Chapter Text
Mikey Way is special.
Not in the sit at the back of the class with the safety scissors and glue way, although his geography teacher has implied it a few times.
Not in the 'Mummy's special little boy' way (although that is kind of true too.)
Not in the academically brilliant way, or the unbelievably attractive way, although he holds his own both in the classroom and the bedroom (or, at least, the back of the cinema).
To most of the world he isn't special at all. He's just a skinny little seventeen year old kid with dyed blonde streaks in his hair, weird glasses, and a liking for tight jeans and baggy tops. He is way too into bad horror movies and classic sci-fi to be considered cool. He can make a mean latte, earning his keep and a fair amount of tips in the process at the local coffee shop every Saturday and during the school holidays.
Mikey's boss at the coffee shop doesn't quite understand how the kid does it, but every single order is perfect. I mean, perfect. The right temperature, the perfect blend, even down to the picture on the top drawn in the foam. Mikey doesn't speak much, his face impassive most of the time, no corporate smile or standard greeting and yet the customers love him; he remembers every single birthday and always has the right thing to say to cheer someone up or congratulate them on a good day. It's almost as though he can read their minds or something.
Which is ridiculous of course, because Mikey Way is just a normal teenage boy.
Except he really isn't. Mikey Way is special.
And he isn't the only one.
*************************************
Mikey's friends don't think he is that special. But then again, they are a bit special themselves. As far as anyone outside their group is concerned they are just another group of young men holding down day jobs and trying to stay out of trouble. They work, they hang out, they have fun, but there's still this feeling like something is missing, as though they are just waiting for something to happen. They can't put their finger on it, can't work out why their lives feel like a held breath, but something isn't quite right yet.
Ray Toro says it will sort itself out in the end. They just have to have faith. It's easy for Ray to say that; he's special. He just knows these things. About the future, what's going to happen, he just knows. The others trust him. Mostly. It's not like he isn't always right in the end; it's just that he is sometimes a bit wrong about the details on the way.
Bob Bryar doesn't care. Bob just focuses on his work as a mechanic, on the cars and the machines, and trusts that the others will do the right thing and let him know when they need him. He always seems to be in a bad mood, but it's just an act, stress relief something his family believes in strongly. His dad does yoga, his mum jogs, and Bob, Bob drums.
Sometimes when he drums it's as though he is a man possessed, his eyes closed and hands moving as though the drums are a part of him. To the trained ear, it sounds as though he has four hands, the pace almost inhuman, but he's just a normal guy who spends his days working in a garage, sprawled underneath a car. He's good at his job, and never has to come out from under the car for a forgotten tool.
One of his customers once thought he saw a wrench go skidding across the floor into Bob's hand all on its own, but that's ridiculous. It's not like Bob can move things with his mind or anything.
That would make him special, and Bob would deny that.
Mikey's big brother knows Mikey Way is special. It fell to Gerard to explain it all to him, to sort out the whys and help him learn how to be special – without being too special. Gerard isn't the only one of course; mom tries her best but she lost her gifts twenty years ago (she does have a good knack with potions, lotions and spells sometimes, however, she claims that's just chemistry, cooking and lessons from their grandmother rather than any real gift. That she makes a really kick ass organic hair products range is just a coincidence and nothing special.)
Mikey and Gerard's grandmother is special. But nearly every doting grandson thinks that about his nan.
Not every nan can control the weather, help plants to grow, and charm the very birds from the sky though.
See, Gerard and Mikey's nan is very special. She is sort of a witch. Not the evil kind with green skin and a black cat, nor the fluffy kind who wanders around all beautific smiles and rosy cheeks. She's not a Wiccan or a druid or anything like that and doesn't have a cauldron or broomstick (she goes to St Mary's every Sunday and prefers a Dust Buster). She can be scary as hell when crossed, or tender and caring when her grandsons need her, especially after a bad day at school.
Not every kid who gets bullied and beaten up in Gym gets to watch the entire football team get scared to death when their bus gets struck by a freak bolt of lightning. It's a good thing the vehicle acted like a Faraday cage and kept them from harm.
Or a bad thing, depending on your point of view.
And not every bullied kid, on turning seventeen, realises he has the power to heal people. To be able to tell when someone is in pain and help them through it. And to protect them too. Gerard's not sure if he could stop a bullet, and doesn't really want to find out, but a fist doesn't hurt as much any more. Him, or anyone he has chosen to protect anyway. The owner of the fist seems to react as though hitting a brick wall, but that's their problem.
And funny as Hell.
Being the grandchild of a witch has its advantages, but can be hard to explain to your mates. Which is why the Way brothers get on so well with Bob and Ray, who have a similar ancestry and totally get that need to keep the Solstice free, or to call round before visiting to avoid running into anything... unusual. Like Ray's mum floating around the ceiling to change a light bulb. Or Bob's dad scratching up the trees in the back yard in the run up to the full moon.
Y'know. Freaky shit. The sort of stuff that to other people belongs in bad horror movies and comic books.
To the Way brothers, and Ray, and Bob, it's just their lives.
Which are about to get seriously fucked up.
*****************************
Frank Iero is not special. At all. He's different, yes, he knows that. Everyone at his old school knows that. Everyone in his old town knows that. Every fucking jock and wise guy who was after a bit of a distraction or punching bag knows he is different and tried to punish him for it. The last semester he spent there saw him left tied to the football goal in a storm for three hours until his mum found him.
Pneumonia is Hell. But at least it was enough to get him out of that dump and into a new town, a new school, and maybe a new start.
Maybe.
Still, it's something. It's not like he has anyone to miss really. His only friends were older and have gone off to college, and they can email him here as well as anywhere else. Not that Gabe and Pete are likely to write exactly, they'll be too busy enjoying all the fun of college, but he's expecting random drunk texts and photos and maybe the occasional 2am phone call to wind him up. They keep promising him that if he holds on and just gets through the next couple of years it will get better.
Yeah. And pigs might fly.
Frank isn't looking forward to the new semester, but the town isn't so bad. There's enough work around for his mom to afford the new place, a few interesting looking shops, and the School football team sucks so hopefully won't have their heads up their own asses so much. Plus there's a weird story he found on the internet about people thinking the team have been cursed due to all the weird injuries the players get.
Frank really likes that idea far more than he dare admit to his mom.
Plus there's a cemetery up on the hill behind his house that looks like a good place to hide out, not to mention there's something soothing about the dead. He's certainly never had any trouble from them, unlike the living. They don't talk back and are fantastic listeners, plus they don't object to him smoking or drinking or try to get him to eat more protein. Maybe it's the whole being eaten themselves bit that makes them more open to him being a veggie.
