The Last of a Line of Lasts
Title: The Last of a Line of Lasts
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13 for language, drugs and alcohol
Summary: The whole thing's still a blur, punctuated by bright, sharp moments Gerard can't and shouldn't and won't forget.
WC: ~6,500
Disclaimer: Not real, not mine.
Warnings: Emetophobes will definitely want to skip this one.
Notes & Stuff: Written for bandom_hc, better late than never. Many thanks to ciel_vert for her tireless hand-holding and cheerleading, and to fitofpique for the amazing beta. Title from "The End is the Beginning is the End" by Smashing Pumpkins.
"You're gonna sleep through the whole flight, aren't you?"
Bob nods from the recesses of his hoodie. "Yup." He yawns, slumping lower in his seat. "Some of us actually woke up during that earthquake, you know."
"Hey, I've got a newborn at home. I sleep when I can." Gerard glances instinctively at his watch; they've only just taken off, his chest still tight with the rush of leaving the ground, squeezing a little tighter at the thought of Lindsey and Bandit, waiting for him. Ten hours to go, give or take. That's forever. That's nothing.
"Besides," Bob says. "It makes the flight go by faster."
"Yeah, I know." There are too many stamps in Gerard's passport to remember how many times he's flown halfway around the world or more, and he can still never keep straight when he's supposed to sleep and when he's supposed to stay awake. The jet lag kicks his ass every time. He reaches over and tugs on Bob's hoodie strings, making the fabric pucker around Bob's face. "You sleep, I'm too wired."
Bob bats Gerard's hand away. "Don't have to tell me twice. And don't wake me if you get bored." He tucks the tiny airplane pillow between his head and the window. "Sayonara, fucker. I'll see you in L.A."
"Oyasumi," Gerard corrects him. "Means 'good night.' Sayonara's 'goodbye.'."
"Yeah," Bob yawns again, settling in. "What you said."
*
The first time they played Summer Sonic, Gerard didn't think he was coming back. He wasn't planning on it, at least, but plans like that have a way of going wrong. He packed light, said his goodbyes the day before they left Jersey. When they got to Japan he pushed himself all the way to the edge of the abyss, stared down into it with his toes curled over, poised to nosedive, and decided he didn't want to do it, after all.
It's still mostly a blur, punctuated by bright, sharp moments Gerard can't and shouldn't and won't forget: Mikey's resigned face, the way Frank hadn't looked Gerard in the eye all day, Ray and Otter standing at opposite corners of the room, arms crossed and mouths tense. The burn of alcohol-puke in the back of Gerard's throat and on his tongue, the stink of it in the trash can and on his shirt where he swiped his sleeve across his mouth, and the way no one batted an eye when he croaked, "Fuck this, just. I'm done. I'm fucking done," because Gerard was the boy who cried sober. It was nothing they hadn't all heard before, and they had no reason to believe him, even though this time he meant it.
(Just like he meant it last time. And the time before that.)
But when Gerard lifted his head from the trash can and looked around, Frank was looking back at him. The barest glint of hope in his eyes, depleted and fragile and nearly buried under everything else but still there. Always there. And for all the times Gerard took it for granted that Frank would always give him another chance, now it was something to hold on to.
Gerard reached out unsteadily, and Frank clasped his hand, his grip as strong as ever. Gerard clung back as best he could.
*
The problem was that airport bars were always open. Blinking neon beer signs and overpriced shots, businessmen with their leather briefcases and Crown Royal, straight up, drinking to pass the layover time. And the ones who sat at the dim corner tables, who kept their eyes down and never let go of their glass; the ones who were drinking because they had to. It was all Gerard could do to put one foot in front of the other as they made their way to the gate, keep his head down and his eyes on the ground.
He was filthy, hungover, but no worse than any other morning. Head pounding, stomach churning. Aching all over, bone-deep, from puking until he couldn't breathe the night before. And itching, still and again and already, for a little hair of the dog. He hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder; it felt heavier than he remembered. He had brought more than he thought, things he wanted to have with him and to leave behind: his notebooks, his sketchpads, his favorite pens. He couldn't remember the last time he drew something he really loved.
Ray touched his arm, folded his fingers over and squeezed. Gerard tried not to shrug it off, too jittery to be touched, too raw.
"How you feeling, Gee?"
Gerard's hands clenched into fists at his sides as Ray smiled, small and cautious, like Gerard had seen him do with the stray dog that sometimes used to come by their old rehearsal space. Like Gerard was some wild, unpredictable thing, and he resented that, the implication that he wasn't trustworthy, that he might be dangerous somehow.
"Fine," he said, too sharply. Ray drew his hand back, and Gerard pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes. Even blinking hurt. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. Just-"
Gerard unfurled his fingers, tried to roll some of the stiffness from his shoulders. He forgot how quickly the paranoia crept in, how quietly, and how tight it held, sitting heavily on his chest until he wheezed in a breath, forcing air through his lungs. The gnawing ache in his belly deepened, and if he couldn't have a beer he definitely needed more coffee, another cigarette, and more fucking sleep. His own bed, on the other side of the plane ride, and a hug from his mom. A call to his therapist, and then. And then the rest of his life, if he could just make it through the next twelve hours.
"Sorry," he said again, and Ray shrugged, ducked away to go walk with Mikey, a few steps ahead. Gerard was lucky anyone was still talking to him at all, much less giving a shit how he felt, and then he had to go and be an asshole.
It was gonna be a long flight.
*
Frank must've drawn the short straw, because he was the window seat to Gerard's aisle when Gerard got to his row. At least Frank was still talking to him, or at least Gerard hoped he was. He slumped into the seat, and Frank smiled, because that's what Frank did. Gerard almost believed it. Almost.
"Thought you'd probably want the aisle," Frank said, jerking his thumb toward the back of the plane, where the bathrooms were. "For puking purposes."
Gerard kneaded Frank's shoulder and tried to smile back. He wasn't sure it worked. "Thanks."
Frank just nodded. He looked so fucking tired up close like this--deeper than the jet lag and road weariness that never quite wore off, down past whatever virus/infection/allergy/illness-of-mysterious-origin had gotten its hooks in him that week. He looked sad, and small, and so, so young.
"You okay?" Frank asked quietly.
Gerard bit hard at the inside of his mouth, fighting not to bristle, not to snap back something he didn't mean. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried not to think about how fucking good a drink would be right about now, just to dull the throbbing behind his eyes.
"Gee?"
Gerard half nodded, half shrugged. "Yeah, just. You know."
Frank made a small noise of agreement but didn't say anything else, and Gerard distracted himself watching people inch down the aisle or try to cram over-full bags into the overhead. Mikey and Ray were in the row ahead of him and Frank; he spotted Otter across the aisle, a couple of rows up, sitting with the crew. And Gerard remembered, somewhere in the deepest whorls of his brain, that something was wrong, that none of them were really talking to Otter. He just couldn't remember why.
Who knew what else he'd forgotten, or missed entirely.
*
They taxied out to the runway and Gerard gripped the armrest white-knuckle tight, breathing through his nose as the plane gathered speed and lifted off the tarmac. The unpleasant tug behind his navel reminded him of that topsy-turvy, sobering-up feeling of the ground rising up at all the wrong angles. Except he was already painfully sober, and the ground was falling away beneath him.
Everything was inside-out and backwards, and the ache in Gerard's gut only got worse the higher they got. He wanted a drink, a Xanax, something. Anything that would make him stop feeling like he was rattling and ricocheting around his own head, inside and under his skin. He needed it.
Cold sweat broke out along his hairline and above his lip; he fidgeted, scratching at his hair and the inside of his wrist. His heart kicked unsteadily against his ribs. Fuck. Fuck. He wasn't gonna make it.
"Hey." Frank reached over and grabbed Gerard's fingers, stopping the drag of his nails across his skin. "You're gonna start bleeding if you don't knock that off."
