Fic: Soggy, Chapped & Faded, Yet Clawing Towards Daylight (MCR/FOB, 2/3, NC-17, Mikey/Pete)
1|2| 3
Return to Part 1
The first wave of vomiting hits in the middle of the night after the first round of chemo. It pulls Pete out of sleep, yanking everything he's ever eaten from the pit of his stomach. He barely makes it to the en suite in time. In fact, he has to throw up into the tub because it’s closer. His knees hurt from where he landed on them, and his throat is burning from the stomach acid.
Mikey comes in a minute later, flipping on the light and moving to sit down on the cold tile beside Pete. He brushes sweaty hairs off Pete's forehead and gives him a crooked smile. "You started without me."
"Sorry," Pete croaks. "I'll make sure to call you in advance next time."
"Be sure that you do." He leans forward and kisses Pete's temple. "You want some water?"
"Later," Pete groans, scooting to the toilet. He's going to throw up again. He can already feel it rising, and he won't be able to stop it. There it is, he thinks as the next wave takes over. Something wet and cold touches the back of his neck, a wet wash cloth in Mikey's hand. Pete whimpers into it like a puppy being petted, and when he's done throwing up, he topples sideways onto the tile.
Hands catch his head before he can crack it open on impact, but that only makes the situation marginally better. Mikey lowers him carefully to the tile which is blessedly cool, and he folds himself up, his legs to his chest, his chin on his knees. He is close enough so that his toes are touching the skin of Pete's bare stomach but not reaching out beyond that because Mikey has always been good about letting people take their time.
"How about now?" he asks from his folded spot on the floor. "Water? Ginger ale?"
"You," Pete whines. He reaches out and tugs at Mikey's pajama pants. "Cuddle."
"I feel like there was a question somewhere in there."
Pete just lets out a pitiful groan. Mikey is blessedly fluent in Pete-ese. He uncurls himself and scoots forward, lying down so that Pete can reach out and wrap an arm around Mikey's hips. He scoots forward so that he can bury his face in Mikey's t-shirt and still keep contact with the cold floor. Pete has never been so glad to be rich and have a huge bathroom as he is right now, in this moment.
Mikey huffs out a noise that Pete would think is a laugh if he weren’t so fucking ill. "So, I'm a teddy bear now."
"Mikey bear."
"You are never to call me outside this bathroom. Never."
"Mikey bear," Pete mumbles into his stomach. "You hug back." Arms wrap around him, and Pete sighs heavily. "See?
"I see."
Pete falls asleep on the floor, clinging to Mikey. He wakes up an hour later to throw up again, shaking all over from chills that have nothing to do with the air in the room.
Eventually, Mikey says fuck this noise. He actually says that, out loud. Then he picks Pete up off the ground and half carries him to their bed which is… Okay. Pete has to admit. This is far more comfortable than the floor. He sets down a plastic trashcan on the floor on Pete's side.
"Vomit in here," he says, pulling Pete's arm out and dragging it down over the edge of the bed to rest against the plastic. "We'll wash it out tomorrow."
"But-"
"Shut up." He curls up behind Pete, arm around him, holding him down against the chills. "Go to sleep."
"Bossy," Pete grits out through chattering teeth.
"Yes. Sleep now."
Pete obeys. He's always been good at following orders when Mikey says it in that tone - all low and rough. Generally though, it’s way sexier than it is now.
Honestly, Pete doesn’t think he will ever be sexy again. He is going to be stuck in the limbo between his bed and the bathroom forever. It doesn't get much better. He doesn't get used to it. It just is. He's at home curled up with his dog or with his head on Mikey's lap or sitting in the armchair in the infusion center.
So far, the best he feels is when he's getting infused because the effects of the dose before are starting to wear off. The first week is a horrible stasis of nausea and chills and full body pain and chemo treatments.
The only difference between the first round and the second is that now he sits next to Jessie during treatments. She's a veteran.
"This is my third time around the cancer merry-go-round. I got diagnosed when I was nine, and then I was in remission, and then it came back when I was twelve, and now it's back again."
"It's come back?"
"That’s how it works," she says with a shrug. "On the plus side? I don’t have to go to school. My tutor is kind of an idiot, so I'm acing this sophomore year thing."
"Sucks."
"Yeah. But I'm hanging out with a rock star."
"I'm not that cool."
She gives him a tired metallic smile. "You so are."
She brings an earphone jack splitter, and he watches Captain Planet with her, his chin in his palm. It's novel as hell because she's never seen it. She was a baby when it aired, so it's all new to her. She's got a good laugh, young and clear, and Pete decides that she is the type of girl he hopes Bronx ends up with when he's starts dating.
"So why doesn’t he just fix everything?" Jessie asks after a particularly nonsensical episode. "He's Captain Planet; he's got their powers combined. He should be able to fix everything."
"You're making this show more confusing than it is by using logic."
Jessie laughs and reaches into her bag. She comes out with a Tupperware box full of little chocolate fudgy things. She's got them every time he comes here, and for the life of him, he doesn’t know how she can choke them down. Pete can barely force himself to eat the popsicles the nurses force on all the patients to keep them hydrated.
She gnaws on it as she watches. When she licks chocolate off her fingers Pete can’t help but ask. "Seriously?"
"You want one?" she asks holding out the container. "It's got weed in it."
He stares at her. She is fifteen, wearing a Led Zeppelin bandana over her bald head and a Tokio Hotel t-shirt with the collar cut out. Fifteen year olds should not have weed in a hospital. "Seriously."
"Seriously. It's the only reason I have an appetite." Jessie pushes the fudge balls at him. "Have one. I have a special card that lets me have them." She grins at him. There is fudge in her braces. "My mom buys them for me. I'm one of the most popular girls in my group of friends. Guess why?"
"You have got to be kidding me."
"Nope. Take one. They're awesome. I promise. You wrote Hum Hallelujah. I'm not going to give the guy who wrote one of my favorite songs crappy weed candy."
"Comforting."
"They help. The nausea is so much better this way. And they'll make you actually want to eat."
Pete sighs and looks at them. "I do miss eating."
"I know. Mom wouldn't let me before now, because I was a little kid? But now I can actually keep some weight on, and it is officially her favorite plant. It's a wonder drug."
"You're creepy when you talk like a pharmacist."
"Actually, I'm thinking of going into medicine," she says. "I want to be an oncologist."
"Because you haven’t had enough cancer in your life?"
"Yeah." She pops another fudge ball into her mouth. She chews around it, swallows and says, "But I'm good at science, and maybe I could figure out some drug that doesn’t make you as pukey as this kind of chemo. It's not like I don’t have the motivation, you know?"
"That’s cool. You should dream big."
"It got you a house in the hills."
"How do you know I live in the hills?"
"Because you are a loaded rock star. All loaded rock stars live in the hills. It's like a requirement."
"Where do you get this crap? You need to spend less time on the internet."
Jessie raises a hairless eyebrow that is not unlike the unspoken 'there are pictures of your penis on Buzznet' look he got from pretty much everyone he knew back in '06. However, he ignores it because she is fifteen, and Pete never refuses to believe that any fifteen year old anywhere on earth ever saw that mess.
What she says instead of bringing up that disaster is, "You tweeted your cancer status dude." She dissolves into high pitched laughs then, and oh yeah, she's baked.
He wonders how he missed it before because she has definitely been like this - usually giggling over melodramatic cartoons. Still, she looks and sounds better than the rest of the patients all quietly curled up on themselves sleeping or reading or - in one woman's case - knitting. So he reaches out and takes one of the little candies.
His stomach revolts at the mere thought, but Pete powers through it and tells his stomach to suck it the fuck up. He takes a bite, and if his taste buds weren’t so fried from all the stomach acid that's been washing over them lately, he'd probably think they tasted good. He forces down three, and by the time Mikey comes to pick him up, he and Jessie are laughing so hard they're crying. The charge nurse actually has to ask Mikey to tell him to stop being such a bad influence on her more fragile patients.
"Jesus Christ, are you high?"
Pete glances over at Jessie but her face twitches and that sets him off again. Okay. Possibly three were too many. Those little fudgy bastards are strong. He needs call Joe and tell him about these. Joe would want to know. Also Spencer and Brendon. They're way into weed now, right? He can't remember. When he's sober and not sick, he'll make a list.
Mikey's eyes drag from him over to Jessie, who is staring at Mikey, eyes wide. "Did you get her high, too? Pete, she's like twelve. Where did you even get pot?"
"Hey, don't look at me. Rainbow Bright over here is the one holding."
"Mikey Way." She breathes and oh. Right. Pete forgot about the whole fangirl thing. Bonding for three to five hours over IV meds four times a week will do that to people. "Hi."
"Hi," Mikey replies, eyes narrowed and focused on Pete who is still grinning.
"Don't get her started. She won't stop."
"I just said hi."
"Exactly."
Jessie presses a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Pete smiles at her then up at Mikey.
He doesn’t feel good exactly. Right now it's like how shitty he feels doesn’t matter. He knows it won’t last, but at this very moment, he doesn’t care. He says good-bye to Jessie and the charge nurse who glares at him. Pete doesn’t stick his tongue out at her, but he wants to. Instead he leans heavily on Mikey and takes a deep breath. He smells like detergent and sweat and garlic from whatever he ate for lunch.
Pete's predominant thought as he leaves the hospital is that Mikey, as a whole, is good. Mikey is solid and supportive and smells like all good things on earth. Added to the buzz it's enough to carry him home and get him into bed without incident. Pete counts that as a tremendous win.
~*~*~
His hair starts falling out at fifteen days. It's just a few strands that come out when he rakes a hand through hair, but it's enough to trigger a full-fledged panic.
He tears his bathroom apart looking. He's turned his bedroom and hall closet upside down when Mikey comes back from his grocery run. He stands in the hallway watching Pete where he sits on the floor, ferreting through the dog box in the living room with Hemmingway pacing nervously beside him.
"What are you doing?" he asks, arms still full of plastic bags with cold frozen water based things that Pete could get down easy on all but the very worst days. He tilts his head to the side and looks down at Pete and frowns.
"I'm looking for something."
"You look like you're going to fall over. You're sitting down, and you look ready to fall over. Baby, you-"
"Don't call me that," Pete snaps, angrier than he has any right to be with Mikey, with how amazing he's been so far. Even Hemmy whines and thumps down on the ground at his tone. "You're not fucking me. God knows when you'll be able to fuck me again, so just- Don't call me that."
"Okay. Pete. What are you looking for?"
"I had an electric razor. Somewhere. I had one, and I thought I used it in the bathroom, and it’s not there. Then I thought it was in my closet, and then I remembered using it to groom Hemmy that one time and-"
"Stop," Mikey says. "Just stop it. Stay there, and just stop, okay?"
