Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Hey!" Oh god. He's seen me. "Hey freak! Look at me! You deaf or something?!"

His voice is full of cocky bravado. He thinks he owns this school. I guess He does.

"I'm talking to you, dipshit!" I can hear the smirk in His voice. He'll be surrounded by His henchmen, wanting to show off, wanting to prove that He owns me. I guess He does.

He loses patience. "Fucking look at me bitch!"

Just keep walking Mikey just keep walking don't look up Mikey don't look up

He grabs my shoulder and pulls me around to look at Him. His wide, malicious grin fills my vision. His deep brown eyes, violent seas of power, seem to read my mind. He knows what I've done, He can see everything I've done. He knows that I'm all wrong.

"Saw you eating earlier, freak. Not like you." His voice is a razor blade across my mind. "Maybe you need my help throwing it back up again?"

How did He know oh my god howdidHeknow ohmygodhowdidHeknow

"You look surprised, freak. Didn't think anyone knew about your dirty little secret? Didn't think anyone knew about this either?" He grabs my wrist, right where the fresh cuts are.

I gasp in pain, in shock. Not even Pete knows. How did He know?

"So you cut," I wince. "You're bulimic, anorexic, you take all those pills," I feel sick. How did He find out about me? "And you're gay. How's Pete Wentz these days?"

His words are worse than any punch He's thrown, than any beating I've taken. How did He know about Pete? We were a secret. Then again, nothing's secret to Him.

"Is there anything not wrong with you, Michael Way?" His grin twists into to a distorted line of pure hatred, "I don't want you here. No-one wants you here. I want you dead. You should burn in Hell where you belong."

Please for the love of God let this be over quick.

He smiles cordially again. "But let me do you a favour. You ate didn't you?" I know where this is going. It's not good. "And fat ass faggots like you shouldn't eat, you don't deserve it. Let me remind you what you should do."

His fist, hard as iron, slams into my stomach. I double up.

"Stupid. Fag. Die. You. Should. Die. And. Burn. In. Hell. You. Disgusting. Piece. Of. Shit. Filthy. Little. Faggot." With each word, He punches me in the stomach. He is corroding my ribs and my will to live.

I'm doubled over, gripping His sleeve so I don't fall down. I know from experience He doesn't stop when I fall.

"Don't fucking touch me, you disgusting piece of shit." He wrenches my hand from His sleeve. I fall.

Don't cry Mikey don't cry please don't cry

He kicks at my face. Nuclear pain splatters over my head.

The bell rings, loud and angry, signalling the first lesson after lunch has begun.

Saved by the bell. How cliché.

He spits on my face. He leaves. His henchmen trailing behind Him.

I stay like that, curled up on the floor in agony for the longest time. Minuets, hours, days. I don't know. I don't care. I wish I was invisible. I wish He would leave me alone.

I wish I was dead.

Chapter Text

I peel myself off the cold, hard floor. My head pounds, my heart beats in fresh bruises.

I stagger towards the boy's toilets. I need to get myself cleaned up, wipe the blood away.

It's beginning to scare me how okay I am with this.

I deserve it. I know I do. I deserve every harsh word, every harsh blow. I am all wrong. I am so horrifically broken. I should never have been born. He has told me all of this. He told me so I know it's true.

The pills pulled me out of that dark cloud that consumed me for a while. But after a while they stopped working. They make it worse. They never work. THE DRUGS NEVER FUCKING WORK. My brother, Gerard, still makes me take them every day. He makes me take them along with other meds that turn me into a walking corpse. I've tried everything. Begging, blackmailing, threatening. Every single fucking morning and every fucking night Gerard makes me take the pills. The Prozac hasn't worked today. It never does anymore. Stupid doctors and their stupid faulty meds. They never work, so I took matters into my own hands. Little bags of brightly coloured pills, nothing mind-blowing. They make the world a little more bearable. And I need them.

I stare at myself in the toilet mirror. A boy with dried blood laced across his face and dead eyes stares straight back at me. The kid in the mirror lifts up his shirt to reveal nebulas of black-and-purple bruises burnt onto his skin. You can see most of his ribs stabbing through his skin, jostling to be the first to pierce his flesh. He isn't thin enough. He isn't pretty enough. He isn't controlling himself enough. He isn't enough. He will never be enough.

In the mirror, the boy's flesh seems to expand, swallowing his bones, taking away his one redeeming feature.

I realise that this alien child in the mirror is me. He's me and I am him and the realisation rips the very breath from my lungs.

I hate the thing that I see in the mirror. I hate the thing that I have become. I hate myself.

Hatred boils up in my veins, my vision blurs and then I hear I loud shattering noise and feel a sharp, defined pain in my hand.

I punched the mirror. I punched the fucking mirror.

Sadness. Guilt. A strange sense of power.

My counsellor told me to name my emotions as they come to me.

Anger. Hatred. Pity.

He stares at me for the longest time through the cracked glass. He glares from behind complex spider webs of anger, reminding me that I have no self-control. That I'm not good enough. For anyone.

I can't understand why Pete chose me. Maybe because he might genuinely like me?

Who am I kidding?

Pete's far too good for me. He deserves to be happy and all I do is drag him down. I drag everyone down. I'm not just drowning myself, I am drowning all those who think they like me.

Maybe Pete sees me as a charity case, a broken toy, something that needs fixing.

I can't be fixed.

I should die because I am so fucking worthless. I should die because I am broken beyond repair. I should die because I don't deserve to live. I never did.

What am I?

I am an addict to pretty pills that look like they couldn't hurt anything. I am addicted to seeing my arms weep from the razor. I am addicted to purging my body of the food I am forced to eat.

Oh god.

I can't fucking look at him anymore. The very sight of him makes me sick. I can't look at him with his own lifeblood latticed across his face. I can't look at his pale, bony hands shake as they crave the comfort of the bright pink tablets in perfect little circles. I can't look him in the eye. His chocolate-brown eyes are torrents of loathing, insecurity and burning shame.

I need to get out of here. I need to leave. I need to die. Die if I stay. Die if I go.

I want to go home. I want someone to hold me, say it's all gonna be okay. I want to sleep, sleep forever.

What do I want? I don't know.

I want to see the sunset colours of my blood. I want to see crimson pouring from my wrists. Cutting upwards. They can't save you then. I don't want to be saved.

I need help.

I need blades. I need guns. I need weapons.

A hunger for those perfect little pink pills invades every last cell in my body.

My thoughts crash into one another. My mind blurs. My body responds to the mass panic by breaking into a sweat.

I crash to the bathroom floor. Leftover chemicals fire up and down my body, tearing spasms along my muscles.

How did it get like this?

How did I end up shaking, sweating on the floor, craving bright pills with my own blood plastered across my face.

Oh god help me.

PeteGerardGeePeteGerardGodAnyonejusthelpmepleasepleasedontleavemebehind

"You can't leave me like this Gee come back!" I beg my brother out loud. Where is he? I said I'd be there for him where is he? "Gerard where are you? Why have you left me Gee why did you leave?"

There's still a part of me that's rational. Gee is still here, here in this school. This is so disgustingly pathetic.

I grab at the air. I could've sworn Pete was there a second ago. "Pete! Pete come back please I need you I'm not crazy I promise I need you I love you!"

I can hear someone shouting dimly. They sound like they're underwater. Why are they talking like that?

"SOMEONE HELP! OD! OD! OVERDOSE!" whoever they are, they crouch down next to me, "Okay... I'll... get... help... what... did... you...take?"

They seem to pause for an age between each word. I can barely hear what they're saying.

I grab hold of their tie, pull them closer. "Pete... is that you? I thought you..."

"Why is he slurring his words?" I hear an unpleasant voice honk. "What has he taken?" the voice grates across my ears.

"I don't know." The nice, warm voice says desperately. "He keeps calling me Pete."

Not Pete then. Gerard it has to be Gerard. "Gerard you came where's Pete?"

"My name's Frank, honey. Frank Iero." The voice says. Frank says.

"Ask him questions." The shrill voice squawks. "The hospital says to not let him fall asleep."

"Hos...pit...al?" The word pulls up awful memories "I can't go to hospital Gee."

"Who's Gee?" Frank asks, seemingly frantic.

"Brother... Gerard Way... he's my brother..."

"Oh my god." The voic-, Frank, sounds shocked. "No... So you're Mikey?"

I think I nod.

"Okay, Mikey. What's your full name?"

"Michael... J-James... Way..."

The unpleasant voice yells, "Keep asking, Iero!"

"I'm doing my best!" Frank shouts, irritated. "Who's Pete, Mikey?" His voice is softer now.

The name penetrates the thick fog clouding my mind. Pete. That means something.

"Pete Wentz... Boyf-friend."

"How long have you been dating him?"

Is it a trick question? Does Frank know? Is he trying to catch me out?

I answer the best I can. "One year, three months and four days."

Every day for the past year, three months and four days I have been Pete's. Every day for the past year, three months and four days I have been the luckiest person alive.

"The ambulance is here." The voice takes on an even more unpleasant nasal quality.

Darkness is starting to flicker around the edges of my mind.

A new voice shouts through the fog, "In here, quick!"

My eyes start to flicker. I can't hold off the darkness forever.

"No! No! Don't go to sleep!" The new voice says, low and urgent.

