Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - 14
Title - Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls
Author - consistant
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Frank/Mikey eventually (and other random pairings throughout)
Status - Chapter 14
Summary - A twisted Moulin Rouge, a Glitterati crowd and a whore on a swing.
POV - 3rd person
Disclaimer - Don't own, don't know, don't sue. This is completely and totality fictional.
Author's Note - This doesn't get updated often, so i don't expect any of my old readers to come back, but it's written now so for whoever reads this - ENJOY.
Chapters:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
_________________________________________________________________
Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - Fourteen
Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross lean against the wall of the back alley behind Pierre Précieuse, waiting impatiently for someone to open the stage door. The drummer and bassist of their 4 piece act, Panic! At The Disco, are across the street buying bagels and coffee for their hungry band mates. Their kit lies scattered about them, along with the zip lock bags containing their costumes and the folded poster Ryan had found in a phone booth advertising:
WANTED! Fabulous musical acts required for the up and coming Masquerade Ball, to be held at the famous burlesque dance club Pierre Précieuse. All applicants to be considered. Auditions held at venue, 5PM, Friday! Come and show us your moves!
So far they're the only band to show, which would have been good under normal circumstances, but since no club owners have shown up either Panic! At The Disco are taking it as a bad sign. However, Brendon isn't willing to give up and if Brendon isn't ready then Panic! At The Disco are waiting until the sun goes down.
“Shouldn't we just call it quits? This is crazy.” Ryan says, driven more by the cold then actual petulance as he clutches at himself for warmth.
“They said Friday, and today's Friday. Someone'll come.” Brendon says through gritted teeth, wrapping a bracing arm around Ryan's shoulders. “We need the money.”
“But we don't need frostbite...”
“Are you all right?”
David placed his hand tenderly on the boy's shoulder, who lay curled in on himself, his naked skin shaking against the rough blankets. Gerard was doing everything within his power not to cry, his jaw clenched tighter than a vice, teeth grating, tongue pushing hard into the roof of his mouth. David watched him, facing his back and tracing his spine with his eyes. The boy's skin was blotched with pink, angry scratches.
“Gerard?” David, now covered in an open dress shirt of sheer fabric, giving the illusion of modesty, leant in very close, lying lengthways so that his chest brushed Gerard's side and his arm curled over his front. “I'm sorry, Gerard, really I am...”
Gerard would never admit it, but the loose embrace was exactly the comfort he needed. His limbs ached and his backside screamed and he couldn't stop trembling. It felt as though his heart would batter his ribs purple before crashing, allowing him to die. And the shame. The shame was palpable, raking nails across the walls of his stomach, willing him to vomit. And it was strange, because somehow he hadn't expected this. Somehow he had believed it would be all right, he'd thought a man like David would make it so easy, and yet...
The tears began to fall, his cheeks hurting from the effort to hold them back, and he tried to be so quiet, not wanting anyone to hear. He ducked his head and cried into the pillows, David's arm tight on his waist and the man's breath very close in his ear.
“It's okay,” David soothed, kissing the boy's neck and pulling their bodies closer so they were spooning. “Shhh...Shhh....Gerard....Don't...”
Now rigid with fear, his breath came in shuddering gasps, knowing how naked he was and how much pain David was capable of inflicting upon him. Every single man could do that to him, he knew, and that idea whipped his brain and made it sting and sent an uncontrollable panic sweeping through him.
“Please don't-” His words came in hiccups, barely audible, “-I-I-I-Can't-”
Calmly, David sat up and effortlessly turned the boy over onto his back. Without speaking he gently parted Gerard's legs and settled between them, kissing the boy's temple and wrapping one arm around his side so that they half lay, half sat, flush against one another and snug. With his free hand David caressed Gerard's face and lips and tugged softly at his hair until the boy's whimpers subsided. He kissed him, kissed him again, peppered his skin with kisses and kisses and kisses. They weren't strong or overpowering, but chaste, little affections and without understanding it Gerard felt better. He felt as though David was taking care of him; Like he said he would then didn't, he thought somewhat bitterly.
“I won't do it again,” David was saying in an undertone. “You know, that was the point of all this. But it's over now. You're safe with me.”
His hands curled between them, his eyes wet and wide and fixed on the face of his owner, Gerard nodded slowly. He didn't feel trust or understanding or remote love for David. He wasn't sure if he felt anything at all. But he believed him, impossibly and haltingly, but he did.
Gerard's grip on the steering wheel is a lot tighter than he first imagined when he looks down, gaze clamping on the reddened skin and protruding white knuckles of his fingers as they grasp the leather. He loosens his hold a little and sinks back into the driver's seat, exhaling shakily. Oh, sour remembering. He should loathe it and somehow he doesn't, because his past is a part of him and no matter what happens he will never deny something essential to his personality. He's always been like that. Even if it hurts, he won't deny a single particle of his soul. It's just not in his nature to conceal anything.
He wants a cigarette.
He needs caffeine.
He dies for the softness of his own bed.
He shudders for human contact.
Bert.
Inside the house chaos reigns. Frank is screaming at his mother and Mrs Iero is screaming right back, neither side relenting. Their voices carry across the green lawns and picket fences, drawing curtains back, bringing neighbours out onto their spacious porches to gape and titter. And Gerard waits. After having a vase thrown at his head by the enraged middle-aged house wife he retreated modestly to the car, ignoring her shouts of 'Rapist! Ingrate! I'll have you locked up you cradle robbing homo!' He didn't want to see Frank take his side and defend him, or worse agree with her and withdraw his application. He just wanted the peace and quiet of the Jaguar. And that's when David had crossed his mind.
Years and years and still that man finds a way back in.
“-Your father will have a fit when I tell him! You hear me boy?! Think of what he'll do to you when he gets his hands on-”
Gerard casually starts the ignition, the engine roaring into life as Frank strides down the gravel path clutching two suitcases and carrying a satchel over one shoulder, expression livid. His mother follows, poking him in the back and continuing to screech like a banshee.
“-He'll get the police out! He will! I swear to God if you're not home by midnight, apologising your ass off-”
Frank opens the boot of the Jaguar, flinging his belongings inside before stepping back and slamming it roughly. Gerard has half a mind to shout a criticism concerning paintwork and my fucking suspension, but holds it in behind an amused smirk. Now doesn't quite seem the appropriate moment.
“-In my own house! How could you have the nerve?! I thought we stamped that sort of behaviour out of you, thought we'd brought you up right and now this! You're nothing but a no good fag, an all round disappointment!”
“Then why are you begging me to stay?!” Frank spits, finally seeming to have had enough. “What is this? A show for the neighbours? You never wanted me around anyhow, so what's the use? You told me to find a job, well I got a fucking job. Deal already!”
“As a male prostitute!” His mother bellows, flinging her arms wide with her eyes blazing, hair rollers coming loose and clattering to the tarmac. “Pleasing men for money! That's sure respectable, Frank, real nice. You'll end up dying from aids in some crack house down town with not a friend in the world, and if there was any justice every faggot in America would join you!”
Well that strikes a nerve, and not only with Frank who simply stands there with his mouth hanging open in shock. Gerard's ears buzz as rage engulfs him and slowly, seething all over from the anger, he gets out of the car and leans against the open door, glaring daggers at the woman.
“Frank,” he mutters viciously. “Get in the car. Now.”
Frank hastens to obey, eager to put as much distance between himself and the pair as possible. He expects Gerard to follow suit but he doesn't. The boss remains on the street, eyes burning into the woman's face, his hatred tangible in the still summer air, scorching. Everyone: the children playing; the people sitting on their porches and steps; the postman doing his rounds; they all stop. Even Mrs Iero barely breathes as Gerard steps towards her and grasps the back of her neck, squeezing hard.
“It's people like you that make me afraid to step outside my door,” he hisses. “It's you who should be ashamed of yourself. Think before opening your dirty mouth, you ignorant fuck, or I'll rip your tongue out and give us all a little peace and quiet. Now, do you hear me?”
As Gerard and Frank gun it out of suburbia, deep in the heart of the city in a swanky penthouse apartment Adam Lazzara opens his eyes. For one second he doesn't remember who he is, what he's done, or why his head hurts. He doesn't register his nakedness, or the sheets curled around him. He can't feel the stinging of the welts on his back, or the fevered scratches on his arms and torso because he doesn't recall them being there in the first place. When his vision clears and the hangover bursts into life however, it all rushes back.
“Help! Somebody! Somebody! Help!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Don't! Don't! Oh God! No!!”
“Didn't you fucking hear me?!”
“Please! Not that! Please! I can't-”
His hand fisting in long, matted hair. A scream punctuated by wild sobs. Two impossibly blue eyes flashing in pure terror. Pushing past tight, amazing, heat. Teeth biting into a trembling, shoulder. Feeling all the fight go out, replaced by feeble pleas and the crying of a name that wasn't his. Not that he cared anyway.
“Gerard! Gerard! Gerard!”