"But-"
"Pete, shut the fuck up, and sit tight for me, all right? I gotta get this shit in the freezer, and then I'll help you, but for right this second - stop. Please?"
"Okay." Pete says. He feels like a little kid who's just been put in time out. He's had to do that to Bronx a few times, and it always makes him feel like an ass. Mikey doesn't even flinch when he does it. How he does that is beyond Pete, but he's grateful.
He watches as Mikey disappears into the kitchen. He comes out, looks at Pete, and folds his arms over his chest. His head tilts to the side, questioning. When he finally speaks, it’s the worst question someone could ask him right now. "Your hair's coming out, isn't it?"
"Mikey."
"Yes?"
Pete doesn’t speak. He can't really bear it. He looks down at the mess on the floor because looking at Mikey is just too much for him right now.
"Okay. I'm going to go into the bathroom because I saw it there a couple days ago. You're going to stay right there and take off your shirt. I'll be right back. Okay?"
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. But I want to. Besides, can you even get up?"
There is no way he's going to answer that. Mikey's right of course. He could probably knee walk over to the couch but he probably wouldn't be able to haul himself up onto it. It's humiliating. His three year old is stronger than he is now. It's just- it’s not fucking fair.
Pete squeezes his eyes shut as Mikey walks out of the room, his sneakers thumping on the carpet as he walks away. He has to sit and breathe for a few seconds before he tugs his shirt up over his head. It takes longer than it should. He has to tug and stop a few times, winded. He has it off by the time Mikey gets back though, thank God. One major embarrassment a day is all he can take.
Mikey has the electric razor in one hand, a towel in the other. He settles the tools on the floor with brusque movements. The towel goes beneath Pete, spreading out like a throw rug. The whole thing is almost business-like right up until the moment that Mikey settles on the floor beside him, one knee tucked up underneath him, the other leg straddling Pete's thighs, leg bent up. He smiles at Pete, warm and reassuring, and reaches out to touch his face. Pete leans into the touch, eyes drifting shut.
"Okay. You ready for this?"
"No," Pete whispers, blinking hard at the tears that are threatening to spill. "But you should do it anyway."
Warm lips press to his in a reassuring kiss before pulling back. He's wearing an old sweater, pale blue and falling loose on his arms. It's a great view. If he has to do this, looking at Mikey is a decent way to spend it.
He's still not prepared for the moment when Mikey cups the back of his head and turns on the razor. The buzz reminds Pete of a chainsaw or one of those industrial axes that manufacturing plants use. Okay, that's a little melodramatic, but that's how it feels to Pete. It doesn’t hurt when Mikey slides the razor through his hair, starting at his hairline and dragging through to the back of his skull.
"You want a mohawk?" Mikey asks. He winks and then snickers at the idea.
Pete glares at him as the razor cut through his hair again. "You're laughing because you don't think I can pull it off."
"I'm laughing because you absolutely can't pull it off."
More hair falls, peppering the towel and the skin of Pete's shoulders. Rain of hair, Pete thinks. That's almost funny. He gives Mikey a thin smile. "Challenge accepted, asshole."
"I am not making out with a guy with a mohawk. I have a rule about that."
"Rules were meant to be broken."
Mikey laughs and cuts through the thick patch of hair on the side of Pete's head. "Fine. I do this because I love you. I want you to know this."
"Never doubted it."
When he's done all but the very center, Mikey pulls out his iPhone. "Say cheese." He says, snapping a picture before Pete can do more than start to smile.
Mikey turns the phone around and shows it to him. The mohawk is floppy, and his face is twisted in a weird sideways expression that looks more like his snarl-face. He looks like a total spazz and not in a good way. "You have to delete that."
"Nope. Blackmail material."
"You're evil incarnate, Mikey Way."
Mikey pockets the phone with a smirk. "You love it." He picks up the razor and turns it back on. He shaves off the mohawk in one long stripe that goes all the way to the back of his neck.
Then it's over. Pete feels like that should be a bigger deal, physically. He should feel more than cool air on his scalp. He looks up at Mikey who is giving him a look that is half proud and half sad and completely unlike anything he's seen on his boyfriend's face before. "So, do I look like Billy Corgan or David Cross?"
"You look like Pete Wentz," Mikey declares, leaning forward to kiss the top of his bald head. That is very weird. He can feel Mikey's lips on his skin somewhere they've never touched before. He kind of likes it. "Come on. You need to shower. You have hair all over you."
Mikey doesn't wait for Pete to say anything. He just climbs to his feet and tugs Pete up after him. He slings an arm behind Pete's back and helps him to the bathroom, like his weakness is nothing. Pete didn't think he could love Mikey more, but every time he treats Pete's new limitations like one more way to be affectionate he falls even harder for him.
Standing together in the shower, Mikey's hands dragging soap over his skin, Pete feels okay. He's not happy. His newly bared skin is extra sensitive, and he can’t forget why it is that way. But he can lean into Mikey and let himself be helped.
"Ashlee's in Texas with Bronx. She gets back in a couple weeks." he says because Mikey needs to know. In the safety of the steam and hot water seems like the safest place to broach it. "Do you think he'll be scared?"
"By what? Your shiny, shiny head?"
"Yeah."
"I think he'll like it. I bet if you let him, he won't be able to keep his hands of it. My grandpa was bald, and Gerard was fascinated with it when we were little. Mom has pictures of him feeling up Grandad's head."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Besides, that kid loves you stupid. You know that. A hair cut's not going to change that."
"Just keep telling me that okay?"
"I can do that," Mikey promises. He wraps an arm around Pete's waist as he starts to sway on his feet. "Ready to get out?"
"I can do that."
"We could nap," Mikey offers. He doesn't need to nap. They aren't Mikey's thing. But the chemo wears Pete out. He doesn't have much energy to give, and after today's little adventure in hair styling, he's exhausted.
"That sounds good." He has another treatment tomorrow, and the more he rests now, the easier it will be to get through the injections that are supposed to boost the immune system the chemo has destroyed.
Mostly, he wants to be okay for his son. He needs it, damnit. He'll take any help he can get if it leads to that conclusion, so he lets Mikey help him out of the shower, dries himself off, pulls on a pair of boxers and flops into his bed. Mikey crawls in after him, their feet touching.
Sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and he can hear Mikey ferreting through the nightstand for his book. It's an arrangement they've come to recently - Mikey finding things that he can do in bed, and Pete rests easier knowing he's not going to die alone suddenly in his sleep. Pete drops off to the sound of Mikey breathing and the flap of paper turning over and the feel of a long calloused hand stroking over his bare scalp.
~*~*~
Ashlee and Bronx show up with Lindsey Way of all people. She has her daughter by the hand and a large canvas bag in the other. "We thought you could use some back up," Ashlee says. Her expression is desperately strained.
Pete wants to apologize for his body and his DNA for revolting and everything he has ever done to hurt her. He doesn't say anything. He just opens the door wider and lets them in. Lindsey shifts the bag in her hand and gives him a warm look.
"Where's your table?" Lindsey asks, the bag swaying as she waves her hand in the air.
He points mutely, and she leads the two children into the dining room. It leaves him alone with Ashlee who is staring at him. "Your head."
Pete lifts a hand and rubs it over his scalp. It's smooth to the touch. He is still not used to that. "You like it? I'm going for the classic Michael Stipe look."
"It's very Samuel L.," She agrees. Then she tries to smile at him and fails. He appreciates the effort though. "So, I want you to know that I'm not here because I don't trust you. I just- I talked to Mikey? And he said you were lagging, so I didn't want you to have to run after him."
"You talked to Mikey." Pete repeats because what the hell.
"I know it’s weird. Your ex-wife and your current wife talking."
"He's not my wife. Even if we were married, he wouldn't be a wife."
"The point being that we both love you in our ways, and he wants to make sure that Bronx gets what he needs because he's a good guy."
"And Lindsey?"
Ashlee holds up both hands. "Hey, that's not me. As far as I can tell, Mikey has been talking to his brother who talked to Lindsey who called me with this art project idea. It seemed better than the three of us sitting around feeling awkward. So, go on. I'm going to go to your kitchen."
"Why?"
"Because if I know you and Mikey, you've been living on pizza and Chinese, and my mom taught me how to make a mean baked chicken."
"You're cooking for me."
"You used to like my cooking. Were you lying to get laid?"
"No. It's just- you don’t have to."
"I know. Now go do fingerpaints with your son."
His bones creak when he moves. The bone aches are getting bad, and he feels like just crossing the house to his dining room is a chore. But he sits down at the table and looks at Lindsey and Bandit and Bronx. The three of them are painting on white squares of soft looking cloth with fabric paint. Lindsey's doing some precise work that looks like it might be something with wings. Bandit is trying to imitate her work with a paint brush, but Bronx is using his hand. He has blue paint up to his elbows and on his nose.
Pete snaps a picture with his phone and plants both elbows on the table to watch. "What are you guys doing?"
"Making 'dannas." Bronx declares. He pats his head with a blue paint smeared hand staining his gold curls. "For your head, Daddy."
"Really? For me? Thanks, baby boy. What are you putting on yours?"
"Batman."
As far as Pete can tell, the blue blob on Bronx's bandana is pretty much human in shape. Two long lines off the top might be the start of ears, but he wouldn’t know if he weren't told. Still, Bronx seems to be having so much fun. "I love Batman."
"He's the best," Bronx declares. Pete's still got Bronx's batman cape from last Halloween, somewhere. Next time he has the energy, he's going to find it.
"Nuh-uh. Wonder Woman's the best," Bandit declares, sticking her tongue out at Bronx across the table. "But I'm doing unicorns with wings." She waves the brush to punctuate her point. The gesture sends pink paint flying across the table.
"We're big on unicorns in our family," Lindsey explains with a small smile. She reaches out and wipes the stray pink away with her thumb. "How you doing?"
He gives her a wan grin in return. "How do I look like I'm doing?"
"I'll be honest with you. You look like H-E-L-L." she spells, eyebrows up by her bleach-blonde hairline. Bronx and Bandit are both scary smart kids but neither of them are ready to read and spell just yet.
Pete watches the kids flop around in the paint. It makes him smile to see how much fun they're having in his house even if Lindsey's the one who's orchestrated it. Bronx moves from blue to black with his small fingers, and Pete's chest glows warm at the sight. "I'm feeling okay today though."
"That's good. So, do you want to paint a bandana?" She holds up a white cloth of her own. "I bought like a dozen. Little man over here's doing Superman next."
"Superman? Is that Uncle Mikey's influence?" Pete asks, leaning over to watch Bronx work better.
"Uncle Mikey is Superman." Bronx declares.
"I'm pretty sure if he were from Krypton, Uncle Gee would've told your Aunt Linds about it. Lindsey, is your husband an alien?"
Lindsey doesn’t even look up from her work. "Yes. Yes, he is."
