(no subject)
is... this what it's like to be vaguely productive? IT'S PRETTY FUCKIN' AWESOME, WHAT THE SHIT'S GOING ON HERE, AND WHY AM I STILL AWAKE?
radio static
frank iero/pete wentz, pete wentz/mikeyway
PG-13
pretty much all because of this post and immortal_lights. viiiolent! and then some making out! and even some angsty business thrown in there for good measure \o/ LIES & FICTION -- i've probably even screwed with the timeline a bit here, in fact.
Pete doesn't know Frank as well as he knows a lot of people but he's always thought of him as a pretty cool guy: energetic, enthusiastic, eager. An easy to get along with kind of guy. Friendly.
Frank doesn't look quite so friendly right now.
He'd called Pete up out of the blue and suggested they go to a bar, hang out, catch up, bands and business; Pete remembers thinking it was sort of odd, because Patrick's living with Bob at the moment, and their bands are pretty intertwined during all this recording. Frank had seemed cool enough at the beginning of their rendezvous though, chatting away about Skeleton Crew and Clandestine and the bands and the crazy fan stories that Pete's mostly already heard from Mikey; but then, now, on their third beer each, Frank turns to Pete, fixes him with a steady stare and turns the talk right around to Mikey himself.
"So, have you talked to Mikey lately?" he asks, and Pete doesn't really know what to say. This... thing he and Mikey have, it's not exactly something he's talked to anyone about all that much -- Patrick, mostly, Joe once or twice, Gerard at the very beginning when he had to listen to the obligatory brotherly threats.
Gerard had looked like he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face then, though, like he knew he'd never have to follow through with it, which. Well. Pete shifts a little awkwardly on his bar stool and shrugs. "A little," he eventually decides to say, because it's true enough and, more importantly, neutral. "Why, what's up?"
"He's," Frank says, and then pauses, like he's figuring out what to say. His fingers are rubbing over the label on his beer bottle, bits of paper flaking off beneath them, and Pete's about to make a crack about sexual frustration when he picks up on the tense, deliberate way Frank's holding himself and stops; Frank's back is straight and his posture is something Pete recognises right away, the posture of someone trying not to let themselves get too angry. Frank glances around them. "We should get out of here," he says, suddenly, "I don't -- this isn't the sort of shit I want someone to overhear, you know."
Pete should know right then that something's definitely up, something is going on, that following Frank out into the evening gloom, half full beers still in hands, isn't the wisest thing he's probably ever done. He goes anyway, though. He is, after all, not exactly well known for his smart decision making when it comes to his life.
"So," Pete says, because there's part of him that is vaguely aware, on some level, that he probably doesn't want to hear what Frank's got to say; there's this bigger part, though, that's overpowering his sense of self-reservation and making him press on, like the feeling that made him pick away at a scab just to see if it was going to bleed again when he was a kid. "So... Mikey?"
"Yeah, he's." Frank's still walking, around the corner and into an empty looking road -- Pete wonders what the time is. Later than he'd thought, apparently, and then Frank stops dead, spins around, and is glaring at Pete, something fierce and slightly shocking burning away in his eyes. "It's going to fucking shit, Pete, and to fucking honest, a hell of a lot of it is your fault."
Pete doesn't know what to say to this. He doesn't know what to say at all, but his stomach turns over with a sharp twist that he knows is guilt, at any rate, heady and bitter. He should have seen this coming, should have known from the moment Frank called him up that it would be for this reason and this reason only.
So he gets defensive. As though that might help him out of this situation, or maybe just because he's still got no idea how else he should react. "You don't know shit about what's going on there," he tells Frank, and his voice is low and harsh without him even meaning it to be, like his vocal chords are allergic to that feeling of guilt and have no other way of coping.
"I know you're fucking him around," Frank says in reply. There's something almost dangerous about the way he steps forward and the tone resonating through his words; Pete has sudden flashes to hearing about Frank, the way he could be, used to be, fights and fists and fury. "Gerard's too concerned about how Mikey is at the moment to be bothered with trying to deal with anything else. So I figured maybe I would, that maybe you need someone to get some fucking sense in your head. I don't know. You seem like a cool guy, but."
But everything about Frank right now suggests he thinks the exact opposite, and Pete can feel his hands curling into fists without him consciously telling them too because -- stop fucking around? It's not that simple, none of it is, and he grits out, "Like I said. You don't really know a thing about what's going on there. A thing."
