU
Summary: The aftermath of a famous Pete Wentz Party on the campus of an unnamed college; six intertwined ficlets in one 'verse.
Notes: This is for lessthangreat's birthday and it's three weeks late -- it's also much, much longer than any of the other birthdayfics I wrote, which I feel kind of guilty for. /o\ But I have always, always wanted to write a college AU -- and, as I told burgaw just the other day, the only thing I love more than college AUs are multiple fics within the same college AU 'verse -- and this was just so much fun to do. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, JERI, HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY. ♥♥

The picture prompts I received for the fics are linked in the subtitles of each one -- you can probably see where I got some of them, while some are a little more obscure. Fic betaed by the amazing and wonderful peridium! ♥ (Subtitle of the fic also stolen from her assessment of the pairings involved! Name of alwaysagirl!Ryland stolen from chmclfairytales because I never could have come up with it on my own. ♥)

the (after) life of the party
(or, six hettings and a slasheral)

(cut it loose)
Everyone knows that Pete Wentz's parties, to put it bluntly, fucking rock.

And "everyone" in this case means, quite literally, everyone, from the theatre majors to the science majors, to those in the Honors dorms to those on Frat Row, from every member of the a capella groups to every member of the student government. Even some of the TAs and a couple of the really young professors have been known to stop by the parties; even high school seniors, while visiting the campus in groups, get whispered insider tips on how to get to the first party Pete hosts every school year. Pete doesn't believe in leaving anybody out and is constantly quite vocal about this. It might have made someone else less popular, but it simply works for him.

If such a thing as a legend can truly be said to exist on the (large, admittedly) campus of a (good, admittedly) state college, Pete Wentz is the one the label sticks to. A fifth-year senior, the running joke is that he's only staying at the school for his master's so that he can keep hosting his parties, and there may even be a glimmer of truth to it. Everyone knows that Pete is the only student (along with his roommate, of course) who lives in the impressive apartment block near campus, the one with the biggest, nicest, cleanest apartments; everyone knows that he created the soundproof material his walls are plastered with himself. And everyone, of course, knows Pete -- charming, charismatic, enthusiastic, empathetic, irrepressible, undeniably the life of every single one of his famous parties.

Unfortunately for Pete, however, the real stories this particular night don't begin until after the party.


Gabe and Victoria
(a stitch away)
"Why don't you love me anymooore-ia?" Gabe chants, loudly and rather off-key, right into Victoria's ear.

She takes a step away from him, arching an eyebrow in a way that most people who haven't known her since middle school (and even half of the ones who have) find at least a little bit terrifying. "If you start on that song," she informs him in no uncertain terms, "I'm going to break my resolution not to hit you because I like Pete and don't want to ruin his carpet."

Gabe laughs, smugly brandishing the mostly-full beer cup (not his first, maybe not even his fifth) that's his salvation, narrowly missing ruining Pete's carpet anyway. The song was made popular in the improvisational routines of Guy Ripley, BBC World News reporter and theatre department mascot. Rylie Blackinton, one of Gabe and Victoria's best friends, had taken over the position of Guy Ripley early last year and had dedicated the song to Victoria, complete with getting on her knees, stretching her arms out beseechingly, and gesturing for a spotlight to shine on her. Victoria had obliged by getting to her feet, flipping Rylie off, and curtseying to a cheering audience before sitting back down.

"I like that song," Gabe is now informing her, with the solemnity that he rarely ever achieves when not drunk. "Work of fucking genius. And true, too," he adds, fixing her with a plaintive look. "It's like Rylie knew you wouldn't love me anymore. Ia," he finishes with a triumphant grin, taking a long drink from the cup in his hand.

Victoria takes a moment to marvel at the fact that even drunk, with that slight unsteadiness to his posture and affectations even worse than when he's sober, Gabe can still retain his almost supernatural charisma. She notices a couple of freshmen, determined to stay until their first Pete Wentz party ends, watching him with vaguely awed eyes and nervous giggles. She's impressed that the grin Gabe deigns to flash at them is still carrying enough force of charm to make them blush darkly and quickly turn away, and she's surprised when he barely spares them a glance before turning back to her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she informs him, rather than showing either of those. "For one thing, to not love you anymore -- don't you dare -- I would've had to love you in the first place."

Gabe gives her a look that someone who hadn't seen his first attempts at cultivating his now-effortless grin (age eleven and a half) might have thought was a genuinely hurt pout. "See?" he demands, in what he probably thinks are deeply injured tones. "There you go again, T. You never used to be so cruel to me."

Victoria arches an eyebrow, reminding him without words that they met in sixth grade, when he claimed that a date was his price for helping her ward off bullies and she punched him in the jaw. (She isn't usually a violent person at all, she just learned quickly that it's sometimes the best way of dealing with Gabe.)

"Fine," Gabe huffs, looking as stricken as he can possibly manage, and Victoria can't help a faint smile. He's ridiculous, offensive, over-the-top, sometimes downright skeevy -- but in the end, he's Gabe. "But you spend much less time around me, Vic, you can't deny that."

"We had lunch yesterday," Victoria proves him wrong without even thinking about it. "And lunch and dinner the day before that. And Rocky Horror the night before, seeing a movie and hanging out in town the day before -- "

"Enough!" Gabe flings an arm out and if Victoria didn't know any better, she'd might think there was a trace of real hurt on his features now. "Daggers, Vicky-T, daggers. That's what your words are. Whatever happened to make you think so little of me?"

"Well, let's see," Victoria murmurs, though she knows it's a rhetorical question; she likes humouring Gabe anyway. "You decided that you wanted in my pants -- "

"You're not wearing pants," Gabe puts in, sounding almost reproachful of her for making such a stupid mistake. "You're wearing a skirt." His eyes drift downward, resting appreciatively on the short length of plaid between Victoria's hip and midthigh. "A really nice skirt."

Victoria chooses to believe that this commentary is actually meant for the quality of the material rather than the amount of material not used in making it. "Fine, you wanted up my skirt," she amends, still in the humouring-Gabe camp for now. "And -- "

"And what? Would it really be that bad?" This time Victoria thinks that there may actually be a spark of sincerity in his eyes, behind the vague haze of drunkenness and perpetual affectation that's simply Gabe. "Come on, T, you know me. I know you. It's not a big deal, is it?"

