In My Blood like Holy Wine (Part One): gift for gala_apples

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Title: In My Blood like Holy Wine
Author: sneaky_sena
Pairing(s): Gerard/Mikey, Frank/Mikey, Frank/Mikey/Gerard, Gerard/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest
Word count: 15,750
Summary: It's the dirtiest thing he's ever done, being in love with his brother, wanting Mikey and watching and waiting, taking what little he can get.

It's the dirtiest thing he's ever done, and Gerard's had a lot of dirty sex in his life. Well, not a lot, not compared to some of the people he knows who've fucked literally hundreds of other people, and not dirty in, like, a perverse way. He's never done anything that's made him feel guilty afterwards or like he'd done something to be ashamed of. He just knows that even just the regular stuff he likes -- sucking cock and fucking guys and being watched while fucking -- is stuff that most people would think was dirty.

Whatever. Gerard spent way too much of his life convinced that nobody would want to have sex with him ever. Once he found out he was wrong and that there were men and women who though he was hot and totally wanted to fuck him, he reveled in it. Sex feels fucking awesome, especially when it's dirty.

This, though, is by far the dirtiest thing he's ever done and it is going to make him feel guilty afterwards, he knows that. He knows he's going to hate himself a little bit afterwards, but nothing he's ever done has been half as hot as this, on his knees in his room with the lights off, marathon of hilariously bad B-Movies ignored as Beginning of the End plays forgotten on the television, his little brother's cock in his mouth.

Mikey's sprawled across Gerard's bed, one arm draped over his eyes and the other hand fisted in Gerard's hair. Gerard's sucking him off, dizzy with how much he's getting off on it. He always gets off when he sucks cock, really enjoys doing it, but it's Mikey. It's Mikey, and Gerard's going to hell, he knows, but he doesn't fucking care because it's so good, sends sharp, white hot spikes of pleasure through his belly intense enough he has to pull off and gasp. And Mikey's moaning, so soft, whispering, "Gerard, yeah, fuck, just like that," and Gerard feels drunk even though he's not.

He had been, the first time. The first time, they'd both been drunk, really fucking drunk and watching Doctor Who and Mikey had been laughing and rolling his hips and saying how he wished he hadn't broken up with Lisette because she gave the best fucking head in the world. And Gerard had been laughing, too, and he'd said, "No fucking way, I give the best fucking head in the world. I'm a fucking expert cocksucker."

And Mikey had said, "Fucking liar, prove it."

And Gerard had cracked up laughing, and Mikey had thrown his head back, it was so fucking funny, the very idea of it, and Gerard had leaned forward and started unzipping Mikey's fly just as a joke, just because they were drunk and it was funny. And Mikey hadn't been wearing underwear, so when his fly opened, his cock was right fucking there and he was half hard and Gerard leaned down, pretending he was going to suck it, and he thought it would be even more hilarious if he licked, it, so he did.

He licked the tip, salty and bitter against his tongue, and he did it against because he fucking loved the taste, worked his tongue into the slit and Mikey jerked hips up and gasped, "Fuck, fuck, do it," and then it wasn't funny anymore -- he was sucking Mikey's cock and, fuck, even as drunk as he was, he knew it was wrong. He didn't stop, though, and Mikey didn't stop him. Mikey had just gasped and moaned, "Oh, Jesus," in this sex voice that Gerard didn't even know he had, and Gerard had felt dirty and amazing and like he never wanted to stop.

It's happened four times, total. The first time they'd both been drunk. The second time, Mikey had been drunk and clumsy as he'd pawed at Gerard's face, tugging his head down, whispering, "I need, fuck, Gerard, I need you to..." The third time, they'd been listening to the new Opeth album and Mikey had started rubbing his cock through his jeans and Gerard's breath had caught in his throat and he'd whispered, "Do you want me to?" and Mikey had closed his eyes and whispered, "Yes."

Now Gerard's on his knees, Mikey sprawled across his bed, Mikey's cock in his mouth for the fourth time, and Mikey tastes so good. The fucking desperate, hungry noises he's making are so fucking good, as is the way he keeps moaning Gerard's name, like he's not trying to pretend it's anyone else. Gerard takes him down as far as he can and Mikey jerks his hips up, choking him.

