Mikey’s breath hitched with a sort of eerie consistency whenever Gerard brushed over a certain spot, inhalations turning into tiny ‘ah’s that made Gerard’s pulse flutter like a trapped swallow. Mikey twitched, bit his lip, slid another inch off the bathroom counter.
“Hold still,” Gerard muttered under his breath, as if raising his voice would somehow break his concentration. His head was fuzzy from smell of it; his mind barely registered the stark fluorescent light. Only Mikey. They were already toeing the line of acceptability. God knows Gerard couldn’t afford to stumble now.
“Gee, it hurts,” Mikey whined, sniffling miserably. Gerard wished he’d stop holding back the tears -- Mikey was the little brother, the one in pain, and a little more affirmation of that might have made Gerard’s concern seem warranted. Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other cry before. Numerous times. It was probably Mikey’s turn anyway.
“Shh,” Gerard said, his best attempt at soothing. He carefully rested his hand over Mikey's, clasped on the counter’s lip, white-knuckled as if abusing the faux-marble would take his mind someplace quieter. Gerard absently traced the veins on Mikey’s hand, felt them standing out in sharp relief from the strain.
Fuck, he shouldn’t have to worry about that around his brother -- he hadn’t always worried, but lately he’d been catching himself being weird and stopping for Mikey’s sake, like the goddamn outcast that he was, and once he was in the in the mentality of it all, he found it hard to remember what used to be normal. How close was too close before? Had Mikey always rested his head in Gerard’s lap to play his Gameboy? Gerard knew for-fucking-sure that he’d never paid so much attention to the way his brother's fingers deftly manipulated the buttons, the rapid tap of his thumb on B, even though he had an inventory full of great balls and they both knew button-mashing didn’t do shit to increase your catch rate. And he was still worrying about the hands, about how much was too much, and the fucking bruises up and down Mikey’s left arm were not helping -- Mikey unclenched his fist, just a fraction, and relaxed into the touch. Comforting. Normal. Right.
“My shoulder, too,” Mikey said, words merging into a hiss of pain, perhaps psychological, as Gerard pulled away and began twining medical tape around the newly-applied gauze. He tried his best to look at neither the soiled rag nor the salmon-pink water darkening with each rinse.
Mikey’s forearms took the blunt of the impact, but his shoulder caught the bottle. It was the biggest cut and he probably should have treated it first, but there was no way he could have handled the blood immediately after, not when the slow spread of it through Mikey’s thin cotton shirt had made his chest clench and his hands shake. Gerard wasn’t sure if he could handle it even now that he’d calmed down, but judging by Mikey’s choked off noises, it was only going to get worse if he didn’t try. Gingerly he peeled the navy shirt away. It clung wetly to the base of Mikey’s neck and the blood began seeping downward, staining the white logo.
Mikey was going to be pissed as soon he calmed down enough to remember which shirt it was; the top of the skull was now stained, copper quickly fading to a dingy brown. It seeped down through the eye socket. Like the thing was crying blood. Actually, Mikey might think it was kind of cool, a one-of-a-kind Misfits tribute, soaked in his own bodily fluids. Gerard wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle seeing him wear the thing anymore. He resolved to bury it in the garbage bin before Mikey came to his senses. He’d buy him a fucking new one.
“Just--” Mikey grunted and twisted and Gerard considered grabbing the kitchen shears to cut the thing off completely. “Lemme put my arms--” and the rest of the sentence was muffled as Gerard tugged the shirt up and over his head.
He tossed it on the floor and the smell immediately did a number on his senses. Mikey vaguely wrinkled his nose but it made Gerard’s head spin and lungs convulse, unsure whether they wanted to get rid of the beautiful, putrid, human scent or keep breathing it forever. Suffocating in the smell of his brother’s blood. And God did that make his head pulse, make him mentally berate himself because it was a fucking disgusting thing to imagine. He paused to take a deep breath before he either vomited or buried his face in the shirt, maybe in Mikey’s shoulder.
Mikey glanced at him, raised an eyebrow like you okay? But Gerard couldn’t get his facial features out of that deep-set, concentrated scowl. “Yeah,” he said aloud, and Mikey bit his lip almost imperceptibly, like if you say so.
He steeled himself and swiped the rag across Mikey’s shoulder in broad, gentle strokes until the cut started to look a bit less angry. Unclenching his jaw, Gerard let himself slip into the warm, muted light of concentration until he couldn’t see anything but his hands reverse-painting Mikey’s skin. Every stroke brought a tiny increase in pressure. Gerard thought that if he took it slow, turned the volume up in increments, Mikey might just turn his pained sighs down a notch.