"Yes," Victoria replies firmly, because if she gets caught up in feeling sympathy for Gabe and gentling in her manner at all, they might as well lock Pete out of his room tonight. "That's the entire point." She goes on to explain that it's not as if she's jealous, it's not as if she expects them to go steady for the rest of their lives and marry and grow old together, but when two people have as much history as the two of them do -- nine years isn't anything to ignore, after all -- it's reasonable to expect a little more than being one of many, it's reasonable to expect more attention than a simple fuck, and it's reasonable to avoid it if she thinks she isn't going to get either of them.

Or, at least, she goes on to explain all of this in her mind, because before she can actually do so out loud, Gabe transfers his cup of beer to his other hand, uses his now-free hand to settle at the small of her back in order to dip her, and kisses her soundly.

It's not the first time they've kissed -- nine years is a long time -- but it's different than before; for one thing, Gabe isn't letting go right away as he would if it were just a point he was proving. It's deeper than their previous kisses have been and there's a certain amount of attention to it that hasn't been there before -- almost as if, Victoria thinks dimly, he's reassuring her, he's singling her out, he's showing her something special -- or if nothing else, he's doing so subconsciously, because some of her doubts Gabe's capable of deep thought under these circumstances. The rest of her hooks an arm around Gabe's neck and returns the kiss enthusiastically.

When Gabe finally releases her, there's actually the faintest of flushes on his face and something genuinely like hope in his expression, but his voice sounds the same as ever when he asks, "Did I change your mind?"

He's grinning at her, that damn grin that makes her feel like with a small loss of self-control, she could be one of those giggly freshmen -- but Victoria knows that she knows better, and she also knows that she owes Gabriel Saporta exactly nothing, and there's definitely strength in that knowledge.

So instead of a biting letdown, she simply gives him the smallest coy curve of lips and murmurs, "We'll see." Then she takes his cup from his hand, carefully pours it onto his shoes, and bestowing him with a sweeter, sunnier smile, saunters out of the slowly ending party.


Alex and Rylie
(catch the ear of the desperate)
If one were to spend as much as a day with Alex Suarez, one would firmly decide that ballet wouldn't seem at all like his sort of thing -- and one would, in fact, be entirely correct. Asking Alex about his opinion of ballet would result in a fairly neutral reply -- a shrug, not quite dismissive or uninterested but obviously relatively cursory, a statement along the lines of recognizing its value to the arts but having little personal stake in it. In other words, fine enough, but not his thing.

That would, however, not explain why he spends his Saturday night not at a party with three of his closest friends and a whole handful of people he usually loves to hang out with, but in the third row of seats of the dance school's second-largest theatre, on his feet, applauding with all of the enthusiasm he possesses, grinning broadly and even letting out a cheer or two. But there's one thing that would, and she's standing at the center of the line of dancers taking their bows, smile lighting her flushed face brighter than the stage lights ever could.

Her name is on the front of the program as well as in the middle, at the top of all the dancers' biographies, as the lead dancer of the ballet (something modern no one's ever heard of, and one of the choreographers is on the board of directors of the dance school). She'll pitch a fit when she sees that the name she's listed under is Rylana Blackinton, which is why Alex has saved ten copies of the program (one for her, one for him, three for their other best friends, and five backups for when she destroys the others). One of them is tucked carefully into the enormous bouquet of flowers next to Alex, big enough to require its own seat during the performance.

Alex honestly has absolutely no affinity for ballet, little sense of what's good and what's bad even after years of watching performances courtesy of Rylie (he can tell she's good, at least, which is all that really matters), but secretly, he likes having this reminder that despite her complete disregard for fashion, her penchant for doing ridiculous things in public without a trace of self-consciousness, and her last date having been nearly a full year ago, his best friend is definitely a girl.

She'd be annoyed at him for thinking of it that way, probably (she's definitely a girl, just a rare breed of girl, she insisted once, with chopsticks up her nose as she recited her latest Guy Ripley sketch to the entire restaurant they were visiting), but he can't quite help the fact that there's a definite disconnect between Rylie Blackinton, dance student, and the ballerina center stage accepting wild applause from the audience. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that the leotard -- black, with thin straps and a loose, short skirt -- is so different from what she usually wears and her hair is up elegantly -- she usually just leaves it down. There's always a moment when she first dances onto the stage -- a moment when all he sees is the tall, slender female form performing acrobatics he thinks he'd kill himself attempting, features serene and lovely, motions graceful and effortless, and then he recognizes her and it clicks for him that this is Rylie, his Rylie, and the spell's broken but the admiration and appreciation is still there. It's a little disorienting, more than a little strange, but he doesn't think he'll ever really get tired of it.

The dancers eventually fall back as the curtain closes, the house lights go back up, and Alex immediately grabs the flowers and fights his way through the crowds -- going against the direction the rest of them are, as he's blatantly ignoring the CAST AND CREW ONLY ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT flyers and heading backstage to Rylie's dressing room.

It's a practice they've followed for quite some time, ever since they were too young to understand why exactly Alex wasn't allowed to sit in the dressing room with the girls anyway -- he always waits outside until only Rylie's left, waiting for him, and since he's never sneaked peeks at the other girls changing or anything, they never report him. They all know him, anyway -- he sits in on half of the rehearsals and flirts with more than half of the girls on the side -- and he's pretty sure that a few of them are actually disappointed that he's never shown any interest in peeking while they're changing.

Alex finds the dressing room quickly enough and notes, amused, that someone's left a chair nearby; he's sure this isn't actually for him, but he thinks gratitude in the direction of whoever put it there anyway before sitting, absently fiddling with the stems of the flowers. He brings Rylie flowers after every performance, of course, though usually they're smaller than this and accompanied by an absurd-looking balloon or a kazoo or something completely ridiculous like that -- a hallmark of their friendship, he supposes. These are bigger and more impressive-looking than any other flowers he's ever offered her, and he's not sure why that is -- one minute he was at the florist trying to think of which bouquet he would get this time, the next he was coughing up far too much money for a bunch of (admittedly extremely beautiful) plants.

