C h a p t e r | E i g h t e e n
Present Day - Mikey
The rest of the day melts away in a blur. Every word that's choke out from Mikey's lips is the unfiltered truth - how Pete aided the shooting and everything that happened afterwards: pretending to care for and help Mikey, to take him into his arms like a bird with a broken wing, promising to let him fly free when he healed but instead trapping him in an iron cage. Mikey is a spectacle to be admired and toyed with.
He reluctantly speaks of his own weakness, how he believed the older boy and got into a passionate relationship with him. Mikey was a minor when they met and first had sex, but New Jersey has a Romeo and Juliet State Law which makes it barely legal - only immoral. It's the whole 'I was drunk endlessly for months' thing that captures Alicia's concern. If someone is intoxicated, they can't consent. Then Mikey dives into a story of needless abuse.
They take pictures. He has peachy scars on his back from Pete's nails raking at his skin, fingertip-shaped marks twisted around his upper arms. The imprint of a ring on his cheekbone after he was caught in another crossfire. A patchy, almost unnoticeable bald spot at the back of his head from where his hair was tugged too hard. It's all in the evidence files now, and it piles and piles up.
He's a tattletale. He's given it all up, laid bare on a silver platter for any vulture to nibble on. His life can be passed over in documents and criminal records. But the bird inside him has noticed that the iron bars of its cage have swung open, and all he needs to do now is take a leap of faith and test his wings.
Alicia asks if Pete ever forced himself upon him and Mikey is doubtful on how to answer. Sure, he was drunk pretty much every time in the last six months they've slept together but it was never violent. He led Pete on, teased him. Or that's what he was told. Sex is an important part of their relationship and this is the question that bugs him the most. What did he really want? Alicia gives him sad, sad eyes in response.
It's no surprise that Pete's parents aren't home when the police come to arrest him.
Mikey doesn't come with them. He doesn't even hang back in the shadows, peering from nearby bushes - he doesn't want to see any of it. He wonders exactly what the list of charges are. Accessory to murder, domestic violence, maybe even supplying someone underage with alcohol despite being underage himself (which carries up to six months in prison alone). Being over eighteen, these are no juvenile offences. Will they bring out the dreaded R word if he refuses to have a kit done or tell them exactly how their sex life went down?
He wonders if this will bring out Pete's mom and dad. Will they meet Mikey and blame him for their son's impending doom? Will they weep, or will they pay someone off and brush it under the rug like they did with his DUI charge?
Pete already has a criminal record and Mikey hopes this will come into play as painting him as the villain he is. The villain of Mikey's story, anyway. Character development gone wrong. He can't believe he was ever by this man's side.
Yet at the same time, the guilt doesn't fade. He knows he's doing the right thing - to protect Patrick and himself at the very least - but how long until he regrets this? How long until he wishes to take him back? He can already feel his emotions somersaulting against his stomach, a further drop of serotonin as he lets it set in that he's going to lose someone he cares about, no matter how darkly.
He gathers his possessions from Pete's house when it's over, watched closely by the cops to make sure he isn't stealing liquor or anything of the sort. He asks for help bringing the goldfish tank home with Joe inside, still swimming around in happy circles.
His parents await him at his childhood home, but it doesn't feel any more welcoming than it ever did before.
"We have a no pets rule," his father says disapprovingly.
"I do a good job at taking care of him," begs Mikey, "he's low maintenance. I'll keep him in my room; you won't even notice he's there." He needs this goddamn fish to carry on and he's not even sure why. Patrick insisted Joe was only a way of explaining his bond with Pete but he was wrong - it's a vivid reminder of what he's been through and how strong he's becoming. He hopes.
His mom lets him keep Joe in return for one thing:
"You're going to tell me why I got a call from the school today."
This conversation was fated to come up eventually but mentally he isn't prepared for how to answer and the violent reaction it will likely evoke. So he lies.
"I've been sick." He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but falling short of the mark. Nobody calls it out. "I'll go back after the weekend, I promise." And he leaves it at that.
They don't care enough to press the matter, to ask for his symptoms or why he's been absent from his studies for such an extended period of time. They don't pry into his stay with his 'friend' nor even ask for Pete's name. They secretly can't wait to have him gone. Mikey reminds them too much of Gerard and for as much as they seemed to hate the older brother too, they sure do miss him.
They don't miss Mikey when he sneaks out a couple of days later to meet up with Patrick. Patrick heard about Pete's arrest but isn't familiar with the details yet.
