Faster

by littlebabynothings

Summary:

While the world watches Gerard fall apart, Mikey Way is quietly crumbling beside him. He’s starving, fading, pulling tighter into himself with every mile the van crosses. Everyone’s focused on Gerard’s recovery, but no one sees Mikey circling the drain in silence—except maybe Pete. And maybe that’s worse.

The weight loss, the bone-thin sharpness, the silence mistaken for mystery. Validation tastes like sugar and burns like acid. As the tour unravels around Gerard’s addiction, Mikey slips deeper into his own secret spiral, clinging to fan worship, tabloid snapshots, and Pete’s gaze like lifelines.

But attention isn’t affection. And hunger isn’t love.

 

There’s no rehab for disappearing. Only the hope that someone finally notices before you’re gone.

Notes:

Hiiiii. So clearly I have issues. I'm not usually one to do RPF, especially on topics as serious as the ones in this fic, so this is a first for me. However, this is one of the only ways for me to vent about how extreme my own issues could go if I don't get help, and using fandom gives me a good outlet as well as maybe a small community who can relate to the character's struggles. Please ignore the lack of continuity and proper tour timeline. I am just a girl.
(to get it out of the way, yes I am in therapy for an ED, no I am not trying to imply that anyone discussed had/has an ED, and while I wrote Pete as an utter asshole, this is complete fiction and I love Pete Wentz. Okay? Okay. Now, on to the depress-fest that is "Faster")

Chapter 1: I Am an Architect (They Call Me A Butcher)

The number on the scale looked up at him: 128.2

Lower than last time. Still not small enough.

At 5’10”, it finally qualified as underweight, which meant it was working—really, truly working. Mikey stared at the numbers, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded like he could will them even lower. He almost believed he could. 

A quiet, giddy smirk tugged at his mouth as he stepped off and reached for his shirt. His ribs showed more now. His jeans hung a little looser. That was the goal. It had to be. He just had to keep going. First show of tour was tomorrow, and he was at a good starting point. If he kept going like this, who knows how far he could go by the end of tour?

He swallowed hard, the way he always did after weighing himself, like he was physically trying to push the hunger back down where it belonged. That was the point of weighing: to motivate. 

He’d been restricting pretty well so far, but he needed to lock in. Tighten things up. No more slip-ups. It was good—but not good enough. The idea had taken hold months ago, or maybe longer. He couldn’t even remember when it started to make sense. Just that it did.

He was the architect of his own body. The blueprint was simple:

Don’t eat.

It would work. It could work.

A loud knock rattled the flimsy motel bathroom door.

“Mikey, I gotta piss! The fuck is taking you so long?”

Frank.

Mikey jumped, his whole body tightening.

“Gimme a sec, I’ll be right out. Chill.”

He flushed the toilet out of habit—even though it hadn’t been used—and turned on the sink for show, scrubbing his already clean hands with too-hot water. Just in case. Then he opened the door and stepped aside as Frank grumbled past him.

“Go piss, boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Frank shot him a half-hearted middle finger as he shut the door behind him.

Mikey tugged his Smashing Pumpkins hoodie back over his frame and wandered to the edge of the bed, trying to keep his breathing steady. He felt… lightheaded. Hollow. Wired.

But more than anything, he felt in control.

It was easier to fake hangovers than deal with real ones, especially when everyone else was still riding a near-daily loop of cheap liquor, cigarettes, and two hours of sleep. Gerard, Frank, Ray, Bob—none of them were eating well either, but that didn’t matter. No one was watching them except for maybe Brian, their eagle-eyed tour manager.

No one had ever watched Mikey too closely. He was always the skinny one, after all. The remarks used to feel funny—harmless, even.

“Built like a twink.”

“Skin-and-bones Way.”

“The beanpole bass player.”

It was just how he looked. Everyone said so. So who cared if he lost a few more pounds? Who would even notice?

He’d always been that thin, right?

It was both comforting and brutal that no one commented on his body anymore. On one hand, it meant no one was watching him. He could keep going undisturbed, spiraling in peace, no interventions or side-eye glances. No one to stop him.

On the other hand?

It meant no one noticed. No one cared. How could they not see how bad it was getting? He didn’t look healthy. Couldn’t possibly. Could he?

Sometimes it felt like he was putting in all this work for nothing.

He dropped to sit at the edge of the mattress and wrapped a hand around his wrist, thumb pressed to pinky. Still touching. A hair’s width of space between skin and bone. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall limp into his lap.

Everything was going to be fine.

Everyone else could joke about bones and strong winds and twinks, and they’d never think twice about it. But for Mikey?