"See?" Bronx declares. He beams like he always does when he's right. If it weren’t for the fact that there is no possible way they can be related, Pete would swear that he got that look from Patrick.
"Okay. Uncle Mikey is Superman. You win."
"Cool."
Bandit frowns down at the mutated blob of pink and green "Does that make me an alien?"
"Half-alien, baby," Lindsey corrects. Bandit stares at her, and Lindsey winks. It makes Bandit laugh, a clear communication between the two of them.
"Can I do an alien next?" Bandit asks, holding out her bandana. There's a rectangular blob in pink and green in the center of the square. He can kind of see the horse shape if he really squints.
"I'd love an alien bandana. You should totally do that, Bandit."
"Kay."
He watches the three of them work. It's good. His son is happy. He doesn’t seem to understand how sick Pete is, and that's even better. Just seeing his son and his niece laughing together is curative. Hell, the fact that he's looking at Bandit Way and thinking "this girl is my family" is kind of magical to be honest, that he and Mikey are serious enough that he even has that thought. It's one of the few good things to happen today.
He rests his cheek on his palm and drifts off. He's in a half doze state when Bronx tugs on his sleeve. He blinks awake and looks down his paint covered son who is beaming up at him. He glances at his watch and wonders how it got to be after seven at night.
"Bedtime?" Bronx asks, wide eyed and genuine. Pete can't help but smile back at his baby boy.
"Yeah. I think it might be bedtime for Daddy."
"Can I sleep with you, Daddy?"
How the hell is he supposed to say no to that? He pushes back from the chair and holds out his hand to his little boy. He jerks his head at Lindsey and gives her an eyebrow wiggle in a way that says "tell Ash where we are" and she nods. "That sounds good, little man."
Pete lets Bronx lead him back to his room. He watches his son clamber up on the bed, almost climbing it like monkey bars. He follows, toeing off his socks and lying down on his back. Bronx crawls across the bed and flops down with his head on Pete's chest. He yawns and grabs a handful of Pete's Star Wars t-shirt. Pete buries his hand in Bronx's curls and sighs. "Sleep tight."
"M'Kay."
It's the best sleep he's had since he started chemo. His bones hurt, and his muscles ache, and he's got low-level nausea that just refuses to go away. Despite all of that, he dreams of his son in the batmobile and Bandit with the lasso of truth and Mikey with antenna and green skin all floating in a wave of blue-black that has no real purpose.
When hands shake him awake, it’s three hours later, and Ashlee is leaning over him. "Hey," she whispers. "Your wife's home."
"He's not my wife." He grumbles then comes a little further awake. "Wait, he is?" Mikey was supposed to be with Gerard and the rest of the band this weekend finding a recording space. The whole point of having Bronx here this particular weekend.
"Yeah."
"Did you-"
"Lindsey," Ashlee says. "Lindsey called Gerard. I told her not to, but she told him how you look like death warmed over, so, um, it’s not really your wife that's here. It's pretty much all of My Chem and also Medhi, and I think they've got Cortez on Skype on one of their phones."
Pete groans and throws a hand over his face. He does it quietly and gently though because Bronx is still conked out on his chest. "Did you tell them to go away?"
Ashlee raises one dark brow. "You really think that any of them would listen if I did? Frank brought cookies, Pete. Chocolate chip pecan cookies with get-well written on them in frosting. They're delicious by the way. Bandit's in a sugar coma on your couch."
"Oh, Jesus."
"Yeah." She taps him on the leg. Pete winces because fucking everywhere hurts. "So get up, and deal with your wife's family because this? Not my problem. "
"He isn't my wife."
"So let him take you to Iowa between rounds of chemo and marry you, so he can be your husband instead."
"You just don’t want to have to pay alimony anymore."
"There's also that," Ashlee admits.
He narrows his eyes and looks up at her in the semi-darkness. He doesn’t want to go out there and face a house full of people who care about him. He'll have to make like he's not sick as a dog because no one mothers like the boys of My Chemical Romance, except maybe his own, actual mother who he has forbidden from coming out to California for that very reason.
"Take him?" he whispers. She nods and scoops up Bronx. He makes a kittenish nose in the back of his throat before settling against her. It's after nine, past his bedtime, so Ashlee just settles him back on the bed.
He swallows hard because what comes next will not be easy, not on any planet. "Hey, Ash?"
"Hm?'
"I…can you help me up?"
Ashlee stops and stares at him. Her eyes are huge in the low light. "Pete? Are you alright?"
"I've got stage three testicular cancer. That's three out of three. I'm sick. It is what it is, so just help me up, ok?"
She holds out her hand and pulls him up. He doesn't lean on her when he walks out into his living room, but that is because he refuses to give the guys any more ammunition for coddling than they already have. He grabs a Cubs cap and tugs it down over his head.
He comes blinking into the light of his living room. Bandit is sprawled face down on his large overstuffed black couch, blue frosting on her face around her small mouth. Her mouth is open, and she's drooling more than Hemmy with a bone. Gerard's sitting by her head, stroking her hair with one hand and using his other hand to gesticulate wildly as he argues with Ray about the latest recording space.
"But there's no character."
"The acoustics are fuck-awesome, Gee. You can write at Knott's Berry Farm if you need that much character."
Medhi's texting rapidly on his phone, and he can hear the muted conversation Mikey, Frank, and Lindsey are having in the kitchen. Ashlee squeezes his shoulder and slips past him to join them, leaving him alone with three men and a sleeping girl.
He settles himself on his chaise and raises a hand. "Uh, hey."
Ray and Gerard turn and both beam at him. Gerard has green in the bangs of his bleach blond hair. It makes Pete want to hit him in the face because how dare he have the hair to dye that badly?
"Pete! You look good man. My baby brother taking good care of you?"
"No. He's a terrible boyfriend. I'm probably going to exchange him for a different model."
Ray snorts. "Good luck finding someone who'll give you an upgrade."
"So, are you doing any writing?" Gerard asks. Pete loves him for that question. It means how are you doing, but apparently all that research on the Patient actually taught him something.
"Not much. Some free verse but no music." His bones and joints ache, so he can't really mess around with his bass. Sometimes when he's feeling okay, he toys with some remixes on Garage Band, but mostly, he watches TV, and he plays video games because the chemo brain makes it hard to focus on anything too serious.
"Damn," Gerard says. He frowns a little, creasing the skin at the corners of his mouth. "You want me to look at what you've got?"
"Maybe later? I don’t have anything worth seeing right now."
"Well when you do, I want to see." Ray says with a nod. "Any excuse to come up with a good riff, you know?"
"Yeah."
The three of them talk about band stuff after that. They're looking for a space still. Gerard's elbow deep in Umbrella Academy when they're not going from space to space - looking for the right ambiance to record their new album. Frank wanders in and sits on the floor with the dog because any time Iero has the chance to be in the same space with a quadruped, he'll take it. Mikey stands leaned against the wall, just looking at them all.
"Mikey Way, what are you doing way over there?" Gerard asks. "Get your ass on the couch."
"I'm good here," Mikey says softly. His eyes are gentle, and Pete nods. This moment is good for him, so Pete's going to let him have it however he wants. He clearly needs it, and that's the very least that Pete can do.
"Yeah, bro, he's good."
~*~*~
"I can stay. They don’t need me that badly."
"You are not going to stay. You're going to go down to San Diego and record with your band and send me mp3s every day, so I can rock out through my illness."
Mikey's lip is caught between his teeth, and he is ready to fight. Pete knows that face. It's a pre-battle face. Pete's best bet here is to cut that shit off at the pass.
"You're going. This isn't a discussion. I'm telling you. I will have the locks changed if you don't go willingly."
"You're starting your second round of chemo next week. If I'm not here-"
"Gabe will have to take me. He's due. It's fine, babe. I swear. Besides, you're only like 2 hours away. If there's a crisis or something, you can just drive back. Speed Racer it the whole way up the coast."
Mikey crosses his arms over his chest and glares. It would be more impressive if his upper lip weren’t twitching just a little. "He's staying here?"
"Yes." He gestures at the hallway with flapping arms. "He is sleeping in the guest room. If it will make you feel better, I will put Bronx's old baby monitor on my night stand. He will drive me to and from the hospital; he will make sure I don't starve. Go, Mikey Way. Make beautiful music, and don't let me feel like the asshole that got in your way."
"If you're sure-"
"I will beat you to death with an IV stand. It will wear me out, but so help me-"
"I got it." Mikey is smiling again, imperfect teeth and soft lips on display, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Now come over here, and let me jerk you off before you go." He pats the bed.
Mikey stares at him, horrified. His arms drop along with his jaw. "Pete, no."
"Is it because being all gaunt and bald isn't sexy? Because you can totally close your eyes and imagine I'm Han Solo. I won't be offended. I really just want to taste you, but I'm a little too burnt out to blow you."
"I- what?" Mikey crosses the bedroom and drops onto the bed beside him. "No."
"It's okay, seriously. I don’t find me hot either."
"No," Mikey says again.
"Is that the only word you know how to say?"
"No."
Pete grins. He can't help it. His reactions have always been borderline inappropriate. It's just his life. "They speak English in No?"
"Pete, this not funny."
"It kinda is. I have turned into that guy, the pathetic guy literally begging for sex. I didn’t know I was that guy. I didn’t think I would become that guy until I was at least forty-five. Maybe fifty. It's because I'm gross, isn't it?"
"You are not gross. You are beautiful. I always think you're fucking gorgeous. If you sprouted horns and thick purple fur, I would still want you, Pete. You are not gross."
"Then take off your pants."
"I don't want to have sex with you like this. You can't even get it up."
"I know that. But it's been like six weeks since I felt you come, and that is just not okay."
"You can't enjoy it. I don’t want to have sex if you're not into it. I've got a shower and the spank bank, so I don’t-"
"This is not about you. This is about me wanting your cock right now. So man the fuck up, and take off your pants."
Mikey stares at him. "You're sure."
"Oh my god. Do not make me undress you. I am saving all my energy for getting you off."
Pete honestly isn't expecting it when Mikey surges forward and kisses him. His lips part on a gasp, and Mikey's tongue pushes into his mouth, taking inventory of his teeth and tongue and the roof of his mouth. Pete whimpers into it because it has been so long since they were like this.
Sure they've gone longer on tours and the years between their last break-up and the building of this relationship but not like this. Not because he was sick and Mikey was afraid to touch him. Breaking that streak is like coming up for air after having been held underwater just a few seconds too long.
He goes easily when Mikey pushes him down into the mattress. He hovers over Pete, kissing him so fucking dirty that if Pete could come, he would just from that. It frees up Pete’s hand to undo his fly, push his jeans and boxers down his hips to below his ass. With Mikey over him like this, it’s almost like things are back to how they should be. Even more so when he licks his palm and wraps it around Mikey's hard cock.