Gerard stretched and flexed his fingers, agitated. "I know, I'm just. I'm itchy."
"No, you're not," Frank said, low and soothing. He nosed at Gerard's shoulder, squeezed Gerard's hand. "You're not, dude, I promise." Gerard nodded, his throat suddenly tight, because for all the times and all the ways he had fucked up before, and for all the ways he almost had, his friends were still there for him. "Do you think you can sleep?" Frank asked. "It's gotta suck less than being awake."
"I could try, I guess."
Gerard closed his eyes, measured the rhythm of his breathing carefully. It was easier than he thought it'd be to fall asleep, to just shut down and give in, propped against Frank's side. But his dreams kept creeping into nightmare territory, twisting and dark and strangely, thickly wet.
He woke up sweating, disoriented. His sunglasses had slipped off and it was too bright in the cabin, sun-hot. He reached over to pull the shade down over the window and knocked Frank's elbow off the armrest.
"I got it," Frank said, his voice thick with sleep. He tugged down the shade, rubbed at his eyes. "Hanging in there?"
Gerard swallowed and shook his head. He felt dizzy, nauseous, his fingers slick and clumsy on his seatbelt. "I think I'm gonna puke."
He stumbled down the aisle, slamming the bathroom door behind him. Too fucking familiar, all of it. The tension between all of them, the disappointment none of them could hide when they looked at him. The disinfectant stench of a public bathroom. The puking and the headaches and the endless, gnawing want for another drink.
The bathroom was too small, no room to kneel like a respectable drunk, so Gerard just braced himself, hand on the wall, and gave in to the clench of his stomach, spitting sour bile into the blue water. He washed his face over the tiny sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror above it.
*
Frank was asleep again when Gerard got back, arms crossed over his chest, a pillow wedged between his cheek and the window. Gerard sat as carefully as he could, stuck his sunglasses back on, and pulled his hood up over his head.
He wanted a fucking cigarette. Just one vice to get him through the rest of the flight. He had a whole carton from duty free in his backpack but no lighter, and he didn't really need the bullshit hassle he'd get if he lit up anyway. Mikey always had gum, but Mikey was asleep, too. And not really speaking to him.
"Fuck," Gerard muttered, chewing irritably on a loose bit of skin on his thumb. There was a numbish buzz beneath his skin, and he needed to do something other than sit there staring at what he could see of Mikey from in between the seats.
He dug out his sketchpad and a pen, put down his tray table and flipped to a blank page. The pen felt strange in his grip, alien. When he put it to the paper, the lines came out all wrong. He knuckled at his eyes, shook out his hand and tried again. And again. He took a breath and tried one more time, but his vision had gone blurry, wet.
He grappled blindly for Frank's leg. After all, at the end of the day, he was still just a selfish asshole. "Frankie?"
Frank grunted, his eyes unfocused when he opened them, but they found Gerard's face and held. "What's wrong?"
Gerard just shook his head, swallowing over the bitter lump in his throat. Frank looked down at Gerard's hand, trembling and flapping uselessly between them.
"Here, gimme that." Frank reached for the pen, and Gerard let him take it and stuff it back into his bag along with the sketchbook. He slipped an arm around Gerard's back, palmed the back of his head and pulled him closer. "C'mere."
Gerard slumped against him, shrugging deeper inside his hoodie. "I'm sorry..." he started, but Frank cut him off.
"Shut up and sleep," he said, but there was no bite to it, just exhaustion. "Save the apologies for when you really need them."
*
Gerard was more awake than asleep when Mikey got up, carefully avoiding Gerard’s eyes and his foot sticking out when Mikey walked past him down the aisle. Next to Gerard, Frank was dead to the world, his quiet snores fogging up the window in cloudy little bursts.
The lock on the bathroom door thunked into place and Gerard stood up, gritting his teeth against the headache and his wobbly knees and the panic squeezing his chest. Shit had never not been okay with him and Mikey, not like this. Gerard had been so fucked up for so long he hadn’t even realized just how bad things were, how bad he'd let them get. He was paying attention to all the wrong things, the wrong people. He’d lost track of what--and who--really mattered.
He waited in the narrow space outside the bathroom, his clammy hands twisted up together and shoved inside the pocket of his hoodie. Fresh sweat tickled the back of his neck and he scratched at it fitfully, keeping watch on the illuminated "occupied" sign until it clicked off and the door snapped open. The light was hitting Mikey's face all wrong, the glare off his glasses hiding his eyes. Gerard looked back down at his feet.
"'scuse me," Mikey said dully, but he didn't move out of the door, and Gerard didn't get out of his way. "I wanna go back to my seat."
Gerard stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mikey's middle. He could feel Mikey's ribs and the snag in his breathing, but Mikey didn't hug back. Gerard squeezed harder, desperate. Mikey squirmed away.
"Look," Mikey sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was still looking everywhere but at Gerard. "I love you, I just don't want to talk to you right now. Okay?"
Gerard deserved that, and he knew it, but it still fucking hurt. Mikey might as well have punched him in the face. Gerard nodded and backed off, waited until Mikey sat down again before he made his way back to his own seat and buried his face in Frank's shoulder, too numb to even cry.
*
Frank woke him up when the flight attendant came by with the food cart. Gerard's head felt like it was going to explode when he opened his eyes. He groaned miserably, throwing his arm over them.
"You should eat," Frank said. He sounded like Gerard's mom when he was little and sick and she was tired because she'd been up with him all night.
A lick of anger flared in Gerard's chest, and he pushed the food away. The smell of it was turning his stomach. "Ugh, can't." He licked at the dry corners of his mouth. "I need a drink."
Frank looked up from his tray, fork poised, face unreadable. And this was how it was gonna be now, everyone always watching, always questioning. None of them trusted him anymore, and that was his own fault, that was something he was gonna have to earn back. But still, he at least deserved the benefit of the doubt. Maybe.
"Just a fucking Diet Coke, Frank. I'm thirsty."
"Then get the fucking flight attendant," Frank snapped. "You were passed out when she came by before." He speared a piece of lettuce and popped it into his mouth, turning to the window.
Gerard watched Frank's jaw clench and unclench as he chewed, saw the small, irritated shake of his head.
"Frank..."
"Yeah, I know. You're sorry." Frank pushed his can of Coke towards Gerard. "Here."
Gerard didn't even want the stupid soda anymore, but he took it anyway, his head bowed. This was all wrong. "Thanks."
Frank didn't answer. Gerard stared down at the can, his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold it steady. He brought it to his mouth and the Coke was too cold, too sweet, too fizzy. His stomach rolled the wrong way again, and he shoved the can back into Frank's hand and scrambled out of his seat and back to the bathroom.
But there was nothing left to puke up. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten. He gagged around the emptiness, blinking cold sweat and hot, useless tears from his eyelashes.
Maybe he should've gone through with it, after all. He still could, when he got home.
But then Gerard thought about his mom or dad finding him - or worse, Mikey. He thought about Ray and Frank, who gave up a fuck of a lot to be in this band, and about how it would all end when he did, because none of them would want to do it without him. Everything they worked for would fall apart, the album would fade into obscurity, and he'd be just another fucking statistic.
Fuck that.
*
Ray was sitting in Frank's seat when Gerard got back, squished up against the window with his knees practically up by his chin.
"Frankie needed a breather," he said, eyeing Gerard as he sat down. "Are you gonna bite my head off again if I ask how you are?"
Gerard took as deep a breath as he could manage, but it hurt. Everything just hurt, from his head to his heart to the way Ray was looking at him, wary and weary. Too many lines around his eyes and his mouth that Gerard didn't remember being there, but maybe it had just been too damn long since he paid attention.
He shook his head, tugged at the ends of his hair. "No."
"Okay, good." Ray tried to smile, but it slipped away between blinks. "So?"
