What a Catch, Mike
Title: What a Catch, MikePairing: Mike/Kevin (pre-slash?)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~4500.
Summary: In which Mike is a rockstar and Kevin falls out of the sky into his arms.
Note: I have been lurking forever and finally decided it was probably a good idea to actually contribute something, and I figured it was a good idea to get myself warmed up for SLB and BBB. So here I am posting ridiculous fic! And it is ridiculous, really it is, just look at that summary. Oh my. But it's inspired by this quote from Enchanted: "Is this a habit of yours? Falling off of stuff?" / "Only when you're there to catch me." and sort of this picture (Kevin is totally that yellow one) and the title (and cut text) is stolen from What a Catch, Donnie by Fall Out Boy because why not, so yeah, maybe that explains it a little. It's unbeta'd, so sorry in advance for any mistakes or blatant Britishisms, of which I’m sure there will be many.
Kevin’s just hammering the last nail into the sign above the shop when the rickety old ladder that he’s currently leaning on wobbles precariously and throws him off balance. He flails madly for a few moments, arms windmilling at his sides like he’s trying to take flight, before he topples backwards, crashes into an unsuspecting passer-by and sends them both sprawling onto the pavement.
“What the fuck?” the (vaguely familiar?) unsuspecting passer-by grunts, and Kevin scrambles off him abruptly, dusting himself down and muttering apologies under his breath because the guy is actually kind of scary-looking, with messy dark hair and intense blue eyes that are currently screwed up into a scowl. Kevin is kind of terrified that he might kill him. He did just fall on the guy, after all. “You make a habit of just falling out of the sky like that?”
Kevin’s face flushes. “I didn’t fall out of the sky,” he points out, because it seems important that the stranger understands this, “I fell off a ladder. An old, rickety ladder that probably should have been replaced forever ago and I’m really, really sorry that I fell on you ‘cause it probably really hurt and-”
“Kid,” the guy says, holding up a hand to stem the flow of Kevin’s word vomit, “it’s fine, I’m fine. Nothing’s broken.” (Except my pride, Kevin thinks, heart sinking in his chest.) “It’s fine.”
And it’s probably true, nothing’s actually broken as such, for either party, but there’s this eggplant bruise purpling on the strange man’s forehead that makes Kevin squirm with guilt. The guy frowns when he catches Kevin staring at him and he feels his head, wincing when he presses too hard on the lump forming there.
“I’m really, really sorry,” Kevin says again, because he feels it warrants repeating. “Do you want ice for that, or something?”
“Yeah,” the stranger says after a moment’s consideration. “Yeah, that’d be good.”
“Great,” Kevin says, relieved. “I can totally get you ice without causing you any more bodily harm.”
The guy grins then, lips quirking at the corners and eyes glinting, and something in Kevin’s chest flutters a little because he didn’t know that potentially murderous strangers could have such pretty smiles.
“Great,” says this particular potentially murderous stranger with the ridiculously pretty smile. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for that yet.”
And if Kevin’s face was red before, it’s nothing on the shade of utter puce it’s turning right now. “I’m Kevin,” he blurts out, “Kevin Jonas. Duh,” he adds, belatedly pointing to the sign now fixed in place above his head. ‘JONAS’ it reads, in bright sparkly blue lettering that Kevin designed himself when Nick decided they needed a makeover.
“Mike,” the guy replies. “So what were you saying about ice?”
***
JONAS isn’t a very big shop; it’s maybe twelve foot by twenty with a wee staff and storage area up the stairs at the back. It’s not special, exactly, just another second-hand bookshop selling the odd assortment of bric-a-brac on the side, but it’s Kevin’s and his brothers’ and nobody else’s, and that’s special enough for him.
Today, Kevin’s brother Joe is manning the till and he jumps to his feet when Kevin walks in with Mike.
“Hey Joe, this is Mike, I sort of fell on him so I’m just going to get him some ice or-” Kevin cuts himself off when he realises Joe isn’t listening to him. He doesn’t even have the good grace to pretend to be listening by actually looking at Kevin; he’s staring, fully, openly staring at Mike, eyes blown wide and mouth hanging comically open. Kevin would laugh, but he’s not sure what’s funny.
“Oh my God,” Joe breathes, still staring at Mike. “Mike Carden. Michael Stephen Carden is in our shop. Nick is going to freak when he finds out he missed this.”
Kevin’s eyebrows twist into a quizzical frown as he glances between his brother and Mike. “Wait, what? Mike Carden?” he inquires, trying to remember why that name sounds so familiar.
