All Mikey wanted was Batman. He wound up with a stalker. Kind of. PIKEY one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
The problems started when Gerard Way moved out to go to college. Or rather, they started when he took his comics and movies with him, leaving Mikey Way with a great big void of nothingness with which to fill his Saturday nights.
At first, Mikey didn’t think that he’d miss the old comics much or that he’d even give a minute’s thought to the crappy special effects on all of those horrors that Gerard had let him watch long before their mom said he could. Mikey had, however, dreaded missing his big brother like a chest missing a heart. But he soon came to see the perks of being an only child, even if just a temporary one. Like, he didn’t have to queue for the bathroom in the mornings and there was no longer any danger of someone else stealing the last Pop-Tart even though he’d called dibs on it the night before.
Not to say that he didn’t miss Gerard, of course he did, just that he didn’t miss him half as much as he thought he would and he missed Gerard’s belongings twice as much as that.
A few films and comics had been left, Gerard did have some decency, but it was only the stuff that the older Way wasn’t all that into which, in turn, meant that Mikey wasn’t all that into it either; their tastes had always been so damn near identical it was almost scary for anyone who didn’t find It sweet.
And so it was that Mikey, for the most part, found himself to be bored to the point where watching paint dry would seem exciting. Apart from Gerard had taken the paints too.
Mikey spent the first three days after Gerard’s departure, one that had totally not consisted of the younger Way brother bursting into tears and clinging onto Gerard like a koala on crack, getting to grips with the quietness of the house. Sure, their parents were around but they weren’t exactly the nosiest of people. It was during these first three days that the Pop Tart revelation occurred and this was swiftly followed with the idea of this whole thing not being as bad as it should have been.
It was the fourth day that the epiphany hit; Mikey Way was bored out of his mind without his big brother around to force him into some sort of activity. You see, Mikey is something of a solitary creature; he has a few friends but for the most part enjoys his own company more than anyone else’s. Mikey’s pretty sure that this could be called ‘being an asshole’, but hey, he’s an asshole; what does he care?
By the fifth day the boredom was getting to him like some sort of internal pneumatic drill, drilling down deep into what precious sanity life had let him keep after sixteen years of walking the Earth. He could have gone over to Ray’s house, the guy who Gerard had given strict instructions to look after Mikey in his absence, but then there was the whole issue of Mikey ‘being an asshole’ and so he decided that there was no point in making himself drive all the way over to the other side of town just to be bored someplace else.
No, what Mikey Way needed was cheap horror flicks, every Batman comic ever written and a shit-tonne of Hershey’s Chocolate Milk. And Mikey would have gone out to buy those things, if only he’d had the money.
So instead he went out to find himself a job which, he reasoned, would kill his boredom whilst getting him means with which to buy the things his sanity so imminently required to remain sane.
Pete Wentz never did see the point in having two separate restrooms for males and females. Not really, anyway. It’s not like that’s how it is in people’s homes; two different toilets for the two different sexes. Perhaps it’s because girls have some sort of complex about every guy wanting to see things that only their partner’s should ever get to see, but Pete still doesn’t really see the point. It’s not like he’s ever wanted to see a girl’s down-there parts, but then again, Pete thinks that that could just be a side-effect of being gay.
With that thought he downs his shot of expresso like it’s some good Russian vodka and goes back to looking at the two separate queues for the two separate Starbucks’ restrooms. He still doesn’t get it, the whole restroom thing, but there are lots of things he doesn’t get so he guesses he can live with one more. For example, he doesn’t get why his dad doesn’t appreciate being told about his recurring wet dream in which Billie-Joe Armstrong starts doing unspeakable things to him and he sure as hell doesn’t get why most teenagers nowadays associate vampires with have fucking sparkly skin, but hey-ho; life goes on.
It’s late afternoon, or early evening depending on who you ask, and the streets of New Jersey are bustling with people heading home for the weekend. Apart from Pete; Pete’s got no mind for heading home just yet. He hasn’t got any plans, no parties or anything, he just wants to wander around for that little bit longer, see the streets from a rat’s perspective. Go people watching, if you will.
