Urban battle songs (are about love)
Title: Urban battle songs (are about love)
Author: alles_luege
Pairing: Bob/ Emilie Autumn , Gerard/Ryan/Mikey, Gabe/William+Gabe/Courtney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An urban fantasy, in which My Chemical Romance broke up after Bullets, The Academy Is . . . was never formed, but Fall out Boy, Midtown and Gym Class Heroes still exist. The Way brothers are wizards, William is a virgin, Gabe is not amused, Ryan is homeless, Travis awesome (even if denying his mojo), and Brendon cursed; with guest appearances by Fall out boy.
There is love, curses, frog-saving, and Vicky is a half-demon owning an herbs shop.
“You're not going to dig her out, right? Even Gerard would flip if you try that shit,” Travis says.
“I know you can speak with the dead,” Mikey says. Travis sighs, he was suspecting this.
“I'm not talking to the dead, they don't even talk to me randomly . . . This isn't my version of The Sixth Sense.”
Warning(s): angst, incest, threesome, mentions of abuse
Author’s Notes: There is a prologue/backstory to this I wrote some time ago: Free for sale. You don't need to read it to understand this one.
AND: Because I got awesome art (also this!) I wrote a ficlet for dwg : Girl in a coffin.
Check out the fanmix!!!
I want to thank my betas, I love you guys! Also; schoko_dei for hand holding and buying me nougat and my mixer morganya (I love every single song!) and artist dwg .
Word Count: 31.417
Beta: katelynelaine ,tygermine
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, not real.
~1~
It's raining again and he hates getting wet. On the plus side, a bit rain makes his skin feel cleaner. Not clean, per se, but rather refreshed. It has to do for now, until he can find a wash-room he doesn't have to pay for.
He steps under a marquee of a now closed pet store, and searches his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. It's crumpled and by the rattling he can tell that there are just a few left. He debates for a whole minute if he really wants to light one up, but honestly, he needs it. He hasn't eaten since yesterday. He needs it, now - even though he doesn't know if it's the rhythmic gesture or the nicotine that keeps him sane. It doesn't really matter anyway.
The first drag feels close to sinful. It's so good and maybe it’d be okay to just smoke half of it, and then he could smoke the rest in a few hours.
As he watches the rain he muses about a place to stay and how to find something to eat. There isn't much cash left from his last job, and that little bit he stole from his dad as he’d left is long gone.
On days like these, when it's cold and raining and he feels like shit and he knows that most people whose eyes slip over his slim form think that as well, he is nearly ready to go home again. And then he sees a drunken man on the street and knows that he can never go home. Never.
The wind intensifies, chilling him to the bone. His clothes by now are wet and a nice warm cup of tea sounds like a good idea. There was a Starbucks a few blocks ago. He passed it without looking inside. He always hates to look inside. He hated it when he lived at home and now he hates it even more. Now that he’s . . . not living at home anymore.
He could sit there for a few hours in peace, warming his chilled skin in the heated room, read a magazine someone left behind, maybe start a conversation with a stranger.
He turns around to check his reflection in the shop window. He looks rumpled he thinks, but no more than other people who were caught in the rain. He doesn't exactly look like a homeless person and, thankfully, he doesn't smell like one either. The question is how much longer can he keep up the appearance? Can he really afford a too expensive chai with cream just so he could hook up with a stranger who may be willing to let him sleep on the couch?
The answer to that question is no, definitely not.
~+~
“I can't believe that!” Brendon says, throwing the controller down. “You’re totally cheating!” he adds.
Mikey gives him an unimpressed look.
“He's not,” Gerard says from the kitchen. Brendon has no idea what he is doing in there and he doesn't want to know, because Gerard came home with a box full of frogs. Living frogs, though Brendon isn't so sure they’re alive anymore.
“He can't be that good, man. These are some really mad Guitar Hero skills!” Brendon shouts back.
“We are people first and wizards . . . you know scratch that,” Gerard answers, “Damn!”
“I think one got away,” Mikey says.
“What do you mean with 'got away'? What got away?”
“There are frogs in the hall,” Travis says entering the living room.
“Did you catch one?” Mikey wants to know. Brendon folds his legs underneath him on the couch. No frog is going to eat his naked toes!
“Two,” Travis says.
“With magic?!” Gerard asks from the kitchen, voice almost squeaky with panic.
“Give me some credit here,” Travis answers, reaching into his pocket and taking out two small green frogs.
“They are so precious!” Brendon cries out.
“They’re dead,” Mikey says looking away from Brendon.
“What exactly are you doing with them?” Brendon asks, slightly horrified.
“Mixture?” guesses Travis. Mikey nods.
“I hope you clean the mixer afterwards!” Mikey shouts. There is some noise that might be a 'yes' or might be a 'kiss my ass' from the kitchen; Mikey smiles.
“They aren’t alive when he puts them in, right?” Brendon asks. He can't stand by and allow Gerard to kill innocent frogs; that's just not cool. He’s a vegan. It's not cool. Mikey looks a bit uncomfortable.
“Oh god! Give me them!” Brendon says to Travis who shrugs as he hands the frogs over to Brendon. “I'm not gonna let him hurt you,” he says to the frogs. They are sitting very still in his palm. The bigger one is kind of snuggling his thumb.
“I think they like you,” Travis remarks. Mikey sighs.
“I think I'll name them Shakespeare and Mozart,” Brendon muses out loud. Mozart is so totally snuggling his thumb.
“Travis?!” Gerard shouts from the kitchen.
“Yo?”
“I need my frogs.”
“You can't have them! They have names now, I'm taking them home,” Brendon shouts.
“I . . . What?!” Gerard asks. A few seconds later he's standing in the living room. There is stuff on his hands Brendon doesn't want to think about. Maybe they were family once. He turns a bit so Mozart and Shakespeare don't have to see it either.
“I'm taking Mozart and Shakespeare home with me,” Brendon says, firmly.
“I need them to finish my mixture,” Gerard says exasperated.
“There are still a few in the hall,” Travis throws in.
“I'm taking Shakespeare and Mozart home now; they've seen enough horrors today already,” Brendon says. He strokes Mozart's head with one finger and then puts them into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Mikey, would you please, please fetch me two more frogs from the hall, in the next two minutes!” Gerard says. He sounds pathetically desperate, so Mikey gets up.
“Sure,” he says.
Gerard exhales slowly. “Thank you.”
“What are you making?” Travis asks, sitting down on the couch.
“Healing poison for Frank,” Gerard answers darkly. He needs his frogs in the next 65 seconds.
“Mikey!”
“God, yes; here,” he says, handing two small, frightened frogs over.
“Thanks!” Gerard answers, running into the kitchen.
“I can't look,” Brendon whispers.
“It's for a good cause,” Travis says.
“You're sitting in my spot, fucker,” Mikey says, but he just sits down on the armrest and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Travis knows that look. He was up for hours and slept maybe two, at a stretch.
“Dreams?” he asks.
“Yeah, don't tell Gerard,” Mikey answers. Travis nods.
“He’ll figure out soon enough,” Brendon throws in; he’s putting on his jacket and patting his pocket gently to make sure Mozart and Shakespeare are still in there.
“You’re really going home?” Mikey asks.
“Need to go to the pet store first. I have pets now,” he answers. “Tell Gerard bye for me,” he adds.
“Sure,” Mikey answers. Travis makes room on the couch for him. Mikey leans his head against the back and listens to Brendon looking for his shoes in the hall.
“I could make you a potion,” Travis offers.
“It's not like that. It's something else,” Mikey answers, his eyes still closed.
“Brendon is right. Gerard will find out soon enough,” Travis says; Mikey nods.
“I know.”
“Just in time,” Gerard says a few minutes later upon entering the living room; he nudges Mikey's knee until he makes room on the couch for him. “Where's Brendon?”
“Pet store,” Mikey answers. Gerard just nods. Travis always found it a bit creepy how well they tended to mindmeld.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Gerard wants to know from Travis.
“Besides saving your ass?”
“Potion,” Gerard answers. “My ass doesn't need any saving.”
“Why are you here?” Mikey asks.
“Thought you’d need to get out; I have a gig this Friday,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Mikey says.
“Count us in,” Gerard says with a soft look to his brother.
“Great,” Travis answers.
~+~
It starts to rain again when he is halfway down the street to the pet store on the corner. The wind is so cold it chills him to the bone. He hopes that Mozart and Shakespeare are doing okay in his pocket. He doesn't think little green frogs like to be out in the cold. Brendon knows he doesn't like to be out in the cold, especially not with the snow starting to fall.
There is a boy standing in front of the pet store, smoking and looking pretty lost. Brendon knows that look and he doesn't like it.
He reaches out to push the door open and the boy takes a step to the right to make room for him.
“It's closed,” he says and Brendon freezes with his hand on the glass. The boy has a nice voice, a bit rough, like he's maybe one step away from a cold.
“Oh . . .” Brendon says and doesn't know what else to say. He settles on 'thanks' after a few seconds.
“No problem,” the boy says. He is inhaling smoke and not looking at Brendon. There is nothing for him to do here anymore; he has to come by tomorrow to pester the shop keeper about frogs, so he makes to turn and then Shakespeare kind of wriggles out of his hoodie and the jacket and jumps onto the street into a puddle.
“No! Shakespeare! Come back! Right now!” Brendon cries. He knows it must sound stupid, because he is talking to a frog, but he doesn't care. He is sure Shakespeare can actually understand him. Same goes for Mozart.
“You lost your frog,” the boy says.
“No shit!” Brendon answers hotly.
“Need help with that?”
“Yes!” Brendon answers; isn't that obvious?! Shakespeare is not a good pet. He needs a lot more training. The boy kneels down and stretches his hand out. Brendon wants to shout at him, because what the fuck is he thinking? That isn't going to work! But it does. Shakespeare jumps onto the boy’s hand and the boy lifts him up, taking another drag of his cigarette with the other.
“Here, Shakespeare? Really?” he asks, handing Brendon the frog.
“He looks like a Shakespeare,” Brendon answers and the boy laughs. He has a nice laugh, but one that isn't used often. Brendon can tell.
“Yeah, he does,” the boy says.
