one more troubled soul » petekey

Eight

Forgiveness was something new to Pete. He had never given it nor received it. There were people who had fucked him over more than he could say back in high school, and he would've rather died before forgiving them. And he held grudges remarkably, smirking if they stumbled over their own shoe laces in the hallway. And for the millions of times he had screamed at his parents, thrown dishes in his drunken, high state... he never got forgiveness. Pete had learned and accepted that he didn't deserve it. He assumed anything he did was too terrible to be let go. That he, himself, was too terrible. And for a quick moment, he thought that Mikey looked beautiful enough in the low light and sounded sincere enough to take it—the doubt, the hurt—all away.

"No, you can't," Pete said quietly, the previous thought draining from him as well as the color in his face. "I don't care if you do, you can't." There was something so shocking and unsatisfying about getting what he wanted, after waiting so long. If the universe had taken so long to give him a dash of forgiveness, a little bit of light, then it must've not meant to in the first place. God, or whoever and whatever, had made a mistake in dealing his cards. Or perhaps it was a all sick joke. Pete didn't bite for the bait. "You just can't!" he repeated.

Mikey was taken aback, quite clearly. His eyes became wide and he slumped, under the weight of a new discouragement. "What do you mean, I can't?! I can do whatever the hell I want." His words were sharp with meaning, and made Pete guilty for denying him such a simple task. Someone had to be strong to forgive, and Pete was proving too weak to even accept. Pete's jaw dropped to argue, but Mikey silenced him promptly with a small shove. "No. I know what you're doing."

Pete shut up, taking in the sudden softness of his voice and his claim. He eyed him curiously. He couldn't possibly know—nobody could. His close friends and even his parents had made it quite clear that he was a tempest not worth trying to stop; and he was a puzzle not worth trying to solve. For Mikey to even try to pick up the pieces was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

"I'm telling the truth, Pete," his words resonated with Pete so much, he hadn't noticed Mikey slip his hand into his own. "And I know you don't believe me, I wouldn't either. But you have to. Not for me, but for yourself. Let it go."

The words seemed to have the opposite effect on Pete, who was almost shaking with confusion and maybe even rage. It infuriated him to no end that Mikey—the whole world—was so quick to accept all the bad. Mikey was opening himself up again to something, someone, dangerous, in a matter of hours. It was silly. Pete had soon too much silliness, too many fools, to be okay with it. Pete had shot him and Mikey was giving him another bullet. He finally noticed Mikey's hand and looked down, staring at the gentle, pale skin on his own. It was the same hand it had always been, but Pete could only see it as a broken one, a bruised one, that had been all his doing.

He felt sweaty. He felt freezing cold. There was a pendulum swinging in his brain, back and forth and back and forth, and it was knocking on the side of skull. A pain came from deep within. Pete stared at Mikey now. He was sure he had no idea what he was doing, because not even Pete understood what he was doing. He wanted to take Mikey's hand and kiss it softly, take the forgiveness he was being given like a bouquet and then toss it to the next. Another part of him...

Pete stood up, pushing the blanket off of him. His bare feet walked back and forth in the small living room. He nudged at empty beer bottles and stepped on a vinyl. He could feel Mikey's eyes on him. His worried eyes. Because all Mikey's eyes were ever filled with was worry. For what? Pete didn't know. He felt the weight of it all though. He tried not to look at Mikey, but he was impossible to ignore. In his peripheral, there he sat, all bundled up and confused and worried and clutching a bag of M&M's. The little bit of light coming through the window was spotting his face.

Any other moment, any other person, would've prompted Pete to cuddle him and maybe even kiss him. But it wasn't right. They obviously weren't right. It wasn't even a forbidden love of sorts. It wasn't even love. It was just a crinkle in the universes blueprints. Two pieces put in the wrong place. A rusted screw plucked from the rain and a twisted nut fallen from grace.

"Pete, stop," Mikey said quietly, but loud enough to make the other man come to his senses. Pete stopped pacing, standing between a crumpled set list and a blue guitar pick. He turned and looked at Mikey expectantly. He raised his eyebrows. "I know what you think you did was awful... unforgivable..." Pete scoffed. "And it was, I agree."

"Then why—"

"I don't know!" Mikey yelled. He raised his voice. It was firm and loud and shook Pete's tiny world, and a stir was heard from Frank's room down the hall. Mikey wasn't fazed, and pushed on. He had a mission. And while Pete would argue that his intentions were skewed, he certainly was persistent. Passionate, maybe. "All I know is that I'm stuck with you. And that for some reason, a little bit of your insanity rubbed off on me and I'm choosing to forgive you. See this as a bump in the road. Cross it off the Devil's bucket list. Whatever, Pete. The only thing that could possibly make what you did worse is choosing not to help me get over it."

Frank had finally appeared, rugged and groggy, by the couch. He was rubbing his eyes and finishing a yawn when he tried to put in his two cents. They didn't even clatter to the table before Mikey cut him off.

"And the first step to that is forgiving you. Which I do. Now will you please work with me, Pete? Or this is going to be a long trip." Mikey's eyes weren't filled with the pitiful worry they usually were. This time he was worried that he wouldn't get what he wanted. Pete had never been wanted before; not him nor his acceptance. It was comforting. Strange. Good. Pete just sighed and plopped on the couch beside Mikey, letting his hand be taken without hesitation or resistance. While he hadn't completely surrendered, the look on Mikey's face resembled one of a victor. He gave Pete a quick kiss on the top of his forehead and then looked away quickly. "Good morning, Frank."

"Good?" Frank said quietly. He sounded exhausted and angry. "A good morning doesn't usually involve me walking into... whatever this is." The three of them stared each other down, in one of those tense silent moments that Pete only saw in movies. Frank broke it like the trailblazer he was. "Anyone want coffee?" Another silent moment passed before they all laughed softly, grungy giggles in a dusty dim room.

"No thanks," Pete said, breathless. "I think we'll stop for some coffee, as we should be on our way out..." He trailed off, leaving his words hanging like a hook for Mikey to latch on to. Luckily, he did, and he nodded his head eagerly and shot up from the couch. It seemed as if the prospect of new adventures fueled him more than any coffee would. His demeanor had changed. The sullenness that seemed to have weighed down the entire room merely moments ago had lifted, and there was a drive in the room sparked by the chance for a new beginning on the road and bittersweet end to their stop in the city. But there was so much more ahead, too. Not just towns and stars and adventures but also questions and answers and smiles and pure, top of the line Mikey Way. Pete watched as he hugged Frank and thanked him for all he had done. He watched as he began to slip on his shoes and his jacket on as quick as a phantom. The world was changing so quickly before Pete's eyes. In one city and out. In one problem and then... out. A trip of second chances. Pete had escaped a slow moving town where what you did was what you were and had ventured into the unknown, where everyday you breathed new air and the strangers you met didn't care about what you did in ninth grade. Pete stood up. He got ready. And he began again.