(no subject)
This was written on anon_lovefest a while back, but I needed to repost it so I can link it into my table.
Title: Hell is a Bill Murray Comedy.
Pairing: gen, mentions of Mikey/Frank and Mikey/OMC
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1972
Summary: The first time Mikey dies Frank cries. The second time he decides to change things.
Prompt used: timeloops for angst_bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The best thing about living with Mikey is that he doesn’t throw away the boxes of cereal when it’s nothing but grains in the bottom. Unlike Frank’s mom, Mikey understands the bottom crumbs are ninety percent sugar and therefore the best. There isn’t any point in pouring it into a bowl, not when the curved sides make it impossible to scoop up more than a fraction. So when he wakes up Frank sits on the grimy cushion tied to the chair -seriously, they need to either wash it or throw it the fuck out, it’s disgusting- and pulls the plastic bag out of the cardboard. The bag collapses out when it’s not confined, making it far easier to dig the spoon into the bottom.
Mikey comes into the kitchen in his underwear twenty minutes later, a man on a mission. It’s his ever present routine; turn on the coffee maker, pick the riding hem out of his ass, and sneeze three times. Then and only then does he grunt good morning. Like always he stands at the counter until the coffee is done percolating. It’s a constant smell in the apartment. Frank likes coffee but could live without it, Mikey is addicted. It’s liquid crack cocaine.
He sets the cup reverently on the table then plunks down on a kitchen chair, bare thighs on the once powder blue, now grey cushions. Frank shudders a bit. Fucking gross ass filthy Ways. Mikey picks up the box and it takes him a minute to register the light weight means it’s empty. He scowls, eyes still closed, as he’s forced to open a new box. It’s possible -likely even- that he knows of the goodness of the bottom of a cereal box because he likes it too, but fucking tough. That’s the price Mikey pays for sleeping in a half an hour. His hair is crunchy with semi-broken hairspray since he doesn’t shower, and he has to eat the whole flakes.
They’re in the elevator when Mikey’s phone rings. It’s rare for him to get a phone call instead of just a text, and normally when he does it’s his mom and the conversation goes on for an hour. This lasts all of thirty seconds. Mikey doesn’t even say anything. Frank guesses wrong number, but Mikey’s tossing something at him. Frank catches it out of reflex, not looking at what it is.
“Here’s the car keys. Have a good day.”
“What?” It’s Mikey’s car. He’s not an overprotective douche that takes it through a drive in car wash every day and takes two parking spaces so no one touches him, but he’s the driver. The only time Frank ever got to drive was when Mikey’s ring and middle finger were broken and in a splint.
Mikey doesn’t seem to have lost his mind though. On the contrary. He’s smiling, as much as Mikeyway smiles. “Dude, Christopher’s in from Buffolo. Great weed and great sex, or filing. Not much of a choice.”
Frank digs his hand into his pocket for his wallet. “Get me a quarter.”
*
The apartment is silent when he comes home. It’s not entirely surprising. Neither of them are generally sleepy stoners, but if Christopher came early then Mikey probably smoked and went back to bed. Frank won’t be a douche and wake him up. Unless he can’t find where Mikey put his quarter. If Mikey was nice it’ll be in a ziploc bag in the freezer, if he was slightly less nice it’ll be tossed onto his bed, if he was lazy it’ll be on the dining room table. And if he’s paranoid about how much weed they have between Frank’s new shit, his new shit, the shit Mikey will probably sell at cost to Gerard, and their older shit, it’ll be hidden all over the apartment like a crazy grandpa that doesn’t trust banks hides money.
The weed isn’t in the fridge, or the table, or on his bed. Crazy pack rat Mikey it is then. Frank braces himself to get punched in the thigh -Mikey tends to not like getting woken up- and opens the bedroom door. Technically he could probably wait until Mikey wakes up, but getting ripped and doing the dishes sounds like an easier way to spend the night. Chores are always more fun fucked up.
