Pretty. (Frerard, Petekey, Ryden, Peterick)

4: Eat My Ass Kind Of Delicious

"Wouldn't expect you, of all people, to smoke, hey, Iero." A voice belonging to no other than Pete Wentz, caught Frank Iero like a deer in the headlights at the door of the boy's bathroom, and he really had no other option than to be spin on his heels and find himself face to face with a particularly smug looking Pete Wentz, holding up his box of Marlboro as if he was inspecting it.

And fuck, Frank really hoped he had the decency to give it him back, because as Frank had far too brutally discovered, cigarettes don't just grow on fucking trees. Well, if he ran out, it would give him an excuse to go and see Gee, but Frank hadn't quite decided if that was a good or bad decision yet, because there was really no denying that he was falling, hard, for the fucking dude in a miniskirt, and perhaps he just wanted to stop himself before things went wrong.

He was Frank Iero, this was Catholic school, his friends were homophobic as fuck, and seriously just about everything could, and most likely would go wrong, yet somehow, that only made him want Gee more. And Frank couldn't be stupid here, he was like the only other gay guy in this whole fucking town, and not only that, Gee wasn't at all far from perfect at all.

"Should watch your pockets, huh?" Pete added, smirking like the fucking Cheshire cat, and Frank was just relieved that he wasn't instantaneously offended or blackmailing him or something... well, yet. "Get some jeans with decent pockets, kid."

"Not my jeans." Frank replied, stepping towards Pete, in the false hope that he could somehow just grab his smokes and run, dealing with the inevitable consequences later.

"Never took you for a whore, Iero. Never took you for a lung cancer patient either, so, who knows, give it ten minutes you'll be a meth addict." Frank wasn’t all that keen upon the meth addict idea, much to Pete's surprise. "Now, come on, tell me, whose jeans are they?"

"Jamia's." Frank let out a sigh, knowing that Pete would get entirely the wrong end of the stick, but Frank played along regardless, caring more about that packet of Marlboro than his life right now. To say he was an addict would be an understatement right now.

"Thought she was a lesbian." Pete let out a casual comment, watching Frank's eyes as he waited for his response, and Frank couldn't help but assume he thought that he was a massive fucking homophobe like Mikey, and oh, if only thing knew, if they knew about his crush on the guy in the miniskirt, dear lord.

"She is." Frank confirmed, guessing that if Pete knew, than it was safe to confirm it, anyway, Jamia wasn't nearly quite as closeted as Frank was, but Frank of course, had mighty reason to be so.

"So you're one of those assholes that hates fags and loves lesbians then." Pete again, jumped to what was almost an ironic conclusion. "If you hate fags so much, I don't see why you'd want yours back at all." He chuckled, gesturing towards the packet of Marlboro, which Frank had gotten from the guy he wanted to call his boyfriend.

"I'm not a fucking homophobe, dude." Frank let out a sigh, leaning back against the wall, and wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this, or more relevantly how he was going to last the rest of the day without his smokes.

"Your best friend is Mikey Way - get real." Pete rolled his eyes, hovering the packet of Marlboro over the bin and Frank cringed at how his heartbeat quickened.

"Yeah, but you don't see me learning croquet to stare at girls on the netball team." Frank offered, wishing he could win the conversation over without admitting something he'd rather not.

"I don't, do I?" Pete smirked, "so do you like fags so much," he gestured to the cigarettes once again, "because you are a fag." And for once Pete Wentz was on the right track, not that Frank was in any hurry to admit that, of course.