FicWad

Just a Kiss




I guess most teenagers dream of their first kiss; of that first brush with Love’s fickle rose petals, of feeling the tiny cushion of hope that means everything will be alright just because in the mind of a clueless teenager a kiss means that someone cares.

That you matter.

Most teenagers spend hours daydreaming of their first collision with Love’s tender perfume, the obnoxious odour sending them reeling into the stunned silence that fairy-tale princesses always gasp into after that magical first expression of passion. Most teenagers moan and gripe about how they’ll never get to taste what’s-his-name’s mouth, about how they’ll never get to taste what society has taught them that life tastes like; true love. Most teenagers eagerly anticipate having their lips unlocked with the key of another’s tongue, having someone to love and hold and touch; someone to be theirs because, as a teenager, you think that’s what a kiss means.

Going by this brief, and somewhat stereotyped, analysis I think that it is safe to say with some high degree of certainty that I, Mikey Way, am not like most teenagers.

Like I didn’t know that already.

Do most teenagers spend as much time as humanly possible away from other animalistic teenagers through some pathetic fear of something that I don’t even understand myself, just that the constantly fresh bruises on my back have something to do with it? Do most teenagers treat their big brother’s treasured collection of rare DC comics as though they’re made of gold because they are one of the few things that can actually distract them from being yelled at, from being teased and being a walking let-down to their parents? Do most teenagers live life as though their headphones are being magnetised towards the centre of their brain largely due to the fact that music is the only thing that can blot everything else out, just make it all stop because I know that the music won’t judge me; won’t laugh at me when I sob to it’s soothing symphony of hope? Do most teenagers think that the idea of that fatal first plunge into inevitable heartbreak is absolutely terrifying?

The answer to all of those questions is a resounding, immovable ‘no’.

And yet all of those things describe me, describe the scrawny little freak who has to hide behind his big brother in order to stop his parents’ shouting at him about not being good enough, about how I need to get some friends and stop being the anti-social little fucktard that years of torment have cursed me with being.

Apart from it’s not a curse, it’s a blessing; perhaps if I wasn’t so pathetically introverted then I might have already had my first kiss. That pinprick of so-called adoration that is meant to mean everything when, in reality, it just means hours of crying and thirty tubs of Ben and Jerry’s when you finally figure out that you’re about as loved as last night’s left-overs.

I hate to sound cynical, but it’s true. I’ve seen Gerard kissing loads of girls, some guys too, and it never lasts; within a few days he’ll be alone in his bedroom, crying about how he should have tried harder, about how shitty love is and how he’s never going to make the same mistake twice. Yet he always does, he always ends up with some pretty little thing or some gorgeously muscular guy, always ends up back in his room with his stereo valiantly battling to drown out his tears of imminent heartbreak.

Or at least, that’s how it normally is; tonight he’s gone out with friends to some party or another, perfectly intent on drinking away all that love, a love that was no doubt started by some motherfucking kiss, has forced into his mind. That’s another reason for me to sicken at the thought of having my first kiss; love changes people. Love is a drug that distorts people, makes people think that our humble little world is actually heaven whilst they’re in love and then see our meagre planet as some sort of hell when that love gets snatched away from them; it makes people act like the very person that they swore they never would be. Gee, for example, used to be almost as quiet as I am, used to only ever speak up when I was in need of his brotherly defence and protection; now though, he goes out most nights either with a love or in search of one, and when he gets in he’s always drunk. Drunk or already passed out.

Neither are things that I enjoy seeing.

Which is why I’m currently curled up in a ball on my big brother’s bed, my headphones acting as corks to keep my dull mind from spurting out into the colourful world that has been blackened by my thoughts; Gerard’s out right now, out and getting drunk and most likely starting off the chain of events that always starts with a kiss of lust but will always end with a snake-bite of hate. Which in turn means that the process will begin again, all kick-started by one fucking kiss. It always goes like this nowadays; go out, get drunk, give a kiss, fall in love, fall out of love, go out, get drunk, get over it by giving another kiss.

He always ends up getting drunk and I’m fucking sick of it! I’m fifteen years old and supposed to be hanging out with friends, not sniffling softly to myself and wondering when my big brother will come home.

If he’ll come home at all.

I still love him though, still think that he’s the best big brother I could ever ask for. After all, he’s the only person who bothers with me anymore; he always cleans me up with his experienced hands whenever I get kissed with a fist, taking so much care and caution that wounds that would normally take minutes to tend to often take him the best part of an hour; he always buys me new CDs and comics whenever he has the money because he knows how much I rely on them to simply pull me through the day, I think that he does this partly due to the guilt that I can see shining in his eyes whenever he wakes up with a hangover, with me cuddled into his side as though I thought he could die from being drunk; he always gives me advice whenever I ask for it, which isn’t all that often now that I know his solutions to his own problems; he always looks at me as though I matter, as though I’m something more than a lonely teenager with a bizarre obsession with rock music; he’s always trying to get me to hang out with his friends.

Friends who let him come home practically unable to walk most nights. Friends who I want to call my enemies for letting Gerard get like he does, friends who I just can’t hate because I know the Gee can be ridiculously stubborn; friends that I love because they never let my big brother drink alone, never let him come to any real harm.