It worked too well, and Mikey went completely silent for almost a minute. If he wasn’t so intent in his focus, Gerard might have given more than a passing thought to Mikey’s toes curling and the color slowly draining out of his face. He didn’t, though, and Mikey went completely still as Gerard tried to get the bits of glass out without digging into the wound. Gerard did his best to keep the pressure steady and the bleeding slow, but maybe that wasn't what Mikey needed because the silence culminated in a sudden, shockingly pained groan and a twitch. Gerard jerked out of his happy place, or at least his not-going-into-shock place, only to see the wetness spilling down Mikey’s cheeks. Tears, and a trickle of stage-curtain red making its way down his chin. Gerard dropped the rag.
“Sorry!” Mikey choked out, like he was the one who should be apologizing. “Bit my lip. Not your fault.” He stared on expectantly, waiting for the hint of a smile, maybe a joke, ‘this is bad enough without you hurting yourself on purpose,’ but it didn’t come. Gerard couldn’t make himself laugh it off, had barely said a word since Mikey stumbled home, broken and bleeding and trying to tell him that it was okay. His heart seemed to slow down as his eyes were drawn to Mikey’s lips. It was one drop out of the the goddamn pints all over the linoleum floor. Maybe it tipped him over the edge or maybe he jumped, Gerard couldn’t fucking tell, and he couldn’t fucking stop himself from bracketing his brother’s jaw with one hand and using his thumb to smear the blood across his bottom lip. Maybe Gerard could stop himself from leaning in to taste, but he didn’t want to.
Mikey’s lips were slick where the blood had stained them. Gerard barely brushed against them at first, and then the suction drew him in and Mikey’s mouth parted with a barely audible ‘pop’ and oh God, he could taste it, something raw and coppery as his tongue slid against Mikey’s.
Mikey. His brother.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling away and elongating the word into several pained syllables. Suddenly, the surrealism was gone and reality came crashing down around his head. Mikey had gone completely stiff and was staring back at him with enormous eyes. He looked childlike without his glasses. And Gerard scolded himself because of-fucking-course he looked childlike. He was a goddamn child and in high school and Gerard’s brother.
For a horrible moment nobody said anything, and then Mikey opened his mouth to speak.
Gerard fucking ran. He bolted out of the bathroom and out the door and into the street because he could not fucking take it. He had no desire to hear what Mikey had to say and fuck, his brother’s blood was literally still on his hands, drying in tiny halos underneath his fingernails. He sped up, like maybe if he really got going his thoughts wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.
About twenty minutes later, Gerard started thinking again. It was a slow process at first: the stagnant buzz of summer air wormed its way into his head; then the haze gradually faded from his surroundings: late-blooming cherry trees lined the dirt path, their blossoms browning and floating to the ground where they inevitably wound up squished between Gerard’s toes. Bare feet, he registered vaguely.
Awareness of his body hit him like a slap to the face, and then everything hurt. Bits of gravel dug into the soft soles of his feet like Legos scattered on the stairs, and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. His head was still pounding, and it wasn’t until he tried to rub his eyes that he realized he was crying.
Gerard felt like he was always crying. Stupid things set him off these days, from books to movies to fucking paintings, but especially Mikey. He’d spent many a night curled up in his bed, sobbing quietly and thinking of his brother. Just banal stuff, like the way he tripped down the last three stairs every morning or how he grit his teeth and shifted his weight around when he played racing games; Gerard wasn’t even sad. He just couldn’t stop the waterworks and he didn’t know why.
Thinking about crying just made him cry harder. He felt fucking pathetic, running away from his problems, but it wasn’t like he could go back, so he just fell gracelessly to his knees and sobbed his heart out. It was a loud, messy ordeal, complete with full-body convulsions and snot dripping down his face. He had to wipe his nose every couple of seconds and will himself not to run his soiled hands through his limp, matted hair. People always said that crying was supposed to release bottled emotions, but fuck that. He felt a million times worse: his face was gross and he was shaking and he was kneeling in the middle of the dirt path winding through the park. There were probably hypodermics or something scattered in the grass, silently waiting to impale his feet.
After a few more minutes of feeling sorry for himself, Gerard sighed, finger-combed his hair out of his face -- fuck, so much for keeping it clean -- and began trudging back toward the house. He let his mind wander but kept his eyes on the ground in case any druggies had left their needles on the sidewalk.
