TS: To Tie Your Tangled Tongue, [Mikey, Jepha]
Title:To Tie your Tangled Tongue
Characters: My Chemical Romance, Jepha Howard
Place in the Timeline: Before the Paramour
A/N:Well, this was not the next piece I expected to post, but Jepha was rather insistent on having a proper entrance into the story line. I swear the next posted piece will be cuddlier. This takes place at a Roadshow Festival, which is a TS variant on touring. [In other words, imaginary tour!] Title from Everything Must Go by Taking Back Sunday. Unbeta'ed. Please let me know if you see any glaring errors. Danke!
Master post for Traveling Show is located here. This fits chronologically between Goes the Tick-Tock Bang and Arriving at The Paramour.
~~~
Ohio
Mikey is exhausted. Moving through the day is like trying to dance through mud. Everything feels too bright, shiny like gas station jewelry, sun-lit yet dirty. Around him, the glare off the crowds is flavored with sweat and eagerness. The collective excitement has a shrill edge that grates on the inside of his skull.
It's not been this bad since... well, since Japan. And at least this didn't come up on him all at once. No, there was a gradual whine that grew in him as the miles spooled out. Now he's stuck on repeat; day after day of sweat and shows and fights and travel and no fucking sleep ever. He tries to keep moving. When he's in motion, Mikey can ignore it because he's traveling with the grind. Mostly.
Right now, he's moving towards the food tents. But the harsh brightness of people passing by starts to become overwhelming. He staggers, leans against a tree. It feels like a sunburn, scouring away at his skin. He blinks, willing his sight to settle - instead, all around him people slide in and out of focus. Mikey reaches up to push up his glasses and the entire world heaves.
He makes the mistake of closing his eyes.
The Weave pulses around him, threads wavering, making him gasp and clench his fists. He sees gaps, all the cut and fraying threads, tangling into complex knots all around him. The undulating threads in his immediate vision make him seasick. Mikey walks with exaggerated care to a nearby tent, running his hand along the white plastic tarp before wrapping his will around the most solid threads he can find. The pulsing thrum of the venue's foundation energies help steady him. Mikey lets the amphitheater mutter at him about poured concrete and reinforced steel, as he tries to steady his focus. He succeeds in feeling the ground under his shoes. When he looks up, the world still bucks and heaves. An involuntary whine slips free and Mikey closes his eyes again, breathing through his mouth. That doesn't help. He can taste decay under the normal festival tang; it's cloying, sweet and roiling under the aroma of asphalt, sweat and desperation. Once it settles at the back of his throat, he can't help but notice other darker scents lingering there too - rot, old blood, despair that tastes of grey and cobwebs. They choke him and Mikey struggles for air. He slides down to sit on the pavement. The heat radiating up from the parking lot pulls him back into his skin a little more. Voices mutter, continue on. Mikey can only breathe and reach out for the familiar, for some support. He's vaguely aware of the continual fall of footsteps around him as strangers ignore him.
"Mikey? Hey, Mikeyway? Are you alright?"
Mikey twitches, his attention still focused on breathing, the weight of sun on skin, the radiating heat under him. That voice is familiar, though. He surfaces, squinting upward at the source of the question.
His vision is filled with the wide flare of steel wings.
The summer sun is merciless on the grey metal. Mikey flings up a hand, trying to shield his eyes. But he can't stop staring at the spread pinions, is transfixed by the mirrored shine on their edges. He knows they could cut him to shreds with a careless gesture. His breath hitches in his chest as Mikey tries to focus on the face in front of him. Mikey registers impassive features, the gleam of snakebite piercings and flat black eyes.
"Jepharel, the Unbinder, Lord of Oaths and Upholding," he mutters.
The figure before him hissed. "Motherfucker. I thought that House mark looked familiar."
Overly warm hands wrap around Mikey's forearms.
The venue disappears.
All he can smell is sulfur and burning.
Screams of pain and terror ring in his ears.
The iron collar's familiar, almost comfortable, but the chains, they burn burnished with gold and prayers. They are the only thing holding his hate in. He searches, looking for a flaw in their incantations, a hair's break in their wards. It's there - they are only human - and he will find it, and when he DOES ---
"Enough."