He does this pretty much every night, unless he gets a much better offer, and so knows pretty much what to expect to see on his meandering path around his neighbourhood. There’s the tramp who sits outside the book store next to Starbucks who always seems to be eating a chicken leg; the gaggle of old biddies walking down to the bingo hall, laughing about something one of their hairdresser’s said about you-know-who; the old man playing his even older tin harmonica on his way home from a day drinking his money away. Hell, Pete even knows what colour cats he’s going to see down which alley.
There’s something about the certainty of it that soothes Pete, makes him sure that the world’s still spinning around and that he’s still firmly planted on it. Everything is just so, in the order that it should be and that, if a little dull, gives Pete some vague sense of security. Which is kind of funny, really, because being an eighteen-year-old walking the streets of Belleville in the near-dark, security isn’t exactly in abundance. But that’s physical security, which Pete doesn’t have enough sense to really care about where he himself is concerned, and Pete’s thinking of mental security; a sign that he’s still sane and alive, or at the very least just alive.
In fact, Pete knows enough about his chosen route that will eventually lead him home that he could write an informed encyclopaedia on it. Nothing ever changes other than weather in Jersey, everything is just so, and Pete knows it all like he knows The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Which is why he does a double, no, a triple take when he sees a new addition to an upcoming street corner; a lanky boy is stood there, with glasses as angular as his defined face, a wad of leaflets clutched tightly in one hand and the other running frustratedly through his hair. Hair that’s so dark it makes Pete think back to his expresso shot and how his mouth was all over the tiny defenceless cup because, really, how the fuck are people meant to drink properly out of those things? Or maybe the thought of his mouth being over the expresso only pops up because, if Pete’s being brutally honest, he doesn’t think he’d mind one little bit if he had his mouth all over this boy. This very pretty boy that shouldn’t be here.
It’s the boy’s prettiness that turned the double into a triple take. His ivory skin, his clingy skinny jeans, the way his Joy Division t-shirt is riding up just enough to show a tiny bit of hip that actually has Pete fucking salivating from across the street.
So Pete, doing the only sensible thing one can do in the face of something new and unknown, sprints all the way home where he proceeds some hours later to not have the recurring wet dream about Billie Joe, but instead finds it to be about the new boy.
His father still doesn’t seem to appreciate hearing about it.
“You’re a complete bastard, you know that, right?” Even as he says it though, Mikey’s smiling into the phone. “I’m never playing Street Fighter with you ever again. Never ever.”
“Ouch, my heart.” Gerard drawls and Mikey’s pretty sure that he’s rolling his eyes in that way that he doesn’t really miss at all. “Where’s the brotherly love, Mikes?”
“Up my ass.”
“Along with a fair few other things, by the sounds of it.”
There’s a moment of semi-tense silence in which Mikey is sure Gerard is mentally praising himself for being so smart, until both boys burst into easy droplets of laughter. That’s just how it’s always been between the two of them; fun and friendly and, if needs be, a little affectionate. In that moment Mikey suffers a little pang of something he can’t quite name, he thinks it could be longing, and in an instant his laughter goes stale.
“Miss you,” he mumbles before he can stop himself, instantly cursing his mouth for ruining one of the few phone calls Gerard has had the time to make.
But, damn, did it need to be said. He may not have been missing Gerard as much as he thought he would, but right now it’s a whole other story; all he wants is to be able to see the brother who practically raised him, to watch him smile proudly at the thought of ickle Mikey going out there and getting himself his very first job.
He hears Gerard sigh into the receiver, a sound weighted by something that Mikey might think of as being tears if he didn’t know any better, and he finds his eyes to suddenly be burning with the infectious itch of misery. All thoughts of movies and comics are forgotten, leaving only those of his big brother to remain. Or rather, how much he’s missing his big brother. His.
“I know, Mikes. I, uh, I miss you too.” It’s what could be considered a tender moment, one where Gerard would be snuggling Mikey if the younger were younger still and if a vast expanse of land didn’t separate them. “But back to the point; why am I a complete bastard?”
