Screw Angels, This Bell's Ringing in Wings for Me - Part 4

[jae_w]

Pete doesn’t remember Schechter that well from Warped. The guy came and went a lot. But he calls Pete the day after New Year's to circle the wagons and Pete gets to know him again pretty quick from there.

He’s got some awesome ink, a memory that’s a little bit scary, a take-no-bullshit attitude and an incredibly short temper. He also gets them on every music request show on TV that week. People are requesting their single so much that it's gone to number one overnight but Brian calls him about ten times a day to remind him to ‘Just sit tight and try not to say anything stupid,’ while he deals with the studio.

Pete’s a little annoyed but Schechter usually calls right when he’s about to say or do something less than wise. It’s eerie until he remembers what Mikey told him back on Warped, about Brian being the one who dealt with Gerard when he was out of control. Then it makes perfect sense and is kind of impressive.

Bronx goes back to school that week and Bob Bryar gets back from Chicago so Mikey spends most of his time over at Gerard and Frank’s because apparently they’re working on something that could eventually be an album. Pete doesn’t really know and he doesn’t care to because Joe and Andy are back too and they’re almost exactly the same. Their addresses are different and Joe’s hair’s cut short but otherwise, normal. Normal, normal and blissfully familiar. Doing the guest spot thing is familiar too.

They do the new Late Show with Craig Ferguson on Thursday which is the most fun Pete’s had in what feels like forever and Brian is waiting for them when they come off stage. He’s frowning and standing with his lips pressed together. “Band meeting,” he says without preamble. “Now.”

Fifteen minutes later the five of them end up in a deli a block from the studio because none of them have eaten. Brian doesn’t order anything, just drinks coffee and turns an unlit cigarette over and over in his fingers until Pete’s a little dizzy watching him. Brian waits until they’ve all got their food before he speaks again.

“The label wants to put you on tour. They’re going to push the new album really hard and they want your faces everywhere you stop.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “There’s like a dozen California dates so you guys can do appearances on bigger TV shows.”

“So why the long face, Bri?” Andy asks.

“Because they want you guys on the road by the beginning of February. Wait,” Brian says, holding up a hand to cut them off. “Just, wait.”

“That’s three weeks away,” Patrick protests and Pete tries not to smile because he knows that Patrick’s been out with Rihanna every night this week. It’s been all over TMZ. It’s awesome.

“Less,” Brian admits. “But we’ve been trying to get them to realize what everyone else chose to push down and ignore for years now. And they’re talking about a headlining tour and fucking Rolling Stone called me yesterday. So, fuck guys, do you want my honest opinion?”

“Always,” Joe says with zero hesitation.

“Okay. If you want my honest opinion, you guys are going to get big from this. More important, this is your last shot if you don’t want to be stuck on the road for thirty years like the Ramones.” Brian looks like every word is painful. It makes no sense because this is good right? “So you guys need to decide as soon as you can and let me know so I can give the label an answer before they decide to second guess themselves.”

Pete knows a little more now and that concern sounds totally fucking valid to him. He’d bit the bullet and loaded the articles onto his phone to read in the green rooms before performances. This him had gotten married at Warped and come out in the VMA acceptance speech. And Bob and Island Def Jam had dropped them, middle America radio stations had quietly stopped giving Sugar airplay and no one, anyone, read or listened to, wanted to talk to them. Even with Bronx, Fall Out Boy’s been on tour in smaller venues and as openers pretty much consistently since then. As far as he can tell, the only reason they stopped was because Bronx started kindergarten.

“You know I’m in,” Joe says. Andy nods in agreement and Patrick sighs but he nods too. Then all four of them are staring at him.

“Fuck you, of course,” Pete laughs. He can’t remember the last time he went on a serious tour. Two years, maybe more. He can’t remember. “Like I’m going to say no?”

“You don’t want to talk to Mikey first?” Brian asks, popping his cigarette between his lips.

No. No he does not. Because if he’s going to be stuck in this fucking glimpse or whatever he’s not going to spend it stuck in the suburbs, no matter how nice Mikey’s hand over his face is at night. “Whatever. Book it, Brian. You know this is the right thing to do.”

The four of them stare at him but Brian nods and gets up from the table. He pulls on his coat and Pete watches him through the deli’s front window as he goes outside, lights his cigarette, and starts making calls.

Pete debates whether or not he should tell Mikey the whole trip back to Jersey. He’s settled on not but Patrick, the fucking traitor, called ahead so there’s a fight waiting when he gets back to the house.

He’s never actually heard Mikey yell before. But he can do it and is, starting out in just a clipped tone but escalating to shouting when Pete picks. He knows it’s not fair, that he’s possibly breaking something that’s not his to play with. But the more Mikey snaps at him about Bronx and school and how Pete’s last tour was pretty much a year nonstop the more the urge to run pulses through Pete.

“Pete, think about how Bronx’s going to feel when you disappear for months. It’s the first time he’s been somewhere stable for more than two months at a time since he was born.”

How does he feel now? Pete wonders. What he says is “He’ll deal with it. Kids are adaptable.”

“Who are you?” Mikey shouts at him, his glasses pushed up on his forehead like he can’t bear to look at him.

