Silence Too Loud [Pete/Mikey standalone G]
Title: Silence Too Loud
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: G
Pairing: Pete/Mikey (Ryan/Brendon)
POV: Third
Disclaimer: This is not true. All fiction.
Summary: Pete doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know why he picked Mikey out, why he singled out the quiet little guitarist, why he has him in his living room staring at the couch.
A/N: For ivesia19 who requested Pete/Mikey with a side of ryden. I don't really have anything to say except that Pete and Mikey are a lot like Gabe and William for me, two unattainable characters that I can never seem to get right... I hope you like it.
*
Pete Wentz is always scared. For all his bravado, he’s terrified that someone will see what he tries so hard to hide from everyone. Instead, he puts on a face. It’s the face that Patrick scowls at and slinks into the back bunks to escape from, that Andy and Joe just ignore, headphones in and music turned up. It’s the face that the press loves with his vulgar quotes that make the internet headlines, his hand up some girl’s shirt at a club, his boundless energy on stage.
It’s the face he can only throw away when he’s alone with his notepad, scribbling nonsensical words late into the night until the sun creeps up in the east and it starts all over again.
During the day, he keeps on that endless grin, the flashing white teeth, as press crowd in around him. He convinces them that Ryan and Brendon are friends, really, nothing more. They’re bandmates, and the fact that Brendon is always talking into Ryan’s ear, hand in his, is just how Brendon is. He warns Ryan and Brendon with a good-natured smile to be careful.
His façade stays on every minute of every day until he meets Mikey Way.
Mikey Way is the quiet guitarist in My Chem. His glasses always slip down his nose, and when he plays, he looks firmly down, eyes watching his fingers and listening to his brother sing to the crowd. He wears tight jeans on his thin legs, striped sweaters, and square-rimmed glasses, hair sweeping down to hide his eyes.
Mikey Way doesn’t look at Pete when Pete bursts in backstage at one of their concerts. He just plucks at his guitar chords and double checks Gerard to make sure he’s lucid enough to go on. He makes him drink water while Pete bounces around, meeting all the guys and creating a general ruckus.
When he gets to Mikey, he pauses. He almost doesn’t know what to do, but his mask slips firmly on and he shakes his hand firmly, proclaiming him the great Mikey Way.
Mikey doesn’t meet his eyes, head bowed over his guitar, dark hair cascading over his face as he tweaks some more.
Pete watches them play, sees Gerard singing into his microphone, clutching at it like it’s a lifeline, sees Ray’s wild hair as he slams on his guitar, watches Frank slide to his knees before Gerard, begging for something Pete can’t quite figure out. He watches Mikey play, careful fingers searching out notes, eyes flicking to Gerard every now and again.
He sees the crowd surge, singing along to every single song they play, screaming at everything Gerard throws at them. It’s a different atmosphere, he thinks, than a Fall Out Boy show. There’s something more serious underneath it all that Pete can’t explain.
After the show, when they’re all out of breath and drenched in sweat, Pete congratulates them all, one by one, grin after grin, until he gets to Mikey. Mikey hands his guitar off to a tech and wipes at his face with a white towel. When he lowers it, he finds Pete staring at him, eyes big and smile gone. It only lasts a second, though, and Pete’s smile is back.
“Mikey Way,” he says, patting Mikey on the back. “You are awesome.”
Mikey doesn’t reply, pushing his sweaty hair back, grabbing a water bottle and downing half in less than a minute.
The band has to go to the hotel, Brian says, and Pete trails along, talking enthusiastically with Frank, seemingly the only one willing to tap into his energy.
At the car, Pete hesitates. Gerard is already climbing inside and Frank hustles in after him. Mikey starts in, but Pete stops him, a hand on his arm, pulling him back.
“Come out with me,” Pete says, more nervous than he usually feels. He forces his grin, though, and sees Mikey hesitate, thinking, contemplating.
Mikey looks back at the car where Gerard is leaning against the window, eyes shut, and Frank is typing something into his phone. Another glance at Brian, and then Mikey nods.
“Okay.”
A wave of something close to relief washes over Pete and he grabs Mikey’s hand, taking him away from the car even as Mikey makes a strange hand signal at Frank, who nods and nudges Gerard awake to tell him.
They don’t end up going anywhere ‘out’. Instead, they end up back at Pete’s house. It’s dark and quiet, just the way Pete hates. He turns on lights as they head towards the living room.
Pete’s house is obnoxiously clean. At night, when he’s all alone and he can’t sleep, and the words just won’t come, he cleans. He organizes magazines and hangs up Hemmy’s leash by the door. He even dusts and vacuums.
