Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Perfectly Imperfect

So Cold

by DisenchatedDestroya 7 reviews

"He’s done the one thing that he promised me he wouldn’t do." Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Characters: Mikey Way - Published: 2012-01-04 - Updated: 2012-01-05 - 5750 words - Complete

Chapter Eight – So Cold

Pete’s POV

I shouldn’t have hung up on him. I knew I shouldn’t have.

I should have kept talking to him, should have told him that I love him, should have asked him endless questions to keep his mind busy and awake. I should have driven quicker, I should have called his home number to alert Gerard that his little brother is sick, perhaps I should have phoned an ambulance because that would have gotten here, to the ninety-nine cents store, a hell of a lot quicker than even my speeding Ferrari.

A Ferrari that I flat out flawed in order to be quicker than any demon waiting to encase my Mikey in it’s starved arms. I heard how he sounded on the phone; like his body ached too much for him to even feel it anymore, like the arctic air of a New Jersey night was making his teeth chatter and was managing to freeze the sobs in his throat, like he was barely staying conscious due to the pure exhaustion reflected in his coarse words. The pure exhaustion that I see staining his eyes, eyes like melted chocolate poured into a wide bowl of heaven’s finest honey, every day at school.

He always looks so tired, like he’s about to just fall asleep where he stands, and that’s largely why I’m always asking him to sleep around mine on weekends; so I can actually make him sleep and see him get the rest that the deep, yet somehow painfully beautiful, black smudges under his eyes are screaming for. I guess I thought that if he slept around mine I’d be able to help him sleep; be able to help him through the night as I think that he might suffer from nightmares. Relentless nightmares that just won’t leave him alone.

Why else would he allow himself to turn up at school looking ready to drop dead every morning?

Whenever I see him like that, every weekday morning, I always get this yearning to just scoop him up and carry him to the nearest bed so that I can just cradle him until he falls back to sleep. But because greater forces demand that we stay in school, I settle for putting an arm around him and chuckling softly at his adorable, unique little yawn. Unique because it’s quieter than any other yawn I’ve ever heard, it resembles something akin to a baby kitten’s tiny little mew in not only it’s volume but in it’s outstanding cuteness as well, yet his mouth stretches wider than I thought possible, kind of like his tiredness is forcing those delicate pink rose petals apart like a strong winter gust. It’s really quite adorable, or rather it would be if it only happened every so often; he comes in every fucking day like that, like he hasn’t slept at all. And I don’t think that he does sleep, not nearly enough anyway.

I don’t think that he eats enough either. Come to think of it, the only thing that he’s ever eaten in front of me in the two months of me knowing my Mikey is Mentos gum. He never eats in school and whenever I take him back to mine before dropping him back at his before Gerard gets in, he never eats; I always offer him an array of snacks, from pop-tarts to raisins, but he always declines and says that he’s still full from his lunch. A lunch that I never saw him eat, that he supposedly ate in class to combat the hunger that is ever-present in his portals of vision. He’s too skinny for someone his height; I can tell that my Mikey is naturally willowy but not to the extent where I can feel every intricate component of his skeleton whenever I touch him. Nobody is naturally as emaciated as he is. I tried to say something once, but he’d actually gotten a little cagey about it. My Mikey had actually gotten defensive about something; even if he didn’t vocally sound cagey, we were in school at the time and he had been particularly jumpy that day, I could see the fierce denial in his eyes. I’d simply asked if everything was alright, if he thought he wasn’t slim enough and then about why he never eats in front of me. His response; hardened eyes and a twitching mouth fighting to remain silent. But then his eyes had dissolved and he just sat, staring at his lap, muttering something about not being anorexic. Apart from I had never mentioned anorexia; he added that in all on his own. But it obviously upset him to think about it, about why I never see him eating, so I never bought it up again; just tilted his chin up and told him that if he thought he was anything less than beautiful then he was quite clearly delusional.

But now that I’m his boyfriend I have the authority, the responsibility and the knowledge of knowing that he knows I could never do anything less than care about him; now that I’m his boyfriend I can make him sleep in the safety of my arms until I’m happy that he’s had enough rest; I can make him eat until I’m certain that he’s consumed more than an unnatural amount of black coffee and some Mentos gum to cover the strong scent of the dark liquid.

