Ficlet: Oasis [Bandom, MCR]
Title: Oasis
Fandom: Bandom - My Chemical Romance
Character/s: Mikey/Bob [past]
Word Count: 1023
Summary: Ghosts. It all comes back to ghosts.
A/N:This is an outtake from my Werewolves in Killjoys land 'verse. In this 'verse, the events of the Desolation Row video are the precursor to the Killjoys. Unbeta'ed and posted because I've missed
turps. I'm glad you're back, Terri - have some angst. :)
~~~
The entire world's become an afterimage of itself. This didn't happen quickly - not like the death silhouettes cast before atomic bombs. It was subtle, more like the long, slow leak of light on film in a broken camera. Every day is smear and growing glare; too much light, too little shadow. The world fades, color leaks out, abandoned to overexposure.
~~~
The paint brush is warm in Mikey's hand, plastic sliding around in his sweaty grip. It's too damn hot for the sweat to pool - the greedy desert air slurps moisture up - but it lingers enough to makes things slippery. He's not very good at this part anyway, which is why the brush wants to run from his fingers and why he's holding on so tightly.
He's hogging the blue today. It's kind of mean - they can't find this particular shade very often, for some reason. Mikey suspects the 'Runners over in Zone Four hoard it for their tag-slang; they use color more than code to get their information out. He's not complaining about that - much - since that crew have a better sense of the supply truck runs and are always willing to share with the Killjoys.
But this blue... it's the color of Bob's eyes, when dark with emotion. Well, when he was turned on or too overwhelmed to speak. When angry, his eyes took on a different color altogether. Bob was careful - Mikey was the only one who ever saw that gold and then only rarely. That's why Mikey grabs the shirts he does, why Kobra's colors are gold and red. Gold for fury, red for vengeance. He's never explained any of this, has never told the guys his reasons for those choices. But then, there are a lot of things they don't talk about these days.
Gee knows, between the hair and the blue paint. He hasn't made the connection to the gold - but then, Gerard didn't know about that. Mikey made sure that secret never slipped free, even now when it doesn't matter. Its lack of relevance makes it perversely more relevant. Or maybe he's just forgetting how to share confidences. Mikey doesn't fucking know and he cares even less.
Despite the silence, Mikey's not as good at hiding how he feels as he wants to be. It doesn't help that bleach makes his eyes water, steady tears streaming out to quickly evaporate and leave salt trails on his cheeks. Chemical-induced crying, each and every time. Ray called it a conditioned response, a brief sympathetic smile quirking his lips. Gerard knows otherwise, though. They strip their roots together, sharing the bleach. When Mikey reaches for the bottle, Gerard's expression is always the same. Wide eyes like the old anime characters, guilt and sorrow clear in his gaze, lips bitten and worried into a frown. But he always double-checks Mikey's roots without being asked, his hands still deft with artistic accuracy.
After three false starts, Mikey drops the brush into the mixing tin, careful to cover the pigment back up before taking a deep breath and frowning at the wall.
Mikey refuses to forget. He also refuses to let any of the others forget, though he's never said that aloud. He doesn't need to; the regret, guilt and grief resurface whenever the smell of bleach drifts through the diner. And he's glad that's the case. Mikey never says that either. But he shouldn't have listened during the jailbreak and agreed to keep going. He should have stayed and tried to find Bob's cell. If not for Gerard, he would have.
Gerard wears his red as a flag - the standard beared, the scarlet taunt fluttering before the bull. Party Poison, built from scarlet dares and a blood-stained shout. But Kobra Kid is just a memorial; faded, colors bleeding free. Sometimes that's the only thing Mikey feels is true and real - the blanching of his own soul, like he's got a slow leak where his spirit's slipping away. He's not sure he really cares about the loss. Mikey's damn tired of running. Days slide by, and he's losing the reason for this - all the burnt leather and grit wedged under his finger nails, the constant chapped lips and gnawing emptiness in his gut.
Painting helps. He understands now how Gerard could lose himself in this, immersed in line and curve, the mineral-thick wet of pigment in bristles. He's not his brother - the images caught in him don't demand proper form and perspective. Mikey paints pattern, not pictures.
He is careful with how much paint he uses - it is Jet Star's color and Ray is generous with the paint tubes, but Mikey rations himself. No more than a third of the tube, the rest for Ray. Ration the color, ration his emotions. This unspoken rationing, a breakwater for his emotions.
That's not what he's doing this time. He can't seem to stop. Lines are spilling out, the scent of the paint heavy in his nostrils. Every time he sets down the brush, ready to walk away, another pattern grabs hold.
So he keeps going.
Around the burnt-out light switch goes the rippling concentric rings of a cymbal struck, sound chiming through the smoky air of an underground club. Along the door frame, a hash mark repeated - the rounded safety pins on the front of a jacket, moving as the jacket wearer turns, lifts their arms high, lashes out. Circle upon circle upon circle - snare and bass, skin and body of drums in a mix of configuration, like familiar constellations playing musical chairs. A crescent - the moon, a silver ring curving over a lip. He draws paw prints - abstracted, but the moon demands their inclusion. All in blue, all wrapping across the wall and over, a stream contained and shaped, a mirage in his desert.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/515538.html. Comment hither or yon.