Mikey gasps, the returning oxygen rasping his throat raw. He blinks up at Jepha, whose features are set and fierce, like a stone monument. Cemetery angels. Mikey thinks, and has to force hysterical giggles down. He feels tears tracking down his cheeks and tries to look away as the wings settle, mantling. The feathers clash against each other, sound like a battlefield. Fingers tighten on his arms.
"Guardian, listen." The urgency in Jepha's voice hooks Mikey's wandering attention. "You're thread-sick. Which... is only understandable. I am, in fact, fucking shocked that the rest of your House didn't have the same problem."
Mikey drifts then as the crowd noise shifts, sounding like baying wolves.
The howls are broken by sudden, sharp pain.
"Focus, Little Way."
Mikey shakes his head, his cheek stinging from the slap.
"Jepha...wait..."
”No. You no longer are granted ignorance. You attempt to name me? Well, motherfucker, I'm Jepharel of the first tier, cast aside for questioning the true sanctity of divine oaths. And I am well acquainted with your House and Line." Jepha says.
Mikey risks a nod and takes a shaky breath. He's relieved to smell only cigarette smoke, sweat and something faint but herbal. Then he registers Jepha's words.
"Wha... they knew?"
Jepha snorts.
"If you're referring to your immediate play group, no they didn't. You're the only one who's seen. Hurley's Mentor knew me and there have been others."
Mikey is pulled to his feet and prodded into a walk. It feels like the world is tilt-a-whirling around him. He’s glad he's not eaten much - the last thing he wants to add to this current fun is puking.
"I know you guys are working under radio silence, but right now would be a good time to light the bat signal."
"Can't," Mikey says through gritted teeth.
"Bullshit. Won't is not the same as can't. You need the fucking support, Mikey."
The shadows around the buses are short and sharp. Mikey has to pay very close attention to where he's stepping or he's going to trip on the edges.
Jepha curses under his breath. "If you won't establish contact, I fucking will. They'll listen to me, at least as far as you're concerned."
Before Mikey can protest, Jepha is reaching around him to bang on... oh, it's his bus.
"Jeph, what's up?" Ray says. He's being as cautious with his words as Mikey was with his steps.
"I've got your Mikeyway. He's sick."
Mikey hears Gee call out out in concern, then he's moving up stairs, being pushed onto a couch. Mikey forces his eyes open and can't bite back a gasp as he stares at his band.
"Mikeyway, zip your lip. You don't want to say anything you'll later regret." Jepha's words are low but clear as he leans close, pushing Mikey back onto the seat.
Through the sweat now running into his eyes, Mikey can clearly see the warning glint in Jepha's gaze. Words are a little beyond him right now, so Mikey mimes zipping his lips and hunches over so he doesn't have to look at the guys. What he'd already seen burns against his eyelids.
Bob's features slide, face gaining pale fur and a muzzle. Frank is his shadow, canine cant to a black-furred jaw. The pair of them are fierce; Bob looks down-right dangerous. Gerard is wreathed in wavering scarlet fire, pulsing up around his hands. Ray is blue, deep cobalt calm, eddying down around his fingers; the light flows down to pool around his sneakers.
"Jeph...what..." Bob pauses, frowning.
"He's sick." Jepha says flatly.
"What happened?" Gerard says.
"Too much sun, not enough water and possibly that stomach bug that's going around." Jepha says. The lies buzz against Mikey's skin, burrow in and he gulps, suddenly nauseous. He staggers to his feet and heads to the bathroom.
Cool hands with familiar calluses brush his hair back.
Pete.
But when he opens his eyes, the tattoos are all wrong.
Mikey whines, thumps his head against the bathroom wall. Jepha laughs and leans forward to kiss his forehead. The imprint of his lips burns on Mikey's skin.
"There's so much that's broken. How can it be fixed?" Mikey whispers.
Jepha smiles. His gaze flickers back to flat black, gives nothing away.
"I hate to tell you, but the world's been broken for a long time." Jepha says. There's a low slide under his words the drag of cold flesh along gravel that sets Mikey shivering. Jepha sighs winter wind through dead trees and pats Mikey's cheek. "And you fix what you can."
