FicWad

Chapter Fourteen – Time For Change

Mikey’s POV



I made him angry, didn’t I? I made Pete cross and now he feels bad. Because of me, because I’m a fucking awful boyfriend.

What am I even doing here? I shouldn’t have phoned him. He could be asleep right now, asleep and happy like he deserves to be, but no. I was selfish and made him pick me up just because I wasn’t feeling very well. I’m so fucking childish; scared of being sick on the streets, I have nightmares every night and I’m just as selfish as any little brat that I’ve ever seen. I really am a selfish little shit, aren’t I? Of course I am. Gerard told me so. And now my own stupid selfishness has made Pete angry.

Just like with everyone else. I used to make my dad angry because I was a shit little brother, because I didn’t look after Gerard like I should have. I make Gerard angry because I’m an awful little brother, so ungrateful and always getting in the way of him having a nice time. I made Frankie, Frank Iero for fuck’s sake, angry by being shitty to Gerard who in turn decided to tell me what he really thinks and Frankie, for some incomprehensible reason, didn’t like that at all. The only person I hadn’t made angry was Pete, my boyfriend, the person who loves me and I actually was starting to believe who could keep me safe.

But no. I was a selfish little shit and now I’ve made him angry too. It’s a shame really, that I’m me and therefore I ruin everything; I really adored having Pete as a boyfriend. Past tense because why would he want me now that I’ve bought him down and made him shout? People don’t shout like that if they’re happy, only if they’re mad or upset. Which he is. Because of me. I’ve made Pete, my bass buddy and most trusted person, not be happy. I’ve made him mad and sad and all of the things that always end up getting me punched. Or kicked. Or spat on. Or yelled at.

I don’t mind all of that, the kicking and punching and spitting and yelling, I don’t mind it at all because I know that I deserve it. Of course I fucking do; it’s happened too many times for that many people to be wrong. And Gerard still yells at me, Gerard’s only ever wanted to help me so why would he yell at me unless he meant it? Gerard’s smart, he always knows what to do, so how can he be wrong about something concerning the worthless shit that he has to waste his life looking after? Exactly. He can’t be wrong. It just wouldn’t make sense for him to be wrong.

Apart from Pete made me feel like I don’t deserve to get hurt. Just the way he held me like I am a baby, but in a nice way, a baby that’s his and that he has to protect made me feel like I don’t deserve to get hurt purely because he doesn’t want it to happen; if he doesn’t want it to happen then it shouldn’t because Pete’s too nice for things that he doesn’t want to happen to actually happen. I thought that he was different from everyone else, save for maybe Frankie, I thought that he just couldn’t get angry. Of course I’ve seen him get mad at people like Aaron before, but Aaron always says bad things to Pete first and so therefore that can’t be entirely my fault.

What I mean to say is that I never thought that I’d make him get angry. I really didn’t want to ruin having him with me.

But I ruin everything. And now he’s all angry and it’s frightening me. I don’t want Pete, kind and cuddly Pete, to be angry because of me. I don’t want him to hurt me like I know I should be hurt for making someone as wonderful as Pete Wentz feel bad, but I really don’t want him to hit me. I really do love him, adore him with everything I’ve got and to have him hurt me would be synonymous with tearing out my heart. But since when did how I feel ever stop anyone from hurting me?

It didn’t. Never. When I was crying in pain and begging him to stop, did Gerard give up on teaching me the lesson that I had to be taught? No. Of course not. Because he’s my big brother and he understood that I had to learn. When my nose was all cracked and my spirit was broken, did the bullies at my old high school relent? No. Of course not. Because freaks like me are only good for one thing; stress relief. When I wanted that bus to knock me into oblivion and take me away from all of the pain, did Fate let it? Of course it fucking didn’t. Because I don’t even deserve to have the right to death.

And now Pete’s going to hurt me too, isn’t he? He should do. I deserve it.

No; he loves me, right? He’s my boyfriend. Boyfriends don’t hurt one another, do they? Well, neither do brothers but mine still hurt me. Because I deserved it for bringing him down and getting in his way, for stealing all of Mom’s attention. Just like I deserve whatever Pete’s going to give me.

