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"What?"
Mikey turned to look at the man with what surely was a grimace on his face. His brain pulsed violently against his skull, and the nausea that had forced him into the bathroom just minutes earlier gurgled in his stomach once again. He leaned against the fridge for support, squinting his eyes to avoid the unforgiving sunlight that streamed in through the kitchen window. The floor beneath his bare feet swayed lazily and the scent of too much alcohol and pizza leftovers wasn't exactly helping.
He was sure the guy had talked to him, but the words were lost in the hangover fog. So he just stared at him, definitely looking (and smelling) like literal shit. "What?" He repeated, and he recoiled internally at the sound of his voice, too loud in his own ears and oddly nasal.
The man smiled, half sweet, half smug, pointing to a glass of water. "Thought you might need this." Mikey recognized the voice. Frank Iero, their new guitarist. Why did they need a new guitarist when Ray was already there was a mystery for Mikey, and also...
"You're... the guy who didn't let me join... your band," Mikey muttered as he took the glass in his thin, shaking hands. Frank's face was still blurry, both from the hangover and the absence of Mikey's glasses. The only clear feature was that smile. But the water was cold and it felt like heaven sliding down his throat, so his grudge could wait.
"Yup. I'm that guy," Frank answered with a light guiltlessness in his voice that grated on Mikey's already frayed nerves. "But here we are, part of the same cool basement band. So... water under the bridge, Way?"
Mikey finished his water before answering, the cold washing some of the bile's aftertaste from his mouth. He set the empty glass down with a gentle clink on the counter, rubbing his eyes. He should get his glasses before he ruined his eyesight even more. "I guess so."
Frank snorted. "You should get a shower. Or at least sit down before you faceplant." And without letting Mikey argue, he took him by the wrist and guided onto the couch. Mikey saw the flashes of pizza boxes and soda cans being wiped off the coffee table, and heard the clank of bottles in the trash, and winced. They'd have to clean whatever hell they'd created after the party last night.
"What are your glasses doing in the microwave?"
Mikey's head snapped up at Frank's question, his eyes widening even without the aid of his spectacles. "I... beg your pardon?"
"Your glasses, buddy. They're in the microwave. You know, the thing you use to heat up food?" Mikey heard the small door of the microwave open and shut as Frank retrieved the glasses. "You are a lucky son of a gun," he said, holding them out for him. "Not a single scratch."
Mikey took the glasses with a trembling hand, sliding them onto his face. The world snapped into focus, and with it, the mess that was their kitchen. The smell of burnt pizza was now accompanied by the sight of the crusty, half-eaten remains scattered across the counters and floor, along with stains of soda and beer and other things he wasn’t so sure he wanted to clean. At least his headache receded a little. "Thanks," he mumbled, and an unwanted heat blossomed on his cheeks. Oh great, go ahead and blush in front of a dude who had already seen you at your worst. Just what he needed.
"Don't mention it." Mikey felt the couch dip beside him as Frank sat down. "You look better with them on, anyways."
Mikey nodded, feeling slightly less like a zombie with his vision restored. He studied the guitarist through the lenses, taking in the orange-dyed... mohawk? Crest? Whatever its name was, it definitely gave him an interesting look. The guy looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, wearing a faded Misfits t-shirt and ripped black jeans. And he had pretty eyes. Well, Frank in general was pretty, and Mikey wasn't one to compliment guys often.
"So... how bad was it?" Frank asked, reaching for the bowl of tangerines on the table, the only thing left untouched from last night's chaos. He picked one, an almost perfect sphere of orange and gold, turning it around on his fingers.
Mikey blinked a few times, the room still spinning slightly. "Bad. Like, why-did-I-drink-so-much bad." He winced at the mere thought of the bottles they'd emptied. "I don't even remember half of it, Dear Lord…"
Frank nodded, his expression growing serious. "Yeah, I've been there too," he said in a quiet tone. "Does it... happen often? Drink til you can't remember?"
"Yeah, more than I'd like or should, really..." he looked at the mess on the floor, and wondered if Gerard was upstairs, drunk and high off his mind, passed out. It was brother stuff at this point. "It's... it's just a way to deal with stuff..." He scoffed at his own words and looked away, suddenly finding the kitchen tiles' pattern of tiny yellow sunflowers incredibly fascinating. "I mean, it's not like it solves anything, but it's... it's something. I guess."
"It's okay," Frank said, his thumb gently tearing the tangerine's skin. The limonene and sweet smell filled the air. "We don't have to talk about it."
Mikey nodded, his throat tight. He watched as Frank peeled the tangerine, the thin skin making way for the vibrant fruit beneath, the segments tightly packed like small gems. His eyes followed the fruit as it was offered to him, and his stomach churned. "Oh I... I can't," he murmured, pushing it back towards Frank. "I'll probably throw it up."
"Just one piece," Frank said, gently plucking a single piece. "It'll help with your hangover."
Mikey took the offered piece with a skeptical look, but as he put it in his mouth, the juicy sweetness exploded, the tartness surprisingly refreshing. He chewed slowly, the taste of last night's excess fading away a little. It didn't have seeds, or that awful white part that always stuck between his teeth and gums. That would've made him spit it out immediately.
"It's not half bad," he said after swallowing. "Thanks."