All in all, there are signs of promise in the town. The only thing he wishes sometimes is that he still had someone around to celebrate his birthday with who will actually like the fact that it's October 31st; his mum has a weird thing about Halloween, claiming the drugs she was on whilst giving birth to him triggered a fucked up hallucination with all the Halloween decorations around. She hates everything Halloween related, not to mention magic and witchcraft. She wouldn't even let him buy the Harry Potter books, insisting they were nonsense.
So, he borrowed them off Gabe, hides his more supernatural comic books under his mattress alongside his porn, and they always have birthday decorations up on October 31st instead of Halloween ones; it's always fairy cakes instead of jellied eyeballs, and trick or treaters get surprised by pointy party hats instead of pointy witch hats.
Sometimes, just sometimes, Frank wishes he could forget the family thing, ignore his birthday altogether, and just dress up and go out, pretend to be someone else for just one night and have some fun.
Maybe for his eighteenth.
But he has his seventeenth to get through first. Not that he expects to have anyone other than his mom to celebrate it with this year either. At least Gabe and Pete gave him a birthday to remember last year – just one he was never, ever, going to tell anyone about. Being greeted by a birthday text consisting of the words “so now UR legal” had kindof set the tone for that day.
God, he misses those two.
Looking out of the car window at the shops flashing past, Frank tries to think positive. He is going to be okay here, he is going to fit in.
Actually, he isn't.
Well, he is and he isn't.
Well, not in the way he thinks he wants to fit in.
See, Frank Iero is completely normal (except for the dark clothes, dark hair, shit lungs, liking guys, geeky love of all things cult, and sometimes occult, a few scars up his arms and a funny shaped one on his back he doesn't remember getting). He's just a normal guy, dreading starting his new school, resigning himself to a life of enforced celibacy (at least until college), and hoping to make it through the semester without ending up in hospital again. Completely normal.
But he's about to learn that being normal is highly overrated.
********************************
Gerard Way is doodling in his notebook again, a coffee beside him in a cup so big it practically qualifies as a bucket. His pen is sketching over the page, marking out the frames of his latest comic creation even as Ray and Bob are in earnest discussion over the Poltergeist movies versus the short lived spin off TV series.
The coffee shop's busy, the lunchtime crowd ebbing and flowing around the counter and the island of tranquillity that is Mikey Way. The rush never seems to phase him, actually very little does, but even when the shop's almost full there's always a table at the back for Gerard and the others. It is almost like an unspoken rule that it's their table, although that's less out of respect for them but more because, with their casual work schedules, there always seems to be one of them there.
The comic book shop where Gerard works has an eclectic schedule, opening early in the morning and late evenings but closed for a few hours in the middle of the day. The hours were set a year ago and his boss still claims it was because their main customers are school kids who are in class during the day (and only shopped on their way to and from school) but Gerard always jokes that it was because the sci-fi channel was running repeats of all the Star Trek episodes over the lunch hours.
It was actually something of a combination of the two, but Gee doesn't mind. Sometimes he works just the morning, or just the evening, depending on whether he has practice or plans with the guys. Sometimes he will work right through and kill time between shifts at the coffee shop, nursing a mug for a few hours.
Ray works a more normal 9 to 5 shift, his lunch hour swinging between midday and two depending on when he can get away. Its just a basic office job, hidden behind the scenes at the local bank, photocopying and running errands and gossiping with the admin team. The ladies love him, the work is pretty easy, and the money isn't bad. Plus filing's kind of soothing in an odd way. So much of his life is chaotic sometimes he takes pleasure in simply having b follow a and the rest fall in line all the way to z.
Bob on the other hand, Bob just... Heck, Bob just does whatever Bob likes. The garage he works at is his dad's and as long as the work gets done and everyone is happy things such as opening hours tend to be pretty flexible, especially around the full moon. As the cheapest (okay, only) garage in town, everyone copes with the Bryar family's eccentricities.
One of the local football players hobbles into the shop, a cast on his ankle, and Gerard instantly starts to fidget, tapping his foot against the floor and staring into space. He zones out for a moment, as though concentrating on something else before Mikey looks round from the counter. A second later Ray looks up from his green leaf tea, staring back at Mikey, before nudging Gerard.
“Dude, Mikey says cut it out, you're doing it again.”
Gee blinks, focusing again, and rubs his ankle distractedly. “Fucking footballers. Broken bones are itchy.”
“Could be worse,” Ray points out, “you're the only guy I know who gets what period pain is like.”
“You have no idea man,” Gee mutters darkly, “I am so fucking glad to be out of school. And tell Mikey to stay out of my head.”
“He can't get in your head so stop complaining, at least you get some privacy.” Bob looks up from his coffee, a small swirling vortex of stirring activity within the cup suddenly going out of control and slopping over the sides, even though the spoon is on the table. “And you're fidgeting like you got an unexpected boner or caffeine jitters, we all know what you're up to, doesn't take a mind reader.”
“Yeah, well, be helpful and distract me, okay?”
“Or you could try and get your nan to uncurse the football team and reduce the number of broken limbs in town, it's been what, three years already?”
“She likes to teach lasting lessons.” Gee looks up as the footballer heads for the door, his girlfriend carrying the coffees, and lets out a sigh of relief as the itch fades. He grins as Mikey comes over, cloth in hand and a blue apron on over his clothes. “Mikey!”
Barely acknowledging his friends, Mikey leans over the table and starts to wipe up Bob's spilt coffee. “Bryar, just use the spoon whilst you're in here, or concentrate harder, I'm sick of wiping up your mess.”
Grabbing the cloth, Bob helps but doesn't look at all apologetic because, well, he doesn't do apologies. Nonetheless, he shrugs.
“It's harder with liquids, they're all... slippery.”
Rolling his eyes, Mikey glances at the others. “You guys still up for vampire fest tonight?”
Bob shakes his head and points up. “Moon. I gotta babysit dad.”
“We could do it at yours,” Gee suggests, grinning. “Howling would totally help the ambience.”
“Fine, but no alcohol, no way I'm being drunk in charge of a werewolf again, it's a fucking nightmare.”
“Where's your mom?”
“Planning meeting for the big Halloween hoo ha.”
“Boooooring,” Ray mutters, “never did get the whole dance naked under the moonlight bit-”
“Nudity is optional and really old school,” Gerard points out quickly, “it's usually just civvies and robes and shit, you would see way more on the beach in summer.”
Mikey snorts. “Even then, Gee never did it, he'd be hiding in a tent with his hands over his eyes and a teddy bear in his arms.”
“Mikeeeeeeeeeey,” Gee squeals, putting his face in his hands. “Dude, flashbacks!”
“Flashbacks?” Bob says quickly.