Mikey doesn’t speak much, looking around. Pete grabs the phone off the counter and orders a pizza. After he spends five minutes specifying extra cheese and no olives, he returns to the couch, sitting down next to Mikey and turning towards him.
Mikey looks awkward sitting on the couch, too long legs tucked underneath him and fingers fiddling with his glasses.
Pete realizes he has nothing to say as they sit there, and the thought scares him more than he expects. Swallowing carefully, he casts around for something to say.
“You guys were good tonight.”
Mikey glances up, eyes catching Pete’s, and he doesn’t smile, not yet. “First time?”
“Yeah,” Pete agrees. “Never had the time before, but man, the way Gerard sings, it’s like he’s reaching for them or something. He just connects.”
Mikey nods slowly, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at the expensive brown leather. “He does.”
Pete doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know why he picked Mikey out, why he singled out the quiet little guitarist, why he has him in his living room staring at the couch. The silence is stretching, and part of it kills Pete. He hates silence in all forms. Silence lets his thoughts run wild, to take over himself, to drive him into a place so deep that he isn’t sure how to get out.
He’s searching for something else to say when Mikey pauses, eyes falling on the little black notebook sitting perpendicular to the table edge.
He reaches for it slowly and Pete doesn’t stop him, heart thudding in a way it hasn’t since he doesn’t know when. It shouldn’t matter, he knows. People hear his lyrics all the time. They sing along to them. But as Mikey flips open the cover, he has a sudden urge to seize it back and guard it with his life.
Mikey’s eyes skim down a page, and he flips past a few.
He can feel his mask slipping as Mikey reads, fingers tracing over the words scribbled on the page, squished into margins, crossed out and scribbled over. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, fidgeting feet from Mikey.
Pete keeps his mask because he’s terrified someone might see what he really is. What he really is, is trapped. He’s trapped in his own mind and the only way he can escape is to pretend. He pretends to be Pete Wentz, the guy who made Panic at the Disco, who has a clothing line, a record label, a successful band, enough publicity to keep the tabloids in business for years. But really, he’s Pete Wentz, whose lyrics make no sense except to him, who hides behind Patrick’s voice, who’s afraid to be alone.
He can feel the silence sinking into his skin, itching at his consciousness, tugging at his heart. His foot twitches and he sighs into the silence.
Mikey looks up finally, brown eyes meeting Pete’s, and Pete freezes. There’s a moment where neither moves, and Pete’s thoughts envelop him. It’s a mess of fragmented sentences, clipped thoughts that never seem to finish, jumbled up in his brain, and he feels like he’s going to explode.
Mikey sets the notebook down, nudging it perpendicular to the coffee table edge, and looking back up. His glasses slide down his nose, and Pete’s hand is there before he can stop it, pushing them back up, fingers brushing past Mikey’s hair.
Pete wants to say something, explain something about the mess of thoughts in that book, what they all mean, if he can even explain it. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what they mean. They just come out and stay there until Patrick tugs it away from him.
He wants to explain, to say something, but Mikey leans forward instead, eyes bright as he stares past Pete’s stupid smile, past his overabundance of energy.
Pete doesn’t move when Mikey leans forward, tentative lips meeting his own. It’s not like most kisses Pete has. Most are either too short, quick, closed-mouth kisses pressed to someone on the label, smacking kisses pressed to cheeks, or they’re too hard, too hot, in some club with some nameless girl, some girl who’ll have her picture on Perez Hilton the next day. Sometimes Pete wonders if that’s all they want.
But Mikey’s kiss is slow, tongue slowly seeking what he wants, light lips against Pete’s, soft and careful. His hands sweep up to Pete’s face, gently cupping his jaw as he pulls away, knowing eyes and the tiniest tilt of a smile to his lips.
“I understand,” is all that Mikey says when he hovers inches from Pete, noses barely touching. His thumb sweeps down Pete’s jaw and his mouth twitches.
Pete stares, throat working hard to swallow everything that bursts into his mind, everything he wants to say, to write down.
“Wanna stay?” is all he manages to say when Mikey pulls back, hands dropping from his face even as there’s a knock to the door; the pizza.
The knock comes again and Mikey smiles, ducking his head a little, hair tumbling down. “Sure.”
Pete doesn’t jump for joy or ramble about all the amazing things they’re going to do. He doesn’t grin too widely, doesn’t proclaim Mikey the most awesome person he’s ever met. Instead, he brushes back Mikey’s hair and goes to get the pizza as the knock comes a third time, echoing through the silent house.
