All Pete Wentz wanted to do was make Mikey Way feel loved... PIKEY Valentine's one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
God, I love him; my pale-skinned perfection, my sweet little bassist, my naively modest wonder, my stunning fallen-star, my sharp shock of life in a world of dullness. I am, obviously, referring to the one person that can be everything that I need to function, to Mikey Way.
To my boyfriend, my best friend, my partner in crime, my absolute everything.
He’s the sort of person that most people can only ever dream of meeting, and even then that’s only if they’re extraordinarily lucky; Mikes is like a speck of gold dust in sandpit, impossible to find and incredibly beautiful to behold if you do manage to catch a glimpse of the real him. The real him that was fast fading away from view just a few months ago, back when I first found him sobbing in the back of the school library, his face distorted with the sort of misery that nobody like him should ever feel under any circumstance; not least because he’s too cute to have his cheeks sliced by the relentless torpedoes of his acidic tears. I just gently approached him, for once acknowledging the fact that a cheeky smirk and quick one-liner might not be enough to make this breathtakingly enchanting boy grace my saddened eyes with his supernova smile, and asked him if he was alright.
A violent flinch away from my outstretched hand, a hand that contained the same amount of care for him as it does for my beloved bass, and a strangled cry begging me not to hurt him in the most tear-provokingly desperate voice to ever scorch the insides of my ears. As if I could ever lay a hurtful finger or yell an agonizing lie at someone as perfect as him, how anyone at all could appals me to the rotten core; how anyone would ever want to obscure his intricate forget-me-not features with burning anguish is something that I’ll never be able to comprehend. So I just sat next to him, using my stubbornness to harden my resolve; there was no way that I was going to leave until I at least knew the name of that weeping angel, perhaps even his number so that I could comfort him whenever he should need it, or maybe be familiar with the angel-wing texture of his dark-chocolate hair running like liquid platinum through my unworthy fingers.
After about twenty minutes of me keeping my distance, of my heart shattering with each of his soulful wails of agony, of me feeling a sort of helplessness smothering my soul that I sincerely hope to never feel again, he eventually accepted the idea that not everyone is out to hurt him; that my soft words and duvet-like placations were not just hollow lies, but real, honest concern and longing to aid the healing of all that the bullies had broken, from his nose right down to his heart. It wasn’t just a longing though, it was a primal need. The sort of need that I’ve never before experienced in the hallowed halls of my high school, the sort that told me that this boy is someone special; that I’m going to be holding him close to my heart a hell of a lot.
And I have, ever since that day we met in the library I’ve always kept him no more than an arm’s-width away just in case one of those bastard bullies wants to start something with him again; not that they would now, not unless they were suicidal. You see, Pete Wentz is a name that you don’t mess with at my school, a name that means protection to some and pain to others; a name that means if you touch my Mikey, my innocent little gazelle, then you’ll be able to count how many seconds you have left to live using my clearly visible middle finger.
I can’t protect him all of the time though, what with me being in the grade above him, and so I often meet up with him in the cafeteria to find that someone’s already stabbed straight through his agonized little heart, my heart, with spite’s deadly dagger; to find that me sitting next to him so that I can pull him into a vice-like cuddle is not just a want, which it really fucking is, but also a necessity, like if it doesn’t happen then he’ll just be left to cry alone like he has been many times before. Too many times before.
It makes me absolutely fucking sick, actually, how people can see such a defencelessly meek kid crying his eyes out like he doesn’t expect anyone to care and then just leave him to it, just ignore the torturous cries of a broken-hearted bass player as though he’s some sort of worthless animal to them, apart from I’m pretty sure that they’d treat any cute little mouse far better than they treat mine.
How do I know that he is broken-hearted? Because his heart is synonymous with mine, my own little diamond of trust and love and hope and everything else that a relationship is made out of, and so I can feel how broken it is, how every ugly guffaw at his expense kills him that little bit more.
But I can also tell that with ever cuddle and kiss and smile that I give to him, his heart heals up just a little bit, just enough to make seeing him whilst he’s suffering worth it because it means that I get to be the blessed comfort that his flaming eyes are screeching for amidst every little anxiety that riddles his lacerated mind.
Comfort sessions with him always go roughly the same; he tries valiantly to hide his leaking cyanide with empty smiles that act as an excuse for the shine in his eyes, I know him well enough to ask him what’s wrong, he erupts into his excruciatingly volcanic tears and then I initiate the “cuddle’n’snuggle” routine.
