Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
I Don't Want What I Can Have
5 reviewsMikey's always been told that he's perfect. He doesn't want to be, he just wants to unravel the enigma. MIRO one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
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I Don’t Want What I Can Have
They always told me that I could have any girl that I wanted; preppy, nerd, Goth, emo. Hell, I probably could have pulled the goddess of a science teacher that we were blessed with having for half a term before she got arrested for having an affair with a pupil (or three, depending on what rumour you believe). I could have any dazzling blonde or enchanting brunette, any dazed blue-eyed wonder or dreamy green-orbed doll, any long-legged flower or petite little honey. I could have literally any girl that takes my fancy, or so I’ve been told.
I’ve never really understood the appeal of myself really, I mean I get that the girls like me and all, but I don’t ever really get why. I’ve been told that it’s because I’ve got typical “bad-boy” good looks, whatever that means, that I look dangerous and that, for some stupid reason, pulls girls in. But I’m not dangerous and nor do I want to be; I’m just me, Mikey Way, some geeky kid who loves comic books like a Christian loves the bible and can play the holy grail of my bass until my fingers have fallen clean off. I’m not bad, I’m not dangerous and I’m sure as hell none of the other things that I’ve been told (sexy, emo and the little brother of a vampire, to name but a few) make me a gift to the opposite sex; I’m Mikey Way, a lanky fifteen-year-old trying to survive to see sixteen and then maybe seventeen after that.
Besides, I’m not interested in the girls who find my skinny jeans “kewt” or my glasses “adawkable”. I’m not interested in girls at all, for that matter. Nor boys like Gee is. Just Him. The one who should be reeling in all of the girls that I don’t want in with his flop of dark caramel hair that I ache to taste instead of being giggled at by them; the one who should be praised for the intricate designs that he pens onto his face with eyeliner at lunch every day when he thinks that nobody’s watching rather than getting thrown against lockers for feeling free to express himself in such a stunningly artistic way; the one who I sit next to in Chemistry when I should be sat next to some girl name Alicia, who was all too willing to swap seats with me and my ‘good looks’.
I am, of course, referring to the school oddball; the enigma that is Ryan Ross.
I understand him about as much as I understand my so-called attractiveness and I guess that’s what has drawn me to him, that along with the fact that he’s a genuinely nice, unique human being. A human being who is actually a human being and accepts it without trying to cover it up like so many others do; he has flaws, his sweet shyness being a pale example of that, and he knows it. He has one of those personalities that is just impossible to forget, just the way that he sees the world as though the slightest thing is a magical blessing that can be describe in so many different ways.
That’s another thing that I love about him; his undeniably breath-taking way with words. After being his lab partner for over half of our sophomore year we’ve become, or I’d like to believe that we have, good friends. Which subsequently means that when I asked him what he’s always scribbling into his hand-decorated notebook he told me.
No, he did more than that; he showed me. Lyrics, poems, little random thoughts that just pop into his cute little head. All of them equally as stunning as the brightest star, each biro-captured curiosity making my lungs constrict in pure awe at what this boy can conjure up in my mind with just the language that I had learnt to associate with dullness and normality and hate. Hate because, although I’m popular with the girls, the guys at my school aren’t all that thrilled to have me in their omnipotent fucking presence; apparently being both quiet and a little effeminate whilst stealing more of their girlfriends’ attention than them, no matter how unwittingly, is a crime punishable by punching. I think that might be why Ryan’s lyrics appeal to me so much, we both understand each other’s backgrounds and feelings even if we understand nothing else, so his words just click into the empty gaps that my mind was full of before I finally plucked up the courage to talk to my lab partner all of those months ago.
