Fic: Soggy, Chapped & Faded, Yet Clawing Towards Daylight (MCR/FOB, 3/3, NC-17, Mikey/Pete)
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Jessie isn't at the infusion center when Pete goes in for the next round of treatment. Pete tries not to get nervous, but their schedules line up pretty perfectly. After the first session they started making their appointments together. He'd even met her parents - Jake and Ella. They're only about ten years older than he is, which is odd. That aside, they're lovely - a little freaked that their baby girl has made chemo-buddies with a rock star but lovely.
So that she isn't there, is a bad sign. It's a very bad sign. He calls Ella's cell phone, and when it goes to voice mail three times, he gives up and tries Jake. He picks up the third time Pete calls, sounding drained. "Hello?"
"Uh, Jake? Hey, it's Pete Wentz. I'm a friend of Jessie's? I'm wondering where she is. We're supposed to infuse together. I'm just a little worried."
"Right. Um, Jessie's in surgery right now."
"She alright?"
"I can't talk right now." Jake says, sounding distracted. "I'll talk to you later." He hangs up on Pete, leaving him sitting with a dial tone. He stares into space for most of his infusion. It's a long day, and he feels sick and tired after it, but Jessie is in surgery, and it's not the one she planned on. It scares him, more than he has any right to be.
Pete's not doing so well this time around. His treatment team doesn't like his numbers, which Pete doesn't think sounds very good even if he's not exactly sure what it means. All Pete knows is that he feels even worse about every single part of his body than he did before. So, with the My Chem guys recording in San Diego Gabe is still hauling his ass around. It's undignified, but the shiny new cancer drugs they put him on after his last meeting with Dr. Nagda make him unpredictably drowsy to the point where operating heavy machinery is not advised.
When Pete goes to the main hospital to try and find her, Gabe is the one who has to get him there. Pete walks in on his own steam, but it’s a near thing. He finds Ella outside Jessie's room in ICU; she looks like hell. She has bags under her red-rimmed eyes. Her shirt has sweat stains at the collar and pits that have to be at least two days old.
"Ella? Are you okay?"
She turns on her heel and blinks at him. It takes her a few moments to register him, but when she does, she sags against the wall. "Pete? What are you doing here?"
"I talked to Jake. Jessie wasn't there for treatment yesterday."
"Jake's in with her now. We're only allowed in one at a time. I'm supposed to be getting food."
"God."
"I- She had an infection." She rubs her face with one hand dragging her lower lip down. "She got the tumor taken out of the lymph nodes and part of her breast, and it was good. It was fine; only it got infected, and it went into one of the incision sites. They had to remove half the muscles of her armpit and along her ribs, and she was fine but then she had a seizure. I thought it was from the infection maybe? But-but they did a CT and one of those body scans. The cancer's in her lungs, and she has these little tumor things, the doctor called them mets? They're in her brain. How's she supposed to get better with tumors in her brain? "
Pete reaches out with fingers that are spindly from the weight loss. Her upper arms seem almost too solid under his hands. "Jessie'll be fine. She's a fighter. I mean she inspires me every time I talk to her."
Her eyes well up, glassy and reflecting the florescent light that every hospital seems to use. She looks so tired. "She's always okay. She's always fine except when she's not. They don’t want to put more strain on her body than they have to, so she's having surgery for her lungs and brain tonight. She's going to be fine, right?"
Pete looks down at her. Ella's got thick, curly black hair, and Pete wonders if Jessie's hair used to be like that. He wonders if she'll ever get back to having it like that again. He's not the guy Ella should be asking, but he can try and help. "I think so. She's great."
"She adores you." Ella rubs her face with the heel of her hand. Pete pretends to ignore the fact that she's crying at all. "When she was going through her first round of chemo, she would listen to that Cork Tree album over and over again. It really helped her, you know? Being friends with you has really helped this time around, too. " She gave him a tired smile that didn't have any joy in it. "Last time she had her brother around, but he's in the army. He's in Germany. She has friends who visit and I try, but it's not the same."
That sort of thing is overwhelming to hear. He's heard things like it before. People telling him his music matters to them is something he never gets tired of, but he knows Jessie. He likes her. She's his friend, and even though Ella hasn’t said anything, Pete knows she could be dying on the other side of the wall. She probably is dying, and he can't do anything to help.
He squeezes Ella's arm. "If she wants to see me, just call okay? I'll come running, even if I have to pull my head out of my own puke."
"She wouldn't ask," Ella says, using a knuckle to wipe away the next tears. "But when she's out of ICU, I'll call you, okay? I'll call you, and you can come see her. It'll help."
"Do they have an idea of when that'll be?"
She shakes her head, and she looks so fragile. Pete hates it. He hates human cells for going ape shit and multiplying out of control. He hates that the drugs that people take to heal them make them sicker and more open to infection. He hates the whole world, the end.
"I don’t know. Three days? Maybe four? I can't-" She pulls on her hair. The curls get tangled on her fingers. She tugs and curses when they won't come free. Pete doesn't help her. It's too forward, but he does look away. It's all he can give her. "I don’t know. Oh god, I don’t know. They're talking about making her comfortable for fuck's sake."
He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Probably, there's no right response. So he just squeezes her arm again. "I'll check in later," he promises. Ella nods and jerks away to go stare in the window at her husband and child.
Gabe is waiting for him in the car. He's listening to the Rolling Stones and tapping his fingers on the steering column in time to the rhythm of “Paint It Black”. He's humming along with Mick. He comes to an abrupt halt when Pete slams the door shut behind him. He looks at Pete with a quizzical head tilt. "You okay?"
Pete doesn't answer. He pushes the heels of his hands hard into his eyes because he is not going to cry. He's just not. Except for how hot liquid hits his skin, and his breathing turns ragged against his will. He sits in the passenger seat of his own SUV trying to pull his shit together, only half succeeding.
Gabe's hand lands gently on his shoulder. "Pete?"
"She could die," He chokes out. "She probably will. She's fifteen, and Gerard Way's her fucking hero, and she wants to be a doctor. She wants to be an oncologist and fight cancer because she doesn't want anyone else to suffer like she is."
"Okay."
Pete presses his fist to his mouth so that his sob won’t escape. It doesn't work, coming out mixed with the words "It's not fair."
"None of this is fair, man." Gabe says. "Question is, what can you do? Gotta accept the things you can't change so, what can you change?"
Something about that resonates through Pete. He can't make her better. He can't fix it, can't heal her even though if he could throw his money and stubbornness at the problem, it would make her well. But he can do something for her.
"I need my phone."
Patrick is back from Chicago. He came by Pete's the day he got home and sat with him outside by the pool even though it was chilly. They sat on the lawn furniture and talked about Patrick's tour and how Bebe was doing solo work while Pete was sick and about how Bronx had made the bandana Pete was wearing. He'd stopped by every other day now. It was good to have him back because it would make this whole thing a lot easier.
"I need a favor." He says when Pete picks up.
"Do you need me to help you move a body?" Patrick asks. "Because I love you, but the answer is no. Ask Travie, he's got all the upper body strength."
"Travie's still on tour and no. I need you to call Joe and Andy for me."
"Why?"
"Because I need them to come back from Chicago for a weekend."
Patrick doesn’t need it spelled out to know what Pete's proposing. They haven't talked about anything like this. In fact, what few conversations they had had along these lines usually ended in "not right now." Patrick heaves a heavy sigh. "Pete-"
"A friend of mine's probably dying, Trick. I want to do this for her."
Patrick sighs again. "I'll talk to them."
"Because you are a gentleman and a scholar."
"Yeah, something like that."
He calls Mikey next because fuck it. If he's going to do this, and he is - he absolutely is, then he's going to do it up right. "Can you guys come home this weekend?"
"Are you okay?"
Not really. He's been feeling and worse and worse the farther he gets into treatment. Since Mikey went to record the new album, Dr. Nagda has started looking unhappy when he meets with her every other week. But this is not about him. "Fine. Remember Jessie?"
"Yeah. The kid who got you baked."
"She's sick."
"Isn't that how you two met?"
"No, babe, her cancer's metastasized. It's in her lungs and brain."
Mikey is quiet for a long beat then asks, "You need all of us to come back?"
"If you guys wouldn't mind."
"You're a good man, Pete. Do you know that?"
"Only because you tell me."
"See you Friday. Love you."
"Love you more, Mikey Way."
Ella calls him on Thursday and tells him that Jessie made it through surgery. They tried to get the mets out of her brain with targeted radiation and cutting, but they only got some of them. The rest of them are in places they don't want to risk, like memory centers, and Jack and Ella didn't let them do it. "She has to be Jessie," Ella told him. "She wouldn't want to be-" She broke off on a choked sob.
"Ella."
"They're talking about making her comfortable. I'm- JJ is trying to get back from Ramstein, but it’s the army. They don't have to let him go. Even if they do, he can't force a flight to leave immediately and the doctors said they wanted to focus on pain management. What the hell is that even?"
"I don’t know. Ella, is she okay to have visitors?"
"Yeah. They're moving her out of ICU today. She's awake. She says she's okay, but she's not. My baby's in pain, and Jake- I can't talk to Jake or my mother. They're both-" she breaks off and takes a loud breath. When she speaks again, her voice is reedy with tears. "My baby girl is in pain."
Pete feels like someone's shoved a knife into his chest and twisted. His own pain is bad, but it’s his. He's dealing with it. If it were Bronx hurting, Bronx who was slipping away, he doesn't think he'd be able to take it. He'd fall to pieces and spend every moment of every hour with his baby in his arms. He doesn't know how Ella is even standing.
"I want to do something for her." He tells her about what he is calling The Plan in his head. Ella starts crying in earnest and tells him of course, of course he can.
