Chapter Text
Fuck. Mikey should really stop drinking.
He said that six drinks and twenty minutes ago.
But hey, you only get divorced once! Mikey is never, ever, getting married again. That's the goddamn truth. He does not need the yelling; the constant yelling that hurts his head, or the knife to the gut of having every insecurity laid on in front of him like a patient on an operating table.
He doesn't want to see her ever again. Gave her whatever she wanted to sign the papers and now he's a free man with a barren apartment.
Is that a tumbleweed rolling through his living room?
Marriage. Not for him. No thanks.
He opens a seventh drink. Maybe this one will tell him why his ex-wife decided that sickness and health didn't mean-
Mikey knows he's sick; like Gerard got sick from Bert. And just like Gerard, he can stop whenever he wants to.
He just doesn't want to. How else is he supposed to make the fucking gunshot wound through his chest go away? He wants someone to tell him it's all going to be okay. He wants his Mom.
Also, his phone won't stop ringing over and over and over again. It's a lobotomy pick to the skull, right through the eyeball. People have been calling him, worrying about him, wanting to know if he is doing okay. Of course he’s not doing oh-fucking-kay.
Maybe he shouldn't have left that party. It didn't matter that he didn't know anyone, or forgot why he was invited. But everyone was asking him what he had planned next, which was just so damn aggravating. However, the music was loud and he could pretend to not hear them. Open bar too. He should have stayed.
But then he heard that laugh.
Oh, how he wishes he could forget what Pete Wentz sounds like laughing.
So, Mikey did the emotionally mature thing – he bolted.
But what would he even say to Pete nowadays?
Hey, Pete! Long time no see! That was deliberate on my part by the way. I heard you got divorced! Did you know I got a divorce too! Twinning! We have so much in common.
Hey, if we had gotten married, do you think we would have ended up divorced?
And what would Pete say? Probably something kind, and thoughtful, and collected about how it feels to be torn away from your band. From your life. Pete is many things, but vindictive isn’t one of them.
Wow, this is pathetic. He's, what's the word, he's coping. Everyone drinks to cope. Everyone drinks to get over their ex. Mikey doesn't want to think about which one he's drinking about right now though, slumped in a single folding chair at his counter.
That’s a terrible thought. A wave of nauseous guilt climbs up his throat. He was married for years and Pete was– well, they weren't married. They barely even… Why are his hands shaking?
He needs another drink. Fuck. Well, okay, it's not like he's doing cocaine. He could be doing cocaine in his bathroom right now.
The vodka burns his throat as he chugs it back, his eyes tear up while his stomach clenches at the thought of having to hold more liquid.
But he isn't thinking about his stupid divorce anymore. Mikey is actually very distracted by the pain in his stomach.
Jesus. That fucking hurts.
Bile rises in the back of his throat and at first he thinks it's the guilt again, but then his stomach clenches – hard.
Oh, that's not good.
He makes it to the bathroom but not to the toilet before his stomach is emptying out onto the tile, splashing back all over his shoes and jeans.
His head still pounds. And he’s thinking about Pete’s laugh.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he steps towards the towel rack, but his shoes must catch on the pile of sick, and the next thing Mikey knows, his legs are gone from underneath him and his head is hitting the tile with a crack.
Pain shoots down his back, and gets… warmer? His fingers come back red, but not blood red. Four Loko red.
He's laying in his own vomit.
This night could not get worse. This is a new low, and really, he's had some low ass moments in his life. Like that time he got hypothermia from trying to swim in the Delaware. Or when he couldn’t get it up on their anniversary because of how much medication he was on.
The smart thing to do would be to get up and shower, and wash his clothes, and feed the cat, and buy groceries, and go to bed, and stop drinking, and call that rehab place Gerard recommended and-
Instead of doing any of that, he lays his head back down on the floor and stares at the ceiling.
The vent above him is really dusty. That's probably a fire hazard. His phone rings again from the other room.
It's funny. If he had died here, like, hit his head slightly harder and totally brained himself on his bathroom floor, nobody would have a reason to find him. He would just lay here, for days and days. An eternal spa day. Someone get some cucumbers for his eyes.
He should be better at doing life. He’s thirty-three for fucks sake. A thirty-three divorced, washed up Rockstar with an alcohol and pill addiction, but an adult none-the-less. All of his bandmates have normal successful lives they’ve built, and Mikey knows that could be him, but he can’t figure out how to get there. He just keeps making the wrong fucking choices.
I wish I was, What does he wish? To start over? For all of this to be blissfully over? To make the right choice for once?
I wish I could skip to the good part.
It's the last thought Mikey remembers before everything goes black.