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Some mornings when Mikey wakes up, she just knows—deep in her bones and by the uncomfortable twisting of her insides—today is going to be a really shitty day. The amount of effort it takes to drag her body out of bed on days like today is monumental and it takes her a long time to gather the will to even roll over. She hates her pastel coloured room with the stains all over the beige carpet from the last time she felt like this, when she sent glass and blood flying out in wide arc across her room in her shitty apartment in a shitty Bronx neighborhood. She hates the apartment and her life and herself and the fucking air she’s breathing. She fucking hates everything right now.
She's not really sure what time it is right now, just that it's not morning anymore. She's been in bed, trying to sleep for most of the day, because being unconscious sounds really nice right now, but it is just not fucking working. Her vision is blurred, mind fuzzy and the half assed dreams keep coming even though she's not really asleep yet; shadowed figures running across the inside of her eyelids. She's fucking sick of staring at the same posters that cover the walls, the water marks on the ceiling that Gerard painted into shapes and figures for her. She feels fucking claustrophobic in here, the walls closing in on her with every breath and the air sinking down into her lungs heavy as water until she's choking. She feels like she’s dying. She honestly doesn’t know if it would be better if she was or not; if there was a reason for this beyond just being wrong. She wants to get up do shit, make this stop, distract herself—something; but that would fucking require effort and she honestly doesn't know if she can crawl out of bed right now.
Frank said when ze left this morning that ze was going to call at lunch, but she either slept through it or ze forgot or was too busy or something (Mikey refuses to listen to the twisted asshole of a voice in her head that says that Frank doesn't care, nobody cares). She blindly feels around on the nightstand for her phone and checks the display; three missed calls and a text message. The message sent twenty minutes ago says Frank's on hir way home—which means that ze'll be home any second.
She puts her phone back on the nightstand and rolls over, breath hitching as she stifles a sob in the soft blue quilt Elena made her. She wants to fucking cry, and only sort of knows the reason: the irrational, spontaneous kind of sadness that digs under her skin and settles around her lungs sometimes, makes it hard to breathe and harder to think.
She never wants to leave this bed again—no one should ever fucking look at her again.
She jumps when she hears the front door creak open on its old hinges and slam shut. There's the familiar noise of Frank's stilettos on the wood and the sound of Frank dropping hir bag by the door; the clatter of Frank dropping hir keys in the ugly fucking dish that Mikey would really like to get rid of (a gift from some distantly related aunt or whatever) echoes. Frank is being loud on purpose, because the asshole is practically fucking psychic and ze knows she isn't actually asleep. It makes her tense up a little, involuntarily.
"Motherfucker, you know how I worry! Answer your goddamn phone when I call you, Mikey! More than six rings and I'll think you're dead or something!"
"Sorry!" she calls back, half muffled by the pillow her face is pressed against.
Frank appears at the door like the tiny tattooed fucking ninja ze is always claiming to be—Mikey is going to smack Bob for teaching Frank how to do that, and maybe buy a collar with a bell on it for hir—and carefully steps over the pieces of glass still caught in the carpet from the mirror she broke this morning (again, again, again. Mikey is always breaking shit, always a clumsy, awkward child). She was totally going to get around to cleaning that up, she just forgot about it.
She hears hir sigh. "That's about a hundred and thirty three years of bad luck you've got so far, honey."
"If you believe in that shit," she mutters back as ze comes closer and sits down on the end of the bed.
"You know you're keeping track, don't even lie. Are you hurt?"
She shakes her head. "Didn't punch anything this time, just threw it. I'm fine."
Frank crawls over her and curls up next to her on top of the covers. "Are you okay?"
"Fucking dandy, Frankie."
Frank huffs. "Sorry. Stupid question."
Mikey grunts and rolls over to wrap her arms around Frank and bury her face in hir chest. Ze smells like the thick perfume ze wears that clings to everything it touches and always lingers in a room (Mikey likes it on bad days, when she can curl up with Frank and think of how Elena smelled almost the same) and hir coconut and honeycomb bodywash and a little bit of sweat, just starting to dry on hir skin. Mikey breathes in and sighs, wriggling closer and pressing her nose against the warm skin of Frank's neck. It's probably weird how comforting the smell of hir is (weirder still, the part of her just wants to sink her teeth into hir).
