There are worse things that could have happened, Ryan thinks, tapping his fingers idly on the desk. Sure, Gabe's an unbelievable asshole, and his stepmom won't stop shoving food at him, but his dad looks happy, so that's something? He's sure there are worse things. Like getting sucked up into a whirling tornado vortex or getting torn apart by rabid wolves.

Ryan snorts to himself. He sinks down lower in his chair, yawns and closes his eyes.

"Are we keeping you awake, Mr. Ross?"

Ryan pops one eye open, then the other, then straightens up with a sigh. It's History. Nothing in the world can keep Ryan awake in History. Mr. Lacey stares him down, but Ryan keeps quiet. Lacey is sort of a prick, and Ryan knows he'll just be in deeper shit if he answers him.

When Lacey gets bored with Ryan, Spencer flicks the back of Ryan's head and tosses a piece of paper onto his desk. Ryan rolls his eyes, flattens out the crumpled mess of college rule.

your mom, it reads. Ryan bites his lip and scribbles, your mom's wooden teeth, before folding it into a neat triangle and tossing it back over his shoulder.

*

"All I'm saying," Brendon says, legs jittering so hard Ryan can feel the vibrations through the lunch table, "is that I don't know why we're not more popular."

Spencer sends a skeptical look towards Brendon's Capri Sun.

"Oh, fuck off, I'm awesome," Brendon says, then waves at Jon Walker, who grins at him and waves back.

Spencer turns bright red, which is, god, oh so typical, and Ryan just wonders where Brendon gets his nerve.

"You, Ryan." Brendon shoves his bag of chips towards him, since he knows Ryan's stepmom keeps packing him stuff like pasta and apples and beef jerky. "You're a step away from hot. If you'd only maybe open your mouth and talk once in a while."

"You talk enough for all of us," Spencer says dryly. He sends Ryan a what-the-fuck-is-Brendon-on? look, and Ryan just shakes his head.

He's pretty sure Brendon's just working himself up to ask Victoria out. Again. For the third time that month. And Brendon's really lucky she thinks he's kind of amusing, or there'd be more of a mess to clean up than, "My broken heart, geez, Vicky's killing me here, Ryan Ross!"

"Oh hey, VickyT," Brendon says, "Victoria, Vick, wait up," and then he's out of his seat and halfway across the lunchroom before Ryan can blink.

"He's sort of a masochist, right?" Spencer asks.

Ryan shrugs. "He's right, though," he says. "About us being unpopular?" Because, shit, they're pretty cool. Well, maybe not Brendon. Brendon's sort of too spazzy to be cool, but Spencer? Totally cool. Spencer always has the best shoes and he plays fucking awesome drums, and Spencer should be super popular, but he's not. He's always stuck hanging out with Ryan, because Ryan's stepbrother is an asshole who spreads fucking awful rumors about him.

"Hey, we're not, like," Spencer bumps their feet together, "social outcasts or anything."

"Gabe told the entire lacrosse team I wear girl's underwear."

Spencer freezes with his sandwich in front of his mouth. He blinks, slow, then cuts off a bark of laughter.

Ryan rolls his shoulders, says, "Go ahead, dude. It's funny."

"It's funny 'cause it's true," Spencer says, corners of his eyes crinkled up.

Ryan flips him off, but he's smiling.

*

"Hey, Ross."

Ryan jerks his head up, eyes wide. "Um. Hi." Ryan has no idea what to say.

Mike - Mike fucking Kennerty, god, can Ryan be any more of a jackass, just standing there staring at him? - smiles a little and, Jesus, he's. He's sort of really, really hot. Too bad Keltie's there, hanging all over his shoulders.

Keltie's nice and all, she's always been pretty sweet to Ryan, but Mike's kind of perfect. He plays lacrosse - which, yeah, thanks, Gabe - and guitar in an actual band. That has, like, gigs and stuff. He's sort of everything Ryan wishes he could be.

Brendon knocks an elbow into Ryan's side, and Ryan flinches, slides Brendon a glare, because that's going to bruise, asshole, and then he glances back at Mike, who's still standing there with this dopey grin, and Ryan maybe thinks those rumors about him and Gaylor and Ritter are true.

"Um," Ryan says again, and Keltie rolls her eyes, presses a kiss to Mike's temple.

"I'm meeting up with Cass, okay?" She flashes Ryan a smile, then bumps her hip into Mike's and says, "Call me later."

"Sure," Mike says, and turns and gives her this soft look, and Ryan thinks, that's love, and a little bit of his heart sort of deflates.

Ryan sucks at love. He's had one girlfriend, and that ended in total fucking disaster. And then he'd dated Brendon for three months, two of which he wasn't sure he was going to survive. Brendon's kind of manic and demanding.

"Yeah, so," Mike scratches the back of his neck, grin turning slightly sheepish. "You're passing English, right?"

Ryan swallows. "Well, hopefully." He's getting straight A's so far, but he's so not going to make an even bigger geek of himself by pointing that out.

"Do you think you could maybe go over the notes for Camus with me? I've got band practice pretty late this week, but next Monday would be cool, you know, if you're free?"

Ryan's trying not to let on that he's flailing like a little girl inside. It doesn't help that Brendon's practically dancing right next to him. "Sure, yeah, that's awesome," Ryan says, and immediately wants to slap himself. Awesome?

Mike just bobs his head, though, and says, "Thanks, man, I'll owe you one," and Brendon starts poking his ribs with pointy little fingers as soon as Mike turns the corner in the hallway.

"What the fuck," Brendon says. "Mike Kennerty?"

"Shut up," Ryan mutters, ducking his head so his hair sweeps over his eyes. He turns back to his locker and starts shoving books into his open book bag.

"You know he has orgies with Ritter and Gaylor, right?"

"Shut up," Ryan says, but his lips are twitching, because orgies? "I'm pretty sure he's dating Keltie, Brendon."

"Who's the biggest beard to ever beard."

"Oh my god, you didn't just say that out loud," Spencer says, coming up behind Brendon and slapping the back of his head.

"Ow, hey." Brendon rubs a hand through his hair, sending Spencer a pout. "You're abusive, Spencer Smith. You're lucky I know it's 'cause you love me with all your heart."

Ryan thinks maybe Brendon has some issues.

*

The best is that instead of a car, Ryan has a Huffy ten-speed. He fucking loves it when it's raining. Halfway home from school it starts pouring, and Ryan can't even really see where the hell the sidewalk is. He pulls off under an awning, squishes close to the storefront and shakes his hair out of his eyes.

Something bangs against the pane and Ryan jumps, steps right into a giant puddle, soaking what little skin had still been dry. "Fuck."

"No loitering!" a guy yells through the window, then his face presses close, nose smushing into the glass, and he says, "Wait, hey, I know you," and then he disappears.

The rain doesn't let up, not even a little. Ryan's contemplating just trudging home anyway when the door behind him jingles open, and the guy from the window is gesturing him inside.

"Come on, it's fucking teeming puppies, dude, get in here."

Ryan curls his fingers into the strap of his messenger bag. "Um."

"Oh, right. Stranger danger, good thinking." The guy reaches out a hand, says, "I'm Pete Wentz," and then when Ryan automatically slips their hands together to shake, Pete pulls him inside before he can fully yelp, "Ryan."

The shop is really dark and eerie, and he reads the neon sign in the window backwards. "Fortune telling?" He doesn't remember ever seeing that from the outside, and he takes the same route home from school every single day.

"I'm, like, a fifth gypsy, man. Coffee? Tea? Towel?"

Ryan blinks at him. "I don't have any money," he says.

"I'm not gonna make you pay for a fucking towel." Pete rolls his eyes. "You're dripping all over my aubusson."

It smells like old incense and wet dog, and there's a stuffed canary on a gilt stand staring at him from the corner of the room with beady black eyes. It makes Ryan's skin crawl. "Your stuffed bird is staring at me."

"He's not stuffed, dude, he's fucking stubborn," Pete says, voice rising at the end as he glares over at the bird.

The canary - not stuffed, apparently, but weirdly stoic - twists its head a little and gives a short whistling chirp.

"Oh, come on," Pete says to the bird, "this is totally not my fault." The canary harrumphs - actually harrumphs, Ryan hears it - and then hops around so its back is to them.

Honestly, Ryan's wondering why he's never heard of Pete's House of Crazy before. "No, really," Ryan says, "I think I should just. Go." He backs away from Pete, but Pete catches his wrist, and it isn't like Ryan's scared. Pete's just overly intense, like maybe he'd tie Ryan to a chair and make him watch Golden Girls reruns. Or talk to his bird.

"Dude, I know you," Pete says, pressing a palm flat against Ryan's chest, right over his heart. "I know you."

Ryan glances down at the spread of his fingers and says, "That's kind of inappropriate touching."

"Whatever." Pete drops his hands, though, holds them up and takes a step away from Ryan. "Look, this is how it's going to work, okay? You do something for me, and I do something for you."

"That doesn't make you sound any less creepy," Ryan points out, crossing his arms.

"Here," Pete says, and he's grinning, like maybe Ryan's one big joke, and Ryan briefly considers the possibility that Pete's somehow in league with Gabe. "Hold on."

There's a lot of junk in Pete's shop, Ryan thinks, watching as he sifts through drawers, cabinets, boxes. He's got about fifty million lamps, most of them covered with dusty scarves, dozens of little knickknacks littering every available surface. Digging into a small carved box, Pete yanks on something and says, "Aha."

