MJ's Not the Only One With a Man In the Mirror, Part 1

[desert_neon]

MJ's Not the Only One With a Man In the Mirror



Gerard’s alarm buzzed at him much too early on Monday morning. He punched at it blindly, taking a few hits before managing to turn it off. With a grunt, he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He looked blearily over his shoulder at the lump under the blankets, jealous. They were both natural night owls but, unlike Bert, Gerard actually had to work normal human hours. Not everyone got to play late night shows and stay up to party after.

Actually having a serious band in New York City was expensive as hell, and any money Bert made with The Used ended up going right back into their expenses. Gerard was the one who paid the majority of the rent and utilities for the apartment. His job at Cartoon Network wasn’t all that he’d dreamed of back in art school, but it paid the bills, even if just barely. It kept them in food and cigarettes, and kept the heat on in the winter and the crappy air conditioning on in the summer, but it was a standard, mundane nine-to-five, which really sucked. Gerard was already in his manager’s sights for “timeliness issues,” and that meant he really needed to get cracking now.

He shuffled through the tiny bedroom to the tiny kitchen, flipped on the coffee machine, and lit a cigarette, making a mental note to get more during his lunch break. A few puffs in, he felt marginally more human, though the full transformation wouldn’t occur until the ingestion of caffeine. He mentally weighed the options of showering and breakfast, willed the coffee maker to hurry the fuck up, and decided today he’d shower. He never had time for both, and anyway they were out of Lucky Charms.

He took his fresh cup of coffee with him into the shower, only haphazardly throwing soap and shampoo around after he’d finished drinking it. Once he’d deemed himself clean enough, he climbed out of the shower and brushed his teeth and layered on some eyeliner, then dried and styled his hair quickly. His gaze shifted as he set the hairdryer down, catching his own eyes in the mirror.

Reaching out with one finger, he touched the reflection’s fingertip with his own. He always wondered if Reflection Gerard had a life of his own on the other side. Were they just two strangers meeting up on either side of the glass? As soon as Gerard stepped away, did Reflection Gerard step out into his own apartment in Reflection City? Probably not, but even physicists couldn’t disprove parallel universes, right? And that would be way cool.

Remembering that he actually had somewhere to be, Gerard gave a fanciful wave to his mirror image and took his mug back to the kitchen for a refill. His eyes caught the clock on the microwave and he swore softly: he was almost ten minutes behind his already tight schedule. Mug in hand, he dashed back to the bedroom - nearly tripping over the mess of red plastic cups, strewn couch cushions, and abandoned clothes on his way - and pulled on yesterday’s skinny jeans and an old band shirt he was pretty sure he’d only worn once the previous week.

He couldn’t be late again. In addition to his chronic tardiness, he’d taken a long lunch on Friday, though he’d actually skipped eating in favor of going to an AA meeting. Bert had decided to host a party that night, and Gerard had needed to prepare for what he’d known would come: a drunk and coked out Bert, handsy and too out of it to remember why he wasn’t supposed to offer Gerard any of the party favors. So Gerard had prepared by attending the noon meeting close to the network’s offices, which had kept him away from his desk for over ninety minutes. He knew it hadn’t gone unnoticed, and since his boss was an unsympathetic ass, Gerard fully expected to receive a warning at some point during the day. Cartoon Network might be a fun and laid back kind of place in spirit, but for the peons in their cubicles there were still attendance rules and expectations of productivity, and Gerard knew he was on thin ice.

He hurried out the door and to the subway, wished with all his might that the train would just skip a few stops, then rushed along the sidewalks to the Time Warner building. His watch read eight fifty-eight as he slipped through the main doors, and he calculated three minutes for the elevator, which he figured was close enough to be safe. But when he got to his cubicle, his manager was there, studying the storyboards for Gerard’s Breakfast Monkey idea.

Gerard shrugged his jacket off and hovered at the threshold, nervous. “Um. ‘Morning, Nick.”

Nick turned the chair around and looked Gerard up and down, almost as though he were looking for faults. “Gerard. Good morning.” He glanced at his watch pointedly, and Gerard shifted on his feet. “Cutting it close today, aren’t we?”

Gerard refrained from making a face. He never understood how saying “we” instead of “you” was anything but condescending. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “The train.”

“Yes, the train. It’s amazing anyone gets anywhere in this city, the number of times I hear the train was delayed.”

Gerard said nothing, standing half in and half out of his own workspace, awkward.

“And Friday’s lunch?” Nick asked. “Care to explain where you were?”

Swallowing what little pride he had left, Gerard answered, “A meeting.” He knew Nick would be aware of the type of meeting he’d attended. He also knew Nick wouldn’t care.

“Yes, well. Your lunch hour is your hour to do with as you please. But it is one hour, Gerard, not one and a half. Personal time is your time, company time is ours. We pride ourselves on having a relaxed atmosphere, but there is a difference between relaxed and lax. You’re proving unreliable, and we can’t have that.”

Gerard just stood there, staring, unable to comprehend. He wasn’t unreliable. He came in, grabbed some coffee, did his work, had more coffee along with some smokes, did more work, and almost always turned his projects in on time. Way more often than a lot of the other guys did. And okay, yeah, there was that one time he’d spilled coffee all over his panels and he’d had to start over. Twice. Whatever. That didn’t make him unreliable. Fuck. If they’d only seen him fourteen months ago. “I’m not . . . The work got done. It always gets done.”

“After some delays, perhaps,” Nick added, and that was just unfair. Gerard had turned in his project by four on Friday, an hour ahead of the deadline. “Look at you now. Late to your desk, the first workday after you skipped out. It’s laziness, pure and simple. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to have this discussion either, and that’s disappointing to me, Gerard.”

Gerard did his best not to look like a fish, bug-eyed and open-mouthed, though he doubted he was successful. It was pretty obvious where Nick was going with his little speech, and Gerard forced a question out with indignation, not wanting to hear any more. “So I’m out?”

“I’m sorry. Yes. Head down to HR for your severance package and exit interview, and if you need a reference, well. I wouldn’t suggest you give them my name.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerard muttered. Fuck. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He put his jacket back on as Nick stood and inched his way past Gerard. Gerard, in turn, moved past Nick, and started looking over his desk for his personal items. Other than his one year pin, which he shoved into his jacket pocket, and his travel coffee mug which was in his hands, he didn’t really have anything.

