Second post in one day about D&D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, and croquet, baby
Part: 3 continued
( First half of part 3 here)
Frank drove jerkily, a bit like how he played guitar. Gerard had watched him play once at Ray's place when Ray had let Frank borrow his guitar to show them his skill level. He'd done "When I Come Around" and Ray had gone white and gripped the chair hard until it was over, because Frank wasn't overly careful about not bumping into things with the brand new guitar. Afterwards, Ray had jumped up with a "okay, fine, good, here, let me," carefully taking it back while Frank had flopped down on the bed with a sated smile. He had been a little sweaty after only one song. Gerard had thought he was really good though. He had been gripping the armrest a bit too.
He only realized they were home when Frank turned into the driveway with a bit too much speed and the car came to a sharp halt. Gerard was only too happy that his mom was working late. He wasn't in the mood to answer questions about his face right then. "Are you sure you want to stay?" he asked, quietly, because Frank seemed kind of angry. "I'll drive you home, if you want."
Frank shook his head and opened the door. "It's alright. Can I have some coke or something?" he asked.
"Sure." Gerard followed Frank up to the house, and when Frank stopped by the swing to wriggle out of his jacket, he said, "Wait here, I'll get you the coke."
"Thanks," Frank said. He didn't really look angry anymore, but Gerard was still a little wary.
He went inside, putting his bag on the floor in the hallway, and went into the kitchen. On his way back with the drinks, he stopped by the full-length mirror in the hall. He thought about the weights he still wanted to buy and about Frank on the porch, and turned slightly one way then the other. There was a bit of blood on his shirt and his arms were white as snow and puny.
When he went outside again, Frank had sat down on the swing and pulled a pillow into his lap, curling around it, and Gerard handed him his glass and sat down next to him. "Thanks," Frank said.
They drank their drinks in silence for a while. The sun was in their faces, but there were enough trees and clouds for shade, and it was nice and warm. Gerard hadn't realized how tense he was. When he relaxed, he ached a bit more.
"Are you okay?" Frank asked. His eyes were softer. Gerard thought it was probably quite hard to stay mad at him when his face looked like it did right then.
"Sure," he said. He took out the tissue Frank had stuffed into his pocket and wiped his lip. There was no blood at least.
"They're dicks," Frank said.
Gerard nodded. "Yeah."
He knew they were, but sometimes he didn't quite get why they wouldn't leave him alone. They never seemed to have enough of tormenting him, and even though they were right about him - he was weird-looking and gay: all of the things they went after him for - there must be a way to get them off his case. He knew it was useless to think about it this close to graduation, but he couldn't help it.
"It was the festive spirit of the pep rally that overcame them," Frank said, as if he knew what Gerard was thinking.
Gerard had forgotten that it was the day of the pep rally. Ray was going to watch Bob play and Gerard had toyed with the idea of going with him, so he was glad that they had decided to get him before it started. It could have been a lot worse; he could have had quite a big audience.
"I know you think I should do something," he mumbled.
He could see Frank frown. "I don't," Frank said. "I just think that maybe you think it's okay." Frank reached over and drew his finger over the cut on Gerard's lip and Gerard flinched. Frank sometimes did odd things and odd gestures, as if he didn't know normal social protocol for high school, like how you didn't touch other guys' mouths like that.
"Um." He felt his face heat up slightly. "I don't."
"Good."
"But I can't take them on. That's probably what they want. They'd kill me."
Frank nodded. "Maybe." Then he looked over at Gerard. "I'd help you, though."
Gerard wasn't sure why he was surprised. He met Frank's eyes. "Uh, we'd both get killed," he said finally, and Frank laughed.
"Hey, asshole, speak for yourself. I'd kick their heads in. Me and Martha had a dance group when we were in 4th grade, I am pretty flexible."
Gerard rolled his eyes, and sincerely hoped there wasn't a part of Frank that was serious. "Thanks," he said anyway, "I appreciate it."
They drank their cokes in silence for a while, watching the sun slowly set over the neighborhood.
"Are you staying over?" Gerard asked then.
Frank nodded and stretched a bit. "Sure, if that's okay."
Frank always wanted to stay over at their house, and Gerard thought it might have something to do with his parents divorce and his mom's new boyfriend and the fact that Frank seemed weirdly fond of their house - he was always coming up with new stuff he liked: it was the antique chair in the hallway or the window frames or the way the roof creaked at night or how dark the hallway got with only the dim wall lights between the drapes and tapestries.
"Do you need to call your mom?" he asked.
Frank shook his head. "I told her this morning I'd probably stay at your place."
That was a bit presumptuous, Gerard thought, but he was pleased.
He was starting to get used to Frank in his bed. He always wore too few clothes while Gerard wore too many, and a few times Gerard had woken up with Frank's hand resting against his side. But he was getting used to that too, he told himself.
There was a sound, and when Gerard looked over, Mikey was walking up the driveway with his backpack over his shoulder and the school jacket unbuttoned. He hadn't noticed them yet, but as soon as Gerard saw him, he remembered that he was supposed to have given Mikey a ride home that day.
"Mikey," he said, and Mikey looked up. He looked kind of sad, Gerard thought. There was something about his eyes.
"Hi," he said when he saw them, then he raised an eyebrow when he saw Gerard's face. "Um."
Gerard posed slightly. "Do I look hard?"
Mikey shook his head. "No."
"Damn, I was hoping I would." Gerard grinned. "Sorry," he said then, "I forgot to wait for you."
Mikey shrugged. "It's okay. I got a ride with someone."
Gerard threw a quick glance at his watch. If Mikey got a lift home then he was at least half an hour later than he should be, but Gerard wasn't going to make a big deal out of it, because he had been allowed to borrow the car only on the condition that he drove Mikey home straight after school. Besides, it had probably taken Mikey a while to find someone who was willing to give him a ride out to this part of town.
When Mikey had gone inside, Frank said, "He looked kind of down."
Gerard was a little surprised that Frank had noticed, because Frank wasn't all that perceptive: he didn't always get when people were making fun of him and he could be really mean sometimes without meaning to, although Gerard suspected that might just be because he was oversensitive when it came to Frank. Which wasn't Frank's fault, really. "Yeah," he said.
"Maybe they broke up," Frank said.
Gerard didn't feel like arguing about it right then. "Maybe," he mumbled.
He still didn't think Mikey was dating, but until he decided to tell Gerard what was up with him, there was no way he could know for sure what was going on, so he might as well let Frank believe what he wanted.
They didn't speak for a while. It was getting chillier and darker.
"Are your parents coming back soon?" Frank asked then, glancing over.
Gerard frowned. "I don't know. I don't think so. They'll probably be pretty late."
"I was just thinking." Frank looked a little hesitant, he sort of peeked over at Gerard and Gerard felt suddenly nervous and a little worried, he thought he might say yes, whatever it was Frank came out with. "Do you want to see if we can get any booze?"
Gerard blinked. "Um. Okay."
"It's just that, I've never been drunk," Frank said. "I mean, I've tasted some, but mom's always been around." He laughed, "My sister got drunk once, mom almost killed her, but. I kind of wanna try it… do you wanna see if we can get some?"
Gerard swallowed. There was never any time when he didn't want to get drunk.
"I got some in my room," he said.
Frank looked at him, curiously. "Really?"
Gerard nodded.
"What - what is it?" Frank asked, as if that mattered.
Gerard shrugged. "Vodka, I think." He wasn't fussed about what he kept in his wardrobe, but it was usually spirits. It was always something.
"Okay." Frank blinked. He paused, as if maybe he hadn't expected to be able to execute his plan so quickly. "Okay. You, um. It's in your room?"
Gerard nodded. He usually wouldn't offer to share his liquor, but Frank didn't know that. And it could be fun to get drunk with someone. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them in the house, he thought about offering Mikey some booze so they could get wasted together and play video games and listen to new albums and sometimes all that stopped him was the thought of how much fucking trouble he'd be in if his mom ever found out.
He winced slightly when he got up from the swing. There was a pain on the left side of his ribs. "Are you okay?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, just sore." Gerard grimaced.
Once in his room, they closed the door and Gerard nudged a chair in front of it. It was the only way he could get any warning if someone opened the door, and it wasn't really enough, but he didn't think he would be able to lock the two of them in the bathroom for the whole night without raising suspicions. Mikey might have to pee at some point.
He went over to the wardrobe, moved some shoes out of the way, and lifted the lid off the box at the bottom. The bottle was hidden under a basketball jersey he didn't think he had ever worn. "It's vodka," he said.