"This really fucking sucks, and I really fucking hate it." It was the understatement of the fucking century. Gerard wasn’t usually one for subtlety or downplaying anything, but talking, especially about this, would take more energy than he had right now.
Ray nodded slowly. "You know we're all here for you, right?"
"I know," Gerard said.
"Just..." Ray scrubbed his hands over his face. "Just remember that you're not the only one going through this, you know? It's kinda happening to all of us."
Gerard sniffed and cleared his throat, but his voice still came out too thick. "I'm so fucking sorry, man."
"Me too," Ray said after a pause, and Gerard looked up, surprised and confused. Ray shrugged. "You've been getting wasted right in front of us--and, shit, with us, most of the time--every day, man. We could've said something."
For a second, a heartbeat, Gerard wanted to agree, to lay blame somewhere other than on himself. But it was a petty, mean impulse, there and gone again. This wasn't anyone's fault except his own, and it was no one else's responsibility to fix it. He had found his own way here, and he’d find his own way out.
"I wouldn't have listened," he said.
Ray's smile was strained, humorless but still real. "I know."
Gerard thought back to that day in his kitchen after they'd recorded Bullets, when he told Ray that he maybe didn't want to be in the band anymore. Album recorded, he said, goal accomplished, time to move on to the next thing. Ray talked him out of it, said it wasn't just about Gerard and that they were all too good together, that the band was too fucking special. But it only worked, Ray said, if everyone was in. All for one and one for all, all that Three Musketeers bullshit.
This wasn't so different.
Gerard leaned into him, dumbly grateful. Ray leaned back, solid and warm.
*
He woke up again to voices, low and familiar. Sleep tried to drag him back down into more damp, black dreams, but Gerard fought it off, concentrated on trying to make out what the voices were saying. Even in the muzzy limbo just beneath full consciousness, he knew they were talking about him. He strained to hear them under the whine of the engines and the hiss of air from above his seat.
"-gonna be okay?" That was Frank, sounding worried.
"I dunno." And that was Mikey, his voice like a flatline, low and even and dull. "He looks pretty bad right now, but who knows. It's not like we haven't done this dance before, dude."
"No, I know." Frank paused, and Gerard could picture the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the way he'd be fiddling with the seatbelt or picking at the shredded knee of his jeans. "I don't mean him getting sober. Well, that too, but. Do you think he's gonna be okay?"
Another, longer pause. Gerard's pulse kicked up, bass-drum thump between his ears while he waited, waited for Mikey to answer. His eyelids felt so heavy, and sleep would be so much easier than dealing with the shakes and the sweating and the pain in his stomach. But he couldn't fall asleep again without hearing Mikey's answer. Because if Mikey didn't have faith in him, if Mikey didn't believe that Gerard could come out of this in one piece, Gerard wasn't sure he would.
"Mikey?" Frank prodded.
Mikey exhaled loudly. "I don't know." His seat creaked, like he was fidgeting. "I hope so, but I don't know."
The backs of Gerard's eyelids prickled, his throat squeezing closed. At least Mikey still had hope, if not faith. It was enough. Gerard let himself slip a few notches closer to sleep.
"Yeah," Frank said. And then, quieter: "You should talk to him, dude. I get that you're pissed, but the silent treatment isn't gonna help anyone. Shit's just gonna get uglier after we get home."
Gerard flashed back to the night before, or maybe the night before last: the hotel room, everyone sitting cross-legged on one of the beds while Otter showered. Hushed, urgent voices and the angry set of Ray's and Frank's and Mikey's mouths, their eyes darting nervously to the bathroom door. A vote, four in favor and none opposed, and the decision was made.
"-might go a long way right now," Frank was saying when Gerard snapped back to the present. "Before shit gets worse. Trust me, I was an undeclared Psych major for like, a whole semester."
"And that qualifies you for what, exactly?" Mikey asked dryly.
"Being a nosy, opinionated asshole."
Mikey laughed, and Gerard smiled to himself, sleep tugging harder than he could fight it off. He wanted to keep listening, even though he knew he shouldn't, but he could tell that the conversation was moving past anything he needed to hear.
"So you'll talk to him?" Frank asked.
There was another beat of silence; a quick, quiet sigh that sounded muffled and distant. Gerard was almost asleep again, clinging to consciousness just long enough to hear Mikey say, "Yeah."
*
He was jostled awake by someone climbing over him, knees and feet knocking into his, murmured voices above his head. He struggled out of sleep, rubbing at his eyes to see Mikey settling stiffly into the now-empty seat next to him. Ray was back in front of Gerard, his foot in the aisle. Frank's shoulder was just barely visible in the gap between the seats.
"You know, you're a real fucking selfish asshole, Gerard," Mikey said, and Gerard's stomach dropped.
He wasn't ready for this, not when he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't hold on to a single thought from beginning to end. But he didn't have a choice, and there wasn't anything Gerard wouldn't do for Mikey: if Mikey needed to talk, then Gerard would listen. He could do that. Even if he couldn't look Mikey in the eye right now. He looked down at his hands instead, cracked and bitten and bleeding.
"Did you think I didn't know what you were doing?" Mikey went on, turning only halfway from the window. He sounded more sad than angry, more hurt than anything. "I watched you pack. I watched you say goodbye to everyone at the airport. I knew."
Mikey was never the kind of kid who cried, not over skinned knees or girls, and not where anyone could see him. Mikey only ever cried about the shit that really mattered. And even if no one else would've been able to tell, Gerard could see and hear and feel how close Mikey was to cracking, to unraveling. Gerard sniffed against the burn in his sinuses, rubbed at his nose. "Mikey..."
"Just lemme talk, okay?" Gerard nodded, and Mikey swallowed hard, his next breath shallow and uneven. "You're the only fucking brother I have, Gee. I mean, yeah, the band is our family, we're all brothers and whatever, but you're my only real brother." Mikey looked up with wide, wet eyes, and Gerard wouldn't let himself look away, blinked through his own tears to focus on Mikey's face, pale and drawn. "It's always been me and you against the world. And you were gonna fucking leave me."
Gerard couldn't breathe, couldn't think of any words that might make this right. He started to say the first thing that came to mind; a lie that he knew Mikey would call him out on. "I wasn't-"
"Yeah, you were. And I was the one who was gonna find you. I was the one who was gonna have to fly back to Mom and Dad with you in a fucking body bag."
"But I didn't go through with it," Gerard said, choked up and choked off. "And I'm fucking sicker right now than I think I've ever been in my whole fucking life, and all I have to do to get a drink is press a button, but I haven't. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"I... yeah, I guess it does." Mikey didn't say anything else for a long moment. "But this isn't the sickest you've ever been."
Gerard wiped his nose on his sleeve, caught off guard. "What?"
"Stomach flu, a couple of years ago. You were exploding from both ends."
Gerard barked out a laugh, surprised and relieved. If Mikey was making jokes, they were gonna be okay. It might take a while to get all the way there, but they would.
"Yeah, and then I gave it to you."
"And I gave it to everyone at Eyeball. Alex threatened to kill us both. He got pretty creative with how he was gonna do it, too."
"Dude, that was before the band, even. You were still interning. Holy shit." They exchanged smiles, easier and wider than they'd been in weeks, maybe months. But there was something Mikey had to know, while they were talking about this. "I never wanted you to be the one to find me."
Mikey's smile faded. "I probably would've been though. And I still would've had to fly back with a body instead of a brother."
"But you're not," Gerard said, frustrated. He didn't want to argue in circles, when the almosts and would-haves didn't really matter. "And when we get home, I'm gonna call the doc and figure this all out. I promise."
"I just want you to get better, dude. I want you to be better. But not for me, or for the rest of the guys, or for Mom and Dad or whoever." Mikey tapped the center of Gerard's chest with a bony finger. "For you."
