Chapter Text
When his father invited Gerry to join him and his coworkers for drinks, he wasn't particularly thrilled by the idea. Gerry is in his early twenties, he's not sure exactly what he would have to discuss with people his father's age, who he likely had nothing in common with. Well, aside from the whole Fear Entities stuff, but if he's going out for drinks he doesn't really want to spend the night talking about monsters and cursed books and haunted items, even if it means sitting quietly while his father and his coworkers talk about the boring parts of their job. He accepts the invitation, of course. It beats spending the evening with his mother and whatever weird shit she had planned for the day, and, more importantly, it annoys her greatly.
What he doesn't expect, when they arrive at the bar, is to find out one of the assistants is actually fairly close to him in age, if a couple years older. Certainly much younger than his coworkers. He has a pleasant smile and slightly rosy cheeks, flush from the cold.
Fluffy, golden curls rest nicely on his shoulders, framing his face and bouncing with each movement of his head, and he has kind, light brown eyes that shine with the light reflected in them as they watch Gerry curiously. Michael Shelley, he introduces himself as, reaching a slightly cold hand to greet him, his skin light but not as pale as Gerry's, and he giggles shyly when Eric says something complimenting his work. His laughter feels floaty and warm. Pretty as he may be, Gerry introduces himself as Gerard, seeing as none of these people are his friends, and he's not stupid enough to drop his guard over a cute face.
The other person joining them that night is one Emma Harvey, whose name Gerry believes to be familiar. He thinks his mum might not like her, which doesn't mean much, it's not like Mary Keay likes anyone . The woman has a strange energy to her that makes Gerry uneasy, a chill running down his spine as they shake hands. Spider freak. When the thought pops into his mind, he's not sure if it's fully his own. She seems to be in her late forties, maybe a few years younger than his father, with light brown skin. Emma's hair is a short, straight bob with curtain bangs, some stray gray hairs contrasting with the darkness of her natural color. They almost look like spider webs, in a way, but Gerry chooses to ignore that for now. She watches him through her rectangle glasses, eyes dark and deep as they focus on him. It seems she is curious about his many eye tattoos covering his joints, eyeing them in a way that makes him uneasy. He does his best to ignore it.
Sitting by his father's side, across from Shelley, he orders a beer to start the night. He'd intended to be quiet the whole time, but that doesn't last long as Shelley smiles up at him, also eyeing his tattoos curiously, except it seems genuine when he does it.
"D-do they have a story?" He asks a bit awkwardly. That takes Gerry off guard – they seem pretty self explanatory for people in their line of work.
Gerry wonders a bit about how much he's willing to reveal, but Harvey cuts him off. "You can't just ask something like that, Michael! A tattoo can be something very personal, you don't want Delano's kid to think you're nosey, do you?"
Gerry doesn't like the way the words feel when they leave her lips, much less the way she eyes Shelley as she talks. He frowns, not pleased that a stranger is speaking for him, and scoffs.
"Actually, I don't mind." He almost wants to talk about his connection to the Eye, but he sees the way his father tenses next to him, so instead he takes a sip of his beer to think of a better way to phrase it, and decides to simplify the story, "Guess you can say it was an act of rebellion, but I still like them. Mum was not happy when I showed up with the first few." He shows off his left hand, and glances at his father, "Dad wasn't a fan either, but at least he's more chill about it."
His father laughs awkwardly, "I certainly didn't expect it to be followed by so many more."
Shelley laughs too, the same warm feeling from before runs through Gerry, and for a moment he wonders if there's something supernatural about it. He refuses to consider another possibility when his heart beats faster at the beautiful smile directed at him. They just met. There's no reason for this kind of reaction.
"I always wanted a tattoo myself, well, when I was younger." He giggles, "But I was never brave enough to get one, too scared of how much they hurt."
"It depends where you get it. And on your own pain tolerance, I suppose."
"Yeah… Mine is pretty low." Shelley laughs.
