FicWad

I Hate You Loved



As I sit here, back to my paper-thin bedroom wall and knees drawn to my chest tight enough to almost break through my ribs, there’s only one thing that I can hear; the sound of my baby brother sobbing his heart out in the room adjacent to my own. His breath hitching in his throat like a rabbit scampering through brambles and the occasional sound of something smashing against his wall in a misplaced fit of frustration.

It’s been like this for the past two hours and thirty-two minutes, me listening to him even though I could easily be drowning out the sound of my sweet little brother suffering his own personal hell with my beloved headphones. But I can’t drown it out because at least if I can hear him, even if it is the horrendously horrific sound of a poor fifteen-year-old heart breaking, I know that he’s still there. Still just in the room next to me and not curled up in that perverted bastard’s possessive arms like some sort of lapdog.

You see, Mikey’s crying because I just beat up his boyfriend. Or “boyfriend”, as it were. Just as they were together, not anymore though because I apparently scared him off. Good. I’m glad. If he can’t take a few punches for Mikes then he clearly isn’t worth my Mikey’s time or devotion or kisses or anything else that the creep wanted from my baby brother.

Not that anyone ever will be anywhere near good enough for Mikes, anyone apart from me, that is.

I’m the only one who knows how to soothe him through his nightmares, the sort that years of abuse at school have forced upon his fragile little mind, how you have to press his head against your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat and know that he’s not alone. Then you’ve got to sing him Grandma Elena’s old lullaby until he gets to sleep, clutching your hand and, more often than not, with a clump of your tear-soaked t-shirt being chewed nervously in his trembling mouth.

I’m the only one who knows exactly how he likes his toast in the morning; two slices of bread, toasted to the point of looking like coal and then smothered with two heaped tablespoons of peanut butter to every half tablespoon of seedless raspberry jelly. Anything different and he won’t eat it. Oh, and it has to be the cheapest peanut butter in the shop or else he complains that it tastes too posh. It has to be smoothed down evenly with the knife, with the peanut butter on top so that it looks like the beach that Mom takes us to every summer on vacation. He’s never said that’s why, but I know Mikes and I know that he likes to be surrounded by good memories to weigh out all of the bad.

I’m the only one who knows about the existence of his scrapbook, the one with the pages frayed with use and a busting spine as a result to my little brother’s creativity teamed with his desperation to be able to remind himself of all of the good things when life drowns him with too many bad. It’s full of photos, some yellowed with age and others still gleaming from the printer ink, most of them depicting me and him smiling or goofing around like we always do when we’re together. More recently it’s got the stubs from our tickets to see Smashing Pumpkins that I got him for his fifteenth, a gig that almost sent me into a panic attack when some middle-aged man dragged the poor kid into a mosh pit. It was worth it though, to see Mikes smile.

I’m the only one who knows about his secret crush on Billie Joe Armstrong, the one that sent him crying to my room when he couldn’t understand why he didn’t feel like taking any of the girls at his school to the Valentine’s Ball last year. Turned out that he was gay, something that I’d suspected for a while, which in turn made me realise something I hadn’t let myself acknowledge until it had the chance to actually be a possibility; turned out that I was in love with my brother. With his porcelain skin and bottomless eyes, with his sharp collar bone and defined jaw, with his sweet soul and kind nature. With everything that I could ever want. The news of his little crush made my heart swell in anticipation; not only is he gay, but I’ve been told that I look like Billie Joe on numerous occasions.

I’m the only one who can make his dream cup of coffee, which is ridiculously strong by even my standards. The coffee granules have to fill exactly a quarter of the mug, preferably his Batman or World’s Greatest Brother one, and it has to be stirred four times. No milk and no sugar, unless he’s had a bad day in which case I’ll put in a teaspoon of sugar to give him a sweet little pick-me-up. He’s never instructed me on how to make his coffee; it’s just a brother’s instinct. And over four years of, at times, dodgy experimenting.

I’m the only one that can snuggle him in that way that makes all of his problems evaporate, even if it’s just for the time that he’s nestled tightly into my warm side.

I’m the only one who can peck at the tip of his nose and make his face glow with that adorable little blush of his.

I’m the only one good enough for my Mikey.

My Mikey.

Not Pete brotherfucking Wentz’s Mikey, mine.

So what if Pete was making him giggle and smile and relax like the poor kid hasn’t in years with anyone else other than me? I could see it swirling in his honey-coloured eyes that he wasn’t good enough for my Mikey, that he’d just use him and hurt him in the end. Just like I never will.

Because I’m his big brother and I really do love him.

And I’m the only one who can have him.

Because he’s mine.





A/N: Just a weird little idea that popped into my head when I got the prompt word “hate” from my table, I’m not sure if I like this or not so sorry if it’s terrible. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think! :)


NEW A/N: I'm kinda thinking about doing a second part to this, perhaps involving Pete more. Please let me know what you think/what you'd like to see in a second part. :)