Gerard cuffed Mikey on the back of the neck and pulled him close, until their foreheads touched. It still felt like it was just the two of them against the world sometimes, looking out from inside their snow forts and pillow forts and the Star Wars blanket on Gerard's bed. "When did you get so fucking smart?"
Mikey ducked out from under Gerard's hand, eyebrow arched. "Dude, I've always been this fucking smart."
*
Gerard couldn't sleep anymore. Next to him, Frank was snoring against the window again, his hands pulled up inside his sleeves. Between the seats in front of him, Gerard could see Mikey propped against Ray. On the other side of the plane, Otter had his headphones on. Gerard squirmed around to try to find a more comfortable position, but his eyes refused to stay closed.
He stared at the ceiling, at the red "No Smoking" sign and the call button next to it, taking deep breaths and not not not thinking about pushing it.
Then he heard the drink cart, still all the way up near the front of the plane, but the clink of bottles and cans and plastic cups made his jaw clench, his pulse speed up. Just one drink, while everyone was asleep. They'd never even know, and maybe he could sleep a little more, a little easier, and maybe, maybe. The plane felt suddenly small, stuffy, his clothes and his skin too tight.
The cart clattered closer in stops and starts, the flight attendant flashing her bright smile at each passenger. Gerard watched her mouth form the words, "Would you like a drink?" and couldn't get out of his seat fast enough.
It took him two tries to shove the lock on the bathroom door into place, with his shaking hands and the panic crushing his chest like a vice. He smacked the toilet lid down and collapsed on top of it, his face in his hands. They didn't smell much better than the bathroom. He let his head hang between his shoulders instead, let his hands dangle limply between his knees.
He wasn't going to miss this--the headaches and the stomach aches and the weak, woozy drag of his limbs. Tripping over his tongue and his feet, the infinite loop of ups and downs, uppers and downers. Trying to stay awake, trying to fall asleep. The push and pull of his mind and his body, the constant struggle for the happy medium.
But there were other things, like late nights in backyards with Frank or Mikey or between the two of them, passing the last of a joint or a bottle back and forth, that he would miss fiercely. The midnight munchie runs to 7-11 and the diner, talking in circles and triangles and squares. He didn't know anymore if he could do that sober, just talk, to his bandmates, his brothers. He didn’t know if he could just live, just be. And what if he couldn't? What happened then?
He was swallowing back a hot rush of tears when someone knocked on the door, three quick raps and a muted, "Gee?" It was Otter.
"Just a sec," Gerard called. He rubbed at his stinging eyes, blew his nose into a sandpapery tissue from the dispenser on the wall. Took a quick, deep breath before standing up and unlocking the door.
"Hey," Otter said, grinning. "You're alive."
"Barely." Gerard leaned against the doorframe. His whole body felt like someone'd used it for a punching bag. He should've stayed in his seat and gotten a bottle of water, at least.
"I thought maybe you fell in."
Gerard smirked. "No such luck."
"Dude..." Otter scratched at the back of his neck. "I say this as a friend, but you look like shit. Go get some more sleep or have some coffee or something."
Otter'd always been like that, blunt bordering on rude sometimes. It was nothing Gerard wasn't used to, but the way Otter looked at him when he said it, not exactly kindly, set his teeth on edge. Gerard nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I was just gonna."
"So, can I...?" Otter gestured toward the bathroom. "I gotta take a leak."
"Oh, yeah. Go ahead." Gerard stepped out of the way, and Otter bumped shoulders with him as they passed, but it was irritating rather than comforting. He stood blinking at the closed door, knowing only that they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, him and Otter. Everyone and Otter.
Things were kind of shitty all around, Gerard knew that much. He remembered yelling, not-so-idle threats, doors slamming, but the details were gone, lost to one bender or another. He wasn't sure they mattered anymore anyway. He hadn't hesitated to raise his hand when they voted.
From now on, he promised himself on his way back to his seat, he would remember everything. Everything.
"You were gone a while," Frank said through a yawn when Gerard sat down. "You good?"
Gerard hesitated, but only for a second. "Yeah."
Frank hummed and nodded, rested his head on Gerard's shoulder. "You stink, you know," he murmured, burying his nose inside the collar of his hoodie. He huddled in closer anyway, suctioning himself to Gerard's side the way he always did when he was sleepy. Gerard thought again of the look on Otter's face just now, not concern but disdain almost. "But we're almost home."
"Almost home," Gerard repeated, mostly to himself. It'd been a long flight already, and the last few hours, the last stretch towards familiar ground, were always the worst and longest part of the whole trip. And there was still a long road at the other end of the tarmac at Newark International.
He took a last peek at Ray and Mikey through the gap in the seats, at Frank nuzzled up at side, and knew there was still too much to do to give up now. No matter how much he wanted just one more drink, one more pill, one more line, he knew it would never be just one more. There would always be one more after that, and another and another.
But he could do this. He had to.
*
"Earth to Gerard. Hello?"
Bob's hand waves in front of Gerard's face and he jumps, his heart lodging in his throat. The cabin of the plane is flooded with sunlight, muted through Gerard's sunglasses.
"Huh?"
Bob grins, shaking his head, and points over Gerard's shoulder. The flight attendant smiles down at him from behind the beverage cart.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asks.
Gerard pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and smiles back at her. "Coffee, please."
She grabs a pitifully small paper cup and the carafe, scissors two sweetener packets and a creamer between her fingers before setting the whole thing down neatly on Gerard's tray table. "Just press the call button if you want a refill."
"Oh, I will. Thanks." The attendant turns to the passenger across the aisle, and Gerard turns to Bob, takes a cautious sip of his coffee. It's weak, but even bad coffee is still coffee. "I thought you were sleeping?"
"I thought you were sleeping," Bob says. He sucks an ice cube from the cup in his hand, mumbles around it, "You haven't moved since I woke up, but you had your sunglasses on, so I couldn't tell."
"I... yeah, no, I wasn't asleep, just zoned out. Thinking."
"Yeah." Bob nods, crunching thoughtfully, his grin settling into a softer smile. "I guess it's a good day for that."
Things like birthdays and anniversaries have a way of sneaking up and slipping by, especially when they're on the road and the days bleed one into the next into the next. But this one, somehow, they never forget. They gave him a big send-off at the airport, all of his brothers, with big smiles and clingy hugs and proud whispers that made Gerard's heart swell in his chest.
He could've stayed a few more days in Tokyo, bumming around the city with Frank and Ray and Mikey, but this is where he wants to be right now: on this plane, making this flight. And, thanks to the mystery and wonder of timezones, he'll get home just a handful of hours after he left Tokyo, so he gets to have today twice. Once with his band, who made it possible for him to become the guy he is now, and once with his wife and baby, who make him want to be even better.
He's grateful, too, that Bob wanted to fly back with him--not just for the company, but because it ties things up sort of neatly, in a way that's usually reserved for books and movies, for fiction. Bob wasn't on that flight five years ago, but he was there before Gerard got sober, and he's been there in all the ways that matter since.
"Hey." Bob thwaps Gerard's leg with the back of his hand. Gerard blinks away from the back of the seat in front of him. The pattern of the fabric dances in front of his eyes for a second.
"Sorry, wuh?"
"You are the worst person to travel with," Bob grumps through a laugh, "like, ever." He reaches over and knocks Gerard's sunglasses back down over his eyes. "At least put these back on if you're gonna sit there staring at nothing." Bob downs the rest of his soda and sets the cup in the indent on his tray table. "I'm going back to sleep. How do you say 'good night' again?"
"Oyasumi."
Bob's hand cuffs over the back of Gerard's neck, heavy and rough. He smiles as his fingers press in, then slip away. "Night, Gee."
"Night." Gerard sits back, his coffee warming his palm, and thinks about home, family. About how far he's come and how much has changed. How five years can go by so fast and still feel like a lifetime. He thinks about all the things he has now that he never thought he could, back then. About all the ways he got himself a happy ending, and how it’s really only the beginning.
