Brendon's sick. And Ryan's sick of Mikey. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
“Where’s Brendon, Waytard?”
He’s found me.
Ryan’s found me, today of all days when Brendon’s off sick and unable to keep Ryan’s mouth shut for the most part. But even when Bren is right here by my side I can still imagine what the slender, caramel-haired boy would be saying to me; telling me that Brendon’s his, that if I really love my Honey-B then I’d let him go and be happy with someone who can treat him right.
Someone who can tell him how incredible he is.
That’s someone I can never be, all because I was born to be a stupid retard who can’t even match the vocal abilities of a toddler. I know Bren tells me that it doesn’t matter and that not needing words to communicate makes us all the more special, yet I just can’t bring myself to believe him. Not when I know Ryan’s right, just like everyone, other than my four friends, are too.
Let’s face it; who wants to be in love with someone who can never say a simple ‘I do’ on their wedding day? Or tell them how great his ass looks in those jeans? Or even just say, moan, whisper his holy name?
I whip around to face Ryan, who is stood behind me in the grotty boys’ restroom, hands on his bony hips and a superior air about him. Largely because he is superior to me, just like everyone else who can talk like a normal person is.
“I asked you a question, Waytard.” His snarl is sharp and he brushes his eyes to his nails, making it perfectly clear to me that there are many things he’d much rather be doing right now. My Honey-B being but one of them. “You better fucking answer me.”
His unspoken threat, the one regarding many new additions to my previously beaten torso, makes me flinch away from the smaller yet more intimidating boy, forcing my back to hit against one of the restroom sinks.
I’m not stupid, not in this situation anyway; I know that I can’t afford to get beaten up again, not after the pounding I got yesterday from a group of jocks because it apparently makes a great freak-show with which they can impress their girlfriends. Yesterday it was so bad that I had to skip the last two lessons after lunch. Not through misery and fear and depression, but due to the fact that I simply couldn’t walk. In the end I had to text Pete to come and get me at work.
I chose Pete because it always has been Pete Wentz rescuing me when it comes to bullies and beatings; he doesn’t ask questions until he has to, doesn’t patronize me and he makes me feel the safest out of everyone else because I’ve seen him defend me before. Besides, I can’t stand the thought of making my Honey-B worry about me like I know he would have done if he saw me yesterday. Hell, even Pete came close to freaking out when he found me slumped next to the tree where we used to hang out before Brendon came along. But then he composed himself, just like he always does, carried me to his car and sorted me out with his little first aid kit that he’s been carrying around ever since he learnt that I really am the clumsiest motherfucker in existence.
Pete’s featherlike hands and medicinal voice washed away all signs of the attack, save for a few things that I can hide by calling it human error or covering with make-up, but anymore and I don’t think I’ll be able to hide it. Especially not from Bren, who’s been keeping a brown-black eye on my physical condition ever since he found the bruises a week or so back.
“Now, Way. I’m getting impatient.”
Absolute terror douses my screaming soul as he cracks his knuckles, the brittle sound making me want to just hide in a ball on the floor because at least that way my ribs and face will be protected from the inevitable onslaught. That much I know from experience.
Instead I scramble my hands through my rucksack, the Misfits one that the guys clubbed together to get me in order to cheer me up after my visit to the doctor a few days back, and pull out my whiteboard. Ryan starts tapping his foot on the ground, a sure sign that I’m playing on his last nerve, the sound making my hands shake in fear for myself.
In fear of what my Honey-B’s best friend will do to me because I know my hands are too jittery right now to be able to scribble anything that makes any kind of decipherable sense to my tormentor.
“What’s wrong, Waytard?” He laughs, seemingly finding my being frightened the funniest thing since the time Brendon tricked Frank into dying his hair hot-pink, and takes a step towards me, menacing smirk making me squirm like a worm in the beak of a starved bird. “You’re not… scared, are you?”
Unknowing of what else to do in my heightened state of anxiety, I shake my head, assuming that’s what he wants me to do.
“I don’t like liars, Mikey Mute.”
I nod, the action sharpened by my desperation to just get out of here; to go find Frank and just be safe from what I know is coming.
What is coming?
The truth. The one that I fear even more than Ryan’s surprisingly vicious fists; the one where he spells it out to me that I’m no good for Brendon, for anyone, and that he knows how much happier Bren would be if only I was a nice enough person to let him go. Go to Ryan, go to the best friend that I’ve cost him by being a pathetic little mute.
I did cost him his best friend, didn’t I? Before I met Ryan, Bren was always going on about how cool he is and about all of the crazy fun things they got up together. Now Brendon only ever mentions him in a derogatory way, like when he mumbles about how much ‘that fucker is going to pay’ for making me cry again. And that’s why I try to keep what happens between myself and the older boy a secret; because that way Bren might just be able to get along with him again and be happy.
Because I love my Honey-B with all of my heart. And that’s what makes this muteness hurt all the more; I know that he deserves, and most likely wants, someone better than an abnormal freak like me.
“Tell me, oh-silent-one, do really believe that Brendon motherfucking Urie loves you?” The words are dragged out, his face pushed up into mine and lips forming the question in a way that somehow renews my burning discomfort. I barely manage a nod amidst my trembling, answering as honestly as I can without the aid of my board. “Wow, you really are fucking stupid. Stupid little attention-seeking whore.”