"How's Joe doing?" The smiling boy starts with natural small talk.
"He's doing okay for a fish." Mikey doesn't say that he wishes he could trade places with his pet - it's kind of weird. However, it's better than wanting to die (an urge which has been steady but not so intense lately). "How's it going with the band?"
"Well, we're missing a bassist," Patrick muses but without contempt, "but that won't be for long, right?"
Of course, he has his suspicions that Mikey was involved with his best friend's detainment. Mikey approaches the topic with fragility. "I couldn't tell you."
"There's a lot of stuff I don't know, isn't there?" Patrick asks sadly. Finally he knows what it's like to be out of the loop, to sympathise with Mikey.
Mikey can't lie to him. "Yeah, there is. It'll come to light soon, I think, but maybe it's best you hear it from Pete." That could straightforwardly be a mistake. Mikey wants to share his side of the story because it'll be whole and true, and he doesn't trust what Pete will have to say - but it's better to have Patrick despise him than listen to him now. He wouldn't be able to get the right words out.
"Pete's my best friend," Patrick reminds him as they're walking down the sidewalk, kicking stones at their feet. It reminds Mikey of the time he tripped himself up, the blood filling his mouth. His tooth is still chipped.
"I know. I'm sorry," he mumbles.
"But I don't trust him," Patrick finishes much to Mikey's confusion, "because I hardly know anything about him. The seven months we've been close are nothing compared to a lifetime he hasn't shared with me. I think my opinions are about to drastically change."
"You don't know anything about me," Mikey points out self-consciously, "save for my poor taste in friends and the tragic story of my brother and a mad school shooter."
"I don't have to know anything about you," Patrick says and looks into Mikey's eyes, "we were the ones who were there that day, and we were the ones who came out alive. Pete doesn't have anything on that. We looked into death's face and spat on it, you more than anyone. And any person with that amount of courage has my unconditional trust."
"Patrick." Mikey winces. "You don't get it. You were never supposed to be involved—"
"And you weren't supposed to stare down the barrel of that gun, Miko," he contends calmly, "no more than Frank was supposed to point it at you."
Mikey stalls, trying to conjure up a way to get his point across that Patrick doesn't deserve any of this - not Pete, not the bad memories, not him. Patrick could go to the ends of the earth and demand nothing for it; Mikey lets everything he touches die.
"Stop acting like you pulled the trigger," Patrick tells him. It's the first time he's seen the boy genuinely mad. "Or that it was anything other than a bad, bad day, where we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can't change it. You can't fix someone's brain when it's that broken."
Have their brains broken under this pressure, under this modern world?
Patrick's words will bounce across his head in eternity. "You go forward, now and always, and you never forget the past but you never let it take away from your future."
>
Present Day - Frank
I wish I never told Gerard what day my birthday is.
In retrospect, maybe it's a good thing for my memory. There's not much in the ways of keeping track of time here; no calendars, a half-broken television that hardly switches on to tell you what month it is. My phone is old, and most of the time out of charge. What use is it? We don't need to know when we are, only what we feel. But it's useful to have a sense of self-awareness.
Gerard is more conscientious. He diligently fiddles with the TV, constantly on the lookout for any further news about our whereabouts or how the investigations are going into what motivated me to commit the crime. Sometimes he watches the cameramen trailing detectives out of police stations, their hidden frustration as they pass up the opportunity to speak. The cops are dignified on duty. I guess he gets the dates from the headlines.
It creeps up on me, my gateway into adulthood. He mentions nothing of it until one morning when we wake up together, gold shimmering on our skins as the haziness of unconsciousness gives way.
"What did you dream about?" is the first thing he asks.
I gaze adoringly at him. His eyelashes are pale brown under the sun, his pupils shrunk. The hints of freckles left over from the summer months are at last beginning to fade. "Nothing," I answer honestly.
"I dreamt about this," he sighs and kisses me. My hands tentatively find the expanse of skin over his ribcage, smoothing down his goosebumps. It's like I'm scared to break him now, like he'll shatter and turn to ash if I press too hard. The small of his back is gentle and arched.
That's how we spend our morning, content. I would have forgotten the whole world in that moment. Eventually I hear something that sounds like Ray or Bob smashing a bowl in the kitchen and I groan.
"We've got little enough crockery as it is." I start getting dressed, pulling my boxers on for a little dignity.
Gerard doesn't move at first, too busy smiling like he's anticipating some other reaction from me. Then he pulls on a pair of sweatpants but reaches out and stops me from tugging my socks on. "Come shower with me then I'll give you your present."
