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Hold
“Hold me. Please.”
Oh God. He’s bleeding and sobbing and hyperventilating and hurt and stood, slumped against the doorframe as though drunk on agony, in the hallway of my house. And I have absolutely no idea what to do.
He’s shown up, at near midnight, out of blue with a horrendous coffee-coloured stain splodged hatefully around his innocently puppy-like eyes; a scraggly limp flawing his skinny, sapling legs; blood dropping from his nose like tiny atomic bombs of pure malevolence, reminding me that man can and will cause the destruction of all innocence. He stumbled through my door a few minutes ago, tears forming a relentless tsunami of sorrow storming down his face, and my heart hasn’t been beating for the entirety of those few minutes. I’m Bob Bryar, the camera-shy tough guy, how am I meant to know what to do when my best friend, the adorably naïve twig of a kid that I’ve been protecting since the start of high school, shows up looking very much like he’s just been attacked? Very rarely do I find myself wishing that my parents didn’t spend so much time away from home, but right now is definitely one of those times; at least they’d know what to do, how to fix him.
How to fix my Mikey when he’s barely managing to breathe through his hurricane of sobs, yet all he’s asking for with his words is for me to hold him and all he’s asking for with his eyes is for me to not be mad. Knowing that he thinks that I could ever be mad at him, especially when he’s so in need of my assistance, should cripple my soul like some bastard’s crippled him. But it doesn’t. Because that’s just how Mikey Way is, it’s just another puzzle piece that makes up the whole, adorable picture. An adorable picture that’s been tainted with blood and pain and anguish; three things that I vowed never to let him feel.
I can remember when I first met Mikes, he was a freshman and I was a sophomore; it may have happened two long years ago, but it’s a day that will constantly play through my mind like a rerun of a classic movie, unforgettable and un-miss-able. Although it was a day that definitely improved my life like some great lottery win, it was definitely a day that I do not connote with happiness or joy, just fear and tears.
It was a Thursday, I can remember every last detail down to what colour socks I was wearing that day (brown, like Mikey’s eyes) purely because it was a pivotal point in my life, and I was leaving late due to being made to clean up the lab after having convinced a classmate that he would look cool with iodine-orange hair. I thank whatever force that controls our meaningless existence that the crazy bastard, some hyperactive punk-kid by the name of Frank, did follow my advice and get caught; otherwise my best friend wouldn’t be here right now. As I was running out to the parking lot I saw him, stood on the pavement outside of the school, like a ghost waiting for the wind to erase his existence.
Normally I would have left, acted like I hadn’t seen a kid shuddering on the roadside, because that’s just how I am; I’m shit with comfort and am usually guaranteed to make it twenty times worse, besides I know that most people (especially teenage boys) are most likely to want to cry alone. However, for some heaven-sent reason, the sight of Mikey Way teetering on the curb sent chills down my spine, like my soul was trying to run straight out of me and over to the boy. So I did. It was just in time, too; I had to grab onto his arm from behind to stop him from walking right into a stampede of oncoming traffic.
He, sweet little Mikey Way, was going to kill himself.
Because the bullies had broken him, for being a freak; for being unique. For being an emo-loser; for being sad and lonely. For being a weirdo; for being an enigma that they just couldn’t get their heads around. It was there, as this boy cried into my shoulder as though we were two old friends, that I came to the conclusion that I was going to look out for him. Because no-one as frailly beautiful as Mikey, as my best friend, should ever have to feel that desperate.
It took us a while, what with him being so cutely shy and me being something of a social retard, but over the past two years we’ve become inseparable; me keeping to my mental promise to keep him safe and him keeping to the agreement that we came to which clearly says that if he ever feels like he’s going to do something stupid again then he’ll call me. Hell, I think I know stuff about him that even his big brother, some gothy-vampire guy who kinda scares me with his fierce protectiveness over Mikes, does. Because he trusts me. And I trust him.
I love him.