The darkness is the heaviest thing. I can't hold it up. I'm not Atlas for god's sake. I can't do this. I... Can't... Do... This.

My eyes close and the darkness wins.

Chapter Text

I wake up to an irritating beeping noise and my brain hammering against my skull.

"Mikey!" Is that Gerard? "Oh thank god you're awake!"

My throat feels like it has been scoured with steel wool and sandpaper when I say, "Gee?"

"Yeah, Mikey. It's me. I'm here." Why does he sound so upset? More to the point, why are there wires across my face and needles in my arms?

I reach up to rip the stupid wires off my face. I can't move one of my arms.

Oh god; they've tied me down.

They've fucking tied me down.

I miserably pick at the fucking handcuffs they've put me in with my spare hand.

"Where am I, Gee? Why have they tied me down?" I can barely keep my eyes open; the fog of sleep drifts across my mind lazily.

"Oh, Mikes." He bursts into tears. "Oh Mikey."

"Don't be upset Gee. Please don't cry." I slur my words.

He takes my free hand. "I'm so sorry, Mikey. I should have noticed. I should have taken better care of you. Oh Mikey." He bursts into fresh floods of tears. "You're in hospital, Mikes. You overdosed."

Oh.

Those pretty little pills did hurt me after all. I thought that they would stop the pain. I thought they would do what the Prozac did, but better. I thought wrong.

But I want them. Right now. I need them.

Gerard swallows. "Mom and Dad are coming soon, Mikes."

"They what?" Those words snap the sleep straight from my mind.

Gerard looks totally miserable. "I'm sorry, Mikey. I really am. I tried to stop them." He pauses for a second. "I love you, Mikes. No matter what. Don't forget that."

My parents come storming in; Gerard shrinks back into his chair, trying to disappear.

Perhaps I should explain.

My dad, Donald Way, is extremely homophobic. He was raised like that, I guess. He believes that, and I quote from one of his frequent rants, 'all fags should die'. He doesn't know about Pete. He doesn't know that Gee is gay, either. I hope he never does until the both of us have moved very far away. He's hit me and Gerard just for saying that 'gay people are still people'. Both of us had to get creative with mom's makeup so people at school wouldn't ask questions. I still have to cover my bruises. I still have to cover my marks from Him. My dad doesn't let us call him dad anymore. We have to call him 'sir' or we get slapped for disrespect.

My mom is a little milder. I think she was brainwashed by dad or something. She copies what he says, but a little half-heartedly. Dad has never hit her (to my knowledge, anyway). Mom has hit me couple of times, but she doesn't go apeshit on us like dad does. So I guess I should be grateful for that.

"Michael James Way how dare you!" My dad yells the second he lays his eyes on me. I breathe out my nose slowly and close my eyes.

Bad decision.

"Don't you dare disrespect me!" He backhands me. Hard.

Pain explodes across my face, my left cheek is on fire.

Don't cry Mikey don't be weak

"Donald..." Mom simpers. She probably doesn't want him to kill me in front of witnesses.

"I thought I raised you right, Michael! My own son, an addict! The shame of it. The doctors here wanted to put you in some kind of rehabilitation centre."

No. I can't live without my pills. I need more. Right now.

My dad is oblivious to me buzzing like an exposed wire.

"Well I was having none of it! You're some simpering fag who can't live without those damn things."

Oh, the irony.

"I found them all and threw them all out." He sounds proud. "All of them, Michael. You'll never have another."

"You what." Anger makes me brave.

"Don't take that tone with me." His voice is suddenly dangerous, not just angry. "Obviously, you still have to take the ones that make you seem normal."

For the first time, my dad sees Gerard. "What the fuck are you doing here, Gerard?"

"I-I want-ted to see M-Mikey, s-sir."

"Well, he doesn't want to see you. Fuck off." Gerard winces at his words.

As Gerard gets up to leave; I try to sit up, the handcuffs stop me reaching my brother.

"No! Gee! Please!" Please don't leave me on my own with fucking Hitler and his wife.

"Shut it, Michael." Dad slaps me again; I fall back down onto the hospital bed, tears stinging my eyes.

It's always been Gerard and I, The Way Brothers. It was always us versus them. Two boys against a vengeful dictator and his support act. My dad sees this and tries to tear rifts between us. I hope it never works, just like my meds. I hope that one day I won't be walking corpse.

Gerard hesitates at the door, looking at me desperately.

"Are you deaf, Gerard?!" Dad barks at him. "I said, get out!"

'I'm so sorry' he mouths at me. I smile weakly back.

Gerard leaves. I don't blame him.

Dad focusses his death glare on me. I need those pills more than ever. Desperation is coursing through my veins.

"So then." He says, anger barely supressed. "You're some kind of addict."

He isn't asking; merely stating facts.

"How dare you. How fucking dare you." He raises his hand again. "Answer me!"

"I-I'm sorry, da- sir."

"Oh believe me, the second you come home you will be."

A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.

I need something. Something to stop my thoughts crashing into each other.

Pills razors bulimia anything just make it quick.

Mom checks her relatively expensive watch (It was an anniversary gift, their 10th, I think). "Donald... we have to go."

The second dad looks at her, all his anger falls away. He must love her. I wish he loved me.

"Of course, honey." He turns back to me, fury colours his features again. "As for you..." He doesn't need to finish.

"Goodbye, Michael." Mom says quietly. She looks like she might say more. She doesn't.

"Come on, Donna."

They leave.

I lie back. I relax; Dad's gone. I relapse.

He had beaten me for cutting. He had found out. He had hit me over and over again. He told me all that was wrong with me. I believed Him. His word was gospel. It still is. It always will be.

He had told me that the next time He found out, I wouldn't be able to hold a razor, never mind cut straight. He told me that cutters had no place in His school.

He had seen a razor fall from my pocket. A twisted grin had lit up His face. He and His henchman had descended on me like wolves. I went down after four punches to the stomach. I was out after a kick to the jaw. He had waited until I came around to tell me to save him the bother and just kill myself. He told me I should kill myself because I was the most useless, pathetic, disgusting piece of shit.

I tried to obey Him.

Flimsy little flashes of steel weren't enough, not enough for what I wanted.

Gerard was working on an art project that day. A sculpture. He had huge blades locked away in his room.

I opened his door. I broke the lock on his art cabinet. I found the biggest knife I could. I took it upstairs.

The first cut was the hardest. My blood was a startling scarlet against my pale skin. But He told me I had to; so I carried on. It got easier. It got addictive.

I cut my thighs open. I cut again and again. I watch the blood pool in my across my legs. I slash my stomach. It burns. I like it. I was finally doing something right. I hack at my arms. Opening the same cuts twice. Huge, crimson crosses lace my arms. I take the blade to my wrist.

Gerard walked in. It took him a moment. He screamed. Ran to me. Wrenched the blade from me. I fell down. My vision blurred over. From tears or blood loss I didn't know. Gerard called an ambulance. He held cloth to my wounds. He held my hand as they took me away. He said, "Mikey. Oh Mikey. I'm so fucking sorry Mikey. Don't leave me Mikey. Please stay. I love you Mikey. You won't stay for you; so stay for me. Please Mikey, please." He sobbed. "It'll be okay Mikey. I swear it'll get better. Please Mikey I'm begging you don't leave me. It's always been us, yeah? The Way Brothers. You can't leave me now Mikey. You can't."

I remember his face as he held my hand in the ambulance. Tear-stained. Blotchy. He looked like the world had shattered around his eyes. He had looked utterly destroyed.

We arrived at the hospital. Gee was taken away from me by a man in a white coat, screaming for me the whole time.

I don't remember much after that.

"I'm sorry, Gee." I say out loud. "I'm so sorry."

How could I do that to my own brother?

Easy. He told me; He told me I had to. His word is law.

Sleep claims me as its own.

|-/

I wake again. Someone is slumped in the chair next to the hospital bed.

"Mikey?" They sound awful, like they've got to the point were tears mean nothing. "Mikey, baby?"

Only one person calls me baby.

Pete.

The relief that he's here is stronger than anything I've ever taken.

"Pete?" I croak, daring to open my eyes. I'm so scared that he might leave me.

The sight that greets me is comforting but disconcerting at the same time.

Pete slouches on the hard, dark grey plastic of the hospital chairs. He is wearing the light grey hoodie I love so much; he's wearing eyeliner. It's smudged in tracks down his cheeks, like he's been crying. He smiles, but I know Pete better than that. His eyes are so desperately powerless it breaks my heart. He looks so small and vulnerable, sat there. He reaches to take my hand. I grip back with all the strength I can muster. I need to show him I still work. I need to show him I'm not completely broken. I need to show him I'm worth his time. How? How can I do that when I'm not even worth my own time?

"Oh Mikeyway I was so scared. Why didn't you tell me, baby?" He sounds relieved, yet terrified.

"I'm sorry Pete. I truly am." I am not sorry that I took the pills, I'm sorry that I worried Pete.

"Mikey..."  He can see straight through my lie. I know he can. He knows I am telling barefaced lies to his face and he hates me for it. "I just wish that..."

He wishes that he wasn't with me. He wishes he wasn't being dragged down with me. There are plenty of people who actually deserve Pete. Patrick Stump, for instance. Patrick is very pretty, with talent to match. Between me and him, he would win all too easily. He's Pete's best friend and Pete loves him so much more than he loves me. I can tell. Pete looks at him like he's everything good in this world. Pete's never looked at me like that.

