A Song for the Deaf
Title: A Song for the Deaf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mikey/Gerard
Disclaimer: Dude, if we owned them? You'd never see us again.
Authors: Les Coqs Au Lait (The cat and the bloody organ)
Warnings: Waycest ahoy! Underage sex, drinking.
Mikey wakes up with his hands over his ears, like it's he himself that's shutting the sound out, instead of ears that were so badly damaged two years ago that he has to feel sound, instead of experience it. And the thing that scares him the most when he wakes up like this is not being able to hear Gerard breathe. That fussy little snore that comforted him as a kid is gone now. Not bothering with his glasses, he shuffles across the room in the dark, feeling for the warm lump that's his older brother, and skims under the blanket with him. "Gee. Gee." Not even knowing what his own voice sounds like anymore, muffled and soft in the middle of the night. "Roll over."
Gerard just grumbles and rolls over, slinging an arm around Mikey's shoulders as he hums softly, his hand flickering a fragment of a question, ok? against Mikey's upper arm as he presses his face into the messy tangle of he's brother's hair. Sleep comes easy when his breath still smells sweet, coconut and cold and sticky on the back of his tongue. School tomorrow will be a nightmare, but school always is, and it's these quiet times that he lives for, where it's almost like nothing has changed. Mikey's voice is different but Mikey is different, taller now, with lanky muscle filling out the angles of his coltish limbs, and who knows if it would any different, if the world had gone some other way?
"You reek," Mikey whispers, before pressing a brief, chaste kiss to his brother's lips. But I hope it helps where I can't. I wish you were okay. I'm okay, I promise, and you should be, too. I should be able to help. He settles his head against Gerard's chest, where he can feel the rise-fall of his breath, and feel the slow beat of Gee's heart against his cheek. Mikey falls asleep with his hand against Gerard's side, index finger and baby finger straight, and thumb out. I love you.
***
Gerard is still asleep when Mikey wakes up to get ready for school, the longer trip to the School for the Deaf meaning that unless Gerard wakes up early - never likely even without the hangover - they can't eat breakfast together like they used to. He's asleep when Mikey leaves, still snoring open-mouthed and deceptively peaceful, but when Mikey gets out of his last class, he's there. Like always.
"Broken any hearts today?" he signs, squinting in the watery Autumn sun as he shrugs, the straps of his backpack making his shoulders hunch. "Solve world hunger?" He has a bit of a scrape on his cheek and eyeliner in the creases around his eyes, puffy with too much booze and not enough sleep. There's a split on his lip that he worries at with his teeth, his eyes flickering down to the dirt in front of Mikey's shoes before he looks up, with that carefully measured glance at both face and hands at once. Waiting for his brother's retort. "Did you miss me?"
"Always," Mikey signs back, favouring his big brother with a smile. "And no, I don't think so. There's this girl in my lip-reading class... I think she likes me. She's kind of newly deaf, you know? And I don't think this-" Mikey adjusts his backpack on his back, to make the prototypical sign for sex, index finger back and forth through his fist, "-is exactly right for 'come and have sexy time with me, you skinny scoliosis kid.'" He takes a moment to frown into Gerard's face, before smudging the eyeliner away with the side of his thumb. "You look awful. Who slept on your face last night?"
"I think it was you. Unless someone else who smelled like ass and Axe body spray crawled into my bed last night." He squints under Mikey's assault, trying to protect his eyeliner from any further depredations. He turns and starts walking towards the bus stop - he still hasn't gotten his driver's license, and is sort of beginning to suspect that he's just never going to - with his body angled so he can still watch Mikey's hands. "We got to finger paint today, I shit you not. Am I in eleventh grade, or am I in kindergarten? I did some wicked cool panels, like Frank Miller, you know? And used the paint to fill them in, like ink. This idiot tried to eat the paint right before lunch though, so we just did math all afternoon. It sucked."
"Seriously? Finger painting? They had me doing, like, rise and run and graph shit in math. And we're reading Romeo and Juliet. So dumb." The emphasis on his words are clear in his face, rolled eyes here, grin there, and he shoves Gerard, once they're at the bus stop. "For the record, I don't smell like Axe. And I had a shower last night before bed. So the ass smell must have been yours." The bus is right on time, and Mikey flashes his pass at the driver and picks a seat near the back, for himself and Gerard. "Come on, slowpoke. I've got stuff to do at home."
Gerard shoves past Mikey affably enough, to wedge himself next to the window as he pulls a face at him. His hands move easy, like pale birds against the expanse of black on his chest, hoodie zipped up to just below his collarbones in defiance of the heat, his face impassive for the most part, like he's afraid of giving something away to the passersby. "And by 'stuff' you mean 'naughty alone time with the copy of Witchblade', I know you. I get it. Far be it from me to interfere with your naughty alone time."
Mikey favours Gerard with a deep scowl, and crosses his arms indignantly over his chest, and leans over to nearly touch his lips to Gerard ear, hissing, "Am not, stupid." He huffs a little noise, more a hard breath than anything else, and stares at the front of the bus. "So what if it was, anyway?" After a long moment of thinking of something witty to say, when he knows his face is burning, because Gerard's right. But Mikey can't help it lately, it seems. Like a warm breeze or waking up with the memory of Gerard's voice in his useless ears - At least they keep my glasses up - is enough for Mikey to lock himself in the bathroom. It's that same hiss, that same lip-to-ear, and the heat in his face is enough that Gerard can feel it in their proximity. "Not like I get any privacy in the bedroom, Gerard."
Even though closing his eyes is the same as stuffing his fingers in his ears and shouting LALALA, Gerard still does it as he signs, his lower lip caught tight between his teeth as he inhales in a mortified little gasp, at the rush of heat that Mikey's voice, his fucking lips right next to his ear sends slurring through his body. He cracks his knuckles and then gestures, short and sharp, "I could always just not look. It's not- It's not like I don't know it happens, or anything." And when he pulls his eyes open his pupils are dilated, and stay that way maybe a little longer than they should, as he gropes over his shoulder for his bag and his sunglasses as he keeps his eyes down, only half-watching for Mikey's reply. Almost afraid of what it might be.
Mikey's hands come into action again, quick and embarrassed and maybe a little cross. "Still. I'd let you have your privacy." Cross, because maybe he wants Gerard to know. Maybe half the reason he crawls into bed with his brother most nights is because of the dreams Mikey has, and he's desperate to feel Gerard's body, for real, next to his. Even with clothes. It's enough, it's more than enough. It's never enough. "I don't know if I'd be comfortable with that. A guy needs to take his time, sometimes."
In answer Gerard pulls his sunglasses out of the top of his bag and puts them on, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His cheeks are flooded dull, angry red - almost fuchsia against his pale skin - and he just- Is done with that conversation. Just can't deal with it any more. So he's silent until they get to their stop, only offering once they're out of the bus and walking the two blocks back into their neighborhood to their house, "If you think it's a bad idea, whatever. I just meant, like. It's no big deal, whatever."
Their neighbourhood is quiet, this time of day, and Mikey offers in that curious, flat tone of voice, "Don't be pissed, okay? Just. I know it's not a big deal." It's just that I think about you sometimes. Most of the time. And it's wrong, or something, and you're going to think I'm gross and retarded or that there's something wrong with me. Instead, he pushes up Gerard's sunglasses enough to pinch the red mark on his cheekbone, and flashes a crooked grin. "Just let it go, okay? I'm the walking boner, like you need to know that, but don't be mad at me, okay? I don't like it." From the end of their street, Mikey can see that the driveway's empty, and he asks, carefully-quiet, "Where are mom and dad?"
Gerard makes his little scrunchy-faced almost smile as Mikey pinches his cheek, shoving lightly at his brother's side as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. It's like Paris Hilton-meets-Alice in Wonderland, but it keeps his hair out of his face, so he can squint at their house and then shrug, his face already less impassive as his hands flick out the words, though still nowhere near as animated as Mikey is, as his friends from school. "Dude, it's Friday, remember? They have that retreat thing. No one to yell at us for not turning the goddamn music down until Sunday!"
"Stop talking in monotone," Mikey signs back, digging into the side pocket for his keys. "You're like a wax dummy when you talk." Half-articulate, signing with one hand as he unlocks the door for the both of them. "Gone until Sunday. That's going to be awesome." He drops his schoolbag on the floor with a textbook-rattling thump, and calls over his shoulder as he heads into the basement, "Start dinner. I'll be up when. Uh. You know."
Gerard waves at his brother's back, even though he knows that Mikey's mind and attention are elsewhere. So he starts dinner, trying to ignore the knowledge of what Mikey must be doing. To help distract himself he pulls the vodka out of the back of the freezer, portioning out a generous splash into one of the heavy glass tumblers that he used to drink milk out of when he was little. He tops it off with orange juice and doesn't even bother trying to stir it before he slams it back, barely even tasting the vodka on the back of his tongue as he turns to eye the kitchen consideringly. Dinner.
The problem is, Mikey doesn't know that he makes little noises when he jerks off. Nor does he realize that the vents in their house conduct sound. He never listened when he could hear properly anyway, and now that he's deaf as a post? Absolutely no idea. But the sounds filter up to Gerard nonetheless, little nnh, nnh- noises, made even flatter by the distance through the grates. There's no Witchblade in the bathroom with him, oh, no. It's the idea that Gerard planted in his head on the way home, of his brother watching him jerk off that's fueling this fantasy...
It's easy to not-notice the sounds. Really it is. And if Gerard starts cutting the tomatoes for the bruschetta he's making for dinner in time with the tempo of those soft, nasal noises, not-quite-moans? That doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. He pitches the tomatoes into a bowl and sloshes in some balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil, licking it off the side of his finger on his way to his second screwdriver. Bread next, and then he'll deal with the mozzerella. He's got everything under control. Everything. Really.
