FicWad

Reunion


“Mikey!”

I should help Mom carry the bags in from the car. I should shut my car door behind me. I should give my sweet baby boy a chance to register what’s going on before I crush him in a hug, all but wrestling him to the ground from where he was sat like a dog waiting for it’s owner on my porch.

I hear Mom giggling as she walks past us into the house, suitcase dragging weightily behind her, understanding that I want some time alone with my Mikeymouse after not seeing him for two weeks. I guess to most people two weeks doesn’t seem like a long time, just like a collection of short days that mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Then again, I guess most people have never met Mikey Way; sweet, innocent, introverted Mikey Way who needs to be cuddled close as often as possible not just because that’s what he deserves, but because he needs it. Needs to be told that he’s not worthless or unwanted or ugly.

That I love him with all of my black heart.

“Good to see you, sweetheart.” I beam down at him, pecking my lips softly to his as I prop myself up on my hands to be leaning over my boyfriend. “Really, fucking good.”

He looks up at me shyly, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and bats his huge, brown eyes as though trying to comprehend the idea that I’m happy to see him. Well, I’m not happy to see him. Not at all. Happy is what you feel when you get an awesome birthday present or you find a spare quarter under the couch; this is beyond happy, beyond bliss. It’s perfect.

I swoop my head down and nuzzle sweetly into his neck, making him sigh in relaxation. Good. Judging by the huge black bags under his eyes my poor Mikeymouse hasn’t slept in days. Something that makes my heart twist in putrid guilt; would it have been the same if I’d been over here instead of having fun in China? No. Because he would’ve texted me and I’d have come over, sneaked into bed with him and cradled him until he fell asleep. Just like I always do when he can’t get any shuteye. I guess it’s one of the horrible side effects of being constantly picked on and hurt; he just can’t believe that he’s safe enough to sleep without leaving himself open to injury.

That might sound a little overdramatic. I sort of thought it was when I first found out about his endless, fear-bought exhaustion.

It isn’t.

It really fucking isn’t and that makes it all the more worse for me to have to face. The things that people do to him, even the red marks across his face from the man who calls himself my Mikey’s father, would make anyone jumpy to the point of being slightly paranoid.

“Heya, Peterpanda.” He mewls softly, moving to get up as I roll off of him, tugging gently down at the sleeves of his beloved Misfits hoodie.

I can remember when I bought him that hoodie; it was on the way home from school one day a few months ago. He’d taken a particularly harsh beating that day after school, one that made me wince in agony at the sight of him sprawled on the restroom floor, and I was helping him limp home where I promised I would lay with him until he fell asleep. Halfway through the journey, prolonged by Mikey’s nervousness and several near-panic attacks, he started shivering yet refused to admit anything was wrong. Even when I asked him if he was cold he denied it; saying that he was fine and that he was sorry for being a bother. Well, that’s just Mikes all over, isn’t it? Not admitting that he’s hurt or cold or sad or anything less than perfect just because he doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone else. I swear to God that kid’s far too selfless for his own good. But back to the story; we passed a charity shop for homeless dogs and hanging in the window, like some sort of angel descending from the sky, was Mikey’s Misfits hoodie. Of course I rushed in and bought it for him before helping him ease it over his head.

I can’t help but smile at the memory. Or rather, at the memory of how my Mikey’s face glowed when the warm fabric encased his body like my arms already were. He had looked as though I’d bought him some sort of golden robe, not a tatty second-hand hoodie. I love seeing him like he was that day though, all heart-warming smile and bright eyes.

Nothing like he is now.

Now he’s shuffled to the edge of the porch, apparently finding his bright red converse the most interesting things in the world. I shuffle to get closer to him, offering him one of my special smiles that I save for his eyes only, and wrap my arm around his suddenly shaking shoulders. Shoulders that are even skinnier than when I left him.

What the fuck’s happened to my poor little mouse?

I crawl expertly around behind him, pulling him into me so that my legs are stretched out either side of him and my arms fastened tightly around his tiny midsection like a safety belt keeping him here with me. He flinches at my touch, letting out a soul-smashing yelp of agony as I start rubbing his arms in an affectionate gesture of comfort.

Then it hits me, hits me like a speeding truck impacting on a baby deer; he’s wearing a hoodie. It’s boiling hot, the sun’s glinting down on us and I can even see the sweat clinging to his forehead.

He’s not wearing that hoodie because he’s hot.

He’s wearing it because I let him down. I left him to be all alone in a world too sharp and frightening for him to cope with without me by his side.

He’s wearing it because he’s done what he promised me he would never do again.

“Mikey, what’s with the hoodie?” My voice is gentle, just like my arms as they reposition themselves around his barely-there waist, but it still makes my poor baby whimper.

His back shudders against me and I know at once that my suspicions are hideously correct.

