Grey Crimson Skies 1/5

[turps]

Bob's busy sorting his laundry when Frank opens the door and says, "I want to buy Mikey a gift."

"Did you knock? I didn't hear you knock," Bob says, and shakes a pair of jeans. Soil, and more worryingly, a blob of green slime falls to the floor and Bob eyes the brackish water that seeps across the lino. "We cleared the Johnson pond three days ago, how is that even still wet?"

"Magic?" Frank steps over the pile of clothes and slides to the ground, sitting so his back is against a cupboard door. He pokes at the pile of clothes with the toe of his sneaker. "Do you even own clothes that aren't denim or plaid?"

"Yes," Bob replies, and throws a damp sock at Frank in demonstration.

Frank peels it from his shoulder, holding it between finger and thumb. "Seriously, gross. What do you do, leave your laundry to fester for weeks?"

"Some of us don't get our clothes washed by our mom." Bob shoves the jeans into the washer and adds detergent, then crouches, peering at the dials. A year he's been in this apartment and still he can never remember what settings he needs.

Frank twists onto his knees and crawls forward. "I'd use setting six."

"Like you'd know." Bob turns the dial to six and stands. He takes two cans of soda from the fridge and hands one to Frank, who's still kneeling on the floor, the red streak in his hair blazing like the sun as he watches the drum fill with water. "It's my half-day off."

Frank looks up. "I know, mine too."

"No, it's a school day for you," Bob points out. He looks at the bag by the front door and the ink stains on Frank's fingers. "In fact, shouldn't you be off learning about flowers right now?"

"It's my lunch hour."

Bob cracks open his soda and sits on the floor because talking to Frank when he's sitting at Bob's feet feels all kinds of wrong. "And you decided to come here?"

Frank nods. "I need advice."

"Right," Bob says, steeling himself because from past conversations that could be anything from mental health issues to the cheapest place to buy lube. Still, Bob consoles himself if Frank's only got an hour it can't be anything that bad. "You couldn't ask Ray?"

"He's busy."

Bob nods and takes a drink. Between evening classes and work Ray's always busy. The fact he gets any off time at all is miraculous. "Okay, fine. Spill."

Frank nods and gnaws at his thumb-nail. "Like I said, I want to get Mikey a gift, but it has to be special."

"Unlike all the other gifts you get him," Bob says, and tries his hardest not to laugh when Frank looks at him, all big eyes and hurt expression.

"It's not the same, the flowers are a thing, this gift has to be different."

"Because?" Bob prompts, and doesn't even roll his eyes when Frank just beams.

"Because it'll be nine months and four days since our first date. That's important."

Bob debates the wisdom of asking why. On one hand, potentially scarring explanation when Frank actually tells. On the other. Frank and Mikey are fucking sweet, not that Bob will ever admit that out loud. In the end Bob has to ask, he's too nice for his own good at times. "Wouldn't a year be more significant?"

The knees of Frank's jeans are more holes than fabric and he picks at the threads, wrapping them around his fingers until the tips go white. "I guess. It's just. It's a long time you know? And Mikey's kinda having a hard time lately."

"He looked okay last time I saw him." Bob can't help feeling concerned, he's at the Way house most nights but mostly talks to Gerard and Mikey's a hard read. Still, Bob likes to think he'd have noticed if things were going wrong.

"He always looks fine," Frank says, and flips Bob off when he pretend gags. "It's not like, something serious, like bad times level serious, just Gee trying to be a big brother."

"And that's a problem?" Bob asks, even though he suspects he knows where this is going.

"Mostly Mikey eats that shit up, it's Gerard you know?" Frank pulls at another thread, a line unraveling across a purple flower painted to the side of his knee. "He just. I shouldn't even be telling you this."

"How about we skip the shouldn't bullshit and get on with it." Bob takes a drink and sets his soda can on the floor.

"Yeah, right," Frank says. "It's just. Gerard's doing the big brother thing, and that's great, but Mikey's not used to it. It's like, he held things together for so long and now he doesn't have to and it's all. Weird."

Which yeah, weird, Bob thinks. It's the default description for the Ways. "Gerard's trying."

"I know, Mikey knows," Frank says. "It's still weird and he'll deal, just, I thought a present would be nice."

The washing machine whirs as Frank gives up on picking apart his jeans and cracks open his soda. Bob takes another drink. "You could buy him clothes. Baby Gap is having a sale. Or make-up, every girl needs more eye-liner," Bob says, enjoying the way Frank bristles. "Or a brush, I'm sure he used one once."

"Fuck you." Frank kicks out, catching Bob's shin with the toe of his sneaker. "If you're not going to help..."

"Picky," Bob says with a grin. "Face it. You could get him one of those hand cream sample things and he'd be pleased."

"But..."Frank says, then stops and starts to smile, all toothy grin and sparking eyes. "That's an amazing idea."

"What is?" Bob asks, confused.

"A sex kit," Frank says, each word emphasized by a swipe of his hands in the air. "You're a genius."

"I never mentioned sex!" Bob protests.

Frank stands in one easy movement. "I'll get lotion, some of that unscented shit. Or wait, chocolate body paint, that would be better and matching condoms, maybe some toys, we haven't tried stuff like that yet but we could. Do you think he'd go for beads? Or I could splurge on a vibrator."

Bob stands too, slower than Frank but still fast, because seriously, Bob doesn't want to hear this shit. He grabs hold of Frank's shoulders and propels him toward the door. "Out! I don't want to hear about your sex life."

"Going." Frank's still smiling as he grabs his bag and twists in Bob's grip, hugging him hard. "Thanks for the idea, I'll tell Mikey you suggested it."

Frank leaves the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

~*~*~*~

Gerard sits on the steps and rubs at his eyes. He runs his hands through his hair and looks through the bag between his feet, rummaging through the contents, pens and books and half a stale sandwich, the saron wrap surrounding it greasy and shredded at one side. His cigarettes are at the very bottom and he takes one out, holding it between two fingers as he lights up and takes a long drag. He shouldn't really smoke here, it's too close to the entrance of the building and he's in the way of the people who come walking by -- their eyes averted like if they don't see Gerard he doesn't see them in return.

Tapping ash to the ground, Gerard runs his fingers over the rough stone of the steps. He always feels disconnected after these sessions, his emotions still raw. Often he thinks it should be better by now, it's been months and while he can feel an improvement, there are too many days when all he does is deal; and sometimes not even that. Gerard wants to live, and right now that's not happening.

A last drag and Gerard stubs the cigarette on the wall, throwing the butt with all the others that lie on the ground. He stands and loops his bag over his head, takes the last few steps down to the sidewalk and starts to walk. He's got time to call in the supermarket, pick up something for dinner that's not pop-tarts or out of the freezer. He can buy vegetables, maybe some chicken, have something ready for Mikey when he comes home.

Pleased with that plan, Gerard lists what he needs. Groceries then home. Wash the breakfast dishes and put away the shopping. Make a simple meal. Easy things that take little effort at all. Except, when he approaches the supermarket it's busy. Full of people pushing carts piled with food, laughing and talking as they move. The entrance is bright and there's an older woman standing greeting people as they walk by. She's smiling, the name tag on her uniform says Joyce and she's got dark hair sprinkled with grey. She's not threatening at all. None of this is, but Gerard slows and comes to a stop.