He’s not in bed. He’s on the floor, and Frank doesn’t even get the momentary relief of thinking Mikey passed out in an uncomfortable position and he’ll demand a neck massage when he wakes up. There’s too much blood for that. There’s so much blood.
He has to call Gerard. He has to call 911, get the cops to come -he knows without poking at Mikey that it’s too late for an ambulance- but he has to call Gerard first. Not because he wants to share the misery. There’s nothing good that can come from calling Gerard. It’s just he knows enough of Gerard through Mikey to know he won’t understand not being called first. If Mikey was here he’d ask Frank to call Gee. If Mikey was here Frank wouldn’t have to call anyone.
*
Frank can barely make himself get out of bed. He’s sick to his stomach. Eating is the last thing he wants to do, the entire process just seems far too lengthy and exhausting to be worth it. But he knows that not eating is part of the problem. His acid reflux kicks up under stress and there’s not really much more stressful than finding your dead roommate.
Apparently the stress is even more than he thinks. Enough to make him hallucinate. Mikey’s in the kitchen. Frank shakes his head and blinks his eyes a few times but it doesn’t go away. So he just grabs the box of cereal and stumbles back to bed. His best friend and occasional fuck buddy died less than twenty four hours ago. He’s allowed to be crazy. He digs into the crumbs at the bottom of the box, granules of sugar getting stuck under his fingers. He thought he finished this box yesterday, but it’s not like it matters. From now on all the cereal will be his alone. It’s just another devastating thing.
When work calls, specific ringtone programmed in so he knows to take a moment to pull if they ever call when he’s stoned, Frank ignores it. If they can’t understand taking the day off when your friend has been murdered they can fuck themselves. He pulls the blankets higher over his face and wills the fleece to smother him instead of just make his hair staticky.
He doesn’t care about anything in the world until he hears the gunshots. Even then he only checks the clock. It’s 11 am. The cop guessed dead five hours. Maybe he’ll hear it every day at the same time, like a poltergeist or that book The Tell Tale Heart.
*
It’s the second day that it happens that Frank really freaks out. He’s willing to call off all of yesterday as a grief based hallucination, but he’s pouring the remnants of a box of cereal into his mouth for the third day in a row. He’s not quite as big on the sci-fi as either Way but he does watch movies. This is clearly some fucked up Bill Murray Groundhog Day shit. Which means it’s going to keep happening until he fixes something, and that something is obviously Mikey’s death.
For as heavily important as the task is, it’s a relatively easy answer. All he has to do is make sure Mikey’s not home at eleven. It can’t be that hard. It helps that Mikey has no concept of time, and as such he finds it hard to believe that others do. “You’re right. Fuck work. But you know fucker’s gonna be late and we’ll be sitting around the apartment all morning. Let’s see a movie and I bet when we’re done we’ll only have to wait an hour instead of three.”
“Good plan.”
So they go see Thor and XMen for the third time, because no matter how much Mikey complains about inaccuracy they’re still good movies. Frank’s barely watching though, checking his phone for the time every few minutes. Until it’s noon he can’t calm down.
And then it happens.
Frank understands the ‘getting past the knees’ movie theatre dance. Really, he does. He always gets a supersize drink, and at least half the time he needs to run to piss before the movie is over. But the thing is there was no one sitting on the other side of them during previews. This leaves Frank with the urge to yell the ass slowly shuffling in front of his face because seriously, what kind of douche comes into a theatre like twenty minutes after the movie’s started?
The guy’s hand goes into his pocket. Frank looks up at the plain black back of the man’s shirt and glares. He is seriously going to say something if he’s reaching for his cell phone. It’s not, but Frank’s only got a few seconds to register it before the gun is at Mikey’s forehead.
*
He should have guessed Mikey was texting him Christopher, telling him to come catch XMen, if he had the time. Mikey texts everyone everything, he’s been written up at work for it a dozen times. Of course he’d tell Christopher their morning plan. Yesterday was entirely his fault. This time he’s gotta do better.
