𝐄𝐌𝐎 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐈 ─ 𝐌𝐂𝐑. 𝐏!𝐀𝐓𝐃. 𝐅𝐎𝐁. 𝐓Ø𝐏.

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬. (𝐌. 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

The singer's voice reached Mikey's room as a distant yell, muffled even more by the fact that Mikey's was torso deep inside the jackets and shirts hanging in the closet. Nevertheless, the younger Way heard his brother's call clearly, and responded with and equally frustrated response.

"I can't find my fucking shirt!"

"Then just wear a different one!"

"No! You know I've been planning this for-"

The bassist had an epiphany then, and he stopped tossing clothing around as his face morphed into a scowl. Removing himself from the closet, he stomped over to the doorway and shouted down the stairs.

"Gee, I swear to God, if this is some kind of joke-"

"The fuck are you on about?" Gerard growled, annoyance growing by the minute as his brother delayed their departure from the house even further.

"This isn't the first time my shit has gone missing," Mikey pressed on, "and I know that it's gotta be one of you-"

"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF-"

Now pushed way past his limit, Gerard stormed up the stairs with such vigour that Mikey could feel the floor shake all the way in his room. A moment later, he was shoved out of the way as Gerard barreled into his room and made a beeline for the closet, grabbing the first shirt he could find and throwing it at his brother's face.

"It's a pub crawl, not a fashion show. If you're not done in the next thirty seconds, I'm leaving."

✧✧✧

A tipsy Mikey stumbled into his bedroom in a drunkenly haphazardly manner, almost tripping over his own feet but managing to grab the edge of his dresser and steady himself just in time.

Figuring it'd be best if he took advantage of the equilibrium, he began undressing himself. You strolled into the bedroom shortly thereafter, significantly less drunk and with your hands outstretched and ready to catch your sloshed friend if need be.

Now free from the uncomfortable constraints of his skinny jeans and combat boots, Mikey looked around in search of his boxers and sleep shirt. He couldn't find it in its usual place, prompting him to let out a groan of frustration.

"I can't believe this," he frowned, throwing his hands up. He lost his balance for a second, but you gripped his arm and helped him stand upright. "All of my clothes – all of them are just disappearing! Like what the fuck!"

Pursing your lips, you looked down at the t-shirt you had on – his t-shirt. It was a plain black one, which is probably why he hadn't noticed that it was his, and it was one that you'd swiped from his closet months ago already.

Clearing your throat, you patted him on his back and gently led him to the bed. "C'mon, I'm sure we can find something else in here."

You managed to pick out an old tee and shorts from one of the dresser drawers and helped him pull them on. A mere two minutes later, he was passed out on the bed.

✧✧✧

The next morning, you were preparing breakfast for you and Mikey; humming to yourself as you flipped pancakes. When the last one was out of the pan and on top of the stack, you wiped your hands on a dishcloth and started for the stairs.

From the bottom, you called out to Mikey. "Yo, Way! Food's ready!"

You received no response from the bassist, prompting you to heave a heavy sigh and relunctantly trudge your way up the stairs and to his bedroom. Once you got there, you find him (once again) torso deep in his closet, clothes strewn all around him.

"Uh... whatcha doin' there?"

Upon hearing your voice, he retracted his body and lifted his head to look at you. The poor guy looked distraught, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

With a loud, exasperated exhale, Mikey explained. "My clothes – especially my shirts – keep going missing."

Looking down at his Smashing Pumpkins tee you were wearing, you clicked your tongue. "Spooky," you replied, widening your eyes.

"Wait a minute..."

Mikey wasn't sure whether he was seeing things as a result of a mild hangover and too little sleep, so he shut his eyes and rubbed over them a couple times before checking to see if he was indeed seeing what he thought he was seeing.

And he was.

You were wearing his shirt.

"It was you!" he gasped, eyes the size of saucers as he jutted an acusatory finger in your direction.

"Well yeah, clearly," you scoffed, placing your hands on your hips, "Took you long enough to figure it out."

"But... why?"

Brushing it off with a shrug, you tugged at the tee and looked down at it. "Smells like you. It's comforting."

Mikey's mouth fell into an 'o' at your revelation, but he quickly recovered and played it off with a joke. "Jeez, (Y/N). If you wanted to date me so bad, all you had to do was ask. No need to raid my closet."

"Maybe this was my not-so-subtle way of telling you."

Oh.

Oh.

He had most definitely not been expecting that response. And his face showed it too.

Swallowing harshly to comfort your dry mouth, you looked down and shook your head awkwardly; his expression felt like a shot to your gut.

"But it's cool if you don't feel the same, obviously; like, I get-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Snapping your head up, you frowned, preparing to rip him a new one for being so rude. You didn't get that far, though, since his lips found yours in a super passionate kiss.

"Wow."

"Yeah," he pulled back with a smile, brushing your cheek affectionately as he gave you another short kiss, "In case it wasn't obvious enough – I do feel the same."

You breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing into his arms. "Thank God."

"So... does this mean I can get my clothes back now?"

"Oh, Mikey," you stroked his face, "They're our clothes now."

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Thank you for reading x