Adam smirks and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the silken sheets and inhaling sharply, drowning in the stench of sweat, cigarettes and cocaine. Somewhere in there lingers the flowery smell of women's perfume, from all the hookers he's ever brought home. He would seduce them, shower them with affection, have sex with them, then kick them the hell out with a satisfaction so total it was like a multiple orgasm. But not last night. Last night was different. Last night was a pure, potent, power trip.
Muffled yelps of pain. Low, choking gasps for breath. Denied. The repeated smash of his gun, fist and foot. The visible bruises rising and swelling. The many cuts oozing. His seed and the boy's blood mingling. All the anger flowing out of him, sinking into the body beneath him. Suddenly no more sound. No more writhing. Stillness. Quiet. Over. Run.
Adam wonders whether he killed the kid. He hadn't bothered to check before leaving the room. He'd been too busy getting dressed and wiping the blood from his gun on the bedsheets to worry about such a minor detail.
Oh well, he thinks, I'm sure someone will tell me tonight.
Mikey sits on his swing, enjoying the mid-afternoon bustle of the dance hall below him. From this height he has a birds eye view of the entire room and all the people in it. Though the club doesn't open for another 5 hours, he likes the solitude up here, the space and the time it gives him to think. Gripping the ropes he kicks out at the air, riding the seat backwards and forwards, building a slow, melodic rhythm. He can see Sonny at the bar drinking a soda and wants to wave but doesn't dare let go in case he loses his balance and falls. He may be an integral part of the club, but that doesn't mean Gerard can afford to buy him a safety harness.
He licks the cherry gloss from his lips, smiling to himself. He's wearing an extra layer tonight, as well as 2 coats of blusher and a subtle swish of eye liner. He wants to look especially beautiful for Frank. He doesn't lie to himself about it. The boy is fabulous, and Mikey can't help but feel drawn to him. He thinks it's the freshness of him, the new, glossy, untouched feeling when they look at each other. He knows that if something were to happen between them...
“Master Good!”
Mikey jerks, nearly toppling, but he catches himself in time before craning his neck in search of the shout. He doesn't have to look far. The doors leading to the entrance hall are flung wide, revealing the empty reception desk and the irate figure of his brother striding restlessly. And there beyond him stands Frank looking very uncomfortable and not to mention confused. Mikey's brain whirs and shrieks from the mere sight of him.
“Master Good, I won't tell you again!”
Gerard paces angrily, infuriated by Matt's absence. In his eyes it's plain disrespectful to disappear after causing so much trouble, to just leave the entrance hall unattended. In his heart of hearts he feels certain the boy is hiding, too ashamed to show his face. But why should that matter to him? Matt's crime is inexcusable, whatever the circumstances, and he should take his punishment like a man.
“Show some balls for Christ's sake!” He bellows, voice ringing against the alabaster, his fist striking the marble table top causing the pens and books to rattle and roll. “Sonny!”
“Yes?”
Sonny comes in at once, fidgeting and casting Frank a shallow, nervous smile the boy briefly returns.
“Where is he?” Gerard snaps and Sonny doesn't need to ask to whom his boss is referring.
“I don't know,” he replies at once, wincing when Gerard gives a low, rustling hiss of anger. “I haven't seen him all day, Sir.”
“Well, I have way more pressing things to worry about right now,” says Gerard, looking harassed as he rakes his nails harshly through his hair, casting Frank a scathing, resentful look. “So when you see him, tell him his ass is fired unless he reports to me ASAP. You got that?” Sonny nods and begins to back away, obviously eager to escape. “And as for you,” Gerard rounds on Frank, prodding him hard in the chest. “I have so much shit to sort out I don't even know where to begin. I think it'd be best for you to start your training tomorrow night because I can barely think with all this chaos. My cage boy is down, my receptionist is missing, I haven't even ordered in the stock for the bar, the musical acts are waiting for audition and Jesus you're so much fucking trouble, why did I even bother hiring you-”
“Hey Gee!” Comes a voice from the doorway, “Chill.”
The pair look around to find Mikey leaning against the wall, one hand on his hip while the other rubs the back of his neck softly. To Frank he's the very picture of coy and his stomach clenches. Gerard glares, his eyes flashing dangerously as his brother beckons him over.
“What?” He snaps once they've retreated out of earshot.
“You need to calm down.” Mikey mutters, “I know this Bert thing's shook you up-”
“You don't know shit.” Gerard interrupts, making to bolt dramatically like a Hollywood show queen. Rolling his eyes, Mikey grabs his wrist and keeps him still, earning a hearty growl for his trouble.
“I know more than you think I do.” He says, “Now. If Frank is such an issue I'd be more than happy to take care of him while you get the club under control, but I'll only do it if you go upstairs now and talk to your boyfriend.”
“Mikey, you're not-”
“Old enough?” Mikey prompts, squeezing Gerard's wrist painfully hard making his brother yelp. The two lock gazes, both angry and hurt.
It kills Gerard that Mikey understands him so well.
“What do you mean by take care of him?” Gerard asks, his tone losing its bite as his shoulders begin to sag, becoming less tense.
“Outfit him, designate him, teach him the sales...” He chews his lip and grins. “I'll even choose his punters. That's nothing I can't handle, right?”
Gerard shrugs and looks away to the side, feeling distinctly ruffled. When did his brother become such a bully? Sure, he's older and wiser than he once was, but does that really mean anything around here? All you need is the beauty and charisma to reel the men in, then it's cash in hand and backs on sheets. He's never been entirely comfortable with the idea of Mikey selling himself. It makes his mind ache to remember his own early escapades and the damage it inflicted. When he was thrust into the club at 16 he hadn't a clue, but Mikey is different. It stabs like a knife to admit, but Mikey isn't innocent. He grew up in the thick of the trade, saw it as second nature and not as necessity. Hell, he'd even begged to be put to work at 12...
“Okay.” Gerard nods and tries to look stern through a gritted smile, “For tonight. Once I've got everything running smooth again I'll have a think about where to put you. I promise, I'll figure something out. Just... Be careful with him? Be careful with yourself. Don't spoil him, don't be soft, make sure he understands-”
“-What it's like.” Mikey finishes gravely, his gaze straying to find Frank who sits quietly on the marble floor, his suitcases littered about him, his back resting against the side of the reception desk. He looks thoughtful and composed, as though thoroughly unconcerned with tonight's upcoming events. He's beautiful, serene, and the feeling of triumph beating in Mikey's heart is suddenly mixed with apprehension and fear for someone other than himself. It's strange to realise he actually cares.
“Bert will be fine, you know.” Gerard is saying in a half whisper, intent upon keeping this conversation private. “He woke up this morning, knew my name...”
“It'll come back to him. All of it. You'll see.” Mikey assures gently, clasping Gerard by the neck and bringing their foreheads close. Their breath mingles, comforting and warm because it's so genuine. Gerard grips Mikey's arms, striving to keep the contact. Surprising really, how much he needs this boy, craving these little moments when they can just be themselves and not pretend. It's a connection beyond anything physical he's ever experienced and defies both romance and sexuality. The purest kind of love.
“And if it doesn't?” The sentence is barely audible and Gerard feels like a monster for saying it.
“You'll love him just the same.”
The bus depot is crowded and loud, people moving in and out of the fog of exhaust fumes like wandering spirits. Matt clutches his messenger bag close to his chest, his eyes darting about wildly. This is the first time in months he's been this close to so many outsiders, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. His entire body feels bathed in light, illuminated for everyone to see. No one is looking directly at him, but he gets the niggling feeling they're all talking about the scrawny, make-up sporting dreg standing by the ticket booth.
His bus leaves in 20 minutes. He's holding his ticket stub so tightly it's become creased, the numbers and letters smudged with sweat, almost unreadable. He decides to put it in his inside pocket, but takes it back out again a second later fearing he might lose it if he lets it out of his sight. Every cent he earned this month was put into paying for this tiny slip of paper. If it disappears and he misses his bus, that's the end of it.
Restless, he flips his mobile open and scrolls through every one of his contacts. He's not intending to call anyone, but it's something to do. When he reaches the number for Zeus, the Greek restaurant on 3rd, he moves into his Inbox and reads all of his text messages. The last one he received was from his mother, simply reading: Come home x
“He'll be fine, from what I can tell. As long as he stays in bed, keeps warm and doesn't exert himself. A couple of weeks away from his duties, yes? The wound looks clean, but check it and re-bandage it at least once every day until the bleeding stops. Oh, and talk to him, keep him update with what's going on. It should help the memory loss. You'll find everything should return eventually, it's just a mild amnesia brought on by the shock of it all. No fear. Well, I'll be going. No, no, I'll let myself out...”
The doctor leaves with a languid smile and a little nod to the pair, now left silent in his wake. They hear his footsteps retreating away down the corridor, sounding quieter and more distant with the passing of each awkward moment. Bert is sat up against the headboard, supported by a mound of pillows with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He feels groggy and his vision is a bit off, but otherwise nothing seems dreadfully wrong. It's only when he moves his head that it really hurts, then he just wishes he could die and get it over with. Things are predominately hazy and strange, jumbles of brightness and colour. Gerard is sat next to him on the edge of the bed, perching slightly so as not to invade the boy's personal bubble. He hasn't eaten or washed since breakfast, and looks distinctly careworn, but he hardly notices anything. A buzzing fills his ears, an odd, separate sound that makes him hug himself.
