In the Lost and Found (PG, Gerard Way / Brian Schechter)
I am writing all out of order, but at least I'm writing again. This is for annavtree
IN THE LOST AND FOUND
It’s a little ridiculous, Brian thinks to himself, that he has to plan a sneak attack on his own band’s bus, Febreeze in one hand, dustbuster in the other. But the guys have been on the road for three weeks now, and Brian is starting to fear for the health and safety of anyone who has to venture near the bus, and it’s his *job* to worry about these things. So it’s also up to him to make that sacrifice, but he’s not entirely foolhardy, he’s learnt to pick his battles or better yet, the times in which to avoid them, the good-natured taunts with barely concealed exasperation. Two am after a gig with nothing scheduled for the next morning sounds just about right; the guys are either with loved ones or out partying their remaining brain cells away, leaving one dirty smelly bus empty.
Which is why, when his toes hit an immovable object as he stumbles through the bus in the dark, tripping over something - or rather, someone - who swears like a sailor, Brian’s first response is a loud “Fuck!” As his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realises it’s Gerard sprawled on the floor of their narrow bus lounge, head bent over some paper. Brian lowers his voice and chides, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you how bad reading in the dark is for your eyes?”
Gerard grins tightly, falsely, as he glances up, pencil hovering over the page. It’s mostly blank, save for some scribbles to one side, loopy scrawls at the top that appear increasingly jagged and random as they head down the side of the page.
“Yeah, she probably did, but I’m not exactly the poster child for ‘listens to parental guidance’,” Gerard answers wryly. But he flips himself into an upright position, and leans over to flick the switch for the portable lamp clipped to the side of the table, which casts an immediate warm glow in a small circle around him. In this light, Brian can see the dark smudges under Gerard’s eyes, the barely contained shake in Gerard’s hands as he twirls the pencil around and over his fingers, agitated.
Brian settles onto the floor near Gerard, back against the couch; his right hand comes to rest on a stack of books, his feet nudge at a near-toppling pile of CDs.
“Bad night?” he asks gently, directly, and Gerard shakes his head at first, back and forth, shrugs. But he says, “Yes,” because Brian is one of the few people he’s learnt not to lie to anymore.
It’s very quiet, and very empty in here, and Brian wonders how long Gerard’s been up, switching from one type of distraction to another, how long he’s been trying to keep occupied while everyone else went on to the demons and temptations he’s not allowed.
“Any luck?” Brian says, in the direction of the book - Gerard’s sketch pad -and when Gerard grimaces, “What have you been working on? Give us a look, yeah?”
Gerard flips back a few pages with a reluctant expression, but he turns over his sketchbook when Brian reaches out a hand. Brian grins as he glances over the improvements and embellishments Gerard’s made on some rather famous superheroes, and he follows avidly a sequence of scenes across two adjoining pages. “That’s part of the Seance's backstory, right?" he prompts, a finger hovering over the detailed sketches, as if tracing the thoughts and actions as they appear. Gerard’s face opens in a smile that comes a little easier than before, and says enthusiastically, “Yeah, or that’s how I’ve always seen it, but I don’t know if it still works in the context of the overall story now.”
He frowns though, as Brian turns another page to peruse over some newer drawings. Brian’s sure these are of the band, though in true Gerard fashion they’re not instantly recognisable as such, with his tendency to give everyone characteristics and features and powers not evident in real life; making fantasies and phantoms in his mind. “Is that Mikey?” Brian asks, pointing to a thin figure swathed in black and blood, face turned away. Gerard hums, looks away, then shrugs again but doesn’t voice an answer.
Brian wants to look some more, but he can feel Gerard becoming restless beside him, tapping his pencil lightly but relentlessly against his thigh in an angry beat. Brian lifts the sketch pad off his lap and hands it back to Gerard, but when he says jokingly, “So how come you never draw me?” Gerard stills, his fingers over Brian’s over the ring binding. There’s a pause before he answers, almost as if puzzled within himself, “I don’t know. I guess - ” His eyes suddenly open wide, clear; he smiles and snatches the pad out of Brian’s hand, flipping quickly to a new page.
“Do I have to stay still?” Brian asks tentatively a few minutes later. He’s a little discomforted by the intensity with which Gerard is regarding him, discomfort with something extra on the side, a curl of lust in the pit of his stomach, having Gerard’s undivided attention. Gerard murmurs, as if hearing only noise and responding in kind, and Brian finds himself studying Gerard in return as he waits: he’s wearing his favourite pajamas, with torn hems and a black fading to ash grey from many washes (washes that Brian has enforced), he’s tucked his legs up against him so the pad rests in the valley between his knees and the crease of his body, and his hair threatens to hide his face as he leans forward to sketch in bold sure lines.