He's always liked giving Rylie gifts, though he's never spent too much on them, mostly because Rylie can always tell and she gives him Looks whenever he does. When they were kids, he would just make things for her -- he was never very good at it, but sometimes he'd bake her cakes or cookies or something and she'd always appreciate that more than anything else. He's gotten back into the habit of doing that now and she still does.

Alex and Rylie met young, growing up in the same neighbourhood, going to the same elementary and middle schools; the summer before ninth grade, though, Alex's family had moved halfway across the country. They had put in a valiant effort to keep in contact, e-mailing one another every week (and even remembering one another's birthdays the first year) but at that age, they'd had more important things to worry about. Two and a half years ago, Alex had been on the verge of accepting a scholarship to an in-state culinary academy before abruptly deciding to go back to the state university of the place where he'd grown up and nothing his parents said could dissuade him -- and the second day of classes, he had stood at the checkout line of the commons shop behind an oddly familiar-looking girl who nearly dropped her orange juice when she saw him. He usually likes to think of this as fate.

Though Alex and Rylie have always been one another's best friends, their gang is by no means complete without Gabe, Victoria, and Nate, and while all of them usually form a knot of support for Rylie in the front row during these recitals, tonight Alex is the only one of the group there. He can still hear Rylie blithely waving off everyone else to go to Pete's party instead, that she'd have another solo performance at some point before the semester was over and she knew that the party would be unforgettable, as always, and someone had to have a good time that night, after all, so they might as well do it for her -- and he can still see her turning to him and feel himself shaking his head. (Good, Rylie breathed in relief, grinning at him, because you weren't off the hook in the first place, Suarez, you'd be coming to see me whether you liked it or not.)

Strangely enough, Victoria -- who would usually drop everything for their sakes, let alone something as mundane as a party -- had encouraged Gabe and Nate to go, murmuring (with a glance at Alex) that it'd be good to give them time alone, and Alex still had no idea what she'd meant by that because God knew they'd been alone plenty of times before and it had never been significant.

Eventually, the flow of girls emerging from the dressing room slows to a trickle; the last one of them smiles brightly at Alex and waves a little before giving him an exaggerated wink. He takes this to mean that the dressing room is empty of everyone but Rylie and, after an appreciative grin at the last girl, picks up the flowers and heads for the door.

As he was promised, Rylie's the only one in sight and the large room seems empty with no costumes or people in it anymore; all it contains is the one girl, still in her leotard, hair still up, sitting with her back to the door, bent over just enough not to see the mirror, one hand at her bun of thick brown hair, other hand absently groping into her bag for something. Despite the motions of her left hand, there's a peace to her pose that's downright striking -- her fair skin a contrast to her dark hair and black leotard, the thin curve of her cheek and long nose just barely visible in profile, one strap of her leotard falling halfway down her shoulder, emphasizing the delicate strength of her shoulder blades and the graceful lines of her neck -- it's a perfect moment in time, each line of her body as vivid as if it had been placed this way, and Alex's breath actually catches in his throat.

Usually when he comes into the room, Rylie's already turned to face him; this is the first time he's caught her off-guard from behind like this while she's in costume. The inability to connect the girl in front of him with his best friend hits Alex like a punch to the gut and he thinks weakly that maybe he doesn't give Victoria's intelligence nearly enough credit (which is saying a lot, because he usually considers her one of the smartest people he knows).

He's barely making a sound as he watches her, unconsciously staying silent because he doesn't want to stop, but something must give him away -- maybe the crackle of the cellophane around the flowers -- because after a moment, Rylie turns and her usual grin lights her face as she sees him.

The disconnect hits Alex again -- right, this is Rylie, this is his image of her, not the one he was just seeing -- but for some reason it stays this time, and even as he's grinning back at her, he's still noticing the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the strap of her leotard she hasn't adjusted yet, and he feels a little bit like he's in over his head.

"Hello," Rylie's saying, and for a moment the disconnect is completely gone because only Rylie would affect that particular British accent, authentic enough to have fooled even the English exchange students, "I'm Guy Ripley with the BBC World News, bringing you a special report from the rather frivolous entertainment of ballet. I plan to venture into the crowd and ask just what they thought of the lead ballerina's dancing tonight, a topic sure to be of interest to all and sundry."

"Quit fishing for compliments, Guy," Alex says, and at least his voice sounds firm and completely normal. "You know how good you are." And without further ado, because he doesn't quite trust his brain not to fail him tonight, he thrusts the flowers at her unceremoniously, hoping he hasn't mangled the stems too badly in transit.

Rylie looks a little startled, then pleased, then vaguely confused again as she takes the flowers -- her face is expressive enough that each emotion's stint is unmistakable. "These are...big," she finally settles on saying, giving Alex a look that's almost suspicious but apparently seeing nothing in his own expression of confusion to fuel this suspicion. "But they're really nice," she adds quickly, favouring him with another grin. "Thanks. Seriously. I'm just not -- " She breaks off, not even noticing his dismissive gesture as she reaches into the bouquet and withdraws something. "What the hell is this?"

Alex grins, entirely genuinely, for the first time since he came into the room. "Though you might go for that." "That" is a hideous little teddy bear, done in some art style likely intended to be interesting but just finishing in grotesque; its head is far too big for its body, its eyes huge and a little creepy for it, its ears tiny -- or its ear, the other one being nothing more than a few threads -- and the head is stuffed too heavily while the body's too light. It's awkward-looking, unintentionally a bit scary, and not cute or cuddly in any sense of the word.

"I love it," Rylie exclaims, perfectly describing the dynamic of their friendship; any strangeness over the flowers vanishes. "This is so cool! I'm going to sleep with it tonight," she promises Alex, grinning broadly. "Thanks, Alex, it's absolutely -- " She pauses, turning towards an invisible camera, and announces in the Guy Ripley voice, "delicious."

