It's not that Gabe Saporta's a bad teacher. More like Mikey Way's too good a student. GABEKEY one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
“Do I really have to, Gabe?”
The semi-petrified whine infiltrates my ears like a tirade of machinegun fire; I know this is something my Mikey really doesn’t want to do, but I’ve got to make him do it. Someone has to and trust me, as one of New Jersey’s most infamous bad boys, I know for a fact that there are plenty of worse ways that this could be happening to him.
For example, when it happened to me I was two years younger than his fifteen-year-old self and with a group of people I really shouldn’t have been with in the first place. A group of people who have since either gone to jail for various drug-related crimes or carked it through their own stupid recklessness. It was with that group of people though that I found Mikey Way; we were roaming the streets, as all important teenagers do on a Saturday night after their curfew, and there he was, passed out in the back of some alley. Turned out some bastard had thought it’d be funny to mug a pre-teen kid on his way home from his best friend’s house and just leave him for someone else to find. Someone else who, luckily for Mikes, was me. Hell, if I hadn’t have been with my ganf they most likely would have either left him or made the situation even more horrendous for the poor kid.
And that was when I learnt who my real friends are; when I was fighting them off the poor kid because he clearly would be worth a fair bit to some perverted night-walker. I scooped Mikey up in my arms, arms that had never before held a kid, and sprinted for home. It broke my heart the way he practically screamed when he woke up in my bedroom, through a poisonous cocktail of terror and agony. I bundled him up close to me, cuddling him until he got the message that I meant him no sort of harm and then waited for him to calm down enough for his wounds to be treatable. The rest, as they say, is history.
I took him under my wing, taught him how to protect himself against the same kind of attack that has left him permanently jumpy at night-time even to this day. The only problem being that Mikey couldn’t hurt a fly if he was one of those weird Venus plant-things. So instead I settled for being his personal bodyguard, understanding just how precious the sweet little kid is; how innocent and kind and everything that I wish I could be once more. But now he’s not that little twelve-year-old I rescued three years ago, he’s fifteen and I’m eighteen; it’s about time I taught him how to rule the New Jersey scene. That way he won’t need self-defence.
“C’mon, Mikes, just a sip.” I coax him, holding the bottle of Vodka up to his mouth. “It tastes real good. Promise.”
He regards the bottle with his bottomlessly deep cocoa eyes, scrutinizing it as though it’s a vile concoction that could kill him upon contact. Something that hurts me a little inside because, after three years of us being damn near inseparable, I would have thought that he knows me well enough by now to know that I’d rather take a bullet to the head than let him take one in the foot.
“B-but Mom said-“
“And I’m saying try it.” My tone is endearing, full of all the encouragement my eyes once beheld when I was begging him to be alright just last week, after a brutal pounding from the brother of one of my old group; apparently it’s my fault his big brother went down for dealing. Whether it is or not doesn’t matter, the fact that he dragged Mikey into it though, does. Hence the reason that I’m trying to teach him how to make himself untouchable in the ranks of Jersey’s teen society. “Just a mouthful, Kid. That’s all I’m asking of ya.”
I hate to do it like this, like I’m asking him a favour, but it’s the only way I know will get it done. Mikey Way, you see, is a people-pleaser. He’ll do just about anything for anyone if he thinks it’s what the person wants or needs, another contributing factor that makes me feel the need to protect to him whenever he’s within a fifty mile radius of danger, aka, people from my dirty past.
A small gulp of determination echoes throughout my bedroom and an even smaller hand reaches out for the bottle. Mikey’s got it pressed to his lips, eyes searching mine for the approval that I give him whenever he does pretty much anything, and tilts it when I nod to let him know he’s doing just fine.
I smile to myself; maybe there’s hope for the kid yet.
Before I can stop him, half the bottle’s been downed in his haste to complete my request. My heart all but stops because, well, he’s just a kid. A kid who’s never had anything more than a lick of champagne at New Year’s. Not the kind of kid who can take a whole half a bottle of my dad’s strongest stuff.