"Cool." Frank was still a little wide-eyed. "Are we drinking it straight?"
"Um. What do you want to have with it?" Gerard never mixed and never used glasses, leaving no footprints in the kitchen. Especially not when his mom was suddenly on the warpath to find out what else might be going on.
"Um, well, no, this is fine," Frank said. He made some room on Gerard's bed by putting a stack of CDs on the floor, and sat down.
Gerard went over and sat down next to him. He was glad he'd slept on top of the bedspread the night before so that the bed was still somewhat made. The first chance he got he would quickly replace the sheets before Frank crawled into his bed. Sometimes he was annoyed that Frank didn't give him more of a warning.
"So," Frank said. "Where did you get the booze from?"
Gerard didn't actually remember. It was in its original bottle, so he assumed he must have bought it or got someone to buy it for him or had taken it from Lily. Whenever he stole from his parents he made sure it was in small amounts and poured into a non-descript container, but when he stole from Lily he sometimes grabbed a whole bottle. He liked Lily, and she often told him he was her favorite nephew. She lived alone and painted a bit and was a bit of an alcoholic and sometimes he thought he would end up like her. Sometimes he thought it was highly likely.
Next to him, Frank had taken a long sip from the bottle and was grimacing. "Wow," he said and wiped his mouth.
He handed it to Gerard and Gerard took a swig too, flinching when the alcohol came into contact with the cut on his lip.
"It'll clean it, at least," Frank said with a grin. He moved up on the bed, closer to where Gerard was sitting and touched Gerard's face again. "Maybe you should clean the rest of them up a bit?" he said, taking the bottle from Gerard's hands in the process.
"Yeah." Gerard was grateful for a reason to get up.
He went into the bathroom and opened the cabinet under the sink. There was a bottle of antiseptic solution and some plasters in there next to Mikey's spare inhaler, and he grabbed a tissue and dabbed the cuts. His face wasn't that bad; there wasn't much blood, just a bruise on his cheek and the cut on his lip, but on the other hand, it didn't look like anything but what it was either. There was no way he could pretend he'd fallen off Frank's bike or had a croquet-related accident. It looked like someone had punched him, nothing else.
He winced again when he bent to put the bottle back in the cabinet.
"Can I see that?" Frank said when he came back into the bedroom. Frank was still sitting on the bed, cradling the bottle. His lips were redder now.
"What?" Gerard asked.
"Your ribs." Frank nodded at the way Gerard was holding a hand over the side of his ribcage. "Here." He made room, and pulled Gerard down carefully to sit, then lie down on the bed. He pulled Gerard's shirt up over his chest and Gerard really, really wished he wouldn't. "Looks bruised," Frank said. He shook his head. "They kicked you, that's so fucking sick."
"I think it was the dryer," Gerard mumbled. He remembered banging into it, losing his breath for a moment, making some kind of embarrassing sound. He'd made another one now. The shirt was too tight and had scraped across his ribcage and he was biting his lip.
"Sorry," Frank said. His hands were gentle and slow as he tugged the shirt back down. "Does it hurt that bad? Maybe you've cracked a rib or something?"
"No." Gerard pulled a little at his tie, which suddenly felt constricting. "It's just a bruise."
Frank reached for a pillow and gently stuffed it against Gerard's side, then held out the bottle and smiled down at him. "Here. Painkiller." His eyes were a little glazed. Gerard thought that Frank was cute when he looked drunk. Although the truth was that he looked pretty much the same, only a little more relaxed and maybe slightly unfocused. He flopped down next to Gerard and Gerard didn't want to move away, because he was finally comfortable and there was no pain in his side. He was wondering how he would be able to change the sheets later, especially in a hurry.
"I really love your house," Frank said. He was still hovering, gaze on Gerard.
Gerard frowned. "Why?"
"I just do." Frank smiled softly. "It's just… I like everything about it." His voice was low and he stopped speaking, as if he needed to take a breath or expected Gerard to react to that statement.
Gerard was thinking about how his sheet would smell of Frank in the morning. "Well, you have weird taste," he said, hoping his body language didn't betray what Frank's proximity was doing to him.
He thought Frank seemed a bit stricken at that, but he only sighed and mumbled, "Yeah," sort of resigned. Then he sat up and undid his tie and pulled it off, throwing it on the chair. Gerard watched as Frank's shirt rode up over his back and there was a strip of pale, naked skin visible over the waistline of his pants that disappeared when Frank lay back down again, and he thought Frank might have caught him watching, because he hadn't been able to look away quickly enough.
They lay side by side for a while, passing the bottle back and forth and not talking.
"So I told Annabelle I wouldn't go to prom with her," Frank said after a while.
Gerard glanced over. "Really."
"Yeah." Frank nodded. "She said she didn't care. So that's good."
Gerard thought it was both sort of sweet and annoying how clueless Frank was sometimes. "Yeah."
"But now I don't have a date." Frank flashed him a grin. "You turned me down, so now I have to sit at home."
He managed to slide an arm around Gerard's shoulders and Gerard flinched at the sudden embrace. He leaned away slightly, blinking. He was almost sure Frank was joking. "You could have gone."
Frank grunted. "I wanted a fun date. And your brother was busy, so." Gerard elbowed him in the side and Frank winced through the giggles. "My granddad will be so disappointed. I was going to wear his tux."
Frank lifted his arm some so that it rested on the pillow more than on Gerard's shoulders, and Gerard pretended Frank's fingers weren't still touching his hair.
"I don't think my mom and dad ever expected me to go," he said.
Frank laughed. "That's probably not true. But I bet they'd be surprised if you went with a guy."
"They'd be surprised if I went with anyone."
Frank met his eyes then and Gerard knew he got it, because he went noticeably still. "So you've never..."
Gerard shook his head.
Frank frowned. "Not ever? Not even junior high dates, like, when you just meet in the mall and look at magazines and call it a date?"
Gerard shook his head again. "No."
"Well, those are the only kind of dates I've been on," Frank said, "But once we all started high school no one wanted to go out with me anymore."
Gerard gave him a look. "Fuck off. Someone asked you to prom."
"Whatever." Frank shrugged. "She asked another guy in English before me and when he already had a date, I tried to be nice to her 'cause I felt bad and she asked me instead."
"That still counts." Frank flashed him a grin at that, and Gerard couldn't help smiling back. "It does."
"Sure. And I turned her down to sit at home and jerk off instead, so."
"Right. Well." Gerard felt his face heat up slightly. He couldn't say "well, I'm gonna sit at home and jerk off on prom night too" or "that's what I do every Saturday" or anything else that popped into his head, so he just smoothed his hands down over the bottom of his shirt and cleared his throat.
"We should do something on prom night," Frank said.
Gerard nodded. "Okay."
"No, I mean it. We could watch a movie and," He flashed a grin, "Maybe get more vodka?"
"Okay." Gerard thought that was pretty much exactly how he would want to spend prom night given a choice.
"It fucking sucks that we have to go to school tomorrow." Frank reached for the bottle again.
"Yeah." Gerard touched his own face, gingerly. He didn't really want to go to school looking like a walking poster for what had happened to him in the bathroom, but he didn't have much choice. Everyone already knew what those guys thought of him anyway; it was hardly a secret.
"Okay, I wanna ask you something," Frank said, pushing up on one elbow and looking down at Gerard with a somewhat serious expression on his face.
"What?"
Frank's fingers were clutching the neck of the bottle, "You haven't, like, had sex or anything?"
Gerard wondered what exactly the "or anything" entailed, but it didn't really matter because it wasn't like he had. He shook his head again.
Predictably, Frank didn't seem surprised. "Me neither," he said, "I mean, I've done some French kissing and stuff, and - " He stopped talking abruptly and groaned, "Fuck, I just called it French kissing."
"Junior high date?"
"Whatever." Frank was laughing, but he looked a little sheepish. He pinched Gerard's arm. "I was the make-out king when I was thirteen. Girls were lining up to French kiss me, okay."
The thing was, Gerard didn't have any problem believing that. He felt like part of him was still in junior high, the only difference was that now he knew for sure that he wanted to line up to kiss boys, if he ever got the chance.
"I don't know, maybe I don't want it enough," Frank said then, quieter.
Gerard looked over at him. "Um?"
"I want to, but," Frank sighed, "I don't really try. It's just… I don't know. Maybe the thought is nicer than actually doing it." His laugh was a little defeated. "Maybe that's why I was the make out king. Girls knew I'd kiss them without trying to grab them anywhere else."
