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Chapter Three – Like Two Puzzle Pieces


Pete’s POV




His room’s nice, it reminds me of him; of my little angel.

The walls are the same swirling midnight blue as the frame of his glasses; the same colour that I think his soul would be if I could see it, in the respect that midnight blue is a royal colour. A colour that signifies importance and beauty; lushness and richness; mystery and romance; all things that I associate with my Mikey. But to say someone is ‘blue’ is to imply that they’re down, depressed in some way, and that unfortunately fits him too. Not always, but now it definitely does. Just like the midnight blue of his walls; enchantingly captivating in it’s destructive beauty of darkness.

Then there’s the things adorning his walls, things that relay to me everything that I know about my frightened little angel.

The central focus of the wall opposite the left side of his bed is a huge pin-board, the cork is worn and hanging off in places, completely smothered in every aspect of his life. It’s something that’s clearly very precious to him, something that means everything because of the way that it’s positioned; so that he can see it in it’s entirety every night before he goes to sleep and every morning the split second he wakes up. There are some things pinned to it that I would expect; cut-outs from music magazines depicting his heroes (mainly bassists from bands like Taking Back Sunday and Blink-182) that have been carefully plucked from the pages so that every part of them, each individual hair, is included intact on that board; there are a few used gig tickets strewn artistically around the board, ranging from Misfits to Smashing Pumpkins, all declaring some of his funnest memories; some bass tab is pinned to the board too, bass tab written in quick pencil that I composed for him, his own little song that I wrote especially for his ears. The bass tab has centre place on the board, looking as though it’s the sun and the other aspects of Mikey’s life revolve around it like tiny, twinkling stars. Tiny twinkling stars dwarfed by the importance of something that I wrote him. It’s breath-taking really, heart-stoppingly touching in a way that only a girl receiving roses from some long lost lover can even begin to understand, that something I created, a soft and simple tune meant to make him feel special, classes so highly on such an intimate display of his life; that I mean so much to him. I knew that he fancies me, half the school does, but that I really mean this much to him? Okay, so maybe I did realise how important I am to him, but didn’t fully realise it until I saw his pin-board. I’m working on some lyrics to accompany it at the moment, lyrics to make him smile twice as unbelievingly and brightly as when I gave him the tab; I think that he’ll like the lyrics, I’ve given them a million times the amount of thought than I do the rest of the things I write. The tab is even slightly overlapping a picture of him with some black-haired, pale man; a man with the same nose and eyes, apart from nowhere near as innocently beautiful, as his. A man that must be his big brother. Gerard, wasn’t it?

That brings me on to another part of his personalised sanctuary, a room that I already love purely because it matches my Mikey, another part of him that litters the walls like paper planets sicking to the sky of his walls; an endless amount of photographs.

There’s one particularly adorable image of a precious memory that I can’t seem to tear from my mind; it’s a tiny, weak looking baby in the arms of some scruffy, ebony-haired toddler with a proud smile bright enough to power the whole of New Jersey. It must be Gerard holding Mikey for the first time, the edited-in caption reads; ‘Brothers. Forever. – Gee xx’. The photograph itself looks quite new, no curled edges or yellowed paper, and it was clearly printed from a home computer; perhaps it as a present from Gerard? I think so. But it just seems so fake, like he had to use an old image because there aren’t any newer ones of them happy together, because he can never make Mikey smile like I can. I’m probably just over-analysing things, as per usual, but I think that I might just be on to something. I hope not; I want my Mikey to have a perfect relationship with his big brother, the sort of relationship that’s everything a brotherhood should be, supportive and protective and loving. It’s the very least he deserves, especially because his big brother is the only family that he has left. Well, that’s not strictly true in any way other than the conventional one; I’m a part of his family. Of course I am, I’m everything that a family should be to him; his proud protector who would rather protect him than myself, the incredible magician that can enchant his lips into a smile, the friend that can calm him down whenever he’s distraught enough to openly show his stress that I can always sense poking holes into the back of his bottomless eyes.