*
FIN.
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: G
Pairing: Pete/Mikey (Ryan/Brendon)
POV: Third
Disclaimer: This is not true. All fiction.
Summary: Pete doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know why he picked Mikey out, why he singled out the quiet little guitarist, why he has him in his living room staring at the couch.
A/N: For ivesia19 who requested Pete/Mikey with a side of ryden. I don't really have anything to say except that Pete and Mikey are a lot like Gabe and William for me, two unattainable characters that I can never seem to get right... I hope you like it.
*
Pete Wentz is always scared. For all his bravado, he’s terrified that someone will see what he tries so hard to hide from everyone. Instead, he puts on a face. It’s the face that Patrick scowls at and slinks into the back bunks to escape from, that Andy and Joe just ignore, headphones in and music turned up. It’s the face that the press loves with his vulgar quotes that make the internet headlines, his hand up some girl’s shirt at a club, his boundless energy on stage.
It’s the face he can only throw away when he’s alone with his notepad, scribbling nonsensical words late into the night until the sun creeps up in the east and it starts all over again.
During the day, he keeps on that endless grin, the flashing white teeth, as press crowd in around him. He convinces them that Ryan and Brendon are friends, really, nothing more. They’re bandmates, and the fact that Brendon is always talking into Ryan’s ear, hand in his, is just how Brendon is. He warns Ryan and Brendon with a good-natured smile to be careful.
His façade stays on every minute of every day until he meets Mikey Way.
Mikey Way is the quiet guitarist in My Chem. His glasses always slip down his nose, and when he plays, he looks firmly down, eyes watching his fingers and listening to his brother sing to the crowd. He wears tight jeans on his thin legs, striped sweaters, and square-rimmed glasses, hair sweeping down to hide his eyes.
Mikey Way doesn’t look at Pete when Pete bursts in backstage at one of their concerts. He just plucks at his guitar chords and double checks Gerard to make sure he’s lucid enough to go on. He makes him drink water while Pete bounces around, meeting all the guys and creating a general ruckus.
When he gets to Mikey, he pauses. He almost doesn’t know what to do, but his mask slips firmly on and he shakes his hand firmly, proclaiming him the great Mikey Way.
Mikey doesn’t meet his eyes, head bowed over his guitar, dark hair cascading over his face as he tweaks some more.
Pete watches them play, sees Gerard singing into his microphone, clutching at it like it’s a lifeline, sees Ray’s wild hair as he slams on his guitar, watches Frank slide to his knees before Gerard, begging for something Pete can’t quite figure out. He watches Mikey play, careful fingers searching out notes, eyes flicking to Gerard every now and again.
He sees the crowd surge, singing along to every single song they play, screaming at everything Gerard throws at them. It’s a different atmosphere, he thinks, than a Fall Out Boy show. There’s something more serious underneath it all that Pete can’t explain.
After the show, when they’re all out of breath and drenched in sweat, Pete congratulates them all, one by one, grin after grin, until he gets to Mikey. Mikey hands his guitar off to a tech and wipes at his face with a white towel. When he lowers it, he finds Pete staring at him, eyes big and smile gone. It only lasts a second, though, and Pete’s smile is back.
“Mikey Way,” he says, patting Mikey on the back. “You are awesome.”
Mikey doesn’t reply, pushing his sweaty hair back, grabbing a water bottle and downing half in less than a minute.
The band has to go to the hotel, Brian says, and Pete trails along, talking enthusiastically with Frank, seemingly the only one willing to tap into his energy.
At the car, Pete hesitates. Gerard is already climbing inside and Frank hustles in after him. Mikey starts in, but Pete stops him, a hand on his arm, pulling him back.
“Come out with me,” Pete says, more nervous than he usually feels. He forces his grin, though, and sees Mikey hesitate, thinking, contemplating.
Mikey looks back at the car where Gerard is leaning against the window, eyes shut, and Frank is typing something into his phone. Another glance at Brian, and then Mikey nods.
“Okay.”
A wave of something close to relief washes over Pete and he grabs Mikey’s hand, taking him away from the car even as Mikey makes a strange hand signal at Frank, who nods and nudges Gerard awake to tell him.
They don’t end up going anywhere ‘out’. Instead, they end up back at Pete’s house. It’s dark and quiet, just the way Pete hates. He turns on lights as they head towards the living room.
Pete’s house is obnoxiously clean. At night, when he’s all alone and he can’t sleep, and the words just won’t come, he cleans. He organizes magazines and hangs up Hemmy’s leash by the door. He even dusts and vacuums.