That’s if he’s alright. But he’s not. Not at all.

Because right now, slumped on the pavement and with his back lurched over his upright knees, he’s done the one thing that he promised me he wouldn’t do; he’s asleep.

I know I said that I wanted him to sleep, wanted him to not be exhausted, but not here. Not like this. Not in such an environment and climate that could make sleep a threat. I’ve just pulled up alongside him, not caring in the slightest that I could get fined for parking here, and am currently undoing my seatbelt with my shaking hands; hands that are shaking almost as much as I can already see Mikey’s body is shivering. My poor little ice-angel isn’t even wearing a jacket; only the thin fabric of his t-shirt is protecting his precious body from the harsh bites of the howling wind, the sharp stabs of the spitting rain, the gnawing numbness of the cold.

Apart from he’s not asleep, is he? He’s blacked-out. Unconscious. Out of it. Sick and cold and exhausted and most definitely in need of a caring boyfriend to make him all cosy again. Cosy like we were in his room, when the heat in that midnight-blue haven got unbearable enough to make my hands tear my shirt from my body. No. If he came out here for the reasons that I think he has, then he’s going to need someone to hold and comfort him, someone to listen and reassure him; not someone eating his face like I practically was back in his room, albeit in the most loving way possible.

Not that either of us really minded.

In fact, it was about the happiest I think that I’ve ever seen him. And that’s why I loved it. Not because I’d dreamed about tasting him and touching him like that for almost two months, although that certainly didn’t dampen the situation, but because I made my Mikey smile; smile like he was truly exalted by something that I had done. Perhaps I should have started kissing him weeks ago…

No. I had to wait until this afternoon because I had to be certain that I understood him enough to know how to make him happy, how to look after him like a good boyfriend should that be the result of me becoming well acquainted with his amazingly surprising mouth; surprising because I had kind of assumed that I would have to do most of the work in our first kiss, teach him a few of my tried-and-tested tricks, but he caught me off guard with how unadulteratedly perfect his kissing was.

Because we love each other, because that’s all a good kiss needs.

But then Gerard burst in, started shouting at us, made his little brother cry and punched me in the nose like an angry kangaroo; frightening and strong, but also harmless purely because of his stupidity. Couldn’t he see how much he was scaring my Mikey, how much he was upsetting the little angel in need of the things that Gerard is supposed to be and the warmth that only I, his boyfriend, can provide?

No, he can’t see it because he’s fucking retarded and really shouldn’t be let anywhere near kids like my Mikey, let alone be left in charge of one.

As the sight in front of me can prove.

Or maybe this is all my fault. Maybe I’m to blame for coming across badly to his big brother, for making my Mikey shake in fear at the raised voices of both his over-loved big brother and boyfriend. Maybe it’s all down to me because I left him instead of trying to sort out the mess I’d managed to get myself into with Gerard. Maybe I’m the cause of his current, passed-out and shivering, state because I waited too long to text him.

Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter how this, him far less than alright and nowhere close to the happiness I coaxed out of his anguished heart earlier, came to be; just that it has come to be and that if I don’t do something soon I might never see his eyes light up with the ignition of my kiss again.

That thought is enough to scare me from my seat, to force my terrified arms to swing the car door open as though it weighs the same as an atomic bomb and force me out onto the puddle-dotted pavement. Or to be more accurate; onto my knees and right into the puddle next to my Mikey, next to the kid who’s precious chest is barely rising in time with life’s tune.

Before I can get my head around seeing him so utterly defenceless and weak, my hand is stroking his left cheek. Stroking it and getting burnt by the freezing arctic tundra of his porcelain skin, getting splashed by the raindrops on his face that half of me thinks are residue tears. Shit, he really does feel frozen; like his face is made of ice, like the sort of cold that could easily kill such a weightless and exhausted angel if he stays out here much longer. Although the sorrowful nature of his texture makes me ache to remove my hand from cupping his cheek so that his head will hang limply into his chest once more, so that I can pretend he is just asleep rather than knocked-out from exposure, it’s like my hand is glued to his face; the same kind of effect as licking an icicle. I just can’t bring myself to release the soft edge of his face, if it wasn’t for the fact that this is my Mikey and not just some other gorgeous looking guy, I probably would have pecked his lips by now; kind of like Sleeping Beauty. But this is my Mikey, my lost and frightened little angel, so to invade his trust and privacy like that is out of the question; even if he did enjoy it last time we kissed, I draw the line at kissing him without his consent.