“Uh, no, you can - just - do whatever. But don’t leave me.” Gerard waves one hand distractedly at the books and music around him. Freed, Brian lets out the yawn he’s been suppressing, and stretches upwards, feeling the muscles in his shoulders pop with the motion. When he eases out of the stretch, he catches Gerard staring avidly at the skin between his rucked up t-shirt and the waist of his low slung jeans, and Brian feels his cheeks heat up, that curl in his stomach tighten. He hopes Gerard didn’t catch the blush, looks away and picks up the first book in the pile, a graphic novel he’s seen Gerard read time and time again, and says, “This any good?”
“Uh-huh,” Gerard says, “Yeah, read it, I’ll just - ” he doesn’t finish his sentence, voice trailing off as he bites his lips and takes another steady, fraction-too-long, glance at Brian. Brian shifts, feeling himself get hard, and fingers the chain around his neck nervously, then buries his face in the comic in a desperate attempt to divert his own attention.
It feels like an age - long minutes masquerading as hours - before Brian hears from Gerard again, a drawn out sigh. He looks up and Gerard’s smiling, a real, sleepy, satisfied stretch of his lips. Brian opens his mouth to ask if it’s done, but Gerard beats him to the punch, gets up and pads across in sit behind Brian. Gerard places the sketchpad on Brian’s lap and leans forwards to ask him, “What do you think?”
Brian’s incredibly aware, in that moment, of Gerard’s eager voice by his ear, the warm caress of his breath on his neck. He wills himself to focus on the picture, and is surprised by it, notes something unusual. It’s a portrait of himself as he was just then, just sitting and reading, drawn in simple lines with just enough detail to be startlingly familiar. “You - you didn’t make me a character,” he says slowly. “This is just me.”
“That’s not a good thing?” Gerard says, worry creeping into his voice. “I guess - I just drew you the way I see you, man.”
“No, that’s - I really like it,” Brian says. He twists slightly so he can look back at Gerard, and so Gerard can see the truth on his face. “Thank you.”
Gerard looks back at him seriously, then leans forward and presses his lips - softly, nervously - against Brian’s. Brian, startled, almost pulls away in logic, but he thinks about how Gerard has drawn him, has seen him, and something pulls loose in his chest and pushes him into the kiss hungrily. His hand rests between them, and Brian rubs the soft worn cotton of Gerard’s top under his fingers, feels the racing heart beneath that in reassuring rhythm.
END
IN THE LOST AND FOUND
It’s a little ridiculous, Brian thinks to himself, that he has to plan a sneak attack on his own band’s bus, Febreeze in one hand, dustbuster in the other. But the guys have been on the road for three weeks now, and Brian is starting to fear for the health and safety of anyone who has to venture near the bus, and it’s his *job* to worry about these things. So it’s also up to him to make that sacrifice, but he’s not entirely foolhardy, he’s learnt to pick his battles or better yet, the times in which to avoid them, the good-natured taunts with barely concealed exasperation. Two am after a gig with nothing scheduled for the next morning sounds just about right; the guys are either with loved ones or out partying their remaining brain cells away, leaving one dirty smelly bus empty.
Which is why, when his toes hit an immovable object as he stumbles through the bus in the dark, tripping over something - or rather, someone - who swears like a sailor, Brian’s first response is a loud “Fuck!” As his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realises it’s Gerard sprawled on the floor of their narrow bus lounge, head bent over some paper. Brian lowers his voice and chides, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you how bad reading in the dark is for your eyes?”
Gerard grins tightly, falsely, as he glances up, pencil hovering over the page. It’s mostly blank, save for some scribbles to one side, loopy scrawls at the top that appear increasingly jagged and random as they head down the side of the page.
“Yeah, she probably did, but I’m not exactly the poster child for ‘listens to parental guidance’,” Gerard answers wryly. But he flips himself into an upright position, and leans over to flick the switch for the portable lamp clipped to the side of the table, which casts an immediate warm glow in a small circle around him. In this light, Brian can see the dark smudges under Gerard’s eyes, the barely contained shake in Gerard’s hands as he twirls the pencil around and over his fingers, agitated.
Brian settles onto the floor near Gerard, back against the couch; his right hand comes to rest on a stack of books, his feet nudge at a near-toppling pile of CDs.
“Bad night?” he asks gently, directly, and Gerard shakes his head at first, back and forth, shrugs. But he says, “Yes,” because Brian is one of the few people he’s learnt not to lie to anymore.
It’s very quiet, and very empty in here, and Brian wonders how long Gerard’s been up, switching from one type of distraction to another, how long he’s been trying to keep occupied while everyone else went on to the demons and temptations he’s not allowed.