Frank grins at Mikey in the elevator. “Fuck it, fuck work. But we should finish up our old shit first. No sense in letting it go brown and crumbly. Let’s go on an adventure Mikeyway.” If Mikey doesn’t know where they are, he can’t tell anyone.
Unlike his recluse older brother, Mikey doesn’t mind physical exertion. At least not when it’s for the sake of getting stoned. “Walk and bake. Sounds good.”
It is good. They walk for hours, slow and looking in every window display they come across. Frank climbs a tree so he can blow smoke at the birds and get them high -cats and dogs seem to enjoy it, so why not birds? Mikey winces at a girl playing Britney Spears loud enough on her iPod that it leaks out her earbuds and infects the air, and under Frank’s encouragement he goes over and tells her how much pop blows. They spend a week’s worth of change at Sev and buy Slurpees and pick and mix candies. It’s not the best day of Frank’s life, but it’s fun.
And then they go home, and Christopher is sitting in the hallway, casually leaning against their front door. Mikey grins and unlocks the door, and it’s all Frank can do to not burst into tears.
*
Frank loses track of the days. Eventually though, he realises that getting Mikey out of the house doesn’t work. If they go somewhere Mikey knows Christopher finds them. If Frank manages to get Mikey lost enough that he has no idea what to report, Christopher’s waiting at the apartment. Telling the landlord not to let Mikey’s stalker in doesn’t work, the only thing he cares about is getting rent on time, and the constant marathons of CSI on tv. Nor does calling the cops about a break in. They never arrive in time.
There’s only one thing left. He has to drop the passive and go with active prevention.
It’s easy to stab Christopher in the stomach. Easier than it should be. Maybe all the concerned parents groups are right and violent graphic images really do desensitise you. Or maybe it’s just a loyalty thing, warrior-beast inside him deciding that no one can hurt the ones he loves.
*
He wakes up in a jail cell. They give him a mini box of cereal, free sample size. Frank smiles.
Title: Hell is a Bill Murray Comedy.
Pairing: gen, mentions of Mikey/Frank and Mikey/OMC
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1972
Summary: The first time Mikey dies Frank cries. The second time he decides to change things.
Prompt used: timeloops for angst_bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
The best thing about living with Mikey is that he doesn’t throw away the boxes of cereal when it’s nothing but grains in the bottom. Unlike Frank’s mom, Mikey understands the bottom crumbs are ninety percent sugar and therefore the best. There isn’t any point in pouring it into a bowl, not when the curved sides make it impossible to scoop up more than a fraction. So when he wakes up Frank sits on the grimy cushion tied to the chair -seriously, they need to either wash it or throw it the fuck out, it’s disgusting- and pulls the plastic bag out of the cardboard. The bag collapses out when it’s not confined, making it far easier to dig the spoon into the bottom.
Mikey comes into the kitchen in his underwear twenty minutes later, a man on a mission. It’s his ever present routine; turn on the coffee maker, pick the riding hem out of his ass, and sneeze three times. Then and only then does he grunt good morning. Like always he stands at the counter until the coffee is done percolating. It’s a constant smell in the apartment. Frank likes coffee but could live without it, Mikey is addicted. It’s liquid crack cocaine.
He sets the cup reverently on the table then plunks down on a kitchen chair, bare thighs on the once powder blue, now grey cushions. Frank shudders a bit. Fucking gross ass filthy Ways. Mikey picks up the box and it takes him a minute to register the light weight means it’s empty. He scowls, eyes still closed, as he’s forced to open a new box. It’s possible -likely even- that he knows of the goodness of the bottom of a cereal box because he likes it too, but fucking tough. That’s the price Mikey pays for sleeping in a half an hour. His hair is crunchy with semi-broken hairspray since he doesn’t shower, and he has to eat the whole flakes.
