My Random Epiphany

a taste of Hunger...

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 23:28:36 GMT

Updated my website at http://www.myrandomepiphany.com today. It now contains all 35 stories, all 181,000 words, the entire over-a-megabyte of MCR fanfic I've written. w00t.

Meanwhile, it's been over 2 months since I've written anything, and I'm sorry about that. I've been busy - Real Life's been kicking my ass (though for all that, it's been pretty good to me) and I've been spending a lot of time RPing, which sort of derails the writing urge. I do have something that I've sort of been working on intermittently, though; and so, for your reading pleasure and to whet your appetite (so to speak) I'm posting a few excerpts here. The finished product will probably feature everyone-plus-Brian-slash-everyone-else, it's that kind of fic, and since it's at 61.8Kb now and nowhere near complete, it's probably going to be fairly long by the time it's done. Working title is Hunger.

He's hungry, he's hungry and it hurts, it *hurts*, a pounding aching throb like a bass line running through his veins, his heart, his head. And the last time he went out to hunt alone, a girl died of it; and so Mikey lies curled up on his bunk in the narrow metal coffin-like confines of the tour bus, shaking, and tries not to moan.

He's hungry. He's always hungry, not the way the others are but *all the time*, and driven relentlessly to the deep drinks, the ones that endanger, the ones that kill. And no one quite knows why, not even Brian, who's lived damn near forever and knows damn near everything. Ray theorizes that it's because of Mikey's rebirth, by fledgling Gerard in a blind panic following the car accident that almost cost Mikey his life. Brian, though, isn't so sure. "Some of us are just weaker than others, that's just how it is," he says, and Mikey thinks it's easy for him to be philosophical - Brian, who can go a month or more without a drink, and bare his flesh to sunlight without flinching - but the prospect of being forever this hungry, continually this desperate, eternally vulnerable to the incessant thirst, makes Mikey a little crazy sometimes.

The door to the bus creaks open. "Brought you a present, Mikeyway!" Frank sings out - unnecessarily, because Mikey can already smell it, already *feel* it, the excited-quick rhythm of the mortal heartbeat filling his ears. He levers himself to a sitting position, tries to compose himself - he doesn't like for them to see him at his worst; sometimes it scares them, and he doesn't like to scare them, not when he can help it.

Frank leads her in, and Bob follows behind her, and Mikey studies her, savors her, every contour, every line. She's young, mid-teens maybe, a scattering of acne marring an otherwise creamy complexion, soft dark blonde hair falling loosely about her shoulders, big blue china-doll eyes. She looks wholesome, innocent, appealingly nervous - just exactly the type Mikey likes best; and even through his aching hunger, he finds room to spare his bandmates a smile, for knowing him so very well.

"Hi," the girl says timidly, clearly anxious, and Mikey turns his smile on her instead. Weak he might be, for a vampire, but that doesn't mean he can't beguile and bedazzle with the best of them - sometimes even better; and the fans lap it up like cats on cream, and come begging for more of shy sweet Mikeyway and his gentle seduction, posting glowing reports of his style and technique on message boards across the internet. Mikey generally prefers not to Google himself, but sometimes he just can't help it, and when it comes to that particular subject, he's mostly pretty pleased with what he finds.

"Hi," Mikey says softly, with just the right tone of shy sweetness, letting his eyes flicker upward into hers, and feels her begin to dissolve into his spell. "What's your name?"

=======

Ray meets Bob out by the medical tent, falls into step beside him as they make their way toward the lineup of fans officially designated as the "meet and greet" line and more commonly, coarsely, known among the bands and crew as the "blood bank". "Found him," Ray says, tugging his hoodie down a little more over his face against the fading sunlight. "Off hanging out in the Used's bus. He looks like shit, man."

Of course he does. Of course Gerard won't feed himself without coaxing; that would just make life too easy. Bob shakes his head. "Did you tell him..." and lets the words trail off, because he honestly doesn't know what Ray tells him to overcome Gerard's resistance; when it's Bob's turn to do it, he mostly usually just threatens to kick Gerard's ass, but that's not Ray's style.

"It's covered," says Ray, and doesn't elaborate. "He's gonna meet us in the hospitality tent. Now we've just got to find someone that meets with his approval," with a little sardonic sound that might be a laugh.

"Yeah, well," Bob says, and sighs. Sometimes it takes three or four tries to do that, to find one who's not too innocent, not too jaded, someone who hasn't been drinking or doing drugs - because the taste lingers in the blood, and old habits, yeah - and that's time that Bob could be spending looking into the matter of his own dinner, but... well. Gerard is Gerard; and sometimes Bob thinks that the band's spent so long looking after him in various ways that they don't know how to do anything else.

"C'mon," says Ray, rounding the corner to where the line begins, and Bob follows.