He barely even tastes his second drink.
About five minutes after the very-definite thud of Mikey's head hitting the wall, he comes upstairs, warm and flushed, and he leans companionably against Gerard to sign, "Bruschetta? What else are you going to make?" Here, he stops, taking in the sharp not-smell of vodka, and the carton of orange juice on the counter. "You going to be able to cook anything else? Or do you want to order a pizza to go with this?" And adds, the expression on his face plaintive, almost wistful. "I know you can talk. I wish you would. Then- then I could pretend I can hear you."
Gerard's voice is the slightest bit slurred when he speaks, but his hands are steady as he signs in tandem, only leaning back into his brother for a second, before turning away to go back to the kitchen. "I'm fine. And I don't know why- It doesn't make any difference. It won't change anything, if I talk." He pulls out some chicken and gestures for Mikey to get the olive oil back down off the shelf again. "I'm fine."
Mikey keeps up easily, face bright like the sun with the knowledge that Gerard's talking. "Stop." Verbal and overjoyed. "Come here. Olive oil can wait." He's nearly shaking when he puts his hands on the sides of Gerard's throat, and asks. "Please, say something else? I know you said something. I could tell when you breathed. Don't lie to me. I can tell. I'm a superhero that way." It's all there, in the breathless smile on Mikey's lips, in the way his heart pounds, silly, stupid excitement, over something as regular and ordinary as Gerard's voice. But it's never been ordinary, to Mikey. It's one of the only things he still hears, in his head. One of the only things he remembers with perfect, crystalline clarity. Mikes, c'mere. Got the new Bad Art Collection, it's hilarious...
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mikes. It's not like-" It's not like you can hear me. But thankfully Mikey can't hear the catch in his voice as he lowers his eyes then looks up through his lashes, trying to move his lips as clearly as possible. "It's not like my voice is all that great." Then he looks away, his face at three-quarters view, and says softly, "I need a fucking drink."
"It's the only thing I still hear," Mikey blurts, relishing the vibration of Gerard's voice under his fingers. "I remember it." His smile falters, then falls away entirely as he gets out the olive oil for Gerard, and signs to his back, "You don't know how much I miss it. I could live without sound. I could maybe even live without music. But you were always the one I listened to." Mikey sits down, watching Gerard's back, the way his elbows move as he cuts up the chicken, and signs some more. It's the good thing about ASL; if the person you're talking to can't see you, then it's all but a secret. "I wish you understood how much it means to me."
Gerard gets himself another drink, not asking Mikey if he wants one, and then sets to making the sauteed garlic chicken that will do with the bruschetta with fresh mozzerella that's toasting in the oven. With his back turned he knows that Mikey can't hear him, can't see him to know that he's missing out, but his voice is still barely more than a brush of air as he whispers, "I wish you could still hear me." I wish you knew how much I miss being able to talk to you.
A good minute and a half passes, where Mikey stares at Gerard's back, and he can't the silence anymore. But everything is silent now, isn't it? Not when he can see Gerard's hands move, or feel the beat of his heart, or the rise and fall of his breath. Not when he can hear Gerard's voice if he closes his eyes and listens hard enough, with his head instead of his ears. And it's all of this that makes him hug his arms around Gee's middle and rest his forehead against the back of his shoulder. Hand curled into I love you.
As soon as the chicken comes off the stove and the oven is turned off, cracked to let some heat escape, Gerard turns his head and lifts his hand, overlaying Mikey's with his own as he says with gentle conviction, his lips against Mikey's hair, "I love you too." Then he takes a deep breath and pulls away, downing the last of his screwdriver - his third? Fourth? Maybe fifth? He isn't sure. - before he starts to portion food out onto plates, signing awkwardly around the utensils in his hands, "Go sit down, I'll bring it in."
That's enough to convince Mikey, the feel of the words against his hair, and he smiles a little. "Could have just said it, stupid. I can read lips, you know." Hands on his hips, Mikey sticks his tongue out at his older brother, and abandons him to sit down. It's a good thing the Simpsons comes in subtitles, now, otherwise Mikey would probably miss that more than any other show. "Slowpoke, come on. You should have had dinner ready when I got home from school!" He chuffs out funny little laughter, and adds with his hands, once Gerard's in sight, "Just kidding. You're a way better cook than mom. And besides, I don't feel weird about hugging you, after. You don't treat me like I'm gonna break."
Gerard puts their plates out, something like twice as much food on Mikey's, and ducks back into the kitchen to get two cokes before returning to sit down. He sits across from Mikey just because it's easiest to talk that way, and knocks his can of soda against Mikey's head before opening it, taking a drink, and then signing with a little smile, "That's because I know that you won't. And I spend more time with Gramma E than anyone else, she taught me all her secrets." Like wine before, during and after cooking, and singing along with the radio no matter how dumb you feel. He breaks his bread into pieces and scoops up some of the fresh marinated tomatoes, spearing a piece of chicken to eat it all at once, asking as he chews, "Is it good?"
"Terrible," Mikey answers, one-handed, all but shoveling it in. It's been like this since school started: can't eat enough, can't sit still, can't jerk off nearly enough to keep up with himself. "I cook like... like, I don't know. But I can't cook." He leans over and grocks Gerard's soda, taking a long drink and punctuating it with a resounding belch. "No seriously? I could eat all of it, and probably be still hungry." Away from their parents and the eyes of the world, Mikey talks. He trusts Gerard to tell him if he sounds funny, or doesn't say something right, or if he's too loud or quiet. And while he knows with perfect detail what Gerard sounds like - or sounded like two years ago, when noise was something Mikey took for granted - he can't hear himself, remember his own voice. Not one word. "Truth or dare: ever gotten drunk and cooked for mom and dad, too?"
The little smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth is almost painful, with the stiff way that he holds his face, like he's not really comfortable with it, as he leans over and steals Mikey's soda in retaliation, cracking it open and belching quietly as he sets it down. It's not worth complaining that Mikey bent the rules, because he was already going to choose Truth anyway. He ALWAYS chooses Truth. It's safer. "Yes," he signs, eating little bits of food in between word-signs as he can. "I was making wine-and-tomato sauce, they didn't even notice. They never notice." He rubs the underside of his nose a little and then flickers back at Mikey, saying the words as well in a careful voice, "Truth or Dare."
"Dare." Spearing the last bit of chicken into his mouth and pushing his plate away, he meets Gerard's eyes with something like challenge. I always notice. I can smell it on you and see it in the way you move. You don't have to be drunk. I still see you, even if they don't. You're my brother, and you were there for me when I didn't even wanna be there for myself. Mikey curls up on the couch, sitting as easily as a crooked spine allows, and grins at his brother. "Dare." Out loud.
Gerard watches him move, sensing maybe the littlest bit of what Mikey's thinking, and thinks seriously about it for a long, long moment, before nodding decisively. "I dare you to do the dishes." He traces out the signs with a disgustingly pleased look on his face, as he picks up his can of soda and wanders into the kitchen to wait for Mikey and to find what's left of the bottle of Malibu.
Mikey thinks he makes a little noise, but he's not sure, and gets up to follow Gerard into the kitchen. "That's not a dare!" he signs. "That's... that just mean!" But he fills the sink with hot, soapy water, and dumps the dishes in. One by one, they're scrubbed, rinsed, tossed haphazardly into the drainer, with Mikey frowning the whole time. I hate doing dishes, he thinks in Gerard's general direction, which he's pretty sure is somewhere behind him. Stupid dare. Stupid brother. I hate doing dishes.
Once Gerard has found the last of the rum and poured it carefully into his can of coke he swirls it around a little and takes a long drink. He walks over to the sink and wobbles up onto his toes, setting his drink on the counter as he slips his hands under Mikey's arms, resting his chin on his brother's shoulder. He picks up the other sponge and starts to help, pressed up over-warm against Mikey's back as he presses his lips up against the space just behind Mikey's earlobe, like that might help him hear. "Lemme help."
The sudden warmth and nearness of Gerard's body surprises Mikey, but what surprises him even more, stuns him, even, is the vibration of breath against his ear, and the movement of lips. Knowing Gerard's talking, but not knowing what he's saying. Not really caring, as he finds himself suddenly and irrevocably hard. Damn. Goddamn. Shit. Ignoring it, or trying to, as he signs, hands obscured by suds, "What'd you say?"
It's a lot easier to laugh this way, all warm and loose with alcohol, to turn his face against Mikey's neck and pull his hands up so he can sign as he murmurs into his brother's skin. "Truth or dare? You forgot, so you choose for me."
"Truth." It's too much, almost, the feel of Gerard's hands against his under the water. No, no 'almost.' Definitely too much. He twists in the circle of Gerard's arms, his body, the counter, and nearly jeers in his odd voice, "How does it feel to know you do this to me? Huh?" Almost angry. Waiting for Gerard to hit him, to push away, to call Mikey a freak, a pervert. Meeting his older brothers eyes defiantly as he presses his hips against Gerard's. "What do you think of that?"
But the thing that shocks Gerard the most is the way that his hips judder forward, his jaw falling open as he gasps softly. His hands clutch at the edge of the sink as he stares up at Mikey for very, very long moment, his eyes wide and his cheeks slowly flushing red. "I, uh." He wets his lips and blinks, once, before his lips part again and he repeats, "I-" and takes a step back, then another as he drops his hands from the counter and then... Runs away, weaving markedly on his way towards the stairs. Oh God.
Mikey watches him go, throat working like he wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. No shit, stupid. You're deaf. Of course you're not talking, either. Stupid, perverted freak. He finishes the dishes as slowly as he can, then creeps downstairs, hoping with every fibre of his being that Gerard's not in the livingroom-part of the basement, and is in their room, instead. Their room, where Mikey has to sleep tonight, where he has to face Gerard and own up to his personal grossness. He flicks the television on, glad to see that the bedroom door is shut, and curls up on the couch, knees to chest, flinging his glasses to the table in front of him. God. I'm sorry. Don't hate me. I can't help it.