Fandom: Bandom - My Chemical Romance
Character/s: Mikey/Bob [past]
Word Count: 1023
Summary: Ghosts. It all comes back to ghosts.
A/N:This is an outtake from my Werewolves in Killjoys land 'verse. In this 'verse, the events of the Desolation Row video are the precursor to the Killjoys. Unbeta'ed and posted because I've missed
turps. I'm glad you're back, Terri - have some angst. :)
~~~
The entire world's become an afterimage of itself. This didn't happen quickly - not like the death silhouettes cast before atomic bombs. It was subtle, more like the long, slow leak of light on film in a broken camera. Every day is smear and growing glare; too much light, too little shadow. The world fades, color leaks out, abandoned to overexposure.
~~~
The paint brush is warm in Mikey's hand, plastic sliding around in his sweaty grip. It's too damn hot for the sweat to pool - the greedy desert air slurps moisture up - but it lingers enough to makes things slippery. He's not very good at this part anyway, which is why the brush wants to run from his fingers and why he's holding on so tightly.
He's hogging the blue today. It's kind of mean - they can't find this particular shade very often, for some reason. Mikey suspects the 'Runners over in Zone Four hoard it for their tag-slang; they use color more than code to get their information out. He's not complaining about that - much - since that crew have a better sense of the supply truck runs and are always willing to share with the Killjoys.
But this blue... it's the color of Bob's eyes, when dark with emotion. Well, when he was turned on or too overwhelmed to speak. When angry, his eyes took on a different color altogether. Bob was careful - Mikey was the only one who ever saw that gold and then only rarely. That's why Mikey grabs the shirts he does, why Kobra's colors are gold and red. Gold for fury, red for vengeance. He's never explained any of this, has never told the guys his reasons for those choices. But then, there are a lot of things they don't talk about these days.
Gee knows, between the hair and the blue paint. He hasn't made the connection to the gold - but then, Gerard didn't know about that. Mikey made sure that secret never slipped free, even now when it doesn't matter. Its lack of relevance makes it perversely more relevant. Or maybe he's just forgetting how to share confidences. Mikey doesn't fucking know and he cares even less.
Despite the silence, Mikey's not as good at hiding how he feels as he wants to be. It doesn't help that bleach makes his eyes water, steady tears streaming out to quickly evaporate and leave salt trails on his cheeks. Chemical-induced crying, each and every time. Ray called it a conditioned response, a brief sympathetic smile quirking his lips. Gerard knows otherwise, though. They strip their roots together, sharing the bleach. When Mikey reaches for the bottle, Gerard's expression is always the same. Wide eyes like the old anime characters, guilt and sorrow clear in his gaze, lips bitten and worried into a frown. But he always double-checks Mikey's roots without being asked, his hands still deft with artistic accuracy.
After three false starts, Mikey drops the brush into the mixing tin, careful to cover the pigment back up before taking a deep breath and frowning at the wall.
Mikey refuses to forget. He also refuses to let any of the others forget, though he's never said that aloud. He doesn't need to; the regret, guilt and grief resurface whenever the smell of bleach drifts through the diner. And he's glad that's the case. Mikey never says that either. But he shouldn't have listened during the jailbreak and agreed to keep going. He should have stayed and tried to find Bob's cell. If not for Gerard, he would have.
Gerard wears his red as a flag - the standard beared, the scarlet taunt fluttering before the bull. Party Poison, built from scarlet dares and a blood-stained shout. But Kobra Kid is just a memorial; faded, colors bleeding free. Sometimes that's the only thing Mikey feels is true and real - the blanching of his own soul, like he's got a slow leak where his spirit's slipping away. He's not sure he really cares about the loss. Mikey's damn tired of running. Days slide by, and he's losing the reason for this - all the burnt leather and grit wedged under his finger nails, the constant chapped lips and gnawing emptiness in his gut.
Painting helps. He understands now how Gerard could lose himself in this, immersed in line and curve, the mineral-thick wet of pigment in bristles. He's not his brother - the images caught in him don't demand proper form and perspective. Mikey paints pattern, not pictures.
He is careful with how much paint he uses - it is Jet Star's color and Ray is generous with the paint tubes, but Mikey rations himself. No more than a third of the tube, the rest for Ray. Ration the color, ration his emotions. This unspoken rationing, a breakwater for his emotions.
That's not what he's doing this time. He can't seem to stop. Lines are spilling out, the scent of the paint heavy in his nostrils. Every time he sets down the brush, ready to walk away, another pattern grabs hold.
So he keeps going.
Around the burnt-out light switch goes the rippling concentric rings of a cymbal struck, sound chiming through the smoky air of an underground club. Along the door frame, a hash mark repeated - the rounded safety pins on the front of a jacket, moving as the jacket wearer turns, lifts their arms high, lashes out. Circle upon circle upon circle - snare and bass, skin and body of drums in a mix of configuration, like familiar constellations playing musical chairs. A crescent - the moon, a silver ring curving over a lip. He draws paw prints - abstracted, but the moon demands their inclusion. All in blue, all wrapping across the wall and over, a stream contained and shaped, a mirage in his desert.
~~~
This entry was originally posted at http://crowgirl13.dreamwidth.org/515538.html. Comment hither or yon.