I love him in more than the brotherly way that we’ve built up between the two of us. I was going to tell him, actually, this Valentine’s just gone. No matter how clichéd or cheesy that might sound, I honestly thought that it would be something he would appreciate. And I honestly thought that he’s say yes when I asked him to go out with me, the way that he snuggles into me like a kitten every time I give him a comfort-hug made me believe that much. Perhaps he would have done. Had I asked him before someone else beat me to it. A guy named Matt, some senior like me who is nowhere near good enough for Mikes. I know that I have to think that, but it’s true; every kiss I’ve seen them share has made Mikes flinch like a bunny in a thunderstorm, he only ever moans at Mikey rather than compliment or praise him and he just isn’t as gentle with him as I know that Mikes needs him to be.
But he makes Mikey happy and, because I really do love Mikey, that’s enough for me. I may not like him, which is fine because I know that he loathes me back, but Mikes does and that’s all that matters.
All that matters right now is the fact that my poor little buddy is holding his arms shakily out to me, like two fragile roses in a tornado, and dripping salt-tinged blood onto the cream carpet of the entranceway, reminding me very much of an innocent little toddler begging for the soothing comfort that I always give him.
So I gently tug him forward, my insides falling apart at the horror of both seeing him like this and the pain of having the contact that I ache to be romantic, until he’s clutched safely to my chest where nobody can hurt, can so much as look at him funny without me knowing. He feels so weak, like he’s just going to dissolve with the of his tears and disappear into me. My lungs hitch a little as he buries his head into my shoulder, the blood from his nose already sifting through the flimsy fabric of my Iron Maiden t-shirt, and my arms wrap around him tighter than a rollercoaster safety bar; there’s no way that I’m letting him go until I know what’s wrong and that I’ve fixed it. I can feel his heartbeat against my own and it harshly yells to me just how terrified my Mikey truly is right now, and knowing that is enough to make me feel the fear too because I know that whatever happened to him to force him into this unforgiving state will change his life forever; will change us.
What the fuck did happen to a kid who I know to be far stronger than crumbling like this at just a tiny nudge of pressure; this was something truly catastrophic, as catastrophic as the fact that tears are mingling with blood as the crawl down his face, to make him break like this.
“Bob, I… I don’t know what I did, Bob! I don’t know what I even did!” He howls into me, using the most agonized squeal that I’ve ever heard leave the lips of any sinner let alone my perfect little angel.
His heartbroken wail shunts two emotions to the forefront of my whirring mind; the first being complete and utter misery, for lack of a better word, and the other being burningly furious confusion.
The misery courses through my seething veins, igniting every nanometre of my being with the kind of gut-wrenching sorrow that I’ve only ever felt before when I found that Mikey took up Matt’s offer before I could make mine. But even then it wasn’t as severe as this because at least then I could cling onto the fact that I knew Mikes was finally doing something that made him happy rather than being so distraught that I have to hold him upright with the moonlight still dribbling in behind his back from the un-shut front door.
The furious confusion is the thing that’s gripping me the most though. He sounds like he thinks that this is his fault, that the person who did this to him had a valid reason for causing a sixteen-year-old kid with suicidal tendencies to suffer like this. Nobody deserves to suffer where it can be prevented, that’s a view that I’ll only compromise when I’m defending my Mikey, and the fact that whoever has done this not only did it to an innocent little angel but also made him believe that he deserves it is quite honestly sickening. But that’s not why I’m confused. I’m confused because I know that Mikey’s smarter, not to mention too untrusting, to believe some random stranger telling him that he did something bad. Which means that…
“Mikes, who did this to you; who hurt you?” I all but plead with him, not caring about my tough-guy pretence due to the fact that my best friend, the boy I’ve been unrequitedly in love with for the past year or so, has been made to hurt for no justifiable reason.
He shakes his head against my shoulder, making his hellishly warm blood rub through my t-shirt and onto my icy skin. Normally when he doesn’t want to talk I don’t press it; he knows that I’ll listen whenever he’s ready to open up and I know that I’ll get nowhere by trying to force words from his marzipan-rose lips. But this time, like the time that I saved his precious life, is different. This time he’s seriously hurt and could easily get the motherfucker who did this sent to prison for grievous bodily harm. Or end up with me being sent to prison for murder when I find out who did do this. Because it’s obvious from his answer that I know who it was, otherwise he’d have just said it was some creep in an alley or a delusional psychopath or some over malevolent stranger.