He’s still shivering, quaking like the particles that make up his body are running around and trying to escape the fire of ice that is burning down their vessel.

So I take off my grey Vans zip-up hoodie, wincing at how frosty the street-light illuminated air is and how awful it must feel to have been out here long enough for my Mikey to make it from his house to his current resting place, my fingers shaking in their lust to be swift, to not make my frozen angel be frozen for much longer. I pull Mikey’s back away from the grimy wall of the ninety-nine cents store and wrap my thick grey hoodie around his limp form, threading his arms carefully through the sleeves and doing it up all the way to the top so that it covers his neck. The soft fabric of my hoodie swamps him like a flood of body-heated love and it really would look quite cute if it didn’t mean to of the most horrible things that I have ever had to know; the first being that it illustrates to me just how skinny my Mikey is, how fragile his frail form has become, and secondly, the fact that the fabric is on him means that he needs it, which in turn means that he’s out here and that this is actually happening.

I should try to bring him round; make his eyes flutter open like my heart flutters whenever I see the adorable smile that he only produces when with me, like it’s a limited edition record that only I was smart enough to buy before it ran out. I wonder if Gerard has ever made him smile. I hope fucking not; he doesn’t deserve to see such perfection with such imperfect eyes. I hope he has; my Mikey only ever sings that bastard’s praise, acts like he’s some sort of holy angel that can do no wrong, so the least Gerard can do is make my Mikey happy enough to outwardly show it every once in a while.

My heart flares with some inner protective fury which half scares me with it’s overwhelming strength at the thought of Gerard Way. The horrid man that made a weak little angel cry. That made my weak little angel cry. That forced my Mikey’s darkest secret down the bleached throats of my ears as though it should be enough to make me not want him, to make him damaged and without any hope for repair; he told me about my Mikey’s suicidal tendencies as though he thought that the poor little angel should be regarded as some filthy and broken freak for it, for something that is more Gerard’s fault than anyone else’s. After all, if you agree to look after a kid then you agree to take on all responsibility for aforementioned kid’s actions.

I do feel excruitiantingly guilty for saying the last thing that I did to Gerard though, not because it clearly hurt him enough to make him punch me, but because it was something that made my Mikey cry harder. I told Gerard that he was crazy if he thought he should have my Mikey under his care. Something which contradicts all that my Mikey believes and lives by; he believes that Gerard is this infallible force that would never lie to him about anything or ever get anything wrong, so for me to say something so drastically different from that must have fucked my poor little angel up a little, especially coming from the boyfriend that I think he might just trust even more than he trusts his big brother. What I said got me a hit that, although admittedly I probably deserved for trying to be all cocky in front of my boyfriend’s big brother, really did hurt. Hurt all the more for making my Mikey scream. That scream which made me want to tear out Gerard’s jugular with my own fingernails, which made me leave before I had the chance to beat the shit out of the older Way because that would have traumatised my Mikey even more.

But not as much as whatever caused that damn scar, the one I hate only because it makes him so insecure about his appearance when I already know that he is the most stunning person (inside and out) that I have ever met. I wonder if it was his suicide attempt that caused it? Just how the fuck did he try to ruin my life by never entering it if it was horrendous enough to scar his face? However he obtained that dainty trickle of agony, it clearly scarred him mentally too; I can remember one day after school when we went for a walk together in the tingling winter sunshine that made it all too clear how badly that damn scar makes him feel. It was only a few, maybe five, days ago actually…

”And then my science teacher had the nerve to accuse me of accidently-on-purpose dying the hamster green with universal indicator! Honestly, some people, eh?” I laugh as I remember the earlier look of fury that had stained my teacher’s face like the green now staining her beloved hamster (usually a pale creamy colour).

I honestly don’t know which was funnier; the volcanic look on her plump face or the confused blinks of Hulk the Hamster.