Which brings me to where I am right now, sat in Chemistry and watching Ryan, or Ryro as everyone else calls him, as he gazes wistfully out of a nearby window like a tiger dreaming of escaping the confines of it’s depressing little cage. He’s always like this, just looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here. And it’s not in the normal schoolboy way either, it’s like he’d rather be inside of himself; running wild with the thoughts that very few people, myself included, ever get to see. The sunlight’s filtering in through the grimy glass, capturing the dust to make it look like tiny little fairies dancing around the whimsical boy that I’ve been infatuated with for such a long time that I just can’t remember it not being this way; me just gazing at Ryro when he’s wrapped up in his magnificent treasure-trove of a mind.
The sad part is that, through months of shameless observation and friendly conversation, I know exactly why he lets himself get so lost in that magical wonderland that is his pretty little head. It’s because the real world is too cruel to him from him to want to be among those who’ll shoot down a swan just to see something majestic die at their worthless hands for a dull sense of meaningless pride.
The teacher’s been out of the room for the past five minutes, something to do with a faulty keyboard on his laptop, and already the majority of the class is doing everything but the work. Including myself and the breath-snatching dreamer sat in to the left of me, the two of us wrapped up in thoughts of what life could be like if only things were different. If only he were mine to hold and protect and cheer up. Of course I do cheer him up to the best of my ability whenever I see him down, as does his best friend Spencer, but it’s not really enough, is it? He still feels like he has to escape into his mind to avoid the harshness of reality. Apart from when he’s chatting to me, when he seems to be taking as much interest in the conversation as an astronaut does in rocket ships because that’s just how he is; kind and caring and sweet and shy. Everything that I find absolutely adorable.
Something flies like a missile into the back of his head, knocking it forward and shunting him out of the respite of his thoughts.
“Goal!” A voice from behind roars, followed by a chorus of giggles that ignite a sense of both fury and pity within me; sure, a ball of paper to the head doesn’t hurt all that much, but the fact that other people find your torment funny? That’s got to sting.
I hear him sniffle, his fringe lolling over his eyes to hide the start of the tears that I know must be pricking his sensitive eyes like painfully blunt needles, as he rubs the back of his head with an intricately skinny hand. A hand that’s adorned with the willowy fingers of one of the greatest musicians, aside from maybe my brother’s best friend Ray, I have ever had the pleasure of hearing play. He really is talented, no matter how many times his summer-heat-wave blush denies it, and he sure as hell deserves better than having stuff thrown at him or giggles sneered at him.
“You alright, Ryan?” I ask softly before he has the chance to delve back into the depths of his ocean-like mind. He just nods bravely in response, a fake smile glistening on his face like a blood diamond; beautiful to look at, yet heartbreakingly harsh when you think of it’s true origins. “Don’t pay any attention to them, you’re better than they are and they know it.”
My firm words make me cringe inwardly, they sound so clichéd no matter how much honesty I put behind them and for that reason I know that I have failed in my mission to make him feel at least a little better, a little more loved. It’s a statement that, although it does make sense as it is true, doesn’t help; I should know, Gee’s used it on me too many times for me to feel like it counts. It just doesn’t seem realistic when you’re the one being hurt because all that you can think of his how much they must hate you, how much you must deserve it if so many people support their tirade of animalistic cruelty.
He just nods again, quicker this time as though trying to shake thoughts from the branches of his brain, and goes back to looking out of the window; lost in a sea of forevers and never-ending nevers, as he so puts it. Normally I would just accept that he’d rather be relaxing into an imaginary world than stuck in this harsh reality, but today for some reason I just can’t let it go. Perhaps it’s because I said the wrong things, perhaps because this is one time too many of seeing him be ridiculously ridiculed; either way, I’m going to make it better this time.
I gently tap his shoulder, ignoring the little electric sparks that touching a livewire causes as I know I have to be focussed right now, to which he whisks his head around; eyes glazed over with the sort of thoughts that someone like him should never have forced upon them. Just like almost every day since I first laid eyes on him at our mutual friend’s, a crazy bastard by the name of Pete Wentz, birthday party last year. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen Ryan looking truly happy, not outside of his dream world anyway.