“Mikey!” My worry-sharpened tone makes him wince away from me, dropping the bottle in the process. “You can’t just drink it like that, Kid. You’re gonna make yourself sick!”
As I say those words, words filled with an urgency I’ve only ever conjured once before when I caught Mikes with a fork in my toaster, a hand flies to his mouth and he bolts, rather sloppily, for the bathroom. Seconds later, I hear him retching, dry heaves rattling through the house and rattling into my heart; I fucked up.
I made the poor kid do something he wasn’t comfortable with and now he’s the one paying the price for it.
Looks like I’ll have to find some other way to teach him.
“I’ve got a present for you, Kid.” I beam down at Mikey, who is currently laid out on my couch, waiting for my arrival from the kitchen where I’d been putting away the first aid kit; he got beaten up at school.
Of course he told me he’d just tripped down the stairs on his way to English, but we both know that was a shoddily put together lie. Why else would he be coming to me to patch him up instead of to his big brother? Because he knows that his big brother will ask questions, I don’t. I just do what has to be done, give him the kind of special cuddle that got him to calm down that first night we met and then let him sleep over so that by the time he goes home the next afternoon, the bruises have faded out of relevance. I bet it was that same kid it always is; the one who seems bent on his brother’s swift justice being my fault. He’s in Mikey’s grade at school and is fast becoming the leader of the scene I once ran, making it all the more essential that I help Mikes become a Somebody. Not just That Lanky Kid Who’s Good For Punching.
Not that I’d ever look at him that way, just that I can see how everyone else might. And that scares the living shit out of me.
“Why, Gabe? It’s not my birthday for another four months.” The puzzlement in his voice makes me melt a little because, in all honesty, my best friend is one of the cutest kids I’ve ever seen. I’ve just got to make sure that he stays that way, innocence as intact as possible. “I haven’t got you anything.”
The guilty look that floods his face makes me flop down on the seat, right next to his head and pull it into my lap, hands running softly over his bruised forehead; the bastard really did a number on him this time, very nearly knocked him out by the looks of it. He really doesn’t deserve any of this, the majority of which comes from him simply being my friend. My best friend.
The only friend I have left after I turned my back on the gang I use to let run me.
“You just being here is more than enough, Kid.” I whisper into his ear, my whole top half leaning directly over his battered little body. I swear to God, it’s a miracle he doesn’t snap in half. “Besides, this isn’t all that great a gift.”
I rummage in my back pocket, earning an involuntary whimper of protest from Mikey when I have to shift around a little bit, and pull out a small piece of laminated card. My eyes scan it quickly, making sure that it’s up to standard, and I hand it over to him, watching as he tries to figure out what it is so that he can thank me appropriately.
It’s a fake ID. His ticket into Belleville high society and into the kind of small-time fame that can earn him his safety. And that’s all I really want for him, his safety. It comes even before his happiness and, shockingly, before my own sense of pride. The very same sense of pride that has earned me, and therefore Mikey, a fair few enemies in my time on the scene. Apparently my policy of kissing boys just to start shit doesn’t go down all too well with the homophobic bastards at the top of the chain. Not that I care; I’ll kiss who I want, whenever I want. Especially if it’ll piss off intolerant motherfuckers.
“Uh, Gabe, what exactly is it?” He mewls up to me, voice rife with the naivety that I love him for.
“This, M.J. Way, is your first fake ID.” When he looks as though he’s holding the equivalent of a handgun in his innocent little paws, I can’t help but chuckle to myself. “It’s fine, Mikes. They’re not even all that illegal. It just means that you can come out to clubs with me and I can show you off.”