I almost think the day couldn't be any better but I freeze at his use of the word 'present'. "Present for what?"
"Happy eighteenth birthday, Frankie. This kind of makes you a pedophile, by the way," he jokes.
It's October thirty-first already? It's been months since I took him? I choke on air as I head to the bathroom without looking at him. It's been two years since...
I don't even have the mindset to process the nickname he used, just what it means to me. Just what I've lost. The clock in our bedroom was a ticking time-bomb and I didn't even realise.
"Frank?" Gerard follows me, carrying a couple of towels. I turn on the shower and he says tentatively so as to not provoke a negative reaction from me, "is this about your parents?"
I lean against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a headache come on from a lack of nicotine.
"Why don't we get in the shower and I'll wash you? You don't have to talk about it," he says.
I picture his hands wandering over me, cleansing away my bad spirits. I press my almost naked body to his as we wait for the water to warm up, grateful for his soft touch. "That sounds like a good present."
He smiles so hard his eyes crinkle, dimples creasing. "That's number one. I think you'll like number two just as much."
"You're so good to me; I don't deserve it."
"Well, I'd do anything for you. I love you." He reminds me.
'I love you'. It's the most incredible thing in the world to hear those three words coming from his lips, directed at me specifically. I really don't deserve it. What is there about me to love? I'm crazy, totally insane. I have to cherish this for as long as I can. I think I'd go even more mad if I lost him.
"Say that again," I mumble.
I need to hear it, the chimes of his voice as he promises me an eternity of affection. The alluring call of a happy life, because even on the run and in hiding, as long as we're together I have something to be thankful for.
"I love you." He slides my boxers down my legs and kicks his clothes away too, kissing along my collarbones when we're both fully naked. "I love you, I love you. Now come on, I want to show you my other present."
I wonder how he got it if he hasn't left the house. Maybe he called a favour from Ray.
I don't need a present. I haven't had a birthday present since I was sixteen. Ever since then, this day has been a curse and I want nothing to aid my recollection of the tragedy. I find his presence is a gift enough because it means more to me than any material possession. But if he's proud of his own consideration for today, I'll gladly thank him a million times over for whatever he's decided to get me.
In the shower, nothing sexual occurs. He does as he said he would, gently rubbing my body with shower gel and shampooing my hair while I stand there like a zombie, my fingers tracing patterns on his waist. Maybe I should get finger tattoos - they'd say 'Halloween', like today. He rinses me off, quickly washes himself, then we get out.
Gerard nearly skips to our bedroom and pulls out a large piece of white card from under the bed, clearly with artwork of some kind on the other side. He explains nervously, "Bob got me some arty things and I didn't know what else I could get you without leaving the house so I hope this is okay." Then he turns the paper round to face me.
At first, I think it's a photo, then after a moment of studying the image in front of me, I realise it's a huge and detailed drawing of Gerard and I smiling at each other. There's some colour to add effect, the edges are deliberately blurred and I'm wearing a pair of fingerless skeleton-inspired gloves. It's absolutely perfect and my jaw hangs.
How did he manage to get this without a reference, with no photos? I can see the love in his eyes reflected back at me, every emotion known to man displayed on the thin piece of card, spread out in a two-dimensional wonder.
"It's - it's beautiful," I stammer, almost lost for words, "I didn't expect you to get me anything, never mind such a priceless piece of art and - and I'll never be able to give you something this incredible."
"I don't want anything but you and that's more than enough." He balances the drawing against the wall, and comes over with a beaming smile to wrap his arms around my neck and kiss me.
I kiss back, all of a sudden utterly overwhelmed at how deeply I care for the boy in my arms, my beautiful, naïve lover, all mine as I'm all his. It's now that I realise he's the most important part of my life, outweighing Ray and the tombstone itself six feet above the bodies of my parents. It's shocking to hear myself think that, but I'm okay with it; I accept it. I'm beyond ever considering letting him go or die. I want to stay with him for as long as I can, and I know why.
It was never supposed to happen this way. Had he not fallen for me, been kind to me, gone out of his way to create this masterpiece for my birthday - maybe I would feel differently. No longer do I feel the urge to tear apart my skin and leave it, to hop into another body and life for all the horrible deeds I've done, to leave all the suffering behind. The notion of driving to Mexico and starting anew is behind us. I'll be wholly happy for the rest of my days anywhere we end up, if this can continue on. It's everything I ever wanted and more and I wouldn't change a thing.
Because I'm in love with Gerard Way.