The line of fans stretches out into the distance, and it's easy to tell which ones are there specifically in hopes of getting bitten by MyChem by the way their pulses start racing when Bob and Ray come into view. Bob lets his preternatural senses take over - it's as easy as opening his eyes, a different kind of vision, that shows him moods and feelings and the shadowy echo of thoughts emanating from their would-be victims. He knows, by now, what Gerard's looking for, the exact sort of 'feel' Gerard wants from his prey, and signals Ray subtly when he's found it; then it's Ray's turn, for where Bob is better at gauging mental and emotional state, Ray has a hell of a nose for substance use. It takes them awhile, strolling slowly alongside the line, to find one who's got the right aura, no taint of intoxicants, and is wearing a MyChem t-shirt besides: but once they've located one, the rest is simple. "Hi," says Ray to the kid, a boy probably college-age, "want to meet Gerard?" not needing to say more than that, because they *all* want to meet Gerard, always; and minutes later, the boy is wearing the obligatory blood-red 'donor' pass, and walking between them to the hospitality tent with a look of excited wonder on his face.

=======

The streets are teeming with prey: Frank can smell them, feel them, around every curve. There, a drug dealer, working his way through a clandestine transaction with a boy barely old enough for middle school. There, a pimp keeping a close watch on a cracked-out, emaciated young girl on the corner. There, a greasy young man with a gun tucked into his jeans and a pocket full of credit cards stolen with its aid. Frank yearns to plough through them all, rid the streets - if only for a time - of the human detritus scattered everywhere... but time is short, only enough to allow him to slake his hunger, and not his moral outrage.

He moves with inhuman grace, all but unseen, a mere shimmer of movement between one blink and the next, senses sharp for what he seeks - and finds it, in a woman's strangled cry; one quick rush brings him to the scene, just as her attacker is dragging her into the alley.

He's a big man, a strong man, eyes feral and cruel as he paws at her, tears at her clothes with the hand not clamped over her mouth to prevent another cry. Frank watches for only a moment as he assaults her, only long enough for the fury to fill him white-hot and bursting.

"Excuse me," he says, in a quiet voice that hardly matches the fire he's feeling. The would-be rapist doesn't so much as spare him a glance, simply lashes out in Frank's direction, to casually backhand him across the face.

Swift as lightning, Frank catches the outstretched arm by the wrist with one hand, grasps the man's elbow with the other, and calmly snaps it backward, breaking the bones at the joint.

There's a moment, there's always that moment in which the target is too stunned by the turnabout in roles from assailant to victim to so much as scream in pain; and in that moment, Frank turns to the woman and says, "Go," reinforcing the command with a mental push that sends her stumbling out of the alley and away. She's been traumatized enough this evening, he figures - she doesn't need to see what's going to happen next.

He turns his attention back to his target just as the man howls, fumbling with his undamaged arm for a long, wicked knife. Frank plucks the weapon from his hand easily, grabs the arm and twists, keeps twisting, a full three hundred and sixty degrees, feeling the bones snapping against the torque.

=======

The bus is small, and vampiric hearing sharp; even with their voices kept low, Frank can hear the brothers' conversation as he dresses. "Don't look at me like that," he hears Mikey say defensively.

"I didn't say anything," Gerard retorts.

"Who are you to judge me? It's okay for you to drink from him, but not me?" Mikey lashes back, and it's painful, hurtful to hear the venom in both brothers' voices as they bicker, as happens so often nowadays. Frank can remember a time when Gerard and Mikey were closer than twins, when they were affectionate toward each other instead of harsh... but that was a long time ago, before any of them had been Turned, and everything is different now.

"Frank is my bloodkin," says Gerard, in that particular self-righteous tone of voice that makes Frank want to slap him on Mikey's behalf.

"So am I!" and Frank can't quite tell, from the tone of Mikey's voice, whether he's angry or on the verge of tears.

There's a long silence, as Frank's pulling on his jeans, and then: "We've been through this," Gerard's voice, cautiously, "I can't, I *can't*..."

"FUCK you," and loud stomping footsteps, and the sound of the bus door opening and closing; and in its wake, Gerard's quiet sigh.

Frank pulls on sneakers and ties them, slips on a t-shirt, and goes back out into the lounge. Gerard's draped over the table, head resting on folded arms, looking pensive. "I should have let Brian bring him across," he says, not precisely to Frank but in his general direction. "I should never have done it myself."

"His intestines were draped across the windshield," Frank reminds him, in the same quiet tone. "He never would have lived long enough for Brian to get to him, he would've died, Gee."

Gerard exhales heavily. "I'm supposed to be his sire," he murmurs, "and I don't know how to be, I *can't* be, I'm his *brother*, damn it!" His head drops into his arms, voice muffled. "How can I be to Mikey what Brian is to us?"

Frank places a hand on his back soothingly and says the only thing he can think of to say. "Showtime in ten minutes."

=======

The limousine meets him at the airport, and whisks him away, off toward the festival grounds, and as the dazzling lights of buildings and cars stream past the tinted windows, Brian feels his pulse quicken. It's been entirely too long since he's seen his boys; and though his standard excuse is work, business matters requiring his attention, Brian knows that the true reason behind his long absences is simply because he knows that if he doesn't keep his distance, he'll never be able to make himself leave.

He disembarks at the festival grounds, stepping forward into the bright lights and wash of frantic, fevered sound, the miasma of sweating, panting mortal blood, and for awhile he simply lets it engulf him, consume him. Of all the amusements and forms of merriment he's enjoyed during the course of his long, long life, none have ever delighted him as much as this modern music scene; he doesn't know how long this fashion will last, but he intends to enjoy it while it does.