So many answers to that. Pete’s pissed at having to justify himself so he goes for true and hurtful. “Well in this fucking universe, I’m a failed fucking bassist who missed his chance.”

“You’re not failed at anything. Pete, you’re amazing. Why are you acting like this?” Mikey yells but it doesn’t land very hard. It’s hard to make a compliment sound mean.

But it stings and Pete is looking to strike out at someone. And as he’s tracked Mikey to the root of pretty much all the problems in this universe, he’ll do just fucking fine. “I’ve been going nowhere for ten years and it’s pathetic. This is fucking pathetic.”

Mikey flinches like he’s hit him or something and lowers his glasses back onto his nose with noticeably shaking hands. He’s not shouting when he asks, “So our life is pathetic?”

“No. You’re a member of an award winning, groundbreaking group that people listen to. You got the house like ten minutes and five pay grades from your hometown and the life you wanted with your Siamese twin right fucking next door. Your life seems pretty great.” Pete presses his hand to his chest as he tries to keep his voice from reaching shake the furniture levels. “My life is fucking pathetic. And I drove from New York City, the Mecca of music and entertainment to fucking Jersey wondering how the hell I could’ve let myself end up like this. ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mikey hisses. “Bronx is right upstairs, do you want him to hear you?”

“No but I want you to hear me. I’m doing this, all right? Not everyone had a big brother whose coattails they could ride all the way to the big time. Some of us have to do it the hard way. ”

“Fuck you,” Mikey grits out through clenched teeth, his eyes going hard. His hand actually twitches into a fist like he wants to throw a punch. Pete half wishes he would.

“No, fuck you if you think I’m going to let you get in the way of this, Mikey.”

“Get in the way? What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve gone on the last three tours with you, Pete. I lugged tech and sold merch and filled in on stage and I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you. And all I wanted on this one was for you to talk to me before you started making commitments. Is that so fucking much to ask?”

“Will you just loosen your fucking death grip on me for ten fucking minutes?”

“Death grip?” Mikey sputters, leaning against the closest wall. “Seriously? Why don’t you just say it then? Just say you blame me for everything.”

“I thought that was obvious. I mean, marrying you’s clearly what fucked Fall Out Boy the first time. I kind of figured you knew that.”

“So you regret it?” Mikey asks. He folds his arms and stares down at the kitchen floor for long seconds. Pete can hear him breathing shallow and unsteady and when he looks up at Pete again, there are fucking tears in his eyes. “Eight years and thousands of miles and our family, you regret it?”

The sight brings Pete up short and it’s like a light switches on in his brain. Then there’s a long moment where his brain is nothing but a loop track of shitshitshitshitshit. He finds himself shaking his head frantically. “I didn’t say that.”

He wasn’t there. He can’t regret shit he didn’t do. But even if it were his to regret, he would say just about anything to make Mikey stop looking like that, like Pete is breaking him. Like he fucking broke Mikey’s heart.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, disgusting and vindicating at the same time. He didn’t mean to do this, didn’t mean to say any of that but there’s an intense sense of and now we’re even drifting through Pete that is totally insane.

This Mikey never hurt him, never walked away from him and left him bleeding from the chest for two years. There’s no reason he’d want to hurt him. But it’s like every old hurt and loss he’s been dragging around with him had exploded out of him through these ridiculous borrowed issues.

“I don’t regret loving you,” Pete says and is shocked to realize that’s true. He feels like a bastard but he feels oddly better too. It’s like all of a sudden he can actually see Mikey, not this version or the specter of a doomed relationship in particular. It’s weird but right now, he can look through both to the guy he fell in love with, the last big leap he made with his heart. And Jesus Christ, he really missed him.

“You just regret marrying me,” Mikey says and leans back into the wall like he could sink into it and disappear if he tries hard enough. For Pete, looking at that is like going from having vision problems to wearing glasses, things are all at once clear and beautiful and hurt. And Mikey’s crushed face compels honesty.

“No. No, I don’t regret anything like that. I just…I’m desperate Mikey.” Truer fucking words, Pete thinks.

“Yeah. I’m starting to get that. But uh,” He blinks up at the ceiling for a second. “I need to go for a walk or something. I can’t really stay here right now.”

“Are you coming back?” Pete hates to ask but has to know.

“I live here.”

“I know I just thought-“

“What?” Mikey snaps. “That I’d pack my shit and go because you’re a motherfucking asshole? Tempting but no. I don’t think our life’s pathetic, Pete. I love it and I love you but you can enjoy the fucking basement tonight.”

Pete deserves that. More than fair. Sucky because it means he won’t sleep. Without a sleep aid or Mikey’s presence he’s only looking at a half an hour to an hour of actual rest. But it’s fine. It gives him time to get acquainted with all the songs he doesn’t know and to figure out how to fix the mess he’s made.

~*~*~

Pete practices until his hands cramp and his eyes water. He likes the songs on New London Hearts on Fire more than he was expecting and he wonders about the mindset the other him must’ve been in to write this stuff. It’s all about jumping head first and risk and shaky new hope.

His curiosity sends him trolling through the portable hard drive labeled “homemade porn and other adventures”. There’s no actual porn because he would never be that obvious. Half of it is show footage that goes back more than ten years. The other half are home movies.