"Sorry, fuck, sorry," Mikey whispers.

Gerard coughs and spits onto the floor, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, "It's okay. It's good, sometimes, when it's rough."

"Oh, Jesus," Mikey moans, and he's winding his fingers tighter into Gerard's hair and tugging him down and Gerard just goes. He lets Mikey fuck up into his mouth, slides his hands up and down Mikey's thighs, then up over his belly and his sharp hipbones.

Mikey's saying, "Please, please, Gerard, fuck, I need, please," but Gerard isn't sure why he's begging since he's the one in control. He rubs Mikey's thighs and feels light headed, his cock so hard, but he's not touching. He's never gotten himself off during, never gotten himself off while Mikey was still there. As soon as he's alone, he comes so fucking hard, shaking, taste of Mikey still thick on his tongue. He wants to touch, wants to jerk himself off, aches and shivers just thinking about it, but he doesn't.

Mikey whines high in the back of his throat and his fingers twist painfully in Gerard's hair and his hips jerk and he's coming, gasping, pulling Gerard's hair so hard that his eyes water.

When he's done, when Gerard's swallowed, he sits back on his heels and runs his thumb over his lower lip. He's breathing hard and he dips his head and whispers, "I'm, um, I need a drink." His legs are shaking as he stands, but he takes slow breaths and steps over piles of clothes and around dishes and makes it to the other side of the room. He's reaching for a cup of coffee, gone cold in the hours since he'd poured it, when he hears Mikey moving behind him. He wants, to, God. Wants to shove Mikey back on the bed and fucking kiss him, taste his brother's mouth and the skin of his neck and listen to Mikey moan and gasp as Gerard fucks him.

Gerard lifts the coffee cup to his lips, but he doesn't drink. Not because it's cold, he actually doesn't care about that, he just doesn't want to dilute the taste of Mikey's cock on his tongue. And he doesn't need anything to drink, anyway, just says that because with his back turned, Mikey can get dressed and leave the room and they won't have to look at each other.

After the first time, Mikey hadn't been able to look at him for days.

He hears Mikey zipping up his jeans, hears him stumble and curse softly, probably tripping over books Gerard had forgotten to pick up. He hears Mikey let out a loud breath, then another, then the door opens and closes and he hears Mikey's feet on the stairs.

Gerard puts the coffee cup back on his desk and has his hand in his pants before Mikey even reaches the top step. He drops to his knees and falls forward, rutting against his hand and coming so fucking hard, right in his pants, gritting his teeth and shuddering and pressing his face into the carpet.

He knows why Mikey does it. He knows Mikey's just horny and when you're seventeen, a blowjob is a blowjob. And Gerard really is good at it; he doubts any of the high school girls Mikey's fooled around have ever sucked his cock half as well as Gerard does. And Mikey trusts him, looks up to him, wants to hang out with his big brother because being older somehow makes Gerard cool in his eyes.

Gerard's not cool, and he's not somebody Mikey should trust. The first pang of attraction had been uncomfortable and so weird, Gerard sixteen and Mikey's voice just starting to crack. It had been uncomfortable, so Gerard had stuffed the feeling away and vowed to ignore it for the rest of his life.

He hadn't really been able to ignore it. There had been other moments, Mikey snuggling into Gerard's bed and whispering that he'd just lost his virginity, telling Gerard everything that had happened and asking if it was weird that he was happy and sad at the same time about it. Sometimes Gerard would just look up at him over dinner, and Mikey would be chewing garlic bread with his mouth open or laughing at something their father said, and he was so beautiful it hit Gerard like a fist to the gut. He wanted to touch so bad, wanted to kiss every inch of Mikey's skin.

It scared the shit out of him when he thought like that, so he stuffed it away every single time and made himself forget about it. And it worked for a little while. It probably would have kept on working for months and weeks at a time if Gerard hadn't crossed the line. If he'd kept his mouth to himself, he probably could have just lived with it forever, and maybe in time it would have faded. But he knows what Mikey's cock tastes like, now, has the weight and slide of it across his tongue committed to memory. He knows the sounds Mikey makes when he's turned on, knows the way he shudders when he comes, and Gerard doesn't think he's ever going to be able to make himself forget.

