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mxfic and speedbeta'd by the CAPSARIFFIC thelemic
Mikey the Reluctant Kissing Booth Boy/Pete the SemiSleazy Kissing Booth Customer
The cheerleading team always ran the kissing booth. Just like Chess Club did that retarded “life size chess game” no one cared about and the basketball team took care of beverages. A/V Club (which was not so much a club as it was a bunch of mildly to aggressively dorky guys who hung out in the dark projector room and talked about music and B movies) ran whatever was left. None of them could be bothered to go to the carnival meetings--sitting in the cafeteria after school while the irrepressibly cheerful Student Council kids try to hold court over the most eclectic mix with the dance team making bitchfaces at the cheerleaders and all the jocks shouting at each other and punching shoulders in that singularly beefcake way. Yeah, no thanks--and the Carnival Planning Committee knows it. They try to keep the A/Vs from getting a booth and make them work clean-up (which would be fine with them), but they always end up with a game or two that needs to be run with no one else willing to do it. So the A/V boys run fleabitten beanbag toss, or bent-ring toss, and maybe make fifty bucks to buy a new camera case (or a couple DVDs).
Except when, three days before the carnival, Mikey actually wanders by the carnival bulletin board (covered in fucking construction paper tents and animals and whatever, nauseating) and glances at the list of assignments, he finds out that the cheerleading team is doing a car wash (they’ll make a killing, always do, because they’ll wear the tiniest bikinis in existence and all the horndog dads would pay just to watch, much less actually get their car cleaned). And the club next to “Kissing Booth” is “A/V Club.”
Ray and Joe die laughing, and Patrick goes kind of scarily quiet. It’s too late, way too late for them to switch, even if there were other booths available, which there aren’t, as their Student Council Representative takes great joy in telling them when they come to complain/grovel (Mikey knew there was a sadistic glint in that cotton candy smile). Which means there’s no hope. In order to retain their club charter, they have to participate in the carnival, and without a club, they’re not allowed to hang out in the projector room or use any of the A/V equipment, which is the only reason Ray and Patrick are even in the club (Mikey is just in it because he had an hour to kill before Gerard could come pick him up, and it seemed pointless to just sit around and do nothing when he could sit around and do nothing with some friends). (He has no idea why Joe is in it at all)
Which means all they can do is pick which one of them has to endure the mortification of the kissing booth. Joe just laughs some more, Ray goes “Uh, it’s. Um. Against my religion” (what the fuck ever, Toro), and Patrick says “No thanks.” No one argues because Patrick may be small and pudgy, but his rage is legendary. Which leaves Mikey.
The sign above his head is leftover from when the cheerleaders ran it: “Kisses! $1”, painted in swirly pink letters with a little heart dotting the “i.“ The sign just below him is actually some old sheet music Ray found in the band room with “Support the A/V Club” scrawled over the back in Sharpie and taped up. Mikey taps his fingers along to the beat of his music, loud enough in his headphones to drown out most of the squalling children and the sickeningly bubblegum music getting pumped through the speaker system. He isn't really sure what would be more embarrassing: having to kiss someone for a dollar or to have no customers at all. But now that he’s here, listening to one of his favorite CDs and reading a magazine under the wooden almost-counter, it’s not so bad, being ignored.
Except he’s not being ignored. Mikey unhooks one of his headphones to peer through his glasses at the guy standing in front of the booth, dark hair under a truly unfortunate hat (not that Mikey can really judge, considering the knit cap he’d tugged over his messy hair this morning even though it’s well into the seventies today) and a grin twice the size of his face. He’s obviously older, college student maybe, probably an alum (although you couldn’t pay Gerard to come to the carnival).
“What?”
“I said, you’re the worst kissing booth boy I’ve ever seen. Hey. Hey hey hey, are you turning your volume up? C’mon, man, give me a break.”
Mikey rolls his eyes, but he does thumb the volume back down. “What?”
“You’re in a kissing booth.” Mikey doesn’t deign to nod, just looks with lidded eyes and arched brows. “Dude, you seriously can’t think of what I might want?”
Mikey looks him up and down. Striped hoodie, girl’s jeans, a pair of beat-up and doodled-on Vans. He looks back down at his magazine. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
“I know you must--what?”
“I don’t want to kiss you.” The guy blinks, grin fading a little at the edges but not disappearing.
“Dude, you do realize you’re in a kissing booth.” Mikey flips a page. “I give you a buck, you kiss me. That’s how it works, it‘s all nice wholesome school-supported prostitution.”