Who was he on the phone to? I think it must have been Gee. But why would Gee be phoning me after the way I treated him, yelled at him and told him horrible lies about him ruining everything, it just doesn’t make sense that he’d want to talk to me. Maybe he wanted to tell me that I can’t go home, that he hates me and that his ridiculous sense of blind obligation has finally run out. Maybe he really doesn’t want me anymore. Nobody does. Who would want a piteous, weak little mute who can’t even be taken out in public?

Well, I thought that Pete wanted me. But that was just me being stupid, wasn’t it? Nobody as lovely and perfect as Pete could every truly want some ugly, suicidal weirdo like me. I don’t even want me. I can’t believe that I was stupid enough to think that he could want me, to think that he actually cared. I really don’t want to think of Pete, my closest friend and love, as someone like all of the others; but what choice do I have?

Exactly. I don’t.

Which is why I, being the stupid little coward that I am cursed with being, am huddled on the plush cream carpet at the foot of Pete’s bed and adopting my usual comfort position in times of panic; knees pulled into my chest, arms wrapped firmly around my knees and my forehead leaning on my kneecaps. It’s a position that I’ve been adopting for as long as I can remember, having my legs pulled into me makes me feel less alone, kind of like the heat of my legs could belong to some sort of friendly face.

I can still remember the first time that I discovered this position, remember it with the clarity of the scratch marks that are currently trashing my arms. It was after my first day at high school, Gerard was in an after school detention for some trivial reason or another, and so I had been left to take the bus all alone. A bus journey which had been far from enjoyable. Mainly because I was still too naïve to realise that I’m a freak, the kind of weirdo that’s only deserving of what some might call ‘cruel’ taunts. The only reason that I was still stupidly ignorant as to who I am was because this took place a month or so before Gerard started drinking, started to shed whatever part of him it was that kept his true feelings towards me hidden. And so, as a result of both my blissful ignorance and some extremely derogatory insults, I had ran straight up to my lonely little bedroom, collapsed onto my bed and then my muscles had just kind of taken over; realised how to make me feel somewhat comforted.

But I never dreamed that I’d be using that position in this context; on the floor of my boyfriend’s bedroom. I don’t care that my arms feel like each little hair is a flaming tree setting my arms ablaze like a forest fire; I don’t care that my face feels like an outraged swarm of bees have taken to it in attack; I don’t care that I feel even more exhausted than when I went to sleep; I don’t care that it feels like my stomach’s collapsing in on itself in an attempt to fill it’s insides. I just care about the fact that Pete’s leaning over the edge of his bed, panting and face red with raw rage.

So I lean my head down further into my knees, trying to blot out what has already been burnt into my eyelids and gouged into my sound receptors; he said that I’m fucked up. I know that I am, I know that I’m more messed up than a serial killer, definitely too fucked up to be lovable. But to hear it from Pete, from my boyfriend? I know that I shouldn’t get so wound up over something that I know to be true, but it really fucking hurt. Hurt like when Gerard used to beat the life out of me, used to make me spit out my own blood and just not stop. Apart from hearing that from Pete hurt more. Because I thought that he liked me, thought that he didn’t believe what everyone else says. But no. I was wrong. Gerard was right. Just like always.

“Aw, Mikey, I… I’m really sorry. I didn’t know that you were listening. I thought that you were asleep, honest I did, Sugar.” He sounds like he really is remorseful, really is guilty and that’s because he is; shouldn’t be, but he is. He shouldn’t feel guilty for saying something that he’s tried his hardest to defend me from hearing when everyone was screaming it.

I’ve made him feel even worse, haven’t I? Not just angry, but guilty too. Guilty because I’m sobbing my heart out in the fragmented little shards that I’ve let it be smashed up into. I want to stop crying, really I do if it makes him feel this bad, but I just can’t. I know that it sounds childish and ridiculously pitiful, but I just can’t stop spluttering out the broken cries of my hate-blackened soul. I sound like a broken robot, a malfunctioning piece of machinery that needs switching off. In fact, with every gulp of air I swallow in an attempt to calm myself down it seems that I choke on it and just end up crying harder. Maybe not so much through fear anymore, because Pete really did sound hurt that he’d hurt me, but just in complete despair and hopelessness. Crying like some pathetic little baby in need of being taught a good lesson.