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13 for language, drugs and alcohol
Summary: The whole thing's still a blur, punctuated by bright, sharp moments Gerard can't and shouldn't and won't forget.
WC: ~6,500
Disclaimer: Not real, not mine.
Warnings: Emetophobes will definitely want to skip this one.
Notes & Stuff: Written for bandom_hc, better late than never. Many thanks to ciel_vert for her tireless hand-holding and cheerleading, and to fitofpique for the amazing beta. Title from "The End is the Beginning is the End" by Smashing Pumpkins.
"You're gonna sleep through the whole flight, aren't you?"
Bob nods from the recesses of his hoodie. "Yup." He yawns, slumping lower in his seat. "Some of us actually woke up during that earthquake, you know."
"Hey, I've got a newborn at home. I sleep when I can." Gerard glances instinctively at his watch; they've only just taken off, his chest still tight with the rush of leaving the ground, squeezing a little tighter at the thought of Lindsey and Bandit, waiting for him. Ten hours to go, give or take. That's forever. That's nothing.
"Besides," Bob says. "It makes the flight go by faster."
"Yeah, I know." There are too many stamps in Gerard's passport to remember how many times he's flown halfway around the world or more, and he can still never keep straight when he's supposed to sleep and when he's supposed to stay awake. The jet lag kicks his ass every time. He reaches over and tugs on Bob's hoodie strings, making the fabric pucker around Bob's face. "You sleep, I'm too wired."
Bob bats Gerard's hand away. "Don't have to tell me twice. And don't wake me if you get bored." He tucks the tiny airplane pillow between his head and the window. "Sayonara, fucker. I'll see you in L.A."
"Oyasumi," Gerard corrects him. "Means 'good night.' Sayonara's 'goodbye.'."
"Yeah," Bob yawns again, settling in. "What you said."
*
The first time they played Summer Sonic, Gerard didn't think he was coming back. He wasn't planning on it, at least, but plans like that have a way of going wrong. He packed light, said his goodbyes the day before they left Jersey. When they got to Japan he pushed himself all the way to the edge of the abyss, stared down into it with his toes curled over, poised to nosedive, and decided he didn't want to do it, after all.
It's still mostly a blur, punctuated by bright, sharp moments Gerard can't and shouldn't and won't forget: Mikey's resigned face, the way Frank hadn't looked Gerard in the eye all day, Ray and Otter standing at opposite corners of the room, arms crossed and mouths tense. The burn of alcohol-puke in the back of Gerard's throat and on his tongue, the stink of it in the trash can and on his shirt where he swiped his sleeve across his mouth, and the way no one batted an eye when he croaked, "Fuck this, just. I'm done. I'm fucking done," because Gerard was the boy who cried sober. It was nothing they hadn't all heard before, and they had no reason to believe him, even though this time he meant it.
(Just like he meant it last time. And the time before that.)
But when Gerard lifted his head from the trash can and looked around, Frank was looking back at him. The barest glint of hope in his eyes, depleted and fragile and nearly buried under everything else but still there. Always there. And for all the times Gerard took it for granted that Frank would always give him another chance, now it was something to hold on to.
Gerard reached out unsteadily, and Frank clasped his hand, his grip as strong as ever. Gerard clung back as best he could.
*
The problem was that airport bars were always open. Blinking neon beer signs and overpriced shots, businessmen with their leather briefcases and Crown Royal, straight up, drinking to pass the layover time. And the ones who sat at the dim corner tables, who kept their eyes down and never let go of their glass; the ones who were drinking because they had to. It was all Gerard could do to put one foot in front of the other as they made their way to the gate, keep his head down and his eyes on the ground.
He was filthy, hungover, but no worse than any other morning. Head pounding, stomach churning. Aching all over, bone-deep, from puking until he couldn't breathe the night before. And itching, still and again and already, for a little hair of the dog. He hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder; it felt heavier than he remembered. He had brought more than he thought, things he wanted to have with him and to leave behind: his notebooks, his sketchpads, his favorite pens. He couldn't remember the last time he drew something he really loved.
Ray touched his arm, folded his fingers over and squeezed. Gerard tried not to shrug it off, too jittery to be touched, too raw.
"How you feeling, Gee?"
Gerard's hands clenched into fists at his sides as Ray smiled, small and cautious, like Gerard had seen him do with the stray dog that sometimes used to come by their old rehearsal space. Like Gerard was some wild, unpredictable thing, and he resented that, the implication that he wasn't trustworthy, that he might be dangerous somehow.
"Fine," he said, too sharply. Ray drew his hand back, and Gerard pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes. Even blinking hurt. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. Just-"
Gerard unfurled his fingers, tried to roll some of the stiffness from his shoulders. He forgot how quickly the paranoia crept in, how quietly, and how tight it held, sitting heavily on his chest until he wheezed in a breath, forcing air through his lungs. The gnawing ache in his belly deepened, and if he couldn't have a beer he definitely needed more coffee, another cigarette, and more fucking sleep. His own bed, on the other side of the plane ride, and a hug from his mom. A call to his therapist, and then. And then the rest of his life, if he could just make it through the next twelve hours.
"Sorry," he said again, and Ray shrugged, ducked away to go walk with Mikey, a few steps ahead. Gerard was lucky anyone was still talking to him at all, much less giving a shit how he felt, and then he had to go and be an asshole.
It was gonna be a long flight.
*
Frank must've drawn the short straw, because he was the window seat to Gerard's aisle when Gerard got to his row. At least Frank was still talking to him, or at least Gerard hoped he was. He slumped into the seat, and Frank smiled, because that's what Frank did. Gerard almost believed it. Almost.
"Thought you'd probably want the aisle," Frank said, jerking his thumb toward the back of the plane, where the bathrooms were. "For puking purposes."
Gerard kneaded Frank's shoulder and tried to smile back. He wasn't sure it worked. "Thanks."
Frank just nodded. He looked so fucking tired up close like this--deeper than the jet lag and road weariness that never quite wore off, down past whatever virus/infection/allergy/illness-of-mysterious-origin had gotten its hooks in him that week. He looked sad, and small, and so, so young.
"You okay?" Frank asked quietly.
Gerard bit hard at the inside of his mouth, fighting not to bristle, not to snap back something he didn't mean. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried not to think about how fucking good a drink would be right about now, just to dull the throbbing behind his eyes.
"Gee?"
Gerard half nodded, half shrugged. "Yeah, just. You know."
Frank made a small noise of agreement but didn't say anything else, and Gerard distracted himself watching people inch down the aisle or try to cram over-full bags into the overhead. Mikey and Ray were in the row ahead of him and Frank; he spotted Otter across the aisle, a couple of rows up, sitting with the crew. And Gerard remembered, somewhere in the deepest whorls of his brain, that something was wrong, that none of them were really talking to Otter. He just couldn't remember why.
Who knew what else he'd forgotten, or missed entirely.
*
They taxied out to the runway and Gerard gripped the armrest white-knuckle tight, breathing through his nose as the plane gathered speed and lifted off the tarmac. The unpleasant tug behind his navel reminded him of that topsy-turvy, sobering-up feeling of the ground rising up at all the wrong angles. Except he was already painfully sober, and the ground was falling away beneath him.
Everything was inside-out and backwards, and the ache in Gerard's gut only got worse the higher they got. He wanted a drink, a Xanax, something. Anything that would make him stop feeling like he was rattling and ricocheting around his own head, inside and under his skin. He needed it.
Cold sweat broke out along his hairline and above his lip; he fidgeted, scratching at his hair and the inside of his wrist. His heart kicked unsteadily against his ribs. Fuck. Fuck. He wasn't gonna make it.
"Hey." Frank reached over and grabbed Gerard's fingers, stopping the drag of his nails across his skin. "You're gonna start bleeding if you don't knock that off."
