That's What You Get

Chapter Twenty: The Storm

The sky had split open above them.

Rain lashed against the windows in thick, unrelenting sheets, thunder cracking close enough to rattle the glass. The kind of storm that shook houses and flooded streets. The kind of storm people remembered.

Mikey didn't remember when Pete had come into the room. He'd been folding a blanket, trying to keep his hands busy, the silence between them too thick to pretend it was comfortable. Pete had been different lately, quieter, even kind. He brought food. He listened. He didn't raise his voice.

But silence could be dangerous, too.

Pete stood behind him now, watching.

"You're quiet," Pete said, voice low but not soft.

Mikey kept his eyes on the blanket. "It's late."

"You've been quiet for days."

The pause between them stretched. The wind howled outside, and Mikey suddenly wished he'd left the TV on, anything to fill the room with something that wasn't Pete.

Pete stepped closer. "Is it me?"

Mikey turned slightly. "It's not. I'm just tired."

"You're always tired lately." Pete's voice wasn't accusing yet, but it had an edge now. "Is it because I'm here?"

Mikey hesitated. "No."

Pete exhaled through his nose. Not a sigh, something tighter. "You're lying."

"I'm not-"

"Don't," Pete snapped, stepping in. "Don't lie to me, Mikey. Not after everything."

There it was. The shift. The snap under the surface.

Pete's hands were clenched at his sides. Mikey instinctively backed up, but there wasn't far to go, just the edge of the couch behind him and the storm outside.

"I've been good," Pete said, louder now. "I've done everything right. Haven't I?"

"You've tried," Mikey said gently, but his voice wavered.

Pete caught it. His head jerked slightly, like he'd been slapped. "Tried?"

Lightning flashed. Mikey blinked against it, but Pete didn't.

"I gave you space. I listened. I didn't touch you unless you wanted it. I didn't yell. I didn't-" His voice cracked into something harsher. "And you're still afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you."

But the lie came too fast, too smooth.

And Pete saw it.

Suddenly he was right in front of Mikey. His hands gripped Mikey's arms hard, not enough to bruise, but close. "Then look at me and say that again."

Mikey's eyes flicked up.

What Pete saw stopped everything.

It was the look.

Wide, silent, pleading.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen it.

He'd seen it in Mikey plenty of times. It had never shaken him before.

He'd seen it in Dani. Just a flicker, weeks ago, when she thought no one was watching, when Patrick had raised his voice and she'd folded in on herself. That was the moment Pete had started to wonder. That same haunted edge. That quiet dread.

And now here it was again, staring back at him through Mikey's eyes. It had never shaken him before. Until
now.

Pete let go like he'd touched fire.

He staggered back, hands open, chest heaving.

"I didn't-" His voice broke off. "I didn't mean- Mikey, I wasn't going to-"

But Mikey had already stepped away, hands tight at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the wall. Silent.

The storm outside raged on.

Pete turned away, dragging a hand over his mouth like he could scrub the last thirty seconds from existence. "Shit."

Neither of them moved.

And for the first time in a long time, Pete felt real fear.

Not of Mikey.

Of himself.

Pete sat down heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair. He didn't speak. He just breathed, too fast, like his lungs didn't know how to process the air anymore.

Mikey didn't move.

The silence between them was sharp now, not empty. Crackling, dangerous, filled with the weight of what almost happened.

The only sound came from the storm, the relentless drumming of rain against the windows, the occasional groan of thunder overhead.

Pete finally whispered, "I'm sorry."

Mikey blinked. His voice was quiet. "I know."

That made Pete wince.

Because it meant Mikey had expected it.

"I wasn't going to hurt you," Pete said, staring at the floor like it could answer for him. "I just... I was trying to get you to see me. To trust me again. And then you looked at me like... like I was him."

Mikey still didn't move. "You were."

Pete looked up sharply.

Mikey's voice trembled, just slightly, like a crack in ice. "You were him. For a second."

Pete's chest ached. "But I stopped."

"Yeah." Mikey's throat bobbed. "You stopped."

Another beat of silence.

"I didn't know I could still make someone look at me like that," Pete muttered, almost to himself. "Not after everything. Not after how hard I've tried."

Mikey finally turned to face him, but it wasn't anger behind his eyes. It was something heavier. Worn-down, bone-deep confusion.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," Mikey said. "I know you've been better. I see it. And sometimes it's... easy to believe in it."

Pete looked up at him. "So why does it still feel like I'm losing you?"

"Because you are," Mikey said. "But I don't know how to leave. I don't even know if I want to."

That admission hung in the air like fog.

Pete's face twisted, something between shame and relief. "You mean that?"

"I mean I don't know how to tell the difference anymore. Between what I feel and what you trained me to feel."

The room was still. The storm had started to ease, the thunder further now, the rain softening.

Pete stood slowly. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

"No," Mikey said, just as quietly. "You won't."

Pete stiffened.

But Mikey wasn't inviting him closer either. He walked toward the bedroom without another word, leaving the door open, not wide, not closed.

Just open.

A crack.

Pete stared at the doorway. At the quiet space Mikey had left behind. He didn't follow right away.

He just stood there, unsure if the storm had passed or if they were both still standing in the eye of it.