Frank shrugged, his smile returning. "My mom's trick. Works wonders." He picked another segment, popped it into his mouth and chewed with a thoughtful expression. "Oranges for colds, lemons for sore throats, tangerines for hangovers. Grapefruits are for sadness and clementines for your lovers," he chuckled. "Little poem she made for me to drink the goddamn lemon juice when I was sick. It happened a lot."
Mikey couldn't help but smile at that, the tension in the room lightening just a smidge. He took another piece, letting the sweetness sit on his tongue before swallowing. "Well, it is helping me, so I guess your mom was onto something," he said, managing a small chuckle.
"Yeah, she's a cool chick," Frank smiled, leaning back on the couch a little more and resting his feet on the coffee table. He popped a tangerine segment into his mouth, munching it slowly. "So, going back to the party subject... are they always this... intense? Or did I just get lucky?"
"More or less." He glanced at the countertop. A half-empty bottle of booze lay there, invitingly. He quickly shoved down the urge to grab it and took another piece of tangerine instead. "They get worse, most of the time. We're... we're not exactly the cleanest bunch."
He looked at the ceiling. Someone was moving upstairs. Gerard, maybe. Ray wasn't the kind of man who stayed up all night drinking. At the last few after-show parties, if he did, it was to make sure Gerard, Mikey, and Matt didn't end up sleeping in a dumpster or something. The father of the band, Mikey thought, taking another piece of the tangerine.
Frank tossed his slice in the air, catching it in his mouth. "Well, I've seen worse," he said, chewing. "But I gotta say, I kinda like it with you guys."
Mikey raised an eyebrow. "You like... this?" He vaguely gestured at the mess around them.
"It's very... uh... underground and punk and... uh... authentic," Frank said, his cheeks dimpling with a grin. He tossed another slice into the air, but this time it missed his mouth and landed on the floor with a soft splat. "Fuck. My point is, I like the vibes here. Yours, mainly, all emotionally unavailable, brooding but incredibly talented."
Mikey didn't answer right away, trying to process if it was a compliment or a jab. Frank had definitely meant it as a joke, but that didn't erase the fact that his heart did a little somersault. There was no way he’d let the new guitarist’s pretty face mess him up. He'd blame it on the tangerine sugar and the alcohol still running in his system. Yeah, that's what it was. Still, he decided to play along. You know, shits and giggles.
"Do you always flirt with your hungover bandmates?" Mikey finally said, his voice a little hoarser than usual, but he couldn't stop the smirk from curling his lips. Frank's cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink, and he looked away, focusing on peeling his tangerine.
"Only the cute ones who put their specs in microwaves."
Now it was Mikey's turn to blush, the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. He groaned aloud, burying his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. "You're never gonna let that one die, are you?"
"Hell nah, I have an excuse to give you shit while your brother screams about vampires," Frank laughed, handing him another slice of tangerine.
Mikey looked up at him, meeting those hazel eyes. The mocking expression had faded from Frank's face, replaced by something a bit more genuine. Kind, even. He accepted the tangerine and took a small bite, still processing the exchange. "You're different than I thought you'd be," he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "Nicer. But just a little."
Frank snorted, chewing loudly. "You better not tell anyone that, Way. You'd ruin my reputation."
Mikey chuckled, feeling his hangover ease a bit more with the exchange. "Your secret's safe with me." He took another piece of tangerine, and got up from the couch, his legs finally steady enough to hold his weight. The fruit had eased down the harshness in his stomach, but he'd have to buy some aspirin before the day was through. He looked around for his backpack, spotting it in the corner, sadly buried under someone's forgotten jacket and a pile of empty beer cans.
"Are you leaving?" Frank asked and there was a hint of sadness in his tone.
"Yeah, I gotta go home, take a shower and then go to work," Mikey said, retrieving his backpack from the mess. "Opening shift, cleaning the shelves, checking the system... I already have a few late arrivals in my history, and I don't want to push it."
Frank's mouth scrunched in a pout, but he nodded. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a small, black guitar pick, a clumsy skull drawn with liquid paper on one side. He made it look like it was no big deal, but Mikey could see the slight tremble in his hand as he handed it over. "Here."
Mikey tilted his head. They were now standing face to face, and he hadn't realized he was a good three inches taller than Frank. "What's this for?" He asked, taking the pick in his hand, smiling at the small skull.
"Lucky charm," Frank said, his eyes flicking away. "It's nothing, really."
He felt the cold plastic between his thumb and forefinger, light as a feather. "Thanks," Mikey said, slipping the pick into his pocket with a gentle nod. He felt a bit of warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the hangover. "See you tonight, then? Matt said he and Ray got a place to play at, so I guess it's band night?"
Frank nodded, and the smile returned. "Yeah, sure. And don't worry about the mess, Matt and I'll clean it up."
"Thanks." Mikey took a step back, setting some distance between them. "I'll be leaving now, then. And... thanks again for the water, and the... tangerine therapy." He gave a weak smile, before rushing out the door, the cool air of the early morning slapping him full on the face.
"Mikey!" Frank was looking at him from the window, his orange hair a fiery beacon against the bright morning sun. He pushed the curtain away, waving. "Have a nice day!" And he blew him a kiss, his smug grin making Mikey blush even more as he stumbled down the porch stairs.
"At least take me to the movies first!" Mikey called back.
"We can do that!" Frank shouted after him, and Mikey's laughter echoed through the quiet neighborhood as he made his way down the sidewalk.