Fucking New Jersey. Fucking Jersey with its one damn Driver's Ed school being burned down by a mysterious fire that was obviously arson.
Gerard breathes heavily through his nose, wipes his fingers, and swallows a scream. "Okay--"
Mikey's forehead beads suddenly, crinkles. "Okay? Forward?" He taps his feet a bit and the car lurches forward, screeches dead when Gerard does. "Fuck--okay, ten and two."
They both glance down at Mikey's hands. He shifts a little, pushes up his glasses on his nose, "I am ten and two."
"No," gasp, "That's three and nine."
His forehead crinkles a bit. "Is there a difference?"
"TEN AND TWO."
Mikey's hand slip accordingly. The car leers again, "I'm not even--I'm not doing anything!"
Fuck this damn ghost car.
"What--whatever, ignore it. Ten and two, where's your foot?"
"On the gas pedal."
Oh, shit--they're moving. Again.
"Oh--" Gerard shimmies his foot around until he comes down hard on Mikey's Converses. The car stops. "Listen to me. Do not--do not--touch this--" he points at the gas pedal--"until this--" he points at his mouth, "tells you to."
Mikey nods at him, slowly, and sinks in his seat. Fuck. "Hey, I'm not--I'm not trying to. I'm not trying to be mean. It's just--" he makes his voice not whine, "I don't want to die, you know?"
Mikey shrugs, doesn't look at him. "I'm trying, okay? Jesus Christ, this is not the eighteenth century or anything, when I all I had to know was how to whip a horse on the ass to make it move. This shit is scary, and you freaking out is not helping at all." He adds, smiles, "But I know it was either you or Mom, so, uh, thanks?"
Gerard grins, "Let's try ten and two again, okay?"
I WANT THIS FIC. I DON'T WANT TO WRITE IT.