“Nearly Naked Nan time,” Mikey explains, patting Gee's hair sympathetically. “She claimed it helps channel the growing vibes or some shit. You've no idea how grateful he was when they decided we were old enough to stay home alone instead of going. Or how lucky you are you never got dragged along.”
“Amen to that,” Ray says, raising his mug and he and Bob clink them in a toast, Bob promptly spilling more coffee on the table.
“Fuck you.” Mikey wipes it up. “Anyway, haunted house planning tonight too?”
“Sounds good,” Ray says, closing his eyes and putting on his best mystic voice. “I forsee this year's Haunted House will be the best ever.”
“Yeah, well if you can foresee all the stuff we do for it, how about you just write it all down and we can just watch Vincent Price instead of working out if ghosts or vampires will be scarier this year.” Gee complains, but picks up his notebook and pen and starts sketching scary mask designs for them to wear anyway.
“Oh come on,” Bob says, shrugging as he finally starts to drink his coffee instead of spilling it over the table. “The four of us, one abandoned house, a bunch of drunk and horny High Schoolers, and supernatural powers on the most mystical night of the year, what could possibly go wrong?”
As Bob manages to spill coffee down his front, and Ray upturns his mug, letting the last of the tea drain – onto the table – so he can see the leaves, Mikey sighs and gives up, throwing the cloth at them before returning to the counter, almost looking forward to going back to school in a few days.
***********************************
Frank's first day as a junior goes pretty much as he expects.
He's welcomed and shown round by some geeky kid called Brendon who plays the Accordion of all things and, as soon as he realises Frank plays guitar, tries to get him to come to band practice.
His locker is, predictably, one of the shittiest, beat up, ones; it's miles away from any of his actual classes, scratches his hand as he tries to throw his books in, in a way that screams tetanus booster, and is in an area inhabited primarily by jocks, most of whom seem to be sporting some sort of injury.
Only his Spanish teacher manages to get his surname right first time, leaving him answering to Ear-o, Lero, I-ero and Yee-ro for most of the day.
The cafeteria's vegetarian chilli resembles puke and kind of tastes like it too. The salad looks as though it's been in the tray over the entire summer break.
The Goths give him evils for not being Goth enough, the Geeks ignore him for looking too trendy, the cool kids ignore him because, well, he has a sense of individuality, and the Jocks... Oh come on, like they were ever going to take the weedy new boy with skinny limbs seriously.
On the plus side, he hasn't been beaten up yet so as first days back go, it still beats his old school.
Nonetheless, as he heads home it isn't exactly with a skip in his step and a song in his heart. In his head, yeah, Livin' on a Prayer (more specifically the line “we gotta hold on, ready or not”) going round and round all day until he can get his headphones on and interrupt it with something else for a bit. He has to concentrate on the walk home, still getting his bearings in the town, but he takes the wrong side alley by accident and stops short as he comes face to face with a life size replica Cyberman. Slipping his headphones off, he walks around it slowly, looking up and down the figure.
“Cool.”
Taking in the shop front behind it, Frank grins at the various comic book heroes painted faithfully onto the glass window, various scenes and faces greeting him like old friends. There is barely enough uncovered space to even see the shop beyond, a few action figures visible through the gap between Jean Grey's legs and the lighter paint of Iron Man's mask. The main shop sign identifies it simply as Charlie's Comics but the font is highly stylised and reminds him of something he can't quite put his finger on.
Figuring that, whilst he's here, he ought to check out the town a bit more, Frank pushes through the door, the usual jangling bell or harsh beep replaced instead by a Star Trek transporter sound. It's not much, but it's enough to cause a rustle of activity just beyond the beaded curtain hiding what Frank presumes is a staff area beyond.
“Be right with you!”
Nodding to himself, Frank pulls his bag tighter over his shoulder and wanders along the racks of comics and magazines, grinning widely as he takes in the range. This place is, there's no denying it, pretty awesome. It's dark, what little natural light gets into the alleyway blocked by the painted windows, and the light bulbs that are in there are either dim or roughly painted over with red, giving the whole shop an eerie kindof glow.
It's also cramped. There is just enough room between the racks for him to shuffle sideways along them and the walls are crammed with shelves full of model Daleks and Cylons and X-Men and Starships and a whole row of Star Wars action figures along the very top. Even the shelves themselves are painted with faces and action scenes and the ceiling has an entire starscape, complete with Imperial cruiser and Death Star.
He's lost in a row of classic X-Men, his fingers itching in his jeans pockets from wanting to just grab and read all the comics, when the beaded curtain swishes.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting, anything I can help with?”
“Just looking, thanks, I-” As Frank glances round he's not sure why he seems to forget how to speak, but it's like someone has just jumped on his chest (and he knows all too well what that feels like) or he's stepped out of the house on a really cold day. It's a jolt to his system, like an electric shock (yep, he knows that one too), but there's something really familiar about the stranger, even though he is certain he would remember having seen anyone quite as beautiful as that before.
Okay, beautiful might not be the right word, Frank's brain admits, grinning to itself as it takes in the scruffy figure, but there's certainly something about him. Frank can feel his eyes roaming over the too long black hair that's sticking up in weird unwashed angles on one side, as though the guy's left hand has been wedged in it for an hour or two. There's a thick line of black marker along one cheek that for some reason Frank just wants to lick off, and the lighting in the shop is making the guy's cheekbones really stand out, even as it casts dark shadows around his eyes.
Not that the black circle of eyeliner isn't doing a good enough job of that on its own.
Maybe it's the Iron Maiden t-shirt that is making him stare rather than the guy himself. Maybe it's the Rebel Alliance symbol drawn onto his name badge, almost obscuring the G at the beginning of his name and making it look like erard instead. Maybe it's the way his fingertips are fucking filthy, graphite smudges turning them grey and making all his knuckles stand out as he scratches the back of his hand with his chipped black nails.
Maybe it's just that it's been a really long time since Frank got blown, or has met anybody he actually fancies, or is even half as cool as this guy seems to be.
Shaking it off as quickly as he can, Frank jerks a thumb back at the comics. “Love the collection.”
“Thanks.” The guy grins and Frank ignores the way his stomach does a weird belly flop onto his bladder. “Not seen you in here before.”
“Yeah, just moved.”
The guy stares at him, as though trying to figure something out. “Huh, could've sworn I've seen you around somewhere before.”
“I've got one of those faces,” Frank deadpans, waving his hand up and down his body. “Just blend in with the local scenery.”
The guy laughs, real, proper delight, and it catches Frank by surprise. It really wasn't that funny, but the way his smile lights up his face is contagious and Frank finds himself shuffling along the row to break free and edge his way to the counter. It's a bit like navigating a Pacman maze, getting round the shop, and any second now he half expects to run across a ghost.
