Okay. So, Michael wakes up one morning. The bus is weirdly still, but everything else is totally normal, totally fine, whatever. They probably just got to their stop early and are waiting for the morning to check into the hotel. It’s hot and sticky like usual and Michael can feel where his thighs stick together with sweat from the middle of the night. Gross.

Being the millennial he is, Michael reaches for his beloved iPhone. What he grabs is definitely not an iPhone, though. It’s a fucking dinosaur, that’s what it is. An artifact from ancient times. A… Sidekick? You know, those phones with the sliding keypad. That’s definitely not normal. Michael is a tech junkie-- despite being forgetful (never forget the passport incident), he’d NEVER misplace is phone, nonetheless trade it in for THIS piece of shit.

After blinking all sleepy-like, the panic begins to set in. Where’s his phone? Why can he hear Steven’s Untitled Rock Show in the distance? The MacBook Pro pushed to the corner of his bunk is now replaced by a PC. What the fuck?

His first reaction is to wake up Ashton. He slides as close to the edge of his bunk as he can, using all his upper body strength to keep his butt from sliding off, and kicks the curtain back. His heel hits something that squishes. There’s an exclamation of, “motherfucker! What do you want, Michael?”

“Someone stole my phone.”

“That’s not possible. Go back to sleep.”

“I have a sidekick now.”

“A what?”

Ashton pokes his head out of the curtain, squinting through the sleep in his eyes. His hair’s a mess and he has eyeliner smeared down his cheeks.

Michael gestures to his own cheeks. “Uh, you have a little something-”

“What?” Ashton’s annoyed. Michael makes a vague gesture.

“Nevermind-- just… just go back to sleep.”

Plan A obviously failed, so Michael goes for Plan B and keyboard mashes until the screen lights up. It works. The little envelope icon blinks, so he clicks on it. There are three different texts, all from Pete Wentz, in cringy mid-2000s text talk. This is odd for multiple reasons: 1) it is not the mid-2000s, 2) Pete Wentz and Michael barely talk, and 3) when they do talk, it’s usually Nick Grimshaw initiating it.
Because of these three things, it’s weird that Pete’s saying “mikeyc i wanna c u” and “aha c wat i did thur” and, lastly, “cnt sleep w/o u”. There’s another bleep-- “near bus cum out” (cum = come, as in movement. Oh Pete, you internet slut).

Michael’s never been a good kid, so he ignores every “don’t talk to strangers!!!” lecture he got as a child and climbs out of his bunk, shielding his dick and balls behind his hand so he doesn’t accidentally teabag Ashton. He learned that he hard way. He’s also just generally given Ashton enough of a hard time this morning, and even Michael knows that teabagging your bandmate at…. *checks phone*.... four thirty am, holy shit, is too much.

He skips the underwear and pulls on jeans with a random tee. The jeans are weirdly baggy, but he’s too tired to think anything of it. Instead he swings open the door, greeted by heat, humidity, and Pete Wentz.

Pete looks different. Way too different. His hair is longer and in his face, straightened and dead and greasy. He’s wearing Simpsons pajama bottoms and a striped shirt, horribly mismatched. There are bags under his eyes but he’s smiling. Michael has to do a double take, and then something clicks. Something horribly sci-fi, something that fucks with the continuum of time, something that could swallow the entire planet if he fucks it up, according to every movie he’s ever watched.

Time travel.

He looks back at their bus. 5SOS is spray painted on the side, blood red and dripping against black. He looks back at Pete.

“Dude, is the heat getting to you?” Pete says. He looks worried.

Michael checks his phone quickly. 6/19/05. What the fuck. Once again, he looks back at Pete and goes, “ha-ha-ha,” because he’s a nervous lame ass.

Pete frowns in response. He looks frustrated, but not with Michael. “Is... something wrong dude? Fuck, I shouldn’t have woken you up. Sorry, man.” It’s surprisingly considerate for Pete Wentz: Douchebag Extraordinaire. Now Michael feels bad.

“No! I mean, it’s not fine. Well, it is, I just don’t--” he’s cut off by Pete Wentz yanking on his collar and pulling him down for a kiss, then. Well, uh. That escalated quickly.

Pete pulls away and smiles again, the same wide one with all his teeth. “I get it, MikeyCee. Sweet little dudes need their beauty sleep. See you in a few hours baby boy, yeah?”

Michael blinks at Pete. Obviously this dude has something wrong with him-- no one just flips like a switch like that. He tries to think back to the Wikipedia articles he skimmed at fourteen. He can recall Frank Iero, William Beckett, Jimmy Urine… he can’t quite put his finger on Pete Wentz’s. Oh well, he thinks, and, “yeah, uh. Ditto.”