No-one has ever looked at me like that.

My own dad despises the sight of me. My mom has given up on me. My brother hates me for all I have put him through. My boyfriend is embarrassed to call me his significant other.

I don't blame any of them.

"I wish that..." He keeps getting choked up, words clogging his throat, desperate to get out all at once. I know the feeling.

I reach out to touch his face. To cradle his thoughts with my hands. To try and tell him, through one gesture, that he means the world to me and I will always love him.

He holds my hand to his cheek. Closes his eyes. I love his eyes. They are the mainly brown, but there are flecks of gold fanning out from his pupils. I get lost in them every day. Someone once said that the eyes are the window to the soul, then Pete has beautiful eyes and a beautiful soul. But there are heavy black bags under his gorgeous eyes. He's had insomnia for a while. He promised me he was better. Then again, I promised him the exact same thing. I thought he took pills to make him sleep easier. There's a pill for everything, isn't there? Pills to take pain away. Pills to supress thoughts. Pills to keep you one of the living dead.

"You haven't been sleeping." I say, my tone accusatory.

Pete drops my hand from his cheek, but keeps hold of it, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand.

"I'm sorry, baby." He sighs. "I was worried about you."

Worried? About me? But why?

"Why?" my voice is tiny, desperate. It makes me sick.

Pete stares at me incredulously, like he can't believe the words that hang in the air.

"Because, Mikey," His tone is harsh and I flinch away from it. "My boyfriend just overdosed and he's been in hospital for two fucking days and he swore he'd never touch those pills again and he has. I think I'm allowed to be just a little fucking worried about it."

Every word from him is like a punch. Every word drags me a little further down in the pitch black water. Every word slices open old scars.

He sees me wincing and his face softens. "I'm sorry, baby. I haven't slept and you're in here and I just..." He gestures around him at the hospital ward.

"It's okay, Pete." Anything he does will be okay. I couldn't care if he killed twenty people, I would still love him so much it hurts. "I'm sorry."

"Oh Mikey." Pete's near tears again. "I love you so much. It would kill me if you ended up in here again."

He said he loves me. He said he loves me. Does he?

I wonder if every time he thinks of me, the dark cloud lifts a little. I wonder if every time he sees me, his heartbeat picks up in double time. I wonder if every time he holds me, he feels safe, so so safe. Like no-one will ever hurt him again.

I wonder if every time he sees me leave, all he can hear is the sound of his heart breaking and breaking and breaking.

"I love you too, Pete." The words hang in the air like Christmas lights, flashing over and over again. There have never been truer words that circle around us and pull us close together.

He lies next to me on the hospital bed. I curl into his chest, feeling every atom in my body straining to leave this prison of flesh and bone and connect with him, just to be with him. I nestle into the crook of his neck; he puts his arm around me. A strange joy feels like it's about to break out from my chest and flurry around me and Pete. Around us. It feels good, better than any drug. Better than painkiller blowing bubbles of serenity through my veins. Better than those little pink pills easing me from the thoughts that form my burial shroud. Better than too many sleeping tablets pulling me under.

Safe.

We lie like this for the longest time.

Chapter Text

When I wake, Pete's gone. I can feel each cell in my body yearn for him. For the comfort of his presence. For the sound of his voice penetrating the dark clouds that I am so lost in. For the quiet urgency (for what, I still don't know) that holds us together.

It has always been this way.

When I first met Pete, he was on the street popping pills into his mouth like sweets. A bottle of vodka in one hand and a pack of aspirin in the other. There was another, empty, pack a few feet away. He was slumped under a flickering lamppost, silent tears pouring down his face.

I was the one who spoke to him, talked him out of taking any more pills. I was the one who called an ambulance. I was the one who held his hand as we were driven to the hospital.

I still remember how he looked at me as we sped down pitch black streets, partially illuminated by sputtering lights. He stared at me through the drug-fuelled haze that clouded his brain over. He stared at me as I cried over his twitching body. I didn't know him then, but he knew me. He had seen me, really seen me, one day and felt gravity fall away from him. Instead he was attached to this unforgiving world by a million steel cables, all of them bolted to me. He said, in that moment, he was infinite. He was immortal. Gravity didn't mean too much to him; I meant everything to him now.

I waited for him whilst they operated. They nearly lost him.

I never would've forgiven them if they did. I never would've forgiven myself.

I don't know how long I waited on a hard, orange plastic hospital chair for him. I would've waited months, years if it meant that this stranger was going to live. I had only just met him, but I already needed him like I needed air to breathe. He was (and still is) the centre of my entire universe. He hung up the stars in the infinite sky. He made the planets blossom from his bare hands.

The doctor looked a little shocked when she saw I was still there, waiting. She said I could go in and see him.

I sat next to his hospital bed on a severe looking grey chair. He told me his name. Pete Wentz. It suited him. I told him mine. Mikey Way. Something in his otherwise dead eyes lit up at the sound of my name. He gripped my hand. I felt something like electricity course through my veins at his touch, making me hyper-aware of everything around us. I held onto him, quietly desperation lying dormant under our connected hands and words.

He fell back down into sleep. But this time, he would wake up, so it was okay. He still held onto my hand. I didn't let go until the doctors called Gerard to take me away. I fought against Gee's iron grip the whole time, struggling to run back to Pete.

Every day after that, I visited the hospital. I'd sneak out, through doors or windows, just to see him. More than once I was dragged out by the nurses because I refused to leave.

When he was let out, he broke into my bedroom at four in the morning. I moved over in my bed to make room for him, still half asleep. He climbed in beside me. Instinctively, I curled into him. Equally instinctively, he wrapped his arms around me. Legs interlocked, sleep gently took us by the hands and led us into the soft-blue-and-silver night.

Gerard walked in to wake me up for Hell-prison-school (he was usually unsuccessful). Processed what he saw in front of him. "What the actual fuck." He said, shock injected into every syllable.

Gee had looked at Pete, then back to me. Pete, and back. Pete, and back. "What the ever-loving fuck are you doing in my brother's bed, Wentz?" He knew Pete from rumours that slurred his name. Rumours that muttered that he was a slut. Rumours that whispered that he was a pill-popping whore who was selling his body to creepy old guys for any drugs that were little and brightly coloured. Rumours that spread like wildfire. None of that was true (Pete denies it all a little too quickly, though), but Gee didn't know that.

"I will give you thirty fucking seconds to get out of this house before I call the motherfucking cops." Gerard threatened, true danger coiled behind every word.

"Run... Pete... Please, he's not kidding." I said to Pete, dazed.

Pete looked at Gerard counting down. He looked back to me. In defiance (I think), he took hold of me like I was the whole world and kissed me on the lips, hard and fast. Then he was gone, out the window. I smiled after him.

The smile soon disappeared. "Michael Way what the fuck is wrong with you?" I winced when he said my name. "What the fuck was that?"

I wanted to be lost in the last night. The delicate glow that surrounded me and Pete was fading because Gerard, and he could go fuck himself, was tearing down the paper walls that kept me safe from harm that day.

"Do you know what he's done?" Gerard was seriously angry. "He's a drug-addicted, slutty little whore who'll fuck anyone as long as they'll give him pills."

That made my blood boil over. "How dare you, Gerard?! You know jack shit about him! Are you seriously going to believe stupid little rumours that bitchy little girls and dumbass jocks make up?"

"It's the truth, Mikey. I saw him."

No. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. "Go fuck yourself, Gerard. Oh, no. Wait. You do enough of that already." The words wouldn't stop. I never meant any of it. "Pull your dick out of your own ass and get the fuck out."

Gerard was stood there with his mouth hanging open, totally shocked. I don't think I'd ever spoken to him like that before. "Fine." He said, his voice wobbling a little. He stormed out of my room.

"CLOSE THE GOD FUCKING DAMN DOOR!" I yelled after him. "HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD OF DOING THAT, YOU PRICK!"

"Language, Michael!" My mum shouted from downstairs.

|-/

The ghost of a smile dances on my lips when I think about the day Gerard found us together. He still thinks it was a one-off. Far from it.

I love Pete so much. A strange, rosy-pink feeling consumes the both of us when we are together, in the best way possible. True affection pours between the two of us. Enormity, the feeling of us being two separate people, one person, and one with everything, is always present. We are pulled into the sky when we are together. We dance among the stars; spinning in the blushing, delicate light of the sun in all her burning glory. Pete is my sun. I am his stars. We burn together. We burn as one.

When he leaves (through the window, usually), Atlas breaks and the sky falls onto me. I am crushed underneath the weight of sadness, of agony. Everything burns. When your oxygen is cut off, you have to drag razor blades into your lungs in order to breathe. You curl on the floor, being pulled in every direction. Screaming silently, tears pouring down your face, you reach out for pills, hands shaking uncontrollably, for razors, for anything. Anything, as long it focuses your scattered thoughts. Each scar needs attention as they weep the scarlet tears you can't afford to show, you need help, but you won't take it because you need all of this to stop the voices and the thoughts.

You need your oxygen back. Right now. You need it or you'll die.

When he comes back, comes back to find me utterly broken, he holds me. He holds me until every last shard of my broken body fuses back together.

Life pours back into your lungs, and you don't need the razors or the pills anymore.