“So, how was your day, Sugar?” I purr down at my companion whose own lips are twitching at my pointless little anecdote; he really is the cutest thing ever when he smiles.

He just shrugs absently, giving off the sort of vibe that all he cares about is the now that he is spending with me. Spending with the only person smart enough to know a good thing when I see one. But behind that shrug there is a hidden message, some kind of test for anyone wanting to know that says you have to know him well enough to be able to pick up on that hidden message before he’ll open up.

Which instantly kills my laughter like a canary in the poisonous air of a coalmine. Because that hidden message, that I am both glad and sad that I can detect, means that his day hasn’t been nice; that it hasn’t been the fun-filled thing that adults are always telling kids that it should be, that my Mikey deserves to have. All because certain stupid people, who I can guarantee will be sporting black eyes by this time tomorrow, didn’t heed the fair warning that I give to anyone malicious enough to want to hurt my Mikey; mess with him and I’ll mess you up.

“C’mon, Sugar, what happened? I wanna know about your day.”

He sniffles and traces his vine-like fingers down his scar; all away along that thin line that marks his face like chalk on a blackboard.


He tries to smile bravely up at me, but his tears have already started to collect in his eyes and overflow down his face like tens of tiny white scars.

“Sugar, why are you crying?” I sigh heavily, my pure desire to smash whoever has done this, something bad enough to make my Mikey cry, clean in the face only just being controlled by my primitive need to stunt my younger friend’s tears. “What did they say this time?”

I wrap an arm gently over his bony shoulders, making it more than lose enough for him to shrug off should he feel uncomfortable with my contact, and smile softly at him as he dares to lean into my chest to seek out the heartbeat that seems to make the storm in his eyes die down a little bit. Just like normal. I hold him close to me and he just stops to hear the sound that confirms the fact that he’s not alone. Never will be as long as he can hear that sound because it means that I’m here.

“L-laugh-aughed a-t my sc-scar-ar. Called-alled me a-a fr-eaky-ky muta-tant mu-ute and sp-pat at-t me-e. I kno-know I’m u-ugly-ly and I-I’m fuss-ussing ove-ver nothin-othing, a-and I’m so-orr-orry bu-ut I-I... I-I-I…” He starts choking on the words, like all of their spite and jealousy is making him want to throw up the heart that they’ve broken, so I run my hand over his back like he’s some sort of adorable lost little puppy and pull him closer to the heartbeat that he craves to listen to.

Those motherfuckers; screw black-eyes, they’ll be lucky if they can still walk this time tomorrow.

He actually believes them, actually thinks that they’re right; that he’s ugly and, worst of all, that this is ‘nothing’. If his idea of nothing is him weeping into my chest, my arms holding him upright before the wooziness of sorrow can drag him to the pavement, then I’d really hate to see his idea of ‘something’. But I don’t think that anything concerning himself would class to him as ‘something’, how can it when he so clearly views himself as ‘nothing’?

“Shush, it’s alright, I’ve got you, Mikey. Just like always, yeah?” I feel him nod into the damp patch that’s dousing the area of my chest where my Mikey’s own personal lullaby is drumming out. “Don’t listen to their bullshit; you are not freaky, you are not a mutant and you sure as fuck aren’t mute, you speak to me didn’t you?” Another nod. “Therefore you aren’t mute. Shows how much they know.”

He looks up at me with eyes that convey nothing but a desperation to believe me. But he doesn’t, because of his stunningly cute stutter and poetically beautiful scar. Because they told him that those are things that make him ugly.

Those bastards should start running. And enjoy it while they still have functioning legs.

I’m pulled out of my memories, memories of a horrible afternoon that I spent trying (and ultimately failing) to convince my Mikey that he really isn’t ugly and that it definitely is not ‘nothing’ when evil demons make an angel cry, by a barely audible groan of discomfort from the fallen angel that I have subconsciously pulled into my lap so that his back is lent on my chest rather than the harsh wall of some shitty ninety-nine cents store. Besides, the closer he is to my body heat, the more he’ll warm up; right?

I hope so.

