C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - S i x
Present Day - Mikey
"Right this way." It's astounded Mikey that he's able to drop by to see Pete in jail. For that to happen, Pete must have requested him within a list of visitors - he actually wants to meet. Mikey wasn't going to turn that offer down when he has so many questions for his boyfriend. The guard leads him to the visiting room with its tasteless yellow walls, bland barred windows. He sees Pete waiting at a table in handcuffs.
He looks astonishingly different; his hair is grown out, darker like it's been kept mostly unwashed. His eyes are broody and lack their usual charming sparkle, cast forward like a tiny fish looking into the deepest crevice of the ocean. He's wearing his own clothes but they're wrinkled and one sleeve of his sweater is rolling up to his elbow, revealing some light scratches on his wrist. Probably a nervous tick.
Mikey takes a seat opposite him. There are no glass barriers and the guard lingers back, seeming at ease. Pete has slightly special treatment, then. Of course, it's not like he committed an act of murder himself so they probably aren't all that worried about keeping an eye on him.
"You asked for me," Mikey says softly. He's still looking into the eyes of the man he loves - thinks he loves. Right? Loved, past tense? He isn't sure what to feel as per usual.
"Yeah," says Pete, "I didn't know who else..."
"Patrick?" Mikey suggests and Pete's mouth twitches up at the mention. "Your parents?" He goes on and that gets him a full-blown snort of discontent.
"You're my lover," he explains simply and the word has Mikey blushing like a dumb school boy. He hates that the older boy still has this effect on him; he would probably jump off a bridge for Pete if he asked.
But Pete's expression crumbles under its facade, revealing the true intentions behind summoning Mikey to visit him. His lips set themselves in a straight line. "You've been talking about me - a lot."
"You've been talking about me," Mikey retorts but knows it isn't nearly as bad on his behalf. His voice grows small. "I broke into your house."
That barely catches Pete's attention like it doesn't shock him in the slightest. Maybe he already knew; maybe word got out or his father contacted him. Maybe he's not as alone in here as Mikey presumes him to be.
Mikey clears his throat and continues anyway, "I was looking for money for your bail. I guess your family already had that covered, though..." He thinks back to the file cabinet and the note labelled 'Pete' but how Alicia said his parents refused to bail him out. It makes no sense.
"My family don't give two craps about me," Pete grumbles, "any money you found wasn't for me."
"It had your name on it," Mikey argues, hesitant.
"What did?" The chain on Pete's handcuffs strains as he moves his hands.
"In the office file cabinet," Mikey says dumbly, "stacks of bills wrapped with elastic ties. There had to be at least tens of thousands in there."
Realisation flutters over Pete's otherwise blank face. "That's bribe money, kid."
Kid? Mikey pretends that doesn't sting. It doesn't hurt half as bad as the punches he got dealt being in this relationship. He hates being treated like a braindead animal but he has to keep asking questions; has to get to the bottom of this. "Bribe money for what? Why are you telling me this?" There are people watching through cameras, listening to their every word in here.
"My parents wanted me to go to college," Pete explains slowly like he really is talking to an idiot, "some of the money was for me to start over in an Ivy League school if I could pull my grades up. If I didn't..."
"Then the rest was for the colleges themselves." He was going to obtain an illegal place at some college with that money, and for what? Is higher education really so important?
"You know how important my family's reputation is." Another clink of metal on the table as he moves. "They didn't want me going to Chicago."
"They hate your band so much?" Mikey jokes.
"They don't hate my music. They hate Patrick."
"Patrick?" The name sits like a bad taste in his mouth all of a sudden. What has this got to do with the sweet boy in the fedora who's been supporting him through this whole mess?
"They wanted me to settle down with some girl," Pete says with a smirk and it's undoubtably sadistic, "any girl. Just not him. They knew he was important to me - too much so. Still, better they know of what I've been doing to him than what I've been doing to you."
"Tell me you didn't hurt him." He doesn't understand anything but the terror rising in his chest at the change of atmosphere.