The thought of dealing is suddenly too much. Having to select food, talk to people and interact. He can feel his heart speeding up and his mouth is dry. He takes a gulp of air and tells himself he can do this. He can deal. The problem is. Gerard can't, not today. He turns, almost running as he heads for home.

~~~~

There's an overwhelming sense of relief when Gerard reaches home. He passes the unicorn, automatically looking for notes, but there's nothing today and he pulls his keys out of his pocket, his hands trembling and his leg brushes against the lavender that's in the giant yellow pot. The air fills with heavy scent and Gerard draws in a deep breath as he pushes open the door and steps inside, slamming it behind him. Shielded from the world his heart-beat slows and he lets his bag slip to the floor with a thump.

On the kitchen table there are two plates and a mug, another sitting in the sink. Gerard sits and pushes the plates aside, taking a small book out of the inner pocket of his jacket. The corners are fuzzy with wear, the picture on the cover blurred and he grabs a pen, chewing on the end as he thinks. He didn't go to the supermarket, but he did attend another therapy session. The breakfast dishes are unwashed, but he took his medication. Gerard writes it all down, adds more negatives and positives to his lists as he tries to push back the feeling that he failed, because he didn't, not completely. So why does it feel like he did?

Frustrated with himself, Gerard starts to draw, a tiny dragon perched on the negative list, snorting black fire that surround the I didn't's and I should have's, until they're nothing but lines concealed in flames.

Dropping the pen, Gerard stands, determined to regain a little ground. Gathering up the mug and plates he stacks them in the sink and fills it with hot water and a squirt of detergent, causing a tiny bubble to float upward. It lands on the glossy green leaf of the plant that's on the windowsill, the one that continues to grow in the pot Frank decorated with dancing skeletons, so many months before.

When the sink is half full, Gerard turns off the faucet and picks up the sponge. It's slightly damp and the rough side scrapes across his palm as he rubs at the plates and mugs, taking care to ensure they're clean. Stacking them on the drainer Gerard watches the suds slide down the slick surfaces, pooling into filmed puddles that reflect the light. Reds and blues and yellows, shimmering in the late afternoon sun like his own personal rainbow that momentarily forces itself through the grey that's become the constant of his life.

Caught by the movement of colors, Gerard's tempted to draw. Most of his materials are downstairs, but he knows if he goes down there he won't come back up, not today when he's already so tired and defeat is lying heavy. Quickly, before he changes his mind and loses this burst of color, he grabs the small sketch book that he left abandoned in the living room. It's old and the paper feels dusty under his fingers as he gathers pens and jumps up on the kitchen counter, bringing up his legs. He sits cross-legged, the sketch book in his lap, and it's not a comfortable position at all. There's something digging into Gerard's back and his knee is pressed against the window ledge, his elbow keeps knocking against the wall, but he's also sitting in a patch of sunshine, almost too warm as he attempts to capture the colors of the puddle.

It's difficult with the limited amount of pens he has at hand, but he tries anyway, sketching a hand reaching from a lake, each finger a different shade, grasping at the sun so high overhead. Ripples mar the smooth water at various points and he adds in vague shadows, a face trapped under the surface, the mouth wide. Shading in the eye, Gerard looks up when the door opens, and Mikey steps inside.

"Hey," Mikey says. He's dressed in his work clothes, still casual but his hair's not as wild as it can be and his face is washed clean. Taking out his ear buds he wraps the cord around his iPod and tucks it carefully away, then take off his messenger bag, hanging it on one of the kitchen chairs. "How was your appointment?"

Gerard runs his nail over the ragged end of the pen. Mikey always assumes Gerard will go to his appointments, even despite the times he couldn't leave the house at all. It's an expression of faith that's scary as much as it is gratifying. It's also something Gerard uses to get through the day. "It went okay, we talked, the usual shit. I was going to get stuff for dinner."

"Yeah?"

"I got as far as the supermarket." Gerard thinks about his excuses, how busy it was and how it seemed too much. They all seem pathetic now. "I came home."

"It's okay," Mikey says softly. He starts to make coffee, adding a new filter and beans then picks up the jug and empties the dregs of old coffee into the sink. His hip is pressed against Gerard's foot and this close Gerard can see how Mikey looks tired, the skin under his eyes looking bruised. "I'll make spaghetti for dinner." Mikey rinses out the jug with water then looks at Gerard's drawing, giving it all his attention as he exams the page. "I like it, the different shades of grey add to the creepiness."

"Thanks." Gerard looks at the clock on the wall. working out the hours before bed. If he could he'd go now. He slides off the counter and puts the sketch book on the table. "Want help with dinner?"

"You can make the sauce," Mikey says, as if that involves something more complex than opening a jar.

It's nice making dinner together. Gerard empties a jar of ready-made sauce in the pan, occasionally stirring as Mikey boils water and adds long strands of spaghetti which he pokes at with a spoon, causing pieces to snap off and fly through the air. One hits Mikey's nose and he looks so shocked, his mouth opening into an o of surprise that Gerard can't help laughing. Something that makes Mikey grin down at the bubbling water, ignoring how it causes his glasses to be covered with steam.

Gerard gives the sauce another stir. "Are you going out tonight?"

"Yeah." Mikey takes off his glasses and rubs them on the hem of his shirt. "There's a band I need to check out."

"Right," Gerard says, and dips his little finger in the sauce, testing for heat. "You'll be home late, then?"

Mikey uses the spoon to ease the softening spaghetti into the water, his smile fading. "No later than usual."

"You shouldn't...it's the third night this week," Gerard says.

Mikey shrugs. "We need the money."

Which is true. Gerard's seen Mikey make money stretch, but it only goes so far, which means overtime and more work. "I told you, I'll cut back on the therapy sessions and change...."

"No!" Vehement, Mikey cuts Gerard off. "It's taken months to find a combination that's starting to work, you're not changing a thing." He reaches for two plates, setting them down on the counter and picks up the pan of spaghetti which he drains into the sink, his back to Gerard. "You'll be accepted for disability soon, you have to be."

Gerard isn't that sure, already the process has dragged on for months, but he keeps that thought hidden, says, "Just. Be careful coming back."

Mikey tenses, his shoulders pulling in, says, "I always am."

~*~*~*~

"I'm thinking about taking on someone else."

Bob shades his eyes with one hand, looking up at Ray who's carefully trimming the edges of the lawn. Grass clipping are stuck to the front of his legs and his t-shirt clings to his body, under his arms, back and chest. "Full time?"

Ray shakes his head. "Part time at first, but if we get someone I can expand, do the jobs we can't take on right now."

"It makes sense, especially with Frank working fewer hours."

"Yeah," Ray says, frowning. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, but still manages to leave a smear of green over his cheek bone. "It's not like I'm giving away his job."

"I know." Bob sits back on his heels and wipes his soil-covered hands on his thighs. "He'll know that too."

"I was thinking about advertising this week, get someone before the summer seasons starts in earnest."

Bob grimaces because even if it's not officially summer, it's fucking hot. "I think you're too late for that."

Ray grins and puts down the clippers. "Come on, Mrs. Martin left us lemonade."

"And you're just telling?"

"You had two hundred seedlings to plant, I didn't want to interrupt your groove."

"My groove? Right." Bob stands, his legs twinging from being straightened after kneeling so long. "It's not so you could drink it all yourself."

Ray shakes his head, the picture of innocence. "Would I do that?"

The answer to that is no, Bob still says, "In an instant."

Bob loves Mrs. Martin. Along with the lemonade she's left a plate of cookies, covered over with a plastic lid and Bob brushes off his shorts as he approaches the iron table and chairs. When he sits the metal is cool, the chair shaded by a large blue umbrella. He reaches out and takes hold of the pitcher of lemonade, the glass cold and damp with condensation. Ice cubes rattle as Bob fills two glasses, handing one to Ray before taking a long drink.

"I want to marry Mrs. Martin."