It was everything.

Chapter 2: Ninety

Summary:

As tour begins, friends resurface, alliances shift, and a careless remark lodges itself deep, leaving Mikey torn between pride and shame at being noticed at all.

The highway blurred past in streaks of gray and sun-bleached green, nothing but endless stretches of nothing, nothing, nothing out the van window. Somewhere Midwest, probably. Mikey pressed his forehead to the glass anyway, like there was something out there worth looking at.

Inside the van, it was calm. Ray had headphones in. Bob was asleep, arms crossed and mouth slightly open. Frank was chewing on a toothpick, tapping out a rhythm on the back of the seat in front of him. And Gerard—Gerard was sketching something in a beat-up notebook, tongue between his teeth in quiet focus.

It was a good day, objectively. No arguments, no one hungover to the point of anger, no equipment lost or broken. The kind of lull between cities where everything felt kind of weightless, like maybe they could keep doing this forever. It was only the beginning, and they all knew it, anticipation in the air so thick you could swallow it whole.

Mikey shifted in his seat, pulling his hoodie sleeves down over his hands.

He didn’t feel weightless. He was trying, though. 

Not that anyone could tell, not through the entirety of the last tour. He smiled when he was supposed to. He laughed, sometimes. He got through load-ins, soundchecks, merch tables, the occasional awkward interview where someone asked what it was like to play in a band with his brother.

He’d gotten good at keeping the edges hidden.

But the quiet moments were the hardest. The ones like this—when no one needed anything from him, and his brain had too much room to wander. When he could feel the pull of his thoughts starting to stretch thin, tight, sharp.

He reached down and fished a pack of sugar free gum from his backpack. Popped a piece in. Chewed. Just something to do.

Across the bench seat, Gerard glanced up from his sketchbook. “You good?”

Mikey looked at him, startled.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just zoning out.”

Gerard nodded, accepting it without question. “Same.”

And that was that. Just two brothers, in a van full of friends, somewhere between cities.

Everything was fine.

And yet, Mikey couldn’t shake the feeling that something—maybe just him—was quietly starting to come undone.

---

They pulled into the venue lot just past three—one of those low-ceiling, black-box clubs with chipped paint and a busted neon sign still half-glowing from the night before. The air smelled like summer sweat and asphalt. Someone was already blasting music out of a van parked sideways near the loading doors.

Mikey climbed out and stretched, hoodie sleeves still tugged down over his hands despite the heat. His shirt clung to his back. The sun had baked the parking lot into something close to hell.

“Yo!” a voice called across the concrete. “Is that MCR or just a bunch of emos in a parking lot?”

Frank grinned. “That depends. Are you a band or just four guys with matching ugly ass jeans?”

The guy laughed and jogged over—long, messy hair, cigarette behind one ear, whole energy like someone who hadn’t slept in two days and didn’t care. Mikey recognized him vaguely from zines and flyers.

“Bert,” he said, sticking out a hand. “The Used.”

“Gerard,” his brother replied, clasping it easily. “My Chemical Romance. Obviously.”

Bert grinned like he’d just found his new best friend. “I fucking knew it. You’re brilliant. Love your record! Hell of a debut. You guys wanna die of heatstroke together or go stand inside where the AC sort of works?”

And that was it. Within minutes, Gerard and Bert were off to one side, already deep in conversation—laughing, trading horror stories about van breakdowns and gas station bathrooms, bouncing off each other with the kind of immediate ease that made Mikey feel… strange.

He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was just—sudden.

Sudden, and intense, and loud in a way Gerard usually wasn’t with new people.

Mikey watched them from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to overthink it.

“Hey,” someone said next to him.

He turned. A tall, lanky guy with sharp cheekbones and eyeliner that looked like it had been done in a moving vehicle stuck out a hand.

I’m Gabe Saporta,” said Gabe Saporta. 

“I know,” said Mikey, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”

He had actually met Gabe before, a couple years ago at some club. He tried to wipe that memory from his brain. 

Another guy sidled up—shorter, prettier, with a cool, effortlessly dangerous voice.

“Pete,” he said, brushing hair out of his face. “Fall Out Boy, and the only reason Gabey here is famous.” Pete smirked and gave Gabe a wink. 

Mikey nodded, recognizing him as well. He vaguely remembered Frank saying something about how everyone was going to be at this show. Like some unofficial scene summit in the middle of Nowhere, Missouri. They’d probably all be colliding at various points on this tour.

For a while, it was good.