Depression wasn’t new: he’d blamed everything from his pill popping to his burnt toast on a chemical imbalance at some point, but this felt different. Before, he’d go through spells where nothing would hold his attention, as evidenced by the stack of half-finished, half-assed drawings in the bottom drawer of his desk, but now he threw himself into his art with a fervent, violent passion. Maybe his precision and attention to detail suffered for it, but at some point it stopped being about the finished product and started being about escapism. It would be a great alternative to drinking, except for the fact that he was throwing himself into that passtime with a violent passion too.
In the past he’d felt lost in his own mind. Bad feelings drifted through him with no discernible origin, weighed him down and left. This was more of a nonstop earthquake of the soul, and shit, that was cheesy, but it was true. Mikey sat squarely in the epicenter and radiated new shock waves with every movement. It wasn’t his brother's fault: Mikey had always bitten his nails and twirled his hair around one finger while he texted. It wasn't some cunning plot to seduce Gerard. He wasn't seeing his brother in a new light, either: this particular light had always been there, illuminating the darkest corners of Gerard's mind. A goddamn spotlight, with those little red and green laser beams that shot out into the audience at clubs, and maybe a neon sign with an arrow pointing at Mikey and saying ‘look at me! I’m awkward and maturing and sexy!’. He wasn’t going to play dumb and pretend that he didn’t know what these feelings were; he knew all too well. He wanted Mikey, and that in itself was terrifying and wrong enough, but he also wanted to possess Mikey. Wanted to hold him down and fuck him and let the whole world know that this was his brother, his property, that they couldn’t touch him. Worst of all was sick thrill that had jolted through him when he’d flipped on the bathroom light and clearly seen how broken Mikey looked, voice scratchy, eyes dim, blood streaked down his arm. It turned him on and made his stomach churn because he liked it, and that was fucking horrible. Because he wanted to see more.
This -- this thing, this sadism -- it seemed to be the root of his attraction. The night before, Mikey fell asleep on the couch next to him while they watched Night of the Living Dead for the ten billionth time. It was late enough to be early again and Mikey was curled awkwardly against him, mouth open and drooling on his shoulder. Gerard hadn’t thought a damn thing of it. Because his brother wasn't fucking bleeding.
That was how it should be, because Gerard and Mikey had spent the better part of their lives being best friends. It was quiet and effortless. They rarely fought, and for the longest time, wherever Gerard went, Mikey wasn’t far behind. He’d sit on the bed and read comics while Gerard painted. They started buying games with a co-op mode almost exclusively. When Gerard showered (rarely) or did his makeup (every day), Mikey sat on the counter and played Pokemon. Until he was fourteen. Hell, he’d started back up recently, and that made things fucking awkward because Gerard’s Shower Time had only recently required privacy.
Thinking about Mikey and counters only forced Gerard to picture him sitting there in a completely different context, bruised and bleeding on the floor, and okay, maybe Gerard had some kind of weird undiscovered blood fetish or something. He could live with that. It kind of made sense, actually: he had always found blood and gore kind of fascinating, with his comics and Fangoria and -- no. He wasn’t going to go all Wertham on the issue: whatever it was, it came from him, and he was okay with that. The problem was that it was directed at Mikey.
Looking back, he realized that he’d never asked Mikey who did it to him. Mikey’s muttered “barfight” was plenty, especially since his subconscious told him that it was over, that he should pay attention to the result rather than the process for once. He should have asked, should have tracked down the motherfucker who did this to his brother and fucking strangled him, but the righteous anger just wouldn’t come. He couldn’t ask now. He couldn’t even look Mikey in the eye. He was sick in the head and couldn’t even apologize for what he’d done because he was such a fucking coward.
Gerard twisted the doorknob angrily. It didn’t budge.
“Fuck,” he groaned. Why didn't he think of this before he ran off? He refused to knock, so he cautiously hoisted himself off the concrete front stoop, managing to slam his head off the low windowsill in the process, and started feeling around in the bushes, praying to any god that would listen that he hadn’t left the spare key on the kitchen table again.
His head jerked up at the soft sound. Mikey was peeking through the door, opening it all the way even as Gerard scrambled to his feet. The first thing Gerard noticed was that his glasses were on again, maybe in an attempt to hide the puffiness around his eyes. He felt a sharp pang of resentment; why would he wait until Gerard was gone to cry? It soured into guilt as soon as it crossed his mind. Seeing Mikey cry was the last thing he needed, except then he felt even worse because that wasn’t true. In fact, some dark part of him reveled in the thought of holding Mikey while he convulsed -- not how he usually cried, soft and silent, but choking, desperate sobs, entire body completely wrecked from exhaustion. That sick bit of Gerard's psyche practically purred when he realized that Mikey was probably crying because of him.