“You know,” Bert croaks finally, catching Gerard's attention with a light touch to the arm. “I do remember you.”
Gerard slips him a hopeful glance before hesitantly reaching over and grasping Bert's fingers on top of the bedspread. It's not electric or narcotic or any old 1950s movie slang, but it fits somehow and stops the awful buzz.
“Last night, I...” Bert furrows his brow and tries to articulate what he's thinking. The touching is nice, that's all he knows. “You told me everything, didn't you?”
Gerard's eyes widen a fraction but he nods, confirming.
“I heard.” Bert says, “I was out of it, but I did hear you. Like those people in comas, with relatives keeping them company and telling them stories. I guess it's like that. Your voice, it-” He sighs and screws his eyes shut. “-It feels so natural, when you're talking. Like I know it. Like I know you.”
“You do know me,” Gerard mutters earnestly, “We were lovers.”
“Yeah...?” Bert's eyebrows lift, pushing at the white softness of the gauze.
“Yeah.”
Gerard's guts feel like they're bleeding, curdling, spilling clear out of him.
“Then who's David?”
Gerard swallows hard, looking away at the opposite wall, feeling hollow. Who's David? The question burns in his cheeks, the back of his neck, the cross section if his lips. Who's David? It takes him out of himself, removes years from him and gives back the innocence he lost along the way.
“I remember all about the selling, the buying and the club but I never really understood... Well...From what I heard, I thought...” Bert trails off, sensing he's said something he shouldn't.
“For a time, I suppose we were.” Gerard murmurs, chafing Bert's fingers gently, containing the anger that fills him at the very mention of the man's name. Bert settles further into the pillows to listen, pulling Gerard down to lie next to him, waiting for L'Elfe Noir to spill.
Before knocking on the door Gerard paused, fist raised and thinking. What was he doing? This was ridiculous. It was late morning, sure, but that meant nothing in this place. To these harlots day was night, and he still couldn't get used to the fact. He was never of the nocturnal persuasion. Sometimes it was all he could do to stand in the dance hall at 3AM without toppling to the floor from sheer exhaustion. As he wavered indecisively he could feel his eyelids dropping, each passing second like an long, worn-out age. All he had to do to end it was knock. That's all. Just knock. Such a simple thing and yet...
He rapped long and hard, licking his lips nervously.
“David!” He hissed when there was no reply, shifting uneasily from side to side in the empty hallway.
There was movement from inside the room then the click of a lock. David always kept his room locked during the daytime, only opening it under very special circumstances; his apprentice being one of them. The door creaked slowly ajar revealing a sliver of the boss' face between the crack. The cheeks were sharp and gaunt, eyelids purple and mouth blue, but he smiled readily enough upon catching sight of Gerard's timid wave.
“What is it?” He asked, voice cracking harshly. “What time is it?”
“It's 11AM,” Gerard replied, tumbling over himself as he spoke. He wished David would ask him in or come out into the corridor to talk to him, but he never did before so why start now? “I couldn't...” The boy trailed off with a guilty shrug.
“Sleep? Well now neither can I.” David scolded gently, resting his forehead against the lintel and sighing heavily. “Bad dreams?”
“Y-Yes.” Gerard nodded fervently, gulping. Even talking about it was frightening.
“And did they kill you again?” David's eyes flashed in the watery sunlight, dark and amused. He reminded Gerard of the villains on late night television cop shows, the ones criminally insane and yet totally appealing.
“They killed Mikey.” He tried not to sound panicked, but it was difficult with the sounds and images of his brother's screams and writhing body still racing around his head. So much blood, and for what? He shuddered, wrapping his blanket close about his chest and arms. It felt so much colder now.
David regarded him shrewdly before leaning over the threshold and pecking him lightly on the cheek saying, “Go back to your room and get dressed. I'll meet you at Reception in 10.”
“Where are we going?”
“Java.”
The Café Java was a small, cramped coffee house a few streets away from Pierre Précieuse, the perfect hub for artists, musicians and writers as well as for every punter who wanted to sit in beer-sodden ecstasy undisturbed. Very few people knew of its existence, taking its shabby exterior at face value, but for those willing never to judge a book by its cover the place was Eden. Not being very popular meant it was the ideal coffee house for the underground community; the type of place that's cheap by necessity and not by choice, where you're guaranteed to always find a seat or a quiet corner to occupy and where the manager's smile is always genuine because he's eternally grateful you're there.
David kept a firm grip on Gerard's hand as they weaved down the bustling cobbled streets of the city, alive in a way they hardly saw due to their irregular sleeping patterns. Daylight. Noise. Traffic. Shopping. Vendors. Police. Children. Mothers. Nuns. Newspapers. Restraint. It was like a gingerbread house and a poisonous snake all rolled into one beautiful scene full of clashing colour and unfamiliarity. The pale sky said midwinter, and the frost on the bricks and metal made the world shimmer like so many diamonds. Multicoloured Christmas lights hung in long ropes between the tall buildings, and trees littered with tinsel dotted every corner and were the centre of every square. The smell of greasy burger fat mixed with the sweet aroma of baking doughnuts, and Gerard wanted to ask David to stop and sample but didn't dare. He was afraid of the man beside him even though he was the only person in the club beside Mikey and Julien who actually cared about him. Hell, if he asked David to take a bullet for him the entrepreneur probably would.
Maybe.
“Your dreams,” David began, “you never tell me who the murderer is.”
“That's because I don't know,” Gerard replied honestly, surprised by the question.
“And it's always you and Mikey, together?” David shot the boy a sideways look, his breath exhaling white in the air between them. It was like smoke wafting thickly from the man's mouth, putting Gerard in mind of fire in the belly and humans possessed by the spirits of dragons. The notion was random and completely mad, but fit like a glove.
“Always,” he nodded. “We're taken away from you and put somewhere cold and dark and I can't see three inches in front of my nose. I shout for you to come back, but you don't. It's like we're hidden from you. These shadows move in the black, just visible, and I know they want us. I don't know why but I sense it, like I can read the words in the air. It's all blood then.”
David surveyed the youngster warmly and slung his arm over Gerard's shoulders , hugging him awkwardly as they continued to walk. He didn't comment on the content of the nightmare, choosing instead to tell Gerard all about his old haunts in the city, pointing out shops selling skateboards and an old school video arcade he frequented as a kid of 12. Though interested, Gerard couldn't concentrate on the stories. He knew David was avoiding the dreams because he considered them to be stupid fantasies and nothing more. His boss didn't like idiocy, despising it in his employees. The only reason he had consented to indulge him so far was because Gerard was no normal employee. According to the dance hall gossips, David's plan was to pass the club over into Gerard's hands once the boy had reached the age of 21. With such responsibility came a certain mutual respect, but still, this respect never seemed to help him when he really needed it. A fiery defiance burnt in his heart, screaming for him to beat his message home, but then a cooling wave of common sense kicked the whole situation into touch. There was no point in making a scene. Next time he'd just keep these things to himself and save himself from the embarrassment of David's scorn. Anything was better than this.
A touch to Gerard's elbow caused him to start in surprise and he realised David had stopped outside the entrance to the coffee house and had his eyebrows raised incredulously, as though appalled by Gerard's lack of attentiveness. Because of course, when David talked people listened.
“I'm sorry,” Gerard mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing. “I was a million miles away.”
Half an hour passed in the blink of an eye. They sat together in their favourite corner, drinking mochas and nibbling on side-order biscuits, all the while surveying the other customers and discussing them quietly. David was at his most pleasant then, his face full of laughter as he pointed out an elderly woman and proclaimed her the ring leader of some motorcycle gang called The Cobras. Gerard snorted into his cup and nearly choked, not minding the slap on the back David gave him or the cool fingers wiping the hair from his forehead. It was nice, this singular privacy between them. Such intimacy was rare, and even though David had never pushed his boundaries or made Gerard touch him, sometimes the kid wished he would...
“You see that girl?” David asked suddenly, nudging Gerard in the rib. “Wait, don't stare. Just glance.”
Gerard turned his head a fraction, eyes slipping sideways until he found her. She was perched on a bench across from them reading a book with a French title. She looked sweet and European, her skin the light olive shade of an Italian. Her hair was dark, rich and long, flowing about her face and disappearing beneath the table. Gerard could only assume she was sitting on it. She was dressed in a great cacophony of colours and styles, all clashing to form a skirt, tight bodice, boots and velvet jacket with a silver art nouveau pin on the breast pocket. Her lips were beautifully pink, ripe for kissing, and for a second Gerard couldn't think of anything else.
“Talk to her,” David was saying softly in his ear. “Go over there, sit down, and talk. It's time you learnt how to do this. Tell her you want her for the club.”