“Thanks,” Brendon says, Shakespeare is wriggling restlessly in his hand, as if he wants to tell Brendon something. Since he got cursed all kinds of weird things are happening to him and maybe Shakespeare is trying to tell him something and maybe he should listen.
“No problem, really,” the boy replies, leaning against the wall of the pet store.
“Can I buy you a coffee, as a thank you?” Brendon asks and Shakespeare stops being restless and Brendon can finally put him back in his pocket.
“Sure, there’s a Starbucks down the street,” he answers, getting up.
“I'm Brendon,” Brendon says, sticking his hand out, the boy looks at it for a second and then shakes it. His fingers are long and his skin damp from rain and cold.
“Ryan,” he offers.
And that's how Brendon meets Ryan.
~+~
“Oh, I got cursed,” Brendon says when he sees Ryan staring at the big scar on his arm. It looks a bit like an ugly flower. He shrugs as he says it, but he also pulls the sleeve of his shirt back down as he settles deeper into the overstuffed couch in his apartment. Ryan thinks he sounds far too cheerful for a person who recently got cursed. Also, he doesn't believe one word out of Brendon’s mouth. Honestly, who would? It's not exactly common to get cursed these days, is it? Only crazy people think they’re cursed.
“Right,” he drawls.
“No, really; it was a strong blood-curse and Gee counteracted it with a stronger blood-curse with virgin blood and bones of cats and all kinds of nasty stuff in it and I had to drink it. Thing is, he couldn't lift the curse. Just change it. He doesn't say there’s no cure. He just says that he hasn’t found it yet. On the plus side, I'm not dying a horrible death,” he shrugs, playing with the hem of his shirt. His hoodie is lying on the small couch and Shakespeare and Mozart are sleeping on it. Ryan thinks that maybe Brendon isn't as cool with all this as he wants people to believe. He sure wouldn't be.
“Who cursed you?” he asks. He really wants to sound kind of empathetic, but he isn't good at this kind of stuff - never was, to tell the truth - and he knows it. Besides, Brendon is clearly crazy. But he seems like a good person anyway. Not like psycho crazy. Ryan can deal with this.
“I don't know...but Gee thinks it must be someone close to me,” Brendon answers and Ryan thinks you don't need to be a genius to know what that means.
He wants to say he's sorry. But he doesn't really know Brendon and he is not sorry, not really. Because most people are dealing with shit in their lives and Brendon is no exception. And why should he be?
“Hey, is it okay to take a shower?” he asks instead. He really feels like he needs it badly. He hasn’t showered for days and he smells like winter rain and cigarettes.
“Sure, but the water is only lukewarm,” Brendon answers, sounding kind of apologetic. Ryan really doesn't care. He just wants to feel clean again.
“That's okay,” he says, getting up.
The bathroom is small and the window is even smaller, but it's clean. And even if it weren't . . . he’s seen much worse.
The water really was only lukewarm, but the apartment’s warm, so he doesn't think he’ll catch a cold. He washes his clothes as well, as good as is possible and with Brendon's shower gel, that smells a bit fruity. He didn't see a washing machine anywhere and the building seems like the shitty kind that doesn't have one - or if it has, it probably doesn't work.
When he comes out of the bathroom in just a towel and his clothes dripping a bit on the floor because he didn't wring them out properly, Brendon is making something that smells spicy in the small kitchen.
He spreads out his clothes on the heater and goes over. “Smells good,” he says, sitting down. Brendon has three chairs and they don't match. The table is a bit unsteady and made of oak. There are dark stains on it and the surface feels uneven. It doesn't fit the cheap plastic chairs at all.
“It's supposed to be a spaghetti sauce, but I pretty much fail at tomato sauces. I’m sure it’s safe to eat, though.” He turns around and stares for a few seconds before he catches himself and looks away. “I could lend you some clothes,” he says.
“That’d be awesome. I spread mine out over your heater . . . and I used your shower gel to wash them,” Ryan answers. He isn't bothered by people staring at him. He knows that his looks work for him more often than not. It's how he managed not to freeze to death the last few weeks. He also doesn't think that exchanging sex for a place to stay is a big deal. You learn to do what you need to do in order to survive.
“Oh, okay. Be right back,” Brendon says.
Ryan knows that because the apartment isn't big at all. There is only one other door and that must be Brendon's bedroom. Ryan rubs his hair while Brendon is rummaging in his closet. The walls are so thin he can hear Brendon in the other room; he is singing something unfamiliar to Ryan.
His stomach clenches at the smell. He really is hungry. He takes a sip from the mug on the table that Brendon put there for him and then adds two spoons of sugar. It has a bright green clover on it. It's somewhat stupid and endearing at the same time.
“So, here. I think they'll fit,” Brendon says a bit awkwardly, handing a shirt and a pair of sweat pants over. No underwear, but that would be a bit creepy and Ryan can understand that. He still doesn't know what Brendon wants from him, but he is not going to ask. He is sure Brendon will tell him when he needs to know. He isn't bothered by this either.
“Thanks,” he drops the towel and Brendon turns around. It's kind of sweet. The sleeves are a bit short and he isn't sure yellow is his colour, but he isn't going to complain now. The pants are okay, even if a bit low on his hips. He thinks he lost weight again in the last few days.
“Dinner should be ready in a minute,” Brendon says, busying himself by putting noodles and sauce into bowls. They are mismatched as well; one is pink with blue dots and the other is black. He looks a bit sheepish putting them on the table along with forks.
“Thanks,” Ryan says again. He really is thankful. He doesn't like being cold and he is starving.
They eat in silence - it tastes pretty good - and outside it begins to snow.
~2~
~+~
Brendon is standing in the hall when he hears Gerard open the door.
“Emilie,” he says with a small smile and kisses the back of her hand gently. She cocks her head to one side and then leans in and kisses his cheek. Not like the French do - just one side; the left.
“Gerard,” she answers.
“You're back from Germany, I see,” he says.
“Yes, and on the way to Chicago. So we thought we should stop by,” she answers.
She's wearing a pale blue dress, stockings and boots, not the clunky kind. She still looks like a gothic princess, for all Brendon knows she could be wearing black. Everything around her seems to get darker, as if to fit her. He wouldn't say it's sinister. Not in a bad way, like creepy or evil. No, it's more like reading a Poe novel.
“Where's Bob?” Gerard asks.
Her green eyes are blazing with mischief. “In the car, battling a guitar that came lose,” she answers.
“Oh, okay, I think I should go and see how he's doing,” Gerard says, she nods and Gerard is out of the door in a few seconds. The door firmly shut behind him.
“You are new,” she says to Brendon. He is playing with the hem of his t-shirt and feels somehow out of place.
“I'm Brendon,” he says.
“Emilie,” she answers stretching her hand out. He hesitates just a moment before he takes it. It feels cool against his palm. Her fingers are long, slender and pale reminding him of Ryan's. And then there is a brief sense of vertigo and darkness and the smell of humid earth. He pulls his hand away and her fingers slip from his.
“Sorry,” he says.
“No, don't be,” she answers. “Where is Mikey?” she asks into the silence.
“Oh, in the kitchen making tea,” Brendon answers with relief. Mikey and tea are very safe topics. He can deal with that.
“Maybe we should go sit in the living room then?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
They didn't even make it two steps in the living room's direction when Gerard opens the door again. He brings with him a blond guy and the cold winter wind. It makes Brendon shiver.
“Oh, yeah, that's Brendon, he's cursed,” Gerard says and Brendon doesn't like to be introduced like this, but he learned to deal and not to wonder.
“Aren't we all?” Emilie answers, taking Brendon's elbow, she is making sure not to touch his skin and he is grateful for that, but doesn't know why.
Mikey's already in the living room when they enter and Bob hugs him tight and Mikey smiles into his shoulder.
“Long time not seen,” Bob says.
“Yeah, how was Germany?” Mikey asks, as they're sitting down.
“They love her,” he answers, with a soft smile in Emilie's direction. She smiles back. They are clearly in love, Brendon thinks.
“I bet,” Gerard says, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. There are two mugs of coffee on the table; one for Mikey and one for Gerard. Mikey puts two spoons of sugar in one before he hands it over to his brother. Gerard nods his thanks. “And . . . the other thing?” Gerard asks after his first drag.
“No luck, must be somewhere else,” Emilie says, she sounds a bit bitter.
“On the plus side, we found this really cool silver dagger. Thought Frank could use it,” Bob says, taking it out of his hoodie. It's wrapped in black silk and it's small, but still looks deadly.
“Oh,” Gerard says.
“Yeah,” Bob answers, and they're both staring at it for a while longer. Brendon takes a cookie and tries not to care. The Way brothers are strange and their friends are strange as well. He suspects that he's not an exception anymore.
“So, you found The Lost Dagger . . . in Germany?” Gerard asks.
“Yeah, in a small shop in Bavaria; I bet the guy didn't even know what it was,” Bob answers.
“Not many people do,” Mikey throws in. Gerard nods.
“Can you pass it along to Frank? We haven't heard from him since October,” Bob says.
“Sure, he mailed that he would be here in April,” Gerard answers.
“For your birthday,” Emilie says softly.
“I guess,” Gerard shrugs in this way that means he is secretly pleased. She laughs openly at that and her long red hair falls like a bloody curtain over her face. It gives Brendon the shivers and he doesn't know why. He busies himself with another cookie and some tea.
~+~
When they're gone, Gerard and Mikey are smoking in silence and Brendon doesn't exactly know how to ask what he thinks he needs to know.
“Ask already,” Mikey says, taking a deep drag. Gerard nods, but doesn't take his eyes from The Lost Dagger.
“So . . . Emilie. . . She's that singer, right?” Brendon tries.
“She is, but that's not what you want to know. Is it?” Mikey says.
“No. . . When I touched her - I mean, when I shook her hand - God! Forget it!” he says frustrated, because this is stupid, he has no powers whatsoever.
“She is not like other people,” Gerard says slowly. No shit, Brendon thinks and Gerard smiles, as if he had heard it. For all Brendon knows, he could have. “Bob is a hunter,” Gerard begins and even if this doesn't explain anything about her yet, Brendon nods. He has learned to be patient. Gerard will get there, sooner or later. “He hunts ghosts and monsters and things like that, for his own reasons. And while he was in London a few years ago he found her. Someone buried her alive . . . In 1873.” Gerard takes another drag.