Joe finally stops staring at Mike to stare at Kevin instead, eyes wide with incredulity this time. “Yeah, Mike Carden. He’s the rhythm guitarist for The Academy Is..., remember?”
And it’s Kevin’s turn to stare at Mike in disbelief as the penny finally drops. “Seriously?” he squeaks. “I fell on Mike Carden?”
“Yep,” Mike says, patting the top of his fluffy head in what is probably meant to be a soothing way. “You fell on Mike Carden. It’s not a big deal.”
Kevin squeaks again and buries his head in his hands, mumbling things to the effect of, “Oh God,” and, “I am so sorry,” and, “I’m just gonna go crawl under a rock and never come out again, okay?”
“You do that,” Joe smirks, ever the supportive one. To Mike, he says, “I apologise for my brother and his complete lack of coordination. I’m Joe, the funny, attractive one.”
Mike quirks an eyebrow at that. “I’m Mike, but I guess you already knew that,” he says with a wry little smile.
Joe nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah, we’re huge fans. Santi is my favourite album ever, and you’re a really great guitarist, you know that?”
Mike smiles, a modest little twitch at the corners of his lips. “I try,” he says, nodding. “Do you want me to sign something? People always want me to sign something.”
“That would be awesome,” Joe replies with a reverent nod. “Hold on, let me just get the CD.”
Ducking behind the till, he rummages briefly in the box of CDs they’ve got for playing in the shop before hurrying back, the black case clutched tightly between his fingers.
“I’ll just get you some ice,” Kevin says faintly. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves Mike there, dutifully signing Joe’s copy of Santi with a Sharpie he seemed to have magicked out of nowhere, but when he wanders back downstairs, still feeling a little dazed, Mike’s vanished.
“He had to go,” Joe explains, at the look on Kevin’s face. “Said something about his band only letting him out for a few hours at a time.”
And Kevin just nods dumbly, because he doesn’t know what else there is to do. His fingers are burning with the chill of the ice pack he’s holding, and there’s a clenching feeling in his gut that he’s trying desperately hard to ignore. Mike probably only stuck around because he felt sorry for Kevin, didn’t know how to shake off the idiot who’d fallen from the sky and knocked him to ground and bruised him on the head, and Kevin had no reason, no reason at all, to think otherwise.
(It was just- he’d smiled at Kevin, that brilliant, face-morphing grin that dimpled his cheeks and made his eyes gleam, and maybe Kevin’s an idiot but for a moment there, he really thought it might mean something.)
“Kev?” Joe’s face appears in front of his, eyes narrowed with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Kevin nods, swallowing the taste of the lie before it burns his mouth. “I’m fine.”
***
Kevin’s stacking shelves at the front of the shop, so intent on sliding the books into the correct, alphabetical order he barely notices the tinkle of the bell that signifies a customer walking in, figuring whoever’s on the till’ll deal with them. Frowning, he stretches as far as he can to reach the top shelf.
“Uh, hi,” comes a voice from behind him, and Kevin’s eyes go wide because he never thought he was going to hear that voice again. He turns, conveniently forgetting he’s several feet off the ground and balancing this time on a stepladder and not an actual ladder, and promptly topples backwards.
(The landing is smoother this time. Comparatively. Kevin doesn’t think he bruised anything, at least.)
There’s a chuckle, a half-hearted shove at Kevin’s back. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Mike says, breath tickling Kevin’s ear. “Seriously, are you always this clumsy or am I just special?”
Kevin rolls off him, face flushed, and holds out a hand to pull Mike to his feet. He very deliberately steps away when Mike’s steady and glances over at the till. It’s suspiciously vacant, and Kevin takes a moment to curse his brothers for abandoning him in his time of need.
“I’m always this clumsy,” he assures Mike, nodding glumly. “It’s a curse. So, um, what are you doing here?”
(It’s been a week since the Falling On Mike incident, as Kevin has privately taken to referring to it as. A week Kevin’s most definitely not spent listening to The Academy Is...’s entire discography on repeat, or stalking Mike and his band on the internet, or staring morosely into the distance every time a dark-haired guy walked into the shop and it wasn’t Mike. Nope, not at all - Kevin is not that lame. He’s not.)
Someone clears their throat meaningfully, and it’s then that Kevin realises that Mike is not alone. There’s a tall, impossibly skinny man standing beside him that Kevin vaguely recognises from pictures of The Academy Is.... He thinks it might be Sisky. Or maybe that Cleaver guy. Or was it Butcher?