The good old cuddle’n’snuggle is something that I came up with shortly after I made the greatest decision of my seventeen-year-old life by asking him to be my own little boyfriend, back when comfort sessions happened far more frequently purely because I had yet to show him that everything said against him is complete and utter bullshit. The cuddle’n’snuggle starts with me pulling him into my chest, like a gentle tide pulling a seashell to the shore, and just cuddling him like I do my childhood teddy on a stormy night; with the tightness of a super-powered magnet, with the affection of a mother for her new-born, with the adoration that cannot be described by an analogy purely because nothing comes close to being able to descried how much I adore my little baby boy.
But today I have to try to let him know just how much he truly is adored, how perfect he is not in the eyes of his tormentors, for they don’t really matter, but in my eyes; the ovals of adulated exaltation whose opinion is the only one that should matter to his naïve little soul. Today I have to make it clear just how much I love him.
Because today is Valentine’s Day; a day that meant nothing more to me last year other than some pathetic excuse for the media to play on the pockets of lovesick schoolboys, yet this year means one true shot at getting Mikes to believe me when I tell him that he’s a good person, that he’s beautiful, that I love him. As much as it kills me to admit it, I know full well that he doesn’t believe any of those things, no matter how many times I try to drill them into him like the solid facts that I know they are. Years of torture at the hands of other kids has managed to convince him that he’s a miserable loser, that he’s some sort of hideous monster that can only ever be out in public if he has a bloody nose to warn the world of who he is; that he can never be loved by anyone other than his parents and overprotective big brother.
Today that’s going to change. Today I’ve got him a present that kept me awake all of last night, that cost a rainforest in paper and a mind’s worth of sanity; for Valentine’s Day I, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, have written my perfect little boyfriend, Michael James Way, a poem. Not just any poem; a motherfucking sonnet. The sort of poem that has ten syllables per line, has more rules to perturb the crowded mind of a love-drugged teenager than any two-thousand word English essay; the kind of poem that very nearly made me rip out my hair last night. You may very well be wondering why on Earth I chose such an infamously perplexing form of poetry with which to express my blossoming thoughts of my sweet little rose bud; I wanted it to mean something to him, I wanted to show him that this isn’t just a few overused clichés sloppily strung together with my ballpoint pen.
Besides, today is the fourteenth of February and sonnets always have fourteen lines, it only seemed fitting after all. Not to mention the fact that I did it as a Shakespearean sonnet, the English dude who wrote some of the greatest romances (or not, depending on whether hours of relentless study has turned them sour in your mind) known to the human mind, the kind of romance that is only dwarfed by that which I wish to share with Mikes.
Hence why I am currently stood outside the school gates, for once not smirking at my reflection in every puddle or jamming my headphones in until the arrival of the one that I wait for every morning; this morning I am clutching the already withered piece of notepad-paper as though it’s my one ticket into heaven, the one thing that matters to me right now and yet is something that I fear tremendously purely because if Mikes doesn’t like it then that means that I have failed him, that I can’t ever be good enough for my own personal heaven.
What if I spelt something wrong? I gotta look over it again, for the billionth time; this has to be a mirror image of Mikes in terms of perfection; even though I know that nothing can ever be as perfect as the saint who blesses this sinner with love.
But still, one last proof-read won’t hurt.
For Mikey Way, the bestest boyfriend in the whole wide world!
Sugar, you are so special to my heart,
Like blood running around my shallow veins,
Reminding me of days we spent apart,
Of sad times without the soothe to my pains.
You’re the breath-smuggling moon to my dull night,
The sharpened sword protecting my null dreams,
The ev’rything to my nothing, that’s right;
You make my heart (and jeans) burst at the seams.
But I know you don’t see it, don’t see you,
That you won’t believe me when I tell truth;
You think that you’re ugly, all alone too,
Yet those you’ll never be and I am proof.
So fuck what they say and just hear me out;
I love you way too much to be without.
All of my love and heart and soul and any other part of me that you want,
Pete xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (I would write more kisses, but I’m running out of ink)
Shit, it’s terrible!
I can’t give this to him; he’ll believe that I just didn’t think he was worth it and so knocked up this crappy imitation of something stunning in order to cover it up. He’s going to think that I don’t love him, that he isn’t worth it, that he’s less than perf-
“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Any other time I would be more than overjoyed to hear such a gentle, playful voice waltzing like the smoothness of his flawless bass-playing through my ears, but right now it’s the one thing that I don’t want to hear; I told him that I‘ve got him something special for today, something that he’ll love and all I’ve really got him is a roughed-up piece of paper with my worthless chicken scratch littering it like bruises frequently scatter his chalky skin despite my best efforts.