Pete wraps a thick chain around his wrist and dangles this amazingly ugly necklace in front of Ryan's face.

Ryan stares at it. "It's a necklace."

"It's yours." Pete grins, teeth glinting yellow in the lamplight. Seriously, there is nothing about this situation that's not skeezy. Ryan isn't sure why he's even still there.

"Thanks, but I'm not really in the market for jewelry," Ryan says. Yeah, a fucking amulet the size of his thumb is going to go over real great, especially with Gabe.

"You should be," Pete says. With a straight face.

Ryan thinks, okay. Okay, it's fucking pouring out, and he's sixty-three percent certain Pete isn't going to chop him up with a butcher knife and stick him in his freezer, so he might as well hear what he has to say. "Okay," he says with a little shrug.

Pete's grin ratchets up into a fucking beam. "Awesome."

*

Pete bullies Ryan into changing - he'd texted, might get eaten. send help in hr. gypsy on 4 street, to Spencer when he'd been in the bathroom, just to be safe - so Ryan's wearing nearly worn-thin sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, athletic socks pulled all the way up over his calves, and his toes curl over the bottom rung of the chair as he sits at Pete's kitchen table, cupping a steaming mug of tea.

Pete's bustling around, the tiny plump canary perched on his shoulder. He sets out a plate of cookies, and everything's gone from creepy to surreal. Pete's kitchen is sort of brimming with 1970s avocado-colored appliances.

"So," Ryan says, eyebrows arched.

"Dude, seriously, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." Pete pushes the necklace across the Formica at him. "You, Ryan, are magic."

"Magic," Ryan echoes. "What, like I'm a wizard?"

"Witch," Pete corrects him. "Don't let gender stereotypes get you down, man, witches have a completely different magic set than wizards."

"Right, of course." Ryan nods, nibbles on the end of a cookie, then thinks better of eating anything Pete's served and spits it into a napkin as discreetly as he can. "So is that all?"

Pete shakes his head. "Aren't you curious about your awesome powers? Look, look," he points to the plate in the middle of the table, "these aren't cookies. Well, okay, they are, obviously," Pete backtracks, "but they're not."

Ryan doesn't say anything, since there really isn't anything to say.

Pete frowns down at the plate, narrows his eyes at it. The canary chirps, and Pete pulls a face. "Whatever, Lunchbox, that's not why. Seriously, this aging shit is crap."

Ryan rubs a hand over his face, sighing. Pete doesn't look very much older than himself, but whatever. "Pete."

"No, hey, give me your hand." Pete reaches out, tugs the mug out of Ryan's fingers and mashes their joined hands down onto the plate of cookies.

"Ow," Ryan says, giving Pete a pointed look.

"No, watch." Pete stares hard at the plate. Nothing happens.

Ryan sighs again, starts to pull his hand away. "Pete—"

"Ryan." Pete's nails are kind of starting to dig into his skin.

"Pete," Ryan says tightly. This is getting slightly ridiculous. "I have to get home." By his estimate, he has about fifteen minutes before Spencer shows up with— Something. His dad's tire iron maybe, or Brendon's industrial size bottle of mace, or Bob - Brendon swears Bob's a ninja - who owns the music store five blocks down.

They stare at each other. Pete's eyes get dark, dark, dark, and his smile gets even wider, and Ryan sort of. Doesn't blink. Pete says, voice low, "These aren't cookies," like he's fucking serious, no joke.

Ryan deadpans, "You have got to be kidding me," but Pete just keeps staring, and then Ryan's fingers start tingling, a buzz burning in the center of his palm, and the cookies are. The cookies are fucking gone. Like, the entire plate, and there's a stack of cash just sort of smoking there, and Pete is crowing like a lunatic.

"Dude, yes, this is so going to buy me those boots! And that jacket with the," he makes some hand motions that might mean fringe, and Ryan tries not to think that's kind of cool and fails, because fringe is sort of ironically awesome, "and that Tiffany style lamp at Pottery Barn." Pete starts ticking off hundreds and cackling to himself.

Ryan thinks it's definitely time to get the hell out of there.

"Hey," Pete says when Ryan pushes back from the table. "The necklace, right? You did something for me, I do something for you. Just. You're magic. This'll let you do whatever you want to do."

Whatever I want to do, Ryan thinks. He's not sure he believes it, but he palms the necklace, curling his fingers over it, metal biting into his skin. "Okay. Thanks."

*

The rain doesn't let up in the morning, so Ryan bums a ride to school with Gabe - Gabe's mom practically forces them into the car together - and mainly it sucks, because Ryan's going to have to walk home in the afternoon.

Still, his day goes pretty smooth.

For the first time all year, Mike Kennerty seems to realize they have the same fourth period study hall.

"So, really," Mike says, sliding into the seat across from Ryan's, "how do you survive living with Saporta?"

Ryan's smile blooms before he can help it. "Hi," he says, and shrugs, because Gabe's sort-of friends with Mike, they run in the same circles, so he can't say anything too damning without it getting back to Gabe. Instead, he says, "Gabe's not so bad." Ryan means it, too. Mostly. Gabe's a ginormous jackass but he's not McCracken or, like, Flowers.

Mike laughs. "Yeah, okay." He reaches out, tugs on the ends of Ryan's scarf, and Ryan can't fucking believe it, because it's almost like Mike's flirting with him, and Ryan can see Keltie over his shoulder, making this little nose-wrinkling face at them.

"Um."

"You've got some snazzy outfits, Ross," Mike says, fingers still tangled in the fringe of Ryan's scarf.

Ryan's almost entirely sure Mike isn't mocking him. He says, "Thanks?" and then, "I think Keltie wants you," because Keltie's gone past nose-wrinkling and into pursed lips.

Mike glances over his shoulder, sends Keltie a little wave, and then he pins Ryan with this incredibly earnest look, leaning forward a little onto his forearms. "Can we meet at your house on Monday?" he asks.

Ryan can think of a million reasons why that is such a bad idea, beginning and ending with Gabe, but he nods anyway. "Yeah, sure."

*

Brendon's bitter that he's stuck on wardrobe for about five seconds, and then he's all over Gerard.

Ryan loves being on wardrobe. He works well with Gerard, because Gerard says he likes Ryan's flare, and Ryan likes how Gerard's imagination is never as dull as the clothes he wears - Ryan's not sure he owns more than one pair of pants, and he dyes his hair pitch black, and he showers maybe once a month, if that, but his sense of color is amazing, and his stitches are tight and always neater than Ryan's, which is a hard feat to accomplish, considering Ryan's prowess with a needle - plus, he's super tolerant of Brendon.

Gerard's older than them by a good six years, but he's sort of an aimless artist, and Mr. Schechter always ropes him into helping out with the school plays.

If you ask Ryan, he looks sort of miserable.

"We're going for dreamy, okay?" Gerard's sitting cross-legged on the stage, a giant sketchpad on his lap. There are zombies and vampires dressed in gauzy outfits, peasant skirts and wide-necked shirts, all soft, light colors and summer linen. Ryan just ignores the blood and nods.

"I like the breeches," he says, and Gerard beams at him.

Ryan thinks it would be pretty awesome if Gerard was always that happy, since he sort of lights up the room with his smile.

Brendon leans over Gerard's shoulder. "Way cool, Gee," he says. He points at a hideously oozing beast clad in a low-cut corseted number with pink bows rimming the waist. "Can Spencer wear that?"

Spencer is the only one of them that actually ended up with a part in the play. Considering he hadn't really wanted to try out in the first place, he's pretty pissed off at them. Ryan thinks he'll make a really great Beatrice, though.

Schechter says they're going old school Shakespeare, but Ryan's pretty sure they just didn't have enough girls who could actually, you know, read the part.

Spencer's growing a beard in protest, but he still shows up for practice every day.

Jon Walker and his crew are bards, though - which'll be something; something entertaining, at least, since the self-proclaimed JWalk, Sisky Business and Tomrad are sort of total clowns when they've got an audience - and Ryan can tell Spencer's more excited about hanging around near Jon than he is embarrassed by the prospect of wearing a dress. A very pretty dress, apparently, if Brendon has any say about it.

"I don't know," Gerard says thoughtfully, scratching his chin.

"Maybe without the bows," Ryan suggests. Bows might be a little much for Spencer to swallow. It'll be hard enough getting him into the boning.

Gerard nods. "Right, right."

"So you're saying I have to kiss Andy," Spencer says from the end of the stage, talking with Mr. Schechter, and Ryan thinks maybe he hadn't meant to say it that loud.

Tomrad wolf-whistles and Spencer turns bright red.

"Aw, Spencer Smith," Jon says, idly strumming his guitar, "don't worry. Butcher's awesome at kissing."

Butcher's lying on his back in the middle of the stage - breathing in the atmosphere, he'd told them, getting a feel for the room's presence, since the Butcher's a transfer; Ryan's really curious about how he got his name - and he holds up a thumb without moving the rest of his body.

If possible, Spencer turns even redder, but he just fists his hands on his hips and gives Jon this total bitchy glare, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

Jon keeps smiling. He strums another chord, and Sisky hooks a chin onto his shoulder, sings, "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more," and Spencer flips him off.

*

Spencer walks his bike next to Ryan until they get to the main drag, and then he cuts across the park to get to his house and Ryan trudges down fourth all by himself.