For an instant, half of him wanted to run right back to the goddamn park and the other half wanted to hug Mikey, but he didn’t trust himself to keep it at that. Without his consent, his body tried to do both at the same time and he ended up running at Mikey, but Mikey dodged at the last second and he ended up skidding to a stop on the raggedy living room carpet. At least he was inside. That was a start.
Mikey just stared for a moment before gently closing the door to keep from waking anyone.
“Gee?” He asked again, like he needed permission to speak or something. Maybe he thought that Gerard would go off on him if he said anything more, and he might not have been entirely wrong. Gerard sunk miserably to the floor. He couldn’t remember how to make his vocal chords work, but he silently willed Mikey not to come any closer. Gerard wasn’t himself. He was honestly afraid that he would do something if Mikey got too close.
“Are you okay?” He asked, thankfully keeping his distance, only crouching down to eye level. His lip had stopped bleeding.
“Hnng,” Gerard said. Mikey worried his lip with a carefully blank expression and waited for Gerard to speak, but the words just weren’t coming. He wanted to say something, warn Mikey that he was feeling less than brotherly and that he might seriously hurt him if he wasn’t careful. He was so used to sharing every thought and feeling that it was welling up in his gut, making him sick, but he just couldn’t. He was going to do something crazy any second and he couldn’t say a word. He only wanted to protect his brother.
Then, an idea struck him like a pigeon to the fucking face, fully formed and squawking for attention. It was so simple. Gerard stood up jerkily, watching Mikey rise with him, jerked his head as best he could, like I’m fine, don’t follow me, and bolted for his room.
The doors were supposed to lock, but his was broken when they bought the house and nobody had ever bothered to fix it. That was okay. Mikey wouldn’t try to come in when Gerard was so clearly in need of some alone time.
Everything about his room seemed foreign, especially the familiar things. B-Movie posters lined the walls in uneven rows. The clothes and comics and general Gerard Mess insulating the floor -- maybe that was why the place got so goddamn hot in the summer -- seemed completely out of place, like maybe they’d never belonged to him in the first place. Quickly, thoughtlessly, he made his way to the closet, not caring how many issues of Doom Patrol he stepped on along the way. He was on a fucking mission.
Gerard found his old backpack behind the suit he never wore and the girls’ jeans he wore far too often. It hadn’t been moved since graduation almost two years ago. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he still lived with his parents two years after graduation, instead going through his mental list of shit to pack.
Sketchpad. Art supplies. Walkman. Cell phone plus car charger. He shoved an armful of jeans and t-shirts into the top of the bag, realized there was no room left for anything else, took them out and carefully picked out two pairs of jeans -- the blue ones that fit well and the black ones that fit really well -- and a few band shirts he couldn’t live without. On second thought, he grabbed a cardigan Mikey never wore that somehow ended up draped over Gerard's computer chair. It would keep him warm and take up less room than a hoodie, he reasoned, ignoring the nagging bit of him that wanted to keep some reminder of his brother.
Toiletries. He rifled through the bathroom and ended up packing pretty much everything that didn’t have a carefully sharpied ‘Mikey’s’ on it -- the kid was serious about his hair-care products. He grabbed an entire bottle of generic Aspirin to go with the prescription shit already in his bag. Fifteen precious minutes were spent trying to remember where he kept his emergency cash until he realized that he’d spent it on booze a couple of weeks back.
Gerard stood arguing with himself in front of the mirror. His mom kept a hundred bucks under the guest room mattress for just such an occasion. He’d found it one cold night when their parents were out and he and Mikey had curled up together in the guest bed right above the boiler, pressed close, not really for warmth but just because it felt nice. Gerard’s stomach lurched with guilt and his thoughts lurched back on track: he couldn’t take his mom’s money -- shit, that was a warning sign for something-or-other, he was sure of it -- but he couldn’t stay either.
He did it. Of course he did it, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? Gerard tiptoed gingerly upstairs, looking both ways at the top of the stairwell, like a semi could come barrelling toward him at any second. He briefly wished he had a Crossing Buddy to hold his hand.