And that makes it all the more important that I knew who betrayed his trust, who I’ll be kicking the shit out of once I’ve fixed my Mikey.
“C’mon, Bud, you know that you can tell me. You don’t have to be scared anymore; I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” My words are all but choked out through the asphyxiation that my crippling sympathy has shoved upon me and, for once, I don’t care about not sounding strong; my tone makes it perfectly clear that I care about Mikes, of course I fucking do, and that is something that I want to reiterate to him as clearly as possible through his heightened state of anxiety. “I’m your best friend, Michael James Way. And what’s more is that I’m your protector; I’d do anything to keep you safe. So tell me, Bud, who hurt you?”
He pulls out from my welcoming warmth and the two of us lock eyes; the oceans of my baby blues lapping at the shore of his earthy browns, washing over his mind and letting him know that he really can trust me. Just like he did before someone betrayed his trust by putting him into this state that I never even prayed he wouldn’t be put in because I never thought that someone would want to do this to him. He’s too benevolently sweet for someone to want to actually hurt him this badly; both mentally and physically.
Those bottomless diamond mines blink at me uncertainly, like a new born baby seeing it’s father for the first time, before more tears splinter down his face and a shaky breath, clearly meant to steady his mentality, claws it’s way out of his swollen mouth.
“Matt.”
Oh, Mikes.
I thought he was happy with that motherfucker; I thought that his recent lag in smiles was just natural teenage angst; I thought that, whilst I never have liked Matt, that he was taking good care of my Mikes.
I was wrong. So fucking wrong and now I’m paying the price of having to watch my Mikey shatter under the harsh cruelty of an abusive boyfriend, of the boy who he beamed about when he told me that they were together being capable of hurting him like this.
His head quickly falls to the side in shame, as though he thinks that I’ll laugh at him or call him weak for having a broken heart to match his fragile body. As if I ever could.
Hang on. There’s another bruise, this one yellowed with age, streaked across the area of his face where his dark-chocolate fringe has just slipped from in his harsh movement. Everything inside of me stops, apart from my hand, which gently cups his streaked face and forces him to look me in the eye once more.
“Has he hurt you before?” It’s more of an accusation than a question but I say it with more than enough gentleness to make him know that I don’t blame this at all on him; more like on myself for not noticing. “Mikey it’s really important that you tell me, Bud.”
He launches into my chest once more, my arms holding him into me with the same secureness as a kangaroo’s pouch, my hands pressing the back of his head softly into my neck so that he can have my soothing contact and so that I can feel the down of his feathery hair; hair that should never be matted with the blood of a saint.
“It doesn’t matter, Bob.” Fuck; how could he even think that? “He doesn’t mean it.”
How can he call this, bleeding and bruising and battering, not meaning it; what the fuck has that creep done to my Mikey? I don’t know, but I just hope that I can undo it. Perhaps I should call the cops, that’s what you’re meant to do when it comes to abuse, right? But does it work the same with high school kids, does the abuse still count if it’s between children?
Of course it fucking does. That bastard strung Mikes along, got what he wanted and now is hurting him more than either me or Mikey can stand. That’s abuse. The second that he laid a finger on my angel was the second that he became an abuser and now he has to pay for what he’s done. I will be calling the cops and, quite possibly if that nasty gash on Mikey’s forehead doesn’t stop bleeding soon, an ambulance. But not before I’ve made Mikes see what’s been done, is still being done, to him.
“He loves me. He doesn’t mean it.” He sounds so horribly broken, so like he’s trying to convince himself that he’s simply loved that it renews my scorching fury; this bastard’s finally managed to break the sweetheart that I’d only just put back together.
Why can’t he see that he doesn’t need Matt to be loved; that I love him more than anyone else ever could? To be quite honest, I don’t care about the ‘why’, just that it is this way and that I have to fix it, have to make him see sense. Make him realise that I do love him because, just maybe, if he sees it then he won’t think that he needs Matt. He doesn’t need Matt, if anything he needs to be as far away from Matt as hell is from heaven, but that’s how abuse works; Mikey’s been made to think that he does need him because Matt needs Mikes to think that in order for him to get away with it. Well, not anymore. This ends tonight.