He doesn't bother affixing his credentials to his chest as he approaches the backstage area: the vampire security guards at the gate recognize his ancient blood by instinct, and part to let him through without comment.

Brian strolls through the maze of tents and canopies and buses, letting his preternatural senses guide him to where he wants to be. He's passing by the publicity tent when he feels the quickening of his blood, the unmistakeable pull of kin calling to kin; and then Frank is upon him, wrapped around him like a particularly affectionate boa constrictor, laughing and clinging and murmuring delightedly in his ear, "Brian, Brian, *Brian*," and Brian doesn't even bother trying to hold back the ridiculous grin that insists on spreading across his face.

He detaches Frank from himself long enough to maneuver him into position for a proper hug, buries his face against Frank's neck and lets his fangs pierce his fledgling's skin just a little bit, giving Frank tacit permission to do the same. It's an uncommonly intimate gesture for such a public place, and normally Brian is far more reserved -- but this is Frank, who's shameless under the best of circumstances, and damn it, it's been *forever*, and the lure of kin, of his own blood, is just too strong to resist.

Frank tastes just the same as always, fierce and wild and vibrant, just like Frank himself, and for just a little while Brian allows himself to get lost in it, in the taste and feel of family, of home.

=======

"Mikey." Brian's voice is gentle, as soft and soothing as he can make it. "Come here, Mikey."

He watches as the other man hesitates, detaches himself unwillingly from the shadows and moves forward into the light. Seen up close, Mikey's in even worse shape than Brian had imagined: eyes encircled by dark shadows, thin to nearly the point of emaciation, pallor far beyond vampiric norms, almost translucence. Brian sighs. He knows the look of a vampire who's starving to death, has seen more failed fledglings in his time than he cares to think about, but never has any one of them broken his heart the way this one will.

He pats the seat beside himself, and Mikey sits - not next to him, but across, keeping a wary distance. It doesn't matter - Brian can discern what he'd wanted to know. Mikey feels... empty, hollow, in that particular way that cannot be mistaken for anything else; and it's only a matter of time before Mikey descends into the final stages: the frantic thirst that cannot be quenched, not even by killing, from which the stake is the only release.

"How are you doing?" Brian asks him, for form's sake, although he already knows the answer.

Mikey shrugs, as if the effort of moving his shoulder is too much to endure. "Pretty much the same," he says, but the darkness in his tone reveals the lie of his words.

"You've been getting enough to drink?" although Brian already knows the answer, knows that his boys have been taking the best care of Mikey they possibly could.

"It's never enough," Mikey mutters, "never, I could drink them to death and still not get enough," confirming Brian's worst fears - Mikey's already killed once; when starvation conquers him at last, how many more will he take before he can be stopped? A dozen, two?

And how is Brian supposed to tell his boys what needs to be done? How the hell is he supposed to break it to them that their friend Mikey, their brother almost, is not only dying but needs to be killed before it can happen? And how is he supposed to do it, how is Brian supposed to look into those dark eyes and do what must be done, how is he supposed to live with himself afterwards, and with the gaping emptiness that will exist in his life when his fledglings shun him for what he's done to their bandmate?

He sighs, wishing he could reach out to offer comfort to the young man, or maybe gain some for himself. Though Mikey would be unlikely to allow that touch, in any case - Mikey's always been painfully conscious of the fact that Brian is Not His, creating a wider chasm between them than had to exist. Such a short spasm of a lifetime, and Brian's hardly known him at all; and now, he never will. Brian looks at him, and mourns.

=======

His eyes snap open at the sense of movement, quite close, body tensing reflexively - then relaxes, at the sight of Ray's dear, worried face. "Are you all right?" Ray inquires, reaching out to stroke Brian's arms in the same soothing gesture Brian's used toward his children any number of times.

Brian leans into the touch. "Here lies Brycham Cynddalan, born before Stonehenge, died on the AfterDark Festival of parental aggravation."

Ray's soft laugh is a welcome sound, dispelling the darkness of his thoughts. The arms that enfold Brian are equally welcome, strong and warm and protective. "Were you really born before Stonehenge?" Ray wants to know.

"I'm really fucking old, Ray." Brian sighs into Ray's shoulder. "And tired. Really, really fucking tired."

One palm sets up a slow rhythm, massaging lazy circles into his back. "Maybe you need someone to take care of *you* for a change," Ray suggests.

Maybe, Brian thinks, maybe he does. Maybe he could just rest here, just like this, safe and secure in his fledgling's arms. And there's nothing back in L.A. that requires his presence, really, is there? Nothing that can't be handled by someone else or put off until later. No reason at all why he can't just linger here and let himself sink into the warmth and solace of bloodkin, into his fledglings' welcoming embrace. //Maybe,// Brian thinks, //maybe I should.//

"Easy," Ray murmurs, "everything's gonna be all right," and how long has it been, how many centuries, how many fucking *millennia*, since he's been able to be anything besides the strong one? It's nice, it's so damn nice to just be held... Brian blinks hard, fights back sudden tears, and feels Ray's arms tighten around him. "It's all right," says Ray, and Brian lets himself believe, lets himself fall into Ray's certainty and linger there, as if the words are enough to make it true.