There’s another photograph that’s captured my attention more than the others as well, a recent one of him with some short punk-esque dude’s arm hanging loosely around his shoulders. I know that it’s recent because in it he’s still wearing the cast that only stopped weighing down his arm two weeks ago. When I asked what had happened he told me that he fell out of a tree; his eyes told me that it was something far more sinister and sorrowful than that. But I can’t force him to tell me anything; that just wouldn’t be fair on him, on my unfairly treated angel. Anyway, this photo caught my attention for two reasons, both as important as each other.

The first reason is their facial expressions; they both look genuinely happy to have one another’s company, like they’re brothers and couldn’t feel more at ease with each other. And that pleases me, pleases me a lot because it means that even if his blood brother is the failure I’m assuming him to be then he at least has this cool-looking guy to look out for him. I think it must be his brother’s boyfriend, Frankie.

The second reason is that there’s something missing from the picture, or rather someone. On the right side of Mikey, the side not occupied by Frank, there’s an absence of image from where someone has torn out a third of the picture; leaving only a hand resting on Mikey’s other shoulder and a wisp of black hair floating into the picture. Mikey must have torn it himself, who else would? Who else would tear out a family member from what is so obviously intended to be a family photo? I’m sure that that’s what it’s meant to be, I’m certain that the absent person is Gerard. That Mikey tore him from the photo as though trying to show the world that the gothic vampire trying to impose himself into the memory isn’t really a part of his family, isn’t really his brother in the sense that he can trust him and loves him like a brother should; and that infuriates me. Anyone bad enough to make Mikey tear something as precious as a ‘family’ photo has no right to even look at my Mikey, let alone claim to be his big brother. I don’t care if I’ve never met the man, I don’t care if I don’t know the whole story behind their relationship; I hate him. Mikey obviously needs support and help, the kind that a brother should provide in abundance (the kind that I do provide with every beat of my heart that he seems fixated on listening to), but this brother of his seems to be making him feel even more alone; and for that I despise him.

Which is why I’m extremely glad that he’s still at work; if he wasn’t I’d have to meet him and say some very uncomplimentary things to that bastard for not being everything that my Mikey needs.

I know that it’s unfair to expect Gerard to be perfect and so I don’t; I just simply expected him to be better than what all I have seen indicates him to be. He should be, because from all of the indications that I’ve picked up on, it would seem that he’s just as much help to my Mikey as Aaron is.

Aaron. That motherfucker who dared to hurt my frightened little angel in a place where I can hurt him twice as bad. The motherfucker that has serious issues with me over something that he chose to do with me, over something that he got me drunk for so that he could do; over something that he’s ashamed of and disgusted in himself with. Over something that makes him furious because he thinks that I should be grateful we did what we did, not completely repulsed by him and his hypocritical mind.

Over something that got my Mikey punched and yelled at.

But I know full well that that isn’t what’s caused him to be like he is right now. Right now he’s in such a state that I’m not even sure it’s possible for him to cry any harder. And that really fucking hurts, stings like the pure sorrow of his eyes is injecting me with some paralysing poison; a poison that is coursing through my veins and forcing me to not move from the position that I’m currently in. A position that I would probably enjoy a hell of a lot more if my angel wasn’t sobbing like someone has just torn up that precious tab I wrote him.

We’re on his bed, a bed that’s too hard and stiff to belong to someone so in need of comfort, sat huddled together with him pulled into me like he’s a tortoise and I’m the shell; like I’m his home and his protection and everything that he needs to survive. His knees are pulled into his chest like a child’s comfort object, indicating that he’s sat like this many times before; just sat crying in his room with nobody to be the soothing love that I am currently endeavouring to be. The thought of him crying alone, suffering without anyone to lessen the pain that I can often chase from his eyes like I scare off the majority of the bullies, inflicts my mind with such a high level of appalled sympathy that it physically hurts; with a home like this it’s no wonder that he’s so shy, it would happen to anyone who gets left to just cry alone like he obviously has been many a time before.

Not anymore, not now that I’m here.