“Kevin, I assume?” He gives Kevin a critical once-over, and Kevin tries not to feel like he’s being inspected for something. Whatever it is, Kevin thinks he passes because the man’s face cracks into a grin and he says, “Mike’s told me so much about you.”
“Bill,” Mike mutters, glaring at the man, who Kevin belatedly realises is not Butcher nor Siska, but William, William Beckett. This is simultaneously the weirdest and most wonderful week of Kevin’s entire life ever.
“You’re William Beckett,” he manages, because both Mike and Bill are looking at him like they expect him to say something. “You’re William Beckett.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Mike groans, “not this again.”
Bill makes a light tsking noise in his throat. “Now, now, Mike,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval, “no foul language in front of the innocent little Christian boy.”
(And Kevin would take offence at that, because he may be Christian but he’s neither a boy nor is he innocent, hasn’t been for a good few years now, but the look on Mike’s face is kind of hilarious.)
“What?”
Bill rolls his eyes, gestures towards the crucifix hanging at Kevin’s neck and the small band of silver on his left ring finger. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”
Mike scowls at something Kevin can’t see. “Tell me about it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, and Kevin has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
“Did you, uh-” Kevin cuts himself off, shaking his head to clear it, and starts again. “Did either of you want something? From me?”
Bil’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, I’m certain Mike would love a-”
Mike claps one hand over Bill’s mouth before he can finish that sentence and holds up a book in the other. “There’s no one on the till,” he says tightly. “You might wanna think about changing that if you don’t want people making off with your stuff.”
“Right. Joe’s supposed to be on the till,” Kevin sighs, “but he probably disappeared upstairs to make a coffee and forgot to come back. He does that a lot.”
“Joe,” Mike says, thoughtfully. “He’s the funny, attractive one, right?”
Bill gives Mike a weird look which Kevin misses because he’s distracted by the churning of his gut. It’s probably the bagel he had this morning for breakfast, he tells himself. “Yeah,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll just ring the book up for you, shall I?”
It’s when he’s done punching the buttons on the till, possibly harder than is strictly necessary, and reaches for the book to put it into a bag for Mike, that he catches sight of the cover and realises what book it is.
“Dude,” Kevin says, almost reverently. “You like these books?”
Mike shifts uncomfortably in front of the till. Bill snickers, but brings a hand up to stifle it when Mike turns to glare at him.
“Bill recommended the series to me,” he says to Kevin. “I, uh, figured I’d give it a try.”
“You totally have to read the others,” Kevin tells him, and he realises he’s probably gushing but he doesn’t care about that right now. (He will later, though, when he looks back on what happened and dissects it into tiny, manageable pieces he won’t choke on.) “We haven’t got them in stock at the moment, but if you give me your details, I can contact you when we do?”
Kevin realises it’s stupid, knows that if Mike really, really wanted to read the books so badly he’d look somewhere else for them rather than waiting, but Kevin is just desperate for an excuse to get Mike’s number without coming off like a stalker fanboy.
Thankfully, Mike just shrugs and says, “Sure. If this ends up on the internet, though-” And here he pauses to level a truly terrifying glare at Kevin. “-I will come after you with a switchblade and cut off your balls.”
“Yeah,” Bill snorts, “Mike is just dying to do unspeakable things to your groin.”
Kevin gulps as he shoves a pad of paper and a pen across the desk towards them. “No need to worry,” he stammers, his brain suddenly flooded with various images of Mike coming at him with a knife, “I am the epitome of professionalism. Nothing’s ending up on the internet on my watch, no sirree. Unless Nick gets hold of it. Or Joe. Or Bonus.” Kevin frowns, then says, decisively, “Yeah, I’ll just have to make sure none of them ever, ever find it.”
“Bonus?” Mike queries, eyebrow raised. “Does he work here too?”
“No, he’s, uh, my other little brother, Frankie, but we call him Bonus ‘cause he was born way after Nick was,” Kevin explains, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Bonus Jonas. It rhymes, see?”
Nodding, Mike presses his lips together, eyes sparkling, and ducks his head to scribble his name and number on the piece of paper. Kevin very determinedly does not stare at the way Mike’s fringe falls into his eyes, or at the tiny sliver of tongue poking out from between his teeth, because that would be creepy and fanboyish and Kevin is neither of those. Much.
“Here,” Mike says, sliding the pad back over to Kevin. “Let me know if they turn up, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Kevin nods, lips curving involuntarily into a grin, “I’ll do that.”
Mike grins back at him and Bill rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Kevin doesn’t catch but Mike evidently does, ‘cause he elbows Bill in his bony ribs.