Gerard stretched and flexed his fingers, agitated. "I know, I'm just. I'm itchy."
"No, you're not," Frank said, low and soothing. He nosed at Gerard's shoulder, squeezed Gerard's hand. "You're not, dude, I promise." Gerard nodded, his throat suddenly tight, because for all the times and all the ways he had fucked up before, and for all the ways he almost had, his friends were still there for him. "Do you think you can sleep?" Frank asked. "It's gotta suck less than being awake."
"I could try, I guess."
Gerard closed his eyes, measured the rhythm of his breathing carefully. It was easier than he thought it'd be to fall asleep, to just shut down and give in, propped against Frank's side. But his dreams kept creeping into nightmare territory, twisting and dark and strangely, thickly wet.
He woke up sweating, disoriented. His sunglasses had slipped off and it was too bright in the cabin, sun-hot. He reached over to pull the shade down over the window and knocked Frank's elbow off the armrest.
"I got it," Frank said, his voice thick with sleep. He tugged down the shade, rubbed at his eyes. "Hanging in there?"
Gerard swallowed and shook his head. He felt dizzy, nauseous, his fingers slick and clumsy on his seatbelt. "I think I'm gonna puke."
He stumbled down the aisle, slamming the bathroom door behind him. Too fucking familiar, all of it. The tension between all of them, the disappointment none of them could hide when they looked at him. The disinfectant stench of a public bathroom. The puking and the headaches and the endless, gnawing want for another drink.
The bathroom was too small, no room to kneel like a respectable drunk, so Gerard just braced himself, hand on the wall, and gave in to the clench of his stomach, spitting sour bile into the blue water. He washed his face over the tiny sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror above it.
*
Frank was asleep again when Gerard got back, arms crossed over his chest, a pillow wedged between his cheek and the window. Gerard sat as carefully as he could, stuck his sunglasses back on, and pulled his hood up over his head.
He wanted a fucking cigarette. Just one vice to get him through the rest of the flight. He had a whole carton from duty free in his backpack but no lighter, and he didn't really need the bullshit hassle he'd get if he lit up anyway. Mikey always had gum, but Mikey was asleep, too. And not really speaking to him.
"Fuck," Gerard muttered, chewing irritably on a loose bit of skin on his thumb. There was a numbish buzz beneath his skin, and he needed to do something other than sit there staring at what he could see of Mikey from in between the seats.
He dug out his sketchpad and a pen, put down his tray table and flipped to a blank page. The pen felt strange in his grip, alien. When he put it to the paper, the lines came out all wrong. He knuckled at his eyes, shook out his hand and tried again. And again. He took a breath and tried one more time, but his vision had gone blurry, wet.
He grappled blindly for Frank's leg. After all, at the end of the day, he was still just a selfish asshole. "Frankie?"
Frank grunted, his eyes unfocused when he opened them, but they found Gerard's face and held. "What's wrong?"
Gerard just shook his head, swallowing over the bitter lump in his throat. Frank looked down at Gerard's hand, trembling and flapping uselessly between them.
"Here, gimme that." Frank reached for the pen, and Gerard let him take it and stuff it back into his bag along with the sketchbook. He slipped an arm around Gerard's back, palmed the back of his head and pulled him closer. "C'mere."
Gerard slumped against him, shrugging deeper inside his hoodie. "I'm sorry..." he started, but Frank cut him off.
"Shut up and sleep," he said, but there was no bite to it, just exhaustion. "Save the apologies for when you really need them."
*
Gerard was more awake than asleep when Mikey got up, carefully avoiding Gerard’s eyes and his foot sticking out when Mikey walked past him down the aisle. Next to Gerard, Frank was dead to the world, his quiet snores fogging up the window in cloudy little bursts.
The lock on the bathroom door thunked into place and Gerard stood up, gritting his teeth against the headache and his wobbly knees and the panic squeezing his chest. Shit had never not been okay with him and Mikey, not like this. Gerard had been so fucked up for so long he hadn’t even realized just how bad things were, how bad he'd let them get. He was paying attention to all the wrong things, the wrong people. He’d lost track of what--and who--really mattered.
He waited in the narrow space outside the bathroom, his clammy hands twisted up together and shoved inside the pocket of his hoodie. Fresh sweat tickled the back of his neck and he scratched at it fitfully, keeping watch on the illuminated "occupied" sign until it clicked off and the door snapped open. The light was hitting Mikey's face all wrong, the glare off his glasses hiding his eyes. Gerard looked back down at his feet.
"'scuse me," Mikey said dully, but he didn't move out of the door, and Gerard didn't get out of his way. "I wanna go back to my seat."
Gerard stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mikey's middle. He could feel Mikey's ribs and the snag in his breathing, but Mikey didn't hug back. Gerard squeezed harder, desperate. Mikey squirmed away.
"Look," Mikey sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was still looking everywhere but at Gerard. "I love you, I just don't want to talk to you right now. Okay?"
Gerard deserved that, and he knew it, but it still fucking hurt. Mikey might as well have punched him in the face. Gerard nodded and backed off, waited until Mikey sat down again before he made his way back to his own seat and buried his face in Frank's shoulder, too numb to even cry.
*
Frank woke him up when the flight attendant came by with the food cart. Gerard's head felt like it was going to explode when he opened his eyes. He groaned miserably, throwing his arm over them.
"You should eat," Frank said. He sounded like Gerard's mom when he was little and sick and she was tired because she'd been up with him all night.
A lick of anger flared in Gerard's chest, and he pushed the food away. The smell of it was turning his stomach. "Ugh, can't." He licked at the dry corners of his mouth. "I need a drink."
Frank looked up from his tray, fork poised, face unreadable. And this was how it was gonna be now, everyone always watching, always questioning. None of them trusted him anymore, and that was his own fault, that was something he was gonna have to earn back. But still, he at least deserved the benefit of the doubt. Maybe.
"Just a fucking Diet Coke, Frank. I'm thirsty."
"Then get the fucking flight attendant," Frank snapped. "You were passed out when she came by before." He speared a piece of lettuce and popped it into his mouth, turning to the window.
Gerard watched Frank's jaw clench and unclench as he chewed, saw the small, irritated shake of his head.
"Frank..."
"Yeah, I know. You're sorry." Frank pushed his can of Coke towards Gerard. "Here."
Gerard didn't even want the stupid soda anymore, but he took it anyway, his head bowed. This was all wrong. "Thanks."
Frank didn't answer. Gerard stared down at the can, his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold it steady. He brought it to his mouth and the Coke was too cold, too sweet, too fizzy. His stomach rolled the wrong way again, and he shoved the can back into Frank's hand and scrambled out of his seat and back to the bathroom.
But there was nothing left to puke up. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten. He gagged around the emptiness, blinking cold sweat and hot, useless tears from his eyelashes.
Maybe he should've gone through with it, after all. He still could, when he got home.
But then Gerard thought about his mom or dad finding him - or worse, Mikey. He thought about Ray and Frank, who gave up a fuck of a lot to be in this band, and about how it would all end when he did, because none of them would want to do it without him. Everything they worked for would fall apart, the album would fade into obscurity, and he'd be just another fucking statistic.
Fuck that.
*
Ray was sitting in Frank's seat when Gerard got back, squished up against the window with his knees practically up by his chin.
"Frankie needed a breather," he said, eyeing Gerard as he sat down. "Are you gonna bite my head off again if I ask how you are?"
Gerard took as deep a breath as he could manage, but it hurt. Everything just hurt, from his head to his heart to the way Ray was looking at him, wary and weary. Too many lines around his eyes and his mouth that Gerard didn't remember being there, but maybe it had just been too damn long since he paid attention.
He shook his head, tugged at the ends of his hair. "No."
"Okay, good." Ray tried to smile, but it slipped away between blinks. "So?"