Gear got unloaded. Water bottles passed around. Gabe cracked jokes that made Ray laugh so hard he nearly dropped a bass amp. Patrick joined Pete and perched on a crate, sketching out harmony ideas with Gerard and Bert, who had somehow roped a venue intern into finding them Red Vines and Coke.

It felt like tour again. Like possibility.

Mikey had slipped outside for air—not that it was much better. The back alley behind the venue reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, but at least it was quieter. The bass from inside still vibrated underfoot, but out here, he could breathe.

He was leaning against the wall, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his knuckles, eyes half-closed, when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

“There you are.”

He looked up. Gabe was walking toward him, a water bottle in one hand and a crooked smile on his face.

“Thought you’d vanished,” Gabe said, stopping a few feet away. “Was gonna start a search party. Or at least text your drummer.”

Mikey gave a noncommittal shrug, choosing to ignore the fact that Gabe had somehow gotten Bob’s number. The guy was seriously cagey about personal information. “Just needed some air.”

“Understandable. That green room smells like cheese and secrets.” Gabe leaned against the wall next to him, head tilted, eyes flicking up and down in a way that made Mikey uncomfortable without being able to explain why.

“You always this quiet?” Gabe asked.

Mikey huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah.” Did Gabe really not remember him? He wasn’t exactly sure why he wanted Gabe to realize, but the words just came out. “2003. Dance club. I was in a blue v-neck?” 

It must’ve jogged Gabe’s memory because his eyes went wide with recognition and he studied him for a second. “Mysterious. Brooding. Sad eyes. Bass player. Jesus, you were like someone cooked up the perfect scene boy in a lab.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond. It sounded as though Gabe was describing one Pete Wentz, not him. 

Gabe stepped a little closer, still smiling. “You look a little different though. Prolly why I didn’t remember at first. What are you now, like, ninety pounds?”

Mikey stiffened.

Gabe said it like a compliment. Like it was funny. Like it didn’t land like a knife between ribs.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Gabe added, oblivious—or pretending to be. “It works for you. You’ve got the whole vampire librarian thing going on. Bilvy’s been looking like that lately, too. Super punk rock.”

Mikey didn’t say anything. His mouth was dry. His hands were shaking again, and he shoved them deeper into his sleeves to hide it. He knew what William Beckett looked like; he didn’t need a reminder. 

Gabe let the silence hang for a second, then finally looked away. “Alright. I’ll leave you to your brooding. Try not to float away before your set.”

He was already halfway back inside when Mikey exhaled. Shaky. Silent.

The alley felt colder than before. His hoodie wasn’t enough.

Ninety?

He reached up and wrapped his hand around his wrist, thumb and pinky finger meeting easily. Still touching.

Still working.

 He just had a new goal now.

Notes:

I feel like I should make longer chapters, but ehhhhhhhh
Things are about to get pretty shitty for Michael Romance, so let's give him some time to breathe before it all goes down the toilet...

Chapter 3: Orbiting Stars

Summary:

As Gerard is pulled slowly into Bert's gravity, Mikey is left adrift-until Gabe draws him into a new kind of orbit, and a single night leaves him spinning in ways he doesn't fully understand.

Mikey found Gerard inside, hunched over a setlist on the dressing room floor, scribbling little stars and swirls in the margins like he was crafting some kind of ritual instead of a set.

“Hey,” Mikey said quietly.

Gerard looked up, eyes bright. “Oh, hey! Where’d you go?”

“Outside.”

Gerard nodded. “Cool. You okay?”

Mikey hesitated. He wanted to say something. Not everything, but maybe just—Yeah, Gabe said something weird. I feel kind of gross. I don’t know why. But the words backed up in his throat, dense and heavy.

“Just needed a minute,” he said instead.

Gerard studied him for a second, then smiled gently. “I get that.”

And for a second, it was like it used to be. The noise of the venue dulled around them. Mikey sat down next to his brother on the floor, knees drawn up. Close, familiar.

Gerard nudged him with his shoulder. “You excited for tonight?”

Mikey shrugged. “I guess.”

Gerard laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Mikey smirked faintly, some of the weight in his chest loosening. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Then the door slammed open.

“Yo!”

Bert crashed into the room like a drunk wasp, waving a half-empty can of PBR and a trail of smoke behind him.

“Dude,” he said, grinning down at them. “You guys ready to fuck this place up or what?”

Gerard’s face lit up. “Hell yeah, man.”

Bert plopped down on Gerard’s other side, all limbs and chaotic energy, knocking aside a sharpie as he landed. “I’m telling you, this is gonna be the best opening night ever. Vibes are immaculate.”

