Work Text:
sometimes two people can love each other
even though one is a wrist
and the other a razor.
A SOFTER WORLD (#1130)
Mikey knows he’s fucked up. It’s not an urgent thought – just something that’s buzzing in the back of his head as he tries to walk, buzzing like the flies he sees stuck in the lights, doomed to hit against the glass until they die. That word sticks in his head, too – die die die – but it doesn’t connect to something that could happen to him. It’s just a word, a weird hang-up he can’t ignore, like a song on repeat.
There are other thoughts, but they’re all muted and somewhere deep within himself Mikey’s satisfied, knows he’s in this state precisely because he wants those thoughts muted. It’s almost fun, floating there above everything, knowing they can’t touch him, until he realises that he’s actually floating, up out of the top of his head, and for a moment he’s sure he sees himself swaying there in the narrow gap between the bunks. He’s stumbling wildly from side to side even though he’s not making much forward progress; every success there seems to come from his ricocheting against the walls and bunks, and if he was anywhere but on the bus he’s sure he would have hit the ground long ago.
As soon as he’s aware of it he’s back, staring out through his own unfocused eyes, and another thought comes to him with sudden clarity: that’s not good. It’s difficult to work out what he’s doing or where he’s going, and then the nausea roils through him and he remembers he’s on his way to the tiny bathroom, that there’s something in him that he has to get out. He forces his foot forward and there’s a strange skip, a blink of sudden blackness, and then he is on the floor, he’s crawling. He can feel the grit under his palm and thinks we should vacuum and then he’s giggling at the ridiculousness of the thought, only the laughter is coming from very far away. There’s something familiar to his right, just above his head – his brother’s bag, the one he always wears over his shoulder, packed with art supplies, hovering in a way that makes Mikey’s heart lurch with fear until he realises it’s just on the bunk, it’s not hovering at all. And then he’s thinking of his brother, wants Gerard with him more than anything else in the world, because he’s in some serious trouble and Gerard will know how to fix it.
It’s as he’s thinking this that he hears something up ahead, somewhere through the darkness. There’s a moment where he wonders if he’s managed to summon Gerard, some weird kind of telepathy – he wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, not when it comes to his brother – but just as quickly he knows it’s not Gerard. He knows his brother, knows the way he moves through the space around him, and none of these noises match. They’re too hesitant, someone where they perhaps shouldn’t be, and Mikey wonders if they’re about to get robbed. It’s another thought that makes the faraway laughter come again.
Something must be missing, because the next thing he knows, there are footsteps. They’re not distant, either – they’re right by his head, or very close to it, and there’s some strange cadence attached to them that must be a voice. Mikey tries to look up, but briefly can’t work out what’s going on, where he is. He’s no longer crawling but instead stretched on the floor, and everything is too close and unfocused. For some reason he remembers his brother’s satchel and tries to look around for it, but he can’t even remember which direction it should be in. His stomach is doing something terrible, rolling back and forth like water sloshed too hard in an overfilled bathtub, and vaguely he remembers that he was on his way to the bathroom, presumably to puke. That sounds pretty good right about now, but Mikey can’t make his limbs work. He tries to speak, but he’s not sure if what he hears – a sort of disjointed groan – actually comes out of his mouth, or if he just imagines it.
The footsteps have stopped now, and the cadence of the voice has changed. It sharpens, comes closer, and Mikey recognises his own name. It takes him another moment to place the voice – he’s still half-convinced it’ll be his brother – but then he hears his name again and he knows it’s Pete. It has to be; he can’t think of anyone else who might have followed him out here, and thinking about it with pretty much every bit of energy he has left in him, Mikey thinks he might have invited him back here, might have implied they’d have a different kind of night. Whatever happened between then and now he cannot tell, but suddenly the state he’s in takes on an extra dimension of pathetic.
‘Dude,’ Pete says. He’s crouching down now, leaning over Mikey, and somewhere in the distance Mikey’s aware that he’s touching him, pulling at him, trying to make sense of the tangled position he’s found himself in. ‘Dude. What’s—shit, what did you take?’
He laughs, and it’s not quite nervous yet; just a little stunned. Mikey knows all too well that he has a certain reputation around these parts, but sometimes he thinks Pete doesn’t quite believe it. Not until he sees him in some drunken state, or high out of his mind, and then he watches him with a kind of detached curiosity, like Mikey’s a particularly fascinating puzzle he wants to work out but isn’t quite invested in. A thought exercise, maybe; where the guessing can be as satisfying as the answer. Sometimes it annoys Mikey; other times it makes him feel special, interesting, the luckiest person alive in having the entirety of Pete’s attention on him, all that brilliant focus, even if just for a moment. Even if Pete ultimately decides to turn away, put him down, move on to something else.
