Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Perfectly Imperfect

Revelations and Redemptions

by DisenchatedDestroya 14 reviews

"God, I’ve been a dickhead." Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way,Mikey Way - Published: 2012-01-15 - Updated: 2012-01-15 - 7098 words - Complete

Chapter Nineteen – Revelations and Redemptions

Gerard’s POV

My head is pounding, my mouth is screaming for more of the fiery liquid that has been cooling my veins these past three days, my limbs are aching in protest at being awake and my eyes are smudged with sleep.

But I couldn’t give a fuck. Because Mikes, my precious little baby brother, is slowly killing himself. All because I’m the worst big brother in the world. He’s starving himself and not even Frankie can get him to eat; not even Pete can.


He started all of this, didn’t he? It’s all his fault that I went flying over the handle bars and hurt my baby brother.

No. It isn’t. Not at all. Not in the slightest. And the sooner I get that into my thick head the better for all concerned; my baby brother included. Pete does love Mikey, even Frankie thinks so and I could see in the way Pete looked when he punched me how deeply he cares about my baby brother. Because he looked as though he was the one I had just slaughtered with the cutting blades of my words rather than Mikey; that proves that he really does love him because when you’re in love like he claims to be, every wound that hurts your love hurts you twice as badly. This guy may not be the charming, proper gentleman that I would like my little brother to be with, but he definitely isn’t a user.

I can see that now.

Fuck it; I saw it days ago and I just didn’t want to admit that I was wrong. I didn’t want to accept that I might not be the most important, most loving person in my baby brother’s world any more. I just didn’t want to admit that someone has earned my little brother’s ever-elusive trust in a matter of weeks, when I’ve known Mikes for sixteen years and he still doesn’t trust me. Well, he did trust me, back when I was worthy of his trust but then I snatched that away from him, didn’t I? The second that I raised my hand to him I cost him all trust that he had in me and now I’m paying the price; the price of having to sort out my anorexic and suicidal little brother who I have managed to single-handedly turn mute. Mute because I made fun of his stutter and probably scared him into silence.

Anorexia? Fuck.

It hurts even more than the pounding riot going on against the walls of my skull is to know that my baby brother, the one thing that I have to take care of, is going through something like that without so much as stuttering a word about it to me. To anyone. He’s going to end up dead if he doesn’t get his act together pretty soon. If I don’t get my act together right away he will die. Because when I took him on as my charge I took on all responsibility for his health; eating habits, or lack thereof, included.

It robs me of my ability to breathe, like I’m being buried alive under the force of my failure, to think that Mikes is slowly killing himself, is killing himself in the most dragged out and painful way that I can imagine. The poor kid really does need professional help, needs to see someone with letters after/before their name that prove to me that they can sort my baby brother’s fucked-up head out.

Apart from he doesn’t need professional help; he needs someone to just be there for him. Someone like Frankie. Someone like Pete. Someone not like me. Because I’m a complete fucking failure, I’m more of a let-down than a fallen angel and I just don’t know if I can make it better. If Mikes will even let me make it better. Going by what I’ve heard from Frankie, my poor baby brother has really been pushed too far this time.

But that’s not what got to me the most.

He’s seeking sanctuary in my old bed, in the one that I used to pull him into whenever he came to me crying because of this thunderstorm or that creepy looking shadow; he’s searching for comfort in something that used to offer it in abundance but no longer can because it’s key, me, isn’t there to set the healing process into action.

When he was younger, back before I got introduced to that poison dressed as a good time that we call ‘alcohol’, he would do anything for me to let him sleep in my bed with me. It really was very cute, the way that he wanted me to stay awake with him and tell him stories from my comic books, sing him his favourite songs and just generally be his big brother. Something which I would never deny him, back then I had my priorities right even if I was just a little kid myself; I knew that Mikes was my little brother and therefore I had to treat him like an antique teddy bear, as something that must be cuddled but at the same time be surrounded with cautious caring. It’s the bed that I took Mikey to the when he got chicken pox. I had been twelve and he had been nine; the both of us still perfectly innocent in the way that only children can be because life had yet to reveal it’s true nature and intentions to our naïve little souls. Mikey had woken up covered in that cruel rash of red-hot spots that most children get inflicted with at least once, so I told Mom that I would take the day off to look after him so that she could still go to work. She had, albeit somewhat reluctantly, agreed and so it came to be that I helped my baby brother into my bed so that he could look at all of those posters that he loved exploring with his eyes whilst I looked after him. In the end I just put cold flannels on the areas where the scratching was becoming a real problem and then crawled in beside him, just holding him until sleep took him away from the searing feeling of chicken pox. And it worked, when I held him his storm of sobs at not understanding why his body felt like it was on fire melted away with the love and care that only his older brother can give him.