Mikey wrinkles his nose a little and brushes his bangs away from his glasses. “I don’t see any money.”
And the guy’s grin is back in full force. He fishes a wallet out of his jeans (somehow, Mikey owns jeans that tight and he just uses his denim clad charms to get people to buy shit for him, because no way is his wallet fitting in there) and leans against the front of the booth, toying with the slightly deteriorated edges that coins are poking through. “So, kisses are a dollar, right? What if I give you a five?”
“You’d get five kisses.”
“Uh-huh. And a ten?”
“Ten kisses.”
“What’s the down payment on a blowjob? No, hey, I’m kidding, turn it down.” Mikey finally shuts his magazine and glares over at this asshole who apparently has nothing better to do than sexually harass high school students.
“Look, if you’re going to buy a kiss, fucking do it or fuck off.”
He flips his wallet open with a little flourish, and fishes out a bill. He holds it between his fingers and dangles it in front of Mikey’s nose, like he‘s teasing a pet with a chewtoy. “Here you go.”
It’s a fifty. Mikey looks at it, then back at him. “I don’t have change.” Every club was supposed to pick up a cash box at the Information Tent! (exclamation point courtesy of Student Council), but Mikey didn’t bother.
“I don’t want change.” Mikey’s jaw tenses a little, the guy’s grin is really in severe danger of just eating his entire head.
“What?”
“No change.” He leans further against the counter, totally into Mikey’s personal space, twirling one of his hoodie strings around his finger, the other still practically poking him in the nose with his fifty. “I’m sure it’ll be money well spent.”
Mikey considers refusing for moment, because seriously, this creep expects him to kiss him fifty times? But then, that’s as much as they usually make at the carnival in total, and Ray has been eyeing some insanely complicated metronome. And, really, the guy isn’t all that creepy. He’s kind of…asshole-sweet.
He takes the money and shoves it in the repurposed coffee can (you know cheerleaders made it, it’s covered in heart stickers and glitter and shit). The guy’s eyes spark, triumphant. He closes his eyes, lips pursed in an approximation of kissing generally employed by four year olds.
Mikey rolls his eyes, but he only hesitates briefly before he leans in, moves forward until their lips are pressed together, soft but definite. The guy drops his mock-kissyface immediately, lips going pliant and almost-open. It’s more than a brush, no more than a simple press, but it feels strangely warm for how chaste it is. Mikey’s lips part a little when the guy sighs soft and hot against his mouth, but then all the heat and gentle pressure is gone.
He blinks, sun somehow a hell of a lot brighter than when he closed his eyes, and the guy is grinning again, but there’s something almost shy to it. There‘s a slight flush even against the relative dark of his cheeks so Mikey knows he must be the approximate hue of the stupid hearts that painted on the booth. Some of the drama kids doing face painting across the way are staring.
“So, uh.” Mikey slides his headphones down around his neck. “Take two?”
“Not right now.”
“What?”
The guy shoves his wallet back down into jeans. “I’ll take a rain check.”
“A--the carnival only goes for like, two more hours.”
He wrinkles his nose, eyes sparkling. “I guess I’ll just have to see you around, then.”
Mikey doesn’t know how this works, if he’s supposed to offer this guy his number or ask for one (or maybe ask for his name), but when he reaches into his hoodie pocket to fumble for his phone, he looks up to empty grass and a drama kid shooting him a thumbs up and laughing. (Whatever, you have a butterfly painted on your face, jackass.)
In the end, they make fifty-three dollars (a dollar from Alicia from band, who Mikey had maybe been thinking about developing a crush on, two dollars from junior high girls who giggled so much one of them choked on her sno-cone) and sixty-five cents and a pretzel (from Frank). Ray and Mikey are having a spirited debate about whether to get a microphone cover or go on a shopping spree (they could get ten shitty horror movies from Walmart, seriously) when Patrick shows up.
“Hey, guys. Uh, this is Pete. Don‘t believe anything he says about me.” And Mikey’s pretty sure Pete had two arms and possibly a leg wrapped around Patrick when he came in, but it only takes a few seconds for him to be leaning over Mikey, grinning as per usual.
“I think I’m ready for number two.” And not even Joe’s catcalls or Ray’s “Oh my god, gross, I am so telling your brother” can keep Mikey from opening up when Pete flicks his tongue over Mikey’s lower lip. Patrick does not look in the least surprised.