Anything that’s not the other Pete, Mikey and a littler Bronx doing the ridiculous things that small children and new parents do is pretty much invariably shot by Bob Bryar. Pete remembers the way the man hated to get in front of the camera but if the videos are any indication, he never puts it down.

The night and most of the next day crawls by as Pete digs through file after file. He hears Mikey come back less than half an hour after he stormed out and the muffled sound of them having dinner and going to bed. In the morning he can hear Mikey wake up and get Bronx off to school and then the house is empty again. He fills all of that time watching the videos.

A lot of them are boring. They’re just a record of repetitive tour shit that the fans would eat up but that don’t have much in them unless you count the handful of incidents where he or Joe or Frank are caught on video doing shit that no doubt got them in trouble.

Most of it is just more tour shit. Mostly one band or another in bus lounges and venues talking about stupid shit like whether or not Smurfs are mammals (Pete agrees with his video self that they are because fucking hello Papa Smurf’s got a beard and Smurfette has long blond hair) or someone carrying/talking to/playing with/looking after Bronx. It’s boring but he can’t help noticing that 90% of the time when there’s a Mikey and a Pete in the same frame, they find a way to touch each other at least once and about half the time they’re practically on top of one another.

There a few that make him stop though. There’s one in a tattoo shop with words on the wall that are in Latin-based letters but are incomprehensible. Pete guesses France, maybe Belgium or the Netherlands.

“So I know you’re married and all but ink’s a life time commitment,” Bob calls from behind the camera as he pans onto where a twenty-five year old Mikey, flat ironed hair, glasses and all, is sitting back on the tattoo artist’s recliner, his arm thrown over his head. “You shouldn’t let this crazy fuck talk you into things,” he adds, panning over to where the other Pete is standing next to him, grinning.

“Mikey did all the convincing on this one,” the Pete on screen laughs. “I don’t have to mastermind every plan.”

“Just most of them,” Frank cackles from off screen.

“I’m trying to emulate Love A Lot Bear,” Mikey says. “It’s the shit.”

“So this was Gerard’s idea?” Frank asks, rolling into the frame on the same kind of chair the tattoo artist is sitting on. The artist ignores all of them as he lowers the needle to the left side of Mikey’s chest.

“Smack him for me, baby?” Mikey hisses through clenched teeth over the bowed head the artist. The video Pete obliges and pops Frank upside the head.

Pete drags the time bar across the bottom of the screen to watch the tattoo take form. There’s a lot of flailing conversation between the version of himself on the video and Frank and a considerably less flailing Mikey. Finally the artist pulls away and hands Mikey a mirror. Bob zooms the camera in tight on the design and Pete hits play again in time to hear Mikey say, “Awesome. Fuck that came out way better than I was expecting.”

On first glance it looks like a particularly intricate heart over the general vicinity of Mikey’s actual heart with looping script inside it. But on second glance, he can see that it’s two interlocked Ws.

“Fuck, Mikey,” He hears his own voice say through the headphones he has plugged into the computer’s speakers. “Fucking fuck.”

“Your turn next, you pussy,” Mikey declares, sliding off the chair.

“Please,” Pete on screen shoots back, tugging his shirt off over his head. “I just wanted to get you topless in public.”

Bob jerks over to Mikey’s face in time to catch him laughing. “You’re a greedy slut, sir.”

“You know it’s one of my best traits.”

“That should be your next tattoo after the couple one. Just the words ‘Greedy Slut’ right where a tramp stamp goes.” Frank giggles and makes a clicking noise in the side of his mouth. “Super classy.”

Pete clicks out of that one. He doesn’t need to watch the rest of it to know that there should be a matching heart under the necklace of thorns to match this Mikey’s that’s missing on him. It’s a fucking miracle he hasn’t been seen without it yet. Maybe less a miracle and more a sign of how shitty Mikey and the other Pete’s sex life is or at least how much Pete’s presence has fucked that up.

He’s half unconscious but not far enough gone to actually sleep when he clicks on a file simply labeled “30”. It’s a small party backstage at a venue and from the plethora of black clothing and notable absence of Patrick, Pete guesses this is from a My Chemical Romance tour date. Mikey’s sitting on a couch with a tiara on his head talking to a tech and eating a piece of cake while Frank makes faces at the toddler Bronx on his lap.

“All right, all right,” his video self calls above the din of people talking and while the rest of the group doesn’t stop talking they get quieter and the camera zooms in on Pete. “Shut up and let me talk. I didn’t come a thousand miles to listen to you ladies gossip.” There’s a little laughter and then Pete raises his soda can in Mikey’s direction. “I just wanted to say happy birthday to the most amazing partner a person could have. I love you, babe, welcome to the thirties. They suck and you’re going to hate them.”

“You’re thirty-one, asshole. Some of us have actually been in this decade for awhile,” Gerard mutters sullenly and Frank laughs at him.

“Anyway, I’m supposed to be in New Mexico performing right now but I couldn’t miss your birthday. Unfortunately, I did kind of promise Patrick I would perform tonight, so Ray, help me out here.” Bob pans the camera across the room to Ray who’s got a guitar in his lap before yanking it back to video Pete who laughs and says, “Everyone I’m not married to, I’m sorry in advance. This will never happen again.”

