(no subject)
i wrote this for whitley, and while i'm not particularly fond of it, it's being posted just the same. very, very loosely based on the prompt she gave me.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Mikey. You just look exhausted, is all.”
It’s been a week since anyone’s seen Mikey. Frank heard the door shut behind him as he lay on the kitchen floor - he’d hoped the cold tile would be cathartic or inspiring or some other mindless cliché (he never did find what he was searching for) - but he can’t bring himself to tell anyone that he just let him go. He watched the bag knock into Mikey’s knees as he tried to open and close the door without a sound, and he saw there was no remorse - this was a purely selfish act, on both their parts.
Frank knows, in theory, that he should have tried to stop him. It’s what anyone would have done. But neither he nor Mikey is just anyone - they follow a more complex set of guidelines.
The lies slip easily when Gerard asks, “Are you sure you didn’t see him? He didn’t say anything to any of you?”
He shakes his head with a hint of sadness on his face and says, “Sorry, Gerard. I don’t know any more than you do.”
He keeps the secret out of respect for everyone involved. He thinks the truth would only further complicate the situation, anyway, and it certainly wouldn’t make Mikey come home any sooner. The tears and the anger have proven useless. The truth would prove nothing at all.
Bob and Ray are in the parlor mindlessly staring at each other. Every once in a while, Ray will smile at Bob and it will become more like living and less like merely surviving. Gerard spends most of his time smoking. “It’s a nervous habit,” he says, but in reality, he’s trying so hard to be brave. They can tell, though, that his composure is failing. His hands are shaking far too much and his eyes are heavy with regret. Frank - well, Frank wanders around aimlessly trying to be a brick fucking wall, but the guilt is wearing at his foundation.
“I don’t want to fucking talk right now,” and Frank can’t say he blames him, but he needs the conversation as a sort of penitence. The air is warm against their skin but the scent of rain still lingers in the air, and Frank suddenly has the urge to throw himself off the balcony. He props himself up against the metal, the intricacies pressing into his thighs, and leans over until the blood is rushing and the fear has subsided.
“What the fuck are you doing, Frank?”
“I don’t know.”
He truly doesn’t.
“I don’t have the patience for this right now.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”
Gerard wraps his arms around Frank’s waist and pulls him to the right side of the balcony. They stand side by side in silence, their hands barely touching, both feeling undeniably unresponsive. They’re looking out over concrete and water and a lazy night sky, and when Gerard says, “I’m just gonna walk into that fucking swimming pool one day,” Frank places his palm against Gerard’s cheek and says, “Please, don’t.”
Gerard doesn’t say anything after that, but the way he holds Frank’s hand is indication enough.
Frank hasn’t left his room in two days. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten. The only thing he has managed to do is feel sorry for himself. As such, he’s broken three mirrors - his reflection is revolting. The bloodshot eyes, the pallid skin - he wants to hang himself from the chandeliers. Gerard and Ray are somewhere in the house - the echoes travel in deceiving ways - and he thinks their company may be the only thing to stop him from following in Mikey’s elusive footsteps.
They’re in the live room with guitars strewn about. Frank leans against the door frame, his hip jutting out into the hallway, and watches them. They’ve got this air of determination. They seem content for the first time in days. Ray catches Frank out of the corner of his eye and stops playing. Gerard, not knowing the difference, says “What the fuck, Ray?” before noticing Frank in the doorway.
“Frank - Jesus, man.”
“You don’t look much better yourself, asshole.” They all laugh. It feels like the ultimate betrayal. Frank catches some sign of shame in Ray’s eyes and mouths, “It’s okay,” at him before turning to Gerard. “Where’s Bob?”
“I don’t know. Last I saw him he was still in bed. Fucker had a lit cigarette in his hand, too. He just better hope that if he burns the place down, we all die. Otherwise, we’re so fucked.”
“We’re all going to die soon enough, anyway - one way or another.”
“Shit, Ray. Just, fuck.”
Frank sits down next to Ray and punches him in the leg. Ray’s got this look on his face, like he could cry if he weren’t trying so hard to be a man and Frank holds him until a calm washes over them.
There’s something in the way Ray’s acting - like this is his fault. Frank wishes he could assure him that there was nothing any of them could have done - not even him. They had to let Mikey go in order for him to come back. He would have been lost to them forever otherwise.
Bob enters the room in a daze. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and says, “Oh, fuck,” before turning around and leaving just as fast as he came. They all laugh again, and Frank thinks maybe things will be okay after all.