Friends who are constantly checking in on me because Gerard makes them, makes them act like I’m the sort of guy that they want hanging around with them. I know that Gerard’s only trying to help when he asks them to talk to me, to try to get me to be a part of their little group, and I honestly do love him for it but at the same time it makes me feel twice as useless than I really am; I only have contacts on my cell because my big brother thinks that I have no social life and thus is trying to make one for me.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Actually, it is.

There’s this one guy, a tall muscly seventeen-year-old with the sort of hair that I would easily fall asleep against given the chance, who I think really does like me for me, really does want to get to know me for reasons other than Gerard forcing him to look out for his depressed baby brother; Ray Toro his name is. Whenever he comes over to watch some cheesy horror flick with Gee he’s always the first, even before my brother, to insist that I’m wanted amongst them. He’s always the one who brings Gee home when he’s too intoxicated to drive, always gives me reassuring smiles when he can see my heart breaking at the sight of my big brother being so far out of it just because of some kiss, always trying to start little conversations with me that usually revolve around anything that isn’t Gerard. And that’s why I can see myself getting along with him so well; we both care about Gee.

Perhaps too much for our own collective good.

No, it is for our own good. Well, for my own good anyway; doing so has bought me closer to Ray, to the one person other than my big brother who can actually get me to engage in a proper conversation. Why? Because he doesn’t demand it like everyone else does, he just sits down next to me and waits until I have something that I want to share with him. When I do speak he always listens with such great intent that I feel as though what I say actually matters, that everything the bullies say is bullshit just because someone as kind, as smart, as caring, as generous as Ray thinks that I’m worth listening to; that there’s more to me than the constant black-eyes, more than the ringing paranoia that creeps up on me when someone wants me to talk, more than the anxiety which controls me if I ever do leave my bedroom. He sees that I’m just a teenager, a lost kid in need of someone to guide me home. Sees that his little text messages that he sprinkles my phone with like wedding confetti really do make a difference; the difference between me collapsing in a fit of bawled sobs every time I get beaten up and me just sniffling a little, the thought that someone other than my big brother cares reminding me that things really aren’t all that bad because I at least have Ray’s encouragement and care.

Because Ray really does care, really does like me.

Sure, he might be Gerard’s best friend but that doesn’t mean that he can’t be my best friend too; in fact, I think that might be what he wants. Why else would he text me; smile at me; sit next to me when we watch movies; let me cry into his open arms when he drops Gee back home a little worse for wear?

I want him to be my best friend, to be that person who I can always depend on to care about me even when no-one else does.

No. I don’t want him to be my best friend; I think that I want him to be my boyfriend.

I know what I said about the whole love and kissing thing, but for Ray I think that I could put myself through all of that, for his bright diamonds of benevolence and duvet-soft grin I could put myself through anything.

After all, isn’t that what love means? Not caring about the pain, about the anguish, about the fear because you know that you have someone who’s going through it with you; baring with the dangers of heartbreak because you know that any amount of agony is worth putting up with as long as you get at least a little bit of time with that special person; longing for those kisses that will ache when you end because you know that you have to get them whilst you still can.

Apart from I don’t think that someone like Ray is even capable of breaking anyone’s heart, he’s far too kind and gentle for that.

Not that he’ll ever get to break my heart; he’s my big brother’s best friend, a guy way too nice for a creep like me. He’s my friend and I’m more than grateful for that small mercy, he’s someone who I know that I can count on when I need him; someone who gives amazing cuddles when I’m upset, cuddles that would probably be an uncountable number of times better if they were being given in a romantic context. But freaks like me never get anything in a romantic context, it just never happens that way.

Perhaps that’s why I resent the idea of first kisses and true love so much, because I know that I will never have either of those things.

I feel my cell vibrate against my right fist where I’ve had it clutched for the past two hours, eagerly awaiting in both fear and desperation for the text that I know is coming; a text from Ray telling me that everything’s alright, that he’s looking after Gee like I probably should be, that he’s looking forward to seeing me when he drops my brother back home. I flip my cell open as though the text will disappear if I don’t read those precious words that give me purpose and I let out a small sigh of relief when I see the small notification proclaiming that the vibration was indeed caused by my saviour; by Ray Toro.

I open the message and scan it with hungry eyes, my heartbeat fastening like it always does through a mixture of worry about my brother and a longing to know that I will be seeing Ray before the end of the night, that I will be seeing my first ever crush.

Heya Mikes, just letting you know that everything’s fine. We’re just leaving the party now and we’ll be at yours in ten. Think you could put some coffee on? I need to talk to you about something important.
Looking forward to seeing you. As always.
X

My heart all but stops as I read that one final letter, those two lines that have wrapped around my trachea and are making me choke in disbelief; he’s never ended with a kiss before. Does this mean that there’ll be more, that I can embark on the journey which I feared before I met Ray?

How should I know?

It’s just a kiss, after all; the first step into sweet oblivion.





A/N: Thank you very much for reading; I hope that it was alright! I’ve never written a Rikey before, so I was kinda nervous about uploading this and sorry if it was crap. Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)

NEW A/N: I've been thinking about making this a two-shot and I was wondering if anyone would read it and if anyone has any ideas/suggestions about what could happen? I've got a few, but I'd really like to know what you think! Thanks. :D