As his soft, melt-in-the-middle eyes meet mine, something within them cracks and his lower lip starts trembling, thus making my heart bleed sympathy like his eyes are bleeding cyanide.
“Oh, Ry, don’t cry! Please, please don’t cry!” I beg him, both for my own personal agony and for his own good at what the others will say when they see that their mercilessly mission has been accomplished; that they’ve made him crack like throwing a stone at a glass sculpture one time too many. “C’mon, Ryro, it’s alright.” The urgency in my voice is rising as I hear snickers fly our way at the sight of my weeping angel.
He just hides his head in his hands, a small sob rumbling through his body like an earthquake, knocking my heart through my chest. This is definitely not the worst thing to have happened to him, not by far, but he’s a sensitive kid; a kid who’s had too much shit flung at him for his soul to still be clear of all sorrow.
I look around, shooting a fierce glare to the group of jocks who are but a few of his tormentors, to see that everyone’s silent eyes are feasting on us, trying to decipher what I’ll do next and whether it’ll be worth laughing at or not. The boys are anyway, the majority of the girls are just gawping as though this is the cutest thing that they’ve ever seen. Stupid bitches. And they wonder why I don’t like them.
“C’mere, Ry,” I whisper straight into his ear, shuffling in my lab stall to be a little closer to my sobbing friend.
Because I’m going to hug him, give him someone to cling onto rather than their words, and make him feel better. I really do love this kid, care about him, and it’s physically painful for me to see him like this; like my soothing words aren’t enough to outweigh their cruel ones. They’re not, I know they’re not because that would be like trying to cure cancer with a packet of sweets, but my actions might just be. I don’t know what I’ll do if they aren’t.
His head slowly lifts from his quaking hands, eyes blinking at me like two twinkling stars, and assesses what my open arms could mean and whether or not he should obey my gentle plea. I just smile at him reassuringly, letting him know that my comforting touch is his if he wants it. I just pray that he does.
Barely seconds later, I have a chest full of crying Ryan Ross; his tears soaking straight through my t-shirt and burning into my heart like red-hot daggers. My left hand traces merry-go-round patterns onto his back, my right one running through his silky hair as though he’ll slip away if I don’t. He just feels so fragile in my arms, like he could shatter at the slightest impact and so I have to protect him like I’ve seen Spencer and Pete do many times before. I can’t help but feel a little nervous at that thought; I’m usually the protected, not the protector.
His arms wrap around my waist, sending shivers through every part of me in the process, and he snuggles right into me in the most adorable way imaginable, even more adorable than I pictured my first hug with him would be.
“Look at that! Didn’t I always tell you that they were gay? Fucking freaks.” I turn my head to say something, but my heart forces me to stay focussed on Ryan; he’s far more important than the words of some losers who dress themselves as winners in hopes that nobody will see through their charade. “Is Ross your ickle little boyfriend, Way?”
I look down to Ryan, who is looking up at me with forlorn eyes; eyes that are tinged with a hint of… longing?
“I’m sorry, Mikey, they’re laughing at you because of me. Sorry.” His voice is barely audible, but it seems like a scream to me because it says more than anything else ever could; it says he’s quite simply the most selfless person that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
And that I love him. Completely. Wholly. Undeniably.
So, knowing that anything I say to him will be doubtable by his introverted mind, I press a soft kiss to his forehead, my warm lips painting a rose-bed blush onto his cheeks. A rose-bed blush and a forget-me-not smile. It’s a smile that I’ve never seen be true outside of his internal wonderland, and it truly is wonderful; not least because my risky action caused it. Because when you love someone, their happiness means more to you than anything else. Especially ridicule.
With that in mind, I turn to be facing the mindless motherfucker who last spoke with a huge grin adorning my Ryro-flavoured lips.
“Yeah, actually. He is.”