Gerard was feeling a little uncomfortable with the conversation, but also curious. He took the bottle from Frank's hands and carefully lifted his head to drink without awaking the pain in his side. "There's no one in school you'd date?" he asked, dreading the answer a little.
Frank's gaze flickered. "I don't think so."
"Well, you'd probably try to have sex if you really liked someone." Gerard wasn't sure if he was supposed to sound reassuring. All he knew was that he was relieved he wouldn't have to listen to Frank enthuse about some girl and then have to pretend to be happy when he got to fuck her.
"Do you like anyone?" Frank asked.
Gerard thought about lying and saying someone's name. There were some cute girls in his Art classes - not that any of them would have been interested in him, but it would probably seem plausible that he would have a crush on one of them. He couldn't think of a single name, though, so he just shook his head. "Not really."
"Would you have sex with someone you didn't like? If it was on offer?"
Gerard grimaced. "What would I have to do?"
Frank looked like he hadn't considered that, and he started giggling. "Okay, you'd have to do everything, like, everything, but they would do everything you wanted too - blowjob, intercourse, anything."
Gerard couldn't believe Frank had said 'intercourse'. Frank was such a geek. "Depending on how much I didn't like them," he said.
"You're just trying to get out of all these without answering." Frank pinched his arm again.
"I'm not." He was actually telling the truth, He'd have sex with someone he didn't like as long as the person didn't repulse him and wasn't a girl. He thought about how much easier his life would be if he could have sex with girls, at least just for sex. Then he contemplated the photo of Audrey Hepburn in his bookshelf for a few moments, and thought, maybe.
"I can't believe I just told you I haven't kissed anyone since junior high," Frank said and dropped down on the bed again with a groan.
Gerard sighed. "I haven't kissed anyone." He had no idea why he wasn't shutting up. He wasn't used to being drunk with someone.
"Never?" Frank looked over at him.
Gerard shook his head again. "No, and I probably ruined it for Mikey too."
"No, fuck that," Frank said heatedly, "You can't ruin it for him, you don't look that much alike. Plus, he's weird all on his own anyway."
Gerard shrugged. "Maybe." He had put the bottle on the bedside table and was playing with his shirt sleeves, and he thought Frank was looking at him thoughtfully, which was slightly unnerving.
"Hey," Frank put a hand on Gerard's arm.
"What?" Gerard blinked.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Frank said and kissed him on the mouth.
It wasn't really a kiss, just a peck on his lips, but Gerard had never been kissed before. His heart started beating so hard against his ribcage that it made his chest hurt. He thought, I'm probably taking this the wrong way.
Frank put a hand on the side of his face and tilted his head. This time the kiss landed at the corner of his mouth before Frank's lips slid over, wetly, to press firmly against his and he opened them and pressed his tongue into Gerard's mouth before Gerard even had time to react. It happened so fast that Gerard couldn't stop a moan, which was only half with surprise.
"Sorry, did it hurt?" Frank mumbled.
"N-no," Gerard said, even though his mouth stung a little.
He'd never had someone else's tongue in his mouth; Frank's tongue had scraped over Gerard's teeth, their tongues had touched, and Gerard felt sunburn blooming on his skin, he felt slightly ill.
"Sorry," Frank said again. They were staring at each other, "I didn't mean to - You said you never, so I thought. But not -" He looked a little sheepish, like the words had sounded better in his head, but now they just made him feel dumb.
Gerard didn't understand exactly what Frank was saying, but he got the gist. Frank had tasted sharply of vodka and his eyes didn't seem completely able to focus on Gerard's this close up. He was pretty wasted; Gerard knew that explained it, made it insignificant. He tried to smile encouragingly at him. "Okay," he said. "Sure."
He knew Frank just wanted to make him feel better, and he appreciated the sentiment, but he didn't say what he was thinking: that Frank was only making it worse.
--
"What is it?" Gerard asked. "Mikey. Hey."
He had decided to ask right out, rather than keep pretending he didn't notice. Mikey was sitting on the floor and he didn't move when Gerard sat down next to him.
Mikey's room was neater than Gerard's, but only because he didn't have as much stuff; he didn't care about as many things as Gerard. There was a poster on the wall above the bed of some British group that was one of the few Gerard hadn't discovered first, the stereo was dressed in CDs, all out of their covers, spilling on to the floor. The blinds were pulled.
They sat like that for a while. When Gerard put an arm around him, Mikey ducked his head, his face obscured by his hair and the glasses.
It was slightly awkward; they hadn't really hugged for a long time. When they were young, it had been easy. When they'd had to share a mattress in some relative's big scary house, it hadn't been difficult being Mikey's big brother then, but Gerard didn't really know how to comfort him anymore.
When Mikey finally mumbled something, it was in a small voice, and Gerard tightened his arms around him and thought about attic noises and Mikey curled up next to him, scared of the dark.
***
Pete had not planned to be caught making out with Mikey Way in the playground, up against the climbing tree, in the middle of the night. Well, ten o'clock at night. Luckily it was just by a man out walking his dog, and Pete wasn't even sure he noticed that they were both boys, but it made him wake up and realize what he was doing.
"I have to go home," he panted, zipping up his hoodie again.
Mikey just nodded quietly. His jacket was on the ground where Pete had pushed it off his shoulders.
It was probably the worst he had ever acted, Pete thought after. He panicked. He realized that even if he stopped this right this second, there would always be one other person who knew and that was too many people for Pete to feel comfortable about.
So he told Mikey that it had been a set up and that everyone was laughing at him. It had gone as far as it had because Pete wanted to see if he could get a blowjob out of it. It wasn't a polished lie, but it was believable because Mikey was Gerard's kid brother and in the dark, with Mikey's eyes so wide, clearly wanting this, hand in Pete's, it must have seemed like the most believable thing in the world.
In his blog that night he wrote: "can't meet your eyes. can't meet my own."
--
Once, Pete had moved his hand from Mikey's thigh up to his waist, and along the way he'd slid the heel of his palm over the zipper in Mikey's jeans, and Mikey had definitely been at least half hard. Pete really owed a lot to Mikey that he didn't have more to regret now. Mikey didn’t seem ready to deal with anything below the waist, which was fine, which was a relief, Pete didn't want to do anything like that either, except his body was treacherous and sort of had no boundaries when it came to Mikey and the backseat of his car.
There had been times when he had been begging, pressed against Mikey, on fire, pleading, "please just let me, you don't have to do it back, I just need to, please," and it always seemed to make Mikey more nervous. Maybe he didn't believe that Pete wouldn't expect him to return the favor, and Pete sort of understood why. But he couldn't help thinking about what Mikey's dick would feel like in his hand and his mouth, without the denim and cotton and zipper, and just the thought of that kind of intimacy made his head spin. He imagined it when he was alone in bed at night and sometimes Mikey didn't even need to return the favor in Pete's fantasies. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but he didn't think that was normal.
He looked up websites about alternative sexualities, but even though there were a lot of people on there who thought they were going through the same thing, he thought, no, no one else understood this, no one else was feeling like this, he was alone. He never thought to talk to Mikey about it, because Mikey was not Pete, they weren't the same, and Pete had always been alone with his head and heart. But in the end, fantasies and thoughts were easy to take back, or forget about, and thanks to Mikey, there wasn't really much that had changed. He was still the same: he wasn't gay, he wasn't drawn to any other guy in school, he wasn't drawn to any girls either; he never felt anything for anybody. Mikey was just an idiosyncrasy.
--
He couldn't meet Mikey's eyes the next day, mainly because by then he was furious. Furious at how messed up this was. He was angry that Mikey had been so stupid, so pliable, and that he had caused Pete to doubt himself like that; it nagged at Pete, tore open his barely contained anxiety. He was a sophomore and a soccer star and a basketcase; he didn't need Mikey to come along and make it worse.
When he didn't see Mikey all day, he finally ended up seeking him out, cornering him against the wall by the toilets.
"Hi," Mikey said, somewhat warily.
"How the fuck could you have believed it was real?" Pete spit out. "They must have done this to your brother a hundred times."
Pete knew for a fact that there had been at least one bet for a girl to pretend to flirt with Gerard to get him to embarrass himself, and Gerard had barely noticed her, which was when the gay rumours really took off.
Mikey shrugged. His headphones were tangled up in his shirt and bag strap where Pete had torn them out of his ears. "No, I thought it was probably a set up," he said, quietly.
Pete blinked at him, dumbfounded. "But then...why did you go along with it?" he asked.
Mikey didn't answer, and Pete felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. It took a while for him to catch his breath again.