I shudder as Mikes sobs out loudly, his world crashing down around him in the cruellest way imaginable. My poor, poor Mikey; that motherfucker will pay for this, I can promise that right now. I just want to coo to Mikes and baby him, coddle him and tell him that Matt does love him purely because that’s what Mikey wants to hear, but I can’t do any of that. Because I’ve got to make him see that it’s wrong to take advantage of someone like he has been taken advantage of. So very wrong.
“No, Mikes. He doesn’t love you and he does mean it! I’m sorry, Bud, but he can’t not.” I wince as he grips my t-shirt even tighter as a cry rattles rampantly through his trembling body. In response to his actions, one of my hands slides smoothly down his back where it strokes gentle yet firm patterns onto the spine that is most likely riddled with bruises that should never be inflicted upon such an innocent soul. Or anyone else, for that matter. “You might not see it or want to believe it, but Matt does not love you, Mikey. He wouldn’t hurt you if he did. Love might hurt us, might make us want to take out that hurt on the person who makes us feel it, but if it’s true love, meaning that you really do care about the other person, then you don’t because seeing them in pain hurts you more than loving them does.”
Tears are clambering out of my eyes too now, my mind reeling from both the honesty of my pleading words and from the events of this night. The night that is making me resent this world as much as Mikes did when I first met him. Like I never want him to again. Because I love him, really fucking love him like nothing else.
“Love makes us hurt inside, not makes us hurt the person that we love.” He’s looking up at me like a lost little lamb, cyanide pooling in his corneas. “And don’t think that you need him, Mikes; you don’t.”
“I do!” He yells, taking a step away from me so that we can both see each other clearly; him with his hands clutched in fists tightly at his side to both alleviate pain and contain his frustration; me just gawping at him, for once at a complete loss. “He said that he’s the only person who’ll have me, that I’m broken and fucked-up and that he’s just helping me and, Bob, I just don’t want to be alone!”
His stilt-like legs give out from beneath him, making fall to the ground in a heap of heart-shattered innocence. Apart from he’s not innocent anymore, nobody who’s gone through something like this and has been fucked around so many times could ever manage to stay truly innocent. And he thinks that he’ll be alone without Matt; without the person who’s been hurting him when all that he really needs is someone to cuddle him close.
Someone like me.
So I kneel down next to him, our two sets of wanderer’s eyes padlocking onto each other, his lower lip quivering as he just crawls into my lap, letting me hold him like I know I have to if I ever want this ache in my chest to go away.
“I don’t want to be alone, Bob.” He whimpers quietly up at me, making me sure of what I have to do.
It’s risky and dangerous, but right now I’m willing to try anything; it’s not like this situation can get any worse than it already is, for both him and me.
“Mikey Way, you’ll never be alone. Ever. I promise.” I swallow past the numerous obstructions (the key three being sorrow, fury and love) building in my throat and cuddle him close, relishing the way that his wild sobs are dying down into heartbreakingly desperate sniffles. “Because I love you, Mikes. I really do. And I’m sorry that I let this happen to you, but I really do love you. So fucking much.”
And, in that moment where everything seems to fade away into a vague sense of okay-ness, I know that everything will work out. Because he’s starting to smile at me, a watery and wavering smile, but a smile nonetheless.
A smile that I’ve pressed my own lips to in a moment of unquestionable good intentions and a longing to show him just how much I mean it; enough for me to not press too hard on his swollen lips no matter how much every part of me wants to taste him entirely.
Because I really do love him. Not the kind of love where I’d ever hurt him in any conceivable way, but the kind of love that means the gentle retaliation of his lips is enough to make me forget the burning fury that’s eating away at my heart.
Because when you’re truly in love, like I am with Mikes, it’s impossible to feel anything less than that love when you’re together.
Hate is impossible when you’re kissing an angel.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that this was alright! I’ve been wanting to write another Bikey one-shot for ages, but I didn’t really have any ideas so I got out my prompt table and got the word ‘hold’, spawning this crappy little ramble. Thank you very much for reading and please let me know what you think/how to improve! :)
“Hold me. Please.”