Alex snorts quietly, because even after a year and a half Guy Ripley will never get old, even if he has a sneaking suspicion that maybe seeing Rylie happy about his gift shouldn't be quite as satisfying as it is -- maybe her grin is making him a little too happy too. But because this is Rylie and the very worst thing in the world would be any awkwardness between them (in sixteen years of friendship, they have had exactly four awkward moments and Alex remembers every single one), he stamps it out as best as he can with an impulsive "Let's go get waffles."

Rylie looks startled again -- in all of the recitals Alex has attended for her, he's never taken her out after them -- then pleased, then suddenly frowns at him, reproachfully. "You have a physics final on Monday," she reminds him sternly. "If you stay out late and sleep in tomorrow, you won't have enough time to study. And I know you need it."

"Oh, thanks," Alex murmurs wryly, but he finds himself grinning again. There's never been any bullshit between him and Rylie, never any of those stupid games that friends sometimes play, and right now he's grateful for that. "Don't worry. I'll wake up with plenty of time to study."

Rylie wrinkles her nose at him in a thoughtful scowl. "But then you won't get enough sleep and you'll be tired. Lose-lose for you, Alex."

"Ry," Alex laughs, shaking his head, suddenly not feeling any of the disconnect or strangeness or anything but pure gratitude that this girl is his best friend. "I'll be fine. I promise. Now, I'm going to get waffles and you can't stop me. Are you coming or not?"

Rylie laughs quietly in turn, but nods, grinning at him again. "Absolutely. Now scram, I need to change." When he makes a show of settling back to watch rather than moving, she sticks her tongue out and throws her sneaker at him; he winces as it hits his shoulder, sticks his tongue back out at her in an admirable show of maturity, and steps out for now.

They're always going to be friends first, Alex tells himself as he waits, and the thought is infinitely comforting -- nothing between them could change that. Nothing's going to happen tonight but their getting waffles and his wiping syrup off of Rylie's nose with his napkin, but should anything in the future, no matter what, things are going to be okay between them. They always are.


Gerard and Lindsey
(blood cells pixelate)
Gerard doesn't even realize the girl is there until he's almost passed her, and even then it's only a brief burst of courage that inspires him to stop.

Her black hair and black jacket blend in perfectly with the dark of the early morning, the bench she's curled up on is right between two sidewalk lamps, her corner is in that one spot that almost always ends up dark despite the lights' best effort. The thing that makes Gerard notice her first are her grey sweatpants, though her legs are curled under her as if she's deliberately trying to minimize her visibility. Which, he thinks as he hesitantly steps close enough to hear muffled sounds suspiciously close to tears, might actually be the case.

This, more than the fact that approaching strange girls in the middle of the night when next to no one else is around is a little bit creepy, makes Gerard hesitate. He's pretty sure that despite the fact that this is a public place, this girl didn't want anyone to see her or know that anyone has seen her, and he doesn't know if she'd react well even to an interruption with good intentions. Then she lets out a little choked sound at the back of her throat that she can't muffle into her arms, and Gerard's decision is made for him.

As quietly as possible, he slips onto the bench next to the girl -- not too close, somewhere near the opposite end -- and after a moment, quietly and tentatively offers, "Hey." At the abrupt absence of tears at this interruption, to avoid rethinking this or jumping up and running away, he quickly blurts a "You okay?", even though it's obvious what the answer is.

The girl's head shoots up -- Gerard has a brief impression of wide eyes, smeared eyeliner, fair skin, and red lips before she yelps "Shit!" and glances away hastily, hissing a muffled string of words under her breath that sound like "shit" and "fuck" and "goddammit" under her breath. From her gestures and the way her voice sounds, Gerard guesses she's either rubbing her eyes or covering her face with her hands and gives her a moment to collect herself; when she hasn't turned back around after what feels like a few minutes, though, he tactfully and quietly clears his throat.

The girl abruptly looks back at him, then away again and this time, Gerard can see her hand going back to her eye. "Fuck," she mutters, tone halfway between dark and resigned. "I wasn't -- " She glances at him again, automatically defensive, then decides not to follow through on the flimsy excuse (Gerard likes her a little better for it) and goes back to wiping her eyeliner off. "No one was supposed to see me, or talk to me if they did," she finally says, voice low and a little hoarse from crying. "Shit, I felt -- stupid enough about it without that."

It's not really the most gracious response to a show of concern, but Gerard doesn't mind -- it's almost milder than what he was expecting, considering her colourful vocabulary. He just asks carefully, "What's wrong? I mean, if -- if you can tell me. If it's not too -- " He gestures vaguely, trying to encompass a whole series of subjects inappropriate for discussing with a stranger.

The girl snorts quietly, now turning back to Gerard properly; he takes in her rather messy bun of black hair, her long dark lashes, and her slightly smeared lipstick as she says, "Fuck, it's -- really stupid, I swear. Just -- " She takes a deep breath, running a hand through her hair and squaring her shoulders as if preparing to face her own stupidity. "I just auditioned for a band. And -- I didn't get in." She shrugs, obviously trying to be dismissive about it and almost succeeding. "End of the world, worst thing to ever happen, my life's fucking over, y'know?"

Gerard can feel his nose wrinkle a little, but he forces his features to stay politely curious and not shift into the almost automatic mask of earnest sympathy. For some reason, he gets the impression that overt sympathy isn't what this girl is looking for. "It doesn't sound like it's that stupid of a thing to be upset about," he says cautiously. "I mean, if you put effort into it -- "

"Mmph." She snorts again, snuggling herself into her corner of the bench a little more firmly. "Well, yeah," she admits, picking absently at a small hole in her sweatpants. "Learned the fucking bass just for it, or tried to. I sound like shit, I know I do. I should've lit the place on fire like I wanted to, maybe that would've helped. Couldn't've fucking hurt, the way the audition went."

Gerard's startled into a laugh, oddly delighted by this admission. "You were going to set the audition place on fire?"

"Well, not really." He's gotten a smile out of her, he notices -- small and wry, not showing any teeth and mostly involving just one corner of her mouth, but he's pleased to see that much. "I mean, I didn't really want to burn it down or anything, that would've gotten me in really deep shit." She reaches into her bun and opens her hand to him; sure enough, there's a small match lying in it. "But yeah, setting something on fire was the backup plan. Didn't have the balls for it, though."

