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bandomstuffsitTitle: The Clank of a Night Train
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pikasafire
Pairing(s): Frank/Mikey established relationship
Rating: R
Warnings: Slight gore, nightmares.
Word count: ~5000
Summary: “He’s so tired. It’s not normally like this, but Mikey’s struggling to remember the last time he slept for more than three hours without being stalked by things. People and places and scenarios that shouldn’t be scary - not anymore, not as an adult - but he wakes up, every single time, his clothes damp, his hands shaking, the fear and nausea roiling in his stomach.”
A/N: Huge thanks togala_apples, bootson and auctorial for beta duties and listening to me whine <3
Darkness.
That kind of darkness that has you blinking hopelessly into it, praying that you’re wearing a blindfold, something that’s obscuring your view: anything that means that it’s not actually dark. Mikey pats his face cautiously, plucking at imaginary material, straining his eyes desperately - but there’s nothing, no glimmer, no hint of light anywhere, and he stands there, heart racing fast in his chest, not sure if he wants to move.
What if he’s standing on the precipice of a cliff? An abyss of corpses? What if he’s surrounded by devils and demons and things that will slice his skin from his bones quicker than a breath? Spiders. Demons. Zombies. Scorpions. There could be anything out there. Anything.
Mikey knows too much about the bad shit in the world to dare moving.
But what if he could run? What if, three steps away, there’s a door, somewhere that can take him away from here. What if, just out of reach, there’s safely and light and Gerard, just waiting around the corner.
Something’s watching him.
There’s the prickle of the back of his neck, the overwhelming feeling of danger, of something lurking out of sight, waiting for the opportune moment. He has to move but his feet are stuck firm, too scared to fall, to trip, to be eaten by the things in the darkness.
And there are things. He can hear them, soft clicks and quiet breaths, he’s sure of it. Peeling skin and blood-stained teeth, people who want to hurt and kill and animals who want to chew his bones, primal and -
- he’s falling, weightless, terrifying, his heart in his throat, and he knows he’s going to die -
- he jerks. A thousand CC’s of adrenaline, and he can make out the pale glimmers of light through his curtains, can dimly make out the shape of his hand in the darkness.
It’s just him.
He moves as fast as he possibly can, slapping the switch for the lamp in his bunk, eyes scanning panicked to see that he’s alone. There’s nothing there. Of course there isn’t.
He takes a breath. Tour bus. He can hear Gerard snoring in the bunk across from him, can hear Frank cough occasionally, still fighting off the cold he’s been carrying around for weeks.
Entirely normal.
He concentrates on slowing his breathing and lays back down carefully, his heart still pounding in his chest, his skin wet with sweat. He shifts a little and pulls off his damp t-shirt, tossing it out of the bunk and on to the floor. Just a dream.
He takes a calming breath. And another.
Mikey doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
*
Gerard tosses Mikey a shirt the next morning with a significant look, pours himself the last of the coffee, and doesn’t bother refilling it. Mikey grins a little into his cup. It’s the same every morning. Frank will crack the shits when he drags himself out of bed.
“Mikes, you have to say something to Frank.” Mikey winces. Apparently, that means Gerard is going to want to have this conversation now. Again.
“Good morning?” he quips, and Gerard makes a face. Mikey buys some time by pulling the shirt over his head. He’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing one, and Gerard knows him too well for Mikey to be able to lie about what that means.
“You know what I mean.” Gerard slides into the seat across from him, running his hands through his tangled hair. “You can’t hide it from him for long - ”
“I know.” Mikey’s heard this about a million times.
“ - and the longer you wait the more pissed he’s going to be.”
“He’s not Mom. I don’t have to tell him anything.”
“He’s going to make the talk with Mom look like a pleasant conversation about unicorns and sparkles,” Gerard points out. “Frank punches, for one.” He pauses. “Or are you going to just never share a bed with your new boyfriend? Coz, I gotta say, I can’t see that working for long.”
“Not my boyfriend,” Mikey mutters. It’s automatic. An argument he and Gerard have had about fifteen times in the past week alone. “And we’re doing fine not sharing a bed. It’s not like we can both fit in the bunks anyway.”
“Your funeral.” Gerard rolls his eyes. “Don’t come crying to me when Frank punches you in the face.” He hesitates for a moment. “You know where I am if you need me.” He clutches his mug a little tighter as Frank stumbles out of the bunks, making a bee-line for the empty coffee maker. “Mikey’s fault,” he tells Frank automatically as he makes a quick exit.
Mikey just sighs. He’ll tell Frank. He will. After coffee.
*
After coffee turns into after lunch, which turns into after soundcheck, and then, well, Mikey doesn’t want to spoil the night’s show for Frank. It can wait. It’s not important. And after the show, Frank’s so buzzed and hyperactive that Mikey doesn’t want to bring him down.
And he’s back in his bunk, staring at the photos that are taped to the top. He traces a few of them with a finger and considers calling Pete. It’s almost one in the morning in LA though, and Mikey knows Pete has Bronx at the moment.
He sighs. This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. Nightmares can’t hurt him.
Mikey closes his eyes. He can do this. He can sleep.
*
He’s not alone.
It’s the first thing he’s aware of, chest tight, muscles already tense, poised for flight.
Someone’s in the corner - slow, languid movements - and Mikey moves carefully, testing his limits. He’s trapped, the heavy weight of rope around his wrists, and he’s not surprised, tugging at them quietly, breathing rapidly through his nose, trying to slow his heart rate, as if the thing can hear the pounding from across the room. It’s okay, he’ll be okay.
The sudden light that floods the room is blinding, and Mikey squeezes his eyes shut, a high-pitched panicked noise out of his mouth. He can’t hide, he can’t hide if there’s light.
“Mikey.”
He squeezes his eyes tighter. The voice is as familiar to him as his own; he’s been hearing it since he was born.
“Mikes. Open your eyes.”
There’s no way Mikey wants to see it. He can tell. There’s the heavy tang of metal in the air, a quiet dripping that Mikey wishes he couldn’t hear. It’s going to be bad, and he knows it.
Someone touches him, and he flinches. “C’mon, Mikey. Look at me.”
It’s like a compulsion. He knows what’s coming, but unwillingly, his eyes crack open, only a little, the world blurry and grey through his eyelashes. He always does what Gerard tells him. He’s a good little brother.
“Good boy.” There’s such pleasure in the tone, a hand ghosting against his cheek. Mikey fights the urge to squeeze his eyes closed again, the fingers leaving a wet trail on his skin. “You’re doing so well, Mikey. Keep going. A little more.”