“Mikey, can you hear me? Please say something, Sugar, just let me know that you’re alright.” I would cringe at how undeniably desperate I sound if it wasn’t for the fact that I really have managed to conceal a fair bit of both the desperation and panic that is currently pulsating through my veins like poisonous thoughts through my little angel’s head whenever someone forces that poison into him. “C’mon, Sugar, it’s me; Pete. Your boyfriend. I need to see those beautiful eyes of yours, Sugar.”

I squeeze the hand that I wasn’t even aware is resting in my own, worry-slicked palm and let out a loud sigh of relief when I hear him groan again; I think it means that he’s starting to come to, right? I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t.

Should I take him to a hospital?

No. I remember him telling me once how much hospitals terrify him. It was one of those times when I’d managed to make him feel completely comfortable and we were trading information about each other; first pets, favourite bands, bad habits, cheesiest jokes. We were taking it in turns to choose the questions (me being extremely careful through fear of ruining his feeling of security and him being too shy to ask anything personal) and when it got to around my tenth go, I decided to ask a question that had the potential to help me come closer to being boyfriend material should what has happened, happen. I asked him what his biggest phobia is; thinking that it would probably be something trivial like the dark, or cobwebs or something else that I could easily fix should it crop up. Oh no, it was nothing like that; he’d replied with hospitals. Replied with a wavering voice and tremor-ridden eyes. I hadn’t pressed it any further and just held him whilst he calmed down. Calmed down by listening to my heartbeat in that adorable way that is completely unique to my Mikey.

So taking him to a hospital is completely out of the question unless he asks to be taken there himself; the putrid look of fear in his eyes that night, a night which he told Gerard was spent studying in the library through worry that his brother would not like him going to a friend’s house on a school night, I asked him about his phobia was enough to make his fear tangible in the little stabs of liquid shame and terror that sliced into my skin as I let him cry into me. There’s no way I’m making him face such a serious fear of his unless I know for a fact that it’s life or death.

Perhaps I should bundle him into my car and taking him back to his house?

No. No fucking way am I entering that warzone again. And neither is my Mikey; he’s out here for a reason and I’m willing to bet everything I own, including my beloved bass, that it’s nothing to do with Gerard’s home cooking that’s driven him out.

Another groan, followed by the weakest little whimper I’ve ever heard, floods the rain-infested silence and so I squeeze the hand of the shivering rag-doll like angel in my arms once more.

“That’s it, Sugar. C’mon, open those eyes for your boyfriend; show me how beautiful you are, you can do it, Sugar.”

A breath I didn’t even realise I was holding in amidst my rampant concern, floods out of my nostrils as my Mikey rubs the tips of his fingers against my own in a weakened attempt at squeezing my hand back. I look down to see his eyes are lolling open, all frightened and pained, but open none the less.

Apart from their not alit with the stunning joy that his big brother robbed him of; they look to be on the verge of tears once more, tears that are partially my fault because I knew that I was winding Gerard up and just didn’t stop.

And that makes me hold him tighter, I have to make up for it in any way that I can.

“Hey there, Beautiful.” Despite the situation, he blushes a light shade of rose; the kind of rose that people give to their loved ones on Valentine’s Day. “What happened, do you feel alright?”

He nods.

I give him a kind of parental look, the kind that says I know that he’s lying and I also know that he can trust me with the truth because I really do love him.

He shakes his head.

“How do you feel, Sugar? Where does it hurt?”

He looks conflicted as to how much he should tell me; something that breaks my heart as it longs to know all that is wrong so that it knows how to fix it, knows how to make him smile again like I can make everything good in the world.

“Pete… I…. Everywhere.”

He shudders a little against me, chills still running through him like malevolent spirits even though he’s bundled up in both my hoodie and in my excruitiantingly worried arms, before turning on his side so that he can hide his torrential, agonized tears from view.

“I’ve been so stupid…” He mumbles in a way that makes it clear he is looking for no shade of sympathy purely because he never expected my ears to pick up on it.

That just makes me all the more sympathetic.

“Shush, no, Sugar, you haven’t been stupid. I have, okay?”

He blinks up at me in adorable confusion, kind of like a toddler seeing an elephant for the first time and being completely bemused by what it’s seeing because everyday life has taught it that giant, grey beasts aren’t something that you should expect to see.

