I won't give up that ghost, it's sick the way these tongues are twisted
Exert from Black-Eyed Sinner's Pact, Mikey's POV
I turn away for a second and he’s ducking under one of my arms and rushing out the door. The hot breeze coming through the open door snaps me out of my daze. Wearily I reach across several stunned guests- people Bill and I know from community college- grabbing a set of keys that Frank is holding out to me and follow him.
I close the door behind me and squint into the dense heat . The rain is coming down in sheets, cold and misty and the sidewalk looks like its steaming. I frown down at the sleeve of my tux, soaked through already by the heavy downfall, shivering as freezing water kicks up from the ground from my long strides onto my shins.
“Fuck you Gerard.” I mutter as I make out his small form a few yards ahead and quicken my pace. “Fuck you Pete.”
I catch up with him pretty quickly since I have about a leg span and a half on him and he’s a pussy in any form of extreme weather. He tries to fight it when my hand connects with his shoulder but I just spin him around comically, him on his tip toes like a pirouetting ballerina, ungracefully falling into my chest with a surprised little ‘oh’.
He looks at me with his huge fucking eyes, all wide and blank. “Hey, Mikey.” He says
“Hey, Gerard.” I say, rolling my eyes. “Where are you going?”
He’s starring at my hand on his arm in wonder. “Nowhere.” He replies simply, like it’s obvious. “I don’t…..nowhere.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Nowhere?” I motion around us angrily, lightening going off in the distance for perfect effect. “This is fucking somewhere. This is you running away.”
“I’m not running away.” Gerard says through gritted teeth, trying to break away from me again and failing miserably.
“What do you call this?” I shout in exasperation when he glowers at me and jerks again.
“Well…fuck! Mikey, let me go.”
Instead of heeding his request I grab him by the crook of his elbow and steer him past Bill’s beat up Sedan to Frank’s pristine black Jag. I stuff him into the small back seat, hoping Frank will forgive me for getting his leather upholstery wet.
“Promise me you won’t go anywhere.” I say more softly, giving him a small, rueful smile.”I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I close the door to avoid looking at his huge, sad eyes and turn around to see Frank standing behind me. He’s drenched and breathless, like he just ran out here.
Frank licks his red lips. “I got it from here, Mikey. You go back in with Bill.”
I don’t like the grimly determined look in his dark eyes; like he would burst into tears if he weren’t so resigned, numb. But I leave him there like he said to, patting him once on the shoulder as I walk by.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “The therapy has him completely fucked.” He says thickly.
“Yeah.” I nod to his back. “But I think it’s still better.”
“It has the potential.”
“For the record, I’ve always been rooting for you. You’re what he needs more than anything.”
Frank laughs harshly and climbs into the car with my brother.
Back in the reception hall its pandemonium. People are scrambling to get out the door, saying sloppy goodbyes for hasty departures; a panicked hush, whispered commotion. The only person within a ten foot radius of Pete (which is miraculous considering the diminutive nature of the hall we rented) is the always faithful, always bewildered Joe Trohman. He’s on the dinky platform area reserved as a stage surrounded by wires, a sea of silver and red confetti around his feet, a pile of passed-out Pete in his arms, fucked-up bridal style.
I almost want to laugh, Bill wants to cry. He’s at my side, starring at the same silent spectacle I’m seeing and sighing.
“It was one day.” He says mournfully.
I put my arm around him. “I know.”
“He couldn’t even make it one day.” He reiterates, motioning in Pete’s direction. His tone is reminiscent of someone who is disappointed in their high spirited puppy when it chews another pair of their underwear. “If he weren’t out cold, I’d slap him in the face.”
“I bet he’d feel it in the morning.” Mike mutters as he walks by with at least ten people’s coats.
Bill laughs and nods halfheartedly. “You’re not friends with him anymore. I forbid you from Pete Katz.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “No you don’t.”
“Fine. But he’s on probation.”
Turning him around, I stare into his eyes imploringly. “Bill.” It’s my ‘be reasonable’ voice mixed with a little old fashioned pleading. Bill rakes his hands through his long hair and heaves a humongous sigh filled with ennui.
“Fine. But slap him for me when he wakes up.”
“For us.” I reassure grimly. “Consider it done.”
