Lindsey wasn't stupid.

Lindsey wasn't stupid and Pete wasn't discreet, and the whole house smelled of someone else and his sheets were messed up, and Pete was smiling, for once.

The whole place practically screamed sex.

Pete was not discreet.

In fact, Lindsey noticed it all upon the very moment that she walked through the door, raising her eyebrows in Pete's direction, who had, of course, just attempted to shrug it off, but failed in the process, because Pete Wentz and discretion resided in two entirely different ends of the universe.

"Who was it?" Lindsey got straight to the point, despite the fact that this was anything but straight, sitting down beside Pete after she'd closed the door behind herself. "Come on, I'm not stupid." She gave Pete a glare not to be messed with, leaving him to blush like hell as he pulled his knees up to his chest and poured himself another glass of wine.

It was wine today, apparently, which was oddly classy for Pete, but it made a change at the very least, because Lindsey was really starting to expect Pete just developing an allergy to vodka, because it was getting a little concerning now, to say the least, that was.

"What?" Pete played dumb: the only card he had left, and the only one he'd begun with - he didn't exactly know how to deal cards properly, evidently. "I don't know what you're talking about, I-"

"Bullshit." Lindsey cut him off, grabbing the bottle and pouring herself a glass of wine too, because, okay, Pete did have a concerning addiction to alcohol, but he definitely knew what was good and what wasn't by now, so if there was anyone to trust with that, it was most definitely Pete Wentz. "Since when did you drink wine, anyway?"

Pete shrugged it off: not entirely too sure of the answer himself, but whatever. "Since now, I guess. It's not nearly as shitty as I expected it to be, which is... nice... I don't know... I feel fucking classy, Lindsey, classy."

"You will never be classy." She promised him, taking a sip as she narrowed her gaze: utterly unconvinced by any of Pete's pouts or arguments.

"Stop bullying me." Pete scowled, folding his arms in a manner that ensured he looked far to young to be allowed to drink wine, but whatever, Lindsey was his lawyer, not his mother, even though the lines definitely did seem to blur more than they should.

"I'm not bullying you, I'm just telling you the truth. You're a gang leader, you're drunk for about ninety percent of your life, and you're refusing to tell me as to just who you had sex with here last night, and don't fucking bullshit me, Pete: I can tell."

"I didn't have sex with anyone." Pete continued, dropping the whole classy thing, because, well, okay, Lindsey had a point, and it was a damn good one at that. "But... yeah, there was someone here over night... we didn’t fuck, though, which is... disappointing, but he was high as fuck and was practically passing out all over me and well.. I'm not that much of an asshole."

"That's good news at the very least." Lindsey rolled her eyes, pulling her phone out after feeling it vibrate in her pocket, and making no secret of the way she blushed as she read Alicia's text message: it was unimportant, just a hello and several emojis that made very little sense, but to Lindsey, well, it was nothing short of the highlight of her day.

"Alicia." Pete was stupid, well, yeah, but Lindsey was being a very obvious lesbian right now, and to the extent that even Pete Wentz was picking up on it, which really meant that Alicia was pretty fucking stupid not to have noticed the great big lesbian affair going between her and Lindsey yet. "It's Alicia, and you're smiling and you're blushing. Lesbians."

"It's not gay, Pete, it's just a text." Lindsey didn't know just who she was lying to her, and well, why she was bothering, because with Pete constantly living in a state of severe intoxication, well, she was surprised that he remembered anything at all.

"That's what they all say." Pete grinned, giving Lindsey an 'I know your secret' look which made little to no sense whatsoever. "Anyway, could be a sext, and that really would be gay."

"Yes, because I would sext with you sat in front of me." Lindsey rolled her eyes, feeling another vibration from her phone, but deciding it best not to answer, because well, Pete was a fucking idiot, and it was too early in the morning for her.

"I would sext with you sat in front of me." Pete shrugged it off, casually grabbing his cellphone at that moment, because well, that wasn't awkward at all, but Pete was forever alone with no messages, so he set himself a reminder to get some more friends to make it look like he was replying to a text.