+++

When Gerard finally gets back from class, the commute long and boring and the only thing that sucks about living in Jersey, he walks in the door and is immediately assaulted by Mikey's hyperactive little fucker of a best friend. Frank jumps onto Gerard's back and tugs his hair and Gerard winces and says, "Ow, you little fuck, Jesus, watch your fucking knees," as Frank scrambles up onto his shoulders, using Gerard's head to push himself up.

"I'm the champion!" Frank cries, throwing his arms up into the air.

Gerard laughs and staggers a little bit under Frank's shifting weight, but he lifts his hands to hold on to Frank's knees and bounces a little bit, then heads for the nearest doorway. Frank squawks and flails as Gerard reaches the door to the kitchen, falls backwards, arms windmilling, to keep from slamming his head into the top of the frame.

"Ow, fuck, ow, let go," Frank says as Gerard keeps a strong grip on his legs, walking Frank -- now dangling from Gerard's shoulder's by his knees -- through the kitchen and into the family room where Mikey's huddled on the couch in an oversized navy blue hoodie, hands in the front pocket and eyes on the floor instead of the TV.

Gerard lets go of Frank's legs and Frank falls to the floor and giggles and says, "Heading for the door was a dirty fucking trick, man."

"Older brother," says Gerard. "Dirty tricks are my specialty. Ask Mikey what I bastard I can be."

Mikey looks up and he doesn't smile, exactly, but there's something warm in his eyes that makes Gerard feel warm, too.

Frank says, "I always wanted a little brother to, like, hang out with and then I could just shove his face into dog shit when I got bored."

Mikey says, "And for the first time, I'm glad we don't have a dog."

"I wouldn't ever shove your face into dog shit," Gerard tells him, holding his hand to his chest in mock offense. "Macaroni and cheese, maybe."

Mikey does smile at that, a little bit, and he says, "I still ate it all, though."

Frank says, "Aw, man, being an only child fucking sucks. Hey, we're going to Kristina Moreno's party tonight, and her boyfriend's, like, thirty so you won't be the only person there over twenty-one. I know you hate that. You in?"

Gerard shrugs and says, "I have work to do."

"On a Friday night?"

Gerard says, "All weekend, probably."

"College sucks," Frank says sadly, then he leaps onto the couch and wrestles Mikey to the floor.

"Stop, fuck, little freak," Mikey says, but he's laughing and his cheeks are pink as he pulls Frank into a headlock. He grins up at Gerard and, shit. Shit, Gerard's so gone. He's known it for a while, but the way it feels when Mikey just smiles at him really drives the point home.

He wants to go to the party and get drunk and kiss Mikey up against the wall in front of everybody so they know Mikey's his. It's nothing he'll ever be able to do, though, so he shakes his shoulders and tries to push the feelings down and away where they can't get to him.

Gerard makes a pot of coffee after dinner, and his mother says, "You're never going to sleep if you drink that."

"That's the point," he tells her, and heads downstairs with a thermos full of coffee and ideas swirling through his head. He has to turn in a six-page comic in a week, and he's not allowed to use any text or dialogue and, though it's not officially part of the assignment, his professor had said, "Maybe branch out from zombies this time, okay?" and winked at him.

Gerard likes zombies. And vampires. He loves their sharp angles and how he can do so much with nothing but black ink and a red marker.

He looks down at his sketchbook and thinks, "No monsters, okay," and starts to draw. He flips page after page, giving up and starting from scratch until he thinks he's finally got something, a main character at least in the form of a praying mantis. A praying mantis is totally not a monster, even if they make great movie monsters.

It's three o'clock in the morning before he has it all storyboarded, a couple of full panels sketched out and colored in every shade of green and yellow to convey fresh air and sunshine, to prove he can work in more than just black and red and gray.

His neck and shoulders ache and his back is tight. He stands and stretches, trying to ease the kinks in his muscles from sitting hunched over his desk for hours. He scratches his stomach and wonders if there are any good leftovers in the fridge.

It's dark upstairs. All the lights are off and the house is totally quiet. There's enough light to see by, though, the light of the full moon coming strong through the windows. Gerard pauses in front of the picture window for a moment to look up at it, huge and silver, closer than he ever remembers seeing it before. He thinks about the moon crashing into the earth and grins and heads towards the kitchen.