“I'm Gerard, Gee,” the guy manages to choke out at last, extending a filthy hand towards him. Frank shakes it, trying not to notice just how incredibly warm he feels.
“Frank.”
They stand there, hands held for what surely must be longer than a normal handshake. It feels like an ice age to Frank, his hand on fire even as his lungs feel light, as though filled with extra oxygen (he's had that too, way too many times). His fingers almost feel tingly and he just enjoys the sensations for way too long before suddenly realising the guy is still just staring at him and holding his hand and looking like he is staring through Frank rather than at him. It's intense, like all the light bulbs just got ramped up to 11, and he can't take it.
Letting go, Frank tries to grin apologetically even as Gerard blushes, the red bulbs hiding the worst of it but there's still just enough of a hint to give him away.
“Uh, pleased to meet you.” Gee quickly busies himself shuffling through some flyers on the counter before pulling one out. “Listen, as you're new and all, we do a 10% discount on your first purchase, we do a lot of online orders and shit and try to match the deal, and uh...” He digs deeper and starts almost throwing leaflets into Frank's hands, as though determined to fill them to avoid the temptation to grab them again. “Our opening hours... that one will give you discount at the coffee shop, here's, like, an events schedule for the cinema and studio, they sometimes do gigs and dance stuff there, and uh, oh!”
Gerard grins and runs back behind the beaded curtain, the beads catching the lights as he moves and trying to wrap themselves around his limbs as he charges through.
Frank can understand the temptation.
He returns brandishing a hand drawn and cheaply copied flyer on bright orange paper that's covered with drawings of ghosts, goblins and some seriously fucked up skeletons coming out of a creepy Haunted House. “Haunted House at Halloween! You gotta come, me and my friends run it, it's two dollars to get in and the money goes to upgrading the studio, in the vain hope of like encouraging some real music in this town. Oh and there's madame Toro, who's actually Ray, for one silver coin he'll tell your future. Or, at least, some part of it, he's crap at grades and useful shit.”
Frank has no space left in his hands, but on impulse leans forward and opens his mouth. After a second, Gee smiles shyly and places the flyer between his lips, eyes lingering as Frank closes his mouth around it, holding it tight. With a sudden flurry of activity, Frank manages to flip open his bag and shove the rest of the flyers in before pulling the Haunted House one out of his mouth and looking at it properly.
“Looks cool, great art.”
“Thanks,” Gee says, almost blushing again. “I drew it.”
“No way...” Frank runs his fingers over the flyer then spots something familiar about it. Looking back again at the window, then the walls, his jaw drops. “You did... Did you draw all this too?”
Gee nods, red again, and Frank swallows hard. Taking in the drawings, and looking again at the guy in front of him, Frank suddenly feels really young. Gerard is older, has a proper job, is a fucking artist and way, way out of Frank's league. It's not like he hasn't been friends with older guys and all that, but this guy should be in like college or working for Marvel somewhere and it hits him hard.
Smiling politely, Frank folds the flyer in half and puts it in his jeans pocket, nodding. “Halloween? I dunno if I can, family stuff, but maybe I'll see you there.”
“I'd like that,” Gee says, then for the love of God bites his lip; Frank instantly decides age is just a number and who cares if he's older, the worst that can happen is they end up just friends.
No, actually, his traitorous brain points out, the worst that can happen is that Gee is straight and a freaking homophobe and Frank ends up looking like a right lecherous schmuck, gets outed as gay and gets beaten up by the entire school and tied up again, except by his neck this time.
Tilting his head to one side and appraising Gerard with as much gaydar as he can muster, Frank decides that the odds are in his favour and, for Gerard, it might be worth the risk.
A clock somewhere in the shop starts playing the Buck Rogers theme and Frank startles, looking at his watch and wincing. He really needs to go.
“Listen, uh, thanks, and uh, maybe I'll see you around, y'know, when I use my voucher.” Frank grins, feeling really lame.
“I'm here most days, or hanging about in the coffee house, so, yeah, I'll keep an eye out for you.”
“Yeah, you too.” Chucking a thumb towards the door, Frank starts to reverse out of the shop before catching his bag on a precariously placed Jabba the Hutt model and almost sending it flying. Straightening it, he throws one last smile at Gee before almost running out the door and back into the daylight.
He's halfway home before he notices the scratch on the back of his hand seems to have faded already.
****************************************
Gerard is so focused on his notepad, the paper resting on his lap as he sits cross legged in the huge armchair, that he barely notices when Bob's dad sticks his head around the door shortly before sunset. His dark burgundy towelling robe covers his pre change nudity and the fluffy bunny slippers are old and worn but still oddly intact. The large dog bowl in his hand is filled with raw meat covered with a dusting of green herbs and Gerard tries not to notice it too much.
“You boys be good up here, alright, feel free to raid the fridge or order takeout or something.”
“Thank you Mr Bryar,” Mikey and Ray chime, shifting on the couch and dropping the leads from the game controllers to the floor as Bob steps over them to go lock his dad up. The noises of the game almost block out the thud of the heavy door and shifting bolts, and Gee goes back to his work, shading in a stray lock of hair on the figure in his book.
“So,” Bob says when he returns, wiping his hands on his jeans and watching as the boys save their game and switch it off. “Haunted House.”
“Haunted House,” Ray echoes spookily.
“And the mysterious Madame Toro,” Mikey says quickly, ruffling Ray's hair. “You do look good in a veil.”
“What can I say, I love the dress, there's something about a bit of bling every now and then,” Ray shrugs unconcernedly. It's not like, at over six foot tall , anyone is seriously going to give him grief for dragging up for a good cause.
Besides, he really does look strangely hot in a veil and big gold earrings.
“Dad and I will do the trapdoors and stuff as usual,” Bob says, pointing to the floor. “I'm thinking more drop from the ceiling stuff this year, we played out the walls pretty well last year.”
“Drama techs are covering the lighting for us,” Mikey says, “and I've got that Urie kid doing some creepy accordion tunes for background, can throw in a little guitar scream every now and then too.”
“Which just leaves the art,” Ray says, glancing at Gerard.
He's still intent on his shading and doesn't even notice.
“Gee,” Ray says, a smile in his voice as he puts on his best teacher voice, “you wanna share with the whole class?”
Gerard startles, almost knocking his pad to the floor and drags his fingers through his hair, leaving a fresh smudge of ink on his cheek. “Oh, right, yeah I've got some killer mask designs for us this year, and I'm thinking of a zombie type theme, lots of gore and blood and bones.”
“Mum's fake blood is an awesome recipe,” Mikey admits, getting up to sit on the arm of the chair next to Gerard. “We can also get some slime done-” He breaks off, what passes for Mikey for a smile breaking out and his eyebrow raising curiously before he leans over to get a better look at Gerard's drawing. “Geeeeeeeee. Who's the hottie?”