Just him.

Sleep pulls me after her, carefully holding my hand the whole time, into the darkness. She has to make sure I don't get lost in the all-consuming void.

If I am lost, I will never find light again.

I will stay silently sleeping. I will burn where I belong.

I hope she loses me. Just this fucking once, won't she lose me? Won't she forget me? Won't she just let me die?

She never does.

SHE NEVER FUCKING DOES.

She never will.

Chapter Text

The doctors let me out of hospital today. It was all sad smiles and gentle voices. I hated it. I want to scream and cry and break everything. I want to break everything so it matches with me.

I sit in the back of mum's car, silently staring out of the window and silently suffering with the half-hearted abuse mumbled at me.

"Faggot." She says. "Drug-dependent fag.'

Just little words. Just little words that burrow deep into my mind, expand, forcing fat little arms outwards, and crack my very sanity wide open like landscape. Words cannot hurt me. Words are not supposed to hurt like blows to the jaw. Words are not supposed to shatter the vessel you stand in. Words shouldn't make you afraid to keep on living. But they do. They do and we cannot ever stop them.

Words terrify me. Bruises and broken bones from unrelenting fists will heal. The tears in your mind, put there by knife-like words, will never fade. A word can so casually tip galaxies upside-down. A simple "I love you" to the person you thought they could never, ever be loved will bring bright light to their miserable existence; you will become the centre of a universe, you will be become the very oxygen they breathe. Yet, that same "I love you", but to that boy they were always burningly jealous of, can claw out your heart. These simple words will make you that all you come to be. All that you were. All that you are.

This is what terrifies me. I have to potential to reshape private universes, to play god and break lives. I have every last conventional weapon locked away behind my eyes, the power to set fires and laugh as they burn in silent agony.

"Stupid fucking fag."

Words can't you hurt you.

"Dumbass little faggot."

They can only destroy you, piece by piece. They can only take down the masks you wear in order to survive, brick by boring brick. They can only perform the purest torture on your very soul, agony after agony.

"Can't even commit suicide properly." The fact that she says it so casually torches my mind. She must love to watch as fire courses up my veins and chars my lungs. Her comments gain momentum and cruelty. "You're a failure; a disgrace. You make me sick. I can't even look at you."

Oh, believe me, I know the feeling.

"Sickening." Venom dribbles from between her ill-painted, pastel pink lips.

For outwards appearances, we must be a perfect family. Straight, successful, never taken any sort of pill, and no deviation from 'the norm'. It's painful to have to hide who you are from the people who are supposed to love you the most. It hurts to have to lie to the people who are meant to protect you at all costs. Hiding your very identity hurts almost as much as the beatings do, from both my dad and Him.

Everything hurts. Everything hurts so much. I am always burning; always drowning. I am always in blinding agony; I am always numb, senseless to the world.

She sits, unaware of the fight I am putting up against myself, hurling abuse across the small distance between us. That small distance between 'mother' and son is growing until huge mountains and plunging caverns separate us. I wish that those mountains and caverns would grow even further apart. Sometimes I miss my mum.

I miss her, the real her. The mother who would smile and stroke my hair. The mother who would play endless games with me and Gerard. The mother who never dreamt of hitting me or Gee. The mother she was supposed to be; the mother that was supposed to stay. When grandad died, my mum was replaced by a twisted, maniacal, brain-washed twin. I miss her so fucking much. Missing her adds to the pain of the bruises that beat just under my skin. Missing her adds to the constant burning, the constant drowning, of my mind.

Each words clogs in my throat like marbles, clamouring to get out. I can never say any of this to her. She will never understand how much I miss her. It kills me. It works away at my soul until I am nothing but a shadow. It claws at my heart until it is nothing but bloody ribbons. It shatters my eyes so I can't see the blindly obvious. It's obvious that she will never love me, or Gerard, again.

I want her too; but I also want her to drive this car off a cliff so we shatter on the perilous rocks below.

Decisions, decisions.

|-/

My return back home went as well as you might expect.

I walk in and my dad doesn't even look at me; says he can't. He sends me upstairs, 'out of his sight'. Gee runs up after dad isn't interested in either of his two sons anymore.

He bursts in, "Mikey!" He hugs me, hard. Both of the Way Brothers aren't used to affection from anyone, apart from each other. I hug him back, my heart breaking a little. "You're okay!"

"I would hardly say 'okay', Gee." I say dryly.

"Car journey with mum?" he shakes his head sympathetically.

"Got it in one." I grimace. "I'm still not over the mental trauma of overdose, never mind that." I try to joke about it. Bad move.

"Don't joke about it, Mikes." Gerard says sharply. "Don't fucking joke about it."

I cast my eyes down. "Sorry, Gee." I mumble, hanging my head a little.

"S'okay." He pulls me into him for another hug. "I missed you."

"I can't say I didn't miss you." I want to tell him so much, but I can't.

"Love you, Mikey." Gerard says, pulling away from me. Leaving me like everyone inevitably will. "Don't forget about that." He carefully closes my door behind him.

"I love you too, Gee." I might not be around for much longer. I need my oxygen supply back. Now. I can feel my lungs burn as my whole body cries out for a saviour. Where's Pete? My throat restricts as I fall to my bedroom floor, gasping for breath, clawing at the dusty grey carpet as if by ripping it, oxygen will flood back into my desperate lungs. My vision starts to go a little black around the edges: dark bubbles interrupt my line of sight. I need him. I need him so much. I need him as he is the very oxygen I breathe. Pete? Where are you? Please, I'm begging you, save me. I need help. I need pills. I need love. I need Pete. Why won't you come and rescue me, Pete? Won't you come around?

Please?

|-/

I wake to a scratching noise at my window. My sleep-addled brain pushes me across the fog that curls around my eyes. I walk across to the window, pausing to flick my light on as I pass it. Not realising that this could be a very bad idea, I open the window.

"Hey baby." A warm voice whispers. A sleepy smile works across my face as my brain registers the fact that my oxygen is flooding back into my lungs; that life is coursing up and down my veins. Pete leans into my bedroom and presses a small kiss to my chapped and faded lips; he drops down from the window ledge and into my arms.

"Pete." I mumble into the crook of his neck, feeling every last bit of my broken heart repair. It feels good, very good.

Taking me by the hand, he leads us to my bed and pulls the covers back. "Get in, baby. You need some sleep." I do as he says. He gently lays down next to me and covers the both of us carefully.

I love him.

"Once there was a boy called Mikeyway and a boy called Pete Wentz." He begins to say in a hushed voice.

"Are you reading me a bedtime story?" I ask, giggling a little.

"Yes, I am. Now shut up and let me carry on."

"Sorry." I say, still giggling. I cuddle up to him, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Mikeyway was a beautiful, talented kid who looked lost all the time. Pete wanted to be the one to save him; to show him unconventional beauty-"

"You mean fuck him?"

"Mikey. Let me carry on!" But Pete is laughing quietly too.

"But Mikeyway ended up being the one to save Pete. Mikeyway found Pete when he was dying. When Pete found Mikeyway he couldn't think straight. He was happy, sad. Sleepless, sleeping. He wrote all of his jumbled thoughts onto paper to try and understand why Mikeyway made him feel this way. He wrote:

It's not me, it's you

Actually, it's the taxidermy of you and me

Untie the balloons from around my neck and ground me

I'm just a racehorse on the track

Send me back to the glue factory

Always thought I'd float away

And never come back

But I've got enough miles on my card

To fly the boys home on my own

But you know me: I like being all alone

And keeping you all alone

And the charts are boring

And the kids are snoring

And my ego's in a sling

You said you're not listening and I said I'm wishing...

And I said... I said...

"Pete never knew what he was going to say, but when Mikeyway visited him in the hospital, he said it. He said 'I love you'. He was shocked when Mikeyway said it back with no hesitation. Pete loved Mikeyway and Mikeyway loved Pete. All was golden in the sky." Pete finished, his eyes shining with adoration and tears.

I kiss them away, I chase the tears away with my lips. "I love you so much, Pete." I chase away the demons with my words. "I love you to the end of the infinite universe."

"I love you as you love me, yet more." Pete kissed my forehead. "Now sleep."

I do.

Chapter Text

I stretch out and claim the space that Pete once occupied. My lungs burn around the edges in absence of my oxygen.

Gerard gently pushes the door open; says 'Mikey. Hey Mikey. School today, yeah?'

I groan. Fine, I say. Everything is always fine. Never good, other people can't know of your happiness. They'll get jealous. Never bad, they don't like dealing with problems; they don't care. People can't know you as anything other than 'fine'.

How are you doing? Fine. How are your cuts? Fine. How are your pills? Fine. You never talk anymore, are you okay? Fine.

I hate you. Fine. You don't even care. Fine. Why did I ever fall for you? Fine. I'm leaving. Fine. I'm never coming back. Fine.

As they slam the door, you realise that they will never come back. You had one chance and you fucking blew it; you had one chance with Him and you fucking destroyed it. You are left sobbing to your twin in the mirror. You're left weeping, punching your reflection, desperately trying to tell yourself that you're fine.

I'm fine. I'm burning. I'm drowning. I'm hollow. I'm fine. I'm lost without you. I want to kill someone. I want to kill myself. I'm fine.