Mikey feels a mess of knotted threads just past the bus's front right wheel tangle closer and he breathes past the accompanying cramp in his gut. "That's what you're doing? Fixing what's broken?" The question is sharp, maybe desperate.
Jepha's shoulders tense, but he helps Mikey get his feet under him again.
"In my own way... yeah, I'm doing something like that," he says, and moves away. "I'll be right back."
When he hears the door shut, Mikey risks opening his eyes.
Oh. Mikey thinks, a little stunned as he looks around and sees smudges of light, twists of color, knots of Threaded light.
The door to the back lounge is wreathed in blue, with twists of green and silver woven throughout. Glints of red are cradled in the braids, gleaming like the last stubborn embers of a fire. The area all around Gee's sketchbook and jumble of pens, pencils and comics is painted red, a crimson that spills out into ornate curlicues. Broad splashes of copper -it wavers between a metallic shine and the vivid red of fox fur - mixes with the red. Through all the colors are his own Threads: blue-grey, the color of cool steel, of a long rainy afternoon. Blue-grey underpins all the other Threads. It's a chaotic and vivid jumble, messily tangled together and full of gaps. But Mikey can see how a couple of tugs on various threads - maybe six?- will pull it all into alignment. They always do pull together.
With a sigh, he turns his sight outward. The chaos beyond his bus makes Mikey's heart skip and gain a hollowness in his chest. He cries out, feels his entire band twitch forward.
"No...no..." he closes his eyes again and listens to the rustlings of frustration around him.
"Here, drink this."
Oh. Jepha's back.
Mikey stares at the plastic tumbler in his hand. The liquid is thick and green, looks more like the surface of a still swamp than something to ingest. He eyes the subtle sparks of power swirling through the morass, then makes the mistake of inhaling. He coughs as the thick, green, sulfur-tinged aroma curls up into his sinuses.
"Jepha, are you fucking serious?" He says.
"Michael, this will help. I give you my word," Jepha replies, voice low.
Mikey doesn't even pause after that, just takes the tumbler and drains it. He shudders as the sludge slides down his throat. Jepha hands him a bottled water that he chugs, desperately trying to get the taste out of his mouth. "Ugh."
Jepha grins. His teeth seem very sharp. "I said it would help. I didn't say it would taste good."
What was that?" Bob snaps. There's a low rumbling undertone to his words that makes Mikey thinks of dogs preparing to attack.
"No need to get your hackles up, Bob" Jepha replies.
Bob's eyes widen and he takes a step back from the two of them. Jepha smirks at him. "Don't worry. It's just a health shake."
The potion sits in Mikey, pinning him to this place. The Threads around him still waver - as Threads do - but he feels... settled in a way he hadn't before.
"Okay. Okay... I think that works." He can hear the surprise in his own voice.
Jepha chuckles. The sound makes Mikey shudder, a motion that ripples out through his band mates.
Jepha moves close, like he's helping Mikey to sit up and get comfortable. "I've been doing this for a long time, Mikeyway. And I've always been...intrigued by your peers."
Mikey feels the hot, dry breath of endless fire against his skin again and he slits his eyes into a glare. Jepha laughs outright.
"Save the evil eye for someone it works on."
He moves, turning his back to the rest of the band. Pitching his voice low, he continues. "Most Guardians are boring as snot- sword swinging assholes who hold to balance above everything. But your line? Rasior has been unusual from the start, a crooked little line of adaptable mavericks. And your House in particular..."
Jepha's grin widens. His teeth are definitely pointed. Mikey wraps his arms around himself and upped the wattage of his glare. Not since Panic! was consigned to the flames of a raging hotel fire has he felt this alone.
Jepha just leans closer.
"Your House is a flame, pulling in the very best moths. Maybe they aren't ready," Jepha reached out, tapped two fingers on Mikey's breastbone. "but you are, Mikeyway. You're at the crossroads. That's why you're suffering now. It’s time to make some choices."
"If you guys let him wander close to a stage, I will personally kick each and every one of your asses." Jepha growls.
There's a low murmur of conversation, but Mikey's too caught in his head to pay attention. He hears the bus door close.
