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Mikey isn't sure how long it's been.
It's not his fault, really. Warped has been nothing short of chaotic—he doesn't think he'll ever get used to waking up in a new city every day. They haven't had a day off in forever, and it's just getting to him, okay? He's tired, burnt out, moving from state to state as nothing more than a ghost. He swears his feet aren't even on the ground most of the time. He tells himself it's fine while he sinks further and further down. By the time he realizes that he's truly fucked, it's too late. There's no easy access to a therapist on the road, and he stopped taking his meds months ago. He can only try to keep his head above water as the tide beckons him to drown.
The first issue is the crowds. They're getting bigger and bigger as the days go on. Under any other circumstances, Mikey would be happy, proud even. He wants the band to take off, it's all they've been working towards for years now. But he swears he can feel each of their individual eyes on him, studying him like a specimen under a microscope as he shuffles around the stage and tries to remember to play the right notes. Logically, he knows they're likely not even truly looking at him—he's not dumb, he knows Gerard and Frank are the main interest—but it does nothing to calm his paranoia.
He swears he can feel them picking him apart, bit by bit. He's certain that their scrutinized gazes are trained on the feminine features that years of hormone therapy haven't managed to get rid of. Pouty lips and a soft jawline tell all, he's convinced of it. He doesn't have long until someone finds out. It'll surely be a media circus, tabloid articles detailing Mikey Way's grand coming out without ever stopping to consider if he wanted this. He isn't willing to fuck this band up when they're just beginning. He won't do that to them. It's why he's so careful about who he tells. If he had to guess, there are probably less than ten people on Warped that know the truth—and his band and crew are six of them.
The second issue is the heat. It clings to Mikey like a second skin, sweat sticking his binder to him awkwardly. He's breaking out in zits along his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the result of spending hours in the sun with infrequent access to showers. He's already uncomfortable, misery seeping out of every pore. He's aware that he's making it worse for himself, but he just can't help it. Maybe he'd feel better if he slept for eight days straight, but that's not quite an option, so he powers through and hopes his anguish goes undetected.
He knows he has merely days left before Pete asks him what's going on. The other man has already noticed that something is wrong, Mikey can tell, but he's grateful that he hasn't mentioned it. For now. Mikey knows his time is running out. He's been a horrible boyfriend over the last...how long? It doesn't matter. Mikey is sitting on a ticking time bomb. He can only flinch away from Pete's hands on his waist and turn down sleeping on the Fall Out Boy bus for so long before Pete finally says something. The thought of some explosive argument stemming from this makes Mikey's stomach churn. He can't lose Pete. He just can't.
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He doesn't mean to be doing it, honestly. Dysphoria has been eating him alive more than usual recently. He can't stand to see his unbound chest any longer. Pete always let him keep his shirt on during sex, which was nice but not enough. Eventually, Mikey couldn't even handle the sight of himself changing. Hanging breasts for a fleeting moment in the low light of the bus bathroom was simply too much to bear. Mikey found the solution after he found himself on his knees puking for the second time that week.
There would be no breasts to see if Mikey just...kept his binder on.
It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. But there's something nice about being able to sleep on his stomach, about being able to change in the bunk passageway, about the tight barbed wire of dysphoria around his heart loosening just slightly. He even manages to get ahold of himself enough to give Pete a blowjob one evening after they play. He doesn't allow for reciprocation, but he makes up for it by spending the night on the Fall Out Boy bus. Pete looks surprised at his agreement, but counts his blessings, falling asleep with his arms wrapped protectively around Mikey's waist.
Mikey slips away early the next morning, before Pete can realize he's slept in his binder.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Mikey has fucked up. Completely fucked up.
It started hurting a few days ago. Maybe two, maybe three, maybe five. He isn't sure. Consequently, he isn't sure how many days it's been since he took his binder off. Maybe six, maybe eight, maybe ten. He doesn't know. He told himself he'd take a break at their hotel night four days ago, but then something about their reservation got messed up and he had to room with Ray, so he couldn't. He can't let anyone see him like this.