She can practically hear Frank smiling. "When you're done sniffing me and being a cute little weirdo, you wanna get dressed?"
"Yes please," she says quietly, her words getting half trapped in her mouth and vibrating against Frank's skin. It was so muffled she knows that the response barely even resembled proper words but Frank, in all hir infinite wisdom, already knew her answer. Ze always knows the answer to that question.
Whenever Mikey feels like she wants to curl up and cry, like the whole fucking world hates her, wants her dead, and she just wants the ground to swallow her up whole, she gets Frank to help her dress. When she's shaking and sobbing and nothing feels right, Frank sits her down and cleans her up and makes her beautiful again.
It makes her feel okay again, makes her feel whole; like Frank is wiping the traces of wrong off of her and making her better. It soothes the itch under her skin that makes her want to tear herself apart—not a lot, but just enough. Until they fix her, she's always going to wake up and feel like this, but time with Frank and hir brushes and blushes and palettes with all the fucking colours under the sun helps.
There's just something about the way Frank applies the foundation and concealer and colours on her skin that makes everything okay again. Mikey can't explain it. The way ze will sometimes wrap hir legs around Mikey and lean back to slowly and carefully blend the lip liner into Mikey's lipstick with one of the many brushes ze owns; hir warm breath on Mikey's face. The way when ze only needs one hand to work, the other will wrap around Mikey's thin wrist and squeeze gently; move down to tangle their fingers together, thumb stroking over her knuckles. Hir soft, high giggles and the way ze quietly mumbles soothing words as ze works.
Frankie never says anything about the way Mikey's hands move to hir hips and her thumbs absently stroke over the dark outlines of the birds tattooed there; never asks her to stop. Ze knows how it helps Mikey, just like the way the foundation brush moving over her cheeks makes her breathing regulate and gets her heart rate to slow the fuck down.
Mikey is very thankful for that; Mikey's very thankful for Frank.
She looks up and Frank smiles down at her. "Well, come on then."
Frank pulls her up and onto her feet, leading her toward the vanity dresser, dodging half full boxes and stray clothes left on the floor tangled up in extensions cords and wires. She smiles a little, still sleepy but already feeling a bit better just at the thought of this. She looks at Frank as ze starts to strip off hir clothes, leaning an elbow against the wall and kicking off hir high heels, fuck with the buttons on hir shirt.
"Is that my favourite skirt, asshole?"
Frank gives her a shit-eating grin in response, obviously not at all sorry. "It went with the rest of my outfit."
Mikey rolls her eyes and holds out her hands, waiting patiently as Frank unzips the skirt at the back and tugs it off, fabric pooling around hir ankles before ze steps out of it and gives it back to her. She glares as she steps into it, drawing it up to her hips and reaching around to zip it up at the back.
"You're a bastard," she mutters.
Frank mock gasps, one arm wrapping around her bare waist as a tattooed hand flies up to hir chest."Lies! My parents were married for years before I was born."
"Yeah, well. You're still a bastard."
"And you're terrible with insults," Frank replies fondly, pushing her down onto the short little bench Mikey thinks might have once sat in front of a piano.
Frank flutters off to dig through Mikey’s closet, hir hands sure as ze sifts through the shit in there looking for the box at the very back. Ze finds it with a triumphant little shout and places it on the vanity next to Mikey before going to dig up clothing from the abyss of her floor.
It’s a plain brown box that used to house Gerard’s Magic cards. She can still remember getting it on her fifteenth birthday, the way Gerard blushed and stammered but looked her right in the eye; the way he called her Michelle for the first time. She can hear his voice whispering in her head as she opens it, encouraging and loving as she lifts them out of the box. They’re silicone, and on the small side. Gerard has an eye for proportions that she could never match and they work on her. Make her feel a little more whole.
Frank’s found what she’s going to wear by now, just a high necked, crimson top, to match the red in the roses curled around her skirt and pair of flats, scuffed and worn but comfortable. The bra is a black lace one that ze bought for her (one day Mikey will be comfortable enough to walk into a store and buy her own fucking clothes. Until then she has a brother and a Frank and she never forgets she’s the luckiest girl in the world). They match the panties ze lies down next to the medical tape with a questioning look.