The last part trips out of my mouth before my tongue can catch it; I may be known for my way with words, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the words that have a way with me. You see, Mikey Way is what the majority of people would call adorkable. Given the right make-over, too-tight jeans and a touch of eyeliner, he could easily be one of the hottest pieces of jailbait this town has ever seen. The very idea of walking into a club with him on my arm makes every part of my body tingle in excitement; not only would it get me the attention that I constantly crave, but it’d make me feel all the more special for having the most beautiful boy in existence strung onto me.
Not to mention the fact that it’d also get Mikes some major street cred.
“Show me off?” He mutters, looking at me in such a way that makes it clear he’s half petrified of this being me teasing him. “What’s there to show off?”
“Everything, M.J! Trust me, you could get any guy or gal you want.” I pause to conceal the blush that’s starting to take a grip of my features, just like the one that has long since claimed Mikey’s. “You just gotta get the confidence first.”
He places the ID right in front of his eyes, soaking in the small card like it’s the first time he’s ever seen a piece of writing before in his somewhat sheltered life. Well, sheltered for a Jersey boy, anyway.
“But Gabe, it’s got my age wrong.”
“Right, Mikey, you know how I got my reputation?”
He thinks for a minute, beautiful mind whirring behind those stunning irises as he tries to remember the key to my short-lived success from one of our many past lessons. My little training sessions have become something of a regular thing now since the first incident with the Vodka two months ago. He’s still failing miserably at everything I try to teach or get him to have a go at.
I gave him his first cigarette yesterday; the poor kid choked on it and I had to catch him before he fell back from the blast of the nicotine hit. I tried teaching him to drive last week; let’s just say that I think Mikes will be using public transport for a very long time. I dressed him up as a little slut; resulting in him getting wolf-whistled at too many times for him to feel comfortable with and running home to hide from what should have been my most successful lesson. Hell, I’ve even taught him how to flirt like a pro; that one resulted in me getting a little too hot, meaning that I had to kick him out and then explain to him that I didn’t make him leave because I don’t like him anymore, resulting in that lesson being a failure too because he now refuses to flirt with anyone through fear of making them leave him.
Today though, today I think we’ll have our first successful little session.
“Uh… You were really nice to scary people?” His infantile answer makes me want to snuggle him like a teddy bear until the end of time.
Because this sheer innocence is just who Mikey Way is, a kid who just doesn’t fit into such a viciously brutal world. But it’s my job to make him fit, to make it not be viciously brutal towards him lest I want to one day find him in a bloody pulp on my doorstep. Just like I very nearly did last Monday when I got in from work to find him collapsed against the side of my house, waiting for me to come home like a faithful Labrador.
Turned out some more of my old ‘friends’ and their own affiliates had heard that I’ve gone soft over the kid, equating to them jumping him after school. With fucking baseball bats and more pent-up fury than I thought any evil prick could harbour. By the time I got home he was slipping in and out of consciousness, making it impossible for me not to burst into tears once I’d finished cleaning him up in my bathroom. The poor kid thought it was something he’d done that made me cry and so his own tears increased tenfold, forcing my arms to wrap around him that little bit tighter.
As well as forcing my resolve to harden; I am going to make Mikey Way a scene superstar if it kills me.
“No, Kid. I was, to put it mildly, a whore.” For emphasise I slide a hand onto Mikey’s thigh, making the kid jump and blush like a schoolgirl. A very cute, desirable schoolgirl. “Now, I don’t want you to be like that, Kid. I just want you to know the key to getting what you want; a good kiss.”
His face blanches at the way I drag the last three words out, rolling them across my tongue for added effect. Of course this lesson is only for his own good, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy teaching it. After all, I’ve been wondering what Mikes tastes like for a while now. A very long while.
Okay; I’ve wanted to taste him ever since we met. Or ever since I knew what he’s like under the layers of anxiety and shyness, anyway. I just haven’t done because, well, he’s precious to me. Important in ways that I didn’t know even existed until I met him. Too important for me to risk fucking it all up by kissing him. Until now, though. Because now, I’ve got a perfectly valid reason to taste him without scaring him off.