--
He had stolen so many Ativan that it was finally noticeable, and he dreaded what would happen when it was discovered. There was no way they would be able to let that slide; he would have to explain himself, explain about his dreams and the headaches and the suffocating feeling that was keeping him awake at night.
There was no real explanation for it. He was being slowly strangled by the suburb. His room and the house and his car and his computer and schoolbag and his friends were all going to bury him alive and slowly pile up on top of him as he sank deeper and deeper beneath the surface. He woke up from dreams, fighting for breath. He wanted something to grind against, something tangible, for leverage, but at the same time he wanted cotton and comforting, beautiful headaches.
The pills were all gone: he didn't stockpile, and he never took enough of them, so they never really helped, but he panicked at the thought that he wouldn't have them there across the hall anymore, like a comforting friend, someone to sleep with.
His parents noticed that something was wrong of course, and they asked him about it, and he really didn't know what to tell them. They worried; he heard them mumbling late at night and he was absolutely sure it was about him. The makeup seemed forgotten about - it was never mentioned again, and, conveniently, Pete was sort of over it anyway. It had just been a thing, something to try out. He still loved the way the eyeliner accentuated and dirtied up his eyes, especially when he was in the bathroom under the harsh lights, crying, but it was a bitch to get off afterwards and he was always scared he'd go to school with traces of it still around his red-rimmed eyes.
Mikey had been like a headache, but also something to grind against, even though he'd never let Pete. It was kind of funny; he had used Mikey a little bit, even though it should have been the other way around if the world had been the right way up. He couldn't help it. He had enough going on just trying to get through a school day and soccer practice without the facade starting to bleed, and he wondered what his parents would say if they knew that the only thing keeping him on the rails so far had been a lanky, weird-looking boy with pretty, melancholy eyes who had been really nice to Pete, had picked him up from town in the middle of the night just because Pete had asked him to, had listened to him, and smiled at him, and touched him when Pete asked him to.
He missed Mikey. That was an unforeseen problem. He missed the tense, nervous, electrical feeling that was big enough and worrisome enough that it wiped away all the other problems he usually obsessed about. He'd gotten used to the uncomfortable, nervous, liquid heat pooling in his stomach and at the base of his spine, how he was always scared, but always thinking about it, and now there was just a dull ache.
He wasn't in love, because love was supposed to be selfish and hardcore and Mikey Way was none of those things. It was cozy being with Mikey - or maybe cozy wasn't the right word. Pete searched for words, none were totally right. But his heart slowed to a comfortable pace when he was with Mikey, if they weren't making out. There were moments when he rested his head on Mikey's shoulder and talked about bits and pieces of his life and didn't care what he said. In his blog, he wrote less about his mind and more about his body. He listened to Mikey's music and it made him feel better, even after he'd made Mikey hate him. He wrote poetry, but he started to think of it as lyrics.
One afternoon, he found Mikey by his car in the school parking lot, looking a bit lost.
"Hi," Pete said, "What are you doing?"
Mikey looked up and seemed a little startled when he saw Pete. Pete wondered if Mikey had already forgotten what his car looked like, or maybe he'd never really paid attention.
"Um, Gee was supposed to give me a lift," Mikey said, "But I think his car is gone."
Pete sighed. "Okay. Do you want a ride?"
"No." Mikey quickly shook his head. "No, it's fine."
Pete just sighed and didn't argue. He got into his own car and reversed out of the parking space. He didn't throw a look in the back mirror as he drove off. He got stuck in the tumult of the line to the exit for a while, and when he was finally on the road, he noticed Mikey walking along the curb, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, earphones on. He honked, and Mikey's head shot up. When he had Mikey's attention, he slowed and pulled over.
He waited while Mikey walked somewhat warily back to his car, bending down by his window. "Um," Mikey said.
"Get in," Pete said, "I'll give you a ride."
Mikey hesitated. "It's alright." He looked down the highway, as if he could see his house from there. "It's not far."
That was a lie. It was far.
"I know where you live," Pete said.
Mikey went a bit red and mumbled, "Yeah, okay," and went around the car to get into the passenger seat. Pete pulled away from the curb again.
"So, how's it going?" he asked after they had been driving in silence for a while.
Mikey nodded. "Fine."
"How is the croquet team doing?"
"Fine. The same." He thought he saw Mikey smile a little, even if it was just courteously.
Mikey didn't ask him about soccer or anything else and Pete thought, fair enough. They were quiet again, and Pete realized he was expecting Mikey to start fiddling with the radio, just like he'd done all the other times he'd been in Pete's car.
He thought that maybe they should talk, even if it was just courteously.
"Look, the deal is, I'm not gay," he blurted out, sort of inelegantly, and he noticed that Mikey flinched. He had meant to be blunt, but he still sighed. "What I mean is, it's not my fault. I'm just not, so it wouldn't have been - you know what I mean." Mikey nodded and Pete wished he'd say something else, but Mikey didn't, so Pete continued, "I got carried away. I thought maybe I could get something out of it." He looked over. "It was pretty decent of me to stop it before it went that far, wasn't it?"
Mikey nodded, but he might as well have been shaking his head or shrugging. Pete sighed.
He wished he wasn't so smart. And that wasn't being conceited; he wished he could believe his own lies, the stuff he was telling Mikey.
"Have you told Gerard about us?" he asked.
He had to look over to see Mikey shake his head, and Pete thought maybe it wasn't the whole truth. Maybe Mikey had told Gerard some things or Gerard had figured it out on his own, or maybe he'd seen them somewhere. That night on the patio, the night that was burned into Pete's mind and made his stomach clench even now, it would be pretty fucking ironic if that was the night Gerard had witnessed. Ironic in a way that made Pete want to drive the car into a ditch.
"Do you think he knows?"
"Maybe." Mikey's voice was tense, his body angled towards the door as if he couldn't wait to get out again.
"Do you think he would tell anyone?"
"No," Mikey said, simply and Pete believed him.
"Okay." Pete pulled a hand over his face. He breathed out, glanced over. "Thanks."
Mikey shrugged. He was looking out the window and Pete felt suddenly fiercely sad. He almost wished that Mikey was a bit more like him, that he would take the opportunity to manipulate this into something else. But Mikey was just looking out the window.
If I hadn't broken it off, Pete thought, he would be looking at me right now like he really wanted me and couldn't believe he could have me.
When they were getting closer to the Way's house, Pete slowed down, then pulled over. "Listen, I know you don't believe me," he said.
Mikey had reached for the door handle as soon as Pete stopped the car and he looked a bit disappointed that the conversation wasn't over.
"No, I believe you," he mumbled.
Pete knew that Mikey had no clue what he was talking about. "No, listen. I know it seems like I'm lying, but I'm not. I'm just not, you know. I'm sorry, it's not my fault. But I won't tell anyone."
"Okay." Mikey was looking down at his hands in his lap, eyes flickering towards the CD player and Pete's bag and Pete's lap, anything but at Pete's eyes. "Thanks." He didn't move, but he clearly wanted to get out. Pete was overcome by memories of Mikey in his car, of comfort and excitement and not this empty, safe, suffocating silence.
"It's not my fault," he said, lower this time.
He leaned over and Mikey met his eyes then and there was the moment when Mikey realized what Pete was about to try to do and he looked suddenly scared to death. "I - uh, I, I can walk from here," Mikey mumbled and scrambled for the door handle, pushing the door open and almost tumbling out.
"Mikey," Pete said, but the door slammed and Pete sat back, closed his eyes and groaned. "Fuck, what the fuck?" he said, to himself.
He got the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, tires screeching.
--
There had been this one perfect night a few weeks ago when they had spent an hour sitting together on the creaky patio to Mikey's house. It had been late at night and Mikey had climbed out of the window when Pete called his cell phone, but then he hadn't wanted to go anywhere in case his parents woke up, so they sat on the porch until 2.30 am, watching the moon. It had been warm enough, but cool enough that they had curled up together. Mikey's head had been resting against his arm and they'd been whispering, probably hadn't been talking about anything important, but Mikey had ended up with his head in Pete's lap and Pete had slid an arm under his neck and they'd kissed softly for a few moments, which felt like it was for longer than Pete had ever wanted to do anything.
--
He didn't know what struck him at first. He was turning a corner on his way to soccer practice, and suddenly he was pushed back through some bushes and up against the wall at the back of the gym, and a knee hit his stomach. It had probably been aimed at his groin, he realized later, grateful suddenly that all it did was make him double over. He tried to defend himself, kicked at air and almost tumbled them both over. A clumsy punch landed on his cheek and they both groaned. He had a bruise the size of Gerard's fist on his face for days after.