There's leftover hamburger helper and Gerard takes it out of the fridge, pulls back a corner of the plastic wrap and puts it in the microwave. He trying to decide how long he should heat it for when there's a thump on the front porch. He freezes. He wonders if they're being robbed.

There's another thump, and then someone starts rattling the doorknob, and Gerard steps back into the far corner of the kitchen where it's darkest, reaching his hand up to touch the house phone, readying himself to call 911.

The doorknob rattles, then there's the scrape of a key and the deadbolt clicks open and he can hear Frank giggling.

"Fuck you," Mikey whispers. "It's, like, hard, okay? To be coordinated."

Frank giggles again, and Mikey laughs with him, both of them clumsy drunk as they make their way inside.

Mikey whispers, "Quiet, quiet, fuck, you'll wake my parents."

Frank says, "I'll show you quiet." And then there's no sound. No sound for a long moment, until Gerard hears the wet sound of a kiss, mouths and tongues parting. Then Frank murmurs something too soft for Gerard to understand, and Mikey moans softly and says, "Oh, fuck yeah, Frankie," in his sex voice. In the voice he uses when Gerard's going down on him.

Gerard presses his back to the wall and takes a deep breath. He won't name the feeling rising in his gut, won't call it jealousy.

"Looking at you," Frank whispers, and Gerard thinks he hears the soft noise of clothing being pushed up or down. "Fuck, watching you all night, not being able to touch you, God, just makes me want to fuck so bad."

Mikey whispers, "Yeah, yeah, come on," and they're moving, stumbling past the kitchen doorway, down the hall. When they stop again, Gerard can just make out the shape of Mikey's shoulder as he presses Frank against the wall and kisses him, hard and needy. Then they're moving on, stumbling and laughing and shushing each other, soft moments of silence that Gerard knows are frantic kisses.

He wipes his hand over his face as he hears Mikey's bedroom door shut. He thinks leftovers, right, he should heat up his leftovers and just go back to his room and eat and sleep and forget about it. He knows it's a secret Mikey's keeping, something Gerard's not supposed to know about.

He knows he shouldn't sneak down the hall, heart beating too fast, cock starting to swell, and stop just outside Mikey's bedroom door. He knows he shouldn't close his eyes and press his forehead to the doorframe and listen, but that's what he does.

He can hear their voices, but not what they're saying. He hears Mikey moan, low and desperate, hears Frank's voice whispering something over and over again, but no matter how hard he tries he can't make out the words. There's silence for a while, then another gasp and Frank says, "Oh, cocksucking Jesus, fuck," and Mikey says, "Please, please, Frankie, please."

Mikey's bed creaks once, then again, then with a rhythmic regularity that leaves no question as to what they're doing. The only thing Gerard doesn't know is who's getting fucked. Is it Frank, down on his hands and knees, head thrown back as Mikey grips his hips and shoves into him? Is it Mikey, on his back, legs wrapped around Frank's waist as they kiss and Frank fucks him hard and deep?

He's turned on listening to them fuck. He's turned on and he's angry and he's jealous and his chest fucking aches. He knows it's ridiculous. He knows Mikey's never been his. But still, he feels sick with it and stumbles away from the door, can't listen to another second of it without losing his mind.

Once he's in his room, he picks up the first thing he sees, the plastic R2D2 figurine he got when he was eight, and throws it against the wall. It doesn't break, but he doesn't even watch it hit the floor. He grabs his sketchbook and rips the pages out, tears them into bits, crouches down in the middle of his room and puts his arms over his head and he's shaking and he's so close to tears and he fucking hates it so much.

He curls up next to his desk, and there's a bottle of whisky shoved underneath a stack of papers and he grabs it and starts drinking. He drinks until he starts crying, and then he keeps drinking so he can stop, and then he just keeps drinking because he's got a bottle right there in his hand, so what the hell else should he do?

+++

Gerard wakes up with his head throbbing, his entire body aching. His knees feel bruised and his stomach muscles are sore and so tight it hurts to breathe. He moans and rolls over onto his stomach, and that's a little better.

"If you're going to puke again, there's a trashcan right next to the bed."

Gerard's head is throbbing in time to the beat of his heart. He licks his lips, then whispers, "Mikey?"