A/N: Thank you very much for reading! This is a pairing that, although completely unfounded on any type of fact/possibility, I think needs to get more attention, which is why I wrote this. It isn’t my best work, but I hope that you like it and please let me know what you think! :)
P.S. If anyone has any obscure/underused pairings that they’d like to see more of, I’d love to hear them! :D
They always told me that I could have any girl that I wanted; preppy, nerd, Goth, emo. Hell, I probably could have pulled the goddess of a science teacher that we were blessed with having for half a term before she got arrested for having an affair with a pupil (or three, depending on what rumour you believe). I could have any dazzling blonde or enchanting brunette, any dazed blue-eyed wonder or dreamy green-orbed doll, any long-legged flower or petite little honey. I could have literally any girl that takes my fancy, or so I’ve been told.
I’ve never really understood the appeal of myself really, I mean I get that the girls like me and all, but I don’t ever really get why. I’ve been told that it’s because I’ve got typical “bad-boy” good looks, whatever that means, that I look dangerous and that, for some stupid reason, pulls girls in. But I’m not dangerous and nor do I want to be; I’m just me, Mikey Way, some geeky kid who loves comic books like a Christian loves the bible and can play the holy grail of my bass until my fingers have fallen clean off. I’m not bad, I’m not dangerous and I’m sure as hell none of the other things that I’ve been told (sexy, emo and the little brother of a vampire, to name but a few) make me a gift to the opposite sex; I’m Mikey Way, a lanky fifteen-year-old trying to survive to see sixteen and then maybe seventeen after that.
Besides, I’m not interested in the girls who find my skinny jeans “kewt” or my glasses “adawkable”. I’m not interested in girls at all, for that matter. Nor boys like Gee is. Just Him. The one who should be reeling in all of the girls that I don’t want in with his flop of dark caramel hair that I ache to taste instead of being giggled at by them; the one who should be praised for the intricate designs that he pens onto his face with eyeliner at lunch every day when he thinks that nobody’s watching rather than getting thrown against lockers for feeling free to express himself in such a stunningly artistic way; the one who I sit next to in Chemistry when I should be sat next to some girl name Alicia, who was all too willing to swap seats with me and my ‘good looks’.
I am, of course, referring to the school oddball; the enigma that is Ryan Ross.
I understand him about as much as I understand my so-called attractiveness and I guess that’s what has drawn me to him, that along with the fact that he’s a genuinely nice, unique human being. A human being who is actually a human being and accepts it without trying to cover it up like so many others do; he has flaws, his sweet shyness being a pale example of that, and he knows it. He has one of those personalities that is just impossible to forget, just the way that he sees the world as though the slightest thing is a magical blessing that can be describe in so many different ways.
That’s another thing that I love about him; his undeniably breath-taking way with words. After being his lab partner for over half of our sophomore year we’ve become, or I’d like to believe that we have, good friends. Which subsequently means that when I asked him what he’s always scribbling into his hand-decorated notebook he told me.
No, he did more than that; he showed me. Lyrics, poems, little random thoughts that just pop into his cute little head. All of them equally as stunning as the brightest star, each biro-captured curiosity making my lungs constrict in pure awe at what this boy can conjure up in my mind with just the language that I had learnt to associate with dullness and normality and hate. Hate because, although I’m popular with the girls, the guys at my school aren’t all that thrilled to have me in their omnipotent fucking presence; apparently being both quiet and a little effeminate whilst stealing more of their girlfriends’ attention than them, no matter how unwittingly, is a crime punishable by punching. I think that might be why Ryan’s lyrics appeal to me so much, we both understand each other’s backgrounds and feelings even if we understand nothing else, so his words just click into the empty gaps that my mind was full of before I finally plucked up the courage to talk to my lab partner all of those months ago.
Which brings me to where I am right now, sat in Chemistry and watching Ryan, or Ryro as everyone else calls him, as he gazes wistfully out of a nearby window like a tiger dreaming of escaping the confines of it’s depressing little cage. He’s always like this, just looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here. And it’s not in the normal schoolboy way either, it’s like he’d rather be inside of himself; running wild with the thoughts that very few people, myself included, ever get to see. The sunlight’s filtering in through the grimy glass, capturing the dust to make it look like tiny little fairies dancing around the whimsical boy that I’ve been infatuated with for such a long time that I just can’t remember it not being this way; me just gazing at Ryro when he’s wrapped up in his magnificent treasure-trove of a mind.