A lesson that I know Pete will never teach me. He won’t hurt me. I know he won’t; he loves me. Not as much as I love him because just the idea of that is truly laughable, but just enough for him to not hurt me. Right?

Why would he love you?

Because I’m his Mikey. He said so.

He also said that you’re fucked up.

I… I know that he said that. But he was just being honest. Like he was being honest when he said he loves me.

Yes, but if he can see that you’re fucked up do you think that he can really love you?

He must do; why’d he lie when he knows that it’ll make me happy rather than sad?

People don’t just lie to make you sad, you dumb fuck. They lie to make you happy, happy so that it hurts more when they beat you up.

Pete won’t beat me up though. I trust him.

Then you’re fucking retarded.

I thought I’d gotten over this; this having arguments with myself like some fucking psycho. It’s just like the cynical, brutally honest part of me comes out to play whenever I think that something remotely good might be happening to me; Pete not wanting to hurt me, example. Like I said, it may be the cynical voice in my head, but it’s definitely honest. Yes, but being honest doesn’t always guarantee fact, does it? No. Just that the person saying it believes it. Believes it like I want to fully believe that Pete won’t hurt me.

He won’t do. I know he won’t. He could have hurt me when I was sleeping, but he didn’t. Sleeping in his arms; those strong walls of benevolent muscle and with a strong air of possession about them, like he owns me just because I’m in his arms. And I like it. Like it a hell of a lot. Because he does own me, has done since the second that I fell into those arms like the clumsy kid that I am.

But he was horrible to my big brother, assuming that that is the Gerard he was talking to, to someone whose only ever tried to the best thing for me; be it teach me a lesson or take me in, he’s always only done what’s best. And Pete was yelling at him, being nasty to my guardian, the one person who has always been there. Surely after the way that I’ve treated Gerard it’s the least that I can do to stick up for him. Does Pete really think that I should be in Care? I’d rather be dead than without my brother, without the only blood relative I have left. Yet Pete said that Gerard shouldn’t be looking after me, said it like he believed it with all of his perfect heart.

Like I think that I believe it too.

No! No. I can’t start thinking like that. Nope. It’s the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever heard. Ever. Complete and utter rubbish. Gerard loves me and couldn’t look after me better even if I was a halfway decent little brother; he just lets the stress of looking after someone as problematic as me get on top of him sometimes and, as a result, lets the truth that he endeavours to hide from me in a way that makes me love him all the more come tumbling out of his mouth. I just need to make Pete see that. See it so that he can see me and not have to get punched in the face again. I’d much sooner take the hit myself than watch it befall him again.

I just want my big brother and my boyfriend to get along. They don’t even have to like each other; just not hurt one another because of me, because I don’t deserve either of their love.

I know for a fact that I didn’t hear the whole side of Pete’s conversation, only really woke up to hear him calling Gerard ‘fucked up in the head’ and I can’t help but feel glad of that small mercy; I dread to think what was said prior to that to make my boyfriend lose it. He has such a strong will, a million times stronger than my pathetic little soul, so it must have been really bad to make him shout.

Bad because of me.

A loud cry storms through me before I can bottle it, making me shake all over and claw at the jeans that Pete leant me even harder.

Fuck! This is just too much, too confusing; too fucking hard. I don’t like this, this being too fucked up for anything to ever work out. To begin with, when I first started to get all that I deserve, it destroyed me every time that something fell to shit; then I just got used to it, became as numb as I could to the pain that everyone seems to be more than willing to shove my way and now it seems to have gone full circle. I can’t take it anymore; I know that freaks like me don’t get nice things, don’t deserve people like Pete and Gerard and Frankie, but it doesn’t stop me from longing for them, doesn’t stop it from hurting like a rusty nail digging into my heart every time I fail them and they end up shouting at me. Or rather, Gerard ends up shouting at me. Frankie just ends up looking disappointed, which stings worse than disinfectant on my eyeballs, and Pete just ends up looking sad that I’m sad to have failed him by letting myself get beaten up again.