Gerard nodded enthusiastically, like they were co-conspirators. “We should do that thing—where we cover part of the…” he snapped his fingers, searching, “…The Oval Portrait’s new song and then they cover ours. They’ll love it!”

“Yes! Yes, exactly. That’s what I’m talking about. Chaos. Art.”

Mikey stayed quiet, inching back just slightly, with no idea what the fuck they were talking about. The small bubble he’d shared with Gerard popped like it had never been there. They were already somewhere else entirely—louder, faster, spinning in a different orbit.

He knew he could speak up. Insert himself. Say something. But instead, he just watched them—his brother and this stranger who suddenly wasn’t a stranger anymore.

Bert grabbed the sharpie he’d pushed away earlier and drew a quick, crooked mustache on Gerard’s upper lip. Gerard laughed so hard he had to wipe tears away with his sleeve. It was like they already had years of inside jokes to go on. 

Mikey stood up, quietly. It all felt so wrong. 

“I’m gonna go check our tuning,” he mumbled.

Neither of them answered. He felt sick.  

---

By the time doors opened, something had shifted.

Gerard looked wired—eyes too bright, hands moving too fast when he talked. Bert had given him a cigarette, and he smoked it like it was oxygen.

Mikey sat near the edge of the green room couch, chewing on his thumbnail and pretending to go through his iPod. In reality he’d had the same three Danzig songs on loop. The venue buzzed around him—voices, feedback, the distant sound of kids piling in. It should’ve felt exciting.

Instead, it felt like the start of something he didn’t know how to stop.

Gerard was in the hallway somewhere, probably with Bert again, probably hyping each other up and sketching out some wild plan for the set. Mikey had barely seen him since the dressing room.

The rest of the guys were getting ready—Frank zipping around the room, half-tuned guitar in hand, Ray adjusting his pedalboard, Bob drinking another bottle of water in total silence. They were all locked into their pre-show routines, focused. Excited and unbothered.

Mikey forced himself to stand. The hoodie had come off, leaving him in an old Anthrax shirt, skinny jeans, and too much eyeliner. 

They were called up twenty minutes later. The house lights dimmed, and the crowd roared like a dam breaking. That sound—familiar, enormous—hit Mikey right in the chest. He could still feel it, even now. The adrenaline. The weight of it.

The stage was hot. Lights beamed down in thick, white sheets. He slipped on his bass strap and took his place near stage left by Ray, where he always started. Where no one really looked.

Frank flashed him a quick grin as the intro sample played. Mikey nodded, too fast. His fingers already felt numb.

Then Gerard was on, bounding up to the mic stand like he owned the night. The crowd screamed. He screamed back. It was like flipping a switch—quiet, slightly awkward Gerard became this creature onstage, wild and magnetic. And tonight, it was more intense than usual. His voice had a rasp Mikey didn’t recognize. His movements were sharper. Unpredictable.

Frank went insane, rolling around on the floor, a grinning tornado of energy and passion, while Ray gave it his all, playing with precision and expertise.

Mikey played by muscle memory. Notes he didn’t have to think about. His fingers knew the songs even if his brain was floating somewhere five feet above his body.

At some point mid-set, he caught Gerard turning to yell something to Bert, who had somehow found his way to the side of the stage. Bert raised his can of PBR like a toast. Gerard winked.

Mikey dropped a note. Just one. But it felt like a fire alarm in his ears.

No one noticed.

By the third song, sweat was dripping down the back of his neck, his shirt clinging to his chest and glasses fighting the inevitable slide down the bridge of his nose. The lights blurred in his eyes. His stomach twisted in on itself—not from nerves, but from nothing being in it.

He locked his knees and kept playing.

The crowd was loving it. They screamed every lyric, even to songs from the new record that wasn’t even finished, climbed on each other’s shoulders, reached toward Gerard like he was something larger than life. More than human. And maybe he was, for a little while. Bert had come out by the fourth song, screaming background vocals to Prison they must have agreed upon in the last hour, and throwing himself around like a ragdoll. The kids ate it up.

Mikey felt invisible. Untouchable. Not in the good way.

But he played. Song after song. Hit every cue. Didn’t fall over.

He didn’t need to fall apart for it to still count as a good show.

By the final chord of the encore, the room was shaking. The applause rolled in like thunder, and Gerard stood at the front of the stage, panting and smiling, arms wide. He looked like a god. Like he’d found something in himself that couldn’t be taken back.

Backstage buzzed with the kind of energy Mikey wished he could bottle.