“It was lovely to meet you, Kevin,” Bill says, nodding at Kevin. “I hope our paths cross again soon. Say goodbye, Mike.”
“Goodbye, Mike,” Mike says, rolling his eyes, but after a pointed look from Bill he mutters, “Yeah. See y’around, Kevin.”
The two of them head out of the shop then, arguing about something in hissed voices and hushed tones, but whatever it is, it sounds important and nothing at all to do with Kevin, so he doesn’t try and eavesdrop. When they disappear from view, he breathes out, slowly, before glancing down at the pad, where Mike has scrawled ten digits underneath where he’s written MC.
(Kevin takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Mike understands the need for subtlety when it comes to deceiving his brothers, and smiles.)
“What’s that?” Joe asks, suddenly appearing in front of him, a curious expression on his face.
Kevin gives a start, eyes wide. “Nothing,” he says quickly, “just a doodle.” He grabs the pad and stuffs it in the drawer under the till, tucked safely between the sellotape and the spare bindings they keep for the broken spines of old books, before Joe can question him further. “Where were you, anyway? You’re not supposed to be on break for another hour.” Kevin hopes he sounds vaguely accusatory, and not just like he’s changing the subject. “I had to cover the till for you.”
“You sound like Nick,” Joe tells him, shaking his head. “He’s brainwashing you, Kev. He’s trying to turn you into a drone, someone who actually enjoys working.”
Joe lets a deliberate shudder pass over him, illustrating his disgust at this preposterous idea, and Kevin rolls his eyes.
“I’m gonna take a break now,” he informs his brother. “Will you be okay ‘til Nick gets here?”
Nodding, Joe waves him away and settles into the chair behind the till, leaning back beatifically against the wall. Smiling, Kevin turns to head upstairs, but once he’s there, he doesn’t go straight to the kitchen like he normally would. Instead, he ducks into the office and makes a beeline for the snoozing computer. The desk chair is comfy and soft and Kevin swivels around on it for a few moments as he waits for the ancient computer to load the special ordering software Nick insisted they needed.
“Right,” Kevin mutters, flexing his fingers over the keyboard once the program’s loaded. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
***
The books arrive three days later, all three of them, and the first thing Kevin does once he’s unpacked them out of the box is rummage in the drawer for the pad of paper between the sellotape and the spare bindings they keep for the broken spines of old books. His fingers are shaking as he presses the corresponding digits on the shop phone, and he nearly drops the handset when it starts ringing.
“’lo?” The voice is gruff and it sounds like Mike, but Kevin can’t be sure.
“Mike Carden?” Kevin asks, praying that it is actually him and that Mike didn’t just write down a fake number or something, because that would be kind of embarrassing.
“Yeah,” Mike says, and Kevin swallows a sigh of relief. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, um, it’s Kevin, Kevin Jonas,” Kevin informs him. “From the bookshop?”
“Kevin, hey.” Mike sounds surprised; Kevin can’t tell if it’s in a bad way or a good way. He hopes it’s the latter. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you so fast.”
Kevin laughs, high and nervous. “Yeah, well, the books arrived quicker than I thought,” he lies, crossing his fingers under the desk. “When do you wanna come pick them up?”
“Today, I guess,” Mike replies. “Couple of hours okay?”
“Yeah, see you then,” Kevin says, trying for nonchalant and missing by several hundred miles, but he doesn’t stop himself from doing a little victory dance on the spot when Mike hangs up.
Kevin leans back in his chair, the grin on his face threatening to split it in two, and settles down to wait.
***
He waits.
And waits.
And waits.
***
Half past five rolls around and Mike still hasn’t shown up yet. Kevin’s trying not to feel disappointed, really he is, but he can’t seem to help the tight knot that’s curling around his insides and squeezing them tight.
“We should close up,” Nick says, appearing suddenly at Kevin’s shoulder. “They’re not coming, Kev.”
Kevin looks up at him, startled.
“You keep looking over at the door and sighing,” Nick informs him, matter-of-fact. “And you look like someone told you Heroes was cancelled.” Kevin tries to smile, tries to rearrange his features into something less gloomy, but he apparently is not very successful because Nick just raises his eyebrows at him. “Who is it?”
“Nobody,” Kevin says flatly, resisting the urge to sigh heavily. Apparently, he’s been doing enough of that as it is.
Nick’s eyebrows inch higher up his forehead, and Kevin wills him with his eyebrows not to push it. He doesn’t feel like explaining what a complete idiot he is to his little brother, thanks.