...Comments?

status update, and: RP?

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 04:36:11 GMT

I haven't posted anything in an eon, I know. I do have something in the works, but it'll be awhile longer - Real Life is eating me alive, and the thing I'm working on is fairly epic, so.

In the meantime, I'm looking for people who might be interested in IM roleplay? AIM is preferred - drop me a comment with your s/n or email address (or both) if you're interested. All comments are screened, so will remain private.

gerard way death HOAX

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 20:03:14 GMT

Figured I'd drop this post before anything caught fire.

The Gerard Way car crash thing? Total hoax. The a-holes at 4chan thought it'd be funny. Screen captures here. (Warning: not safe for work.)

Pass along that link anywhere you see the "news" reprinted, eh? Cheers.

Fic: [MCR] Wings (1/1)

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 22:07:44 GMT

Rating: MCR, Frank/Gerard, rated light NC-17 for sex and profanity.

Notes: Written 8th June, 2008.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Wings
by Random Epiphany

Sometimes, Gerard can't sleep: and when insomnia strikes, he sits at his computer and surfs the internet, typing in the strangest search terms he can think of and going from link to link, seeing where his aimless meanderings will take him. He's learned more minutae about freaky sex practices that way, including things that he hopes to try someday; he's discovered a whole world of trivia, about archaeology and the history of suspension bridges and methods of making cheese and a thousand other things, and every so often he mentions some random fact or another to the guys, just to cement his reputation as "the weird one" and delight in the quizzical looks on their faces when he does it.

It's 'round about three-thirty in the morning on a foggy Saturday after a day's worth of hard rain, and Gerard's clicking wearily, blearily, from site to site to site, when he happens across Otherkin.net, and clicks through to the "what are otherkin?" link. "Otherkin is a collective noun for an assortment of people who have come to the somewhat unorthodox, and possibly quite bizarre, conclusion that they identify themselves as being something other than human," he reads, and it appeals to him on some primal level he can't quite identify, and so he keeps reading, to see what else the site might have to say.

He reads about people who feel as if they are, or have been in previous or alternate lives, angels and demons and vampires and dragons and wolves, and it all sounds very much like too much time spent playing Dungeons & Dragons or reading comic books, entertaining but amusingly ridiculous. And then he gets to a sentence which reads,

Many people who identify as Otherkin have experienced "phantom limbs" - physical sensation originating from limbs that are not physically present, such as wings,

and it stops him cold, brings him abruptly to full alertness like a shot of ice water to the face, because while it's been a long time, almost since childhood, he still remembers the feeling, the heaviness at his back, the strange tightness, the feeling that if he could flex his muscles just right he could make them unfold, sprout forth, the wings that he knew ought to be there.

He reads and reads, the articles on the site, the forum, going from link to link to site to site devouring all the information he can find on Otherkin, and while some of it sounds like teenage wannabes in search of a cool new fad to follow, and some of it just sounds like bullshit... other parts, other people's experiences, feel somehow familiar, strangely comfortable, like the sound of truth echoing in his ears. And he remembers - he casts back to long-forgotten days, and experiences that his parents and his own adult self had long since dismissed as the products of a vivid imagination, just to see what revelations might lie buried in the dusty attic depths of memory.

There was the time he broke his leg jumping off the roof, of course: no Superman cape involved, just a steadfast belief that if he had to, if he had to, he could fly. His parents still tell that story, the way parents often recount the follies of their wayward children; but now Gerard remembers his steadfast belief that the wings he was so firmly sure existed would manifest themselves under pressure, and the way a little piece of his soul had died when they hadn't. After that abject failure, his certainty, his awareness of those phantom wings had waned, eventually been forgotten - but before it, oh, so many things. The times he'd begged his parents to take him to have his back x-rayed, so he could prove that the wing buds were there, hidden but present, the way he knew they must be. The times he'd gotten busted in school for doodling in his notebook instead of paying attention to the teacher, drawing endless variations of his wings, struggling to visualize them exactly. The times he'd persuaded Mikey to draw wings on his back for him, sometimes trading comic books or chunks of his allowance to get him to do the deed, once it became clear to Mikey that this was something he could use to his advantage: etching the outlines onto his skin with the tracing paper Grandma used for her sewing, filling in the feathers with permanent markers, myriad shades of brown and gold. Refusing to take his new backpack to school, because it didn't feel right, wearing something so constricting across his back. Begging, screaming and crying and pleading, for a pair of gauzy, girly fairy wings from a carnival hawker, because it was the only thing he'd ever had that even came close to the way things ought to be. Not being able to lie on his back, ever. And always, always, the feeling: two tight little knots, just inside his shoulderblades, hard and aching, just waiting to burst into life and carry him aloft.

He remembers, and realizes that what he's so long dismissed as childish fantasy had been so much more than that: a conviction and a yearning, acute and painful, preoccupying him to the point of obsession. And he wonders, for the first time he wonders, if maybe it hadn't all been his imagination's invention. Maybe it had been a memory, of something that had once been, somewhere else... or something he'd been meant to be.