We fist bump and French kiss and then he wanders over to the doors to say our goodbyes. I catch Patrick’s eyes as he’s taking his coat from Mike and I actually shiver a little bit from the livid intensity boring out of them at nothing in particular. He looks at me but he refuses to look behind me, where Pete is unconscious in Joe’s lap, muttering discontentedly in his sleep.
Patrick leaves and I give him a few minutes leeway before I walk over to them. I kneel down on the stage in front of Joe and pause to admire how peaceful Pete looks in an alcoholic stupor. I touch his face and he whispers something on my finger that I can’t hear.
It feels like ‘Brendon’ but that’s probably only because of what he said just minutes ago. It could have been anything. It was probably something stupid like ‘bed him’ or ‘Beckham’. Something about taking David Beckham to bed. Pete totally fucking loves David Beckham.
I look up to speak and I see Brendon. He’s a few yards off, still looking absolutely ambushed, a look of shock frozen semi-permanently on his face. I want to tell him that it will get stuck like that, and see if it would make him jump into action and stride over here to be with Pete. But I think better of it. I look at Joe instead.
“We’re taking him home, come on.”
We each take an arm and slip out the back with Pete’s comatose body. We take Joe’s decrepit old van; he’s drives while I stay in back with Pete, stroking his hair even though he can’t feel it he’s so knocked out. He probably shouldn’t even have been drinking at all with all the different meds he’s on. It was stupid and dangerous and so Pete and suddenly I feel a pang of remorse. I know it wasn’t my responsibility on my own wedding day but I should have had somebody watching him that I trusted, should have spared a moment here or there to check up on him. My sixth sense was going crazy all week but I ignored it for Bill’s sake and now I was in the back of a van with maybe two functioning wheels and some form of a contractible string of hepatitis with my best friend dead to the world on my lap in grave danger of waking up and losing absolutely everything that was worth waking up for in his life. I didn’t even want to think of the long reaching consequences; Frank’s eyes, numb and resigned, Gee’s, distant and sad, Patrick’s, livid and mournful, Brendon’s wide and punch-drunk.
The white walls of the wedding chapel were out of sight and things were looking pretty fucking bleak.
I turn away for a second and he’s ducking under one of my arms and rushing out the door. The hot breeze coming through the open door snaps me out of my daze. Wearily I reach across several stunned guests- people Bill and I know from community college- grabbing a set of keys that Frank is holding out to me and follow him.
I close the door behind me and squint into the dense heat . The rain is coming down in sheets, cold and misty and the sidewalk looks like its steaming. I frown down at the sleeve of my tux, soaked through already by the heavy downfall, shivering as freezing water kicks up from the ground from my long strides onto my shins.
“Fuck you Gerard.” I mutter as I make out his small form a few yards ahead and quicken my pace. “Fuck you Pete.”
I catch up with him pretty quickly since I have about a leg span and a half on him and he’s a pussy in any form of extreme weather. He tries to fight it when my hand connects with his shoulder but I just spin him around comically, him on his tip toes like a pirouetting ballerina, ungracefully falling into my chest with a surprised little ‘oh’.
He looks at me with his huge fucking eyes, all wide and blank. “Hey, Mikey.” He says
“Hey, Gerard.” I say, rolling my eyes. “Where are you going?”
He’s starring at my hand on his arm in wonder. “Nowhere.” He replies simply, like it’s obvious. “I don’t…..nowhere.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Nowhere?” I motion around us angrily, lightening going off in the distance for perfect effect. “This is fucking somewhere. This is you running away.”
“I’m not running away.” Gerard says through gritted teeth, trying to break away from me again and failing miserably.
“What do you call this?” I shout in exasperation when he glowers at me and jerks again.
“Well…fuck! Mikey, let me go.”
Instead of heeding his request I grab him by the crook of his elbow and steer him past Bill’s beat up Sedan to Frank’s pristine black Jag. I stuff him into the small back seat, hoping Frank will forgive me for getting his leather upholstery wet.
“Promise me you won’t go anywhere.” I say more softly, giving him a small, rueful smile.”I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I close the door to avoid looking at his huge, sad eyes and turn around to see Frank standing behind me. He’s drenched and breathless, like he just ran out here.