The sad part is that, through months of shameless observation and friendly conversation, I know exactly why he lets himself get so lost in that magical wonderland that is his pretty little head. It’s because the real world is too cruel to him from him to want to be among those who’ll shoot down a swan just to see something majestic die at their worthless hands for a dull sense of meaningless pride.
The teacher’s been out of the room for the past five minutes, something to do with a faulty keyboard on his laptop, and already the majority of the class is doing everything but the work. Including myself and the breath-snatching dreamer sat in to the left of me, the two of us wrapped up in thoughts of what life could be like if only things were different. If only he were mine to hold and protect and cheer up. Of course I do cheer him up to the best of my ability whenever I see him down, as does his best friend Spencer, but it’s not really enough, is it? He still feels like he has to escape into his mind to avoid the harshness of reality. Apart from when he’s chatting to me, when he seems to be taking as much interest in the conversation as an astronaut does in rocket ships because that’s just how he is; kind and caring and sweet and shy. Everything that I find absolutely adorable.
Something flies like a missile into the back of his head, knocking it forward and shunting him out of the respite of his thoughts.
“Goal!” A voice from behind roars, followed by a chorus of giggles that ignite a sense of both fury and pity within me; sure, a ball of paper to the head doesn’t hurt all that much, but the fact that other people find your torment funny? That’s got to sting.
I hear him sniffle, his fringe lolling over his eyes to hide the start of the tears that I know must be pricking his sensitive eyes like painfully blunt needles, as he rubs the back of his head with an intricately skinny hand. A hand that’s adorned with the willowy fingers of one of the greatest musicians, aside from maybe my brother’s best friend Ray, I have ever had the pleasure of hearing play. He really is talented, no matter how many times his summer-heat-wave blush denies it, and he sure as hell deserves better than having stuff thrown at him or giggles sneered at him.
“You alright, Ryan?” I ask softly before he has the chance to delve back into the depths of his ocean-like mind. He just nods bravely in response, a fake smile glistening on his face like a blood diamond; beautiful to look at, yet heartbreakingly harsh when you think of it’s true origins. “Don’t pay any attention to them, you’re better than they are and they know it.”
My firm words make me cringe inwardly, they sound so clichéd no matter how much honesty I put behind them and for that reason I know that I have failed in my mission to make him feel at least a little better, a little more loved. It’s a statement that, although it does make sense as it is true, doesn’t help; I should know, Gee’s used it on me too many times for me to feel like it counts. It just doesn’t seem realistic when you’re the one being hurt because all that you can think of his how much they must hate you, how much you must deserve it if so many people support their tirade of animalistic cruelty.
He just nods again, quicker this time as though trying to shake thoughts from the branches of his brain, and goes back to looking out of the window; lost in a sea of forevers and never-ending nevers, as he so puts it. Normally I would just accept that he’d rather be relaxing into an imaginary world than stuck in this harsh reality, but today for some reason I just can’t let it go. Perhaps it’s because I said the wrong things, perhaps because this is one time too many of seeing him be ridiculously ridiculed; either way, I’m going to make it better this time.
I gently tap his shoulder, ignoring the little electric sparks that touching a livewire causes as I know I have to be focussed right now, to which he whisks his head around; eyes glazed over with the sort of thoughts that someone like him should never have forced upon them. Just like almost every day since I first laid eyes on him at our mutual friend’s, a crazy bastard by the name of Pete Wentz, birthday party last year. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen Ryan looking truly happy, not outside of his dream world anyway.
As his soft, melt-in-the-middle eyes meet mine, something within them cracks and his lower lip starts trembling, thus making my heart bleed sympathy like his eyes are bleeding cyanide.