Gerard can't help the grin spreading across his face, shaking his head a little as he studies the match. "Damn," he informs the girl in open admiration. "I don't know many people who would've even thought of that."

"Guess I'm pretty damn special, huh?" She's smiling again, closer to a grin this time, still slight and crooked but more genuine still, and Gerard feels rather stupidly proud of himself. "Well, I'll know to do it next time, at least. And there'll be a next time," she adds sternly, as if Gerard had said that there wouldn't. "I'm gonna keep doing this until I make it and fuck everyone who doesn't let me in. There," she finishes triumphantly, wiping at the last traces of tears on her face.

"That's what I should've said in the first place," she murmurs ruefully after a moment, studying the residue of her eyeliner on her fingers. "I'm starting my period in a few days, that must be it, I'm usually not so fucking sensitive -- " She breaks off abruptly, looking at Gerard with an expression of mounting amusement; Gerard glances away, realizing that the heat rising in his face is probably manifesting in a blush. Damn.

"Aren't you cute," is all the girl finally says. She sounds amused, maybe even a little mocking, but Gerard finds that he doesn't really mind. When he looks back at her, she's holding a hand out to him.

Gerard's hand automatically goes to his pocket. "Shit, I don't know if I have any tissues," he apologizes, hastily digging into the pockets of his jacket now, trying to remember what he has in there. "I'm just coming from a party, I didn't think to bring any with me and I'm obviously not taking any from there -- "

Her snort cuts Gerard off; when he glances back at her, she's shaking her head. "I don't want a fucking tissue," she says, sounding halfway between amused and exasperated, sticking her hand out again, pointedly. "I want -- I'm Lindsey. Lindsey Ballato."

"Oh! Oh." Gerard tugs his hand out of his pocket, embarrassed, and takes the girl's -- Lindsey's -- to shake it. "Gerard Way. It's -- um, it's nice to meet you." Lindsey Ballato? he thinks as she flashes him a grin -- a real one this time, if tired and worn and maybe a little dim, it's still genuinely meant.

He drops her hand after a moment and they sit there, not quite looking at one another, silence almost at the point of awkwardness before Gerard blurts out, "I'm -- I'm an art student. Too. I mean, I -- saw the mural you did, last spring, in the art building. It's -- it's really good, it's so good, I -- really admire you. You work, I mean," he adds hastily, trying to fend off another blush. "It's -- exactly the sort of thing I really like to see."

Lindsey looks startled, then obviously pleased past her slight disbelief, grin curving her red lips again. "Well, damn," she murmurs, studying him, "what are the odds I'd get a fan? Really?" At Gerard's earnest nod, she grins a little wider. "Thanks."

Another moment passes, Gerard still fighting a losing battle with the faint flush on his face and Lindsey tugging her jacket on a little more tightly (it's warm for late February, but that's not saying much), and then she says, "I get the paper every morning and read your comic first. I don't even give a shit about the headlines, but I keep up with your thing religiously. It started out great, but you've improved so much over the year, it's even better now."

Gerard laughs quietly, warmth gathering in the pit of his stomach and spreading into his chest. "Really?" he echoes her earlier question; she slants a look up at him and nods, and he grins in reply. "Damn," he says in turn, lifting his eyes to the night sky. "What are the odds?"

They're silent for another few moments, watching either the full moon or the stars, the swinging motion of Lindsey's leg under the bench making the material of her sweatpants brush together with a muffled swishing sound.

"Where do you live?" Gerard eventually asks, getting to his feet. "I'll walk you back to your dorm."

Lindsey stretches, muffling a yawn into the back of her hand and tugging absently on her bun before standing as well. "Just over the hill, the south suites. It's really not far, you don't have to."

"I want to," Gerard replies firmly, then impulsively adds, "You can return the favour by letting me design your next tattoo." He'd caught a glimpse of her left sleeve in the middle of her moving her jacket around.

Lindsey laughs, looking a little startled but definitely pleased. "Fucking high price for two blocks of a walk, huh? All right," she concedes, aiming another grin at him. "Just as long as it's not anything too hideous. C'mon." She links her pinky with his -- his faint blush returns, he can feel it -- and tugs him in the direction of her dorm. "Let's go."


Ryan and Spencer
(put love on hold)
"That," Spencer says, utter conviction (likely fueled by a couple of beers as much as emotion) in his voice, "is the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Ryan blinks, then quirks an eyebrow at him. "It's a mailbox shaped like R2-D2."

"That's exactly what I just said," Spencer shoots back, eyes bright as he grins back at Ryan.

His best friend rolls his eyes, giving his shoulder a light shove (that makes him stumble just a little, given the alcohol and the late hour). "I should be used to this. C'mon, we're across the street from fucking campus, you can come back tomorrow and take a picture. Come on, Spencer," he adds impatiently at the almost longing look on Spencer's face, contemplating grabbing his arm and attempting to bodily drag him across the street -- he does turn on his own at the next minute, though, and crosses the road of his own volition.

"'uspsjedimaster.com'," Spencer says thoughtfully as they walk through the arch marking the start of campus grounds. "I wonder what's with that? Think it leads to something cool? I'm looking up once we get back to our room."

"No," Ryan says in no uncertain terms. "No. I am not getting woken up in half an hour with 'Ryan, Ryan, look at this, look what they did, isn't it awesome?' The sooner you get to sleep, the more of a chance there'll be of your being less hung over tomorrow morning. Later tomorrow morning," he amends, glancing at his watch.

"You," Spencer informs him loftily, "are just mad that you thought you'd have to drive Brendon home and so you didn't get to drink anything. And also that you're not getting laid," he adds, grinning at the scowl Ryan aims at him in reply.

"Neither are you," he shoots back, causing Spencer's grin to be replaced by a glare just as fierce and an annoyed, defeated sound.

