one more troubled soul » petekey

Three

"The best thing you could do
is master the chaos in you.
You are not thrown into the fire,
you are the fire."
- Mama Indigo

Mikey's cellphone rang at three twenty-seven in the morning, the penny whistle solo of the Titanic theme ringing quite loudly from where the phone vibrated high on the dashboard. In a very Dinsey princess-esque way, he blinked awake and stretched his long arms, pale fists hitting the ceiling gently. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then grabbed his phone, a picture of a dark haired, baby faced man bright on the screen. Gerard Way was the name above it, and Mikey stared for a long time. His eyebrows furrowed as if he was confused and then he declined the call and tossed the phone in the backseat, grumbling as he cuddled back into the window.

Pete pursed his lips. "Uh... who was that?" he asked quietly, noticing as he passed a sign that signaled a rest stop a few miles ahead. He sighed in relief and drove faster,  both him and his bladder anxious for the stop.

"No one important." Mikey said, icily. Then, after a few moments of silence. "My brother."

Pete frowned. No one important. He liked his family well enough. His parents were over protective and strict, but his brother and sister were okay for siblings. Nothing about them was dysfunctional, despite Pete wishing they were slightly, if only for the inevitable good poetry that could come out of it. Pete knew it was wrong on every level to wish for something people like Mikey would wish to get out of, all for "artistic reasons", but he was quite the troubled soul. At least he wanted to be.

But Pete had no struggle, really. He had thought he was depressed not too long ago, but his parents told him he couldn't possibly be with his wonderful life and that he was overreacting. Pete most definitely believed them. He was always looking for something worth creating art about, and he knew that most people related to pain and misfortune, but all he knew was the pain of too many essays due at once. 

"Your brother?" Pete finally replied. He had always had that issue of drifting off. His teachers noticed it, his parents noticed it, and his few excuses of friends noticed it. He had the tendency to take one thing and process it into a million other things. During his math finals in school, he would take a simple equation and end up questioning the universe's creation five minutes later, still sitting in front of a blank page. A whiff of a girl's perfume as she walked by him would get him stuck on what her life was like, and why she chose that exact scent, and that and the insomnia would keep him awake for what seemed like days. He loved and hated to think.

"His name's Gerard," Mikey said. He looked at Pete and then bit his bottom lip. "Gerard Way." He drew the last name out slowly, timidly giving out valuable information. Pete wanted to rewind the entire world. He hadn't wanted a last name. That was too much information.

Pete used to crave last names. In his middle school years he would flip through the yearbook and find his latest crush, usually an obnoxious and pimply boy, heart their awkward school picture and read the last name beneath it. And then with his face so close to the page his nose would brush against the ink, he would doodle his own first name with their last one. It made his fantasies seem real.

But now he feared last names. He didn't want them. With last names came family and relations and memories, a backstory to someone's seemingly perfect stranger. It used to fuel the romance, and now it killed it slowly.

"Gerard Way." Pete repeated. "So, you're Mikey W-"

"You might recognize his name or whatever." With each word his voice became bitter. "He's a fairly... okay and popular comic book artist. But he's not that great." He was wide awake now, a fire within him that seemed to warm his senses. Or maybe it was just the anger. "But my mom sure likes him."