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⤷ prom crashers | ao3 | 1,794 words
⤷ Pico didn’t want to go to prom. Nene wanted to go, but mostly to ruin it. Darnell brought C4. - sharpshooter. picnene.
• Post-Canon, Idiots in Love, Childhood Friends, frenemies to something more, aggressive affection, Explosives, Slow Burn (If You Squint), Unresolved Sexual Tension, Hurt/Comfort, Prom, Makes no sense btw
• published date: 2026-06-29
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The local high school gymnasium was doing a terrible job of pretending it wasn't a gym, to be honest.
Prom is…
A complete joke.
At least, that’s what Pico would tell you if you asked him while he was sober. To him, prom is just a giant nonsense trap full of toxic body spray, expensive rented clothes that don't fit right, and a bunch of suburban kids slow-dancing to awful radio pop while pretending they have a single clue about how the real world works. It’s a fragile little bubble of high school hierarchy that feels entirely meaningless when you’ve already stared down the barrel of a gun.
But to Nene?
Prom is a target.
It’s a shiny, perfect canvas just begging for a bucket of black paint. It’s a room full of people who take themselves way too seriously, making them incredibly easy to terrify, especially the thin, rich daddy's girls desperately trying to win a plastic crown to be so popular. And while some geeks had probably spiked the punch just to watch the principal sweat.
And to Darnell?
Prom is a structural engineering test.
It’s an indoor fire hazard waiting to happen. It's an opportunity to see exactly how fast a gymnasium full of varsity athletes can evacuate fast when a homemade smoke bomb sets off the overhead sprinklers. It needs to look like alive with dangerous sparks. Which is makes it fun.
But when you strip away the fire alarms, the exploding speakers, and the thousands of dollars in a public property damage?
Prom is… exactly what they needed.
It’s a reminder that even if their childhoods were completely ruined, they still have each other. It’s messy, violent, and entirely unromantic by normal standards. Which means, for them, it's absolutely perfect.
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Pico adjusted the collar of his suit jacket. It wasn’t a proper suit, it was a dark green velvet blazer he’d stolen from a thrift shop dumpster three years ago, paired with a black graphic tee and his usual shoes. He leaned against the double doors of the gym, his signature Uzis tucked securely into the waistband of his jeans, hidden only by the loose fabric of the jacket.
"Remind me why we’re here again?" Pico muttered, squinting through the glass at the spinning disco ball. "We don't even go to this school."
"Because, Pico," Nene said, stepping up beside him and smoothing down the skirt of her dress. Her outfit was an absolute menace: a neon-pink silk slip dress paired with fishnets and steel-toed boots. Her hair was up in its usual messy shoulder-length hair, no signature pink headband, but she’d woven tiny, square pink hairpins in the sides. "Normal teenagers go to prom. And since our childhood was hijacked by a school shooting and an alien invasion, I think we deserve to ruin a normal milestone for normal people."
"She's right, man," Darnell chimed in from behind them. He was leaning against the brick wall, casually tossing a smoke grenade from hand to hand. He was the only one who actually bothered to wear a tie, an expensive yellow and black tie, though it was currently tied around his forehead like a Rambo bandanna. "Plus, I heard the DJ is using a sound system that’s highly flammable. It’d be a sin not to test it."
Pico groaned, rubbing his temples. "We're going to get arrested. Again."
"Only if they catch us," Nene smirked. She reached into her garter belt, pulling out a sleek, polished butterfly knife, flipping it open with a practiced, lethal clack-clack. "Now open the doors, ginger. Let's make an entrance."
The moment the trio stepped into the gymnasium, the atmosphere shifted. The suburban teenagers swaying to a terrible pop remix froze, their eyes darting to the three local legends or urban myths, depending on who you asked.
"Look at them," Nene whispered, her eyes gleeful as she scanned the crowd. "They look like terrified pigeons."
"Don't start stabbing people yet," Pico grunted, though his hand instinctively hovered near his hip. The bright lights and crowded space made his skin itch. The PTSD was a constant, low-humming engine in his chest, but looking at Nene, completely unfazed, radiating pure chaotic energy, weirdly grounded him.
"Hey, I'm going to go inspect the wiring," Darnell said with a crooked grin, vanishing into the crowd toward the stage.
He navigated the sea of sweaty dancing people like a low shadow, completely ignored by the security guard who was way too busy texting to notice a fellow pyromaniac slipping backstage.
Darnell scoped out the setup with practiced eyes. The school had skimped on the budget apparently; the entire DJ rig, the massive subwoofer stack, and the stage lighting were all daisy-chained into a single, heavily overloaded breaker box hidden behind a velvet curtain.