"I know more than you probably think," Frank says, voice raised, and for a second Pete wonders if Frank genuinely has a point, that he's not noticed how bad things are; Frank and Pete got on whenever they met up before, and if Frank's getting like this this quickly then it's obviously serious. Frank's stepping closer and Pete glances down, sees Frank's own hands are tight fists, one curled so tight around the neck of his bottle it looks as though it might break soon, and the muscles on his arms are standing out like it's taking a lot of effort not to swing those fists out. "Who's your newest catch then, Pete? Your latest fucking conquest, or what?"
"Fuck you," Pete hisses. "Fuck off, it's not like that," because it's not. It's not. He knows how it probably seems to anyone not more involved, to anyone not residing in his head, even, but he's not trying to replace Mikey in his life. He's pretty sure he couldn't do that if he tried, which is maybe the problem in the first place.
"Really," Frank says, voice flat and tinged with something ugly, something Pete's never heard from him before.
"Really." Pete nods, vicious and sharp. He adds, "Besides, he's got Alicia, you really think--" and he's cut off by Frank closing that ever decreasing gap between them with a short step, so Pete's backed up, crowded against a fucking brick wall, of all things, Frank's beer bottle held up too close to his face.
"Are you trying to make this his fault?" Frank laughs after he speaks those words, and the sound is tinted with something almost manic. "He's falling apart and breaking down and -- fuck, I don't even know anymore, that's how bad shit is, and you're trying to blame it all on him even though every time some new picture shows up of you, with some new chick, some fucking barbie on your arm it gets worse?"
"Double standards," Pete growls, "double fucking standards, that shit's not fair." He sounds like a kid, on some level, and on some level he's aware of this: he doesn't know what else to say, though. Can't even think clearly about this anymore, let alone communicate how he's feeling. Not when there's a glass bottle right up in his face; not broken, not yet, but.
"Not fair," Frank repeats, mocking, mocking and Pete's swinging his fist out and only stopping short of Frank's cheek when he recalls the bottle; the remains of his beer trickles out in an arc with the movement, decorating their shoes. They're that close.
"Not fair that he gets this whole serious relationship thing with her, while we're trying to keep something that probably burned out fucking months ago and I get pictured with a couple friends that I'm not even like that with and I get the blame. I don't even know what I'm getting the blame for, so why don't you just fuck off."
"Not even like that with?" Frank seems to be pretty into just repeating what Pete says, like he knows exactly how much it's getting up under his skin. He probably does know. "You're like that and more with a hell of a lot of them, it's so obvious it fucking hurts to listen to you lie. Motherfucker," Frank mutters, sounding like he's just talking to himself now, and Pete sees the twitch of his hand that probably means he's inches away from smashing his bottle against the wall behind Pete, holding the jagged edges against his throat and just -- pressing in, cutting deep.
Pete wouldn't blame him. At this rate, Pete might welcome it, the brief pain but then a respite from it all, except he learnt from the last time he thought that so seriously and just scoffs at Frank's words instead, as though he's not dignifying them with any kind of response. After a few moments he decides to add to it, and snarls, "I'm not. Like. That."
"Not like that my fucking ass," Frank says, and then there's maybe half a beat of nothing before Frank's surging forward into that last available space and kissing Pete, the force of it slamming Pete back into the wall further and making his mouth open in surprise, in shock, letting it happen.
Frank kisses like he's got something to prove which Pete supposes is probably the point of this whole action in the first place; tongue and teeth and the bottle smashing on the floor as he drops it to press the flat of his palm against Pete's collarbone, fingers pressing into his throat, warning. Pete's own bottle follows suit as his hands make their way into Frank's hair almost without his permission, weaving in through long strands and holding tight.
He's kissing back, and he sort of hates himself for it, but he just can't seem to help it, either. This whole thing, the conversation and the almost fight, has raised up every insecurity he's got stored up in his mind about himself, about himself and Mikey and the way he thought things were between them, like it's not real never will be and never was, just one vast waste of time stretching on and on in his memory; Frank's kiss hurts, the bite of his teeth, the drawing of blood, his thigh too rough between Pete's legs, and Pete's alive right now, and that's all there is to it.