Except his storyboards. He wished he’d known to bring his portfolio case today, but he’d be fucking damned if he was going to leave The Breakfast Monkey for one second longer than he had to. He’d just have to be careful on the train. Unless he splurged for a cab. Not that he could afford one now. With a sigh, he reached for them, working at the pin holding the first one to the cubicle wall.

“Oh, and Gerard?” He turned his head to see Nick leaning against the entrance to his workspace, smug and casual, an arrogant tilt to his hips. “You do know that anything you were working on - developing, as it were - while employed by us is legally the property of the company? All intellectual property rights, future rights, and royalties belong to Cartoon Network.”

Gerard’s heart sank. He’d been so close. He looked back at his drawings, realization settling in. No more Breakfast Monkey, no more Cartoon Network. A whole year of his life, gone. He’d lost so many already, to drugs and alcohol, and to depression. He couldn’t bear to have lost another.

“The storyboards stay, Way.”

Frustrated, angry, and with a sickening dawning of comprehension, Gerard turned and took a step towards Nick. “That is my work,” he said, pointing at his beloved cartoon.

“Technically it’s ours,” Nick said with an insouciant shrug that made Gerard see red. “Don’t forget to see HR, right? Get your last bit of money from the company.” Then he was turning and walking away, like Gerard was of no importance, like he was nothing.

Gerard’s hands shook. He shoved his fists in his pockets to still them, but it didn’t work. He wanted to grab his drawings and storylines and run. Fuck being a pacifist, he wanted to punch Nick’s fucking face in. He wanted to sit at his desk and work on his panels and pretend like the conversation hadn’t happened.

He wanted a fucking drink.

Instead, he went down to the third floor and spent a couple of hours there doing mindless paperwork. Finally he received his owed salary and his two weeks’ severance, shook some nameless woman’s hand, and just like that he was once again an unemployed alcoholic, as though a year’s recovery meant nothing.

Out on the sidewalk, Gerard lit another cigarette and tried to even himself out, tried to level off. Even after all this time, it felt odd to do that without a glass or bottle in his hand, or pills in his system. He walked in the direction of the subway, having nowhere else to go but home. Mikey’s, maybe, would’ve been safer, but he’d be hard at work at the Eyeball offices. Anyway, Gerard just needed to vent. He wanted to rant and rave to his fucking boyfriend, just get it all out, and let Bert tell him it would all work out in the end. Bert was probably sober - the party had raged through Friday night and into Saturday, but Sunday had been calm - and Gerard could tell him everything and Bert would be strong and understanding and let Gerard cuddle up close until Gerard felt better. He hoped, anyway. Sometimes Bert wasn’t the most supportive person in the world.

Gerard held the smoke in his lungs as he walked, letting himself feel the calming rush, the outside air cool on his cheeks. He reminded himself that just because Bert didn’t feel ready to join him in the land of the clean and sober didn’t mean Bert didn’t love him. Gerard had faith that he’d come around eventually. It had to be in his own time, on his own terms, and Gerard couldn’t force that. But sometimes Gerard just wished that Bert was a little more understanding of how hard it was, how much Gerard struggled with it, how much he always would.

Like right now, Gerard had just lost his job, had the last steady money he’d see for a while in his pocket, he was down to his last two cigarettes, and he was walking in front of a fucking bar. He stopped walking. His feet just . . . stopped moving. He stood in front of the pub-style bar, his eyes trained on the scene through the big front window, peering in through the darkened glass. He could see the polished, clean bar, and the taps sticking up from behind it. The booths that probably offered comfortable seating and privacy to hide away from the world. The televisions, already broadcasting sports, just past eleven on a Monday morning.

It was nothing like the dive bars Gerard had frequented in the past. It was clean and well-decorated, with no chips in the paint or pits in the bar that he could see. It served an extensive menu too, he guessed, judging by the lunch crowd already in there, congregated around booths and tables and TVs. It had very little in common with Gerard’s favorite places to get drunk, to get lost, but it had alcohol. Oh, it definitely had alcohol. Christ, Gerard could practically smell it.

Bringing his cigarette to his lips for another steadying rush, Gerard’s other hand clenched around the pin in his pocket. One year. One year, two months, and twelve days. One-two, one-two. It would be so easy . . .

Gerard didn’t see the guy who ran into him. Some power-suit, he thought, left with a vague impression of tie and briefcase. It didn’t matter. He was still on his feet, and his feet still didn’t know which way to go.

“Dude. You dropped this.”

Gerard shifted his vision just enough to see the reflection of a guy in the tinted window. Small, smiling, and holding out Gerard’s sobriety pin. Gerard shifted a little on the balls of his feet and reached out to take the circle of metal from the fingers offering it up. “Thanks,” he murmured, eyes once more focused through the glass, rather than on its surface.

“Sure.” He felt the guy hover for a moment, but Gerard said nothing, did nothing beyond stare at the bartender as he poured a pint of something frothy - “Foamy,” Caveman Buffy would say - and passed it along to a willing and smiling customer. When he straightened himself up from peering through the window, the guy was gone.

Gerard looked down at his pin, lying so small and powerful in his hand. One year, two months, and twelve days. He took a deep breath, closed his fingers around the talisman, and kept moving towards the subway station. Kept moving towards home.

Gerard looked down at his pin, lying so small and meaningless in his hand. One year, two months, and twelve days. He took a deep breath, closed his fingers around the talisman, and backed up a couple steps, dropping his cigarette to the ground and flattening it with the toe of his shoe as he opened the pub’s door.

Gerard moved fast, his footsteps steady. Once he’d started walking away from that bar, he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from it as possible, as quickly as possible. His hands were still shaking, and he was pretty sure the rest of him was too. He hadn’t felt the pull that strongly in a long time. Or what felt like a long time, anyway. Maybe, if the shock of it all didn’t wear off after he’d gotten home, he’d find a meeting. Not like he had anything else to do for the rest of the day. Not anymore.

He thundered down the steps into the subway station, eager now to get on the train and put even more distance between himself and his almost-lapse. He wove his way around people, dodged an enthusiastic busker, and hit the platform right as people were debarking from the standing train. He booked it across the platform to a car that looked a little less crowded than most, and caught the door just as it was about to slide shut. The automatic sensors allowed him on, and he collapsed into one of the last available seats, breathing heavily. Goddamned cigarettes.