Gerard shook his head wordlessly, feeling stifled, his throat dry. He couldn't wilfully entice someone into a world so devoid of love and sentiment, especially not someone like that. Even looking at her was like looking at fine gold; so refined, so stainless, so completely out of bounds. David's hand moved onto his inner thigh and squeezed gently, deliberately, and the table was suddenly smaller than he first thought it was. They seemed to be so close together now, David draped against him, tongue at his ear again, the words strong.
“Gerard you need to do this.” David squeezed his thigh harder, moved it higher up. “She's so perfect. I want her. Go get her for me.”
Gerard closed his eyes and gulped, his limbs heavy, muscles oppressive beneath the skin. When he stood it was with a great reluctance, his body wanting to remain with David and his roaming hands, but he knew that if he didn't comply those hands wouldn't be roaming for much longer anyway. Walking over there and sliding onto the bench beside her was torturous, and the look on her face when she realised he was there...
“Ciao,” she said softly, shutting the book and placing it on her lap. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Gerard muttered, his cheeks already flooded with colour as he put an arm across the back of the bench, trying to subtly lean into her. “I couldn't help but notice, you're reading Voltaire.”
“Yes,” She looked into his face then averted her gaze downwards, obviously uncomfortable with his proximity. “So?”
“May I look at it?” He asked, his voice like gravel.
“Sure.”
Shooting a swift glance in David's direction, seeking reassurance and not getting it, he let his hand fall to slowly linger against her leg before taking the book and perusing the cover. Beneath his lashes he sort David's smile, and found it easily. The entrepreneur was amused, leaning forward in his chair to see what the apprentice would do next. Gerard couldn't help but feel he was approaching this from completely the wrong angle.
“This is a pretty worn copy. Must be a favourite.” Gerard said, handing it back to her with a coy smile she returned stiffly. “I'm Gerard, what's your name?”
“Bella.”
“Bella,” He dipped his head and produced a grin he really didn't believe in. “I like it. What do you do?”
“Do?” Bella raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah, for a living...” Gerard cringed inside. This was bad, really, really bad.
“I'm a dancer,” she said, “I teach at the academy here. What do you do?”
Gerard tried to think of an answer that wouldn't make her run for the hills, but after 10 long seconds and no reply he felt like hiding at the bottom of a well, never to make human contact again. He was about to get up and apologise for wasting her time, when a hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up to find David standing over him with a teasing smile.
“He's my little errand boy, aren't you Gerard?” He said, addressing Bella with a friendly wink. She blushed wildly and began to fiddle with her hair. “I sent him over to ask for your phone number, but alas he seems to have got himself tongue tied.”
“That's what you wanted?” Bella asked Gerard, chuckling and patting his cheek lightly with fingers completely covered in rings. “Why didn't you just say so?”
Gerard only shrugged and turned his face into David's side, humiliated beyond measure.
Afterwards, when they were walking back to the club, David began his lecture.
“For your first time out of the gate that was...”
“Lousy.”
“Couldn't have put it better myself.” David laughed when Gerard scowled at him, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his unruly hair. “Don't worry about it. I wasn't expecting fireworks.” He said, trying to sound good natured but unable to hide the cold edge to his words.
“I had no idea what to do.” Gerard murmured resentfully.
“Remember the last time you said that?” David smirked, gripping Gerard's arm hard in memory. “Now you can fuck anything.”
Gerard stopped walking immediately and stared at David in disbelief. David stared back questioningly, his arm dropping to his side again. The look on Gerard's face was scorching, angry and hardened, and when he spoke the words seemed to jolt out of him like electrical volts.
“How dare you say that to me.” His eyes were wide and tearful, the sort of tearful that speaks of pure, unadulterated hatred that cannot be suppressed. “How dare you joke about that, like it doesn't even matter!”
A few passer-bys slowed their pace to eavesdrop on the confrontation but David gestured impatiently for them to move on. Nothing to see here, on your way. Gerard couldn't even look at David, seeing only the bleary smudges that were Christmas lights and the whiteness that was the snow. The smell of the fast food and the sweaty shoppers was so poignant he wanted to vomit, right there on the side walk. He didn't care who was watching, he wanted to make a scene. Something painful was going on inside his head and if he kept it in any longer he thought he might die. Were there any cars around? Maybe he could throw himself in front of one and make the local newspapers? Anything. Anything. All he wanted was for people to notice and to share in his panic because David sure as hell wasn't. Jesus, David didn't even realise why he was upset.
“Gerard, calm down, okay?” David snapped, standing close to him and holding the boy by the back of the neck. “We can talk about this later.”
“You know what, forget it.” Gerard snarled wetly, sniffing back the tears and trying to wrench himself from David's grasp. “You bring me out here, lead me on, make me look like a freaking idiot and now you just expect me to be okay with it? Well fuck you! Let go of me.”
“What do you mean, when did I lead you on?” David protested, looking genuinely surprised.
“You know, back there, under the table, you...” Gerard rolled his head back and glared at the clouds and the tops of the tall sky scrapers, infuriated. “Don't make me say it, you bastard.”
“That was just...” David furrowed his brow and tried to cup Gerard's cheek. “Encouragement.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, listen-” David wrapped both arms tightly around Gerard's waist, ignoring it when the boy tried to jerk away and paying no heed to the disapproving stares of the people around them. He could hear them whispering about the older man and the struggling teen. Should they call the cops?
“I don't want to listen,” Gerard muttered, hearing the whispers too and stilling, put in his place by all the attention. He suddenly realised why David didn't usually allow the employees outside; it wasn't for their protection, it was because of the reactions of ordinary people. He let his chin fall, resting his head against the cool skin of David's neck. He hated him.
“If you want me to, I'll do more than lead you on...” David said quietly, fingers stroking at the small of Gerard's back. “I'm sorry for back there, I wasn't thinking. I just... I want you. I've never tried to get you back in bed because I though you'd bolt. But if you...” He let the intention hang in the air, and Gerard thought about it, let it sink in as he breathed.
“I'm mad at you.” He said finally, looking up into David's face at long last and searching it thoroughly. Snowflakes brushed his cheeks, melting from the heat.
“I know.” David replied, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I'm sorry.”
They had sex that afternoon, and Gerard didn't even cry.
“You never told me about David before.” Bert says, watching Gerard's face on the pillow next to him. “I don't remember much, but I remember that.”
“No one but Mikey ever knew until now. In fact, there are a lot of things I said last night that no one has ever known.” Gerard replies, eyes on the ceiling.
The men are spread eagled on Gerard's bed, the thin light from the night stand the only glimmer in the room. In a way the dimness is comforting and warm, reminding Bert of times hazy and far gone. He knows this scene is similar to many others in his past, and this dark haired man with the beautiful smile is a constant feature in it. Though details are still blurry in his mind's eye, the presence of him is familiar. The warm bulk of his body close on the mattress, the low, steady rumble of his voice, it stirs something in Bert, makes him groggy.
“I never loved anyone like I loved him.” Gerard whispers, as though he wants to say the words aloud but at the time can't stand the thought of Bert hearing them. “The two great loves of my life. Him and you.”
“I wish I could remember...” Bert begins but Gerard raises his hand dismissively, fingers flexing the air in impatience. He doesn't want to hear that.
“I wouldn't blame you for forgetting.” Gerard assures softly, turning on his side to face Bert, keeping them close but simultaneously apart. Touching Bert seems like a liberty now. “I've never been exactly good to you.”
Bert studies Gerard's face and torso, finding the powder blue waistcoat absurd and the black hair wildly artificial. He notes the littleness of Gerard's teeth as they rake his bottom lip, and the slimness of his fingers as he rubs a curled fist into his eye and yawns. He's like a overly cute kid trapped in the body of a belladonna. He likes that.
Thinking about everything Gerard has told him makes his tender head ache, but it's a good, pleasant ache of knowledge. The beaten down, older past of him seems to like being informed, his heart hurting behind his ribs from the weight of the burdens. He sees this man for what he is, a fucked up guy with every reason to be this way. Circumstance turned his exterior into a cruel, unforgiving temptress while the real person stayed beneath the surface, hiding and ingrowing until only small sparks remained. Perhaps this attack, however painful, will help reignite the fire. The old Bert feels heartened, while the new Bert rolls over and drapes an arm across Gerard's side.
“Maybe now I know your past I'll understand you better,” Bert says reasonably, wincing as he tries to give a reassuring smile. “Starting afresh, no preconceptions... I think it'll work in your favour.”
“Maybe.”
“I do have one question though...” Bert frowns.
“Yeah?”
“Where is David?”
With a rustle of the sheets Gerard turns away and lies on his stomach, face hidden, and after a long time Bert realises he isn't going to get an answer.