Deja vu. Mikey can remember those exact words in that exact voice, young and scrawny and absolutely terrified, perched on top of his new, far too big bicycle. ”C’mon, you’re doing so well, Mikey. Keep going. A little more. You’re so brave!” Gerard at his back, wide eyed and earnest, and Mikey had turned to see, to say look how good I am, and then the world spun and tumbled and there was screaming and crying and so much blood.
He doesn’t want to do this, but he can’t stop, hands trembling and, blind, he reaches out to the voice, to the comfort of his big brother. Wet fabric under his fingers, and he fists it tight, tugs Gerard forward, the words cracked and broken in his mouth. “Gee - ”
And his eyes open -
*
It’s been weeks.
He’s so tired. It’s not normally like this, but Mikey’s struggling to remember the last time he slept for more than three hours without being stalked by things. People and places and scenarios that shouldn’t be scary - not anymore, not as an adult - but he wakes up, every single time, his clothes damp, his hands shaking, the fear and nausea roiling in his stomach.
It’s getting old.
More importantly, Frank’s starting to notice. The thought of telling Frank, of saying something as childish as, “I have nightmares,” makes him cringe, search around in his brain for another excuse, another reason to keep the secret to himself. But it’s getting harder.
It’s a long show that night. Mikey flops into an armchair in the dressing room after the show, pretty sure he’s never going to move again. His muscles ache, and it seems like it would be easier to live in the armchair than move all the way to the bus, to his bunk. Even the bottles of water on the other side of the room seem too far, and he stares at them pitifully, willing one to hover magically over to him.
“Here.” Frank hands him one. It’s not quite telekinesis, but Mikey doesn’t care.
Frank watches him carefully as Mikey downs half the bottle in a minute. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Mikey has the best blank face. “I’m good.”
Frank just makes a disbelieving noise, settling himself on the edge of the armchair, bringing a hand around to massage the back of Mikey’s neck. “Yeah. Okay.” There’s a quiet pause, and Mikey’s pretty sure that if Frank keeps doing that, he’s going to fall asleep where he’s sitting. “You know,” Frank says quietly, quiet enough that Gerard and Ray can’t hear, “your poker face isn’t nearly as good as you think it is.” He leans over, pressing a kiss to the corner of Mikey’s mouth. “Go on, sleep. You look dead on your feet. We’ll talk later.”
“Sweet-talker,” Mikey grits out with a smile, trying to cover the momentary panic. Fuck. Frank’s going to want an explanation. Stress? Too many shows in too few nights? He doesn’t want to worry Frank. He’s fine. But he closes his mouth and nods tightly, ducking out as quickly as he can. He’ll just pretend. He’s good at that.
*
Frank’s loud when he comes into the bunk area later. Mikey listens for the steps, can tell the difference between the guys - Gerard noisy and irregular, Ray solid and firm on the ground. Frank is lighter, but the kind of noisy-quiet usually reserved for toddlers and deaf grandparents. “Mikey?” Frank whispers loudly, then pauses, and Mikey holds his body still, his face buried in his pillow. He’s sleeping, he is, because then he doesn’t have to have this stupid fucking pointless conversation, where Frank will ask questions and be stupidly concerned over nothing.
The thought makes him cringe, and he tries his best to relax his shoulders, listening to the quiet ‘skritch’ of his curtains being drawn back, Frank breathing warm on his neck as he leans close, watching him for a minute. “About time you actually fucking slept,” Frank says under his breath, and for a second, Mikey thinks Frank knows he’s faking. “Stubborn idiot,” and then there’s a press of lips by his ear, an affectionate hand through his hair. “Love you,” said so quietly that Mikey’s almost sure he imagined it, except for the self-deprecating huff of laughter from Frank, the quiet sound of his curtain being drawn closed and Frank’s noisy footsteps away from the bunk.
Mikey makes sure Frank’s really gone before shifting, his heart high in his throat. They haven’t said ‘I love you’, not yet. Not as … whatever this new thing is. Mikey’s pretty sure that the movies and books tell him that he should feel light, buoyed, dizzy in love.
He feels sick.
*
His old school. Mikey doesn’t have the fondest memories of high school, other than alcohol and drugs and sex. It’s a bit of a foggy haze really, and he stares up at the big brick building, the ground out the front clogged and trapped under inches of snow.
There’s that niggling feeling that he’s late, he’s forgotten something, like he’s late for class or forgotten his textbook, and so he trudges to the door, breath frosting against the cold window as he peers in, the corridors dark and empty. Nothing. He heads around the back of the school, his feet moving automatically, soggy and wet in his old black Chucks, the snow seeping through the canvas. His fingers feel weird, frozen and numb, that weird sensation where your limbs aren’t your own. But he doesn’t feel cold.
There’s a kid around the back, huddled quietly in a ball near the back doors by the quad, snow piled up around his knees. He doesn’t look up as Mikey approaches.
“Hey.” Mikey approaches cautiously. The kid looks familiar. Mikey’s pretty sure he used to be in Home Ec class with him, that boring average kid that no one really pays attention to.
“Hey,” the kid says, preoccupied with digging at the snow piled high around his ankles. His fingers are red-raw and bleeding, leaving strange little trails of pink every time he plunges his fingers back into the ice, the colour out of place and bizarre. It hurts Mikey’s eyes.
“You seen Frank?” That’s why Mikey’s here, the startling realisation. He forgot he told Frank he’d meet him down by the gardening shed, where most of the kids at school got caught for fucking. It was a legend of sorts, the prestige of getting off without being caught.
The kid looks up. “At the pool, last I saw. Said it was outta water.”
Mikey nods. It makes sense.
The pool hall is dark and freezing. There’s ice all over the floor and snow up against the walls, dusted thick across the ground, and Mikey enters cautiously. “Frank?” The sound of his voice echoes and he can feel goosebumps raise on his skin. He’s not really dressed for the weather, he realises. A thin t-shirt and old jeans. He wonders why it’s taken so long to notice, but now he has, he shivers, the ache of cold in his bones.
“Frank?” Quieter this time, though the echo seems just as loud. Mikey moves closer, cautious, the little seed of doubt in his stomach, a lump of uncertainty and that little thrill of fear that makes his heart beat a little faster in his chest. “C’mon, come out you stupid fucker. We’ve only got an hour before class.”
Silence. Silence so loud that Mikey winces, can only hear his own voice screaming back at him, and he clamps his hands over his ears. Black and white and grey in here.
And red.
It’s not much, a smear of colour in the darkness on the far side of the pool, bright and vivid like something out of Sin City. It draws him in, something so out of place and obvious, and it’s his own fault really, the way his feet slide across the ice on the floor, teetering, arms held out for balance, the empty cavern of the unfilled pool to his right. Where did the red come from.