But that was seven years ago and nothing can ever be that simple again. Because we changed; we both grew up to become two very different people from those kids who had nothing but being each other’s best friend on their minds. Mikey became a broken, introverted teenager with more problems than anyone else would be able to deal with and I became…

I became me. Someone who has been even blinder than a mole, even deafer than a coat rack and an even worse brother than Mikes perceives himself as. Perceives himself as because I’ve drilled it into him like school kids have Shakespeare ingrained in their heads; even when I don’t say it out loud, my body language gives off the kind of aura that says he is no good.

And I loathe myself for it. Because he’s just a kid and yet he’s already dead. I killed him. I killed him and now the only way that I can make up for it is by bringing him back to life again; because I am the person that he needs. I can be the person that he needs. I want to be the person that he needs.

I need to be the person that he needs. If I’m not then he’ll die. Frankie said so.

Frankie; if there was such a thing as perfect, he would be the definition of it. He’s beautiful in every possible way, with hair the same shade as a good-quality vinyl record that flops over his head like a graceful oil spill and eyes that are always ready to help, always full of a profound understanding that only he seems to possess. If his soul were tangible it would be made out of platinum and encrusted with the highest quality of diamond available; because he is the highest quality of human. The kind of human who isn’t a human at all because all humans, myself and Mikey included, are littered with faults. Frankie, however, is not. He’s like a guardian angel to my little brother, always willing to save his soul even when Mikes himself thinks that it’s damned; he is my angel, the one person who can help me be my baby brother’s protector and carer and best friend again, because he has omnipotent wisdom and a will to help that is even stronger than my stubbornness.

And right now he’s sat in the driver’s seat of my little brother’s boyfriend’s vibrant red Ferrari, driving as though we’re being pursued by hellhounds. We are in a race though, a race to get back to my baby brother before things can get any worse. Things can’t get any worse; not even if hell started raising and the heavens started falling would things feel to be any bleaker than they do right now.

I’ve been so fucking stupid.

No, I haven’t; I’ve been cruel. Inexcusably cruel to someone who is familiar enough with cruelty to be able to call it his friend. But I haven’t just been cruel to him; I’ve been cruel to Pete, too. I made him watch his boyfriend suffer, which is the worst form of torture for anybody to have to endure. Watching my little brother panic-attacking was enough for Pete to do exactly what I wanted him to do; retaliate. Explode and show Mikes how imperfect his so-called Prince Charming is. Apart from it was at the precise moment of the explosion that made me realise my mistake; he wouldn’t be exploding if he really didn’t care, if he really didn’t love the person that I was using against him to force him into detonation.

I was the one who exploded though, wasn’t I?

I exploded in a storm of frustration and spite, bombarding my baby brother with the sharp shrapnel of my thoughtlessly malevolent words. I told him that he’s a mute little freak; that he’s an ungrateful little shit; that his tears are babyish; that he’s an attention-seeker; that he deserved getting beaten. Beaten by my own hands and I had said it with such venom that it could well have been mistaken for vehemence, for sincerity, for me meaning what I said rather than just saying it to vent feelings that were all too easy to blame on Mikey.


He’s just Mikey, not my baby brother and not some mute little freak; he’s just Mikey Way. The sweetest, most innocent and, unfortunately, the most introverted kid to ever have to put up with more tragedies than a Shakespeare anthology. Tragedies that I should have helped him get over, I thought that I was helping, that he did know me well enough to know that I’d never hurt a single hair on his precious little head. I was wrong, so unforgivably wrong; Frank’s right. Always has been. I just never wanted to choke on my pride and admit it. When he told me that Mikes is scared of me touching him, he was right; the poor kid does flinch away, fear flooding his wide eyes, every time I make any sort of physical contact with him but I just wanted to put it down to him being like that with everyone even though I knew he isn’t with Frankie. When Frank told me to say something to Mikes about our mom’s birthday, he was right; I just wanted to prove to myself that he really does love and trust me by making him come to me first even though I knew deep down that he wouldn’t, I just didn’t want to believe it. When Frankie told me that I should give Pete a chance, well, he couldn’t have been any corrector if he was an all-knowing force; Pete obviously makes my baby brother happy, or at least secure and content, I just hate the thought of some ripped eighteen-year-old being able to get through to Mikes when I can’t even touch the poor kid.

