There's something oddly comforting about scrolling through your contacts one by one. Perhaps it's like emphasizing to yourself that you actually have people that care about you just a little bit, people that you can ring whenever you please without panicking about not saving their number, and that's something distinctive to someone with social anxiety.

But that comfort dissolves when Pete Wentz is watching you and presses the call button on Brendon Urie's page, someone who happens to be the worst person you could prank, because he ends up unwittingly pranking you back with even more velocity than you had contributed to your plan, so it's basically like screwing with your own army in a battle on your path to defeat.

There's no use trying to fight it, though, because Pete realizes none of this, and if I tried to explain it to him, Brendon will have picked up the line before I can finish, and thus the chaos ensues promptly afterward.

With the homosexual's flamboyant personality, there's no chance in hell I could hang up on him, because he'd call me back a million times until my phone drains in battery life and I curse the very metaphorical heavens that sent down this atheistic man-whore, whose most rampant plague is calling himself a gay lord every five seconds, so I brace myself for the impact that Pete will never comprehend before he meets the guy.

My phone's screen signals the connection between my friend and the apparent gay lord with a reputation for prostitution, stomach lurching with dread.

"I don't think you know what you're getting into, Pete," I warn, glancing up at the guest from my location on the floor to his spot on the bed.

"That makes it all the more amusing," he counters.

"No, I mean you really—"

"I got the Cheez Whiz!" a muffled voice proclaims from the alternate end of the line, its origin probably looting through a cabinet in another room.

My nose coils in perplexity. "The hell?"

"He probably accepted the call by accidentally crushing the phone under his elbow or something, and this is just the collateral," Pete surmises, lifting the device to his ear in a labor to expel more information on the cryptic Cheez Whiz.

An extended moan insinuates our ears, like a mix between an ox and a dying boar, neither pleasant, and our senses demur.

"Or this is him just pranking us back," I negate as more of the sounds tiptoe in pentagrams around us.

Pete visibly cringes, an action that usually doesn't arise outside him, being all docile and such. "What's wrong with this Brendon Urie guy?" His brows convolute intensely, like they'll somehow aid his study of my flaming queer of a friend, but I have to admit — not even I know what's going on inside Brendon Boyd Urie's head, and I've been familiar with him for over ten years, but there's something unique whirring in there (probably why he has such a massive forehead), something that none of us can reflect, meaning I've given up trying to decode his messages, which probably just have gigantic (yet exceptionally realistic) dicks drawn on all of them, so there's not much worth competing overall. The teachers fucking hated him for being so enigmatic.

"It's been said that his sex life is bigger than his forehead," I present bluntly, focus taped to the phone. "Aye, Brendon!"

No response.

"Ryan Ross is heterosexual!" I try, a deceptive grin lathered over my face.

"The fuck did you just say?" the "angelic" tone of Brendon Urie demands, the static from his increased volume dropping from the phone's speakers.

"Glad we got your attention," Pete thanks, leaning closer to me to relay the message effectively.

"Who is this?" the teenager interrogates with an astonished flair in his inflection. "Patrick Stump, I didn't know you were a prostitute."

"No, Brendon. That would be you."

"Shit, that's true." Satire dejection dangles from Brendon's words, but he dismisses them to move on to another subject. "Anyway, what's up?"

"Just so you know, this is Pete Wentz from the Belleville Development Center and the coffee shop near my house, and what's that whole Cheez Whiz thing?"

The reply returns fairly quickly. "Oh, that's just Ryan. He likes to eat Cheez Whiz and milk together — I honestly have no idea why, because it's pretty fucking disgusting, but he's cute, so I allow it."

"Ryan?" Pete mouths, and I send a "Brendon's boy toy" back to him, to which he laughs softly.

It's almost like you have a friend, psycho. That'll never happen, of course, but it's funny to see you try.

Not now. Get the hell out of my mind. All you do is bring destruction.

Hmph, it's almost like you're describing yourself.

That's the thing about psychosis, though — it doesn't cease for pastimes, only interrupts it to convey its terribly dull reports, as if I care at all; I should get back to my friends, not fret about what's going on inside my head. I have all the time in the world for that.

"Is there even the slightest chance that you're not crushing on Ryan Ross?" Though Brendon can't see it, my brow hikes farther up my forehead.

"Hell no. Are you new here?" he cackles.

"You should tell him how you feel," Pete advocates, enticed.

A roaring noise bounds against the phone line, and Brendon's words flee in a more startled manner. "Yeah, I should, but my mom is home, and she doesn't like Ryan to be here, so I gotta scat."

Snickering, I shift my grip on the phone. "Classic."

"Peace out, rainbow trout" is all I hear before Brendon supposedly tosses his device onto the bed and sprints into another area to alert his not-boyfriend to the compromising situation.

The scraping clamor of perforating a window — which is surprisingly comical — is audible from our position in my bedroom, soon chased by the gliding of legs across a wooden frame and the wrapping action of sealing the aperture.

After about a minute, the connection presses a finger to its mouth, and the life absconds from our signal, spurring a discussion between just Pete and me.

"Being thrown on a bed really reminds me of sleeping arrangements," Pete digresses, clasping his hands together.

For a moment, I predicted Pete talking about how being thrown on a bed reminded him of a morbid love letter he read once, but that's thankfully not the case.

"Yeah, let's sort that out." My voice is rather controlled for someone about to have a heart attack at the probability of Pete's prior statement, but I'm certainly not complaining. "I can sleep on the floor."

"Nonsense," my guest nullifies. "You're the host, and this is your royal mattress of divine slumber."

An unintentional giggle strokes my lips, but Pete appears to think it's the most adorable painting he's ever seen, so it remains without regret. "Are you sure?"

Pete nods, a natural smile cemented to his gentle veneer. "But of course."

My face contorts with the burden of making a decision, and I vocalize, "Eh, you can have it. The floor's cozy enough for me."

Pete dips his head diagonally, baffled at my eagerness to relinquish my serene setting for the solid ground. "Are you sure?"

"But of course," I mimic, with even the smile represented perfectly.

"If you insist." Pete mocks peevishness, but anyone can recognize that he's bubbling with gratitude beneath the first layer. Can you believe I did that? Wow.

I withdraw a downy blanket from my closet, where Brendon Urie escaped at the age of ten years old, shocking his parents quite thoroughly and causing mass carnage among the heterosexuals, and I fold the fabric across a pad from under my bed.

Once I've finished assembling my mattress, Pete registers that as an authorization to amble under the covers, and my actions pursue him a few seconds later.

"Good night, Pete Wentz," I greet underneath the aegean cloak, a simper hidden for the reign of eyes peeking out of the duvet.

"Good night, Patrick Stump." Pete's voice is thick like honey — and just as sweet — and the light from the lamp beside him is collared by the dominance of temporal obscurity.

Then night absorbs the heat from the air, stashing a frigid blast in its place, but that's trivial with heaps of blankets strewn upon my body, and the warmth of my companion is the sole discussion within my thoughts.

And in the morning, no one is to know that my back conformed to Pete's chest for a few hours, because that frankly isn't crucial. The only thing that matters is that I got a conducive refuel, and if it was in my friend's clutch, so be it. It's my bed, after all.

~~~~~

A/N: I FUCKING LOVE BRENDON IN THIS I'M CRYING

ALSO SICK REFERENCE BRUH

current vibe: having to change the names in my fanfiction when explaining it to my dad

~Dildota