Ray plays the opening notes of fucking Faithfully by Journey. Then that Pete, the crazy one with who apparently doesn’t have any pride, starts to sing, badly and off key. It’s a reminder of why he does not fucking sing anymore. Ever.

It seriously sounds awful but Bob keeps cutting to Mikey’s face, charmed and so fucking in love like this is the best present he could get. And when his cat yowling dies away, Pete watches his doppelganger kiss Mikey long and hard before breaking away to smile at him. “Happy thirtieth, Mikeyway.”

“You’re nuts and you sound like you killed a duck,” Mikey laughs, rubbing the side of his nose against Pete’s but it sounds like “I love you.”

“Kiss, Daddy,” Bronx demands from Frank’s lap. He presses his hand sloppily to his little mouth and then pulls it away in an attempt to blow a kiss. “Gimme.”

“Okay,” video Pete sighs, mock put out. “I guess you can have one too.” Then he leans over and gives Bronx a smacking kiss before giving Mikey another one. “To grow on.”

Pete manages to pull himself out of the basement after that. He can’t look anymore. He crashes out on the couch in the living room but doesn’t sleep. The fight loops on a reel in his head, obsessive and pressing and noisy in a way that reminds Pete of how crazy he is.

The longer he lies there the more the whole thing bothers the hell out of him. It’s not just because with the new context of how Mikey’s life is supposed to look, the things he’s said are actually a hundred times more horrible. Though it does and fucking then some.

It’s just that for the first time, lying there on a couch that's actually comfortable for all its worn out appearance, Pete wishes he could fit here. Knowing he isn’t the man who belongs here makes his stomach twist. He’s actually glad when carpool drops Bronx off from school.

Bronx shuts the door behind him and crosses to where Pete’s lying. A little more than two weeks and the impulse to hold out his arm to Bronx is already starting to be second nature. Bronx crawls up on top of him and sits on his stomach.

“Papa said you’re gonna leave,” Bronx says, looking down at Pete. He’s got blue eyes that have to be from whoever Bronx’s birth parents are. But they’re beautiful and they are looking at him waiting for answers.

“Yeah. He’s right. I’m leaving next month.”

Bronx traces the lettering on Pete’s t-shirt like it’s very important. “Where you going?”

“I’m going to go work. I’ll be all over.”

“On a bus? The ones with all the beds?” Bronx bounces a little on Pete stomach. It makes him feel vaguely nauseous. “Those are fun.”

“Yep.”

“How’m I gonna do school?” Bronx asks. He folds his legs so that his sneakers don’t dig so deep into Pete’s ribs, a move he’s clearly made before. “Can I not go?”

“No, buddy, you’re gonna stay and keep going to school here.”

Bronx frowns. “But we always go on the buses together. And then Uncle Gee or Uncle Patrick sings and we play freeze tag. ”

Fucking damnit. Mikey sent this to him on purpose. It’s probably step one of a really complex revenge scenario for the fight. “No, you’ve got school and you’ve gotta take care of everyone while I’m gone.”

“But-” Bronx’s lower lip pushes out and his eyes get huge and wet. “But we always go on the buses together.”

“Not this time, buddy. You have to stay here so you can go to school and be normal. Trust me, weird is way overrated. And it’s difficult.”

“How long’re you gonna be gone?”

“Three months.”

Oh god, no, Bronx’s crumpling and crying into his chest. “That’s like forever,” he whimpers into Pete’s chest, tears and snot wetting his shirt.

“No, hey, it’ll go really fast. I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me. Now tell me what you did at school today.”

“We learned about what animals are mammals,” Bronx mumbles.

“Yeah? What’d you learn?”

“They’re all furry.” Bronx sniffs, sitting up right and wiping his eyes. “Piglet and Hemmy and Bunny are all mammals. Real bunnies are too.”

“Very cool. What other animals are mammals?”

Bronx is waxing poetic about how dolphins are not fish and also are really pretty and super smart when Mikey comes back. He looks at both of them, kisses Bronx on the forehead and disappears into kitchen. He doesn’t look Pete in the eye.

~*~*~

Pete’s on the couch again three nights later, still up at three in the morning and feeling every hour of it. He’s got his bass in his lap, trying to get the chord progression in the second single off Believers Live Forever right when he hears it. For a second he thinks it’s the TV, which he has down low enough that he can hear the voices on the That 70s Show rerun but not loud enough for them to make any sense. Then Pete hears it again, a soft whimper calling for Daddy and he finds himself taking the stairs two at a time before he knows what he’s doing.

He pushes open the door to Bronx’s room and finds him sitting up in bed, his hair rumpled. He’s got his face buried in a bear that’s almost half as big as he is. He’s sniffling a little but he’s otherwise fine and Pete lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Pete sits down on the bed and pulls Bronx into his arms, bear and all and rocks him back and forth. He presses his mouth into Bronx’s hair. “It’s okay, baby, I’m here. I’m here. Shh, I got you, it’s okay.”

Bronx sniffles and fists his hands in Pete’s t-shirt. “I dreamed you were lost,” he says into Pete’s neck. “You were lost and I couldn’t find you and I tried to get you but you were too far away and I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m here. I’m not lost. Daddy’s right here,” Pete murmurs, not realizing what he’s saying, his whole being focused on getting Bronx to stop being afraid and calm his crying. “I’ll always be where you can find me.”