I get dressed slowly, wearing whatever's closest on my bedroom floor. Black Anthrax t-shirt. Black skinny jeans. Grey beanie pulled over long-ish brown hair. I am a moving target, I don't fit in and I won't try to. He hates that, He hates that one person won't conform to His law. It's too late to stop now. Even if I did conform, He wouldn't stop. I could tell you everything about His appearance. I have been so close to his face so often. He has wicked, brown eyes that don't let you see into His soul, He has bleach-blond hair that stops just a little short of His swirling eyes. He is tall and skinny, but wiry muscles are bunched solidly beneath His skin. He has perfect straight teeth, almost blindly white. Those shining teeth are always pulled into a little smirk, almost arrogant. Why wouldn't He be? He practically owns this entire place. He practically owns me. I suppose He does.

For three days, I have been free of Him, but not free of any kind of abuse. Long, purple-and-black stripes line my back from one of dad's increasingly drunk rages.

He slapped me so hard I saw stars; he put his foot behind my leg and pushed so I fell straight down, an extremely easy target. Dad had grinned as he had taken his black leather belt and wrapped a short section of it around his hand, three quick, sharp twists. I was paralysed with fear; my legs and heart were made from concrete, preventing me from running away from pain. Short, sharp blasts of pain lashed across my body; thermonuclear spikes of agony that clog your throat and haze your eyes. I curled up to try and avoid the cruel belt; my dad laughed as he aimed a kick at my head. My neck snapped back from the force of his immaculate light-brown leather shoes connecting with my forehead.

Please for the love of god don't cry Mikey don't cry

"Pussy." Dad laughed cruelly as a few small tears escaped my eyes. Agony clawed its way along my skin and mind. His laugh faded as he took out the world's anger onto my body. Again and again until I can't breathe or think; too many tears and too many mental train wrecks. Too much and not enough. Too much anger, too much sadness, too much unspoken agony. Not enough love. Not enough running. Not enough cuts.
I have to get out.
I'm a target here. That's all I am. Not a son. Not a person. An object. Something that's funny to make cry.
Something that's easy to hurt.
It's all I am. It's all I ever will be.
Save me. Don't hurt me. Kill me. Please. Just make it stop.

It all hurts, the memories never stop hurting. Fire is in my hands and licks up my veins. Knives and bones under my skin fight to be the first to cut me open from the inside. Just one little pill? It can't hurt, they nearly killed me, but it can't hurt. It can make the world seem a little nicer. It can stop me falling, falling so far down. It can take away the sharp throb of beatings; it can take away the pain of showers that sting with fresh cuts along your wrists. But the pain will always come back to claw at your insides. So you take more pills. More pain? More pills. Soon you build up resistance to the pills, so you take more. The pills become too much; but you crave the pretty little pink tablets blowing bubbles of serenity up and down your body. You take them. You take too many. You get hurt, you deserve it, really.

You hurt someone else. They didn't deserve it, not like you did.

Maybe, when you were higher than a fucking kite, you had a boyfriend who loved you. Maybe you wanted to run away together. Maybe, before you fucking ruined it all, you had something to live on. This was before Pete. I love him, of course: he's my oxygen. But before him, there was the sun. My sun. This sun of mine burned at the centre of my galaxy; he carefully held me in his smouldering gaze. We were a perfect match; maybe that's why we burnt out. In the beginning, Pete felt like a replacement; something to fill the black little void. Now he's more, he is the moon to the once bright sun of yesterday. The glimmering night to the fiery passion of days that flew by and ground to a halt when I fucked them up; when I doused the sun.

He will always be the sun and Pete will always be the moon.

|-/

The first few lessons drag into years. I walk out at the cry of the bell. Then I see Him. He sees me; a demonic grin lights his face up and he begins to prowl towards to me, he walks with his wolves.

Sprinting into an abandoned classroom, lungs burning, eyes darting around the dimly lit room for a place to hide; He saw me. He saw me and I won't survive if He finds me. Left, right, right, left, right. Turning corners at the speed of light. He can't find me He can't find me.

There's no-where to hide in here.

Out the door, vision blurring. Running faster than your legs can carry you. Hands grip your shoulders, stopping you from running anymore. A thrill of pure terror runs straight through you. You turn your head slowly, knees and hands shaking.

Oh god don't let it be Him.

It's Frank. The boy who thought he saved you. The boy who damned you to hell.

"Hey, Mikey. It's me, Frank. I was the one who found you when you..." he trails off, not meeting my eyes. "Are you okay now? If you say you are, I don't think I'd believe you. I'm sorry. I just..." He takes a deep breath like he's about to jump from a cliff or in front of a train. "I've been in your place before... it wasn't good." He runs a hand through his shoulder-length black hair shakily. "I just wanna say that, er, I'm here if you need to talk."

That's great. Can I go now? I'm doing my best to not get beaten into a coma. "Thank you." I nod cordially.

"What are you running from?" He asks.

Death. Pain. The past. Bruises. The stars. Broken bones. The brightest light.

I say His name, trying to put my desperation into my words.

Frank's eyes widen to the size of the moon. "Keep running." He says. "Get out of here, right now. I'm not kidding, Mikey. Get out right now. I know where you can go." He grabs my wrist, ignoring my winces. We run and run until we reach the school gates.

"Climb." Frank orders. I do. I seem to be very good at doing what I'm told. Very good at taking orders. Maybe getting hurt only goes with the territory. We drop down on the other side and we run. I can never stop running. I ran from the sun. I ran to the moon with tears and pills. I run away from Him every fucking day.
I never stop running.
"Right, there's this graveyard just down the street. Do you know where it is?"
I nod once.
"Go there. Don't come back today, okay?"
As if I need any encouragement.

//---//

"Pete!" A voice calls out behind me. "Pete! Wait for me!"
I slow down a little.
"Hey." My best friend, Patrick Stump, says, a little out of breath. "Why weren't you in English lit?"
Because I was looking for Mikey. Because I'm terrified that I'll loose him again. Also because I fucking hate English lit. "Didn't really feel like it."
"Pete-" Patrick starts out disapprovingly.
"Don't give me a fucking lecture, Trick. Not now."
"All I'm saying is that it's important you get good grades otherwise you'll never get into a good uni."
"Yes, mum, I can understand that much. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" He asks, trying to pull an innocent face (and failing miserably).
"You know, all judgemental and disapproving. Like an uptight bulldog."
"An uptight bulldog?" Both of us try to stop the grins that crack across our faces unsuccessfully. In three words, we have become the weird kids laughing their asses off in the middle of the corridor. Maybe it's good to smile every so often. God knows Mikey could use it.

//---//

"Hey, are you Mikey?"
I look up to see a beautiful girl standing over me. The sun glances off her mahogany skin and glitters in her dark eyes, her short, black hair is ruffled a little by the wind but she doesn't seem to mind. Behind her gleaming eyes are little silvers of hurt, little specks of anger. What put them there?
"Hello?" She waggles her fingers in front of her face. There's chipped, purple nail varnish slowly coming off her nails.
"Hi." I say quietly. There's something about her that makes you comfortable to talk. She isn't scary, intimidating. She's just her. Maybe everyone needs a little of that.
"So, are you Mikey?" She puts her hand on her hip, adjusts her posture. Am I boring her?
"I am a Mikey, but I don't think I'm the Mikey you're looking for."
"Hang on a sec." She pulls out her phone and checks something. Her eyes flick to me, and back to her phone. Twice. Three times. "I think it's you. What's your last name?"
"Way?" I make it sound like a question, like she's some demanding teacher.
One of the prettiest grins I've ever seen appears across her lips. "Yay! I found you." She sits next to me on the somewhat-decaying wooden bench.
"I'm Charlie. Charlie Wright. I've heard about you."
"Have you heard a lot about me or..." What has she heard? What does she think she knows? Could she make things worse?
"Only fleetingly." She seems a little more guarded now.
"From who?"
"You're a right one for questions, aren't you? If you must know, S-" her phone starts ringing.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I mutter. I thought that only happened in cheesy movies and poorly-written books with authors desperate for suspense.
"Sorry." She mouths at me. "Hello? Oh, hey, Seb..." No... it couldn't be Him. Could it? "No. Yes. Fuck off. Oh, please. Spare me the bullshit. Fine." She looks over at me. "Oh! I found your Mikey. He's pretty cute." She winks at me, and I feel my face burning red. What does she mean by 'your Mikey'? Was she talking to Pete? Or maybe one of his friends? "Shouldn't you be in school? Well, yes. But that's beside the point. Hey! The zombie uprising could still happen! Asshole." She sighs very heavily and somewhat dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Alright. Bye, fucker." She hangs up.
"Zombie uprising?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows.
She looks at me and I look at her. We simultaneously burst out laughing. I haven't felt this light, this happy in weeks. I automatically try to push it away. Laughter is so unfamiliar it feels alien. Happiness is a strange concept now.
She takes hold of my hand. "Don't push it away from you. It's okay to be happy, Mikey. Stay."
I hesitantly open the floodgates, expecting poison water and thick smoke to come pouring out.

And just like that, the happiness is back.