My long, muscled legs are dangling off the edge of his bed, a bed that has the pleasure of cradling him off into sleep on a nightly basis, so that he can be encased into my chest; a chest that he’s clinging to and leaning in to as though it’s the only thing stopping him from drowning in his own tears. Tears that are soaking through my t-shirt and flooding my heart with their horrific misery.

It hurts to see him like this, hurts like every time my parents extend their business trips to last over school holidays or my birthday, but it would hurt him even more if he were just left to cry alone.

So I’m going to make him not alone. I’m going to make him even more aware of my presence, of my willingness to help, of my willingness to be his.

I start humming his song to him, one that I came up with a few days after meeting him; the first time I fully realised that I love him. I guess you could say this it is some sort of school-boy serenade, a wordless love song intended to capture the heart that I know for a fact has been mine since the day I met him, but what it really means is whatever he needs it to mean; whether it’s love or comfort, protection or loyalty, company or anything else that his heart is lacking.

Halfway through the soft melody I feel him lean into me so that I’m supporting him more than the bed is. Don’t get me wrong, Mikey is by no means heavy (if anything he’s far too skinny), but it’s like my heart is using it’s own brand of gravity to pull me down to the bed; making it so that I’m sprawled on top of his thin covers with him still clinging onto my side.

I’m lying on a bed with Mikey Way. Or more specifically; lying on a bed with my Mikey snuggling into my side like my heart is exuding the warmth that his own needs in order to start beating the rhythm to the happy tune of life once more.

He’s never made me blush before, it’s always been the other way around, but with this sweet act of appreciative affection I can’t help but let my cheeks brighten in delight at his willingness to cuddle into me.

But that’s not important right now; what’s important is the fact that he needs to be cuddled into me, needs my comfort and not my foolish blush. So I roll to be lying on my side, the two of us pressed front to front in a way that we can both see straight into each other’s eyes. Or rather, he would be able to see into my eyes if his eyes weren’t currently being gouged at with the horrible spikes of his venomous tears.

Tears that just won’t stop no matter how gently my hands caress his back, no matter how softly I hum his song, no matter how much I nuzzle at his neck with my nose.

Wait. Oh shit, I am nuzzling him.

How is it even possible to do that without fully realising?

Maybe I did realise and liked it too much to tell myself to stop.

And I’m not going to stop caressing the delicate, milky-white skin covering his jugular with the tip of my curious and cautious nose. Not unless he wants me to, the split second he expresses any form of dislike is the split second I’ll remove myself as quickly as humanly conceivable; this is for him, not for me.

I can’t help a small smirk at a tiny little sigh that flees out of the jungle of sobs rampaging in his mouth; a sigh that says I’m doing the right thing for him. It’s not something too forward and it’s something that is comforting him; all in all, it’s something perfect.

It does feel perfect, just like whenever I play bass for him; the kind of perfect that just can’t go wrong because it’s too perfect to allow anything bad to happen. My heart is like the wings of a bat taking flight through the midnight blue, the same shade as everything that is him, of the night; all fluttery, but very certain and forceful in it’s purposeful motivation. My lungs feel like golden silk purely because they’re worthy of inhaling the same air that Mikey has just exhaled; we really are that close to one another. My mind is racing at how this could be going if he wasn’t in need of my comfort, of the sorts of things I’d be doing to him if I didn’t care about him as much as I truly do.

People have told me that I’m a player and I’m not about to deny it; I’ve had more than my fair share of flings and I enjoyed every single one of them.

I enjoyed them, but I regret them too. Regret them because none of them actually meant anything; they were just a teenage boy having fun living out his filthy little fantasies. None of them were love and none of them were actually with nice people; I’d never use a nice person like that, only bastards that care about me about as much as I care about them. But with Mikey it’s like I’m a completely different person; I know that I could have him if I so wished, that there’s nothing stopping me from taking advantage of him, but I just can’t. Never would, not to someone like Mikey Way. Not to someone I genuinely care about; that would mean hurting him and losing him. Two things that I can never allow myself to do.