Sleep pulls him under.
~~~
Characters: My Chemical Romance, Jepha Howard
Place in the Timeline: Before the Paramour
A/N:Well, this was not the next piece I expected to post, but Jepha was rather insistent on having a proper entrance into the story line. I swear the next posted piece will be cuddlier. This takes place at a Roadshow Festival, which is a TS variant on touring. [In other words, imaginary tour!] Title from Everything Must Go by Taking Back Sunday. Unbeta'ed. Please let me know if you see any glaring errors. Danke!
Master post for Traveling Show is located here. This fits chronologically between Goes the Tick-Tock Bang and Arriving at The Paramour.
~~~
Ohio
Mikey is exhausted. Moving through the day is like trying to dance through mud. Everything feels too bright, shiny like gas station jewelry, sun-lit yet dirty. Around him, the glare off the crowds is flavored with sweat and eagerness. The collective excitement has a shrill edge that grates on the inside of his skull.
It's not been this bad since... well, since Japan. And at least this didn't come up on him all at once. No, there was a gradual whine that grew in him as the miles spooled out. Now he's stuck on repeat; day after day of sweat and shows and fights and travel and no fucking sleep ever. He tries to keep moving. When he's in motion, Mikey can ignore it because he's traveling with the grind. Mostly.
Right now, he's moving towards the food tents. But the harsh brightness of people passing by starts to become overwhelming. He staggers, leans against a tree. It feels like a sunburn, scouring away at his skin. He blinks, willing his sight to settle - instead, all around him people slide in and out of focus. Mikey reaches up to push up his glasses and the entire world heaves.
He makes the mistake of closing his eyes.
The Weave pulses around him, threads wavering, making him gasp and clench his fists. He sees gaps, all the cut and fraying threads, tangling into complex knots all around him. The undulating threads in his immediate vision make him seasick. Mikey walks with exaggerated care to a nearby tent, running his hand along the white plastic tarp before wrapping his will around the most solid threads he can find. The pulsing thrum of the venue's foundation energies help steady him. Mikey lets the amphitheater mutter at him about poured concrete and reinforced steel, as he tries to steady his focus. He succeeds in feeling the ground under his shoes. When he looks up, the world still bucks and heaves. An involuntary whine slips free and Mikey closes his eyes again, breathing through his mouth. That doesn't help. He can taste decay under the normal festival tang; it's cloying, sweet and roiling under the aroma of asphalt, sweat and desperation. Once it settles at the back of his throat, he can't help but notice other darker scents lingering there too - rot, old blood, despair that tastes of grey and cobwebs. They choke him and Mikey struggles for air. He slides down to sit on the pavement. The heat radiating up from the parking lot pulls him back into his skin a little more. Voices mutter, continue on. Mikey can only breathe and reach out for the familiar, for some support. He's vaguely aware of the continual fall of footsteps around him as strangers ignore him.
"Mikey? Hey, Mikeyway? Are you alright?"
Mikey twitches, his attention still focused on breathing, the weight of sun on skin, the radiating heat under him. That voice is familiar, though. He surfaces, squinting upward at the source of the question.
His vision is filled with the wide flare of steel wings.
The summer sun is merciless on the grey metal. Mikey flings up a hand, trying to shield his eyes. But he can't stop staring at the spread pinions, is transfixed by the mirrored shine on their edges. He knows they could cut him to shreds with a careless gesture. His breath hitches in his chest as Mikey tries to focus on the face in front of him. Mikey registers impassive features, the gleam of snakebite piercings and flat black eyes.
"Jepharel, the Unbinder, Lord of Oaths and Upholding," he mutters.
The figure before him hissed. "Motherfucker. I thought that House mark looked familiar."
Overly warm hands wrap around Mikey's forearms.
The venue disappears.
All he can smell is sulfur and burning.
Screams of pain and terror ring in his ears.
The iron collar's familiar, almost comfortable, but the chains, they burn burnished with gold and prayers. They are the only thing holding his hate in. He searches, looking for a flaw in their incantations, a hair's break in their wards. It's there - they are only human - and he will find it, and when he DOES ---
"Enough."