**
Part 4
( First half of part 3 here)
Frank drove jerkily, a bit like how he played guitar. Gerard had watched him play once at Ray's place when Ray had let Frank borrow his guitar to show them his skill level. He'd done "When I Come Around" and Ray had gone white and gripped the chair hard until it was over, because Frank wasn't overly careful about not bumping into things with the brand new guitar. Afterwards, Ray had jumped up with a "okay, fine, good, here, let me," carefully taking it back while Frank had flopped down on the bed with a sated smile. He had been a little sweaty after only one song. Gerard had thought he was really good though. He had been gripping the armrest a bit too.
He only realized they were home when Frank turned into the driveway with a bit too much speed and the car came to a sharp halt. Gerard was only too happy that his mom was working late. He wasn't in the mood to answer questions about his face right then. "Are you sure you want to stay?" he asked, quietly, because Frank seemed kind of angry. "I'll drive you home, if you want."
Frank shook his head and opened the door. "It's alright. Can I have some coke or something?" he asked.
"Sure." Gerard followed Frank up to the house, and when Frank stopped by the swing to wriggle out of his jacket, he said, "Wait here, I'll get you the coke."
"Thanks," Frank said. He didn't really look angry anymore, but Gerard was still a little wary.
He went inside, putting his bag on the floor in the hallway, and went into the kitchen. On his way back with the drinks, he stopped by the full-length mirror in the hall. He thought about the weights he still wanted to buy and about Frank on the porch, and turned slightly one way then the other. There was a bit of blood on his shirt and his arms were white as snow and puny.
When he went outside again, Frank had sat down on the swing and pulled a pillow into his lap, curling around it, and Gerard handed him his glass and sat down next to him. "Thanks," Frank said.
They drank their drinks in silence for a while. The sun was in their faces, but there were enough trees and clouds for shade, and it was nice and warm. Gerard hadn't realized how tense he was. When he relaxed, he ached a bit more.
"Are you okay?" Frank asked. His eyes were softer. Gerard thought it was probably quite hard to stay mad at him when his face looked like it did right then.
"Sure," he said. He took out the tissue Frank had stuffed into his pocket and wiped his lip. There was no blood at least.
"They're dicks," Frank said.
Gerard nodded. "Yeah."
He knew they were, but sometimes he didn't quite get why they wouldn't leave him alone. They never seemed to have enough of tormenting him, and even though they were right about him - he was weird-looking and gay: all of the things they went after him for - there must be a way to get them off his case. He knew it was useless to think about it this close to graduation, but he couldn't help it.
"It was the festive spirit of the pep rally that overcame them," Frank said, as if he knew what Gerard was thinking.
Gerard had forgotten that it was the day of the pep rally. Ray was going to watch Bob play and Gerard had toyed with the idea of going with him, so he was glad that they had decided to get him before it started. It could have been a lot worse; he could have had quite a big audience.
"I know you think I should do something," he mumbled.
He could see Frank frown. "I don't," Frank said. "I just think that maybe you think it's okay." Frank reached over and drew his finger over the cut on Gerard's lip and Gerard flinched. Frank sometimes did odd things and odd gestures, as if he didn't know normal social protocol for high school, like how you didn't touch other guys' mouths like that.
"Um." He felt his face heat up slightly. "I don't."
"Good."
"But I can't take them on. That's probably what they want. They'd kill me."
Frank nodded. "Maybe." Then he looked over at Gerard. "I'd help you, though."
Gerard wasn't sure why he was surprised. He met Frank's eyes. "Uh, we'd both get killed," he said finally, and Frank laughed.
"Hey, asshole, speak for yourself. I'd kick their heads in. Me and Martha had a dance group when we were in 4th grade, I am pretty flexible."
Gerard rolled his eyes, and sincerely hoped there wasn't a part of Frank that was serious. "Thanks," he said anyway, "I appreciate it."
They drank their cokes in silence for a while, watching the sun slowly set over the neighborhood.
"Are you staying over?" Gerard asked then.
Frank nodded and stretched a bit. "Sure, if that's okay."
Frank always wanted to stay over at their house, and Gerard thought it might have something to do with his parents divorce and his mom's new boyfriend and the fact that Frank seemed weirdly fond of their house - he was always coming up with new stuff he liked: it was the antique chair in the hallway or the window frames or the way the roof creaked at night or how dark the hallway got with only the dim wall lights between the drapes and tapestries.
"Do you need to call your mom?" he asked.
Frank shook his head. "I told her this morning I'd probably stay at your place."
That was a bit presumptuous, Gerard thought, but he was pleased.
He was starting to get used to Frank in his bed. He always wore too few clothes while Gerard wore too many, and a few times Gerard had woken up with Frank's hand resting against his side. But he was getting used to that too, he told himself.
There was a sound, and when Gerard looked over, Mikey was walking up the driveway with his backpack over his shoulder and the school jacket unbuttoned. He hadn't noticed them yet, but as soon as Gerard saw him, he remembered that he was supposed to have given Mikey a ride home that day.
"Mikey," he said, and Mikey looked up. He looked kind of sad, Gerard thought. There was something about his eyes.
"Hi," he said when he saw them, then he raised an eyebrow when he saw Gerard's face. "Um."
Gerard posed slightly. "Do I look hard?"
Mikey shook his head. "No."
"Damn, I was hoping I would." Gerard grinned. "Sorry," he said then, "I forgot to wait for you."
Mikey shrugged. "It's okay. I got a ride with someone."
Gerard threw a quick glance at his watch. If Mikey got a lift home then he was at least half an hour later than he should be, but Gerard wasn't going to make a big deal out of it, because he had been allowed to borrow the car only on the condition that he drove Mikey home straight after school. Besides, it had probably taken Mikey a while to find someone who was willing to give him a ride out to this part of town.
When Mikey had gone inside, Frank said, "He looked kind of down."
Gerard was a little surprised that Frank had noticed, because Frank wasn't all that perceptive: he didn't always get when people were making fun of him and he could be really mean sometimes without meaning to, although Gerard suspected that might just be because he was oversensitive when it came to Frank. Which wasn't Frank's fault, really. "Yeah," he said.
"Maybe they broke up," Frank said.
Gerard didn't feel like arguing about it right then. "Maybe," he mumbled.
He still didn't think Mikey was dating, but until he decided to tell Gerard what was up with him, there was no way he could know for sure what was going on, so he might as well let Frank believe what he wanted.
They didn't speak for a while. It was getting chillier and darker.
"Are your parents coming back soon?" Frank asked then, glancing over.
Gerard frowned. "I don't know. I don't think so. They'll probably be pretty late."
"I was just thinking." Frank looked a little hesitant, he sort of peeked over at Gerard and Gerard felt suddenly nervous and a little worried, he thought he might say yes, whatever it was Frank came out with. "Do you want to see if we can get any booze?"
Gerard blinked. "Um. Okay."
"It's just that, I've never been drunk," Frank said. "I mean, I've tasted some, but mom's always been around." He laughed, "My sister got drunk once, mom almost killed her, but. I kind of wanna try it… do you wanna see if we can get some?"
Gerard swallowed. There was never any time when he didn't want to get drunk.
"I got some in my room," he said.
Frank looked at him, curiously. "Really?"
Gerard nodded.
"What - what is it?" Frank asked, as if that mattered.
Gerard shrugged. "Vodka, I think." He wasn't fussed about what he kept in his wardrobe, but it was usually spirits. It was always something.
"Okay." Frank blinked. He paused, as if maybe he hadn't expected to be able to execute his plan so quickly. "Okay. You, um. It's in your room?"
Gerard nodded. He usually wouldn't offer to share his liquor, but Frank didn't know that. And it could be fun to get drunk with someone. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them in the house, he thought about offering Mikey some booze so they could get wasted together and play video games and listen to new albums and sometimes all that stopped him was the thought of how much fucking trouble he'd be in if his mom ever found out.
He winced slightly when he got up from the swing. There was a pain on the left side of his ribs. "Are you okay?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, just sore." Gerard grimaced.
Once in his room, they closed the door and Gerard nudged a chair in front of it. It was the only way he could get any warning if someone opened the door, and it wasn't really enough, but he didn't think he would be able to lock the two of them in the bathroom for the whole night without raising suspicions. Mikey might have to pee at some point.
He went over to the wardrobe, moved some shoes out of the way, and lifted the lid off the box at the bottom. The bottle was hidden under a basketball jersey he didn't think he had ever worn. "It's vodka," he said.
"Cool." Frank was still a little wide-eyed. "Are we drinking it straight?"