Both Ryan and Spencer's girlfriends are studying abroad this semester; they've been in Paris for a month now and both Ryan and Spencer are pretending not to miss them as much as they do. (No one's fooled, least of all Keltie and Haley.) It might be less of a strain if it didn't feel like they had to spend time with everyone and their significant others in the interim. Jon and his girlfriend plus his roommate and his boyfriend are almost constant fixtures, not to mention Brendon and his current boyfriend, who has a mile of dark hair, an easy smile, and an oddly wicked sense of humour. Even tonight, everywhere Ryan turned he got the impression that Pete and his boyfriend were doing nauseatingly cute things everywhere, and he noticed Spencer scowling faintly at them as well, so he knew he wasn't imagining it.

Of course, both boys have been in as much contact with the girls as possible -- instant messages whenever their time zones happened to line up, e-mails that Ryan always planned to be lengthy but usually ended up consisting of "Class was boring. Nothing's fun without you. When are you coming home again? Love, Ryan" and cheerfully scolding replies (he knows that Spencer always manages fairly long e-mails, the asshole), and it was Keltie who had the idea of sending actual print letters (only two so far), a faint lipstick mark at the end of the first where she'd pressed her lips upon finishing writing it. (Ryan waited for Spencer to leave before kissing the spot and smiling faintly.) In that vein, the girls had both decided to splurge on sending small care packages to the boys that were due to arrive soon -- their way of making up for not being there for them, was how Spencer said Haley put it. (Ryan wonders, not for the first time, if some French scientist has discovered a cure for sexual frustration.)

"When are the packages getting here?" Spencer asks after a moment, proving that either years of best friendship have finally made their brain waves perfectly attuned to one another, thus enabling them to achieve telepathic communication, or that both of them have one-track minds at the sight of mailboxes nowadays.

"Monday," Ryan replies, then amends "Tomorrow" a little more cheerfully. Keltie hadn't been able to track the packages overseas, but had given them the basic estimation from the post office and Monday was the earliest they could arrive. Ryan was, for once, deciding to be optimistic.

Spencer brightens at that in turn, a little more spring immediately showing in his step. (Ryan keeps a careful eye out -- spring and drunkenness don't tend to mix too well.) "Tomorrow," he echoes brightly, grinning. "Just one day left. And then it might not seem so bad, y'know, being away from them for so long."

Ryan nods, already planning on how best to kick Spencer out of the room long enough to examine his package in private.

"And it's just -- " Spencer stops, calculates quickly, then continues, " -- two and a half months until they're back, anyway, and we already made it through a month. We deserve medals or something."

Ryan nods again, smiling faintly in rapt contemplation of the merits of hiding Spencer's key until he finishes. He wonders if installing a new bolt would be too cruel, then decides he wouldn't have time for it anyway.

"And until then, anyway," Spencer concludes, slinging an arm around Ryan's shoulders and grinning at him, "you'll always have me."

"Oh, joy," Ryan murmurs, and lightly pats Spencer's hand.


Pete and Mikey
(watch you work the room)
Pete's barely been out of the building for a couple of minutes before he all but bounces back inside, sets both hands on either side of the armchair Mikey's sitting in, leans forward, and announces brightly, "You just lost the game."

Mikey glances up from absent contemplation of his cup of beer and quirks an eyebrow at him, expression already slipping into the amused half-smile that's his default expression at the start of most conversations with his boyfriend. "What?"

Pete beams at him, as if this is the best news he's had all day (despite having just hosted the first very successful party of the spring semester, with a few guests still lingering to examine the damage done to the apartment). "The game! Don't tell me that you haven't heard of the game, Mikey Way. That's serious. I may have to break up with you."

The last time Pete threatened to break up with Mikey was earlier that evening, upon noticing that he was wearing two different black socks; it was followed by grabbing his collar and kissing him firmly. The only threat Pete issues that's less serious than breaking up with Mikey is to stop giving his parties, and even that's a close call.

Mikey sets his cup on the table next to him; Pete takes this as an invitation to crawl onto the armchair with him, sprawling across his lap. Mikey doesn't object, one hand absently tangling into Pete's dark hair. "We can't have that. Tell me about this game," he offers as Pete takes his other hand, raises it to the light and studies it thoughtfully, like he's never seen it before.

"Rule one," Pete says decisively after a moment, pressing a light kiss to the inside of Mikey's wrist. "Everyone's playing the game, whether they know it or not. Rule two," he continues, nuzzling his palm as Mikey lets out a quiet sound of contentment. "Once you remember that you're playing the game or even think about the game in general, you lose. And rule three," he concludes, lacing their fingers together and squeezing Mikey's hand lightly as he snuggles back against him, "once you lose the game, you have to announce it. To make everyone around you lose, too."

From where his head is tucked firmly just under Mikey's shoulder, Pete can feel his low laugh vibrating through his chest. "I get it now." Mikey squeezes Pete's hand in return, almost as if to highlight the differences in their reactions -- he's just amused by it (if genuinely so), while Pete had enthusiastically proclaimed it one of the most awesome things he'd ever heard when he was initiated into the game his senior year of high school.

"We have an audience," Mikey informs Pete as the latter gets properly comfortable on his lap, slinging his legs over one of the armrests. "How is it possible to win this game, then, if you lose every time you remember it?"

Pete raises his head to peer over Mikey's shoulder and can't help grinning broadly. "So we do." There's a small knot of tiny-looking (even to Pete) teens, three girls and two boys, standing near a corner as if afraid to leave -- some high school friends of a couple of the freshmen getting a taste of what college has in store for them, Pete told Mikey earlier upon seeing them, because of course Pete knows these things. They're whispering to one another, gesturing (what they think is) subtly towards Pete, and generally looking halfway between nervous and vaguely awed. Upon catching the eye of the tallest girl there, Pete grins more brightly still and waves. She blushes, the others' eyes widen, and they all convene again, whispering even more fiercely and gesturing more sharply and obviously still.

Mikey can't help a rare grin at the sight of Pete handling his adoring fans like he was born to do it. "You can't win the game," Pete's telling him, head snuggled back between his shoulder and neck again. "The only way to win is to not know you're playing -- if you're never told about it, you can never lose, so you spend the longest time not losing. That probably means you win. But you can never be told you win, then, because being aware that you're playing makes you lose, so the people who win have no idea that they do."