Chapter Text

"Mikey... hey, Mikey... wake up... Mikey. Get up. Seriously, Mikes. Oh my god... Mikey?! Mikey!! What happened?! Can you hear me? Mikey!"
//---//
I should've known that something like this would happen. I should've known that all I ever do is hurt people. I should've known that the happiness would have never stayed.
You see, I felt guilty. Guilty about being happy, for once in my miserable life. I had to escape. I had to.
I could feel the same old darkness of those same old heavy black clouds pressing in on all sides. I felt so helpless, like I was stranded in the middle of a vast ocean. Nothing surrounding me. The silence of my own mind was deafening.
There was nothing I could do to stop myself. Maybe there was. It just shows that I have no self control. I'm so used to being controlled by other people, higher up.
I am puppet. Nothing but a puppet.
Staring at my wrists.
Fighting the urge to grab the little box atop my small, wooden bookshelf.
I can't hear myself think anymore. It's just screaming and crying. Crying and screaming. Pointed silences and then crying and then screaming.
Silence. Crying. Screaming. Repeat.
Losing.
Staring at the same vast expanse of a white ceiling, day after day. Always the same.
Opening the box. Seeing seven blades in a see-through ziplock bag. Five with names either scratched into them or written in smudged, black sharpie. Two nameless.
Refusing to eat anything. I know what they're trying to do to me. They're trying to make me fatter. They want to take away my one redeeming feature. My bones. I carefully touch the dips in my skin between each of my ribs through the thin, familiar material of a hospital gown; they've become my comfort blanket. We as humans are nothing more than skin cells draped across a cage of bones.
I open the bag. Pull out the one with 'Gerard' scrawled across it.
It doesn't feel right. My brother cutting open my flesh. Not today.
I can't understand. Who do I need to cut me?
Then it comes. Quickly.
I grab a sharpie and carefully write 'Charlie' on a sharp little sliver of steel.
Nothing has changed. A few hours of happiness wouldn't fix everything.
Am I broken? Can I be fixed? Is there some sort of pill I can take that'll fix me? I tried. God knows, I tried.
The first cut across my wrist is a relief. So is the second. The hot blood running down my inner arm screams of sin and anger and hope.
The third becomes a punishment.
I lose count after the fifth. Haphazard scarlet lines across my wrists weep the tears that I can't show.
Fighting the urge to cut deeper, to dig for blood diamonds. Maybe if I had something worth anything to anyone I could get out. Truly escape instead of buzzing off razor blades for a few hours.
"Michael?" A high voice interrupts my ceiling-gazing. It's like star-gazing but a lot more boring and a lot less breathtaking. "Michael?"
I don't move.
"Michael, look," The voice, who I presume belongs to some sort of nurse or doctor, sits on the bottom of the bed. "I know what you're going through."
I snort. Yeah right.
There are five small, black smudges on the ceiling. I wonder how they got there.
"We get hundreds of people like you every year. They all think that there is nothing good about this life, but there really is, Michael."
"Mikey." I say, my voice rough and croaky from underuse.
"I'm sorry?" I think it's the first time I've spoken to... well, anyone since I've been in here. If Pete came, I'd talk to him. If Gerard could be here without mum or dad, I'd talk to him. But no. I miss them. I miss my brother. I miss my boyfriend.
"Mikey. It's Mikey." I don't take my eyes off the ceiling in all its boring sameness.
"Right. Okay, sorry." She (I assume the voice belongs to a she) sounds flustered. There are sixteen little chips in the white paint. "We've kept you in here for the past few days under observation: do you know why?"
Of course I fucking do. But I decide to play dumb, "no." My voice is barely above a whisper.
"Well, your brother-"
"Don't talk about him. Don't talk about my brother."
"Why not?" Is she being deliberately irritating or is she genuinely interested?
"Don't." I say through gritted teeth, hoping she won't see the tears that steadily run down my cheeks. "Just don't."
//---//
"Hey."
Frank jumps at the sound of the voice so close to him. He turns around to see Gerard Way leaning against the locker next to his. Immediately, he blushes neon pink at the sight of the boy he may or may not have a tiny (okay, massive) crush on.
"H-hi." He stammers out, mentally face-palming at his own social ineptness.  
"You're Frank Iero, I'm guessing?" Gerard smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's a smile that fades faster that it comes.
Why does he look so sad? Frank thinks, and it's true. Gerard has that look of quiet helplessness and pure desperation that makes hearts bleed.
"Yeah. I'm guessing you're Gerard Way." Frank's dismal attempt to make Gerard smile didn't work.
Gerard nods, once. "You're the one who found Mikey when..." he trails off.
Frank nods his head, not really knowing how to respond. "Is he okay now?"
This was not the right thing to say.
Gerard barked out a short, sharp laugh. He turned to face the opposite wall, which was shame. Frank had been enjoying the front row seat view to Gerard Way's beautiful face. Not in a creepy way. Gerard was just cute. Really, really cute. And probably straight (but Frank did have a sneaking suspicion that this was not the case. Don't doubt the gaydar).
"He's back in hospital." The older boy said flatly. "They're keeping him in under 'observation'. What the fuck? My brother is not some kind animal. They don't know him. I know him."
"I'm... I'm sorry, Gerard." Frank feels like he's just been punched in the stomach. He thought that he'd done a good thing by helping Mikey. He had done something good, surely. He saved Mikey. And if he had done it once, he should've been there to do it again. Was all this his fault? Maybe it was. He should've been there to help Mikey. "W-what happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
Gerard seems to sink down into the lockers behind him.
"It was awful. It was like something from a horror film. I went into his room to wake him up for school, you know, the kid never wakes up in time," Frank tries to keep an expression of polite interest on, when all he wants to do is hug the older boy and tell him everything will be okay. "And I went over to him and... oh god... And..." There are shining tears in Gerard's eyes.
"You don't have to. I mean, you don't have to say. If you don't want to." Frank internally cringes at his awful social skills.
Gerard gives Frank this look; part thanks, part anger, part pity. The younger boy's stomach does backflips in the best way possible.
"And there was... blood. His blood. All over the bed. It was like looking at a fucking crime scene. Like he'd been shot or something. With a twelve motherfucking gauge shotgun. And he looked at me with... with like this look of 'please'. I can't put it any other way. He looked... So desperate."
While the people walking past may not have understood, Frank did. He had a date. thirtieth of December. He had written a letter. Several letters. Most of which were crumpled up in the very back of his wardrobe; morbid curiosity and all that. Sometimes, he read them, just to see how fucked up he had been. It was heavy stuff. Occasionally there would be letters stained with dark brown that Frank knew to be blood. As perverse as it was, Frank had a favourite suicide note. It was just a single bloody handprint. It seemed that Frank used to have a flair for the dramatics. He had got to that stage where you can't see a way out and there's thick smoke choking you and you don't think you'll be able to survive the night. But he, Frank Iero, professional fuck up, did. He stayed. He didn't necessarily stay strong, but he stayed.
He couldn't say that he regretted it.
//---//
Pete taps his pen (well, it wasn't really his. All of his pens had mysteriously gone missing, so he had sort of appropriated half of Patrick's stuff) against the desk distractedly, his mind elsewhere.
"Do you mind?" Meagan Camper hisses next to him, trying to focus on the supposedly important lecture their maths teacher was giving. What was there to lecture about in maths, anyway?
"Sorry." Pete whispers, flashing his signature grin at her. He sees Meagan try and hide her little smile as she quickly turns away to face the front of the classroom.
He carries on doodling in his textbook, writing little things as soon as they come into his head.
Boycott love, detox just to retox
And I'll promise you anything for another shot at life
Imperfect boys with their perfect ploys
Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy
Pete is acutely aware of Meagan's eyes drifting over his little universe on paper.
"What does that mean?" She mutters, gazing at the words that shouldn't be there, at the phrases that don't belong.
"Oh, I er... It's nothing." He quickly puts his arm over what he thinks could be lyrics one day, and pretends to be listening to the lecture. Something about equations and graphs. Boring.
"It's good." Meagan whispers. "Boycott love, detox just to retox? That's deep. I like it."
"Oh... Thanks, Meagan."
"Hey, um, my friend Jennifer Li's having a party next Saturday. Do you wanna come with me?' She seems to read Pete's mind and says, "I know you've got a boyfriend and all that. It's cool. I was thinking as friends? You can bring him if you want. It's gonna be really fun."
"Meagan Camper! Please stop flirting with the boys and focus." The teacher honks from the front of the class.
"Sorry, Miss."
"Sounds great." Pete whispers the second the teacher's back is turned.
//---//
They've made me see a therapist. A fucking therapist. I don't need a therapist. I'm fine. Well, I'm not. But if I keep saying that, maybe I will be.
Dad doesn't like it. He doesn't like anything that makes us look different. We can't be gay or depressed or trans. Just your normal, stereotypical family. Perfectly normal. What he doesn't realise is that all of this is normal.
The therapist keeps asking me how I feel. What's wrong with me?
If I fucking knew then I wouldn't be here.
I have little goals that I have to stay until I complete them. Like read this book until chapter three. Wait until Gerard's next birthday. Wait until I have fifteen cuts on each arm and twelve on my stomach. My latest goal is to stay until I figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.
//---//
Gerard runs a hand through his shoulder-length, black, somewhat greasy hair as he walks towards his next class, his thoughts far, far away from French. His mind was almost solely on his brother. He was petrified that Mikey would pull another stunt like the one he did. He had had this feeling that something wasn't quite right. This feeling of unease made him feel like he was walking on a sky-high ledge, with sheer drops on either side. His feeling proved to be so right when he walked into his brother's room and saw him, lying in what seemed to be a crime scene.
Gerard had been there before; what kid hadn't? Everyone gets to the stage where there seems to be no way out. But there is. There has to be.
//---//
Pete stares at Mikey's older brother from a distance. He wanted to know why Mikey hadn't come into school today. He could just be ill, or it could be something so much worse.
Taking a deep breath, he walks over to him. Gerard gives him the most filthy look he has ever received.
"What are you looking at, Wentz?" He snarls.
"I want to know why Mikey isn't here." Pete says before he looses confidence.
Gerard laughs bitterly. "Why would you fucking care? You don't have anything to do with him."
The shorter boy involuntarily cringes at Gerard's words, wanting Mikey to hold him close. He takes a deep breath, and asks again.
"I want to know why Mikey isn't here."
"He's in hospital. Is that good enough for you, you fucking slut?"
Pete's world turns into glass shards and shatters around his eyes. He nods at Gerard, and then runs out of school like the devil is chasing after him.