He’s close, almost there, slipping, sliding, and there’s a misstep - a foot in the wrong place and his arms pinwheel, desperate for traction, for balance, trying to avoid to decent into the giant hole. His fingers scramble for purchase as he falls, but it’s like the world has tilted, pouring him towards the empty pool until his head hits the ground with a heavy thunk, the dizzying vertigo when he opens his eyes and sees double blurs. He touches his head gently, his hand coming away with ice and red and wet.
Not all his, he realises. Gerard’s and Frank’s and Ray’s and Lindsey’s, James’, Pete’s. A pool of mangled corpses. They’re all there, eyes wide and sightless, and Mikey scrambles away, pushing away with his feet, blood seeping into his jeans and hands and spreading towards him --
*
-- “Whoa, whoa! What the fuck?” Frank’s up in his face, freaked out and panicking. “Mikey?!”
“Frank, just fucking move.” Gerard’s there, hands on his chest, pressing him still. “Jesus, Mikey. You okay?”
Mikey nods, shaking hard enough that he’s pretty sure even Ray can see it, from where he’s peering from behind the others.
“He’s fine, guys. Go back to sleep. Just a bad dream, okay?” Gerard waves a dismissive hand at them, and Ray looks over in concern.
“You okay, Mikeyway?” Ray asks. “Need anything?”
He has to swallow twice, make sure he’s not going to vomit all over his sheets before he talks. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine, his voice tight and scratchy with tension, and he spares a concerned thought as to whether or not he made any noise while he was sleeping.
Ray nods. “Okay.” He trusts Mikey enough to go back to bed, for Mikey to tell the truth, and Mikey is. He’s fine
“Go back to sleep, Frank,” Gerard says. “C’mon, Mikey. I’m not tired. Wanna watch Aladdin?”
“Lion King,” Mikey counters, trying to quell the shaking in his hands, and Gerard makes a face.
“I cannot believe you like the Lion King over Aladdin. It’s like we’re not even related.” It’s an old joke, and Mikey tries a smile, lopsided and peculiar on his face. Gerard sighs dramatically. “Okay, I’ll go put it on. And coffee. Need coffee.”
Frank stares at Mikey as Gerard vanishes into the back room. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, frustration lacing his tone, and Mikey takes an unsteady breath, still not sure if he trusts his arms and legs enough to try levering himself out of his bunk.
“Nothing,” Mikey says. “I’m fine.”
“Fuck off,” Frank snaps. “Don’t lie to me, Mikey.”
Mikey swallows. “It’s just a nightmare, okay. Everyone has them. I’m okay now, you can go back to sleep.”
“You’re okay?” Frank grabs for Mikey’s hand, holds it tight between his own. “You’re shaking. You look like you’re about to puke. And you haven’t slept in weeks. Is this what’s been happening?” He looks hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s just a nightmare, Frank. I didn’t want to freak you out.” Mikey tries to quell the shakes. “It’s no big deal, don’t worry about it. Really. I’m just going to watch the Lion King with Gerard and go back to sleep.”
“Tough shit.” Frank looks angry. “Because I am going to worry about it. Why didn’t you say anything? Is this why you’ve refused to share a bunk?”
“The bunks are tiny, Frank.”
“Yeah, because you’re such a fucking elephant. We totally won’t fit.” It’s an old argument, and Frank rolls his eyes. “Look, I love you, okay.” He stumbles over the words, clumsy and unfamiliar in his mouth. “And I worry about you, and then I find out you’ve been having these horrible nightmares and you don’t tell me?”
Mikey droops. “It’s just dreams. Jesus. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you next time, okay?”
“We should share a bunk? I could help - ” and he looks so hopeful.
“No.” It’s automatic, defensive. The thought makes Mikey’s stomach clench. Gerard’s seen them, they shared a room, but it’s Gerard. Mikey really prefers to limit the amount of people see him being this pathetic, and the fact Frank saw, the fact he’s turning it into this big deal when Mikey’s fine, makes his face burn a little with embarrassment. “I’m tired, Frank. Go to bed, we’ll talk about it in the morning.” A blatant lie on all accounts, but Mikey lets his exhaustion show, hoping to guilt Frank into shutting the hell up.
Frank’s shoulders sag. He knows they won’t talk about it. “Yeah. Okay.” He moves forward, pulls Mikey close, presses a slow, gentle kiss against his mouth. “You let me know if you need anything, alright?”
Mikey nods.
“Really. Anything.”
“I know.” Mikey does. Knows that Frank would give him anything he asked for, but this is something different. Frank has enough bullshit to deal with, he doesn’t need Mikey’s. “Thanks.” He’s relieved when Frank nods, stepping away to let Mikey escape to the back room.
Gerard kindly waits until the end of the opening song before bringing it up. “I told you so.”
“Fuck off.” There’s no rancour in it, just quiet weariness. “It’s fine, I’ll get over it.” A quiet sigh. “Always do.”
Gerard slings an arm over his shoulder, pulling him in close, pressing lips against Mikey’s forehead. “You’re not stupid, you’re not pathetic, none of us are going to judge you, and Frank loves you. Don’t you think he deserves the chance? You can’t just avoid sharing a bed with your boyfriend for the rest of your life, remember.”
Mikey doesn’t bother with the denial. He hates that Gerard is right and knows exactly what he’s thinking, so he lets himself slump against Gerard’s shoulder, lets his exhaustion through. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
*
“We should try,” Frank says, a few nights later out of nowhere, and Mikey knows exactly what Frank means. They haven’t spoken about it, not really, just a few dismissive explanations from Mikey, ignoring the concerned glances Frank gives him the best he can.
“I told you, I can’t get pregnant,” Mikey quips instead, not looking up from where Gerard’s kicking his ass at Xbox.
Gerard looks between them for a moment before pressing pause on the controller. “Uh. I’m going to... make a coffee. For. Um. Ten minutes.”
“Subtle,” Mikey mutters as Gerard makes a quick exit, but he drops the other controller, giving Frank a vague semblance of attention. “Try what?”
“Sleeping together - ” Mikey grins, and Frank holds up a hand before Mikey can make a dirty joke. “Don’t even, Mikeyway.”
“Fun-killer.”
“What do you think?” Frank says, when it’s obvious that Mikey’s not going to give him an answer.
Mikey shrugs. “I don’t know. Aren’t things working the way they are? I mean, we kinda talked about it last time and the bunks are kinda small.” He’s trying to think of anything. Any reason why it won’t work. He doesn’t want a repeat.
“Not in the bunks. Hotel night. Day after tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Mikey can’t really think of a reason to say no to that, can already feel the coils of panic in his stomach, the talk with Gerard still achingly fresh in his mind. “Um. Yeah. Okay.”