“Wait!” Brendon says. The darkness and the smell of earth make so much sense now and it still makes him shiver. “She isn't alive?” he asks, because no one can be alive after such a long time and besides she was buried.
“She is alive,” Mikey says.
“She can't die,” Gerard adds.
“But. . .” Brendon tries again. “There's something about her. . .”
“It's death,” Mikey says. Mikey doesn't sugar-coat things. Sometimes Brendon likes this about him, sometimes he doesn't; this is the latter.
“What?!” he's sure his voice shouldn't sound like that; shrill and panicked.
“She can't die, but death is still waiting for her. It's everywhere. She can't shake it off,” Gerard clarifies.
“Jesus,” Brendon says and he doesn't believe in God or Jesus anymore, but he wishes he could. Just for now. “But Bob can die, right?” Brendon asks.
Gerard nods.
“Yeah,” Mikey says and it sounds sad.
“Are they trying to find a cure?” Brendon asks.
“For being undead?” Gerard wonders, taking another drag. The cigarette is nearly down to the filter already and Mikey gives him a look. He sighs, puts it in the ashtray and lights a new one.
“She's not a zombie, Gerard,” Mikey says.
“Right, yeah, they are. We are as well, but no one knows what the curse was. She's not a vampire or a zombie or anything else I've ever seen or heard of.”
“Jesus,” Brendon says again.
“Sums it up just fine,” Mikey says, lighting up a new cigarette.
~+~
Ryan doesn't know why Brendon let him stay and didn't kick him out in the morning. He also doesn't know why Brendon didn't try anything. But maybe Brendon just isn't into guys. On the other hand, a blow job is a blow job. You don't have to be into guys to like having someone go down on you.
There's a note on the coffee maker when Ryan enters the kitchen that morning.
To Ryan:
Gone to work; will be home late. There's no coffee. :( Sorry.
Brendon
Ryan has to smile. He doesn't even know why. There is tea in the second cupboard on the left. So he boils water and makes that instead of coffee. Besides he is not the biggest fan of coffee anyway. There is also milk in the refrigerator and an already open pack of cornflakes. He takes out a bowl and then sits down to eat his breakfast. He thinks he should just leave,but it doesn't seem like Brendon actually wants him to leave. He wouldn't have left a post-it, if he wanted Ryan to get out of his apartment, right? Besides Ryan doesn't know where to go. Ryan has nowhere to go. He cleans the bowl and the dishes from the previous evening and then just kind of looks around the apartment. He puts some music on. Staind's Break the Cycle just because he didn't hear it in a while and because he likes the singers voice. Then he sits down on the floor and stares at the wall. After a while he lies down and closes his eyes. He thinks about how he used to write lyrics and poems in his blue notebook and how his fingers hurt from the strings of his guitar. He misses that feeling. The only physical reminder of it is the calluses that are already fading. His dad sold it and he hated him for that more than all the other things he'd done. Ryan is still bitter about it. And he misses getting lost in his own mind, his own music. To have a safe place, even if it's only inside himself.
Something wet lands on his collarbone and his eyes fly open. The first instinct is to hit it, but then he remembers Brendon's pets. And his fingers inch forward slowly until he finds the cool frog skin. He takes it into his hand and sits up, holding it in his palm. He thinks it's Shakespeare, but he can't be sure. They kind of look alike, even if he's sure Brendon would object to this.
“So, are you feeling lonely?” Ryan asks. The frog doesn't answer, but Ryan didn't expect it to. So it's okay. “Where's your buddy?” he says; it's more to hear his own voice than anything else really, and stands up. Looking around the apartment he finds the other frog sitting near a plant on the windowsill in Brendon's bedroom. “Maybe you should keep each other company, hmm?” he says, setting the frog down next to the other. He sits down on the bed and looks around the room. It's messy and the bed is unmade, clothes are everywhere and in a corner behind the door is a guitar. His fingers itch to pick it up. It looks old and well used, like his used to look. “You guys think he would mind?” Ryan asks, he's biting his lip and debating with himself. It would be pushing his luck, for sure, but maybe . . . maybe Brendon wouldn't mind and he doesn't know when Brendon will be back. There is no TV in the apartment. He gets up and stands in front of the guitar. It feels smooth under his hand when he runs a finger over the surface. “You aren’t going to tell on me, are you?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the two frogs, they are looking out of the window. So Ryan picks the guitar up smiling. He hasn't had the chance to play in over two years and it feels kind of foreign in his hands. For a second he doesn't know what to do with it, but memory kicks in and he sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall and plays the first thing that comes to mind, which is What's My Age Again. It makes him smile and miss Spencer, heated conversations, and sharing secrets in the dark.
~+~
The first thing Brendon hears is music and it is coming from his shitty apartment. It's familiar and not. He's sure he knows the song, but hasn't heard it before, not like this.
Ryan isn't in the living room when he enters, but the sound is coming from his bedroom anyway. He stops near the door and just listens. Ryan is playing and not too badly. He is also singing and he isn't exactly bad, but it isn't good either. It's Early Sunsets Over Monroeville. He knows every word to it by heart. He sang it with Gerard a few times as well. He still doesn't know what happened, why they stopped being a band and became . . . well, what they are now. Neither Mikey nor Gerard is talking about it. Maybe it has something to do with: 'We are people first and wizards. . . You know scratch that.' Brendon doesn't know, he doesn't know a lot of things. And sometimes he wishes he didn't know the things he does know. He pushes the door open and during the split second Ryan didn't know he was being watched, Brendon could see the concentration on his face and how easily his fingers found the strings. Ryan knows this song by heart as well. His fingers slip and the notes fade away.
“Sorry,” he says, putting the guitar aside. He looks like he is afraid Brendon might hit him. He looks small and fragile and Brendon both wants and doesn't want to know who did so much damage to Ryan.
“I didn't know you play,” Brendon says and it's a stupid thing to say, as Brendon doesn't know anything about Ryan except that he smokes and doesn't have a home -not one he wants to go back to - and his first name.
“I guess it didn't come up,” Ryan answers shrugging. He is his monotone self again; an armour to protect him from the world and closer things.
“I have Chinese," Brendon says. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I am,” Ryan answers, getting up.
They eat it out of the boxes, but at the table, and Brendon makes tea to go with it. It's this awesome ginger-lemon stuff he got from Mikey.
“Tastes good,” Ryan offers and Brendon smiles at him. He still has no clue why he took Ryan in on an impulse or why he lets him stay, but he doesn't think it was exactly his choice. Maybe it was meant to be.
“You did the dishes,” Brendon says. He's kind of pleased.
“I was bored,” Ryan answers and it's not the answer Brendon was expecting, but somehow it is just so Ryan.
“You can do them tomorrow as well, if you’re bored again.” Brendon means it as a joke mostly.
Ryan doesn't look up from his food as he says: “Maybe I will.”
It doesn't matter that there will just be two mugs and forks and maybe spoons. It's the gesture that counts and Brendon knows that Ryan gets what he's saying. It's stay, if you want. The funny thing is, he thinks he really likes Ryan and he likes having another person around, besides his apartment isn't that small. He can share it with another person. And Ryan isn't exactly big and taking up a lot of space. It seems to Brendon that he makes himself even smaller than he really is sometimes.
“I'm going to shower now, I smell awful,” he says.
“I think you smell okay,” Ryan answers.
“I smell like a Happy Meal,” Brendon says laughing.
“Yeah,” Ryan says and his lips curve a bit upwards, it's nearly a smile. Brendon thinks he likes it.
~+~
The couch is old and worn out, but the blanket is warm and smells like fresh laundry. And the door to Brendon's bedroom is open a bit, as if he didn't want Ryan to feel alone. Ryan doesn't mind being alone, but he doesn't exactly mind being with someone else either. He can hear soft rustling, and then the frogs, and then nothing from Brendon's room and he closes his eyes and thinks: Maybe. Maybe he can stay a bit longer.
~3~
~+~
Mikey is already up when Gerard enters the kitchen around ten. He raises an eyebrow, but lets it be until he had his first mug of coffee. “So?” he asks.
Mikey shrugs, he doesn't know what to tell his brother. Gerard knows about the dreams.
“More coffee?” he asks. Gerard nods, but that doesn't mean he is off the hook, not at all.
“Tell me about them,” he says, after nearly finishing his second mug.
“They were vague at best this time and twisted and I can't see anything clearly enough,” he says, but it's not the whole truth. The thing is the parts that he can see clearly just can't be. It doesn't add up.
“Mikey?”
“There is a boy, and frogs, and Brendon, somehow, and death, and a woman, but it could be Emilie for all I know or Vicky or a total stranger. I just can't tell yet,” Mikey answers frustrated. Gerard nods, lighting a cigarette for himself and Mikey.
"Thanks,” Mikey says, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns his lungs, feels a bit like fire on his tongue. The emotion feels familiar, but he can't pin it down. So he writes it on his arm instead.
“What does it mean?” Gerard asks, nodding at the scribbling.
“Don't know yet. Seems important?”
“Okay,” Gerard answers, taking out his notebook and the pen from Mikey to scribble it down next to a drawing of Brendon's laughing face.
Mikey really appreciates that Gerard doesn't push it. It's not like he could be more specific if he wanted to, but he is sure anyone else would've pushed anyway. The dreams come to him like shattered stars, and he hasn’t had them that long to begin with . . . since Elena died. The night she died he had his first dream and it was about her funeral. She's been dead only a few years now, so he's still getting used to it. Gerard on the other hand always had a sense for these weird things. He was gifted, Elena told him, and Mikey had believed it since he first became aware of Gerard this big brother in his life, maybe even earlier. He's pretty sure he could hear Gerard talk to him when he was in the womb, telling him stories and how they would be the best friends once he was born. Gerard didn't lie.
“I'm sorry,” he says, exhaling smoke.
“Hey, no,” Gerard answers, reaching over to take Mikey's hand in his. “It's not your fault.”