He shifted on his seat and pulled his iPod out from his back pocket, unwinding the earbuds and putting only the right one in, leaving his left ear free. This was still New York City, thanks, and he wasn’t stupid. He scrolled through his playlists, and finally settled on his Angry!mix because he was entitled to hate the world for a little while.

The guy across the aisle apparently didn’t get the memo about earbuds and volume control and being aware of your surroundings. Nor did he share Gerard’s current contempt for functioning society. Or maybe he did, and his high-pitched, squealing rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” was his version of revenge. Gerard couldn’t help but roll his eyes and hunker down further into his seat. It wasn’t that he hated the song or anything; he just wasn’t in the mood for anything upbeat and happy.

Gerard’s neighbor to the left didn’t appear to share his sentiments, because Gerard could see his foot tapping in time with the music that neither of them could hear. He risked a glance up, taking in the heavily inked arms, the scorpion on the neck, and the rapidly moving lips as the guy nodded his head and mouthed along to the pop performance the entire train car was being treated to. The lip-ring caught Gerard’s attention for a moment, then the scorpion, and he felt his face heat up as his enthusiastic seat-mate glanced over and caught him looking.

“You gotta love Kelly Clarkson, right?”

Gerard hurriedly looked back down at his own iPod and pretended to be looking for something to listen to. “I really don’t.”

“Oh, come on. I mean, she’s the American Idol. We voted.”

“I didn’t.” Well, okay, he maybe had. But not for her. Not for that Justin guy either.

“What are you listening to?” The guy leaned in real close, looking over Gerard’s arm to see his screen, and Gerard kind of raised his elbow a bit, not quite shoving him off, but hoping to keep him at bay. He didn’t answer, but the guy was not dissuaded. “Oh, hey! Play that one. Black Flag, man. Always an awesome choice.”

All right, that was definitely more in line with the tastes the guy looked like he should have. Still, Gerard was feeling ornery, and if he didn’t want to play Black Flag he wasn’t going to play Black Flag. He settled the cursor on a Sex Pistols song instead, and his neighbor grinned and actually fucking picked up Gerard’s other earbud and put it in his ear. Fucking shit, seriously?

Gerard frowned at him, but the guy just smiled back. “You don’t mind sharing, right? I mean, I love Kelly as much as the next guy, but I prefer actual music to that.” He waved a hand in the direction of the guy across the aisle, still grinning at Gerard. “Hey. Hey. I know you.”

Gerard rolled his eyes and made a sound in his throat, because really? He didn’t exactly get hit on often, but he preferred to think he was worthy of something more than that. Also no, he did not know this guy.

“No, honestly.” The guy smiled earnestly, but Gerard refused to find it endearing.

“I don’t think so,” he said, with as much negativity as he could muster, which was actually quite a lot. He was tempted to just yank on his cord and pull the earbud right out of the guy’s ear.

“No, yeah.” The guy turned in his seat, facing Gerard more fully. “Earlier. Some dude ran right into you and you dropped your . . . pin thing. I picked it up.”

Oh. Well now Gerard kind of felt like a shit. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t recognize you. Thanks. Again.”

“Dude, no problem. You looked kind of preoccupied.”

“Yeah, well.” Gerard didn’t know what to say to that, so he shrugged and hunched over again, looking at his shoes.

“Bad day?”

Gerard shrugged again. “I got fired.”

“Ouch. Shit, man. That blows. I’m sorry. Like, for something you did, or just crappy management, or what?”

Gerard shrank down even further. Who the fuck was this asshole, asking him these things? It wasn’t any of his fucking business. At all. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh. No. Fuck. Yeah, I get that. It’s a shitty day already, and then some stranger starts asking you all these questions and gets in your face and - fuck - steals your music.” They guy took out the earpiece and offered it to Gerard, just like he’d done with the pin earlier, pinched between his thumb and index finger, held up like something sacred. “Sorry, dude. I get that I can annoy people sometimes.”

Gerard took the earbud back with a nod, and decided to tell personal safety to fuck off for a while. He jammed the thing into his ear and let the fast-paced guitars and angry drums drift into his soul. After a few seconds though, he surreptitiously thumbed over the volume control, turning it down. There was dumb, and there was just plain dangerous. But he tried not to let his neighbor see, hoping to discourage the talking thing from happening again. He kept his eyes open, aware, though he studiously looked either straight ahead or away from the guy next to him. It was maybe awkward for a while, but the guy had gone back to tapping his toes to something, so Gerard figured it couldn’t be all bad.

After another four full songs and a few preemptively aborted ones, Gerard felt a tap on his knee. Stifling a sigh he pulled out his headphones and looked up to see what his neighbor wanted.

“We’re coming up on my stop,” they guy said, and Gerard stared. He couldn’t seriously still be hitting on him, could he? “I just wanted to let you know, in case this is your stop too, and you get up before me, and then I get up after you and then you think I’m, like, stalking you or something. Which I’m not.”

Gerard blinked.

“Anyway,” the guy said, standing up and holding onto the middle pole as the train started to slow. “I’m sorry about earlier. I swear I’m not actually crazy.” He swayed and seemed to hesitate, and as the doors hissed open, he added, “I’m really glad you didn’t go into that bar.”

Well, shit. Now Gerard really felt like a grade A turd. He watched as the guy left, craning to look over his shoulder at the doors behind him, only to catch the station sign along the wall, behind the guy’s head. Fuck. Gerard jumped up, and once again stopped the doors from closing on him. Thank fuck for Crazy Tattoo Lip-Ring Guy. The last thing Gerard needed was to miss his stop on top of everything else.

Hurriedly stuffing his iPod and earbuds into his jacket pocket, he quick-stepped along the platform. “Hey,” he called as the train pulled away. “Hey!”

The guy turned, looking surprised and little bit wary. Gerard couldn’t blame him. “You stalking me now?”

Gerard smiled for the first time in hours. “No. This actually is my stop. Listen, I’m sorry I was kind of a dick earlier. It’s just been a really bad fucking morning, and I’m not that good at, uh, you know.”