Everyone was sweaty and half-deaf and grinning like idiots. Frank pulled Mikey into a quick, breathless hug—tight and warm, a rare show of affection. “We fucking killed that,” he said into Mikey’s shoulder. “You were tight as hell tonight.”

Ray handed him a towel. “Seriously. That was one of our best sets.”

Even Bob cracked a smile, which was about as effusive as Bob got.

For a few minutes, Mikey let it in. Let himself believe it. He leaned his bass against the wall and sat on a road case while Gerard high-fived someone from The Used—his name was Quinn, maybe?— laughing so hard he wheezed. It should’ve been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. Not yet.

Mikey even felt a little proud. He’d held it together. Played well. Blended in. 

He didn’t notice the shift until someone said, “Where’s good to eat around here?”

It was Bert, of course. Towel around his neck, gesturing with a cigarette like it was a magic wand.

“Food and drinks,” Pete added from the doorway, sipping something carbonated and neon green. He’d managed to slip his way in at some point. Slimy little pretty boy, Mikey thought, almost jealously. “There’s a bar down the street that doesn’t card, if you look cool enough. Patrick’s already planning to go with Andy and Chris. 

“I’m so down,” Gerard said immediately, already pulling on his jacket. “I could eat a whole fucking pizza by myself.”

“Same,” Frank said. “Let’s fucking go.”

And just like that, the spell broke.

Mikey sat there, suddenly hyperaware of how long it had been since he ate anything of substance. He’d picked at a granola bar that morning—maybe. Coffee. A sip of Gatorade, man’s worst invention, out of sheer desperation. His stomach felt like a pit, but the idea of sitting in front of a plate and pretending to be normal made his skin crawl.

He stood slowly, careful not to wobble.

“You coming?” Ray asked.

Mikey hesitated. “I might just stay back. Kinda wiped.”

“No way,” Gerard said. “C’mon, Mikes. You earned a burger and a beer tonight.”

It was meant to be kind, brotherly. Mikey knew that. But it landed like pressure, not comfort.

“Yeah, man,” Bert added, slapping him lightly on the back. “You disappeared so much today. Join the living for once.”

Mikey gave a weak laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

He didn’t move.

The room was shifting into exit mode—people grabbing jackets, reapplying eyeliner in smudged mirrors, arguing over whether to call cabs or walk. Mikey backed toward the wall, trying to look casual.

And then, quietly, Gabe was beside him.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough for Mikey to hear. “You want out?”

Mikey blinked at him.

Gabe didn’t smile. He just tipped his head toward the hallway. “I’m not really in the mood for shitty burgers and worse decisions either.”

Mikey hesitated for a heartbeat. Then nodded.

---

They slipped out the side door together, into the warm night, unnoticed by the rest of the group.

They didn’t talk for a minute. Just walked. Mikey felt the air cool the sweat on his neck. His breathing slowed.

“I shouldn’t have said that thing earlier,” Gabe said finally, eyes forward. “About your weight.”

Mikey swallowed. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

They walked another block in silence.

“Anyway,” Gabe said. “I’m here now. So if you don’t want to talk about it, cool. If you do—also cool. Just…I think Pete is into your vibe even more than I am.”

Mikey looked over. Gabe’s posture was loose, casual. But his voice was steady.

He wasn't exactly sure what Gabe had meant by that, but he nodded and let out a “Thanks.”

They continued walking without a clear destination. Just blocks of neon signs and thumping bass from unseen doorways, the pulse of a city that never stopped vibrating. Mikey kept his hood up, head ducked, hands deep in his pockets. Still stuck in his skin. Still trying to ignore the way his jeans clung too tight around the waist, the way his shirt felt like it was pressing in on him, every fabric thread a judgment.

Gabe paused outside a dingy club that looked half-abandoned from the street—just blacked-out windows and a flickering sign that might have once said Touch, but now was just ouch. He turned to Mikey with a look that was both too much and not enough.

“C’mon,” he said. “It’s not far. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I swear, you’ll feel better.”

Mikey shifted, uncomfortable. The place seemed sketchy, but Gabe seemed like he knew what he was doing. “I don’t really—dance.” 

“I know,” Gabe said. “But I do.”

He offered his hand—not literally, not yet—but in the tilt of his voice, the softness around his edges. He wasn’t trying to fix Mikey. He wasn’t trying to push.

He just waited.

Mikey stared at the ground. Then back at Gabe.

“Just for a little,” he said, so quiet he wasn’t sure it was out loud. 