"So tell me who you were sexting, or just who stayed here last night, because, no offense, Pete, but you're not exactly mother fucking Theresa, you don't just let anybody in to stay in your bed, come on, you got angry when I let that guy who was passed out in."

"He was sick on my floor, I was right about that." Pete couldn't help but grin to himself at that. "He wasn't sick on my floor last night, though."

"I fucking knew it!" Lindsey exclaimed, far more excited than she ever should have been, but fuck it, she was kind of tipsy, and Pete was just beyond drunk, as ever. "There was some serious homo occurring between you two."

"What when he puked on my floor?" Pete raised his eyebrows at that: drunk, yet still unconvinced, because hey, Pete was a homo expert, and he knew when something was fucking homo, and puking on someone's floor was not homo, well that wasn’t something Pete would ever be into, in a million years.

"There was flirting. Minimal flirting, but flirting nonetheless, and anyway, how did you get from floor puking to him staying over in your bed?" Lindsey couldn't help but ask, because really, that was just a little unexpected, but then again, this was Pete Wentz, and well, he'd flirt with trees, and there was one occasion in which he was very drunk, and- yeah, let's not go there... for the tree's sake.

"He was very high and I am very susceptible to cute guys. My one weakness."

"I'd said alcohol is pretty high on your weaknesses list too." Lindsey added, gesturing casually towards the bottle of wine, because well, she was pretty sure that this was Pete's breakfast, but she didn't really have the motivation to bring it up and argue the point right now.

"Mikey and alcohol then.... Mikey’s really cute... okay... I wish I could flirt with him when he isn't on coke... I mean... it's different when he's on coke, isn't it?"

"I wish I could talk to you when you weren't drunk." Lindsey added, narrowing her gaze a little, and leaving Pete to shrug it off.

"It's different."

"How so?" Lindsey was unconvinced by Pete's half hearted excuse and was damn well sure to ensure that he knew so.

"Drunk's part of my personality, but him? No."

"You don't even know the guy." Lindsey pointed out, shaking her head frantically, because well, Pete was a fucking idiot.

"You barely know Alicia but you two are still sexting - shut the fuck up."

"We're not sexting-"

"Oh aren't you, now?"

"I give up." Lindsey shook her head firmly.

"That means I'm right." And that grin was both hilarious and worth punching right off Pete Wentz's goddamn face.

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does." Pete protested, downing another glass of wine like it was nothing, and Lindsey just exhaled loudly, giving up for real this time, because, maybe they weren't sexting, but maybe Lindsey wanted to, but still, no homo, of course, because what? Lesbians? They're not real, what the fuck.

Lesbians: Pete Wentz's favourite mythical creatures by far.

Although unicorns did come a close second, and maybe that had more to do with Mikey Way than Pete could possibly understand right now.

-

Frank was fucking irrational when he was angry, and Gerard was a fucking mess when Frank was angry with him, and well, needless to say, they hadn't ended up on the best of notes, and the result of their little 'argument' was the cause of Pete's doorbell ringing like someone had slammed their fist into it at eleven in the morning.

Pete and Lindsey only glanced at one another: a silent argument consisting of 'it's your house', and 'I'm drunk', and then just a few fucked up glares before Pete finished the bottle of wine, deeming him too drunk to walk, and leaving Lindsey to give in, getting up and making her way to the door.

"Frank?" She wasn't exactly expecting to see her favourite hobbit today, but it was most certainly better than that time the police had called and Pete ended up putting on a fake beard and a Japanese accent.

"I'm coming in." And with that, Frank pushed past her and made his way into the kitchen, where Pete was opening another bottle of wine, and really, Lindsey wasn't even aware of the fact that Pete even owned wine, prior to today, of course.

"Frank?" She called out after him, locking the front door before following him to the kitchen and sitting down beside what appeared to be a very angry hobbit.

"Frankie?" Pete even noticed Frank's presence, which was something to be proud of, in consideration of how drunk he was by now, but still Frank ignored both of them, pulling his phone out and sending a text to Gerard regarding his location: he didn't want to, but the guy would get weird about things, and fuck, it was just... complicated.