Technically, Gabe could have given him a ride home, since lacrosse lets out around the same time as play practice, but, one) he didn't want to have to deal with any of Gabe's buddies, and two) he thinks Gabe would've just blown him off, anyway. Walking is the less humiliating choice.

When he hears a car idling next to him, he doesn't look. He's not actually under the delusion that Gabe will go away if ignored, but he figures it's worth a shot. Then the horn honks, and Ryan jumps and he finds himself not looking at Gabe's bright red Le Baron, but at a pretty hideous Toyota Camry. Ryan thinks it's brown, but it's kind of hard to tell.

"Need a ride?"

Ryan leans down and spots Mike smiling at him. That's getting a little weird. Ryan's not going to pass up a ride, though, because it's, like, another twenty minutes on foot to his house.

He opens the passenger door and slides in. "Thanks," he says, settling into the bucket seat and dropping his bag between his feet.

Mike just nods. He's got his lacrosse jacket on. He's got his hair pushed behind his ears and his fingers tap the steering wheel as he pulls back out into the street. His radio's on, but its so low Ryan can't hear what it's tuned to, and Ryan fidgets a little with the strap of his bag, feeling awkwardness tighten his chest.

He stares straight ahead, mind racing, and he starts picking at the nappy pills on the bottom of his wool vest - his grandfather had some kick-ass clothes, really, plaid is totally coming back this year - silently willing Mike to say something, anything, about the freaking weather for fuck's sake.

"It's getting chillier earlier," Mike says, and Ryan blinks.

"Uh. I guess."

Mike slides him a sideways smile. "Winter in Jersey, man. Brown slush and black ice."

"Right," Ryan says, and his fingers are tingling and his stomach flips.

And then Mike says, "I read that short story you wrote for The Sampler. I'm not sure I got the whole thing? But I liked it a lot, with the giants and the dying fairies."

"It's a metaphor for our declining economy," Ryan says, then thinks about punching himself in the face.

"Yeah, um. I thought maybe it was something like that. Or about fairies." They're at the last stop sign before Ryan's street, and Mike turns to look at him, eyes smiling, and Ryan can tell he's kind of making fun of him, but not in any, like, mean way. "It was good, though."

"Thanks."

"There's something different about you, Ryan Ross," Mike says. He reaches over and squeezes Ryan's arm, and Ryan drops his gaze, stares dumbly down at his hand. "I just can't put my finger on it."

Ryan rubs the back of his neck, feels the thin-linked chain of the charm Pete gave him, and suddenly Ryan feels weirder, like maybe this is something he made happen, except for the fact that he still thinks Pete's out of his mind, and that he'd slipped something into Ryan's tea that night.

"Hey, Ryan," Mike says. He leans towards him a little, and Ryan can't turn away, can't do anything but hold his breath and look into Mike's brown eyes and think, oh my god, he's going to kiss me, and that's pretty fucking awesome. Ryan really, really wants Mike to kiss him.

A car behind them honks, and Mike jerks back, blinking rapidly. "Okay," Mike says as they turn, pulling up in front of Ryan's house. "That was, uh."

Ryan just flashes him a quick, tight grin, and reaches for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride."

*

"Mike Kennerty," Gabe says, sticking his head around Ryan's half open bedroom door.

"What?"

"Mike Kennerty," Gabe repeats, "who I've seen naked on more than one occasion. Plays lacrosse, sucks at English and History, the guy you're in love with."

"I." Ryan's face turns red. No slow flushing pink, just instant, embarrassing red, and Gabe laughs.

He tilts his head back, laughs, and says, "Dude, I'm so good. I pulled that out of my ass."

"Gabe." Ryan shakes his head. "Please don't say anything."

Gabe presses a finger to the end of his nose. "Oh, I'd love to keep this a secret, little Rossy. I truly would."

Gabe isn't evil, Ryan thinks, but he loves, loves, loves stirring up trouble. And tormenting Ryan.

"What do you want?" Ryan asks desperately, and one of Gabe's eyebrows goes up.

"Really?" He leans the side of his forearm into the door frame. "I don't know, this is pretty sweet gossip. You know how Bill loves—"

"Anything," Ryan says, because he knows Bill, and if Bill finds out the whole fucking school will, too.

"Well, that's a hasty offer." He stares at Ryan, and Ryan does his best to stare back, to not wish he could stuff the words back down his throat, because anything is totally dangerous territory with Gabe. "Spencer Smith," Gabe says finally.

"You want my best friend," Ryan says flatly.

"Spencer Smith." Gabe grins this sort of impressively smarmy grin. "Not necessarily for best friend duties, unless there's something about your relationship I'm missing."

"Gabe. Spencer's not—you can't," Ryan shifts awkwardly on his feet, clenches his fists in impotent anger, because it's not like he can take Gabe, who's almost eight feet tall. "You can't."

"Oh, I can," Gabe nods. "The choice is yours, of course."

"You can't," Ryan repeats tightly. Gabe's a slippery asshole snake, and Ryan usually just takes it, but Gabe's grinning like he's won, like he's finally broken Ryan, and Ryan just snaps. He just pushes all his anger up and out, palms tingling, and then he's coughing a little from all the smoke.

"Holy fucking fuck," Gabe says, only his voice is tiny, overlaid by weird, wet hissing, and Ryan's staring down at an actual snake where man-sized Gabe used to be, like, seconds before. "What did—fuck, Ross, this is awesome."

Ryan blinks. He probably should've seen that coming.

Problem number one, though, Gabe's not just a snake, he's a fucking cobra, and Ryan's pretty sure once he figures that out people will start dropping like flies.

Problem number two, Ryan has no idea how to change him back.

And holy fucking fuck, Ryan's a witch.

*

The last thing Ryan wants to do is visit Pete again, but he's pretty sure Pete'll be somewhat helpful with Gabe. As much as he appreciates Gabe's sudden lack of interest in his private life, other people might miss having him around. Bill, maybe. Possibly VickyT.

"So I might have turned my stepbrother into a cobra," Ryan says when he steps into the shop, spotting Pete hunched over a box full of iridescent beads.

Pete pumps a fist in the air. "Yes!"

"Pete, what—"

"You hear that, Pattycake?" Pete's canary chirps and whistles and swoops over to land on Pete's head. Its chest's puffed up, and it bobs its head into Pete's hair, making this low, low chirrup. "Dude, I know," Pete says. He gets to his feet, careful not to jostle it.

Ryan lifts up the box holding Gabe - and, wow, had that been fun trying to wrangle Gabe in there - and asks, "Can we get back to my problem?"

"Dude, I shed," Gabe hisses through the cardboard. "How tasty is that?"

"Animal transformations are a little tricky," Pete says eagerly. "We'll do Patrick first."

The bird chirps again, and Gabe hisses, "Do I smell chicken?" and Ryan suddenly thinks maybe Pete isn't as crazy as he'd feared. He's pretty much off-his-rocker, yeah, but at least Ryan gets the canary thing now.

"Come on." Pete beckons Ryan towards the stairs winding up to his above-the-shop apartment. "We're going to need orange rinds and some ramen noodles."

*

Patrick, it turns out, is a short redheaded dude with a blinding expanse of white skin. Pete slaps a hand over Ryan's eyes, but it's kind of already too late. Patrick's naked body is burned into Ryan's brain. He's got a pretty hot body, too, so it's not like Ryan's going to have nightmares or anything.

The first few minutes all Ryan hears is loud, angry chirping and Pete near-chanting a litany of, "Sorry, sorry," and then suddenly Patrick's voice cracks on "—ucking irresponsible, oh, thank fuck, I thought I was gonna be chirping forever, Jesus, Pete, give me some sweats or something here." He seems to run out of steam, and Ryan hears heavy panting breaths, and Pete's fingers curl in and bite a little into the skin of Ryan's temple.

"Okay, so, um. Why don't you wait downstairs?" Pete says, turning Ryan around roughly and then pushing him towards the hallway.

Ryan absolutely does not peek over his shoulder before making his way out of the room, he absolutely does not.

In the shop again, Ryan ignores the thumping above him and pulls out his phone. He checks the time, figures it isn't too late, then texts Spencer, meet me at bryars inan hr. He kicks the side of Gabe's box, says, "You're not going to kill me when I fix this, right?"

"Ross, whatever, I've got bigger things to focus on. Bigger things," he stresses, and Ryan's not even gonna ask.

*

Spencer meets Ryan at Bryar's Music, even though it's only an hour before his weekday curfew. Ryan knows it's half because Ryan asked him to, and half because of Jon Walker - who's almost always there; it's like a second home, as far as Ryan can tell - and Spencer's raging crush.

They're leaning against the front counter, elbows on the glass, since Bob's in the back at the drums with the Butcher and Jon, who's laughing, hair falling across his forehead, and, okay, Jon's hot if you're into the scruffy, unwashed look.

"So I turned Gabe into a snake," Ryan says absently.

Spencer rips his gaze off of Jon for a split-second and arches an eyebrow at him.

Ryan's lips twitch. "He's all better now."

"Okay," Spencer says, and he obviously isn't taking Ryan seriously, which is fine. He just can't call Ryan on lying later when he inevitably figures it all at.

Ryan's contemplating how he can bleach his eyeballs after seeing Gabe sans clothes - that part had been traumatizing; watching Gabe trying to fit into some of Pete's tiny jeans and hoodies had been horrible, too - when Spencer suddenly grips his wrist and says, "Oh my god."

"What?"

"Jon just, like, smiled in this general direction."