“Telling random strangers all your deep dark secrets?”

“Something like that,” Gerard said with a twitch of his lips. “Unless it’s at an AA meeting.”

The guy laughed, this stupid little giggle that Gerard couldn’t possibly describe as anything but cute. “Sorry. Not an alcoholic and I hate anonymity. I’m Frank,” he added, holding out his hand.

“Gerard.” He shook the proffered hand with a smile, then turned his wrist, pointedly looking at the ink exposed along the guy’s - Frank’s - knuckles. “I could have guessed you’re not a big fan of going unnoticed.”

“And you are?”

Gerard shrugged. “I’m kind of afraid of needles.” Which wasn’t a full answer, but it was still honest enough. Frank laughed again and unwrapped his hoodie from around his waist, shrugging into it. He tilted his head towards the stairs, and Gerard fell into step next to him. It was kind of weird, and Gerard still didn’t really know if Frank had been hitting on him at all, and it wasn’t exactly as though Frank was hideously ugly or anything, and Gerard’s motto the past year had kind of been “better safe than sorry,” so he said, “I live with someone. My boyfriend. I live with my boyfriend.”

“Really? You know, I have friends I consider soul-mates who don’t confide in me this much.” Frank paused to shoot Gerard a smile. Gerard couldn’t help but think that it was kind of a nice smile. “And what would he say knowing you were walking up from the subway in broad daylight with a complete stranger?”

Gerard flushed, knowing he was being slightly mocked. “I dunno. Whatever. He flirts all the time, so.” Oh God, no, Gerard thought wildly. Backtrack! Backtrack! “I mean, I’m not flirting, I’m just saying. He couldn’t say anything even if he thought I was, because he does it all the time.” And fuck, didn’t that just make Bert sound like a total asshole. “I mean, he’s in a band, so he kind of has to, you know? It’s like. His job.”

Frank nodded. “I get that. What’s his band?”

“Oh. They’re called The Used.” Gerard knew he should probably say that with more pride. Once upon a time he had. It just seemed like so many arguments and fights seemed to center around the band lately. Or about the habits the lifestyle encouraged in Bert. But they were still a good band, and Gerard really had faith that they’d truly make it one day. He just wished Bert was sometimes a bit more proactive about the process, instead of waiting for the mythical big break that hardly ever actually happened in real life.

“Oh, sure. I know them.” Frank bounded up the next few stairs, then turned and waited for Gerard to catch up, a half-smile on his face.

“You do?” Maybe Gerard shouldn’t be so surprised by that. They were moderately well known in the city, if nowhere else. It just seemed odd that the random person he’d struck up a conversation with had actually heard of them.

“Everyone in the local scene knows them. Which one’s your guy?”

“Bert. He’s the singer?” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d phrased it as a question, but Frank was nodding along, apparently in full knowledge. “So you’re in the music business?”

“Yeah. I play guitar. Studio sessions mostly, but sometimes I get to fill in on live gigs. I had a band, but that kind of fell apart a while back.” Frank shrugged. “I might join another eventually, if it’s the right fit. We’ll see.”

Gerard nodded as they crested the stairs and moved out onto the sidewalk. He understood more than most, he supposed, about the industry. Between his brother and Bert, sometimes it seemed to be the only topic he ever got to discuss. Outside of work, of course, which wasn’t exactly going to do him any good now. And meetings, which apparently he now had plenty of time for. “I’m going that way,” he said, pointing in the general direction of his apartment.

“Yeah, I’m headed north. But, hey. Good to meet you. And don’t worry about the job, right? You’ll get another one. It could be worse, you know?”

Gerard quirked an eyebrow in query, already feeling better despite the crappy beginning to his day.

Frank bounced on his toes and grinned up at Gerard, his eyes playful. “We could be on the verge of the Zombie Apocalypse.”

Gerard laughed. “Oh, well, that’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got my fireman’s ax waiting by my bed.”

“Yeah?” Frank asked with a smile. “I always go with a samurai sword. Elegant, clean slicing. Doesn’t get stuck in any thick skulls. Plus, you know. Ninja!” He made a slicing motion with his hands, demonstrating.

Gerard laughed, and with a wave Frank was gone, darting across the street while Gerard watched him go.

Gerard walked swiftly through the bar, avoiding eyes and skirting around tables until he found a booth all the way in the back. He threw himself onto the bench, scooting into the corner until he was wedged between the wall and the high back of the seat. Irrationally, he fished his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. It wasn’t like he expected to see anyone he knew, but he didn’t want to look at anyone, didn’t want to have to meet their eyes.

He didn’t look at the display cards on the table, the ones advertizing desserts and appetizers and specialty drinks. He didn’t look at the bar, didn’t look at the signs on the wall that proudly declared Guinness, Hefeweizen, and Newcastle were all available on tap. He didn’t look at the waitress as she approached his table, just kept his shaded eyes on the grain of the wood.

“Hey, hon, what can I get you?”

He didn’t think about it, didn’t give himself the chance to think about it. “Whiskey and Coke. Please.”

“Sure. You got a preference on brand?”

Why the fuck was she asking him that? Couldn’t she just bring the damn thing already? “I don’t care. Jack’s fine.”

“You got it.”

He watched her go, safe now that her back was to him. Safe now that she was going to bring him his drink. Safe.

What the fuck was he doing?

His hands shook and he tucked them up inside the sleeves of his jacket, pulling at the material with the very tips of his fingers. One year, two months, twelve days. For one year, one month, and three days of that, he’d been gainfully employed. The two were connected obviously. The question was, could he lose one without losing the other? Or were they inexorably entwined, even if only in his head? Because Gerard’s own mind was the real danger. There was no external foe, no outside threat, no alcohol monster to cast blame upon. There was only Gerard.

He glanced up as his drink was set on the table, and he caught the sugar-sweet smile of the waitress, meant in a way that only someone raised outside the city could manage. “You want to look at a menu?” she asked, her thick blonde hair blocking her name tag. When Gerard shook his head and looked away, she left, telling him to shout if he needed her.

Unsteadily, he reached out with one hand and pulled the drink closer. He didn’t lift it, just dragged it across the table. Lifting it would be another step, and it would be all too easy to re-familiarize himself with the weight of the glass, to settle it into his hand and raise it to his lips. Instead he just stared down into it, catching the faint - but sharp - aroma of whiskey hidden in the soda. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and curled his hands back into his sleeves, setting them in his lap and continuing to commune with his alcohol, and not thinking about everything that had led him to this point.