Throughout the whole conversation, Harvey's eyes have been trained on them, a smile on her lips that is too perfectly polite to feel real, and it makes Gerry want to confront her, but he doesn't want to make his father regret inviting him. Even if originally he didn't want to come, it was nice to be away from home on something that wasn't another book hunt. He does glare at her, and she seems to notice, her smile shifting into blatantly fake innocence, eyes big and blinking at him. Finally she finds a topic to discuss with his father and leaves the two of them alone.
The conversation with Michael flows quite nicely, it's rare that he gets to talk to someone else his age. Gerry has a decently high tolerance to alcohol, so he's still feeling well when Shelley begins to slur his words, face flushed, giggles becoming more frequent. His dad leaves early, offering to take Gerry home, but he decides to stay longer. It doesn't take much for Harvey to leave as well, likely aware of how little Gerry enjoyed her presence. He's quite certain he saw a spider run into her hair at one point, so he's pretty convinced she's not to be trusted. When they finally close the tab, Shelley is stumbling a bit, so Gerry offers to accompany him home. It's late, but they're still able to catch the last tube. He'll figure out how to get home later, maybe call a cab or just walk, right now he needs to make sure Michael gets home safe.
He doesn't like the way his heart is beating differently from what he's used to, his chest feeling too tight to contain it. He doesn't think about that when Michael invites him upstairs for some tea, to sober up.
—
Michael's bed feels extra warm and cozy that morning. His head rests on something that feels firmer than a pillow, with soft fabric, and, as he nuzzles onto it, he notices an unfamiliar smell – not an unpleasant one, something delicate like a subtle fabric softener, unlike the floral one he uses. There's also the faint smell of sweat, and distantly he can detect the refreshing scent of a cologne he doesn't recognize. Were he more aware of himself, Michael might have panicked to wake up surrounded by so many unfamiliar things, but instead, for some reason, they bring him a sense of comfort and safety he hasn't felt in a long time.
He knows he's hugging something, which he assumes to be a body pillow even though he can't remember owning one. Clearly he must, or he wouldn't be hugging it. He pulls it closer and curls up more, wrapping a leg around it, very content with its warmth in the cold morning. He's still too far away to properly wake up. In fact, he's pretty sure he passes out a few times while swimming in that semi-consciousness that often precedes being awake. He's very distantly aware of a headache waiting to assault him when he properly wakes up, and would feel bad for it if it wasn't for the reason he'd had so much to drink the night before.
Eric Delano had decided to invite his son for drinks with them. He'd told Michael a few times in the past that the "kid" was not that much younger, and maybe the two of them could be friends, even if they did seem like complete opposites. He was worried, he'd said, that his son didn't have too many friends nowadays. Michael isn't sure what counts as not that much younger when you're in your fifties, but with the way Mr. Delano talked about his son, always calling him kid, Michael had expected a teen, nineteen at most. He's not sure what led him to that conclusion, but it was quite a surprise to instead meet a 22 year old, only four years younger than himself. That, and calling them opposites seemed like an understatement. At least at first.
The young man had an expression that made him seem a bit older than he actually was, the tired look of someone who's been through a lot. Michael had seen similar expressions in statement givers, but while theirs was usually accompanied by fear and dread, he seemed relaxed enough, like whatever had happened didn't bother him as much as it probably should. He was quite a bit taller than Michael, although that was most likely because of the black platform boots he wore, making it harder to define his actual height. His ripped pants were black to match, as were his loose V neck, the mesh shirt poking out from under it, and his long black coat. The whole outfit made him look broody, but there was a polite – albeit reluctant – smile on his lips. He wore black lipstick, along with eyeliner and eyeshadow, and his nails were painted the same color, some of them chipping. He was extremely handsome, and Michael felt himself blush at the sight. He doesn't know enough about fashion to tell apart these dark styles, so he's unsure whether Gerard was goth, punk, or maybe emo? Whichever it was, it suited him well, and he had a confidence in his motions that Michael lacked. It made him flustered. And he knew the guy was way out of his league, there's no way a man like him would be interested in bubbly Michael, in his pale blue jumper, and pastel pink scarf.