Mikey knows it's not. It's no one's fault, really. But sometimes he feels like it is. All the things he sees come true, even if he tries to stop them. Sometimes he succeeds, sometime he doesn't. Sometimes it hurts more than others. Pete hurt the most until now.
“We should call Pete,” Gerard says and Mikey looks up from the table. He isn't surprised. It's not exactly that Gerard can read minds, it's just that he can read people and Mikey especially well.
“Yeah, I'm sure they're touring right now,” he answers.
“We could drive out to Chicago . . .” Gerard muses. Mikey knows he misses the music, the screaming, and heat, and Frank pressed against him - the warm feel of guitars against his hip and drums in his blood. He knows that, because Gerard is his brother and because Mikey misses it too.
“Yeah, we should,” Mikey says, squeezing back.
~+~
“God, I love you,” Gabe says, his voice husky, pressing his lips to William's forehead; hard and fast. William bites his lip so hard it whites out around the edges and comes, shuddering, in his own hand. Gabe follows soon after. He slips out and rolls away from Courtney, her body glistening with sweat. She is breathing heavily between them. Gabe has one arm thrown over his eyes, trying to block her out. It doesn't exactly work; it never does. He counts the seconds and minutes until she can move again, rolling over without touching him, but he knows, without needing to see it, that she is squeezing William's hand briefly on her way out of the bedroom.
He can hear William's breathing settling down and rolls on his side to look at him. His hair is mussed and his eyes are still closed, his lip red and swollen, but not from kissing. Gabe reaches his hand out and William opens his eyes, sensing it. He lets their fingertips touch for a second before they intertwine; just skimming over the digits, testing the skin, the flesh underneath.
“Are you going to see Travis' band play?” William asks.
“Yeah,” Gabe answers. He is still staring at William, wishing and hating his life, but not this part of it.
“Don't do that,” William says softly.
Gabe doesn't ask what, because they don't lie to each other and they don't play games. It's not them. He kisses William's knuckles instead, saying: “I wish I could taste you.” And William moans, just thinking about it makes his body react. He is not alone in this, but this is torture for them both.
“Gabe,” he says and nothing more, but it's not necessary anyway. Gabe knows and he is not sorry enough to not do it again.
~+~
The club is not exactly packed, but there are still more people he thought would come. Disashi is tuning his guitar in a corner; he doesn't look nervous, but he seldom does. And this is just another gig for them.
“I think William and Gabe are here,” Matt says.
“You think?”
“William and Gabe are here,” Matt says, not rolling his eyes. It's a close call.
“Sweet,” Travis says; Disashi laughs. Travis gives him the finger. Honestly, can a boy not have a boy crush without getting shit for it for years?
“The answer is no, man, and you know it,” Disashi says. Disashi is not a friend of his, Travis decides. He has no problem with this shit. This is Gabe, as in Gabe Saporta, frontman of Midtown. He fucking loves Midtown, okay?
“Man, you have no game,” Matt says.
“It's not about that,” Travis replies, because it's not. Besides, he knows that Gabe is heads over heals for this pretty boy.
“He's pretty like a girl,” Eric says from his corner and Travis nods. Everyone can admit this about William Beckett. It's unnatural how pretty he is and the same goes for his sister Courtney. The thing is, it's unnatural, but he isn't going to tell his band that. What good would it do?
“Also, the Ways,” Matt says.
“Really; Gerard as well?” Disashi asks. It might be that Gerard is Disashi's boy crush, but strangely no one is giving him shit for it. Maybe because Disashi is more subtle about it.
“Yep, and Jon is here with Hayley,” Matt adds.
“All our friends are here, isn't that nice?”
“I miss Pete,” Eric throws in. Travis nods.
“They're touring the north coast right now, I'm sure they'll be back in Chicago in a few weeks,” Matt says.
“You were talking to Brian, right?” Travis asks.
“Yeah, someone has to keep track of this shit,” Matt answers. Travis waves the conversation off. They're on in a few minutes anyway.
~+~
Gerard looks like he is going to bolt out of the door any moment now and it makes Mikey smile. He takes his brother's hand and tugs him forward to the side of the stage, so Gerard can be loitering in the shadows with a drink or two.
“It will be great,” he says into Gerard's ear.
Gerard nods. “I know.” He waves at Jon and Hayley, and then spots Gabe on the other side of the room, so he nods in his direction as well when Gabe catches his eye.
Gabe's fingers are around William's wrist and William doesn't seem bothered, holding a bottle of beer in his other hand and nodding to the beat. He looks relaxed. Mikey can't see Courtney anywhere. So the only conclusion is they're on a date. He feels a pang of guilt for their situation every time he sees them. He knew how this would end.
“They seem okay,” Gerard says, nudging his ribs softly. They do, he thinks.
“Yeah,” Mikey says and feels less guilty, it's not like he could have stopped them. And yeah, their relationship is complicated, but it seems to work and it doesn't have to be forever, just another twenty years or so. He closes his eyes. Everyone is cursed, Emilie said and he doesn't believe that, but he sure as hell knows more people who are than aren't.
~+~
Brendon is cooking something with tofu and vegetables and it smells spicy and rich and Ryan thinks that he’s gained weight in the last few days from staying at Brendon's place. He is setting the table and Brendon is singing Sugar, We're Going Down. Ryan doesn't want to feel at home here, but Brendon really makes this difficult. He doesn't know how long Brendon will let him stay.
“No idea if it tastes as good as it smells,” Brendon admits, putting the pot on the table.
“I'm sure it's okay,” Ryan answers. He spoons some rice and tofu-vegetable stuff on his plate and then begins to pick out the mushrooms.
“You could've said that you don't like them,” Brendon says, he looks a bit amused. Ryan shrugs.
“You like them,” he answers; Brendon smiles.
“Just put them on my plate. I'll eat them. You can have my French beans,” he offers. Ryan didn't tell him he likes them the most, but it seems Brendon picked up on it.
“Okay,” Ryan says and it means 'thanks'.
They watch Moulin Rouge on Brendon's old laptop afterwards, sitting on the floor, leaning against the worn couch. It feels like home. Like home never felt, if he is honest and sometimes he is, but he'll never admit it to anyone else. It will stay in his head until he dies. Brendon sings all the songs and Ryan suppresses laughs at his theatrics.
Brendon talks about a lot of things, but never about his family or about why he is living alone in this shitty apartment, and Ryan doesn't ask. He doesn't offer anything either.
“Ever thought about singing in a band?” he asks. The credits are rolling. Brendon switches the laptop off and turns to look at Ryan.
“Yeah . . . but . . .” Brendon spreads his hands and Ryan nods in understanding.
“You?”
“No, I don't have the voice,” Ryan answers.
“But you play really well,” Brendon says. Ryan shrugs, he thinks he is pretty okay, but he is well aware that Brendon plays better.
“ Maybe, you should go and feed Mozart and Shakespeare,” Ryan says; he doesn't really want to talk about bands and music, not like this. He misses Spencer too much for this to feel really comfortable.
“Yeah,” Brendon answers, getting up. Ryan waits until he can hear him talk to Mozart and Shakespeare, before he goes and curls up in one corner of the couch with the book Brendon got him two days ago. It's some New York Times best-seller, but Brendon got it for him and it's not that bad.
~+~
Gerard is chain smoking and Mikey is giving him looks. He waves it off. It's not that he doesn't like to meet with people; he just kind of freaks out when there are so many of them and also fans, former fans whatever. He doesn't like to tell them that he is not making music anymore, that he doesn't have a band anymore, that My Chemical Romance is history and what can he tell them instead? That he is making potions in his grandma's kitchen? He's sure that some would believe it and he doesn't know which is worse.
Disashi is giving him looks as well, but of another kind. He smiles around his cigarette and Disashi smiles back. He cocks his head to one side, and invitation to join him outside and Gerard nods his acceptance.
The night air is cold and he tightens his scarf, trying not to lean on the cold brick wall. Disashi lights one of his cigarettes, and then one for Gerard as well.
“Good show,” Gerard offers. He exhales smoke and watches it mingle with his breath on the next exhale.
“Thanks,” Disashi says. Gerard likes Disashi; the guy has seriously mad skills.
“You're rocking more,” Gerard says and Disashi laughs, all his white teeth showing. Suddenly he misses Pete painfully.
“Matt talked to Brian,” Disashi says; he's not looking at Gerard, he's just watching the sky.
“So?”
“They'll be in Chicago in a few weeks. I'm sure he will want to come to Jersey for your birthday,” Disashi says, there is a smile in his voice.
“Seems everyone thinks it's an important date,” Gerard answers.
“Hmm?”
“Frank is coming down as well,” Gerard says.
“Haven't seen him in a long time.” Disashi takes a last drag of his cigarette and throws the butt on the closest frozen over puddle.
“He's busy, we all are.”
“I miss your band,” Disashi says.
“I miss it too,” Gerard admits, throwing his butt on the pavement, not bothering to crush it under his heel. It's too cold and there is nothing that could catch fire here anyway. It glows for a few seconds and then dies. He feels like it should be a metaphor for his band, but it's not.
“You should at least do a new album,” Disashi says.
“Maybe . . . but, we're . . .- it’s complicated.”
“It always is,” Disashi says.
The thing is Mikey's seen it. Has seen Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, has seen how big it would be, how much bigger even the next record would be, how famous they could become, and he told Gerard and they decided against it. Mikey is sure they couldn't be doing what they are doing now (family business if you want to call it that), helping people, when they would have to tour, give interviews and everyone who cared would know how they look and, maybe, he would have saved lives in an abstract way, but this is so much better, so much closer. He is saving lives. Brendon's story is one big success. Brendon would've been dead for sure if not for Gerard and Mikey.
He nods, but thinks: we're all cursed. Sometimes it really feels like that; Emilie, and Bob for loving her. William and Gabe, and Courtney for loving him, Brendon . . . he doesn't know why Brendon got cursed, but he is determinate to find out. Pete and maybe his band as well. Vicky. Mikey for seeing what he's seeing in his dreams. He himself, maybe, because they are not always able to make things better.
“Let's go back. It's going to snow in a few minutes,” he says. Disashi gives him a look and Gerard smiles. “You know I'm right,” he adds.
“Yeah, it's still a bit creepy,” Disashi answers.