But now is the time to rectify that, because right now we’re pulling up outside my home; outside my fort that I hoped to be a sanctuary for my baby brother rather than the living hell that it has become.

Panic drenches my tear-sodden eyes as Frankie pulls the keys out of the ignition, his face like immovable stone; my boyfriend’s angry with me. Not angry; disappointed. Appalled. Let down by the one person who should never let him down. But I have and now it’s the time to set it right, to make everything good again.

What if I can’t make it good again? What if Mikes has crumbled too much and is unfixable, even by my caringly contrite hands? What if I can’t make him eat and he dies, leaves me without my old partner in crime, leaves me to live without anything to live for? What if he doesn’t want to forgive me, has realised that I’m the world’s worst fuck-up and, quite rightly, doesn’t want me anywhere near him?

Well, I know that last one would never happen purely because Mikey thinks that everything is his fault. I’ve managed to convince him of that spiteful lie. But what if? What if he really is as bad as I picture him to be from Frank’s words; all ghostly and frail and unresponsive and traumatised and lost and broken and emaciated and skeletal and gone and-

“Gee? Babe, you’re shaking.” Frankie’s concerned voice slithers through my ears like silk and shields my mind from my never-ending barrage of horrendous thoughts.

He shouldn’t be concerned about me, not when Mikes is half-starved and completely silent. It actually hurts me to know that I’m making Frankie worry even more than he has to over my baby brother, has to because I wasn’t around to. An overwhelming sense of guilt wracks my body at the pure-hearted care in Frank’s homely eyes, care that shouldn’t be wasted on someone as cruel as me.

This is how Mikes feels, isn’t it? Whenever we worry about him or whenever I yell at him, this is how he feels; worthless. And I can honestly say that it’s the most horrible feeling that I’ve ever experienced, it’s like having all of your mistakes forming a crippling fist around your heart. I make Mikes feel like this, don’t I? All of the fucking time. I never mean to, I just forget to think about what I’m doing most of the time. But that doesn’t make any of it right or any less wrong; this horrendous feeling in my gut tells me that much.

“Frankie, I’m so sorry!” I burst out sobbing, not caring about looking strong when I’ve left all of my little brother’s incredible inner strength as nothing but tattered weakness. “I’m so, so sorry!”

He leans over the gearbox, eyes warm and welcoming, his lips twitching upwards into a reassuring smile; the kind that I used to give to Mikes whenever he needed reassuring and it would always work. Not anymore though. Because I’ve killed my baby brother.

Frank puts his hand on my shoulder, cupping it as though it’s made of gold, and uses his other hand to tilt my chin upwards; like he’s the responsible adult and I’m the naughty child who’s incapable of dealing with what he’s done. I was incapable of dealing with what I’ve done, but not anymore. I’ve got to face up to this or else I will lose that which caused me to fear my mistakes. If I don’t admit that there’s something broken then I can’t fix it and if I can’t fix what’s broken then I’m as good as plunging a knife into my little brother’s back. Something that I’d never do; I’d plunge it through my black heart first.

“It’s okay, Gee. I know you’re sorry, believe me, I know.” He sighs, brushing my cheeks with his despairing outtake of air, and gently puts his lips to my own as if trying to convince me of the words which I already believe with every iota of my being. “It’s Mikes who doesn’t. It’s Mikes who needs to be hearing this. Pete, too. You need to apologize to the pair of them. Now.”

I can’t help but whimper at the prospect of the painfully inevitable; seeing what have done to my baby brother and having to face his, probably furious and unsurprisingly strong, boyfriend. I did this though, I did this and now I have to take the consequences. Not Mikey, not Frankie and not Pete. Me. I have to take the pain that I inflicted, not them.

But that doesn’t make it any easier. If anything, it makes it harder.