"I think Mr. Martin will have something to say about that," Ray says, and takes a drink, draining half the glass. He sets it down and takes the lid of the cookies, his mouth curling into a smile as he looks at Bob. "And Gerard."

"I don't know what you mean," Bob mutters, and grabs a cookie, taking a large bite.

Ray sits forward, his forearms against the table, there's a shallow scratch going from his elbow to wrist and his fingernails are black with dirt. "You see him every day."

"I see Mikey too," Bob points out, he finishes the cookie and takes another, holding it in his hand.

"Didn't you say you barely see Mikey lately?"

Bob scowls, cursing bosses-come-friends that actually listen to what he says. "The fucker's always working." It's one of the reasons Bob spends so much time at the Ways, he hates the idea of Gerard being alone, and even if it means some evenings Bob does nothing but sit next to Gerard not talking, well that's fine.

Ray looks concerned. "Is Gerard okay with that?"

"Not really," Bob says, remembering finding Gerard in the kitchen, looking solemn as he read through the book Mikey uses for accounts. "But he'll have to deal, it's the only way they're getting money."

Ray looks past a point on Bob's shoulder, his brows pulled together in a crease. "I've got ...."

"No," Bob cuts in, knowing where Ray's going with this. "They wouldn't accept money from you, they know you've been saving for a new trailer."

"But if they need it."

"They do," Bob says, and if I thought they'd take it I'd empty my fucking bank account for them, but they wouldn't." It's why Bob helps out in other ways, casually putting left over groceries in their fridge and ensuring they've got something to eat at least, even if that's frozen meals and pop tarts.

Ray sighs, says, "I haven't been over for a few days, I think I'll go over tonight. The grass will need cutting anyway."

Bob drains his lemonade and pours out another. "I'll come with you."

~*~*~*~

Gerard looks at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick around. As soon as it's exactly three he puts the pill in his mouth and drinks a full glass of water then puts the empty glass in the sink. Each time he does this he expects some kind of reaction, which is stupid he knows, because it doesn't work like that. There's no magical cure, but he can't help hoping that one day he'll swallow his pill and begin to feel happy. It hasn't happened yet, all Gerard feels is numb.

Tired, he leans back and accidentally knocks over a mug that spills cold coffee over the counter top, it pools then drips toward the floor. Grabbing a cloth Gerard drops it on the spill and thinks about cleaning it up, but if he does that it means moving the dirty dishes and wiping down surfaces and it all seems too much. Gerard looks at the clock, two minutes past three, Mikey won't be home for hours yet, which leaves plenty of time for a nap.

Pushing himself upright, Gerard makes for the basement. He feels lethargic and heavy and he grips the banister tightly as he carefully walks downstairs. At the bottom there's a pile of laundry, gathered during a burst of energy that petered out almost as soon as it began. The clothes spill out in waves of black and occasional colors, jeans lying against the sheets that have slid from Gerard's bed and the trash and cigarette butts that somehow never reach the garbage. Looking at the mess is all kinds of intimidating and Gerard's heading for his bed when he stops, remembering how his therapist tells him to break things down, that he doesn't have to do it all.

It makes sense when they talk, but each time Gerard tries, he ends up bargaining with himself, a nap for ten minutes work, a mug of coffee for washing the dishes, and he can't help feeling it shouldn't be that way, that normal people don't need bribes to survive.

Determined he'll do something today, Gerard bends and gathers up an armful of clothes that he drops in the machine along with an estimated capful of detergent. Shutting the lid, Gerard leans in close as he turns the dial, then waits, listening for his cue for bed. He gets it when the machine begins to whir, and within seconds is lying on top of his sheet-less bed, too tired to even kick off his shoes.

He lies still, looking up at the ceiling, grey paint and cobwebbed corners. Gerard closes his eyes.

When he wakes the basement is quiet and when he looks toward the small window he sees that the sunlight is softer, suggesting some time has passed. Pushing himself upright Gerard winces at the throbbing behind his eyes and swallows against the dryness in his mouth, then tilts his head to one side, listening when he hears a thump from upstairs. Gerard stands and walks to the bottom of the stairs, "Mikey?"

"He's not back yet." Bob appears in the doorway and starts to walk down. He's wearing his work clothes and his knees are black with dirt, his boots off exposing his striped socks, one with a hole at the toe. When he reaches the bottom Bob steps over the mound of dirty laundry and looks at the washing machine before pulling open the lid. "I'll help you carry these up. Hands out."

Automatically Gerard holds out his arms and Bob hands over a bundle of wet clothes. They feel cold and damp and Gerard cradles them close to his chest, waiting as Bob digs out a last stray sock before closing the lid. He drops the sock onto the pile Gerard's carrying, and then goes up stairs, Gerard following him up, then through the kitchen to outside. It's still hot outside and the smell of cut grass combines with the scent of detergent as Gerard steps onto the sun-warm paving slabs. Looking over the top of the pile he's surprised to see Ray mowing the lawn, while Frank sits on the porch, his arm around the unicorn as he watches, a pile of books at his side and a notebook open on his lap.

"Gerard, hi." Ray shuts off the mower, draping the cord over the handle. "You've got good timing, I've just finished."

Frank waves a greeting and pulls a page out of his book, tucking it under the unicorn. "I'll give you a hand hanging those up."

"Thanks," Gerard says, and eyes the paper that sticks out from under the unicorn's hoof, making sure it's adequately weighted down. The last things he wants is a repeat of the time Mrs. Henson from next door found a frankly pornographic poem addressed to Mikey in her back garden.

"Sure you can reach the line?" Bob asks Frank, and nudges Gerard toward the washing line that stretches over the newly cut lawn.

Frank grabs a pair of jeans, pegging them up at the waist. "Fuck off."

"And no fondling Mikey's clothes," Bob continues, taking a sock from the pile.

"Why would I do that when they don't have Mikey inside?" Frank grins, so wide and bright that Gerard steps a little closer, feeling a second-hand happiness that's as warm as the sun.

"I swear to god, one fucking word." Bob brandishes a peg at Frank, poking him in the chest. "One word about your sex life and I'll end you."

"With a peg?" Frank raises an eyebrow and ducks behind Gerard. "What are you going to do? Kill me five ways with a clothes peg?"

"Ten ways," Bob growls, and reaches for Frank, but Frank's already running, laughing as he dodges past Ray, keeping out of the way as Bob gives chase.

"One day they're going to kill each other, then I'll need three new workers." Ray wipes his hands on his t-shirt and starts to peg out the remaining clothes. "It bad enough finding one person never mind three."

"You're taking on someone new?" Gerard remembers Bob mentioning their ever increasing workload, but he can't remember any talk of taking on staff, not that it means much. Details are one of the first things to be lost to the grey.

"I'm trying," Ray says, he sighs, hanging up a faded t-shirt Gerard last wore months before. "But apparently people don't want a part time job with no benefits."

Gerard scowls, "Fucking benefits."

"I know." Ray's mouth is turned down and his brow furrowed as he starts on the last armful of black socks. "I'd offer them if I could, but I just haven't got the cash to support it."

"I wasn't getting at you, sorry," Gerard says, because that's the last thing he meant, he knows how well Ray looks after his staff but benefits have haunted Gerard for months now, between the time Mikey's spent trying to sort out Gerard's and the fact it's led to Mikey refusing to take out insurance due to their lack of money. Just thinking of them makes Gerard want to lie down.

"I know." Ray pegs up the last sock and looks behind him, watching as Bob grabs onto Frank, one hand holding the straps of his overalls, the other holding the back of Frank's head, keeping his face inches above the water in the dragon bird-bath as he threatens to duck him in. "My staff, let me show you them."

There's a splash and Gerard sees that Bob's ducked Frank's head in the water, holding him there for an instant before allowing him back up. "Should you rescue him?"

"And spoil their fun?" Ray grins as Frank manages to scoop up two handfuls of water, flinging them at Bob. "They're blowing off steam, and while they're doing that we can order pizza."

"Erm," Gerard says and doesn't know how to say there's no way he can afford that. "How about pop tarts instead?"