----
Sorry for the long delay AGAIN :)
I'm going back to college next week so updates will probably take longer. However, we've just reached the end of the second 3rd of this story. So maybe 4 or 5 long updates and it'll be over...? Thanks for reading xx
Author - consistant
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Frank/Mikey eventually (and other random pairings throughout)
Status - Chapter 14
Summary - A twisted Moulin Rouge, a Glitterati crowd and a whore on a swing.
POV - 3rd person
Disclaimer - Don't own, don't know, don't sue. This is completely and totality fictional.
Author's Note - This doesn't get updated often, so i don't expect any of my old readers to come back, but it's written now so for whoever reads this - ENJOY.
Chapters:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
_________________________________________________________________
Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - Fourteen
Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross lean against the wall of the back alley behind Pierre Précieuse, waiting impatiently for someone to open the stage door. The drummer and bassist of their 4 piece act, Panic! At The Disco, are across the street buying bagels and coffee for their hungry band mates. Their kit lies scattered about them, along with the zip lock bags containing their costumes and the folded poster Ryan had found in a phone booth advertising:
WANTED! Fabulous musical acts required for the up and coming Masquerade Ball, to be held at the famous burlesque dance club Pierre Précieuse. All applicants to be considered. Auditions held at venue, 5PM, Friday! Come and show us your moves!
So far they're the only band to show, which would have been good under normal circumstances, but since no club owners have shown up either Panic! At The Disco are taking it as a bad sign. However, Brendon isn't willing to give up and if Brendon isn't ready then Panic! At The Disco are waiting until the sun goes down.
“Shouldn't we just call it quits? This is crazy.” Ryan says, driven more by the cold then actual petulance as he clutches at himself for warmth.
“They said Friday, and today's Friday. Someone'll come.” Brendon says through gritted teeth, wrapping a bracing arm around Ryan's shoulders. “We need the money.”
“But we don't need frostbite...”
“Are you all right?”
David placed his hand tenderly on the boy's shoulder, who lay curled in on himself, his naked skin shaking against the rough blankets. Gerard was doing everything within his power not to cry, his jaw clenched tighter than a vice, teeth grating, tongue pushing hard into the roof of his mouth. David watched him, facing his back and tracing his spine with his eyes. The boy's skin was blotched with pink, angry scratches.
“Gerard?” David, now covered in an open dress shirt of sheer fabric, giving the illusion of modesty, leant in very close, lying lengthways so that his chest brushed Gerard's side and his arm curled over his front. “I'm sorry, Gerard, really I am...”
Gerard would never admit it, but the loose embrace was exactly the comfort he needed. His limbs ached and his backside screamed and he couldn't stop trembling. It felt as though his heart would batter his ribs purple before crashing, allowing him to die. And the shame. The shame was palpable, raking nails across the walls of his stomach, willing him to vomit. And it was strange, because somehow he hadn't expected this. Somehow he had believed it would be all right, he'd thought a man like David would make it so easy, and yet...
The tears began to fall, his cheeks hurting from the effort to hold them back, and he tried to be so quiet, not wanting anyone to hear. He ducked his head and cried into the pillows, David's arm tight on his waist and the man's breath very close in his ear.
“It's okay,” David soothed, kissing the boy's neck and pulling their bodies closer so they were spooning. “Shhh...Shhh....Gerard....Don't...”
Now rigid with fear, his breath came in shuddering gasps, knowing how naked he was and how much pain David was capable of inflicting upon him. Every single man could do that to him, he knew, and that idea whipped his brain and made it sting and sent an uncontrollable panic sweeping through him.
“Please don't-” His words came in hiccups, barely audible, “-I-I-I-Can't-”
Calmly, David sat up and effortlessly turned the boy over onto his back. Without speaking he gently parted Gerard's legs and settled between them, kissing the boy's temple and wrapping one arm around his side so that they half lay, half sat, flush against one another and snug. With his free hand David caressed Gerard's face and lips and tugged softly at his hair until the boy's whimpers subsided. He kissed him, kissed him again, peppered his skin with kisses and kisses and kisses. They weren't strong or overpowering, but chaste, little affections and without understanding it Gerard felt better. He felt as though David was taking care of him; Like he said he would then didn't, he thought somewhat bitterly.
“I won't do it again,” David was saying in an undertone. “You know, that was the point of all this. But it's over now. You're safe with me.”
His hands curled between them, his eyes wet and wide and fixed on the face of his owner, Gerard nodded slowly. He didn't feel trust or understanding or remote love for David. He wasn't sure if he felt anything at all. But he believed him, impossibly and haltingly, but he did.
Gerard's grip on the steering wheel is a lot tighter than he first imagined when he looks down, gaze clamping on the reddened skin and protruding white knuckles of his fingers as they grasp the leather. He loosens his hold a little and sinks back into the driver's seat, exhaling shakily. Oh, sour remembering. He should loathe it and somehow he doesn't, because his past is a part of him and no matter what happens he will never deny something essential to his personality. He's always been like that. Even if it hurts, he won't deny a single particle of his soul. It's just not in his nature to conceal anything.
He wants a cigarette.
He needs caffeine.
He dies for the softness of his own bed.
He shudders for human contact.
Bert.
Inside the house chaos reigns. Frank is screaming at his mother and Mrs Iero is screaming right back, neither side relenting. Their voices carry across the green lawns and picket fences, drawing curtains back, bringing neighbours out onto their spacious porches to gape and titter. And Gerard waits. After having a vase thrown at his head by the enraged middle-aged house wife he retreated modestly to the car, ignoring her shouts of 'Rapist! Ingrate! I'll have you locked up you cradle robbing homo!' He didn't want to see Frank take his side and defend him, or worse agree with her and withdraw his application. He just wanted the peace and quiet of the Jaguar. And that's when David had crossed his mind.
Years and years and still that man finds a way back in.
“-Your father will have a fit when I tell him! You hear me boy?! Think of what he'll do to you when he gets his hands on-”
Gerard casually starts the ignition, the engine roaring into life as Frank strides down the gravel path clutching two suitcases and carrying a satchel over one shoulder, expression livid. His mother follows, poking him in the back and continuing to screech like a banshee.
“-He'll get the police out! He will! I swear to God if you're not home by midnight, apologising your ass off-”
Frank opens the boot of the Jaguar, flinging his belongings inside before stepping back and slamming it roughly. Gerard has half a mind to shout a criticism concerning paintwork and my fucking suspension, but holds it in behind an amused smirk. Now doesn't quite seem the appropriate moment.
“-In my own house! How could you have the nerve?! I thought we stamped that sort of behaviour out of you, thought we'd brought you up right and now this! You're nothing but a no good fag, an all round disappointment!”
“Then why are you begging me to stay?!” Frank spits, finally seeming to have had enough. “What is this? A show for the neighbours? You never wanted me around anyhow, so what's the use? You told me to find a job, well I got a fucking job. Deal already!”
“As a male prostitute!” His mother bellows, flinging her arms wide with her eyes blazing, hair rollers coming loose and clattering to the tarmac. “Pleasing men for money! That's sure respectable, Frank, real nice. You'll end up dying from aids in some crack house down town with not a friend in the world, and if there was any justice every faggot in America would join you!”
Well that strikes a nerve, and not only with Frank who simply stands there with his mouth hanging open in shock. Gerard's ears buzz as rage engulfs him and slowly, seething all over from the anger, he gets out of the car and leans against the open door, glaring daggers at the woman.
“Frank,” he mutters viciously. “Get in the car. Now.”
Frank hastens to obey, eager to put as much distance between himself and the pair as possible. He expects Gerard to follow suit but he doesn't. The boss remains on the street, eyes burning into the woman's face, his hatred tangible in the still summer air, scorching. Everyone: the children playing; the people sitting on their porches and steps; the postman doing his rounds; they all stop. Even Mrs Iero barely breathes as Gerard steps towards her and grasps the back of her neck, squeezing hard.
“It's people like you that make me afraid to step outside my door,” he hisses. “It's you who should be ashamed of yourself. Think before opening your dirty mouth, you ignorant fuck, or I'll rip your tongue out and give us all a little peace and quiet. Now, do you hear me?”
As Gerard and Frank gun it out of suburbia, deep in the heart of the city in a swanky penthouse apartment Adam Lazzara opens his eyes. For one second he doesn't remember who he is, what he's done, or why his head hurts. He doesn't register his nakedness, or the sheets curled around him. He can't feel the stinging of the welts on his back, or the fevered scratches on his arms and torso because he doesn't recall them being there in the first place. When his vision clears and the hangover bursts into life however, it all rushes back.
“Help! Somebody! Somebody! Help!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Don't! Don't! Oh God! No!!”
“Didn't you fucking hear me?!”
“Please! Not that! Please! I can't-”
His hand fisting in long, matted hair. A scream punctuated by wild sobs. Two impossibly blue eyes flashing in pure terror. Pushing past tight, amazing, heat. Teeth biting into a trembling, shoulder. Feeling all the fight go out, replaced by feeble pleas and the crying of a name that wasn't his. Not that he cared anyway.
“Gerard! Gerard! Gerard!”