And that’s exactly why today means so much; it’s my one chance to show him how undeserving of all their bullshit he truly is.
But all I’ve got him is some lame sonnet.
Granted, I did pour my heart and soul into it, took each swish of my pen as seriously as a soldier takes a bullet, but I should have tried harder; should have simply done better for the best thing to ever happen to my sorry self.
I look up to see him grinning at me like he’s trying to illuminate the entire state with the blinding glow of his rare happiness, a rare happiness that I could have amplified with my gift but will only dampen with my terrible attempt at being romantic. God, he looks gorgeous; all puppy-dog eyes starkly contrasting, in a strangely fitting way, with the way that his skinny jeans cling to his skin like I cling to him given half the chance. Every last detail of him, from his adorable trademark glasses right down to the Green Day wristband that I bought him the last time he got beaten up really bad, screams all that I love; all that I treasure like an astronomer treasures his stars, and yet seeing him right now is smashing my heart to pieces purely because I know that I’ve let him down.
But he’s happy right now, something that is horribly rare, and so I must at least pretend to be; for him. It’s the very least that I can do.
“Hey there, Sugar. Happy V-Day, Beautiful.” I sigh wistfully at him, at this stunning rose in a patch of merciless thorns, and try to offer him a small smile as I pull him into my chest for our first cuddle of the day; a cuddle that’s even tighter than normal because I need to feel that he is happy with me, always will be, no matter how shitty my poetry is.
Apart from he shouldn’t have to put up with anything less than perfection. I just wish that he could know that as well as I do, as well as everyone else should do just by looking at his magnum opus of a face.
I rub my hands up and down his back, savouring the feeling of having an angel in my arms like a little kid savouring their first ever piece of chewing gum, resting my restless chin atop his angular shoulder so that I can take in the scent of his coconut shampoo; sweet and unforgettable, just like him. Just like how I will never be able to make him feel as completely wonderful as he does me, because he just won’t believe that he’s wonderful no matter how many times I whisper it to him, text it to him, gasp it to him.
“Pete? What’s wrong?” His semi-frightened little mewl creeps into my thoughts, dousing me with guilt for having taken him down from the inexplicable cloud that my promise of a present put him on.
I know precisely why he’s sounding frightened; he thinks that he’s done something wrong, that he’s upset me and that I’ve somehow stopped loving him like I know that I never will.
So, in a moment of either uncontrollable madness or undeniably good intentions or a profound mixture of the two, I pull out of our hug and force my sonnet into his hands; my eyes squeezing shut as he beams up at me, obviously mistaking the paper for something as wonderful as he is.
The brittle fingers of my ribs form a tight, unforgiving fist around my heart so that it can’t beat in punishment for it’s brash stupidity, stupidity that may very well cost me my Mikey’s miraculous smile. I’ll never forgive myself if this is the case, if my lack of ability to show my love to him really has bought him down as I know it must have. Most days I’m the only one who can make him smile, so for me to give such a thoughtlessly rubbish gift must be crushing him, killing the one thing that keeps me alive through the never-ending darkness.
“Pete… Did you write this?”
I nod in response to his awed question, my eyes pinging open in concern when I hear him sniffling. But the look in his eyes soothes my heart because I can tell that it isn’t sorrow that’s making him sniffle; more like disbelieving joy.
“Just for me?” He squeaks in the most heart-melting way imaginable; like everything that everyone has ever done for him is dwarfed by those fourteen lines of pure honesty, of everything that I’ve ever wanted to say to him and have him believe.
I turn my own smirk on at this, my flirtatious arrogance and unbridled love for him flooding my form once more.
“Just for you, Sugar.”
Before I can even process it, he’s launched himself into me with a look on his joy-ignited face that makes feel like an idiot for ever even considering not giving him the short little note; a look that tells me that he thinks he does matter now, does matter just because I took the time to write something that had been swelling in my heart for an unbearably long amount of time.
“I love you, Mikey Way; I love you so fucking much. Too much to be without.”
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that it was alright! This 3000 word ramble was spawned last night when I, in a moment of boredom induced insanity, decided to write a sonnet; the end result being the appalling fourteen-line failure that is used here. I’m sorry about the ending, after the sonnet this thing just kinda fell apart. Anyway, thank you very much for reading and please review! :)