Patrick shows up for what Gabe has called Pete-sitting Duty an hour after he gets off the phone with Ella. During that time, Pete has called Ashlee and talked to Bronx for thirty minutes about Phineas and Ferb and his new friend Marshawn at preschool. Pete listens raptly and laughs as his son describes the soldier versus dragon battle the two of them had orchestrated with their toys.
Pete doesn’t even get off the chaise when Patrick unlocks the door and lets himself in. He pauses in the foyer to pet Hemmy and give the dog the requisite attention before making his way into the living room. He throws himself down on the couch and props his sharp Helmut Lang loafers up on Pete's coffee table.
"Hey."
"Hey. So, Joe's in Virginia with Marie visiting her parents. He can't get away. It's their thirty-fifth anniversary."
"Oh."
"Andy's actually in New York but he wanted me to check with you, see if you still needed him to fly out."
"No. If you're in, it'll be fine. Mikey and the guys are coming back tomorrow. I talked to Jessie's mom, and the doctor says that she'll be stable for awhile before she starts, um, deteriorating." He drags his hand over his face, pulling his lower lip down for a moment. "They're giving her anywhere from a few days to maybe a month at the outside so, Saturday. Her mom said she'll be fine on Saturday."
"I'm free Saturday."
Pete gives him a beatific smile. "A gentleman and a scholar."
Patrick hurls a pillow at him. It hits Pete in the chest, and he laughs.
~*~*~
Mikey arrives back in LA early on Friday, and of all the inane mundane things they could do - they go grocery shopping with Gerard. "We have to make a setlist," Gerard declares as he throws some Cap'n Crunch in the cart of the weird little scooter thing Mikey forced Pete to ride.
Pete stares up at him and shakes his head. "I just want you to play a song or two for a friend in her hospital room. We'll barely all fit."
That makes Gerard snort. "Please. If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right. Haven't you ever had any Make-A-Wish kids want to see your band?"
Pete shrugs. "We were always on tour. They'd fly out for the day, hang out on the bus with us, sit backstage during the show."
"Just stand back and let him work. Frank likes to write setlists. It's his thing."
"It is," Gerard concurs. "He always makes the setlists. He's very good at it."
Pete laughs. "I'm sure he is."
"He's probably already called Patrick," Mikey adds, reaching out a hand to rest on the back of Pete's neck as they putter through the store. His fingertip under the back of Pete's bandana to stroke the bare base of his skull with one finger. "Hey, do we need oatmeal? Do you even eat it? I can't remember."
"We've still got some I think."
Domestics are only Gerard's thing when it's his domestics. Then he turns into Martha freaking Stewart. However, the state of cereal in the Wentz homestead isn’t enough to distract him from the task at hand. "All that's really left is Frank's making the set list and making sure we've got acoustic instruments. Ray's got like fifteen guitars, but I think your bass is still in Ma's house."
Mikey fingers a thing of cereal bars as they move past. He leaves them on the shelf in favor of strawberry pop-tarts with frosting. Pete quietly applauds himself for choosing a life partner who understands the important things in life.
"I think you're right," Mikey says as he tosses it into the scooter's basket. It jostles the jar of peanut butter in the bottom as it lands with a thud.
"I've got one we can both use," Pete says. "In the music room."
"Good. If you were keeping it in the pool house, I'd be worried."
"Okay, so has she got favorites? Does she have any opinions about covers? How about solos because you know we can let Ray loose if she's into guitar riffs."
Mikey points right, and Pete's little scooter thing hums as he turns toward the milk. Mikey looks at his brother with an expression that clearly says are-you-kidding-me. "You're over-thinking this, Gee."
"There's no shame in being prepared."
Mikey and Pete both give him a long look as they head towards the cold dairy aisle. "There is a little shame."
Pete grins at his boyfriend and pinches his thumb and forefinger together. "A skosh."
Gerard grabs a thing of whipped cream off the shelf. He cracks it open and sprays it directly into his mouth. Through a foamy white mouth he says "No. Shame."
There's a click and whir as Mikey snaps a picture of him looking like he has a severe case of rabies. Gerard glares, but Mikey just smirks. "Instagram."
Gerard swallows and says "I hate you."
"You have to by that now you know," Pete points out. "You put your germy mouth on it."
"I was going to. Ugh." He sticks out his tongue. "I need something to drink now."
"You've already ravaged the dairy section. There's juice up there." Pete points up aisle. "Full circle and all that."
Gerard ignores him, grabbing a single serving chocolate Milk Chug off another shelf and cracking it open. He takes a long drink before holding it out to Mikey. Because they're Ways and are always vaguely gross, Mikey shrugs and takes it from him, taking a sip before handing it back. He doesn't offer it to Pete because he and milk aren’t on speaking terms thanks to his current meds, but he looks like he wants to.
"You are nasty motherfuckers. I can't believe I put up with either of you."
"It's the hot hot sex," Gerard says. "My brother is world renowned for the hot hot sex." He takes a sip of his chocolate milk as if to punctuate this point. "There are chatrooms dedicated to this fact. I'm connected by DNA to the man who gives you the hot hot sex, so here I am."
"This is true." Pete agrees. "He does excel at the hot hot sex."
Mikey hurls a brick of cheddar cheese at Pete. It hits him in the shoulder and falls into his lap. "Shut up both of you, or I will kill you."
"You might kill Gerard, but you've been working too hard to keep my ass alive. You hate to quit a project when it's going well."
Mikey glares at him then sighs. "Okay, point. Seriously though, both of you, shut up."
Pete grins and hits the gas on his scooter, powering past Mikey and Gerard toward the frozen food section. He needs all of the popsicles, please and thanks. Doctor's orders.
The good mood holds until the six of them are gathered outside Jessie's hospital room. Her father was at the airport picking up her brother J.J. which Pete thinks is a good thing. He isn't Jake's favorite person.
Ella on the other hand, keeps looking at them like she's going to cry. "You're so sweet," she tells all of them with a watery smile. "You didn't have to do this, but she's going to love it. Just love it." She holds up her iPhone. "Do you mind if I film it? I won't put it on the internet, but I think she might like to have it for later."
"Yeah, of course," Pete says even though he doesn't think Jessie really has that much of a later. He can't say that. He doesn't want to even think it to be honest. "So, she awake? We can come back or-"
"No, I talked to her nurses about medication timing? She's alert and awake. She was making jokes about the old Transformers cartoon with the orderly when I left to get lunch."
"Transformers are awesome," Ray mutters under his breath.
"That's a good sign. If she weren't with it enough to mock Megatron's voice, then I'd worry."
Ella chuckle, gives him a nod, then opens the door. Pete goes in first, and Jessie looks up from her iPad, beaming. "Pete! Hi!"
"Hey kid. Where you been?" He knows of course, but he needs to make conversation first. She looks like hell. The shadows under her eyes look more like black eyes. Her skin is pale and washed out and- fuck. She looks like a skeleton held together only by the thin film of her skin. He's never looked someone actively dying in the face before, not even the Make-A-Wish kids. It makes his eyes burn, but he grins at her through it.
"Here. There. You know." She holds up a remote-looking device. "I'm on the really good drugs now."
"Well, are you sober enough for a present?"
She grins at him. "I'm always good for presents. Is it something signed?" Her eyes go big. "Is it an instrument? I kinda know how to play guitar. A little. Okay not really, but I can fake it."
"It involves an instrument but no." He turns around and waves through the open door. "It's not. Come on guys, she's up."
Pete watches her face as his best friend, his boyfriend, and his boyfriend's band file into the room with acoustic instruments. Patrick even brought one of those little hand drum things to stand in for the tour drummer. It's brilliant of him actually. Better than that is Jessie's face. Her face lights up, and her eyes go huge in her face, enormous and glittering. "Oh."
"Jessie, you've already met my partner Mikey. This is his older brother Gerard and our friends Frank, Ray, and-"
"Patrick," she breathes. She takes in each of them in turn, ready to cry and smiling so big it's a wonder her face doesn't shatter into a million pieces. "Pete, god, you didn't."
He grins back at her. "I totally did. We're going to play for you now. You cool with that?"
Jessie can't speak. She just nods, her fists clenched in her blankets. Pete steps back to lean against the wall, and Gerard moves forward to her bedside. He gives her a gentle smile and covers her hand with his. "Hey, Jessie, I'm Gerard."
She twists her hand in his until she can cling to his palm with thin, spider-like fingers. "I know who you are."
"Well, it's nice to meet you. Pete says you're a fan. Do you have a favorite song?"
"Helena," she says surprising no one in the room. "And “Cancer”. I really…I like “Cancer”." She looks away from Gerard then, her eyes welling up. Pete hasn't seen Jessie cry once but she looks ready to now.
"Okay. Want me to do those first or save them for last."
"Last please."
Her honesty is rewarded with that understanding Gerard smile that's been systematically breaking through teenage facades for the last decade. It's a little more paternal now than it was before Bandit was born, but it’s the same expression. "Awesome. We can do that. I'm going to hang out with you while the rest of the guys do the heavy lifting."
Pete stays with Jessie, Gerard, and Ella while the rest of the group drags in a few more chairs. They all settle around Jessie's bed to play. Patrick sits on her other side and introduces himself much the same way. "Pete and I are going to go first," he says finally."If that's okay with you?"
She nods, wide-eyed, and Patrick starts with “Hum Hallelujah” because Pete remembers that she once said it was her favorite. Pete plays along on Mikey's bass as they work through the list of their songs she's said she liked including Spotlight. She glows, and in between songs she tells them about what she remembers from when she heard them the first time - mostly stories about her school friends or her family. Pete even recognizes some of the names of her classmates from their conversations during treatment.
She still looks frail and fading, but she's lit up from the inside so bright her fingertips should be glowing. Pete has rarely in his life felt as genuinely sure that he did the right thing as he does in this moment, watching his friends perform for his sick friend.
When they're done, Pete passes the bass across the bed to Mikey. Mikey gives him a small nod. The music is soft but strong, and Gerard says standing, holding her hand and singing to her just loud enough to be heard clearly over the instruments. She clings and stares up at his face like he's Santa Claus getting ready to pull every present she's ever wanted out of his sleigh.