Oh God. He’s bleeding and sobbing and hyperventilating and hurt and stood, slumped against the doorframe as though drunk on agony, in the hallway of my house. And I have absolutely no idea what to do.
He’s shown up, at near midnight, out of blue with a horrendous coffee-coloured stain splodged hatefully around his innocently puppy-like eyes; a scraggly limp flawing his skinny, sapling legs; blood dropping from his nose like tiny atomic bombs of pure malevolence, reminding me that man can and will cause the destruction of all innocence. He stumbled through my door a few minutes ago, tears forming a relentless tsunami of sorrow storming down his face, and my heart hasn’t been beating for the entirety of those few minutes. I’m Bob Bryar, the camera-shy tough guy, how am I meant to know what to do when my best friend, the adorably naïve twig of a kid that I’ve been protecting since the start of high school, shows up looking very much like he’s just been attacked? Very rarely do I find myself wishing that my parents didn’t spend so much time away from home, but right now is definitely one of those times; at least they’d know what to do, how to fix him.
How to fix my Mikey when he’s barely managing to breathe through his hurricane of sobs, yet all he’s asking for with his words is for me to hold him and all he’s asking for with his eyes is for me to not be mad. Knowing that he thinks that I could ever be mad at him, especially when he’s so in need of my assistance, should cripple my soul like some bastard’s crippled him. But it doesn’t. Because that’s just how Mikey Way is, it’s just another puzzle piece that makes up the whole, adorable picture. An adorable picture that’s been tainted with blood and pain and anguish; three things that I vowed never to let him feel.
I can remember when I first met Mikes, he was a freshman and I was a sophomore; it may have happened two long years ago, but it’s a day that will constantly play through my mind like a rerun of a classic movie, unforgettable and un-miss-able. Although it was a day that definitely improved my life like some great lottery win, it was definitely a day that I do not connote with happiness or joy, just fear and tears.
It was a Thursday, I can remember every last detail down to what colour socks I was wearing that day (brown, like Mikey’s eyes) purely because it was a pivotal point in my life, and I was leaving late due to being made to clean up the lab after having convinced a classmate that he would look cool with iodine-orange hair. I thank whatever force that controls our meaningless existence that the crazy bastard, some hyperactive punk-kid by the name of Frank, did follow my advice and get caught; otherwise my best friend wouldn’t be here right now. As I was running out to the parking lot I saw him, stood on the pavement outside of the school, like a ghost waiting for the wind to erase his existence.
Normally I would have left, acted like I hadn’t seen a kid shuddering on the roadside, because that’s just how I am; I’m shit with comfort and am usually guaranteed to make it twenty times worse, besides I know that most people (especially teenage boys) are most likely to want to cry alone. However, for some heaven-sent reason, the sight of Mikey Way teetering on the curb sent chills down my spine, like my soul was trying to run straight out of me and over to the boy. So I did. It was just in time, too; I had to grab onto his arm from behind to stop him from walking right into a stampede of oncoming traffic.
He, sweet little Mikey Way, was going to kill himself.
Because the bullies had broken him, for being a freak; for being unique. For being an emo-loser; for being sad and lonely. For being a weirdo; for being an enigma that they just couldn’t get their heads around. It was there, as this boy cried into my shoulder as though we were two old friends, that I came to the conclusion that I was going to look out for him. Because no-one as frailly beautiful as Mikey, as my best friend, should ever have to feel that desperate.
It took us a while, what with him being so cutely shy and me being something of a social retard, but over the past two years we’ve become inseparable; me keeping to my mental promise to keep him safe and him keeping to the agreement that we came to which clearly says that if he ever feels like he’s going to do something stupid again then he’ll call me. Hell, I think I know stuff about him that even his big brother, some gothy-vampire guy who kinda scares me with his fierce protectiveness over Mikes, does. Because he trusts me. And I trust him.
I love him.