It takes almost thirty fucking minutes for that thing to go away, and it makes him feel fucking vile, that he would- That he felt like that, reacted like that, when faced with Mikey like... that. Finally, after he's taken some time to change his clothes and top up his drink with a judicious application of the gin under his mattress, he comes out into the main room and sits down heavily on the other end of the couch. He's silent, not looking at Mikey, as he reaches over and puts his hand against his brother's shoulder, spelling out, "I'm sorry."
"You didn't do anything," Mikey signs, despondently. "Go away, I'm watching tv." With his forehead against his knees, and his eyes shut. Sure. "I'm listening to the tv." Anything to make Gerard leave him alone, to make him feel less disgusting and weird and just. Deviant.
I shouldn't feel like that. But I do. And now he's trying to make it like it didn't happen. He shrugs out from Gerard's hand, hunched and miserable. "I don't know why I did that."
Gerard has had years of putting up with Mikey's sulks, and he's largely immune to it, by now. He sighs and lays down, reaching his hand around onto his brother's stomach to keep spelling out words, slow and painstaking. No Pete Wentz English for them, not even with the world tilted so far to the side that he doesn't even know if the feeling in his stomach is fear or just way too much booze on not enough food. "Maybe because it felt good?"
Mikey lifts his head a little, squinting at his older brother, all pale skin, dark hair, dark-rimmed eyes, and looks away, ashamed. "Maybe it did," he signs back, unlocking his arms from his knees. "Do you hate me? I feel like the dirtiest fucking jerk on the planet. The universe, maybe. Maybe if Galactus the stupid giant cloud comes along, he could devour me and... and..." He thunks his head down on his knees again for a moment, then signs, one-handed, "Just... I can't help it. How it feels. What you do."
It's not worth complaining about Mikey not listening, because that's obviously not the principle problem. That's... "I don't. And it's your turn. Truth or Dare?"
"You know the answer to that. Dare." Not lifting his head, not looking at Gerard, not when he can't even see him properly. "You know your stupid little brother. Always the daredevil. I'm even blind like he is. Shit."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Gerard's voice is rough, a little scratchy, and he's glad that it falls on deaf ears, as he reaches out to tip Mikey's chin up, waiting until he opens his eyes to sign. "You want a dare? Okay. Here: Do what you wanted to do, earlier." His lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide, solemn and maybe the slightest bit scared as he just... Waits.
"Say it," Mikey asks, pressing the backs of his knuckles against Gerard's throat. "If you really mean it, say it. Out loud." He makes a little face, and adds, in a breathy little whisper, "If you don't, I won't talk to you ever again. Like this." But there's no teasing in Gerard's eyes, no joke or good-natured dare. Only pale, serious hazel. And fear, and maybe a little trust. "Please."
Mikey can feel Gerard's Adam's apple bob under his fingers as he brings his hand up, twisting Mikey's hand around to press palm-first over his voicebox. "I want to know." He talks slowly, shaping his words as clearly as his damaged mouth and blood alcohol content allow. He blinks, and it feels like his eyes are maybe burning, a little, but he keeps speaking, clear and painful, as his throat constricts with worry. "I want to know what you want, Mikey. And if you stop talking, I swear to God-" He swallows, squeezing his eyes closed, and signs brokenly, "If you stop talking, I swear to God, I will never speak to you again."
Mikey just stares at him, face oddly naked without his glasses, features aquiline without anything to hide behind, and he all but shoves Gerard back, nearly tackling him, pressing their bodies together. "This." And if there's a catch in Mikey's voice, he doesn't know it's there. "Don't hate me. I'm sorry." Shame written boldly on his face as he ducks down to kiss him. His brother. His brother. And this isn't one of those little, platonic lip-to-lip kisses that he gives Gerard after he's drunk himself asleep, either. It's hard and desperate and scared, all press of tongue and parting of lips.
Gerard's lips fall apart as he exhales, his voice pushed out of his chest by his brother's weight against him. His mouth tastes sharply of gin, the sweet of the rum and coke underlaying it, and he's passive, scared and unsure of what to do next. He clutches at Mikey's side and sputters softly, as he moves away, his fingers shaking against Mikey's side. "I don't. Why-"
"I did what you told me to do!" Mikey cries, shoving off of Gerard. Denied. "You asked for it and you got it." Blindly, he flings himself off the couch and toward the bedroom, signing angrily, "I'm going to ask mom to move me upstairs."
But Gerard isn't going to let him get away that easily, oh no. He lunges from the sofa and reaches for Mikey's ankle, grabbing and jerking him down onto the ground. He's not in fantastic shape and he knows it, but the compact strength of his limbs is still enough to let him climb onto Mikey, pinning him down so he can straddle his waist. He waves his hands until his brother looks at his face so he can sign angrily, his cheeks painfully red and his mouth turned into a miserable grimace, "Shut the fuck up, you little- You can't just expect me to be okay with SURPRISE first kiss, can you? I didn't expect- I didn't. I don't." He shifts against Mikey, his thighs tensing against Mikey's hips, and wets his lips as he shakes out his trembling hands and signs with less emphasis, honest fear in his eyes. "I wanted it. I did. I just didn't- I never." No one ever wanted to, before.
Mikey reaches up and grabs Gerard's wrists, silencing him the only way he can. "First kiss." Bullshit, there's no way. No way. "You're lying." Squinting up at Gerard's face, unable to read him properly, unable to sign, for the grip of long fingers around his brother's wrists, vicelike. "Show me you're lying. Show me you wanted it."
When two pulls of his arms fail to free his hands he makes a frustrated sound, shifting his weight against Mikey, and frowns at him for a moment, not really comprehending what he's saying. "Why would I lie?" He speaks as clearly as he can, but he's still worried that Mikey won't believe him. Will think that he's lying, and when would he ever, EVER lie to his brother? He shifts again and takes a deep breath, then leans forward, crushing his and Mikey's hands between their chests as he presses his lips to Mikey's, so hard that their teeth click together, off-center and untutored. I wish you believed me, you asshole. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to look like a dumbass.
But somehow Mikey frees his fingers from Gerard's wrists and presses them against his back, between t-shirt and hoodie. Because you're too... you're too you, to not have anyone kiss you. Beautiful or handsome or whatever. I don't know. He turns his head away from Gerard's for a moment, to catch his breath and just hug his brother, unable to believe that somehow, this is real. "Relax. I'm not gonna bite." Low and careful against Gerard's ear. "I just. I can't believe that you've never. And that it's your stupid little brother, that-" He turns his face against Gerard's neck, breathing in the comforting smell of him, feeling the beat of his brother's pulse against the bridge of his nose.
Gerard whimpers softly, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he pushes down against Mikey's body, not realizing what he's doing, beyond it feeling good. He breathes against Mikey's temple for a long time, at least fifteen seconds, maybe half a minute, before he pushes his hand against his brother's ribs, trying to find the balance to sit up, and unknowingly pressing his thumb against Mikey's nipple. Once he gets far enough up that he can gesture he waits for Mikey's eyes to open, then sketches out with hands that shake, his eyes wide and his tongue pressing against the bow of his lip as he watches Mikey's face for his reaction. "I wasn't bad, was I? I don't- I don't mean to be bad, if I am. I just need you to show-"
When he realizes what he's said he blinks, paling visibly as he clenches his hands tightly and then repeats softly, no longer looking at Mikey's face, "I want you to show me how to be good, so I can do it right."
The face that Mikey makes could almost be funny, if it weren't pure reaction to Gerard's thumb, pressed firm against his nipple. He gasps a minute noise, shifting his hips just so, all but unaware of the press of himself, hard just-like-that, against the inside of Gerard's thigh. "It wasn't," he signs, slowly. "I don't think you could be. You've always been... I don't know. My brother. That I looked up to. Maybe that's why I couldn't believe that you'd never." Carefully composed, he beckons Gerard back down. "You do it slow, and careful. And then when you're okay with that, you step it up. Kissing's easy." Signed barely out of the corner of Gerard's vision, before Mikey runs his fingers into his brother's hair, tugging him in for gentle, easy lip-on-lip.
The soft rush of Gerard's breath is heady, hot and alcoholic, his lips soft as he presses them parted against Mikey's. He shifts as well, one hand finding his brother's hair and the other bracing against his shoulder, like otherwise the world might start spinning. He isn't even aware of the arch of his back, the minute dig of his hips against the so-flat of Mikey's stomach, for all that it makes his entire body shift as he gasps softly against the full bow of Mikey's lower lip as he whispers, might-as-well-be-silently, "God," and holds on tighter as he presses his lips back in.
Mikey can't hear Gerard's whisper, but he feels it, in the shape of his lips and the rush of his breath, and grinds up under him, helpless and shivery and so fucking full of desperate want that he doesn't know how to hold onto it properly. He pants roughly into the scattered night of Gerard's hair, sliding a hand down to grip the beltloop at Gerard's left hip, guiding him as much as he can while Mikey explores the corners of his brother's mouth. It's such a shattering, cataclysmic revelation, this is my brother, that he pushes it away, unable to look at it, to feel through it, not when he's hot and tingling and wanting nothing more than to memorize the look on Gerard's face when the end hits him.
Mikey's hand on his hip is enough to make him move again, forward-back, gasping hotly into his brother's mouth. He pets Mikey's hair back from his face, and while he usually would be amused by the blondish bird's nest of it, all he can think of right now is how soft it is, how warm the skin of Mikey's temple feels under the side of his thumb. He so-hesitantly presses his tongue against the intrusion of Mikey's at the corner of his mouth, and the soft, emphatic noise he makes - somewhere between a moan and a grunt, all nasal and wanting - would embarrass him, if he was actually thinking in terms of sound. But he's not, and Mikey can't, so no harm, no foul. Right?