"This really fucking sucks, and I really fucking hate it." It was the understatement of the fucking century. Gerard wasn’t usually one for subtlety or downplaying anything, but talking, especially about this, would take more energy than he had right now.
Ray nodded slowly. "You know we're all here for you, right?"
"I know," Gerard said.
"Just..." Ray scrubbed his hands over his face. "Just remember that you're not the only one going through this, you know? It's kinda happening to all of us."
Gerard sniffed and cleared his throat, but his voice still came out too thick. "I'm so fucking sorry, man."
"Me too," Ray said after a pause, and Gerard looked up, surprised and confused. Ray shrugged. "You've been getting wasted right in front of us--and, shit, with us, most of the time--every day, man. We could've said something."
For a second, a heartbeat, Gerard wanted to agree, to lay blame somewhere other than on himself. But it was a petty, mean impulse, there and gone again. This wasn't anyone's fault except his own, and it was no one else's responsibility to fix it. He had found his own way here, and he’d find his own way out.
"I wouldn't have listened," he said.
Ray's smile was strained, humorless but still real. "I know."
Gerard thought back to that day in his kitchen after they'd recorded Bullets, when he told Ray that he maybe didn't want to be in the band anymore. Album recorded, he said, goal accomplished, time to move on to the next thing. Ray talked him out of it, said it wasn't just about Gerard and that they were all too good together, that the band was too fucking special. But it only worked, Ray said, if everyone was in. All for one and one for all, all that Three Musketeers bullshit.
This wasn't so different.
Gerard leaned into him, dumbly grateful. Ray leaned back, solid and warm.
*
He woke up again to voices, low and familiar. Sleep tried to drag him back down into more damp, black dreams, but Gerard fought it off, concentrated on trying to make out what the voices were saying. Even in the muzzy limbo just beneath full consciousness, he knew they were talking about him. He strained to hear them under the whine of the engines and the hiss of air from above his seat.
"-gonna be okay?" That was Frank, sounding worried.
"I dunno." And that was Mikey, his voice like a flatline, low and even and dull. "He looks pretty bad right now, but who knows. It's not like we haven't done this dance before, dude."
"No, I know." Frank paused, and Gerard could picture the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the way he'd be fiddling with the seatbelt or picking at the shredded knee of his jeans. "I don't mean him getting sober. Well, that too, but. Do you think he's gonna be okay?"
Another, longer pause. Gerard's pulse kicked up, bass-drum thump between his ears while he waited, waited for Mikey to answer. His eyelids felt so heavy, and sleep would be so much easier than dealing with the shakes and the sweating and the pain in his stomach. But he couldn't fall asleep again without hearing Mikey's answer. Because if Mikey didn't have faith in him, if Mikey didn't believe that Gerard could come out of this in one piece, Gerard wasn't sure he would.
"Mikey?" Frank prodded.
Mikey exhaled loudly. "I don't know." His seat creaked, like he was fidgeting. "I hope so, but I don't know."
The backs of Gerard's eyelids prickled, his throat squeezing closed. At least Mikey still had hope, if not faith. It was enough. Gerard let himself slip a few notches closer to sleep.
"Yeah," Frank said. And then, quieter: "You should talk to him, dude. I get that you're pissed, but the silent treatment isn't gonna help anyone. Shit's just gonna get uglier after we get home."
Gerard flashed back to the night before, or maybe the night before last: the hotel room, everyone sitting cross-legged on one of the beds while Otter showered. Hushed, urgent voices and the angry set of Ray's and Frank's and Mikey's mouths, their eyes darting nervously to the bathroom door. A vote, four in favor and none opposed, and the decision was made.
"-might go a long way right now," Frank was saying when Gerard snapped back to the present. "Before shit gets worse. Trust me, I was an undeclared Psych major for like, a whole semester."
"And that qualifies you for what, exactly?" Mikey asked dryly.
"Being a nosy, opinionated asshole."
Mikey laughed, and Gerard smiled to himself, sleep tugging harder than he could fight it off. He wanted to keep listening, even though he knew he shouldn't, but he could tell that the conversation was moving past anything he needed to hear.
"So you'll talk to him?" Frank asked.
There was another beat of silence; a quick, quiet sigh that sounded muffled and distant. Gerard was almost asleep again, clinging to consciousness just long enough to hear Mikey say, "Yeah."
*
He was jostled awake by someone climbing over him, knees and feet knocking into his, murmured voices above his head. He struggled out of sleep, rubbing at his eyes to see Mikey settling stiffly into the now-empty seat next to him. Ray was back in front of Gerard, his foot in the aisle. Frank's shoulder was just barely visible in the gap between the seats.
"You know, you're a real fucking selfish asshole, Gerard," Mikey said, and Gerard's stomach dropped.
He wasn't ready for this, not when he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't hold on to a single thought from beginning to end. But he didn't have a choice, and there wasn't anything Gerard wouldn't do for Mikey: if Mikey needed to talk, then Gerard would listen. He could do that. Even if he couldn't look Mikey in the eye right now. He looked down at his hands instead, cracked and bitten and bleeding.
"Did you think I didn't know what you were doing?" Mikey went on, turning only halfway from the window. He sounded more sad than angry, more hurt than anything. "I watched you pack. I watched you say goodbye to everyone at the airport. I knew."
Mikey was never the kind of kid who cried, not over skinned knees or girls, and not where anyone could see him. Mikey only ever cried about the shit that really mattered. And even if no one else would've been able to tell, Gerard could see and hear and feel how close Mikey was to cracking, to unraveling. Gerard sniffed against the burn in his sinuses, rubbed at his nose. "Mikey..."
"Just lemme talk, okay?" Gerard nodded, and Mikey swallowed hard, his next breath shallow and uneven. "You're the only fucking brother I have, Gee. I mean, yeah, the band is our family, we're all brothers and whatever, but you're my only real brother." Mikey looked up with wide, wet eyes, and Gerard wouldn't let himself look away, blinked through his own tears to focus on Mikey's face, pale and drawn. "It's always been me and you against the world. And you were gonna fucking leave me."
Gerard couldn't breathe, couldn't think of any words that might make this right. He started to say the first thing that came to mind; a lie that he knew Mikey would call him out on. "I wasn't-"
"Yeah, you were. And I was the one who was gonna find you. I was the one who was gonna have to fly back to Mom and Dad with you in a fucking body bag."
"But I didn't go through with it," Gerard said, choked up and choked off. "And I'm fucking sicker right now than I think I've ever been in my whole fucking life, and all I have to do to get a drink is press a button, but I haven't. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"I... yeah, I guess it does." Mikey didn't say anything else for a long moment. "But this isn't the sickest you've ever been."
Gerard wiped his nose on his sleeve, caught off guard. "What?"
"Stomach flu, a couple of years ago. You were exploding from both ends."
Gerard barked out a laugh, surprised and relieved. If Mikey was making jokes, they were gonna be okay. It might take a while to get all the way there, but they would.
"Yeah, and then I gave it to you."
"And I gave it to everyone at Eyeball. Alex threatened to kill us both. He got pretty creative with how he was gonna do it, too."
"Dude, that was before the band, even. You were still interning. Holy shit." They exchanged smiles, easier and wider than they'd been in weeks, maybe months. But there was something Mikey had to know, while they were talking about this. "I never wanted you to be the one to find me."
Mikey's smile faded. "I probably would've been though. And I still would've had to fly back with a body instead of a brother."
"But you're not," Gerard said, frustrated. He didn't want to argue in circles, when the almosts and would-haves didn't really matter. "And when we get home, I'm gonna call the doc and figure this all out. I promise."
"I just want you to get better, dude. I want you to be better. But not for me, or for the rest of the guys, or for Mom and Dad or whoever." Mikey tapped the center of Gerard's chest with a bony finger. "For you."