After the first two weeks, they’ve been unable to keep track of the days. Frank thinks it’s been over a month. Gerard tells him it’s been exactly 26 days. Ray and Bob stopped counting in an attempt to make the situation seem intangible. Whenever it’s brought up, Ray will say, “Mikey’s not a fucking statistic,” and walk out of the room. Frank’s never thought of it that way. It’s just that every day without him is longer than the one before and some sick part of him wants to know exactly how long he’s been missing him.
They live to the best of their abilities. Gerard paces around his room in the early morning hours, sleep eluding him when worry overtakes him. Frank stays with him some nights. Sometimes they talk, but mostly they just lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until the light begins to stream through the curtains. Ray and Bob have become almost inseparable, though they don’t talk as much as they used to. They just rely on each other for something words could never express.
They’ll joke about how this house has stolen their souls. How that light in Mikey’s room caused him to disappear, "Like a fucking UFO," Bob will say, or how the bathtubs and closing doors weren’t meant to scare them off, only slowly induce insanity, but to Frank, it’s not a fucking joke. This house has stolen things from them that they’ll never retrieve.
“I’d rather die than continue living this way, Gerard.”
“We’re doing the best we can, Frank. At this point, it’s all we can hope for.”
“It’s a sad fucking state of affairs, then. Can I be perfectly honest with you?”
Gerard nods his head.
“I have no fucking hope.”
Frank walks out on the balcony. He’s given up on finding himself. Now he just wants to lose himself. Staring up at a cloudless sky, he lights a cigarette. He’s fucking frustrated and it’s not because of guilt or loss or any comprehensible emotion. This whole experience has finally gotten the better of him.
He exhales, smoke wafting across his cheekbones, and when it clears, he catches a figure out of the corner of his eye. Mikey’s sitting cross-legged by the pool with his head in his hands. Frank leans over the balcony, the metal burning his skin.
“Hey, fucker.” Mikey looks at him with anxious eyes. “I hope you’re fucking happy. Do you know what you put us through?”
“I had to, Frank.”
“Bullshit. Well, at any rate, you look better now.”
“What do you mean? I’m still fucking miserable.”
“I don’t know. You just look - different.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Hey, come sit with me for awhile? I’m not ready to go inside just yet.”
Frank sits next to him, the concrete burning the back of his thighs, the sun reflecting off the water in such a blinding fashion. Frank places his hand on Mikey’s leg and says, “If you ever fucking do this to us again, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
Frank stares at Mikey, his face pale and delicate, his body trembling slightly. He’s searching for some recognizable sign of who he used to be, but, oh - of all the fruitless searches…
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Mikey. You just look exhausted, is all.”
It’s been a week since anyone’s seen Mikey. Frank heard the door shut behind him as he lay on the kitchen floor - he’d hoped the cold tile would be cathartic or inspiring or some other mindless cliché (he never did find what he was searching for) - but he can’t bring himself to tell anyone that he just let him go. He watched the bag knock into Mikey’s knees as he tried to open and close the door without a sound, and he saw there was no remorse - this was a purely selfish act, on both their parts.
Frank knows, in theory, that he should have tried to stop him. It’s what anyone would have done. But neither he nor Mikey is just anyone - they follow a more complex set of guidelines.
The lies slip easily when Gerard asks, “Are you sure you didn’t see him? He didn’t say anything to any of you?”
He shakes his head with a hint of sadness on his face and says, “Sorry, Gerard. I don’t know any more than you do.”
He keeps the secret out of respect for everyone involved. He thinks the truth would only further complicate the situation, anyway, and it certainly wouldn’t make Mikey come home any sooner. The tears and the anger have proven useless. The truth would prove nothing at all.
Bob and Ray are in the parlor mindlessly staring at each other. Every once in a while, Ray will smile at Bob and it will become more like living and less like merely surviving. Gerard spends most of his time smoking. “It’s a nervous habit,” he says, but in reality, he’s trying so hard to be brave. They can tell, though, that his composure is failing. His hands are shaking far too much and his eyes are heavy with regret. Frank - well, Frank wanders around aimlessly trying to be a brick fucking wall, but the guilt is wearing at his foundation.
“I don’t want to fucking talk right now,” and Frank can’t say he blames him, but he needs the conversation as a sort of penitence. The air is warm against their skin but the scent of rain still lingers in the air, and Frank suddenly has the urge to throw himself off the balcony. He props himself up against the metal, the intricacies pressing into his thighs, and leans over until the blood is rushing and the fear has subsided.
“What the fuck are you doing, Frank?”
“I don’t know.”
He truly doesn’t.
“I don’t have the patience for this right now.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”
Gerard wraps his arms around Frank’s waist and pulls him to the right side of the balcony. They stand side by side in silence, their hands barely touching, both feeling undeniably unresponsive. They’re looking out over concrete and water and a lazy night sky, and when Gerard says, “I’m just gonna walk into that fucking swimming pool one day,” Frank places his palm against Gerard’s cheek and says, “Please, don’t.”