Mikey laughs a little again at this, fingers now running slowly and lightly through Pete's hair just because he enjoys the low, satisfied sounds they evoke from him. "That's kind of stupid," he informs Pete. "It sounds like something you would come up with, actually."

He's kidding -- Mikey of all people knows and appreciate's Pete's intelligence -- and so the scowl Pete aims up at him is grievously offended, but only mockingly so. "Hey," he says in tones that might pass for wounded if a four-year-old were judging. "I'll have you know I can come up with much more sophisticated and creative games. For instance," and there's that trademark Pete grin, cheer and mischief and conspiracy and earnest joy all in one, the one that always makes Mikey roll his eyes but that he secretly loves seeing, "I know of one we can play right now. And I can guarantee we'll both win, too."

"Please tell me that's not your new pick-up line," Mikey murmurs, fingers still threading absently through Pete's hair. "Because if it is, it's probably the worst one I've ever heard, and being around you so often, that's saying -- "

"Hush," Pete orders sternly, then renders the word unnecessary by preventing further speech as he covers Mikey's lips with his own. The kiss is necessarily brief (they still have an audience, after all, even if it's a small one) and not too deep, but Pete's good at putting enough heat and purpose into even quick kisses to make Mikey need to draw a quick breath once he pulls away.

"You're the worst roommate ever," he informs Pete once he's managed proper speech. "Leaving poor Patrick to deal with your late-staying fans."

"They'll leave quickly once they see I'm gone," and from anyone else that might sound arrogant or conceited, but with Pete it's simple fact, tempered by vague lingering disbelief at this level of popularity. "And I'll cook him breakfast tomorrow to make up for it. C'mon," he adds, patting Mikey's thigh as he sits up and scoots off the armchair. "You're a skinny little fucker, Mikey Way, but there's no way I'm carrying you to my room."

Mikey can't help a quiet snort as he stands obligingly, taking Pete's hand again. "Hang on. One more thing." He tugs Pete closer, kisses him quickly again, then lightly bites his lower lip and says, "You just lost the game."


Patrick and Greta
(kiss away young thrills)
"He had better make the best breakfast in the world," Patrick mutters under his breath, wincing as one of the people lingering at the party who's a bit more on the drunk side flails his arms in an attempt to catch his balance and spills a little more beer on the already fairly stained carpet, then stands up (more or less) straight and waves brightly at Patrick, who's never seen him before in his life.

Patrick waves back.

"With coffee," he adds to himself as he turns away, finishing off his own cup of iced tea (he's been here the longest -- Pete had a late class -- and had no intention, from the start, of spending the entire time getting drunk). "Really, really damn good coffee."

There are some nights when Pete plans parties and Patrick wishes he could be anywhere else when the party starts to wind down. He doesn't mind the time when it's going in full swing; he has friends there, of course, and thanks to their schedules rarely gets to see all of them in one place except for Pete's parties. So he grabs a couple of beers, talks more than usual, and generally enjoys himself. The aftermath, however, when all he wants to do is shoo everyone out of the apartment and go to sleep (yes, before three in the morning, how utterly lame) and most of the people he even knows, much less is friends with, have gone home and Pete vanishes early for more time with his boyfriend (which, seriously, Patrick completely approves and likes the boyfriend in question and Pete always takes care of cleaning everything up, so it's not like he's forcing work onto Patrick, and he thanks him profusely and apologizes and makes him breakfast, so it's not like he's ungrateful) -- then, he really wishes he had a roommate who was not Pete Wentz.

It's not as bad as he thinks of it right now, really. The first party of the semester, Patrick's learned in the five semesters he's had Pete for a roommate, is always the worst. And really, considering the fact that the great majority of the friends he has were met through Pete, a couple of hours a month of shepherding drunk kids out of the apartment really isn't too much to ask (especially since he gets really good breakfast out of it every morning after). Pete's done a lot for him without ever asking for anything in return, after all.

The nice thing about college is that the social scene is so vast and the friendship field even more so, that it's really, really difficult for someone to be a complete loner and stereotypes rarely take hold or are viewed as strongly to the entire student body. So in high school stereotype forms, Patrick wasn't the one kid (usually looking about three years younger than everyone else) who sat in the corner, whom everyone knew but no one ever talked to, who was the first one in the classroom and the first to leave and almost always had their nose buried in a book to avoid the fact that should they emerge, no one would talk to them. He was, however, the one person that this kid wouldn't be intimidated by, the one person at whom the kid would chance a hesitant smile as if to say yeah, it could have been you, and even if it's not, you're still not that far ahead of me.

Pete, on the other hand, was the one popular kid who would turn around every day and flash that kid a broad, genuine smile. One day, he would turn around and start a completely random conversation. The kid, hesitant at first, afraid of being mocked, would eventually be drawn out by the sheer force of Pete's personality, the charisma and kindness he basically exuded. Eventually, Pete and the kid would talk every day and one day, Pete would invite the kid to hang out with him. Years later, when the kid blossomed into their personality properly, become confident and popular in their own right, they would still remember Pete and think just as highly of him as they did of anyone else.

This was more or less what had happened to Pete and Patrick, though Patrick still wasn't quite what he would call confident or popular. He was at his best when volunteering answers in his music theory classes and he had a small, loyal circle of friends (and maybe it had taken him a few months to be sure that they liked him just as much as they did Pete, and independently of Pete, but he was sure of it now), and really, if he hadn't been in the dining hall sitting near the door at the same time Pete walked in for lunch the very first day of classes, his college experience would have been completely different -- and, he's positive of this, worse. Maybe not much worse, but definitely worse.

These are the things Patrick tells himself at two-thirty in the morning, standing near the front door (in hopes that he'll attract enough attention for people to notice that the door exists, and hey, shouldn't they be using it right about now?) with a half-full cup of iced tea in his hand, hoping that his last count was right and there really aren't more than a dozen people left in his apartment. It doesn't help that much, but it does help a little bit.