"Tell me what happened." Lindsey was stern, sitting down beside him and staring him down until he finally gave in and spoke something of some coherence.

"Gerard and I... well... we fought... I guess... I... guess... Pete- Pete what the... what did you text me? Seriously? You like..."

"Fuck me if I remember." And with that, Pete downed another glass of wine, and Lindsey almost felt obliged to apologise for his existence, and well, incompetence in general.

"You were with Mikey last night and he told you something and you told me that something and it's basically fucked my life up in the past few hours, so yeah, thank you."

"You're welcome." Pete was a little too drunk to understand sarcasm right now, so Frank just gave him a deep sigh, before letting it slide.

"Wait... what the fuck happened here?" Lindsey asked: seeking for clarification in response to the sentences that Pete was just too drunk to understand.

"Mikey, you know Mikey. The guy Pete had over, the guy with the coke addiction... Mikey Way... Gerard's brother... and the secret that I can't tell Gerard but need to, because he'll get so upset and it will just things up and things were just good for once and- oh fuck... I fucked up... I... I had it good for once and I just... I yelled at him for nothing, and we started arguing and I just let it slip, and he was already angry and he just lost it and I stormed out, and I... I mean... I fucked up and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do."

"Apologise, for a start." Lindsey wondered just why she had to be the designated guidance counsellor for Gerard and Frank's relationship, but fuck it, buttfuck it, it wasn't as if Pete was in any state to give advice right now, was he?

"Ughh..." Frank groaned, leaning into Lindsey's side and wishing he could just disappear right then and there. "He hates me."

"He probably doesn't. He'll get over it... he's going to talk to Mikey now... I mean... if Mikey's his- fuck... does that mean Mikey's Alicia's boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." Pete looked up, grinning at Lindsey. "We must out gay them, Lindsey, we're like partners in homo, here, hey!"

"Pete, please don't." Lindsey just shook her head, trying to get her extreme lesbian outcries to shut up for a second as she tried to fix Frank's life for him.

"Look, give him time, apologise, tell him you love him, and then, you kiss him, tell him he's beautiful and that he matters. He's soppy: emotional, not really what I'd call your type, but whatever, I don't know... I wouldn't date him, but I don't have to, as long as you fix your shit, Frank, okay?"

"Ughh..."

"Balls, Frank, grow them."

"I like balls." Pete added, because, yes that was necessary.

"Thanks Pete." It took just about all of Lindsey's self control to ensure that she didn't end up slamming her fist into Pete’s face or something, because this was one of the times that left Lindsey unsure as to whether she was dealing with a gang leader or a seven year old. 

-

Gerard wasn't taking it well: he was taking it almost spectacularly badly, yet still, he was far more rational when it came to coping with heartache than Frank Iero ever was.

Gerard had called his brother nine times by now still not one of those calls had been picked up, and his eyes kept darting between the front door and his cellphone in a horribly self-destructive manner, because really, it the missing Frank that was killing him more than the truth about Mikey ever could.

He was a train wreck: a fucking spectacular train wreck and one that was utterly dependent on the world's biggest fucking whore, but at least, he'd managed to keep himself sat on the floor of his apartment up to now.

Up to now, he'd managed it for the time being: it was still only temporary and it was fucking ridiculous at that, because Gerard was nothing without failure, without giving in - whether it be to assholes or just addiction, it didn't matter, Gerard Way was a failure, and one proud of it.

He was damn fucking good at failing though, and with all the practice he'd had, really, it was nothing but to be expected, and still, failing remained his own talent as he rang his brother for the tenth time and again found himself with an utter lack of a response: he worried, he really did - Mikey could be anywhere and doing anything right now, especially with the knowledge of his coke addiction.

But, Gerard couldn't bring himself to continue, especially not with the knowledge of the pills in the cupboard and number hidden inconspicuously in a contact in his phone: if he were to yell at Mikey for being an addict, then really, he would be rendered nothing more than a hypocrite, and at least that was something he could add to his CV, among with spectacular failure, and rampaging homosexual.

Because, Gerard was worse than Mikey and the walk to the kitchen, and the cupboard and back made certain of that.

Just a few.