The words cut deep, digging into the barely-healed wounds of what I was thinking to myself just this morning. What I think every morning until Bren comes to take me to school in Sarah and tells me otherwise, makes me feel like I’m all special even though I know I’m less than normal, the opposite end of the spectrum from special; a freak. Apart from a stomach bug prevented Brendon and Sarah coming this morning, leaving me with nothing but my scarily self-spiteful thoughts.
Before the words can worm their way even deeper into my fractured mind, I hear a loud crunch, the sound hitting me before the realisation does; I’m being punched, in the nose. Hard. Too hard for my mouth not to set itself in a silent scream where I’m sure a yelp of pure agony would burn through the atmosphere if only I could make it.
Dread takes a grip as the understanding sets in; Ryan can do what he wants to me for as long as he wants and nobody will ever find me because I can’t even make it known to the world that I’m in pain. I can scream on the inside, but what good’s that when it won’t make the excruciating beatings stop?
“What are you?” He pauses, giving a mocking space for me to reply in which I only succeed in two things; wheezing in place of sobbing and backing so far up against the sink that I’m practically sitting on it. “Sorry, Waytard, you’re gonna have to speak up a little.”
Another punch, this one much harder and even more brutal than the first. Right on the nose again, the pain swelling from the area and pulsating through me as he lands a kick to my shins, one that forces me to squeeze my eyes shut.
He must really care about Bren if he’s willing to do all of this just to get him, when I can’t even tell Ryan to keep his hands off of my boy. See? I really am no good. Ryan’s much better. Much more worthy of Brendon because he can do stuff like this for him to make him feel loved. What can I do? Write a shitty little song that doesn’t even have any lyrics.
Well, I know who I’d pick.
A hand grips the hair on the back of my head, nails digging in deep enough to leave scratch-marks on my skin, and he uses it force me into facing the mirror, my neck pulling in an unbearably painful kind of way.
“See that?” He asks, voice like a dagger, breath steaming onto my cheek from his close proximity. I force myself to look; a teary-eyed, pasty, skinny boy blinks back, blood dribbling from his freshly bent nose. “Who’d love that?”
Nobody. I know I certainly wouldn’t, not even out of pity.
“Hey! You leave him alone!”
I can see the shock on Ryan’s face through the mirror at the sudden, alien voice that trills through the apparently not-so-empty restroom. Before I have a chance to register it, I’ve been thrown roughly to the floor in favour of Ry making a quick escape from the boy stood by the door.
A blonde, teddy-bear-shaped boy with a Green Day baseball cap on and horrified concern rife within his cushion like eyes. Eyes that are fixated on me as he slowly walks forwards, taking it slow so as not to scare me even more than my hyperventilated breathing tells him that I most certainly am. Just like when someone approaches a rabid animal in the wild.
That’s all I am after all.
“It’s alright, Kid. That bastard’s gone now. You’re safe.” His voice is as soft as his eyes, nothing like his furious bark that he earlier directed at Ryan. He kneels beside me, offering a hand to me that I reluctantly take so that he can help me to sit from where I’ve been thrown to the ground like dirty washing. “I’m Patrick. Patrick Stump. Most people call me Trick, though. That or Stumpy.” He waits for me to reply, beseeching me with his friendly smile to find the courage that I’d definitely be lacking even I could speak to tell him who he just saved from an almost certain concussion. “What’s your name, Kid?”
I was just getting to like this boy, this Patrick character, and now he has to ask me a question that can’t be answered by a shake or nod of my spinning head. Meaning that he’s going to realise who, and what, I am; a stupid little attention-seeking whore, a mute freak. And then he’ll do one of two things; laugh at me before finishing what Ryan started, or give me a patronizing smile then leave me in favour of finding somebody who can repay his aid with verbal praise.
Without warning his eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth.
Here we go.
“You’re the kid who hangs around with Urie, right? The one with the board?” The question contains no hint of spite, something that both surprises and delights me, so I easily find it in myself to nod back. “Shit, Kid, sorry. I didn’t recognise you, what with your nose being all smashed and stuff. I swear I wouldn’t have asked if I-“ I place a palm over his mouth, soft lips warm against my skin, and I find myself smiling, beaming almost, just because he’s genuinely contrite; as though he actually cares and wants to help me. “It’s Mikey, isn’t it?”
I nod, the pain from my throbbing nose starting to dissipate at the idea of possibly making a new friend.
“Mikey, how about I take you to the nurse? That nose looks hella sore, Kid.” He reaches out to touch it, retracting instantly when I wince at the slight contact. “Sorry, Kid. Didn’t mean to hurt ya.”
And I believe him. I really do.
Because maybe, just maybe, I think that Patrick Stump might really be my friend. And I like it. A lot.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that this was alright! Sorry it didn’t really include any Mindon, but there definitely will be some in the next part. Please let me know what you think and thank you very much to anyone who has taken the time to fill in the survey about this series on my page; I really appreciate it! :)
Song of The Chapter: "Sugar, We're Going Down" by Fall Out Boy http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhG-vLZrb-g&ob=av3e