"Don’t forget; I love you." PIKEY one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
People are always asking me why I’m so quiet; why I never put my hand up in class even though I know all of the answers; why I never speak to anyone unless I have to; why I always play my bass with the volume turned way down. Well, when I say ‘people’ I mean my big brother and my boyfriend, the only two people who actually stop long enough to notice that I speak less words in a day than there are in a child’s picture-book. It’s not like Gee even cares anyway, I can tell that he only asks because Mom nags at him to sort me out, to make me less of a pathetic slither of nothing and more like him.
I told him that once, told my big brother that he doesn’t have to bother, that I know why he acts like he cares. He shouted at me, his eyes begging me to shout back for the first time in three years. I didn’t; I just burst into tears instead. I sobbed and shook as though there was an apocalypse going on in my heart, my arms wrapping so tightly around my chest that I think I very nearly choked myself on misery. Because at least when my big brother was nice to me I could cling onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, it was genuine but when he shouts at me I feel like I’m worth less than the nothing that I am fast becoming. When I started crying, my eyes burning with pure cyanide, Gee had tried to force me into one of our old brotherly bear hugs, the kind that always make everything better because they mean that, at the very least, we have each other.
I say ‘tried’ because my boyfriend had been stood behind him, face contorted with the type of fury that I’d find threatening coming from anyone else, and promptly punched Gerard on the nose before telling him to fuck off, understanding that I couldn’t.
Pete and Gee never have gotten along. It kills me inside every time I think of them fighting over me; I’d give anything, absolutely anything that I have, for them to get along. I think that it’s because they’re so similar, apart from Pete’s got a hell of a lot more patience than my big brother does. I guess that’s why we get along so well, after all, when dealing with a selectively mute little weirdo like me you have to have the patience of a statue.
I don’t mean to be the way that I am; in fact, I’d sell my soul, if I had such a thing, just to have one day without having to feel the weight of a mosh pit on my chest every time I try to talk. I’d love to be able to tell Pete just how much I love him on a minutely basis, as opposed to having to build up the mental strength to be able to form just those three little words. But that’s okay; he seems to understand everything that I want to say to him through my eyes.
I can remember this one time, last year when I was a freshman and he was a junior, that I got beaten up really bad, like worse than the usual bad. He found me in a convulsing heap on the restroom floor, my heart unable to keep up with my lungs and my face sliced by locker-grill gashes and agonizing salty tears. You see, I get teased for being different; for being an attention-seeking little fuck-up because I don’t talk. I know that I only have myself to blame, but that doesn’t stop it from crushing me with the weight of a falling angel grinding me into the pavement. Pete, being the absolute wonder that he is, just sat next to me until I calmed down; only laying a hand on my shoulder when my eyes begged him for the physical comfort that only he can deliver.
My parents first started to notice my abnormal lack of speech as being a problem three years ago, when I was twelve. I don’t know why or how it happened; just that one push and catcall had been one too many for my mind to handle, thus making my lips sew themselves shut whenever someone asked me to talk to them. Why? Because if I don’t talk then I can’t give them a reason to hurt me. But it became so much more than that; it developed into a disorder, the kind that makes you have to take antidepressants and see therapists who only care because it gets them a nice big pay-cheque at the end of the month. My parents only noticed because Gerard said something to them, told them that he, in all of the knowledge of a fifteen-year-old, was worried about me; that he thought I was getting bullied and that he didn’t know what to do to help me. Turned out that I’m Depressed, with a capital ‘d’ because it’s a condition not a phase, that I’m both metaphorically and literally a freak.
But Pete doesn’t see me like that though, doesn’t listen to all of the rumours that bite into my self-esteem like a serpent; he just loves me for me, because of who he can hear from behind the silence. Besides, he does more than enough talking for the two of us; I think it’d drive Gerard mad if he had to put up with two of us yammering on whenever we go out together. He always insists, my big brother, on us going out as a three, he says that he wants to spend time with me. I know full well that it’s because he doesn’t trust Pete, that he thinks Pete’s playing with me and will drop me like a deadweight the second that he gets bored. Perhaps he will.
What if he does?
That thought floods me with fear and I whimper a little, curling over in my bed so that I’m safely nestled into my pillow; the scent of Pete’s mango shampoo still staining it from where he was lying next to me earlier today, the two of us just cuddled up like the rest of the world doesn’t matter as long as we have each other. Gee hates it when Pete and I hang out in my bedroom, acts like he thinks alone-together time is synonymous with fucking. Well, once or twice maybe it has, but it’s none of Gerard’s business what I do with my boyfriend, a point that Pete has made perfectly clear to my brother on many occasions. I love Gee for it though, for being the strong protector that he’s always tried to be; he just tries too hard sometimes, tries too hard for him to be able to see that I don’t need protection. Not now that I have Pete Wentz with his arms constantly wrapped around my waist like letting go would be sinful.
I lift my head wearily from the Pete-scented pillow and look at the moonbeam-illuminated clock hanging next my bedroom door; it’s three in the morning and I still haven’t gotten any sleep whatsoever. I don’t nowadays, not unless I’m curled up in Pete’s arms where I know that he can keep me safe like a dragon guarding a tower. I don’t know what causes my insomnia, only that it’s starting to become noticeable to my boyfriend; at school he’ll just take me off to the library, tell me to lean against him and when I next open my eyes it’ll be the end of break, thus meaning that he helped me to sleep through the twenty-minutes of togetherness that we have before lessons start up again. He says that he doesn’t mind, that he likes just watching me sleep; he says it makes me look all cute and innocent. To which I always respond with the death-glare, knowing that he’ll insist on winning the argument by kissing me in that special little way of his; he starts with a peck on the lips, and then dives straight back in again when I least expect it, running his hands through my hair all the while, then rounds it off with a sweet sprinkle of lips on the tip of my nose. And every time he does it, it always makes me blush, always makes me think of how lucky I am to have such a perfect boyfriend in a world where everyone else seems to hate me.
I wish he was with me right now, not just because I feel exhausted and want to sleep, but because every second that I spend without him feels like an eternity of purgatory; like not being with my angel sends me to hell because that’s what my life is without him in it.
I hear the sound of my cell vibrating against my bedside cabinet, the garish light of it’s bright screen exploding into the darkness of my bedroom like the hope detonating in my heart and making my hands fumble with the tiny device; hope that it’s my Petey, that it’s something that can pick me up until my next dose of antidepressants.
Can’t sleep, Sugar. Too busy thinking of you. And your eyes. And your legs. And your mouth. And your insert word here through fear of big brother seeing. I wish I was with you right now, seeing you smile and making you feel happy. It’s what you deserve. I guess what I’m trying to say is; can’t wait to see you tomorrow, Beautiful. I’m gonna take you for coffee after school, you can have an extra-large cappuccino with sprinkles and everything – I’m paying!
Don’t forget; I love you.
Sweet dreams xxxxxxxx
That text right there is exactly why I love him so damn much; apart from love isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for my boyfriend, just imagine multiplying all of the love in the world by how many stars there are in the sky and you might just get close. But even then I highly doubt it.
I feel a yawn rumble through my exhausted body and, for the first time in weeks without Pete being present, I feel my eyes fall shut and a content smile paint itself onto my rosy cheeks. Because Pete told me to have sweet dreams. And I know that I will; he never lies.
He loves me too much for that.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading; I hope that it was alright! Pikey is my OTP and just kinda felt the need to write something. Sorry for the crappy beginning/middle/end. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)