Gerard doesn’t say anything after that, but the way he holds Frank’s hand is indication enough.
Frank hasn’t left his room in two days. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten. The only thing he has managed to do is feel sorry for himself. As such, he’s broken three mirrors - his reflection is revolting. The bloodshot eyes, the pallid skin - he wants to hang himself from the chandeliers. Gerard and Ray are somewhere in the house - the echoes travel in deceiving ways - and he thinks their company may be the only thing to stop him from following in Mikey’s elusive footsteps.
They’re in the live room with guitars strewn about. Frank leans against the door frame, his hip jutting out into the hallway, and watches them. They’ve got this air of determination. They seem content for the first time in days. Ray catches Frank out of the corner of his eye and stops playing. Gerard, not knowing the difference, says “What the fuck, Ray?” before noticing Frank in the doorway.
“Frank - Jesus, man.”
“You don’t look much better yourself, asshole.” They all laugh. It feels like the ultimate betrayal. Frank catches some sign of shame in Ray’s eyes and mouths, “It’s okay,” at him before turning to Gerard. “Where’s Bob?”
“I don’t know. Last I saw him he was still in bed. Fucker had a lit cigarette in his hand, too. He just better hope that if he burns the place down, we all die. Otherwise, we’re so fucked.”
“We’re all going to die soon enough, anyway - one way or another.”
“Shit, Ray. Just, fuck.”
Frank sits down next to Ray and punches him in the leg. Ray’s got this look on his face, like he could cry if he weren’t trying so hard to be a man and Frank holds him until a calm washes over them.
There’s something in the way Ray’s acting - like this is his fault. Frank wishes he could assure him that there was nothing any of them could have done - not even him. They had to let Mikey go in order for him to come back. He would have been lost to them forever otherwise.
Bob enters the room in a daze. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and says, “Oh, fuck,” before turning around and leaving just as fast as he came. They all laugh again, and Frank thinks maybe things will be okay after all.
After the first two weeks, they’ve been unable to keep track of the days. Frank thinks it’s been over a month. Gerard tells him it’s been exactly 26 days. Ray and Bob stopped counting in an attempt to make the situation seem intangible. Whenever it’s brought up, Ray will say, “Mikey’s not a fucking statistic,” and walk out of the room. Frank’s never thought of it that way. It’s just that every day without him is longer than the one before and some sick part of him wants to know exactly how long he’s been missing him.
They live to the best of their abilities. Gerard paces around his room in the early morning hours, sleep eluding him when worry overtakes him. Frank stays with him some nights. Sometimes they talk, but mostly they just lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until the light begins to stream through the curtains. Ray and Bob have become almost inseparable, though they don’t talk as much as they used to. They just rely on each other for something words could never express.
They’ll joke about how this house has stolen their souls. How that light in Mikey’s room caused him to disappear, "Like a fucking UFO," Bob will say, or how the bathtubs and closing doors weren’t meant to scare them off, only slowly induce insanity, but to Frank, it’s not a fucking joke. This house has stolen things from them that they’ll never retrieve.
“I’d rather die than continue living this way, Gerard.”
“We’re doing the best we can, Frank. At this point, it’s all we can hope for.”
“It’s a sad fucking state of affairs, then. Can I be perfectly honest with you?”
Gerard nods his head.
“I have no fucking hope.”
Frank walks out on the balcony. He’s given up on finding himself. Now he just wants to lose himself. Staring up at a cloudless sky, he lights a cigarette. He’s fucking frustrated and it’s not because of guilt or loss or any comprehensible emotion. This whole experience has finally gotten the better of him.
He exhales, smoke wafting across his cheekbones, and when it clears, he catches a figure out of the corner of his eye. Mikey’s sitting cross-legged by the pool with his head in his hands. Frank leans over the balcony, the metal burning his skin.
“Hey, fucker.” Mikey looks at him with anxious eyes. “I hope you’re fucking happy. Do you know what you put us through?”
“I had to, Frank.”
“Bullshit. Well, at any rate, you look better now.”
“What do you mean? I’m still fucking miserable.”
“I don’t know. You just look - different.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Hey, come sit with me for awhile? I’m not ready to go inside just yet.”
Frank sits next to him, the concrete burning the back of his thighs, the sun reflecting off the water in such a blinding fashion. Frank places his hand on Mikey’s leg and says, “If you ever fucking do this to us again, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
Frank stares at Mikey, his face pale and delicate, his body trembling slightly. He’s searching for some recognizable sign of who he used to be, but, oh - of all the fruitless searches…