He feels the noise Gerard makes, the vibration of tongue on tongue, and pulls at Gerard's hip again, trying to pitch Gerard's voice in his head, how that vibration would sound if he could hear it. Mikey pulls back from the kiss to blink up at Gerard, sharp here and hazy there, depending on where he is in Mikey's line of vision, and just... just that thing that Mikey realizes he needs. That one thing that makes Mikey himself. Who would he be, without Gerard? What would he be? He certainly wouldn't be feeling like he's thisclosetocoming, with Gerard's mouth on his and so goddamn perfectly covered by his weight, solid and warm, despite being fragrant of alcohol.
Gerard has passed into the blissful stage of being so drunk that everything makes perfect, crystal-clear sense, even things that would normally confuse or worry or frighten him or, you know, send him screaming in the other direction. Usually this is about the time he starts trying to draw Cthuloid beasties walking on Möbius strips, which he inevitably passes out before finishing. But instead he arches his back and lifts his head up to breathe, his eyes closed and his lips parted, skin red and sheened so-slightly with sweat. His fingers open and close against Mikey's shoulder as he swallows, teeth cutting into the full swell of his lower lip to drag out the long fricative at the beginning of his intent, pleading cry of "Fuck."
Mikey furrows his brows, not sure what Gerard's said, when it's barely out of focus. He's far too busy carving the soft and hard lines of Gerard's face, of his fingers in Mikey's shoulder, of the arch in his back- carving them into the deepest spots in his mind, the places that say never forget this. He huffs a hard breath, once, twice, and jerks Gerard into him, baring his teeth at what seems like simple pleasure, but pleasure's not even the word for it. Searing, like he's being burned alive by it. Consumed. Fuck, Gerard, just-
This is not the sort of thing that happens to Gerard Way. Well, obviously this has never happened before. But absolutely nothing about this situation is usual, except that he's drunk and confused, but that really is him most of the time, so it's merely a backdrop to the complete surreality of the situation. But he has definitely never been in a position like this before, his thighs tight against something - someone - and his cock hard against his hip and pressed so-tight against the warmth of someone's stomach. But then there's the part where it's Mikey, it's his little brother, and he's far enough gone that the creepiness of that has fallen by the wayside and all he can think about is how good he smells, and how warm he is, and how much Gerard wishes that he'd talk. That he could hear that weird, strangely-cadenced monotone that Mikey's used since he started talking after the accident, that he's come to love more than fucking anything else on earth. "C'mon Mikes, I wanna hear-" But his hand stutters and falters as something wells up inside him, vast and yawning, and falls to clutch at Mikey's other shoulder as Gerard bites his own lip, his face crunching up, and comes, so hard that he kind of feels like he's about to pass out. "Mmmmgh."
The sight of that is so completely stunning that Mikey almost forgets what he's trying to do, what he's aiming for, to put out the fire that's crawled up and down his back, that's settled in his hips and lips and wrists, and behind his balls. Jesus God, you're beautiful. And then he's bucking up into the reassuring warmth of Gerard's body, eyes squeezed closed, holding his brother as hard, as close, as fucking close as he can. I would never hurt you I would never leave you I'd give you everything I had and more just to make you feel good just to make you feel like- "You're safe," Mikey gasps against Gerard's chin, not even aware that he's said anything, let alone out loud, lost in the devastation of his orgasm.
It's really all Gerard can do to curl into Mikey, hugging him close, and kissing warmly at the long line of his neck. "Y're safe too," he whispers against Mikey's skin, wishing with all his body and heart and soul that he could hear him. He reaches up, petting gently at Mikey's hair, and slowly sits up, just enough that he has room to press his fingers to Mikey's chest, his thumb stuck out and his ring and middle fingers ducked under as he whispers, "Love you."
Everything comes crashing back, life and reality and the fact that he can't hear Gerard's voice, as much as he desperately tries, and Mikey fumbles at Gerard's wrist to pull that sign away from the beat of his heart. "I love you." Out loud, flat and rough and tight all at once, as he uncurls Gerard's fingers to kiss his palm. Don't hate me. Don't. I don't know what I'd do. Another unrealized show of emotion: a tear that tracks, warm and unfelt, from the corner of his eye to the cup of his ear. I'm sorry, I know you love me. I couldn't stop.
Gerard only pulls his hand away from Mikey's lips to push the wet track of Mikey's tear off of his skin with the pad of his thumb, his smile pulling crooked and soft as he looks down at Mikey, his eyes not-quite-focused. He shifts a little and then blinks, his face crunching up into an expression of distaste as he signs, "Gross," and tries to stand. Tries.
"Yep," Mikey answers, and is up on his knees even as Gerard staggers down again. "Gotcha." The sign pressed up against Gerard's back more than anything else, and Mikey helps his brother to the bathroom. "Are you gonna barf?" Signing one-handed as he eases Gerard down onto the edge of the tub. "I'll get your pyjamas for you. Stay there." He presses a worried, still-shamed kiss to his forehead, and grabs a clean shirt and track pants from the bedroom. "Gerard." Out loud. "Do you need me to help?" It's the least I can do for making you do that, or whatever. Or whatever I did. Just don't remember this, tomorrow. Please.
"I probably should, but I don't want to." Gerard signs, his hands much steadier than they really look like they should be, given that his elbows are planted on his knees, too unsteady to actually sit up farther than that. He looks up at Mikey, his hair stringy and in his face again, whatever strange magic that turned him into a sylphlike, beautiful creature dissipated, leaving him just a drunk, greasy teenager slumped on the unforgiving porcelain of the tub and squinting in the too-bright light of the bathroom. He takes a little breath and swallows thickly as he signs, looking resigned, "I should, shouldn't I." He looks away, sneering a little bit, and gestures messily, "I hate throwing up."
"You're going to be sicker tomorrow if you don't." It wouldn't matter if Gerard was sparkling clean, greasy, covered in mud. Mikey would still gather him up as best he can, hug him into long, thin arms, share silent warmth with him. "I'll hold your hair, if you want." If you remember anything, just remember... You were drunk. This didn't happen. Or, it happened because you were drunk. Mikey talks against Gerard's ear, unable to sign properly when his hands are against his brother's back, holding him up as he sways a little against Mikey. "I'll help."
Gerard leans against Mikey, breathing shallowly and open-mouthed for a long few seconds before he nods, leaning back carefully to meet his brother's eyes with tired, bloodshot ones of his own. "Okay," he signs shorter, swallowing again and wrinkling his nose, "let's get this over with." As soon as Mikey moves even a little bit he slides heavily down to his knees, not thinking anything about how this looks, past the fact that he can catch Mikey's hands and push them into his hair, his long fingers twisting through the slick, oily black of it to hold it back from the delicate bones of his face, open mouthed and drawn into an expression of resignation. "Here goes nothing."
All Mikey can do is hold Gerard's hair back, like he promised, watching him with a fussy, worried expression. I made you. I think. You were drunk and I made you. You're my brother, I shouldn't want that. You. And I shouldn't have asked for it. The fact that Gerard pursued it notwithstanding, it makes Mikey feel vaguely like he's going to be sick, too. Definitely a night to sleep alone.
It happens easy, like he's done it before (he has), a slow inhale and a careful relaxing of his jaw, two fingers pressed back past his molars, and it's not that he has a particularly strong gag reflex even when he's sober, but if he coughs, tenses his muscles just right- He gets his hand (barely) out of the way in time, to lose his dinner and everything else he'd drunk in one fast rush, sick-sweet alcoholic smelling. He huffs a little breath and then spits, coughs softly, and then reaches up to flush the toilet, letting Mikey's hands support the weight of his head as he signs loosely, "Clothes?"
Mikey nods, a gesture that Gerard can catch out of the corner of his eye, and he starts helping Gee out of his clothes and into something clean. I'll change after. It's okay. You first, then me. "Okay?" The simple gesture that everyone in the universe recognizes, which in reality, is the letter "F". Mikey hooks his arm around Gerard's waist and helps him into the bedroom. "Now don't look. I'm gonna get changed."
Gerard nods as he leans heavily against his brother, his arm around Mikey's shoulders and his breathing heavy. He makes a fist with his other hand and nods it up and down as it if were the head of a marionette, indicating that he agrees. But once he's laid up in his bed he curls up, his eyes shut tight... Until he slits them open just the barest bit, under the shade of his lashes and hair. To watch Mikey undress, to try and confirm what he dimly remembers. I did that do you, didn't I.
Gerard doesn't see much, other than the crack of Mikey's ass, and the shadow of him looking down at himself, blotting into the front of his shorts with a handful of tissue. There's no real sound as he does this, just tiny, fussy breaths of disgust. Not at what he's doing - because it's certainly not the first time, hi, pyjama pants? - but because of the reason why. When he's satisfied enough, he shakes his hips to send his shorts and jeans down, and kicks them aside, showing off just exactly how skinny he is, under his clothes. And when his shirt comes up and off, it just accentuates the curve of spine to hips; the kind of curve that sets his shoulders at an angle, and makes him walk pigeon-toed. But that's just how he is. Aside from being the most horrible disgusting terrible brother on the face of the earth.
It's with a sigh that Gerard closes his eyes, rolling loosely onto his back as he flicks his hands, knowing that Mikey will see from his peripheral vision, will look even despite himself. "You're beautiful," he signs, the alcohol in his system finally starting to really show in his hands. "Beautiful," he repeats, yawning without reservation as he continues, already falling fast towards sleep. "and I love you." I don't know why you feel- Why you feel that way about me. But it's okay. It'll be okay. We'll make it okay, I promise.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mikey/Gerard
Disclaimer: Dude, if we owned them? You'd never see us again.