"Pizza, my treat," Ray says, and heads toward inside, indicating that Gerard should follow.

He does and when he gets in the kitchen Ray's already on the phone, leaning against the fridge as he orders. Listening to the rise and fall of his voice, Gerard starts to clear up a little, washing out the mugs and placing them on the drainer. Occasionally there's a shriek from the garden, and once Frank runs inside, laughing, his feet pounding against the floor as he skids, turns, and goes right back outside.

"I didn't know if you had soda so I ordered some, too." Gerard jumps when he hears Ray, who's moved so he's standing close. "Sorry."

"I was miles away," Gerard says and turns on the cold tap, washing the bubbles off his hands.

"I can see." Ray takes a step back, looking solid and sun-kissed, his hair pulled back off his face. "How are you doing?"

It's something Gerard gets asked a lot, and he never has a good answer. He wants to say that he's feeling better, because it's the truth, compared with before he is. But at the same time, Gerard's better still isn't good, and there's no good way to explain that his world remains muted, blanketed by shades of grey. It's all kinds of frustrating because no matter how much he tries, Gerard feels trapped, colors and emotions just out of his reach.

"I'm okay." Gerard's hesitated too long and he can see the sympathy in Ray's expression, the way he's searching for the right thing to say. Impulsively, needing Ray to think of anything but how pathetic Gerard actually is, he says, "I'm thinking of moving out of the basement."

"Yeah?" Ray says. "You're thinking of moving up next to Mikey?"

"Maybe." Truthfully Gerard hasn't given it much actual thought. Apart from the vague idea that it's one of the things he should do, because people his age don't live in basements, especially when there are perfectly good bedrooms upstairs. "Or in my parent’s old room, I don't know if I want to share a wall."

"I don't blame you." Ray shudders, looking pained. "That time I found them in the back of the van, the poor plants, the yew tree was never the same."

"Oh my god, Ray," Frank hisses, appearing in the doorway looking hot and sweaty, a strand of blue hair sticking to his forehead. "Don't talk about my sex life with Mikey's brother."

"Serves you fucking right," Bob says, pushing his way past Frank. "Now you know how I feel."

Frank frowns. "You're not related to me, and anyway, I tell you that shit so you don't forget what sex is. I'm doing you a favor."

"No, you tell me that shit because you're a little fucker who doesn't know when to shut up," Bob says, and fills a glass with cold water before taking a long drink. "And, I don't need reminding what sex is."

"Sex with your own hand doesn't count." Frank says, taking a step back so he's out of reach of a swipe from Bob's hand. "I mean two people sex, the hot and heavy kind, you know, with the fucking and the sucking and..." Frank abruptly stops talking, flushing red as he turns to Gerard. "Not that I do that with Mikey of course."

"So you're fucking and sucking someone not Mikey," Bob says, an evil glint in his eyes. "Admitting that here doesn't seem like a good idea."

"What? No! It's Mikey, it's always Mikey. I wouldn't think of..." Frank rests his hand on Gerard's arm, looking earnest. "I only fuck Mikey, promise."

Gerard wonders how he's supposed to reply. Nothing seems right and he pats Frank's hand awkwardly, says, "As long as you're being careful."

"Jesus fuck," Frank mutters, going bright red as he glares over at Bob. "I hate you."

"You know you love me," Bob says, and extracts Gerard from Frank's grasp. "I'll help you sort the rest of the laundry while these idiots tidy up outside."

"It's fucking gross," Gerard warns, but all Bob does is shrug.

"Last week I dug in a fuck load of manure, it can't be worse."

Privately Gerard can't be so sure, but Bob's already disappearing downstairs and Ray's tugging Frank outside, leaving Gerard alone. Momentarily he debates just staying in the kitchen, but he can hear Bob moving around, and goes to the stairs, seeing that Bob's sitting on the bottom step, his feet on top of the pile of dirty clothes.

"Are you sure all these are yours?" Bob tilts back his head and looks up at Gerard. "Because I never pegged you as a leather man."

"I'm not." Gerard keeps his hand against the wall as he makes his way to the bottom, edging past Bob and sliding down to the ground, uncaring of the mess. "I think they belonged to a friend of Mikey's."

Bob holds up the pair of black leather pants, the sides held together by lace. "Does Mikey still see this friend?"

Truthfully Gerard's not sure who Mikey sees when he's out, but it's been years since he's brought anyone but Frank back to the house. "Not that I know of."

"They're going in the trash, then," Bob says, and shoves the pants to one side before toeing at the heap. "I'd say sort out the darks but there's nothing but darks. Grab any jeans you see."

Leading by example, Bob pulls free a pair of Mikey's jeans, checking the pockets and un-threading a thin studded belt before throwing them into the machine. Looping the belt over the banister, he finds a pair of Gerard's next, the hems ragged and the knees almost threadbare. Checking the pockets, he takes out a crumpled wad of tissue and drops it to the floor, then throws them so they drop into the drum.

At Bob's look, Gerard starts to sort through the laundry at his feet, pushing aside t-shirts that are stiff with sweat and some clothes he can't ever remember wearing. He's moving a crispy sock when he looks at Bob and says, "Why are you doing this?"

Bob shrugs and doesn't look at Gerard, just keeps rummaging through the clothes. "It's what friends do."

Which may be true in Bob's world, but apart from Bob, Ray and Frank, Gerard's friends are all long gone, including the ones that did try to keep in contact at first. Even when they did visit, none of them acted like this, doing jobs that should be Gerard's alone. "You could be out having fun."

"You say that like I'm not having fun now," Bob says, and uses his finger and thumb to display a pair of boxers. "How else would I know you wear superman underwear?"

Gerard runs his hand through his hair. "They could be Mikey's."

"Mikey's too skinny to wear these." Bob grins and drops them back on the pile. "Admit it, they're yours."

"Superman is awesome," Gerard says, and throws a t-shirt on top of the boxers.

"Never said otherwise." Bob stands and gathers four more pairs of jeans, checking them all before dropping them into the machine. "That's enough for now. They can wash while we eat."

Gerard clambers to his feet. "Thank you."

"It's not me buying the pizza," Bob says and starts to walk upstairs. Gerard doesn't correct him, he knows Bob gets what he means.

When Gerard reaches the kitchen he sees the counter is crowded with five pizza boxes, three bottles of soda and a paper bag, grease already seeping through the side. Ray's reaching up for glasses while Frank rummages in a cupboard, emerging with a roll of paper towels.

"Do you want to eat in here or in the living room?" Ray asks, the glasses safely clutched against his chest.

Bob looks at his watch and goes to pick up the pizza boxes. "Myth Busters will be on."

"Living room it is, then," Ray says, but when he goes for the soda he's held back by Frank, who pushes between Ray and Bob and stands guard in front of the food.

"Back off, savages. I'm going to fix Mikey a plate first."

"Are you going to warm his slippers and have them ready by the door when he comes in, too?" Bob asks sweetly and Frank glares back as he grabs a plate and starts opening boxes.

"Fuck off, if I let you all loose on this there'll be nothing left for him." He takes a slice from each pie, building a pizza mountain on the plate, then adds two cheese sticks and a handful of chicken wings."

"He'll never eat all of that," Gerard says, slightly bemused by the sheer amount of food that's laid out in his kitchen. Frank raises one shoulder and puts the plate in the fridge.

"So he'll have leftovers."

"For a week," Gerard says and makes a grab for the paper towels when Bob throws them his way.

"Hurry up, it'll be starting soon."

Ray grins as he picks up the pizza boxes. "We're coming, we'd hate for you to miss a minute of your precious Jamie."

"I watch for the experiments," Bob says, and places his hand at the small of Gerard's back, urging him forward.

Frank darts past, a bottle under each arm. "Sure you do. That's why you have an autographed Jamie picture in your bedroom."

"You've been in my bedroom?" Bob growls slightly under his breath, and Frank looks back over his shoulder, already giggling as he dives onto the easy chair.

"Would I do that?"

"In an instant you little shit, Bob says, and takes a seat on the sofa, Gerard sitting next to him.

Ray puts the pizza boxes on the coffee table, looks at them all and smiles, says, "Shall I be mother?"

~*~*~*~

"I'm going to decline the Hammond job," Ray says, grunting under his breath as he hauls a large sack of pea shale into the back of the van.