Adam smirks and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the silken sheets and inhaling sharply, drowning in the stench of sweat, cigarettes and cocaine. Somewhere in there lingers the flowery smell of women's perfume, from all the hookers he's ever brought home. He would seduce them, shower them with affection, have sex with them, then kick them the hell out with a satisfaction so total it was like a multiple orgasm. But not last night. Last night was different. Last night was a pure, potent, power trip.
Muffled yelps of pain. Low, choking gasps for breath. Denied. The repeated smash of his gun, fist and foot. The visible bruises rising and swelling. The many cuts oozing. His seed and the boy's blood mingling. All the anger flowing out of him, sinking into the body beneath him. Suddenly no more sound. No more writhing. Stillness. Quiet. Over. Run.
Adam wonders whether he killed the kid. He hadn't bothered to check before leaving the room. He'd been too busy getting dressed and wiping the blood from his gun on the bedsheets to worry about such a minor detail.
Oh well, he thinks, I'm sure someone will tell me tonight.
Mikey sits on his swing, enjoying the mid-afternoon bustle of the dance hall below him. From this height he has a birds eye view of the entire room and all the people in it. Though the club doesn't open for another 5 hours, he likes the solitude up here, the space and the time it gives him to think. Gripping the ropes he kicks out at the air, riding the seat backwards and forwards, building a slow, melodic rhythm. He can see Sonny at the bar drinking a soda and wants to wave but doesn't dare let go in case he loses his balance and falls. He may be an integral part of the club, but that doesn't mean Gerard can afford to buy him a safety harness.
He licks the cherry gloss from his lips, smiling to himself. He's wearing an extra layer tonight, as well as 2 coats of blusher and a subtle swish of eye liner. He wants to look especially beautiful for Frank. He doesn't lie to himself about it. The boy is fabulous, and Mikey can't help but feel drawn to him. He thinks it's the freshness of him, the new, glossy, untouched feeling when they look at each other. He knows that if something were to happen between them...
“Master Good!”
Mikey jerks, nearly toppling, but he catches himself in time before craning his neck in search of the shout. He doesn't have to look far. The doors leading to the entrance hall are flung wide, revealing the empty reception desk and the irate figure of his brother striding restlessly. And there beyond him stands Frank looking very uncomfortable and not to mention confused. Mikey's brain whirs and shrieks from the mere sight of him.
“Master Good, I won't tell you again!”
Gerard paces angrily, infuriated by Matt's absence. In his eyes it's plain disrespectful to disappear after causing so much trouble, to just leave the entrance hall unattended. In his heart of hearts he feels certain the boy is hiding, too ashamed to show his face. But why should that matter to him? Matt's crime is inexcusable, whatever the circumstances, and he should take his punishment like a man.
“Show some balls for Christ's sake!” He bellows, voice ringing against the alabaster, his fist striking the marble table top causing the pens and books to rattle and roll. “Sonny!”
“Yes?”
Sonny comes in at once, fidgeting and casting Frank a shallow, nervous smile the boy briefly returns.
“Where is he?” Gerard snaps and Sonny doesn't need to ask to whom his boss is referring.
“I don't know,” he replies at once, wincing when Gerard gives a low, rustling hiss of anger. “I haven't seen him all day, Sir.”
“Well, I have way more pressing things to worry about right now,” says Gerard, looking harassed as he rakes his nails harshly through his hair, casting Frank a scathing, resentful look. “So when you see him, tell him his ass is fired unless he reports to me ASAP. You got that?” Sonny nods and begins to back away, obviously eager to escape. “And as for you,” Gerard rounds on Frank, prodding him hard in the chest. “I have so much shit to sort out I don't even know where to begin. I think it'd be best for you to start your training tomorrow night because I can barely think with all this chaos. My cage boy is down, my receptionist is missing, I haven't even ordered in the stock for the bar, the musical acts are waiting for audition and Jesus you're so much fucking trouble, why did I even bother hiring you-”
“Hey Gee!” Comes a voice from the doorway, “Chill.”
The pair look around to find Mikey leaning against the wall, one hand on his hip while the other rubs the back of his neck softly. To Frank he's the very picture of coy and his stomach clenches. Gerard glares, his eyes flashing dangerously as his brother beckons him over.
“What?” He snaps once they've retreated out of earshot.
“You need to calm down.” Mikey mutters, “I know this Bert thing's shook you up-”
“You don't know shit.” Gerard interrupts, making to bolt dramatically like a Hollywood show queen. Rolling his eyes, Mikey grabs his wrist and keeps him still, earning a hearty growl for his trouble.
“I know more than you think I do.” He says, “Now. If Frank is such an issue I'd be more than happy to take care of him while you get the club under control, but I'll only do it if you go upstairs now and talk to your boyfriend.”
“Mikey, you're not-”
“Old enough?” Mikey prompts, squeezing Gerard's wrist painfully hard making his brother yelp. The two lock gazes, both angry and hurt.
It kills Gerard that Mikey understands him so well.
“What do you mean by take care of him?” Gerard asks, his tone losing its bite as his shoulders begin to sag, becoming less tense.
“Outfit him, designate him, teach him the sales...” He chews his lip and grins. “I'll even choose his punters. That's nothing I can't handle, right?”
Gerard shrugs and looks away to the side, feeling distinctly ruffled. When did his brother become such a bully? Sure, he's older and wiser than he once was, but does that really mean anything around here? All you need is the beauty and charisma to reel the men in, then it's cash in hand and backs on sheets. He's never been entirely comfortable with the idea of Mikey selling himself. It makes his mind ache to remember his own early escapades and the damage it inflicted. When he was thrust into the club at 16 he hadn't a clue, but Mikey is different. It stabs like a knife to admit, but Mikey isn't innocent. He grew up in the thick of the trade, saw it as second nature and not as necessity. Hell, he'd even begged to be put to work at 12...
“Okay.” Gerard nods and tries to look stern through a gritted smile, “For tonight. Once I've got everything running smooth again I'll have a think about where to put you. I promise, I'll figure something out. Just... Be careful with him? Be careful with yourself. Don't spoil him, don't be soft, make sure he understands-”
“-What it's like.” Mikey finishes gravely, his gaze straying to find Frank who sits quietly on the marble floor, his suitcases littered about him, his back resting against the side of the reception desk. He looks thoughtful and composed, as though thoroughly unconcerned with tonight's upcoming events. He's beautiful, serene, and the feeling of triumph beating in Mikey's heart is suddenly mixed with apprehension and fear for someone other than himself. It's strange to realise he actually cares.
“Bert will be fine, you know.” Gerard is saying in a half whisper, intent upon keeping this conversation private. “He woke up this morning, knew my name...”
“It'll come back to him. All of it. You'll see.” Mikey assures gently, clasping Gerard by the neck and bringing their foreheads close. Their breath mingles, comforting and warm because it's so genuine. Gerard grips Mikey's arms, striving to keep the contact. Surprising really, how much he needs this boy, craving these little moments when they can just be themselves and not pretend. It's a connection beyond anything physical he's ever experienced and defies both romance and sexuality. The purest kind of love.
“And if it doesn't?” The sentence is barely audible and Gerard feels like a monster for saying it.
“You'll love him just the same.”
The bus depot is crowded and loud, people moving in and out of the fog of exhaust fumes like wandering spirits. Matt clutches his messenger bag close to his chest, his eyes darting about wildly. This is the first time in months he's been this close to so many outsiders, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. His entire body feels bathed in light, illuminated for everyone to see. No one is looking directly at him, but he gets the niggling feeling they're all talking about the scrawny, make-up sporting dreg standing by the ticket booth.
His bus leaves in 20 minutes. He's holding his ticket stub so tightly it's become creased, the numbers and letters smudged with sweat, almost unreadable. He decides to put it in his inside pocket, but takes it back out again a second later fearing he might lose it if he lets it out of his sight. Every cent he earned this month was put into paying for this tiny slip of paper. If it disappears and he misses his bus, that's the end of it.
Restless, he flips his mobile open and scrolls through every one of his contacts. He's not intending to call anyone, but it's something to do. When he reaches the number for Zeus, the Greek restaurant on 3rd, he moves into his Inbox and reads all of his text messages. The last one he received was from his mother, simply reading: Come home x
“He'll be fine, from what I can tell. As long as he stays in bed, keeps warm and doesn't exert himself. A couple of weeks away from his duties, yes? The wound looks clean, but check it and re-bandage it at least once every day until the bleeding stops. Oh, and talk to him, keep him update with what's going on. It should help the memory loss. You'll find everything should return eventually, it's just a mild amnesia brought on by the shock of it all. No fear. Well, I'll be going. No, no, I'll let myself out...”
The doctor leaves with a languid smile and a little nod to the pair, now left silent in his wake. They hear his footsteps retreating away down the corridor, sounding quieter and more distant with the passing of each awkward moment. Bert is sat up against the headboard, supported by a mound of pillows with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He feels groggy and his vision is a bit off, but otherwise nothing seems dreadfully wrong. It's only when he moves his head that it really hurts, then he just wishes he could die and get it over with. Things are predominately hazy and strange, jumbles of brightness and colour. Gerard is sat next to him on the edge of the bed, perching slightly so as not to invade the boy's personal bubble. He hasn't eaten or washed since breakfast, and looks distinctly careworn, but he hardly notices anything. A buzzing fills his ears, an odd, separate sound that makes him hug himself.