Gerard fumbles the pad again, tugging it up to his chest, but not fast enough. With a wave of his fingers Bob snatches the pad into thin air and floats it across the room to his hand. Frowning, he flicks through the pages as Ray looks over his shoulder.
“Don't! They're... They're not ready, I'm just messing around.”
Gerard can feel Mikey's gaze boring through his skull, a warm hand on his shoulder as the telepathic little sneak tries to read his mind and closes his eyes. A slight shimmer of blue dances over his skin as he repels the probe, snapping Mikey back into his own brain.
“Fuck, I was just curious! You know I can't get anything useful anyway.” Mikey rubs his temples, feeling as though he's been struck with an elastic band, and slips off the arm before jumping off the chair and up onto the sofa to see the pad over Bob's other shoulder. It takes Gerard a few seconds to untangle his limbs and get off the chair to try and snatch the pad back, but he's already bright red and Bob is holding it above his head.
“I just... It's a new character I'm working on, okay?”
Ray grabs the pad off of Bob and passes it back, but there's a look on his face that Gerard just knows means he knows. Fuck. They don't need Mikey's mind reading with Gee, they all just know him too well anyway. Fuckers.
“What's his name?” Ray asks softly, giving Gerard an encouraging smile.
“He's just...” Gerard gives up and drops back into the chair, hiding under his hair. “Frank. He came in the shop today and I just... He has interesting lines.”
“We can see that,” Bob mutters and Ray elbows him. Mikey is beaming from ear to ear with glee, (actually, just the edges of his lips have moved, but for him it's like he's jumping up and down squealing like a kid) and Gee just knows he's not gonna hear the end of this.
“So, did you get his number?” Mikey asks at last, jumping off the sofa to bounce back over to Gee's chair and ruffle his hair, before removing his hand and wiping it on his jeans. He loves his brother but seriously, shampoo should not be an optional extra in life.
“It's not like that,” Gee mumbles.
Ray, Bob and Mikey exchange looks that just scream 'It so totally is!'
“He's just a customer, I was just being friendly, and he would make a good zombie hunter. 'Sides, why would he,” Gee says, pointing at the stunning figure he's drawn in his pad, all sharply defined features and inviting eyes, “be interested in someone like me?”
“Because you're awesome?” Ray suggests, crouching down in front of him.
“Yeah, and a freak,” Gee points out, “come on, what am I gonna say to him, 'hi, I'm a descendant of a long line of witches, my nan cursed the local football team and makes sure it rains on Stewey Pennebaker's birthday every single year 'cause of that incident with the car, when she's not making sure the local crops are some of the best in the state or growing the best, like, everything. My brother can read your mind, so you'd better not cheat on me or even think about me whilst around him. Oh and if I lose control I try to start healing everyone in town just to stop itching with their fucking illnesses, or if you startle me there's a chance I could knock you through a wall by accident.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Bob says before Gee interrupts him.
“And then there's my best friends, a guy who can move anything he wants with his mind, as long as it isn't a liquid-”
“Fuck you, I'm working on it.”
“-and a guy who can literally tell you your future, just not the bits you actually want to know, more what you're going to have for lunch next Thursday and whether your new haircut will suit you or not.”
“Mum's getting me a new crystal ball to try and bring the details through,” Ray pouts. “And I can dream about important stuff, I just-”
“Don't always remember it quite right,” Bob says, grinning slightly. “Like where, when and who.”
“It makes sense after the events happen though.”
“Look, guys, it's not that I like this dude,” Gerard says, then blushes at the identical incredulous looks they give him. “Okay, you know me, I think he's cute, but it's not like I can do anything about it. He's a, well, a muggle. And I'm...”
“Not.” Mikey whispers it, but leans in close to his brother, lending support. “That's not a big deal, just look at mum and dad.”
“Yeah, least your gifts are pretty easy to hide, not like,” Bob stopped as, right on cue, the sun sets and the faint sounds of his dad howling reaches them through the floor. “You should hear mum go on about finding out about THAT little secret.”
“I guess, I just, after what happened last time, with Bert and all... Look, can we just watch the film already?”
Nodding, the guys move, Mikey dragging Gee out of the chair and over to the sofa to cuddle up next to him, digging his toes in under Gee's thigh. Bob grabs the pizza menus and starts putting through their order and Ray picks out the first DVD.
**************************
Frank never dreams. Not that he remembers anyway. But that night is... intense. When he wakes up at 3am, face down on his bed and with his dick half buried in his covers, sore from rubbing against them, he certainly remembers what caused it.
Or, more accurately, who.
As he rolls over and starts to jerk himself off, trying to relieve the pressure, he can still feel the dream so vividly, the smell of wet leaves and dirt, the feel of the damp soil against his spine, the warmth of Gee pressed against him, Frank's arms trapped between them, even the smell of ink and cigarette smoke and sweat and hair, it's all so real still. He's never dreamt like this before.
As he comes, the imagined taste of Gerard on his tongue, the remembered fire of his touch on Frank's skin, he can't help biting down hard on his lip, the faint tinge of blood in his mouth, and just before he falls asleep again, he realises that he could taste that in the dream too.
***************************************
Gerard rarely dreams, not his own dreams anyway. When Mikey first got his gift, he had been wide open to the world and a thousand borrowed nightmares and dreams would sneak into his head as he slept. Gee had learned to block them out for him whilst he got control, to watch over his brother's dreams, the matching of their sleeping minds the closest they ever got to be. He's seen Mikey's nightmares, and he is always grateful Mikey missed most of Gee's most horrific dreams.
This time though, there's no denying it's his dream.
He can see everything in the dim glow of his TV, smell the butter on his popcorn from earlier, hear the faint sound of the movie he has on in the background. He can feel hands gripping onto his wrists so tight it hurts, but he's not afraid, the restraint doesn't hurt him, it's somehow comforting, being so out of control.
He can taste the lips pressing so hard against his, and he isn't even sure who it is at first until they break off for a second, dark eyes staring up at him with such intensity it burns, as though there is something more than human there, something deeper, something so powerful-
He pushes back, lurching up against Frank and kisses him back, fierce, their teeth clashing and lips splitting, the taste of blood mixing with popcorn and beer and it's kindof gross but good and so real, so them he could come just from the taste of it-
Gerard wakes up with a groan, his hand pressed between his legs, palming his cock even as he regains consciousness. The dream is fading, the imagined pressure of Frank's body replaced by Gee's hand and sheets, but he claws onto the memory as hard as he can, careful to keep his mind and mouth shut tight, fearful of being overheard in any way. Yet as he comes he can't help whispering Frank's name to the night, those dark eyes sending a jolt of fear through him that he can't quite explain. He doesn't know why he's scared.