I love him in more than the brotherly way that we’ve built up between the two of us. I was going to tell him, actually, this Valentine’s just gone. No matter how clichéd or cheesy that might sound, I honestly thought that it would be something he would appreciate. And I honestly thought that he’s say yes when I asked him to go out with me, the way that he snuggles into me like a kitten every time I give him a comfort-hug made me believe that much. Perhaps he would have done. Had I asked him before someone else beat me to it. A guy named Matt, some senior like me who is nowhere near good enough for Mikes. I know that I have to think that, but it’s true; every kiss I’ve seen them share has made Mikes flinch like a bunny in a thunderstorm, he only ever moans at Mikey rather than compliment or praise him and he just isn’t as gentle with him as I know that Mikes needs him to be.
But he makes Mikey happy and, because I really do love Mikey, that’s enough for me. I may not like him, which is fine because I know that he loathes me back, but Mikes does and that’s all that matters.
All that matters right now is the fact that my poor little buddy is holding his arms shakily out to me, like two fragile roses in a tornado, and dripping salt-tinged blood onto the cream carpet of the entranceway, reminding me very much of an innocent little toddler begging for the soothing comfort that I always give him.
So I gently tug him forward, my insides falling apart at the horror of both seeing him like this and the pain of having the contact that I ache to be romantic, until he’s clutched safely to my chest where nobody can hurt, can so much as look at him funny without me knowing. He feels so weak, like he’s just going to dissolve with the of his tears and disappear into me. My lungs hitch a little as he buries his head into my shoulder, the blood from his nose already sifting through the flimsy fabric of my Iron Maiden t-shirt, and my arms wrap around him tighter than a rollercoaster safety bar; there’s no way that I’m letting him go until I know what’s wrong and that I’ve fixed it. I can feel his heartbeat against my own and it harshly yells to me just how terrified my Mikey truly is right now, and knowing that is enough to make me feel the fear too because I know that whatever happened to him to force him into this unforgiving state will change his life forever; will change us.
What the fuck did happen to a kid who I know to be far stronger than crumbling like this at just a tiny nudge of pressure; this was something truly catastrophic, as catastrophic as the fact that tears are mingling with blood as the crawl down his face, to make him break like this.
“Bob, I… I don’t know what I did, Bob! I don’t know what I even did!” He howls into me, using the most agonized squeal that I’ve ever heard leave the lips of any sinner let alone my perfect little angel.
His heartbroken wail shunts two emotions to the forefront of my whirring mind; the first being complete and utter misery, for lack of a better word, and the other being burningly furious confusion.
The misery courses through my seething veins, igniting every nanometre of my being with the kind of gut-wrenching sorrow that I’ve only ever felt before when I found that Mikey took up Matt’s offer before I could make mine. But even then it wasn’t as severe as this because at least then I could cling onto the fact that I knew Mikes was finally doing something that made him happy rather than being so distraught that I have to hold him upright with the moonlight still dribbling in behind his back from the un-shut front door.
The furious confusion is the thing that’s gripping me the most though. He sounds like he thinks that this is his fault, that the person who did this to him had a valid reason for causing a sixteen-year-old kid with suicidal tendencies to suffer like this. Nobody deserves to suffer where it can be prevented, that’s a view that I’ll only compromise when I’m defending my Mikey, and the fact that whoever has done this not only did it to an innocent little angel but also made him believe that he deserves it is quite honestly sickening. But that’s not why I’m confused. I’m confused because I know that Mikey’s smarter, not to mention too untrusting, to believe some random stranger telling him that he did something bad. Which means that…
“Mikes, who did this to you; who hurt you?” I all but plead with him, not caring about my tough-guy pretence due to the fact that my best friend, the boy I’ve been unrequitedly in love with for the past year or so, has been made to hurt for no justifiable reason.
He shakes his head against my shoulder, making his hellishly warm blood rub through my t-shirt and onto my icy skin. Normally when he doesn’t want to talk I don’t press it; he knows that I’ll listen whenever he’s ready to open up and I know that I’ll get nowhere by trying to force words from his marzipan-rose lips. But this time, like the time that I saved his precious life, is different. This time he’s seriously hurt and could easily get the motherfucker who did this sent to prison for grievous bodily harm. Or end up with me being sent to prison for murder when I find out who did do this. Because it’s obvious from his answer that I know who it was, otherwise he’d have just said it was some creep in an alley or a delusional psychopath or some over malevolent stranger.