But then his eyes fill with hurt paralleled only by that which the biting night air is freezing into my skin.

“Do you mean k-k-issi-sing m-“

“No! Of course not, Sugar, never that. That’s the smartest thing I’ve done since running into you in the parking lot on your first day; I meant that I was stupid for winding your big brother up. Does he know that you’re out here like this?”

A few more blinks, working like the opening of floodgates to let lose a hurricane of hurt howls powered by anguish; a tsunami of sorrow floods his rain-drenched features; the shivers get accompanied by wracking heaves of apprehension and distraught agony.

I think that’s all I need to know; I’m not about to press any deeper into the wounds of whatever that bastard has done now. Not whilst my Mikey is still so weak from whatever claimed his consciousness, whilst he’s still looking as exhausted as ever and like he’s about to clean pass out again at any given moment. I can ask him more when he’s in the warm, a towel around his sodden shoulders and a mug of warm soup in his hands as I will be feeding him tonight no matter what he says; because I’m going to look after him.

“Aw, Sugar, please don’t cry. Not over him, he isn’t worth the last name he shares with you.” I sigh restlessly in disgust with the man who is blessed with being the big brother of an angel. “He needs to go play in traffic, maybe that’d teach him to not act like a motherfucking child.”

His tears increase and his cries amplify like a broken electric guitar engaged in a war with silence. I definitely said the wrong thing. And I couldn’t feel more contrite if I’d just accidently ended the world.

“Shit, Mikey, please, I didn’t mean anything; I just don’t like that he-“

He snaps his head up in such a way that forces his scar into my line of sight.

Oh. Oh shit. He played in traffic, didn’t he? Is that how he tried to…

Oh, fucking hell. Well done Pete! I feel like I’ve made even more of a mistake than that night I ended up in a ditch with Aaron.

“Sugar… I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t think that… I didn’t know and I’m really sorry, Sugar. Forgive me?”

He doesn’t even think before nodding, knowing that an apology from me really does mean a constricting sense of being contrite that will forever prevent me from making the same mistake twice. Not that he’d have the bad nature within him to deny me anything. Which is exactly why I can’t let myself take advantage of that, can’t ever betray his good nature like so many people probably would.

He lets out a spluttery cough, wracking his weak little body even more than the shivers are, and collapses back against me, teary eyes struggling to remain open.

“Pete?” I give a small noise of acknowledgement, scared that my liquid regret will be detectable in my voice. “I’m cold, I don’t want to be a pain but-“

Before he can even finish, I get to my feet and head to my Ferrari in confident strides. With him still in my arms, one arm supporting under his neck and shoulders, the other under the crease of his knees. He feels so light in my arms, like he could just disappear into the valley of my dreams at any second. Not that I’d let him.

I gently deposit him on the passenger seat, stopping to adjust my hoodie around him so that it covers as much of his blanched skin as possible, and slide myself into the driver’s seat.

“Is it alright if I take you back to mine, Sugar?” I ask as I pull away from that horribly cruel place where my Mikey collapsed to the pavement, absently turning the heating on full blast.

I look to him and he nods, barely keeping his head upright long enough for the motion to be noticeable.

What I do notice, however, is the fact that he’s still crying softly to himself for reasons that I don’t fully understand; I imagine that it probably has something to do with what happened after I left his house like the idiot that I am. So, deciding that I am capable of controlling my trusty vehicle one-handed, I do my signature comfort that he seems to adore almost as much as I adore him; I reach an arm across to him and encompass his shaking shoulders in it, allowing him to lean across the car to lean lightly into my side.

If it wasn’t for the fact that we’re both soaked through, freezing cold and my Mikey is definitely sick, this would be perfect; driving through the night with my perfect little boyfriend cuddled into me, kind of like some romance movie scene.

I don’t think that I’m going to want this car journey to end.

Because when it does I have to face that fact that my Mikey’s gotten himself all sick.

But it’s nothing that my body heat can’t fix.

Or at least try to.

A/N: Thank you so very much for reading; I hope it was alright! I would just like to say a huge THANK YOU to anyone who has been kind enough to rate/review this story so far, it really does make me smile when I get to know what people think of my writing. Thanks for reading and please review! :)
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