Mikey shakes her head slightly, not tonight. If they were going out she’d tuck but tonight she just wants to let Frank make her pretty and sit in her living room watching B horror movies and eating greasy take out with Frank.
Frank helps her slide into the bra, hir hands sure as ze adjusts the straps. The breasts slip in easily, a comforting weight against her chest and already she feels lighter. The shirt is soft cotton that feels good going on over her skin and the slide of each button feels like amour being laced up.
Frank pulls up a stool from next to the bed and straddles it, their knees knock into each other as Frank shifts a little closer to Mikey and starts fucking around with hir brushes, setting up and pulling out different eye-shadows and fucking glitter and shit Mikey doesn't even want to try and name. She really is bad at this.
"I'm really bad at this," she says, shoulders slumped and watching Frank as ze opens up a compact and studies the sunset shades of reds. Gerard and Frank could probably both name each one individually. Mikey just thinks they’re pretty.
"I know, hon, but that's why you have me. I am your goddamn fairy godmother...or whatever. Now sit up fuckin' straight and close your eyes."
Mikey snorts and tries to stay still as Frank tucks hir elbows in just so to keep hir hand steady while ze applies dark red shadow to Mikey's lids.
"Stop moving, asshole," Frank mutters, the hand placed on Mikey's jaw moving and two fingers curling under Mikey's chin to tilt her head back a little as ze sits forward more. "I'm gonna fuck it up if you don't sit still."
Mikey can't see it, but she knows Frank's tonguing the sore skin of hir split lip in concentration, sitting there in a white bra and matching panties; the kind of white that's still bright and brand new but won't stay that way very long (like the white of the bandages wrapped around hir right hand) and looks so stark against all of Frank's tattoos. One of the straps is slipping off hir shoulder and the elastic that always digs a little into hir skin is leaving red lines Mikey can see when she opens her eyes and Frank stops to adjust hirself. Part of Mikey is sure it should look strange—the bra's cups gaping away from hir flat chest and the bulge at the front of hir underwear, so obviously not female (fuck the fucking binary, Mikes, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Gerard says) —but it just looks right. It looks like Frankie.
The panty hose ze's wearing have a long run down hir shin that Mikey watched Frank paint clear nail polish on last night (Mikey was confused as to why, wouldn't it be easier to just buy another pair? But apparently, Frank likes it when they run; ze thinks it gives them character, and everything ze owns needs to have character) and is bunching up a little at hir thighs, because ze never can get a size that's right; it's always a little too long in the legs.
"It tickles," Mikey says, pinching Frank's hip and making hir stop and punch Mikey in the arm back. "Shut up."
Frank snorts and starts blending a shimmery green into the crease and outer corner of Mikey's eyelids. "You always say that. You'd think you'd be used to it by now."
She's not; she isn't sure if she'll ever get used to it but she hopes she will.
Mikey spreads her legs a little wider and sits forward, self-consciously tugging at her skirt to get it down her thighs a little more. She loves this skirt, loves wearing it, but it's obviously not made for straddling benches, even with the little split up the side.
It took her a long time to figure out how to sit right in skirts, and even longer to get the confidence to wear them for longer than an hour while everyone was asleep or out of the house. Now that she can, it's pretty fucking awesome — except when she is straddling things, apparently.
There are still days when she can't, though; when putting on a skirt or a bra or that corset that she has hanging in the back of her closet just doesn't seem feasible, or good, or right. She loathes those days, like she loathes a lot of things. Like, for instance, the motherfucking liquid eyeliner Frankie is currently attempting to bring near her face.
She swats hir hands away. "Get that evil shit away from me."
Frank sighs. "I thought I'd try. Pencil it is, then."
Mikey doesn't know how Frank can just sit there looking like ze does (acting and living like ze does) and not care what people think about hir. Mikey knows that it doesn't matter, that everyone else doesn't matter. This is what makes Frank happy, what makes her happy but there's still that voice in the back of her head that tells her it's bad—it's wrong. Most days, Mikey can ignore it but sometimes it just gets so fucking loud.