"Oh, Pete, fucking God, baby, please," Mikey gasps, jerking his mouth away. This time, Pete doesn't protest the pet name. It's for when they're in bed together and they are now, finally. So he savors it, wraps himself up in just like he does the rest of Mikey's reactions.
Mikey pants like he's running a marathon. His eyes are rolling back in his head, and his eyelids are drooping. He is beautiful, Pete thinks, so fucking beautiful. This is amazing, just like this, and it’s even better when Mikey bucks in his fist and comes all over his hand and the faded shirt he's wearing.
He slumps on his side and Pete sits up, grinning down at his felled boyfriend. He lifts his hand, licking the come off his fingers. It's salty and a little gross, but it tastes like sex and Mikey, and god, he really did miss it. Mikey groans, palm over his face as he watches Pete suck away the last traces of him off his digits.
"God," he laughs. "I forgot what a cumslut you are. How did I forget that?"
"Lack of reminders."
"That must be it. Come here. I wanna kiss you."
"I have jizz mouth."
"I don't care." Mikey smiles at him and reaches for the back of his neck. The touch is strange with no hair for his skin to rub against. Still, it feels good when Mikey gently tugs him down. Mikey licks the taste of himself out of Pete's mouth, and for the first time since he started treatment, Pete feels like himself.
"Okay," Pete says when they pull back for air. "Now you can go to San Diego. Have fun."
"Evil," Mikey hisses, rubbing his nose against Pete's. "You're evil."
"You love me."
"I do. So fucking much."
"Go before I start crying like a little bitch." Mikey kisses him again then rolls off the bed, grabbing his duffle bag. He pauses at the door and looks back. It’s something out of Pride and Prejudice, but it’s nice. He smiles and waves and disappears out of the room and out of the house.
Pete is okay with this. He is. Gabe shows up two hours later, and they play Halo 2 and watch Bill Murray movies until Pete inevitably passes out hours earlier than he intended to. Gabe also gets him up in the morning and tries to make him eat before treatment.
Pete laughs in his face. "I keep forgetting you're new."
"I'm not new."
"You're new to Cancer Pete."
"Dude, don’t call yourself that. It's just weird."
"Cancer Pete does not approve of the way Gabe is judging him. Cancer Pete thinks that Gabe should be a little more accepting of his sick friend."
"Gabe doesn’t think Cancer Pete should refer to himself in the third person because it makes him sound like a douche."
"Just drive. I'm not hungry, and they have popsicles at the infusion center. Oh, and you have to come in."
Gabe quirks an eyebrow. It makes him look vaguely supervillainous. "I do?"
"I've got a friend you have to meet."
Jessie makes a high pitched shrieking noise when Gabe waltzes in. "Take that Make-A-Wish losers," she crows clapping her hands and mooning up at Gabe with wide blue eyes. "Hi."
"Hey. Nice to meet you."
"Jessie. You have huge hands."
"Um, thanks?"
Pete laughs as Gabe tries to navigate the minefield that is an over-enthusiastic teenage fan with a life-threatening illness. It's not like he can just back away or leave because he promised Pete he'd come in. He can't tell her to leave him alone because hi, she has judiciously played the cancer card. Pete's proud of her actually.
"Sit down. Tell me about Vicky-T. Is she as awesome as she seems?"
"Sure," Gabe says. Over Jessie's head he mouths 'I hate you' at Pete. Pete replies to the sentiment with a smirk. Jessie deserves this, and Gabe really doesn't mind. He's just being his usual, drama queen self.
Jessie holds out the magical Tupperware container and offers it to him even as she interrogates Gabe about the rise and fall of Midtown and whether or not the Church of Hot Addiction is a real thing. Gabe notices as Pete pops a candy into his mouth and glances down at it. "Can I have one?"
Jessie turns pink. It actually matches fairly well with her black and red Paramore t-shirt. "Um, they're only for patients."
"Do they have chemo in them?"
"Uh, no?"
"Pork?"
She giggles and goes from pink to pomegranate red. "No."
"So let me have one. I'll give you a kiss if you do."
She stares up at him, wide eyed and holds out the container of magic candies. He takes one out then leans down and plants a soft kiss on her cheek. She ducks her head and laughs, the sound half caught in her throat.
For his part, Pete is putting forth his most valiant effort to not burst into hysterics. He's afraid it might pull a tube loose or something if he gets started. Gabe wanders off for the cafeteria half an hour later, and as soon as he leaves, Pete turns to Jessie. "You think he's figured it out yet?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. It's pretty smooth." Then she laughs, loud and long until a nurse comes over and asks them to please keep it down, they're disturbing other patients.
"So? Did I do good?"
"Yes. Can you get Patrick to come next?"
That makes the smile fall of Pete's face. Patrick hasn't called him since the twitter clusterfuck. Joe and Andy both check in once a week - either by email or during a short phone call from wherever The Damned Things are playing that night. Patrick on the other hand has been radio silent. Sure he's called Gabe and Mikey and his mom each once a week, but he hasn't spoken to Pete once. It's how Patrick gets angry when face to face shouting and possible punching aren’t an option. But Pete misses him, sometimes so bad that he feels like something is hollowing out his chest.
"He's out on tour."
"Aw. That sucks. I love Soul Punk though. You should tell him I said that next time you see him. "
"I can do that."
She settles back in her arm chair, pleased. She disappears into the screen of her iPad, and Pete lets her. He feels kind of weird for wanting to spend so much time with a fifteen year old girl, even if it is in the context of combination chemo therapy and immune boosting injections that would give even the most devote masochist pause. He hasn't spent any time with teenage girls since Jenae, and that doesn't count at all.
"So how are you holding up?" Pete asks. Jessie shrugs. "Tired. My numbers are shitty. How about you?"
"Still not used to the nausea and the fact that my kid is stronger than I am lately."
"Yeah, you don’t ever really get used to feeling like you're going to barf all the time."
"Yeah. But at least they're not cutting pieces out yet. That's the worst."
"You've got surgery?"
Jessie taps her chest. "They found another tumor in my boobs. It sucks, but I'm trying to convince my dad to get huge ones to replace what they take out."
Pete snorts. "When life gives you lemons, make watermelons."
Jessie laughs and beams at him. "Exactly."
The rest of the week goes as well as it can. Pete is sick as a dog, and he hurts all the way through and out again from the injections, and Gabe - who is only moderately pissed over being slipped a pot mickey - tries to get him to eat or at least drink something. It doesn’t work, and Pete hates the whole world and kicks Gabe out of his house on day two because his healthy glow sends crawling insect sensations up and down his skin.
Instead he lays on his couch, thumb scraping at the frosting stain Bandit left behind and trying to will Mikey into picking up the phone. He calls Travis who doesn’t answer because he's off with the rest of Gym Class Heroes taking over the world, and then he calls his mom whose voicemail picks up on the first ring which means her phone is turned off.
He calls Patrick last because the fear is pervasive, and he can admit that. He doesn’t want to hear him pick up and tell him that Pete's broken them, and they can’t be fixed. But he calls anyway because this whole experience is like when he couldn’t sleep times a thousand. Pete needs to hear his voice.
Patrick picks up on the third ring. "Pete?"
"Hi." He sounds like the animated frogs out of the Little Mermaid. "Where are you?"
"Chicago."
"At your mom's?"
"My dad's."
"Mm." Interminable silence stretches out between them as wide as the space between Santa Monica Boulevard and the Field Museum. Pete breaks it first because in any given situation, Pete is always the first to speak. "Patrick?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sick."
Patrick heaves a sigh that vibrates through Pete's skeleton. Defeat drips from every word when he says "I know that Pete."
"No, I mean, right now. My head hurts, and my bones ache, and I just- Everything hurts Patrick."
There's another sigh, this one deeper and far less frustrated. "I'm sorry."
"Help me. Please?"
"I'm in Chicago."
"I know. But, um, could you sing to me? Please?"
"Pete I don’t think-"
"It will. It'll help. I swear. Your voice is magic, Patrick."
"Where are you?" Patrick asks.
"The couch. In the living room with a bucket by my head." He can feel tears burning, and they spill free when he grits out Patrick's name one more time. He pushes his face into the sofa cushion because he can't stop crying, the hiccupping debilitating snotty kind that makes him feel ashamed all the way to his core.
"Shh," Patrick murmurs, pitching his voice down deep. "Just breathe for a minute. Can you do that? In, out, in, out." He keeps going, like a respiratory metronome.
Following his easy rhythm helps Pete breathe through the pain. The crying tapers off to the kind of slow easy tears that are ignorable if he can just pretend that it's raining on his face.
"Pete?"
"Yeah?"
"You still want me to sing to you?" He asks, still smoky and soothing like hot tea with milk. "Pete?"
"Please."
"You want the lullaby?"
If Patrick sings the lullaby they wrote for Bronx, he will start crying again. He can't do that again. It makes his diaphragm hurt on top of everything else. "No. Beatles?"
"I can do that." Patrick says, and Pete can hear a gentle smile in his voice. Then he clears his throat and starts to sing. "Picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marshmallow skies."
Pete melts into the couch as Patrick sings “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” all the way through. When he's done with that, he sings “Here Comes the Sun”, then “Strawberry Fields Forever”, “Let It Be”, “Hey Jude”, “Penny Lane”, and “In My Life”. He does “Nowhere Man” and “Norwegian Wood” and “Blackbird”, and Pete feels like someone's replaced every bone, muscle, and joint in his body with warm water.
He lets out a happy whimper that makes Patrick laugh softly into his ear. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm better." He could probably even sit up without vomiting if he had to. "I miss you, Trick."
"I miss you, too."
"Let me know when you're back in L.A. okay?"
"Yeah. Of course. I'm back next week."
"Good. Because I think I might need my best friend right now."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Seventy percent of men survive this. That's good odds, right? Seventy percent is still in my favor."
"I'll be by in a week."
"I'm glad. I'm sorry."
Patrick sighs, the air causing static over the line. "I know. You were scared and stupid. It's what you do."
"Forgive me? I need to know you forgive me."
"I do. I was just pissed," Patrick soothes. ""You were stupid, but you're Pete. I have to forgive you."
"Thank god." Pete sinks into himself with pure, physical relief.
"Can you sleep?" Patrick asks, ignoring the outburst. He's amazing that way.
"I sleep all the time. All I do now is sleep. I can't do anything else."
"But can you do it now?"
"Can you sing some more?" He's wheedling. They both know it. Pete could give less than a shit.
"I have to switch to Simon and Garfunkel if that's what you need to sleep."
"Patrick…"
"Those are my conditions."
"I want “Mrs. Robinson”."
Patrick huffs. "That is not relaxing."
"I do not care."
"Fine. Coo-coo-ca-fucking-choo."
"Like you mean it."
Patrick laughs, and Pete settles in to listen, content to have his best friend back in his corner. That alone is enough to unlock the tension that's been keeping him awake.