Gerard cuffed Mikey on the back of the neck and pulled him close, until their foreheads touched. It still felt like it was just the two of them against the world sometimes, looking out from inside their snow forts and pillow forts and the Star Wars blanket on Gerard's bed. "When did you get so fucking smart?"
Mikey ducked out from under Gerard's hand, eyebrow arched. "Dude, I've always been this fucking smart."
*
Gerard couldn't sleep anymore. Next to him, Frank was snoring against the window again, his hands pulled up inside his sleeves. Between the seats in front of him, Gerard could see Mikey propped against Ray. On the other side of the plane, Otter had his headphones on. Gerard squirmed around to try to find a more comfortable position, but his eyes refused to stay closed.
He stared at the ceiling, at the red "No Smoking" sign and the call button next to it, taking deep breaths and not not not thinking about pushing it.
Then he heard the drink cart, still all the way up near the front of the plane, but the clink of bottles and cans and plastic cups made his jaw clench, his pulse speed up. Just one drink, while everyone was asleep. They'd never even know, and maybe he could sleep a little more, a little easier, and maybe, maybe. The plane felt suddenly small, stuffy, his clothes and his skin too tight.
The cart clattered closer in stops and starts, the flight attendant flashing her bright smile at each passenger. Gerard watched her mouth form the words, "Would you like a drink?" and couldn't get out of his seat fast enough.
It took him two tries to shove the lock on the bathroom door into place, with his shaking hands and the panic crushing his chest like a vice. He smacked the toilet lid down and collapsed on top of it, his face in his hands. They didn't smell much better than the bathroom. He let his head hang between his shoulders instead, let his hands dangle limply between his knees.
He wasn't going to miss this--the headaches and the stomach aches and the weak, woozy drag of his limbs. Tripping over his tongue and his feet, the infinite loop of ups and downs, uppers and downers. Trying to stay awake, trying to fall asleep. The push and pull of his mind and his body, the constant struggle for the happy medium.
But there were other things, like late nights in backyards with Frank or Mikey or between the two of them, passing the last of a joint or a bottle back and forth, that he would miss fiercely. The midnight munchie runs to 7-11 and the diner, talking in circles and triangles and squares. He didn't know anymore if he could do that sober, just talk, to his bandmates, his brothers. He didn’t know if he could just live, just be. And what if he couldn't? What happened then?
He was swallowing back a hot rush of tears when someone knocked on the door, three quick raps and a muted, "Gee?" It was Otter.
"Just a sec," Gerard called. He rubbed at his stinging eyes, blew his nose into a sandpapery tissue from the dispenser on the wall. Took a quick, deep breath before standing up and unlocking the door.
"Hey," Otter said, grinning. "You're alive."
"Barely." Gerard leaned against the doorframe. His whole body felt like someone'd used it for a punching bag. He should've stayed in his seat and gotten a bottle of water, at least.
"I thought maybe you fell in."
Gerard smirked. "No such luck."
"Dude..." Otter scratched at the back of his neck. "I say this as a friend, but you look like shit. Go get some more sleep or have some coffee or something."
Otter'd always been like that, blunt bordering on rude sometimes. It was nothing Gerard wasn't used to, but the way Otter looked at him when he said it, not exactly kindly, set his teeth on edge. Gerard nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I was just gonna."
"So, can I...?" Otter gestured toward the bathroom. "I gotta take a leak."
"Oh, yeah. Go ahead." Gerard stepped out of the way, and Otter bumped shoulders with him as they passed, but it was irritating rather than comforting. He stood blinking at the closed door, knowing only that they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, him and Otter. Everyone and Otter.
Things were kind of shitty all around, Gerard knew that much. He remembered yelling, not-so-idle threats, doors slamming, but the details were gone, lost to one bender or another. He wasn't sure they mattered anymore anyway. He hadn't hesitated to raise his hand when they voted.
From now on, he promised himself on his way back to his seat, he would remember everything. Everything.
"You were gone a while," Frank said through a yawn when Gerard sat down. "You good?"
Gerard hesitated, but only for a second. "Yeah."
Frank hummed and nodded, rested his head on Gerard's shoulder. "You stink, you know," he murmured, burying his nose inside the collar of his hoodie. He huddled in closer anyway, suctioning himself to Gerard's side the way he always did when he was sleepy. Gerard thought again of the look on Otter's face just now, not concern but disdain almost. "But we're almost home."
"Almost home," Gerard repeated, mostly to himself. It'd been a long flight already, and the last few hours, the last stretch towards familiar ground, were always the worst and longest part of the whole trip. And there was still a long road at the other end of the tarmac at Newark International.
He took a last peek at Ray and Mikey through the gap in the seats, at Frank nuzzled up at side, and knew there was still too much to do to give up now. No matter how much he wanted just one more drink, one more pill, one more line, he knew it would never be just one more. There would always be one more after that, and another and another.
But he could do this. He had to.
*
"Earth to Gerard. Hello?"
Bob's hand waves in front of Gerard's face and he jumps, his heart lodging in his throat. The cabin of the plane is flooded with sunlight, muted through Gerard's sunglasses.
"Huh?"
Bob grins, shaking his head, and points over Gerard's shoulder. The flight attendant smiles down at him from behind the beverage cart.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asks.
Gerard pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and smiles back at her. "Coffee, please."
She grabs a pitifully small paper cup and the carafe, scissors two sweetener packets and a creamer between her fingers before setting the whole thing down neatly on Gerard's tray table. "Just press the call button if you want a refill."
"Oh, I will. Thanks." The attendant turns to the passenger across the aisle, and Gerard turns to Bob, takes a cautious sip of his coffee. It's weak, but even bad coffee is still coffee. "I thought you were sleeping?"
"I thought you were sleeping," Bob says. He sucks an ice cube from the cup in his hand, mumbles around it, "You haven't moved since I woke up, but you had your sunglasses on, so I couldn't tell."
"I... yeah, no, I wasn't asleep, just zoned out. Thinking."
"Yeah." Bob nods, crunching thoughtfully, his grin settling into a softer smile. "I guess it's a good day for that."
Things like birthdays and anniversaries have a way of sneaking up and slipping by, especially when they're on the road and the days bleed one into the next into the next. But this one, somehow, they never forget. They gave him a big send-off at the airport, all of his brothers, with big smiles and clingy hugs and proud whispers that made Gerard's heart swell in his chest.
He could've stayed a few more days in Tokyo, bumming around the city with Frank and Ray and Mikey, but this is where he wants to be right now: on this plane, making this flight. And, thanks to the mystery and wonder of timezones, he'll get home just a handful of hours after he left Tokyo, so he gets to have today twice. Once with his band, who made it possible for him to become the guy he is now, and once with his wife and baby, who make him want to be even better.
He's grateful, too, that Bob wanted to fly back with him--not just for the company, but because it ties things up sort of neatly, in a way that's usually reserved for books and movies, for fiction. Bob wasn't on that flight five years ago, but he was there before Gerard got sober, and he's been there in all the ways that matter since.
"Hey." Bob thwaps Gerard's leg with the back of his hand. Gerard blinks away from the back of the seat in front of him. The pattern of the fabric dances in front of his eyes for a second.
"Sorry, wuh?"
"You are the worst person to travel with," Bob grumps through a laugh, "like, ever." He reaches over and knocks Gerard's sunglasses back down over his eyes. "At least put these back on if you're gonna sit there staring at nothing." Bob downs the rest of his soda and sets the cup in the indent on his tray table. "I'm going back to sleep. How do you say 'good night' again?"
"Oyasumi."
Bob's hand cuffs over the back of Gerard's neck, heavy and rough. He smiles as his fingers press in, then slip away. "Night, Gee."
"Night." Gerard sits back, his coffee warming his palm, and thinks about home, family. About how far he's come and how much has changed. How five years can go by so fast and still feel like a lifetime. He thinks about all the things he has now that he never thought he could, back then. About all the ways he got himself a happy ending, and how it’s really only the beginning.