Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Let Me See
4 reviewsMikey hates his new glasses. And Gerard knows why. One-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
2Ambiance
Let Me See
Saturday mornings, is there anything better?
No. Not in the opinion of this school-hating thirteen-year-old anyway. A Saturday morning is like completing one of the insanely hard levels on Sonic the Hedgehog; it comes with a sense of achievement at having run fast enough to survive through the death-trap of school. A nice lie-in without the threat of school the next morning, a retreat from everything other than my comic books and CDs in my bat cave of a bedroom.
Nothing but me and the silence, chilling the morning away. Worrying about nothing and grinning about everything. Yeah, life’s sweet. It might not be on Monday when I have to face school again and it might not be tomorrow when Mom forces me to go to church along with my little brother, but right now everything’s sweeter than bubble-gum on a beach. I might get up later, I might not. It’s a Saturday; I can do whatever the hell I want. And it feels goddamn great.
“Whoa!”
The loud cry falls through the house, making me sit bolt upright in bed and completely wrecking my paradise of relaxation. Because it’s followed by a sickening thud, crash and bang.
And a loud wail.
A wail that is unmistakably Mikey, my stick of a baby brother. He sounds hurt too, or panicked at least, and I hate hearing him sound like that when there’s something I can do to make it better. There is always something I can do; when his goldfish died I helped him bury it properly in the garden so that he could feel like he said goodbye properly; when he got picked on for the first time at the age of just six, I helped him to forget about it by singing his favourite lullaby to him; when he got too scared to sleep after I provoked him into watching A Nightmare on Elm Street, I cuddled him in my bed until he felt safe enough to doze off. I always make it better for him.
I’m his big brother. It’s what I do.
“Gee! Gee!”
And he knows that.
Not caring that my Saturday morning lie-in, the one I look forward to all week, has been blown to shit, I shoot out of my basement room and up into the garishly sunlit living room. I follow the wails and cries that pierce my heart in such a way that the only reason I haven’t bled to death yet is because knowing that I can help Mikes is stopping the arrows of his agony from digging in too deep. My feet pick up the pace a bit as he gets louder, borderline hysterical, and I round the corner into the kitchen.
To see a small lump of ten-year-old curled into himself in front of the fridge, a nasty looking gash painting his pale forehead.
So I skid to my knees next to him, reflexively wrapping my arms around him and rocking him back and forth like a baby. He is a baby; my baby brother. Always has been, always will be. Even when he’s eighty and I’m eighty-three I’ll still be looking out for him, looking over his shoulder so I can see what’s coming before it can hit him in the face. Like our fridge apparently did, hence the bleeding and crying and clinging.
Clinging? Mikey’s cuddly, very cutely so, but he’s not clingy. Not normally anyway. Sure, when he’s genuinely frightened or upset then he can be like a leech. A good leech, though. The kind of leech that looks at you with huge brown eyes that scream not to leave him all alone because what he really needs right now is to be held.
Hang on. His eyes. There are no glasses to obstruct my view of them, just plain old eyes with no glass framing them.
Oh.
Oh, Mikes…
“Mikey, why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” I whisper softly down to him, making sure not to sound any kind of mad.
Because I know exactly why he’s being clingy; it’s because he’s ashamed of the glasses he got the Thursday just gone, the ones that have fixed his near-blindness that was the constant cause of endless put-downs. He was so proud of them as well, telling me on Thursday night how they make him just like the other kids who can walk in a straight line without crashing into every possible obstruction. Told me that he might finally get some friends now that they’ve got no reason to tease him. I, of course, had only bigged him up further by telling him that the kids at school would be lining up to be his friend.
But no. They teased him about his glasses instead, smashed a sweet little kid’s last little hope at fitting in and very nearly made him smash his glasses the second he got home. He only didn’t because I caught him just before he could jump on top of them. When I’d asked him what was wrong, he just told me that I lied. That nobody will ever want to be friends with the ten-year-old too different to fit in.
He sniffles bravely, looking up from having his head buried like Hope’s coffin into the hill of my shoulder, and tries to look me in the eye. Apart from he can’t, as his desperate squinting proves.
“I woke up this morning and I could see properly, Gee. So I don’t need my glasses anymore!” He explains animatedly, putting his all into making it convincing but only succeeding in making my heart break for the lonely kid with no friends other than his big brother. “I, uh, just, I think the fridge moved. I didn’t run into it ‘cause I couldn’t see it. Honest, I didn’t!”
Poor kid.
“Mikes, you need your glasses, Kiddo.” His face falls, bottom lip jutting out adorably. “You know that as well as I do.”
“But they make people laugh at me! More than they already did!” He yells, hiding in me again as though he can hide from the terror of his new glasses.
Something that makes me want to punch something, preferably his classmates, because no kid should have to feel like this; like they have to put themselves at risk to get people to like them. Or like appearance matters when it comes to seeing the good shining inside of people like Mikey.