Frank pulls back with one last bite to Pete's bottom lip, splitting the skin. Pete can taste copper in the back of his throat, and he can't even bring himself to be disgusted by it. "My fucking ass," Frank repeats, almost spitting the words into Pete's face. He steps back, away, and Pete slumps against the wall as he tries to process it. "Sort your shit out, Wentz. You fuck things up for him, for any of my friends anymore and I don't care if I like you or not, we'll motherfucking fuck you up right back."
Pete doesn't move again until Frank's retreating back is out of his sight, his posture still tense and deliberate for at least as long as Pete watches.
Pete knows where Mikey is staying, because there's no way he's going to let him be in the area and not find it out to plan a visit, no matter how much of an asshole he's being or is at least appearing to be. He goes straight there from his whole ordeal with Frank, doesn't even bother to stop off somewhere to check out how he looks. He knows how he must look. Dishevelled, messed up, bleeding from the mouth: more like he's been in an actual fist fight than what really happened. He doesn't care.
Pete has to knock twice before Mikey answers, and when he does he blinks at Pete, finger itching at the bridge of his nose like he's pushing his glasses up, like they're still there to do it. He looks different from the sharpest memories of him in Pete's mind; it's surprising, but then, Pete probably looks different too. He has to pause before he goes in and spit blood on the pavement, and Mikey blinks again, looks more startled than confused now. "Pete?" he asks, slowly, like he was just asleep, and Pete grins and says, "Surprise, huh."
Mikey steps back so Pete can go in and shuts the door behind them. His stance is different than Frank's was but there's something similar to it nonetheless; deliberate, but in a more careful way. It still brings out that stab of guilt in the pit of Pete's stomach, and Pete turns to him, wipes away the trickle of blood he can feel on his chin and blurts out, "I'm sorry." He can see something a little like concern underneath Mikey's cautious exterior, and it's comforting, for the moment he has before he suddenly feels stupid and manipulative for turning up here looking the way he does.
"For what?" Mikey asks, and his voice is kind of cold but the arch of his eyebrow is at odds with the way his hand twitches, like it wants to check Pete's okay anyway.
"Everything," Pete says, and even that doesn't seem like quite enough because the word is used so often, like a throwaway. It's all he's got though, and he thinks he means it, which should count for something. Should maybe count for something.
There's this long silence that fills the air between them then, after that. It's too thick -- it's like radio static, crackling, uncomfortable. Pete jams his hands down into his pockets.
"I," Mikey begins. "I didn't know, I never knew what I should think. When I saw things, heard things, about you and -- whoever."
There's something about the way that Mikey is holding himself that makes Pete think he's vulnerable right now, delicate and almost exposed, different from any time he should have seemed this way, stretched out beneath Pete in bunks, on hotel room sheets. Pete can't help it though, when he says, "Yeah, and I didn't know what to think about you, being with her," in return. He doesn't miss Mikey's flinch.
"Well," Mikey says, and then nothing, and Pete knows why he's silent because what else is there to say? What can be said? There is only nothing.
"So, uh. How are you?" Pete asks finally, after the gap between them stretches on for too long, and Mikey smiles wryly and says, "I think I should ask you that, man," and Pete doesn't miss the subject change for one moment. It makes him feel more on edge than ever, but also a little less defensive. He offers a small smile back and shrugs as Mikey steps forward, winces slightly as Mikey's fingers trace the cut on his bottom lip. It's not because it hurts.
"What happened, anyway?" Mikey murmurs. He's as close as Frank was earlier, but gentler, safer; the danger Mikey poses is a different sort, and Pete thinks they've moved out of that water. For now, a least. For a short while.
Pete doesn't tell him, of course. He can't, it wouldn't make sense on any level except for the one which says honesty is always the best policy, and that never works out half the time anyway, so he shrugs again, just a tiny movement like he might scare Mikey off and just says, "I'm sorry," once more. He's the one that closes this distance. Not even a step between them, just a slight shuffle on Mikey's beige carpet, forwards, closer, to wrap his arms around him, tug him closer and bury his nose into the crook of Mikey's neck.
There's a different smell lingering there from the one Pete remembers from last time. Her, he thinks, but it's not; it's cleaner, sharper. He screws his eyes up, shut tight and tries not to think about it. How they got here. He repeats himself, again, then once more, because there's nothing else anymore.
Mikey says, "It's okay. Well. It's -- it's not, but. It will be. Maybe."
Pete nods with his face still pressed into Mikey's neck and doesn't say a word about why he knows it won't be, can't.