They’re in the elevator when Mikey’s phone rings. It’s rare for him to get a phone call instead of just a text, and normally when he does it’s his mom and the conversation goes on for an hour. This lasts all of thirty seconds. Mikey doesn’t even say anything. Frank guesses wrong number, but Mikey’s tossing something at him. Frank catches it out of reflex, not looking at what it is.
“Here’s the car keys. Have a good day.”
“What?” It’s Mikey’s car. He’s not an overprotective douche that takes it through a drive in car wash every day and takes two parking spaces so no one touches him, but he’s the driver. The only time Frank ever got to drive was when Mikey’s ring and middle finger were broken and in a splint.
Mikey doesn’t seem to have lost his mind though. On the contrary. He’s smiling, as much as Mikeyway smiles. “Dude, Christopher’s in from Buffolo. Great weed and great sex, or filing. Not much of a choice.”
Frank digs his hand into his pocket for his wallet. “Get me a quarter.”
*
The apartment is silent when he comes home. It’s not entirely surprising. Neither of them are generally sleepy stoners, but if Christopher came early then Mikey probably smoked and went back to bed. Frank won’t be a douche and wake him up. Unless he can’t find where Mikey put his quarter. If Mikey was nice it’ll be in a ziploc bag in the freezer, if he was slightly less nice it’ll be tossed onto his bed, if he was lazy it’ll be on the dining room table. And if he’s paranoid about how much weed they have between Frank’s new shit, his new shit, the shit Mikey will probably sell at cost to Gerard, and their older shit, it’ll be hidden all over the apartment like a crazy grandpa that doesn’t trust banks hides money.
The weed isn’t in the fridge, or the table, or on his bed. Crazy pack rat Mikey it is then. Frank braces himself to get punched in the thigh -Mikey tends to not like getting woken up- and opens the bedroom door. Technically he could probably wait until Mikey wakes up, but getting ripped and doing the dishes sounds like an easier way to spend the night. Chores are always more fun fucked up.
He’s not in bed. He’s on the floor, and Frank doesn’t even get the momentary relief of thinking Mikey passed out in an uncomfortable position and he’ll demand a neck massage when he wakes up. There’s too much blood for that. There’s so much blood.
He has to call Gerard. He has to call 911, get the cops to come -he knows without poking at Mikey that it’s too late for an ambulance- but he has to call Gerard first. Not because he wants to share the misery. There’s nothing good that can come from calling Gerard. It’s just he knows enough of Gerard through Mikey to know he won’t understand not being called first. If Mikey was here he’d ask Frank to call Gee. If Mikey was here Frank wouldn’t have to call anyone.
*
Frank can barely make himself get out of bed. He’s sick to his stomach. Eating is the last thing he wants to do, the entire process just seems far too lengthy and exhausting to be worth it. But he knows that not eating is part of the problem. His acid reflux kicks up under stress and there’s not really much more stressful than finding your dead roommate.
Apparently the stress is even more than he thinks. Enough to make him hallucinate. Mikey’s in the kitchen. Frank shakes his head and blinks his eyes a few times but it doesn’t go away. So he just grabs the box of cereal and stumbles back to bed. His best friend and occasional fuck buddy died less than twenty four hours ago. He’s allowed to be crazy. He digs into the crumbs at the bottom of the box, granules of sugar getting stuck under his fingers. He thought he finished this box yesterday, but it’s not like it matters. From now on all the cereal will be his alone. It’s just another devastating thing.
When work calls, specific ringtone programmed in so he knows to take a moment to pull if they ever call when he’s stoned, Frank ignores it. If they can’t understand taking the day off when your friend has been murdered they can fuck themselves. He pulls the blankets higher over his face and wills the fleece to smother him instead of just make his hair staticky.
He doesn’t care about anything in the world until he hears the gunshots. Even then he only checks the clock. It’s 11 am. The cop guessed dead five hours. Maybe he’ll hear it every day at the same time, like a poltergeist or that book The Tell Tale Heart.