He knows he's bruised underneath the fabric. He hopes he can ignore it long enough for it to go away. He doubts he can, but he'll damn sure try. He pushes the pain down along with the emotional turmoil swirling in his chest. He doesn't have time for it. He can process everything in his therapist's office when he gets home from tour and she'll tell him he fucked up and he'll say "yeah, I know" and then go and do it again anyway. Mikey makes himself busy, catching sets at the other stages and kissing Pete breathlessly under the stars at night. It's still not enough to distract him from the ache in his ribs, but he doesn't know what to do. He puts his all into performing even though the bass hurts hanging off of his shoulders. He lets Pete eat him out and pointedly redirects his hands when they trail under his shirt. He shuts himself in the bunks and ignores questions and concerned looks directed his way. He numbs whatever emotions are left with alcohol and weed that still don't quell the pain bubbling under his skin. It's fine. He's fine.
It's hard to describe just how fucking hot it is in Tampa. Mikey is wiping sweat from his brow what feels like every thirty seconds. The humidity makes the air thick, causing his lungs to struggle more than they already are. His t-shirt, already too tight, sticks to him and adds to the overstimulation he's feeling. He shifts around in an attempt to get comfortable, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots through his chest with the movement. He's sure his discomfort shows on his face—pinched brows, pouty lips, grimace taking over his features. He keeps his back to the crowd, straightens his posture only to wince again. He's not sure how much more of this he can take, but the thought of taking off his binder kind of makes him want to die. There's only a week left of Warped, he can survive that long. When he's back home, alone in the comfort of his apartment, maybe with Pete at his side...then he can truly relax. It's too risky to do it here.
He can feel Pete staring at him from side stage. It's been a few days since he's had the free time to watch My Chem play. Any other time, Mikey would've missed his presence. Now, he curses it. Pete is notoriously observant, even more so when it concerns his boyfriend. Mikey hopes that he hasn't noticed his pain, even though he knows he has. He wonders if the stage can open up and swallow him fucking whole so that he doesn't have to face Pete ever again. He can't handle the disappointed look he knows Pete will give him.
The set doesn't last nearly long enough. Mikey puts all of his frustration—with himself, with the world, with God, with Pete—into the thrum of chords under his calloused fingers. He steels himself enough to smile as he tosses the rest of his picks out to the crowd, laughing softly at the resulting brawl that breaks out in the pit. The action makes his pain skyrocket, but he doesn't care. Performing is all he has. Seeing the look on their fans' faces while he plays is the only medicine he has, and it's a damn good drug.
He's got a hand on his ribs when he walks backstage, groaning quietly. He sees Pete's smile in his peripherals, but it fades when he meets Mikey's eyes. Mikey dodges his celebratory embrace, unable to handle the squeeze of arms around him right now. Pete frowns, and fuck, sad isn't an emotion he wants to make him feel. It pangs just wrong in Mikey's heart.
Pete doesn't quite know what's going on, but the look of pain and the hand on his side says enough. He takes a step closer, relieved when Mikey doesn't flinch away, and reaches out to lift his bass off of him. He hands it off to a tech and watches as Mikey curls in on himself once the weight is relieved. He slumps forward, forehead against Pete's collarbone as he exhales. He looks exhausted. Pete wonders if he can convince him to take a nap together.
"Mikey?" he says gently. "Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
Mikey sniffles, dehydration preventing any tears from falling. "I...I think I made a mistake."
Pete's heart stops. He doesn't really know what to make of that. His brain takes off on a marathon sprint. He pauses, takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. "Okay," he says over the low rumble of techs getting ready for Senses Fail's set. "Okay, that's okay. What...mistake? What do you mean, Mikey?"
Mikey whines, high-pitched and unpleasant. "Can...can we go back to the bus, please?"