What about when I fail myself, how do I feel then?

Like I don’t matter, because if I fail myself then who don’t I fail? I fail myself every day, every time I stutter or jump at unexpected contact, so I can’t really expect anyone else to view me as anything better. But Pete treats me like I’m precious; like he thinks that I am worth the world to his golden one.

And I think that I am. I just don’t understand how/why. But I don’t have to understand it to know that I love it. Love him.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve made him feel bad. Someone genuinely perfect, someone who looks like he was created to smile his heaven-sent smirk, is all guilty and angry because of me. Even if he isn’t going to hurt me, I definitely don’t deserve to be in his bedroom where I seem to be making him feel even worse.

I hear the springs of the bed creak and two feet land gently on the carpet in front of me, so I look up in the same way as a beggar looking up at a millionaire and see that Pete is looking down at me with concern rife in his eyes. Great. Now I’ve made him angry, guilty and worried. I’m like a walking storm of depression; ripping away all happiness from those who deserve it the most.

Before I know it Pete’s knelt in front of me, his hand slowly reaching out to my shoulder and eyes locked beseechingly with my own searching orbs of uncertainty.

“Mikey, you know that I’d never hurt you, right?” He sounds so pained to be asking that question, as though the answer will determine some great change in his life. And that touches me to the core; he really does care!

I nod without stopping to consider his question properly, if I doubted his intentions before I don’t now. Not after seeing his eyes looking so desperate to make me feel alright, after hearing his voice crack at the prospect of me ever doubting him. I know that he could easily snap me in half if he wanted to, that someone as weak as me would never stand a chance against a guy like Pete, but I know that I’ll never have to stand against him; he’s my boyfriend, after all.

“Good, Sugar. Because I’d never lay a finger on you if you didn’t want me to.” His outstretching hand pauses just before it can reach my still shuddering left shoulder, just suspended in the air and leaving me longing for the soothing sensation of his touch to confirm what his eyes and voice are telling me. “Do you mind if I touch you? I get it if you need some space right now, of course I do, Sugar, so please don’t feel like you have to put up with me pawing at you.”

How did I get myself such an amazing, perfect, undoubtedly wonderful boyfriend? I know that I sure as fuck don’t deserve him, but then again I don’t think that anyone deserves someone as gorgeous as Pete. The same gorgeous Pete who actually wants my contact where so many people, none of them as important to me as Pete, have only wanted to have contact with me in the form of punches.

He wants my contact and who am I, some worthless little freak, to deny him that most confusing want?

So, not knowing quite how, I launch into him; savouring his gentle chuckle of approval as I somehow manage to knock him to the ground with my minute weight. I nestle my head into his chest like a burrowing bunny and let out a sigh as he laces his fingers thoughtfully through my hair.

“I’ll take that as meaning you don’t mind then.” He pauses and kisses my head, sending shockwaves all through my body. He breathes into my hair, his warm breath reminding me in an almost taunting way of his kiss, and he runs his hands from head down my back, letting them rest when he reaches my waistline. But then he sighs, eyes filling with regret. “I’m sorry that I shouted, Sugar. Sorry that I made you frightened.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I mumble shyly, thanking whoever I should be thanking that my stutter has managed to restrain itself, and wrap my arms around his waist as though he might just disappear if I ever let go.

Having him hold me is so much better than me holding my own knees. It makes me feel almost like I matter, like I’m important and beautiful just because he thinks that I am even though I know that I’m not; millions of people can’t be wrong but having Pete think otherwise, even if he’s just pretending to spare my feelings, makes me feel like what everyone else says doesn’t matter because the only person I want to impress, want to make think that I’m important and beautiful, is my boyfriend.

“How much did you hear?” He sounds like he’s contemplating something deeply important, something that will impact us both greatly.

I don’t want to answer that, partly because I don’t want to ruin the somewhat romantic moment of being cuddled up to Pete on his bedroom floor and partly because I know that he’ll feel bad again if I am honest. Maybe I could lie, pretend that I heard nothing?