It was a beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
Darnell pulled a small homemade brick of C4 from his jacket pocket, just enough to cause a spectacular show without bringing the actual roof down, and expertly slapped it right against the main capacitor of the sound system. He wired the receiver into the master fuse line with a satisfied click.
A little spark from the overloaded system would do the rest. He tapped his phone screen to sync the detonator, his grin widening as the digital timer blinked to life.
That left Pico and Nene standing on the edge of the gym floor. A slow song started playing, some sappy acoustic ballad that made Pico want to chew glass.
"Dance with me," Nene said suddenly. It wasn't a request; it was a demand.
Pico blinked down at her. "I don't dance. Especially not to... whatever this garbage is."
"I didn't ask if you knew how. I said do it." Nene grabbed the lapels of his green blazer and yanked him forward. Pico stumbled, his shoes squeaking loudly on the polished wood floor.
Before he could protest, Nene threw her arms around his neck. She held him with a grip like a vise. Pico stiffened, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before he cautiously placed them on her waist. Her dress was soft, a contrast to the rough, calloused texture of his hands.
"You're stiff as a board," Nene teased, looking up at him. Her white eyes reflected the flashing colored lights of the disco ball. For a second, the manic energy died down, replaced by something dangerously close to sincerity. "Relax. I'm not going to bite. Unless you want me to."
"Shut up," Pico muttered, his cheeks burning a faint pink that matched her dress. He allowed himself to sway with her, dragging in a terrible approximation of a rhythm. "You're annoying."
"And you're a terrible dancer. We're a match made in hell."
They moved together in a strange, tense harmony. To anyone else, they looked like a volatile reaction waiting to happen. But between them, there was a deep, unspoken understanding. They had survived things that would have broken anyone else. They had seen each other bleed, had pulled bullets out of each other's shoulders, and had shared cold pizzas on the roof of Pico's apartment while trying to forget the smell of dirt and blood.
Nene leaned her head against his chest. Pico's heart was hammering—not from fear, but from her proximity. He rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hairspray.
"Hey, Pico?" she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Darnell's at the fuse box."
Pico sighed, his eyes widening. "How much time do we have?"
"About three seconds."
BOOOM.
The bass speaker on the stage erupted into a glorious shower of sparks and green flames. The crowd burst into synchronized screams as the lights cut out completely, plunging the gym into darkness, illuminated only by the flickering fire on the stage.
"That's my cue!" Darnell’s voice echoed over the megaphone he had somehow hotwired into the backup PA system. "Everyone evacuate in an orderly fashion! Or don't! Live a little!"
The gym devolved into absolute bedlam. Poor high schoolers in tulle and tuxedos were running for the exits like the apocalypse had arrived.
In the middle of the stampede, a beefy varsity football player charged toward the exit, shoving past Nene and knocking her off balance.
"Watch it, bitch!" the guy yelled.
He didn’t get another syllable out. Pico’s movement was a blur. In a second, the muzzle of his Uzi was pressed directly under the jock’s chin. The cold steel cut the guy's bravado instantly as his face went pale when he stared into Pico's dead, unblinking eyes.
"Say sorry to the lady," Pico said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register.
"I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry, man!" the jock squeaked.
Pico whipped the butt of the gun across the guy's jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor. "Run," Pico barked, and the guy scrambled away on all fours.
Nene watched the entire display with a wide, manic grin, her cheeks flushed. She stepped close to Pico, her hand sliding up his arm to grip his forearm. "Aw, Pico. You do care."
"He was in my way," Pico grumbled, shoving his gun back into his waistband, though the heat in his face had nothing to do with the fire on the stage.
"Sure, let's go with that," Nene laughed, her voice bright and wicked over the sound of blaring fire alarms. Sprinklers suddenly came to life overhead, raining cold water down on the burning gym.
Within seconds, they were soaked. Nene’s black hair drooped, and Pico’s orange hair plastered against his forehead. But neither of them moved toward the exit. They stood in the downpour, surrounded by empty space.
Nene grabbed the collar of his blazer again, pulling him down into the rain. Pico braced himself, expecting a punch, a headbutt, or a knife to the ribs.
Instead, her lips slammed into his.
The kiss was exactly like Nene: sharp, aggressive, and tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss and adrenaline. Pico froze for a millisecond before his instincts kicked in. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him, returning the kiss with a desperate, messy intensity that had been building up for years. It was random, crazy, uncoordinated, and entirely them.
When she pulled back, she was breathless, a smug, triumphant smirk plastered across her face. "Best. Prom. Ever."
"You're insane," Pico said, a genuine, rare smile breaking through his usual scowl.
"And you love it," she retorted, grabbing his hand and locking her fingers with his. "Come on, Darnell’s probably trying to steal the school bus. Let's go help him."
Pico let her drag him through the smoky, water-drenched exit and into the cool night air. The world was on fire, everything was a mess, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
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