They play half of Revenge which is her favorite and a few of the lower octane songs off of Danger Days, and when they starts singing “Welcome to the Black Parade”, Jessie curls onto her side and starts to cry, great gasping sobs that startle them into silence.
Ella jumps to her feet, but Pete catches her hand. "Wait," he whispers, not sure why. It's an instinct, maybe a parenting one he gained from when his mom taught him to let Bronx 'cry it out'. He's not sure exactly, but Ella seems to understand anyway.
"Jessie?" Ray asks, leaning in. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she says, sniffling. She rubs tears from her eyes and snot off her lower lip with the hand not holding Gerard's in a death grip. "I am. I'm okay, please. Please, keep going?" She laughs, but it lapses into a sharp choked off sob. When she collects herself, she rubs her eyes and says "It's just- real. You know?"
Her mother has tears rolling as she stands out of the way. For a room full of so many people, watching Jessie cry with her hairless brow pushed into Gerard's forearm is desperately private. Frank and Patrick are both looking away. Mikey's expression is blank while Ray tries to get himself back together over his guitar. Gerard reaches out with his other hand to rest gently on her shoulder. He tells her a few more times that it's alright before Ray starts playing again. As soon as he does, Gerard picks up singing again like he never stopped at about the same volume that Pete uses to sing lullabies to Bronx.
He sings “Cancer” and rubs his hand up and down over her shoulder. It makes her cry harder, but she's smiling too, through it. She looks peaceful despite the outburst of emotion, like she's floating in a warm pool. She sings along with him, shaky and wet, but it's helping her accept. That much is obvious and despite himself? Pete thinks it's sort of beautiful.
“Helena” is last. “Helena” is always one of the last. At every show Pete has ever been to, and it’s been a lot over the last few years, “Helena” says "this is the end, thank you and goodbye." Frank and Ray always sing along with this song, but Patrick joins in to, harmonizing and adding depth which Pete wasn't expecting. The combination makes Jessie light up like a Christmas tree.
Pete takes the camera gently from Ella's hand. She gives him a small nod of thanks and moves to her daughter's bedside. She strokes her daughter's head and watches as she relaxes even further. If Pete didn't know any better, he'd think this was better for her obvious pain than the morphine.
"Thank you," Jessie murmurs, beaming at all of them. When they're done. "Thank you so much. That- It was amazing. I'm just so- Thanks."
"You deserve it," Pete says. "You deserve more than this actually. You're the rockstar, kid."
She laughs until it hurts, and she has to stop, reaching for her little remote and pushing the button. She smiles at them then yawns as a machine by her bedside whirrs. Pete glances over and sees that it's the machine that dispenses her pain medication. Ella kisses her daughter on the head then looks up at them. "I think you all should go. I'm grateful but-"
"Yeah." Pete agrees.
"Thanks for letting us do this," Mikey says, speaking for the first time since he arrived. "It means as much to us as it does to her." Ella nods wraps her arms around her daughter who has quietly dropped off to sleep.
They file out of the room quietly and pass Jake and a young man with Ella's curly black hair cut into a crew cut and Jake's slightly pointed nose and heavy brow. Pete nods at them as they pass and once they're behind them, threads his fingers into Mikey's.
He hurts. He hurts all the way through him like harpoon's been thrown through his chest. But it’s a good hurt, the kind of hurt that comes with doing the right thing, even when it's hard.
Frank walks up behind him and drapes an arm carefully around Pete's shoulder. He leans over and plants a dry kiss on his cheek. "You're a good egg, Wentz. You know that?"
Pete just smiles at him and lets his family lead him out of the hospital.
~*~*~
The big appointment with Dr. Nagda is three weeks after Jessie dies but only two days after the official funeral. He sits in a daze next to Mikey, seeing his doctor's lovely mouth move but hearing next to nothing. He can't stop thinking about how his funny little friend is never going to get to go to med school and be a doctor like she wanted and how that so unfair. It's not until he realizes that he's squeezing Mikey's hand bloodless that Mikey pinches his shoulder, hard and brings him back to himself.
"What?"
"I said," Dr. Nagda says, firm but clear and gentle, "That I think your scans indicate that it's time for surgery."
That doesn’t make any sense. Nothing's making sense this week. "Surgery."
"The mets in your lungs and liver have shrunk to a point where I'm fairly sure that removal will be curative."
"That's good," Pete says. "Right? Curative. That means I'll be better. I can start healing?"
"It's a little more complicated than just the metastatic material in your lungs and liver. We're going to have to remove the right testicle completely, the left-" She sighs and flips through the paper work. Then she rubs her temple with the knuckle of one thumb. "Hopefully a lumpectomy will be sufficient because there are hormone regulations I'd like maintained if possible. If not, the hormone therapies will be sufficient. Either way, physically, you won't be able to tell the difference when we're done. The plastics department at Cedars is exceptional." She winks at him. "Half of LA can attest to that."
Pete just stares at her. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Yes?" She's usually very funny actually. It's one of his favorite things about her, one of the things that’s made the last six months of poisonous treatment and aching muscles and bones and wasting and balding and nausea a little easier. Today, though, is not one of the days where her sense of humor makes anything better.
"Too soon." He says dully. "I'm not- Too soon."
"All right. In all seriousness, you'll need to make some decisions. Prosthetic replacements for what we remove from your testicles and how soon can you be ready for surgery. I'm assuming Mr. Way will be in town to look after you through your recovery?"
"Of course," Mikey says.
"You should take this, too," She holds out a small plastic box to Mikey. "There are instructions inside. Save it for when you get home to discuss it?"
"I guess?"
"So. Your last chemo treatment is Thursday. If you and Mr. Way are both ready, we'll schedule surgery for the following Monday. "
"Fine. Go ahead. That's just fine," Pete shrugs. "Can we go home now? Please?"
Dr. Nagda sighs. "Pete, all things being equal, why does one patient get better, and another doesn't?" Pete shrugs, and she continues. "Attitude."
"You sound like my mom."
"If you think calling her will help you adjust your attitude then do it because I need you to take this, whatever this is, if it’s the loss of your friend or something with your family or god knows what - I don’t really care - I need you to figure it out by your surgery." She places both hands flat on the table and leans towards him. "Looking at you right now? You look the absolute worst I've seen since day one."
"Dr. Nagda," Mikey murmurs, lacing his fingers with Pete's so tight that they actually hurt, "He's not-"
"He does. He looks terrible. And it’s not just physical. That's why we're having this conversation. Next Monday, Pete, they're going to cut into your lungs, which you need to breathe, and your liver, which processes poisons in your blood, and I want you to live because I have put a lot of effort into getting you well and also, because I like you and I like your boyfriend, who seems to care a lot about you."
"So get happy."
"Or something. I'll settle for something." She sits back and runs a hand through her hair. "See you boys on Monday."
When they get home, they sprawl across Pete's bed, and Mikey finally opens the box. It's filled with gel globs that range in size from grapes to oranges. They stare at them until Pete starts to laugh, for the first time in what feels like a geologic age but is really probably only a week. "Holy fucking shit, are those what I think they are?"
Mikey lifts himself up on his elbows and peers over his shoulder. "I think they're replacements for your nuts."
"Oh my god."
"How are you supposed to gauge these things?" Pete asks. "You wanna give 'em a grab? See which ones match?"
Mikey laughs into his shoulder and shrugs. "Pete."
"Seriously. You spend more time with them than I do. So, go ahead." He unzips his jeans and kicks them off. "Let’s do this."
"You are ridiculous."
"Well, duh." He shimmies his boxers down his hips just far enough to expose the family jewels. Mikey raises an eyebrow. He hasn’t let Mikey touch him there, not once, since this mess started. It's sort of a ceasefire in his own way, trying to convince himself that this is fine, this surgery will work, that he is going to get well. Goddamnit, he will. "So come on. Grope me."
Mikey gives him a tentative smile and slides a hand between him, touching him gently, his hands warm and dry, careful. He kisses Pete's neck a few times before he pulls his hand away. "I love you. You know that right?"
"You think you know the right size then?" Pete asks, wiggling eyebrows, humor returning to his world for the first time since they put Jessie in the ground.
"Yeah. I do. Maybe a five or a six, but it doesn’t really matter because you're going to be fine."
"I am." He's quiet for a long while as they lie together then Pete says, "You think I can convince Ash to bring Bronx by before the surgery?"
"Are you kidding me?"
Pete stares up at the familiar ceiling, his bare legs cold in the A/C and his t-shirt rucked up around his chest. "No."
"Of course, she will." Mikey pushes up on an elbow, so he can stare directly down into Pete's eyes, their noses touching. "He's your baby, Pete. You're undergoing major surgery. It's low risk, but shit happens, and he's your baby. She'll bring him over now if you call. You know she will."
Pete doesn’t say anything.
"He's your baby." Mikey says again.
It sounds sort of silly when Mikey says it. Bronx is three. Soon he'll be four, and then five, and then in the double digits, a teenager, then screwing up his own life just like Pete did, and fuck, what if he isn't there to see it. "What if-"
"She can get remarried. You and I can go to Canada and get married. He can grow up and move to Timbuktu and take up basket weaving. All that can happen, but he's your baby. He will always be your baby. So. Call her. Call her now. You should spend every second you can between now and your surgery with your baby, Pete. Ashlee'll understand. She's good that way because Bronx is your baby. I'm getting your phone."
"Yeah. Fine."
Somewhere, in all of this mess, they have turned into real honest to god adults. Not tall boys masquerading as grown-ups but actual men, who are in actual clothes and who act like actual parents when Ashlee arrives an hour later with Bronx.
"Rough," she mouths over Bronx's head as she eases him, already chattering away into his father's arms. "Mikey, wanna take a walk with me out to the car, get his overnight bag?"