Frank grins. “Awesome.” He flops into the seat beside Mikey, picking up Gerard’s controller. “My turn to kick your ass then.”
Mikey picks his up, but his heart’s not in it.
*
Mikey tries not to think about it. Anything can happen in two days, no point in panicking. But Frank stays healthy, and Gerard stays ridiculous and uninjured. Mikey’s nightmares don’t stop.
He really, really doesn’t want to do this. There’s got to be a way around it, and Mikey mentally composes a list of things to get out of it. He could break up with Frank, except Gerard would kill him, and Mikey really likes him. He could take some sleeping tablets, but the thought of being trapped in a nightmare, the idea of not being able to wake up, freaks him out. Drugs. Mikey considers it, the churning guilt in his stomach. He’s clean, but the idea is tempting. Too tempting. He could just say no. It’s really the most obvious solution, but for Frank’s disappointed face, the laughable idea that Frank would let it go without a reason, and his stupid fucking desire to ‘help’. It’s impossible. Mikey’s fine.
But he’s never faced a hotel night with such dread before.
*
It’s just like always, except Frank’s jumpy and eager, Mikey withdrawn and tired, and neither of them says anything until it’s time for bed, Mikey sitting at the end of the bed, his shoulders slumped.
“Wake me up if you need anything,” Frank says quietly, standing close, and Mikey’s pretty sure Gerard must be giving Frank lessons in the concerned, earnest look.
He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing “Yeah. Sure,” he says, dismissively, waving a vague hand.
“Promise me, Mikey.” Frank’s hand on his shoulder, and he’s ducking his head so he can see Mikey’s face.
Mikey resists the urge to slap the hand away, tries to quell the frustration building in his chest. “I promise, alright?” And perhaps he’s more curt than he needs to be, because Frank nods and moves away, shifting to the other side of the bed.
“Alright.”
They undress silently, slide beneath the sheets, and Mikey expects Frank to shift over, to make a move. Stung and aching when he doesn’t. It’s a waste of a hotel night, when they have the space and the privacy to fuck properly, and the fact Frank’s tip-toeing around him, treating him like he’s fragile, it’s painful. He’s not weak. He’s fine.
So he leans over, pulls Frank closer, presses kisses against Frank’s mouth until he responds. Maybe he won’t have nightmares tonight. Maybe sex will tire him out. Maybe Frank will sleep through it. He runs it like a loop through his brain.
It’ll be okay.
*
It’s unclear.
Impressions of eyes and hands and teeth, pulling tugging biting, and Mikey’s runningrunningrunning, only he’s not sure why or where or what’s happening. That primal fear, the desperation of flight, and Mikey knows without a doubt that if he slows down, if he stumbles or falls or isn’t fast enough, they’ll get him; they’ll tear his head from his neck, his fingers from his hands, and they’ll make his body into their own plaything.
Monsters and knives and the threat of the sharpness of their knives.
He turns a corner, almost-home, almost home, and it’s like a bad horror movie, they’re gaining and he knows, he knows he’s not going to make it -
*
“It’s okay.” Frank’s got him, arms tight around his torso, and Mikey fights it until Frank lets go.
Mikey pulls away, swings his feet over the side of the bed, taking quick, shallow breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, overly conscious of Frank’s hovering to the side, hand out to touch, but clearly not sure if it’s welcome.
The careful brush of fingers on his shoulder, dragging against his damp t-shirt. A quiet, “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
It’s a truce, an offer of space for Mikey to compose himself. Frank’s here though. He’s here and Mikey’s safe and it was just a dream. Mikey clenches his fists, tries to stop the shaking. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Here. He’s safe. Frank’s safe. Gerard’s safe. Everyone’s okay. He repeats it to himself, resisting to urge to give Gerard a call, to make double sure.
“Here.” Frank holds out a glass of water, careful to support the bottom until he’s sure Mikey has it. If he notices the tremor in Mikey’s hands, he doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry,” Mikey mutters.
Frank sits next to him, the dip in the mattress making Mikey lean into him. “S’okay.” A cautious arm around Mikey’s shoulder. “You want to tell me about it?” It’s awkward, like Frank’s been reading advice from the Internet again, and Mikey shakes his head.
“It’s just a stupid nightmare.” He really, really doesn’t want to talk about it. It’ll sound stupid out loud. Childish. There’s a bit of an awkward silence, and Mikey stares into his glass, tense and frustrated. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t. “Go back to sleep, Frank. I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
Mikey takes a breath, resisting the urge to shrug off Frank’s hand, to leave, to tell him to shut the fuck up. He’s trying to help, and not helping at all.
Frank must notice the tension in Mikey’s body because he shifts a little, fingers pressing into the tense muscles at the juncture of neck and shoulders. “C’mon, lie back down with me. You don’t have to sleep.” He pulls the glass from Mikey’s hand, tugging at the front of Mikey’s damp shirt. “Off,” he demands, waiting until Mikey’s done so before pushing him gently back on the bed. “Look, just relax, okay?”
“Easy for you to say.” It’s almost silent, there’s no venom in it, just a quiet exhaustion.
Frank ignores it, focusing on arranging Mikey just right on his stomach, his fingers ghosting over the skin of his back for a moment before digging his fingers gently into the tight muscles down Mikey’s spine. “Alright?” he asks quietly after a while, Mikey relaxing slowly under his hands..
Mikey shifts a little, turning with his cheek pressed against the mattress so he can see Frank’s face. “You don’t have - ”
“Don’t say it, Mikeyway,” Frank scowls, keeping his touch light and gentle. More stroking his skin than a proper massage. “I’m not going to make you talk about it. I’m not going to tiptoe around you, but I’m going to try and make you feel better. I don’t think you’re pathetic, but I do think your ‘I’m fine’ routine is annoying as fuck. So shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry.” But Frank can see the smile curving Mikey’s mouth
“And I’m going to slap you if you apologise again.” Frank pokes Mikey gently in the side. He stops for a moment, pressing a kiss to Mikey’s shoulder. “Anything you need, Mikey. Promise. Close your eyes.”
Mikey sleeps.
Author:
pikasafirePairing(s): Frank/Mikey established relationship
Rating: R
Warnings: Slight gore, nightmares.
Word count: ~5000
Summary: “He’s so tired. It’s not normally like this, but Mikey’s struggling to remember the last time he slept for more than three hours without being stalked by things. People and places and scenarios that shouldn’t be scary - not anymore, not as an adult - but he wakes up, every single time, his clothes damp, his hands shaking, the fear and nausea roiling in his stomach.”
A/N: Huge thanks to
gala_apples, bootson and auctorial for beta duties and listening to me whine <3Darkness.
