Brendon can only take so much. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
“What do you fucking want from me, Michael?”
He swore at me.
My Brenny actually swore at me out of anger; out of the kind of fury that I’ve seen spouting from his rose-petal lips plenty of times before, just never towards me. Towards Ryan when he makes fun of me, which has turned into a regular occurrence at school now, and towards anyone else who makes me cry. Always to protect me and make me feel loved.
Never to make me shudder and shake and flinch so violently away from him that I’m very nearly toppling over the edge of my bed and onto the splay of comic books that we were pouring contently through just twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes that made all the difference because in those twenty minutes, Bren decided that he wanted to kiss me.
Now that’s nothing new, we’re kind of unofficially going out now so if anything it’s normal, and I let him. Not just let him; encouraged it by using all of the techniques he’s taught me to make it as pleasurable for him as it is for me. Even if I can’t moan his name when he gives me a hickey or tell him how much I love him like he does me every waking minute.
But none of that’s anything new. It was the introduction of wandering hands that caused the problem tonight.
Wandering hands? More like starved lions tearing the savannah apart in search of a kill to make.
That wasn’t a bad thing at all, actually; his hands scouring my skin like cream pouring over a cake, getting or trying to get into every intimate crease of my body, leaving blazing trails of lust and love in their wake. It made me feel loved, adored even. And I never wanted it to end, that euphoric sense of Brendon wanting my body. Of Brendon wanting the mute little freak that most people would rather use for stress relief.
The issue arose when he started to get even more curious and his hands tugged at my t-shirt, the Taking Back Sunday one he got me as a present to make up for Sarah breaking down, and he saw them.
The bruises. The entire coffee-coloured rash that’s started to smother the entirety of my torso over the past few days since the dance disaster. Some fresh and faded into a murky blue, others fresh from earlier today and bright, throbbing red. From Ryan.
I started freaking out, trying to cower away from my hurt and bemused boyfriend as he attempted to make sense of the marks of abuse he’d just seen on my milky skin. Marks caused by his own best friend because that best friend wants to be where I am.
Correction; where I was before Brendon got mad at me.
Just like Ryan said he would once he realised that I’m a waste of time. That I’m an ugly little retard who should’ve been put down at birth; that I’m just like a feral animal, no sense of how to love properly; that I’m just dragging Bren down when he should be having fun with someone as good as he is. With someone like Ryan. Not a freak like me. And that’s why I never told Bren, the bruises would show him how hated I am and then he’d realise why. And then he’d leave me.
Just like he looks like he might do right now.
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” He rakes a hand through his sleek noir hair, making me yearn to feel his over-washed locks under my own skin because it’s one of the few things that can calm me down when I get like I am now. “And now you won’t even let me know who’s hurting you!” He stamps his foot, making the entire room shake from where he’s stopped his angry pacing in the centre of it. “I need you to fucking talk to me, Mikey.”
Ouch. Really, fucking, ouch.
At his statement, one that I know wasn’t meant to be as cruel as the agony it’s lacerating me with is, I lose all control I once had on my emotions; I bury my face in my hands and let all of the hurt bleed out from my eyes, my breathing becoming a struggle as I try to desperately get my head around what he’s just said to me. It sounds like something Ryan would spit when he’s telling me why I should let Bren go and be happy with him, not cling onto the poor guy because I know nobody else will ever be kind enough to act like they can stand me.
Apart from Bren can’t stand me anymore.
“Shit. Mikes, I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighs heavily, all anger gone and instead replaced by the kind of pure sorrow that I thought only I ever deserve to feel for having cost Brendon his best friend and his shot at a halfway decent boyfriend. “I…” His voice trails off, replaced instead with the sound of my bed creaking to announce his weight being placed at the end of it. “God. Sweetie, I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t. I just… I wasn’t thinking.”
I grab for my communication kit, flashing him an apologetic gaze with my salty eyes and wincing as I catch a glint of brokenness in his own swirling irises. All I ever do is cause trouble, make my boyfriend sad and push away his best friend. Just because I’m too retarded to talk.
Ryan said so.