It's code. This trip the code is for: tell me why my ex looks like he's been hit with a large brick and why you were crying on the phone while we walk to my minivan slower than we need to.
Pete takes Bronx to the bedroom, and they play Legos. He lets Bronx do all the talking. Bronx is part of a playgroup with Bandit since the My Chem guys went off to record the album, so all the stories are filtered through the kids twice which is nice for them but Bronx this visit is all about Batman, still, always, probably forever. Pete hopes that stays. He hopes that by the time that the little man gets old enough to do more than watch the cartoons he'll still like the guy because comic Batman can be kind of a narrow minded prick. He hopes that he won't die on the table, so he can see if Bronx will form that opinion on his own.
Mikey walks by and smacks him on the back of the head. "Focus," he hisses, pointing down at the asymmetrical tower of Legos. "This is now," he says. "Ashlee is coming back Sunday night."
"She is?" Ash doesn’t like to let him have full nights that aren’t his. Throws off Bronx's routine, cancer or no cancer, but apparently, this is a big enough exception.
"I'm magic," Mikey says with a smile. He drops down in front of the two of them. "What are you boys building?"
"Space tower," Bronx declares. "Batman launches the Batrocket from here."
"Oh he does, does he?"
"He needs to defeat the Joker on the moon."
Mikey's schooled expression comes in especially handy just here. Pete is trying hard not to explode into hysterics. "Oh well, we can't let the Joker get to the moon."
"He'll blow it up," Bronx warns Mikey with all seriousness, and Pete gives up and just falls over giggling. Bronx knows his Daddy isn't laughing at him. He's laughing at the idea that the Batman could ever fail to protect the innocents from the Joker, of course.
"Think you can finish the rocket station before dinner?" Pete asks when he regains a hint of his composure. His stomach hurts from laughing, and he's got his arms wrapped around his son's stomach in such a way that he can hang onto his baby and not impede his work on his project. Every second he is in the same room with Mikey and Bronx, it feels like pieces of him that have been flung out to the far reaches of space are drifting back towards his core. He doesn’t think they'll all get back in time for his surgery.
That’s okay though. They don't need to. That they're on the way is more Dr. Nagda's point, Pete's pretty sure.
Bronx frowns in a thoughtful sort of way. "If you help, it'll be done before then."
"All right then."
"Blue Legos next?" Mikey asks.
"No red," Bronx says in the voice of longsuffering three year olds everywhere. The three of them set to work, and sure enough, the space pad, or whatever the lopsided tower is supposed to be in Bronx's brilliant little imagination, is his version of complete before Gabe shows up unannounced (meaning that Mikey called him at some point around two in the afternoon) with vegetarian lasagna for dinner.
~*~*~
Pete's pre- and post-op run together for him. He knows that isn't the case for the people around him, but for Pete it's just one big blur. Check-in and check-out both are mostly paperwork, which Pete can only do himself during check-in. He's too drugged to hold a pen during check-out, and the rest is just a lot of waiting.
The in-between is full of needles, scalpels, blood, organs, nurses, doctors, and open wounds. There are drugs, sleep, more drugs, medical professionals poking at Pete and taking fluids of various colors and viscosity for days.
For Pete, most of that is a haze of nothingness punctuated of moments of bright lights and stupid people in scrubs asking him annoying questions before leaving him alone to slip back into the dark. Pete doesn’t know what this whole mess is like for Mikey, but it can't be good. At least he gets to sleep through it.
His family visits. Normally that'd be his friends, his son, and his boyfriend. Now this includes his siblings, grandparents, and parents, God help them all. His son is there with Bandit for what he is told later is a mercifully short two-hour period where the two of them are entertained in a corner by Lindsey and her magical bag of art supplies. This is good because Pete doesn’t think kids their age belong in hospitals. It's enough that they were there at all. That's all they need to know when they're older, that they made the effort, that they love their dad/Uncle Pete enough to show up. All they'll remember are the paper bag puppets that Lindsey had them make.
By some act of unholy union, Ashlee, Mikey, and Gabe in the hospital room and Travie in New York via Skype all team up and get his blood relatives out of California before he comes back to full consciousness. Pete hears all about it later but doesn’t know who the brains behind it were. There are different versions of it, like some kind of Viking song retold until the original story gets lost, but the gist of it is, when he woke up, his siblings, grandparents, and mom and dad were blessedly not there. He really doesn't care how that happened. He's just grateful that he didn’t have to deal with his mom crying without the aide morphine to help him cope.
The hospital sends Pete home after the surgery on drugs that basically step down in intensity in varying levels starting with Hillbilly Heroin stepping down in medication and dosage until they hit Could Screw You Up If You Also Took Them With Like…A Shot Of Vodka. Pete's too out of it to really judge the situation, but Mikey has some really choice things to say about American health care and pain management options that Gerard records on his phone and emails Pete. For blackmail. Also because Gerard and Frank both think it's about seventeen types of funny.
Pete really only considers a shift from before (at home with Mikey, sometimes Bronx and/or Ashlee and/or Gabe) and after (alone with Mikey who keeps looking at him like he's going to break) to have happened when he is strong enough and can stay awake long enough to walk to the bathroom on his own. This is a definite line to draw in the sand because Mikey's been helping him with that. It's humiliating, debasing but when Pete isn't too far out of it to realize? It's also kind of awesome that Mikey loves him enough to do this for him even though it’s gross and really degrading and again for good measure? Gross. But Mikey does it. Actually, the defining characteristic of the whole experience is the way Mikey stays and stays and stays.
Pete has no idea what he's done to earn that. None at all. Pete wishes he knew, so he could keep doing it. Since he can't figure it out, he decides that he owes the man something for all of this. A wedding maybe, in Washington or Iowa or New York where it's legal. Or like, a diamond tiara and one of those ermine and purple capes like the royals in England wear? He's not sure which Mikey would prefer. When he's better, he'll ask and give Mikey whichever one he wants.
Right now, he settles for running his hands through his boyfriend's frankly lank and stinky hair. He shouldn't judge. He has no hair. But he's truly sensually aware for the first time in what feels like forever, and ugh, it smells.
"You should take a shower," Pete croaks, his voice hoarse with disuse.
"No," Mikey grits out, nosing against Pete's side defiantly.
"Yes. You smell bad. You can't stay in my bed smelling like tour Mikey."
"You like the smell of tour Mikey."
That's true, but it is a conditional truth. "I like the smell of tour Mikey on tour. I have a shower." He turns his head and smells himself. He smells freshly laundered and clean. Which means that Mikey has managed to clean him up but not himself. That is Way Hygiene Dark Magic right there. "Go make yourself smell good, or I will kick you out of my bed."
Mikey heaves a beleaguered sigh. "You couldn't kick me if you tried."
"I could try. It'd ruin all your hard care-taking work."
"Don't you fucking dare," Mikey growls, sitting up now. "I have been busting my ass taking care of you."
It must be true because Mikey looks like hell. Actual Hell, or the closest physical equivalent. He has shadows under his eyes, stinky hair that sticks out in every direction like it did when he was twenty-one, stains at the neck, pits, and front of his shirt, crumpled pants, and at least four maybe five days of stubble. The man is a complete shit show, and Pete has never loved him more in his entire miserable life.
"I know," Pete says, giving Mikey's shoulder a meek shove. It's enough to get Mikey rolling off the bed and heading in the general direction of the en suite bathroom. "I won't move an inch while you go take care of you."
He doesn’t want to move to be honest. His chest hurts. Fuck laparoscopy. They took out chunks of his lungs and guts. Even if the incision site was small, the pieces missing hurt. He's fine here thanks.
"Pete." His name is a warning.
"I won't do any kicking. And I promise that if you go take care of you, it'll count as taking care of me, too."
Mikey seems to weigh this. He takes one step towards the bathroom. "Do you even remember what Dr. Nagda said when you came out of surgery?"
Of course, he doesn't. Pete was so high for the duration of his hospital stay that he thought two plus two equaled mushroom pizza. But he's home now. Dr. Nagda hadn't seen a need to hold him, so that must mean things went okay. "They got most of it?"
Mikey grins at him then, the big one, the real one, the one that doesn’t give a shit about cameras or onlookers or the fact that he never got braces as a kid so his teeth are still wonky. It’s the one that lights up any room brighter than the light fixtures. This smile is Pete's favorite of all the Mikey smiles. "They got all of it. You've got two fake size six balls, and you're probably going to need some serious hormone replacement meds for your trouble, but they got it all. Last time they checked you over before they rolled you out of the hospital, your scans read cancer free."'
"Shut up."
"Nope. I will not. I'm supposed to be showering, remember. I'll be singing. Something really irritating. Like the theme from Barney or maybe The Song That Never Ends. It just goes on and on, my friend."
"Mikey."
"Some people started singing it-"
"Mikey. Mikey Way. Come here."
"I thought I smelled."
"Mikey," Pete says again, holding out a hand. "I can’t come to you because I promised not to move. Come here. Please?"
Mikey caves at that. He crosses back to the bed and moves closer until he is right in Pete's face, close enough for Pete to take the kiss of relief he is dying for. He kisses life, love, and tears into Mikey's mouth. He could scream and laugh, but instead he just kisses him, ignoring the smell and the way his hair is tacky with sweat and old product and god knows what because he'll get his life back. He'll get well. He'll live. God, he'll live and with this man in his arms. When he pulls back, panting, his face is a little wet and so is Mikey's.
"You should go shower." He whispers. "I'll wait here."
"Okay," Mikey says. "Promise?"
"Yeah. Get me my phone before you go?"
"Gonna call Bronx?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Mikey kisses Pete on the forehead and ferrets through the nightstand. He finds his iPhone and tosses it onto Pete's chest. Then he pulls off his shirt and disappears into the bathroom.
Pete blinks up at the ceiling for a long moment then speed dials his ex-wife's number. After that, the only thing that can make this moment better is hearing his little boy's voice.