That kind of darkness that has you blinking hopelessly into it, praying that you’re wearing a blindfold, something that’s obscuring your view: anything that means that it’s not actually dark. Mikey pats his face cautiously, plucking at imaginary material, straining his eyes desperately - but there’s nothing, no glimmer, no hint of light anywhere, and he stands there, heart racing fast in his chest, not sure if he wants to move.
What if he’s standing on the precipice of a cliff? An abyss of corpses? What if he’s surrounded by devils and demons and things that will slice his skin from his bones quicker than a breath? Spiders. Demons. Zombies. Scorpions. There could be anything out there. Anything.
Mikey knows too much about the bad shit in the world to dare moving.
But what if he could run? What if, three steps away, there’s a door, somewhere that can take him away from here. What if, just out of reach, there’s safely and light and Gerard, just waiting around the corner.
Something’s watching him.
There’s the prickle of the back of his neck, the overwhelming feeling of danger, of something lurking out of sight, waiting for the opportune moment. He has to move but his feet are stuck firm, too scared to fall, to trip, to be eaten by the things in the darkness.
And there are things. He can hear them, soft clicks and quiet breaths, he’s sure of it. Peeling skin and blood-stained teeth, people who want to hurt and kill and animals who want to chew his bones, primal and -
- he’s falling, weightless, terrifying, his heart in his throat, and he knows he’s going to die -
- he jerks. A thousand CC’s of adrenaline, and he can make out the pale glimmers of light through his curtains, can dimly make out the shape of his hand in the darkness.
It’s just him.
He moves as fast as he possibly can, slapping the switch for the lamp in his bunk, eyes scanning panicked to see that he’s alone. There’s nothing there. Of course there isn’t.
He takes a breath. Tour bus. He can hear Gerard snoring in the bunk across from him, can hear Frank cough occasionally, still fighting off the cold he’s been carrying around for weeks.
Entirely normal.
He concentrates on slowing his breathing and lays back down carefully, his heart still pounding in his chest, his skin wet with sweat. He shifts a little and pulls off his damp t-shirt, tossing it out of the bunk and on to the floor. Just a dream.
He takes a calming breath. And another.
Mikey doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
*
Gerard tosses Mikey a shirt the next morning with a significant look, pours himself the last of the coffee, and doesn’t bother refilling it. Mikey grins a little into his cup. It’s the same every morning. Frank will crack the shits when he drags himself out of bed.
“Mikes, you have to say something to Frank.” Mikey winces. Apparently, that means Gerard is going to want to have this conversation now. Again.
“Good morning?” he quips, and Gerard makes a face. Mikey buys some time by pulling the shirt over his head. He’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing one, and Gerard knows him too well for Mikey to be able to lie about what that means.
“You know what I mean.” Gerard slides into the seat across from him, running his hands through his tangled hair. “You can’t hide it from him for long - ”
“I know.” Mikey’s heard this about a million times.
“ - and the longer you wait the more pissed he’s going to be.”
“He’s not Mom. I don’t have to tell him anything.”
“He’s going to make the talk with Mom look like a pleasant conversation about unicorns and sparkles,” Gerard points out. “Frank punches, for one.” He pauses. “Or are you going to just never share a bed with your new boyfriend? Coz, I gotta say, I can’t see that working for long.”
“Not my boyfriend,” Mikey mutters. It’s automatic. An argument he and Gerard have had about fifteen times in the past week alone. “And we’re doing fine not sharing a bed. It’s not like we can both fit in the bunks anyway.”
“Your funeral.” Gerard rolls his eyes. “Don’t come crying to me when Frank punches you in the face.” He hesitates for a moment. “You know where I am if you need me.” He clutches his mug a little tighter as Frank stumbles out of the bunks, making a bee-line for the empty coffee maker. “Mikey’s fault,” he tells Frank automatically as he makes a quick exit.
Mikey just sighs. He’ll tell Frank. He will. After coffee.
*
After coffee turns into after lunch, which turns into after soundcheck, and then, well, Mikey doesn’t want to spoil the night’s show for Frank. It can wait. It’s not important. And after the show, Frank’s so buzzed and hyperactive that Mikey doesn’t want to bring him down.
And he’s back in his bunk, staring at the photos that are taped to the top. He traces a few of them with a finger and considers calling Pete. It’s almost one in the morning in LA though, and Mikey knows Pete has Bronx at the moment.
He sighs. This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. Nightmares can’t hurt him.
Mikey closes his eyes. He can do this. He can sleep.
*
He’s not alone.
It’s the first thing he’s aware of, chest tight, muscles already tense, poised for flight.
Someone’s in the corner - slow, languid movements - and Mikey moves carefully, testing his limits. He’s trapped, the heavy weight of rope around his wrists, and he’s not surprised, tugging at them quietly, breathing rapidly through his nose, trying to slow his heart rate, as if the thing can hear the pounding from across the room. It’s okay, he’ll be okay.
The sudden light that floods the room is blinding, and Mikey squeezes his eyes shut, a high-pitched panicked noise out of his mouth. He can’t hide, he can’t hide if there’s light.
“Mikey.”
He squeezes his eyes tighter. The voice is as familiar to him as his own; he’s been hearing it since he was born.
“Mikes. Open your eyes.”
There’s no way Mikey wants to see it. He can tell. There’s the heavy tang of metal in the air, a quiet dripping that Mikey wishes he couldn’t hear. It’s going to be bad, and he knows it.
Someone touches him, and he flinches. “C’mon, Mikey. Look at me.”
It’s like a compulsion. He knows what’s coming, but unwillingly, his eyes crack open, only a little, the world blurry and grey through his eyelashes. He always does what Gerard tells him. He’s a good little brother.
“Good boy.” There’s such pleasure in the tone, a hand ghosting against his cheek. Mikey fights the urge to squeeze his eyes closed again, the fingers leaving a wet trail on his skin. “You’re doing so well, Mikey. Keep going. A little more.”
Deja vu. Mikey can remember those exact words in that exact voice, young and scrawny and absolutely terrified, perched on top of his new, far too big bicycle. ”C’mon, you’re doing so well, Mikey. Keep going. A little more. You’re so brave!” Gerard at his back, wide eyed and earnest, and Mikey had turned to see, to say look how good I am, and then the world spun and tumbled and there was screaming and crying and so much blood.
He doesn’t want to do this, but he can’t stop, hands trembling and, blind, he reaches out to the voice, to the comfort of his big brother. Wet fabric under his fingers, and he fists it tight, tugs Gerard forward, the words cracked and broken in his mouth. “Gee - ”
And his eyes open -
*
It’s been weeks.
He’s so tired. It’s not normally like this, but Mikey’s struggling to remember the last time he slept for more than three hours without being stalked by things. People and places and scenarios that shouldn’t be scary - not anymore, not as an adult - but he wakes up, every single time, his clothes damp, his hands shaking, the fear and nausea roiling in his stomach.