“Way charm,” Gerard says and it makes Disashi laugh.
continue
Author: alles_luege
Pairing: Bob/ Emilie Autumn , Gerard/Ryan/Mikey, Gabe/William+Gabe/Courtney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An urban fantasy, in which My Chemical Romance broke up after Bullets, The Academy Is . . . was never formed, but Fall out Boy, Midtown and Gym Class Heroes still exist. The Way brothers are wizards, William is a virgin, Gabe is not amused, Ryan is homeless, Travis awesome (even if denying his mojo), and Brendon cursed; with guest appearances by Fall out boy.
There is love, curses, frog-saving, and Vicky is a half-demon owning an herbs shop.
“You're not going to dig her out, right? Even Gerard would flip if you try that shit,” Travis says.
“I know you can speak with the dead,” Mikey says. Travis sighs, he was suspecting this.
“I'm not talking to the dead, they don't even talk to me randomly . . . This isn't my version of The Sixth Sense.”
Warning(s): angst, incest, threesome, mentions of abuse
Author’s Notes: There is a prologue/backstory to this I wrote some time ago: Free for sale. You don't need to read it to understand this one.
AND: Because I got awesome art (also this!) I wrote a ficlet for dwg : Girl in a coffin.
Check out the fanmix!!!
I want to thank my betas, I love you guys! Also; schoko_dei for hand holding and buying me nougat and my mixer morganya (I love every single song!) and artist dwg .
Word Count: 31.417
Beta: katelynelaine ,tygermine
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, not real.
~1~
It's raining again and he hates getting wet. On the plus side, a bit rain makes his skin feel cleaner. Not clean, per se, but rather refreshed. It has to do for now, until he can find a wash-room he doesn't have to pay for.
He steps under a marquee of a now closed pet store, and searches his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. It's crumpled and by the rattling he can tell that there are just a few left. He debates for a whole minute if he really wants to light one up, but honestly, he needs it. He hasn't eaten since yesterday. He needs it, now - even though he doesn't know if it's the rhythmic gesture or the nicotine that keeps him sane. It doesn't really matter anyway.
The first drag feels close to sinful. It's so good and maybe it’d be okay to just smoke half of it, and then he could smoke the rest in a few hours.
As he watches the rain he muses about a place to stay and how to find something to eat. There isn't much cash left from his last job, and that little bit he stole from his dad as he’d left is long gone.
On days like these, when it's cold and raining and he feels like shit and he knows that most people whose eyes slip over his slim form think that as well, he is nearly ready to go home again. And then he sees a drunken man on the street and knows that he can never go home. Never.
The wind intensifies, chilling him to the bone. His clothes by now are wet and a nice warm cup of tea sounds like a good idea. There was a Starbucks a few blocks ago. He passed it without looking inside. He always hates to look inside. He hated it when he lived at home and now he hates it even more. Now that he’s . . . not living at home anymore.
He could sit there for a few hours in peace, warming his chilled skin in the heated room, read a magazine someone left behind, maybe start a conversation with a stranger.
He turns around to check his reflection in the shop window. He looks rumpled he thinks, but no more than other people who were caught in the rain. He doesn't exactly look like a homeless person and, thankfully, he doesn't smell like one either. The question is how much longer can he keep up the appearance? Can he really afford a too expensive chai with cream just so he could hook up with a stranger who may be willing to let him sleep on the couch?
The answer to that question is no, definitely not.
~+~
“I can't believe that!” Brendon says, throwing the controller down. “You’re totally cheating!” he adds.
Mikey gives him an unimpressed look.
“He's not,” Gerard says from the kitchen. Brendon has no idea what he is doing in there and he doesn't want to know, because Gerard came home with a box full of frogs. Living frogs, though Brendon isn't so sure they’re alive anymore.
“He can't be that good, man. These are some really mad Guitar Hero skills!” Brendon shouts back.
“We are people first and wizards . . . you know scratch that,” Gerard answers, “Damn!”
“I think one got away,” Mikey says.
“What do you mean with 'got away'? What got away?”
“There are frogs in the hall,” Travis says entering the living room.
“Did you catch one?” Mikey wants to know. Brendon folds his legs underneath him on the couch. No frog is going to eat his naked toes!
“Two,” Travis says.
“With magic?!” Gerard asks from the kitchen, voice almost squeaky with panic.
“Give me some credit here,” Travis answers, reaching into his pocket and taking out two small green frogs.
“They are so precious!” Brendon cries out.
“They’re dead,” Mikey says looking away from Brendon.
“What exactly are you doing with them?” Brendon asks, slightly horrified.
“Mixture?” guesses Travis. Mikey nods.
“I hope you clean the mixer afterwards!” Mikey shouts. There is some noise that might be a 'yes' or might be a 'kiss my ass' from the kitchen; Mikey smiles.
“They aren’t alive when he puts them in, right?” Brendon asks. He can't stand by and allow Gerard to kill innocent frogs; that's just not cool. He’s a vegan. It's not cool. Mikey looks a bit uncomfortable.
“Oh god! Give me them!” Brendon says to Travis who shrugs as he hands the frogs over to Brendon. “I'm not gonna let him hurt you,” he says to the frogs. They are sitting very still in his palm. The bigger one is kind of snuggling his thumb.
“I think they like you,” Travis remarks. Mikey sighs.
“I think I'll name them Shakespeare and Mozart,” Brendon muses out loud. Mozart is so totally snuggling his thumb.
“Travis?!” Gerard shouts from the kitchen.
“Yo?”
“I need my frogs.”
“You can't have them! They have names now, I'm taking them home,” Brendon shouts.
“I . . . What?!” Gerard asks. A few seconds later he's standing in the living room. There is stuff on his hands Brendon doesn't want to think about. Maybe they were family once. He turns a bit so Mozart and Shakespeare don't have to see it either.
“I'm taking Mozart and Shakespeare home with me,” Brendon says, firmly.
“I need them to finish my mixture,” Gerard says exasperated.
“There are still a few in the hall,” Travis throws in.
“I'm taking Shakespeare and Mozart home now; they've seen enough horrors today already,” Brendon says. He strokes Mozart's head with one finger and then puts them into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Mikey, would you please, please fetch me two more frogs from the hall, in the next two minutes!” Gerard says. He sounds pathetically desperate, so Mikey gets up.
“Sure,” he says.
Gerard exhales slowly. “Thank you.”
“What are you making?” Travis asks, sitting down on the couch.
“Healing poison for Frank,” Gerard answers darkly. He needs his frogs in the next 65 seconds.
“Mikey!”
“God, yes; here,” he says, handing two small, frightened frogs over.
“Thanks!” Gerard answers, running into the kitchen.
“I can't look,” Brendon whispers.
“It's for a good cause,” Travis says.
“You're sitting in my spot, fucker,” Mikey says, but he just sits down on the armrest and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Travis knows that look. He was up for hours and slept maybe two, at a stretch.
“Dreams?” he asks.
“Yeah, don't tell Gerard,” Mikey answers. Travis nods.
“He’ll figure out soon enough,” Brendon throws in; he’s putting on his jacket and patting his pocket gently to make sure Mozart and Shakespeare are still in there.
“You’re really going home?” Mikey asks.
“Need to go to the pet store first. I have pets now,” he answers. “Tell Gerard bye for me,” he adds.
“Sure,” Mikey answers. Travis makes room on the couch for him. Mikey leans his head against the back and listens to Brendon looking for his shoes in the hall.
“I could make you a potion,” Travis offers.
“It's not like that. It's something else,” Mikey answers, his eyes still closed.
“Brendon is right. Gerard will find out soon enough,” Travis says; Mikey nods.
“I know.”
“Just in time,” Gerard says a few minutes later upon entering the living room; he nudges Mikey's knee until he makes room on the couch for him. “Where's Brendon?”
“Pet store,” Mikey answers. Gerard just nods. Travis always found it a bit creepy how well they tended to mindmeld.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Gerard wants to know from Travis.
“Besides saving your ass?”
“Potion,” Gerard answers. “My ass doesn't need any saving.”
“Why are you here?” Mikey asks.
“Thought you’d need to get out; I have a gig this Friday,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Mikey says.
“Count us in,” Gerard says with a soft look to his brother.
“Great,” Travis answers.
~+~
It starts to rain again when he is halfway down the street to the pet store on the corner. The wind is so cold it chills him to the bone. He hopes that Mozart and Shakespeare are doing okay in his pocket. He doesn't think little green frogs like to be out in the cold. Brendon knows he doesn't like to be out in the cold, especially not with the snow starting to fall.
There is a boy standing in front of the pet store, smoking and looking pretty lost. Brendon knows that look and he doesn't like it.
He reaches out to push the door open and the boy takes a step to the right to make room for him.
“It's closed,” he says and Brendon freezes with his hand on the glass. The boy has a nice voice, a bit rough, like he's maybe one step away from a cold.
“Oh . . .” Brendon says and doesn't know what else to say. He settles on 'thanks' after a few seconds.
“No problem,” the boy says. He is inhaling smoke and not looking at Brendon. There is nothing for him to do here anymore; he has to come by tomorrow to pester the shop keeper about frogs, so he makes to turn and then Shakespeare kind of wriggles out of his hoodie and the jacket and jumps onto the street into a puddle.
“No! Shakespeare! Come back! Right now!” Brendon cries. He knows it must sound stupid, because he is talking to a frog, but he doesn't care. He is sure Shakespeare can actually understand him. Same goes for Mozart.
“You lost your frog,” the boy says.
“No shit!” Brendon answers hotly.
“Need help with that?”
“Yes!” Brendon answers; isn't that obvious?! Shakespeare is not a good pet. He needs a lot more training. The boy kneels down and stretches his hand out. Brendon wants to shout at him, because what the fuck is he thinking? That isn't going to work! But it does. Shakespeare jumps onto the boy’s hand and the boy lifts him up, taking another drag of his cigarette with the other.
“Here, Shakespeare? Really?” he asks, handing Brendon the frog.
“He looks like a Shakespeare,” Brendon answers and the boy laughs. He has a nice laugh, but one that isn't used often. Brendon can tell.
“Yeah, he does,” the boy says.