“But, Gabe, I’ve never kissed anyone before.” He looks down, face filled with embarrassment and shame. “What if I suck?”
“Kid, I’m not teaching you how to suck.” Although part of me, I think as I drop in the mood-lightening joke, wishes I was. “It’s just a kiss. I’ll guide you.” I pause, thinking of any other reason there might be for him to not want to do this. “Is this really your first kiss?” Slow, shy nod. “Then I promise you, Kid, I’ll make it something special.”
After a few seconds of careful consideration on his part and a gentle smile on mine, he gives me his consent in the form of a quick, sharp nod; everything inside of me fireworks up to heaven at the simple action that simply fills me with the kind of bliss that I shouldn’t let it do.
This is just a lesson; I can’t let it mean anything. That wouldn’t be fair on Mikey.
But I can pretend.
“Good.” I smile, taking one of his hands in the other of mine that is not resting contently on his skinny little thigh. “Just relax and enjoy it, Kid.”
I pull the hand I’m clutching to my waist, waiting until he gets the message and wraps his arm around my hips before I mirror the embrace; meaning that we’re half-hugging on my bed. Meaning that my heart is beating so fast that I’m scared it’s going to beat clean through my ribcage and punch Mikey in the pretty little face. I quickly brush the thought away, reminding myself that this is very serious business, and lean my head towards his until our foreheads are touching and our noses are rubbing. We slot together like two puzzle pieces, making this even harder for me to stand because the second I let myself do this for me as opposed to for him, is the second that I’ll lose control.
And possibly lose my best friend.
“Am I meant to close my eyes?”
His breathy question knocks me from my thoughts and reminds me that I am gripping Mikey’s thigh a little more high up than is necessary and that we are, through no conscious fault of our own, gazing into one another’s eyes. Just drowning in each other’s pools of inner insight. Something that makes hope swell in my chest because if he’s gazing at me, that means that I might just stand a chance, right?
I let out an involuntary nervous giggle at the thought, one that makes Mikes smile in that cutesy way of his, and force myself to focus on his question. A question formed by the softest, purest lips I’ve ever had the honest pleasure of laying my eyes upon.
“Yeah. It’ll make it more natural for you, Honey.”
I wince as the nickname rolls off my tongue, waiting in earnest terror to see how he reacts. My heart stops and my lungs constrict; he reacts badly and that’s it. I’ll have scared away the best thing to happen to me since Dad got me my first bass guitar at age eight.
A strange sensation floods me, starting at my lips and trailing down my spine in a flurry of pure gold. The feeling catches me off-guard and I tighten my grip on Mikey’s thigh, the grip sliding up further in an act that makes him moan. Moan right into my mouth.
He’s kissing me. The kid I’m meant to be teaching, is kissing me. Not the other way around like I thought it would be. Mikey’s really coming out of his shell, working his lips on mine as they move around to give him some sort of guidance as to how a kiss should go, not that he needs the help. When our lips are in perfect synch with one another, but just that little bit off to add a certain level of excitement to it, I pull him right into my lap from where we were embracing. I tangle a hand through his sandy hair, using the motion to give me dominance and slipping my tongue into his mouth.
This is no lesson; this is true. I can feel it in the way that he’s kissing me that he means it almost as much as I do, the way he’s trying oh-so desperately to prove something to me. Something that tastes a lot like love.
Just as I’m fully getting into it, into the care and the passion and the ever so slight hint of lust, he pulls away, flashing me the kind of beam that I haven’t seen from him in a long while. And it makes mine amplify.
“You’re a good teacher, Gabey Baby.” He sighs, resting his head against my shoulder in an act of affection that makes me certain what just happened wasn’t just for show. “I like your lessons.”
“So do I, Honey. So do I.”
A/N: Sorry if this is crappy/boring/dragged-out, but I hope you like it and please let me know what you think! :)