It wasn’t just the job. The loss of income was bad, sure, but nothing compared to the loss of The Breakfast Monkey. Gerard had put a lot of time and effort into that stupid, wonderful cartoon, and a lot of himself. He’d been creating, in a way he hadn’t done since art school. Since before he’d lost himself to fear and depression, to alcohol and pills; since he’d snapped at Mikey that he was behind in his assignments, all the technical work that had to be completed, and that he no longer had time for silly childhood fantasies like publishing his own graphic novels or writing lyrics for a band that didn’t exist.

But he wasn’t thinking about that. At all. Instead he focused on the ice in his glass, the condensation dripping down the sides. He could hear the TVs around the bar, the cheers of televised crowds at whatever sporting events were being shown. His fingers twitched inside his sleeves and he leaned in a little, inhaling deeply. Mikey would be so disappointed in him. Again.

“You know, I can understand taking your time and all, but you do know that’s for drinking, not staring at, right?”

Gerard looked up, startled by the voice, his sunglasses protecting him from the waitress’s dazzling smile. “Yeah,” he said, the truth knocked out of him by her sudden, happy appearance. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Her smile dimmed, one hand fluttering up to her heart. His eyes tracked the movement, catching a glimpse of her name tag before it was covered again. Greta. “Oh. Oh, honey. Recovering?” Gerard nodded and Greta glanced over her shoulder quickly before sliding into the booth across from him. “How long?”

“A year,” he replied, his voice low and his eyes back on his drink.

Greta tapped the table with two fingers, forcing his attention back to her. “How long?” she asked again.

“Fourteen months and twelve days.”

“And today you feel like you might crack?”

Gerard nodded. “It’s been a shitty morning.”

“Yeah, but it’s almost noon now. For all you know, your afternoon’s going to be the best ever.”

Gerard felt his lips twitch at that, though his grin was nowhere near as bright as hers. “Maybe. Should I go buy a lottery ticket?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” she replied. “Or, if you want, there’s a church just a few blocks over that has a noon AA meeting. I can get you a soda for the walk over.”

Gerard knew that meeting all too well. It was that meeting that had started all this.

Well, no. Gerard had to admit that nothing had started this but his own demons and addictions. There was no scapegoating allowed. And what the fuck, right? It’s not like he could get fired again. “Yeah,” he said after a pause, and this time he answered her grin with a full one of his own. “Yeah, a Coke would be good.”

Gerard was still grinning over the zombie apocalypse and ninjas as he unlocked his front door. Stepping inside, he was unsurprised to see the mess from Friday’s party (which had sort of just picked back up again on Saturday) still strewn about. He wouldn’t have even thought Bert was up and about yet, if it hadn’t been for the Rancid tune blaring out of the bedroom. He carefully picked his way across the floor, pushing the bedroom door open and expecting to find Bert lounging in bed, maybe with one of Gerard’s comic books, maybe playing a video game.

What he hadn’t expected to see was Bert sitting up against the headboard, moaning in pleasure, as Quinn Allman rode him like a fucking pro.

Gerard just stopped, his whole being frozen in the open doorway. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Gerard had always liked Quinn, despite the history the man had with Bert. But that was supposed to have been history. Not in the fucking now. And goddamn, was the now really fucking. Just totally going at it.

Gerard watched as Bert’s eyes slitted open, as they focused, as he started tapping Quinn on the back insistently, trying to get his attention.

“Fucking shit, Bert, what?” Quinn demanded as he pulled his torso away from Bert’s. He seemed to sense something was up, his head turning to look over his shoulder. “Mother of fuck,” he said, almost as a sigh. He disentangled himself from Bert and climbed off him, his expression close to one of contrition.

But Gerard could only look at Bert as his mind strived to put everything together, to understand. There were so many ways to go about this, so many things he could say. And yet, incredibly, all that bubbled out from his lips was, “Oh, please, don’t let me interrupt. I’d hate to see either of you with a case of blue balls.”

Bert said nothing, his pupils large and black as he stared at Gerard, who started looking around the room in suspicion. Two glass tumblers sat on the night stand, next to a hand mirror and a rolled up dollar bill. The expensive lube Gerard had splurged on last month lay on the sheets, and some part of his mind was thankful to see an empty condom wrapper on the floor. Silence rang out suddenly, Bert having reached over to turn off the stereo.

“Yeah,” Quinn said, already pulling on his jeans. “I’ll just go.” He grabbed his shirt and shoes, and as Gerard moved just a couple inches to let him scoot by, Quinn mumbled an apology before skittering out the door.

Gerard moved back to his original position, arms crossed as he stared at his supposed boyfriend, who still wasn’t saying anything. “So today’s been a shitty day,” Gerard said, his tone almost conversational. “First I got fired and then I got fucked over. And so did you, apparently.”

“Gee . . .”

“What the fuck, Bert?” he shouted, anger finally replacing disbelief and detachment.

Bert didn’t say anything. He just stared up at Gerard from the bed, his eyes dark.

“How long has this been going on?” Gerard asked, his hands flailing about his head as he started to pace. “You just- Have you been fucking him this whole time? No, you know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know. No, actually,” he said, changing his mind again and turning to point straight at Bert, “I do want to know. Did you ever fucking break up with him at all? Or were you two just laughing at me while I worked my ass off to support you and your fucking rock star lifestyle?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Bert finally moved, scrambling to get up from the bed, and Gerard had to look away from his free-swinging junk, hanging condom and all. “You know I wasn’t with him when I met you. But dude, you’ve changed, okay? You’re all clean and shit now, and a hell of a lot less fun than you used to be. And, okay, he doesn’t get high or anything, but at least he doesn’t act all holier than thou when I do!”

“Fuck you, Bert,” Gerard said, his voice dangerous and low. He’d known Bert hadn’t been completely okay with Gerard’s sobriety, but he’d always thought Bert had at least supported his decision. He’d thought his boyfriend had understood, he’d thought someday Bert would join him. Instead, Bert was sabotaging everything. “Just. Fuck you.”