“Oh, Ry, don’t cry! Please, please don’t cry!” I beg him, both for my own personal agony and for his own good at what the others will say when they see that their mercilessly mission has been accomplished; that they’ve made him crack like throwing a stone at a glass sculpture one time too many. “C’mon, Ryro, it’s alright.” The urgency in my voice is rising as I hear snickers fly our way at the sight of my weeping angel.
He just hides his head in his hands, a small sob rumbling through his body like an earthquake, knocking my heart through my chest. This is definitely not the worst thing to have happened to him, not by far, but he’s a sensitive kid; a kid who’s had too much shit flung at him for his soul to still be clear of all sorrow.
I look around, shooting a fierce glare to the group of jocks who are but a few of his tormentors, to see that everyone’s silent eyes are feasting on us, trying to decipher what I’ll do next and whether it’ll be worth laughing at or not. The boys are anyway, the majority of the girls are just gawping as though this is the cutest thing that they’ve ever seen. Stupid bitches. And they wonder why I don’t like them.
“C’mere, Ry,” I whisper straight into his ear, shuffling in my lab stall to be a little closer to my sobbing friend.
Because I’m going to hug him, give him someone to cling onto rather than their words, and make him feel better. I really do love this kid, care about him, and it’s physically painful for me to see him like this; like my soothing words aren’t enough to outweigh their cruel ones. They’re not, I know they’re not because that would be like trying to cure cancer with a packet of sweets, but my actions might just be. I don’t know what I’ll do if they aren’t.
His head slowly lifts from his quaking hands, eyes blinking at me like two twinkling stars, and assesses what my open arms could mean and whether or not he should obey my gentle plea. I just smile at him reassuringly, letting him know that my comforting touch is his if he wants it. I just pray that he does.
Barely seconds later, I have a chest full of crying Ryan Ross; his tears soaking straight through my t-shirt and burning into my heart like red-hot daggers. My left hand traces merry-go-round patterns onto his back, my right one running through his silky hair as though he’ll slip away if I don’t. He just feels so fragile in my arms, like he could shatter at the slightest impact and so I have to protect him like I’ve seen Spencer and Pete do many times before. I can’t help but feel a little nervous at that thought; I’m usually the protected, not the protector.
His arms wrap around my waist, sending shivers through every part of me in the process, and he snuggles right into me in the most adorable way imaginable, even more adorable than I pictured my first hug with him would be.
“Look at that! Didn’t I always tell you that they were gay? Fucking freaks.” I turn my head to say something, but my heart forces me to stay focussed on Ryan; he’s far more important than the words of some losers who dress themselves as winners in hopes that nobody will see through their charade. “Is Ross your ickle little boyfriend, Way?”
I look down to Ryan, who is looking up at me with forlorn eyes; eyes that are tinged with a hint of… longing?
“I’m sorry, Mikey, they’re laughing at you because of me. Sorry.” His voice is barely audible, but it seems like a scream to me because it says more than anything else ever could; it says he’s quite simply the most selfless person that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
And that I love him. Completely. Wholly. Undeniably.
So, knowing that anything I say to him will be doubtable by his introverted mind, I press a soft kiss to his forehead, my warm lips painting a rose-bed blush onto his cheeks. A rose-bed blush and a forget-me-not smile. It’s a smile that I’ve never seen be true outside of his internal wonderland, and it truly is wonderful; not least because my risky action caused it. Because when you love someone, their happiness means more to you than anything else. Especially ridicule.
With that in mind, I turn to be facing the mindless motherfucker who last spoke with a huge grin adorning my Ryro-flavoured lips.
“Yeah, actually. He is.”
A/N: Thank you very much for reading! This is a pairing that, although completely unfounded on any type of fact/possibility, I think needs to get more attention, which is why I wrote this. It isn’t my best work, but I hope that you like it and please let me know what you think! :)
P.S. If anyone has any obscure/underused pairings that they’d like to see more of, I’d love to hear them! :D
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