“What if I screw up again, Frankie?” I squeak up at him, frightening myself with how much I sound like Mikes. With how helpless and defenceless I feel; with an understanding of what my baby brother must go through every day, a constant paranoia about saying the wrong thing. “Maybe he is just better off without me…”

He is. I know he is; if I’d sent him into Care rather than insisting that I could look after him myself, then he’d be in a nice home with a nice family and surrounded by nice people who understand how to help a traumatised kid. I would be able to visit him whenever I want and we would probably both be better people for it; he would have been at least partially restored by now instead of completely broken and I would have nothing to get frustrated over. But then, and I know this sounds selfish, I would have nothing to live for; nobody depending on me to keep them alive.

Apart from I’m not keeping him alive; I’m killing him.

Not anymore though. I’m going to start reviving him. Today.

“Gerard, listen to me; that poor kid is this state because he is without you, has been without his big brother for way too long and now all he needs is for his big brother to come back. For good.” Our eyes lock and his hand grips my own, letting me know that he isn’t cross with me, just encouraging me to do the right thing for once in my God-forsaken life.

The stunning depth and slicing honesty to his words would break my heart if it wasn’t already broken, but I have to acknowledge that what Frankie said is true; I haven’t been that poor kids brother for far too long, I thought that I could do better for him by being a parent to his orphaned self but I know now that I was wrong. He wouldn’t be slowly killing himself if I wasn’t. He needs a brother; someone who can look after him, but at the same time be his best friend and support mechanism, be everything that I’ve neglected to be. That I have to be or else everything that gives me purpose and point will cease to be. I will have his blood on my hands if I don’t become something that I’ve taught myself not to be.

Frank gently rubs his thumbs over my pale cheeks, dislodging the tears and drying them with the sleeves of his jumper, and then just cups my cheek in his hand, looking at me with his sorrowfully bittersweet eyes; I don’t think that I’ve ever felt so loved, so needed ever before. Because my little brother needs me and my Frankie loves me. Adores me even though he knows what a horrible person I can be. He removes his warm hand from my icy face and falls back to fully be in his seat, eyes still transfixed on my own.

“Now, you’re going to get of this car and go, calmly, to your little brother and his boyfriend. You’re going to apologise to Pete and then you’re going to do what I know you know you have to do for Mikes.” He sounds like a kindergarten teacher, stern and forceful but loving at the same time. “You can do this, Gee. I love you and I know that you have it in you to do this. I believe in you, just like I know Mikey does.”

And that’s all I need. I don’t care that I’m still feeling the aftereffects of last night, I don’t care that tears are drooling down my face, I don’t care that I’m nervous as hell. Because my boyfriend believes in me. Because Mikey believes in me.

So I undo my seatbelt and exit the car, a look of steely determination plastered to my face. I am doing this, I am ending what I set into motion and I will not fuck this up. I can’t. Literally, I just can’t; to do so would mean killing my life. I stride with the courage that I know Mikes has to conjure up every day just to be able to talk, into the house, hating how horribly silent it is. Like a blanket of despair is smothering everything that I hold dear, or maybe I can hear the telly in the background but my primitive need to get to my baby brother soon drowns that out. I have to get to him, I have to show him that I understand now, that I love him, that I’m alright with him seeing Pete, that I’m the big brother and he’s the little one.

We used to play this game, Mikes and me, back when I was around five and he was just still a toddler; whenever he started crying, as most toddlers often do, I would pretend to be a dog. I know that it sounds crazy and an extremely inappropriate thought for such a serious moment, but right now it’s the only thing that I can think of in my mind’s eye. He had this obsession with the dogs that our next door neighbours used to have, an adult Border Collie and three puppies, he would just squeal in delight whenever he saw them. Even back then I knew that his smile was all that mattered in this world, so, whenever he was sad I would get on all fours and pretend to be a dog, just for him. Using his astounding toddler logic, he had cottoned on instantly and curled up into me, claiming that he was my ‘uppy’. That I was like next door’s dog was with her pups, constantly looking out for him and letting him snuggle into me because he was my little precious thing, my very own baby brother who was always ready with his adorably innocent little beam. I would just stretch out on the floor, making little barking sounds, until his frown disappeared and he got on all fours to bury himself in my side; just finding two-year-old happiness in an imaginary game that his big brother had thought up just for him.