It’s getting old.
More importantly, Frank’s starting to notice. The thought of telling Frank, of saying something as childish as, “I have nightmares,” makes him cringe, search around in his brain for another excuse, another reason to keep the secret to himself. But it’s getting harder.
It’s a long show that night. Mikey flops into an armchair in the dressing room after the show, pretty sure he’s never going to move again. His muscles ache, and it seems like it would be easier to live in the armchair than move all the way to the bus, to his bunk. Even the bottles of water on the other side of the room seem too far, and he stares at them pitifully, willing one to hover magically over to him.
“Here.” Frank hands him one. It’s not quite telekinesis, but Mikey doesn’t care.
Frank watches him carefully as Mikey downs half the bottle in a minute. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Mikey has the best blank face. “I’m good.”
Frank just makes a disbelieving noise, settling himself on the edge of the armchair, bringing a hand around to massage the back of Mikey’s neck. “Yeah. Okay.” There’s a quiet pause, and Mikey’s pretty sure that if Frank keeps doing that, he’s going to fall asleep where he’s sitting. “You know,” Frank says quietly, quiet enough that Gerard and Ray can’t hear, “your poker face isn’t nearly as good as you think it is.” He leans over, pressing a kiss to the corner of Mikey’s mouth. “Go on, sleep. You look dead on your feet. We’ll talk later.”
“Sweet-talker,” Mikey grits out with a smile, trying to cover the momentary panic. Fuck. Frank’s going to want an explanation. Stress? Too many shows in too few nights? He doesn’t want to worry Frank. He’s fine. But he closes his mouth and nods tightly, ducking out as quickly as he can. He’ll just pretend. He’s good at that.
*
Frank’s loud when he comes into the bunk area later. Mikey listens for the steps, can tell the difference between the guys - Gerard noisy and irregular, Ray solid and firm on the ground. Frank is lighter, but the kind of noisy-quiet usually reserved for toddlers and deaf grandparents. “Mikey?” Frank whispers loudly, then pauses, and Mikey holds his body still, his face buried in his pillow. He’s sleeping, he is, because then he doesn’t have to have this stupid fucking pointless conversation, where Frank will ask questions and be stupidly concerned over nothing.
The thought makes him cringe, and he tries his best to relax his shoulders, listening to the quiet ‘skritch’ of his curtains being drawn back, Frank breathing warm on his neck as he leans close, watching him for a minute. “About time you actually fucking slept,” Frank says under his breath, and for a second, Mikey thinks Frank knows he’s faking. “Stubborn idiot,” and then there’s a press of lips by his ear, an affectionate hand through his hair. “Love you,” said so quietly that Mikey’s almost sure he imagined it, except for the self-deprecating huff of laughter from Frank, the quiet sound of his curtain being drawn closed and Frank’s noisy footsteps away from the bunk.
Mikey makes sure Frank’s really gone before shifting, his heart high in his throat. They haven’t said ‘I love you’, not yet. Not as … whatever this new thing is. Mikey’s pretty sure that the movies and books tell him that he should feel light, buoyed, dizzy in love.
He feels sick.
*
His old school. Mikey doesn’t have the fondest memories of high school, other than alcohol and drugs and sex. It’s a bit of a foggy haze really, and he stares up at the big brick building, the ground out the front clogged and trapped under inches of snow.
There’s that niggling feeling that he’s late, he’s forgotten something, like he’s late for class or forgotten his textbook, and so he trudges to the door, breath frosting against the cold window as he peers in, the corridors dark and empty. Nothing. He heads around the back of the school, his feet moving automatically, soggy and wet in his old black Chucks, the snow seeping through the canvas. His fingers feel weird, frozen and numb, that weird sensation where your limbs aren’t your own. But he doesn’t feel cold.
There’s a kid around the back, huddled quietly in a ball near the back doors by the quad, snow piled up around his knees. He doesn’t look up as Mikey approaches.
“Hey.” Mikey approaches cautiously. The kid looks familiar. Mikey’s pretty sure he used to be in Home Ec class with him, that boring average kid that no one really pays attention to.
“Hey,” the kid says, preoccupied with digging at the snow piled high around his ankles. His fingers are red-raw and bleeding, leaving strange little trails of pink every time he plunges his fingers back into the ice, the colour out of place and bizarre. It hurts Mikey’s eyes.
“You seen Frank?” That’s why Mikey’s here, the startling realisation. He forgot he told Frank he’d meet him down by the gardening shed, where most of the kids at school got caught for fucking. It was a legend of sorts, the prestige of getting off without being caught.
The kid looks up. “At the pool, last I saw. Said it was outta water.”
Mikey nods. It makes sense.
The pool hall is dark and freezing. There’s ice all over the floor and snow up against the walls, dusted thick across the ground, and Mikey enters cautiously. “Frank?” The sound of his voice echoes and he can feel goosebumps raise on his skin. He’s not really dressed for the weather, he realises. A thin t-shirt and old jeans. He wonders why it’s taken so long to notice, but now he has, he shivers, the ache of cold in his bones.
“Frank?” Quieter this time, though the echo seems just as loud. Mikey moves closer, cautious, the little seed of doubt in his stomach, a lump of uncertainty and that little thrill of fear that makes his heart beat a little faster in his chest. “C’mon, come out you stupid fucker. We’ve only got an hour before class.”
Silence. Silence so loud that Mikey winces, can only hear his own voice screaming back at him, and he clamps his hands over his ears. Black and white and grey in here.
And red.
It’s not much, a smear of colour in the darkness on the far side of the pool, bright and vivid like something out of Sin City. It draws him in, something so out of place and obvious, and it’s his own fault really, the way his feet slide across the ice on the floor, teetering, arms held out for balance, the empty cavern of the unfilled pool to his right. Where did the red come from.
He’s close, almost there, slipping, sliding, and there’s a misstep - a foot in the wrong place and his arms pinwheel, desperate for traction, for balance, trying to avoid to decent into the giant hole. His fingers scramble for purchase as he falls, but it’s like the world has tilted, pouring him towards the empty pool until his head hits the ground with a heavy thunk, the dizzying vertigo when he opens his eyes and sees double blurs. He touches his head gently, his hand coming away with ice and red and wet.
Not all his, he realises. Gerard’s and Frank’s and Ray’s and Lindsey’s, James’, Pete’s. A pool of mangled corpses. They’re all there, eyes wide and sightless, and Mikey scrambles away, pushing away with his feet, blood seeping into his jeans and hands and spreading towards him --
*
-- “Whoa, whoa! What the fuck?” Frank’s up in his face, freaked out and panicking. “Mikey?!”