No. I can’t lie to Pete, that just wouldn’t be right.

“Fuck-ucked,” I stop myself. I’m not going to stutter with my boyfriend; even if I have to knit the words together myself, I refuse to make Pete think that I don’t trust him. “You called me fucked up.”

And with that, like the overgrown toddler that I am, I burst into tears again. Because it’s really fucking agonizing to know that he said, no, screamed that down the phone. So in response, his hands rub wonderful whirls all over my sorrow-arched back and he pulls me tighter onto him despite the fact that he’s practically flat on his back and I must be crushing the air out of his precious lungs.

“Sugar, I didn’t mean that. Of course I didn’t. You are not fucked up, okay? Not in any way possible. You’re normal, Sugar, anyone would feel like you do after going through all that you have.” His voice is oozing with honey-like understanding and regret, neither of which make any sort of sense to me; he shouldn’t regret saying something that so many people before him have said without any regrets and I just don’t get what there is for him to be understanding about.

What exactly have I been through?

I have it a hell of a lot better than loads of kids; I don’t have to walk miles for water every day, I don’t have to sleep outside in the cold, I’m not deaf, I’m not blind, I live in a nice house with a nice big brother; how can he be talking like I’ve been through some sort of atrocity? Is it because he knows about what Gerard used to do to me? I shouldn’t have told him about that. I knew I shouldn’t have; now I have to live with him looking at me with some inexplicable sorrow in his eyes every time he looks at me. Just like Frankie and Gee do, like it pains them just to see my ugly face. I don’t want Pete to look at me like that, like I’m someone stupid enough to be pitied every time he lays eyes on my pathetic self. But I don’t get what happened to make anyone pity me in the first place; I only got what I bought upon myself by being a shitty little brother and a pathetic loser freak.

“It was Gerard I was speaking to, Beautiful, and he wound me up real bad.” He props himself up on his elbows so that my head slides down to his stomach and I have to turn my head to be able to see his earnestly contrite eyes, eyes that are aglow with honest shame. “Your brother and I… We don’t exactly get along.”

Oh no; he’s going to dump me, isn’t he? He’s going to say that he can’t handle my protective big brother’s way of trying to keep me safe, he’s going to tell me that he can’t take Gerard and therefore can’t take me. That’s what he’s going to say, isn’t it?

No. It fucking well isn’t. I wasn’t too tried when he kissed me as to be blind to the sincerity behind it, to feel how much he meant it. I’ve only ever kissed one person before, Frank, and that ended catastrophically to say the least; the way that Pete kisses is nothing like the way Frank kissed me that one time. With Frank I could kind of tell, although I didn’t want to admit it, that it was through more curiosity than love; that he didn’t really mean it in the same way that I did at the time. But with Pete I can feel how much he enjoys the taste that Frank practically spat out as soon as he tasted it, with Pete I can sense from the way his lips move around my own that I can trust him to always love me because that’s what his kiss told me.

And kisses don’t lie; you can only make verbal lies come out of your lips, not undetectably false kisses.

But that doesn’t change that Pete and Gee hate each other. Because of me. Because I acted all pathetic and weak and now they hate each other for it. I know this sounds selfish, but; can’t they at least try to get along?

I know that it’s unfair and selfish for me to want them to act like friends just because that’s what I want, but I can’t help it. I love them both so much, I don’t want to have to choose between my big brother and my boyfriend. Because that’s what’ll happen in the end, isn’t it? I’ll end up losing one of them and the other one will most likely end up hating me anyway knowing my luck. Fuck, I sound pessimistic.

No; I sound realistic.

“Why not?” I mewl up at him, manoeuvring so that I’m sat next to him; his arm around my shoulders and our legs stretched out in front of us, all tangled together.

He lets out a heavy, almost exasperated, sigh. The kind of sigh that tells me he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. So he shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have been audacious to ask him such a personal question; why do can’t I ever do anything right? I always end up being a terrible brother to Gerard, a shit best friend to Frankie or an awful boyfriend to Pete. I don’t mean to, but I always do.