Inside, the club was everything he feared—dim, loud, bodies swaying under purple lights. But it also felt weirdly safe, like no one would look at him twice. Everyone was too caught up in their own haze, lost in movement, sweat, sound. Those bodies, so little self-control, bloated with excess and greed that Mikey distanced himself from so much it was like he belonged on a different planet. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Gabe led him to a pocket of the floor where it wasn’t quite as thick with people. Close, but breathable. The beat thrummed through the soles of their shoes.

“I’m not doing this,” Mikey said, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“You’re absolutely doing this,” Gabe said, spinning a lazy half-circle in front of him. “Or at least standing awkwardly while I do. That counts.”

And he did—arms loose, hips shifting to the rhythm, not trying to be cool, just moving. Mikey watched, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I feel gross,” he admitted, barely audible over the music. “I feel like I look—like shit.”

Gabe stopped. Stepped closer.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, leaning in.

Mikey didn’t answer, but he didn’t back away either. Was Gabe seriously drunk or just out of his mind?

“You don’t look like shit,” Gabe said, very simply. “You look like someone who feels like shit. But you’re still beautiful.”

Mikey froze.

“I’m not saying that to mess with you,” Gabe added quickly. “You can punch me if you want. But I’m not lying.”

And for once, Mikey didn’t feel the usual spike of suspicion. Gabe wasn’t leering. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even trying to get anything.

He just meant it.

Something in Mikey’s chest ached with it.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he whispered.

“You don’t need to.” Gabe reached out, slow and deliberate, and brushed his fingers lightly against Mikey’s sleeve. “Just move with me.”

Mikey closed his eyes, letting the stars dance in his vision and ignoring his body's warnings to just sit down.

He let his arms fall to his sides. Let the beat pull at the edge of him. He didn’t move much—just a shift of weight, a slow rhythm through his shoulders. Barely anything.

But it was enough.

For a minute—just one—it felt like floating. Like maybe he wasn’t so broken. Like maybe he could be wanted, just like this. Maybe not by Gabe, but by someone. 

He opened his eyes but the stars remained a glaze over his vision, painting the world with snow. Gabe smiled.

“See?” he said. “Told you.”

Notes:

I was planning to wait longer between chapters, but people are actually reading this??? so I'll continue posting more frequently. Thanks to everyone who's left kudos! I really appreciate it.

Chapter 4: Self-Disgust is Self-Obsession

Summary:

On the second day of tour, Mikey keeps up the act—dodging questions, enduring Gabe's chatter, and catching Pete's sharp looks—while hunger twists quietly beneath it all.

They walked back in near-silence, the club’s rhythm still vibrating in Mikey’s ribs like a phantom drummer. He kept his hands in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk. Gabe strolled beside him with the easy gait of someone who didn’t fear silence.

Mikey didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t pin down what he felt. His body was buzzing and numb at the same time, his heart racing like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d let something in that he shouldn’t have.

They reached a quiet corner, half a block from an ancient liquor store. Gabe’s phone rang, sharp and sudden. He winced.

“Shit—hold up,” he muttered, digging it out of his pocket. His expression shifted when he saw the screen. “Hey, it’s… I gotta take this.”

Mikey nodded, unsure where to look.

Gabe answered with a soft, “Hey,” and turned slightly away, walking a few steps down the block. His voice dropped into a private tone Mikey wasn’t meant to hear.

That was it.

Whatever strange, fragile warmth had built between them—gone.

Mikey stood there for a moment. Then turned and walked the other way. Somehow he knew Gabe wouldn't follow.

By the time he reached the motel, his head was a storm. He didn’t know what he was feeling—guilt? Shame? Confusion? He wanted to dig his fingernails into his arms until they left bruises. He wanted to run. He wanted to throw up, but of course, he never could. That part of him was broken too.

The clerk at the desk didn’t look up when Mikey pushed the door open. Just passed him his key like they’d done this a hundred times already.

Mikey mumbled a thanks and climbed the stairs, one hand pressed flat against his stomach. He felt bloated. Ugly. A balloon full of static and mush.  He dropped his shoes by the door and peeled off his hoodie in the dark.

The room was empty. Thank god.

The motel bathroom mirror was scratched and streaky, but it would do. 

Mikey stood barefoot on the cold tile, hoodie shrugged off and draped over the edge of the sink. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting his reflection in that sterile yellow haze unique to roadside stops and gas station bathrooms.

He didn’t wince. Didn’t frown. Just looked. Maybe it wasn’t quite so bad as he thought. 

His collarbones jutted out further than he remembered. His shoulders had that strange, sloped look now—like the muscle had softened into something less substantial. His chest still felt embarrassingly flat, the center of it slightly concave, like a spoon pressed too long against skin. His ribs flared out beneath it, visible with every breath. He counted them without meaning to.