In the murky hours between midnight and dawn, it all makes perfect sense: and it chills him, the memory of what it had been like to feel utterly alien (for what child with wings could ever feel at ease amongst uncomprehending land-bound peers?) and eternally reaching for something endlessly, tantalizingly beyond his grasp. It's not a mind-place he ever wants to go back to again. And yet... he remembers that there was a certain comfort in the knowledge, in that feeling of tight heaviness at his back: a sense of self-certainty that he feels he's lacked in the years since then. He'd known he had wings, he'd known it, even despite the lack of evidence and the amusement and disbelief of others; and now, too often, he doesn't know anything anymore, doesn't know who he is or where he's going or why, and it would be nice, he thinks, to have that kind of certainty again, about something.

He ponders the question, he remembers, until the faint light through his window alerts him that it's near dawn, fucking morning already, and insomnia fucking sucks donkey dick, is all there is to it. There's no point in going to sleep now, so he makes a cup of coffee and drinks it, then another, and the pale sunlight creeping into his apartment washes away the shadows in his mind. Wings, it's a ridiculous idea, it's a childhood memory, he can laugh about it now, and shove it all back into the locked chest in the attic of his memory, where it belongs. He closes his web browser without bothering to bookmark any of the pages he's been perusing, turns on morning cartoons, and stretches out on the sofa to watch; and when he falls asleep, as is inevitable, it's with a clear and untroubled heart.

And then he dreams.

He dreams of clear blue skies and fluffy clouds stretching endlessly across the horizon, and soaring through them with effortless grace, plunging into puffy white vapor and emerging refreshed, laughing. His wings beat in time with his heart, propelling him through the sky, muscles flexing in familiar ways, like a dance step he'd learned long ago and forgotten, only to remember just in time to join in the latest song. They carry him over meadows and forests and mountains, to a hilltop covered with daisies, and set him down as lightly as a feather; and standing on that hilltop, he feels their weight, comfortable and reassuring, as they fold forward around his shoulders like a cloak. Living flesh and muscle and bone, feathered in brown and beige and gold, warm and alive - he reaches up and strokes them, laughing, and knows, knows, knows that they're real, that this is who he is, who he's supposed to be.

He awakens with the memory of flying fading rapidly against the sound of the TV blaring Sally Jessy Raphael and his back aching, screaming at him for falling asleep on the couch all wrong. Wearily, he drags himself upright, fumbles for the remote and mutes the sound, hands going to the region on his lower back that always complains the worst at such abuse. And then he realizes that it's not his lower back that's bothering him at all. No, the pain is higher... higher, yes, just where it always was, right between his shoulderblades, taut and hot and throbbing, as his wings - newly-realized, newly-remembered - demand recognition, demand his awareness, demand to be felt and known and used, even if only in dreams.

"Shit," says Gerard softly, and goes to take some Advil.

Days pass, flow into weeks, and it doesn't go away. It dulls down sometimes, the sensation waxing and waning at random times, but always, Gerard knows they're there, can feel them tugging at his consciousness. At first it's worrisome, and he wonders if he should be telling his therapist - instead, he surfs some more Otherkin sites and takes solace there, in similar tales from kindred souls. He registers at one of the forums under the alias "maybewinged", confesses his story, and is congratulated on his Awakening by other forum members. It makes him feel good, like maybe he's not weird or aberrant after all, but just granted an awareness other humans don't get to know, like it's a gift instead of a curse.

And the wings feel good. It's painful sometimes, actually physically painful, but it's a good sort of pain, the way aching limbs after hard exercise is a good sort of pain: it makes him feel more alive, somehow. He experiments, and finds that certain movements of certain muscles in his back and shoulders make the phantom wings seem to move; after that, when he's by himself, he puts his wings through their paces, stretching and flexing them, and it seems to him that his wings feel much better, afterwards, for having been acknowledged and used.

One day at rehearsal, Ray pats him companionably on his back, and he flinches, because his wingbuds carry the sensation through him almost as acutely as a kick in the balls; "You all right?" Ray asks, and the words, "Nah, it's just that my fucking wings hurt," cross Gerard's lips before he's even aware of what he's saying. "You have wings?" Frank asks, and, "Yeah, I have wings," Gerard says, a little defensively, and, "He's always had wings," Mikey concurs; and that's pretty much the end of it. Gerard's braced to take some ribbing, but it never happens, just a calm acceptance that oh, Gerard has wings, as if there's nothing odd or outrageous about it at all. A couple days later, Bob catches a door just as it's about to swing closed on Gerard's back, and says, "Careful, don't bruise your wings," in a matter-of-fact voice that holds no trace of mockery, just the slightest hint of concern; and it's, yeah, just like that, as simple as you please.

It's a week or two after that when Frank catches him alone in one of the lounges, studies him in a way that makes Gerard feel uneasy. "Where are they?" Frank asks, after a moment, and Gerard doesn't have to ask what he's talking about.

"They're there," says Gerard, "you don't have to see them, they're there," with, again, that defensiveness creeping into his voice, because while he's basically okay with having wings, it's another thing when someone else asks about them, someone who doesn't have wings and doesn't understand, doesn't know.