Sometimes Mikey wonders what he’d actually say, if Pete ever asked. He’s never come up with a satisfactory answer.
‘Hey, man.’ Suddenly Pete’s right there, his face inches from Mikey’s. Mikey tries to focus his eyes but honestly, he’s not even sure they’re open anymore. He thinks they are, but he can’t see anything. ‘Dude. Come on. I think you fucked up. How much did you take?’
Mikey tries to say something, but this time he’s not even sure anything comes out at all. He sort of opens his mouth, holds it there for a moment, and then closes it again. He tries to swallow, but his throat isn’t working right – nothing seems to be working right. The floor underneath him feels soft, like it might give way at any moment, and he feels too loose inside himself, like he’s drifting in two, each piece of him borne along on a different current.
‘Mikey.’
Something in Pete’s tone has changed and whatever it is, it makes Mikey feel cold. There’s a bite to it, not quite anger but something adjacent, a sudden urgency that Mikey thinks should bring his heartrate up if only he had the energy for it. He can feel Pete tugging at him; a hand brushes across his face, pushing his hair up out of the way, and then Mikey feels cold hands against his neck, pressing down on his fluttering pulse.
‘Mikey,’ Pete says, but his voice has changed again, something raw and desperate and – excited? It doesn’t seem like the right word for the situation but Mikey’s heard Pete excited before and he can’t mistake it. ‘Are you—is this—’ He pauses, and swallows so hard Mikey hears his throat click. ‘Did you do this on purpose? Are you killing yourself?’
Mikey’s pretty sure he’s not. He has vague memories of needing to calm down, to take the edge off, and maybe he overindulged. Evidently he overindulged. But he’s pretty sure he didn’t do it on purpose, or at least he’s most of the way sure, and then it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know. His memories are hazy and they don’t cover the moments immediately before he made whatever decision he’s made, and now he’s doubting himself. His first instinct no longer seems trustworthy.
‘What did you take?’ Pete asks again, and now he’s patting at Mikey’s pockets. ‘Do you have it on you? Mikey, listen to me. Do you have any more?’
This is such an odd request that Mikey finds he can briefly see. Nothing solid, but he’s opened his eyes or he’s focused them, and suddenly he can see shadows, the shape of Pete hunched over him. He even manages a vague, ‘What?’
‘Any more,’ Pete says, and now he’s audibly breathless. ‘I can—we should do it together.’
It takes long enough for Mikey’s malfunctioning brain to make sense of this that by the time he does, his eyes have slipped closed again. Once more he feels them snap open of their own accord, some sense of alarm running through him even if he can’t quite articulate why.
‘Huh?’
‘If you have more,’ Pete says. ‘Think about it. You know – we’ve talked about it, right, and I know we were messing around, but I could tell you were a bit serious. And so was I. It’s—if you’re doing it, I’m—I want to go with you.’ He laughs, and Mikey thinks he might be crying a little. ‘That’s – that’s fucking romantic, man. Of all the ways to go…’
‘Dude,’ Mikey manages, but his thoughts don’t linger long enough for him to follow up on that.
‘I’m serious,’ Pete says. ‘I’m serious, Mikey. Why the hell not?’
Mikey can think of a number of reasons why not, but they’re hazy and they don’t come to him fast enough to say. He still can’t recall the circumstances leading up to where he’s at now, and Pete’s reaction is hardly helping. He doesn’t seem surprised at all; in a weird way he seems almost relieved, or focused, like he’s seeing an opportunity he’s been hoping for for a while. Mikey remembers they’ve talked about this, joked about it – or at least, Mikey always assumed they were joking – but he clearly underestimated Pete’s commitment. He’s stopped patting him down now, and Mikey can sense him kneeling at his head, his hands on his lap, skin pale smears in Mikey’s blurred vision.
‘Tell me, Mikey,’ Pete says quietly. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll go with you.’
‘Dude, I—I didn’t—’
The words won’t come. They slip too quickly and Mikey’s not sure if it’s because he can’t find them or because he’s not sure they’re true. He’s sure this wasn’t on purpose, certain of it if he turns away from the thought and looks at it sideways. But when he looks at it head-on it’s difficult to say; the doubts creep in, boosted by Pete’s total dedication, the way he didn’t skip a fucking beat. Mikey thinks there should be more panicking, if someone genuinely thinks he’s in here trying to kill himself he thinks maybe there should be a little more fucking concern, but all he’s getting from this is that nobody’s surprised. Which tells him maybe he’s more serious about it than he thought; maybe he hasn’t even noticed as much as the other people around him. What the hell does he know?