Ryan bites his lower lip, because Spencer is so cool and collected about everything except Jon Walker, and it's kind of hilarious. He bumps Spencer's shoulder. "You should go talk to him."

"Yeah, no. He's too much awesome for me." Spencer's grinning when he says it, though, so Ryan thinks he's mainly joking.

"The force of his awesome is a little overwhelming," Ryan agrees, and he swallows a laugh as Bob eyes them warily, making his way back up to the front of the store.

And then the door jangles open and Brendon spills inside. "Bob."

"Urie." Bob slides onto his stool behind the counter.

"Ryan. Ryan and Spence," Brendon says, draping himself over the glass display case. "VickyT punched me in the stomach."

"Victoria's my new hero," Spencer says.

Brendon pulls a face, then asks, "Bob, if you were a girl you'd totally date me, right?"

"No."

"Oh, that's a lie. You're such a liar." Brendon shakes his head, tsking.

Bob doesn't look all that put out about the accusation. It's hard to read Bob's face, though. Ryan thinks maybe he'd have the same fuck-off expression if he were eating a bagel or bludgeoning someone to death.

"Hey," someone says behind them, and they all swivel around to find Jon and the Butcher. The Butcher's got a brand new pair of drumsticks in his hands.

Ryan shoves Spencer over and out of the way, since he's pretty much frozen solid and mute, and they might joke about Jon's out-of-control awesomeness, but Spencer's crush is getting ridiculously debilitating.

Spencer surprises pretty much everyone, though, when he says, "Oh, hey, I have those."

Butcher twirls one between his fingers. "Yeah?"

"Favorites," Spencer says, nodding, because even though he's found his voice, he apparently still isn't all that articulate. Ryan's so proud.

Jon says, "Hidden depths, Spencer Smith," leaning towards him a little, and Spencer's eyes go wide.

"Jon Walker, JWalk, seriously, if you were a girl, would you go out with me?" Brendon asks, and for once Spencer looks entirely relieved for the interruption.

Jon shrugs, slips his hands into his pockets. "Sure."

Brendon bounces a little on his feet. "You're my new favorite, okay? Okay."

Jon smiles; a teasing one, one that's on the edge of laughter. He winks at Spencer. "But why do I have to be a girl?"

Ryan watches Spencer take a full step backwards, bumping into the edge of the counter with his hip, and seriously. Seriously, something has to be done.

*

Ryan usually spends Friday nights at Spencer's house watching old movies, and then they meet Brendon at Ray's Diner the next morning for breakfast.

Gabe's being weird, though, so instead of staying over at Spencer's, they're both stuffed into the Le Baron's backseat with this guy Nate and VickyT, and they end up at some sort of bonfire deep in the middle of the woods.

"The cobra has arrived," Gabe shouts as he climbs out of the car, and a crowd of guys whoop back at him, and Ryan thinks, oh fuck, we're at a jock party, and he thinks maybe they're going to get killed.

He grips Spencer's arm tight. "We're going to get killed."

Victoria smiles at them around a cigarette, but doesn't say anything. It doesn't really help Ryan relax.

Bill drapes an arm across Spencer's shoulders, says, "Spencer, my boy, come, let me show you the wondrous joys of keg stands, the decadent ways of the beer bong, the burning caress of cheap vodka straight out of Chislett's hip flask."

"Um." Spencer sends Ryan a shrug, then lets himself get pulled along.

Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets and trails reluctantly behind them.

Three hours later, Spencer's passed out in the back of the Le Baron. Ryan's holding a plastic cup of watery beer, making small talk with Nick Wheeler - and why the hell Wheeler's there, Ryan isn't sure, since Wheeler's a music geek and has his mom write notes to get him out of gym, which is more than Ryan's ever done to avoid physical fitness - and he looks up at a yell, spotting Gabe standing on top of a stump in the middle of the clearing.

"You call this a fucking party?" Gabe shouts. He tosses what looks like his lacrosse jacket into the bonfire, holds his hands up and out and says, "The cobra demands more beer," and then he sort of stumbles down and disappears into the horde of drunken teenagers.

Wheeler goes, "Huh," and, "So your stepbrother's a little—"

"I should go find him," Ryan says, because he can still hear Gabe's voice above everyone else's, and he's pretty sure he just said something along the lines of, "How much for the little girl?"

"No, hey, wait." Wheeler curls a hand around the back of Ryan's arm. "You seem all right, Ross."

"Okay." Ryan's had a lot of classes with Wheeler before, but they don't really know each other.

Wheeler smiles, and then Ritter - and Ryan knows for sure it's Ritter because he's shirtless, with RITTER written across his chest in marker or lipstick or something - swoops out of nowhere and tackles Wheeler onto the ground.

"Say uncle," Ritter says, straddling Wheeler's chest, knees pinning his arms.

"Get off me, you jackass." Wheeler's laughing, though, and not struggling much, and Ryan feels kind of awkward just staring down at them.

"Yeah, they'll be like that for a while," someone says into the back of Ryan's neck, and Ryan's had just enough beer to make everything slur together as he spins around, unsteady on his feet.

Mike catches his arm, grins up at him.

"Are they—?"

"Thirteen-year-old girls? Yeah." Mike laughs.

Ryan bobs his head, takes a sip of beer.

Mike shifts on his feet and says, "So, um. I didn't mean to, like, freak you out the other day."

"You, what? No, you—you didn't," Ryan says, and now he's stuttering, wow, this is possibly his most uncool moment ever in a life of uncool.

"Kennerty, dude." Gaylor plasters himself against Mike's back, chin digging into his shoulder. "Mike, little buddy—"

"Fuck off," Mike says, elbowing Gaylor in the stomach, but he's grinning.

Ryan's always been a little wary of Chris Gaylor. Gaylor doesn't actually go to school, like, ever. Rumor is that he shows up for midterms and finals, but Ryan can't figure out how any of the teachers let his attendance slide, why they still manage to pass him each year.

Gaylor's eyes are droopy at the edges, smile vague, but he says, "Ryan Ross, take a stroll with me," and Ryan isn't sure what's more startling, the suggestion or the fact that Gaylor knows who he is.

"Oh, no," Mike says, but he doesn't make any move to stop him when Gaylor lurches forward and grabs Ryan's wrist. "You'll never give him back."

"Come with us, then," Gaylor says, then to Ryan, leaning in to tug on his jacket, "Christ, Gramps, tell me that's authentic tweed."

Ryan tries to squirm away, says, "Hey, don't—"

"Chill, Ross, it's a total fucking compliment. You're like this weirdo, bohemian—oh, your scarf." Gaylor leans even further into Ryan's space, holds the ends of his scarf up in the firelight. "Your scarf has fucking tiny giraffes on it, how do you even exist? Mike, Mike, how does this guy even exist?"

"I don't know, man," Mike says good-naturedly, and the heat on Ryan's cheeks is completely justified by the nearby fire.

"Let's go, let's introduce you to Travis," Gaylor says. "Travis needs to see this shit."

Ryan isn't sure he wants to go anywhere with Gaylor, but then Mike's laughing near his ear, and he says, "Hey, hey, just a handshake, right?" and Ryan finds himself wedged into the back of a shit car so thick with smoke he can hardly see.

*

At some point, Ryan and Spencer get back to Spencer's house, and he's pretty sure it wasn't Gabe who'd dropped them off.

Ryan is drymouthed and hungry, and Spencer is barely coherent, huddled under a mound of blankets on his bed, and Ryan texts Brendon, were dead go on without us, and ducks back into his sleeping bag.

It's not that Ryan doesn't remember the night before. It's just that there are only a couple very vivid moments that stand out. One) he almost coughed up both his lungs; two) he gets fucking chatty when he's high, apparently, and he'd lectured Disashi for god knows how long on Dostoevsky, of all things; and three) he'd told Gaylor he's, "No lie, no lie, seriously, a witch." They'd had a good laugh over that one.

Ryan's really hoping Gaylor doesn't remember.

His cell beeps and he reaches a hand out blindly for it, and while answering Brendon's, im so sad so sad u guys suck, his phone beeps again, flashing a number he doesn't recognize.

He hits okay, reads, yo sabrina ive got ur magick scarf, and groans into his pillow. Son of a bitch.

Groping for his necklace, he thinks if there's ever a time for this to be true, for all this magic shit to be real, the whole Gabe-turned-cobra thing to not be some sort of aberration or a hallucination brought about by close contact with Pete Wentz - it's not all that farfetched, Ryan thinks - he needs it to be now. He needs Gaylor to not remember anything Ryan said, because how embarrassing is that?

He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes hard and he feels—nothing. Nothing at all. He lets out a frustrated sigh.

When he goes to snap his cell shut, though, he freezes, and Gaylor's message starts changing. Letters scrambling, fading, until it just says: ive got ur scarf. Ryan smiles, because that's sort of completely awesome.

*

Spencer has huge black sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hair is a mess, the lines around his mouth tight, skin pale, and he pretty much looks tremendously hungover.

They had promised to meet Brendon at Bryar's Music, though, so they'd picked up some milkshakes, and now they're hiding out in the magazine aisle, surreptitiously watching Jon and his friends dick around on some instruments in the back, basically exactly like every other Saturday.

Butcher is leaning on the front counter, and Ryan nudges Spencer's arm. He says, "Go ask if you can play with them."

Spencer snorts. "Don't think so."