Apart from I can’t just create some made-up little world for him to take shelter in, I can’t dream his problems away; no matter how much I would like it to be so, no amount of make-believe will take away from his depression, from his stutter, from his anxieties, from his anorexia. But by learning from when it has worked in the past, I can. By learning that me being myself and understanding what he needs is all that I have to do to make him happy again I can. Well, maybe not happy, more like content or at least relaxed, but well on the road to where he should be. Should be, but isn’t; because of me.

Fuck it; I’m sorting this out right fucking now. Once and for fucking all.

I’m about to sprint down the stairs to my old basement bedroom, the one that was mine right up until Frankie moved in, but then a mental trigger goes off in my brotherly mind; Frankie said to be calm. I have to be calm or else I’ll send Mikes off into one of his wild panics, maybe even cause him the trauma of having another panic attack if he really is as bad as Frank has led me to believe. So I stop myself, dry my eyes with the back of my hand and take a deep breath in; I’m doing this properly and in a way that makes Mikey comfortable, it’s the least that I owe him. I may want to hug him like both of our lives depend on it, which they do, but I will refrain until I know that he’s good with it; after the way that I’ve treated him I can understand why he might freak if I just catapult myself at him. Not that I’d be able to. Pete’s there with him, or he’d better be, and I have a nauseating feeling that he isn’t going to be all that pleased to see me. Not that I can blame him; he’s just looking out for his wounded little boyfriend. For my wounded little brother.

I practically tiptoe down the creaky stairs, pausing in the doorway of a room that still smells of my favourite brand of cigarettes, because I can hear someone crying. Someone who isn’t Mikey. Someone who I think might just be Pete.

“I love you, Sugar, really I do. You’re the bestest and most beautiful boyfriend I could ever even dream of having. You’re so perfect, Beautiful, so perfect and you’re all mine. Always and forever. Together.” Pete laments softly, in a voice fractured by tears and is barely audible amidst the silence that is only filled with, what I am assuming to be, my baby brother’s laboured breathing. “I hope you’re dreaming, Sugar. I want you to be having the nicest dream ever because you deserve it. Because you are my little dream-come-true.”

God, I’ve been a dickhead.

That boy is no more of a user than Mikey is, is no more of a player than the geeky substitute in a soccer match. He loves that kid more than I think even I do, in a deeper shade of adulation than I’ve ever witnessed before. He could have taken one look at Mikes having his panic attack three days ago and done a runner at the thought of getting involved with someone so emotionally unstable, like most teenage boys would do, but he didn’t. Because he loves my baby brother and understands that his instability is just a part of who his, a component that makes up his boyfriend. And I tried to get rid of him; tried to steal away who could quite possible the best thing to ever happen to my baby brother.

I hear Mikes whimper through the cruel clouding of his dream world.

“Hey, hey, hey, Beautiful, ride it out; stay asleep, I’m right here with you.” And just like that, as though Pete’s voice is medicine to Mikey’s tortured soul, the whimpering stops. “Good boy. You’re so brave, Sugar. So, so brave and I couldn’t be prouder.”

Relentlessly rampant remorse fires through my veins at the same speed as a chariot of fire at Pete’s resolute, pure love. I should be best friends with this guy, should be treating him like a saviour for being one to my little brother, but all I’ve done so far is punch him in the nose and yell abuse at him. It’s time to rectify that.

Or should I wait? It seems like Pete’s having a special moment with Mikes, being the good boyfriend that he has to be if he wants to live to see nineteen.

No, I have to go in. Mikes and Pete will have plenty more opportunities to fawn over one another but I, on the other hand, have to sort out what I started before I bottle out. Because I really have fucked up and I really am terrified of the rejection that I know I deserve. But I picked the record and now I have to dance to it, or rather; I yelled the insults and now I have to heal the wounds that those vocal daggers of unnecessary spite inflicted upon my innocent baby brother.

I sheepishly step into the room, eyes glued to the grotty carpet and hands wringing anxiously in front of me.

“Gerard.” Pete’s voice isn’t soft and soothing anymore; it’s hard and harsh, it’s a warning to me telling me that if I hurt my baby brother any more than I regretfully already have, then Pete will not being holding back on me again. Good; Mikes needs someone to protect him like I would if he’d let me, like I think that Pete might be able to if I give him a chance.


I look to the bed. I gasp.