"Who the fuck else would babysit your drunk ass?" is Mikey's reply.

Gerard says, "What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Night?"

"In the morning."

Gerard nods and says, "Okay." He closes his eyes again and he might puke. His entire body feels like he needs to puke. He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, retches into the trashcan, and his stomach muscles burn but there's nothing left in him to come out. He says, "Oh, God. Just kill me."

"Not really into murder, even if it's a mercy killing," Mikey says. "But Mom's probably going to kill you, so there's that to look forward to."

"She knows I'm hungover?" he asks weakly.

"Um. Are you fucking kidding me?" Then Mikey laughs softly, and he's actually laughing at Gerard, which is something he rarely does. "What day is it?"

Gerard furrows his brow, which hurts, and thinks, which hurts some more. He says, "Saturday."

Mikey makes an obnoxious buzzing sound in the back of his throat. "Sorry, wrong answer."

Gerard says, "Don't ever make that noise ever again."

Mikey says, "It's Monday, you fucktard."

Gerard moans and says, "How?"

"I don't know. Time's a mindfuck of a concept if you think about it too much. Everything goes forward, but why? Why just one direction? Why not two, three, infinite time directions? Maybe it's another dimension, like height or whatever. Maybe it's an illusion and we actually exist in all times in all places. Maybe--"

"Oh, fuck, stop being an asshole."

Mikey chuckles and says, "I don't know how you got from Saturday to Monday, really. I know you were holed up in your room all day and then you came upstairs for dinner and, like, fell over a billion times because you were totally shitfaced. And mom started yelling and you seriously don't remember this?"

Gerard sighs miserably and says, "No."

"Yeah, well, you are not her favorite person in the world right now."

Gerard moans and pulls a pillow over his head.

"She and dad spent most of yesterday having Very Important Conversations in hushed tones that I wasn't allowed to listen in on. But I did. I mean, obviously."

"Obviously," Gerard says.

"The good news is, they've decided you don't need an intervention."

"Oh. Good."

"The bad news is, they're considering giving me the basement and making you move into my room so they can keep a closer eye on you."

"The fuck?" Gerard lifts his head up and stares at Mikey.

"Don't look at me. I don't want to live down here. It gets fucking cold in the winter, and Frank hates basements because he has this whole spider thing. It's kind of hilarious but totally sincere in, like, that weird way that phobias always are."

Gerard closes his eyes and remembers. He remembers Mikey and Frank kissing and stumbling their way to Mikey's room so they could fuck. He remembers how they couldn't even make it ten feet before they had to stop and touch, reckless laughter and burning kisses.

"I, of course, voted to keep my room and make you sleep in the yard. Said we could get you a dog house for the winter."

Gerard says, "Leave me alone."

"I'm kidding. I did tell them I didn't want to switch rooms, though. And that you're probably just acting out or whatever."

"Get out of here," Gerard whispers.

"Are you going to puke again? Or, like, shit the bed? Because I've seen a lot of gruesome stuff come out of you this weekend, Gee, and it's like going to war or something. I started out a boy but now I'm a man, battle scarred but confident that I can face any challenge life throws my way."

Gerard remembers Mikey whimpering, pleading with Frank, saying, I need, oh Jesus, Frankie, please, please, so fucking hot.

He lifts his head up and shouts, "Get the fuck out!" He regrets it immediately, head throbbing so hard he thinks his skull might split, nausea rolling through his belly.

Mikey's expression is startled, and he just stares at Gerard for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth open. Then he shakes himself and rolls his eyes and says, "Fine. Asshole. See if I fucking stand up for you next time you're, like, rolling around on the kitchen floor trying to get Dad to sing fucking Bowie with you."

He snatches up Gerard's latest copy of The Sandman and pushes himself out of Gerard's desk chair, muttering, "And thanks for cleaning my room, Mikey. Oh, yeah, no fucking problem, I love spending my Sunday afternoons sifting through fucking moldy dishes and jizz-stiff tissues and eighty-seven billion black t-shirts that smell like ass. And thanks for doing my laundry and cleaning all the puke off my sheets, Mikey. Thanks for rubbing my back when I was crying and barfing up my goddamn spleen. And thanks for staying up all night while I was passed out to make sure I didn't stop breathing and die of alcohol poisoning." Mikey slams Gerard's door shut, then opens it again and snaps, "You're fucking welcome, asshole," before slamming it again.