"Um. What do you want to have with it?" Gerard never mixed and never used glasses, leaving no footprints in the kitchen. Especially not when his mom was suddenly on the warpath to find out what else might be going on.
"Um, well, no, this is fine," Frank said. He made some room on Gerard's bed by putting a stack of CDs on the floor, and sat down.
Gerard went over and sat down next to him. He was glad he'd slept on top of the bedspread the night before so that the bed was still somewhat made. The first chance he got he would quickly replace the sheets before Frank crawled into his bed. Sometimes he was annoyed that Frank didn't give him more of a warning.
"So," Frank said. "Where did you get the booze from?"
Gerard didn't actually remember. It was in its original bottle, so he assumed he must have bought it or got someone to buy it for him or had taken it from Lily. Whenever he stole from his parents he made sure it was in small amounts and poured into a non-descript container, but when he stole from Lily he sometimes grabbed a whole bottle. He liked Lily, and she often told him he was her favorite nephew. She lived alone and painted a bit and was a bit of an alcoholic and sometimes he thought he would end up like her. Sometimes he thought it was highly likely.
Next to him, Frank had taken a long sip from the bottle and was grimacing. "Wow," he said and wiped his mouth.
He handed it to Gerard and Gerard took a swig too, flinching when the alcohol came into contact with the cut on his lip.
"It'll clean it, at least," Frank said with a grin. He moved up on the bed, closer to where Gerard was sitting and touched Gerard's face again. "Maybe you should clean the rest of them up a bit?" he said, taking the bottle from Gerard's hands in the process.
"Yeah." Gerard was grateful for a reason to get up.
He went into the bathroom and opened the cabinet under the sink. There was a bottle of antiseptic solution and some plasters in there next to Mikey's spare inhaler, and he grabbed a tissue and dabbed the cuts. His face wasn't that bad; there wasn't much blood, just a bruise on his cheek and the cut on his lip, but on the other hand, it didn't look like anything but what it was either. There was no way he could pretend he'd fallen off Frank's bike or had a croquet-related accident. It looked like someone had punched him, nothing else.
He winced again when he bent to put the bottle back in the cabinet.
"Can I see that?" Frank said when he came back into the bedroom. Frank was still sitting on the bed, cradling the bottle. His lips were redder now.
"What?" Gerard asked.
"Your ribs." Frank nodded at the way Gerard was holding a hand over the side of his ribcage. "Here." He made room, and pulled Gerard down carefully to sit, then lie down on the bed. He pulled Gerard's shirt up over his chest and Gerard really, really wished he wouldn't. "Looks bruised," Frank said. He shook his head. "They kicked you, that's so fucking sick."
"I think it was the dryer," Gerard mumbled. He remembered banging into it, losing his breath for a moment, making some kind of embarrassing sound. He'd made another one now. The shirt was too tight and had scraped across his ribcage and he was biting his lip.
"Sorry," Frank said. His hands were gentle and slow as he tugged the shirt back down. "Does it hurt that bad? Maybe you've cracked a rib or something?"
"No." Gerard pulled a little at his tie, which suddenly felt constricting. "It's just a bruise."
Frank reached for a pillow and gently stuffed it against Gerard's side, then held out the bottle and smiled down at him. "Here. Painkiller." His eyes were a little glazed. Gerard thought that Frank was cute when he looked drunk. Although the truth was that he looked pretty much the same, only a little more relaxed and maybe slightly unfocused. He flopped down next to Gerard and Gerard didn't want to move away, because he was finally comfortable and there was no pain in his side. He was wondering how he would be able to change the sheets later, especially in a hurry.
"I really love your house," Frank said. He was still hovering, gaze on Gerard.
Gerard frowned. "Why?"
"I just do." Frank smiled softly. "It's just… I like everything about it." His voice was low and he stopped speaking, as if he needed to take a breath or expected Gerard to react to that statement.
Gerard was thinking about how his sheet would smell of Frank in the morning. "Well, you have weird taste," he said, hoping his body language didn't betray what Frank's proximity was doing to him.
He thought Frank seemed a bit stricken at that, but he only sighed and mumbled, "Yeah," sort of resigned. Then he sat up and undid his tie and pulled it off, throwing it on the chair. Gerard watched as Frank's shirt rode up over his back and there was a strip of pale, naked skin visible over the waistline of his pants that disappeared when Frank lay back down again, and he thought Frank might have caught him watching, because he hadn't been able to look away quickly enough.
They lay side by side for a while, passing the bottle back and forth and not talking.
"So I told Annabelle I wouldn't go to prom with her," Frank said after a while.
Gerard glanced over. "Really."
"Yeah." Frank nodded. "She said she didn't care. So that's good."
Gerard thought it was both sort of sweet and annoying how clueless Frank was sometimes. "Yeah."
"But now I don't have a date." Frank flashed him a grin. "You turned me down, so now I have to sit at home."
He managed to slide an arm around Gerard's shoulders and Gerard flinched at the sudden embrace. He leaned away slightly, blinking. He was almost sure Frank was joking. "You could have gone."
Frank grunted. "I wanted a fun date. And your brother was busy, so." Gerard elbowed him in the side and Frank winced through the giggles. "My granddad will be so disappointed. I was going to wear his tux."
Frank lifted his arm some so that it rested on the pillow more than on Gerard's shoulders, and Gerard pretended Frank's fingers weren't still touching his hair.
"I don't think my mom and dad ever expected me to go," he said.
Frank laughed. "That's probably not true. But I bet they'd be surprised if you went with a guy."
"They'd be surprised if I went with anyone."
Frank met his eyes then and Gerard knew he got it, because he went noticeably still. "So you've never..."
Gerard shook his head.
Frank frowned. "Not ever? Not even junior high dates, like, when you just meet in the mall and look at magazines and call it a date?"
Gerard shook his head again. "No."
"Well, those are the only kind of dates I've been on," Frank said, "But once we all started high school no one wanted to go out with me anymore."
Gerard gave him a look. "Fuck off. Someone asked you to prom."
"Whatever." Frank shrugged. "She asked another guy in English before me and when he already had a date, I tried to be nice to her 'cause I felt bad and she asked me instead."
"That still counts." Frank flashed him a grin at that, and Gerard couldn't help smiling back. "It does."
"Sure. And I turned her down to sit at home and jerk off instead, so."
"Right. Well." Gerard felt his face heat up slightly. He couldn't say "well, I'm gonna sit at home and jerk off on prom night too" or "that's what I do every Saturday" or anything else that popped into his head, so he just smoothed his hands down over the bottom of his shirt and cleared his throat.
"We should do something on prom night," Frank said.
Gerard nodded. "Okay."
"No, I mean it. We could watch a movie and," He flashed a grin, "Maybe get more vodka?"
"Okay." Gerard thought that was pretty much exactly how he would want to spend prom night given a choice.
"It fucking sucks that we have to go to school tomorrow." Frank reached for the bottle again.
"Yeah." Gerard touched his own face, gingerly. He didn't really want to go to school looking like a walking poster for what had happened to him in the bathroom, but he didn't have much choice. Everyone already knew what those guys thought of him anyway; it was hardly a secret.
"Okay, I wanna ask you something," Frank said, pushing up on one elbow and looking down at Gerard with a somewhat serious expression on his face.
"What?"
Frank's fingers were clutching the neck of the bottle, "You haven't, like, had sex or anything?"
Gerard wondered what exactly the "or anything" entailed, but it didn't really matter because it wasn't like he had. He shook his head again.
Predictably, Frank didn't seem surprised. "Me neither," he said, "I mean, I've done some French kissing and stuff, and - " He stopped talking abruptly and groaned, "Fuck, I just called it French kissing."
"Junior high date?"
"Whatever." Frank was laughing, but he looked a little sheepish. He pinched Gerard's arm. "I was the make-out king when I was thirteen. Girls were lining up to French kiss me, okay."
The thing was, Gerard didn't have any problem believing that. He felt like part of him was still in junior high, the only difference was that now he knew for sure that he wanted to line up to kiss boys, if he ever got the chance.
"I don't know, maybe I don't want it enough," Frank said then, quieter.
Gerard looked over at him. "Um?"
"I want to, but," Frank sighed, "I don't really try. It's just… I don't know. Maybe the thought is nicer than actually doing it." His laugh was a little defeated. "Maybe that's why I was the make out king. Girls knew I'd kiss them without trying to grab them anywhere else."
Gerard was feeling a little uncomfortable with the conversation, but also curious. He took the bottle from Frank's hands and carefully lifted his head to drink without awaking the pain in his side. "There's no one in school you'd date?" he asked, dreading the answer a little.
