Every author gets to write one super cliché with extra cheese High School AU, right? Right? Well, this is mine. I was really missing the fandom, and sort of got stuck while writing 'Scrapbook', so yeah.

All mistakes are my own, though, does anyone wants to volunteer for beta-reading? I pay cookies and love.


Warnings: Obvious slash is obvious. Smut. Alcohol. AU. OCs.

Things I own: A gallery of Abercrombie photo-shots in my pc, tequila bottles, vodka, the All-American Rejects' "Dance Inside" in my iPod, legally purchased on iTunes. Ronnie, Gabe and Scott, but they're really not that important.

Things I don't own: Phineas. Ferb. Anyone and Everyone and Everything else mentioned in this story that has anything whatsoever to do with D*sney.



Alive With The Glory of Love.



You see, the deal with Ferb is that he likes girls.

He really does. He likes their coloured lips, their hair as they brush it out of their faces; the way they smell, the way they smile at him, the way they sway like liquid bodies on the dance floor to the rhythm of the music's heartbeat.

Most of the time, however, the level of attention he gets from the girls is low, but it really doesn't bother him. Furthermore, he'd dare to say the low level of attention he is used to get from the girls could be mostly his fault. They've said something about his quietness, something about saying rude things when holding a conversation on autopilot.

So even though Ferb can recognize his attraction for the female gender and accept it as a fact, he is also able to acknowledge the time, money and effort a girls seems to need on a daily basis. How high maintenance two or three former girlfriends had been had more or less convinced Ferb that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't cut out got a long term relationship (yet). He'd thought maybe in college, maybe after college, maybe then he'd find the one who'd invade his mind and shake his world, the one whose eyes would make him melt without six shots of vodka running thought his blood stream.

Which is sort of his current situation.

The girl whose throat he is currently sticking his tongue into does not makes him feel any of this. Sure, there's the heat, and sure, he can't wait to finish climbing up the stairs to he-does-not-care-who's second floor and throw her into he-does-not-care-who's parents' bedroom, get rid of her obnoxious red and golden cheerleader outfit and do things to her that should not be done to a lady – but it's only that. Ferb knows he won't be thinking of her tomorrow, won't be calling her tomorrow. Hell, he'll even be lucky if he can recognize her next Monday out of the twelve, something-teen girls who parade around the school wearing that exact same uniform.

So she shoves her hand down the front of his tight jeans and he squeezes her ass under that obscenely short skirt of hers. She'll probably try and talk to him if she sees him around in the hallways, and he knows he'll turn her down as gently as possible. So she runs her tongue over the roof of his mouth and he is about to lift her up, force her to straddle him so he can finish climbing up the goddamn stairs and very respectfully screw the living daylights out of her when–

"There you are, son of a bitch!"

–he is suddenly pulled back and away from the cheerleader chick and her amazing hands doing amazing things down the front of his jeans, a pair of hands roughly turning him around and shaking him violently, a voice screaming at him, and he can barely make out what it's trying to tell him.

He blinks once or twice, his dilated pupils slowly accommodating to the lights of the room, and he looks around disoriented, like he is seeing the place first time. The party is wild. There is a lot of alcohol and if you know the right people to ask, quite a variety of illegal substances too. At least two more couples making out on the stairs, in various stages of undress, and probably the whole Danville High population crowded into someone's upper-high-class living room.

"I've been looking for you like mad, you fucker!" Scott –his band mate– yells, black hair falling into his eyes."We were supposed to start playing eons ago!"

It takes Ferb a second or seven to process what Scott tells (yells at) him, look around the room, place the makeshift stage in the middle of a sea of dancing bodies. Ronnie and Gabe are already there, guitars plugged, drums in place, microphones on their respective mic stands.

Ferb remembers the only reason he's ever invited to these parties in the first place and kisses the cheerleader chick good-bye.



Danville is a small town in the middle of nowhere.

There is a wall-mart, a tiny shopping mall, a record store, vintage shops, a drive-in theatre and a skating ring – all spread around in the middle of green areas; suburb houses with big backyards.

And everyone just sort of hopes to get out someday.



"You don't have to move, you don't have to speak… Lips for biting."

Once upon a time, popularity didn't mean anything more than who had the best Pokemon card and who brought the coolest stuff to Show-And-Tell. Once upon a time it didn't matter that Ferb's mum spent too much time at the hospital or that he preferred to spend recess time playing his guitar alone in the classroom. Nobody made fun of him because he was a head taller than everybody else or because he didn't speak much. Once upon a time, Ferb Fletcher went to North Chelsea Elementary School.

Eventually though, eventually these things start to matter. Eventually Ferb's mum passes out and he moves to the US with his dad, where kids make fun of his accent and call him an eurofag.

"You're staring me down, a glance makes me weak… Eyes for striking."

Eventually life changes. Eventually Ferb finds people he can hang out with after school, and eventually they start a band. They play at different parties and eventually everyone in the tight niche of the familiarity of Danville High School forgets about the new one and eventually they leave him alone.

Eventually, life moves on. And as this happens, all the little once-upon-a-time Elementary School kids find their place, their group of friends with the same shared interests. And eventually that's how things work out–

"Now I'm twisting up when I'm twisted with you… Brush so lightly." Scott presses his cheek against his and sings the next line with him, "And times trickles down and I'm breathing for two…"

– Except they don't.

"Squeeze so tightly."