And just like that, they’re back on track. Gerard’s brotherly instincts kicking in to save the day and save Mikey from having a major mental meltdown like he did when his mom had to pry him off of Gerard so that the older brother could leave to go to college in the first place. Now, Mikey’s not normally one for getting emotional, but asking him to go without his big brother, his fucking best friend, for more than an hour is akin in his eyes to asking a fish to go without water.
But he’s not going to think of that now; no. He’s thinking of the things that he really misses.
“You know why. Bastard.” His voice is a little chalky, in the respect it sounds kinda pale and crumbly, but it’s nowhere near the little squeak it was the last time he spoke. Good. “You took everything, leaving me with nothing and now I’ve got to work to get something!”
Mikey lets out a guttural noise of frustration, albeit a half-hearted noise, and refuses to let himself think about how Gee would have understood him two weeks back before everything changed. Instead he focuses on being a good, annoying little brother like he should be. Yeah.
“You took all the good shit from your room and now I’ve got some crappy job just so I can afford not to die of boredom.” He pauses, thinking about how else he can make Gerard feel guilty for totally ruining his life, and lets himself smile a little in smugness. “I work on a fucking street corner, Gerard!”
“You what?” The older gasps, sounding very much like he’s about to throw up or cry or scream at Mikey. “You’re that desperate for money and you didn’t even tell me? And now you’re working a fucking street corner. Great.” Gerard stops and Mikey has to put his hand over his cell to stop himself for giggling into it at how well the guilt-trip plan is going. “That’s it; I’m coming home right fucking now.”
If it wasn’t all part of some sort of revenge, Mikey would be extremely touched by how much his brother does care. As it stands, he’s quite tempted to play along and make Gerard come all the way home, and brings his stuff with him, but he knows when a joke goes too far.
“Wow, Gee. Didn’t think me getting a job handing out leaflets was all that terrible.” With that, Mikey laughs into the phone, picturing the face that Gerard is most likely wearing.
“You’re a complete bastard.”
“Guess it runs in the family.”
It’s been a week since Pete first saw the boy on the corner, handing out leaflets to nobody because nobody wants read about things that get printed onto leaflets for teenagers to give to passers-by. It’s like some sort of unwritten law.
Anyway, it’s been a week and in this time Pete has been completely fucking obsessed with the boy he knows absolutely nothing about. So far, he’s thought of forty-two different dates he could take him on, seventeen ways their wedding could turn out like and has come up with names for all twelve of the children that they are going to adopt together. The one thing that Pete has yet to plan out is how he’s going to learn the boy’s name and then convince him that he wants to know Pete’s.
Which is why he’s not sat alone in Starbucks this time, but next to one Patrick Stump; best friend and super genius.
“You’re mad, Pete. Completely fucking crazy.” The tone is grave, solemn, almost as though the idea of Pete being bonkers is new to them. “You don’t even know the guy’s name! What if he isn’t even gay, huh? What then?”
“I have my ways.”
Anyone else would probably laugh and take this all to be some kind of joke, put Patrick knows better, knows Pete Wentz better than that; precisely why Pete asked for his help and not anyone else’s. Patrick’s known Pete seen before the start of ever, so it only makes sense he’s the go-to guy for Pete’s so-called ‘crazy schemes’. When Pete redecorated his room at age six using nothing but blunt crayons and pink glitter glue, who helped? Patrick. When Pete tried to sacrifice the neighbour’s cat to the aliens that he was certain, so fucking sure, were coming for him, who helped? Patrick. When Pete dyed his hair neon pink and his eyebrows bright blue, who helped? Patrick.
It’s always Patrick.
Sure, he doesn’t always get a choice or an opportunity to opt out, but he’s Pete’s best friend; it’s what he’s here for. Duh.
“So what do you need me for?” It’s the question that always gets asked at around this point in Pete’s crazy schemes and Patrick always regrets having asked it, but Pete’s eyes go up a volt or a billion and his smile broadens into beam territory. “Oh God, I had to fucking ask.”