Around them Pete imagines he can hear radio static, again, still. Crackling.
radio static
frank iero/pete wentz, pete wentz/mikeyway
PG-13
pretty much all because of this post and immortal_lights. viiiolent! and then some making out! and even some angsty business thrown in there for good measure \o/ LIES & FICTION -- i've probably even screwed with the timeline a bit here, in fact.
Pete doesn't know Frank as well as he knows a lot of people but he's always thought of him as a pretty cool guy: energetic, enthusiastic, eager. An easy to get along with kind of guy. Friendly.
Frank doesn't look quite so friendly right now.
He'd called Pete up out of the blue and suggested they go to a bar, hang out, catch up, bands and business; Pete remembers thinking it was sort of odd, because Patrick's living with Bob at the moment, and their bands are pretty intertwined during all this recording. Frank had seemed cool enough at the beginning of their rendezvous though, chatting away about Skeleton Crew and Clandestine and the bands and the crazy fan stories that Pete's mostly already heard from Mikey; but then, now, on their third beer each, Frank turns to Pete, fixes him with a steady stare and turns the talk right around to Mikey himself.
"So, have you talked to Mikey lately?" he asks, and Pete doesn't really know what to say. This... thing he and Mikey have, it's not exactly something he's talked to anyone about all that much -- Patrick, mostly, Joe once or twice, Gerard at the very beginning when he had to listen to the obligatory brotherly threats.
Gerard had looked like he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face then, though, like he knew he'd never have to follow through with it, which. Well. Pete shifts a little awkwardly on his bar stool and shrugs. "A little," he eventually decides to say, because it's true enough and, more importantly, neutral. "Why, what's up?"
"He's," Frank says, and then pauses, like he's figuring out what to say. His fingers are rubbing over the label on his beer bottle, bits of paper flaking off beneath them, and Pete's about to make a crack about sexual frustration when he picks up on the tense, deliberate way Frank's holding himself and stops; Frank's back is straight and his posture is something Pete recognises right away, the posture of someone trying not to let themselves get too angry. Frank glances around them. "We should get out of here," he says, suddenly, "I don't -- this isn't the sort of shit I want someone to overhear, you know."
Pete should know right then that something's definitely up, something is going on, that following Frank out into the evening gloom, half full beers still in hands, isn't the wisest thing he's probably ever done. He goes anyway, though. He is, after all, not exactly well known for his smart decision making when it comes to his life.
"So," Pete says, because there's part of him that is vaguely aware, on some level, that he probably doesn't want to hear what Frank's got to say; there's this bigger part, though, that's overpowering his sense of self-reservation and making him press on, like the feeling that made him pick away at a scab just to see if it was going to bleed again when he was a kid. "So... Mikey?"
"Yeah, he's." Frank's still walking, around the corner and into an empty looking road -- Pete wonders what the time is. Later than he'd thought, apparently, and then Frank stops dead, spins around, and is glaring at Pete, something fierce and slightly shocking burning away in his eyes. "It's going to fucking shit, Pete, and to fucking honest, a hell of a lot of it is your fault."
Pete doesn't know what to say to this. He doesn't know what to say at all, but his stomach turns over with a sharp twist that he knows is guilt, at any rate, heady and bitter. He should have seen this coming, should have known from the moment Frank called him up that it would be for this reason and this reason only.
So he gets defensive. As though that might help him out of this situation, or maybe just because he's still got no idea how else he should react. "You don't know shit about what's going on there," he tells Frank, and his voice is low and harsh without him even meaning it to be, like his vocal chords are allergic to that feeling of guilt and have no other way of coping.
"I know you're fucking him around," Frank says in reply. There's something almost dangerous about the way he steps forward and the tone resonating through his words; Pete has sudden flashes to hearing about Frank, the way he could be, used to be, fights and fists and fury. "Gerard's too concerned about how Mikey is at the moment to be bothered with trying to deal with anything else. So I figured maybe I would, that maybe you need someone to get some fucking sense in your head. I don't know. You seem like a cool guy, but."
But everything about Frank right now suggests he thinks the exact opposite, and Pete can feel his hands curling into fists without him consciously telling them too because -- stop fucking around? It's not that simple, none of it is, and he grits out, "Like I said. You don't really know a thing about what's going on there. A thing."