And that’s how I know it really is true love.

He sniffles in my grip and relocates his arm, which had been flopped haphazardly over his own body, so that it’s around my side with his hand clinging to the fabric of my shirt as though he thinks I’m going to push him away at any given second; something that I’d never do unless I could tell he wants me away from him. In response to his desperate grip that all but breaks my heart, a heart that will always be his, I pull him in closer and our legs seem to intertwine like two flowers sprouting from a hopeless patch of weeds at the same time; like it’s the most natural thing for our bodies to do.

And it is; because I love him.

I stop my nuzzling when I feel the sharp stab of his diamond tears smashing open on my own face.

“Sugar?” I whisper, loving the way that his adorable little face ignites with a small blush like it normally does, and pull his head down into my chest so that he can hear my heartbeat; a heartbeat that’s stronger and faster for having his close contact. “Sugar, what’s wrong?”

I don’t think that he’ll reply. And, whilst heartbreakingly sorrowful, is fine; if he doesn’t want to talk and just being in my embrace is all that he wants then that’s fine, as long as my being here is actually being some shade of helpful.

But then I hear him clear is throat and take several deep breaths; he’s going to speak, just for me. And I’m going to listen, listen so that I can make his problems disappear into the nothingness that they should already be.

“I-I want-ant my mom-om!”

Ouch.

How am I supposed to deal with that? With my orphaned love crying for his mom, crying as though he believes I’m perfect enough to bring her back from the dead.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with it, but I have to try; for my Mikey.

“I know, Sugar, I know. And it’s okay for you to want her, there’s nothing wrong with you missing your mom. I’m sure she’s missing you too; I know that I would be if I couldn’t see your face every day.” I pause, relishing the infancy of his smile that my words are birthing, and then ruffle the hair on the top of his head in the same way that a banker ruffles a stack of money. “Tell me about her, Mikes. Tell me about the woman lucky enough to be your mom.”

There’s barely enough time to take a breath before he’s nodding into me, letting me know that I’m doing a good job at something I’d rather die for than fail. Good, he needs me to boost his self-confidence, for me to make him see his beauty in the same way that I do; he needs me to be the person he can trust to open up to because right now he needs to talk and I’m the only one around.

I’m glad that I’m the only one around; if I wasn’t then his face wouldn’t be pressed to my chest and our legs wouldn’t be tangled two overlapping vapour trails from a jet-engine’s soaring exhaust.

“Sh-she is-is…”

I feel a fraction of myself dissolve into the black whirlpool of misery that is fast claiming his eyes as it dawns upon him that he’s using the incorrect tense to describe his mom. I want take away the absolute, unparalleled agony that cripples him when that evil little switch goes on in his head telling him that his mom is gone forever. I want to tell him that I’m here now, that I’ll be all the love he’ll ever need or want; but I can’t, not yet. He has to let out his own emotions first.

“Wa-as” He pauses, a determined light shining in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, and swallows past some invisible choke chain restricting the neck that I’m nuzzling into once more in an effort to calm him down. “She was the nicest person ever; she loved me and looked after me and never let me cry and I… I miss her!”

Did he just… Oh my God.

He didn’t stutter.

He just spoke like he understands the lust I have to make him feel contently happy with himself. I couldn’t be prouder of him right now; my Mikey really is the bravest, loveliest, most amazing person I’ve ever met. I understand how hard that must have been for him, how much he must want to please me if he can manage to not stutter and it makes me want to sing in joy.

Or it would, if his first confident sentence to me hadn’t ended in the most tortured howl ever to poison my ears.

“Pete?”

“Yeah, Sugar, I’m listening.”

“Today’s her birthday.” Shit. “And Gerard didn’t even say anything about it.”

“What?” My fierce growl is full of some sort of intense disgusted hate for that bastard who has the nerve to call my Mikey his brother; my Mikey is an angel and to be the brother of an angel you must be one yourself, which Gerard most certainly isn’t.