He pinched the skin above his hipbone. Thinner, definitely. But still more than he wanted. Still so much more. 

He turned sideways, assessing the soft curve of his stomach. Not flat. Not enough. His gaze traveled lower. Legs, thighs—slim, but not hollow. Ankles too sharp now, like they didn’t quite match the rest of him.

It was information. A scan. Something to use. Ammunition to get him through the next week. 

He reached for his trusty hoodie again, pulling it back over his head with slow, mechanical movements. It hung looser than it had in March. That was something.

No pride. No panic. Just data. Okay, maybe a little bit of pride. But more than that, he was still disgusted with himself. He had to keep going. 

He lay in the bed farthest from the door, facing the wall, still half-dressed. He didn’t even pull down the sheets. He just curled up and let the buzz in his ears settle into silence.

He didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t.

Time passed in chunks. Cars outside. A TV blaring in a nearby room. Someone laughed too loud and it made Mikey flinch. Every now and then he closed his eyes, willing himself to black out, but all he could feel was the twist in his gut and the phantom echo of Gabe’s voice in his ear: You’re still beautiful.

He wasn’t.

He felt disgusting.

 

It must’ve been hours before the door burst open. The unmistakable crash of drunk feet, giggling voices, the smell of sweat and alcohol and outside air.

“Shhhh,” someone hissed.

“I am shhh,” Gerard whispered loudly, then dissolved into laughter.

Mikey didn’t move.

They half-carried, half-dragged Gerard into the room. Bert’s voice somewhere behind them, followed by Frank’s low murmur and the sound of someone tripping over a backpack.

“I love you guys,” Gerard slurred. “No, like—I love you. You’re my fucking band, you know?”

“Okay, okay,” Bob said, dumping him onto the bed. “Sleep it off, Romeo.”

More laughter. Shuffling. A door to the bathroom opened and closed. Someone turned on the sink.

Mikey stayed still. Breathing soft and even. Pretending.

Gerard sighed dramatically and rolled over. “Where’s Mikey?”

No one answered.

Then Frank: “He’s asleep, dumbass.”

“Oh,” Gerard said. “Tell him… tell him he’s the best brother in the universe.”

“Tell him yourself in the morning,” Ray muttered with a chuckle. 

Mikey pressed his face deeper into the pillow. Eyes wide open in the dark.

He listened to them wind down, one by one. Heard Bert leave. Heard Frank steal the spare blanket off the chair. Heard Gerard mutter nonsense until he finally passed out, breath wheezing, arm flung off the bed like a child.

Only when the room settled into the hush of sleep did Mikey let out the breath he’d been holding.

He stared at the wall until the sun started to rise.

---

The light came slowly, slanting across the floor in dusty beams. Mikey didn’t move. The air smelled slightly of mildew and the faint residue of Gerard’s scent from the night before. Somewhere down the way, someone coughed, a low, sleepy sound. Somewhere else, a door opened and closed. The motel was waking up.

He traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, memorizing every imperfection. The twist in his stomach hadn’t gone away. It wouldn’t. Not yet. Not today. Not while the rest of the world carried on like it didn’t notice he was dangling by a thread.

Eventually, the bed shifted. Gerard stirred, groaning and tugging the covers closer around him. “Mikey?” he mumbled, still half-asleep. Mikey didn’t answer. Gerard grunted, rolled over, muttered something indecipherable, and let sleep reclaim him.

Hours later, the clatter of breakfast being delivered—or maybe it was the buses outside—pulled Mikey to sit up. He flexed his fingers, tested the weight of his arms, the emptiness in his stomach. The day ahead loomed. Soundchecks, travel, fans, motel rooms that smelled the same. Everywhere he went, people would see him. And no one would see him at all.

He pressed his forehead against the cool wall. The sunlight made the room feel too bright, too real. But he stayed there, still and quiet, as the city outside began its hum, as the band started stirring one by one.

The van smelled like stale air and spilled coffee, with the faint hint of Frank's cigarettes. Mikey sat pressed against the window, knees tucked up, a notebook unopened on his lap until they reached their destination. The others scattered across the lawn, voices low but buzzing with plans and jokes he couldn’t quite follow. He nodded when someone spoke to him, smiled when he had to, laughed when the noise demanded it. Every motion felt like rehearsed choreography.

Gabe slid up next to him, grinning, a coffee in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. “You awake, or are you still haunting the pillows?”

“Awake,” Mikey said, voice small, trying not to sound hollow.