Ryan frowns, because Spencer isn't going to get anywhere with Jon if they never interact with each other. So maybe Ryan presses his fingers into the necklace through the thin material of his shirt, and maybe he wishes for Spencer to have a little fucking confidence already. Spencer is amazing. He doesn't know why Spencer can't see that.

Spencer's head suddenly snaps up, and he pushes his sunglasses up off his face, pinning his hair back at weird angles, and he looks sort of adorably mussed, but Ryan isn't going to tell him that. Or point out that he'd grabbed Ryan's t-shirt that morning in his stupor, and that it's sort of tight around his shoulders, riding up a little at his belly. He's got a half-grown beard shading his jaw, an almost-blond mustache - and Schechter's gonna make him shave it all off any day now, but Ryan secretly thinks it looks awesome, and is slightly jealous, 'cause he can barely grow peach fuzz on his own face - and his appearance is not at all up to Spencer's usual standards. If Spencer ever figures this all out, he's going to kill Ryan.

But right then, Spencer just calmly places his magazine back on the shelf and makes his way towards the rear of the store.

Brendon glances up from his spot on the floor, knees up around his ears, the latest Rolling Stone spread out in front of him. "Hey, what's Spence—"

"Shut up," Ryan says, then crooks a finger and Brendon scrambles to his feet, eyes big and curious as they slip around the corner.

They watch Spencer nod at Jon and Sisky, watch him slide behind one of the full kits set up, palming the Butcher's abandoned drumsticks, and he just starts fucking playing, and it's so unbelievably awesome.

Ryan's heart is pounding almost as loud as the drums in his ears, and Jon's face, Jon's expression, melts from stunned to pleased to near ecstatic between one beat and the next. By the time they're done, the last twang of Tomrad's guitar stretching out in the air above their heads, Jon's grinning at Spencer like he hung the fucking moon and then took Jon for a ride to see it up close.

Spencer's breathing hard, a little sweaty.

Tomrad says, "Spencer motherfucking Smith, ladies and gentlemen."

Spencer swipes his hair back off his face - he'd lost his sunglasses from his immensely awesome playing; Ryan's maybe only a little biased - and beams.

That's the one thing about the beard, Ryan thinks. Spencer's beam isn't nearly as potent.

Jon doesn't seem to notice the muted wattage, though. He just says, "Okay, wow, you need to be near me smiling, like, every second of every day."

Brendon mutters, "Finally, geez," under his breath.

Spencer looks dazed, but his grin doesn't falter, not even a tiny little bit.

*

So Ryan doesn't exactly abuse his powers, but he gets some free pie out of Ray - Ray's notoriously tightfisted with his pie - and then they end up trooping back to Spencer's house to watch Circle of Friends, even though Brendon and Spencer hate that movie.

"With a passion," Brendon says, but he pops it into the DVD player and Ryan just smiles behind his hand.

It's a little mean, maybe, but he's not hurting anyone. Spencer talks about Jon through most of it, anyway.

"Did you see when he held my hand?" Spencer asks. "He's got, like, calluses all over his fingers. And he takes pictures and he likes cats and pizza and that shirt I wore last week with the rainbow zebra." He looks especially pleased by the last one, pink cheeked.

Brendon nods. "Hang on tight, Spence. JWalk's a keeper."

Spencer looks like he's trying not to smile too hard, but he fails completely. "I know."

Ryan thinks being magic is the best thing that's ever happened to him, if it helps make Spencer that happy. And if things actually go Ryan's way for once, well. He's not going to complain.

*

Ryan had made plans to meet Gerard in the auditorium on Sunday, and when Ryan shows up that afternoon he finds Gerard slumped behind the garden set, the faux stone wall.

"Do you ever feel," Ryan says, settling down next to him, "that you're always in the wrong place?"

Gerard arches an eyebrow at him, needle pausing over a satin rosette he's inexplicably sewing onto a red vest. "Huh?"

"Like whatever you're doing now," Ryan pointedly eyes Gerard's fingers, "isn't what you were actually meant to do?"

"I don't know." Gerard shrugs. "Destiny is kind of what you make it." He gives Ryan a tiny sliver of a smile, like he's poking fun at himself but it isn't particularly funny. "I could probably be anything I wanted to be, right, but I'd have to move out of my mom's basement."

Ryan chews on his thumbnail, bends his knees and stares at the tiny crisscross weave of his pants. He thinks maybe Gerard's problem is motivation. Gerard needs a goal, but he needs a reason to go for that goal, and Gerard desperately needs to move out of his mom's basement, Christ.

He wonders if he can wish for vague things, like world peace or Gerard's happiness, since he's not exactly sure of the details that'll be involved in fixing Gerard.

Gerard smoothes the material under his hands, then lifts it up and says, "Okay, here, let me see the fit."

Ryan blinks at him. "The fit?"

"Get up," Gerard prompts, gaining his own feet. "Try this on for me."

Ryan gets up, pulls off his jacket and neckerchief and then slides the vest on over his t-shirt. He feels a little ridiculous, but he buttons it up.

Gerard hmmms, says, "Gapes a little in the back, you're a skinny little fuck," and then murmurs almost to himself, "Definitely needs more roses, like," he cuts the side of his hand over Ryan's heart, "all down here."

Ryan looks down at himself. It's kind of nice, actually. "What's this for?" he asks, because he doesn't remember any rose vests in the costume sketches, and there wouldn't be any reason to fit it to Ryan anyway.

"Fun," Gerard says. He smiles, pushing his dark hair behind his ears.

There has to be a way, Ryan thinks, to make that smile permanent.

*

The way Ryan figures it works is that he wants something to happen, and it just happens, and everything is centered around the necklace Pete gave him.

"It's like a wand, dude, only not a wand, because a wand is fucking conspicuous, right?"

"And you're a witch, too?" Ryan asks doubtfully. He's in Pete's kitchen again, but this time he eats some cookies. It's not like things can get any weirder. Pete's sort of in his lap. Ryan's not exactly sure how that happened.

Pete squirms a little, throws an arm over Ryan's shoulders and settles sideways on his knees. "You're fucking bony, kid," Pete mutters, and then, "I'm kind of a witch. I've never had much power so, like, keep that thing with my blessing or whatever." He gestures at the necklace. "Patrick'll kill me if I try any more magic by myself, anyway."

Ryan nods, presses his fingers into the charm, and it's just a whim, really, a quick thread of thought, because Mike has been really nice to him and friendly and Ryan can't help but think how great it'd be if there was more, if he'd look at him the same soft way he looks at Keltie. He almost can't believe he's actually going to ask this, but, "So, is there any kind of love spell I could try?"

Two hours later, Pete's covered in paprika and he says, "Wait, wait, I know what we did wrong this time," and Ryan's ready to give up.

It's a stupid idea anyhow.

Pete takes a bite of deviled egg and nods. "Yeah, okay, I don't think we were supposed to hard boil the eggs."

Ryan slumps down, bangs his forehead on the kitchen table. "Okay, never mind," he says. "This is so dumb."

"Good."

Ryan tips his head to the side, looks up at Pete across the table from him. "What?"

Pete beams. "Oh, come on, love spell? Don't mess with the heart, dude. It fucks your mind after a while." He rubs his hands together and waggles his eyebrows. "Now, we can make you popular. That'd fucking rock."

*

Monday starts off strange and only gets weirder.

A pack of girls stop him on his way up the front steps, admiring his pants, matching vest, scarf, "Oh my god, how do you get your hair to do that," and Ryan tries to smile at them, but he thinks it comes off more as a baring of teeth. Not like they notice.

Nor does McCracken notice his flinch when he picks Ryan first for kickball teams in gym - Ryan likes being last, because that way they're usually already losing spectacularly by the time he gets the ball.

By lunch, Ryan's jittery from all the freaking touching and he's used to Brendon, for god's sake.

Spencer eyes him from across the table. "Why're you so grumpy?" he asks.

"I've had four girls and three guys ask me to the formal," Ryan says.

"That's. Good?"

"Spencer," Ryan says flatly, "Travis made me give him a high five. Gaylor is wearing my scarf," Gaylor, who never comes to school - and sure there'd been a mocking edge to his, "Hey, hey, look at me, dudes, I'm Ryan Ross," but still - "Mr. Lacey smiled at me, and I'm not going to the formal, Spencer, because we never go to dances." They always rent movies with Brendon on school dance nights, because dances are just excuses for everyone to act like asses and listen to crappy music.

"Uh." Spencer drops his gaze to the table, body tensed up. "Jon might have asked me. I maybe already said yes."

Ryan barely pauses. He just says, "Well, okay, yeah," because Jon asking Spencer out is the best news he's heard all day.

Spencer's shoulders relax and he grins stupidly at Ryan. "So you have to come, too," he says.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Maybe."

"I've decided," Brendon says grandly, dropping a stack of textbooks onto the table with a loud thwack, "to embrace my inner unicorn."

There's a brief mutual silent appreciation for Brendon's utter weirdness.

Then Spencer echoes, "Embrace your inner unicorn."

"Mikey, you know Mikey, Gerard's brother," Brendon says, and Ryan vaguely remembers Mikey Way, but Ryan's pretty sure he graduated already, "he's, like, trying to talk Gerard out of the tuba closet—"

"What?"

Brendon waves a hand. "He's fine. Mikey says he's fine, but Mikey totally told me about this unicorn shit, right? Like, deep down everyone has a tiny unicorn, this pure love part of your soul, and VickyT's wounding me with her rejection, guys, so I need to find some peace and move on."