Gerard thinks dying of alcohol poisoning doesn't sound too bad right then.

+++

Gerard feels mostly human again by Monday evening. He manages to drag himself into the bathroom and wash the stench of alcohol sweat and vomit off his skin and out of his hair, lets the hot water beat down on his aching muscles until they stop hurting. His abs still hurt from all the puking, and when he steps out of the shower and wipes the fog off the mirror, he sees that he's got bruises on his forearms and chest and he doesn't remember getting them, but they look like the bruises you get after falling and hitting the edges of tables or countertops or chairs.

He makes it upstairs just after the sun goes down. The smell of food is faint in the air, and he's hungry but afraid to eat. His mother's sitting in her chair in the living room, smoking and paging through a magazine. His father and Mikey are laughing about something, but when Gerard walks into the room, Mikey stops laughing. His face goes tight and he runs his fingers through his hair before getting up and leaving without a word.

Gerard sighs.

His mom stubs her cigarette out in her flowered, porcelain ashtray and looks up at him. "Look who's risen from the dead," she says dryly.

Gerard says, "Mom, I--"

"No, no, don't apologize. You're only my oldest son. Watching you suffer is only like ripping out my heart."

"I'm sorry," he says. He's still shaky on his feet, so he shuffles forward and sits on the couch, in the same spot Mikey had been sitting in earlier. "I didn't do it on purpose. I was trying to deal with some stuff and I screwed up."

His dad pats him on the arm and says, "You scared us pretty bad, Gerard."

He nods. "I know. I'm really sorry. I'm. If you want me to, like, move out or--"

"No," his mother says, her voice going soft. "Gerard, we don't want that, not at all. We like having you back home."

He nods. "I just think it wouldn't be fair to make Mikey give up his room just so you don't worry about me. But I'll do, whatever you want. Whatever will, like, make you feel better."

His mother says, "What I want is for you to never drink that much again."

He nods, "Yeah, I want that, too." It's not just a line, either. He feels wrung out and embarrassed about all the time he's missing.

His father says, "Think about Mikey. Think about the way he looks up to you. That's the example you want to set?"

Gerard shakes his head and stares down at his hands. They're shaking just a little bit. He feels like the inside of his body is shaking, too.

"We're not na•ve enough to think Mikey doesn't drink sometimes," his father tells him. "And that's fine. He's seventeen. He's going to go to parties and drink. But we don't want him to see the kinds of things he saw this weekend. We don't want him to think that kind of binge drinking is normal."

Gerard nods.

"So," says his mother. "Do you feel like total shit right now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. You look like it, too. Do you think if I made you some toast you could keep it down?"

He shrugs and says, "I'll try."

When she goes into the kitchen, his father says, "You should talk to your brother. He says it's fine, but I think this really upset him."

Gerard says, "I yelled at him this morning. Just. Not because of what he did, but because I'm a jerk. He's still really pissed at me."

"So go apologize. You know he'll forgive you."

Gerard says, "I don't know if I deserve it."

+++

Gerard makes it to his first class on Tuesday, but he's so tired and shaky, still, that he skips his studio time and just heads home, actually napping on the train. His room is the cleanest it's been in months, though he has no idea where anything is. He finds his colored pencils tucked between a copy of No Prayer for the Dying and an old videotape of Sailor Moon episodes. He can't find his favorite sketchbook anywhere, but there's an old, battered one in the center of his desk. He could mock Mikey's filing system, but, well, it's not like Gerard has one of his own. Not unless you count, "I put it over there by that thing so I wouldn't step on it."

He heads over to a quiet little coffee shop in North Arlington that roasts its own beans. He likes their coffee and how quiet it is and how nobody minds if he sits at the same table for hours at a time.