"I know more than you probably think," Frank says, voice raised, and for a second Pete wonders if Frank genuinely has a point, that he's not noticed how bad things are; Frank and Pete got on whenever they met up before, and if Frank's getting like this this quickly then it's obviously serious. Frank's stepping closer and Pete glances down, sees Frank's own hands are tight fists, one curled so tight around the neck of his bottle it looks as though it might break soon, and the muscles on his arms are standing out like it's taking a lot of effort not to swing those fists out. "Who's your newest catch then, Pete? Your latest fucking conquest, or what?"
"Fuck you," Pete hisses. "Fuck off, it's not like that," because it's not. It's not. He knows how it probably seems to anyone not more involved, to anyone not residing in his head, even, but he's not trying to replace Mikey in his life. He's pretty sure he couldn't do that if he tried, which is maybe the problem in the first place.
"Really," Frank says, voice flat and tinged with something ugly, something Pete's never heard from him before.
"Really." Pete nods, vicious and sharp. He adds, "Besides, he's got Alicia, you really think--" and he's cut off by Frank closing that ever decreasing gap between them with a short step, so Pete's backed up, crowded against a fucking brick wall, of all things, Frank's beer bottle held up too close to his face.
"Are you trying to make this his fault?" Frank laughs after he speaks those words, and the sound is tinted with something almost manic. "He's falling apart and breaking down and -- fuck, I don't even know anymore, that's how bad shit is, and you're trying to blame it all on him even though every time some new picture shows up of you, with some new chick, some fucking barbie on your arm it gets worse?"
"Double standards," Pete growls, "double fucking standards, that shit's not fair." He sounds like a kid, on some level, and on some level he's aware of this: he doesn't know what else to say, though. Can't even think clearly about this anymore, let alone communicate how he's feeling. Not when there's a glass bottle right up in his face; not broken, not yet, but.
"Not fair," Frank repeats, mocking, mocking and Pete's swinging his fist out and only stopping short of Frank's cheek when he recalls the bottle; the remains of his beer trickles out in an arc with the movement, decorating their shoes. They're that close.
"Not fair that he gets this whole serious relationship thing with her, while we're trying to keep something that probably burned out fucking months ago and I get pictured with a couple friends that I'm not even like that with and I get the blame. I don't even know what I'm getting the blame for, so why don't you just fuck off."
"Not even like that with?" Frank seems to be pretty into just repeating what Pete says, like he knows exactly how much it's getting up under his skin. He probably does know. "You're like that and more with a hell of a lot of them, it's so obvious it fucking hurts to listen to you lie. Motherfucker," Frank mutters, sounding like he's just talking to himself now, and Pete sees the twitch of his hand that probably means he's inches away from smashing his bottle against the wall behind Pete, holding the jagged edges against his throat and just -- pressing in, cutting deep.
Pete wouldn't blame him. At this rate, Pete might welcome it, the brief pain but then a respite from it all, except he learnt from the last time he thought that so seriously and just scoffs at Frank's words instead, as though he's not dignifying them with any kind of response. After a few moments he decides to add to it, and snarls, "I'm not. Like. That."
"Not like that my fucking ass," Frank says, and then there's maybe half a beat of nothing before Frank's surging forward into that last available space and kissing Pete, the force of it slamming Pete back into the wall further and making his mouth open in surprise, in shock, letting it happen.
Frank kisses like he's got something to prove which Pete supposes is probably the point of this whole action in the first place; tongue and teeth and the bottle smashing on the floor as he drops it to press the flat of his palm against Pete's collarbone, fingers pressing into his throat, warning. Pete's own bottle follows suit as his hands make their way into Frank's hair almost without his permission, weaving in through long strands and holding tight.
He's kissing back, and he sort of hates himself for it, but he just can't seem to help it, either. This whole thing, the conversation and the almost fight, has raised up every insecurity he's got stored up in his mind about himself, about himself and Mikey and the way he thought things were between them, like it's not real never will be and never was, just one vast waste of time stretching on and on in his memory; Frank's kiss hurts, the bite of his teeth, the drawing of blood, his thigh too rough between Pete's legs, and Pete's alive right now, and that's all there is to it.
Frank pulls back with one last bite to Pete's bottom lip, splitting the skin. Pete can taste copper in the back of his throat, and he can't even bring himself to be disgusted by it. "My fucking ass," Frank repeats, almost spitting the words into Pete's face. He steps back, away, and Pete slumps against the wall as he tries to process it. "Sort your shit out, Wentz. You fuck things up for him, for any of my friends anymore and I don't care if I like you or not, we'll motherfucking fuck you up right back."