The words trickle straight from my mosh-pitting head and through my hand, the usual smooth curvature of my lettering turning jagged with my complete despair. Mere milliseconds later I hold the board up before I can let myself have time to regret or think twice about my words.
I’m sorry, B. You deserve someone who can tell you how special you are. Someone better than me.
“No, Mikey.” His steely, immovable reply makes me look up from where shame had forced my head down and I see that his face is heaving with hurt; something that makes me crawl over to curl into his lap, his temporary fury long forgotten by the both of us. “There’s nobody better for me out there; there’s only you, Sweetie. And if there is someone else, then I don’t wanna know because they’re not you.” He presses a kiss to my nose and wraps his sturdy, castle-like arms around me, giving the impression that he’s never going to let me go. Not that I’d ever want him to. “I love you, MiWay. I love you so fucking much.”
Those legendary three not-so-little words usually make everything seem alright and good again because it’s Bren saying them, making all my dreams come true at once with the power of his angelically sinful tone. Not now though; now it makes me crumple against him, more of my own pathetic traits becoming prominent and showing me how shit of a boyfriend I am.
Because I can’t fucking say it back.
All of a sudden his arms don’t feel so comforting; more like a restriction mocking me for the way I can’t be to him all that he is to me. Arms that I’m not worthy of because it should be Ryan in my position, not me. Or at least someone else who can whisper sweet-nothings to my boyfriend, tell him how perfect he is as he falls asleep. How too good for a freak like me he is. Ryan certainly could do that for him.
So I start thrashing, trying desperately to get away from Brendon because being near him right now just hurts too fucking much. But his arms tighten, just like Ryan’s do when I try to get away from his poundings at school every other day, and breathing becomes impossible as wild panic sets in hard to my heart with the impact of a derailed train.
“Mikey! Snap out of it, calm down.” Bren’s voice sounds like a beg pleading with not to lose what little sanity I have left. “Write it out, Sweetie. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I let his words make it through my veil of sudden terror and the veil is lifted at once by the calmness of my boyfriend’s wavelike voice lapping at the sharp shoreline of my thoughts. He just wants to help, I know that; he just wants to get me through this and make me as happy as I know Ryan could make him. He’s doing his best, just like he always does. Because he loves me as much as I need and love him in return. Need him more than I need oxygen.
So much more.
His hands wash over my back, rubbing in whimsical patterns of reassurance into the bruises of my world war with prejudice and nuzzles his nose softly into my neck. Just like how he knows I love.
“That’s it, clam down.” He coos, my breathing regulating and the only reason for my thundering heart being his close, hot contact. “Now write it all out. You don’t have to tell me who hurts you, not yet anyway, but please, Mikes, for the love of God; tell me something. I can’t build a house without bricks, Sweetie.”
I set to work scribbling away, using the beseeching look in his eyes as the only inspiration I need.
I just want to be able to say ‘I love you’.
“Oh, Sweetie. You poor thing.” His voice is full of pity but it somehow doesn’t sound patronising like it does from everyone else, even from Gee; it just sounds like he cares. Because he does. He shouldn’t, but I’m so fucking grateful that he does. “You do say it, MiWay. You say it with everything you do, with every kiss and cuddle; with every smile and wink; with every breath and heartbeat. The rest of the world might not hear it, but believe me, Sweetie, I do.”
He’s just sparing my feelings.
Saying things too wonderful about a freak like me to be true so that he doesn’t have to deal with me crying again. It’s just like what Ryan said would happen if Brendon ever saw my bruises.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t kid myself. At least for a little while anyway.
Because I do love Brendon Boyd Urie.
Even if I can’t say it.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope this was alright! It feels kinda rushed, so sorry if it sucks, Dedicated to the awesome youcanstakemyheart for suggesting Mikey and Brendon having a fight and for being generally awesome; thanks! I'm thinking of introducing Gerard and/or Pete at some point soon; any ideas? Please let me know what you think and if you have anything you'd like to see in an oncoming addition, I'd love to hear it! :)
Song of The Chapter: "Dark Days" by The Used http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ddxIQm9pD0