That's What You Get

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Fracture Before the Fall

It was just a misplaced key.

That's how it started.

Pete was standing by the door, hand on the knob, looking down at the empty hook beside it. His keys should have been there, hanging in plain view, the familiar sound of metal jingling as he grabbed them to leave. Instead, nothing but space.

"I swear I left them here," he muttered to himself, shifting through his pockets. His breath hitched a little, but Mikey, who had been in the kitchen washing breakfast dishes, didn't seem to notice. It was just a key. Just a small thing.

But Pete could feel it, like a dull throb beneath his skin. He glanced over his shoulder at Mikey, who was absorbed in the sound of water filling the sink, his movements smooth and routine. Pete could almost see the quiet space between them, growing, stretching like a thin wire, waiting to snap.

Mikey hadn't been the same since that night. He hadn't left, not yet. But Mikey's silence had become heavier, more deliberate. A wall that Pete could feel, even when Mikey was looking straight at him.

"I don't know where I left them, Mikey," Pete said, his voice tight. The words felt heavier than they should have. His hands fumbled in his pockets again, as though somehow the key might materialize by sheer force of will.

Mikey didn't look up immediately, but Pete could feel the pause, the way Mikey's gaze flickered, just for a second, before he slowly set down the sponge and turned to face him. His eyes were unreadable, but there was something in his posture, something restrained, that set Pete's nerves on edge.

"You okay?" Mikey's voice was quiet. Too quiet. Like he was bracing himself for impact yet to come.

Pete's eyes flicked back to the empty hook. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck. It was just a key. Just a stupid, insignificant thing. But it felt like something else. It felt like everything.

"I'm fine," Pete snapped before he could stop himself, the words coming out sharp, jagged. It wasn't Mikey's fault. He hadn't done anything wrong. But the pressure, the constant pressure of Mikey's silence, of the knowledge that the moment he'd been dreading was always just a breath away, he couldn't shake it.

Mikey stiffened. "Okay," he said, still too calm, too careful. He picked up the sponge again and turned back to the sink, but the space between them seemed wider now. The air felt thinner, colder, and Pete could almost hear the ticking of an invisible clock in the background, counting down the seconds until it all came apart.

Pete inhaled sharply, the lingering smell of burnt toast hitting his nose. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.

"I'll go check the car," Pete muttered, reaching for the door again, but his hand shook slightly, betraying him. "Maybe I left them in there."

But he didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, feeling his chest tighten, feeling everything slipping just a little further out of his grasp.

It wasn't just the key. It was the way Mikey didn't need to say anything anymore. It was the way every glance between them seemed to carry weight now. Heavy, unspoken things that neither of them could touch. The way Mikey no longer reached for him the way he used to. The way everything had become tentative, fragile.

Pete exhaled shakily and turned toward the door, but then something caught him.

Mikey wasn't looking at him. He was focused on the sink, his eyes lowered, but there was something about the way Mikey's fingers gripped the sides of the sponge, the tension in his shoulders, that felt like a flicker of something that wasn't quite right. Like Mikey was holding himself back from something. Like he was waiting for something to break.

"Pete," Mikey said, his voice steady but with an edge. "Maybe you should sit down. It's just a key."

Pete froze. The words were simple enough, but they landed like a slap.

"Just a key?" Pete's voice was too loud, too sharp, cutting through the space between them. "You think I don't know that?"

Mikey looked up at him, his face unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. Something that wasn't fear. Not yet. But it was close.

Pete clenched his jaw, took a slow, steadying breath, and then turned away, pacing across the room. The anxiety gnawed at him, the spiraling thought of Mikey leaving, of losing him, of being so close to the edge. Every little thing felt like a trigger now. Every misplaced word, every hesitation, every moment that Mikey wasn't looking at him the way he used to, was another inch in the widening gap between them.

And Pete was losing his grip.

He gripped the back of the couch hard, his knuckles white, and tried to steady himself. He couldn't feel the ground beneath him. He was hovering somewhere between control and chaos.

"I'm not going anywhere," Pete said suddenly, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. Mikey? Or himself? His words felt like a fragile promise that could break at any second.

Mikey's silence hung in the air. He didn't respond right away. Didn't say what Pete wanted him to say. He just stood there, watching him, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed like he was trying to piece something together.

"I don't know what you want from me anymore," Mikey said quietly. "But I'm not going anywhere, Pete. Not yet."

It wasn't enough. Pete could feel the pressure building, the jagged edges of his patience snapping under the strain. He was running out of time. He was running out of room.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Pete's voice cracked, the words coming out with a rawness he hadn't expected. "Why do you keep..."

The words broke off. He didn't know what he was trying to say. He didn't know how to explain the hollow, gnawing feeling that had settled in his chest. The fear of losing Mikey. The shame. The rage.

But Mikey wasn't backing down. He was standing there, shoulders squared, and Pete could feel it. Feel the shift in the air. The weight of everything they hadn't said hanging between them.

And in that moment, everything Pete had been holding back snapped.

Before he could even stop himself, he swung around, fury bleeding into his words, his voice shaking with something primal. "What the fuck do you want from me? Huh? You think I don't see you slipping away? You think I can't tell?"

Mikey's eyes widened just a little, the briefest flash of alarm before he braced himself.

The moment stretched, hanging in the air, charged with something dangerous. Pete's chest heaved with every breath, his hands trembling, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

And then, like the final straw, Pete slammed his fist against the wall. The sound was deafening. The drywall cracked beneath the force, dust raining down.

Mikey jumped, his face pale, but he didn't back away. He didn't move.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

And then, Pete broke.

"I can't fucking do this anymore, Mikey. I can't!" His voice was a strangled scream, the words choking him, raw and guttural. "I can't live with this. Waiting for you to leave, to walk away like it never mattered!"

Mikey's expression shifted. His mouth parted, but the words that came were quiet. "Pete..."

"No! Don't. Don't try to fix it. You can't fix me, Mikey. I'm broken."