“Thanks,” Brendon says, Shakespeare is wriggling restlessly in his hand, as if he wants to tell Brendon something. Since he got cursed all kinds of weird things are happening to him and maybe Shakespeare is trying to tell him something and maybe he should listen.
“No problem, really,” the boy replies, leaning against the wall of the pet store.
“Can I buy you a coffee, as a thank you?” Brendon asks and Shakespeare stops being restless and Brendon can finally put him back in his pocket.
“Sure, there’s a Starbucks down the street,” he answers, getting up.
“I'm Brendon,” Brendon says, sticking his hand out, the boy looks at it for a second and then shakes it. His fingers are long and his skin damp from rain and cold.
“Ryan,” he offers.
And that's how Brendon meets Ryan.
~+~
“Oh, I got cursed,” Brendon says when he sees Ryan staring at the big scar on his arm. It looks a bit like an ugly flower. He shrugs as he says it, but he also pulls the sleeve of his shirt back down as he settles deeper into the overstuffed couch in his apartment. Ryan thinks he sounds far too cheerful for a person who recently got cursed. Also, he doesn't believe one word out of Brendon’s mouth. Honestly, who would? It's not exactly common to get cursed these days, is it? Only crazy people think they’re cursed.
“Right,” he drawls.
“No, really; it was a strong blood-curse and Gee counteracted it with a stronger blood-curse with virgin blood and bones of cats and all kinds of nasty stuff in it and I had to drink it. Thing is, he couldn't lift the curse. Just change it. He doesn't say there’s no cure. He just says that he hasn’t found it yet. On the plus side, I'm not dying a horrible death,” he shrugs, playing with the hem of his shirt. His hoodie is lying on the small couch and Shakespeare and Mozart are sleeping on it. Ryan thinks that maybe Brendon isn't as cool with all this as he wants people to believe. He sure wouldn't be.
“Who cursed you?” he asks. He really wants to sound kind of empathetic, but he isn't good at this kind of stuff - never was, to tell the truth - and he knows it. Besides, Brendon is clearly crazy. But he seems like a good person anyway. Not like psycho crazy. Ryan can deal with this.
“I don't know...but Gee thinks it must be someone close to me,” Brendon answers and Ryan thinks you don't need to be a genius to know what that means.
He wants to say he's sorry. But he doesn't really know Brendon and he is not sorry, not really. Because most people are dealing with shit in their lives and Brendon is no exception. And why should he be?
“Hey, is it okay to take a shower?” he asks instead. He really feels like he needs it badly. He hasn’t showered for days and he smells like winter rain and cigarettes.
“Sure, but the water is only lukewarm,” Brendon answers, sounding kind of apologetic. Ryan really doesn't care. He just wants to feel clean again.
“That's okay,” he says, getting up.
The bathroom is small and the window is even smaller, but it's clean. And even if it weren't . . . he’s seen much worse.
The water really was only lukewarm, but the apartment’s warm, so he doesn't think he’ll catch a cold. He washes his clothes as well, as good as is possible and with Brendon's shower gel, that smells a bit fruity. He didn't see a washing machine anywhere and the building seems like the shitty kind that doesn't have one - or if it has, it probably doesn't work.
When he comes out of the bathroom in just a towel and his clothes dripping a bit on the floor because he didn't wring them out properly, Brendon is making something that smells spicy in the small kitchen.
He spreads out his clothes on the heater and goes over. “Smells good,” he says, sitting down. Brendon has three chairs and they don't match. The table is a bit unsteady and made of oak. There are dark stains on it and the surface feels uneven. It doesn't fit the cheap plastic chairs at all.
“It's supposed to be a spaghetti sauce, but I pretty much fail at tomato sauces. I’m sure it’s safe to eat, though.” He turns around and stares for a few seconds before he catches himself and looks away. “I could lend you some clothes,” he says.
“That’d be awesome. I spread mine out over your heater . . . and I used your shower gel to wash them,” Ryan answers. He isn't bothered by people staring at him. He knows that his looks work for him more often than not. It's how he managed not to freeze to death the last few weeks. He also doesn't think that exchanging sex for a place to stay is a big deal. You learn to do what you need to do in order to survive.
“Oh, okay. Be right back,” Brendon says.
Ryan knows that because the apartment isn't big at all. There is only one other door and that must be Brendon's bedroom. Ryan rubs his hair while Brendon is rummaging in his closet. The walls are so thin he can hear Brendon in the other room; he is singing something unfamiliar to Ryan.
His stomach clenches at the smell. He really is hungry. He takes a sip from the mug on the table that Brendon put there for him and then adds two spoons of sugar. It has a bright green clover on it. It's somewhat stupid and endearing at the same time.
“So, here. I think they'll fit,” Brendon says a bit awkwardly, handing a shirt and a pair of sweat pants over. No underwear, but that would be a bit creepy and Ryan can understand that. He still doesn't know what Brendon wants from him, but he is not going to ask. He is sure Brendon will tell him when he needs to know. He isn't bothered by this either.
“Thanks,” he drops the towel and Brendon turns around. It's kind of sweet. The sleeves are a bit short and he isn't sure yellow is his colour, but he isn't going to complain now. The pants are okay, even if a bit low on his hips. He thinks he lost weight again in the last few days.
“Dinner should be ready in a minute,” Brendon says, busying himself by putting noodles and sauce into bowls. They are mismatched as well; one is pink with blue dots and the other is black. He looks a bit sheepish putting them on the table along with forks.
“Thanks,” Ryan says again. He really is thankful. He doesn't like being cold and he is starving.
They eat in silence - it tastes pretty good - and outside it begins to snow.
~2~
~+~
Brendon is standing in the hall when he hears Gerard open the door.
“Emilie,” he says with a small smile and kisses the back of her hand gently. She cocks her head to one side and then leans in and kisses his cheek. Not like the French do - just one side; the left.
“Gerard,” she answers.
“You're back from Germany, I see,” he says.
“Yes, and on the way to Chicago. So we thought we should stop by,” she answers.
She's wearing a pale blue dress, stockings and boots, not the clunky kind. She still looks like a gothic princess, for all Brendon knows she could be wearing black. Everything around her seems to get darker, as if to fit her. He wouldn't say it's sinister. Not in a bad way, like creepy or evil. No, it's more like reading a Poe novel.
“Where's Bob?” Gerard asks.
Her green eyes are blazing with mischief. “In the car, battling a guitar that came lose,” she answers.
“Oh, okay, I think I should go and see how he's doing,” Gerard says, she nods and Gerard is out of the door in a few seconds. The door firmly shut behind him.
“You are new,” she says to Brendon. He is playing with the hem of his t-shirt and feels somehow out of place.
“I'm Brendon,” he says.
“Emilie,” she answers stretching her hand out. He hesitates just a moment before he takes it. It feels cool against his palm. Her fingers are long, slender and pale reminding him of Ryan's. And then there is a brief sense of vertigo and darkness and the smell of humid earth. He pulls his hand away and her fingers slip from his.
“Sorry,” he says.
“No, don't be,” she answers. “Where is Mikey?” she asks into the silence.
“Oh, in the kitchen making tea,” Brendon answers with relief. Mikey and tea are very safe topics. He can deal with that.
“Maybe we should go sit in the living room then?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
They didn't even make it two steps in the living room's direction when Gerard opens the door again. He brings with him a blond guy and the cold winter wind. It makes Brendon shiver.
“Oh, yeah, that's Brendon, he's cursed,” Gerard says and Brendon doesn't like to be introduced like this, but he learned to deal and not to wonder.
“Aren't we all?” Emilie answers, taking Brendon's elbow, she is making sure not to touch his skin and he is grateful for that, but doesn't know why.
Mikey's already in the living room when they enter and Bob hugs him tight and Mikey smiles into his shoulder.
“Long time not seen,” Bob says.
“Yeah, how was Germany?” Mikey asks, as they're sitting down.
“They love her,” he answers, with a soft smile in Emilie's direction. She smiles back. They are clearly in love, Brendon thinks.
“I bet,” Gerard says, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. There are two mugs of coffee on the table; one for Mikey and one for Gerard. Mikey puts two spoons of sugar in one before he hands it over to his brother. Gerard nods his thanks. “And . . . the other thing?” Gerard asks after his first drag.
“No luck, must be somewhere else,” Emilie says, she sounds a bit bitter.
“On the plus side, we found this really cool silver dagger. Thought Frank could use it,” Bob says, taking it out of his hoodie. It's wrapped in black silk and it's small, but still looks deadly.
“Oh,” Gerard says.
“Yeah,” Bob answers, and they're both staring at it for a while longer. Brendon takes a cookie and tries not to care. The Way brothers are strange and their friends are strange as well. He suspects that he's not an exception anymore.
“So, you found The Lost Dagger . . . in Germany?” Gerard asks.
“Yeah, in a small shop in Bavaria; I bet the guy didn't even know what it was,” Bob answers.
“Not many people do,” Mikey throws in. Gerard nods.
“Can you pass it along to Frank? We haven't heard from him since October,” Bob says.
“Sure, he mailed that he would be here in April,” Gerard answers.
“For your birthday,” Emilie says softly.
“I guess,” Gerard shrugs in this way that means he is secretly pleased. She laughs openly at that and her long red hair falls like a bloody curtain over her face. It gives Brendon the shivers and he doesn't know why. He busies himself with another cookie and some tea.
~+~
When they're gone, Gerard and Mikey are smoking in silence and Brendon doesn't exactly know how to ask what he thinks he needs to know.
“Ask already,” Mikey says, taking a deep drag. Gerard nods, but doesn't take his eyes from The Lost Dagger.
“So . . . Emilie. . . She's that singer, right?” Brendon tries.
“She is, but that's not what you want to know. Is it?” Mikey says.
“No. . . When I touched her - I mean, when I shook her hand - God! Forget it!” he says frustrated, because this is stupid, he has no powers whatsoever.
“She is not like other people,” Gerard says slowly. No shit, Brendon thinks and Gerard smiles, as if he had heard it. For all Brendon knows, he could have. “Bob is a hunter,” Gerard begins and even if this doesn't explain anything about her yet, Brendon nods. He has learned to be patient. Gerard will get there, sooner or later. “He hunts ghosts and monsters and things like that, for his own reasons. And while he was in London a few years ago he found her. Someone buried her alive . . . In 1873.” Gerard takes another drag.
