You're a Snarky Little Shit (Frerard, Petekey)

Mr. and Mrs. Way's and Patrick's Letters

Dear Mom and Dad,

Ha.

You thought you were going to get a nice, long, sentimental note, didn't you? You looked at this envelope and went,

"Wow, this is really full! Our son must care about us a lot!"

Listen, you gave birth to me, you raised me, and I'm thankful for that. But you're never around at home. Gerard was basically my dad for half of my childhood. You were supposed to get me anxiety medication, but you claimed they were a "waste of money." You guys worked too much for me to talk to you about it. You never ask me, "oh, Mikey, is something wrong? You look upset."

Nothing.

So, in return, you get nothing.

The rest of the pages in this envelope are blank.

-Mikey

The two sat in silence for quite a while. They rifled through the pages, looking for any more writing. 

They found nothing else.

Mrs. Way stood up and went upstairs. She walked into her bedroom and silently cried, making sure nobody could hear her. Meanwhile, Mr. Way stayed put at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. He was also crying silently. He looked through the letter again, knowing he wouldn't find anything more than some angsty words written by their son who most likely hated them.

~

Dear Patrick,

Oh boy. Okay, this letter is going to be a little tough to write. But I want you to know that none of this was your fault. I don't want you to feel that way.

The talk you had with me the night Pete broke up with you was...something. It hit me hard. It made me think. Something in my brain clicked. I felt overwhelmingly guilty of everything. I thought it was all my fault. The thought was there 24/7. I could hardly sleep, hardly think, hardly do anything. So that leaves me where I am now.

I don't want you to feel guilty of all of this. If you felt as horrible as I feel as I write this because of me, I won't be able to live with myself. Well, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Remember, I'm responsible for my own fucking actions, and you were doing the right thing.

I've heard from Pete that you're hella talented. He said you play the drums, but he also said he's heard you sing. And, um, maybe sent me a video or two of you singing. Don't worry; I didn't post it anywhere or anything. Holy HELL YOU'RE REALLY GOOD AT SINGING?!!? I mean I don't know why that came as a surprise to me; you just kind of seem like the timid type who wouldn't sing. But I guess once I got to know you, you did kind of seem like the singing type.

Listen, you probably hate me. And I respect that, seeing what I've done. So I'm just going to be completely honest about you in this next little paragraph.You're honestly a lovely person. You've never done anything wrong. You're too good for this world, too pure. I feel like the reason I've never been a such a fan of  you is you haven't really done anything wrong to me. You've never been an asshole towards me. 

I want you to hang out with Pete, alright? You two had a lot of chemistry, romantic or not. And I think Pete really wants to hang out with you. I know how lonely you've been feeling, alright? You probably feel exactly like I did when you and Pete were a thing. 

Okay, so...I know you're a little depressed. Maybe more than a little. Anyway, Pete used to text me at like four a.m, or something like that, to tell me that he was worried about you. Even when you guys weren't dating. He'd offhandedly mention something about "the guy sitting across from us" looking sad. You should talk to your parents. If the therapist insists that you get medication, get that fucking medication. My parents didn't get me anxiety meds, and I think this affected why I'm doing what I'm doing.

Don't be afraid to talk to anyone, okay?

Especially Pete.

And your parents.

I've been doing this with everyone, so I'm doing this with you, too. I added some drawings in here, ya know, as something to truly remember me by. So, like, I don't care if you throw them away, but...actually, don't throw them away. I worked fucking hard on those. And I don't really want to be forgotten, alright? You'll remember me, right? Do you promise?

Alright, I'm going to end this letter here. Have a good life, okay?

~Mikey Way

Patrick took off his glasses and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. He pulled out the drawings--there were three of them--and hung them up. One on his bulletin board, the second slipped into his notebook, and the third, his favorite, hung above his bed. His opinion on Mikey had definitely changed--he didn't think he hated him anymore. Patrick was planning on taking his advice, and he was going to have the best life he could ever have.

okay just one more chapter of letters then itll go back to plot

lmao 2.6k reads? I was going through my old chapters and the a/n said thanks for 200 reads. wow ive come far havent i

but i wouldnt have been able to do that if not for you guys

i love you all

you nerds

vote/comment if you want

~tatotatotato