Frank cocks his head to one side. "I want to see them," he says, which is the last thing Gerard's expecting him to say. "C'mere," and takes Gerard's hands, tugs him over to stand in front of the full-length mirrors that line one wall. "Show me. Show me your wings," Frank says, moving to stand behind him, gazing at Gerard's reflection in the mirror expectantly.

Gerard hesitates - he's never done this before - and flexes his muscles a little, letting the phantom wings unfurl, extending them, and... he looks in the mirror, and he can see them. Just very faintly, a transparent glimmer between himself and Frank in the mirror, but they're there, visible, tangible, as they've never been before, and for long moments all Gerard can do is stare, and marvel.

"Raise up your hands," he says quietly, finally, to Frank. "No, higher. Down a little. There, that's the top. Now bring them down, to the sides... no, out a little more..." and proceeds to talk Frank through it until Frank's hands are gliding over the contours of the wings he can just barely see in the mirror, until he can almost feel Frank's palms smoothing over the feathers. Frank's face is intent, sharply focused on getting it just right; and it's a heady feeling, a rush of excitement through his veins, to share this with someone and have them experience it with him.

For a few minutes, the room is quiet and still, Frank moving his hands lightly over Gerard's phantom wings, Gerard extending his senses as far as he can to feel the touch. And then, Frank's voice, soft and hushed as if in observance of the solemnity of the moment: "They're brown, aren't they. Dark brown, and light brown, and kind of gold, shining," hands moving to the parts of Gerard's wings shaded that way, just as Gerard's sketched them a dozen, hundred times.

His startled eyes meet Frank's quiet dark ones in the mirror. "I can see them, a little," Frank admits. "I'm not imagining them, am I?"

"No," Gerard whispers, feeling the impact of it hit him in the gut, the knowledge that it's real, it has to be real, if someone else can see them too.

"They're beautiful," Frank says, his voice soft with something like reverence, and tinged with the slightest hint of envy, and Gerard feels a rush of pride surge through him, straight down to his toes.

"Thanks," he says, grinning, and stretches his wings wide before drawing them back in, folding them, back into their buds.

Frank blinks, recoils a little, wide-eyed. "I felt that," he says, surprised and delighted. Hesitantly, his hands move to Gerard's shoulderblades, then in a little, gliding ever so lightly over Gerard's t-shirt. "It's... here, isn't it? Where they come from."

"The wingbuds," Gerard tells him. "A little more to the center... oh," involuntarily, as Frank's fingertips brush over the spots.

Frank's hands go still. "Did I hurt you?" he says, sounding worried.

"No, it's, uh... an erogenous zone, apparently," Gerard admits, feeling himself blush.

"Really?" says Frank, sounding as if he likes the idea. His hands move, fingertips gently circling the area in a slow caress. "How's that feel?"

"Uhhhhh..." Gerard has trouble forming words for how it feels; if Frank looks at his reflection in the mirror, though, it's going to become pretty obvious just how it feels.

Frank looks. Smiles. Leans forward to whisper in Gerard's ear. "Want me to keep going?"

Gerard closes his eyes, fights for reason. "I didn't know it was like that with us, Frank," crosses his lips, faintly; then, with alarm, "My brother's in the next room."

A soft laugh greets his token protests. "Mikey's not gonna freak out if he discovers us fooling around," Frank says, with assurance.

"I will!" Gerard summons the strength to move away from Frank's clever fingers, feeling a strange sense of loss. "And you... I... since when, Frank? You never said..."

"Right," says Frank, "'cause I lick everybody on stage, for no reason at all." Moves in closer again, slips his arms around Gerard's waist and hugs - not too tightly, though; not enough to place pressure on the sensitive wingbuds. "You're just barely resistible without wings," Frank tells him, "but with them? No way."

Gerard feels a smile spread across his face. "So in other words," he says, "you've got a wing thing," and laughs as Frank groans.

"Actually, it's pretty much a you thing," Frank says, placing a light kiss on top of his shoulder. "But the wings are just..." Shakes his head. "I'm a little blown away by that, honestly. I want... I want to know more. But if you don't want to - if you're not into it, or if you don't want to, y'know, get personal shit mixed up with band shit, then that's cool, I'm okay with that."

He thinks about it, though it's a little hard to think clearly with a hard-on and Frank's arms around him and his wingbuds still throbbing from the echo of that first caress. Getting involved with Frank is fairly stupid, from a logical standpoint: mixing business with pleasure, dipping the pen into company ink, all that crap. But... it's Frank. Which, Gerard doesn't exactly kiss everybody on stage for no reason at all, either. And the prospect of making love to someone who understands about the wings, who can even see them, sort of, and knows how to touch them, how to touch him, just exactly right... "After rehearsal," he says, and Frank grins at him in the mirror and kisses his shoulder one more time in agreement.

The day passes slowly, too slowly, and when it's over, Frank ever so casually offers Gerard a ride home, and Gerard ever so casually accepts. He makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat, adjusting the seat back a little so that his wingbuds don't get compressed painfully - they're pulsing a little, responding to his arousal - and settles in for the ride. The sun's just starting to set, golden sunlight deepening into a richer color and casting shadows over the world, and Gerard feels a simmering heat at the prospect of what's to come, darting little sideways glances at Frank as he drives and wondering if he's feeling it too.