“Fucking hell…”

When Mikey was in the hospital after running out in front of a bus I thought that he looked pitiful, he did, but this? The look on his dormant face is worse than any bloody gash, than any suicide note hidden in his jean pocket like the one that was found on him when he was in hospital. Why? Because the look on his face conveys one thing and one thing only, with such a painful clarity that not even I can deny it; he’s completely given up. He’s cradled like a broken ragdoll in the arms of his lover, actually has his face partially hidden in the crumpled fabric of Pete’s t-shirt as though being close to him is synonymous with safety. God, he’s so skinny. Not just skinny; skeletally emaciated, malnourished, completely not there. Like my words of stinging spite robbed him of all body heat that he may have once been able to produce but no longer can because his body has no substance to fuel the creation of that heat. The midnight-black bags weighing down the skin around his eyes from pure exhaustion teamed with his snow-white skin and lack of anything more than skin makes him look dead; like he’s just a skeleton with no hope of ever being bought back to life.

My poor baby brother; my poor, poor baby brother.

“Take a good look, Gerard. You did this.” Pete’s words aren’t cold nor are they even all that cruel; simply honest, simply begging me to do the right thing so that he can have his boyfriend back. “You did this and, for some fucked-up reason, you’re the only one who can fix it.”

“Pete, I’m…” I trail off, my words getting caught in my throat as I see Mikes role over to reveal faint red scratch marks staining his face. Pete gently circles his fingers on them, the movement sorrowful and soft; kind of like he’s trying to erase the scratches with his undeniable benevolence. I swallow nervously and step forward, the light from the miniscule window illuminating my worthless face. I have to put things right between me and Pete before Mikey wakes up, I dread to think what might happen if I don’t. “I’m sorry, Pete. I was wrong, so wrong and I really want to get to know you better; you’re my little brother’s boyfriend, after all.”

I offer the defensive-looking eighteen-year-old both an attempt at a friendly half-smile and an outstretched hand, a hand that is something of a silent contract; we may not be one another’s biggest fan, but for Mikey we can pretend to be.

“Wow. How hard did Frankie hit you?”

His pessimistic words cut way deeper than they should and I feel my already sullen face drop even further; I really am trying, can’t he see that?

“It’s fine, Geetard. Or it will be once my Mikey is.”

And with that he reaches a hand from Mikes, takes my own in it and our contract is sealed. I really misjudged him, and I couldn’t feel any worse about it if I tried. I may have misjudged him, but that doesn’t mean that I actually have to like him; I still think that he’s an arrogant, cocky little shit who could probably do with being taken down a peg or two, but I’m allowed to think that. I’m his boyfriend’s big brother, I’m basically the equivalent of an in-law; it’s my job not to like him.

Mine and Pete’s eyes lock, his eyes flashing with an almost threatening slither of protection; I have a feeling that if I let my brother down again, Pete will wind up in prison for murder by the end of it.

We both look down to my half-dead baby brother as a small groan escapes from his cracked, dry lips; lips that haven’t allowed any sort of nutrition past them for at least three days. And it really does show. He really does look even closer to death than he did when he attempted suicide a few months back; he looks more lifeless than ever.

Apart from now his eyes are wide open, like two spinning car tyres, and full of fear; because of me.

I want to hug him so badly, just pull him from where he’s trying to hide in Pete and hold him in my own arms despite the fact that I know Pete would put up a fight for possession of his boyfriend. My arms scream to cradle my little brother like I should be cradling him, every part of my being is yelling at me to squish my baby brother until I’ve eradicated all that I’ve caused. But no. I just let him take me in, not wanting to frighten him like I know any sudden physical contact will. It kills me to admit that, but if I don’t admit it then I’ll never be able to fix it; fix him. Fix us.

“Hey there, bro.” My voice is as soft as my diminishing hangover will allow and I let some of my genuine sorrow seep through, letting him know I’m definitely not any sort of threat to him. “I was just talking to your boyfriend here and he seems like a good guy. I’m happy for you, Kiddo.”