He turned on his heel and slammed the bedroom door behind him. He was already at the front door when he turned around and stormed back into the kitchen. He unplugged his beloved coffee machine and hefted it under one arm. Mikey’s was for shit.

The meeting went well enough. Gerard sat quietly in the back for the hour, just listening to people tell their stories and realizing that he maybe didn’t have it so bad. Yes, he’d lost his job, and with it some of the connections he’d hoped to establish. But he still had Bert and Mikey and Alicia. He was still loved by his parents. He’d had a small lapse in judgement, but apparently he also had a guardian angel named Greta, and he hadn’t taken a single fucking sip. And he didn’t need Cartoon Network to foster his creativity. He could do that on his own, even if he had to take some crap job in a bookstore to pay the bills.

He stopped at the store on the way home, buying smokes and bread and cereal, and when he opened the door to the apartment, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the mess of the party still dominating the living room. He could hear an old Rancid song blasting out from the bedroom and, underneath that, the water in the pipes as Bert took a shower. “Hey,” he called from the kitchen as he put the bag on the counter.

“Gerard?”

He rolled his eyes. Who else would it be? “No, it’s your other boyfriend with a key to the apartment. Dude, did you just get up?” He moved down the short corridor and stuck his head in the bathroom just as Bert turned off the water.

“No. I mean, yeah. You know me.” Bert stepped out from the tub carefully, wrapping himself quickly in a towel and using a second one to rub at his hair. “The fuck you doing home?”

Gerard made a face. “Uh, yeah. I sort of got fired?”

Bert quit rubbing his hair, stilling as his gaze finally met Gerard’s in the steam-filled mirror. “What? Shit. For real?”

Gerard nodded. “Yeah. I took a long lunch on Friday to go to a meeting and, well, my boss is a dick, basically.”

“Shit. Fuck, Gee, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, scratching his head as he turned to go into the bedroom. “I’ll figure something out, I guess-”

He didn’t get to finish the thought, as Bert suddenly pushed past him to beat him into the room, knocking into the night stand on his way to flop onto the bed. Gerard was not shocked to see a glass and a bottle of whiskey sitting there, as well as that hated hand mirror. He tightened his jaw but said nothing. Hell, they might have been there for days. He couldn’t remember.

“You know what we should do?” Bert said as he switched off the stereo and rolled over, rumpling the already messy sheets. “We should go out and celebrate your newfound freedom.”

“Freedom from a paycheck?”

Bert waved away the interruption. “Freedom from the corporations. Dude, it was sucking your soul out anyway. Come on, we’ll go out, get shitfaced- Or not. We can just go out, have some dinner, maybe find a show? We can see who’s on at The Cradle or at Push’s and just fucking sweat it out, okay?”

Gerard grinned and threw himself on top of Bert on the bed. “Sounds like a fucking awesome plan.”

Mikey wasn’t home. Gerard had called and called, but Mikey hadn’t picked up. He knew there was some stuff going down at Eyeball today, and Alicia was probably at work, so Gerard had merely hitched his baby more steadily under his arm, lit up a cigarette, and started walking. He couldn’t go to Mikey’s and he couldn’t face going all the way to Jersey (where his parents had never approved of Bert) and before he even realized it, his feet had taken him to his oldest, most familiar haunt.

It had been over a year since he’d last set foot in the place, and after he’d dragged himself to a barstool and settled himself and his coffee maker, he looked up to realize he didn’t even know the lone guy behind the bar. “Can I get you something?” the blond man asked, his blue eyes taking in the sorry state of Gerard and his coffee machine without judgement.

“Uh. Is Ray here?” Gerard didn’t really want a drink, except for how he was an alcoholic, so of course he wanted a drink. He’d turned away from a bar after losing his job, and he didn’t think he’d have the strength to turn away from a drink after losing his boyfriend too. But if Ray was around, Gerard knew the decision would be taken out of his hands.

The guy shook his head. “He’s getting more production work lately. Comes in a few times a week now to work on getting the stage functional again.”

“Oh.” So much for a friendly face. Friends since high school, Gerard had at least been counting on Ray for some commiseration, even if he’d never been a big fan of Bert’s either. But Gerard knew turning the bar, with its burnt out lights and broken sound system, into a small but decent venue had always been Ray’s intent. He also knew that Ray put every cent he made from recording sessions back into the project, so he couldn’t begrudge his friend the work.

“I’m Bob,” the guy said before gesturing to the bar shelves behind him. “And I’m sure you know my friends: Jim, Jack, Johnny, and Jose. Even got a pussy little guy back here named Bud. Want to say hello to any of them?”

Gerard couldn’t help but smile a little, even as he shook his head. “How about a skinny little fuck named Marlboro? He still allowed in here?”

Bob reached under the counter and produced an ashtray, eyeing Gerard’s pack as he took out his last cigarette. “Don’t go narking me out. We got a machine hiding in the back hallway still, you get desperate.”

Gerard nodded in gratitude, trying to level himself out with one of his last remaining vices. He pressed a palm to his eye, letting his vision go from black to purple to red, and exhaled slowly. He kept his eyes shut and his mind blank, desperately trying not to feel anything. He heard some clinking around from behind the bar, then the sharp smell of tequila invaded his senses. He opened his eyes to see a shot glass in front of him, along with a lime wedge on a napkin.

“On the house. You look like you could use it.”

Gerard just stared, first at Bob, then at the shot glass, then again at Bob.

“It’s called hospitality, asshole.” Bob’s tone and the small upturn of his mouth belied his words. “And you reply with manners. First you say thank you, then you down the shot, then you tell me your name.”

“Uh. Gerard. But, um. No. Thank you. I mean, no thank you.”

“Gerard?” Bob asked, uncrossing his arms and straightening his spine. “Ray’s friend from Jersey Gerard?” Gerard barely had time to even nod his head before Bob was whisking the glass away again, draining it down the sink. “Sorry. Hang on, let me just . . .” And before Gerard could blink there was a glass of Coke sitting on the bar in place of the tequila.

Gerard heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He took a couple large sips, missing the bite that used to hide underneath the sweet soda, but knowing this was better in the long run. “I guess Ray told you about me.”