“Frank, just fucking move.” Gerard’s there, hands on his chest, pressing him still. “Jesus, Mikey. You okay?”
Mikey nods, shaking hard enough that he’s pretty sure even Ray can see it, from where he’s peering from behind the others.
“He’s fine, guys. Go back to sleep. Just a bad dream, okay?” Gerard waves a dismissive hand at them, and Ray looks over in concern.
“You okay, Mikeyway?” Ray asks. “Need anything?”
He has to swallow twice, make sure he’s not going to vomit all over his sheets before he talks. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine, his voice tight and scratchy with tension, and he spares a concerned thought as to whether or not he made any noise while he was sleeping.
Ray nods. “Okay.” He trusts Mikey enough to go back to bed, for Mikey to tell the truth, and Mikey is. He’s fine
“Go back to sleep, Frank,” Gerard says. “C’mon, Mikey. I’m not tired. Wanna watch Aladdin?”
“Lion King,” Mikey counters, trying to quell the shaking in his hands, and Gerard makes a face.
“I cannot believe you like the Lion King over Aladdin. It’s like we’re not even related.” It’s an old joke, and Mikey tries a smile, lopsided and peculiar on his face. Gerard sighs dramatically. “Okay, I’ll go put it on. And coffee. Need coffee.”
Frank stares at Mikey as Gerard vanishes into the back room. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, frustration lacing his tone, and Mikey takes an unsteady breath, still not sure if he trusts his arms and legs enough to try levering himself out of his bunk.
“Nothing,” Mikey says. “I’m fine.”
“Fuck off,” Frank snaps. “Don’t lie to me, Mikey.”
Mikey swallows. “It’s just a nightmare, okay. Everyone has them. I’m okay now, you can go back to sleep.”
“You’re okay?” Frank grabs for Mikey’s hand, holds it tight between his own. “You’re shaking. You look like you’re about to puke. And you haven’t slept in weeks. Is this what’s been happening?” He looks hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s just a nightmare, Frank. I didn’t want to freak you out.” Mikey tries to quell the shakes. “It’s no big deal, don’t worry about it. Really. I’m just going to watch the Lion King with Gerard and go back to sleep.”
“Tough shit.” Frank looks angry. “Because I am going to worry about it. Why didn’t you say anything? Is this why you’ve refused to share a bunk?”
“The bunks are tiny, Frank.”
“Yeah, because you’re such a fucking elephant. We totally won’t fit.” It’s an old argument, and Frank rolls his eyes. “Look, I love you, okay.” He stumbles over the words, clumsy and unfamiliar in his mouth. “And I worry about you, and then I find out you’ve been having these horrible nightmares and you don’t tell me?”
Mikey droops. “It’s just dreams. Jesus. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you next time, okay?”
“We should share a bunk? I could help - ” and he looks so hopeful.
“No.” It’s automatic, defensive. The thought makes Mikey’s stomach clench. Gerard’s seen them, they shared a room, but it’s Gerard. Mikey really prefers to limit the amount of people see him being this pathetic, and the fact Frank saw, the fact he’s turning it into this big deal when Mikey’s fine, makes his face burn a little with embarrassment. “I’m tired, Frank. Go to bed, we’ll talk about it in the morning.” A blatant lie on all accounts, but Mikey lets his exhaustion show, hoping to guilt Frank into shutting the hell up.
Frank’s shoulders sag. He knows they won’t talk about it. “Yeah. Okay.” He moves forward, pulls Mikey close, presses a slow, gentle kiss against his mouth. “You let me know if you need anything, alright?”
Mikey nods.
“Really. Anything.”
“I know.” Mikey does. Knows that Frank would give him anything he asked for, but this is something different. Frank has enough bullshit to deal with, he doesn’t need Mikey’s. “Thanks.” He’s relieved when Frank nods, stepping away to let Mikey escape to the back room.
Gerard kindly waits until the end of the opening song before bringing it up. “I told you so.”
“Fuck off.” There’s no rancour in it, just quiet weariness. “It’s fine, I’ll get over it.” A quiet sigh. “Always do.”
Gerard slings an arm over his shoulder, pulling him in close, pressing lips against Mikey’s forehead. “You’re not stupid, you’re not pathetic, none of us are going to judge you, and Frank loves you. Don’t you think he deserves the chance? You can’t just avoid sharing a bed with your boyfriend for the rest of your life, remember.”
Mikey doesn’t bother with the denial. He hates that Gerard is right and knows exactly what he’s thinking, so he lets himself slump against Gerard’s shoulder, lets his exhaustion through. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
*
“We should try,” Frank says, a few nights later out of nowhere, and Mikey knows exactly what Frank means. They haven’t spoken about it, not really, just a few dismissive explanations from Mikey, ignoring the concerned glances Frank gives him the best he can.
“I told you, I can’t get pregnant,” Mikey quips instead, not looking up from where Gerard’s kicking his ass at Xbox.
Gerard looks between them for a moment before pressing pause on the controller. “Uh. I’m going to... make a coffee. For. Um. Ten minutes.”
“Subtle,” Mikey mutters as Gerard makes a quick exit, but he drops the other controller, giving Frank a vague semblance of attention. “Try what?”
“Sleeping together - ” Mikey grins, and Frank holds up a hand before Mikey can make a dirty joke. “Don’t even, Mikeyway.”
“Fun-killer.”
“What do you think?” Frank says, when it’s obvious that Mikey’s not going to give him an answer.
Mikey shrugs. “I don’t know. Aren’t things working the way they are? I mean, we kinda talked about it last time and the bunks are kinda small.” He’s trying to think of anything. Any reason why it won’t work. He doesn’t want a repeat.
“Not in the bunks. Hotel night. Day after tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Mikey can’t really think of a reason to say no to that, can already feel the coils of panic in his stomach, the talk with Gerard still achingly fresh in his mind. “Um. Yeah. Okay.”
Frank grins. “Awesome.” He flops into the seat beside Mikey, picking up Gerard’s controller. “My turn to kick your ass then.”
Mikey picks his up, but his heart’s not in it.
*
Mikey tries not to think about it. Anything can happen in two days, no point in panicking. But Frank stays healthy, and Gerard stays ridiculous and uninjured. Mikey’s nightmares don’t stop.
He really, really doesn’t want to do this. There’s got to be a way around it, and Mikey mentally composes a list of things to get out of it. He could break up with Frank, except Gerard would kill him, and Mikey really likes him. He could take some sleeping tablets, but the thought of being trapped in a nightmare, the idea of not being able to wake up, freaks him out. Drugs. Mikey considers it, the churning guilt in his stomach. He’s clean, but the idea is tempting. Too tempting. He could just say no. It’s really the most obvious solution, but for Frank’s disappointed face, the laughable idea that Frank would let it go without a reason, and his stupid fucking desire to ‘help’. It’s impossible. Mikey’s fine.