(end)
Return to Part 1
Return to Part 2
Jessie isn't at the infusion center when Pete goes in for the next round of treatment. Pete tries not to get nervous, but their schedules line up pretty perfectly. After the first session they started making their appointments together. He'd even met her parents - Jake and Ella. They're only about ten years older than he is, which is odd. That aside, they're lovely - a little freaked that their baby girl has made chemo-buddies with a rock star but lovely.
So that she isn't there, is a bad sign. It's a very bad sign. He calls Ella's cell phone, and when it goes to voice mail three times, he gives up and tries Jake. He picks up the third time Pete calls, sounding drained. "Hello?"
"Uh, Jake? Hey, it's Pete Wentz. I'm a friend of Jessie's? I'm wondering where she is. We're supposed to infuse together. I'm just a little worried."
"Right. Um, Jessie's in surgery right now."
"She alright?"
"I can't talk right now." Jake says, sounding distracted. "I'll talk to you later." He hangs up on Pete, leaving him sitting with a dial tone. He stares into space for most of his infusion. It's a long day, and he feels sick and tired after it, but Jessie is in surgery, and it's not the one she planned on. It scares him, more than he has any right to be.
Pete's not doing so well this time around. His treatment team doesn't like his numbers, which Pete doesn't think sounds very good even if he's not exactly sure what it means. All Pete knows is that he feels even worse about every single part of his body than he did before. So, with the My Chem guys recording in San Diego Gabe is still hauling his ass around. It's undignified, but the shiny new cancer drugs they put him on after his last meeting with Dr. Nagda make him unpredictably drowsy to the point where operating heavy machinery is not advised.
When Pete goes to the main hospital to try and find her, Gabe is the one who has to get him there. Pete walks in on his own steam, but it’s a near thing. He finds Ella outside Jessie's room in ICU; she looks like hell. She has bags under her red-rimmed eyes. Her shirt has sweat stains at the collar and pits that have to be at least two days old.
"Ella? Are you okay?"
She turns on her heel and blinks at him. It takes her a few moments to register him, but when she does, she sags against the wall. "Pete? What are you doing here?"
"I talked to Jake. Jessie wasn't there for treatment yesterday."
"Jake's in with her now. We're only allowed in one at a time. I'm supposed to be getting food."
"God."
"I- She had an infection." She rubs her face with one hand dragging her lower lip down. "She got the tumor taken out of the lymph nodes and part of her breast, and it was good. It was fine; only it got infected, and it went into one of the incision sites. They had to remove half the muscles of her armpit and along her ribs, and she was fine but then she had a seizure. I thought it was from the infection maybe? But-but they did a CT and one of those body scans. The cancer's in her lungs, and she has these little tumor things, the doctor called them mets? They're in her brain. How's she supposed to get better with tumors in her brain? "
Pete reaches out with fingers that are spindly from the weight loss. Her upper arms seem almost too solid under his hands. "Jessie'll be fine. She's a fighter. I mean she inspires me every time I talk to her."
Her eyes well up, glassy and reflecting the florescent light that every hospital seems to use. She looks so tired. "She's always okay. She's always fine except when she's not. They don’t want to put more strain on her body than they have to, so she's having surgery for her lungs and brain tonight. She's going to be fine, right?"
Pete looks down at her. Ella's got thick, curly black hair, and Pete wonders if Jessie's hair used to be like that. He wonders if she'll ever get back to having it like that again. He's not the guy Ella should be asking, but he can try and help. "I think so. She's great."
"She adores you." Ella rubs her face with the heel of her hand. Pete pretends to ignore the fact that she's crying at all. "When she was going through her first round of chemo, she would listen to that Cork Tree album over and over again. It really helped her, you know? Being friends with you has really helped this time around, too. " She gave him a tired smile that didn't have any joy in it. "Last time she had her brother around, but he's in the army. He's in Germany. She has friends who visit and I try, but it's not the same."
That sort of thing is overwhelming to hear. He's heard things like it before. People telling him his music matters to them is something he never gets tired of, but he knows Jessie. He likes her. She's his friend, and even though Ella hasn’t said anything, Pete knows she could be dying on the other side of the wall. She probably is dying, and he can't do anything to help.
He squeezes Ella's arm. "If she wants to see me, just call okay? I'll come running, even if I have to pull my head out of my own puke."
"She wouldn't ask," Ella says, using a knuckle to wipe away the next tears. "But when she's out of ICU, I'll call you, okay? I'll call you, and you can come see her. It'll help."
"Do they have an idea of when that'll be?"
She shakes her head, and she looks so fragile. Pete hates it. He hates human cells for going ape shit and multiplying out of control. He hates that the drugs that people take to heal them make them sicker and more open to infection. He hates the whole world, the end.
"I don’t know. Three days? Maybe four? I can't-" She pulls on her hair. The curls get tangled on her fingers. She tugs and curses when they won't come free. Pete doesn't help her. It's too forward, but he does look away. It's all he can give her. "I don’t know. Oh god, I don’t know. They're talking about making her comfortable for fuck's sake."
He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Probably, there's no right response. So he just squeezes her arm again. "I'll check in later," he promises. Ella nods and jerks away to go stare in the window at her husband and child.
Gabe is waiting for him in the car. He's listening to the Rolling Stones and tapping his fingers on the steering column in time to the rhythm of “Paint It Black”. He's humming along with Mick. He comes to an abrupt halt when Pete slams the door shut behind him. He looks at Pete with a quizzical head tilt. "You okay?"
Pete doesn't answer. He pushes the heels of his hands hard into his eyes because he is not going to cry. He's just not. Except for how hot liquid hits his skin, and his breathing turns ragged against his will. He sits in the passenger seat of his own SUV trying to pull his shit together, only half succeeding.
Gabe's hand lands gently on his shoulder. "Pete?"
"She could die," He chokes out. "She probably will. She's fifteen, and Gerard Way's her fucking hero, and she wants to be a doctor. She wants to be an oncologist and fight cancer because she doesn't want anyone else to suffer like she is."
"Okay."
Pete presses his fist to his mouth so that his sob won’t escape. It doesn't work, coming out mixed with the words "It's not fair."
"None of this is fair, man." Gabe says. "Question is, what can you do? Gotta accept the things you can't change so, what can you change?"
Something about that resonates through Pete. He can't make her better. He can't fix it, can't heal her even though if he could throw his money and stubbornness at the problem, it would make her well. But he can do something for her.
"I need my phone."
Patrick is back from Chicago. He came by Pete's the day he got home and sat with him outside by the pool even though it was chilly. They sat on the lawn furniture and talked about Patrick's tour and how Bebe was doing solo work while Pete was sick and about how Bronx had made the bandana Pete was wearing. He'd stopped by every other day now. It was good to have him back because it would make this whole thing a lot easier.
"I need a favor." He says when Pete picks up.
"Do you need me to help you move a body?" Patrick asks. "Because I love you, but the answer is no. Ask Travie, he's got all the upper body strength."
"Travie's still on tour and no. I need you to call Joe and Andy for me."
"Why?"
"Because I need them to come back from Chicago for a weekend."
Patrick doesn’t need it spelled out to know what Pete's proposing. They haven't talked about anything like this. In fact, what few conversations they had had along these lines usually ended in "not right now." Patrick heaves a heavy sigh. "Pete-"
"A friend of mine's probably dying, Trick. I want to do this for her."
Patrick sighs again. "I'll talk to them."
"Because you are a gentleman and a scholar."
"Yeah, something like that."
He calls Mikey next because fuck it. If he's going to do this, and he is - he absolutely is, then he's going to do it up right. "Can you guys come home this weekend?"
"Are you okay?"
Not really. He's been feeling and worse and worse the farther he gets into treatment. Since Mikey went to record the new album, Dr. Nagda has started looking unhappy when he meets with her every other week. But this is not about him. "Fine. Remember Jessie?"
"Yeah. The kid who got you baked."
"She's sick."
"Isn't that how you two met?"
"No, babe, her cancer's metastasized. It's in her lungs and brain."
Mikey is quiet for a long beat then asks, "You need all of us to come back?"
"If you guys wouldn't mind."
"You're a good man, Pete. Do you know that?"
"Only because you tell me."
"See you Friday. Love you."
"Love you more, Mikey Way."
Ella calls him on Thursday and tells him that Jessie made it through surgery. They tried to get the mets out of her brain with targeted radiation and cutting, but they only got some of them. The rest of them are in places they don't want to risk, like memory centers, and Jack and Ella didn't let them do it. "She has to be Jessie," Ella told him. "She wouldn't want to be-" She broke off on a choked sob.
"Ella."
"They're talking about making her comfortable. I'm- JJ is trying to get back from Ramstein, but it’s the army. They don't have to let him go. Even if they do, he can't force a flight to leave immediately and the doctors said they wanted to focus on pain management. What the hell is that even?"
"I don’t know. Ella, is she okay to have visitors?"
"Yeah. They're moving her out of ICU today. She's awake. She says she's okay, but she's not. My baby's in pain, and Jake- I can't talk to Jake or my mother. They're both-" she breaks off and takes a loud breath. When she speaks again, her voice is reedy with tears. "My baby girl is in pain."
Pete feels like someone's shoved a knife into his chest and twisted. His own pain is bad, but it’s his. He's dealing with it. If it were Bronx hurting, Bronx who was slipping away, he doesn't think he'd be able to take it. He'd fall to pieces and spend every moment of every hour with his baby in his arms. He doesn't know how Ella is even standing.
"I want to do something for her." He tells her about what he is calling The Plan in his head. Ella starts crying in earnest and tells him of course, of course he can.
Patrick shows up for what Gabe has called Pete-sitting Duty an hour after he gets off the phone with Ella. During that time, Pete has called Ashlee and talked to Bronx for thirty minutes about Phineas and Ferb and his new friend Marshawn at preschool. Pete listens raptly and laughs as his son describes the soldier versus dragon battle the two of them had orchestrated with their toys.