Sunset is orange-crimson through Gerard's window as they arrive at his place, staining the apartment with an unearthly glow. "Take your shirt off?" Frank says softly, and Gerard complies, a little shyly; and Frank moves behind him for a closer look. "I can see the buds," he decides, after a moment. "Kind of how I can see the wings. There, but not there. It's... it's really cool," and there's that soft reverence again, warming Gerard all through.

He unfurls his wings then, without warning, wanting to see if Frank really sees them or not; and hears Frank make a little startled sound, feels him move backward as they unfold. "Hey, warn a guy first, willya?" Frank complains mildly, and Gerard grins, can't stop grinning; and then Frank reaches out and strokes his left wing, as easily and naturally as if he were stroking a more solid limb, and Gerard shivers as - unexpectedly - the sensation of Frank's hand against his wing is as vivid as the wing itself. "Oh," Frank says softly, and presses his face into the feathers, and now Gerard can feel him breathing, feel his breath stirring the feathers lightly.

"I can see them better in the dark, they're amazing," Frank says faintly, not quite coherently, and Gerard has never felt so known, so understood, in all his life. Has never been as aroused as he is in this moment, quivering with heat, aching for Frank's touch - and then Frank slides his hands under the wings, up Gerard's back to the base of them, encircling and caressing, and Gerard damn near comes on the spot from the feel of it.

He draws the wings in against his back as he turns to take Frank in his arms, and Frank's hands slip around his back to the same sensitive spots, and his wings move forward to enfold them both as he pulls Frank into their first real kiss. He can feel the shadows darkening around them as his wings conceal them from the sun's red glow, can hear his feathers rustling softly as they cocoon him and Frank inside their warmth. Can feel the pleasure from his lips to his fingers and toes and wingtips as Frank kisses him, deeply and earnestly and passionately, as Frank's fingertips move around the base of his wings as casually and skillfully as they might caress a nipple, and loses himself in the sweet surge of desire.

And it's a long night, and a glorious night, of exploration and exhilaration. Frank gives him a backrub that might as well be a blowjob, applying fingers and lips to the sensitive wingbuds until he's a whimpering, sobbing wreck, then reaches around his body to bring him the rest of the way, into an utterly shattering orgasm. Gerard does his best to return the favor, once he's recovered, curling himself over Frank to take him deep down his throat, and Frank tangles one hand into his hair while the other strokes his extended wing as Gerard sucks him off. A little time to rest, a brief snack of cereal and milk and coffee, and then another round: just a happy tangle of bodies, moans of pleasure rising into the darkness, cresting and then subsiding into drifting, melting languor, satisfied and content.

He's lying on his side with Frank in his arms, idly tracing patterns on his lover's back, when Frank says softly, hesitantly, "Do you think I could grow wings, if I tried hard enough?"

Gerard thinks about that. He'd never tried to grow them, they'd just always been there; but it's also true that he'd gone years without noticing them at all, that paying attention to them, wanting them, had brought them to life. "Maybe," he answers, after awhile.

"Where... where would they be?" Frank asks him. "The buds, I mean," and Gerard rolls him over onto his stomach, bends over him, letting his fingers glide over Frank's back, getting a sense of the contours of him. "Here, I think," he says at last, pressing his fingertips down lightly.

Frank is quiet for a moment. "A little lower," he says, and Gerard obediently moves his fingers, and feels Frank tremble a little as he does. And... it's very slight, almost subliminal, but he thinks there might just be something there beneath his fingers, an unrealized potential, waiting to grow.

He bends and places kisses on each spot, as if his touch can make them blossom; and Frank smiles.

"Come fly with me," he whispers, and gathers Frank in his arms, wraps his wings around them both, to carry them off together into dreams of potential made real, of endless blue skies and soaring through them together, side by side.

Fic: [MCR] Simple (1/1)

Wed, 14 May 2008 11:47:49 GMT

Rating: MCR, Mikey/Frank, rated NC-17 for sex and profanity.

Notes: Written 13th-14th May, 2008.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Simple
by Random Epiphany

It starts out slowly. He shows up on his best friend's doorstep late at night, because the nightmares won't leave him alone, demons pressing in on him from every angle, and the beautiful part is that he doesn't even have to explain: "C'mon in," Frank says, and Mikey does, and it's just as simple as that.

He curls up on the couch under a ratty old blanket that smells like Frank, and it feels more like home than home does, and he sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks.

They spend the next day talking about comic books and stupid shit, arguing about meaningless crap the way friends do, and watching some sports thing on TV that Mikey couldn't care less about; but it's a real treat, watching Frank get so into it, his excitement at every point scored, and when his team wins and he hugs Mikey in sheer delight, Mikey laughs and hugs back.

He stays over the next night too, and the one after that, and just when he's thinking his friend is probably getting sick of having him around, Frank comes back from the store with a box of Mikey's favorite breakfast cereal and says, "Now you have something to eat for breakfast tomorrow," and Mikey knows everything's all right.