~*~*~
Continue to Part 3
Return to Part 1
The first wave of vomiting hits in the middle of the night after the first round of chemo. It pulls Pete out of sleep, yanking everything he's ever eaten from the pit of his stomach. He barely makes it to the en suite in time. In fact, he has to throw up into the tub because it’s closer. His knees hurt from where he landed on them, and his throat is burning from the stomach acid.
Mikey comes in a minute later, flipping on the light and moving to sit down on the cold tile beside Pete. He brushes sweaty hairs off Pete's forehead and gives him a crooked smile. "You started without me."
"Sorry," Pete croaks. "I'll make sure to call you in advance next time."
"Be sure that you do." He leans forward and kisses Pete's temple. "You want some water?"
"Later," Pete groans, scooting to the toilet. He's going to throw up again. He can already feel it rising, and he won't be able to stop it. There it is, he thinks as the next wave takes over. Something wet and cold touches the back of his neck, a wet wash cloth in Mikey's hand. Pete whimpers into it like a puppy being petted, and when he's done throwing up, he topples sideways onto the tile.
Hands catch his head before he can crack it open on impact, but that only makes the situation marginally better. Mikey lowers him carefully to the tile which is blessedly cool, and he folds himself up, his legs to his chest, his chin on his knees. He is close enough so that his toes are touching the skin of Pete's bare stomach but not reaching out beyond that because Mikey has always been good about letting people take their time.
"How about now?" he asks from his folded spot on the floor. "Water? Ginger ale?"
"You," Pete whines. He reaches out and tugs at Mikey's pajama pants. "Cuddle."
"I feel like there was a question somewhere in there."
Pete just lets out a pitiful groan. Mikey is blessedly fluent in Pete-ese. He uncurls himself and scoots forward, lying down so that Pete can reach out and wrap an arm around Mikey's hips. He scoots forward so that he can bury his face in Mikey's t-shirt and still keep contact with the cold floor. Pete has never been so glad to be rich and have a huge bathroom as he is right now, in this moment.
Mikey huffs out a noise that Pete would think is a laugh if he weren’t so fucking ill. "So, I'm a teddy bear now."
"Mikey bear."
"You are never to call me outside this bathroom. Never."
"Mikey bear," Pete mumbles into his stomach. "You hug back." Arms wrap around him, and Pete sighs heavily. "See?
"I see."
Pete falls asleep on the floor, clinging to Mikey. He wakes up an hour later to throw up again, shaking all over from chills that have nothing to do with the air in the room.
Eventually, Mikey says fuck this noise. He actually says that, out loud. Then he picks Pete up off the ground and half carries him to their bed which is… Okay. Pete has to admit. This is far more comfortable than the floor. He sets down a plastic trashcan on the floor on Pete's side.
"Vomit in here," he says, pulling Pete's arm out and dragging it down over the edge of the bed to rest against the plastic. "We'll wash it out tomorrow."
"But-"
"Shut up." He curls up behind Pete, arm around him, holding him down against the chills. "Go to sleep."
"Bossy," Pete grits out through chattering teeth.
"Yes. Sleep now."
Pete obeys. He's always been good at following orders when Mikey says it in that tone - all low and rough. Generally though, it’s way sexier than it is now.
Honestly, Pete doesn’t think he will ever be sexy again. He is going to be stuck in the limbo between his bed and the bathroom forever. It doesn't get much better. He doesn't get used to it. It just is. He's at home curled up with his dog or with his head on Mikey's lap or sitting in the armchair in the infusion center.
So far, the best he feels is when he's getting infused because the effects of the dose before are starting to wear off. The first week is a horrible stasis of nausea and chills and full body pain and chemo treatments.
The only difference between the first round and the second is that now he sits next to Jessie during treatments. She's a veteran.
"This is my third time around the cancer merry-go-round. I got diagnosed when I was nine, and then I was in remission, and then it came back when I was twelve, and now it's back again."
"It's come back?"
"That’s how it works," she says with a shrug. "On the plus side? I don’t have to go to school. My tutor is kind of an idiot, so I'm acing this sophomore year thing."
"Sucks."
"Yeah. But I'm hanging out with a rock star."
"I'm not that cool."
She gives him a tired metallic smile. "You so are."
She brings an earphone jack splitter, and he watches Captain Planet with her, his chin in his palm. It's novel as hell because she's never seen it. She was a baby when it aired, so it's all new to her. She's got a good laugh, young and clear, and Pete decides that she is the type of girl he hopes Bronx ends up with when he's starts dating.
"So why doesn’t he just fix everything?" Jessie asks after a particularly nonsensical episode. "He's Captain Planet; he's got their powers combined. He should be able to fix everything."
"You're making this show more confusing than it is by using logic."
Jessie laughs and reaches into her bag. She comes out with a Tupperware box full of little chocolate fudgy things. She's got them every time he comes here, and for the life of him, he doesn’t know how she can choke them down. Pete can barely force himself to eat the popsicles the nurses force on all the patients to keep them hydrated.
She gnaws on it as she watches. When she licks chocolate off her fingers Pete can’t help but ask. "Seriously?"
"You want one?" she asks holding out the container. "It's got weed in it."
He stares at her. She is fifteen, wearing a Led Zeppelin bandana over her bald head and a Tokio Hotel t-shirt with the collar cut out. Fifteen year olds should not have weed in a hospital. "Seriously."
"Seriously. It's the only reason I have an appetite." Jessie pushes the fudge balls at him. "Have one. I have a special card that lets me have them." She grins at him. There is fudge in her braces. "My mom buys them for me. I'm one of the most popular girls in my group of friends. Guess why?"
"You have got to be kidding me."
"Nope. Take one. They're awesome. I promise. You wrote Hum Hallelujah. I'm not going to give the guy who wrote one of my favorite songs crappy weed candy."
"Comforting."
"They help. The nausea is so much better this way. And they'll make you actually want to eat."
Pete sighs and looks at them. "I do miss eating."
"I know. Mom wouldn't let me before now, because I was a little kid? But now I can actually keep some weight on, and it is officially her favorite plant. It's a wonder drug."
"You're creepy when you talk like a pharmacist."
"Actually, I'm thinking of going into medicine," she says. "I want to be an oncologist."
"Because you haven’t had enough cancer in your life?"
"Yeah." She pops another fudge ball into her mouth. She chews around it, swallows and says, "But I'm good at science, and maybe I could figure out some drug that doesn’t make you as pukey as this kind of chemo. It's not like I don’t have the motivation, you know?"
"That’s cool. You should dream big."
"It got you a house in the hills."
"How do you know I live in the hills?"
"Because you are a loaded rock star. All loaded rock stars live in the hills. It's like a requirement."
"Where do you get this crap? You need to spend less time on the internet."
Jessie raises a hairless eyebrow that is not unlike the unspoken 'there are pictures of your penis on Buzznet' look he got from pretty much everyone he knew back in '06. However, he ignores it because she is fifteen, and Pete never refuses to believe that any fifteen year old anywhere on earth ever saw that mess.
What she says instead of bringing up that disaster is, "You tweeted your cancer status dude." She dissolves into high pitched laughs then, and oh yeah, she's baked.
He wonders how he missed it before because she has definitely been like this - usually giggling over melodramatic cartoons. Still, she looks and sounds better than the rest of the patients all quietly curled up on themselves sleeping or reading or - in one woman's case - knitting. So he reaches out and takes one of the little candies.
His stomach revolts at the mere thought, but Pete powers through it and tells his stomach to suck it the fuck up. He takes a bite, and if his taste buds weren’t so fried from all the stomach acid that's been washing over them lately, he'd probably think they tasted good. He forces down three, and by the time Mikey comes to pick him up, he and Jessie are laughing so hard they're crying. The charge nurse actually has to ask Mikey to tell him to stop being such a bad influence on her more fragile patients.
"Jesus Christ, are you high?"
Pete glances over at Jessie but her face twitches and that sets him off again. Okay. Possibly three were too many. Those little fudgy bastards are strong. He needs call Joe and tell him about these. Joe would want to know. Also Spencer and Brendon. They're way into weed now, right? He can't remember. When he's sober and not sick, he'll make a list.
Mikey's eyes drag from him over to Jessie, who is staring at Mikey, eyes wide. "Did you get her high, too? Pete, she's like twelve. Where did you even get pot?"
"Hey, don't look at me. Rainbow Bright over here is the one holding."
"Mikey Way." She breathes and oh. Right. Pete forgot about the whole fangirl thing. Bonding for three to five hours over IV meds four times a week will do that to people. "Hi."
"Hi," Mikey replies, eyes narrowed and focused on Pete who is still grinning.
"Don't get her started. She won't stop."
"I just said hi."
"Exactly."
Jessie presses a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Pete smiles at her then up at Mikey.
He doesn’t feel good exactly. Right now it's like how shitty he feels doesn’t matter. He knows it won’t last, but at this very moment, he doesn’t care. He says good-bye to Jessie and the charge nurse who glares at him. Pete doesn’t stick his tongue out at her, but he wants to. Instead he leans heavily on Mikey and takes a deep breath. He smells like detergent and sweat and garlic from whatever he ate for lunch.
Pete's predominant thought as he leaves the hospital is that Mikey, as a whole, is good. Mikey is solid and supportive and smells like all good things on earth. Added to the buzz it's enough to carry him home and get him into bed without incident. Pete counts that as a tremendous win.
~*~*~
His hair starts falling out at fifteen days. It's just a few strands that come out when he rakes a hand through hair, but it's enough to trigger a full-fledged panic.
He tears his bathroom apart looking. He's turned his bedroom and hall closet upside down when Mikey comes back from his grocery run. He stands in the hallway watching Pete where he sits on the floor, ferreting through the dog box in the living room with Hemmingway pacing nervously beside him.
"What are you doing?" he asks, arms still full of plastic bags with cold frozen water based things that Pete could get down easy on all but the very worst days. He tilts his head to the side and looks down at Pete and frowns.
"I'm looking for something."
"You look like you're going to fall over. You're sitting down, and you look ready to fall over. Baby, you-"
"Don't call me that," Pete snaps, angrier than he has any right to be with Mikey, with how amazing he's been so far. Even Hemmy whines and thumps down on the ground at his tone. "You're not fucking me. God knows when you'll be able to fuck me again, so just- Don't call me that."
"Okay. Pete. What are you looking for?"
"I had an electric razor. Somewhere. I had one, and I thought I used it in the bathroom, and it’s not there. Then I thought it was in my closet, and then I remembered using it to groom Hemmy that one time and-"
"Stop," Mikey says. "Just stop it. Stay there, and just stop, okay?"
"But-"
"Pete, shut the fuck up, and sit tight for me, all right? I gotta get this shit in the freezer, and then I'll help you, but for right this second - stop. Please?"