“Aw, Kiddo, it’s alright. I’m here, it’s all gonna be alright.” I soothe in a voice that only my baby brother ever gets to hear and rub his back, trying desperately to think of a way to make this all better for him. “You gotta wear your glasses, though. You’ll end up walking into a road again if you don’t .”
I wince at the terrifying memory of just two weeks ago when we were walking home from the park with my best friend Ray, us two big kids strolling lazily behind as Mikes ran off in front, eager to make it back in time for Tom and Jerry. Being as blind as a bat, poor thing, he ran straight into the main road. I only pushed him out of the way with seconds to spare before a bus charged past where he had been walking happily along. I put my foot down at that, marched him to Mom and told the woman that she was taking him to the optician’s no matter how much Mikes put up a fight. Said I would drag him there myself if I had to, just as long as something got done about his appalling attraction to dangerous situations that make my heart palpitate. Resulting in the glasses that everyone, including himself, hates my baby brother for.
“I won’t, Gee. Honest I won’t.” He mewls up at me, voice strained with the tears that I’m desperately wiping at with my thumb. “Don’t make me wear ‘em. Please.”
“Oh, Mikey. I know you don’t mean to walk into stuff, but that doesn’t mean I’ll just let it happen. You’re too important to me to let you get hurt when I can stop it.” He blinks up at me, eyes two huge moons of giddiness at the honest sincerity of my caring words. “Don’t listen to what any of those losers say. They don’t know nothing about cool. They think it’s cool to walk around wearing more make-up than clothes. They don’t know anything about real cool stuff, like Batman and unicorns and Blink-182.” I smirk a little at his unsure grin, the goofy one that makes Grandma open up her special sweet tin every time he flashes it to her. “I, however, do. And I’m telling you, your glasses are cool.”
“Really?”
“You betcha, Kiddo. I’m you’re big brother, I don’t make stuff up.”
He launches harder into me, no longer clinging but just cuddling, and full on beaming like only I can make him whenever he gets like this. Like no ten-year-old ever should get. Sure, I don’t get the easiest time at school, but I give just as good back. Mikes just takes it. And then explodes when it all gets too much. I’ll always pick up the pieces though; it’s what a big brother does.
“Promise me you’ll wear ‘em? For me?”
“I’d do anything for you, Gee. You’re my big brother!”
A/N: Just some brotherly fluff I wrote after getting the prompt “glasses”. Could be viewed as a young Waycest if you so wish to see it that way. Sorry it isn’t great, but I hope that you liked it and please let me know what you think! :)
Saturday mornings, is there anything better?
No. Not in the opinion of this school-hating thirteen-year-old anyway. A Saturday morning is like completing one of the insanely hard levels on Sonic the Hedgehog; it comes with a sense of achievement at having run fast enough to survive through the death-trap of school. A nice lie-in without the threat of school the next morning, a retreat from everything other than my comic books and CDs in my bat cave of a bedroom.
Nothing but me and the silence, chilling the morning away. Worrying about nothing and grinning about everything. Yeah, life’s sweet. It might not be on Monday when I have to face school again and it might not be tomorrow when Mom forces me to go to church along with my little brother, but right now everything’s sweeter than bubble-gum on a beach. I might get up later, I might not. It’s a Saturday; I can do whatever the hell I want. And it feels goddamn great.
“Whoa!”
The loud cry falls through the house, making me sit bolt upright in bed and completely wrecking my paradise of relaxation. Because it’s followed by a sickening thud, crash and bang.
And a loud wail.
A wail that is unmistakably Mikey, my stick of a baby brother. He sounds hurt too, or panicked at least, and I hate hearing him sound like that when there’s something I can do to make it better. There is always something I can do; when his goldfish died I helped him bury it properly in the garden so that he could feel like he said goodbye properly; when he got picked on for the first time at the age of just six, I helped him to forget about it by singing his favourite lullaby to him; when he got too scared to sleep after I provoked him into watching A Nightmare on Elm Street, I cuddled him in my bed until he felt safe enough to doze off. I always make it better for him.
I’m his big brother. It’s what I do.
“Gee! Gee!”
And he knows that.
Not caring that my Saturday morning lie-in, the one I look forward to all week, has been blown to shit, I shoot out of my basement room and up into the garishly sunlit living room. I follow the wails and cries that pierce my heart in such a way that the only reason I haven’t bled to death yet is because knowing that I can help Mikes is stopping the arrows of his agony from digging in too deep. My feet pick up the pace a bit as he gets louder, borderline hysterical, and I round the corner into the kitchen.
To see a small lump of ten-year-old curled into himself in front of the fridge, a nasty looking gash painting his pale forehead.
So I skid to my knees next to him, reflexively wrapping my arms around him and rocking him back and forth like a baby. He is a baby; my baby brother. Always has been, always will be. Even when he’s eighty and I’m eighty-three I’ll still be looking out for him, looking over his shoulder so I can see what’s coming before it can hit him in the face. Like our fridge apparently did, hence the bleeding and crying and clinging.