He’s pretty sure Pete’s crying. It’s in the hitch of his breathing, the wetness around the edges of it. For some reason it frightens Mikey more than anything else – more than his own condition, more than if Pete had started screaming and shaking him. He tries to say something but can’t think of what there is to say; doesn’t know the words even if he had an idea.
‘Come on, man,’ Pete says thickly. ‘Don’t go without me.’
‘I—it’s not—’
‘It’s OK, man. Just—I’ll work it out. I could cut my wrists, I guess…’
A thought comes to Mikey then, a sudden memory, beginning with his brother’s satchel full of art supplies and quickly winding backwards to why he was crawling down the narrow hallway in the first place. He was on his way to the bathroom, he was going to throw up or make himself throw up, it’s clear as hell now. He has the urgent need to complete that trip, even if the reason for the urgency is no longer accessible – it’s just very important, but he can’t move his fucking legs. He’s in several different pieces again and none of them are cooperating.
‘Pete,’ he says helplessly.
‘It’s alright,’ Pete says. ‘Just let me…’
‘Pete, no,’ he manages.
There’s an audible silence, like the moment after one of those cliché record scratches. It’s so unbearable that Mikey hears an apology slip from his lips before he can stop it. He’s sure he’s just ruined something wonderful, and in that moment it’s a mistake, the biggest mistake of his life. He’s trying to find the words to express this, lining them up on his tongue in preparation to take it all back, but he’s too slow. There’s a noise from somewhere behind Pete, the click of a door and then footsteps. Mikey knows it’s Gerard, recognises the footsteps like he knew he would, and the apology dissolves. Now he’s trying to find the words to call out, even if he can’t quite articulate why he needs to. There’s a sense of danger present now that seems to have only shown its face because there’s somebody there who might be able to do something about it.
A change has come over Pete, too. Suddenly he’s not crouched passively at his head but tugging at him again, and Mikey’s suddenly terrified that Pete’s going to drag him off somewhere and finish them both off. He’s not sure where he’d go or how he’d manage this, but the fear’s real and the strength with which Pete grabs him seems to back it up. Only when Mikey feels himself pulled backwards – towards Gerard – does he realise that’s not what’s going on.
‘Hey!’ Pete’s calling, and there’s a real tinge of panic in his voice, the earlier tears still audible, adding to the effect. ‘Who is that? Help me out here!’
‘Pete?’
Even in his state, Mikey doesn’t miss the note of suspicion in his brother’s voice.
‘Come here,’ Pete says. ‘Mikey—’
That’s all he needs to say. There’s a blinding flash of light and the small hallway is suddenly visible; Mikey sees Pete above him, his eyeliner streaked over his face; he can see parts of himself, sprawled over the floor, and the dark edges framing his vision. A shadow flickers across the whole thing and Pete’s tugging him towards it, dragging him back towards the bathroom.
‘I don’t know what he took,’ he’s saying. ‘I’m trying to get him—fuck—to get him to throw it up—’
Something sharp and shocked flickers through Mikey’s chest, and he actually tilts his head to try to look into Pete’s face, to see if he believes the lie or if he’s actually saying this bullshit right to his brother’s face. All he can really make out is the smudged makeup and Pete’s eyelashes stuck thickly together and the thought falters; he can no longer remember what he actually heard and what was in his own head. There’s no way Pete would suggest something like that; no way he’d leave him like this. Mikey can’t believe it, doesn’t want to believe it, so he simply doesn’t.
‘Shit—here, move.’
Suddenly Pete’s gone and it’s Gerard instead, leaning over him, pushing his hair out of his eyes, his face slack with worry. Mikey takes one look at him and starts blubbering, just nought to one hundred immediately, trying to lift his dead arms to grab at him. Gerard hooks him easily under the arms and pulls him backwards, manoeuvring him as easily as he did when Mikey was a toddler, a well-practised move. Mikey leans back against him and watches his own legs move down the short hallway, and then Gerard’s adjusting him, turning him around to try and cram the both of them into the small bathroom. He’s talking the whole time, low and calm, telling him it’s alright, to listen to his voice, it’s going to be fine, and through it all Mikey’s still sobbing, silent now, shoulders heaving.
He catches a brief glimpse of Pete then, just before Gerard tells him to turn, to try to crawl. Mikey half-opens his eyes and sees Pete standing there, looking in at them, something hard and blank on his face. There’s a suspended moment where they’re looking at one another, and then Mikey turns, listening to his brother, and Pete backs up and walks away.