Authors: Les Coqs Au Lait (The cat and the bloody organ)
Warnings: Waycest ahoy! Underage sex, drinking.
Mikey wakes up with his hands over his ears, like it's he himself that's shutting the sound out, instead of ears that were so badly damaged two years ago that he has to feel sound, instead of experience it. And the thing that scares him the most when he wakes up like this is not being able to hear Gerard breathe. That fussy little snore that comforted him as a kid is gone now. Not bothering with his glasses, he shuffles across the room in the dark, feeling for the warm lump that's his older brother, and skims under the blanket with him. "Gee. Gee." Not even knowing what his own voice sounds like anymore, muffled and soft in the middle of the night. "Roll over."
Gerard just grumbles and rolls over, slinging an arm around Mikey's shoulders as he hums softly, his hand flickering a fragment of a question, ok? against Mikey's upper arm as he presses his face into the messy tangle of he's brother's hair. Sleep comes easy when his breath still smells sweet, coconut and cold and sticky on the back of his tongue. School tomorrow will be a nightmare, but school always is, and it's these quiet times that he lives for, where it's almost like nothing has changed. Mikey's voice is different but Mikey is different, taller now, with lanky muscle filling out the angles of his coltish limbs, and who knows if it would any different, if the world had gone some other way?
"You reek," Mikey whispers, before pressing a brief, chaste kiss to his brother's lips. But I hope it helps where I can't. I wish you were okay. I'm okay, I promise, and you should be, too. I should be able to help. He settles his head against Gerard's chest, where he can feel the rise-fall of his breath, and feel the slow beat of Gee's heart against his cheek. Mikey falls asleep with his hand against Gerard's side, index finger and baby finger straight, and thumb out. I love you.
***
Gerard is still asleep when Mikey wakes up to get ready for school, the longer trip to the School for the Deaf meaning that unless Gerard wakes up early - never likely even without the hangover - they can't eat breakfast together like they used to. He's asleep when Mikey leaves, still snoring open-mouthed and deceptively peaceful, but when Mikey gets out of his last class, he's there. Like always.
"Broken any hearts today?" he signs, squinting in the watery Autumn sun as he shrugs, the straps of his backpack making his shoulders hunch. "Solve world hunger?" He has a bit of a scrape on his cheek and eyeliner in the creases around his eyes, puffy with too much booze and not enough sleep. There's a split on his lip that he worries at with his teeth, his eyes flickering down to the dirt in front of Mikey's shoes before he looks up, with that carefully measured glance at both face and hands at once. Waiting for his brother's retort. "Did you miss me?"
"Always," Mikey signs back, favouring his big brother with a smile. "And no, I don't think so. There's this girl in my lip-reading class... I think she likes me. She's kind of newly deaf, you know? And I don't think this-" Mikey adjusts his backpack on his back, to make the prototypical sign for sex, index finger back and forth through his fist, "-is exactly right for 'come and have sexy time with me, you skinny scoliosis kid.'" He takes a moment to frown into Gerard's face, before smudging the eyeliner away with the side of his thumb. "You look awful. Who slept on your face last night?"
"I think it was you. Unless someone else who smelled like ass and Axe body spray crawled into my bed last night." He squints under Mikey's assault, trying to protect his eyeliner from any further depredations. He turns and starts walking towards the bus stop - he still hasn't gotten his driver's license, and is sort of beginning to suspect that he's just never going to - with his body angled so he can still watch Mikey's hands. "We got to finger paint today, I shit you not. Am I in eleventh grade, or am I in kindergarten? I did some wicked cool panels, like Frank Miller, you know? And used the paint to fill them in, like ink. This idiot tried to eat the paint right before lunch though, so we just did math all afternoon. It sucked."
"Seriously? Finger painting? They had me doing, like, rise and run and graph shit in math. And we're reading Romeo and Juliet. So dumb." The emphasis on his words are clear in his face, rolled eyes here, grin there, and he shoves Gerard, once they're at the bus stop. "For the record, I don't smell like Axe. And I had a shower last night before bed. So the ass smell must have been yours." The bus is right on time, and Mikey flashes his pass at the driver and picks a seat near the back, for himself and Gerard. "Come on, slowpoke. I've got stuff to do at home."
Gerard shoves past Mikey affably enough, to wedge himself next to the window as he pulls a face at him. His hands move easy, like pale birds against the expanse of black on his chest, hoodie zipped up to just below his collarbones in defiance of the heat, his face impassive for the most part, like he's afraid of giving something away to the passersby. "And by 'stuff' you mean 'naughty alone time with the copy of Witchblade', I know you. I get it. Far be it from me to interfere with your naughty alone time."
Mikey favours Gerard with a deep scowl, and crosses his arms indignantly over his chest, and leans over to nearly touch his lips to Gerard ear, hissing, "Am not, stupid." He huffs a little noise, more a hard breath than anything else, and stares at the front of the bus. "So what if it was, anyway?" After a long moment of thinking of something witty to say, when he knows his face is burning, because Gerard's right. But Mikey can't help it lately, it seems. Like a warm breeze or waking up with the memory of Gerard's voice in his useless ears - At least they keep my glasses up - is enough for Mikey to lock himself in the bathroom. It's that same hiss, that same lip-to-ear, and the heat in his face is enough that Gerard can feel it in their proximity. "Not like I get any privacy in the bedroom, Gerard."
Even though closing his eyes is the same as stuffing his fingers in his ears and shouting LALALA, Gerard still does it as he signs, his lower lip caught tight between his teeth as he inhales in a mortified little gasp, at the rush of heat that Mikey's voice, his fucking lips right next to his ear sends slurring through his body. He cracks his knuckles and then gestures, short and sharp, "I could always just not look. It's not- It's not like I don't know it happens, or anything." And when he pulls his eyes open his pupils are dilated, and stay that way maybe a little longer than they should, as he gropes over his shoulder for his bag and his sunglasses as he keeps his eyes down, only half-watching for Mikey's reply. Almost afraid of what it might be.
Mikey's hands come into action again, quick and embarrassed and maybe a little cross. "Still. I'd let you have your privacy." Cross, because maybe he wants Gerard to know. Maybe half the reason he crawls into bed with his brother most nights is because of the dreams Mikey has, and he's desperate to feel Gerard's body, for real, next to his. Even with clothes. It's enough, it's more than enough. It's never enough. "I don't know if I'd be comfortable with that. A guy needs to take his time, sometimes."
In answer Gerard pulls his sunglasses out of the top of his bag and puts them on, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His cheeks are flooded dull, angry red - almost fuchsia against his pale skin - and he just- Is done with that conversation. Just can't deal with it any more. So he's silent until they get to their stop, only offering once they're out of the bus and walking the two blocks back into their neighborhood to their house, "If you think it's a bad idea, whatever. I just meant, like. It's no big deal, whatever."
Their neighbourhood is quiet, this time of day, and Mikey offers in that curious, flat tone of voice, "Don't be pissed, okay? Just. I know it's not a big deal." It's just that I think about you sometimes. Most of the time. And it's wrong, or something, and you're going to think I'm gross and retarded or that there's something wrong with me. Instead, he pushes up Gerard's sunglasses enough to pinch the red mark on his cheekbone, and flashes a crooked grin. "Just let it go, okay? I'm the walking boner, like you need to know that, but don't be mad at me, okay? I don't like it." From the end of their street, Mikey can see that the driveway's empty, and he asks, carefully-quiet, "Where are mom and dad?"
Gerard makes his little scrunchy-faced almost smile as Mikey pinches his cheek, shoving lightly at his brother's side as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. It's like Paris Hilton-meets-Alice in Wonderland, but it keeps his hair out of his face, so he can squint at their house and then shrug, his face already less impassive as his hands flick out the words, though still nowhere near as animated as Mikey is, as his friends from school. "Dude, it's Friday, remember? They have that retreat thing. No one to yell at us for not turning the goddamn music down until Sunday!"
"Stop talking in monotone," Mikey signs back, digging into the side pocket for his keys. "You're like a wax dummy when you talk." Half-articulate, signing with one hand as he unlocks the door for the both of them. "Gone until Sunday. That's going to be awesome." He drops his schoolbag on the floor with a textbook-rattling thump, and calls over his shoulder as he heads into the basement, "Start dinner. I'll be up when. Uh. You know."
Gerard waves at his brother's back, even though he knows that Mikey's mind and attention are elsewhere. So he starts dinner, trying to ignore the knowledge of what Mikey must be doing. To help distract himself he pulls the vodka out of the back of the freezer, portioning out a generous splash into one of the heavy glass tumblers that he used to drink milk out of when he was little. He tops it off with orange juice and doesn't even bother trying to stir it before he slams it back, barely even tasting the vodka on the back of his tongue as he turns to eye the kitchen consideringly. Dinner.
The problem is, Mikey doesn't know that he makes little noises when he jerks off. Nor does he realize that the vents in their house conduct sound. He never listened when he could hear properly anyway, and now that he's deaf as a post? Absolutely no idea. But the sounds filter up to Gerard nonetheless, little nnh, nnh- noises, made even flatter by the distance through the grates. There's no Witchblade in the bathroom with him, oh, no. It's the idea that Gerard planted in his head on the way home, of his brother watching him jerk off that's fueling this fantasy...
It's easy to not-notice the sounds. Really it is. And if Gerard starts cutting the tomatoes for the bruschetta he's making for dinner in time with the tempo of those soft, nasal noises, not-quite-moans? That doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. He pitches the tomatoes into a bowl and sloshes in some balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil, licking it off the side of his finger on his way to his second screwdriver. Bread next, and then he'll deal with the mozzerella. He's got everything under control. Everything. Really.
