one more troubled soul » petekey

Thirteen

"Nothing," Pete replied, mustering up all the strength he could to force a winning smile. Mikey smiled back, playing his game only for a moment, then immediately frowned, nudging Pete's shoulder. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. "It's not important," Pete clarified, realizing that he wasn't going to get out of this easy.

He was almost thankful for Mikey's persistence. Almost. Whilst it was helpful and promoted healthy conversation, or some therapist jargon shit like that, it was bothersome. It was so unbelievably bothersome that somebody might have the capability to know Pete better than he knew himself. But then again, it couldn't have been hard. Pete was a bunch of shattered versions of himself, glued back together time and time again the wrong way. He didn't understand a single part completely. He didn't know if he wanted to.

"I'm sure it is," Mikey assured, with that voice. It was so comforting, but so haunting. It put Pete to sleep yet kept him awake. It inspired him. It horrified him. He cast a nervous glance to Mikey, only catching a glimpse of his sharp face in the dark. As he approached a red light, he braked, stopping too harshly for anyone's comfort. Ryan mumbled and turned in his sleep. Mikey lurched forward, jaw tightening in the dim red spotlight. "Pete, please," he started, sounding like a broken record. A broken person. "Talk to me."

The light turned green.

Pete turned away and pressed on the gas. They drove for hours in silence.

It wasn't like Pete wanted to wallow in his own pity, but he sort of did. It was the only way he'd ever known how to deal with it. As the forever and only designated driver, and as a person seeking a better life, drinking or smoking himself to death--or at least sleep--was out of the question. So he'd figure he'd just drown himself the next best way he could, in silence. Horrible, gut-wrenching, brain-shaking silence. Not the kind you slept in or the kind you filled with laughter or song. It was the kind of numb silence, like after a gunshot, or the truth. The kind of nothing that was so saturated with the possibility of everything it was unbearable.

But since Pete liked the pain, he took it all in stride. He counted those too slow seconds which turned into minutes which turned into hours which turned into knives, twisting in his heart, soul and mind.

Since he'd realized he wasn't going to get answers or really anything out of Pete, Mikey had fallen asleep. He had curled up the same way Ryan did, knees pulled to his chest, hair covering his eyes like soft, loved, dirty curtains. It was undeniably precious. He pulled the car over.

He'd been hoping that they'd run into a rest stop or gas station by this point, but it only seemed like empty, winding backroads for miles. Pete wasn't complaining that much, really. He loved a clear, quiet road. But he was utterly exhausted. Seeing both Ryan and Mikey sleep, hearing both of them stir in their deep dreams, it was intoxicating. He felt himself beginning to fall apart, to give himself to the dark void of sleep. He didn't want to do it while driving. And so he just sat there on the side of the road, feeling his eyelids make their way towards his cheekbones. They were hastier than usual. He began to unbuckle his seatbelt, sighing in relief and comfort as it flung from his chest. He twisted and turned in his seat, knowing that the instant he stopped moving, he was out, so he might as well make himself comfortable.

He rolled the window down for fresh air and turned off the car, expecting the darkness and silence to overwhelm him at once. But something strange still sounded even after the engine and air conditioning and everything was cut. He looked at Mikey. Asleep. Quiet. Barely even stirring, the only sure sign life the condensation on the window by his nose and lips. It wasn't him making that noise.

Pete sat up, unable to get comfortable anymore. His eyes searched the dark, and soon they settled on the lump cuddled beneath a blanket in the backseat. It was shaking. It was crying. Ryan.