Ryan furrows his brow. He's not sure any of that made sense. Also, he's kind of still hung up on the Gerard thing. "Gerard's in the tuba closet?"

"Focus, Ryan Ross! I need to find an appropriate outlet for my sexual affection before my inner unicorn gets, like, its horn lopped off, because unicorns can't live without their horns," Brendon says, nodding. "A lesson well learned from Tom Cruise."

Spencer is just staring at Brendon with huge eyes. He's well past any kind of mocking, it seems.

"Okay," Ryan says to Spencer, "you figure out what the hell Brendon's talking about, and I'm gonna go find Gerard."

*

The band room kind of freaks Ryan out when it's empty. All the lonely, waiting instruments and echoing acoustics and the giant Fighting Badger painted on the back wall.

He sneaks in, spots a dark-haired guy with clunky glasses sitting on the floor to the left, just outside what must be the tuba closet, and he figures that's Mikey. He looks familiar; his face is sort of Gerard-like, only thinner.

"Gerard?" Ryan asks softly.

Mikey stares up at him for a moment, then hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "He's okay," he says.

Ryan really wonders about Gerard's past if hiding in a high school tuba closet is considered okay. He arches his eyebrows, but Mikey shakes his head.

"No, really, he gets like this sometimes. He's thinking." He pats the floor next to him.

Ryan pushes his bag into an empty chair and joins Mikey by the door. "Ryan," he says, and Mikey nods.

"Mikey."

Ryan nods back, settles his shoulders against the wall. It's a little awkward. Ryan's never been very good with strangers, and Mikey seems content to just sit there, staring down at his fingers linked in his lap.

Gerard's costume sketchpad is at Mikey's feet, so Ryan reaches out, slides it over and flips it open.

Mikey slants him a look, but doesn't say anything. It's not like the sketches are private, Ryan's seen them all anyway. Towards the back, there's a drawing of Ryan's rose vest - and Ryan's not going to say it's over the top, exactly, but there's just, like, an awful lot of roses on it - and then a study of hands on the fret of a guitar. Ryan traces the lines with his finger, then flips the page, the same hands but from a longer view, the body around them horizontal, sort of arched off a stage, neck bared and throat tense and mouth open and eyes closed.

"Who's this?" Ryan asks.

Mikey looks startled. "Frank," he says, studying the sketch, then he turns his head and yells through the door, "Hey, Gee, since when do you have an inappropriate crush on my best friend?"

There's a muffled, "I've got an inappropriate crush on your mom," and Ryan. Doesn't want to go there.

Ryan can work with a crush, though. Obviously, he can't do anything about Frank, because he doesn't know him, and Pete's warned him about meddling with love, but he can maybe get Gerard out there. He can give him a chance; keep him from hiding in tuba closets and his mom's basement.

He says, "Hey, Gerard," and Gerard's voice sounds slightly closer on, "Ryan?"

"What's up?" Ryan asks.

A pause. "Nothing," he says finally. Then the door cracks and slowly swings inward, so just Gerard's face is visible. He looks like maybe he's been crying, a thin line of red around his eyes, but his cheeks are dry. "I think I know what I want to do with my life."

*

Ryan gets quiet and withdrawn when he's nervous, so he has no idea what's set him off babbling with Mike. He can't seem to shut up.

"So he wants to save lives, right, but I have no idea how. It's just. I think he's had a rough time, and he doesn't want anyone else to have to go through that, you know?"

They're sitting at the dining room table, books spread out, and Ryan can't stop talking about Gerard. Mike's grinning at him, though, and he nods his head.

"I get that," Mike says.

Ryan grins back, then clears his throat and ducks his head a little and says, "So, um, existential—"

"You have really pretty eyes," Mike cuts in.

Ryan jerks his head up. Mike's scooted his chair a little closer, Ryan thinks.

"Um." Ryan has okay eyes. They're nothing special, as far as eyes go. "Thanks."

"You." Mike pauses, leans a little into Ryan's personal space. He reaches a hand up, hooks his fingers over the scarf around Ryan's neck, tugs a little. "How are you real?" Mike says, so soft, almost a whisper, and Ryan licks his lips.

"Mike—"

"I'm gonna kiss you, okay?" Mike asks, and he waits for Ryan's nod - and Ryan nods, of course Ryan nods, because he's not stupid, and he's kind of wanted to kiss Mike for forever - and then he tugs even harder on Ryan's scarf, so hard the knot slips, exposing his throat all the way down to his low henley collar.

Ryan swallows hard and his hands are shaking, curled into themselves on the tabletop, and it's not like Ryan's never kissed anyone before. He's even had sex, thank you very much - although it'd been once, and with Brendon, and kind of horribly awkward and messy and traumatizing, and he's just lucky Brendon's such a complete spaz or it could have meant the end of everything, even their friendship - but he pushes that out of his mind, because he's getting way ahead of himself here. A kiss. Right.

The angle is awkward. They're side by side, and Ryan's barely turned towards Mike, and Mike has to grab his chin, has to tip his mouth up to Ryan's, and then Ryan licks his lips again and Mike makes this little sound in the back of his throat.

Ryan's the one who ends up pushing forward, mouth slightly open, lower lip sliding down to catch the indent just above Mike's chin before Mike opens up, moves his hand around to the back of Ryan's neck and pulls him closer. Mike's lips are chapped and rough, breath warm, and then—

"So don't mind me."

Ryan jerks back, fingers curling into Mike's wrist. He breathes out, harsh, heart skittering.

Mike just drops his hands, gives Gabe a loose smile. "Gabe."

Gabe arches an eyebrow. "Mike. Are you corrupting my little brother?"

"Christ, Gabe," Ryan says with a groan, but Mike laughs, says, "I'm trying to. You're kind of cramping my style, dude."

"Well, then." Gabe gives him a salute and a smarmy grin. "Carry on," he says, and Ryan thinks maybe he's going to die, he's so embarrassed, but at least Gabe spins on his heel and leaves. Small blessings.

He palms his face, feels the heat burning into his fingers.

"So," Mike says.

Ryan peeks out from between his fingers.

Mike moves closer again, asks, "So, where were we?" and Ryan finds himself leaning away, finds himself putting his hands on Mike's chest to brace him back.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" Ryan asks, then bites his lip, watching Mike's eyes. He thinks he should've asked that before, but he also kind of wants to swallow the words back down his throat, because he kind of knows the answer to that already, and hi, kissing. The kissing part was pretty awesome.

Mike shrugs, gaze sliding past Ryan's shoulder. He says, "Not really," and Ryan knows that's a yes. A pretty shitty yes, too, and Ryan had been sure Mike was better than that.

"Maybe you should go," Ryan says.

It's almost funny, Mike's face. The way his eyes go wide and stunned, the way his skin washes pale, then flushes in from his ears. "But. I'm not lying, Ryan," he says.

Ryan nods. "Okay." He doesn't want to argue about it.

"No, I mean. Keltie's a good friend," he says, and Brendon's words come back to Ryan, and Ryan can't believe Brendon had called that.

"Really?" Ryan asks, skeptical. Brendon is hardly ever right about things. He's sort of socially backward.

"Look, you're just." Mike pauses, looks down at their books. "You're just different." He flashes him a quick grin. "Chris really likes you."

Ryan rolls his eyes. Gaylor's a giant douche, but Ryan kind of likes him, too.

Mike clears his throat. He starts flipping his books closed, shuffling his papers together, stuffs the whole mess into his book bag. Finally, he gets to his feet and says, "Come with me to the formal on Friday."

Ryan maybe hesitates a little, but he says, "All right, yes. I'll go with you."

*

Ryan has no idea what's wrong, but he's not happy. He thinks it has something to do with the fawning group of freshman he's got following him around and the way Mr. Lacey's eyes light up every time he catches sight of him.

Pete had been totally wrong. This popularity business is just plain creepy.

"All right," Brendon says, sinking to sit on the stage in between Ryan and Spencer, "I've got a list."

"A list?" Spencer asks.

Brendon waves a notebook in front of Spencer's face. "Yep. A list of perspective dates, Spencer Smith."

Ryan leans over, catches Spencer's name near the top. "Seriously?"

Spencer rips the pad out of Brendon's hands. "Okay, no," he says, then snaps his fingers. "Give me a pen."

"It's a good list," Brendon grumbles, fishing a pencil out of his bag.

"Seriously, no." Spencer shakes his head, crossing out his name, then starts down the rest of the list. "And no. No, no—Greta Salpeter?"

Brendon shrugs. "She's—"

"Dating the entire jazz band," Spencer says, and Ryan doesn't think that's strictly true, just some sort of rumor that no one seems to be able to prove or disprove, given that none of them actually date other people.

"What about—"

"No. No way, here," Spencer says, handing back the notebook.

"You've crossed out to the whole thing," Brendon says, pouting.

"Not true."

Ryan hooks his chin over Brendon's shoulder. "The Butcher?"

"He's called the Butcher," Brendon says, grin blooming over his face. "How is that not awesome, right?"

"Pretty cool," Ryan agrees.

"Butcher, Andy, hey, Andy," Brendon calls out, scrambling to his feet and bounding across the stage.

Ryan can see the Butcher's bemused smile as Brendon hooks an arm around his neck. "Spencer Smith, matchmaker," he says.

Spencer smiles. "Jon mentioned something." He pokes Ryan's side. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong with you?"