"I thought you'd already talked plans?" Surprised, Bob picks up a pot containing a vibrant purple clematis. The leaves brush against his face as he carefully sets it in the van, next to the tools and mower but with plenty of space for the trays of bedding plants that are still stacked on the flat bed trolley.

"I have." Ray brushes at the front of his t-shirt, then picks up a tray of marigolds, some of them already blooming bright orange. "It's too big a job for two, even if Frank does put in a few hours after school."

"I could come in earlier," Bob says, hating how defeated Ray looks as he methodically stacks the trays of plants, treating each one with deliberate gentle care. "Stay late, too."

Ray shakes his head. "I appreciate the offer, but you're already working seven days this week, you need some time off."

"Like you take so much," Bob points out, and the fact is, he doesn't mind working so hard. He'd do anything for Ray and he loves his job, if that means early mornings and late nights, that's exactly what Bob will do.

"It's my company, I have to put in the hours," Ray says, and stacks the last tray. Closing the doors of the van he makes sure they're locked and then sits on the side of the cart, head resting on his hands and sliding a little as the cart tips to one side. "And it's not like anyone wants to work for me, two weeks and no applications, that has to be some kind of record."

Bob sits next to Ray, making the cart see-saw before settling mostly level. The wood he's sitting on is damp from the plants and the metal edges are sun warm against his bare legs. "Someone could still apply."

"I doubt it, part-time hours and no benefits aren't very enticing."

"I joined for that," Bob says, digging Ray in the side with his elbow.

"You’re obviously some kind of masochist." Finally, Ray smiles a little, shading his eyes as he looks at Bob. "Also, you came in at full-time."

Which is true, but Bob was so desperate back then he would have joined for any hours, and he knows that goes for other people, too. It's why he says, "I have a friend."

"Yeah," Ray says, sounding interested. "I'm hoping this is leading to a friend that's a master gardener who needs work."

"Sort of," Bob says, ignoring the way Ray's face falls. "He's never really done any gardening, but he needs a job and I know he's a hard worker."

"When you say he's never really done any gardening, you mean what?" Ray asks, sounding suspicious.

"He's bagged his own vegetables at the supermarket." Bob knows he needs to be totally honest, Ray'll give Brian a chance or he won't, Bob's not about to lie. "I wouldn't mention him, but he's desperate."

"And so I am," Rays says quietly. He looks toward the garden center, where the manager is hovering near the exit while glaring in their direction. "How do you know him?"

It's a question Bob expected, but he still hesitates a moment, then says, "I met him back home, at my anger management group."

"Right." Ray keeps looking forward, his brow creased into lines. Eventually he turns to Bob. "You say he's a good guy."

"He is," Bob says, and puts his arms behind him, hands braced against the wood as he leans back, head tilted toward the sun.

"And he won't mind doing grunt work and learning on the job?"

"He's a quick learner and a strong fucker."

Ray nods slightly. "Tell him I'm prepared to take him on trial for a fortnight."

"Great," Bob says, pleased that he can help out two friends this way. Patting his pocket, he goes to pull out his phone, but remembers it's still in the van, left there from the Richardson job. "I'll call him when we get back to the van. He's in Chicago right now so I'll need to make arrangements."

"That's your home town, yeah?" Ray says. "You don't talk much about before."

Bob turns his head so he can see Ray. He looks hesitant, as if this is something he shouldn't be mentioning, but he's got no need. Bob's not keeping secrets, it's just, he's moved on and it's not a time he needs to revisit. "There's nothing to talk about. I used to live there, and now I live here."

"Do your parents live there? That's if you have parents," Ray asks.

"I wasn't found under a cabbage, of course I have parents," Bob says, and Ray has his mouth open, obviously ready to make some joke when Bob continues, "At least I did, mom's still at home but dad took off somewhere."

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"There's no reason you should," Bob says, brushing off the apology. He sits up straight then, rubbing his hands together to dislodge any clinging soil before he stands. "We'd better get on. I need to phone Brian before we go to the Mason's."

"A thousand marigolds to plant, wonderful." Ray stands and grabs hold of the cart, starting to push it back to the coral. "My back's already protesting." He stops then, looking over at Bob. "Which reminds me, I counted twelve hundred marigold plants and I know I only paid for a thousand."

Bob shrugs. "Guess they weren't counting very well."

"Right," Ray says, sounding sceptical. "I suppose the spares will be going to the Way's?"

"It would be stupid letting them go to waste."

A hard push and Ray shoves the cart with the others, then goes to join Bob, both of them looking at the garden center manager who's angrily sweeping the ground outside of the entrance to the store. "One day you'll tell me what you've got on him."

Bob smiles and gets in the van.

~*~*~*~

"You sure you want to do this?" Mikey asks. "If you wait until the weekend I can help."

Mikey's dressed for work and is draining the last of his mug of coffee, his messenger bag slung across his body as he stands close to the door. Picking up a slice of toast, Gerard pointedly holds it out until Mikey takes it with a roll of his eyes. "I'm positive, I'll get a start cleaning out the room and then I'll paint later this week."

"Awesome," Mikey says and his whole body seems to loosen somehow, which is reassurance enough that Gerard's doing the right thing. "Don't work too hard."

A wave of his hand and Mikey's gone, leaving Gerard alone. He looks around and gathers up the breakfast dishes, setting them in the sink before heading for the stairs. It's been a while since Gerard's been on this floor and he takes in how dusty everything is, the wallpaper dingy and the wood of the baseboards furred and dented in places. There's a poster of Blur tacked to the door of Mikey's room and Gerard can't resist looking inside. He steps through the doorway and takes in the unmade bed and piles of CDs that are arranged near the stereo, the clothes over the back of a chair and the shelves full of action figures Gerard remembers from years before. The only unexpected thing is the window sill, where there are a line of plants -- pansies Gerard thinks, each one in a vibrantly colored pot, a splash of color in the mostly dark room.

Gerard walks close to the window and looks at the plants, and notices a strip of photograph tucked between the orange spotted pot and the one with red and blue stripes. Picking it up he sees that it's the kind you get out of a photo booth, Mikey and Frank pulling a series of insane faces and the last one catching them in a closed-mouth kiss. For the first time in forever, Gerard genuinely smiles. Which has to be a sign, that today he can see those colors and feel those emotions, he runs his fingers over the row of pots and over the delicate petals of the pansies, things that are so vibrantly alive in a house that mostly seems dead.

Bringing his hand to his face, Gerard smells earth and the hint of sunshine, a scent that stays with him as he leaves Mikey's room and into his parent's. In there nothing has chanced since they left. Discarded clothes still lie abandoned on the bed and the curtains are pulled shut. When Gerard touches them dust explodes into the room and he sneezes as he opens the window, letting in the fresh air.

Unsure where to start, Gerard turns in a circle, cataloging everything that needs to go. Miraculously he feels good today, the combination of pills and therapy finally working and he's glad he didn't tell anyone how he'd really felt, knowing that eventually things would change -- and they have. Gerard knows they have.

Gathering up an armful of his mom's old clothes, Gerard throws them out of the door, and keeps doing so until the bed is bare. He moves onto the closet then, removing multiple pairs of leopard-skin pants and low cut t-shirts. Keeping them close to his chest he can still smell the lingering scent of his mom's perfume, and for a moment he misses her so badly that it hurts, but she made her own choices and it's up to Gerard to run the house now, and he will, the tide has turned.

Five hours of work, where Gerard ignores the grumbling of his stomach, and all of the clothes are out of the room and moved into his grandma's room. Sitting on the stripped bed Gerard looks at the walls and imagines how he's going to decorate, skeletons and goblins dancing through flames, the sky at night and flying vampires. Gerard's fingers itch with the need to draw and he almost runs downstairs, gathering up his sketch book and a handful of pens before running back up, sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight.

Gerard begins to draw.