“Wait!” Brendon says. The darkness and the smell of earth make so much sense now and it still makes him shiver. “She isn't alive?” he asks, because no one can be alive after such a long time and besides she was buried.
“She is alive,” Mikey says.
“She can't die,” Gerard adds.
“But. . .” Brendon tries again. “There's something about her. . .”
“It's death,” Mikey says. Mikey doesn't sugar-coat things. Sometimes Brendon likes this about him, sometimes he doesn't; this is the latter.
“What?!” he's sure his voice shouldn't sound like that; shrill and panicked.
“She can't die, but death is still waiting for her. It's everywhere. She can't shake it off,” Gerard clarifies.
“Jesus,” Brendon says and he doesn't believe in God or Jesus anymore, but he wishes he could. Just for now. “But Bob can die, right?” Brendon asks.
Gerard nods.
“Yeah,” Mikey says and it sounds sad.
“Are they trying to find a cure?” Brendon asks.
“For being undead?” Gerard wonders, taking another drag. The cigarette is nearly down to the filter already and Mikey gives him a look. He sighs, puts it in the ashtray and lights a new one.
“She's not a zombie, Gerard,” Mikey says.
“Right, yeah, they are. We are as well, but no one knows what the curse was. She's not a vampire or a zombie or anything else I've ever seen or heard of.”
“Jesus,” Brendon says again.
“Sums it up just fine,” Mikey says, lighting up a new cigarette.
~+~
Ryan doesn't know why Brendon let him stay and didn't kick him out in the morning. He also doesn't know why Brendon didn't try anything. But maybe Brendon just isn't into guys. On the other hand, a blow job is a blow job. You don't have to be into guys to like having someone go down on you.
There's a note on the coffee maker when Ryan enters the kitchen that morning.
To Ryan:
Gone to work; will be home late. There's no coffee. :( Sorry.
Brendon
Ryan has to smile. He doesn't even know why. There is tea in the second cupboard on the left. So he boils water and makes that instead of coffee. Besides he is not the biggest fan of coffee anyway. There is also milk in the refrigerator and an already open pack of cornflakes. He takes out a bowl and then sits down to eat his breakfast. He thinks he should just leave,but it doesn't seem like Brendon actually wants him to leave. He wouldn't have left a post-it, if he wanted Ryan to get out of his apartment, right? Besides Ryan doesn't know where to go. Ryan has nowhere to go. He cleans the bowl and the dishes from the previous evening and then just kind of looks around the apartment. He puts some music on. Staind's Break the Cycle just because he didn't hear it in a while and because he likes the singers voice. Then he sits down on the floor and stares at the wall. After a while he lies down and closes his eyes. He thinks about how he used to write lyrics and poems in his blue notebook and how his fingers hurt from the strings of his guitar. He misses that feeling. The only physical reminder of it is the calluses that are already fading. His dad sold it and he hated him for that more than all the other things he'd done. Ryan is still bitter about it. And he misses getting lost in his own mind, his own music. To have a safe place, even if it's only inside himself.
Something wet lands on his collarbone and his eyes fly open. The first instinct is to hit it, but then he remembers Brendon's pets. And his fingers inch forward slowly until he finds the cool frog skin. He takes it into his hand and sits up, holding it in his palm. He thinks it's Shakespeare, but he can't be sure. They kind of look alike, even if he's sure Brendon would object to this.
“So, are you feeling lonely?” Ryan asks. The frog doesn't answer, but Ryan didn't expect it to. So it's okay. “Where's your buddy?” he says; it's more to hear his own voice than anything else really, and stands up. Looking around the apartment he finds the other frog sitting near a plant on the windowsill in Brendon's bedroom. “Maybe you should keep each other company, hmm?” he says, setting the frog down next to the other. He sits down on the bed and looks around the room. It's messy and the bed is unmade, clothes are everywhere and in a corner behind the door is a guitar. His fingers itch to pick it up. It looks old and well used, like his used to look. “You guys think he would mind?” Ryan asks, he's biting his lip and debating with himself. It would be pushing his luck, for sure, but maybe . . . maybe Brendon wouldn't mind and he doesn't know when Brendon will be back. There is no TV in the apartment. He gets up and stands in front of the guitar. It feels smooth under his hand when he runs a finger over the surface. “You aren’t going to tell on me, are you?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the two frogs, they are looking out of the window. So Ryan picks the guitar up smiling. He hasn't had the chance to play in over two years and it feels kind of foreign in his hands. For a second he doesn't know what to do with it, but memory kicks in and he sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall and plays the first thing that comes to mind, which is What's My Age Again. It makes him smile and miss Spencer, heated conversations, and sharing secrets in the dark.
~+~
The first thing Brendon hears is music and it is coming from his shitty apartment. It's familiar and not. He's sure he knows the song, but hasn't heard it before, not like this.
Ryan isn't in the living room when he enters, but the sound is coming from his bedroom anyway. He stops near the door and just listens. Ryan is playing and not too badly. He is also singing and he isn't exactly bad, but it isn't good either. It's Early Sunsets Over Monroeville. He knows every word to it by heart. He sang it with Gerard a few times as well. He still doesn't know what happened, why they stopped being a band and became . . . well, what they are now. Neither Mikey nor Gerard is talking about it. Maybe it has something to do with: 'We are people first and wizards. . . You know scratch that.' Brendon doesn't know, he doesn't know a lot of things. And sometimes he wishes he didn't know the things he does know. He pushes the door open and during the split second Ryan didn't know he was being watched, Brendon could see the concentration on his face and how easily his fingers found the strings. Ryan knows this song by heart as well. His fingers slip and the notes fade away.
“Sorry,” he says, putting the guitar aside. He looks like he is afraid Brendon might hit him. He looks small and fragile and Brendon both wants and doesn't want to know who did so much damage to Ryan.
“I didn't know you play,” Brendon says and it's a stupid thing to say, as Brendon doesn't know anything about Ryan except that he smokes and doesn't have a home -not one he wants to go back to - and his first name.
“I guess it didn't come up,” Ryan answers shrugging. He is his monotone self again; an armour to protect him from the world and closer things.
“I have Chinese," Brendon says. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I am,” Ryan answers, getting up.
They eat it out of the boxes, but at the table, and Brendon makes tea to go with it. It's this awesome ginger-lemon stuff he got from Mikey.
“Tastes good,” Ryan offers and Brendon smiles at him. He still has no clue why he took Ryan in on an impulse or why he lets him stay, but he doesn't think it was exactly his choice. Maybe it was meant to be.
“You did the dishes,” Brendon says. He's kind of pleased.
“I was bored,” Ryan answers and it's not the answer Brendon was expecting, but somehow it is just so Ryan.
“You can do them tomorrow as well, if you’re bored again.” Brendon means it as a joke mostly.
Ryan doesn't look up from his food as he says: “Maybe I will.”
It doesn't matter that there will just be two mugs and forks and maybe spoons. It's the gesture that counts and Brendon knows that Ryan gets what he's saying. It's stay, if you want. The funny thing is, he thinks he really likes Ryan and he likes having another person around, besides his apartment isn't that small. He can share it with another person. And Ryan isn't exactly big and taking up a lot of space. It seems to Brendon that he makes himself even smaller than he really is sometimes.
“I'm going to shower now, I smell awful,” he says.
“I think you smell okay,” Ryan answers.
“I smell like a Happy Meal,” Brendon says laughing.
“Yeah,” Ryan says and his lips curve a bit upwards, it's nearly a smile. Brendon thinks he likes it.
~+~
The couch is old and worn out, but the blanket is warm and smells like fresh laundry. And the door to Brendon's bedroom is open a bit, as if he didn't want Ryan to feel alone. Ryan doesn't mind being alone, but he doesn't exactly mind being with someone else either. He can hear soft rustling, and then the frogs, and then nothing from Brendon's room and he closes his eyes and thinks: Maybe. Maybe he can stay a bit longer.
~3~
~+~
Mikey is already up when Gerard enters the kitchen around ten. He raises an eyebrow, but lets it be until he had his first mug of coffee. “So?” he asks.
Mikey shrugs, he doesn't know what to tell his brother. Gerard knows about the dreams.
“More coffee?” he asks. Gerard nods, but that doesn't mean he is off the hook, not at all.
“Tell me about them,” he says, after nearly finishing his second mug.
“They were vague at best this time and twisted and I can't see anything clearly enough,” he says, but it's not the whole truth. The thing is the parts that he can see clearly just can't be. It doesn't add up.
“Mikey?”
“There is a boy, and frogs, and Brendon, somehow, and death, and a woman, but it could be Emilie for all I know or Vicky or a total stranger. I just can't tell yet,” Mikey answers frustrated. Gerard nods, lighting a cigarette for himself and Mikey.
"Thanks,” Mikey says, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns his lungs, feels a bit like fire on his tongue. The emotion feels familiar, but he can't pin it down. So he writes it on his arm instead.
“What does it mean?” Gerard asks, nodding at the scribbling.
“Don't know yet. Seems important?”
“Okay,” Gerard answers, taking out his notebook and the pen from Mikey to scribble it down next to a drawing of Brendon's laughing face.
Mikey really appreciates that Gerard doesn't push it. It's not like he could be more specific if he wanted to, but he is sure anyone else would've pushed anyway. The dreams come to him like shattered stars, and he hasn’t had them that long to begin with . . . since Elena died. The night she died he had his first dream and it was about her funeral. She's been dead only a few years now, so he's still getting used to it. Gerard on the other hand always had a sense for these weird things. He was gifted, Elena told him, and Mikey had believed it since he first became aware of Gerard this big brother in his life, maybe even earlier. He's pretty sure he could hear Gerard talk to him when he was in the womb, telling him stories and how they would be the best friends once he was born. Gerard didn't lie.
“I'm sorry,” he says, exhaling smoke.
“Hey, no,” Gerard answers, reaching over to take Mikey's hand in his. “It's not your fault.”
Mikey knows it's not. It's no one's fault, really. But sometimes he feels like it is. All the things he sees come true, even if he tries to stop them. Sometimes he succeeds, sometime he doesn't. Sometimes it hurts more than others. Pete hurt the most until now.