"I wouldn't. Not unless he asked me to." Pete licks his lips, eagerly awaiting the boy's reaction.
Mikey stops for a beat, trying to piece it together. "You've... you've been with Patrick. This whole time?" His world shatters for the millionth time this year. Patrick couldn't have agreed to it; it had to have been nonconsensual.
Pete doesn't hold back. "Since I met him. It was a casual thing, we knew that - until it wasn't. That boy is in love with me, I can tell. I was going to go to Chicago to chase after the feeling for a little longer and my parents didn't want this out in the open, of course. I had my fun with you, too, though that had to be a secret because of the slight age difference and, well, the marks I left on your pretty pale skin."
Mikey could throw up. "Pete," he says, unsure of what he wants to hear. He wants to leave.
"Oh, Patrick's a lot better in bed than you. I was mad at first that you wouldn't put out but I always had him. He tried to distance himself from me, do the right and noble thing and back off while I had my eyes set on you at the same time... but I fooled him just like I fool everyone else. It feels good to have people wrapped around your finger like that."
Patrick's been sleeping with Pete this whole time. Patrick's in love with Pete, his best friend. The one he's now desperate to run away from. The one who's ruined them both.
Pete taunts him, "I wanted to hear it one time from you, those three words that tied you to me forever. I could have taken them if I had just a little more time." His eyes darken into a fiery pit. "Then you turned me in. Like the wretched, weak, quivering scum of the earth. I suppose I was glad you weren't so attached to me by then because what would I say when I ran away to Chicago without you? What lies could I spin that would prevent you from speaking out against the crimes I've committed?"
"They can hear you," Mikey strains behind tears, glancing at the guard whose ear is trained on them.
Patrick had said to Mikey that there were so many things he didn't know, but it was Mikey who knew nothing. Who sat oblivious in Pete's bird cage, and his wings weren't broken; they were sliced off. He sees it now.
"Let them. Let's face it: thanks to you, I'm done for. I'll rot in here remembering your face and what you've done to me." He reaches forward with scorn and Mikey pulls back, deathly afraid. The guard takes a step in their direction, ready to break up their contact. Like they're breaking their entire relationship which was built on lies and abuse.
"What I've done to you?" Mikey echoes in disbelief. "Look what you've done to me! I went through hell and you took advantage of that, you - you were going to let me die in that shooting because you knew - you knew about Frank and you didn't care, and it was what, some sort of miracle that I came out alive? And you thought you'd just kill me in some other way, by crushing my soul. Making me trust you then spitting in my face while you cheated on me with Patrick."
Patrick, who's desperate to get out of town. No wonder. He must see Pete's true colours like Mikey is staring down now.
"Don't pretend you didn't like it," coos Pete with a nibble of his lips, excited to wind the kid up, "you wanted it so bad that first time, when I got you so drunk you couldn't remember your name and fu—"
"No," Mikey denies, his head spinning. He can't breathe. Everything was a mistake.
"So impressionable. Such an easy target that fell straight into my arms." The abuser narrows his eyes, considering his prey before him with something akin to pride. "I'm sure glad that Frank spared your life. God, I made good work out of you. It was almost worth it." I ruined you, are the words that go unsaid but weigh a ton between them.
Mikey stands, and the miracle is that he's able to stay on his own two feet. He looks to the guard who's been listening in the whole time, making mental notes. He says with a tremor, "I'd like to leave now."
>
Present Day - Frank
"Gonna take off all my skin, tear apart all of my insides. When they rifle in, mom and dad think you'll be saved. They never had the time; they're gonna medicate your lives. You were always born a crime. We salute you in your grave. Can't find my way home but it's through you and I know..."
"Gee?" I reach out a hand and half-open one eye.
All we do lately is sleep and mope around. I can tell he's starting to miss the outside world more than ever, simple pleasures like going out for dinner or seeing a movie. Even school, where he's supposed to be attending his senior year and making memories to last a lifetime, going to prom and picking out colleges - he'll never be able to do any of it now. He knows it and rarely do I witness a smile on his lips.