~~~

"Gerard, are you here?"

Gerard's hand is cramped and he flexes his fingers as he puts down his sketch book and pen. He's surrounded by torn off pages, each one covered in designs that he's going to transfer to the wall. The urge to create is almost overwhelming and he feels giddy as he pushes himself up to his feet and out onto the landing. "I'm up here."

"Coming up," Bob says, and Gerard watches as he climbs the stairs, looking confused as he looks at Gerard. "You look flushed, are you okay?"

"I'm great." Gerard smiles and indicates that Bob should follow him into the bare room. "I've been sketching, I'm going to transfer them to the walls. I'm thinking some kind of black and purple."

"Sounds good," Bob says and steps over the scattered pens so he can look at the sketches that litter the floor. "You've drawn a lot."

"I know, it's been a long time but today it felt right." Gerard tries to think how to explain the feeling, like parts of himself had been thrown open again, letting him touch and feel and create. "I knew saying nothing was best, if I hadn't this couldn't have happened."

Bob looks up from the sketches. "What haven't you being saying?"

"About the grey," Gerard says, and momentarily wonders if he should have admitted that at all, but Bob's saying nothing, just keeps watching, and Gerard starts to explain. "It was like being trapped underwater, everything was muffled and the colors were dimmed. It was fucking horrible."

"And you didn't say anything?" Bob asks, and takes a step back, sitting on the bed.

"No." Gerard runs his hands through his hair and glances down at his sketches, wanting to touch. "You know what it was like in the beginning, I had so many fucking side effects when they were trying combinations of drugs. That week without sleep nearly ended me, I couldn't do it again. The grey was better."

"So you struggled through it."

"Better that than screaming at Mikey again." Ice runs down Gerard's spine as he remembers that week of no sleep, how it felt like bugs scrambled under his skin and how he ended up yelling as he threw a mug at Mikey. "He needed his big brother."

"Yeah, he does," Bob says, and Gerard doesn't understand what he means, because maybe Gerard has been a little off these last few months, but he's back now. Things are fixed, they're okay.

"I've got paint in the basement, I'm going to look, you coming?"

Bob gives Gerard a searching look then stands, says, "Okay."

They go down to the basement, walking over the pile of clothes that's still at the bottom of the stairs. Reminding himself to finish laundry later, Gerard leads Bob to the far corner of the basement, where he's sure he's got a crate of different paints. Kneeling, he throws aside books and comic and a stuffed rabbit missing an eye. Finally, at the very back of the mound of stuff, he pulls out a red plastic crate and looks inside, happy to see it's full of paint.

"I should be able to draw vampires with this," Gerard says, blowing the dust off a small pot of black gloss. "I'll make do anyway, it's not like we've the money for new stuff."

"I'm sure they'll look great." Bob picks up a brush, running his thumb over the bristles that are clogged up and stiff with old paint. "Have you eaten today? Or taken your medication?"

Gerard shakes his head and looks at the clock next to his bed. "I haven't eaten but I took my tablets this morning. I need to go take my next lot." Reluctantly he stands, leaving the crate where it is. It's time for his medication and then he needs to start making dinner. The painting can wait until tomorrow.


~*~*~*~

Bob leaves Gerard boiling pasta and stirring ready made sauce, looking cheerful as he hums a song under his breath. While wanting to be happy for him, Bob can't help being concerned, because he's seen this before. Stomach twisting, all he wants to do is go back and stand guard, but he keeps walking, knowing there's nothing he can do but wait and hope that he's wrong.

He looks at his watch. Brian's due in on the nine o clock bus and Bob decides to walk, enjoying the diminishing heat of the day. He strides along the sidewalk, and takes a series of deep breaths, exhaling slowly as he matches the exhales to his number of steps. It's an exercise he does often, it helps him keep calm and push back the anger that's always there, a constant burn that he's learned to keep dampened and hidden.

It's something he worked hard to overcome, anger management groups and therapy and if he ever forgets how bad it was before, the scars on his knuckles are a permanent reminder. He runs his fingers over them now, tracing along the line where the skin puckers slightly, faint now, but Bob remembers they're there. The same way he remembers his hand crashing through glass and blood splattering to the floor.

Bob takes in another deep breath. He's not the same person now, he's changed his life and made it better. He's got a good job and good friends, an apartment that's tiny but his, he's looking forward not back, and if he's a little nervous about seeing Brian, mixing his old life with the new. Well, that's okay. Bob will deal. He always does.

It takes forty minutes to get to the station, leaving just enough time for Bob to buy a coffee and grab a seat on one of the ornate metal benches that are tucked against the walls. He's sitting next to an old woman who smiles and offers him a mint out of a paper packet. Accepting with a brief smile, Bob sucks at the candy and drinks his coffee, grimacing a little at the resulting mixed taste. He watches as the digital clock turns toward nine. It's been over a year since he saw Brian and he can't help feeling a little nervous, that despite the phone calls and occasional emails, things will have inevitably changed.