“You know,” Bert croaks finally, catching Gerard's attention with a light touch to the arm. “I do remember you.”
Gerard slips him a hopeful glance before hesitantly reaching over and grasping Bert's fingers on top of the bedspread. It's not electric or narcotic or any old 1950s movie slang, but it fits somehow and stops the awful buzz.
“Last night, I...” Bert furrows his brow and tries to articulate what he's thinking. The touching is nice, that's all he knows. “You told me everything, didn't you?”
Gerard's eyes widen a fraction but he nods, confirming.
“I heard.” Bert says, “I was out of it, but I did hear you. Like those people in comas, with relatives keeping them company and telling them stories. I guess it's like that. Your voice, it-” He sighs and screws his eyes shut. “-It feels so natural, when you're talking. Like I know it. Like I know you.”
“You do know me,” Gerard mutters earnestly, “We were lovers.”
“Yeah...?” Bert's eyebrows lift, pushing at the white softness of the gauze.
“Yeah.”
Gerard's guts feel like they're bleeding, curdling, spilling clear out of him.
“Then who's David?”
Gerard swallows hard, looking away at the opposite wall, feeling hollow. Who's David? The question burns in his cheeks, the back of his neck, the cross section if his lips. Who's David? It takes him out of himself, removes years from him and gives back the innocence he lost along the way.
“I remember all about the selling, the buying and the club but I never really understood... Well...From what I heard, I thought...” Bert trails off, sensing he's said something he shouldn't.
“For a time, I suppose we were.” Gerard murmurs, chafing Bert's fingers gently, containing the anger that fills him at the very mention of the man's name. Bert settles further into the pillows to listen, pulling Gerard down to lie next to him, waiting for L'Elfe Noir to spill.
Before knocking on the door Gerard paused, fist raised and thinking. What was he doing? This was ridiculous. It was late morning, sure, but that meant nothing in this place. To these harlots day was night, and he still couldn't get used to the fact. He was never of the nocturnal persuasion. Sometimes it was all he could do to stand in the dance hall at 3AM without toppling to the floor from sheer exhaustion. As he wavered indecisively he could feel his eyelids dropping, each passing second like an long, worn-out age. All he had to do to end it was knock. That's all. Just knock. Such a simple thing and yet...
He rapped long and hard, licking his lips nervously.
“David!” He hissed when there was no reply, shifting uneasily from side to side in the empty hallway.
There was movement from inside the room then the click of a lock. David always kept his room locked during the daytime, only opening it under very special circumstances; his apprentice being one of them. The door creaked slowly ajar revealing a sliver of the boss' face between the crack. The cheeks were sharp and gaunt, eyelids purple and mouth blue, but he smiled readily enough upon catching sight of Gerard's timid wave.
“What is it?” He asked, voice cracking harshly. “What time is it?”
“It's 11AM,” Gerard replied, tumbling over himself as he spoke. He wished David would ask him in or come out into the corridor to talk to him, but he never did before so why start now? “I couldn't...” The boy trailed off with a guilty shrug.
“Sleep? Well now neither can I.” David scolded gently, resting his forehead against the lintel and sighing heavily. “Bad dreams?”
“Y-Yes.” Gerard nodded fervently, gulping. Even talking about it was frightening.
“And did they kill you again?” David's eyes flashed in the watery sunlight, dark and amused. He reminded Gerard of the villains on late night television cop shows, the ones criminally insane and yet totally appealing.
“They killed Mikey.” He tried not to sound panicked, but it was difficult with the sounds and images of his brother's screams and writhing body still racing around his head. So much blood, and for what? He shuddered, wrapping his blanket close about his chest and arms. It felt so much colder now.
David regarded him shrewdly before leaning over the threshold and pecking him lightly on the cheek saying, “Go back to your room and get dressed. I'll meet you at Reception in 10.”
“Where are we going?”
“Java.”
The Café Java was a small, cramped coffee house a few streets away from Pierre Précieuse, the perfect hub for artists, musicians and writers as well as for every punter who wanted to sit in beer-sodden ecstasy undisturbed. Very few people knew of its existence, taking its shabby exterior at face value, but for those willing never to judge a book by its cover the place was Eden. Not being very popular meant it was the ideal coffee house for the underground community; the type of place that's cheap by necessity and not by choice, where you're guaranteed to always find a seat or a quiet corner to occupy and where the manager's smile is always genuine because he's eternally grateful you're there.
David kept a firm grip on Gerard's hand as they weaved down the bustling cobbled streets of the city, alive in a way they hardly saw due to their irregular sleeping patterns. Daylight. Noise. Traffic. Shopping. Vendors. Police. Children. Mothers. Nuns. Newspapers. Restraint. It was like a gingerbread house and a poisonous snake all rolled into one beautiful scene full of clashing colour and unfamiliarity. The pale sky said midwinter, and the frost on the bricks and metal made the world shimmer like so many diamonds. Multicoloured Christmas lights hung in long ropes between the tall buildings, and trees littered with tinsel dotted every corner and were the centre of every square. The smell of greasy burger fat mixed with the sweet aroma of baking doughnuts, and Gerard wanted to ask David to stop and sample but didn't dare. He was afraid of the man beside him even though he was the only person in the club beside Mikey and Julien who actually cared about him. Hell, if he asked David to take a bullet for him the entrepreneur probably would.
Maybe.
“Your dreams,” David began, “you never tell me who the murderer is.”
“That's because I don't know,” Gerard replied honestly, surprised by the question.
“And it's always you and Mikey, together?” David shot the boy a sideways look, his breath exhaling white in the air between them. It was like smoke wafting thickly from the man's mouth, putting Gerard in mind of fire in the belly and humans possessed by the spirits of dragons. The notion was random and completely mad, but fit like a glove.
“Always,” he nodded. “We're taken away from you and put somewhere cold and dark and I can't see three inches in front of my nose. I shout for you to come back, but you don't. It's like we're hidden from you. These shadows move in the black, just visible, and I know they want us. I don't know why but I sense it, like I can read the words in the air. It's all blood then.”
David surveyed the youngster warmly and slung his arm over Gerard's shoulders , hugging him awkwardly as they continued to walk. He didn't comment on the content of the nightmare, choosing instead to tell Gerard all about his old haunts in the city, pointing out shops selling skateboards and an old school video arcade he frequented as a kid of 12. Though interested, Gerard couldn't concentrate on the stories. He knew David was avoiding the dreams because he considered them to be stupid fantasies and nothing more. His boss didn't like idiocy, despising it in his employees. The only reason he had consented to indulge him so far was because Gerard was no normal employee. According to the dance hall gossips, David's plan was to pass the club over into Gerard's hands once the boy had reached the age of 21. With such responsibility came a certain mutual respect, but still, this respect never seemed to help him when he really needed it. A fiery defiance burnt in his heart, screaming for him to beat his message home, but then a cooling wave of common sense kicked the whole situation into touch. There was no point in making a scene. Next time he'd just keep these things to himself and save himself from the embarrassment of David's scorn. Anything was better than this.
A touch to Gerard's elbow caused him to start in surprise and he realised David had stopped outside the entrance to the coffee house and had his eyebrows raised incredulously, as though appalled by Gerard's lack of attentiveness. Because of course, when David talked people listened.
“I'm sorry,” Gerard mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing. “I was a million miles away.”
Half an hour passed in the blink of an eye. They sat together in their favourite corner, drinking mochas and nibbling on side-order biscuits, all the while surveying the other customers and discussing them quietly. David was at his most pleasant then, his face full of laughter as he pointed out an elderly woman and proclaimed her the ring leader of some motorcycle gang called The Cobras. Gerard snorted into his cup and nearly choked, not minding the slap on the back David gave him or the cool fingers wiping the hair from his forehead. It was nice, this singular privacy between them. Such intimacy was rare, and even though David had never pushed his boundaries or made Gerard touch him, sometimes the kid wished he would...
“You see that girl?” David asked suddenly, nudging Gerard in the rib. “Wait, don't stare. Just glance.”
Gerard turned his head a fraction, eyes slipping sideways until he found her. She was perched on a bench across from them reading a book with a French title. She looked sweet and European, her skin the light olive shade of an Italian. Her hair was dark, rich and long, flowing about her face and disappearing beneath the table. Gerard could only assume she was sitting on it. She was dressed in a great cacophony of colours and styles, all clashing to form a skirt, tight bodice, boots and velvet jacket with a silver art nouveau pin on the breast pocket. Her lips were beautifully pink, ripe for kissing, and for a second Gerard couldn't think of anything else.
“Talk to her,” David was saying softly in his ear. “Go over there, sit down, and talk. It's time you learnt how to do this. Tell her you want her for the club.”