Bob nodded. “Said he didn’t really expect you to ever hang out here again, but if you did happen to come wandering in, I should keep you in Cokes and smokes all night. Patrick would kill me if I didn’t obey, and I really don’t want to piss him off. Dude’s tiny but mean.”

Gerard really didn’t follow that at all. Probably because he didn’t know who Patrick was. “Who’s Patrick?

“My ex-roommate in Chicago. He’s now living with that guy Pete who I guess was your brother’s old roommate? Or something.”

‘Or something’ was right. But he’d never wanted to closely examine whatever Mikey and Pete had had going even when it had actually been going, and he wasn’t about to start now. Pete was out, back in Chicago, and Alicia was in, and Gerard couldn’t help but be grateful for that since he’d be taking the second bedroom as soon as Mikey got up off his ass and called him back. Then he realized how weird it was that some guy he’d never even met in Chicago knew about his problem and was invested enough to murder this guy Bob if he served Gerard alcohol. And then his head hurt, so he just thunked it down on the bar and groaned.

“I hear you,” Bob said sympathetically. “Be right back.” He slipped away and Gerard heard him serving the only other two guys in the place, but he didn’t bother to look up again. Not until he felt movement at his elbow. He lifted his head to see Bob sliding a full pack of Marlboros in place of the empty one and he smiled in gratitude.

Gerard sat there for what felt like hours, mostly in silence, though Bob did his best to check in every so often. As the afternoon ended and evening started, more and more people arrived (none of which were Bert and, come on, this had been Gerard’s favorite hangout for years and owned by his oldest friend so, really, how hard would it be to track Gerard down if Bert had really wanted to?) and Gerard just shrunk back into his corner and tried not to think depressing thoughts about how Bert didn’t want him, Cartoon Network didn’t want him, and now even Mikey had better things to do. Ray too, come to that.

He was studying the grain of the wood of the bar and wiping away some spilled ash when he heard his name and looked up, struggling to find a familiar face.

“Gerard, hey!” It was Crazy Tattoo Lip-Ring Guy, walking towards Gerard, pointing at himself with a hand to his chest. “Frank, remember? The annoying music-stealer on the subway?”

Gerard raised one hand in a slight wave of recognition and took a deep pull from his cigarette. He didn’t really want to engage in conversation at the moment.

“Dude, you look all stressed out, but at least you’re packing caffeine. That’s awesome! Did the Zombie Apocalypse start and nobody tell me?”

Gerard gave a slight huff and shook his head.

“Fuck, dude, I know the job thing sucks, but it’s better than legions of the undead, right?”

He shook his head again. “When I got home after the subway, I walked in on my boyfriend-”

“Fucking somebody else? Jesus Christ. What a fucking day, huh?” The smile was gone from Frank’s face, and his bright eyes radiated concern, even though he was still bouncing on his toes. “I’m sorry. Dude, that fucking sucks.”

Gerard shrugged and lit a new cigarette. “You didn’t do it,” he muttered around his first drag.

“He must be a real douchebag.” Frank’s voice was angry, and though Gerard appreciated the support, he couldn’t do anything but give a melancholy shrug. “Yeah, sorry. Too soon to be bagging on him. Not my place anyway.” His eyes flicked down to the glass at Gerard’s elbow, an unasked question clear in his expression.

Gerard gave a little grunt, uncertain where all these people who seemed to care about his sobriety were suddenly coming from. “S’Coke.”

“Yeah,” Frank said as he shifted from foot to foot, but his grin made a quick appearance again, and his shoulders seemed to relax a bit. “So, hey, listen. Do you know Bob? Because the dude looks seriously awesome, right, but he’s my roommate, and I can tell you that he not only knows every line of the Ninja Turtles movies - not just the original; sequels too - but that he also secretly read that ‘Twilight’ book all the little girls are raving over.”

“Fuck you, Iero,” Bob called from the other end of the bar where he was pouring a beer for someone.

“So you see? There’s always someone sadder than you,” Frank concluded as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

Gerard rolled that around in his mind for a moment. “Ninja Turtles are cool,” he finally said, ignoring the reference to a book he didn’t know, and Frank barked a laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, they kind of are. But sparkly vampires?”

Gerard cocked his head, curious. “There are sparkly vampires? That’s . . . wrong. It’s like. The antithesis of the whole point of vampire lore.”

“Pretty much,” Frank said, his smile stretching across his face.

Gerard’s phone rang in his pocket then, and he scrambled for it, desperately hoping it was Mikey and not fucking Bert. Who hadn’t even called once, actually. What the fuck was that? “My brother,” he said in relief as he looked at the display, and Frank nodded.

“I’m going to go bug Bob. You decide you want company, I’ll be down there, okay? And hey, later me and Bob are hitting The Cradle, if you think maybe you need to be out and about.”

Gerard nodded and Frank moved down the bar, practically climbing over it in an effort to attack Bob with a hug. Gerard tore his eyes away as he answered Mikey’s call.

“Gee. Gee, tell me it isn’t what I think it is,” Mikey said, his voice as close to distressed as it ever got.

“It’s not, Mikes. No drinking.”

“No drinking. Okay. Okay. Good. That leaves Bert.”

“Yeah. And Quinn. Fucking. In my bed.”

“Oh Jesus. Fuck, Gee. I- Where are you? Are you at my place?”

“What? No. You weren’t home. No one was home.”

“You have a key.” Gerard could practically hear Mikey’s eyes roll.

“Oh.” Gerard had forgotten about that. “Yeah. I didn’t think.”

“No. It’s okay, Gee. Just tell me where you are. I’ll meet you.”

“Um. I’m at Ray’s?”

There was a pause, then Mikey took a breath. “The studio?”

“No. The bar. But it’s cool. I’ve been drinking Coke, okay? Ray told his new guy, Bob? Who I guess knows Pete or something. So. Yeah. He’s been looking out for me.”

“Okay.” Mikey let the breath out; Gerard could hear the whoosh over the phone. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t move.”

Gerard put his phone away and immediately disobeyed Mikey, sliding down from the stool to go use the bathroom. He bought another pack of cigarettes on his way back, just to be safe, and when he came out of the hallway he saw Frank and Bob talking, leaning over the bar and into each other’s space. He hurried past them, not wanting to intrude.

He must have caught Bob’s eye though, because the taller man broke away from Frank to ask, “Hey, Gerard, you want another Coke?”