"You're meeting someone, sonny?" The old lady turns to Bob, her wrinkled cheeks sucked in as she eats her own candy.

Bob tucks his mint against his cheek, normally he's not one for small talk but that doesn't mean he'd be rude enough to ignore her, especially when he's taken her candy. "My friend."

"My daughter's coming home for a visit, she's bringing my grand-babies." She smiles and digs a wallet out of her purse, flipping it open to show Bob two pictures. "That's Billy, he's ten and likes to play soccer." She points at the next picture, at a younger girl with her hair in pig tails and a gap-toothed smile. "Sara's seven. Isn't she adorable?" Bob nods but can't help being relieved when the woman puts away her wallet and tucks her purse under her arm. She looks at Bob, her gaze bright and inquisitive. "Is your friend visiting for long?"

"Staying hopefully," Bob says, and checks the clock again. Nine o five, surely the bus will come soon?

"I hope you both have fun." She pats Bob's arm and sits upright slightly, squinting as she looks toward the road. "Is that the Chicago bus?"

Bob stands, peering at the bus that's winding its way slowly toward the station. He can't see the number at first, but the bus gets nearer and he takes a step forward, needing to see. "It is." He turns then, watching as the woman gathers up a variety of bags. "Do you want some help with those?"

"Oh no, sonny, I've got them." She smiles, her gaze slipping past Bob to the bus that's pulling into the station. "You go wait for your friend."

Bob nods and makes his way forward, standing toward the back of the crowd that's gathered. The bus pulls to a stop with a groan of brakes and the door at the front opens, people spilling out from inside. A man with a laptop bag over his shoulder. Two young girls, giggling as they step to the ground. A woman carrying a baby in a yellow blanket and then, a boy and girl who have to be the grandchildren of the woman at the bench. Bob watches as they tumble from the bus, followed by their mother who grins wide as they run into the arms of the old lady.

Then finally, when most people on the bus have already exited, Brian. He's carrying a small bag and when he sees Bob he changes direction, weaving through the baggage claiming crowd.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bryar. What happened? You're fucking skinny."

Self-consciously, Bob shrugs, he's lost a lot of weight this last year, dropping pounds as he worked hard in the gardens. It's something he forgets about mostly, he's never been vain and wears what's comfortable, not what looks good. Still, sometimes he catches glimpses of himself in the mirror, and double-takes at the tanned, muscled guy who looks back in return.

Brian looks Bob from head to toe. "You think you're too good to give me some love?"

Bob grins then, pulling Brian into a brief hug. "I see you haven't grown."

"And you're still an asshole," Brian says, and grabs hold of Bob's hair, giving it a tug. "Who do you think you are? The Fabio of the gardening world?"

"Fuck off, I haven't had time for a cut, is all," Bob says, and looks toward the driver, who's piling cases and bags in front of the bus. "You got any more baggage?"

Brian holds up his bag. "Just this."

Bob eyes the small bag, doubtful it's big enough for even one change of outfit. "That's all you've brought?"

"That's all I've got to bring," Brian says, and for the first time Bob sees the strain he's trying to keep hidden. It reminds him of when they first met, both of them damaged, but forging a friendship that eventually became solid.

"Fair enough," Bob says, and starts to walk toward the exit, knowing it's pointless asking Brian to talk now. "There's not much edible at my place, so I figured we'd order in pizza."

"Nice way to treat a guest," Brian says, walking at Bob's side. "Have you even got somewhere for me to sleep?"

"You're taking the floor." Bob doesn't even try to hide his grin at Brian's glare. He's missed this guy.

~*~*~*~

As soon as Gerard wakes he knows something is wrong. He hasn't even opened his eyes when he feels it, the weight pressing against his chest and holding him down, the detached grey feeling he's suffered for months changed into black clouds that feel stuffed into his head, crammed in until he feels like he's suffocating from the inside out. Breathing hard he reminds himself that he's okay now, that things are fine, but it's so obvious that they're not. Everything feels wrong, dead, and Gerard brings his hands up to his face, clenched fists against his eyes, feeling the tears that slip past his fingers.

This wasn't supposed to happen and logically Gerard knows he should be angry, but he can't, because all he's got room for is despair, crushing and overwhelming and all he wants to do is pull up the covers and hide. Groping for the blanket, Gerard pulls at it until it’s up to his nose, curls up small and lies still, his eyes open as he stares at the small window to outside.

Shadows move behind the pane of glass, the lavender plant nothing but dark shadows, and Gerard feels himself sinking deeper into a hole, forced to look up when everything else exists above ground.

He hates it down here, he knows he'll never get back up.

~~~~

Gerard moves once that day, the blanket wrapped around him as he shuffles for the bathroom, his bladder full to bursting. He doesn't look in the mirror, just averts his head as he pees then goes back to bed.

~~~~

"Gee?"

It's still light when Mikey returns home. Gerard hears the slam of the back door and the sound of footsteps, Mikey coughing as he goes upstairs to the bedrooms and then straight back down. Gerard doesn't turn, just keeps staring at the window, listening to the harsh sound of Mikey's breathing and his intake of breath when he sees Gerard.

"Gerard? Gee?" Mikey walks closer and sinks to his knees next to the bed. He looks tired, pale, and if it were possible Gerard would hate himself even more for making Mikey look so exhausted.

"Have you been here all day?" Mikey asks, and he runs his hand over Gerard's forehead, pushing back his sweat-soaked hair. "I should have come back when you didn't answer your phone."

Gerard shakes his head. It's not Mikey's job to look after him, Mikey should be with the people that love him, having fun far away from Gerard. He swallows, forcing himself to talk. "Phone Frank, go out with him, I'll be okay."

"Fuck that, Gee," Mikey says, and sits on the floor, kicking off his sneakers. He stands then, and climbs awkwardly over Gerard and lays behind him in bed, wiggling until Gerard's cradled against him, Mikey holding him close. "I'm staying here with you. Always."

He keeps holding on, a constant presence as Gerard struggles to breathe.


~*~*~*~

"Bob!"

Bob looks up when Frank barrels into the apartment, looking frantic as he skids to a halt and drops his bag on the floor. When he sees Brian sitting on the sofa he takes a step back, his mouth shutting closed with a snap.

Bob puts down his half-eaten pizza slice in the box, hunger washed away by apprehension as he makes a quick introduction. "Frank, Brian, Brian, Frank. He's a pain in my ass."

"You know you love me," Frank says, but it's obviously more automatic than anything and he runs his hand through his hair, making the purple strands stand on end. "Hi, nice to meet you." Frank flashes a smile at Brian, and then turns back to Bob. "I've been texting Mikey, Gerard's bad, like, how he was before nearly."

It's what Bob was afraid of, and he sinks back in his chair. "How's Mikey dealing?"

"Okay from what he says, he's in bed with Gerard," Frank glances at Brian, then looks away when he reacts by keeping eating his pizza. "It's his night off so he's not losing money, we were supposed to go to the movies. I was going to buy that popcorn he likes, with the butter and shit."

"Frank," Bob cuts in. "You can go another time."

"I know that!" Frank all but yells. "It's not about that, if he left he wouldn't be Mikey, but Gerard was supposed to be better."

"It's not that simple," Bob says wearily, hating how Frank's looking at him as if he can provide all the answers. "Getting the right combination takes time."

"But he's had time." Frank's clutching his phone, the tiny flower charm swinging wildly at the bottom. "He said he was feeling better."