He blinks up at Pete, who is giving him a genuinely warm smile at my words as though to reinforce them, and then up at me; eyes all confusion and pain and fear. Pete nuzzles the side of Mikey’s face gently, shooting me a look that says he’ll do what he likes with his boyfriend and if I don’t like it I can piss off, like he’s trying to reassure him that I’m a good guy; we may not be the best of friends, but when it comes to Mikey, I think that we might just make a great team.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Mikes. I’m your big brother. I know that I messed up.” I smile to myself as I refrain from using ‘fucked up’ in an effort to vent my sorrow and frustration; I can’t swear in front of him whilst he’s like this, it just wouldn’t be right. “I know I did and I’m sorry, really I am.” I pause, slowly reaching a hand out to him to let him know what I am doing and gently stroke his still-bandaged arm. My heart swells like an inflating balloon when he doesn’t flinch away, when he jut wearily regards me with untrusting eyes that break my heart even though I expected it. “Not just for what I did three days ago, but for everything, Mikey. I’ve been a terrible big brother and I’m so sorry!”

As my vision gets blurred by tears it takes a second for me to register the arms that have wrapped around my waist and pulled me down onto the bed with a surprising strength; I’m sat on the edge of my old bed, Pete’s legs stretched out behind me, and with my little brother nestling into my shoulder, his boyfriend sitting upright behind him and with a protective arm around him.

No, this isn’t right; this is happening too quickly. Mikes isn’t doing this because he feels comfortable with it, he’s still shaking and he hasn’t spoken a word, he’s doing it to keep me happy. And I adore him for it; it breaks my heart to know that I have such a perfect brother when I myself have been nothing but cruel to him.

“Mikey, I need you to listen to me, okay?” He nods against my arm and Pete regards me with cautious eyes. “You are the best little brother in the world, don’t ever think any different. I’m the one who messes up; not you. You are not childish or weak; you are a lot stronger than anyone I know. You’ve been through too much for a kid, I couldn’t be more proud of you for lasting as long as you have. When I was hurting you, you didn’t snap or ever hit me back; because you’re a stronger, better person than I am and I’m lucky to have you for a little brother. Sometimes I wonder what I should do to make you happy and when I don’t get an answer it kills me inside. Because I make mistakes, bro, lots of ‘em and I cannot tell you how truly sorry I am. I understand if you hate me or need to be mad at me for a while or if you just want some space or whatever, but know that I’m cool with whatever you want. You say the word and I’m gone, Kiddo; say the word and I’ll get the stars from the sky for you.”

I mean it, every single last sincere syllable; I was stupid to never say it before. I hear a sniffle from behind and turn to see that Pete is smiling at me like we’re friends, perhaps we are; we have to be for Mikes. I poured my heart and soul into my words. I’ve done all that I can and I’m just praying that it’s enough.


I notice Pete squeeze him tighter in encouragement and sullen glee floods out of my eyes; not only did he speak, he didn’t even stutter!

“Yeah, Bro?”

“I’m hungry. Can I have something to eat, please?”

Before I can reply, in the proudest and most heartfelt tone ever to leave my mouth, Pete’s lips are crashing passionately against my little brother’s, both of them fighting in a loving way for dominance over a kiss that is so unadulteratedly adoring that I can’t help but feel another pang of guilt; I tried to stop this, stop the enchanted look in Mikey’s eyes that I’ve only ever seen when they are an eyelash width’s away from Pete’s. Pete places a firm hand Mikey’s stomach, fingers spread out and rubbing little circles in the most caring way imaginable.

And I do nothing to stop them, I just slink off as Mikey crawls to be in his boyfriend’s lap so that I can give them some much deserved privacy and get my baby brother something to eat other than Pete’s face. But I don’t resent Pete for it, not in the slightest.

Because Pete brotherfucking Wentz is the best thing to happen to me and Mikes; he tore us apart and made me realise how to piece us back together.

I’m not stupid, I know that we still have a long way to go until everything is truly good again; but I do know that we will get there. All four of us, me and Frankie and Mikey and Pete, together; we’ll all make everything good again, as a team.

For good this time.

The End.

A/N: Thank you sooo sooooooooo much for taking the time to read this story; I’m kinda sad to see the end of it, if I’m completely honest. I’m sorry that the ending was shitty, I’m not great at endings but I hope that you liked it! For anyone who is kind enough to be interested, I have started a new chaptered story (it will be a Frikey, it will be somewhat depressing but Gerard will be nice all the way through) called “Guardian Ghost”, the prologue is up so it would be really cool to see some familiar faces checking that out. Anyway THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH TO ANYONE WHO HAS REVIEWED/RATED THIS STORY, THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO YOU GUYS!! Thank you very much for reading and please review! :)
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