Pete nods, hands shaking where they grip the back of Mikey's skull. "Yeah, okay. Yours or mine?"
Mikey grimaces. He can't possibly let his bandmates know what's going on. His brother would kill him for being so stupid—he'd probably deserve it. "Yours, please," he says.
"Okay," Pete hums. He slips his hand into Mikey's, leading him down the stairs and into the backstage area. The parking lot is far today. Mikey hopes he can make it.
It's silent while they walk. Pete doesn't know what to say when he's still unsure what's wrong, and Mikey is too busy trying to not keel over and die from oxygen deprivation. He stumbles on the pavement and Pete steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. It makes things worse, but Mikey doesn't say anything, just smiles up at Pete and thanks him even though he's sure he can see the discomfort on his face. Pete ignores it. Mikey wonders if he can convince Pete to forget this ever happened. Maybe they can lay on the couch together (with Pete's head not on Mikey's chest) and watch Pretty Woman until they fall asleep. He doubts it, but he can try.
Pete's hand is hot on Mikey's back as he leads him up the stairs to the bus. Mikey regrets his decision as soon as Pete's eyes land on him. He swallows heavily as he watches Pete lock the door.
"Uh...where's everyone else?" Mikey asks, voice cracking.
Pete keeps his distance, leaning back against the kitchen counter a few feet away from where Mikey is awkwardly fidgeting with his hands in the middle of the room. "Went to watch Motion City Soundtrack," he says. "You gonna tell me what's going on now? Or are we going to keep pretending it doesn't exist?"
Mikey huffs. Coming here was definitely a bad idea. "I...I think I messed up."
"Yeah, you said that." Pete nods, encouraging him to go on.
Mikey runs a hand over his face, distressed. He wonders if he can fucking explode into a million pieces if he wishes hard enough. He figures it's worth a shot. But when he opens his eyes, Pete's staring at him with this awful mix of scared-worried-upset-anxious on his face, and Mikey can't take it anymore. He hates that he's the cause of his boyfriend's distress. It makes him feel sick.
"My ribs hurt," he says, figures that's a good start.
Pete nods, attentive. "Okay, why? Did you get hurt?"
Mikey knows Pete isn't going to like hearing the truth, but honesty is the way to go. He can't hide this anymore. He's already made the mistake, now it's time to own up to it. Lying to Pete will only continue to hurt both of them.
"I think I've been wearing my binder for too long," he says. There's no "think", he knows he's been wearing it for too long, but can't bring himself to say as much. Saying out loud feels like an admission of guilt, something he's not yet willing or ready to do.
Pete sighs. It makes Mikey feel guilty. "How long has it been since you've taken it off?"
Mikey knows he's going to hate the answer, but he says it anyway. "A week? Something like that. Maybe more. I...I'm not sure, Pete."
Pete closes his eyes. He forces himself to take a deep breath to dispel some of the anger he's feeling. He wants to grab Mikey and shake him. He doesn't. Instead, he asks "Why?"
The question throws Mikey off a little. It isn't what he was expecting to hear. He has to take a second to think of his response. He settles on "It's...it's just a lot. There's a lot of people...a lot of eyes. I feel like everybody can tell. I spend the whole set so fucking aware of where I am and what I'm doing so that nobody finds out. It's exhausting. And then I get back on the bus and I have to look at myself? Fuck, Pete, I just can't do it. It...it's all too much."
It's silent for a long moment while Pete nods, mulling over options in his head. Mikey wishes he would say something—anything. He itches to fill the silence, but he's never been one for running his mouth. He's said his piece. All he can do is wait and breathe.
"You haven't taken it off at all?" Pete asks. Mikey shakes his head. "Like...not to sleep? Shower? Nothing?"
"No," Mikey says. There's a bitter taste starting to form at the back of his throat. He swallows it down.
"Mikey-" Pete starts, sounding disappointed.
"I know," Mikey huffs, interrupting him. "I know I fucked up, okay? I know I shouldn't have done it, but it's just...you don't get it, Pete."