Except there is always a better group with better kids; special kids. The popular group that slowly begins forming in eighth grade, the one with the prettiest girls and the loudest guys, the ones with that extra little… Something. The ones like Isabella, with her perfect body and gorgeous eyes, and Baljeet, who effortlessly excels at everything and anything, and Phineas, with a smile you could make millions off of it if it could be mass-produced as an anti-depressant, and Buford, the football star, and Django, the artistic prodigy.

And eventually, that's how things work out.

"I'll be fine… You'll be fine. This moment seems so long."

High School (social) life, Ferb finds out, is not worth giving a damn so he doesn't, so he keeps his head high and his expectations low. So he studies hard, parties hard and sings his heart out. And eventually, that's how things work out for him.

"Don't waste now, precious time…" He presses his lips against the microphone, a bead of sweat running down the line of his hair down his neck, "We'll dance inside the song."

Singing up on a stage is always like jumping off a cliff. Liberating. There are no pretenses, no bullshit, no inhibitions. Nobody telling him to stay in his place, no status-quo. It's just him and Scott, faces close as they share a mic on The All-American Reject's Dance Inside's chorus, and the somehow comforting beat of Ronnie's drums behind his back and Gabe's bass, dictating a subtle rhythm for the crowd to move to.

And it feels amazing.

"What makes the one to shake you down? Each touch belongs to each new sound…"

Far back, behind all of the people dancing at the front of the stage he catches the sight of Danville High's very own A-List crowd, lounging on the living room's couches as if they were ready for an Abercrombie photo-shot, looking perfectly disheveled and sweaty. He sees Buford's lap full of Ginger and Holly in their skin tight cheerleader outfits, feeding him alcohol as if he were a dehydrating man in the middle of the desert, Baljeet's back pressed flush against Buford's side even though he is making out with Addison in a classy, yet still exhibitionistic manner, Django and some other guys from the Football team showing up to hit on the rest of the cheerleaders, Isabella abandoning all pretenses of being coy and dropping herself on Phineas' lap; all of them either making or recounting weekend plans for a party at Isabella's mansion or hitting the beach for surfing and Django's dad famous bonfires.

"Say now you want to shake me too, move down to me, slip into you…"

It is in the middle of this particularly explicit line that Ferb catches a pair of sky-blue eyes looking up at him –a surprise in and of itself since it seemed it was against some universal law that anyone in this particular group got excited because of a high school band–, narrowing with a grin instead, lips moving to sing along this and the following lyrics, and Ferb feels a rush of skepticism running trough him.

You see, the deal with Phineas Flynn is that he is a gifted kid, and people always gravitate towards him like Pooh Bear to honey. Phineas Flynn is special, Phineas is something to be shown around like a price horse, Phineas is running his hands trough the cheerleader's Captain silky black hair and singing along Dance Inside like he is singing along the radio for a milli-moment and–

"You sink in my mind and you shed through your skin; touch sight tastes like fire."

–Then Isabella is throwing her arms around him and kissing his neck and Phineas breaks eye contact, goes back to being just another sweaty and perfect body in an Abercrombie photo-shot Ferb analyzes just for the hell of it.

Suddenly there is Scott's arm around his waist and Scott's cheek pressed against his as they share a mic, the females in the crowd shouting in approval at the teasing physical contact display accompanying the next explicit line, "Hands do now what eyes no longer defend... Hands to fuel desire..."

Ferb sings the rest of the song with his eyes closed.



"I love that song."

It takes Ferb a moment to realize that the rich voice with a hint of amusement is Phineas', another to realize it is being directed to him.

Phineas' voice has that smooth quality to it, Ferb finds out subconsciously, the one that brings to mind images of creamy melted chocolate; milk and honey and caramel, melting and smooth and burning gently down his throat as it washes through you. Ferb's, on the other side, sounds like he just left a Backstreet-Boys-meets-the-Jonas-Brothers concert, rough with the strain of hours of screaming of the high-pitched variety.

That is probably why, when he opens his mouth to answer, he finds himself flinching at the sound of his own voice, saying the first thing that comes to his mind. "It's about sex."

Phineas' amused smile is ten times more thrilling than his voice, and Ferb knows he must be staring (and really drunk) when Phineas chuckles lightly, hugging his slender figure with his arms because it's getting cold, his Captain jacket hanging loose over his shoulders.

"Yeah," he says, and Ferb nods a brushing-off nod, his alcohol-driven mind too tired and fuzzy to try to figure out why the Abercrombie kid is speaking to him, and most importantly why he is not leaving, why he is, instead, sliding his fingers over Ferb's and gently taking the tequila bottle out of his hand, letting his fingers linger for just a little longer than necessary, taking a long swig and returning it with the same unnecessary contact. "I know."

It sort of gets awkwardly silent after that, for Ferb at least, because the world would probably implode and end with fireworks and all before that particular Abercrombie kid looks like he is feeling awkward, and Phineas' hip is bumping against Ferb's and he looks like he is about to say something else, before Isabella and the rest of the photo-shot kids storm into the kitchen and Phineas is distracted; right before they start yelling something about going to the beach to see the sunrise and before Isabella clings to Phineas' arm and drags him along, as if Ferb was just as invisible as the air around him.

"See you," Phineas says over his shoulder, and Ferb watches his perfectly freckled face grinning before he turns and laughs at something Buford says, his arm carelessly thrown around Isabella's shoulders as they walk out of the house through the backyard door.

"See you." Ferb mumbles to himself, long after the Abercrombie photo-shot kids, better known as Danville High's Football and Cheerleaders teams –the, dare he say, very original Wildcats–, walk out of the kitchen, leaving him and his tequila bottle alone.

And that's how they begin.