Mikey doesn’t speak much, looking around. Pete grabs the phone off the counter and orders a pizza. After he spends five minutes specifying extra cheese and no olives, he returns to the couch, sitting down next to Mikey and turning towards him.
Mikey looks awkward sitting on the couch, too long legs tucked underneath him and fingers fiddling with his glasses.
Pete realizes he has nothing to say as they sit there, and the thought scares him more than he expects. Swallowing carefully, he casts around for something to say.
“You guys were good tonight.”
Mikey glances up, eyes catching Pete’s, and he doesn’t smile, not yet. “First time?”
“Yeah,” Pete agrees. “Never had the time before, but man, the way Gerard sings, it’s like he’s reaching for them or something. He just connects.”
Mikey nods slowly, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at the expensive brown leather. “He does.”
Pete doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know why he picked Mikey out, why he singled out the quiet little guitarist, why he has him in his living room staring at the couch. The silence is stretching, and part of it kills Pete. He hates silence in all forms. Silence lets his thoughts run wild, to take over himself, to drive him into a place so deep that he isn’t sure how to get out.
He’s searching for something else to say when Mikey pauses, eyes falling on the little black notebook sitting perpendicular to the table edge.
He reaches for it slowly and Pete doesn’t stop him, heart thudding in a way it hasn’t since he doesn’t know when. It shouldn’t matter, he knows. People hear his lyrics all the time. They sing along to them. But as Mikey flips open the cover, he has a sudden urge to seize it back and guard it with his life.
Mikey’s eyes skim down a page, and he flips past a few.
He can feel his mask slipping as Mikey reads, fingers tracing over the words scribbled on the page, squished into margins, crossed out and scribbled over. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, fidgeting feet from Mikey.
Pete keeps his mask because he’s terrified someone might see what he really is. What he really is, is trapped. He’s trapped in his own mind and the only way he can escape is to pretend. He pretends to be Pete Wentz, the guy who made Panic at the Disco, who has a clothing line, a record label, a successful band, enough publicity to keep the tabloids in business for years. But really, he’s Pete Wentz, whose lyrics make no sense except to him, who hides behind Patrick’s voice, who’s afraid to be alone.
He can feel the silence sinking into his skin, itching at his consciousness, tugging at his heart. His foot twitches and he sighs into the silence.
Mikey looks up finally, brown eyes meeting Pete’s, and Pete freezes. There’s a moment where neither moves, and Pete’s thoughts envelop him. It’s a mess of fragmented sentences, clipped thoughts that never seem to finish, jumbled up in his brain, and he feels like he’s going to explode.
Mikey sets the notebook down, nudging it perpendicular to the coffee table edge, and looking back up. His glasses slide down his nose, and Pete’s hand is there before he can stop it, pushing them back up, fingers brushing past Mikey’s hair.
Pete wants to say something, explain something about the mess of thoughts in that book, what they all mean, if he can even explain it. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what they mean. They just come out and stay there until Patrick tugs it away from him.
He wants to explain, to say something, but Mikey leans forward instead, eyes bright as he stares past Pete’s stupid smile, past his overabundance of energy.
Pete doesn’t move when Mikey leans forward, tentative lips meeting his own. It’s not like most kisses Pete has. Most are either too short, quick, closed-mouth kisses pressed to someone on the label, smacking kisses pressed to cheeks, or they’re too hard, too hot, in some club with some nameless girl, some girl who’ll have her picture on Perez Hilton the next day. Sometimes Pete wonders if that’s all they want.
But Mikey’s kiss is slow, tongue slowly seeking what he wants, light lips against Pete’s, soft and careful. His hands sweep up to Pete’s face, gently cupping his jaw as he pulls away, knowing eyes and the tiniest tilt of a smile to his lips.
“I understand,” is all that Mikey says when he hovers inches from Pete, noses barely touching. His thumb sweeps down Pete’s jaw and his mouth twitches.
Pete stares, throat working hard to swallow everything that bursts into his mind, everything he wants to say, to write down.
“Wanna stay?” is all he manages to say when Mikey pulls back, hands dropping from his face even as there’s a knock to the door; the pizza.
The knock comes again and Mikey smiles, ducking his head a little, hair tumbling down. “Sure.”
Pete doesn’t jump for joy or ramble about all the amazing things they’re going to do. He doesn’t grin too widely, doesn’t proclaim Mikey the most awesome person he’s ever met. Instead, he brushes back Mikey’s hair and goes to get the pizza as the knock comes a third time, echoing through the silent house.
*
FIN.