Chapter Text

Night comes to them all. Darkness caresses their cheeks with starry fingertips, and gently sends them off into deep sleeps.
It takes Mikey first. The boy who is so dosed up on different prescribed drugs from different doctors he's a little fuzzy about his own name. It takes Mikey, the boy who could have been, and turns him into the boy who is. Mikey, the boy in locked away for his own safety.
Mikey, the boy who's worst enemy is himself.

Slowly, the silk night moves on.
It slips over to Pete, wrapping him in its arms, trying to soothe him as his mind buzzes about Mikey. His muffled sobs slowly fade away in the presence of such an enormity. And, for one of the very few times in his life, Pete Wentz slips into a sweet sleep.

The night pours into Gerard's room, enveloping everything in there. Bed, lamp, bookcase, pitiful amount of savings. Gerard knows that he and his younger brother were in no way safe here, and that they have to get out to survive. The bruises that line Gerard's left cheek and those supernovas across his back and stomach should have been enough for someone to sit up and take notice. His broken wrist and cracked ribs should have been enough.
Nothing ever was.
Because Gerard wasn't ever going to be enough for anyone.
The night makes him forget as it sends him to sleep.

The glittering darkness finds Frank next. It finds Frank sat cross-legged on his mattress, moodily picking at a scar on his wrist. It finds Frank furiously wiping away tears.
It finds Frank thinking of nothing but hope and Gerard Way.
It leaves Frank dreaming of what is to come.

Steadily moving on, the blanket of stars touches Patrick briefly, making sure that he stays asleep. Making sure that his best friend will have someone to hold him when the inevitable comes.

The only ones that the night doesn't take are Him and Charlie. It leaves them burning slowly into the night. Maybe they deserve it. The local psycho couple, stuck in their past, never quite reaching the soft dreams of the future.

The night slithers away to take other towns, to make other dreams. Looking back at the little town that traps them all, it sighs softly and turns its back.

Chapter Text

"Pete? Have you seen the tag that, uh, 'mmaxie420' is trying to trend on Twitter?" Patrick whispers, trying to not cause the incapable substitute to have a mental breakdown.

"Patrick, you know for a fact that I do not care about Max Millian." Pete sighs, leaning back in his chair. Substitute teachers who can't control students are the best. He stares out of the window; how funny that he never noticed how beautiful nature (if you could call a couple of dying trees nature) was until this supposed biology lesson.

"No, but he's trying to get the rumour that you're a slut who'll screw anyone for drugs."

"That was one time!" Pete suddenly crumples up the worksheet that they were working on. "Well..." he admits sheepishly. "Maybe twice."

Patrick's eyes go wide. "Holy smokes, Pete... When? Where?

Pete blushes, suddenly (and unsurprisingly) uncomfortable. "I... It was a while ago."

"Right here, in the middle of a substitute teacher's breakdown because he's incapable of teaching, I will become Dr. Phil." Patrick declares, smiling kindly.

"I just... Well... It was this one guy and he said I was cute, or at least I think he did, it was kinda loud. And I was kinda drunk. And he was pretty out of it.
"Anyway, he tried to pull me towards the bathroom: I think he wanted me to suck him off or something." Pete pauses to gauge his best friend's reaction. Patrick's murky green eyes were practically falling from his head in shock; of course he would be shocked. In Patrick's (fairly naïve) view, everyone he knew was a good person. Pete knew he wasn't exactly a role model, but even hearing himself saying these words made him want to start everything all over again.
"I tried to pull away from him, telling him no. So he shoved one of those little see-through bags of weed at me, and carried on grabbing me and pulling me."

"Did he... Did he hurt you?" Patrick carefully lays his hand on the slightly taller boy's shoulder, trying to console him.

Pete quickly wipes stray tears from his cheeks and nods; not trusting his voice.

"Oh, Pete." Patrick looks like he's about to cry. "Why do such bad things happen to good people?"

"I'm not a good person." Pete says, his voice cracking with emotion.

"If only you weren't so blind." He sighs. "The second time?" Patrick gently presses.

"H-he told me that I wanted it, so I guess I thought I did. It was a different guy, and he gave me some pills... And I slept with him." Shameful tears slip down Pete's cheeks.
Patrick was right; this has become some sort of therapy session, televised of course. They even had a studio audience, hanging onto their every whispered word.

"I'm so sorry." Patrick doesn't know what else to say.

"Hey, no-one's died, Trick. We're all okay, right?"

Patrick very much doubted that this was in fact the case. He had seen the bags under his best friend's beautiful eyes go from gentle lilac clouds to violent purple bruises. It was all because of Mikey. He knew that breaking up would be so much better for the both of them; it would keep them sane if they didn't constantly revolve around each other.
But at the same time, it would kill them. Breaking them apart would be like severing Mikey's lungs and ripping out Pete's heart. The two of them were each other's oxygen: each other's universes, and it was not healthy. It's only a high school romance, and those things never ended well. Patrick didn't want Pete to be hurt. Patrick didn't want to break the terrifyingly fragile Mikey. Patrick just wanted everything to be okay. Nothing had to be fantastic. Nothing had to be brilliant. Nothing had to be unbelievably beautiful.
Everything just had to be okay.
Please.

//---//

Frank sits cross-legged on his grey bedroom floor, staring at Gerard Way (the actual Gerard Way, in the flesh! He exists! He isn't just some far-away fantasy that is only real the eye of the beholder) lying on his mattress.

"Why just the mattress?" Gerard suddenly asks.

Frank is a little caught off guard, but he quickly smiles at the memory that bursts forth in his mind like a pop-up ad.
"I used to be afraid of monsters when I was little; and seeing as monsters usually hide under beds, I thought I would stop being scared."

Gerard smiles a rare, genuine smile. "Did it work?"

"Some supposed friends taught me how to become one, so I didn't need to be afraid." Frank picks at the carpet, a little embarrassed by just how edgy that sentence sounded.

"Ah, Frank," the younger boy feels a rush of warmth through his body at Gerard saying his name, proving he exists. "Back at it again with the uncontrollable emo." He chuckles. "Seriously, you were all cute for a second and then it got all 'you-know-my-name-not-my-story'."

"Fine then." Frank says, trying to keep a smile at bay. "What, Gerard Arthur Way, is your story?"

"How did you know my middle name?!"

"Ummm..." Frank can feel his skin flushing ruby red. "Let's not talk about that."

"Have you been stalking me?" Gerard can't help but think about how damn cute Frank is when he blushes.

"No! Well, maybe. Possibly. Kind of. A little Facebook stalk never hurt anyone." If it's even possible, his face burns even redder.

"Well, frankly, I'm flattered." Gerard laughs.

"Was that a fucking pun?"

"Yes."

|-/

Frank doesn't know what's happening; all he knows is that his lips are on Gerard's and there are fireworks in his mind. Oh, and his t-shirt is on the floor.
Why did Gerard even come here in the first place? Who cares, because he's kissing Gerard freakin' Way!
Gerard's lips steadily move down to his neck, causing Frank to shiver: partly from cold, partly from pleasure.

"I love you." Gerard mutters into Frank's collar.

Whoa slow down sugar I'm diabetic, Frank thinks, causing him to giggle.
But even though it's fast moving as hell, and probably something Gerard has said to everyone he has ever been with, it feels right.

"I love you too." Frank says, although he always thought that his first 'I love you' would be said in a much more tragically romantic setting. He always thought he would say it with a single perfect tear falling down his face.
Oh well.

//---//

They're letting me out today. Mainly because dad yelled at them until they agreed. Can't have anyone step a toe out of line by needing to be locked away for their own safety.
I have a new system. Three strikes and I'm out.
Tomorrow is my last chance. Tomorrow is my third day.
A strike could be anything from a harsh word to seeing someone you love (or used to love) with someone else.
I keep the tally across my wrist, in thick scarlet ink.
Last chances are for those who desperately hang on to slithers of opportunity and stainless steel that'll never amount to anything.
Strike one.

|-/

His name is Sebastian Evans. He is the one who set me alight. He is my sun.
He is my tormentor. He is the one who hurt me in so many ways. He is the one who has fucked me up this badly.
He is the one who was so gentle during that summer.
Sebastian Evans once held me like He loved me.
Sebastian Evans once kissed me like I was worth more than the all the stars in the sky.
Sebastian Evans once told me that He would never hurt me; that He would always hold me like I was made of sugar glass.
Sebastian Evans once lied.