Illustrations later this evening mayhap...right now, FAMILY YAY ♥
mxfic and speedbeta'd by the CAPSARIFFIC thelemicMikey the Reluctant Kissing Booth Boy/Pete the SemiSleazy Kissing Booth Customer
The cheerleading team always ran the kissing booth. Just like Chess Club did that retarded “life size chess game” no one cared about and the basketball team took care of beverages. A/V Club (which was not so much a club as it was a bunch of mildly to aggressively dorky guys who hung out in the dark projector room and talked about music and B movies) ran whatever was left. None of them could be bothered to go to the carnival meetings--sitting in the cafeteria after school while the irrepressibly cheerful Student Council kids try to hold court over the most eclectic mix with the dance team making bitchfaces at the cheerleaders and all the jocks shouting at each other and punching shoulders in that singularly beefcake way. Yeah, no thanks--and the Carnival Planning Committee knows it. They try to keep the A/Vs from getting a booth and make them work clean-up (which would be fine with them), but they always end up with a game or two that needs to be run with no one else willing to do it. So the A/V boys run fleabitten beanbag toss, or bent-ring toss, and maybe make fifty bucks to buy a new camera case (or a couple DVDs).
Except when, three days before the carnival, Mikey actually wanders by the carnival bulletin board (covered in fucking construction paper tents and animals and whatever, nauseating) and glances at the list of assignments, he finds out that the cheerleading team is doing a car wash (they’ll make a killing, always do, because they’ll wear the tiniest bikinis in existence and all the horndog dads would pay just to watch, much less actually get their car cleaned). And the club next to “Kissing Booth” is “A/V Club.”
Ray and Joe die laughing, and Patrick goes kind of scarily quiet. It’s too late, way too late for them to switch, even if there were other booths available, which there aren’t, as their Student Council Representative takes great joy in telling them when they come to complain/grovel (Mikey knew there was a sadistic glint in that cotton candy smile). Which means there’s no hope. In order to retain their club charter, they have to participate in the carnival, and without a club, they’re not allowed to hang out in the projector room or use any of the A/V equipment, which is the only reason Ray and Patrick are even in the club (Mikey is just in it because he had an hour to kill before Gerard could come pick him up, and it seemed pointless to just sit around and do nothing when he could sit around and do nothing with some friends). (He has no idea why Joe is in it at all)
Which means all they can do is pick which one of them has to endure the mortification of the kissing booth. Joe just laughs some more, Ray goes “Uh, it’s. Um. Against my religion” (what the fuck ever, Toro), and Patrick says “No thanks.” No one argues because Patrick may be small and pudgy, but his rage is legendary. Which leaves Mikey.
The sign above his head is leftover from when the cheerleaders ran it: “Kisses! $1”, painted in swirly pink letters with a little heart dotting the “i.“ The sign just below him is actually some old sheet music Ray found in the band room with “Support the A/V Club” scrawled over the back in Sharpie and taped up. Mikey taps his fingers along to the beat of his music, loud enough in his headphones to drown out most of the squalling children and the sickeningly bubblegum music getting pumped through the speaker system. He isn't really sure what would be more embarrassing: having to kiss someone for a dollar or to have no customers at all. But now that he’s here, listening to one of his favorite CDs and reading a magazine under the wooden almost-counter, it’s not so bad, being ignored.
Except he’s not being ignored. Mikey unhooks one of his headphones to peer through his glasses at the guy standing in front of the booth, dark hair under a truly unfortunate hat (not that Mikey can really judge, considering the knit cap he’d tugged over his messy hair this morning even though it’s well into the seventies today) and a grin twice the size of his face. He’s obviously older, college student maybe, probably an alum (although you couldn’t pay Gerard to come to the carnival).
“What?”
“I said, you’re the worst kissing booth boy I’ve ever seen. Hey. Hey hey hey, are you turning your volume up? C’mon, man, give me a break.”
Mikey rolls his eyes, but he does thumb the volume back down. “What?”
“You’re in a kissing booth.” Mikey doesn’t deign to nod, just looks with lidded eyes and arched brows. “Dude, you seriously can’t think of what I might want?”
Mikey looks him up and down. Striped hoodie, girl’s jeans, a pair of beat-up and doodled-on Vans. He looks back down at his magazine. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
“I know you must--what?”
“I don’t want to kiss you.” The guy blinks, grin fading a little at the edges but not disappearing.
“Dude, you do realize you’re in a kissing booth.” Mikey flips a page. “I give you a buck, you kiss me. That’s how it works, it‘s all nice wholesome school-supported prostitution.”