He barely even tastes his second drink.
About five minutes after the very-definite thud of Mikey's head hitting the wall, he comes upstairs, warm and flushed, and he leans companionably against Gerard to sign, "Bruschetta? What else are you going to make?" Here, he stops, taking in the sharp not-smell of vodka, and the carton of orange juice on the counter. "You going to be able to cook anything else? Or do you want to order a pizza to go with this?" And adds, the expression on his face plaintive, almost wistful. "I know you can talk. I wish you would. Then- then I could pretend I can hear you."
Gerard's voice is the slightest bit slurred when he speaks, but his hands are steady as he signs in tandem, only leaning back into his brother for a second, before turning away to go back to the kitchen. "I'm fine. And I don't know why- It doesn't make any difference. It won't change anything, if I talk." He pulls out some chicken and gestures for Mikey to get the olive oil back down off the shelf again. "I'm fine."
Mikey keeps up easily, face bright like the sun with the knowledge that Gerard's talking. "Stop." Verbal and overjoyed. "Come here. Olive oil can wait." He's nearly shaking when he puts his hands on the sides of Gerard's throat, and asks. "Please, say something else? I know you said something. I could tell when you breathed. Don't lie to me. I can tell. I'm a superhero that way." It's all there, in the breathless smile on Mikey's lips, in the way his heart pounds, silly, stupid excitement, over something as regular and ordinary as Gerard's voice. But it's never been ordinary, to Mikey. It's one of the only things he still hears, in his head. One of the only things he remembers with perfect, crystalline clarity. Mikes, c'mere. Got the new Bad Art Collection, it's hilarious...
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mikes. It's not like-" It's not like you can hear me. But thankfully Mikey can't hear the catch in his voice as he lowers his eyes then looks up through his lashes, trying to move his lips as clearly as possible. "It's not like my voice is all that great." Then he looks away, his face at three-quarters view, and says softly, "I need a fucking drink."
"It's the only thing I still hear," Mikey blurts, relishing the vibration of Gerard's voice under his fingers. "I remember it." His smile falters, then falls away entirely as he gets out the olive oil for Gerard, and signs to his back, "You don't know how much I miss it. I could live without sound. I could maybe even live without music. But you were always the one I listened to." Mikey sits down, watching Gerard's back, the way his elbows move as he cuts up the chicken, and signs some more. It's the good thing about ASL; if the person you're talking to can't see you, then it's all but a secret. "I wish you understood how much it means to me."
Gerard gets himself another drink, not asking Mikey if he wants one, and then sets to making the sauteed garlic chicken that will do with the bruschetta with fresh mozzerella that's toasting in the oven. With his back turned he knows that Mikey can't hear him, can't see him to know that he's missing out, but his voice is still barely more than a brush of air as he whispers, "I wish you could still hear me." I wish you knew how much I miss being able to talk to you.
A good minute and a half passes, where Mikey stares at Gerard's back, and he can't the silence anymore. But everything is silent now, isn't it? Not when he can see Gerard's hands move, or feel the beat of his heart, or the rise and fall of his breath. Not when he can hear Gerard's voice if he closes his eyes and listens hard enough, with his head instead of his ears. And it's all of this that makes him hug his arms around Gee's middle and rest his forehead against the back of his shoulder. Hand curled into I love you.
As soon as the chicken comes off the stove and the oven is turned off, cracked to let some heat escape, Gerard turns his head and lifts his hand, overlaying Mikey's with his own as he says with gentle conviction, his lips against Mikey's hair, "I love you too." Then he takes a deep breath and pulls away, downing the last of his screwdriver - his third? Fourth? Maybe fifth? He isn't sure. - before he starts to portion food out onto plates, signing awkwardly around the utensils in his hands, "Go sit down, I'll bring it in."
That's enough to convince Mikey, the feel of the words against his hair, and he smiles a little. "Could have just said it, stupid. I can read lips, you know." Hands on his hips, Mikey sticks his tongue out at his older brother, and abandons him to sit down. It's a good thing the Simpsons comes in subtitles, now, otherwise Mikey would probably miss that more than any other show. "Slowpoke, come on. You should have had dinner ready when I got home from school!" He chuffs out funny little laughter, and adds with his hands, once Gerard's in sight, "Just kidding. You're a way better cook than mom. And besides, I don't feel weird about hugging you, after. You don't treat me like I'm gonna break."
Gerard puts their plates out, something like twice as much food on Mikey's, and ducks back into the kitchen to get two cokes before returning to sit down. He sits across from Mikey just because it's easiest to talk that way, and knocks his can of soda against Mikey's head before opening it, taking a drink, and then signing with a little smile, "That's because I know that you won't. And I spend more time with Gramma E than anyone else, she taught me all her secrets." Like wine before, during and after cooking, and singing along with the radio no matter how dumb you feel. He breaks his bread into pieces and scoops up some of the fresh marinated tomatoes, spearing a piece of chicken to eat it all at once, asking as he chews, "Is it good?"
"Terrible," Mikey answers, one-handed, all but shoveling it in. It's been like this since school started: can't eat enough, can't sit still, can't jerk off nearly enough to keep up with himself. "I cook like... like, I don't know. But I can't cook." He leans over and grocks Gerard's soda, taking a long drink and punctuating it with a resounding belch. "No seriously? I could eat all of it, and probably be still hungry." Away from their parents and the eyes of the world, Mikey talks. He trusts Gerard to tell him if he sounds funny, or doesn't say something right, or if he's too loud or quiet. And while he knows with perfect detail what Gerard sounds like - or sounded like two years ago, when noise was something Mikey took for granted - he can't hear himself, remember his own voice. Not one word. "Truth or dare: ever gotten drunk and cooked for mom and dad, too?"
The little smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth is almost painful, with the stiff way that he holds his face, like he's not really comfortable with it, as he leans over and steals Mikey's soda in retaliation, cracking it open and belching quietly as he sets it down. It's not worth complaining that Mikey bent the rules, because he was already going to choose Truth anyway. He ALWAYS chooses Truth. It's safer. "Yes," he signs, eating little bits of food in between word-signs as he can. "I was making wine-and-tomato sauce, they didn't even notice. They never notice." He rubs the underside of his nose a little and then flickers back at Mikey, saying the words as well in a careful voice, "Truth or Dare."
"Dare." Spearing the last bit of chicken into his mouth and pushing his plate away, he meets Gerard's eyes with something like challenge. I always notice. I can smell it on you and see it in the way you move. You don't have to be drunk. I still see you, even if they don't. You're my brother, and you were there for me when I didn't even wanna be there for myself. Mikey curls up on the couch, sitting as easily as a crooked spine allows, and grins at his brother. "Dare." Out loud.
Gerard watches him move, sensing maybe the littlest bit of what Mikey's thinking, and thinks seriously about it for a long, long moment, before nodding decisively. "I dare you to do the dishes." He traces out the signs with a disgustingly pleased look on his face, as he picks up his can of soda and wanders into the kitchen to wait for Mikey and to find what's left of the bottle of Malibu.
Mikey thinks he makes a little noise, but he's not sure, and gets up to follow Gerard into the kitchen. "That's not a dare!" he signs. "That's... that just mean!" But he fills the sink with hot, soapy water, and dumps the dishes in. One by one, they're scrubbed, rinsed, tossed haphazardly into the drainer, with Mikey frowning the whole time. I hate doing dishes, he thinks in Gerard's general direction, which he's pretty sure is somewhere behind him. Stupid dare. Stupid brother. I hate doing dishes.
Once Gerard has found the last of the rum and poured it carefully into his can of coke he swirls it around a little and takes a long drink. He walks over to the sink and wobbles up onto his toes, setting his drink on the counter as he slips his hands under Mikey's arms, resting his chin on his brother's shoulder. He picks up the other sponge and starts to help, pressed up over-warm against Mikey's back as he presses his lips up against the space just behind Mikey's earlobe, like that might help him hear. "Lemme help."
The sudden warmth and nearness of Gerard's body surprises Mikey, but what surprises him even more, stuns him, even, is the vibration of breath against his ear, and the movement of lips. Knowing Gerard's talking, but not knowing what he's saying. Not really caring, as he finds himself suddenly and irrevocably hard. Damn. Goddamn. Shit. Ignoring it, or trying to, as he signs, hands obscured by suds, "What'd you say?"
It's a lot easier to laugh this way, all warm and loose with alcohol, to turn his face against Mikey's neck and pull his hands up so he can sign as he murmurs into his brother's skin. "Truth or dare? You forgot, so you choose for me."
"Truth." It's too much, almost, the feel of Gerard's hands against his under the water. No, no 'almost.' Definitely too much. He twists in the circle of Gerard's arms, his body, the counter, and nearly jeers in his odd voice, "How does it feel to know you do this to me? Huh?" Almost angry. Waiting for Gerard to hit him, to push away, to call Mikey a freak, a pervert. Meeting his older brothers eyes defiantly as he presses his hips against Gerard's. "What do you think of that?"
But the thing that shocks Gerard the most is the way that his hips judder forward, his jaw falling open as he gasps softly. His hands clutch at the edge of the sink as he stares up at Mikey for very, very long moment, his eyes wide and his cheeks slowly flushing red. "I, uh." He wets his lips and blinks, once, before his lips part again and he repeats, "I-" and takes a step back, then another as he drops his hands from the counter and then... Runs away, weaving markedly on his way towards the stairs. Oh God.
Mikey watches him go, throat working like he wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. No shit, stupid. You're deaf. Of course you're not talking, either. Stupid, perverted freak. He finishes the dishes as slowly as he can, then creeps downstairs, hoping with every fibre of his being that Gerard's not in the livingroom-part of the basement, and is in their room, instead. Their room, where Mikey has to sleep tonight, where he has to face Gerard and own up to his personal grossness. He flicks the television on, glad to see that the bedroom door is shut, and curls up on the couch, knees to chest, flinging his glasses to the table in front of him. God. I'm sorry. Don't hate me. I can't help it.