"I've started a craze," Ryan deadpans.

"Yeah." Spencer bobs his head. "I think half the school is wearing scarves now, and the headband is making a comeback, apparently. I'm pretty sure that's your fault."

"Whatever," Ryan says. It's practical. It keeps his hair out of his eyes. That isn't the point, though. The point is that Ryan had spotted a sophomore that morning who was wearing his exact same shirt and exact same pants, and the shoes were fucking familiar, too, so Ryan's thinking about investing in some blinds. "Mike's taking me to the formal."

"Mike Kennerty?" Spencer asks, and thanks for sounding so incredulous, Spencer, geez. Like it's so hard to believe. Like Mike wanting to—okay. Okay, it's weird, yeah.

It's weird, because a popularity spell might not be as damning as a love spell, but it still fucks with your mind. There's every possibility that Mike actually doesn't like him at all, and Ryan's stomach sort of bottoms out.

*

Pete's shop is closed, so Ryan leans on the buzzer. It's a good fifteen minutes before he hears the bolt slide and the soft snick of the door opening, and Pete's a little disheveled, but he doesn't look unhappy to see him. He just grins, says, "Ryan, dude, come on in," and takes a step back.

Patrick shuffles down the steps just as Ryan moves into the front room. He's got pajama bottoms on, and Ryan checks his watch again, because he's pretty sure it's only, like, five at night.

"So what's up?" Pete asks. He clicks on a lamp. Ryan's thinks it's new, and it's got multi-colored glass panels on the shade, throwing weak light onto the bookshelf behind it, the dark blue and brown aubusson rug covering the floor. The whole shop is just really sort of depressing.

"How am I supposed to know who likes me for me?" Ryan asks, and Pete's brows shoot up.

"Well. Normally, people who like other people will engage in what I like to call friendly conversation. There may be smiling involved, or, like, shoulder pats—"

"Pete. Pete, I'm." Ryan shakes his head. "The spell, Pete, okay?"

"Wait, what spell?" Patrick asks, arms crossed over his chest. "Pete?"

Pete waves him off. "Just a tiny little popularity spell, it's nothing. It's less than nothing. Barely a spell, even—"

"They're calling my hair style The Ryan," Ryan says.

"Huh." Pete cocks his head. "Really? I mean, it's alright. It isn't anything spec—"

"I don't think that's the point, Pete," Patrick says, and he looks like maybe he wants to punch Pete, and Ryan certainly isn't going to stop him. Patrick just drops into a chair, though, with a huge, heavy sigh.

"So I think I maybe want it to go away," Ryan says. "The popularity spell, I mean."

Pete doesn't seem surprised. "Okay. Okay, give me back the necklace then."

"What?"

"Something like this always snowballs, so it's tough to just stop it, right?" Pete shrugs. "Let go of the necklace, and everything goes back to normal."

"But. But, I haven't helped Gerard yet," Ryan says, clutching the charm with tight fingers.

"The guy who wants to save lives?" Pete nods, opens his mouth to add something, but Patrick cuts him off.

"You don't have to be magic to be a good friend, Ryan."

"But it helps," Pete says.

"No," Patrick says sternly, giving Pete a glare. "No, it doesn't."

Ryan bounces his gaze between Patrick and Pete, watching them make increasingly pissy faces at each other. Or rather, Patrick is making pissy faces, and Pete's just alternately widening his eyes and scrunching his face up in a snarl, and then he reaches out and pokes Patrick in the stomach until Patrick slaps his hand away and calls him an asshole. Patrick's smiling, though.

Ryan, of course, doesn't really want to give up the necklace. Not yet, at least, and it's stupid, he knows it's stupid, but he's kind of relieved that the popularity spell isn't something they can just reverse, because, hey, he tried! He tried, and now he's stuck with Mike whether it's real or not, and maybe that's okay for now.

"Look," Patrick says. "Are any of your friends, any of the people who hung around you before the spell—are any of them treating you differently?"

Ryan lifts a hand, rubs the back of his head. Friends, no. He shrugs. Spencer and Brendon have been the same as always.

"Then it shouldn't matter."

"It shouldn't," Pete says, nodding, "but maybe it does."

*

"Here," Gabe says, handing Ryan a grape popsicle. "You look like you need this."

Ryan looks down at the half-melted sticky mess, then blinks at Gabe.

Gabe cocks a finger at him and says, "Popsicles and kittens, man. Unstoppable forces of cheer."

Gabe's been off ever since he turned human again. He's dropped most of his friends, stopped going to lacrosse practice, and started devoting his time to, "Saving the children with rocking dance music, Ross. The future is doomed, and we're throwing the party."

Victoria and Bill seem to just go along with his whims, and he's spending an awful lot of time with Travis and Travis's stash of questionable substances, and there's something going on in the garage. Something that requires a lot of noise and a giant poster of Steve Perry.

Whatever, though, at least he's decent to Ryan now.

Gabe pulls him under his freakishly long arm and tells him not to upset the cobra with his mope-ish vibes. "Be happy, dude," he says to Ryan. "Live for the moment, before the moment eats you."

Gabe seems to be full of warped platitudes. It's almost endearing.

Ryan's finding it a little hard to be happy when he's got everything he ever wanted, though, and that's just pathetic, right?

*

"Is this really necessary?" Spencer asks.

"Yes," Gerard says absently. He's caging Spencer's waist with his spread hands. "Too tight?"

Spencer coughs. "No."

Ryan's kneeling at Spencer's feet, pinning up the hem. They're using parts of an old costume, since they don't have the funds or the time to start from scratch. There's no boning, but the blouse is fitted around his stomach, with a thick band sitting high from the skirt.

Gerard cocks his head, and Ryan sits back on his heels, taking in Spencer's pink cheeks.

"Okay, we're good for now," Gerard says. "You can change."

"Thank god," Spencer mutters, and then Jon's behind him, pulling him back and then hefting him over his shoulder, and Spencer kicks out and yelps, "What the fuck, Walker."

"Spencer, Spencer, you're so pretty," Jon says, a little out of breath, because Spencer's kind of bigger than Jon. Taller, at least. "I'm stealing you away."

"Jon, put me—put me down," Spencer shouts, but he's laughing now, and Jon starts staggering and falls into Sisky, who actually goes down hard and without much of a fight.

Spencer's sprawled on top of Jon, laughing into his neck, and Jon's smile is huge, and Sisky's making little weak kitten noises. It's pretty funny.

Gerard clucks his tongue, then giggles, shakes his head. "You're next, Ryan."

"Next for what?" They still have to fit the Butcher and Audrey.

Gerard reaches for his satchel and pulls out a box. "I finished this last night," he says, and oh-so-carefully tugs off the lid, pushes tissue paper aside to reveal—the most ridiculous piece of clothing Ryan has ever laid eyes on. It's awesome.

"The roses I added really make it, you know?" Gerard's eyes are twinkling.

"I love it," Ryan says, and he really, really does.

The vest is tiny, the explosion of rosettes is huge, and then Gerard holds up a red sash and says, "You can tie this around your waist. It matches."

*

Brendon's bouncing on Ryan's bed. "You look perfect," he says, and Brendon's wearing some sort of hideous flowered shirt with a matching ascot, so Ryan's pretty sure he's telling the truth.

The doorbell rings and Brendon hops to his feet. "Okay, so I guess I'm running late," Brendon says, heading for the hallway. "I still have to pick up Andy."

Ryan's frozen in front of his mirror. He hears Brendon let Mike in, hears him slip out and start his van - the whir-whir-cough-sputter, because Brendon's purple van is ancient, but at least he has wheels - and Ryan curls his hands into fists. The necklace is inside his shirt, heavy and warm against his skin. He can do this. Everything'll be fine.

"Ryan?" Mike calls up.

Ryan takes a deep breath, grabs his wallet and keys. "Coming," he says, and then he's, like, staring down at Mike at the bottom of the steps.

Mike's wearing a suit jacket and a button down open over a tee and jeans. He looks casual and hot and Ryan fidgets self-consciously with the lowest poofy rose.

"Wow." Mike grins. "That's a pretty kick-ass vest, Ry."

Ryan feels his cheeks heat up. He can't tell if Mike's making fun of him or not, but he doesn't think so. He's just really glad Gabe left hours ago to set up for the dance. "Ready?" he asks, and Mike nods.

Gaylor is waiting for them out in Mike's car. He's sprawled across the backseat, and he basically doesn't stop laughing the entire ride to school. "Ross," he gasps. "Seriously, fuck, you're my goddamn hero."

Ryan purses his lips, but Mike's smiling this totally amused smile, sending him little sideways glances, so it's hard to stay pissed off.

Gaylor's down to intermittent giggling by the time they spill out of the car and into the school parking lot, and Ryan notices he's still wearing Ryan's giraffe scarf - and Ryan kind of wants it back, but now he's afraid of all the places it's been, because with Gaylor you never know.

Gerard's sitting on the curb as they walk up to the double gymnasium doors. He's smoking, though he's obviously trying to be sneaky about it, and he waves at them with a little smile. "I'm here to tell you that alcohol's verboten, and if you want to lambada, take it off school grounds."

Gaylor says, "Yes, sir," and Gerard laughs.

He pokes Ryan's shoe with the toe of his own. "Have fun," Gerard says, and Ryan still isn't exactly sure how to help him, but Gerard seems kind of happy, right at that moment, so Ryan thinks maybe it'll all be okay.