"Okay." Pete says. He feels like a little kid who's just been put in time out. He's had to do that to Bronx a few times, and it always makes him feel like an ass. Mikey doesn't even flinch when he does it. How he does that is beyond Pete, but he's grateful.
He watches as Mikey disappears into the kitchen. He comes out, looks at Pete, and folds his arms over his chest. His head tilts to the side, questioning. When he finally speaks, it’s the worst question someone could ask him right now. "Your hair's coming out, isn't it?"
"Mikey."
"Yes?"
Pete doesn’t speak. He can't really bear it. He looks down at the mess on the floor because looking at Mikey is just too much for him right now.
"Okay. I'm going to go into the bathroom because I saw it there a couple days ago. You're going to stay right there and take off your shirt. I'll be right back. Okay?"
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. But I want to. Besides, can you even get up?"
There is no way he's going to answer that. Mikey's right of course. He could probably knee walk over to the couch but he probably wouldn't be able to haul himself up onto it. It's humiliating. His three year old is stronger than he is now. It's just- it’s not fucking fair.
Pete squeezes his eyes shut as Mikey walks out of the room, his sneakers thumping on the carpet as he walks away. He has to sit and breathe for a few seconds before he tugs his shirt up over his head. It takes longer than it should. He has to tug and stop a few times, winded. He has it off by the time Mikey gets back though, thank God. One major embarrassment a day is all he can take.
Mikey has the electric razor in one hand, a towel in the other. He settles the tools on the floor with brusque movements. The towel goes beneath Pete, spreading out like a throw rug. The whole thing is almost business-like right up until the moment that Mikey settles on the floor beside him, one knee tucked up underneath him, the other leg straddling Pete's thighs, leg bent up. He smiles at Pete, warm and reassuring, and reaches out to touch his face. Pete leans into the touch, eyes drifting shut.
"Okay. You ready for this?"
"No," Pete whispers, blinking hard at the tears that are threatening to spill. "But you should do it anyway."
Warm lips press to his in a reassuring kiss before pulling back. He's wearing an old sweater, pale blue and falling loose on his arms. It's a great view. If he has to do this, looking at Mikey is a decent way to spend it.
He's still not prepared for the moment when Mikey cups the back of his head and turns on the razor. The buzz reminds Pete of a chainsaw or one of those industrial axes that manufacturing plants use. Okay, that's a little melodramatic, but that's how it feels to Pete. It doesn’t hurt when Mikey slides the razor through his hair, starting at his hairline and dragging through to the back of his skull.
"You want a mohawk?" Mikey asks. He winks and then snickers at the idea.
Pete glares at him as the razor cut through his hair again. "You're laughing because you don't think I can pull it off."
"I'm laughing because you absolutely can't pull it off."
More hair falls, peppering the towel and the skin of Pete's shoulders. Rain of hair, Pete thinks. That's almost funny. He gives Mikey a thin smile. "Challenge accepted, asshole."
"I am not making out with a guy with a mohawk. I have a rule about that."
"Rules were meant to be broken."
Mikey laughs and cuts through the thick patch of hair on the side of Pete's head. "Fine. I do this because I love you. I want you to know this."
"Never doubted it."
When he's done all but the very center, Mikey pulls out his iPhone. "Say cheese." He says, snapping a picture before Pete can do more than start to smile.
Mikey turns the phone around and shows it to him. The mohawk is floppy, and his face is twisted in a weird sideways expression that looks more like his snarl-face. He looks like a total spazz and not in a good way. "You have to delete that."
"Nope. Blackmail material."
"You're evil incarnate, Mikey Way."
Mikey pockets the phone with a smirk. "You love it." He picks up the razor and turns it back on. He shaves off the mohawk in one long stripe that goes all the way to the back of his neck.
Then it's over. Pete feels like that should be a bigger deal, physically. He should feel more than cool air on his scalp. He looks up at Mikey who is giving him a look that is half proud and half sad and completely unlike anything he's seen on his boyfriend's face before. "So, do I look like Billy Corgan or David Cross?"
"You look like Pete Wentz," Mikey declares, leaning forward to kiss the top of his bald head. That is very weird. He can feel Mikey's lips on his skin somewhere they've never touched before. He kind of likes it. "Come on. You need to shower. You have hair all over you."
Mikey doesn't wait for Pete to say anything. He just climbs to his feet and tugs Pete up after him. He slings an arm behind Pete's back and helps him to the bathroom, like his weakness is nothing. Pete didn't think he could love Mikey more, but every time he treats Pete's new limitations like one more way to be affectionate he falls even harder for him.
Standing together in the shower, Mikey's hands dragging soap over his skin, Pete feels okay. He's not happy. His newly bared skin is extra sensitive, and he can’t forget why it is that way. But he can lean into Mikey and let himself be helped.
"Ashlee's in Texas with Bronx. She gets back in a couple weeks." he says because Mikey needs to know. In the safety of the steam and hot water seems like the safest place to broach it. "Do you think he'll be scared?"
"By what? Your shiny, shiny head?"
"Yeah."
"I think he'll like it. I bet if you let him, he won't be able to keep his hands of it. My grandpa was bald, and Gerard was fascinated with it when we were little. Mom has pictures of him feeling up Grandad's head."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Besides, that kid loves you stupid. You know that. A hair cut's not going to change that."
"Just keep telling me that okay?"
"I can do that," Mikey promises. He wraps an arm around Pete's waist as he starts to sway on his feet. "Ready to get out?"
"I can do that."
"We could nap," Mikey offers. He doesn't need to nap. They aren't Mikey's thing. But the chemo wears Pete out. He doesn't have much energy to give, and after today's little adventure in hair styling, he's exhausted.
"That sounds good." He has another treatment tomorrow, and the more he rests now, the easier it will be to get through the injections that are supposed to boost the immune system the chemo has destroyed.
Mostly, he wants to be okay for his son. He needs it, damnit. He'll take any help he can get if it leads to that conclusion, so he lets Mikey help him out of the shower, dries himself off, pulls on a pair of boxers and flops into his bed. Mikey crawls in after him, their feet touching.
Sunlight is streaming in through the windows, and he can hear Mikey ferreting through the nightstand for his book. It's an arrangement they've come to recently - Mikey finding things that he can do in bed, and Pete rests easier knowing he's not going to die alone suddenly in his sleep. Pete drops off to the sound of Mikey breathing and the flap of paper turning over and the feel of a long calloused hand stroking over his bare scalp.
~*~*~
Ashlee and Bronx show up with Lindsey Way of all people. She has her daughter by the hand and a large canvas bag in the other. "We thought you could use some back up," Ashlee says. Her expression is desperately strained.
Pete wants to apologize for his body and his DNA for revolting and everything he has ever done to hurt her. He doesn't say anything. He just opens the door wider and lets them in. Lindsey shifts the bag in her hand and gives him a warm look.
"Where's your table?" Lindsey asks, the bag swaying as she waves her hand in the air.
He points mutely, and she leads the two children into the dining room. It leaves him alone with Ashlee who is staring at him. "Your head."
Pete lifts a hand and rubs it over his scalp. It's smooth to the touch. He is still not used to that. "You like it? I'm going for the classic Michael Stipe look."
"It's very Samuel L.," She agrees. Then she tries to smile at him and fails. He appreciates the effort though. "So, I want you to know that I'm not here because I don't trust you. I just- I talked to Mikey? And he said you were lagging, so I didn't want you to have to run after him."
"You talked to Mikey." Pete repeats because what the hell.
"I know it’s weird. Your ex-wife and your current wife talking."
"He's not my wife. Even if we were married, he wouldn't be a wife."
"The point being that we both love you in our ways, and he wants to make sure that Bronx gets what he needs because he's a good guy."
"And Lindsey?"
Ashlee holds up both hands. "Hey, that's not me. As far as I can tell, Mikey has been talking to his brother who talked to Lindsey who called me with this art project idea. It seemed better than the three of us sitting around feeling awkward. So, go on. I'm going to go to your kitchen."
"Why?"
"Because if I know you and Mikey, you've been living on pizza and Chinese, and my mom taught me how to make a mean baked chicken."
"You're cooking for me."
"You used to like my cooking. Were you lying to get laid?"
"No. It's just- you don’t have to."
"I know. Now go do fingerpaints with your son."
His bones creak when he moves. The bone aches are getting bad, and he feels like just crossing the house to his dining room is a chore. But he sits down at the table and looks at Lindsey and Bandit and Bronx. The three of them are painting on white squares of soft looking cloth with fabric paint. Lindsey's doing some precise work that looks like it might be something with wings. Bandit is trying to imitate her work with a paint brush, but Bronx is using his hand. He has blue paint up to his elbows and on his nose.
Pete snaps a picture with his phone and plants both elbows on the table to watch. "What are you guys doing?"
"Making 'dannas." Bronx declares. He pats his head with a blue paint smeared hand staining his gold curls. "For your head, Daddy."
"Really? For me? Thanks, baby boy. What are you putting on yours?"
"Batman."
As far as Pete can tell, the blue blob on Bronx's bandana is pretty much human in shape. Two long lines off the top might be the start of ears, but he wouldn’t know if he weren't told. Still, Bronx seems to be having so much fun. "I love Batman."
"He's the best," Bronx declares. Pete's still got Bronx's batman cape from last Halloween, somewhere. Next time he has the energy, he's going to find it.
"Nuh-uh. Wonder Woman's the best," Bandit declares, sticking her tongue out at Bronx across the table. "But I'm doing unicorns with wings." She waves the brush to punctuate her point. The gesture sends pink paint flying across the table.
"We're big on unicorns in our family," Lindsey explains with a small smile. She reaches out and wipes the stray pink away with her thumb. "How you doing?"
He gives her a wan grin in return. "How do I look like I'm doing?"
"I'll be honest with you. You look like H-E-L-L." she spells, eyebrows up by her bleach-blonde hairline. Bronx and Bandit are both scary smart kids but neither of them are ready to read and spell just yet.
Pete watches the kids flop around in the paint. It makes him smile to see how much fun they're having in his house even if Lindsey's the one who's orchestrated it. Bronx moves from blue to black with his small fingers, and Pete's chest glows warm at the sight. "I'm feeling okay today though."
"That's good. So, do you want to paint a bandana?" She holds up a white cloth of her own. "I bought like a dozen. Little man over here's doing Superman next."
"Superman? Is that Uncle Mikey's influence?" Pete asks, leaning over to watch Bronx work better.
"Uncle Mikey is Superman." Bronx declares.
"I'm pretty sure if he were from Krypton, Uncle Gee would've told your Aunt Linds about it. Lindsey, is your husband an alien?"
Lindsey doesn’t even look up from her work. "Yes. Yes, he is."
"See?" Bronx declares. He beams like he always does when he's right. If it weren’t for the fact that there is no possible way they can be related, Pete would swear that he got that look from Patrick.