Just a few pills and it was okay, and it was a headache, it was a fucking permanent headache with a fucking temporary cure, and everything inside him was screaming, but still, the apartment was trapped in silence: he was the guard outside his own prison cell, he was the key on his own belt - unused, disregarded, yet yearned for.

It was ridiculous, but still, he was complacent and damn well scared, and the pills stopped that, even if the walls grew closer around him, and he felt so much more alone, with no hand to hold him through this, a few minutes of okay was worth the hours of headache and misery.

Gerard was the captain of misery, he was the war general of feeling sorry for himself, he was Winston Churchill of sob stories and theatrical pity. He was public enemy number one, and he was using pills to cure himself of a disease that he didn't have.

He didn't have the disease: he was the disease.

And the silence was broken: doorbell and echoes of walls with tacky wallpaper and chipped paint. Slow reflexes ensured a second ring, and the stumbling against the kitchen counter as he made his way towards the door ensured a third: impatience, but who was Gerard to judge.

A hypocrite, that was what he was.

But not proud, never proud: proud was a difficult concept all around: proud was lying to himself, and despite lying being one of Gerard's few talents, it was nothing but mediocre in comparison to others: Gerard was nothing but mediocre, and the headache was back and the doorbell was still ringing, and most of all, Gerard fucking missed him.

It was hell and it was an irregular heartbeat: this was the sickening feeling in the pit of the stomach with his fist gripped haphazardly around the handle, and this was the heart attack in a shocked recognition of the man behind the door.

"I'm here for Frank." 

Impatient: he was impatient, and Gerard was all stutters and a throat that swallowed coherence whole.

Gerard nodded.

It meant nothing and the man was sure of it.

"He's not here." Impatience practically drew the words from Gerard's mind, but the artist didn't particularly have the sobriety to consider the implications and probability of the man before him possessing the ability to read minds. "Is here?"

Gerard shook his head, and the man- well, he warranted a name by this point, especially since Gerard had recognised him- Bert sighed.

"He owes me a fuck. He really fucking owes me it." Anger: a roll of his eyes and a glance into the flat behind Gerard, just to check he wasn't lying - distrust. Anger, skepticism, and impatience: a trio of undesirable qualities, but Gerard was not in the position to judge, possessing less of a trio and far more of a dozen.

"He's- out..." Gerard finally choked a response out: it lacked eloquence, flair, emotion, and well everything, but they were two simple words that Bert McCracken understood.

"Is he coming back?"

Gerard shook his head.

"Pity." Bert decided he was coming in: closing the front door behind the two of them, and the pills left everything blurry up in Gerard's head. "You're alone now, aren't you? I'm alone too."

Gerard nodded.

"You want more pills, don't you... Gerard, was it?"

"Gerard." He managed to repeat his own name as he stumbled back into his apartment, Bert following him with a small smile upon his lips. "I have p-pills..."

"Doesn't matter then... I was just wondering... could give you a lot, you know? Any kind of drugs, cash, whatever, I'm lonely, and so are you... if Iero deems you worth his time, then you're more than worth mine... you're pretty anyway, really fucking pretty."

"T-thank you?" Fuck, Gerard was struggling to stand, let alone comprehend just what Bert was saying to him.

"What do you want, Gerard?" Bert asked him directly, almost as if speaking to a child, but Gerard was far too intoxicated to even consider patronisation and affects of it upon his self-confidence. "Just tell me."

"I want Frank back." And Gerard responded like a child: with innocence and uncertainty, and Bert smiled in response, stepping forward and grabbing Gerard’s hand, and still the artist found no need to retaliate or step away: he was gentle, and in the confusion of the pills up in the artist's head, Bert felt okay.

"So do I." Bert confessed, a sad smile upon his lips. "Do you want anything else?"

"I want my brother to call me back."

"I can't do that for him, I'm sorry." Bert sighed, pulling Gerard closer into his side. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can make me feel better about it."

"Oh, yeah, I'm good at that."

-

lmao not sorry but its ok this is better than whats going to happen in pretty lmao good luck with that ur gonna want to stab me. votes and comments would be cool!!! i love you lots<3