"You usually sleep through it," he mumbles, referring to his singing. His voice wavers and cracks and the first tear falls.
Crying, too. There's more of that. I would blame it on the hormones of a teenager and with everything he's been through, he has a lot to cry about - but Gerard's always been strong. He tends to keep his cool and not react too emotionally unless something is really wrong, like he's really hurt.
Suddenly it's four in the morning and Gerard is stuttering out that he feels like there's a hole in his stomach, gasping for air and clutching me like I'm his lifeline.
"Why does it always hurt so bad?" He almost crushes the bones of my hand with his, scrunching up his face in torment. I know the feeling; it's the same one I felt in the car after running out to get my cigarettes. I don't know what to tell him because I have no idea.
"Ray must have painkillers somewhere," he grits out, panting heavily. I nod and go to the kitchen to search for them.
I sift through the contents of the cupboards, all the drawers, in the living room too, and I'm devastated to find none. I want to help him but there's nothing I can do for either of us. Anger takes hold of my body and I bang my fists on the table, uncaring if it wakes anybody else in the house up.
I go back to our bedroom and see he's messed up the bed; one corner of the sheet is hanging off the mattress and a couple of pillows are dispersed over the floor. His sweat clings to the thin duvet and when he looks at me, it's desperate. "Did you find any?" Gerard asks eagerly.
"I'm sorry, Gee." I shake my head and he visibly deflates, fisting the sheets in his white knuckles. There's that small pool of blood below him again, having reappeared since last time we washed the bedding. I'm starting to have a really, really bad feeling about this. I take a seat next to him.
In the months I've known him, he's come to know me better than I know myself. In fact, he sees right through me, past my flaws and walls and tendencies to be an abusive prick, deep enough to find something to love. God only knows what that is. What I care about is that he's here by some twisted coincidences and he hasn't left me, and that he says he would never. I too, somebody who thought they'd never be capable of a shred of empathy toward another human being, have fallen beautifully and catastrophically in love.
So I decide I can't wait anymore.
"How much do you love me?" I whisper into the dark.
He answers immediately. "I would die for you."
I sure hope he never does. The red spills across the bed like a silk cloth, spotting in places, reminding me that whatever sickness this is or however it will end, I just want to hold him. Forever.
"No matter what's going on, you'll stay? You'll be with me in the future - nobody else?"
He wipes the sheen from his forehead and attempts a smile. It looks out of place and forced, otherworldly like he's distracted too much by his own thoughts and pain. Even like this, he's beautiful; the slope of his nose to his chin, crescent-shaped dimples. His small teeth in his mouth, biting over his lip when he holds in laughter. He's the bridge between my life and death. He replies with one word:
"Always."
Does he understand what it would do to me if this were a lie? If he's doing it to appease me, as some masterplan to run away and escape... No. No, I have to stop thinking about that.
I'm letting my paranoia get the best of me. "Is always just today, or is always years to come?"
"Always is forever, Frankie."
Yeah. I can do forever.
"Good, because I'll always love you."
In the morning when he finally drifts off to sleep, brown blood crusted underneath us and the pain fading for a brief, pleasant moment, I step into the kitchen. It's early - the sun hasn't risen - but I'm surprised to see I've got company. Ray. Just the guy I wanted to speak to about this.
"We should talk," I say. Ray's eyes watch the door as if afraid someone will listen in and it's a very private conversation. Honestly, I don't mind.
"About what?"
"Marriage," I blurt out. He doesn't move, perplexed.
"What about it?" The words out of his mouth irritate me so much sometimes. I force the metaphorical steam back in my ears and decide to spell it out for him in more detail.
"I want to marry him," I declare. It takes him more than a second to react this time.
Ray leans against the counter, his gaze once again fleeting to the door to confirm Gerard isn't there. "Frank, this is most stupid thing you've ever suggested."
I awkwardly scratch the back of my head. My hair's getting too long. "Yeah, but... what do you think?"