Frank's gaze flickered. "I don't think so."
"Well, you'd probably try to have sex if you really liked someone." Gerard wasn't sure if he was supposed to sound reassuring. All he knew was that he was relieved he wouldn't have to listen to Frank enthuse about some girl and then have to pretend to be happy when he got to fuck her.
"Do you like anyone?" Frank asked.
Gerard thought about lying and saying someone's name. There were some cute girls in his Art classes - not that any of them would have been interested in him, but it would probably seem plausible that he would have a crush on one of them. He couldn't think of a single name, though, so he just shook his head. "Not really."
"Would you have sex with someone you didn't like? If it was on offer?"
Gerard grimaced. "What would I have to do?"
Frank looked like he hadn't considered that, and he started giggling. "Okay, you'd have to do everything, like, everything, but they would do everything you wanted too - blowjob, intercourse, anything."
Gerard couldn't believe Frank had said 'intercourse'. Frank was such a geek. "Depending on how much I didn't like them," he said.
"You're just trying to get out of all these without answering." Frank pinched his arm again.
"I'm not." He was actually telling the truth, He'd have sex with someone he didn't like as long as the person didn't repulse him and wasn't a girl. He thought about how much easier his life would be if he could have sex with girls, at least just for sex. Then he contemplated the photo of Audrey Hepburn in his bookshelf for a few moments, and thought, maybe.
"I can't believe I just told you I haven't kissed anyone since junior high," Frank said and dropped down on the bed again with a groan.
Gerard sighed. "I haven't kissed anyone." He had no idea why he wasn't shutting up. He wasn't used to being drunk with someone.
"Never?" Frank looked over at him.
Gerard shook his head again. "No, and I probably ruined it for Mikey too."
"No, fuck that," Frank said heatedly, "You can't ruin it for him, you don't look that much alike. Plus, he's weird all on his own anyway."
Gerard shrugged. "Maybe." He had put the bottle on the bedside table and was playing with his shirt sleeves, and he thought Frank was looking at him thoughtfully, which was slightly unnerving.
"Hey," Frank put a hand on Gerard's arm.
"What?" Gerard blinked.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Frank said and kissed him on the mouth.
It wasn't really a kiss, just a peck on his lips, but Gerard had never been kissed before. His heart started beating so hard against his ribcage that it made his chest hurt. He thought, I'm probably taking this the wrong way.
Frank put a hand on the side of his face and tilted his head. This time the kiss landed at the corner of his mouth before Frank's lips slid over, wetly, to press firmly against his and he opened them and pressed his tongue into Gerard's mouth before Gerard even had time to react. It happened so fast that Gerard couldn't stop a moan, which was only half with surprise.
"Sorry, did it hurt?" Frank mumbled.
"N-no," Gerard said, even though his mouth stung a little.
He'd never had someone else's tongue in his mouth; Frank's tongue had scraped over Gerard's teeth, their tongues had touched, and Gerard felt sunburn blooming on his skin, he felt slightly ill.
"Sorry," Frank said again. They were staring at each other, "I didn't mean to - You said you never, so I thought. But not -" He looked a little sheepish, like the words had sounded better in his head, but now they just made him feel dumb.
Gerard didn't understand exactly what Frank was saying, but he got the gist. Frank had tasted sharply of vodka and his eyes didn't seem completely able to focus on Gerard's this close up. He was pretty wasted; Gerard knew that explained it, made it insignificant. He tried to smile encouragingly at him. "Okay," he said. "Sure."
He knew Frank just wanted to make him feel better, and he appreciated the sentiment, but he didn't say what he was thinking: that Frank was only making it worse.
--
"What is it?" Gerard asked. "Mikey. Hey."
He had decided to ask right out, rather than keep pretending he didn't notice. Mikey was sitting on the floor and he didn't move when Gerard sat down next to him.
Mikey's room was neater than Gerard's, but only because he didn't have as much stuff; he didn't care about as many things as Gerard. There was a poster on the wall above the bed of some British group that was one of the few Gerard hadn't discovered first, the stereo was dressed in CDs, all out of their covers, spilling on to the floor. The blinds were pulled.
They sat like that for a while. When Gerard put an arm around him, Mikey ducked his head, his face obscured by his hair and the glasses.
It was slightly awkward; they hadn't really hugged for a long time. When they were young, it had been easy. When they'd had to share a mattress in some relative's big scary house, it hadn't been difficult being Mikey's big brother then, but Gerard didn't really know how to comfort him anymore.
When Mikey finally mumbled something, it was in a small voice, and Gerard tightened his arms around him and thought about attic noises and Mikey curled up next to him, scared of the dark.
***
Pete had not planned to be caught making out with Mikey Way in the playground, up against the climbing tree, in the middle of the night. Well, ten o'clock at night. Luckily it was just by a man out walking his dog, and Pete wasn't even sure he noticed that they were both boys, but it made him wake up and realize what he was doing.
"I have to go home," he panted, zipping up his hoodie again.
Mikey just nodded quietly. His jacket was on the ground where Pete had pushed it off his shoulders.
It was probably the worst he had ever acted, Pete thought after. He panicked. He realized that even if he stopped this right this second, there would always be one other person who knew and that was too many people for Pete to feel comfortable about.
So he told Mikey that it had been a set up and that everyone was laughing at him. It had gone as far as it had because Pete wanted to see if he could get a blowjob out of it. It wasn't a polished lie, but it was believable because Mikey was Gerard's kid brother and in the dark, with Mikey's eyes so wide, clearly wanting this, hand in Pete's, it must have seemed like the most believable thing in the world.
In his blog that night he wrote: "can't meet your eyes. can't meet my own."
--
Once, Pete had moved his hand from Mikey's thigh up to his waist, and along the way he'd slid the heel of his palm over the zipper in Mikey's jeans, and Mikey had definitely been at least half hard. Pete really owed a lot to Mikey that he didn't have more to regret now. Mikey didn’t seem ready to deal with anything below the waist, which was fine, which was a relief, Pete didn't want to do anything like that either, except his body was treacherous and sort of had no boundaries when it came to Mikey and the backseat of his car.
There had been times when he had been begging, pressed against Mikey, on fire, pleading, "please just let me, you don't have to do it back, I just need to, please," and it always seemed to make Mikey more nervous. Maybe he didn't believe that Pete wouldn't expect him to return the favor, and Pete sort of understood why. But he couldn't help thinking about what Mikey's dick would feel like in his hand and his mouth, without the denim and cotton and zipper, and just the thought of that kind of intimacy made his head spin. He imagined it when he was alone in bed at night and sometimes Mikey didn't even need to return the favor in Pete's fantasies. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but he didn't think that was normal.
He looked up websites about alternative sexualities, but even though there were a lot of people on there who thought they were going through the same thing, he thought, no, no one else understood this, no one else was feeling like this, he was alone. He never thought to talk to Mikey about it, because Mikey was not Pete, they weren't the same, and Pete had always been alone with his head and heart. But in the end, fantasies and thoughts were easy to take back, or forget about, and thanks to Mikey, there wasn't really much that had changed. He was still the same: he wasn't gay, he wasn't drawn to any other guy in school, he wasn't drawn to any girls either; he never felt anything for anybody. Mikey was just an idiosyncrasy.
--
He couldn't meet Mikey's eyes the next day, mainly because by then he was furious. Furious at how messed up this was. He was angry that Mikey had been so stupid, so pliable, and that he had caused Pete to doubt himself like that; it nagged at Pete, tore open his barely contained anxiety. He was a sophomore and a soccer star and a basketcase; he didn't need Mikey to come along and make it worse.
When he didn't see Mikey all day, he finally ended up seeking him out, cornering him against the wall by the toilets.
"Hi," Mikey said, somewhat warily.
"How the fuck could you have believed it was real?" Pete spit out. "They must have done this to your brother a hundred times."
Pete knew for a fact that there had been at least one bet for a girl to pretend to flirt with Gerard to get him to embarrass himself, and Gerard had barely noticed her, which was when the gay rumours really took off.
Mikey shrugged. His headphones were tangled up in his shirt and bag strap where Pete had torn them out of his ears. "No, I thought it was probably a set up," he said, quietly.
Pete blinked at him, dumbfounded. "But then...why did you go along with it?" he asked.
Mikey didn't answer, and Pete felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. It took a while for him to catch his breath again.