It takes almost thirty fucking minutes for that thing to go away, and it makes him feel fucking vile, that he would- That he felt like that, reacted like that, when faced with Mikey like... that. Finally, after he's taken some time to change his clothes and top up his drink with a judicious application of the gin under his mattress, he comes out into the main room and sits down heavily on the other end of the couch. He's silent, not looking at Mikey, as he reaches over and puts his hand against his brother's shoulder, spelling out, "I'm sorry."
"You didn't do anything," Mikey signs, despondently. "Go away, I'm watching tv." With his forehead against his knees, and his eyes shut. Sure. "I'm listening to the tv." Anything to make Gerard leave him alone, to make him feel less disgusting and weird and just. Deviant.
I shouldn't feel like that. But I do. And now he's trying to make it like it didn't happen. He shrugs out from Gerard's hand, hunched and miserable. "I don't know why I did that."
Gerard has had years of putting up with Mikey's sulks, and he's largely immune to it, by now. He sighs and lays down, reaching his hand around onto his brother's stomach to keep spelling out words, slow and painstaking. No Pete Wentz English for them, not even with the world tilted so far to the side that he doesn't even know if the feeling in his stomach is fear or just way too much booze on not enough food. "Maybe because it felt good?"
Mikey lifts his head a little, squinting at his older brother, all pale skin, dark hair, dark-rimmed eyes, and looks away, ashamed. "Maybe it did," he signs back, unlocking his arms from his knees. "Do you hate me? I feel like the dirtiest fucking jerk on the planet. The universe, maybe. Maybe if Galactus the stupid giant cloud comes along, he could devour me and... and..." He thunks his head down on his knees again for a moment, then signs, one-handed, "Just... I can't help it. How it feels. What you do."
It's not worth complaining about Mikey not listening, because that's obviously not the principle problem. That's... "I don't. And it's your turn. Truth or Dare?"
"You know the answer to that. Dare." Not lifting his head, not looking at Gerard, not when he can't even see him properly. "You know your stupid little brother. Always the daredevil. I'm even blind like he is. Shit."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Gerard's voice is rough, a little scratchy, and he's glad that it falls on deaf ears, as he reaches out to tip Mikey's chin up, waiting until he opens his eyes to sign. "You want a dare? Okay. Here: Do what you wanted to do, earlier." His lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide, solemn and maybe the slightest bit scared as he just... Waits.
"Say it," Mikey asks, pressing the backs of his knuckles against Gerard's throat. "If you really mean it, say it. Out loud." He makes a little face, and adds, in a breathy little whisper, "If you don't, I won't talk to you ever again. Like this." But there's no teasing in Gerard's eyes, no joke or good-natured dare. Only pale, serious hazel. And fear, and maybe a little trust. "Please."
Mikey can feel Gerard's Adam's apple bob under his fingers as he brings his hand up, twisting Mikey's hand around to press palm-first over his voicebox. "I want to know." He talks slowly, shaping his words as clearly as his damaged mouth and blood alcohol content allow. He blinks, and it feels like his eyes are maybe burning, a little, but he keeps speaking, clear and painful, as his throat constricts with worry. "I want to know what you want, Mikey. And if you stop talking, I swear to God-" He swallows, squeezing his eyes closed, and signs brokenly, "If you stop talking, I swear to God, I will never speak to you again."
Mikey just stares at him, face oddly naked without his glasses, features aquiline without anything to hide behind, and he all but shoves Gerard back, nearly tackling him, pressing their bodies together. "This." And if there's a catch in Mikey's voice, he doesn't know it's there. "Don't hate me. I'm sorry." Shame written boldly on his face as he ducks down to kiss him. His brother. His brother. And this isn't one of those little, platonic lip-to-lip kisses that he gives Gerard after he's drunk himself asleep, either. It's hard and desperate and scared, all press of tongue and parting of lips.
Gerard's lips fall apart as he exhales, his voice pushed out of his chest by his brother's weight against him. His mouth tastes sharply of gin, the sweet of the rum and coke underlaying it, and he's passive, scared and unsure of what to do next. He clutches at Mikey's side and sputters softly, as he moves away, his fingers shaking against Mikey's side. "I don't. Why-"
"I did what you told me to do!" Mikey cries, shoving off of Gerard. Denied. "You asked for it and you got it." Blindly, he flings himself off the couch and toward the bedroom, signing angrily, "I'm going to ask mom to move me upstairs."
But Gerard isn't going to let him get away that easily, oh no. He lunges from the sofa and reaches for Mikey's ankle, grabbing and jerking him down onto the ground. He's not in fantastic shape and he knows it, but the compact strength of his limbs is still enough to let him climb onto Mikey, pinning him down so he can straddle his waist. He waves his hands until his brother looks at his face so he can sign angrily, his cheeks painfully red and his mouth turned into a miserable grimace, "Shut the fuck up, you little- You can't just expect me to be okay with SURPRISE first kiss, can you? I didn't expect- I didn't. I don't." He shifts against Mikey, his thighs tensing against Mikey's hips, and wets his lips as he shakes out his trembling hands and signs with less emphasis, honest fear in his eyes. "I wanted it. I did. I just didn't- I never." No one ever wanted to, before.
Mikey reaches up and grabs Gerard's wrists, silencing him the only way he can. "First kiss." Bullshit, there's no way. No way. "You're lying." Squinting up at Gerard's face, unable to read him properly, unable to sign, for the grip of long fingers around his brother's wrists, vicelike. "Show me you're lying. Show me you wanted it."
When two pulls of his arms fail to free his hands he makes a frustrated sound, shifting his weight against Mikey, and frowns at him for a moment, not really comprehending what he's saying. "Why would I lie?" He speaks as clearly as he can, but he's still worried that Mikey won't believe him. Will think that he's lying, and when would he ever, EVER lie to his brother? He shifts again and takes a deep breath, then leans forward, crushing his and Mikey's hands between their chests as he presses his lips to Mikey's, so hard that their teeth click together, off-center and untutored. I wish you believed me, you asshole. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to look like a dumbass.
But somehow Mikey frees his fingers from Gerard's wrists and presses them against his back, between t-shirt and hoodie. Because you're too... you're too you, to not have anyone kiss you. Beautiful or handsome or whatever. I don't know. He turns his head away from Gerard's for a moment, to catch his breath and just hug his brother, unable to believe that somehow, this is real. "Relax. I'm not gonna bite." Low and careful against Gerard's ear. "I just. I can't believe that you've never. And that it's your stupid little brother, that-" He turns his face against Gerard's neck, breathing in the comforting smell of him, feeling the beat of his brother's pulse against the bridge of his nose.
Gerard whimpers softly, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he pushes down against Mikey's body, not realizing what he's doing, beyond it feeling good. He breathes against Mikey's temple for a long time, at least fifteen seconds, maybe half a minute, before he pushes his hand against his brother's ribs, trying to find the balance to sit up, and unknowingly pressing his thumb against Mikey's nipple. Once he gets far enough up that he can gesture he waits for Mikey's eyes to open, then sketches out with hands that shake, his eyes wide and his tongue pressing against the bow of his lip as he watches Mikey's face for his reaction. "I wasn't bad, was I? I don't- I don't mean to be bad, if I am. I just need you to show-"
When he realizes what he's said he blinks, paling visibly as he clenches his hands tightly and then repeats softly, no longer looking at Mikey's face, "I want you to show me how to be good, so I can do it right."
The face that Mikey makes could almost be funny, if it weren't pure reaction to Gerard's thumb, pressed firm against his nipple. He gasps a minute noise, shifting his hips just so, all but unaware of the press of himself, hard just-like-that, against the inside of Gerard's thigh. "It wasn't," he signs, slowly. "I don't think you could be. You've always been... I don't know. My brother. That I looked up to. Maybe that's why I couldn't believe that you'd never." Carefully composed, he beckons Gerard back down. "You do it slow, and careful. And then when you're okay with that, you step it up. Kissing's easy." Signed barely out of the corner of Gerard's vision, before Mikey runs his fingers into his brother's hair, tugging him in for gentle, easy lip-on-lip.
The soft rush of Gerard's breath is heady, hot and alcoholic, his lips soft as he presses them parted against Mikey's. He shifts as well, one hand finding his brother's hair and the other bracing against his shoulder, like otherwise the world might start spinning. He isn't even aware of the arch of his back, the minute dig of his hips against the so-flat of Mikey's stomach, for all that it makes his entire body shift as he gasps softly against the full bow of Mikey's lower lip as he whispers, might-as-well-be-silently, "God," and holds on tighter as he presses his lips back in.
Mikey can't hear Gerard's whisper, but he feels it, in the shape of his lips and the rush of his breath, and grinds up under him, helpless and shivery and so fucking full of desperate want that he doesn't know how to hold onto it properly. He pants roughly into the scattered night of Gerard's hair, sliding a hand down to grip the beltloop at Gerard's left hip, guiding him as much as he can while Mikey explores the corners of his brother's mouth. It's such a shattering, cataclysmic revelation, this is my brother, that he pushes it away, unable to look at it, to feel through it, not when he's hot and tingling and wanting nothing more than to memorize the look on Gerard's face when the end hits him.
Mikey's hand on his hip is enough to make him move again, forward-back, gasping hotly into his brother's mouth. He pets Mikey's hair back from his face, and while he usually would be amused by the blondish bird's nest of it, all he can think of right now is how soft it is, how warm the skin of Mikey's temple feels under the side of his thumb. He so-hesitantly presses his tongue against the intrusion of Mikey's at the corner of his mouth, and the soft, emphatic noise he makes - somewhere between a moan and a grunt, all nasal and wanting - would embarrass him, if he was actually thinking in terms of sound. But he's not, and Mikey can't, so no harm, no foul. Right?