“You promise?” Bronx asks on hiccupping breaths.

“I swear.”

“Pinky swear?” He holds up his pinky finger and Pete smiles, hooking his much larger finger with Bronx’s.

“Pinky swear.”

“Stay, Daddy, please?” Bronx lets go of his bear and Pete’s shirt to wrap his arms around Pete’s neck. “Just till I fall asleep? It’ll keep the bad dream away. ”

“Yeah let go and scoot back.” Bronx’s bed is a twin but he’s small enough that when Pete lays down there’s plenty of room for Bronx to curl into his chest. Bronx’s head rests against his chest and after about a minute he seems settled. “Good to sleep now, baby boy?”

Bronx nods against his chest. “Sing to me.”

Pete has a moment of panic. Really he doesn’t sing and he has only the vaguest freaking idea what bedtime rituals with Bronx involve. He’s done the best he can but he’s been so out of it that Mikey’s pretty much taken over the role that Gerard assured him he was supposed to have.

But he can’t say no. He’s never let ignorance stop him before and he’s not going to now. “Okay. What do you want me to sing?”

“Sing me my bear song.”

“Your bear song,” Pete repeats. Figures there’s something special and not just a regular lullaby like Twinkle Twinkle or maybe tamer Bowie or something. He pulls an overdramatic thinking face. “Hmm, I don’t remember that one.”

Bronx laughs a little. “The silly bear with the honey. It’s our favorite.”

“How about you sing it to me, and then I’ll sing it back to you?”

Bronx frowns, considering. “How come?”

“Because your dream scared me too and it’ll make me feel better.”

This seems to satisfy him and he nods into Pete’s shoulder and it has the added benefit of being true. Pete’s pulse is only just now getting back to normal speed.

“Kay.”

Bronx’s voice is high but clear and the melody is clearly one of Patrick’s but it’s easy and Pete picks it up the first time. He sings quietly because he gets growly and off key when he tries for any kind of volume and even then its not any good. It doesn’t seem to matter though because it only takes one time through on his own for Bronx to relax and fall back asleep.

Pete strokes his hair for a long time, watching him breathe. He must fall asleep too at some point because the next thing he knows it's morning and Mikey is standing over them.

“Hey,” Mikey whispers. Bronx stirs a little but doesn’t wake.

“Hey.”

“I’m still fucking pissed at you,” Mikey adds in that same soft tone that doesn’t actually do anything to cut away at said anger. Pete nods and Mikey sighs. “It’s your day.”

His day. Oh. Right. His day to get Bronx out the door to school. The last rundown Gerard gave him, the one after the fuck up with the rules list, had been the schedule, the way they switched every other day so that neither of them had to get up at the ass crack of dawn five days a week. “Yeah, okay.”

“You got this?” The unspoken because you haven’t been hangs in the air.

“Yeah.” Pete swallows then says, “You wanna stay? Have breakfast with us?”

Mikey’s not wearing his glasses and somehow that makes him even more unreadable. He doesn’t answer Pete, instead he drops down to put a hand on Bronx’s shoulders, shaking him gently. “Rise and shine, Superman. Time to save the world.”

“No,” Bronx moans, pushing his face deeper into Pete’s shoulder. “Just a little more.”

“Nope. Up and at’em. Daddy’s going to make pancakes if you both can get your lazy butts out of bed and you can get dressed faster than a speeding bullet,” Mikey heaves a put upon sigh. “But not if you’re going to be late.”

Bronx bolts out of bed and Pete and Mikey watch him go. He gives Pete a small smile, the first since the fight. “I’d hurry if I were you.”

Pete drags himself downstairs and manages to get breakfast started before Bronx or Mikey can get there. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing but the instructions are on the box and he can make do. He’s kind of had a crash course in it.

He manages not to ruin breakfast. Bronx just seems happy that Mikey, who’s got his glasses on now, is letting him get away with wearing his Superman cape and drowning the pancakes in a lake of maple syrup that’s going to make him hell for his teacher to deal with. The mess is epic but more than worth the way it feels to sit down with the two of them like this is normal. It makes him feel calm, happy even. It’s a little scary actually.

Mikey catches him at the door by the arm as he grabs the keys and stops him. “I’ve got to run into the city but I’m gonna call Gee, see if he and Frank can take Bronx tonight.”

Pete stares at him for a moment trying to figure that out. It makes no real sense so he just wings it. “Yeah. Okay.”

Mikey kisses him briefly on the mouth and says, “I’m still really freaking angry at you, Pete. I just think we need-” he breaks off and sighs. “I don’t know. I’m going to talk to Gee.” Then he gives Bronx a hug and ushers them both out the door.

The majority of the drive to school is fairly uneventful. Pete manages to remember all the driving snow roads skills he’s lost since leaving Chicago for southern California and Bronx chatters about dolphins and how Superman should get a talking dolphin to work with Krypto and other five year old musings that makes Pete grin. But when they’re about three blocks from the school (which Pete had had to program into his phone’s GPS to find) when Bronx, secure in the backseat with one of those little kid seatbelt adjusters, asks, “You and Papa aren’t gonna get a divorce are you?”