He gets a large mug of Tanzanian Peaberry and settles down at a small table in the back corner. There are only two other people in the cafŽ. He tries to work on storyboard ideas but instead he draws Mikey. He draws Mikey on the couch watching TV, remote dangling from his hand. He tries to capture the way his shoulders curl forward and the way he always leans a little to the left, the way he's always got one foot tilted at an angle. He draws a close up of Mikey's face, his angular jaw and soft full mouth and sharp, gentle eyes. He draws Mikey in bed, nothing he's actually ever seen, just from his imagination. He draws him stretched out beneath a sheet, long limbs and sex hair, glasses on the bedside table, soft, welcoming smirk on his face.

"That's gorgeous," says someone at his elbow. Gerard looks up to see the girl from behind the counter holding a pot of coffee in her hand. "Refill?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," he whispers. He thinks he's probably blushing from getting caught drawing something so intimate. He flips back a few pages, wanting to hide Mikey's body from sight, and as she refills his mug, the girl says, "The same guy, right?"

He looks down at an old drawing he'd done months before of Mikey playing the bass with his head tipped low, eyes closed, feet spread. "Um, yeah. It is."

She's got dreadlocks and bright green eyes and freckles across her nose. He can smell her body a little bit; it's nothing bad, just like maybe she doesn't believe in using chemical deodorants. He wonders if she shaves her pits. It's maybe a weird thing to find sexy, women with pit hair, but Gerard does. He thinks about flirting with her. She's pretty and he needs to just fucking move on, start living in reality, actually date someone so he can get over his stupid Mikey infatuation.

She says, "Your boyfriend, right?"

"I, um," says Gerard. "Yeah." He says it because he wants it to be true. He says it because he doesn't want the pretty, hippie barista to know he's a fucking loser that nobody loves. He says it because he likes to lie.

"I could tell just from the way you draw him. Like he's precious to you."

Gerard nods and looks back at the picture. He'd drawn it before anything had started, before he'd let himself believe that anything could happen. But Mikey's always been precious to him.

"First refill's free, after this they're fifty cents a piece," she tells him and walks back to the counter.

He starts actually drafting out ideas for his wordless comic, fills page after page with rough sketches and half-formed ideas. After an hour or so, he flips a page and what he thinks is going to be a samurai turns into Frank, laughing, Mikey smiling fondly at him and just about to roll his eyes. It hurts to look at, even though he's the one drawing it. Mikey and Frank look good together, bright eyed and affectionate.

Gerard drinks three more large mugs of coffee and gets an Žclair to go, eats it on his way home and still has a little chocolate on his thumb when he gets there. He's sucking it off as he walks into the house, licks a little whipped cream off his finger, and Mikey's looking at him, wide eyed, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl at the kitchen table.

Gerard clears his throat and says, "Hey."

Mikey nods and looks down at his huge bowl of cereal. He can eat it all, Gerard knows. He's seen Mikey do it before, then ask for seconds at dinner.

"So, um, I wanted to say that I was sorry. Sorry for getting that drunk and sorry for yelling at you and sorry for making you take care of me when I'm the one who's supposed to look out for you."

Mikey shrugs and pokes at the marshmallows floating in his milk.

"And thank you. I know I was a dick, I know I made it seem like I didn't appreciate everything you did for me, but I do. You didn't have to do all that stuff, and I probably didn't deserve you being so good to me, so thank you."

Mikey says, "It's not a big deal."

"Yeah, it is."

"You would have done it for me, so." He shrugs again and pokes at his cereal and doesn't eat it. "You were really fucked up."

Gerard winces, embarrassed.

"You want to tell me what the hell made you get that fucked up?"

Gerard really doesn't. He says, "I was just, you know. Brooding about shit. And things got out of control."

"You can tell me when you're upset, you know. I'm not a little kid."

"I know."

"You used to tell me everything."

Gerard sits down at the table across from him and says, "I still tell you everything."

"No, you don't. You're, like." He waves his hand. "You would have talked to me first, before. You wouldn't have just gotten drunk and not told me anything. And I know you resent me--"

"Why the hell would I resent you?" Gerard demands.

"It's okay. I get it, all right? I know that I'm, like, that this is my fault, but it still sucks that you didn't come talk to me."

It's on the tip of Gerard's tongue to snap that he couldn't talk to Mikey because Mikey had been busy fucking Frank at the time, but it cuts too close to the shit that really hurts, the shit that could fuck things up forever. He says, "I don't resent you."