Gerard shook his head wordlessly, feeling stifled, his throat dry. He couldn't wilfully entice someone into a world so devoid of love and sentiment, especially not someone like that. Even looking at her was like looking at fine gold; so refined, so stainless, so completely out of bounds. David's hand moved onto his inner thigh and squeezed gently, deliberately, and the table was suddenly smaller than he first thought it was. They seemed to be so close together now, David draped against him, tongue at his ear again, the words strong.
“Gerard you need to do this.” David squeezed his thigh harder, moved it higher up. “She's so perfect. I want her. Go get her for me.”
Gerard closed his eyes and gulped, his limbs heavy, muscles oppressive beneath the skin. When he stood it was with a great reluctance, his body wanting to remain with David and his roaming hands, but he knew that if he didn't comply those hands wouldn't be roaming for much longer anyway. Walking over there and sliding onto the bench beside her was torturous, and the look on her face when she realised he was there...
“Ciao,” she said softly, shutting the book and placing it on her lap. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Gerard muttered, his cheeks already flooded with colour as he put an arm across the back of the bench, trying to subtly lean into her. “I couldn't help but notice, you're reading Voltaire.”
“Yes,” She looked into his face then averted her gaze downwards, obviously uncomfortable with his proximity. “So?”
“May I look at it?” He asked, his voice like gravel.
“Sure.”
Shooting a swift glance in David's direction, seeking reassurance and not getting it, he let his hand fall to slowly linger against her leg before taking the book and perusing the cover. Beneath his lashes he sort David's smile, and found it easily. The entrepreneur was amused, leaning forward in his chair to see what the apprentice would do next. Gerard couldn't help but feel he was approaching this from completely the wrong angle.
“This is a pretty worn copy. Must be a favourite.” Gerard said, handing it back to her with a coy smile she returned stiffly. “I'm Gerard, what's your name?”
“Bella.”
“Bella,” He dipped his head and produced a grin he really didn't believe in. “I like it. What do you do?”
“Do?” Bella raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah, for a living...” Gerard cringed inside. This was bad, really, really bad.
“I'm a dancer,” she said, “I teach at the academy here. What do you do?”
Gerard tried to think of an answer that wouldn't make her run for the hills, but after 10 long seconds and no reply he felt like hiding at the bottom of a well, never to make human contact again. He was about to get up and apologise for wasting her time, when a hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up to find David standing over him with a teasing smile.
“He's my little errand boy, aren't you Gerard?” He said, addressing Bella with a friendly wink. She blushed wildly and began to fiddle with her hair. “I sent him over to ask for your phone number, but alas he seems to have got himself tongue tied.”
“That's what you wanted?” Bella asked Gerard, chuckling and patting his cheek lightly with fingers completely covered in rings. “Why didn't you just say so?”
Gerard only shrugged and turned his face into David's side, humiliated beyond measure.
Afterwards, when they were walking back to the club, David began his lecture.
“For your first time out of the gate that was...”
“Lousy.”
“Couldn't have put it better myself.” David laughed when Gerard scowled at him, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his unruly hair. “Don't worry about it. I wasn't expecting fireworks.” He said, trying to sound good natured but unable to hide the cold edge to his words.
“I had no idea what to do.” Gerard murmured resentfully.
“Remember the last time you said that?” David smirked, gripping Gerard's arm hard in memory. “Now you can fuck anything.”
Gerard stopped walking immediately and stared at David in disbelief. David stared back questioningly, his arm dropping to his side again. The look on Gerard's face was scorching, angry and hardened, and when he spoke the words seemed to jolt out of him like electrical volts.
“How dare you say that to me.” His eyes were wide and tearful, the sort of tearful that speaks of pure, unadulterated hatred that cannot be suppressed. “How dare you joke about that, like it doesn't even matter!”
A few passer-bys slowed their pace to eavesdrop on the confrontation but David gestured impatiently for them to move on. Nothing to see here, on your way. Gerard couldn't even look at David, seeing only the bleary smudges that were Christmas lights and the whiteness that was the snow. The smell of the fast food and the sweaty shoppers was so poignant he wanted to vomit, right there on the side walk. He didn't care who was watching, he wanted to make a scene. Something painful was going on inside his head and if he kept it in any longer he thought he might die. Were there any cars around? Maybe he could throw himself in front of one and make the local newspapers? Anything. Anything. All he wanted was for people to notice and to share in his panic because David sure as hell wasn't. Jesus, David didn't even realise why he was upset.
“Gerard, calm down, okay?” David snapped, standing close to him and holding the boy by the back of the neck. “We can talk about this later.”
“You know what, forget it.” Gerard snarled wetly, sniffing back the tears and trying to wrench himself from David's grasp. “You bring me out here, lead me on, make me look like a freaking idiot and now you just expect me to be okay with it? Well fuck you! Let go of me.”
“What do you mean, when did I lead you on?” David protested, looking genuinely surprised.
“You know, back there, under the table, you...” Gerard rolled his head back and glared at the clouds and the tops of the tall sky scrapers, infuriated. “Don't make me say it, you bastard.”
“That was just...” David furrowed his brow and tried to cup Gerard's cheek. “Encouragement.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, listen-” David wrapped both arms tightly around Gerard's waist, ignoring it when the boy tried to jerk away and paying no heed to the disapproving stares of the people around them. He could hear them whispering about the older man and the struggling teen. Should they call the cops?
“I don't want to listen,” Gerard muttered, hearing the whispers too and stilling, put in his place by all the attention. He suddenly realised why David didn't usually allow the employees outside; it wasn't for their protection, it was because of the reactions of ordinary people. He let his chin fall, resting his head against the cool skin of David's neck. He hated him.
“If you want me to, I'll do more than lead you on...” David said quietly, fingers stroking at the small of Gerard's back. “I'm sorry for back there, I wasn't thinking. I just... I want you. I've never tried to get you back in bed because I though you'd bolt. But if you...” He let the intention hang in the air, and Gerard thought about it, let it sink in as he breathed.
“I'm mad at you.” He said finally, looking up into David's face at long last and searching it thoroughly. Snowflakes brushed his cheeks, melting from the heat.
“I know.” David replied, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I'm sorry.”
They had sex that afternoon, and Gerard didn't even cry.
“You never told me about David before.” Bert says, watching Gerard's face on the pillow next to him. “I don't remember much, but I remember that.”
“No one but Mikey ever knew until now. In fact, there are a lot of things I said last night that no one has ever known.” Gerard replies, eyes on the ceiling.
The men are spread eagled on Gerard's bed, the thin light from the night stand the only glimmer in the room. In a way the dimness is comforting and warm, reminding Bert of times hazy and far gone. He knows this scene is similar to many others in his past, and this dark haired man with the beautiful smile is a constant feature in it. Though details are still blurry in his mind's eye, the presence of him is familiar. The warm bulk of his body close on the mattress, the low, steady rumble of his voice, it stirs something in Bert, makes him groggy.
“I never loved anyone like I loved him.” Gerard whispers, as though he wants to say the words aloud but at the time can't stand the thought of Bert hearing them. “The two great loves of my life. Him and you.”
“I wish I could remember...” Bert begins but Gerard raises his hand dismissively, fingers flexing the air in impatience. He doesn't want to hear that.
“I wouldn't blame you for forgetting.” Gerard assures softly, turning on his side to face Bert, keeping them close but simultaneously apart. Touching Bert seems like a liberty now. “I've never been exactly good to you.”
Bert studies Gerard's face and torso, finding the powder blue waistcoat absurd and the black hair wildly artificial. He notes the littleness of Gerard's teeth as they rake his bottom lip, and the slimness of his fingers as he rubs a curled fist into his eye and yawns. He's like a overly cute kid trapped in the body of a belladonna. He likes that.
Thinking about everything Gerard has told him makes his tender head ache, but it's a good, pleasant ache of knowledge. The beaten down, older past of him seems to like being informed, his heart hurting behind his ribs from the weight of the burdens. He sees this man for what he is, a fucked up guy with every reason to be this way. Circumstance turned his exterior into a cruel, unforgiving temptress while the real person stayed beneath the surface, hiding and ingrowing until only small sparks remained. Perhaps this attack, however painful, will help reignite the fire. The old Bert feels heartened, while the new Bert rolls over and drapes an arm across Gerard's side.
“Maybe now I know your past I'll understand you better,” Bert says reasonably, wincing as he tries to give a reassuring smile. “Starting afresh, no preconceptions... I think it'll work in your favour.”
“Maybe.”
“I do have one question though...” Bert frowns.
“Yeah?”
“Where is David?”
With a rustle of the sheets Gerard turns away and lies on his stomach, face hidden, and after a long time Bert realises he isn't going to get an answer.
----
Sorry for the long delay AGAIN :)
I'm going back to college next week so updates will probably take longer. However, we've just reached the end of the second 3rd of this story. So maybe 4 or 5 long updates and it'll be over...? Thanks for reading xx