Frank licks his red lips. “I got it from here, Mikey. You go back in with Bill.”
I don’t like the grimly determined look in his dark eyes; like he would burst into tears if he weren’t so resigned, numb. But I leave him there like he said to, patting him once on the shoulder as I walk by.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “The therapy has him completely fucked.” He says thickly.
“Yeah.” I nod to his back. “But I think it’s still better.”
“It has the potential.”
“For the record, I’ve always been rooting for you. You’re what he needs more than anything.”
Frank laughs harshly and climbs into the car with my brother.
Back in the reception hall its pandemonium. People are scrambling to get out the door, saying sloppy goodbyes for hasty departures; a panicked hush, whispered commotion. The only person within a ten foot radius of Pete (which is miraculous considering the diminutive nature of the hall we rented) is the always faithful, always bewildered Joe Trohman. He’s on the dinky platform area reserved as a stage surrounded by wires, a sea of silver and red confetti around his feet, a pile of passed-out Pete in his arms, fucked-up bridal style.
I almost want to laugh, Bill wants to cry. He’s at my side, starring at the same silent spectacle I’m seeing and sighing.
“It was one day.” He says mournfully.
I put my arm around him. “I know.”
“He couldn’t even make it one day.” He reiterates, motioning in Pete’s direction. His tone is reminiscent of someone who is disappointed in their high spirited puppy when it chews another pair of their underwear. “If he weren’t out cold, I’d slap him in the face.”
“I bet he’d feel it in the morning.” Mike mutters as he walks by with at least ten people’s coats.
Bill laughs and nods halfheartedly. “You’re not friends with him anymore. I forbid you from Pete Katz.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “No you don’t.”
“Fine. But he’s on probation.”
Turning him around, I stare into his eyes imploringly. “Bill.” It’s my ‘be reasonable’ voice mixed with a little old fashioned pleading. Bill rakes his hands through his long hair and heaves a humongous sigh filled with ennui.
“Fine. But slap him for me when he wakes up.”
“For us.” I reassure grimly. “Consider it done.”
We fist bump and French kiss and then he wanders over to the doors to say our goodbyes. I catch Patrick’s eyes as he’s taking his coat from Mike and I actually shiver a little bit from the livid intensity boring out of them at nothing in particular. He looks at me but he refuses to look behind me, where Pete is unconscious in Joe’s lap, muttering discontentedly in his sleep.
Patrick leaves and I give him a few minutes leeway before I walk over to them. I kneel down on the stage in front of Joe and pause to admire how peaceful Pete looks in an alcoholic stupor. I touch his face and he whispers something on my finger that I can’t hear.
It feels like ‘Brendon’ but that’s probably only because of what he said just minutes ago. It could have been anything. It was probably something stupid like ‘bed him’ or ‘Beckham’. Something about taking David Beckham to bed. Pete totally fucking loves David Beckham.
I look up to speak and I see Brendon. He’s a few yards off, still looking absolutely ambushed, a look of shock frozen semi-permanently on his face. I want to tell him that it will get stuck like that, and see if it would make him jump into action and stride over here to be with Pete. But I think better of it. I look at Joe instead.
“We’re taking him home, come on.”
We each take an arm and slip out the back with Pete’s comatose body. We take Joe’s decrepit old van; he’s drives while I stay in back with Pete, stroking his hair even though he can’t feel it he’s so knocked out. He probably shouldn’t even have been drinking at all with all the different meds he’s on. It was stupid and dangerous and so Pete and suddenly I feel a pang of remorse. I know it wasn’t my responsibility on my own wedding day but I should have had somebody watching him that I trusted, should have spared a moment here or there to check up on him. My sixth sense was going crazy all week but I ignored it for Bill’s sake and now I was in the back of a van with maybe two functioning wheels and some form of a contractible string of hepatitis with my best friend dead to the world on my lap in grave danger of waking up and losing absolutely everything that was worth waking up for in his life. I didn’t even want to think of the long reaching consequences; Frank’s eyes, numb and resigned, Gee’s, distant and sad, Patrick’s, livid and mournful, Brendon’s wide and punch-drunk.
The white walls of the wedding chapel were out of sight and things were looking pretty fucking bleak.