"Okay. Uncle Mikey is Superman. You win."
"Cool."
Bandit frowns down at the mutated blob of pink and green "Does that make me an alien?"
"Half-alien, baby," Lindsey corrects. Bandit stares at her, and Lindsey winks. It makes Bandit laugh, a clear communication between the two of them.
"Can I do an alien next?" Bandit asks, holding out her bandana. There's a rectangular blob in pink and green in the center of the square. He can kind of see the horse shape if he really squints.
"I'd love an alien bandana. You should totally do that, Bandit."
"Kay."
He watches the three of them work. It's good. His son is happy. He doesn’t seem to understand how sick Pete is, and that's even better. Just seeing his son and his niece laughing together is curative. Hell, the fact that he's looking at Bandit Way and thinking "this girl is my family" is kind of magical to be honest, that he and Mikey are serious enough that he even has that thought. It's one of the few good things to happen today.
He rests his cheek on his palm and drifts off. He's in a half doze state when Bronx tugs on his sleeve. He blinks awake and looks down his paint covered son who is beaming up at him. He glances at his watch and wonders how it got to be after seven at night.
"Bedtime?" Bronx asks, wide eyed and genuine. Pete can't help but smile back at his baby boy.
"Yeah. I think it might be bedtime for Daddy."
"Can I sleep with you, Daddy?"
How the hell is he supposed to say no to that? He pushes back from the chair and holds out his hand to his little boy. He jerks his head at Lindsey and gives her an eyebrow wiggle in a way that says "tell Ash where we are" and she nods. "That sounds good, little man."
Pete lets Bronx lead him back to his room. He watches his son clamber up on the bed, almost climbing it like monkey bars. He follows, toeing off his socks and lying down on his back. Bronx crawls across the bed and flops down with his head on Pete's chest. He yawns and grabs a handful of Pete's Star Wars t-shirt. Pete buries his hand in Bronx's curls and sighs. "Sleep tight."
"M'Kay."
It's the best sleep he's had since he started chemo. His bones hurt, and his muscles ache, and he's got low-level nausea that just refuses to go away. Despite all of that, he dreams of his son in the batmobile and Bandit with the lasso of truth and Mikey with antenna and green skin all floating in a wave of blue-black that has no real purpose.
When hands shake him awake, it’s three hours later, and Ashlee is leaning over him. "Hey," she whispers. "Your wife's home."
"He's not my wife." He grumbles then comes a little further awake. "Wait, he is?" Mikey was supposed to be with Gerard and the rest of the band this weekend finding a recording space. The whole point of having Bronx here this particular weekend.
"Yeah."
"Did you-"
"Lindsey," Ashlee says. "Lindsey called Gerard. I told her not to, but she told him how you look like death warmed over, so, um, it’s not really your wife that's here. It's pretty much all of My Chem and also Medhi, and I think they've got Cortez on Skype on one of their phones."
Pete groans and throws a hand over his face. He does it quietly and gently though because Bronx is still conked out on his chest. "Did you tell them to go away?"
Ashlee raises one dark brow. "You really think that any of them would listen if I did? Frank brought cookies, Pete. Chocolate chip pecan cookies with get-well written on them in frosting. They're delicious by the way. Bandit's in a sugar coma on your couch."
"Oh, Jesus."
"Yeah." She taps him on the leg. Pete winces because fucking everywhere hurts. "So get up, and deal with your wife's family because this? Not my problem. "
"He isn't my wife."
"So let him take you to Iowa between rounds of chemo and marry you, so he can be your husband instead."
"You just don’t want to have to pay alimony anymore."
"There's also that," Ashlee admits.
He narrows his eyes and looks up at her in the semi-darkness. He doesn’t want to go out there and face a house full of people who care about him. He'll have to make like he's not sick as a dog because no one mothers like the boys of My Chemical Romance, except maybe his own, actual mother who he has forbidden from coming out to California for that very reason.
"Take him?" he whispers. She nods and scoops up Bronx. He makes a kittenish nose in the back of his throat before settling against her. It's after nine, past his bedtime, so Ashlee just settles him back on the bed.
He swallows hard because what comes next will not be easy, not on any planet. "Hey, Ash?"
"Hm?'
"I…can you help me up?"
Ashlee stops and stares at him. Her eyes are huge in the low light. "Pete? Are you alright?"
"I've got stage three testicular cancer. That's three out of three. I'm sick. It is what it is, so just help me up, ok?"
She holds out her hand and pulls him up. He doesn't lean on her when he walks out into his living room, but that is because he refuses to give the guys any more ammunition for coddling than they already have. He grabs a Cubs cap and tugs it down over his head.
He comes blinking into the light of his living room. Bandit is sprawled face down on his large overstuffed black couch, blue frosting on her face around her small mouth. Her mouth is open, and she's drooling more than Hemmy with a bone. Gerard's sitting by her head, stroking her hair with one hand and using his other hand to gesticulate wildly as he argues with Ray about the latest recording space.
"But there's no character."
"The acoustics are fuck-awesome, Gee. You can write at Knott's Berry Farm if you need that much character."
Medhi's texting rapidly on his phone, and he can hear the muted conversation Mikey, Frank, and Lindsey are having in the kitchen. Ashlee squeezes his shoulder and slips past him to join them, leaving him alone with three men and a sleeping girl.
He settles himself on his chaise and raises a hand. "Uh, hey."
Ray and Gerard turn and both beam at him. Gerard has green in the bangs of his bleach blond hair. It makes Pete want to hit him in the face because how dare he have the hair to dye that badly?
"Pete! You look good man. My baby brother taking good care of you?"
"No. He's a terrible boyfriend. I'm probably going to exchange him for a different model."
Ray snorts. "Good luck finding someone who'll give you an upgrade."
"So, are you doing any writing?" Gerard asks. Pete loves him for that question. It means how are you doing, but apparently all that research on the Patient actually taught him something.
"Not much. Some free verse but no music." His bones and joints ache, so he can't really mess around with his bass. Sometimes when he's feeling okay, he toys with some remixes on Garage Band, but mostly, he watches TV, and he plays video games because the chemo brain makes it hard to focus on anything too serious.
"Damn," Gerard says. He frowns a little, creasing the skin at the corners of his mouth. "You want me to look at what you've got?"
"Maybe later? I don’t have anything worth seeing right now."
"Well when you do, I want to see." Ray says with a nod. "Any excuse to come up with a good riff, you know?"
"Yeah."
The three of them talk about band stuff after that. They're looking for a space still. Gerard's elbow deep in Umbrella Academy when they're not going from space to space - looking for the right ambiance to record their new album. Frank wanders in and sits on the floor with the dog because any time Iero has the chance to be in the same space with a quadruped, he'll take it. Mikey stands leaned against the wall, just looking at them all.
"Mikey Way, what are you doing way over there?" Gerard asks. "Get your ass on the couch."
"I'm good here," Mikey says softly. His eyes are gentle, and Pete nods. This moment is good for him, so Pete's going to let him have it however he wants. He clearly needs it, and that's the very least that Pete can do.
"Yeah, bro, he's good."
~*~*~
"I can stay. They don’t need me that badly."
"You are not going to stay. You're going to go down to San Diego and record with your band and send me mp3s every day, so I can rock out through my illness."
Mikey's lip is caught between his teeth, and he is ready to fight. Pete knows that face. It's a pre-battle face. Pete's best bet here is to cut that shit off at the pass.
"You're going. This isn't a discussion. I'm telling you. I will have the locks changed if you don't go willingly."
"You're starting your second round of chemo next week. If I'm not here-"
"Gabe will have to take me. He's due. It's fine, babe. I swear. Besides, you're only like 2 hours away. If there's a crisis or something, you can just drive back. Speed Racer it the whole way up the coast."
Mikey crosses his arms over his chest and glares. It would be more impressive if his upper lip weren’t twitching just a little. "He's staying here?"
"Yes." He gestures at the hallway with flapping arms. "He is sleeping in the guest room. If it will make you feel better, I will put Bronx's old baby monitor on my night stand. He will drive me to and from the hospital; he will make sure I don't starve. Go, Mikey Way. Make beautiful music, and don't let me feel like the asshole that got in your way."
"If you're sure-"
"I will beat you to death with an IV stand. It will wear me out, but so help me-"
"I got it." Mikey is smiling again, imperfect teeth and soft lips on display, making his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Now come over here, and let me jerk you off before you go." He pats the bed.
Mikey stares at him, horrified. His arms drop along with his jaw. "Pete, no."
"Is it because being all gaunt and bald isn't sexy? Because you can totally close your eyes and imagine I'm Han Solo. I won't be offended. I really just want to taste you, but I'm a little too burnt out to blow you."
"I- what?" Mikey crosses the bedroom and drops onto the bed beside him. "No."
"It's okay, seriously. I don’t find me hot either."
"No," Mikey says again.
"Is that the only word you know how to say?"
"No."
Pete grins. He can't help it. His reactions have always been borderline inappropriate. It's just his life. "They speak English in No?"
"Pete, this not funny."
"It kinda is. I have turned into that guy, the pathetic guy literally begging for sex. I didn’t know I was that guy. I didn’t think I would become that guy until I was at least forty-five. Maybe fifty. It's because I'm gross, isn't it?"
"You are not gross. You are beautiful. I always think you're fucking gorgeous. If you sprouted horns and thick purple fur, I would still want you, Pete. You are not gross."
"Then take off your pants."
"I don't want to have sex with you like this. You can't even get it up."
"I know that. But it's been like six weeks since I felt you come, and that is just not okay."
"You can't enjoy it. I don’t want to have sex if you're not into it. I've got a shower and the spank bank, so I don’t-"
"This is not about you. This is about me wanting your cock right now. So man the fuck up, and take off your pants."
Mikey stares at him. "You're sure."
"Oh my god. Do not make me undress you. I am saving all my energy for getting you off."
Pete honestly isn't expecting it when Mikey surges forward and kisses him. His lips part on a gasp, and Mikey's tongue pushes into his mouth, taking inventory of his teeth and tongue and the roof of his mouth. Pete whimpers into it because it has been so long since they were like this.
Sure they've gone longer on tours and the years between their last break-up and the building of this relationship but not like this. Not because he was sick and Mikey was afraid to touch him. Breaking that streak is like coming up for air after having been held underwater just a few seconds too long.
He goes easily when Mikey pushes him down into the mattress. He hovers over Pete, kissing him so fucking dirty that if Pete could come, he would just from that. It frees up Pete’s hand to undo his fly, push his jeans and boxers down his hips to below his ass. With Mikey over him like this, it’s almost like things are back to how they should be. Even more so when he licks his palm and wraps it around Mikey's hard cock.