Pete slams on the breaks so hard that the tires make a screaming noise. He throws it into park and turns in his seat so that he can look Bronx in the face. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’re on the couch all the time,” Bronx says. “Marianna Sylvester’s dad spent a bunch of weeks on their couch then he moved into an apartment. It has a pool. Are you going to get an apartment with a pool?”

“No.”

“Can we get a pool?”

“No.”

“Daddy, are you sure?” He sounds so precise when he says that, like he’s trying to be like the grown-ups he’s seen on TV.

“About the pool or about getting divorced?” Pete’s fingers dig into the headrest and his throat feels tight as he waits for an answer.

Bronx shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t want you and Papa to get divorced. Can we just get a pool?”

Pete wasn’t much older than Bronx is now when his parents took that break. He doesn’t remember a lot of it, just shuttling back and forth and wondering what was wrong with everyone, why his parents couldn’t just fix it. They fixed everything back when he was little but for months it had seemed like they couldn’t repair themselves. It’d shaken him even if he hadn’t really understood.

Damnit, he’s not going to shake Bronx’s world, or Mikey’s for that matter. Not anymore. He’s not going to be the one to ruin this family. He’s less surprised than he’s expecting to be when he realizes that they both matter way too much to him for him to let that happen. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

All of it. Well, as much of it as he can. The glimpse thing is still pretty far beyond him but he’s going to try. Really try, for now on.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Bronx grins and bounces to himself, talking about plans to get a dolphin for the hypothetical pool the whole rest of the way to school. Pete watches him unbuckle himself and jump out of the car. He watches until Bronx disappears inside the school building.

Then he sits a little longer, taking the time to try and regroup. He’s got a lot of shit to sort out before he can face Mikey again.

~*~*~

Allison gets him Mikey’s email address, his real one not the one on the MCR blog or his Twitter. She gets it about ten minutes after he asks her because she is the biggest motherfucking badass ever. He thinks that she might be half ninja despite having absolutely no Japanese ancestry.

She doesn’t ask why she wants it. She doesn’t give him any suggestions. She just warns him that restraining orders are a pain in the ass and if she has to deal with one in court she will make him very sorry. She’s fucking scary in a way that would do Jersey proud but with an LA edge and he completely believes her threat.

Allison’s less severe on the foster parent situation. She actually goes from automaton face to real human being when she tells him about the legal proceedings where Bronx is concerned. Apparently, money both talks and shuts people up at the same time.

“The fact that you keep visiting is good,” she says. “Your stalker tendencies are paying off for once. It looks really good that you care that much and the kid obviously adores you.” She quirks an eyebrow at him and lights a cigarette in blatant protest of the California smoking ban and the no smoking sign on the door of the restaurant they’re meeting in. “Though I can’t figure out why.”

Pete smiles at her. She’s his new hero, she really is. But then, anyone who was getting Bronx out of a fucking orphanage would be. She’s just extra awesome. “Hey, I’ll have you know I’m humble and lovable.”

“Yeah, sure you are Shoe Shine Boy.”

Pete grins at her, loving that she gets the Underdog reference and is a graduate magna cum whatever from Harvard Law who knows how to use her degree at the same time. The Empty Pete’s a fucking idiot on so many levels but at least he’s got good taste in representation. “Do you know when I can take him home?”

“My best guess is that it’ll be about a month before I can get a judge to place him with you. Maybe a little more.” She blows a graceful plume of smoke at the ceiling and other patrons glare at her in a judgmental fashion Pete’s starting to realize is pretty standard for LA regardless of her rule-breaking. Then she fixes him in her level gaze. “How’s your health?”

Her tone leaves no doubt that she’s not asking about old soccer injuries or his cholesterol. He doesn’t know what the Empty Pete’s state is like but he’s properly medicated. Aside from the way he wakes up in a thick sweat and a desperate panic from nightmares every night - chasing after Mikey unable to reach him no matter how fast he runs, Bronx slipping through his fingers - he’s okay.

Sure, he’s tired and he’s homesick but he’s mostly sane. As much as anyone can be when they’ve been ripped through universes. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” She looks doubtful. He can’t blame her.

“Yeah. I finally got my meds adjusted.” And threw away all the others. That had been unbelievably satisfying, flushing bottle after bottle of pills down the toilet. “I’m balanced.”

“Good, good. Get a doctor to back that shit up just in case and it should go smoothly. You’re hardly the first celebrity to pull this and at least I don’t have to fly to Malawi to take care of it.”

“I promise I’d never make you do that.”

“That’s good because I hate flying and if you make me do it unnecessarily, I’ll kill you.” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in her voice. So totally ninja.

Pete plants his elbows on the table and puts his chin in his hand. “You’re my favorite.”

“Patrick’s your favorite.”

After his husband and his son, yeah. “You’re my second favorite.”

“Then you can get the check for your second favorite.” She taps the ash on her cigarette into his coffee. It’s okay. He wasn’t really drinking it. His insomnia’s bad enough without the help. “I’m going to ask one more time, there’s not a restraining order coming down the pipe for me to worry about is there?”

Pete shrugs and she doesn’t ask any more questions. He just pays her check and makes an abortive effort to give her a hug, which she stops with a level “No, Pete”, and heads back to the house in the hills.