“Right, well, I have this plan to get him to talk to me and trust me and love me and then we can live happily ever after!” Patrick just nods, not at all fazed by Pete’s, well, Peteness. “Right, I need you to dress up as a giant teddy bear and then atta-“
It’s not the first time Pete’s ever been told no by his best friend, in fact it’s happened quite a lot, but he just doesn’t understand why. In his eyes, his plan is flawless and can only result in one thing; one day moving into a nice little semi with the leaflet boy with their dog called Greta (or Humphrey if it’s a boy), because that’s what couples do.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s had eight expresso shots in the past half an hour, but Pete’s pretty sure that Patrick, his Patrick, is doubting him and his infallible logic. Damn.
“Firstly, there is no way on this Earth that I will ever dress up as a giant teddy bear, not after last time.” Both boys shudder at the memory. “Secondly, why would I need to? And thirdly, the kid’s handing out leaflets; why don’t you just go fucking take one and speak to him from there?”
If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s head-over-heels for the leaflet boy, Pete would be kissing Patrick right now, forcing him against the table and making him take all the gratitude that he deserves.
Instead, Pete settles for giving him a smile that he knows Patrick will understand.
“Hey! Can I have one?”
Mikey just blinks for a minute at the man-boy stood in front of him, seemingly popping up from nowhere, and fails to see what part of his appearance hints at him wanting a leaflet about getting reasonably-priced breast enlargements. But who is he to deny him, so he nods and silently hands a leaflet over, the first one he’s managed to part with since six o’clock yesterday evening.
At first, the other boy just doesn’t move. Stands there staring at Mikey like he’s the living dead and it briefly crosses his mind that he could be in danger from the stranger, but that thought is immediately extinguished by… by… Well, Mikey isn’t sure what; just that he knows that he is in absolutely no danger here whatsoever. If anything, this new presence is making him feel kinda safe, like he doesn’t have to be wary of the people who might grab him if he stays out in the dark.
After six and a half minutes of the other boy, who is all toned and tanned Mikey notices, doing nothing but gawping at Mikey, he starts to get a little bit nervous. And by nervous, I mean cagey and agitated.
“What you looking at?”
The guy, who is clutching the leaflet like it’s a security blanket, gasps a little at the sound of Mikey’s voice ringing through the darkening streets. It’s almost as if this man is under some kind of spell, been put into a zombie-like state. Yet Mikey can’t bring himself to compare the stranger to a zombie because, in all honesty, he looks far too alive to be one.
Far too alive and, Mikey realises with a certain level of surprise, far too breathtakingly gorgeous. Like he’s the kind of guy that cheerleaders want to and usually do lose their virginity to. Like he’s the kind of guy that Mikey really wouldn’t mind being the solution to his on-going boredom problems nor his current problem of being stuck out in the cold every night until he’s gotten rid of his quota of leaflets.
“You.” The guy replies as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, a dreamy smile on his lips that makes Mikey kind of want to puke up rainbows in an entirely awesome sort of way. “You and your prettiness.”
“Oh.” It’s the only way Mikey can respond because, quite frankly, he doesn’t have the slightest idea of what else he can say. “Um, thanks?”
The other, older boy cocks his head to the side, making his floppy black hair tumble into his earnest brown eyes. It’s an action that makes Mikey’s heart freeze and burn all at once, because those brown eyes are still fixed on him and overflowing with so much adulation, Mikey thinks, that he can’t not blush.
“For calling me pretty?” It’s a question even though it’s an answer because, really, Mikey’s not sure what the hell’s going on anymore; nobody’s tried to befriend him like this since kindergarten, and then Mikey had cocked it up by bursting into a riveting speech about the importance of unicorns.
“Well, what else am I gonna call you? It’s not like I know your name and Pretty seems to fit you pretty well, Pretty.” The other stops, looking like he’s just mind-fucked himself, and begs Mikey to understand with his eyes. Which he does. “I’m Pete. Pete Wentz.”