And that makes it all the more important that I knew who betrayed his trust, who I’ll be kicking the shit out of once I’ve fixed my Mikey.
“C’mon, Bud, you know that you can tell me. You don’t have to be scared anymore; I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” My words are all but choked out through the asphyxiation that my crippling sympathy has shoved upon me and, for once, I don’t care about not sounding strong; my tone makes it perfectly clear that I care about Mikes, of course I fucking do, and that is something that I want to reiterate to him as clearly as possible through his heightened state of anxiety. “I’m your best friend, Michael James Way. And what’s more is that I’m your protector; I’d do anything to keep you safe. So tell me, Bud, who hurt you?”
He pulls out from my welcoming warmth and the two of us lock eyes; the oceans of my baby blues lapping at the shore of his earthy browns, washing over his mind and letting him know that he really can trust me. Just like he did before someone betrayed his trust by putting him into this state that I never even prayed he wouldn’t be put in because I never thought that someone would want to do this to him. He’s too benevolently sweet for someone to want to actually hurt him this badly; both mentally and physically.
Those bottomless diamond mines blink at me uncertainly, like a new born baby seeing it’s father for the first time, before more tears splinter down his face and a shaky breath, clearly meant to steady his mentality, claws it’s way out of his swollen mouth.
“Matt.”
Oh, Mikes.
I thought he was happy with that motherfucker; I thought that his recent lag in smiles was just natural teenage angst; I thought that, whilst I never have liked Matt, that he was taking good care of my Mikes.
I was wrong. So fucking wrong and now I’m paying the price of having to watch my Mikey shatter under the harsh cruelty of an abusive boyfriend, of the boy who he beamed about when he told me that they were together being capable of hurting him like this.
His head quickly falls to the side in shame, as though he thinks that I’ll laugh at him or call him weak for having a broken heart to match his fragile body. As if I ever could.
Hang on. There’s another bruise, this one yellowed with age, streaked across the area of his face where his dark-chocolate fringe has just slipped from in his harsh movement. Everything inside of me stops, apart from my hand, which gently cups his streaked face and forces him to look me in the eye once more.
“Has he hurt you before?” It’s more of an accusation than a question but I say it with more than enough gentleness to make him know that I don’t blame this at all on him; more like on myself for not noticing. “Mikey it’s really important that you tell me, Bud.”
He launches into my chest once more, my arms holding him into me with the same secureness as a kangaroo’s pouch, my hands pressing the back of his head softly into my neck so that he can have my soothing contact and so that I can feel the down of his feathery hair; hair that should never be matted with the blood of a saint.
“It doesn’t matter, Bob.” Fuck; how could he even think that? “He doesn’t mean it.”
How can he call this, bleeding and bruising and battering, not meaning it; what the fuck has that creep done to my Mikey? I don’t know, but I just hope that I can undo it. Perhaps I should call the cops, that’s what you’re meant to do when it comes to abuse, right? But does it work the same with high school kids, does the abuse still count if it’s between children?
Of course it fucking does. That bastard strung Mikes along, got what he wanted and now is hurting him more than either me or Mikey can stand. That’s abuse. The second that he laid a finger on my angel was the second that he became an abuser and now he has to pay for what he’s done. I will be calling the cops and, quite possibly if that nasty gash on Mikey’s forehead doesn’t stop bleeding soon, an ambulance. But not before I’ve made Mikes see what’s been done, is still being done, to him.
“He loves me. He doesn’t mean it.” He sounds so horribly broken, so like he’s trying to convince himself that he’s simply loved that it renews my scorching fury; this bastard’s finally managed to break the sweetheart that I’d only just put back together.
Why can’t he see that he doesn’t need Matt to be loved; that I love him more than anyone else ever could? To be quite honest, I don’t care about the ‘why’, just that it is this way and that I have to fix it, have to make him see sense. Make him realise that I do love him because, just maybe, if he sees it then he won’t think that he needs Matt. He doesn’t need Matt, if anything he needs to be as far away from Matt as hell is from heaven, but that’s how abuse works; Mikey’s been made to think that he does need him because Matt needs Mikes to think that in order for him to get away with it. Well, not anymore. This ends tonight.