He’s sent a handful of emails to Mikey so far but they’re all mostly chatty. It’s been “How’ve you been, here’s what I’m up to(sort of), here’s what I watched on TV yesterday, we should talk sometime” type shit and so far he hasn’t gotten an answer.

It’s just that he’s not used to this is all. He doesn’t remember not knowing Mikey, not having him as the first number in his speed dial. Every talk they have back where he belongs seems to pick up mid-conversation, even the screaming fights they have with Bronx safely at Mikey’s parents’ or brother’s place for the night that end with them tearing one another to pieces and fucking each other senseless to rebuild from something closer to scratch start with both of them on a fairly level playing field.

But this starting from the beginning all over again shit? It’s hard and being sane about it isn’t really working. Mikey hasn’t responded back once. It’s driving Pete crazy.

“Don’t do it,” Patrick says when he comes over that evening. Rihanna’s got an event in San Francisco and Pete has gathered that leaves Patrick with nothing better to do than try and talk Pete down from his own impulsivity.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

“Is it going to involve emailing him rambling verse disguised as a letter professing your undying love? Because if it is, then yes I do.”

Pete drums on the space bar of his laptop, adding to the white space in the open email. “Okay, so maybe you do but that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“I am though. I’m right and you’re setting yourself up for a fiery crash,” Patrick sighs, rubbing his face with his palms. “And then who’s going to deal with the fall out? Me.”

“You know, I am a grown fucking man, Patrick. I’m almost thirty-five. I’m pretty sure I can police my own emotions.”

Patrick’s look is pure disbelief but he doesn’t say anything to that out loud. He does the Patrick thing instead and takes a different road trying to get to the same place, his way.

“You’re trying to adopt a child all of a sudden,” he says, his barely restrained frustration trying to sound calm and reasonable. Like he doesn’t want to beat Pete about the head with a drumstick until he sees sense. “A real child, not a puppy or a band you want to nurture. It’s crazy and also a huge fucking commitment that I’m not even sure I understand. On top of all that you’re trying to reopen old wounds with the one who got away. Do you see what you’re doing? Because from where I’m standing, it looks you’re digging yourself a really deep hole that’s going to cave in on you.”

“Okay, one? He’s mine,” Pete shoots back, holding up his index finger. “He’s my son, Patrick. He just is, okay? I can’t tell you how and I can’t tell you why but I know he belongs with me, all right? I swear to God, he’s supposed to be mine.” He holds up a second finger. “And two, Mikey’s the one who got away because I’ve spent this life being a fucking idiot and let him get away. It’s not like there was a huge fight right? It just ended.”

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

“And maybe it’s not.”

“Yeah, but Pete, maybe it is.”

Pete swallows hard around that possibility and shakes his head. This is fucking purgatory compared to the life he had with Mikey. “It’s not. And even if it were, I can’t just stop loving him. I don’t want to.”

Patrick looks like he wants to smack him. “Just, let me check it for you before you send him anything confessional all right?”

Pete’s fingers click on the keyboard. He doesn’t think before he hits send. He just does it. “Yeah, no.” Patrick stares at him and slams the monitor shut, almost catching Pete’s fingers. “Watch it.”

“What did it say?”

Pete puts on his best innocent expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me or I swear to god, Pete, I will cut all your strings and then I’ll go through your laptop and delete everything you’ve written in the last six months.”

“Nothing. Just, you know,” Pete shrugs. “How I feel.” It had been four words, simple and to the point. “I didn’t ramble or make an extra ass of myself.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Patrick doesn’t lift his hand off the top of the laptop. “You know the My Chemical Romance guys will come and kick your ass if you’re messing around here.”

“The Way camp’s harmless. They’re like sharks. Sharp teeth aside, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Patrick says. He keeps his hand on the laptop, shifting so that he can pull it into his lap. “He hasn’t answered yet. You think being crazy’s going to change that?”

“I don’t know but it might.” He hopes at least. He sighs and glances over at the TV that’s on mute. The opening credits to Revenge of the Sith are rolling and he jerks his head at it and makes a grabbing gesture for the remote. “Did you want to watch this? We could play the Hayden Christensen drinking game. Every time Anakin whines we drink.”

“The last thing you need is to be drinking right now,” Patrick mutters, clutching Pete’s laptop to his chest. But he unmutes the TV anyway.

His phone buzzes before Palpatine pushes Samuel L. out the window with the Force lightening bolts. He shifts to pull it out of his pocket and there’s a text message with a string of numbers he doesn’t recognize but the area code is straight out of New Jersey.

The text message makes a little beeping noise as he opens it. No heading, no title just wtf staring up at him from the screen accusing.

Pete’s fingers shake a little as he punches in a reply. mikey?

His phone buzzes again and Pete doesn’t fucking care about the fall of the Republic anymore if he ever did to begin with. wut the fuckin fuck pete

i kno Pete texts back. He waits a full scene with no response before he sends another one. i miss u

The reply of r u kidding me? comes fast and now Patrick is looking him. But the phone buzzes again and Pete figures Patrick can look at whatever the hell he wants so long as he doesn’t take Pete’s phone like he took the laptop. u cant do this seems more like a challenge than the protest it actually is.

sorry glad u got the emails tho The cursor blinks at Pete cheerfully, inviting him to continue. i didnt think you still had my number

He can’t remember ever feeling this nervous in the entirety of his relationship with Mikey. He was always so fucking sure of everything, of Mikey and how he felt and how they connected. Sometimes he wondered if he was crazy or moving in the wrong way at the wrong speed but talking to him never twisted him up in knots.