//--//

Chapter Text

Jennifer Li's huge house is throbbing with music. The bass seems to vibrate the windows, threatening to shatter the delicate glass contained in the white wooden frames. The girl's usually quiet house is rammed with so many people you can barely see past the passive-aggressive welcome mat.
Maybe it's the sheer amount of weed available, the vodka-spiked drinks, or the bass-heavy repetitive pop music, but everyone seems to be out of their minds.
Pete arrives, pulling along a quietly reluctant Mikey by the hand.
"C'mon! It'll be fun!" He says, trying to hide his worry for his boyfriend. He desperately wants his boyfriend to enjoy himself, for them to enjoy each other, even if just for a few hours. Fevered nerves lie just beneath his words. Truth be told, he's scared. Pete Wentz is above and beyond terrified of loosing his boyfriend. Mikey Way isn't the only one he's ever dated; but Mikey Way is the only one he's ever really felt something for beyond skin.
Mikey mumbles his resistance, but the words are quickly lost in the sheer sound and energy of the thumping house. He allows himself to be dragged in, to be swallowed by the noise. He almost hopes that he'll find his three strikes in the violently rippling music.
He doesn't want to live. He can't live.
Not anymore.

|-/

Sebastian Evans walks in with Charlie Wright on his arm. She wears a black dress and black thigh high boots; she looks like a young god.
"Woah..." she whispers, staring at the mass of people crammed into the house. This was not her usual scene: she was so out of her depth she might be swimming the Pacific Ocean.
"Let's dance!" Seb shouts over the pulsating music. Charlie nods, not trusting her voice to stay steady. She waits half a second for her maybe-boyfriend to ask her what's wrong.
He doesn't.

//---//

Frank lies with Gerard. His mind fuzzy, he opens his mouth to speak. He can't find the words: it's like they've run away.
Gerard's arm is around his shoulders. Gerard's lips are around a lit cigarette. Gerard's eyes stare into the distance, unfocused, unseeing.
If he doesn't look at Frank; does he exist?

//---//

Mikey leans against a counter in the kitchen, the one quiet place. He carefully places cans of beer on top of each other, building a pyramid.
He wonders who would go to his funeral.
A drunk girl staggers in. She's quite pretty, light hair and light eyes. Her lipstick is smudged halfway down her chin.
He puts the last can of beer on his pyramid. The last nail in the coffin.
The drunk girl gives Mikey a sudden and unexpected hug, and hands him a can of beer that's mostly spit.
"For your tower!" She slurs. Mikey goes to smile at her, but she is swallowed up by the swarm of bodies moving to the beat.
Strike one.

//---//

Gerard lies to Frank. He should say something: break the silence. But he can't. Words clog his throat up like they're marbles.
Frank is curled up next to him. Frank's lips are quivering, like he's about to cry. He can feel Frank's eyes on him.
If Frank stops looking at him, does he still exist?

//---//

Seb places his hands on Charlie's hips, pulling her closer to his body. She snakes her arms around his neck, trying to ignore the judgmental side eyes being shot at her.
He pulls her face towards his, closing his eyes. As his lips brush hers, she knots her long, dark fingers into his blond hair.
The music cuts out.
Time slows down.
The lights fade to black.
Sebastian Evans is kissing Charlie Wright in public. The straight white boy is kissing the trans black girl. Sebastian Evans, who was so afraid to hold Mikey Way, is kissing Charlie Wright like she is the only thing that matters.
Was this what she wanted? For him to not be afraid anymore?
She wanted to be loved, but she didn't want to love back.
She thinks she sees a glimpse of Mikey before her eyes close and she gets her movie-star kiss, but that's ridiculous. He's in hospital, isn't he?
The sun has found a new moon.
Strike two.

//---//

Gerard reaches out for another cigarette, to calm his nerves. He can feel his hands twitching, convulsing, desperate for a fix.
This shouldn't have happened.
This shouldn't have happened, but it did.
So many things shouldn't have happened, but they did.
He lights the cigarette and inhales, staring at the dancing flame of his blue lighter.
Frank closes his eyes.
Do either of them exist?

//---//

Patrick Stump sits on his bed, scared.
Patrick Stump sits on his bed, lonely.
Patrick Stump sits on his bed, a terrible feeling of dread manifesting in the pit of his stomach.

//---//

Mikey steps out of the kitchen and into the lion's den in search of Pete. He elbows his way through the dancing mass, ignoring the angry buzz of muttering that could barely be heard over the roar of the music. He has to find his boyfriend. His life may depend on it.

//---//

Gerard glances down the small figure sleeping next to him, head resting in the crook of his neck, and can't help but feel a surge of emotion for the boy at his side.
He should go.
He should get out of Frank's life forever. He should get out of everyone's life.
He misses his brother. He misses the woman he used to call his mother. And if he left, he could learn to miss Frank too.
He presses a delicate, nicotine-and-smoke flavoured kiss to the smaller boy's forehead. Frank's body stiffens at the touch; he's still awake. But both of them pretend that he isn't.
Gerard sighs, "sorry, Frankie." He whispers. He gets up, carefully moving his body so he doesn't hurt him.
Gerard pauses at the door, and in that moment he hears Frank choke back a sob.
It's a sound so unremittingly sad and awful that Gerard wants to go deaf.
He leaves.
He leaves and he doesn't fucking look back.

//---//

Pete and Meagan are sat on the living room floor, sharing a joint. Both of them are giggling a little, grabbing handfuls of crisps out of a white plastic bowl. The film 'Labyrinth' is playing on the TV, muted. David Bowie lights up the screen like a glitter god in tight trousers.

"Hey." Meagan giggles.

"Hey." Pete copies.

"Hey hey."

"Hey hey hey."

"Hey isn't a word anymore." Meagan says.

"What are words?" Pete asks.

"Dude." Pete can practically see Meagan's brain imploding. "You cannot get me stoned and then start talking about this."

"You know how some words don't look like words? Maybe it's because they're not."

"Either you're smoking too much weed, or I'm not smoking enough."

//---//

Patrick can sense something is wrong. He just doesn't know what. The universe is out of order. Things aren't quite lining up. Music isn't soothing his nerves. Nothing feels right. This has never happened before.
He can feel tears brimming up in his dark green eyes, but he doesn't know why.
It's like his mind is mourning something he never knew.

//---//

Gerard is alone, leaning against a brick wall.
Frank is alone, sobbing into a pillow.
Gerard is lonely, his arms aching for someone to hold.
Frank is lonely, his heart aching for someone to love romantically.
So different, and yet so the same.

//---//

Mikey finally finds the room where Pete is. He has finally found his saviour.
If only that saviour didn't have his lips locked around Meagan Camper's.
Everyone knows the rules, three strikes and you're out.
Strike three.
You're out.

Mikey elbows his way through the dancers, not bothering to wipe away his tears that pour freely down his cheeks. He did it. He got his three strikes. He just didn't want a broken heart to go with it.
Drowning is one of the most horrible ways to die.
The second he reaches the front door, he starts running. Running away from the party, running away from fear, running away from the sun and moon.
He deserves it.
Michael James Way is terrified of large bodies of water. Going like this is his way of saying that he isn't afraid anymore. Not of Him, not of water.
Not of death.
He slows to a walk. It's 2:36 in the morning, and in roughly twenty minutes, he won't be here.
Mikey smiles at the thought.

|-/

The lake stretches out in front of him, mirroring the starry sky above him.
Mikey pulls his shoes off and sets them on the ground next to him.
It's funny how he's about to die and he's never felt more alive.
The water is much colder than he expected, lapping around his ankles. His teeth start shattering and he laughs aloud at himself.
"This is what you want." He says. "This is what you want." And with these words, he walks in further.
The freezing water clutches at his calves, then his thighs. His waist. His chest. It places a choke hold around his neck and then pulls him under.
The icy water sets Mikey's lungs on fire. He inhales deeply, choking and spluttering under the water. His body urges him to fight back to the surface, to gulp in deep breaths of air. He frantically shakes his head.
This is what you want. He thinks. Isn't it?
They say that your life flickers before your eyes right before you die.
Mikey sees awful things, beatings and harsh words and too many empty beer bottles.
But he sees beautiful things too. He sees the colour of the sky when the sun sets it ablaze. He sees the feeling of belonging.
He sees Pete.
He sees Gerard.
He sees Charlie.
The burning in his lungs is fading away, feeling warm and welcoming instead; like a kind mother with a knife behind her back.
What about Gerard? He can't leave him behind. What about Charlie? The kind one who saved him for a day. What about Pete?
What about Pete?
Mikey's saviour. Mikey's oxygen. Mikey's universe.
How could he do this to them? How could he?!
no. No. NO! This isn't what I want! Stop! STOP!
But it is too late. Mikey's last breath escapes his lips, sending bubbles of life giving oxygen to the surface: out of reach.
Time slows down. The distance in the black water from him to the surface stretches to impossible lengths. His body goes limp. Too late, his body reaches the glassy surface. His lifeless eyes are condemned to stare ahead blindly for the rest of time.
It's 2:54am and Michael James Way is dead.
He never even wrote a note.
Did he ever exist?

//---//