Pete doesn’t even get off the chaise when Patrick unlocks the door and lets himself in. He pauses in the foyer to pet Hemmy and give the dog the requisite attention before making his way into the living room. He throws himself down on the couch and props his sharp Helmut Lang loafers up on Pete's coffee table.
"Hey."
"Hey. So, Joe's in Virginia with Marie visiting her parents. He can't get away. It's their thirty-fifth anniversary."
"Oh."
"Andy's actually in New York but he wanted me to check with you, see if you still needed him to fly out."
"No. If you're in, it'll be fine. Mikey and the guys are coming back tomorrow. I talked to Jessie's mom, and the doctor says that she'll be stable for awhile before she starts, um, deteriorating." He drags his hand over his face, pulling his lower lip down for a moment. "They're giving her anywhere from a few days to maybe a month at the outside so, Saturday. Her mom said she'll be fine on Saturday."
"I'm free Saturday."
Pete gives him a beatific smile. "A gentleman and a scholar."
Patrick hurls a pillow at him. It hits Pete in the chest, and he laughs.
~*~*~
Mikey arrives back in LA early on Friday, and of all the inane mundane things they could do - they go grocery shopping with Gerard. "We have to make a setlist," Gerard declares as he throws some Cap'n Crunch in the cart of the weird little scooter thing Mikey forced Pete to ride.
Pete stares up at him and shakes his head. "I just want you to play a song or two for a friend in her hospital room. We'll barely all fit."
That makes Gerard snort. "Please. If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right. Haven't you ever had any Make-A-Wish kids want to see your band?"
Pete shrugs. "We were always on tour. They'd fly out for the day, hang out on the bus with us, sit backstage during the show."
"Just stand back and let him work. Frank likes to write setlists. It's his thing."
"It is," Gerard concurs. "He always makes the setlists. He's very good at it."
Pete laughs. "I'm sure he is."
"He's probably already called Patrick," Mikey adds, reaching out a hand to rest on the back of Pete's neck as they putter through the store. His fingertip under the back of Pete's bandana to stroke the bare base of his skull with one finger. "Hey, do we need oatmeal? Do you even eat it? I can't remember."
"We've still got some I think."
Domestics are only Gerard's thing when it's his domestics. Then he turns into Martha freaking Stewart. However, the state of cereal in the Wentz homestead isn’t enough to distract him from the task at hand. "All that's really left is Frank's making the set list and making sure we've got acoustic instruments. Ray's got like fifteen guitars, but I think your bass is still in Ma's house."
Mikey fingers a thing of cereal bars as they move past. He leaves them on the shelf in favor of strawberry pop-tarts with frosting. Pete quietly applauds himself for choosing a life partner who understands the important things in life.
"I think you're right," Mikey says as he tosses it into the scooter's basket. It jostles the jar of peanut butter in the bottom as it lands with a thud.
"I've got one we can both use," Pete says. "In the music room."
"Good. If you were keeping it in the pool house, I'd be worried."
"Okay, so has she got favorites? Does she have any opinions about covers? How about solos because you know we can let Ray loose if she's into guitar riffs."
Mikey points right, and Pete's little scooter thing hums as he turns toward the milk. Mikey looks at his brother with an expression that clearly says are-you-kidding-me. "You're over-thinking this, Gee."
"There's no shame in being prepared."
Mikey and Pete both give him a long look as they head towards the cold dairy aisle. "There is a little shame."
Pete grins at his boyfriend and pinches his thumb and forefinger together. "A skosh."
Gerard grabs a thing of whipped cream off the shelf. He cracks it open and sprays it directly into his mouth. Through a foamy white mouth he says "No. Shame."
There's a click and whir as Mikey snaps a picture of him looking like he has a severe case of rabies. Gerard glares, but Mikey just smirks. "Instagram."
Gerard swallows and says "I hate you."
"You have to by that now you know," Pete points out. "You put your germy mouth on it."
"I was going to. Ugh." He sticks out his tongue. "I need something to drink now."
"You've already ravaged the dairy section. There's juice up there." Pete points up aisle. "Full circle and all that."
Gerard ignores him, grabbing a single serving chocolate Milk Chug off another shelf and cracking it open. He takes a long drink before holding it out to Mikey. Because they're Ways and are always vaguely gross, Mikey shrugs and takes it from him, taking a sip before handing it back. He doesn't offer it to Pete because he and milk aren’t on speaking terms thanks to his current meds, but he looks like he wants to.
"You are nasty motherfuckers. I can't believe I put up with either of you."
"It's the hot hot sex," Gerard says. "My brother is world renowned for the hot hot sex." He takes a sip of his chocolate milk as if to punctuate this point. "There are chatrooms dedicated to this fact. I'm connected by DNA to the man who gives you the hot hot sex, so here I am."
"This is true." Pete agrees. "He does excel at the hot hot sex."
Mikey hurls a brick of cheddar cheese at Pete. It hits him in the shoulder and falls into his lap. "Shut up both of you, or I will kill you."
"You might kill Gerard, but you've been working too hard to keep my ass alive. You hate to quit a project when it's going well."
Mikey glares at him then sighs. "Okay, point. Seriously though, both of you, shut up."
Pete grins and hits the gas on his scooter, powering past Mikey and Gerard toward the frozen food section. He needs all of the popsicles, please and thanks. Doctor's orders.
The good mood holds until the six of them are gathered outside Jessie's hospital room. Her father was at the airport picking up her brother J.J. which Pete thinks is a good thing. He isn't Jake's favorite person.
Ella on the other hand, keeps looking at them like she's going to cry. "You're so sweet," she tells all of them with a watery smile. "You didn't have to do this, but she's going to love it. Just love it." She holds up her iPhone. "Do you mind if I film it? I won't put it on the internet, but I think she might like to have it for later."
"Yeah, of course," Pete says even though he doesn't think Jessie really has that much of a later. He can't say that. He doesn't want to even think it to be honest. "So, she awake? We can come back or-"
"No, I talked to her nurses about medication timing? She's alert and awake. She was making jokes about the old Transformers cartoon with the orderly when I left to get lunch."
"Transformers are awesome," Ray mutters under his breath.
"That's a good sign. If she weren't with it enough to mock Megatron's voice, then I'd worry."
Ella chuckle, gives him a nod, then opens the door. Pete goes in first, and Jessie looks up from her iPad, beaming. "Pete! Hi!"
"Hey kid. Where you been?" He knows of course, but he needs to make conversation first. She looks like hell. The shadows under her eyes look more like black eyes. Her skin is pale and washed out and- fuck. She looks like a skeleton held together only by the thin film of her skin. He's never looked someone actively dying in the face before, not even the Make-A-Wish kids. It makes his eyes burn, but he grins at her through it.
"Here. There. You know." She holds up a remote-looking device. "I'm on the really good drugs now."
"Well, are you sober enough for a present?"
She grins at him. "I'm always good for presents. Is it something signed?" Her eyes go big. "Is it an instrument? I kinda know how to play guitar. A little. Okay not really, but I can fake it."
"It involves an instrument but no." He turns around and waves through the open door. "It's not. Come on guys, she's up."
Pete watches her face as his best friend, his boyfriend, and his boyfriend's band file into the room with acoustic instruments. Patrick even brought one of those little hand drum things to stand in for the tour drummer. It's brilliant of him actually. Better than that is Jessie's face. Her face lights up, and her eyes go huge in her face, enormous and glittering. "Oh."
"Jessie, you've already met my partner Mikey. This is his older brother Gerard and our friends Frank, Ray, and-"
"Patrick," she breathes. She takes in each of them in turn, ready to cry and smiling so big it's a wonder her face doesn't shatter into a million pieces. "Pete, god, you didn't."
He grins back at her. "I totally did. We're going to play for you now. You cool with that?"
Jessie can't speak. She just nods, her fists clenched in her blankets. Pete steps back to lean against the wall, and Gerard moves forward to her bedside. He gives her a gentle smile and covers her hand with his. "Hey, Jessie, I'm Gerard."
She twists her hand in his until she can cling to his palm with thin, spider-like fingers. "I know who you are."
"Well, it's nice to meet you. Pete says you're a fan. Do you have a favorite song?"
"Helena," she says surprising no one in the room. "And “Cancer”. I really…I like “Cancer”." She looks away from Gerard then, her eyes welling up. Pete hasn't seen Jessie cry once but she looks ready to now.
"Okay. Want me to do those first or save them for last."
"Last please."
Her honesty is rewarded with that understanding Gerard smile that's been systematically breaking through teenage facades for the last decade. It's a little more paternal now than it was before Bandit was born, but it’s the same expression. "Awesome. We can do that. I'm going to hang out with you while the rest of the guys do the heavy lifting."
Pete stays with Jessie, Gerard, and Ella while the rest of the group drags in a few more chairs. They all settle around Jessie's bed to play. Patrick sits on her other side and introduces himself much the same way. "Pete and I are going to go first," he says finally."If that's okay with you?"
She nods, wide-eyed, and Patrick starts with “Hum Hallelujah” because Pete remembers that she once said it was her favorite. Pete plays along on Mikey's bass as they work through the list of their songs she's said she liked including Spotlight. She glows, and in between songs she tells them about what she remembers from when she heard them the first time - mostly stories about her school friends or her family. Pete even recognizes some of the names of her classmates from their conversations during treatment.
She still looks frail and fading, but she's lit up from the inside so bright her fingertips should be glowing. Pete has rarely in his life felt as genuinely sure that he did the right thing as he does in this moment, watching his friends perform for his sick friend.
When they're done, Pete passes the bass across the bed to Mikey. Mikey gives him a small nod. The music is soft but strong, and Gerard says standing, holding her hand and singing to her just loud enough to be heard clearly over the instruments. She clings and stares up at his face like he's Santa Claus getting ready to pull every present she's ever wanted out of his sleigh.