Mikey says, "You don't have to say that. I know I'm annoying. I know I'm always bugging you and making you hang out with me and my friends and, like, being the stupid kid brother."

"You're my fucking stupid kid brother," Gerard snaps. "So I'll fucking tell you if you're annoying me, which you're not. Except for right fucking now because you seem to think that hanging out with you is, like, the suckiest part of my life." He kicks Mikey's foot under the table. "You're my friend, too, you know. I don't hang out with you just because we're related and I feel obligated or some shit."

Mikey just nods again, but the tension goes out of his shoulders and he almost smiles. Gerard wants to ruffle his hair, but he's not sure if he's allowed. He's not sure if it's anything he would have wanted to do before his attraction to Mikey burst into a place where Gerard can't ignore it.

"So," Gerard says. "Friday night movie marathon, possibly extending into the wee hours of Saturday morning. You pick the theme."

Mikey grins at him and says, "Really. You trust me to pick the theme?"

Gerard shrugs. Even if Mikey picks, like, 80s romantic comedies, he has good enough taste that they'll end up watching Say Anything or Reds, so it'll be fine.

+++

Mikey picks all Corey Haim movies for their marathon. They start with Lucas and Gerard thinks about putting rum in his Coke, but he's still not quite recovered from the last Friday. He drinks his Coke with nothing but ice in it, though he does pass the bottle of rum over to Mikey when he gestures for it.

"Poor little guy," Mikey says sadly when the movie's over. "Fuck, that always bums me out that he doesn't get the girl."

"He doesn't get that girl," Gerard tells him. "But he totally gets Winona Ryder and, face it, she grows up to be hot."

Mikey sighs and says, "Can we skip over A Time to Live and just watch Lost Boys next?"

Gerard nods, because they both love making fun of the way Jamie Gertz talks.

Sam's just met the Frog brothers when Mikey's phone rings. He looks at the screen, but instead of hitting ignore like he usually would, he answers it. "Hey. Nah, not in the mood. Corey Haim marathon with Gee. The Lost Boys. Of course we're watching Dream a Little Dream, asshole. Yeah, okay. Bring Cheetos." When he hangs up he says, "Frank's coming over."

Gerard nods and tries not to be pissed. Of course Mikey's fucking....Gerard doesn't even know what to call him. Best friend? Boyfriend? Fuck buddy? Of course Frank's coming over, because Frank always comes over. This is just the first time it's ever pissed Gerard off because he'd never seen them kissing before, never heard Mikey moan Frank's name. He's never been pissed before because he'd never had a reason to be jealous, but he is.

He smiles the way he's supposed to when Frank shows up, shifts over so Mikey can scoot closer to him and Frank can fit on the foot of the bed. He's got Cheetos and Red Vines and weed. Mikey says, "Sweet," and goes to stuff a towel into the crack under Gerard's door, opens his tiny little window even though it's cold outside and it doesn't really provide much air circulation.

Gerard's always thought the plot of Dream a Little Dream was contrived, that the writers were trying too hard to be deep with too little substance, but when he's baked he doesn't even care. He says, "Man, fuck that guy," when Joel is being an abusive asshole, and he laughs at Dinger's disgruntled sarcasm, and he giggles when Bobby dances like Michael fucking Jackson.

He says, "Fuck, remember when I told you I knew Michael Jackson?"

Mikey laughs, such a fucking stoner giggle, and lets his head fall against Gerard's shoulder. He says, "You're such a dickwad sometimes."

"Wait," says Frank, blinking at both of them. "Wait, you tried to impress your little brother by telling him you were friends with Michael Jackson?"

"He told me he was friends with Michael Jackson and if I didn't do what he said, he'd get the zombies from the Thriller video to come after me." Mikey laughs again, and Gerard sees his hand rest on Frank's thigh, just above his knee. It's casual and if Gerard didn't already know, Mikey's stoned sprawl wouldn't have made him think anything of it.

Frank laughs and leans into Mikey, pushing him closer against Gerard, and Mikey says, "I did all your fucking chores for a week. Dickwad." His breath is hot against Gerard's ear.

Frank says, "I totally fucking missed out not having a little brother to torture. Oh, shit, Meredith Salenger's tits are amazing."

Mikey and Gerard look back at the screen and sigh, because they really are.

Part Two