Pete holds out his hand and Mikey takes it without stopping to think about all the things that are wrong with this situation, making Pete beam like the motherfucking Joker on Halloween. Pete puts a lot of thought into the handshake, makes it firm but gentle so as to not cause any damage to the delicate paw of his new plaything.
The handshake lasts longer than entirely necessary, but that surprisingly isn’t only down to Pete. Mikey’s cold, freezing almost, from hours of standing still on one of the coldest afternoons/evenings of the year so far and Pete’s warm, oh-so-warm, and he just doesn’t want to let go. Not of the warmth and certainly not of someone who looks to be a definite cure to boredom.
“No!” Pete calls out, making Mikey jump and very nearly drop his bundle of leaflets into a nearby puddle. “Uh, I mean, no. I’m gonna call you Pretty, Pretty.”
When Mikey just stares and blushes, Pete starts chuckling as though this is all some big joke to him; in actual fact, it’s his nerves and one coffee too many making him more than a little jittery.
“What can I say? I like a touch of mystery.” Mikey starts laughing too, and so Pete decides to leave before he can ruin what is, in his mind anyway, a perfect first meeting. “See you around, Pretty.”
Mikey really hopes that he will.
The next day Pete can’t stop thinking about Pretty, about his deep and omnipotent voice; about his cherry-blossom blush at Pete’s honest compliment; about just how fucking perfect and pretty Pretty is. He tells it all to Patrick and then retells it endlessly until Patrick points out the fact that he’s found fifty new words to describe the colour brown whilst talking about Pretty’s eyes.
So it’s no real surprise when Pete doesn’t even bother going into Starbucks, just heads straight for Pretty and his leaflets about cheap boob jobs.
Only it’s not as magical as yesterday, when Pete was sure he could hear wedding bells drifting faintly on the evening wind; no, this time there’s something missing. That something being his Pretty. He refuses to let himself panic or freak out or anything that he would do if this wasn’t so damn serious. Instead he walks up and down the street, crosses the road a few times, searching intently for any signs of his Pretty.
After two hours and thirty-nine minutes of relentless searching and re-searching, Pete decides that this is catastrophic enough to warrant a call to Patrick. He fumbles in his hoodie pocket, the action made damn near impossible by the horrendous coldness of the day, and pulls out his battered yet unbreakable old Nokia.
“He’s gone, ‘Trick! Pretty’s gone and I can’t find him!” Pete all but screams into the cell, heartbeat so fast that he thinks it’s going to run away from him.
“Pete, chill the fuck out. It’s probably just his day off or something.” Pete can tell Patrick’s trying his best to sound sympathetic and reassuring, but it’s just not working; his Pretty is gone, for fuck’s sake! “C’mon, it’s not like anything will have happened to him.”
Patrick might make it sound like common knowledge, but Pete’s not so sure. Anything could have happened to Pretty since last night and any of those things could have been bad. And then a horrible, ugly thought pops into Pete’s buzzing head; what if he never sees Pretty again?
At that thought, tiny little tears start beading down his face and cracked sobs start crawling out of his throat like a drunk guy out of an alley.
“Pete, what’s wrong?”
It takes a second for Pete to realise that it’s not Patrick asking the question, a further two to process that it’s coming from behind him and barely half of one for him to turn around and be faced with Pretty, stood there shivering in the cold with his wad of leaflets in his hand.
“Problem over.” Pete declares, both to Pretty and to Patrick, before hanging up and charging at his Pretty, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him like he’s never going to let go.
For Mikey’s part, he doesn’t know whether to start screaming or if he should just relax into the hold that his freezing skin so desperately wants him to. Pete’s hugging him like he needs to be hugged, not that he realized that until now, how Gerard used to hug him but different. Different in a way that makes his skin prickle and his heart hammer; in a way that makes the dull ache of missing things not ache quite so much. And Mikey really fucking likes it.
So he hugs back, lets his arms wrap around the trunk of Pete’s sturdy waist and his head lull onto the older boy’s chest as though it’s some kind of silken pillow. Mikey’s actions turn the hug more into a snuggle and Pete nuzzles his nose gently into Mikey’s hair, taking in everything about his Pretty that he’s dreamed about so many times before.