“Don’t be an asshole. You know I don’t sleep. I’ll be popping ambien like skittles,” Pete says, and then, “don’t look so fucked up! I’m just messin’ with you. Christ, MikeyCee, you definitely need your beauty sleep,” before giving a half-hearted wave and walking off.

Maybe Pete Wentz is right, maybe he does need his beauty sleep. Maybe this is all a dream or something.

--

It’s not a dream.

Michael is awoken by a very slurry, very drunk, very teary voice on the other line of Luke’s phone. Luke has seemed to give up on the whole attempting to fit in words thing.

“-- I GUESS YOUR MIRROR ISN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR THE-- THE TWO OF US, MOTHERFUCKER. WE TOOK YOU UNDER OUR WING. REMEMBER HOW I HELD BACK YOUR HAIR WHEN YOU WERE BUSY PUKING IN THE BUSHES LAST YEAR? HUH, LUKE? REMEMBER HOW I SHARED MY COKE WITH YOU. I SHARED EVERYTHING WITH YOU-- I CRIED TO YOU ABOUT KELLY, YOU COCKSUCKER. SPEAKING OF COCKSUCKERS… REMEMBER WHEN YOU-- YOU SUCKED ME OFF IN BETWEEN BUSES. REMEMBER 2004? OH, SORRY, I FORGOT. YOU’RE JUST AN ARROGANT FUCK--”

Luke’s making confused faces. Calum looks like he’s about to piss himself. Ashton is trying to scrub at his cheeks in the bathroom.

“-- YOU’RE A FUCKING SELL OUT. ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS YOUR MARKET VALUE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. EVER SINCE YOUR SKANKY FRIEND STARTED CHILLING WITH PETE WENTZ--”

“Yo, uh, chill--”

“I WON’T FUCKING CHILL. I’M GONNA GET JEPHA AND QUINN ON YOUR ASS-- REMEMBER HOW MUCH QUINN FUCKING HATED YOU? HE TOLD ME YOU WERE BAD NEWS. SHOULD’VE LISTENED, HUH? WE WERE, LIKE, THE FUCKING TOXIC TWINS. YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE A BOND LIKE THAT… YOU CAN’T--”

The phone mysteriously cuts off then. The silence in the room is deafening until Calum starts cackling. Luke still looks confused and Ashton’s still in the bathroom.

“So.... are we gonna address that we’ve entered, like, an alternate dimension or something?” Michael says.

Calum’s wheezing but still gets the words out somehow, some way, whatever. “Shut up, Michael. This is your wet dream.” He’s not wrong. Luke kind of nods submissively, shrugging and tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. Calum continues with something along the lines of we’re gonna get so much pussy-- aw, shit. Scene queens! Scene queens everywhere! I’m gonna try to fuck Jac Vanek… now we have an excuse to be wasted all the time! Luke has beef with Bert McCracken! We can probably score some pot if Luke takes one for the team and sucks some cauliflower dick. We’re, like, a legit band now. People are gonna take us seriously! I wonder if people have LIVEJOURNALS dedicated to us! Shit, shit, shit, I need to get on that pronto-- how the fuck do you get internet connection in the mid-2000s? Who cares-- LUKE WE’RE GONNA FIND SOME MERCH GIRLS TO TITTY BANG! because apparently Calum knows everything, and Luke is Calum’s bottom bitch so he follows even if Calum will definitely make him suck unshowered emo dicks for weed.

So they hurry off the bus and into the blazing heat that is Warped Tour 2005. Mashton are the lone rangers here.

“What about you?” Michael asks.

“What about me?” Ashton replies. “This shit isn’t coming off-- I’m gonna ask around for some wipes.”

Michael hums in reply, left all alone to his own devices. No one else is panicking. It’s not that bad.

--

Michael eventually does go out that day. When he does, he finds out there’s a Warped Tour kick-off party. 5SOS are the party kings of boy bands-- now he’s feeling more in his element.

It’s some shitty bar that doesn’t card with barely any people in it. There’s still no air conditioning. Many guys and gals have taken off their shirts, and those who haven’t have nice/disgusting sweat patches around their neckline and down their back.

So they come in and totally fucking DESTROY the atmosphere of the bar, anarchist punk style even though even the most hardcore of them barely skim the surface of Ska or whatever. Studded belts, flared jeans, polos and many, many layers of t-shirts. William Beckett’s wearing Clandestine Industries (Pete Wentz’s old clothing line). He passes by a roadie wearing a shirt that proudly states “I tripped Billy Corgan” over the chest. Some of the merch girls just sharpied over inside out Hollister/Restaurant shirts. One of the girls, uh, Alicia? Her shirt’s got “I am a monster” written on it, along with “Hate me. Destroy me”. Couple that with her raccoon eyes-- woah, angst.

Should Michael feel underdressed? He dug through his suitcase to find a Rob Zombie shirt and jeans that crush his balls into a vagina, basically. And Vans. Can’t forget the Vans.