Pete doesn't move again until Frank's retreating back is out of his sight, his posture still tense and deliberate for at least as long as Pete watches.
Pete knows where Mikey is staying, because there's no way he's going to let him be in the area and not find it out to plan a visit, no matter how much of an asshole he's being or is at least appearing to be. He goes straight there from his whole ordeal with Frank, doesn't even bother to stop off somewhere to check out how he looks. He knows how he must look. Dishevelled, messed up, bleeding from the mouth: more like he's been in an actual fist fight than what really happened. He doesn't care.
Pete has to knock twice before Mikey answers, and when he does he blinks at Pete, finger itching at the bridge of his nose like he's pushing his glasses up, like they're still there to do it. He looks different from the sharpest memories of him in Pete's mind; it's surprising, but then, Pete probably looks different too. He has to pause before he goes in and spit blood on the pavement, and Mikey blinks again, looks more startled than confused now. "Pete?" he asks, slowly, like he was just asleep, and Pete grins and says, "Surprise, huh."
Mikey steps back so Pete can go in and shuts the door behind them. His stance is different than Frank's was but there's something similar to it nonetheless; deliberate, but in a more careful way. It still brings out that stab of guilt in the pit of Pete's stomach, and Pete turns to him, wipes away the trickle of blood he can feel on his chin and blurts out, "I'm sorry." He can see something a little like concern underneath Mikey's cautious exterior, and it's comforting, for the moment he has before he suddenly feels stupid and manipulative for turning up here looking the way he does.
"For what?" Mikey asks, and his voice is kind of cold but the arch of his eyebrow is at odds with the way his hand twitches, like it wants to check Pete's okay anyway.
"Everything," Pete says, and even that doesn't seem like quite enough because the word is used so often, like a throwaway. It's all he's got though, and he thinks he means it, which should count for something. Should maybe count for something.
There's this long silence that fills the air between them then, after that. It's too thick -- it's like radio static, crackling, uncomfortable. Pete jams his hands down into his pockets.
"I," Mikey begins. "I didn't know, I never knew what I should think. When I saw things, heard things, about you and -- whoever."
There's something about the way that Mikey is holding himself that makes Pete think he's vulnerable right now, delicate and almost exposed, different from any time he should have seemed this way, stretched out beneath Pete in bunks, on hotel room sheets. Pete can't help it though, when he says, "Yeah, and I didn't know what to think about you, being with her," in return. He doesn't miss Mikey's flinch.
"Well," Mikey says, and then nothing, and Pete knows why he's silent because what else is there to say? What can be said? There is only nothing.
"So, uh. How are you?" Pete asks finally, after the gap between them stretches on for too long, and Mikey smiles wryly and says, "I think I should ask you that, man," and Pete doesn't miss the subject change for one moment. It makes him feel more on edge than ever, but also a little less defensive. He offers a small smile back and shrugs as Mikey steps forward, winces slightly as Mikey's fingers trace the cut on his bottom lip. It's not because it hurts.
"What happened, anyway?" Mikey murmurs. He's as close as Frank was earlier, but gentler, safer; the danger Mikey poses is a different sort, and Pete thinks they've moved out of that water. For now, a least. For a short while.
Pete doesn't tell him, of course. He can't, it wouldn't make sense on any level except for the one which says honesty is always the best policy, and that never works out half the time anyway, so he shrugs again, just a tiny movement like he might scare Mikey off and just says, "I'm sorry," once more. He's the one that closes this distance. Not even a step between them, just a slight shuffle on Mikey's beige carpet, forwards, closer, to wrap his arms around him, tug him closer and bury his nose into the crook of Mikey's neck.
There's a different smell lingering there from the one Pete remembers from last time. Her, he thinks, but it's not; it's cleaner, sharper. He screws his eyes up, shut tight and tries not to think about it. How they got here. He repeats himself, again, then once more, because there's nothing else anymore.
Mikey says, "It's okay. Well. It's -- it's not, but. It will be. Maybe."
Pete nods with his face still pressed into Mikey's neck and doesn't say a word about why he knows it won't be, can't.
Around them Pete imagines he can hear radio static, again, still. Crackling.