How could the stupid fuck not mention something that is obviously important when it’s so painfully clear that Mikey needs some sort of consoling to get him through the day? How could he be so careless with my angel, my angel that is starved of care and needs it badly?

“Tell me what happened, Sugar. Let me help you.”

“Nothing happened; he just didn’t acknowledge it. It’s like he doesn’t trust me, doesn’t think that I’ll cope with it. He’s my brother; he’s supposed to trust me, right?” He sounds so genuinely hurt by his brother’s stupidity that I can’t help but squeeze him a little tighter, like I’m squeezing out Gerard’s venom, and I nod; neither of us caring that my nod can only be detected by the fact that my nose just rubs quicker on his neck, if anything I think that he likes it. “I know that I’m not that great of a brother, not as good as he is, but I just want him to trust me. Am I really that bad, Pete?”

“Aw, Sugar, no. You haven’t done anything wrong; by the sounds of it Gerard’s being more of a dick than my English teacher on her period. Trust me when I say that you couldn’t be bad if you tried; to me you’re the most perfect thing in existence.”

I look into his eyes to see that they’re darting away from me in exalted embarrassment, in a modesty that shouldn’t be there because he should already know how amazing he is.

But still, I can’t help but smirk once more at the blush that the sincere velvet of my voice has tickled onto his face.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you always praising Gerard when it’s so obvious he doesn’t deserve it?”

He flinches a little at my wording, rubbing against me in a way that knocks down some sort of domino trail of guilt and love within my soul, but then rests into me once more; it’s nice that we can have a conversation like this. A conversation that we can both participate in and not be scared of what the other will think.

“He does, honest he does.”

“So why do you sound like you’re convincing yourself more than you’re convincing me? Don’t lie to me, Sugar. You know that you can trust me with anything.”

“He just… He tries so hard, too hard, I guess. It’s like he doesn’t know who I am anymore and I don’t know him. Like he’s changed without realising it just because he thinks it’s what I need. It’s my own fault and it’s stupid, I know, but I-I feel so alone without him being my brother. Frank’s great, but I miss my brother. I know I sound stupid and ungrateful but I only just got him back and already he’s gone again and… and it’s like I’m fucking invisible and he doesn’t even want to see me.”

He stops to catch a ragged, rapid breathe thus giving me enough time to fully grow my hatred for Gerard into full on, unadulterated loathing.

“I’m nothing without him.”

“You don’t need him, Sugar. You’re everything, not nothing, never can be nothing because something that’s nothing can’t be perfect; and you’re about as perfect as anything can be. I mean it, Sugar; in my eyes, the only eyes smart enough to matter, you are perfect.”

He’s blinking back tears of shock as my own, honesty and fury fuelled droplets of emotion form in my corneas; how can he feel like this? How can someone as beautiful as him be so alone?

“Pete… Wow, I… That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I don’t know what to say…”

So he doesn’t. He leans forward, closing the invisible distance between us, my eager eyes encouraging him with all of my heart’s mite.

This is it; everything I’ve dreamed about and wanted, everything I want my Mikey to want is about to happen purely because we both are deciding that it should be happening.

My heart beat is so erratic in it’s anticipation that I half expect to hear my ribs crack from the force of it; but even if that were to happen I wouldn’t let it stop the bliss that I’m about to experience. Because it will be bliss, not just because I’ll be kissing the first person that I’ve actually ever loved, rather because it’s what Mikey wants and feels that he needs. This is going to change my life, improve it by belittling every good memory that I have because nothing will ever be as good as what’s about to happen. Well, at least not until it happens again. Which it will. Our eyes are locked and speaking in their own silent language, showering each other with adulation and speculation as to what this will feel like. It’s going to feel unlike any kiss I’ve felt before, I know that for sure because there’s actually going to be true love behind it. It’s happening; last night’s dream is coming true.

But before it can, I’ve got to make one thing perfectly clear.

“Sugar, you’ll never be alone.”







A/N: I hope that was alright, I’m shit at writing proper romance scenes so please tell me what you think so I know how to improve for next time. Thank you so very much for taking the time to read and please, please review! :)