Clinging? Mikey’s cuddly, very cutely so, but he’s not clingy. Not normally anyway. Sure, when he’s genuinely frightened or upset then he can be like a leech. A good leech, though. The kind of leech that looks at you with huge brown eyes that scream not to leave him all alone because what he really needs right now is to be held.
Hang on. His eyes. There are no glasses to obstruct my view of them, just plain old eyes with no glass framing them.
Oh.
Oh, Mikes…
“Mikey, why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” I whisper softly down to him, making sure not to sound any kind of mad.
Because I know exactly why he’s being clingy; it’s because he’s ashamed of the glasses he got the Thursday just gone, the ones that have fixed his near-blindness that was the constant cause of endless put-downs. He was so proud of them as well, telling me on Thursday night how they make him just like the other kids who can walk in a straight line without crashing into every possible obstruction. Told me that he might finally get some friends now that they’ve got no reason to tease him. I, of course, had only bigged him up further by telling him that the kids at school would be lining up to be his friend.
But no. They teased him about his glasses instead, smashed a sweet little kid’s last little hope at fitting in and very nearly made him smash his glasses the second he got home. He only didn’t because I caught him just before he could jump on top of them. When I’d asked him what was wrong, he just told me that I lied. That nobody will ever want to be friends with the ten-year-old too different to fit in.
He sniffles bravely, looking up from having his head buried like Hope’s coffin into the hill of my shoulder, and tries to look me in the eye. Apart from he can’t, as his desperate squinting proves.
“I woke up this morning and I could see properly, Gee. So I don’t need my glasses anymore!” He explains animatedly, putting his all into making it convincing but only succeeding in making my heart break for the lonely kid with no friends other than his big brother. “I, uh, just, I think the fridge moved. I didn’t run into it ‘cause I couldn’t see it. Honest, I didn’t!”
Poor kid.
“Mikes, you need your glasses, Kiddo.” His face falls, bottom lip jutting out adorably. “You know that as well as I do.”
“But they make people laugh at me! More than they already did!” He yells, hiding in me again as though he can hide from the terror of his new glasses.
Something that makes me want to punch something, preferably his classmates, because no kid should have to feel like this; like they have to put themselves at risk to get people to like them. Or like appearance matters when it comes to seeing the good shining inside of people like Mikey.
“Aw, Kiddo, it’s alright. I’m here, it’s all gonna be alright.” I soothe in a voice that only my baby brother ever gets to hear and rub his back, trying desperately to think of a way to make this all better for him. “You gotta wear your glasses, though. You’ll end up walking into a road again if you don’t .”
I wince at the terrifying memory of just two weeks ago when we were walking home from the park with my best friend Ray, us two big kids strolling lazily behind as Mikes ran off in front, eager to make it back in time for Tom and Jerry. Being as blind as a bat, poor thing, he ran straight into the main road. I only pushed him out of the way with seconds to spare before a bus charged past where he had been walking happily along. I put my foot down at that, marched him to Mom and told the woman that she was taking him to the optician’s no matter how much Mikes put up a fight. Said I would drag him there myself if I had to, just as long as something got done about his appalling attraction to dangerous situations that make my heart palpitate. Resulting in the glasses that everyone, including himself, hates my baby brother for.
“I won’t, Gee. Honest I won’t.” He mewls up at me, voice strained with the tears that I’m desperately wiping at with my thumb. “Don’t make me wear ‘em. Please.”
“Oh, Mikey. I know you don’t mean to walk into stuff, but that doesn’t mean I’ll just let it happen. You’re too important to me to let you get hurt when I can stop it.” He blinks up at me, eyes two huge moons of giddiness at the honest sincerity of my caring words. “Don’t listen to what any of those losers say. They don’t know nothing about cool. They think it’s cool to walk around wearing more make-up than clothes. They don’t know anything about real cool stuff, like Batman and unicorns and Blink-182.” I smirk a little at his unsure grin, the goofy one that makes Grandma open up her special sweet tin every time he flashes it to her. “I, however, do. And I’m telling you, your glasses are cool.”
“Really?”
“You betcha, Kiddo. I’m you’re big brother, I don’t make stuff up.”
He launches harder into me, no longer clinging but just cuddling, and full on beaming like only I can make him whenever he gets like this. Like no ten-year-old ever should get. Sure, I don’t get the easiest time at school, but I give just as good back. Mikes just takes it. And then explodes when it all gets too much. I’ll always pick up the pieces though; it’s what a big brother does.
“Promise me you’ll wear ‘em? For me?”
“I’d do anything for you, Gee. You’re my big brother!”
A/N: Just some brotherly fluff I wrote after getting the prompt “glasses”. Could be viewed as a young Waycest if you so wish to see it that way. Sorry it isn’t great, but I hope that you liked it and please let me know what you think! :)
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