He doesn't remember much of what happened the night before. Gerard might have walked him home, which is awfully kind of him, Mr. Delano raised him well. Michael smiles at the memory. As his consciousness finally catches up to him, a sharp pain shoots through his head, and he beats himself up for not drinking more water. It's only when he tries to bury his face into the strangely large pillow he's been hugging to better block out the sunlight that he finally realizes why the pillow doesn't make sense. He freezes, and he can feel the slow rise and fall of breathing, hear the heartbeat below the chest his ear is tightly pressed against. He tentatively opens one eye, hoping he'll be able to go unnoticed, as he prays to whatever God there is that maybe after parting ways with Gerard he decided to go to a different bar and meet some guy – as unusual as that type of behavior would be for him.
He's met with dark eyes, framed by smudged eye makeup, looking down at him.
Mr. Delano is going to kill him.
"Oh, you're up. Good, could you please let go? I really need to pee but I've been kinda trapped here. I expected the cuddliness but you're stronger than you look."
Michael feels his entire face burn in embarrassment as he sits up, too fast for his hungover brain to keep up with and it punishes him accordingly with a wave of nausea.
"Thanks." Gerard says as he lets go and sits up. He tosses the sheets away and runs to the bathroom. Michael stares at the black pants on his floor and he wants to die.
Okay. This is definitely not what Mr. Delano meant when he said his son needed friends. He's never gonna be able to face the man again. He's gonna have to quit his job – the sharp headache spreads to the back of his head at the thought, and his chest hurts. Anxiety, probably. – No, he can't afford to do so. And he's not a great liar, so he'll never be able to have another normal conversation with Mr. Delano. Dear God, how could this have happened? That's so inappropriate and unprofessional of him! He looks down and realizes with some relief that at least he's fully dressed, but the fact that at some point he changed into his pajamas does not help. He's sitting in bed, hugging his knees and trying not to panic when he hears the sink, and soon after Gerard is back in the room. He pauses at the door, immediately alert.
"What happened?" Gerard asks, looking around the room. He quickly makes it to his discarded pants on the floor and grabs a pocket knife from its pocket. Michael doesn't have time to process it as a threat before Gerard is standing somewhat protectively between Michael and the room, looking around.
"W-what are you doing?" He laughs nervously.
"You look freaked out. What happened, was something here?"
"Wh- something ? Like what? A-a spider? Are you gonna kill a spider with a kni-"
"You saw a spider?" Gerard hisses. "I knew I couldn't trust that woman, she had the Web written all over her face. Where was it?"
"I- what? No, there's no spider! I was just aski– What are you doing, why do you have a knife?" His voice comes out more high pitched than he intended it to, his head seems like it's going to explode as it tries to process whatever is going on in his room.
Gerard's shoulders relax, but he turns to Michael with a confused expression.
"Self defense?" He says, like it's obvious. "You look like you saw a ghost, I thought maybe something got in." He walks back to his pants, this time to put them on before he finally puts the knife away, which helps Michael relax. Who in their right mind just carries a knife ?
"I still don't understand what you mean… What kind of something would've gotten in?"
Gerard stares at him in disbelief, as if trying to read Michael for some type of joke.
"You actually have no clue."
Michael just stares back. What kind of response even is that?
"You work at the Archives, right? Did nobody brief you?" He seems upset about something. Michael tenses.
"O-on what?"
Gerard groans, "Where do I even begin?" He takes a deep breath as he looks around, "Can I use your kitchen? My head hurts a bit, and I can't imagine you're in better shape considering how drunk you were last night." He chuckles.
Michael wants to be worried about whatever he meant about his drunkenness, but his head protests, refusing to really formulate any more thoughts until he at least eats something. He nods. Once Gerard leaves his room, Michael changes into more appropriate clothes than pajamas before following him.