The guest room was tiny and beige, completely tidy from disuse. He’d only slept in it once since Mikey had fallen sick a few summers ago and convinced their mom to keep the thermostat at seventy-two during the winter. He jammed his hand between the mattress and the bedspring and felt around, not caring how much he ruffled the sheets in the process. It was probably better if his parents found out he’d taken it right away, got all their anger out in one sitting so they could devote the rest of their attention to Mikey. He’d be heartbroken. Ever fiber of Gerard’s being ached from guilt: he was just abandoning Mikey and he was stealing his parents money to do it.
Mikey was going to be heartbroken -- shit. What if Mikey followed him? Gerard would have to say something to discourage him. He knew how, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. do it
He found the cash after a few seconds of searching: five twenties, folded irreversibly by the weight of the mattress. Trying his best not to think, he pocketed them and flung the door open again. Gerard stalked determinedly back to the basement and hoisted his bag over his shoulder, gave his room a cursory once-over. He paused for a moment to wait, because if he was going to come to his senses, now would be the time. Nothing much happened. He just felt tired and miserable and not nearly drunk enough to handle any of this, so he gave his room a jerky salute and went to find Mikey.
It wasn’t hard. Morrissey’s voice was blasting so loud from Mikey’s headphones that Gerard could hear it through the door. Nobody would notice if he knocked, so he just dumped his bag in the hall, steeled himself, and kneed the door open. As expected, Mikey was sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring expressionlessly at his hands. His head jerked up as soon as Gerard entered, deer-in-the-headlights, but also like he’d been anticipating the intrusion. He scrambled to his feet immediately and tossed his mp3 player on the pillow. Gerard fidgeted.
“Gee,” Mikey said softly. That was basically all he’d said since he’d come home that night. It made Gerard irrationally angry.
“Mikey,” he replied lamely. Now or never. He had to explain things. “Um. We need to talk.” He mentally kicked himself for being so cliched, but words were hard, okay? His youthful determination had left the building, replaced by equal parts guilt and nausea, and Mikey just stood there all gangly and awkward and expectant. He looked lonely already. Gerard tried to keep his voice steady.
“I’m--” he began with a false start. “I have to leave.” Mikey just stared, so he went on. “I uh, need some time. Alone. A lot of time.” Fuck, that sounded bad. “B-but it’s not your fault or anything! I just need to take some time to... find myself. I’m going to travel, I guess. And draw. Like a soul quest.” He almost laughed because he just said ‘soul quest’ out loud and meant it, but Mikey’s expression made it catch in his throat. He looked a little angry but still mostly broken, and it was hard to tell with Mikey anyway, brothers or not.
“This is about the kiss.”
It wasn’t a question. Mikey was just getting it out there, never one to skirt a problem, and the phrase hung anvil-heavy in the air. Gerard tried hard to wrap his brain around the fact that yes, that was what had happened: he had kissed his brother. Not the cheek kisses reserved for family or even the soft, comforting brush of lips reserved for him and Mikey, forever a bit too affectionate. No, it had been a crossing-the-line kind of kiss. There was no hope left of crossing back over and pretending it never happened. Not with Mikey so blatantly acknowledging it.
“Yeah,” Gerard said, “but not just that.” He paused. How much was he willing to admit? He didn’t want to do it, but he had to discourage Mikey following him, and there was no better way to do that than by telling the truth. “Mikes, I have to leave because I don’t want to hurt you--” he started, but to his surprise, Mikey cut him off, expression suddenly shifting from sullen to full-on rage.
“You don’t want to hurt me? Seriously? I knew you’d say that the second you opened the door!” Gerard was taken aback. Mikey was suddenly getting in his personal space, crowding him against the closed door. “Come on, you do stupid shit all the time! Remember when you got smashed and pissed in my bed? You didn’t have to go on a goddamned soul quest to fix that,” he spit. Gerard just stared as Mikey’s face reddened. He wasn’t sure he’d heard Mikey say this much at once, like, ever, but now the floodgates were open and it as just pouring out. “You don’t want to hurt me. Fuck, d’you think I’m a twelve year old girl or something? That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard!”
“It’s not an excuse!” He protested, but Mikey barreled over him. He was right there, chest practically pressed against Gerard’s.
“So you fucking kissed me. So what? It wasn’t awful. It doesn’t mean we’re fucking married; I’m not gonna cry when you tell your friends we’re not going out!” Then Gerard’s hands were on his shoulders and he was spinning Mikey around, slamming him against the door with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. Mikey whimpered. Actually whimpered, and Gerard belatedly realized that his fingers were digging into the fresh wound just below his left collarbone. He let up a little bit, but he had a point to make, so he got right in Mikey’s face and hissed, low and dangerous:
“I don’t think you understand. I’m not talking about breaking your fucking heart here.”
