That's What You Get

Chapter Thirteen: The Surrendering Quiet

Mikey stood frozen, like his body was still catching up to what his mind refused to believe.

"I was hoping you'd come home alone," Pete finally said, voice smooth and cold. "Didn't want to deal with your little family drama."

His hold on Mikey's arm was bruising.

Mikey's throat was dry. "How did you-?"

Pete lifted his other hand, silencing him. "That's not important. What is important is this..." He stepped forward slowly, eyes narrowing. "You think you're done with me, Mikey?"

Mikey backed up. One step. Then another.

"I didn't say that."

Pete laughed quietly, almost to himself. "You didn't have to. I can smell it on you. That pathetic little hope. Like if you just ignore me long enough, I'll disappear."

His voice dropped, teeth barely parted. "I'm not going anywhere."

Pete didn't stop moving until he was close enough for Mikey to feel the heat radiating off his skin. He reached out, fingers brushing Mikey's cheek, light, like a warning. Mikey's back hit the wall with a quiet thud.

"You look tired," Pete said softly, tilting his head. "Dani's house not giving you the rest you need?"

Mikey's chest rose and fell too fast, his breath shallow. "Please just leave..."

Pete clicked his tongue, mock disappointment curling in his expression. "Still pretending you don't want this. Don't want me."

"I don't," Mikey whispered.

Pete's hand slid down to Mikey's throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Possessive. Familiar. "Then why didn't you scream when you saw me?"

Mikey didn't answer.

"You could've run when you got outside. You didn't." Pete leaned in, lips brushing Mikey's ear. "You never do."

Mikey's legs buckled, but Pete caught him, pulling him close like a lover would. Mikey hated the warmth it brought. Hated how much his body remembered. How his mind bent under the weight of Pete's voice, his smell, his hands.

"I hate you," Mikey said, barely audible.

"I know." Pete's lips curved into something like a smile. "But you need me. Say it."

"No-"

Pete's grip on his waist tightened. "Say it, Mikey. I want to hear you admit it."

Mikey's breath hitched, his vision swimming with panic and something else; something softer and far more dangerous. Loneliness. Grief. And a twisted form of love that had always felt more like drowning.

"I need you," Mikey whispered, eyes shut tight.

Pete exhaled slowly, satisfied. "That's my boy."

He guided Mikey gently to the couch, like he belonged there. Like they were picking up where they left off.

Mikey let it happen.

Every part of him screamed, but he let it happen.

And when Pete curled beside him and pulled his head to his chest, Mikey buried his face there, tears sliding silently down his cheek.

The room was quiet except for the soft, broken sound of Mikey's breathing and the rhythmic stroke of Pete's fingers through his hair. It felt like falling asleep underwater, everything muted, dreamlike, and wrong.

"I've missed this," Pete murmured. "You. Us."

Mikey didn't answer. He didn't have the strength to lie, or the clarity to fight. His eyes were half-lidded, lost in the feel of familiar arms around him. Arms that had once hurt him. Arms that still could.