“Really?” Nick cocks his head to one side. “Huh. I didn’t know ‘nobody’ had dark hair and blue eyes and played guitar in a band.”
Kevin’s eyes widen. “How did you-”
“It was kind of obvious,” Nick informs him, rolling his eyes. “MC? Really?”
“I thought it was subtle,” Kevin mumbles, almost defensively.
“Plus you’ve been acting like a fourteen-year-old girl ever since Mike came into the shop, don’t even try to deny it,” Nick continues, like Kevin hadn’t even spoken. “I’m your brother, I know what you get like when you have a crush. It’s kinda cute, really.”
Kevin glares at him, outraged. “You are younger than me,” he reminds his brother, “you are not allowed to call me cute.”
Grinning, Nick leans forward to ruffle Kevin’s curls, ducking away before Kevin can pounce on him. “Come on,” Nick says, chuckling to himself. “I’ll sort out the till and you close up, okay?”
“Okay,” Kevin says, and they get to work.
***
They’re done not fifteen minutes later, money packed up into little bags to be taken to the bank, windows latched and doors bolted. Kevin grabs his coat that’s hanging on a peg next to the till and, after a moment’s thought, the three books piled on the side too. If Mike doesn’t want them, Kevin figures he might as well read them himself.
Kevin’s got the keys, so he locks the door behind them and turns to head after Nick, who’s already several feet in front of him. Typically, though, he catches his foot on something, stumbles and lurches forward, arms flailing, but instead of crashing to the ground he falls into warm, strong, familiar arms that tighten around his waist and steady him on his feet.
“You okay, kid?” Mike asks, and if Kevin weren’t busy being ridiculously excited to see him, he’d notice the concern in Mike’s voice, the edge of guilt. As it is, Kevin is oblivious to everything except Mike’s arm around his waist, Mike’s hand curled around his hip.
“Yeah,” Kevin squeaks, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Yeah, I’m fine, just tripped, that’s all.”
Ahead of them, Nick stops, realising suddenly that Kevin isn’t actually right behind him like he thought. He pivots, slowly, and Kevin can see the question on his face, the way his eyes narrow when he notices Mike, and Mike’s body’s probably not-respectable proximity to Kevin’s own. Kevin steps away from him, because he feels like he should, even though it leaves him feeling distinctly cold around his midsection.
“Kevin?” Nick calls, the suspicion obvious in his voice. He doesn’t say “Are you okay?” or “Do you need rescuing?” or “Should I get Frankie to bite his ankles?” but Kevin hears all that anyway.
“Gimme a sec,” he hollers back, before turning to Mike. “You want the books, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Mike says, shifting on the spot. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier. I meant to, but Bill roped me into practising this song he’d written even though we’re on a break and I couldn’t get away.”
“Right,” Kevin says, resisting the urge to grin because Mike didn’t just forget about him like he thought. “Yeah, that’s fine. Here you go.”
Kevin rummages in his bag for the books and thrusts them at Mike, flushing when Mike’s eyebrows rise on his forehead.
“I was going to read them myself,” Kevin explains quickly, in case Mike gets the wrong idea or something, “’cause I thought you weren’t going to come for them.”
At Kevin’s words, the look of vague amusement on Mike’s face morphs into one of guilt. “Sorry,” he repeats, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I did want to. And not just for the books, either. I, uh, I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” Kevin says, eyes wide, because he doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean but he thinks he has some idea. “Really?”
Mike rolls his eyes, mutters, “Yeah. Is it so hard to believe?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kevin says, incredulous. “You’re a rockstar, Mike, and I work in a bookshop.” He makes a vague gesture which is supposed to represent the massive differences between the two of them, but probably looks more like he’s trying to hail a taxi. “Why would you like me? I’m boring and unglamorous and a complete dork and-”
And then Kevin squeaks because Mike’s grabbing him by the collar of his close and pulling him close until he’s right in Kevin’s space and then he’s kissing Kevin, their teeth clashing until Mike tilts his head and teases Kevin’s mouth open with his tongue.
“That’s why,” Mike says, breathless, when he pulls away. Kevin just squeaks again and Mike laughs, head on Kevin’s shoulder. “I like you, idiot.”
“That’s really sweet and all,” Nick says suddenly, prompting them both to jump, “but if you’re quite done canoodling in the dark, I’d like to get home before I freeze to death.”
He’s glaring at the both of them and Kevin’s cheeks are burning, he’s blushing so badly, but he’s just had Mike Carden’s tongue in his mouth and Mike Carden’s arm around his waist and Mike Carden telling Kevin he likes him, and he thinks maybe it’s worth it.