*

The gym is lit with paper lanterns and littered with multi-colored balloons, and Ryan spots Travis at the DJ table, iPod cued up with a light dance tune, bobbing his head as Gabe struts the stage, and Ryan can't hear what he's saying, but he looks like he's giving Bill and Victoria some sort of pep talk.

Gabe had apparently created a band out of thin air in literal minutes, just calling up a few guitarists he knows, recruiting Bill and Nate and VickyT, and they play mainly Journey covers, but they're kind of good. Extremely entertaining, at least.

Schechter's letting them headline the formal because they offered to do it for free. Ryan's sure he didn't know about their limited repertoire at the time, but it's not like anyone minds. It's Gabe. The entire school body would probably follow him over a cliff. They'll party their asses off to Journey if they have to.

When Gabe paces to a stop at the front of the stage, he spins his hat around backwards and waits for Travis to flick off the stereo system.

"I'm not here to save the world," Gabe shouts into the mic, and the room gets quiet, and Ryan admires the way he's got everyone hooked, "I'm just here to make sure we all go out rocking," and then VickyT turns her keytar up, and Bill and Gabe trade off verses on Separate Ways.

*

Some kid that Ryan has never seen before in his entire life, he swears, says, "Hi, Ryan," and sort of looks up at him with cartoon-wide eyes.

"Um. Hi?" Ryan gives him an uncomfortable little wave and follows Mike through the crowd.

Three lacrosse players bump his fist, one gives him a bear hug that lifts him off his feet, five girls make him promise to dance with them later, and Mr. Nolan practically has to drag Mr. Lacey over to the other side of the room after he offers to get Ryan, "Punch? Cookies? Wet nap?"

Gaylor drapes an arm around Ryan's neck and near-yells into his ear, "Motherfucking Ross, hook me up with that chick in Gabe's band."

Ryan scrunches his forehead. "Victoria?"

"VickyT, yeah, shit, those legs, dude, I want to fucking live on her tits, right?"

Ryan's pretty sure if Victoria ever hears Gaylor talking about her like that he'll end up with a bloody mouth and a permanent limp. The thought's really, really hilarious. "Go for it," he says. "I'll put in a good word."

Gaylor shakes him before letting go, and then Mike catches his eye and says, "So you're popular tonight."

Ryan jerks a little, fumbles over, "Um, not. I don't think I'd call it popular," but Mike still has that same amused look on his face, like everything Ryan says or does is so damn cute. That's actually starting to get irritating.

"Seriously," Mike says to Ryan, and he links their hands together. "I get that you're great and all, but I'm gonna get jealous pretty soon."

"Are you." Ryan looks down at their hands, fingers threaded, and something tightens in his chest so hard he has trouble taking in a breath, gets lightheaded. "Fuck," he whispers.

"What?"

"I'm." Ryan looks around wildly. Tomrad and Jon have Spencer out on the dance floor, Brendon's grinning, talking nonstop at the Butcher, some dark-haired girl has her tongue down Sisky's throat, and the rest of the room is, like, staring dreamily at Ryan, and Ryan is freaking the fuck out. "I'm," Ryan starts again. "I need some air. I'll be right back."

*

The necklace is fucking choking him.

That's what it is.

"So I'm supposed to say that anyone who leaves the dance isn't allowed back in," Gerard says, leaning into the wall next to him.

Ryan barely manages a nod in his direction. He unfastens the top few buttons of his shirt.

"You okay?" Gerard asks.

Ryan takes deep breaths, in and out, stares out into the parking lot, concentrates on the spill of lamplight shiny on top of Gabe's beloved Le Baron. "Say," Ryan starts slowly, "there's this guy."

"What's his name?"

Ryan blinks. "Um. Joe? There's this guy, Joe, and one day he realizes he's," Ryan flaps a hand, "really awesome at guitar. He's, like, the pied piper of guitarists."

Gerard says, "Okay."

"And all of a sudden," Ryan goes on, "everyone wants to be near him, be his friend, especially this other guy, this guy that Joe really likes a lot, but has previously never even, like, noticed him, right?"

"Who's—"

"Andy. Joe and Andy, okay?" Ryan's warming up to his story now and he turns, one shoulder against the wall, so he can look straight into Gerard's face. "Andy's great. Andy's popular and cool and mellow and stuff, and it's. He's around Joe all the time now, and that's awesome, Joe loves that, except he can't tell if it's his killer guitar playing skills that have tempted Andy into being his friend, or—"

"Or if he's Joe's friend for real." Gerard nods. "But, I mean, how much can guitar playing change a guy?"

"It doesn't, that's the point. It doesn't change him, but it changes how everyone sees him. And he can stop playing guitar, he can give it up, have everything go back the way it was, but he's afraid that, well." Ryan half-shrugs.

Gerard chews on his bottom lip, narrows his eyes. "Okay, but if it doesn't actually change Joe, then wouldn't Andy still be fine with him, even without the guitar? Because if he's spending all this time with Joe, he'd have to think Joe was pretty cool anyway."

"But." Ryan grimaces. It makes sense if they're talking about fucking guitars, and not about actual magical influences.

Gerard fishes a battered pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He says, "I guess the point is that Joe's not gonna be happy unless he puts down the guitar and finds out the truth, no matter what it is."

Ryan sighs, swings back around to slump into the wall. "What if he really likes playing the guitar?" he asks softly.

Gerard's quiet for a few minutes. He taps out a cigarette, lights up, and Ryan watches the smoke curl up and away as he exhales, watches it dissipate into the night. Finally, Gerard says, "Who says he can't pick it back up again?"

*

The absolute worst that could happen, Ryan thinks, is that he could get his heart broken.

It's pretty fucking daunting.

He slips back into the gym and sees Keltie standing with Mike and Gaylor, sees Ritter leaning into her, his other arm wrapped around Wheeler's waist. Keltie's laughing, and she's still smiling when she spots Ryan, so Ryan steels himself and walks over, nods hello.

"Ryan, hey," Keltie says.

Mike gives him a worried look, asks, "Everything good?"

Ryan says, "Yeah," and, "I'm fine," and hopes that Keltie doesn't decide to punch him. He hooks a thumb underneath the necklace chain, pulls it up and out of his shirt collar, whips it over his head. "Hold this a minute," he says, pressing it into Keltie's hands.

He doesn't know how it's supposed to happen, but he figures it's, like, a clean break. Like the atmosphere in the room'll shift, and everyone and their dog will forget who the hell Ryan is - they never really knew before, right?

Mike's still watching him, and Ryan doesn't give himself enough time to see his expression change, figures he's only got one chance at this, and he puts his entire heart into kissing him. Really kissing him, mouth hard on Mike's, and it's kind of funny, the way Mike's surprise unbalances him, makes him flail a little, held steady by Ryan's hands on his face.

Ryan doesn't expect Mike to relax into it. He's hoping, yeah, but he's anticipating being pushed back, getting decked by Keltie, getting yelled out of the room.

But it's sort of like the gym melts away. Like there's nothing there but Ryan and Mike and the roaring in Ryan's head, heart pounding so hard he can feel it throbbing in his fingertips.

And Mike kisses him back.

*

Ryan won't remember much, afterwards. He'll remember pulling away, panting. He'll remember Mike's mouth, wet, the way it curled up just the slightest sly bit, the sort of delighted twinkle in his eyes.

He won't remember Gabe narrating - "And that's Mike's hand on Ryan's ass, people, I think this counts as the lambada" - but that's probably a good thing.

*

Keltie hands him his necklace back with a weird twist to her mouth, but she doesn't seem upset at all, so that's a plus. "Nice show," she says, and smirks a little.

Gaylor says, "You're a strange dude, Ross," and taps Ryan's forehead with his middle finger. "Mentally fucked. It's awesome."

Mike shoves Gaylor back and asks Ryan, "What was that?"

"Um. A hello?" The problem is that Ryan never has any idea what Mike's thinking. He's got a default setting of amiable, but he could be, like, seething or something on the inside—who knows?

"Okay." Mike cocks his head, mouth quirked up. "Seriously, Ryan, no one else in the world."

"You aren't, uh," Ryan waves a hand, "feeling any different are you?" The spell's gone, and they're pretty much still all hanging around him with varying expressions of tolerance and amusement.

"Oh, he's feeling different," Ritter says, and Mike says, "Fuck off, Ty," but he's smiling, and he rolls his eyes a little.

"You should dance with me," Mike says to Ryan.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan sees Ritter make a face and start breaking it down to Wheel in the Sky while Wheeler just fucking loses it, doubles over laughing.

"You should dance with me far away from these shitheads," Mike amends.

Ryan feels sort of fuzzy warm and lightheaded and awesome. It's kind of the best night ever.

And then Gabe pulls Gerard up on stage, and says, "I caught this dude singing fucking Justin Timberlake in the bathroom, and there's nothing sexier, ladies and gentlemen, than the ability to rock JT."

Gabe loops an arm around Gerard's shoulders, whispers something in his ear, and Gerard laughs—shaking his head emphatically, but laughing, grin so big.

Gabe says, "Oh yes," into the mic, smirking at Gerard, even though no one could hear what he'd told him before, and then Gerard leans over and he starts—he starts singing. Singing his motherfucking heart out, and it's like the whole room catches fire.

And, okay, sure, it's Journey, and it's Any Way You Want It, but Ryan can see where this is going. He just hopes Gerard can see it, too.

 

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