Gabe nudged his shoulder. “Good. You’re gonna need it today. Soundcheck’s brutal, man.”

Mikey nodded again, staring at nothing. He wasn’t really listening. He wasn’t really here.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Pete watching him—eyes sharp, calculating, a little amused. They hadn’t spoken yet, but Mikey felt his chest tighten with the strange, new flutter that came whenever Pete looked at him. He turned his head quickly, pretending to be absorbed in the scenery, the passing cars, anything but that attention.

The soundcheck passed in a blur that left Mikey jittery and hollow at once. He managed to keep up with the others, tuning his instrument, responding to questions, laughing at cues—but it felt like moving through water. Everything was thick, slow, and somehow louder than it should be.

At one point, Ray leaned over during a break. “You good, man?”

Mikey forced a smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

Ray didn’t look convinced but didn’t press. He returned to adjusting his guitar, leaving Mikey to pretend the world wasn’t weighing him down.

"I'll be back in a minute," Mikey lied. "Bathroom." 

 

It was never like this in high school.

He remembered that summer—quiet and scorching, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made everything feel heavier. But not him. He’d felt lighter every day. Lighter and sharper. Like the edges of him were finally coming into focus.

He hadn’t eaten. Not much, anyway. A few grapes here, half a granola bar there. It was easy, almost beautiful in its simplicity. He liked the ache. The control. He liked how the days stretched out thin and hollow, the way he could float through them without ever really touching down.

By the time school started up again, he was seventy pounds down and not quite the same person. His jeans barely clung to his hips. His hoodie hung off him like a curtain. His collarbone looked like a weapon.

He remembered the stares. Not the cruel kind, not at first. Just quiet awe. People didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing. But they looked.

And they treated him differently.

He still didn’t have many friends. Still drifted from class to class with his headphones on and his eyes low. But the energy had shifted. Girls he’d never talked to asked him where he got his jeans. Boys stopped calling him invisible. Teachers started to pause when they handed back papers, watching him with furrowed brows.

People thought he was on drugs. Of course they did. It was suburban New Jersey and he was quiet, bony, and wore too much black.

The counselors pulled him in once, asked gently if he wanted to talk. When he didn’t say anything, they moved on—probably figured he was just going through something, maybe chalked it up to the divorce or the music or being “artsy.” One of them even said he was probably the most sober kid in the entire school.

He hadn’t touched anything back then. No pills. No booze. Not even coffee. Just hunger.

It wasn’t easy, but it hadn’t been this hard.

Back then, it had felt like winning.

Now, it felt like slipping underwater.

The memory faded like smoke, leaving only the stale taste of it behind. Mikey blinked and the venue bathroom came back into view—the flickering fluorescent light, the stained mirror, the damp clump of paper towels bunched under the sink. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, even though the room was cold.

He leaned against the stall door, and the tile felt too hard, too real beneath him. His stomach turned—not from hunger, not anymore—but from the ache of being trapped inside this body, this brain, this moment.

He still felt like the fat kid.

Still sixteen. Still terrified someone would see him for what he was. Or worse—wouldn’t see him at all.

There was no mirror big enough to prove he’d changed. Every time he looked, he found something wrong. His thighs. His face. The way his arms rested at his sides. The way his jeans folded when he sat.

None of it was right.

The control he had back then felt like a myth. A dream version of himself. This version—this quiet, aching, brittle thing—was nothing like the boy who walked into junior year and made people look. This version hid in corners, skipped meals, punished himself for anything that stuck. This version got dizzy tying his shoes.

And he still felt too big.

Still not enough.

He dug his nails into his thigh through his jeans, just for something to feel. There was a show tonight. Another blur of lights and sound and pretending he could play his parts with muscle memory alone. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered is getting through it without falling down.

Even so, a small, dangerous comfort bloomed in his chest, one he shoved down before it could grow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Pete’s gaze lingered, making him feel seen even as he remained invisible.

The tour had just begun. And Mikey already felt the weight of every day stretching out ahead.

Notes:

Thanks to everyone for waiting so patiently! I'm pretty pleased with this work so far, and to everyone for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments. Hope I didn't disappoint :)

(side note: my therapist told me I need to be eating more. go figure.)

Notes:

A shorter beginning chapter, but I wanted to get an intro posted so I'm motivated to keep up with it. I've got a lot of material already written so I'll be editing and publishing chapters more frequently that will be longer and better. Hello to anyone who's reading this, I hope you're having a good day. Feel free to comment or whatever. I'm usually a Wattpad girlie, so the formatting is also new to me, but I have a lot more freedom to write what I want over here. K'bye!