"You're going to marry him." He deadpans as if it's the punchline to a bad joke. "You're going to propose to a man you kidnapped, beat up, waterboarded, and met not even six months ago."
It's been, like, almost nine months. Does he have any concept of time or am I delusional, another side effect of whatever the hell is going on with me?
"That's the plan." I say dumbly.
He stares at me like I've grown two heads. "As your friend, I'm saying I think you need to check yourself in."
"What?" I frown in confusion.
"Well, to a nuthouse, of course, and only for the rest of your life - because you've completely lost it."
Can't he just be supportive for once? I would never judge him. He knows how in love I am with Gerard and hell, you only live once. I might not get the perfect opportunity to pop the question in normal circumstances but I'm making the most of what I've got.
"Come on," I sigh, "I know you don't understand a lot of—"
"First of all, let's deal with the legal proceedings. 'You're filing for marriage? What's your name? Oh, I'm sorry? You're a presumed-dead psycho who murdered five people and now wishes to wed your impressionable kidnap victim?'"
"He's not impressionable," I snap.
"That's all you got out of that?"
Okay, I see a point in his logic. Maybe it wouldn't have to be a real wedding though, just a fantastical blip in our routine that means I get down on one knee and Gerard ends up wearing a ring. Just an engagement will suffice for now. It's never going to be the traditional wedding we could hope for because of the circumstances, of course.
"I don't know why I'm even telling you this." I roll my eyes.
He suddenly slams a hand down on the table. "Goddamn it, Frank, can't you see this is ludicrous? What do you expect will happen after - God forbid - Gerard agrees to marry you? Will you run off into the sunset together?"
I wish. But what would be so bad about him saying yes? Jesus, it used to be us against the world but now he's getting on my last nerve. For all the crap he's given me over the time we've known each other, I would expect at least a fake attempt at delight.
"What's going on in here?" Bob saunters into the room. Great - exactly what I need right now. This may as well be a full-blown intervention.
"The moron before us was going to buy an engagement ring if he hadn't ran into me on the way out."
"That's not true!" I do value his opinions despite what he thinks. I wouldn't just run away and act on impulse without thinking about it and asking about it some more first.
"For Gerard?" Bob asks incredulously. "That's messed up. Seriously, how do you know he'll say yes? You've known him a very limited amount of time; not to mention your relationship is actually illegal."
It's illegal because I kidnapped him, right. And because I should be in jail for a few other reasons. And because everyone will tell me he has Stockholm Syndrome.
"He'll be eighteen next April so clearly nothing's going to happen until at least then." I point out the obvious. "And I wasn't asking for your permission... actually." I mock him.
Bob glares at me for a while before, to everyone's shock, he shrugs and says, "Whatever. Just do it."
"Bob?" Ray's mouth hangs open.
Bob Bryar is supposed to loathe me, and openly disapprove of my relationship with Gerard. Instead, he's showing me that not only is he suddenly, magically okay with it, but now he's on board the holy matrimony ship.
He fetches himself a glass of tap water, pretending like what I've said isn't a rash decision. Maybe he just wants to watch me crash and burn; maybe because he's travelled and seen a bit of the world, he knows how fleeting everything is.
"Frank..." He gives me a strange, unreadable look and sets down his water. "We can't stop you. With the weird stuff that's been occurring of late, who knows what could happen next? So I can understand the Carpe Diem aspect of what you're trying to go for here, and as long as you're safe and treat Gerard how he deserves to be treated, it's not my place to say no."
"Wh- Seriously?" I stammer with wide eyes.
He is not meant to agree with me. It's almost a trick of reverse psychology, like ignoring a child's tantrum to make them think it doesn't enrage you. And I do act like a crying baby sometimes when I don't get my way - a homicidal one at that.
"Yeah, I'm serious, especially about the last part - make him happy or I'll put that final shot in your gun to good use, understand?"
I nod quickly, not picking up on the fact that for some inexplicable reason, Bob knows how many shots are left in my unconventional weapon.