They play half of Revenge which is her favorite and a few of the lower octane songs off of Danger Days, and when they starts singing “Welcome to the Black Parade”, Jessie curls onto her side and starts to cry, great gasping sobs that startle them into silence.
Ella jumps to her feet, but Pete catches her hand. "Wait," he whispers, not sure why. It's an instinct, maybe a parenting one he gained from when his mom taught him to let Bronx 'cry it out'. He's not sure exactly, but Ella seems to understand anyway.
"Jessie?" Ray asks, leaning in. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she says, sniffling. She rubs tears from her eyes and snot off her lower lip with the hand not holding Gerard's in a death grip. "I am. I'm okay, please. Please, keep going?" She laughs, but it lapses into a sharp choked off sob. When she collects herself, she rubs her eyes and says "It's just- real. You know?"
Her mother has tears rolling as she stands out of the way. For a room full of so many people, watching Jessie cry with her hairless brow pushed into Gerard's forearm is desperately private. Frank and Patrick are both looking away. Mikey's expression is blank while Ray tries to get himself back together over his guitar. Gerard reaches out with his other hand to rest gently on her shoulder. He tells her a few more times that it's alright before Ray starts playing again. As soon as he does, Gerard picks up singing again like he never stopped at about the same volume that Pete uses to sing lullabies to Bronx.
He sings “Cancer” and rubs his hand up and down over her shoulder. It makes her cry harder, but she's smiling too, through it. She looks peaceful despite the outburst of emotion, like she's floating in a warm pool. She sings along with him, shaky and wet, but it's helping her accept. That much is obvious and despite himself? Pete thinks it's sort of beautiful.
“Helena” is last. “Helena” is always one of the last. At every show Pete has ever been to, and it’s been a lot over the last few years, “Helena” says "this is the end, thank you and goodbye." Frank and Ray always sing along with this song, but Patrick joins in to, harmonizing and adding depth which Pete wasn't expecting. The combination makes Jessie light up like a Christmas tree.
Pete takes the camera gently from Ella's hand. She gives him a small nod of thanks and moves to her daughter's bedside. She strokes her daughter's head and watches as she relaxes even further. If Pete didn't know any better, he'd think this was better for her obvious pain than the morphine.
"Thank you," Jessie murmurs, beaming at all of them. When they're done. "Thank you so much. That- It was amazing. I'm just so- Thanks."
"You deserve it," Pete says. "You deserve more than this actually. You're the rockstar, kid."
She laughs until it hurts, and she has to stop, reaching for her little remote and pushing the button. She smiles at them then yawns as a machine by her bedside whirrs. Pete glances over and sees that it's the machine that dispenses her pain medication. Ella kisses her daughter on the head then looks up at them. "I think you all should go. I'm grateful but-"
"Yeah." Pete agrees.
"Thanks for letting us do this," Mikey says, speaking for the first time since he arrived. "It means as much to us as it does to her." Ella nods wraps her arms around her daughter who has quietly dropped off to sleep.
They file out of the room quietly and pass Jake and a young man with Ella's curly black hair cut into a crew cut and Jake's slightly pointed nose and heavy brow. Pete nods at them as they pass and once they're behind them, threads his fingers into Mikey's.
He hurts. He hurts all the way through him like harpoon's been thrown through his chest. But it’s a good hurt, the kind of hurt that comes with doing the right thing, even when it's hard.
Frank walks up behind him and drapes an arm carefully around Pete's shoulder. He leans over and plants a dry kiss on his cheek. "You're a good egg, Wentz. You know that?"
Pete just smiles at him and lets his family lead him out of the hospital.
~*~*~
The big appointment with Dr. Nagda is three weeks after Jessie dies but only two days after the official funeral. He sits in a daze next to Mikey, seeing his doctor's lovely mouth move but hearing next to nothing. He can't stop thinking about how his funny little friend is never going to get to go to med school and be a doctor like she wanted and how that so unfair. It's not until he realizes that he's squeezing Mikey's hand bloodless that Mikey pinches his shoulder, hard and brings him back to himself.
"What?"
"I said," Dr. Nagda says, firm but clear and gentle, "That I think your scans indicate that it's time for surgery."
That doesn’t make any sense. Nothing's making sense this week. "Surgery."
"The mets in your lungs and liver have shrunk to a point where I'm fairly sure that removal will be curative."
"That's good," Pete says. "Right? Curative. That means I'll be better. I can start healing?"
"It's a little more complicated than just the metastatic material in your lungs and liver. We're going to have to remove the right testicle completely, the left-" She sighs and flips through the paper work. Then she rubs her temple with the knuckle of one thumb. "Hopefully a lumpectomy will be sufficient because there are hormone regulations I'd like maintained if possible. If not, the hormone therapies will be sufficient. Either way, physically, you won't be able to tell the difference when we're done. The plastics department at Cedars is exceptional." She winks at him. "Half of LA can attest to that."
Pete just stares at her. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Yes?" She's usually very funny actually. It's one of his favorite things about her, one of the things that’s made the last six months of poisonous treatment and aching muscles and bones and wasting and balding and nausea a little easier. Today, though, is not one of the days where her sense of humor makes anything better.
"Too soon." He says dully. "I'm not- Too soon."
"All right. In all seriousness, you'll need to make some decisions. Prosthetic replacements for what we remove from your testicles and how soon can you be ready for surgery. I'm assuming Mr. Way will be in town to look after you through your recovery?"
"Of course," Mikey says.
"You should take this, too," She holds out a small plastic box to Mikey. "There are instructions inside. Save it for when you get home to discuss it?"
"I guess?"
"So. Your last chemo treatment is Thursday. If you and Mr. Way are both ready, we'll schedule surgery for the following Monday. "
"Fine. Go ahead. That's just fine," Pete shrugs. "Can we go home now? Please?"
Dr. Nagda sighs. "Pete, all things being equal, why does one patient get better, and another doesn't?" Pete shrugs, and she continues. "Attitude."
"You sound like my mom."
"If you think calling her will help you adjust your attitude then do it because I need you to take this, whatever this is, if it’s the loss of your friend or something with your family or god knows what - I don’t really care - I need you to figure it out by your surgery." She places both hands flat on the table and leans towards him. "Looking at you right now? You look the absolute worst I've seen since day one."
"Dr. Nagda," Mikey murmurs, lacing his fingers with Pete's so tight that they actually hurt, "He's not-"
"He does. He looks terrible. And it’s not just physical. That's why we're having this conversation. Next Monday, Pete, they're going to cut into your lungs, which you need to breathe, and your liver, which processes poisons in your blood, and I want you to live because I have put a lot of effort into getting you well and also, because I like you and I like your boyfriend, who seems to care a lot about you."
"So get happy."
"Or something. I'll settle for something." She sits back and runs a hand through her hair. "See you boys on Monday."
When they get home, they sprawl across Pete's bed, and Mikey finally opens the box. It's filled with gel globs that range in size from grapes to oranges. They stare at them until Pete starts to laugh, for the first time in what feels like a geologic age but is really probably only a week. "Holy fucking shit, are those what I think they are?"
Mikey lifts himself up on his elbows and peers over his shoulder. "I think they're replacements for your nuts."
"Oh my god."
"How are you supposed to gauge these things?" Pete asks. "You wanna give 'em a grab? See which ones match?"
Mikey laughs into his shoulder and shrugs. "Pete."
"Seriously. You spend more time with them than I do. So, go ahead." He unzips his jeans and kicks them off. "Let’s do this."
"You are ridiculous."
"Well, duh." He shimmies his boxers down his hips just far enough to expose the family jewels. Mikey raises an eyebrow. He hasn’t let Mikey touch him there, not once, since this mess started. It's sort of a ceasefire in his own way, trying to convince himself that this is fine, this surgery will work, that he is going to get well. Goddamnit, he will. "So come on. Grope me."
Mikey gives him a tentative smile and slides a hand between him, touching him gently, his hands warm and dry, careful. He kisses Pete's neck a few times before he pulls his hand away. "I love you. You know that right?"
"You think you know the right size then?" Pete asks, wiggling eyebrows, humor returning to his world for the first time since they put Jessie in the ground.
"Yeah. I do. Maybe a five or a six, but it doesn’t really matter because you're going to be fine."
"I am." He's quiet for a long while as they lie together then Pete says, "You think I can convince Ash to bring Bronx by before the surgery?"
"Are you kidding me?"
Pete stares up at the familiar ceiling, his bare legs cold in the A/C and his t-shirt rucked up around his chest. "No."
"Of course, she will." Mikey pushes up on an elbow, so he can stare directly down into Pete's eyes, their noses touching. "He's your baby, Pete. You're undergoing major surgery. It's low risk, but shit happens, and he's your baby. She'll bring him over now if you call. You know she will."
Pete doesn’t say anything.
"He's your baby." Mikey says again.
It sounds sort of silly when Mikey says it. Bronx is three. Soon he'll be four, and then five, and then in the double digits, a teenager, then screwing up his own life just like Pete did, and fuck, what if he isn't there to see it. "What if-"
"She can get remarried. You and I can go to Canada and get married. He can grow up and move to Timbuktu and take up basket weaving. All that can happen, but he's your baby. He will always be your baby. So. Call her. Call her now. You should spend every second you can between now and your surgery with your baby, Pete. Ashlee'll understand. She's good that way because Bronx is your baby. I'm getting your phone."
"Yeah. Fine."
Somewhere, in all of this mess, they have turned into real honest to god adults. Not tall boys masquerading as grown-ups but actual men, who are in actual clothes and who act like actual parents when Ashlee arrives an hour later with Bronx.
"Rough," she mouths over Bronx's head as she eases him, already chattering away into his father's arms. "Mikey, wanna take a walk with me out to the car, get his overnight bag?"