He feels the noise Gerard makes, the vibration of tongue on tongue, and pulls at Gerard's hip again, trying to pitch Gerard's voice in his head, how that vibration would sound if he could hear it. Mikey pulls back from the kiss to blink up at Gerard, sharp here and hazy there, depending on where he is in Mikey's line of vision, and just... just that thing that Mikey realizes he needs. That one thing that makes Mikey himself. Who would he be, without Gerard? What would he be? He certainly wouldn't be feeling like he's thisclosetocoming, with Gerard's mouth on his and so goddamn perfectly covered by his weight, solid and warm, despite being fragrant of alcohol.
Gerard has passed into the blissful stage of being so drunk that everything makes perfect, crystal-clear sense, even things that would normally confuse or worry or frighten him or, you know, send him screaming in the other direction. Usually this is about the time he starts trying to draw Cthuloid beasties walking on Möbius strips, which he inevitably passes out before finishing. But instead he arches his back and lifts his head up to breathe, his eyes closed and his lips parted, skin red and sheened so-slightly with sweat. His fingers open and close against Mikey's shoulder as he swallows, teeth cutting into the full swell of his lower lip to drag out the long fricative at the beginning of his intent, pleading cry of "Fuck."
Mikey furrows his brows, not sure what Gerard's said, when it's barely out of focus. He's far too busy carving the soft and hard lines of Gerard's face, of his fingers in Mikey's shoulder, of the arch in his back- carving them into the deepest spots in his mind, the places that say never forget this. He huffs a hard breath, once, twice, and jerks Gerard into him, baring his teeth at what seems like simple pleasure, but pleasure's not even the word for it. Searing, like he's being burned alive by it. Consumed. Fuck, Gerard, just-
This is not the sort of thing that happens to Gerard Way. Well, obviously this has never happened before. But absolutely nothing about this situation is usual, except that he's drunk and confused, but that really is him most of the time, so it's merely a backdrop to the complete surreality of the situation. But he has definitely never been in a position like this before, his thighs tight against something - someone - and his cock hard against his hip and pressed so-tight against the warmth of someone's stomach. But then there's the part where it's Mikey, it's his little brother, and he's far enough gone that the creepiness of that has fallen by the wayside and all he can think about is how good he smells, and how warm he is, and how much Gerard wishes that he'd talk. That he could hear that weird, strangely-cadenced monotone that Mikey's used since he started talking after the accident, that he's come to love more than fucking anything else on earth. "C'mon Mikes, I wanna hear-" But his hand stutters and falters as something wells up inside him, vast and yawning, and falls to clutch at Mikey's other shoulder as Gerard bites his own lip, his face crunching up, and comes, so hard that he kind of feels like he's about to pass out. "Mmmmgh."
The sight of that is so completely stunning that Mikey almost forgets what he's trying to do, what he's aiming for, to put out the fire that's crawled up and down his back, that's settled in his hips and lips and wrists, and behind his balls. Jesus God, you're beautiful. And then he's bucking up into the reassuring warmth of Gerard's body, eyes squeezed closed, holding his brother as hard, as close, as fucking close as he can. I would never hurt you I would never leave you I'd give you everything I had and more just to make you feel good just to make you feel like- "You're safe," Mikey gasps against Gerard's chin, not even aware that he's said anything, let alone out loud, lost in the devastation of his orgasm.
It's really all Gerard can do to curl into Mikey, hugging him close, and kissing warmly at the long line of his neck. "Y're safe too," he whispers against Mikey's skin, wishing with all his body and heart and soul that he could hear him. He reaches up, petting gently at Mikey's hair, and slowly sits up, just enough that he has room to press his fingers to Mikey's chest, his thumb stuck out and his ring and middle fingers ducked under as he whispers, "Love you."
Everything comes crashing back, life and reality and the fact that he can't hear Gerard's voice, as much as he desperately tries, and Mikey fumbles at Gerard's wrist to pull that sign away from the beat of his heart. "I love you." Out loud, flat and rough and tight all at once, as he uncurls Gerard's fingers to kiss his palm. Don't hate me. Don't. I don't know what I'd do. Another unrealized show of emotion: a tear that tracks, warm and unfelt, from the corner of his eye to the cup of his ear. I'm sorry, I know you love me. I couldn't stop.
Gerard only pulls his hand away from Mikey's lips to push the wet track of Mikey's tear off of his skin with the pad of his thumb, his smile pulling crooked and soft as he looks down at Mikey, his eyes not-quite-focused. He shifts a little and then blinks, his face crunching up into an expression of distaste as he signs, "Gross," and tries to stand. Tries.
"Yep," Mikey answers, and is up on his knees even as Gerard staggers down again. "Gotcha." The sign pressed up against Gerard's back more than anything else, and Mikey helps his brother to the bathroom. "Are you gonna barf?" Signing one-handed as he eases Gerard down onto the edge of the tub. "I'll get your pyjamas for you. Stay there." He presses a worried, still-shamed kiss to his forehead, and grabs a clean shirt and track pants from the bedroom. "Gerard." Out loud. "Do you need me to help?" It's the least I can do for making you do that, or whatever. Or whatever I did. Just don't remember this, tomorrow. Please.
"I probably should, but I don't want to." Gerard signs, his hands much steadier than they really look like they should be, given that his elbows are planted on his knees, too unsteady to actually sit up farther than that. He looks up at Mikey, his hair stringy and in his face again, whatever strange magic that turned him into a sylphlike, beautiful creature dissipated, leaving him just a drunk, greasy teenager slumped on the unforgiving porcelain of the tub and squinting in the too-bright light of the bathroom. He takes a little breath and swallows thickly as he signs, looking resigned, "I should, shouldn't I." He looks away, sneering a little bit, and gestures messily, "I hate throwing up."
"You're going to be sicker tomorrow if you don't." It wouldn't matter if Gerard was sparkling clean, greasy, covered in mud. Mikey would still gather him up as best he can, hug him into long, thin arms, share silent warmth with him. "I'll hold your hair, if you want." If you remember anything, just remember... You were drunk. This didn't happen. Or, it happened because you were drunk. Mikey talks against Gerard's ear, unable to sign properly when his hands are against his brother's back, holding him up as he sways a little against Mikey. "I'll help."
Gerard leans against Mikey, breathing shallowly and open-mouthed for a long few seconds before he nods, leaning back carefully to meet his brother's eyes with tired, bloodshot ones of his own. "Okay," he signs shorter, swallowing again and wrinkling his nose, "let's get this over with." As soon as Mikey moves even a little bit he slides heavily down to his knees, not thinking anything about how this looks, past the fact that he can catch Mikey's hands and push them into his hair, his long fingers twisting through the slick, oily black of it to hold it back from the delicate bones of his face, open mouthed and drawn into an expression of resignation. "Here goes nothing."
All Mikey can do is hold Gerard's hair back, like he promised, watching him with a fussy, worried expression. I made you. I think. You were drunk and I made you. You're my brother, I shouldn't want that. You. And I shouldn't have asked for it. The fact that Gerard pursued it notwithstanding, it makes Mikey feel vaguely like he's going to be sick, too. Definitely a night to sleep alone.
It happens easy, like he's done it before (he has), a slow inhale and a careful relaxing of his jaw, two fingers pressed back past his molars, and it's not that he has a particularly strong gag reflex even when he's sober, but if he coughs, tenses his muscles just right- He gets his hand (barely) out of the way in time, to lose his dinner and everything else he'd drunk in one fast rush, sick-sweet alcoholic smelling. He huffs a little breath and then spits, coughs softly, and then reaches up to flush the toilet, letting Mikey's hands support the weight of his head as he signs loosely, "Clothes?"
Mikey nods, a gesture that Gerard can catch out of the corner of his eye, and he starts helping Gee out of his clothes and into something clean. I'll change after. It's okay. You first, then me. "Okay?" The simple gesture that everyone in the universe recognizes, which in reality, is the letter "F". Mikey hooks his arm around Gerard's waist and helps him into the bedroom. "Now don't look. I'm gonna get changed."
Gerard nods as he leans heavily against his brother, his arm around Mikey's shoulders and his breathing heavy. He makes a fist with his other hand and nods it up and down as it if were the head of a marionette, indicating that he agrees. But once he's laid up in his bed he curls up, his eyes shut tight... Until he slits them open just the barest bit, under the shade of his lashes and hair. To watch Mikey undress, to try and confirm what he dimly remembers. I did that do you, didn't I.
Gerard doesn't see much, other than the crack of Mikey's ass, and the shadow of him looking down at himself, blotting into the front of his shorts with a handful of tissue. There's no real sound as he does this, just tiny, fussy breaths of disgust. Not at what he's doing - because it's certainly not the first time, hi, pyjama pants? - but because of the reason why. When he's satisfied enough, he shakes his hips to send his shorts and jeans down, and kicks them aside, showing off just exactly how skinny he is, under his clothes. And when his shirt comes up and off, it just accentuates the curve of spine to hips; the kind of curve that sets his shoulders at an angle, and makes him walk pigeon-toed. But that's just how he is. Aside from being the most horrible disgusting terrible brother on the face of the earth.
It's with a sigh that Gerard closes his eyes, rolling loosely onto his back as he flicks his hands, knowing that Mikey will see from his peripheral vision, will look even despite himself. "You're beautiful," he signs, the alcohol in his system finally starting to really show in his hands. "Beautiful," he repeats, yawning without reservation as he continues, already falling fast towards sleep. "and I love you." I don't know why you feel- Why you feel that way about me. But it's okay. It'll be okay. We'll make it okay, I promise.