"He probably was at the time." Bob keeps his attention on Frank, all too aware of the assessing look Brian is sending his way. "There's no magical cures, it doesn't work that way."

"It's not fair," Frank says angrily and pushes his hands in the pocket of his overalls, reminding Bob of just how young Frank really is. "What should we do?"

"There's nothing we can do tonight," Bob says, knowing that Frank will hate the answer. "Mikey's dealing with things, I'll go over tomorrow before work."

"He shouldn't have to deal." Frank takes a pace back and takes his hands out of his pocket, running his fingers through his hair. "And you always go over, so why not tonight? Because you've got another friend you're not going to bother?"

Bob reminds himself that Frank's afraid and lashing out, takes a breath and says, "I'm not going over because there's nothing I can do. Not right now. If things get worse and either of them need me I'll be over in an instant. Until then, they don't need people watching them try to deal."

Frank stares down at the floor, the anger of before bleeding away to expose obvious fear. "Yeah, I guess. Sorry." He looks up then and pulls out his phone. "I'll tell Mikey we're going over before breakfast. I'll take him popcorn, the stuff in a bag."

"Nutritious," Bob says, and Frank shoots him a quick look, already sending a text.

"I said we'd be there at six. Pick me up before." Frank leaves with a last wave of his hand and a slam of the door. Bob slumps back, waiting for the inevitable questions.

It doesn't take long. Giving Bob a long look, Brian says, "You let him walk in without knocking."

"He only does it sometimes," Bob says, and doesn't add the last time Frank knocked was about nine months before, once he'd decided Bob was more than a work friend and more an actual friend.

"Even so," Brian says, and he's still looking at Bob as if he's trying to figure things out. "What happened to your over-inflated sense of privacy?"

"I met a bunch of clingy fuckers with no sense of personal space," Bob says, and doesn't take offense when all Brian does is laugh, because it's all kinds of ridiculous that Bob's ended up with a group of friends who think it's perfectly okay to drape themselves over him and invade his life. "They're good people."

"I wouldn't expect anything less for your friends," Brian says when he finally stops laughing. "You told me about Frank but I didn't expect him to be so... colorful."

"I told you, he looks like the end result if a rainbow blew chunks," Bob says, and tries to stop his fond smile before Brian sees. "He's a good kid, amazing with plants, and Mikey. Even if they are fucking sickening."

"The one with the hair, yeah?"

"That's him." Bob settles back, making himself comfortable as he talks about his friends. Who Brian already knows about, but it's good to talk about them face to face, like Bob's starting to mesh his two lives. "He's really quiet at first, but once he's comfortable with you he's got a wicked sense of humor."

Brian leans forward and takes another slice of pizza. "Is he still working all the time?"

"He's got no choice, it's taking forever to get Gerard's disability through and they need money for his meds somehow."

"Gerard, I was waiting for you to mention him." Brian points his pizza slice at Bob. "What's the deal?"

"You'll see him tomorrow, maybe, Ray too," Bob says, changing the subject slightly. "You'll like Ray, he's gold, a stand-up guy, hot too, just your type."

"Fuck no, you're not distracting me like that." Brian takes a bite of pizza, chewing hard. He swallows, says, "You're always talking about Gerard."

"Because he's my friend, and he's having a hard time," Bob protests, already knowing Brian won't take that as an answer.

"And?" Brian prompts, and doesn't back down as the silence stretches.

"And, I don't know," Bob says, frustrated. Brian remains quiet as Bob thinks what to say, because he's having a hard time sorting out his own feelings, never mind talking about them to someone else. "He's fucking hot and I really like him, but you know what happened before, what if I'm sticking around because it's a familiar situation?"

"Bullshit," Brian says, frowning as he looks at Bob. "It's not the same thing and you know it. The situation with your mom was fucked up, but Gerard's not your mom. Don't use that as an excuse."

"I know he's not my mom," Bob says, and he does. That's perfectly clear, it's the rest of the situation that's the problem. "What if I get involved and it all goes wrong?"

"Seems to me you're already involved," Brian says, and cuts Bob off when he starts to protest. "You're always talking about them, I've never even seen Gerard but I feel like I know him. Face it, you're involved and as for going wrong. Don't even front, I know you're not a coward."

"Maybe," Bob concedes, but doesn't take the conversation further. It's not like Gerard wants anything back, anyway. "So, what's been going on with you?"

"Subtle," Brian says, and picks up his soda, taking a long drink. "Same old, same old. I owed money and had to sell my shit to get it. This is my new start I guess."

"It's a good place for that." Bob picks up his glass and holds it in the air. "To fresh starts."

"And morons with hero complexes buying a clue," Brian says, clinking their glasses together.

Next

Comments

[xhailtothethief.livejournal.com]

So, I've read this first part. I really should be reading for class (and i should be sleeping, in fact) but I saw that you posted this and I couldn't resist. And I must say, I love how this flows so well. You write just enough without going overboard with detail, and the characters personalities are so distinct and so fitting, it nearly blows my mind.

Frank makes me laugh, and I love how he interacts with the others in here. I literally laughed out loud when he started rambling about sex with Mikey in front of Gerard and argued with Bob about it. I also love Gerard's bond with Mikey in this. It's almost heart wrenching to read, but that's good because you do an awesome job of drawing the reader into Gerard's character without it being too cliche or generic. I'm excited to see how things play out for everyone in the later parts!

I'll have to finish reading the next parts tomorrow, but I just wanted to say that I love this.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

The bond between Mikey and Gerard is one of my favourite things ever, so I'm thrilled you picked up on that.

Thank you for everything else you said too, each time I post something I sit gnawing at my fingers until I get that first comment so you eased my nerves very nicely.

I hope you enjoy the rest when you get time to read ♥

[hammerhead22.livejournal.com]

How the hell am I supposed to leave the house and go to work knowing this story is sitting on my computer? HOW?!

[turps33.livejournal.com]

You have to be tough! Get in some practice for tomorrow when I post the h/c story.

[hammerhead22.livejournal.com]

WHOOO! I finished this one in time!

I love, love, love this sequel. Bob and Gerard finally see the light, Brian joins the team and Mikey gets his prom. I know I've said it before but I really love the way you write Mikey and Gerard, the love and devotion between them is beautiful.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

YAY! Go you!

I'm so happy you liked. Despite the other pairings that exist in this verse it really centres on Mikey and Gerard and how much they mean to one another. I love exploring that so much, so am thrilled that people like reading the results.

Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to comment.

[turlough]

Oh Terri, this is wonderful!! I love the way they all are together, the scene with all of them helping Gerard with the laundry was fabulous! And it's so cool to get glimpses of Bob's backstory! (But it's just as emotionally involving that I suspected it would be. I suspect it's going to take me at least two days to finish it :-)

[turps33.livejournal.com]

*pets*

But I'm not offering more ficlets *g*

Bob's backstory was important to tell, and yeah, the laundry scene. It was a lot of fun to write.

[turlough]

Yeah, the realisation that this will be the last glimpse of this universe is a little saddening. I like reading about Ray's gardening firm and keeping up with Gerard's mental health :-)

[dizzy-donkey.livejournal.com]

you. you are unbelievably good. like a punch in the guts

[turps33.livejournal.com]

That's a lovely compliment.

Thank you.

[dizzy-donkey.livejournal.com]

i try)) you are very welcome