It's code. This trip the code is for: tell me why my ex looks like he's been hit with a large brick and why you were crying on the phone while we walk to my minivan slower than we need to.
Pete takes Bronx to the bedroom, and they play Legos. He lets Bronx do all the talking. Bronx is part of a playgroup with Bandit since the My Chem guys went off to record the album, so all the stories are filtered through the kids twice which is nice for them but Bronx this visit is all about Batman, still, always, probably forever. Pete hopes that stays. He hopes that by the time that the little man gets old enough to do more than watch the cartoons he'll still like the guy because comic Batman can be kind of a narrow minded prick. He hopes that he won't die on the table, so he can see if Bronx will form that opinion on his own.
Mikey walks by and smacks him on the back of the head. "Focus," he hisses, pointing down at the asymmetrical tower of Legos. "This is now," he says. "Ashlee is coming back Sunday night."
"She is?" Ash doesn’t like to let him have full nights that aren’t his. Throws off Bronx's routine, cancer or no cancer, but apparently, this is a big enough exception.
"I'm magic," Mikey says with a smile. He drops down in front of the two of them. "What are you boys building?"
"Space tower," Bronx declares. "Batman launches the Batrocket from here."
"Oh he does, does he?"
"He needs to defeat the Joker on the moon."
Mikey's schooled expression comes in especially handy just here. Pete is trying hard not to explode into hysterics. "Oh well, we can't let the Joker get to the moon."
"He'll blow it up," Bronx warns Mikey with all seriousness, and Pete gives up and just falls over giggling. Bronx knows his Daddy isn't laughing at him. He's laughing at the idea that the Batman could ever fail to protect the innocents from the Joker, of course.
"Think you can finish the rocket station before dinner?" Pete asks when he regains a hint of his composure. His stomach hurts from laughing, and he's got his arms wrapped around his son's stomach in such a way that he can hang onto his baby and not impede his work on his project. Every second he is in the same room with Mikey and Bronx, it feels like pieces of him that have been flung out to the far reaches of space are drifting back towards his core. He doesn’t think they'll all get back in time for his surgery.
That’s okay though. They don't need to. That they're on the way is more Dr. Nagda's point, Pete's pretty sure.
Bronx frowns in a thoughtful sort of way. "If you help, it'll be done before then."
"All right then."
"Blue Legos next?" Mikey asks.
"No red," Bronx says in the voice of longsuffering three year olds everywhere. The three of them set to work, and sure enough, the space pad, or whatever the lopsided tower is supposed to be in Bronx's brilliant little imagination, is his version of complete before Gabe shows up unannounced (meaning that Mikey called him at some point around two in the afternoon) with vegetarian lasagna for dinner.
~*~*~
Pete's pre- and post-op run together for him. He knows that isn't the case for the people around him, but for Pete it's just one big blur. Check-in and check-out both are mostly paperwork, which Pete can only do himself during check-in. He's too drugged to hold a pen during check-out, and the rest is just a lot of waiting.
The in-between is full of needles, scalpels, blood, organs, nurses, doctors, and open wounds. There are drugs, sleep, more drugs, medical professionals poking at Pete and taking fluids of various colors and viscosity for days.
For Pete, most of that is a haze of nothingness punctuated of moments of bright lights and stupid people in scrubs asking him annoying questions before leaving him alone to slip back into the dark. Pete doesn’t know what this whole mess is like for Mikey, but it can't be good. At least he gets to sleep through it.
His family visits. Normally that'd be his friends, his son, and his boyfriend. Now this includes his siblings, grandparents, and parents, God help them all. His son is there with Bandit for what he is told later is a mercifully short two-hour period where the two of them are entertained in a corner by Lindsey and her magical bag of art supplies. This is good because Pete doesn’t think kids their age belong in hospitals. It's enough that they were there at all. That's all they need to know when they're older, that they made the effort, that they love their dad/Uncle Pete enough to show up. All they'll remember are the paper bag puppets that Lindsey had them make.
By some act of unholy union, Ashlee, Mikey, and Gabe in the hospital room and Travie in New York via Skype all team up and get his blood relatives out of California before he comes back to full consciousness. Pete hears all about it later but doesn’t know who the brains behind it were. There are different versions of it, like some kind of Viking song retold until the original story gets lost, but the gist of it is, when he woke up, his siblings, grandparents, and mom and dad were blessedly not there. He really doesn't care how that happened. He's just grateful that he didn’t have to deal with his mom crying without the aide morphine to help him cope.
The hospital sends Pete home after the surgery on drugs that basically step down in intensity in varying levels starting with Hillbilly Heroin stepping down in medication and dosage until they hit Could Screw You Up If You Also Took Them With Like…A Shot Of Vodka. Pete's too out of it to really judge the situation, but Mikey has some really choice things to say about American health care and pain management options that Gerard records on his phone and emails Pete. For blackmail. Also because Gerard and Frank both think it's about seventeen types of funny.
Pete really only considers a shift from before (at home with Mikey, sometimes Bronx and/or Ashlee and/or Gabe) and after (alone with Mikey who keeps looking at him like he's going to break) to have happened when he is strong enough and can stay awake long enough to walk to the bathroom on his own. This is a definite line to draw in the sand because Mikey's been helping him with that. It's humiliating, debasing but when Pete isn't too far out of it to realize? It's also kind of awesome that Mikey loves him enough to do this for him even though it’s gross and really degrading and again for good measure? Gross. But Mikey does it. Actually, the defining characteristic of the whole experience is the way Mikey stays and stays and stays.
Pete has no idea what he's done to earn that. None at all. Pete wishes he knew, so he could keep doing it. Since he can't figure it out, he decides that he owes the man something for all of this. A wedding maybe, in Washington or Iowa or New York where it's legal. Or like, a diamond tiara and one of those ermine and purple capes like the royals in England wear? He's not sure which Mikey would prefer. When he's better, he'll ask and give Mikey whichever one he wants.
Right now, he settles for running his hands through his boyfriend's frankly lank and stinky hair. He shouldn't judge. He has no hair. But he's truly sensually aware for the first time in what feels like forever, and ugh, it smells.
"You should take a shower," Pete croaks, his voice hoarse with disuse.
"No," Mikey grits out, nosing against Pete's side defiantly.
"Yes. You smell bad. You can't stay in my bed smelling like tour Mikey."
"You like the smell of tour Mikey."
That's true, but it is a conditional truth. "I like the smell of tour Mikey on tour. I have a shower." He turns his head and smells himself. He smells freshly laundered and clean. Which means that Mikey has managed to clean him up but not himself. That is Way Hygiene Dark Magic right there. "Go make yourself smell good, or I will kick you out of my bed."
Mikey heaves a beleaguered sigh. "You couldn't kick me if you tried."
"I could try. It'd ruin all your hard care-taking work."
"Don't you fucking dare," Mikey growls, sitting up now. "I have been busting my ass taking care of you."
It must be true because Mikey looks like hell. Actual Hell, or the closest physical equivalent. He has shadows under his eyes, stinky hair that sticks out in every direction like it did when he was twenty-one, stains at the neck, pits, and front of his shirt, crumpled pants, and at least four maybe five days of stubble. The man is a complete shit show, and Pete has never loved him more in his entire miserable life.
"I know," Pete says, giving Mikey's shoulder a meek shove. It's enough to get Mikey rolling off the bed and heading in the general direction of the en suite bathroom. "I won't move an inch while you go take care of you."
He doesn’t want to move to be honest. His chest hurts. Fuck laparoscopy. They took out chunks of his lungs and guts. Even if the incision site was small, the pieces missing hurt. He's fine here thanks.
"Pete." His name is a warning.
"I won't do any kicking. And I promise that if you go take care of you, it'll count as taking care of me, too."
Mikey seems to weigh this. He takes one step towards the bathroom. "Do you even remember what Dr. Nagda said when you came out of surgery?"
Of course, he doesn't. Pete was so high for the duration of his hospital stay that he thought two plus two equaled mushroom pizza. But he's home now. Dr. Nagda hadn't seen a need to hold him, so that must mean things went okay. "They got most of it?"
Mikey grins at him then, the big one, the real one, the one that doesn’t give a shit about cameras or onlookers or the fact that he never got braces as a kid so his teeth are still wonky. It’s the one that lights up any room brighter than the light fixtures. This smile is Pete's favorite of all the Mikey smiles. "They got all of it. You've got two fake size six balls, and you're probably going to need some serious hormone replacement meds for your trouble, but they got it all. Last time they checked you over before they rolled you out of the hospital, your scans read cancer free."'
"Shut up."
"Nope. I will not. I'm supposed to be showering, remember. I'll be singing. Something really irritating. Like the theme from Barney or maybe The Song That Never Ends. It just goes on and on, my friend."
"Mikey."
"Some people started singing it-"
"Mikey. Mikey Way. Come here."
"I thought I smelled."
"Mikey," Pete says again, holding out a hand. "I can’t come to you because I promised not to move. Come here. Please?"
Mikey caves at that. He crosses back to the bed and moves closer until he is right in Pete's face, close enough for Pete to take the kiss of relief he is dying for. He kisses life, love, and tears into Mikey's mouth. He could scream and laugh, but instead he just kisses him, ignoring the smell and the way his hair is tacky with sweat and old product and god knows what because he'll get his life back. He'll get well. He'll live. God, he'll live and with this man in his arms. When he pulls back, panting, his face is a little wet and so is Mikey's.
"You should go shower." He whispers. "I'll wait here."
"Okay," Mikey says. "Promise?"
"Yeah. Get me my phone before you go?"
"Gonna call Bronx?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Mikey kisses Pete on the forehead and ferrets through the nightstand. He finds his iPhone and tosses it onto Pete's chest. Then he pulls off his shirt and disappears into the bathroom.
Pete blinks up at the ceiling for a long moment then speed dials his ex-wife's number. After that, the only thing that can make this moment better is hearing his little boy's voice.
(end)