Mikey

certified party boy 19 𖤐 he/him https://mitch0id.straw.page

[mitch0id]

𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱

mikey ☠︎ 19 ☠︎ male

⌖skater, college drop out, overall scumbag

⌖lover of all things horror, hardcore, and retro

⌖film bro, music fanatic, comic book nerd

⌖NIN, Metallica, CKY, Staind, Daughtry, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Incubus, RHCP, HIM, Bloodhound Gang, Audioslave, Yellowcard, MCR, The Doors, Bob Dylan

⌖always down to be mutuals, just ask

[mitch0id]

i love this book/film more than anything tbh

[mitch0id]

some original pieces i’ve done recently

[mitch0id]

miss u ice

[mitch0id]

Trying (Crying) On A Saturday Night

Michael Berzatto tries, and fails, to forget all about his feelings for his best friend amidst an engagement announcement.

(Pre-Canon, set in 2009, one year before Richie & Tiff get married.)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85104826

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“I know when you’re home—“

There are 52 Saturday nights in a year,

“I was thinking about you.”

and for the last 7, since the engagement was announced, Michael Berzatto had found himself spending them all the same way.

Typically, when your best friend gets engaged; asks you to be his best man like it was a no-brainer, you’d be happy about the whole ordeal.

Yeah, typically. But nothing was typical between Mikey and Richie.

It’s hard to say if this kind of behavior was alarming… yet. Spending a Saturday night, alone in a shitty bar— one of a million scattered across the windy city— wasn’t unfamiliar territory to Michael. Neither was drinking to forget.

So, there he sat. Creaky bar stool, slightly sticky bar top; a forgotten number of Jager shots deep, trying to forget about his long unrequited crush on his best friend. Maybe crush wasn’t the most correct term for a grown man. For him, it felt more like possession than anything else.

It was 2009, Michael was about to turn 30. So, that meant drinking away the last 20 or so years. Every high school party, every moment of confided secrets between two best friends, every sleepover at the Berzatto household that ended with both of them in Michael’s bed; despite Donna always having an air mattress for Richie. Every brush of fingers, or playful nudge; every childhood wrestling match. Maybe he’d been misremembering things. Maybe it was the alcohol.

“I’m sitting in the bedroom—“

He needed to forget the moment Richie met Tiff.

“Where we used to sit and smoke cigarettes.”

Christ, that was the kicker. That was the one that needed to be rid from his memory completely. It was too vivid; how Richie’s remarkably blue eyes somehow twinkled even brighter. How his freckle dusted cheeks turned pink. How only a single, “Shit…” escaped those lips of his. From that moment, that fleeting meet-cute, Michael knew it was wraps. Richie was gone forever, and that realization sat heavy and ugly, deep in his gut for years.

“Now I’m watching.”

Hideous, unforgiving jealousy.

“watching you die.”

The engagement just felt like finality.

Another shot, fuck it. He was too blitzed to even feel the burn of liquor down his throat anymore. That was good. He was getting closer. Memories blurred together, the timeline got hazy; he’d even begun to feel indifferent about each casual touch Richie had ever given him.

“There was something I forgot to say.”

Fuck you, Richard Jerimovich. And fuck him for being such a miserable piece of shit.

Fuck him for leaving this stupid, childhood crush behind. For stomaching it, putting on his typical dimpled smile and boisterous laugh. For getting over it like a man.

“I was crying on a Saturday night.”

But all this drinking backfired. It usually did. Angry thoughts, words that would never be said, always turned into tears. They barely pricked his eyes, his vision going blurry as he dipped his head.

One more shot, then maybe a Miller to top everything off. Fuck him. He’d walk home, sleep it off, and hate himself even more for the hangover he’d suffer through tomorrow. But a hangover meant seeing Richie at work would be more palatable. His anger would be directed at himself, not at his best friend. Not at Tiffany. Because of course, at the end of the day, regardless of his own feelings, Richie loved her.

And Michael loved Richie. He’d loved Richie for years; like loving him gave him a chance to get out of his fucked up head. Michael loved Richie so much, in fact, that he was willing to give him up to someone else. Not that he really had a choice. Not that Richie would ever know.

Only 45 more Saturday nights to go.

Inspired by: Saturday Night, Misfits

[mitch0id]

does anybody remember archer? that was my shit as a kid

[mitch0id]

wham! bam!

[mitch0id]

bam bam doodles

[mitch0id]

art versus artist type shit

[mitch0id]

(wip) i’m a grown man, so i didn’t get to experience what it was like to draw kawaii self ship art of your fave as a teenage girl on tumblr. so. doing that now

[goldshrapnel]

[mitch0id]

he’s like my new obsession idek

[mitch0id]

i haven’t drawn anything in like four months can you tell 🥀

[chariotgifs]

KURT KUNKLE ⤷ joe keery in spree

[sobac]

boring 🥱

[mitch0id]

[mitch0id]

do edits do well over here? (follow my tiktok: mikeyhungry)