But he’s never faced a hotel night with such dread before.
*
It’s just like always, except Frank’s jumpy and eager, Mikey withdrawn and tired, and neither of them says anything until it’s time for bed, Mikey sitting at the end of the bed, his shoulders slumped.
“Wake me up if you need anything,” Frank says quietly, standing close, and Mikey’s pretty sure Gerard must be giving Frank lessons in the concerned, earnest look.
He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing “Yeah. Sure,” he says, dismissively, waving a vague hand.
“Promise me, Mikey.” Frank’s hand on his shoulder, and he’s ducking his head so he can see Mikey’s face.
Mikey resists the urge to slap the hand away, tries to quell the frustration building in his chest. “I promise, alright?” And perhaps he’s more curt than he needs to be, because Frank nods and moves away, shifting to the other side of the bed.
“Alright.”
They undress silently, slide beneath the sheets, and Mikey expects Frank to shift over, to make a move. Stung and aching when he doesn’t. It’s a waste of a hotel night, when they have the space and the privacy to fuck properly, and the fact Frank’s tip-toeing around him, treating him like he’s fragile, it’s painful. He’s not weak. He’s fine.
So he leans over, pulls Frank closer, presses kisses against Frank’s mouth until he responds. Maybe he won’t have nightmares tonight. Maybe sex will tire him out. Maybe Frank will sleep through it. He runs it like a loop through his brain.
It’ll be okay.
*
It’s unclear.
Impressions of eyes and hands and teeth, pulling tugging biting, and Mikey’s runningrunningrunning, only he’s not sure why or where or what’s happening. That primal fear, the desperation of flight, and Mikey knows without a doubt that if he slows down, if he stumbles or falls or isn’t fast enough, they’ll get him; they’ll tear his head from his neck, his fingers from his hands, and they’ll make his body into their own plaything.
Monsters and knives and the threat of the sharpness of their knives.
He turns a corner, almost-home, almost home, and it’s like a bad horror movie, they’re gaining and he knows, he knows he’s not going to make it -
*
“It’s okay.” Frank’s got him, arms tight around his torso, and Mikey fights it until Frank lets go.
Mikey pulls away, swings his feet over the side of the bed, taking quick, shallow breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, overly conscious of Frank’s hovering to the side, hand out to touch, but clearly not sure if it’s welcome.
The careful brush of fingers on his shoulder, dragging against his damp t-shirt. A quiet, “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
It’s a truce, an offer of space for Mikey to compose himself. Frank’s here though. He’s here and Mikey’s safe and it was just a dream. Mikey clenches his fists, tries to stop the shaking. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Here. He’s safe. Frank’s safe. Gerard’s safe. Everyone’s okay. He repeats it to himself, resisting to urge to give Gerard a call, to make double sure.
“Here.” Frank holds out a glass of water, careful to support the bottom until he’s sure Mikey has it. If he notices the tremor in Mikey’s hands, he doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry,” Mikey mutters.
Frank sits next to him, the dip in the mattress making Mikey lean into him. “S’okay.” A cautious arm around Mikey’s shoulder. “You want to tell me about it?” It’s awkward, like Frank’s been reading advice from the Internet again, and Mikey shakes his head.
“It’s just a stupid nightmare.” He really, really doesn’t want to talk about it. It’ll sound stupid out loud. Childish. There’s a bit of an awkward silence, and Mikey stares into his glass, tense and frustrated. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t. “Go back to sleep, Frank. I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
Mikey takes a breath, resisting the urge to shrug off Frank’s hand, to leave, to tell him to shut the fuck up. He’s trying to help, and not helping at all.
Frank must notice the tension in Mikey’s body because he shifts a little, fingers pressing into the tense muscles at the juncture of neck and shoulders. “C’mon, lie back down with me. You don’t have to sleep.” He pulls the glass from Mikey’s hand, tugging at the front of Mikey’s damp shirt. “Off,” he demands, waiting until Mikey’s done so before pushing him gently back on the bed. “Look, just relax, okay?”
“Easy for you to say.” It’s almost silent, there’s no venom in it, just a quiet exhaustion.
Frank ignores it, focusing on arranging Mikey just right on his stomach, his fingers ghosting over the skin of his back for a moment before digging his fingers gently into the tight muscles down Mikey’s spine. “Alright?” he asks quietly after a while, Mikey relaxing slowly under his hands..
Mikey shifts a little, turning with his cheek pressed against the mattress so he can see Frank’s face. “You don’t have - ”
“Don’t say it, Mikeyway,” Frank scowls, keeping his touch light and gentle. More stroking his skin than a proper massage. “I’m not going to make you talk about it. I’m not going to tiptoe around you, but I’m going to try and make you feel better. I don’t think you’re pathetic, but I do think your ‘I’m fine’ routine is annoying as fuck. So shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry.” But Frank can see the smile curving Mikey’s mouth
“And I’m going to slap you if you apologise again.” Frank pokes Mikey gently in the side. He stops for a moment, pressing a kiss to Mikey’s shoulder. “Anything you need, Mikey. Promise. Close your eyes.”
Mikey sleeps.
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no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 12:59 pm (UTC)He doesn’t want to do this, but he can’t stop, hands trembling and, blind, he reaches out to the voice, to the comfort of his big brother.
This, fuck, I really love this; Mikey finding comfort in his brother.
Mikey's fear was really palpable, and you described the nightmares so well and so vividly.
I loved how Frank really just wanted to help and make Mikey feel better, and how just the fact that he was there didn't make the nightmares go away -- it was really realistic; but him being there after and helping Mikey relax, god, that was so great.
Thank you for writing this for me, I enjoyed it a lot. <333
no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 03:55 pm (UTC)Thanks for writing this, I can't think of way to say it without it coming off whack but this is a really mature story and we don't get a lot of those in fandom. ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 09:51 pm (UTC)I loved his relationship with Gerard, and how Frank was there for him at the end, obviously unsure of what exactly to do, but managing to exactly the right thing.
What I liked the most though was there was no magical fixes when Frank did sleep with him. Just the sense it would get better eventually, just not now.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-07 12:07 pm (UTC)I'm so happy with how real this is. His nightmares don't get better, Mikey tries to evade talking about stuff with sex jokes, there's coffee. But my two favourites are that he considers taking pills to make it better, and that Ray automatically believes him when he says he's fine. I LOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THAT INTERVIEW WHERE RAY IS BELATEDLY STUNNED THAT FRANK DID DRUGS. Ray is such a trusting soul. *pats him*