He just knows he likes it.
*****************************
Ray dreams all the time. All. The. Fucking. Time. Every night, every afternoon nap, every sneaky five minutes in the archives on a quiet day at work, every long car journey (when he's not driving, obviously), every single time he goes to sleep, no matter how long for or where. He always dreams. And he never sleeps through the night, not in one go anyway.
He didn't used to have this problem, but every single night since his seventeenth birthday has been the same. Go to sleep, spend the entire night running, walking, flying, pole vaulting and parachuting through his dreams, seeing all sorts of freaky shit, wake up breathless and confused or terrified or lost and completely surprised to be Ray Toro in Ray Toro's bed and Ray Toro's life.
See, that's the thing about being a prophet. He sees the future. Not his own, and not the lottery numbers or who's gonna win the Superbowl, sometimes not even anything that makes sense or is in a language he understands or a place he can recognise. Sometimes it's just flashes, an image, like a photograph on a wall, giving him a clue to something he can't figure out.
His mum reassures him that, one day, with enough practice, it will all become easier. He will be able to pick out the details properly and make real predictions, and maybe even stop some of the disasters and pain he sees each night from coming true. The meditations help, the prayers focusing him, scrying, tea leaves, and crystal balls, they're all such a cliché but they are helpful. The dreams are becoming clearer, the jolt back to himself easier to take and the details staying in his head longer.
Tonight he wakes up just twice, his sleepy hand reaching out for the book light, pad and pen by his bed and pulling them closer. The light is dim, easy on his eyes to help avoid him waking up fully, and he scribbles on the pad, a few clear details coming through this time, a first name, Jessie, a tabby cat, and something he can't quite interpret but looks like a weird wobbly ladder emerging from the first dream. It's not a nightmare, just a weird dream, and he drifts off again easily.
The second dream is harsher, a scream caught in his throat as he wakes, and just a couple of flashes of image in his mind. There's blood, a splash of it, like the spray he's seen in horror films and it's on white paper, weird and wrong, looking like red ink but too thick, too bright to be so benign. The second image is weirder, somehow familiar to Ray even as he can't figure out where from. It looks like a bird's footprint, a stick with three branches coming off the top, and it's small, just a tiny mark, and he gets the impression of it being hidden and secret. There's a dot above it that looks out of place, a slightly different colour.
Groaning, he scribbles his notes and draws the symbol in his pad and tries to shake off the bad feeling before falling asleep again.
*******************************
Mikey dreams of riding a unicorn through a bright, sunlit forest. He knows it isn't his dream; for a start he doesn't think he has long blond hair in bunches, and the pretty pink dress doesn't suit him. When he thinks about it when he wakes up, he will remember the little girl two doors down has a stuffed Unicorn doll and will figure out it's her dream.
Right now, he's just enjoying the ride. He hadn't realised before just how awesome unicorns could be.
*****************************
Bob doesn't dream. He doesn't sleep, he just sits up all night, watching bad TV, listening to his dad howling, and waiting for the sun to rise.
*******************************
Mikey Way is halfway across the cafeteria when something catches his eye. No, not something, someone. The flash of black is not enough on its own to stand out, but the flick of hair stirs something familiar in Mikey's mind and he stops and looks.
There. Gee's zombie hunter.
He's... He's really not as hot as Gerard has drawn him, but his brother always did have that whole artists eye thing going on. The drawings made him look older, stronger, or maybe it's just that Gee can see what the short arsed guy thumping the soda machine is going to grow up to be. It's definitely him though, the hair is the same, and the bag slung across his body all too distinctive. Plus those cheekbones clinch it.
He is cute, and there's definite potential there, but Mikey can't quite see the attraction.
Shrugging, he glances round as Nick grabs him arm and points to a table, nodding in reply, and when he turns back the Zombie Hunter is gone.
***************************************
Frank makes it through the first week and a bit without major incident. He brown bags it to avoid the cafeteria food, manages to time his locker runs for after the main rush, has sourced out the hidden spots on the grounds for a cigarette, stuck duct tape over the jagged edge of his locker, and managed to teach all the teachers his name.
He has even had the easiest football practice of his life. The coach has a weary dead eyed look and spends so much time trying to keep his players from hurting themselves, he really doesn't care about the slacker kids, instead leaving them to 'practice passes' and do laps. As long as they are doing something every time he looks over he doesn't seem to give a fuck what they do.
Which suits Frank just fine.
The cemetery and old church up behind his house exceed all expectations, and seem pretty much deserted at all hours, or at least, nobody cares about a skinny little kid sneaking around the gravestones to get a sneaky cigarette. He's respectful and never sits or walks on the graves themselves (as far as he can tell anyway), bins his leftover butts, idly picks weeds out of the flowerbeds for something to do with his hands, and if anyone is in the cemetery he skirts around it and gives them space.
Sometimes he gets the creepy feeling on the back of his neck, like he's being watched, and can hear a rustle in the trees like someone's there, but there never is when he looks. It's creepy, but he likes it, each jump sending a jolt of fire through his body that makes him grin. This would be a fucking awesome place to bring a date, getting all creeped out together and staying close for comfort, and warmth, and... everything else.
He's settling in and his Mom even seems to be enjoying her new job, a spring in her step that he hasn't seen for a while, like she's finally able to relax a bit. She's even singing along with the radio again and talking about getting her hair done and going shopping. She's happy. He's missed that.
All in all, it's actually been a pretty sweet week. Admittedly he doesn't exactly have any friends or anything, but so far he doesn't have any enemies and that's a big improvement.
Plus he has some money in his pocket and there's a new issue of X-Men out that he has been thinking about. All week. Pretty much every idle moment of the week actually. He likes comics and gets them a lot but he's never had full blown daydreams (and fucking intense regular dreams) about going comic book shopping before.
Then again, he's never shopped somewhere like Charlie's Comics. Or been served by someone like Gerard.
This is insane.
And yet as his feet steer him towards the comic book shop he feels as though he's getting lighter. It's just a crush, just a stupid crush. Like the time he touched Billie Joe Armstrong's hand in the line outside a concert and felt his heart shake. It was less a 'I want to fuck you' thing and more a 'when I grow up I want to be...' deal. This is just like that, Gee's a cool older guy, maybe a mentor type.
Except, the daydreams he's been having about licking that marker off his cheek and dropping to his knees behind that counter aren't exactly mentorly.