This is worse than dating was in high school because there was no texting to fuck with back then. They would’ve had to have had a real phone call conversation. Pete’s a lot better at those than texts, especially with Mikey. So much gets lost in translation.

i didnt bob got it from patrick after the first email

Pete stares at that for a long time. He texts back call me? I really want to talk to you and hits sends before he turns on Patrick. “You talked to Bob?”

Patrick has the good grace to look sheepish but not sheepish enough by a fucking long shot. ““Um, you weren’t supposed to know? Also, I warned you. I did. You never fucking listen, Pete.”

“You fucking talked to Bob.” Pete still can’t get over that. That Patrick’s had contact, that he might know how Mikey is and could not tell him feels like a punch in the gut.

“Yes, Pete, I talked to Bob. You broke up with Mikey, not me. So excuse me for not letting your personal life dictate who I could be friends with.” Patrick points at him with his laptop, accusing and a little angry himself. “I didn’t decide I couldn’t be friends with them anymore. Maybe if you’d talked to me before you started doing all this crazy shit I could’ve told you.”

“You could’ve told me you were still talking to them on fucking Christmas.” Pete’s fingers clench around his phone, praying for it to ring or vibrate again. “You should have said something.”

“I thought you were having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t want you to do anything crazy.” Patrick pulls the back of his cap and glares back. “But that’s all you’ve been doing lately is crazy so fuck it. Me and Bob still talk and sometimes I trade emails with Gerard but motherfucker, none of that has any bearing on what you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to put the pieces of my life together in a way that makes sense. How is that crazy?” He waves his hands at the huge empty space that is the living room. “How is that worse that settling for this? This is fucking nothing.”

“You’re trying to adopt that kid Bronx and you’re in love with Mikey again after almost ten years. All of it, all of a sudden with no fucking catalyst,” Patrick shoots back. “That is fucking insane.” He drops the laptop onto the couch and is suddenly up in Pete’s face, his cheeks red with anger. “And I’m worried, all right? I’ve been with you when you’ve burnt out too many times Pete. But you wouldn’t just be dragging me down when you hit bottom this time. ”

“I’m not going to hit bottom.”

“Pete.”

“I’m not going to hit fucking bottom.” Pete snarls, hating that his best friend in any reality would think this about him. He can only imagine what the Empty Pete was like but that’s not him. “I’m not self-medicating anymore.”

“Since when?” Patrick cuts in, sounding suspicious, doubting and hopeful all at once.

“Before New Year’s.” Years before, he thinks. Since the mess at the Paramour and the day he realized that he needed to be stable for himself before he could be stable for Mikey. “It’s a mood stabilizer and an anti-depressant and that’s it. I’m clean and sane otherwise and I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you think that.”

“I know. I’m not deluding myself with how much work being a single parent for Bronx is going to be and I’m not in love with Mikey again. It’s not again. It’s still. It’s continuous. ‘Again’ implies that I ever fucking stopped.”

He wants to shake Patrick and he wants to throw his phone at the wall but he does neither. He tries to remember how he manages to stay calm when Bronx tears up the living room or when Mikey let his parenting impulses spill over into their marriage. He can barely remember but it’s a lot of deep breathing and Patrick watches him the whole time.

Patrick tips his head back a little to better look Pete in the eye. “I’m just worried about you,” he says again like repeating it will make it go away.

“I know. But how about you believe in me instead? You’ve believed in me before.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in you or not Pete.”

“Yeah. It really is. Please,” Pete grabs both of Patrick’s shoulders and prays to Clarence or whoever might be listening that Patrick listens and hears what he’s saying. “Trust me to know what I’m doing. Just this once.”

Patrick looks like he wants to say no. He’s got his “hell no” face on and his jaw is clenching like he’s about to start shouting again. But it’s flickering and Pete squeezes his shoulder, pressing the phone still in his hand against Patrick’s shoulder.

“I’ll try, all right? Because you do seem better.” The admission sounds like it’s ripped from Patrick. “You seem.” He sighs. “You don’t seem happy but you seem healthier maybe? Crazy but better. So, I’m behind you.” Patrick laughs a little at himself. “I don’t know why I bother to try and resist.”

Pete grins and doesn’t argue that he’s not really better. Better would be getting home. But he’s making do and he has to have faith that Patrick’s going to believe in him on this. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck and pulls him into a tight hug that makes Patrick groan a little over the background noise of Anakin being a whiny homicidal douche.

“Thank you. I’m just doing what I need to.” He smooshes his face into Patrick’s hat. “I’m not crazy. I swear.”

The phone buzzes against Patrick’s back before he can say anything. Pete pulls away like he’s burned and flips open the message. Mikey’s text response of maybe i don’t know well see isn’t the answer Pete was looking for but it’s contact. It’s something and after all these weeks it’s more than a start.

~*~*~

[Part 5]