Mikey wrinkles his nose a little and brushes his bangs away from his glasses. “I don’t see any money.”
And the guy’s grin is back in full force. He fishes a wallet out of his jeans (somehow, Mikey owns jeans that tight and he just uses his denim clad charms to get people to buy shit for him, because no way is his wallet fitting in there) and leans against the front of the booth, toying with the slightly deteriorated edges that coins are poking through. “So, kisses are a dollar, right? What if I give you a five?”
“You’d get five kisses.”
“Uh-huh. And a ten?”
“Ten kisses.”
“What’s the down payment on a blowjob? No, hey, I’m kidding, turn it down.” Mikey finally shuts his magazine and glares over at this asshole who apparently has nothing better to do than sexually harass high school students.
“Look, if you’re going to buy a kiss, fucking do it or fuck off.”
He flips his wallet open with a little flourish, and fishes out a bill. He holds it between his fingers and dangles it in front of Mikey’s nose, like he‘s teasing a pet with a chewtoy. “Here you go.”
It’s a fifty. Mikey looks at it, then back at him. “I don’t have change.” Every club was supposed to pick up a cash box at the Information Tent! (exclamation point courtesy of Student Council), but Mikey didn’t bother.
“I don’t want change.” Mikey’s jaw tenses a little, the guy’s grin is really in severe danger of just eating his entire head.
“What?”
“No change.” He leans further against the counter, totally into Mikey’s personal space, twirling one of his hoodie strings around his finger, the other still practically poking him in the nose with his fifty. “I’m sure it’ll be money well spent.”
Mikey considers refusing for moment, because seriously, this creep expects him to kiss him fifty times? But then, that’s as much as they usually make at the carnival in total, and Ray has been eyeing some insanely complicated metronome. And, really, the guy isn’t all that creepy. He’s kind of…asshole-sweet.
He takes the money and shoves it in the repurposed coffee can (you know cheerleaders made it, it’s covered in heart stickers and glitter and shit). The guy’s eyes spark, triumphant. He closes his eyes, lips pursed in an approximation of kissing generally employed by four year olds.
Mikey rolls his eyes, but he only hesitates briefly before he leans in, moves forward until their lips are pressed together, soft but definite. The guy drops his mock-kissyface immediately, lips going pliant and almost-open. It’s more than a brush, no more than a simple press, but it feels strangely warm for how chaste it is. Mikey’s lips part a little when the guy sighs soft and hot against his mouth, but then all the heat and gentle pressure is gone.
He blinks, sun somehow a hell of a lot brighter than when he closed his eyes, and the guy is grinning again, but there’s something almost shy to it. There‘s a slight flush even against the relative dark of his cheeks so Mikey knows he must be the approximate hue of the stupid hearts that painted on the booth. Some of the drama kids doing face painting across the way are staring.
“So, uh.” Mikey slides his headphones down around his neck. “Take two?”
“Not right now.”
“What?”
The guy shoves his wallet back down into jeans. “I’ll take a rain check.”
“A--the carnival only goes for like, two more hours.”
He wrinkles his nose, eyes sparkling. “I guess I’ll just have to see you around, then.”
Mikey doesn’t know how this works, if he’s supposed to offer this guy his number or ask for one (or maybe ask for his name), but when he reaches into his hoodie pocket to fumble for his phone, he looks up to empty grass and a drama kid shooting him a thumbs up and laughing. (Whatever, you have a butterfly painted on your face, jackass.)
In the end, they make fifty-three dollars (a dollar from Alicia from band, who Mikey had maybe been thinking about developing a crush on, two dollars from junior high girls who giggled so much one of them choked on her sno-cone) and sixty-five cents and a pretzel (from Frank). Ray and Mikey are having a spirited debate about whether to get a microphone cover or go on a shopping spree (they could get ten shitty horror movies from Walmart, seriously) when Patrick shows up.
“Hey, guys. Uh, this is Pete. Don‘t believe anything he says about me.” And Mikey’s pretty sure Pete had two arms and possibly a leg wrapped around Patrick when he came in, but it only takes a few seconds for him to be leaning over Mikey, grinning as per usual.
“I think I’m ready for number two.” And not even Joe’s catcalls or Ray’s “Oh my god, gross, I am so telling your brother” can keep Mikey from opening up when Pete flicks his tongue over Mikey’s lower lip. Patrick does not look in the least surprised.
Illustrations later this evening mayhap...right now, FAMILY YAY ♥