Mikey envies Frank's confidence. She wishes she could just not give a fuck like Frank. It's not fair that ze's younger than Mikey and already has hir shit sorted out when it comes to knowing who the hell ze is.
"Look up," Frank says, brandishing a mascara wand at Mikey.
"Don't poke me in the eye again."
Frank scowls. "That was once, asshole, ages ago. Be quiet or I'll do it on purpose this time."
Frank is always so careful and focused when it comes to makeup. The only time ze ever really stays in one place is when ze's sitting down to put hir make up on. ze doesn't stop moving, isn't really still—foot bouncing up and down, shifting and trying to get comfortable— but hir energy is more contained. Frank always takes more care when ze's putting make up on Mikey than when ze is putting it on hirself. Mikey isn't really sure why—she hasn't asked, but it's interesting to think about. And it’s always kind of fascinating to watch, really.
Mikey loves watching Frank put hir makeup on. The way ze's sometimes heavy handed with bold colours and thick liner and dark lips, and it really shouldn't work but somehow it does. Other times, ze will just put on a little bit of eyeliner and lip gloss and still look so pretty. Mikey's envious of that too; that ze doesn't even have to try to pass for either female or male. (Mikey hates that she has to work so fucking hard for people to see what she really is).
"No more crying now, baby; the time for sadness is over. We have beer and take out and I have shiny, new heels to break in. Also, that shit isn't waterproof," Frank says, before dabbing a brush in the peachy pink blush and blowing off the excess.
Mikey sniffles quietly and closes her eyes, smiling a little at the feeling of the brush sweeping over the apples of her cheeks. Frank's cupping her jaw again and Mikey squeezes hir hip with her right hand, hearing Frank chuckle softly.
"Almost done?"
Mikey can practically hear hir smiling. "Almost, Mikes."
Mikey's eyes open and she parts her lips as Frank takes a lip brush and starts to paint a soft, pale pink colour on her mouth. "Almost used up all my fucking peach—when you gonna pay me back, huh?"
Mikey inhales sharply, quietly, and the smile Frank has been waiting for disappears. "Soon."
Mikey never buys her own make up; just borrows Frank's or gets Frank to buy it for her. She's not at that place yet; where she can just walk into a store, pick up eye shadows and blushes and lipstick and buy them like it's no big deal. She knows it doesn't matter, doesn't matter what other people think. She loves it, it makes her happy, and it shouldn't matter—a mantra that she's trying to drum into her own head but it hasn't quite sunk in yet— but other people still matter, and the looks she gets still make that knot in her gut twist a fraction tighter (she knows she's imagining it but they know; they fucking know when they look at her—how can they not? It's so obvious).
Frank's brow furrows a little. "Hey, I'm just kidding. You know that, right? Feel free to steal any and all of my shit. I've got fucking plenty to go around."
"I know," she says softly, smiling for real this time but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Frank puts down the brush and pulls her closer, wrapping hir arms around Mikey and pressing hir mouth against hers, softly. Mikey pulls back, frowning.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm blotting, stupid. Don't you want even wear?"
The corner of Mikey's mouth twitches. "That's not how you blot."
Frank beams back at her. "Hey, who's the fucking expert here? Me. That's right. Now shut up and let me do my job," ze says before cupping Mikey's jaw again and pulling her in for another kiss.
Frank tastes like berries and cigarettes and joy. Mikey knows joy isn't really anything you can taste, but she's sure that if you could, the taste of Frankie would be something like it.
Frank pulls back and presses their foreheads together. "There. You’re done."
Mikey turns her head and looks at herself in the mirror. Her lipstick is a little smeared, but still sticky and shiny and there's some actual fucking colour in her face for once thanks to the blush. The colours on her lids are blended beautifully and her eyes look so big.
Better, she thinks. She loves it when she looks like this. She should always look like this.
Mikey turns back to Frank. "Am I pretty, Frankie?"
Frank smiles softly and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You're fucking gorgeous, baby. And you aren't gonna listen to any cocksucker who tells you different, huh?"
"Uh huh," she responds, resting her head on Frank's bare shoulder.
"Good. Now come on, my fucking rice is getting cold."
art by dear_monday.