“Any luck?” Brian says, in the direction of the book - Gerard’s sketch pad -and when Gerard grimaces, “What have you been working on? Give us a look, yeah?”
Gerard flips back a few pages with a reluctant expression, but he turns over his sketchbook when Brian reaches out a hand. Brian grins as he glances over the improvements and embellishments Gerard’s made on some rather famous superheroes, and he follows avidly a sequence of scenes across two adjoining pages. “That’s part of the Seance's backstory, right?" he prompts, a finger hovering over the detailed sketches, as if tracing the thoughts and actions as they appear. Gerard’s face opens in a smile that comes a little easier than before, and says enthusiastically, “Yeah, or that’s how I’ve always seen it, but I don’t know if it still works in the context of the overall story now.”
He frowns though, as Brian turns another page to peruse over some newer drawings. Brian’s sure these are of the band, though in true Gerard fashion they’re not instantly recognisable as such, with his tendency to give everyone characteristics and features and powers not evident in real life; making fantasies and phantoms in his mind. “Is that Mikey?” Brian asks, pointing to a thin figure swathed in black and blood, face turned away. Gerard hums, looks away, then shrugs again but doesn’t voice an answer.
Brian wants to look some more, but he can feel Gerard becoming restless beside him, tapping his pencil lightly but relentlessly against his thigh in an angry beat. Brian lifts the sketch pad off his lap and hands it back to Gerard, but when he says jokingly, “So how come you never draw me?” Gerard stills, his fingers over Brian’s over the ring binding. There’s a pause before he answers, almost as if puzzled within himself, “I don’t know. I guess - ” His eyes suddenly open wide, clear; he smiles and snatches the pad out of Brian’s hand, flipping quickly to a new page.
“Do I have to stay still?” Brian asks tentatively a few minutes later. He’s a little discomforted by the intensity with which Gerard is regarding him, discomfort with something extra on the side, a curl of lust in the pit of his stomach, having Gerard’s undivided attention. Gerard murmurs, as if hearing only noise and responding in kind, and Brian finds himself studying Gerard in return as he waits: he’s wearing his favourite pajamas, with torn hems and a black fading to ash grey from many washes (washes that Brian has enforced), he’s tucked his legs up against him so the pad rests in the valley between his knees and the crease of his body, and his hair threatens to hide his face as he leans forward to sketch in bold sure lines.
“Uh, no, you can - just - do whatever. But don’t leave me.” Gerard waves one hand distractedly at the books and music around him. Freed, Brian lets out the yawn he’s been suppressing, and stretches upwards, feeling the muscles in his shoulders pop with the motion. When he eases out of the stretch, he catches Gerard staring avidly at the skin between his rucked up t-shirt and the waist of his low slung jeans, and Brian feels his cheeks heat up, that curl in his stomach tighten. He hopes Gerard didn’t catch the blush, looks away and picks up the first book in the pile, a graphic novel he’s seen Gerard read time and time again, and says, “This any good?”
“Uh-huh,” Gerard says, “Yeah, read it, I’ll just - ” he doesn’t finish his sentence, voice trailing off as he bites his lips and takes another steady, fraction-too-long, glance at Brian. Brian shifts, feeling himself get hard, and fingers the chain around his neck nervously, then buries his face in the comic in a desperate attempt to divert his own attention.
It feels like an age - long minutes masquerading as hours - before Brian hears from Gerard again, a drawn out sigh. He looks up and Gerard’s smiling, a real, sleepy, satisfied stretch of his lips. Brian opens his mouth to ask if it’s done, but Gerard beats him to the punch, gets up and pads across in sit behind Brian. Gerard places the sketchpad on Brian’s lap and leans forwards to ask him, “What do you think?”
Brian’s incredibly aware, in that moment, of Gerard’s eager voice by his ear, the warm caress of his breath on his neck. He wills himself to focus on the picture, and is surprised by it, notes something unusual. It’s a portrait of himself as he was just then, just sitting and reading, drawn in simple lines with just enough detail to be startlingly familiar. “You - you didn’t make me a character,” he says slowly. “This is just me.”
“That’s not a good thing?” Gerard says, worry creeping into his voice. “I guess - I just drew you the way I see you, man.”
“No, that’s - I really like it,” Brian says. He twists slightly so he can look back at Gerard, and so Gerard can see the truth on his face. “Thank you.”
Gerard looks back at him seriously, then leans forward and presses his lips - softly, nervously - against Brian’s. Brian, startled, almost pulls away in logic, but he thinks about how Gerard has drawn him, has seen him, and something pulls loose in his chest and pushes him into the kiss hungrily. His hand rests between them, and Brian rubs the soft worn cotton of Gerard’s top under his fingers, feels the racing heart beneath that in reassuring rhythm.
END