God, I’m the worst fucking boyfriend in the world and even then that’s an understatement. I knew it was a risk, I knew that his parents would ignore him if he was hurt and I still went to the other side of the world. And now I’ve got to pay for my selfishness, a selfishness that’s made all the worse by the fact that I know Mikey will never replicate it. All that poor kid ever does is try to please everyone, to hide away and just not get hurt. So how is it fair that all of the most malevolent aspects of life always happen to him?

It’s not fucking fair. Not at all.

“I… I, Pete, it’s nothing. I-I…” He starts sobbing against me, back arching and fingers gripping onto my hand as I grip his own in my own way of letting him know that I’m not mad. “Pete, I broke my promise! I ruined it all, I’m sorry!”

Mikey’s naturally quiet, some would even say selectively mute at times, so normally I find joy in what little speech I have to fight to get from his softly sweet lips. Right now, though, with him spluttering and thrashing in my arms, I’d give anything for him to be silent. He doesn’t sound like he’s upset because he was feeling low enough to hurt himself, but upset because he thinks he’s upset me. Granted, I am more than a little upset about my baby boy resorting to self-harm instead of texting me for help, but I don’t blame him for it.

I blame the world for making him so depressed in the first place. And nothing I can do will ever make it all better.

“I know, Mikey, I know you are, Sweetheart.” I hush to him in the most sincerely caring voice I can muster. I lean back against the porch as he scrambles to hide his face in my chest, needless shame staining his features like some sort of dreadful rash. “Let me see them, yeah?” He just gives me a terrified shake of the head, a shake hard enough to break my heart. “Why not, Sugar? I need to know you’re alright.”

I fix him with my best beseeching gaze, my eyes delving deeply into his pools of melted chocolate, and seal it with a gentle press of my lips to his forehead. I have to see the damage, not only for my own peace of mind but for his wellbeing too; it isn’t good to keep this sort of thing bottled up, especially if the cuts need to be disinfected before they start seeping puss like they did last time.

“O-okay-ay.”

He holds his arms out to me slowly, the speed almost painfully slow yet I do nothing to speed up the shaky process; the last thing I want to do is frighten him even further into himself. Poor kid.

I gently roll up his sleeves, bracing myself for whatever lay underneath the familiar friendly fabric of his hoodie. Whatever I see I can’t let myself freak out over it, I can’t act like I’m disgusted or shocked or angry at my baby’s last resort. To do so would be enough to make Mikes shy away even further away from the world, would be enough to make him think he’s unlovable.

We look directly into each other’s eyes as I shimmy the baggy arms of his hoodie over his skinny elbows, being extra careful not to rub against his arms, and I see nothing but fear reflected within them. Fear of what he’s capable of doing to himself. Fear that I won’t want him anymore. Fear that he’ll be alone.

Fear that I have to rid him of.

Taking in a shaky breath I look down at his poor, abused arms.

“Oh, Mikey.” I gasp, pulling his wrists to be right up close to my face so I can see each crimson brushstroke on his perfectly pale canvas. “Mikeymouse, what happened? Talk to me, Sweetheart.”

His arms are far worse than last time, something I thought (or at least hoped) was impossible. From wrist to elbow on both arms there’s barely a piece of uninjured skin on him, all of it torn to shreds as much as his mind is. Some of the cuts are starting to scab; others are still drooling blood with their horrific freshness. It feels like each cut on his arms is cutting into my heart, making me bleed from the inside at how much my poor little boyfriend has made himself bleed on the outside.

“i-I… I was all alone and-and you were gone and I, I… I’m sorry!” He wails into my chest, clinging onto me like letting go would mean falling to hell. “Please don’t hate me. Please.”

Oh, Sweetheart. What has the world done to you?

“Michael James Way, nothing and I mean nothing, could ever make me hate you.” I sigh, cupping his cheek and pecking the tip of his nose to reinforce my words. “And you’ll never be alone ever again. I promise.”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, sounding very much like a broken record because that’s what he is; broken. “I’m sorry, Peterpanda. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I cut off his heartbreakingly heart-broken pleas with a chaste kiss to his lips, taking his breath away and making him melt into me like only I know how. I swoop back into it when he doesn’t protest and just nip delicately at his lips for the best part of ten minutes, my hands tangling in his silky hair as he just clings desperately onto me like I’m a lifeline. When I eventually pull my lips from his, we lean forward so that our foreheads are touching and our noses are rubbing; just like it should always be.

“I know you’re sorry, Mikeymouse.” I pause to reposition him so that his head is using my chest as a pillow, I don’t think he’s slept in days and now is a good a time as any to start catching up. “And that’s what makes it alright.”

When I next look down at him he’s sound asleep, one arm hooked around my waist and the other one guiding his thumb to his mouth.

My little baby.

I’m never leaving his side again.




A/N: Well that’s the end of that. I hope you liked this short little three-shot and that it wasn’t too bad. Please let me know what you think! :)