Emo Trinity x Reader (Book 2)

Mikey Way x Reader - Whatever Was Before...

Summary: Mikey and you don't get along, even hate each other. Having to share a room and bed one night reveals that this is not true at all.
Warnings: getting into fights
Word count: 3500

Mikey was laying in the dark, acutely aware of your even breaths at his side. He wished you would have left the lights on, at least a small one, but he had not wanted to make things between you even worse by asking. Somehow the darkness in hotel rooms was always so absolute and foreign, even though there was a thin beam of light from a street lantern shining through the closed curtains. If asked, he could not have explained it, how the absence of light here differed from the one at home. But it felt suffocating; just as it felt suffocating lying next to you.

His stomach twisted at the thought of you only inches away from him. He was not sure if it was in a good kind of way or a bad one. He knew it shouldn't be in a good kind of way. In fact, he was supposed to hate you, just as you hated him. The constant fighting between you drove him up the walls, while the other band members laughed it off. But you made his blood boil. Mikey did not even remember how it had started. It just had always been this way. Sometimes you were screaming at each other from across the room, sometimes it were hissed comments or death glares, but every interaction he had ever had with you had been filled with the same hateful tension.

There were moments where he began doubting if it really was only hate between you, like when he had to wake you at three a.m. and you blinked up at him sleepily. Then his heart beat faster in his chest with something that could not be waved off as hate. It was affection. And Mikey hated himself for it just as much as he hated you for making him feel that way. And perhaps even worse: not noticing that there were more emotions involved for him than hate.

Now, laying in the dark, he felt his heart beating in his throat, still mad at you from the fight you had had earlier, and at the same time nervous about how close you were. The fight had been about nothing basically. It had been about you being you, you always finding a way to make the band members' less glorious qualities still seem admirable and human. Like when people made fun of Frank and called him chaotic and a menace, you defended him, saying he was passionate, no matter how many times he had fallen into your drum kit already. Or when people called Ray anti-social (which really was not true) for not hanging out with others as much as the rest of the band, you said he was the quiet genius, whose mind was working relentlessly to create new music. And the same way you had found ways to turn criticism at Mikey's bandmates into compliments, you had done the same for him at a talk-show earlier tonight.

Mikey knew the host would go into this direction, when he begun describing everyone's style on stage, Frank's energy, Ray's head banging, your passion, Gerard's prancing. And Mikey's passivity.

"You're just not moving that much, are you Mikey? Scared of falling over cables," the host teased.

Mikey just shrugged, the awkward silence that begun building in the studio drowned out by the ringing in his ears as he was avoiding eye contact with anyone. At his side he felt Gerard take a breath to say something, but you were faster.

"'s just, not everyone needs to move around to have a great stage presence, you know," you chirped cheerfully.

Mikey's eyes snapped to you, boring into your side as you smiled innocently at the host. You had done what you always did: make the band look good. And never let on to the public that there was any kind of tension between you and him.

Mikey knew he should not be as upset about it as he was, but his blood had been running hot in his veins, and as soon as the five of you had been backstage, he had blown up in your face, asked how you thought it was okay to always interfere and what not. He could not even remember what he had said to you. You had not react much, only asked him to not shout as loudly, which had made it even worse. The others had ignored him entirely, Frank only snickering about weird flirting techniques. So he had swallowed down the acid that was scratching his throat, desperate to get some kind, any kind of reaction from you. But you had not relented, had not given him the satisfaction to react to his jabs during the way to the hotel at all.