*
It’s the second day that it happens that Frank really freaks out. He’s willing to call off all of yesterday as a grief based hallucination, but he’s pouring the remnants of a box of cereal into his mouth for the third day in a row. He’s not quite as big on the sci-fi as either Way but he does watch movies. This is clearly some fucked up Bill Murray Groundhog Day shit. Which means it’s going to keep happening until he fixes something, and that something is obviously Mikey’s death.
For as heavily important as the task is, it’s a relatively easy answer. All he has to do is make sure Mikey’s not home at eleven. It can’t be that hard. It helps that Mikey has no concept of time, and as such he finds it hard to believe that others do. “You’re right. Fuck work. But you know fucker’s gonna be late and we’ll be sitting around the apartment all morning. Let’s see a movie and I bet when we’re done we’ll only have to wait an hour instead of three.”
“Good plan.”
So they go see Thor and XMen for the third time, because no matter how much Mikey complains about inaccuracy they’re still good movies. Frank’s barely watching though, checking his phone for the time every few minutes. Until it’s noon he can’t calm down.
And then it happens.
Frank understands the ‘getting past the knees’ movie theatre dance. Really, he does. He always gets a supersize drink, and at least half the time he needs to run to piss before the movie is over. But the thing is there was no one sitting on the other side of them during previews. This leaves Frank with the urge to yell the ass slowly shuffling in front of his face because seriously, what kind of douche comes into a theatre like twenty minutes after the movie’s started?
The guy’s hand goes into his pocket. Frank looks up at the plain black back of the man’s shirt and glares. He is seriously going to say something if he’s reaching for his cell phone. It’s not, but Frank’s only got a few seconds to register it before the gun is at Mikey’s forehead.
*
He should have guessed Mikey was texting him Christopher, telling him to come catch XMen, if he had the time. Mikey texts everyone everything, he’s been written up at work for it a dozen times. Of course he’d tell Christopher their morning plan. Yesterday was entirely his fault. This time he’s gotta do better.
Frank grins at Mikey in the elevator. “Fuck it, fuck work. But we should finish up our old shit first. No sense in letting it go brown and crumbly. Let’s go on an adventure Mikeyway.” If Mikey doesn’t know where they are, he can’t tell anyone.
Unlike his recluse older brother, Mikey doesn’t mind physical exertion. At least not when it’s for the sake of getting stoned. “Walk and bake. Sounds good.”
It is good. They walk for hours, slow and looking in every window display they come across. Frank climbs a tree so he can blow smoke at the birds and get them high -cats and dogs seem to enjoy it, so why not birds? Mikey winces at a girl playing Britney Spears loud enough on her iPod that it leaks out her earbuds and infects the air, and under Frank’s encouragement he goes over and tells her how much pop blows. They spend a week’s worth of change at Sev and buy Slurpees and pick and mix candies. It’s not the best day of Frank’s life, but it’s fun.
And then they go home, and Christopher is sitting in the hallway, casually leaning against their front door. Mikey grins and unlocks the door, and it’s all Frank can do to not burst into tears.
*
Frank loses track of the days. Eventually though, he realises that getting Mikey out of the house doesn’t work. If they go somewhere Mikey knows Christopher finds them. If Frank manages to get Mikey lost enough that he has no idea what to report, Christopher’s waiting at the apartment. Telling the landlord not to let Mikey’s stalker in doesn’t work, the only thing he cares about is getting rent on time, and the constant marathons of CSI on tv. Nor does calling the cops about a break in. They never arrive in time.
There’s only one thing left. He has to drop the passive and go with active prevention.
It’s easy to stab Christopher in the stomach. Easier than it should be. Maybe all the concerned parents groups are right and violent graphic images really do desensitise you. Or maybe it’s just a loyalty thing, warrior-beast inside him deciding that no one can hurt the ones he loves.
*
He wakes up in a jail cell. They give him a mini box of cereal, free sample size. Frank smiles.