--
He had stolen so many Ativan that it was finally noticeable, and he dreaded what would happen when it was discovered. There was no way they would be able to let that slide; he would have to explain himself, explain about his dreams and the headaches and the suffocating feeling that was keeping him awake at night.
There was no real explanation for it. He was being slowly strangled by the suburb. His room and the house and his car and his computer and schoolbag and his friends were all going to bury him alive and slowly pile up on top of him as he sank deeper and deeper beneath the surface. He woke up from dreams, fighting for breath. He wanted something to grind against, something tangible, for leverage, but at the same time he wanted cotton and comforting, beautiful headaches.
The pills were all gone: he didn't stockpile, and he never took enough of them, so they never really helped, but he panicked at the thought that he wouldn't have them there across the hall anymore, like a comforting friend, someone to sleep with.
His parents noticed that something was wrong of course, and they asked him about it, and he really didn't know what to tell them. They worried; he heard them mumbling late at night and he was absolutely sure it was about him. The makeup seemed forgotten about - it was never mentioned again, and, conveniently, Pete was sort of over it anyway. It had just been a thing, something to try out. He still loved the way the eyeliner accentuated and dirtied up his eyes, especially when he was in the bathroom under the harsh lights, crying, but it was a bitch to get off afterwards and he was always scared he'd go to school with traces of it still around his red-rimmed eyes.
Mikey had been like a headache, but also something to grind against, even though he'd never let Pete. It was kind of funny; he had used Mikey a little bit, even though it should have been the other way around if the world had been the right way up. He couldn't help it. He had enough going on just trying to get through a school day and soccer practice without the facade starting to bleed, and he wondered what his parents would say if they knew that the only thing keeping him on the rails so far had been a lanky, weird-looking boy with pretty, melancholy eyes who had been really nice to Pete, had picked him up from town in the middle of the night just because Pete had asked him to, had listened to him, and smiled at him, and touched him when Pete asked him to.
He missed Mikey. That was an unforeseen problem. He missed the tense, nervous, electrical feeling that was big enough and worrisome enough that it wiped away all the other problems he usually obsessed about. He'd gotten used to the uncomfortable, nervous, liquid heat pooling in his stomach and at the base of his spine, how he was always scared, but always thinking about it, and now there was just a dull ache.
He wasn't in love, because love was supposed to be selfish and hardcore and Mikey Way was none of those things. It was cozy being with Mikey - or maybe cozy wasn't the right word. Pete searched for words, none were totally right. But his heart slowed to a comfortable pace when he was with Mikey, if they weren't making out. There were moments when he rested his head on Mikey's shoulder and talked about bits and pieces of his life and didn't care what he said. In his blog, he wrote less about his mind and more about his body. He listened to Mikey's music and it made him feel better, even after he'd made Mikey hate him. He wrote poetry, but he started to think of it as lyrics.
One afternoon, he found Mikey by his car in the school parking lot, looking a bit lost.
"Hi," Pete said, "What are you doing?"
Mikey looked up and seemed a little startled when he saw Pete. Pete wondered if Mikey had already forgotten what his car looked like, or maybe he'd never really paid attention.
"Um, Gee was supposed to give me a lift," Mikey said, "But I think his car is gone."
Pete sighed. "Okay. Do you want a ride?"
"No." Mikey quickly shook his head. "No, it's fine."
Pete just sighed and didn't argue. He got into his own car and reversed out of the parking space. He didn't throw a look in the back mirror as he drove off. He got stuck in the tumult of the line to the exit for a while, and when he was finally on the road, he noticed Mikey walking along the curb, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, earphones on. He honked, and Mikey's head shot up. When he had Mikey's attention, he slowed and pulled over.
He waited while Mikey walked somewhat warily back to his car, bending down by his window. "Um," Mikey said.
"Get in," Pete said, "I'll give you a ride."
Mikey hesitated. "It's alright." He looked down the highway, as if he could see his house from there. "It's not far."
That was a lie. It was far.
"I know where you live," Pete said.
Mikey went a bit red and mumbled, "Yeah, okay," and went around the car to get into the passenger seat. Pete pulled away from the curb again.
"So, how's it going?" he asked after they had been driving in silence for a while.
Mikey nodded. "Fine."
"How is the croquet team doing?"
"Fine. The same." He thought he saw Mikey smile a little, even if it was just courteously.
Mikey didn't ask him about soccer or anything else and Pete thought, fair enough. They were quiet again, and Pete realized he was expecting Mikey to start fiddling with the radio, just like he'd done all the other times he'd been in Pete's car.
He thought that maybe they should talk, even if it was just courteously.
"Look, the deal is, I'm not gay," he blurted out, sort of inelegantly, and he noticed that Mikey flinched. He had meant to be blunt, but he still sighed. "What I mean is, it's not my fault. I'm just not, so it wouldn't have been - you know what I mean." Mikey nodded and Pete wished he'd say something else, but Mikey didn't, so Pete continued, "I got carried away. I thought maybe I could get something out of it." He looked over. "It was pretty decent of me to stop it before it went that far, wasn't it?"
Mikey nodded, but he might as well have been shaking his head or shrugging. Pete sighed.
He wished he wasn't so smart. And that wasn't being conceited; he wished he could believe his own lies, the stuff he was telling Mikey.
"Have you told Gerard about us?" he asked.
He had to look over to see Mikey shake his head, and Pete thought maybe it wasn't the whole truth. Maybe Mikey had told Gerard some things or Gerard had figured it out on his own, or maybe he'd seen them somewhere. That night on the patio, the night that was burned into Pete's mind and made his stomach clench even now, it would be pretty fucking ironic if that was the night Gerard had witnessed. Ironic in a way that made Pete want to drive the car into a ditch.
"Do you think he knows?"
"Maybe." Mikey's voice was tense, his body angled towards the door as if he couldn't wait to get out again.
"Do you think he would tell anyone?"
"No," Mikey said, simply and Pete believed him.
"Okay." Pete pulled a hand over his face. He breathed out, glanced over. "Thanks."
Mikey shrugged. He was looking out the window and Pete felt suddenly fiercely sad. He almost wished that Mikey was a bit more like him, that he would take the opportunity to manipulate this into something else. But Mikey was just looking out the window.
If I hadn't broken it off, Pete thought, he would be looking at me right now like he really wanted me and couldn't believe he could have me.
When they were getting closer to the Way's house, Pete slowed down, then pulled over. "Listen, I know you don't believe me," he said.
Mikey had reached for the door handle as soon as Pete stopped the car and he looked a bit disappointed that the conversation wasn't over.
"No, I believe you," he mumbled.
Pete knew that Mikey had no clue what he was talking about. "No, listen. I know it seems like I'm lying, but I'm not. I'm just not, you know. I'm sorry, it's not my fault. But I won't tell anyone."
"Okay." Mikey was looking down at his hands in his lap, eyes flickering towards the CD player and Pete's bag and Pete's lap, anything but at Pete's eyes. "Thanks." He didn't move, but he clearly wanted to get out. Pete was overcome by memories of Mikey in his car, of comfort and excitement and not this empty, safe, suffocating silence.
"It's not my fault," he said, lower this time.
He leaned over and Mikey met his eyes then and there was the moment when Mikey realized what Pete was about to try to do and he looked suddenly scared to death. "I - uh, I, I can walk from here," Mikey mumbled and scrambled for the door handle, pushing the door open and almost tumbling out.
"Mikey," Pete said, but the door slammed and Pete sat back, closed his eyes and groaned. "Fuck, what the fuck?" he said, to himself.
He got the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, tires screeching.
--
There had been this one perfect night a few weeks ago when they had spent an hour sitting together on the creaky patio to Mikey's house. It had been late at night and Mikey had climbed out of the window when Pete called his cell phone, but then he hadn't wanted to go anywhere in case his parents woke up, so they sat on the porch until 2.30 am, watching the moon. It had been warm enough, but cool enough that they had curled up together. Mikey's head had been resting against his arm and they'd been whispering, probably hadn't been talking about anything important, but Mikey had ended up with his head in Pete's lap and Pete had slid an arm under his neck and they'd kissed softly for a few moments, which felt like it was for longer than Pete had ever wanted to do anything.
--
He didn't know what struck him at first. He was turning a corner on his way to soccer practice, and suddenly he was pushed back through some bushes and up against the wall at the back of the gym, and a knee hit his stomach. It had probably been aimed at his groin, he realized later, grateful suddenly that all it did was make him double over. He tried to defend himself, kicked at air and almost tumbled them both over. A clumsy punch landed on his cheek and they both groaned. He had a bruise the size of Gerard's fist on his face for days after.
**
Part 4