Mikey actually bared his teeth. Gerard couldn’t remember a time they’d ever fought like this.
“What, then? Worried that we won’t be the same? ‘Cause we won’t be the same if you’re fucking gone, either.”
Mikey really wasn’t getting it. The last thing Gerard wanted to do was come out and say it, but his mouth was running without his brain’s consent and maybe that was for the best. If discouraging was what he was going for.
“I’m talking about breaking your fucking ribs, Mikey,” he said, each word sharpened to cut.
Mikey paled and shifted imperceptibly from fury to -- what? Fear? But Gerard couldn’t stop there. “There’s something seriously wrong with me. If I stay, I will hurt you. When I was fixing your arm and you were fucking -- fucking bleeding all over me? I liked that. That’s what gets me off, and that’s not okay.” He willed himself to shut up. Mikey was pale enough already, must have been scared. That was enough. Mikey wouldn’t follow him, but Gerard couldn’t stop. Saying the words out loud made them feel real, and that made him stronger, like maybe if he got it all out in the open he’d actually have the resolve to follow through with his plan. “I- I wanted to be the one doing that to you. Still do. Mikey, I want to make you beg me to hurt you.” And that was too far. Way too far. Fuck, he didn’t want to admit that to himself, let alone his fucking brother.
He realized that he’d been digging his fingers into Mikey’s shoulder a little more with each syllable. The cut had started bleeding anew, seeping lazily through the bandage and Mikey was panting hard and trembling visibly under his touch. He couldn’t unclench his hand. There was a long, terrible silence in which Mikey breathed and Gerard didn’t, and then Mikey said the last thing Gerard expected to hear:
“Hurt me, motherfucker.”
Mikey leaned forward as best he could and kissed him. Violently. Their teeth clashed together and Mikey forced his tongue into Gerard’s mouth, hot and wet and obscene. Gerard froze completely while Mikey fucking ravished him, because this was not one of the many possible scenarios that had flitted through his mind upon entering the room. He couldn’t make himself move until maybe ten seconds in -- Mikey was not giving up -- when Mikey’s bottom lip split again. Then he couldn’t stop moving: he shoved his brother back against the door and met him with lips and tongue and teeth, pressing his thigh between Mikey’s legs and bracing a hand against the door frame for support. The other one was busy working its way under the gauze. Mikey panted and groaned into his mouth. He was grinding shamelessly against Gerard’s thigh, backing off the kiss and letting Gerard practically tongue-fuck him. When he finally got two fingers under the bandage -- and he didn’t even notice he was doing it -- Mikey stopped moving, save the erratic thrust of his hips. His eyes welled over, tears streaking messily down his cheeks, but his hands were fisted in Gerard’s hair and he yanked hard enough to hurt every time Gerard tried to pull away.
The kiss ended but Mikey wouldn’t let Gerard move them, instead mouthing wordlessly against his lips, saliva dripping down both their chins. Gerard’s brain had completely switched off at some point. All that mattered was Mikey: his smell, the feel of him pressed bodily against Gerard. He withdrew his fingers from under the gauze, slick and red, to shove them into Mikey’s mouth, and that was it. Mikey groaned, long and desperate, and held Gerard tight against him as he shuddered and panted through his climax, and oh God, Gerard was maybe a little bit overwhelmed. Mikey let go and slumped bonelessly to the ground, Gerard kneeling with him to keep him from hitting his head.
Gerard had just fingered his fucking open wound, but of course he couldn’t have Mikey hitting his head.
Mikey panted up at him with half-lidded eyes as Gerard felt the familiar sensation of the world crashing down around him. He was still rock hard in his jeans and he’d just made his brother come in his pants and the only thing he was sure of was that he absolutely, positively could not handle this. They spent several long moments staring into each other’s eyes. Gerard tried to nonverbally convey as much as he could: I told you so and I love you and I’m so fucking sorry, Mikes. And Mikey’s expression didn’t change; no silent it’s okay or I love you too, just dazed awe and complete incomprehension.
Gerard opened the door and Mikey shifted to lean on the door frame. He grabbed his bag, rested a hand in Mikey’s disheveled hair and tried to speak. All he could manage was:
“Disinfect that,” and then he was gone.