Forcing himself to blow out a deep breath, Frank shifts his bag on his shoulder and runs his fingers through his hair then back again to straighten the fringe hanging over his forehead. He feels like he has 'I want you' stamped on his forehead and a neon sign pointing to his crotch where he can feel himself starting to twitch a little. This is crazy, the guy can't be that cute, he can't be as hot as Frank remembers, it's just his memory playing tricks. Gerard isn't that hot.
As he pushes through the door, the transporter sound beaming him in, a hopeful face peers around the beaded curtain and grins broadly. “Frank! Good to see you again!”
Frank's right, Gee isn't as hot as he remembers. He's hotter. How the fuck is that even possible?
“Hey. Uh, yeah, gotta use that coupon, and uh, new X-Men is out, so-”
“Oh God, yeah, it's awesome! There's this whole huge battle and Professor X just goes all-” Gee stops, his hands dropping from their mad descriptive orbits around his body to dig into his pocket and rub the back of his head in a way that makes Frank want to just touch that revealed patch of skin on the side of his neck. “Sorry, you probably want to actually read it yourself. Front row, in the corner over there.”
“Thanks, good to know it's worth the wait though.”
“Oh totally!” Frank shifts and shuffles his way through the racks, almost catching his bag on one again – seriously, they need to rethink the layout in here, there isn't even enough room to swing a fly let alone a cat – and follows Gee's pointing finger to the right stand. He totally isn't thinking about turning around grabbing that finger and sucking on it, black ink and all...
He's picking up the comic when he notices a darkly covered Gothic horror style comic stuck into a box on the end, with the dymo label “new artists” on and a big cheap neon star saying “free”. Pulling the comic out, he has to hold it up to the light to make out the creepy figure staring back at him from beneath the title 'On Raven's Wings' and grins. “Cool.”
“Oh,” Gee calls, his fingertip making small circles on the counter. “Yeah, those are freebies, you can help yourself.”
“For real?” Frank can't believe his luck and wanders back over to the counter, only banging his thigh on the shelves once. He barely notices as he flicks through the comic and puts the X-Men down on the counter for Gerard to ring up. “Whose this Garry Way dude, he's got skills!”
“Uh, thank you. He, uh, I mean, it's me.” Frank looks up, confused. “I'm Gerard Way, but I did that one under the name Garry, y'know, in case it, uh, sucks.” Gee is blushing again and suddenly Frank has to really damp down the urge to grab onto the counter and pull himself up and just kiss him.
“You.” Holding the comic up, Frank grins. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah, but it kindof fell through. Just one of those things.”
“But... But you've got real talent man, you should totally go to art school or something!”
Gee looks down, as though steeling himself for something, and shrugs. “Maybe next year, I gotta stick around and help out with my little brother at the mo. But once he graduates, we might head out of town. It's only another year, less really, and 'sides, Charlie would go bust without me.”
Frank laughs, it only just occurring to him that 'Charlie' of Charlie's comics is a real guy and not some voice on a box like in Charlie's Angels, and shakes his head. “You should totally go for it, it'd be awesome.”
“Maybe.” Gee shrugs, biting the edge of his lip, and Frank can feel his body starting to betray him again. Handing over the money for his comics, he watches as Gerard swings back into action, ringing them through and handing them over slowly, as though looking for an excuse to keep him there longer. “Enjoy.”
“Cheers.” Stuffing them into his bag, Frank shrugs it back onto his shoulders and hesitates, trying to think of something else to say. He's never usually this bad, but he can't quite figure out how to say 'excuse me, but are you gay, if so, can I please kiss you?'. Usually he'd just make a move and either get kissed back or punched, but at least he'd know.
Of course, most of those occasions have involved alcohol and at least the excuse of being drunk to make the next day a little easier.
As the silence drags on, Frank suddenly moves, nodding to himself and heading to the door, wanting to get out of there before he makes a complete fool of himself by doing something crazy, like vaulting the counter and shoving Gerard behind that beaded curtain.
“Uh, I'll see you later.”
“Right, yeah,” Gee says, sounding a little flustered, probably wondering why the weird kid is still just lurking in the shop instead of going home already.
Kicking himself, Frank hurries out of the shop and tries not to feel like an idiot.
****************************************
Gerard is supposed to be working on Halloween designs, werewolves and ghosts and goblins and everything spooky he can think of, but instead he finds himself sketching zombies and graveyards.
And a certain pale face, kicking ass, dark fringe falling in front of his face, and his short figure darting among and jumping off gravestones with ease.
Gerard wants to design masks for the others. He wants to work on updating the mural design in the old bathroom of the house. He wants to think about where a dash of fake blood or slime will enhance the dummies and if he has time to sculpt a new gargoyle for the guttering.
Instead, almost as though working of its own accord, his fingers more tirelessly over his notebook, his sketchpad, the backs of fliers, any surface they can find, drawing the lines of Frank's cheekbones, or the dark of his eyes. It's obsession, like habit or a nervous tic, and it makes his skin itch with a tingle he usually associates with the need for a drink.
When he catches himself drawing on the side of the counter, in the space under the top, an outline of Frank's profile taking shape on the dark wood, he pulls back and throws the pen across the shop, rubbing his hands through his hair as though trying to drag the urge from them.
“Fuck.”
Gerard blinks, looking down at the counter, and finally notices the pages of his books, the spell seeming to lift as he takes in the repeated face staring back at him. He doesn't even remember drawing half of them, his hands covered in black ink and pencil smudges, and he's even drawn over the zombie make up he had designed for Mikey without noticing.
Shouting out wordlessly, Gerard grabs the books and starts tearing the pages out, ripping up the images and stuffing them into the bin, trying to tear the obsession from his body as easily as the paper.
******************************
The cemetery is quiet, the wind still and the trees no longer talking to him in their own way, as Frank picks his way through the plots to the older sections behind the church. The graves are more overgrown here, no bright flowers breaking up the green, and the moss covering the names turning the place into a little grotto, nature reclaiming the hallowed ground.
Perfect.
Throwing his bag down onto the ground, he picks a spot leaning against the back of one of the taller headstones, the weak autumn sun filtering through the trees surrounding the cemetery to dapple over his skin. For all his paleness, he doesn't actually dislike the sun, but it's not like he's in any serious risk of sunburn, his long sleeves pulled down to his knuckles and his hair covering half his face. His knees, poking through his jeans, are perhaps catching a little bit more vitamin D than the rest of him, but not enough to worry about. Maybe even enough to help stave off the winter coughs this time.
Fat chance. Still, Frank leans back against the stone and raises his face to the sun, watching the flicker of the light through the leaves as he lights up. It's so quiet, not even a twig snapping bird nearby, but he can't quite shake the feeling someone else is there. It's not scary, but he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck reacting as he looks around the empty graveyard.