“We should call Pete,” Gerard says and Mikey looks up from the table. He isn't surprised. It's not exactly that Gerard can read minds, it's just that he can read people and Mikey especially well.
“Yeah, I'm sure they're touring right now,” he answers.
“We could drive out to Chicago . . .” Gerard muses. Mikey knows he misses the music, the screaming, and heat, and Frank pressed against him - the warm feel of guitars against his hip and drums in his blood. He knows that, because Gerard is his brother and because Mikey misses it too.
“Yeah, we should,” Mikey says, squeezing back.
~+~
“God, I love you,” Gabe says, his voice husky, pressing his lips to William's forehead; hard and fast. William bites his lip so hard it whites out around the edges and comes, shuddering, in his own hand. Gabe follows soon after. He slips out and rolls away from Courtney, her body glistening with sweat. She is breathing heavily between them. Gabe has one arm thrown over his eyes, trying to block her out. It doesn't exactly work; it never does. He counts the seconds and minutes until she can move again, rolling over without touching him, but he knows, without needing to see it, that she is squeezing William's hand briefly on her way out of the bedroom.
He can hear William's breathing settling down and rolls on his side to look at him. His hair is mussed and his eyes are still closed, his lip red and swollen, but not from kissing. Gabe reaches his hand out and William opens his eyes, sensing it. He lets their fingertips touch for a second before they intertwine; just skimming over the digits, testing the skin, the flesh underneath.
“Are you going to see Travis' band play?” William asks.
“Yeah,” Gabe answers. He is still staring at William, wishing and hating his life, but not this part of it.
“Don't do that,” William says softly.
Gabe doesn't ask what, because they don't lie to each other and they don't play games. It's not them. He kisses William's knuckles instead, saying: “I wish I could taste you.” And William moans, just thinking about it makes his body react. He is not alone in this, but this is torture for them both.
“Gabe,” he says and nothing more, but it's not necessary anyway. Gabe knows and he is not sorry enough to not do it again.
~+~
The club is not exactly packed, but there are still more people he thought would come. Disashi is tuning his guitar in a corner; he doesn't look nervous, but he seldom does. And this is just another gig for them.
“I think William and Gabe are here,” Matt says.
“You think?”
“William and Gabe are here,” Matt says, not rolling his eyes. It's a close call.
“Sweet,” Travis says; Disashi laughs. Travis gives him the finger. Honestly, can a boy not have a boy crush without getting shit for it for years?
“The answer is no, man, and you know it,” Disashi says. Disashi is not a friend of his, Travis decides. He has no problem with this shit. This is Gabe, as in Gabe Saporta, frontman of Midtown. He fucking loves Midtown, okay?
“Man, you have no game,” Matt says.
“It's not about that,” Travis replies, because it's not. Besides, he knows that Gabe is heads over heals for this pretty boy.
“He's pretty like a girl,” Eric says from his corner and Travis nods. Everyone can admit this about William Beckett. It's unnatural how pretty he is and the same goes for his sister Courtney. The thing is, it's unnatural, but he isn't going to tell his band that. What good would it do?
“Also, the Ways,” Matt says.
“Really; Gerard as well?” Disashi asks. It might be that Gerard is Disashi's boy crush, but strangely no one is giving him shit for it. Maybe because Disashi is more subtle about it.
“Yep, and Jon is here with Hayley,” Matt adds.
“All our friends are here, isn't that nice?”
“I miss Pete,” Eric throws in. Travis nods.
“They're touring the north coast right now, I'm sure they'll be back in Chicago in a few weeks,” Matt says.
“You were talking to Brian, right?” Travis asks.
“Yeah, someone has to keep track of this shit,” Matt answers. Travis waves the conversation off. They're on in a few minutes anyway.
~+~
Gerard looks like he is going to bolt out of the door any moment now and it makes Mikey smile. He takes his brother's hand and tugs him forward to the side of the stage, so Gerard can be loitering in the shadows with a drink or two.
“It will be great,” he says into Gerard's ear.
Gerard nods. “I know.” He waves at Jon and Hayley, and then spots Gabe on the other side of the room, so he nods in his direction as well when Gabe catches his eye.
Gabe's fingers are around William's wrist and William doesn't seem bothered, holding a bottle of beer in his other hand and nodding to the beat. He looks relaxed. Mikey can't see Courtney anywhere. So the only conclusion is they're on a date. He feels a pang of guilt for their situation every time he sees them. He knew how this would end.
“They seem okay,” Gerard says, nudging his ribs softly. They do, he thinks.
“Yeah,” Mikey says and feels less guilty, it's not like he could have stopped them. And yeah, their relationship is complicated, but it seems to work and it doesn't have to be forever, just another twenty years or so. He closes his eyes. Everyone is cursed, Emilie said and he doesn't believe that, but he sure as hell knows more people who are than aren't.
~+~
Brendon is cooking something with tofu and vegetables and it smells spicy and rich and Ryan thinks that he’s gained weight in the last few days from staying at Brendon's place. He is setting the table and Brendon is singing Sugar, We're Going Down. Ryan doesn't want to feel at home here, but Brendon really makes this difficult. He doesn't know how long Brendon will let him stay.
“No idea if it tastes as good as it smells,” Brendon admits, putting the pot on the table.
“I'm sure it's okay,” Ryan answers. He spoons some rice and tofu-vegetable stuff on his plate and then begins to pick out the mushrooms.
“You could've said that you don't like them,” Brendon says, he looks a bit amused. Ryan shrugs.
“You like them,” he answers; Brendon smiles.
“Just put them on my plate. I'll eat them. You can have my French beans,” he offers. Ryan didn't tell him he likes them the most, but it seems Brendon picked up on it.
“Okay,” Ryan says and it means 'thanks'.
They watch Moulin Rouge on Brendon's old laptop afterwards, sitting on the floor, leaning against the worn couch. It feels like home. Like home never felt, if he is honest and sometimes he is, but he'll never admit it to anyone else. It will stay in his head until he dies. Brendon sings all the songs and Ryan suppresses laughs at his theatrics.
Brendon talks about a lot of things, but never about his family or about why he is living alone in this shitty apartment, and Ryan doesn't ask. He doesn't offer anything either.
“Ever thought about singing in a band?” he asks. The credits are rolling. Brendon switches the laptop off and turns to look at Ryan.
“Yeah . . . but . . .” Brendon spreads his hands and Ryan nods in understanding.
“You?”
“No, I don't have the voice,” Ryan answers.
“But you play really well,” Brendon says. Ryan shrugs, he thinks he is pretty okay, but he is well aware that Brendon plays better.
“ Maybe, you should go and feed Mozart and Shakespeare,” Ryan says; he doesn't really want to talk about bands and music, not like this. He misses Spencer too much for this to feel really comfortable.
“Yeah,” Brendon answers, getting up. Ryan waits until he can hear him talk to Mozart and Shakespeare, before he goes and curls up in one corner of the couch with the book Brendon got him two days ago. It's some New York Times best-seller, but Brendon got it for him and it's not that bad.
~+~
Gerard is chain smoking and Mikey is giving him looks. He waves it off. It's not that he doesn't like to meet with people; he just kind of freaks out when there are so many of them and also fans, former fans whatever. He doesn't like to tell them that he is not making music anymore, that he doesn't have a band anymore, that My Chemical Romance is history and what can he tell them instead? That he is making potions in his grandma's kitchen? He's sure that some would believe it and he doesn't know which is worse.
Disashi is giving him looks as well, but of another kind. He smiles around his cigarette and Disashi smiles back. He cocks his head to one side, and invitation to join him outside and Gerard nods his acceptance.
The night air is cold and he tightens his scarf, trying not to lean on the cold brick wall. Disashi lights one of his cigarettes, and then one for Gerard as well.
“Good show,” Gerard offers. He exhales smoke and watches it mingle with his breath on the next exhale.
“Thanks,” Disashi says. Gerard likes Disashi; the guy has seriously mad skills.
“You're rocking more,” Gerard says and Disashi laughs, all his white teeth showing. Suddenly he misses Pete painfully.
“Matt talked to Brian,” Disashi says; he's not looking at Gerard, he's just watching the sky.
“So?”
“They'll be in Chicago in a few weeks. I'm sure he will want to come to Jersey for your birthday,” Disashi says, there is a smile in his voice.
“Seems everyone thinks it's an important date,” Gerard answers.
“Hmm?”
“Frank is coming down as well,” Gerard says.
“Haven't seen him in a long time.” Disashi takes a last drag of his cigarette and throws the butt on the closest frozen over puddle.
“He's busy, we all are.”
“I miss your band,” Disashi says.
“I miss it too,” Gerard admits, throwing his butt on the pavement, not bothering to crush it under his heel. It's too cold and there is nothing that could catch fire here anyway. It glows for a few seconds and then dies. He feels like it should be a metaphor for his band, but it's not.
“You should at least do a new album,” Disashi says.
“Maybe . . . but, we're . . .- it’s complicated.”
“It always is,” Disashi says.
The thing is Mikey's seen it. Has seen Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, has seen how big it would be, how much bigger even the next record would be, how famous they could become, and he told Gerard and they decided against it. Mikey is sure they couldn't be doing what they are doing now (family business if you want to call it that), helping people, when they would have to tour, give interviews and everyone who cared would know how they look and, maybe, he would have saved lives in an abstract way, but this is so much better, so much closer. He is saving lives. Brendon's story is one big success. Brendon would've been dead for sure if not for Gerard and Mikey.
He nods, but thinks: we're all cursed. Sometimes it really feels like that; Emilie, and Bob for loving her. William and Gabe, and Courtney for loving him, Brendon . . . he doesn't know why Brendon got cursed, but he is determinate to find out. Pete and maybe his band as well. Vicky. Mikey for seeing what he's seeing in his dreams. He himself, maybe, because they are not always able to make things better.
“Let's go back. It's going to snow in a few minutes,” he says. Disashi gives him a look and Gerard smiles. “You know I'm right,” he adds.
“Yeah, it's still a bit creepy,” Disashi answers.
“Way charm,” Gerard says and it makes Disashi laugh.
continue