Gerard blushed and nodded as he round the corner of the bar and climbed back on his seat. He lit anther cigarette and ignored the concerned looks Frank was giving him. He didn’t even fucking know this guy, okay? He was perfectly content to just drink his soda and wait for Mikey, who showed up less than ten minutes later.

He slouched in and zeroed in on Gerard immediately, wrapping him up in a hug and resting his bony chin on Gerard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gee.”

Gerard sniffled a little and clung a lot, and as Mikey helped him down from the stool, Gerard grabbed his coffee maker and gave a sad little smile in Frank’s direction. Frank waved goodbye with a sympathetic tilt to his hand and a compassionate set to his mouth.

“Why is Frank Iero waving at you?” Mikey asked, one eyebrow quirked as he held door open for his brother.

Of course Mikey knew Frank. Mikey knew everybody. Gerard shrugged, unsure of how to explain. “He’s . . . my friend.”

Gerard woke with a groan, his whole body aching. He hadn’t had a night out like that since he’d stopped drinking. And then he’d always been able to dull the aches and throbs with alcohol or with prescriptions that didn’t belong to him. But Bert had been right: a night of hard music and sweaty dancing at The Cradle had done wonders for his mood. Even Bert’s inability to keep his promise of sobriety for one night hadn’t brought Gerard down, nor had Jepha’s sudden appearance, despite the fact that it was only supposed to have been Bert and Gee. But that had been all right, because the band had been loud and the mosh pit had been enthusiastic but attentive, and no one had been hurt more than they could handle, not even the kid who’d been throwing himself around like a rag doll, sweat dripping down and making his extensive ink glisten in the lights. Gerard had honestly been surprised to see him alive and unmaimed at the end of the night, happily perched on the shoulders of some big blond dude in the parking lot.

And now it was Tuesday morning, and Gerard had been able to sleep in until almost noon. He refused to feel guilty about it. One day of slacking off before looking for a new job wasn’t going to break the bank. He rolled out of bed, stumbling over his clothes and feeling very sore, in two very different ways. Nothing like following up a good night of thrashing with a good night of fucking. He was pretty certain Bert had taken a little something to help the activities along, which he wasn’t thrilled about. But how could he really complain when he still had the finger-shaped bruises on his hips and dried come on his stomach?

Bert grunted and rolled over, but didn’t wake up, and Gerard slipped on some sweats and quietly moved to the bathroom, pissing out all the soda he’d had the night before. Then he went to start the coffee and turn on the TV, content to catch up on all the daytime programming he’d been missing out on the past year.

When Bert finally ambled out, it was closer to two than one, and he collapsed on the couch with his feet in Gerard’s lap, his fingers working at his balls through the fabric of his boxers. “Fuck. Got rehearsal in an hour. Like my head doesn’t hurt enough already.”

Gerard hummed lightly in reply, and wisely held his tongue. “Show tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Then Thursday in Philly. Hitting Jersey on Friday on the way back, and Saturday’s back at Push’s.”

Gerard sipped at his coffee and flicked through the channels. “You getting decent upfronts for any of the out of towners?”

“Percentages, I think. I dunno. You gotta talk to Quinn for that shit.”

Gerard nodded, knowing it wasn’t really any of his business anyway. The band took a loss on some trips, especially if the price of gas was up. Or if they decided to throw their own parties after the shows. Gerard was happy to pay for most of the rent and heat and groceries, as long as Bert figured out a way to cover his own expenses on the road.

“Hey, before I forget, we need gas and food and drinks and shit. And Jeph had to buy our last round last night. Fucking account’s dry. You still got that check from work, right? Fucking severance or whatever?”

Gerard sighed and pushed Bert’s feet off his lap, nodding. “It’s on the counter. Don’t spend more than you have to,” he said as he made his way to the bathroom.

He locked himself in and took a few deep breaths, staring at himself in the mirror. Apparently one day off might very well break the bank, at least the way Bert planned things. He ran one hand absently along the giant bite-mark hickey on his neck, pressing his fingers into it and wondering if Reflection Gerard’s life was currently going better than his own.

Gerard stood in front of the mirror in Mikey and Alicia’s bathroom, studying his reflection and zoning out a little until his features blurred at the edges. He wondered how his reflection was faring on the other side of the glass. Was he happily and ignorantly living with Bert? Or had he ditched the guy long ago, having had the guts to acknowledge just how toxic Bert could actually be? Was he still employed at the CN, or had he never even applied there? Had he maybe not lost his soul at art school? Maybe Reflection Gerard had thrived, maybe he’d created a kick-ass comic or had actually formed that band with Mikey. Maybe he didn’t take any shit from anyone. Maybe he was fierce.

Refocusing on the mirror, Gerard gave himself his fiercest scowl, which he could admit was pretty pathetic. He sighed and leaned forward, almost touching his nose to the glass. “I didn’t drink,” he told his image softly. “In case you were wondering.”

Reflection Gerard didn’t answer.

Gerard sighed again as he straightened up. Whenever Bert had caught Gerard talking to himself in the mirror, he’d always said it was a really bad sign. But Gerard wasn’t supposed to be caring about what Bert thought anymore. He probably wouldn’t, if he were more fierce.

He wandered out to the kitchen and poured himself a second cup of coffee from his machine, ignoring the fresher pot from Mikey’s shit machine as well as the roll of Alicia’s eyes. “I need to be fierce,” he announced.

Mikey quirked an eyebrow over his mug. Alicia looked up from her toast. “Okay,” she said blithely. “You want to start with a piercing or jump straight to tattoos?”

Gerard couldn’t contain his shudder. “Uh. No. Anyway, I meant, you know. Internally.”

Mikey’s eyebrow lifted higher and Alicia said nothing.

“Yeah, okay,” Gerard conceded. Fierce would probably never be one of his descriptors. Stubborn, maybe. Resolute. His mom always said he was strong for kicking the worst of his addictions. That was probably as close as he’d ever come.

“I don’t know,” Alicia said, looking him over. “We could always start on the outside and see if it soaks in.”

“How’m I gonna do that?”

She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, grinning sharply. “Oh, honey. You leave that to me.”

Gerard glanced over at Mikey, whose eyes had brightened over the rim of his mug.

Part 2