"Oh, Pete, fucking God, baby, please," Mikey gasps, jerking his mouth away. This time, Pete doesn't protest the pet name. It's for when they're in bed together and they are now, finally. So he savors it, wraps himself up in just like he does the rest of Mikey's reactions.
Mikey pants like he's running a marathon. His eyes are rolling back in his head, and his eyelids are drooping. He is beautiful, Pete thinks, so fucking beautiful. This is amazing, just like this, and it’s even better when Mikey bucks in his fist and comes all over his hand and the faded shirt he's wearing.
He slumps on his side and Pete sits up, grinning down at his felled boyfriend. He lifts his hand, licking the come off his fingers. It's salty and a little gross, but it tastes like sex and Mikey, and god, he really did miss it. Mikey groans, palm over his face as he watches Pete suck away the last traces of him off his digits.
"God," he laughs. "I forgot what a cumslut you are. How did I forget that?"
"Lack of reminders."
"That must be it. Come here. I wanna kiss you."
"I have jizz mouth."
"I don't care." Mikey smiles at him and reaches for the back of his neck. The touch is strange with no hair for his skin to rub against. Still, it feels good when Mikey gently tugs him down. Mikey licks the taste of himself out of Pete's mouth, and for the first time since he started treatment, Pete feels like himself.
"Okay," Pete says when they pull back for air. "Now you can go to San Diego. Have fun."
"Evil," Mikey hisses, rubbing his nose against Pete's. "You're evil."
"You love me."
"I do. So fucking much."
"Go before I start crying like a little bitch." Mikey kisses him again then rolls off the bed, grabbing his duffle bag. He pauses at the door and looks back. It’s something out of Pride and Prejudice, but it’s nice. He smiles and waves and disappears out of the room and out of the house.
Pete is okay with this. He is. Gabe shows up two hours later, and they play Halo 2 and watch Bill Murray movies until Pete inevitably passes out hours earlier than he intended to. Gabe also gets him up in the morning and tries to make him eat before treatment.
Pete laughs in his face. "I keep forgetting you're new."
"I'm not new."
"You're new to Cancer Pete."
"Dude, don’t call yourself that. It's just weird."
"Cancer Pete does not approve of the way Gabe is judging him. Cancer Pete thinks that Gabe should be a little more accepting of his sick friend."
"Gabe doesn’t think Cancer Pete should refer to himself in the third person because it makes him sound like a douche."
"Just drive. I'm not hungry, and they have popsicles at the infusion center. Oh, and you have to come in."
Gabe quirks an eyebrow. It makes him look vaguely supervillainous. "I do?"
"I've got a friend you have to meet."
Jessie makes a high pitched shrieking noise when Gabe waltzes in. "Take that Make-A-Wish losers," she crows clapping her hands and mooning up at Gabe with wide blue eyes. "Hi."
"Hey. Nice to meet you."
"Jessie. You have huge hands."
"Um, thanks?"
Pete laughs as Gabe tries to navigate the minefield that is an over-enthusiastic teenage fan with a life-threatening illness. It's not like he can just back away or leave because he promised Pete he'd come in. He can't tell her to leave him alone because hi, she has judiciously played the cancer card. Pete's proud of her actually.
"Sit down. Tell me about Vicky-T. Is she as awesome as she seems?"
"Sure," Gabe says. Over Jessie's head he mouths 'I hate you' at Pete. Pete replies to the sentiment with a smirk. Jessie deserves this, and Gabe really doesn't mind. He's just being his usual, drama queen self.
Jessie holds out the magical Tupperware container and offers it to him even as she interrogates Gabe about the rise and fall of Midtown and whether or not the Church of Hot Addiction is a real thing. Gabe notices as Pete pops a candy into his mouth and glances down at it. "Can I have one?"
Jessie turns pink. It actually matches fairly well with her black and red Paramore t-shirt. "Um, they're only for patients."
"Do they have chemo in them?"
"Uh, no?"
"Pork?"
She giggles and goes from pink to pomegranate red. "No."
"So let me have one. I'll give you a kiss if you do."
She stares up at him, wide eyed and holds out the container of magic candies. He takes one out then leans down and plants a soft kiss on her cheek. She ducks her head and laughs, the sound half caught in her throat.
For his part, Pete is putting forth his most valiant effort to not burst into hysterics. He's afraid it might pull a tube loose or something if he gets started. Gabe wanders off for the cafeteria half an hour later, and as soon as he leaves, Pete turns to Jessie. "You think he's figured it out yet?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. It's pretty smooth." Then she laughs, loud and long until a nurse comes over and asks them to please keep it down, they're disturbing other patients.
"So? Did I do good?"
"Yes. Can you get Patrick to come next?"
That makes the smile fall of Pete's face. Patrick hasn't called him since the twitter clusterfuck. Joe and Andy both check in once a week - either by email or during a short phone call from wherever The Damned Things are playing that night. Patrick on the other hand has been radio silent. Sure he's called Gabe and Mikey and his mom each once a week, but he hasn't spoken to Pete once. It's how Patrick gets angry when face to face shouting and possible punching aren’t an option. But Pete misses him, sometimes so bad that he feels like something is hollowing out his chest.
"He's out on tour."
"Aw. That sucks. I love Soul Punk though. You should tell him I said that next time you see him. "
"I can do that."
She settles back in her arm chair, pleased. She disappears into the screen of her iPad, and Pete lets her. He feels kind of weird for wanting to spend so much time with a fifteen year old girl, even if it is in the context of combination chemo therapy and immune boosting injections that would give even the most devote masochist pause. He hasn't spent any time with teenage girls since Jenae, and that doesn't count at all.
"So how are you holding up?" Pete asks. Jessie shrugs. "Tired. My numbers are shitty. How about you?"
"Still not used to the nausea and the fact that my kid is stronger than I am lately."
"Yeah, you don’t ever really get used to feeling like you're going to barf all the time."
"Yeah. But at least they're not cutting pieces out yet. That's the worst."
"You've got surgery?"
Jessie taps her chest. "They found another tumor in my boobs. It sucks, but I'm trying to convince my dad to get huge ones to replace what they take out."
Pete snorts. "When life gives you lemons, make watermelons."
Jessie laughs and beams at him. "Exactly."
The rest of the week goes as well as it can. Pete is sick as a dog, and he hurts all the way through and out again from the injections, and Gabe - who is only moderately pissed over being slipped a pot mickey - tries to get him to eat or at least drink something. It doesn’t work, and Pete hates the whole world and kicks Gabe out of his house on day two because his healthy glow sends crawling insect sensations up and down his skin.
Instead he lays on his couch, thumb scraping at the frosting stain Bandit left behind and trying to will Mikey into picking up the phone. He calls Travis who doesn’t answer because he's off with the rest of Gym Class Heroes taking over the world, and then he calls his mom whose voicemail picks up on the first ring which means her phone is turned off.
He calls Patrick last because the fear is pervasive, and he can admit that. He doesn’t want to hear him pick up and tell him that Pete's broken them, and they can’t be fixed. But he calls anyway because this whole experience is like when he couldn’t sleep times a thousand. Pete needs to hear his voice.
Patrick picks up on the third ring. "Pete?"
"Hi." He sounds like the animated frogs out of the Little Mermaid. "Where are you?"
"Chicago."
"At your mom's?"
"My dad's."
"Mm." Interminable silence stretches out between them as wide as the space between Santa Monica Boulevard and the Field Museum. Pete breaks it first because in any given situation, Pete is always the first to speak. "Patrick?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sick."
Patrick heaves a sigh that vibrates through Pete's skeleton. Defeat drips from every word when he says "I know that Pete."
"No, I mean, right now. My head hurts, and my bones ache, and I just- Everything hurts Patrick."
There's another sigh, this one deeper and far less frustrated. "I'm sorry."
"Help me. Please?"
"I'm in Chicago."
"I know. But, um, could you sing to me? Please?"
"Pete I don’t think-"
"It will. It'll help. I swear. Your voice is magic, Patrick."
"Where are you?" Patrick asks.
"The couch. In the living room with a bucket by my head." He can feel tears burning, and they spill free when he grits out Patrick's name one more time. He pushes his face into the sofa cushion because he can't stop crying, the hiccupping debilitating snotty kind that makes him feel ashamed all the way to his core.
"Shh," Patrick murmurs, pitching his voice down deep. "Just breathe for a minute. Can you do that? In, out, in, out." He keeps going, like a respiratory metronome.
Following his easy rhythm helps Pete breathe through the pain. The crying tapers off to the kind of slow easy tears that are ignorable if he can just pretend that it's raining on his face.
"Pete?"
"Yeah?"
"You still want me to sing to you?" He asks, still smoky and soothing like hot tea with milk. "Pete?"
"Please."
"You want the lullaby?"
If Patrick sings the lullaby they wrote for Bronx, he will start crying again. He can't do that again. It makes his diaphragm hurt on top of everything else. "No. Beatles?"
"I can do that." Patrick says, and Pete can hear a gentle smile in his voice. Then he clears his throat and starts to sing. "Picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marshmallow skies."
Pete melts into the couch as Patrick sings “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” all the way through. When he's done with that, he sings “Here Comes the Sun”, then “Strawberry Fields Forever”, “Let It Be”, “Hey Jude”, “Penny Lane”, and “In My Life”. He does “Nowhere Man” and “Norwegian Wood” and “Blackbird”, and Pete feels like someone's replaced every bone, muscle, and joint in his body with warm water.
He lets out a happy whimper that makes Patrick laugh softly into his ear. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm better." He could probably even sit up without vomiting if he had to. "I miss you, Trick."
"I miss you, too."
"Let me know when you're back in L.A. okay?"
"Yeah. Of course. I'm back next week."
"Good. Because I think I might need my best friend right now."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Seventy percent of men survive this. That's good odds, right? Seventy percent is still in my favor."
"I'll be by in a week."
"I'm glad. I'm sorry."
Patrick sighs, the air causing static over the line. "I know. You were scared and stupid. It's what you do."
"Forgive me? I need to know you forgive me."
"I do. I was just pissed," Patrick soothes. ""You were stupid, but you're Pete. I have to forgive you."
"Thank god." Pete sinks into himself with pure, physical relief.
"Can you sleep?" Patrick asks, ignoring the outburst. He's amazing that way.
"I sleep all the time. All I do now is sleep. I can't do anything else."
"But can you do it now?"
"Can you sing some more?" He's wheedling. They both know it. Pete could give less than a shit.
"I have to switch to Simon and Garfunkel if that's what you need to sleep."
"Patrick…"
"Those are my conditions."
"I want “Mrs. Robinson”."
Patrick huffs. "That is not relaxing."
"I do not care."
"Fine. Coo-coo-ca-fucking-choo."
"Like you mean it."
Patrick laughs, and Pete settles in to listen, content to have his best friend back in his corner. That alone is enough to unlock the tension that's been keeping him awake.
~*~*~
Continue to Part 3