"With bacon," Patrick decides under his breath. Pete's been adding bacon to his breakfasts on and off over the last year -- not too much, just a healthy amount -- meant to reassure Patrick that he likes his shape just the way it is and that the diets some of Pete's now ex-friends have not-so-subtly suggested are a stupid idea. Patrick appreciates the gesture a lot, knowing it's meant only as a show of love, but is sometimes simply not in the mood for it; now, though, he decides that he very much is. Gritting his teeth as another ill-fated drunken run-in with the wall results in not only a small spill but the cup rolling under the couch, he adds grimly, "Lots of bacon. Really, really damn good bacon."

"Are you thinking about what you're going to make out of everyone if they don't leave soon?" inquires an innocent-sounding voice from behind Patrick cheerfully.

He starts, nearly adding an iced tea stain to the rest on the carpet (thank God Pete pays to have it cleaned, too)and when he turns to his right, he finds himself face-to-face (they're about the same height, as it turns out) with Greta Salpeter.

Patrick nearly swallows his tongue; he had no idea Greta was even here. She's only a freshman, but most people in the music and criminology departments know who she is -- last year, as a senior in high school, she sat in on some of the introductory classes to both and asked more (and better, they say) questions than almost any of the college students. Patrick happened to be taking the same Introduction to Criminology class as a core credit, and he remembered Greta both because of her extraordinary mass of golden-brown curls and the fact that she seemed to know every detail of the lives and methods of most serial killers, to an almost scary degree. She wasn't in any of his music classes, which he regrets -- he's sure she would have had some interesting insights about them.

And, okay, maybe Patrick had a tiny, insignificant, fleeting crush on her from a distance. But that didn't mean anything and it still doesn't.

Except it's a lot harder to believe that when she's standing right next to him, dressed in jeans and a pretty dark blue top, hair down around her shoulders, giving him a bright smile and watching him in a way that might be creepily observant were she not so sweet-looking.

"I know who you are," she announces without preliminaries, watching him for another moment before shifting back enough to offer him her hand. "You're Patrick Stump. My name's Greta," she adds, though there's no way she could possibly think that he doesn't already know that.

"Yeah," Patrick manages, as usual fully capable of witty repartee at any given moment, taking her hand and shaking it without quite knowing why. "I know you too. You were in my Crim class," he hastily clarifies, because he's suddenly afraid he'll seem like a creepy stalker. It's not like he's looked for Greta after that (okay, maybe he briefly glanced over the people in his music classes the first day of both semesters, but that's it, seriously).

Greta looks oddly delighted to hear this. "Were you? Oh, I remember now! You were." She beams at him, completely unselfconscious and looking extremely pleasantly surprised. Patrick's a little bit thrown; this sort of thing never happens to him.

He's about to ask -- or try to -- how she knows who he is if she didn't remember him from there, as it was (as far as he remembers -- and he's sure he'd remember if it were otherwise) their only interaction, but before he can, she says, "I went to the concert last spring. The one with your solos."

Patrick feels colour rise to his face and he knows his eyes have probably gone a little wide. "Oh," is all he manages in reply to that, because -- it's stupid, it really is, since dozens of people have heard him sing, but somehow not knowing that she heard him feels like thinking he was alone in a room and turning to see someone else there too. "Really?"

Greta nods, and her expression's shifted into one of honest, open admiration; Patrick flushes a little darker. "You were amazing," she says firmly, without any trace of the shyness most people have when delivering such an unequivocal compliment. "Really. Hearing you decided me once and for all that I was definitely coming to this school."

Patrick blinks, because okay, he normally likes his voice and he'd go so far as to say that he sounded pretty good during that concert, but that seems to be taking it a bit too far. "Really?"

"Not really," Greta says this time, giving him a completely unrepentant grin. "But you were still amazing. I kept hoping I'd have a chance to talk to you and tell you how much I liked it, but I was too shy to find you after the concert and I haven't seen you at all until now. You're a hard man to find, Patrick Stump," she informs him, wrinkling her nose at him in what she probably realizes isn't a very stern look at all.

"Sorry," Patrick replies automatically, privately thinking that he can't really picture Greta being too shy to do anything, let alone talk to him of all people. "But thank you," he adds, as sincerely as he can. "I really appreciate your opinion." And he does, though he barely knows her -- she's smart and he somehow knows that she wouldn't appreciate anything subpar that much. He suddenly wonders if she sings; her voice has that quiet telltale musical undertone to it.

Greta gives him another bright, almost-too-sweet smile. "This is the first time I've been to one of Pete's parties," she says, and Patrick thinks he probably would have been able to tell if she was at any of the others but he almost missed her being at this one. "And most of the reason I even came was to meet you. He talks about you all the damn time, it would get old if it wasn't always so nice." She leans in a little, as if imparting some secret, and murmurs, "I wanted to see if you'd live up to all of it."

Pete, Patrick thinks with a mental sigh. Greta giggles quietly, which makes him think that some of his resignation must show on his face. "What's the verdict?" he asks, though it's a rhetorical question. Pete, for some reason, seems determined to inform everyone he meets that Patrick walks on water, which Patrick is sure does nothing but build up disappointment.

Greta wrinkles her nose. "I can hardly tell yet, can I? We barely talked. But," she adds, in that same conspiring secretive tone, eyes shining as she leans into him again, "I kind of think he might be right about you."

Patrick feels himself flush again at that, because there's no way, absolutely no way that Greta Salpeter actually agrees with Pete's ridiculous thoughts regarding him. He opens his mouth, possibly to tell her something along these lines without actually saying it, and what actually comes out is "Pete's full of shit," which is true but a little embarrassing in its lack of articulacy anyway.

"Not," Greta replies firmly, sounding oddly serious, "about you. Trust me." Then she's smiling again, the slightest hint of mischief in her otherwise sincere and sweet expression. "That's really all I wanted to tell you. I'll be at the next party, okay? Good night, Patrick."

And with that, she reaches to take gentle but firm hold of both of his elbows, treads on his sneakers, stands up on her toes, and kisses him quickly; Patrick thinks his mouth is still a little bit open when Greta beams, wiggles her fingers at him, and leaves the party.