Mikey gasps, the returning oxygen rasping his throat raw. He blinks up at Jepha, whose features are set and fierce, like a stone monument. Cemetery angels. Mikey thinks, and has to force hysterical giggles down. He feels tears tracking down his cheeks and tries to look away as the wings settle, mantling. The feathers clash against each other, sound like a battlefield. Fingers tighten on his arms.
"Guardian, listen." The urgency in Jepha's voice hooks Mikey's wandering attention. "You're thread-sick. Which... is only understandable. I am, in fact, fucking shocked that the rest of your House didn't have the same problem."
Mikey drifts then as the crowd noise shifts, sounding like baying wolves.
The howls are broken by sudden, sharp pain.
"Focus, Little Way."
Mikey shakes his head, his cheek stinging from the slap.
"Jepha...wait..."
”No. You no longer are granted ignorance. You attempt to name me? Well, motherfucker, I'm Jepharel of the first tier, cast aside for questioning the true sanctity of divine oaths. And I am well acquainted with your House and Line." Jepha says.
Mikey risks a nod and takes a shaky breath. He's relieved to smell only cigarette smoke, sweat and something faint but herbal. Then he registers Jepha's words.
"Wha... they knew?"
Jepha snorts.
"If you're referring to your immediate play group, no they didn't. You're the only one who's seen. Hurley's Mentor knew me and there have been others."
Mikey is pulled to his feet and prodded into a walk. It feels like the world is tilt-a-whirling around him. He’s glad he's not eaten much - the last thing he wants to add to this current fun is puking.
"I know you guys are working under radio silence, but right now would be a good time to light the bat signal."
"Can't," Mikey says through gritted teeth.
"Bullshit. Won't is not the same as can't. You need the fucking support, Mikey."
The shadows around the buses are short and sharp. Mikey has to pay very close attention to where he's stepping or he's going to trip on the edges.
Jepha curses under his breath. "If you won't establish contact, I fucking will. They'll listen to me, at least as far as you're concerned."
Before Mikey can protest, Jepha is reaching around him to bang on... oh, it's his bus.
"Jeph, what's up?" Ray says. He's being as cautious with his words as Mikey was with his steps.
"I've got your Mikeyway. He's sick."
Mikey hears Gee call out out in concern, then he's moving up stairs, being pushed onto a couch. Mikey forces his eyes open and can't bite back a gasp as he stares at his band.
"Mikeyway, zip your lip. You don't want to say anything you'll later regret." Jepha's words are low but clear as he leans close, pushing Mikey back onto the seat.
Through the sweat now running into his eyes, Mikey can clearly see the warning glint in Jepha's gaze. Words are a little beyond him right now, so Mikey mimes zipping his lips and hunches over so he doesn't have to look at the guys. What he'd already seen burns against his eyelids.
Bob's features slide, face gaining pale fur and a muzzle. Frank is his shadow, canine cant to a black-furred jaw. The pair of them are fierce; Bob looks down-right dangerous. Gerard is wreathed in wavering scarlet fire, pulsing up around his hands. Ray is blue, deep cobalt calm, eddying down around his fingers; the light flows down to pool around his sneakers.
"Jeph...what..." Bob pauses, frowning.
"He's sick." Jepha says flatly.
"What happened?" Gerard says.
"Too much sun, not enough water and possibly that stomach bug that's going around." Jepha says. The lies buzz against Mikey's skin, burrow in and he gulps, suddenly nauseous. He staggers to his feet and heads to the bathroom.
Cool hands with familiar calluses brush his hair back.
Pete.
But when he opens his eyes, the tattoos are all wrong.
Mikey whines, thumps his head against the bathroom wall. Jepha laughs and leans forward to kiss his forehead. The imprint of his lips burns on Mikey's skin.
"There's so much that's broken. How can it be fixed?" Mikey whispers.
Jepha smiles. His gaze flickers back to flat black, gives nothing away.
"I hate to tell you, but the world's been broken for a long time." Jepha says. There's a low slide under his words the drag of cold flesh along gravel that sets Mikey shivering. Jepha sighs winter wind through dead trees and pats Mikey's cheek. "And you fix what you can."