The smell of moss and damp is pretty strong, and the headstone is cold against his back, but it's a safe place to sneak a smoke and he can see his house, the slight hill on which the church stands giving him a view down over the surrounding houses. The trees block most of the view, but the fall colours are starting to thin it enough in places for him to see his drive. He can see when his mom pulls up and have time to pinch off his smoke and start his gum and body spray cover up routine.
Even so, the seasons are changing and he will have to find somewhere else to hide out before it gets too cold. The air is touched with a definite autumnal chill and he can feel the cold seeping through his layers, fighting with the sun warmed blacks and greys. It's a strange balance, as though just a wisp of cloud could decide the battle, but it feels so good. Especially compared to the artificial warmth of the hospital.
Finishing up, Frank puts out his cigarette and palms the butt, dragging himself back to his feet and pulling his bag back across his body. Glancing at the half obscured name on the gravestone he'd been leaning against, Frank nods and places his fingertips on the top gently.
“Same time tomorrow, Bertha?” Tapping the cold stone, he nods to himself and slouches off down the slope to home.
*********************************************
Frank is lonely, there's really no denying it. His mom doesn't get home from work until at least six, and their cable isn't hooked up yet so there's nothing but DVD's he's already seen, comics and magazines he's already read, and homework waiting for him at home.
So he goes for coffee, he hangs out in the cemetery, he smokes way too much and wastes far too much time online. But he's still bored, and so lonely, and he finds himself drifting in a slowly decreasing orbit around the Cyberman and Charlie's Comics. He tries to hold on as long as he can but eventually he ends up back at the door.
It's a shop, it's not like he's a crazy stalker or anything. He's just another comic book geek who can't resist spending an afternoon flicking through the comic book stacks.
Oddly enough, he's not actually the only one, a couple of younger kids regularly beating him to the Marvel section and arguing loudly over whether the new films messed up or not. There's also an older guy who just personifies the stereotypical D and D player, always hanging round the counter and chatting to Gerard as though Gee is the only human he's actually had contact with today.
Frank likes the company, listening in to the arguments and shared excitement, and Gee's voice rising above it all, gleeful and happiest when talking about the comics or the latest RP game. It lets him lurk in peace, not feeling weird, and just hanging out somewhere he doesn't feel like a freak. He manages to get away with visiting every few days, each visit like a balm to his soul if not his pocket; it's hard to resist buying something, if only to have a few seconds direct contact with Gerard and not feel guilty for hanging out so much.
Occasionally though the shop is empty when he gets there, just the tinny sound of Gerard's radio coming through from the back room. Of course Gee comes out and being Gerard, they chat. About anything. Everything. Comics and TV and movies and just everything. It's daft stuff, nothing serious, nothing that matters, but it's everything to Frank.
It also does nothing to dampen down his crush. He can't help it, he's flirting, he can feel it, he's fucking flirting. It's stupid and crazy and just plain nuts.
What's more crazy is he's sure Gee is flirting back. All they need is a chance to see each other outside of the shop.
But when the offer finally comes it isn't exactly what Frank had in mind.
“So your brother's what,” Frank asks with a smile, leaning on the counter and playing with one of the leaflets as casually as he can, “a senior?”
“Yeah, actually he just turned 18 so we're all heading to the cinema this weekend for the big sci-fi film fest, Terminator, Dune, Blade Runner, all the classics. You can bring sleeping bags and everything.” He roots around on the counter under the huge mess of flyers and pulls out yet another one, this time with the movie schedules on and Frank's heart sinks at the big 'over 18's only' on the ad for the sci-fi night. Gee just stands there grinning for a moment and Frank isn't quite sure what to say. Is he just chatting still?
“Uh, sounds cool.”
“Yeah, totally.” Gee grins for a bit longer then suddenly bursts into life again, as though realising he's been forgetting a little something, like, actually inviting Frank instead of just showing off his awesome social life. “You should totally come too! You can meet Mikey and the guys, it would be fun!”
“I, uh,” Frank swallows hard and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly wishing he hadn't come in here today, if he'd just waited until next week, if he hadn't started flirting already, it would have been too late for the movies and it wouldn't be an issue. “I can't, I'm not eighteen yet.”
Gee waves his hand and shrugs. “We can get round that, when's your 18th birthday?”
“October.”
“See! That's so soon we can get you in-”
“Next year,” Frank adds in a quiet voice, his heart sinking. “I'm, uh, I'm sixteen.”
“You're,” Gee looks like Frank just told him he's run over his puppy. “You're sixteen?”
“Only for another month and a half.”
“Right.” Gee looks almost scared, a guilty flash over his face before he shrugs and tries to bluff it off. “Okay, so no movies, but uh, you should totally meet Mikey, be good to know someone else your own - I mean, at school right? So, uh, maybe coffee sometimes?”
Frank feels like mould, like the really green stuff surrounded by grey that he used to scrape off the bread before putting it out for the birds back at his old house. Who the fuck was he kidding, he's just a kid, fuck in some states he's still a minor. And Gee is-
Not. Really, really not.
Swallowing hard, Frank nods, distracting himself by rooting round in his bag for his money and quickly handing over the cash for his comic before shoving it in his bag. “Yeah, that'd be cool, uh, I should get going.”
He's halfway out the shop before Gee calls his name, something in his voice making it sound like a plea. “Frank? Uh, could I get your number? For, uh, for Mikey?”
For Mikey. Yeah, 'cause Gee's little brother who is still a whole year older than Frank is much more age appropriate. Maybe he's hot too, maybe he is like a mini Gerard.
Yeah, right.
Turning around, Frank forces a smile on his face and takes the pen Gee offers and scribbles his name and number on the back of the movie flyer and hands it to him. “Yeah, get Mikey to text me or something. Be good to have more... friends.”
“Yeah.” Gee takes the paper and his fingers brush Frank's and oh shit, if he doesn't get out of here now he's going to do something he will really regret.
“Right, uh, thanks for the comics!” Frank practically bolts out the shop, not noticing the crushed look Gee gives him, not slowing down until he's a couple of blocks away. Lighting up a cigarette he leans against the wall and fights back tears like some stupid kid. He didn't cry when they were beating the shit out of him, not even when they were sticking him with fuck knows what in hospital, but this has him pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like a fucking toddler. It's not like he was actually gonna get anywhere with Gee anyway, but still, there was the hope of something. Something he hadn't realised quite how much he wanted until now.
Blowing out the smoke and coughing as it irritates his sensitive lungs, he savours the pain, letting it ground him again. This is his life, and he doesn't get to have cool guys like Gerard in it.
Maybe his little brother will be cool too.
Snorting to himself, Frank kicks a stray stone clear across the street, impacting against a car and setting off its alarm, and hurries away, shoulders slumped as he wishes for rain from the crystal blue sky.