I shudder as Mikes sobs out loudly, his world crashing down around him in the cruellest way imaginable. My poor, poor Mikey; that motherfucker will pay for this, I can promise that right now. I just want to coo to Mikes and baby him, coddle him and tell him that Matt does love him purely because that’s what Mikey wants to hear, but I can’t do any of that. Because I’ve got to make him see that it’s wrong to take advantage of someone like he has been taken advantage of. So very wrong.
“No, Mikes. He doesn’t love you and he does mean it! I’m sorry, Bud, but he can’t not.” I wince as he grips my t-shirt even tighter as a cry rattles rampantly through his trembling body. In response to his actions, one of my hands slides smoothly down his back where it strokes gentle yet firm patterns onto the spine that is most likely riddled with bruises that should never be inflicted upon such an innocent soul. Or anyone else, for that matter. “You might not see it or want to believe it, but Matt does not love you, Mikey. He wouldn’t hurt you if he did. Love might hurt us, might make us want to take out that hurt on the person who makes us feel it, but if it’s true love, meaning that you really do care about the other person, then you don’t because seeing them in pain hurts you more than loving them does.”
Tears are clambering out of my eyes too now, my mind reeling from both the honesty of my pleading words and from the events of this night. The night that is making me resent this world as much as Mikes did when I first met him. Like I never want him to again. Because I love him, really fucking love him like nothing else.
“Love makes us hurt inside, not makes us hurt the person that we love.” He’s looking up at me like a lost little lamb, cyanide pooling in his corneas. “And don’t think that you need him, Mikes; you don’t.”
“I do!” He yells, taking a step away from me so that we can both see each other clearly; him with his hands clutched in fists tightly at his side to both alleviate pain and contain his frustration; me just gawping at him, for once at a complete loss. “He said that he’s the only person who’ll have me, that I’m broken and fucked-up and that he’s just helping me and, Bob, I just don’t want to be alone!”
His stilt-like legs give out from beneath him, making fall to the ground in a heap of heart-shattered innocence. Apart from he’s not innocent anymore, nobody who’s gone through something like this and has been fucked around so many times could ever manage to stay truly innocent. And he thinks that he’ll be alone without Matt; without the person who’s been hurting him when all that he really needs is someone to cuddle him close.
Someone like me.
So I kneel down next to him, our two sets of wanderer’s eyes padlocking onto each other, his lower lip quivering as he just crawls into my lap, letting me hold him like I know I have to if I ever want this ache in my chest to go away.
“I don’t want to be alone, Bob.” He whimpers quietly up at me, making me sure of what I have to do.
It’s risky and dangerous, but right now I’m willing to try anything; it’s not like this situation can get any worse than it already is, for both him and me.
“Mikey Way, you’ll never be alone. Ever. I promise.” I swallow past the numerous obstructions (the key three being sorrow, fury and love) building in my throat and cuddle him close, relishing the way that his wild sobs are dying down into heartbreakingly desperate sniffles. “Because I love you, Mikes. I really do. And I’m sorry that I let this happen to you, but I really do love you. So fucking much.”
And, in that moment where everything seems to fade away into a vague sense of okay-ness, I know that everything will work out. Because he’s starting to smile at me, a watery and wavering smile, but a smile nonetheless.
A smile that I’ve pressed my own lips to in a moment of unquestionable good intentions and a longing to show him just how much I mean it; enough for me to not press too hard on his swollen lips no matter how much every part of me wants to taste him entirely.
Because I really do love him. Not the kind of love where I’d ever hurt him in any conceivable way, but the kind of love that means the gentle retaliation of his lips is enough to make me forget the burning fury that’s eating away at my heart.
Because when you’re truly in love, like I am with Mikes, it’s impossible to feel anything less than that love when you’re together.
Hate is impossible when you’re kissing an angel.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading and I hope that this was alright! I’ve been wanting to write another Bikey one-shot for ages, but I didn’t really have any ideas so I got out my prompt table and got the word ‘hold’, spawning this crappy little ramble. Thank you very much for reading and please let me know what you think/how to improve! :)
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