“Mikey, how can you ask that?” Oh no, he hates me; I knew it. “That bastard beat you for three fucking years! I love you too much to like him, Sugar.”

I told you it was my fault, that he hates Gerard because of me. I’ve ruined this for myself really, haven’t I? I’ve got to fix this, I’ve got to make Pete see that I was just overreacting earlier, that he really has no reason to hate Gee and then maybe they can be friends and Pete can be part of our little family! I would like that very much, to have Pete as a part of my little cut-and-paste family alongside Frankie and Gee. Apart from so much more than my two older brothers, as my boyfriend and teammate. But that can’t happen until I stop getting in the way of him and Gerard becoming friends like I long for them to be.

“It’s not a big deal, Pete. He didn’t mean it, he was drunk at the time and I… I deserved it; it was my own fault anyway so please don’t hate Gee, Pete. Please.”

I look up at him, hoping that he can see how hard I worked to keep my stutter out especially for him, and beg him with my eyes to believe me; none of what happened was Gerard’s fault, he needs to see that so that they can be friends. Then I’ll only have to win Gee around, which I’m sure my charming boyfriend can do with no trouble, and then everything will be good again!

Wow, I need to get real, don’t I? Nothing is ever that simple, not for freaks like me anyway. As the tears dripping from Pete’s eyes can testify.

“Oh, Mikey, what has he done to you?” He sounds like I’ve upset him again, something which makes me want to go and hide my hideous face in shame, so I tentatively do what I, as his boyfriend, think will make it better; I press thumb gently to one of his falling tears, scooping it up and wiping it from his godly features like I’m as disgusted with it as I am with myself for causing it to fall. “You didn’t deserve it; promise me that you’ll never think that again, Sugar, because you sure as fuck don’t deserve to get hurt.”

He cups my face in his hands, looking at me as though he thinks I’m some sort of rare artefact that shouldn’t be in existence but somehow is and so that makes him treasure that artefact all the more, then pulls my face close to his and presses his lips to mine. There’s no lust there at all, just a genuine sense of pure care and concern that makes me feel like I am the angel that he’s been calling me. Our noses rub together as our lips dance and I can’t help but blush like the childish idiot that I am. But that doesn’t matter; doesn’t matter because Pete Wentz loves me and that’s all I really care about right now.

Apart from I care about Gerard too, about Gerard and Pete not liking one another.

So I wait until he’s had enough, until he gently pulls his lips from my own in such an expert way that it makes my lips feel like they want to chase after his own, like my heart is being starved of oxygen just because it isn’t oxygen that he’s already breathed in, and I lean my head into the crook of his neck, actually feeling really content. Content and safe enough to say what I know I have to.

“Pete, I want to see Gerard and Frank.”

“You can ring Frank to come around and see you, but there’s no fucking way that I’m letting Gerard anywhere near you whilst you’re still so weak from last night.” He says it fiercely, but not at all threateningly, and I can’t help but feel a little part of me die; if only I hadn’t let myself get so skinny, so starved, so exhausted.

“Pete, please. I want you to come home with me and we can try again. Please. I just know that you and Gee’ll get along great if you try again. I know it isn’t fair of me to ask, bu-“

“No, Mikey. I said no and I meant it. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Is this an argument? I hope not. But what if it is? Couples are meant to have the odd argument, right? And besides, it’s like Pete’s eyes are begging me to keep talking to him in confidence, like he really does want to hear what I have to say. So I take in a deep breath and reach for all of the courage that I can to carry on.

“Please, Pete. For me?”

Our eyes lock and I can see something click into place in his own deep pools that could easily drown me if his arms weren’t keeping me afloat.

“Okay, Sugar.”

He gives me an uneasy smile.

“For you.”






A/N: Thanks for reading and sorry that it’s kinda rushed and crappy, it definitely isn’t the best that I’ve written so sorry about that. THANK YOU VERY MUCH to the wonderfully kind people who have rated/reviewed this story so far; it really does mean the world to me and it motivates me to write whenever I hear what someone thinks of my writing. Thanks for reading and please review! :)