He gets a beer shoved into his hands and a pat on the ass, jolting him forward into the crowd. He can feel that he’s just hit the vicinity of the action because his Pete Radar is ticking like mad, his weird gravely-lisp ringing somewhere in his head. He knows he’s not going crazy, though, ‘cause a minute later Pete is fighting through the crowd.

“Hey, man! What’s up?”

Michael’s kind of dazed and overwhelmed. “Huh?”

“Yo, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been, like, really out of it. We can’t have MikeyCee dyin’ on me or whatever.”

That makes Michael laugh a bit, just a bit, taking a sip of his PBR. It tastes like hipsters. Nasty. “Not gonna die on you anytime soon, dude. Just…. homesick? My, uh, my phone broke (LIES!!!!), and I don’t have connection on my bus and-”

Pete cuts him off, grabbing his arm. “Why didn’t you just ask? Shit, man, would’ve given you internet if you just asked. Wouldn’t even have to blow me.” And there’s a wink before he continues, saying, “we got Ashton fucked up, it’s fuckin’ hilarious. He’s been grinding on Gabe for the past, like, hour.” Michael understands what he means- it’s not hilarious in a gay way, ‘cause this is EMO and EMOS ARE PROGRESSIVE! but more so in the way it’s out of character for him. Big, burly drummer Ashton turns into a slutty scene queen for New Jersey’s finest. Amazing.

So he’s being dragged off to see his bandmate/best friend dirty dance with his idol, six-foot-something getting pulled along by this tiny man (5’6). It’s quite the image, but he thinks what he sees is better.

Not only is Ashton whoring it up with one of Decaydance’s bigger names, but he’s also carrying a fruity drink and, like, sipping it from a straw? He still has some eyeliner around his eyes, not quite as bad as this morning, but it’s still there nonetheless. He also has this fucking smile on his face, flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and he just generally looks like he’s enjoying himself with Gabe Saporta’s hand on the small of his back, legs slotted together.

Michael’s sure to give him shit about it later, puts it on his mental to do list, highlighted and all that shit.

So after that big gay manifesto, there’s some regular party mingling. Michael’s hanging off Pete the whole time, or Pete’s hanging off Michael, whichever way. No one seems surprised. Calum is trying to flirt with Alicia who seems to just be blowing him off, playing with her lip piercing and generally being kinda too-cool-for-you, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth like a true hardcore chick. Apparently Gabe ended up bringing Ashton in for a picture, a big smooch on the lips. He also catches Luke trying to order a drink from the bar. Buddy from Senses Fail sees and makes a big gesture, all WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?! and Luke goes full ozzie-pissed, I’M JUST TRYNA ORDER A FUCKING DRINK. Michael realizes this is Grumpy Dragon Luke, and he probably just wants some whiskey and a nap. But no one’s having it- a roadie comes up to him and puts a hand on his back, talking calmly to him. Michael catches words like “addiction” and “relapse” and “last year” and between that and Bert McCracken allegedly sharing cocaine with Luke he realizes that, in this universe, Luke was an addict. He thinks back to watching Life on the Murder Scene as a sixteen year old and, yeah, it makes sense. Tokyo ‘04 was the breaking point, Gerard (and apparently Luke, now) hid under the stage and refused to sing, now he’s preaching to the choir about being squeaky clean. Except this Luke isn’t squeaky clean.

Pete attempts to start a makeout sesh in typical Pete Wentz fashion, no consideration for anyone else, Jesus fucking Christ. Michael claims homesickness again, and Pete is all like, “oh, yeah. Hey, we can leave early and I’ll let you steal some WiFi. Gotta update LiveJournal/Myspace/the Fall Out Boy Website anyway hur-hur-hur,” with a weird look in his eyes.

So they go back. Pete keeps on looking at him like he hung the moon and it’s kinda creeping Michael out, so he just offers a friendly smile back. Pete gives him one of his own, clean cut and sharp with all those fucking teeth, before going on and on about how he couldn’t wait for this summer and the winter seemed so long, especially when he had to go back to Chicago, how proud he is that Sounds Good Feels Good is going two years strong, wow. Pete Wentz doesn’t do subtle.

When he gets to the Fall Out Boy bus with his laptop, he sits in the back room. Pete says he’ll be in his bunk. Michael basically brushes up on his emo knowledge for the next 3 hours, checking out LJ and Myspace and Buzznet because apparently he already has all three with posts on them. It’s early, like two in the morning, when he stumbles upon Pete’s LiveJournal. There’s one new post. It’s short and sweet and it kind of confuses Michael even though it’s so OBVIOUSLY ABOUT HIM, because while Pete Wentz can’t do subtle, Michael Clifford can’t take a fucking hint.

Sunday, June 20, 2005
Sometimes when you’re feeling this blue the right smile can save you.
posted by: peter

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