Mikey feels a mess of knotted threads just past the bus's front right wheel tangle closer and he breathes past the accompanying cramp in his gut. "That's what you're doing? Fixing what's broken?" The question is sharp, maybe desperate.
Jepha's shoulders tense, but he helps Mikey get his feet under him again.
"In my own way... yeah, I'm doing something like that," he says, and moves away. "I'll be right back."
When he hears the door shut, Mikey risks opening his eyes.
Oh. Mikey thinks, a little stunned as he looks around and sees smudges of light, twists of color, knots of Threaded light.
The door to the back lounge is wreathed in blue, with twists of green and silver woven throughout. Glints of red are cradled in the braids, gleaming like the last stubborn embers of a fire. The area all around Gee's sketchbook and jumble of pens, pencils and comics is painted red, a crimson that spills out into ornate curlicues. Broad splashes of copper -it wavers between a metallic shine and the vivid red of fox fur - mixes with the red. Through all the colors are his own Threads: blue-grey, the color of cool steel, of a long rainy afternoon. Blue-grey underpins all the other Threads. It's a chaotic and vivid jumble, messily tangled together and full of gaps. But Mikey can see how a couple of tugs on various threads - maybe six?- will pull it all into alignment. They always do pull together.
With a sigh, he turns his sight outward. The chaos beyond his bus makes Mikey's heart skip and gain a hollowness in his chest. He cries out, feels his entire band twitch forward.
"No...no..." he closes his eyes again and listens to the rustlings of frustration around him.
"Here, drink this."
Oh. Jepha's back.
Mikey stares at the plastic tumbler in his hand. The liquid is thick and green, looks more like the surface of a still swamp than something to ingest. He eyes the subtle sparks of power swirling through the morass, then makes the mistake of inhaling. He coughs as the thick, green, sulfur-tinged aroma curls up into his sinuses.
"Jepha, are you fucking serious?" He says.
"Michael, this will help. I give you my word," Jepha replies, voice low.
Mikey doesn't even pause after that, just takes the tumbler and drains it. He shudders as the sludge slides down his throat. Jepha hands him a bottled water that he chugs, desperately trying to get the taste out of his mouth. "Ugh."
Jepha grins. His teeth seem very sharp. "I said it would help. I didn't say it would taste good."
What was that?" Bob snaps. There's a low rumbling undertone to his words that makes Mikey thinks of dogs preparing to attack.
"No need to get your hackles up, Bob" Jepha replies.
Bob's eyes widen and he takes a step back from the two of them. Jepha smirks at him. "Don't worry. It's just a health shake."
The potion sits in Mikey, pinning him to this place. The Threads around him still waver - as Threads do - but he feels... settled in a way he hadn't before.
"Okay. Okay... I think that works." He can hear the surprise in his own voice.
Jepha chuckles. The sound makes Mikey shudder, a motion that ripples out through his band mates.
Jepha moves close, like he's helping Mikey to sit up and get comfortable. "I've been doing this for a long time, Mikeyway. And I've always been...intrigued by your peers."
Mikey feels the hot, dry breath of endless fire against his skin again and he slits his eyes into a glare. Jepha laughs outright.
"Save the evil eye for someone it works on."
He moves, turning his back to the rest of the band. Pitching his voice low, he continues. "Most Guardians are boring as snot- sword swinging assholes who hold to balance above everything. But your line? Rasior has been unusual from the start, a crooked little line of adaptable mavericks. And your House in particular..."
Jepha's grin widens. His teeth are definitely pointed. Mikey wraps his arms around himself and upped the wattage of his glare. Not since Panic! was consigned to the flames of a raging hotel fire has he felt this alone.
Jepha just leans closer.
"Your House is a flame, pulling in the very best moths. Maybe they aren't ready," Jepha reached out, tapped two fingers on Mikey's breastbone. "but you are, Mikeyway. You're at the crossroads. That's why you're suffering now. It’s time to make some choices."
"If you guys let him wander close to a stage, I will personally kick each and every one of your asses." Jepha growls.
There's a low murmur of conversation, but Mikey's too caught in his head to pay attention. He hears the bus door close.
Sleep pulls him under.
~~~