Just Off The Key Of Reason (Pete Wentz/Mikey Way)

7: I Love You In The Same Way There's A Chapel In A Hospital

My mum just got up and left at that point, but to be honest I couldn't blame her - the fact that she'd put up with Gerard for a full quarter of a century was already not just commendable but fricking medal worthy. I suppose when he was little he couldn't actually talk that much so that might have been slightly bearable, but then again I have heard that Gerard was pretty much the Satan of toddlers.

"Gerard!" I exclaimed, blushing furiously as soon as she'd left the room, still in utter disbelief that he'd fucking said that in front of our mother. "You did not-" He just ignored my flushed cheeks and my disbelieving protests, letting me mumble on to myself.

"How are you going to break it to him?" He cut into my speech soon enough which was probably best for my sanity in the long run no matter quite how pissed off I was at the guy right now. To be honest, being pissed off at Gerard wasn't a feeling, mood, or emotion, it was a fucking lifestyle, and somehow, it had unfortunately ended up being mine.

"Fuck off-" Of course he was in the habit of brushing off and ignoring practically everything that I said to him, meaning that even the most cruel of insults that I hurled in his direction meant absolutely nothing. This had both its good and bad points, so I guess I was indifferent to it, but it kind of just depended upon my mood, but of course as soon as Frank said anything vaguely offensive to him he'd get all pissy.

"How did you even pass anyway?" He disregarded my insults in favour of yet more excessive questioning regarding my fluke of a pass in my exam.

"To be honest, I'm not sure myself." I really wasn't; I was wondering if somehow I'd been marked wrong or they got someone else's paper confused with mine, because the fact that I had actually achieved something, probably kind of legitimately as well, was just astounding.

In fact, it was even more astounding when you considered the fact that I hadn't even finished the book, and believe me, I wasn't fucking planning to - that was for certain. To be honest, even if I wanted to, I'm sure Gerard would end up burning the damn thing before I could even get my hands on it. And my professor had the nerve to call me the pyromaniac.

"It was probably the pentagrams, dude- speaking of the pentagrams, did any one official happen to notice them or could our dark lord pass on his powers of classic literary knowledge through a 70% cotton black hoodie?"

Ah yes, the damn pentagrams, that had somehow transformed from some messed up part of Pete's head riddled with insanity into the thing that helped me pass my English exam, or at least that's what Gerard reckoned. I wasn't quite so sure, pinning the thing down on a mix up or just sheer dumb fucking luck.

"Nah, I was fine - no one noticed, or at least I hope so, because getting kicked out right after passing would be just fucking ridiculous." I just hoped things wouldn't turn out like that, because not only would it be fucking ridiculous, it'd be damn well taking the piss. And then maybe I'd get a little in touch with my pyromaniac side.

It's funny how apparently I'm the pyromaniac when my brother plans up burning his boyfriend's ex alive on a bonfire and my boyfriend's flat looks like a modern day, scented re-enactment of the Great Fire of London. Ryan probably has a Satan worshipping fire shrine in his garage or something as well, so I don't exactly see why I'm the pyromaniac.

"Exactly your style though, Mikes. Just typical of you to get kicked out like that, and you know, it would be fucking hilarious. Seriously." I shrugged at that, not entirely sure that I agreed with him, seeing as I didn't find my hard- well actually piss poor efforts being put to waste just because my brother thinks it's funny to see me get kicked out of college.

It's not that I actually like college, or look forward to doing another year of this shit for that matter, but whatever, it sure beats living in a cardboard box outside Walmart and becoming a prostitute. Actually, the latter would probably be Pete's job, come to think of it. Yes, he would live in the cardboard box with me, of course.