“How come you were late? I was out of my mind worrying about you, Pretty.” Pete mumbles after a few minutes of the snuggle, when both boys have made it perfectly clear that they aren’t going to let go of one another anytime soon. “I was so fucking worried.”
“Sorry, Pete.” The silly thing is, Mikey thinks, is that he really does mean it. “I had to pick up some new leaflets on my way over.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The other replies, just happy to have his Pretty safe and sound and snuggled. “You’re cold.”
As if on cue, Mikey lets out a massive tirade of coughs that shake his body and makes him groan after they’ve finished tearing out his entire fucking throat. Mikey’s pretty sure he wants to puke too, but thankfully Pete’s soothing hands rubbing on his back quickly banish the urge.
He woke up this morning feeling shitter than shit, more so this morning than any other, and had known immediately what it meant; sickness, a flu of some sort. Mikey had to go to work though, not only because he really needed the money, but because he couldn’t stand missing a chance at seeing Pete again. Pete called him Pretty and that made him feel good inside.
“Pretty, you don’t sound too good. You shouldn’t be out in the cold like this.” Pete’s voice is soft, like velvet, and his hands become even softer on Mikey’s skin. “Can I take you back to mine, just to get you warmed up and feeling better?”
“G-gotta work, need money.”
They’re the only four words Mikey can get out before another coughing fit emerges, this time leaving him out of it enough for him to collapse even further into Pete. Not that either boy minds that particular outcome, just the cause of it.
“I’ll give it to you then, Pretty, but look at you; you can’t even fucking stand straight. It would be irresponsible of me not to take you home to my house.” Pete takes in a breath of Pretty-scented air before swooping his arms to scoop the younger boy up bridal-style despite the half-hearted noises of protest. “What do you need money for anyway?”
Mikey wants to yell at Pete to put him the fuck down, but he just can’t. It has nothing to do with his flu or whatever it is; he just can’t bring himself to request an end to the comforting contact of this perfect near-stranger. Besides, it’s not like he thinks he’ll be able to make the walk home in his current state, he was lucky to make it all the way to his street corner in the first place.
“Batman comics and chocolate milk.”
Holy shit, Pete thinks, this boy couldn’t be any more perfect for him of he was a walking, talking bass guitar.
Mikey’s pale, even by his standards, face splits into a grin; he understands what this means. He understands Pete and Pete understands him, even without knowing his real name.
“I don’t suppose you feel up to watching some old horrors with me, do ya?” Pete dares to ask, not stopping to question the perfectness of, well, everything. Everything other than the fact that his Pretty is sick, of course.
Mikey, who by now is too exhausted by flu to properly respond, just nods his head like one of those dogs you get in the back of people’s car windows.
“You really are perfect, Pretty. Perfect and all mine.” Pete catches himself, taking into account that not everyone thinks like he does, and offers his Pretty a kind of apologetic look. “Uh, I mean, if you want to be. It’s just… I, shit, I think you’re, um. I think I maybe kinda sorta really fucking might be in love with you?”
Pete scrunches his eyes shut, terrified of the sight of the rejection that, even though he doubts will happen, he really doesn’t want to have to see as well as hear. When nothing happens- no. Everything happens. Pete’s heart stops, his arms subconsciously tighten around Pretty and, in response, Pretty nestles further into the warm nest of Pete’s body.
Everything happens. Just as it should.
“Yeah,” Mikey says, eyes glazed with a combination of flu fever and adulated joy. “Me too.”
Pete really hopes that Patrick isn’t busy tomorrow, because he thinks he’s just found at least another seventy-four words to describe the brown of his Pretty’s eyes.
His Pretty. Perfect and all his.
A/N: Woah. I think that this might possibly be the longest one-shot I’ve ever written. Maybe not the best, but definitely the longest. I just woke up this morning with this idea pulsating in my head and this grew from that. Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you liked it. Please let me know what you think! :D