"You're right. I don't get it. And I'm not going to pretend that I do. I just wish you would take better care of yourself. That's all. I...I'm not mad, I'm not upset, I'm just...I'm just worried. You looked like you were about to fucking die up there."
"Felt like I was going to fucking die up there." Mikey laughs, even though it's probably inappropriate for the situation. Pete smiles anyway.
"You said you were hurting? Can I...can I take a look?"
No. Yes. No. Mikey doesn't want him to, but he supposes he needs him to. He isn't sure what's hiding under his binder, but he's certain it's nothing good. He fears he's gone beyond what he's able to handle. He swallows down anxieties and worries as he nods. He barely manages to get a broken "yeah" out past the lump in his throat.
Pete helps him out of his t-shirt. He places a kiss on Mikey's jaw once the fabric is out of the way. It's standard, familiar. Mikey tilts his head back to bare his neck on pure instinct; Pete doesn't trail his kisses any lower. He grips the hem of Mikey's binder, tilting his head to look at him. Mikey flinches, but nods for Pete to continue regardless. He lifts his arms to help Pete work it off of him. It's difficult to get his binder off on the best of days, a natural side effect of the compressing fabric. Now, with the layers of sweat and grime caked into it, it's nearly impossible.
Pete's gasp tells Mikey all he needs to know. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can't look. It's better if he doesn't. Seeing the damages will just make him unable to do this again in the future, and he's sure the day will come when this is once again his reality. Icy fingertips trail over his ribs. Mikey tries not to flinch away from the touch. He's held firmly in place by Pete's tight grip on his hip, unable to go far anyway. He feels vulnerable and exposed under Pete's transfixed gaze. It's somehow easier to pour his soul out for this man than to let him look at his breasts. Mikey doesn't pull back even though he wants to.
The vast expanse of Mikey's pale skin is bruised and battered. Varying shades of purple, black, and yellow decorate his skin like the most horrible watercolor painting. Pete's trying not to touch, but he can't help himself. He presses his index and middle fingers into Mikey's sternum, watching as the skin turns off-white under his touch. He doesn't know what to say. His heart aches seeing Mikey in such a state. Somewhere deep inside, he's angry that he's done this to himself. A bigger part of him just feels sad. He knows he'll never be able to understand what's going on in Mikey's head, try as he might, but the clear emotional struggle that lead him to do this is tearing him up inside. He's in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he inspects the damage, trying to decide what the best course of action is.
"I don't like that you did this," Pete says. "I don't think you should wear your binder for a few days. You need a break. Mikey, this is...this is bad."
Mikey lets a breath out through his teeth. He still can't bring himself to look. He doesn't want to know. He's angry and disappointed with himself, too. Mostly, he's upset that he's made Pete so damn sad. He should never be making anyone he cares about so deeply feel like that. He hates himself for it.
"Yeah," Mikey nods. "Yeah, I...I know."
"You know, or you're going to?"
Mikey sighs. "I'm gonna have to, aren't I? Not like I have a choice."
"Not as long as I'm around; no, you don't." Mikey huffs, but stays silent. He leans into Pete's side, tucking himself under his arm when Pete drapes it over his shoulders. The air conditioning is cool against his blackened skin, causing a shiver to rake through his body. Pete hums thoughtfully. "You wanna get a shirt on?" he asks.
Mikey nods. "Please,"
Pete kisses his temple in a moment of tender sincerity before they part. He unwinds their bodies, putting a step between them and smiling at Mikey's frown. "I'll go grab one of my hoodies, okay? Stay here."
Mikey nods appreciatively. The thought of putting on his practically skin-tight t-shirt when unbound is less than appealing. He's glad that Pete knows him better than he knows himself. He doesn't know what he'd do without him. He hopes this lasts forever.
Mikey is wrapped up in Pete's Gym Class Heroes hoodie when he falls asleep on his chest, Pretty Woman droning on in the background.