After awhile, he does go home, because his clothes are seriously starting to reek; and, "Next time, pack a suitcase," Frank tells him, and Mikey can't quite tell whether he's sarcastic or for real, doesn't quite know how to ask, is far too conscious of the hot flush staining his cheeks to pursue the matter further. He's overstayed his welcome, he feels, though Frank's never indicated any such thing, and he vows he'll never impose on his friend's hospitality like that again. But it's all of three days later when the doubts and fears and demons overwhelm him again and drive him forth into the cold dark night: and Frank glances down at the duffel bag Mikey's holding, and says, "Good," and then Mikey knows, and vows never to doubt Frank again.

He's gotten used to the lumpy sofa and the way it twists his back and neck all wrong, he doesn't mind it, but, "C'mon," Frank says, and so Mikey follows him to his bedroom and curls up on the other side of the twin bed instead; and it's nice, it's really so nice to listen to the soft sound of Frank's breathing, feel the warmth emanating from his side of the bed, to lie there on a somewhat-less-uncomfortable surface under blankets that smell even more like Frank and know he's not alone.

It's a little awkward when he wakes up with morning wood to the sound of Frank's light snoring; but he lies still for awhile and eventually it goes away. He gets up then, does all the usual morning things, and goes to make coffee, and Frank's pleased, sleepy grin upon finding a fresh-brewed carafe of the stuff awaiting him upon waking makes Mikey feel warm all through.

And he stays. It only takes a little while until it feels as though he lives there, as if he belongs there, in Frank's apartment, in Frank's bed: he picks up groceries for the two of them same as Frank does, takes turns doing laundry and dishes for both of them, and really seriously almost forgets that there's anywhere else for him to be at all.

"You know," Frank says, one day, as they're sharing a pizza and a six pack of Coke Zero, half-watching an old movie on cable, "you should just fucking bring your stuff and move in already," and Mikey figures he's being sarcastic, that this is a subtle nudge at the fact that maybe Mikey's been there for too long - but then Frank pulls out a stack of bills and starts calmly and efficiently listing the rent and various expenses, and what Mikey's share of them will be, and oh, Mikey thinks, and feels that surge of warmth, the feeling he's coming to associate with Frank, rush through him again.

So one Saturday afternoon, Frank borrows a van from a friend and the two of them go and pack up Mikey's things and haul them on over to Frank's place, and that's all there is to it. Later that evening, Mikey sits cross-legged on the floor of Frank's spare room amidst his clutter of bags and boxes as the realization washes over him, I don't ever have to leave, and a smile breaks over his face and won't go away.

He figures he's left the demons behind, now. But they're persistent little bastards; and it only takes a couple of nights before he's jerking upright in a cold sweat, blinking at the still-unfamiliar darkened bedroom and fumbling for his glasses because the nearsighted blur feels menacing, threatening, blood pounding in his veins furiously, shaking and trembling and unable to stop, and then, "Whassat?" says the sleepy voice, mattress shifting beneath him as Frank stirs, and Mikey's heart clutches in sudden agony, because Frank can't know, mustn't know how weak and vulnerable he is to these night terrors. He's forming the words in his mouth, carefully reassuring lies, and bracing himself to speak them in his most casual and nonchalant tone, when he feels warm strong arms slip around his waist and pull him close, the sudden shock of comfort and safety in Frank's embrace, and lips at his ear, "It's okay, Mikeyway, it's all right," disarming him, snatching away all his defenses and wrapping him snug and tight in a cocoon of concern, and Mikey moans helplessly and dissolves into the bursting pressure of hot tears that he's somehow never been able to shed before.

Frank holds him as he cries, murmuring soft words, stroking his hair, rubbing his back. Mikey's not even conscious of all of it until later, only that he's not alone with his fear, with the pain, that he feels safe and secure as he never has before; it isn't until the tears finally slow to a trickle that he realizes he's lying in Frank's arms, arms and legs curled around him as if Frank were his teddy bear or his lover. He should feel self-conscious, he thinks, or ashamed, but somehow he can't; and then Frank presses a kiss to his forehead, as matter-of-factly and as sweetly as if he's done it a hundred times before, and everything is all right.

"I'm here, Mikey," says Frank, "I'm here," and when Mikey falls asleep again, it's that knowledge which consoles him, and holds the demons at bay.

The next morning, he's expecting Frank to ask questions, or demand an explanation, or something; but Frank doesn't say a word about it until sometime mid-afternoon, when completely out of the blue he says, "So, that's why?" and Mikey knows instantly what he means and mumbles, "Yeah, that's why," blushing a little; and, "Okay," Frank says, just accepting it all, just like that. And then it's as if nothing ever happened at all, right up to the point where they're going to bed that night, and Frank turns out the light and turns toward Mikey and says, "C'mere," only that, and tugs him into his arms, and Mikey nestles close and breathes a sigh of relief, knowing somehow that the demons won't dare trouble him when he's safe in Frank's arms.

So now they have a new habit, sleeping curled up together like puppies, and Mikey likes it, likes it a lot. The lack of nightmares, for one thing: and also the warmth, and the way Frank smells, and the way his arms feel around him, and knowing he's not alone. But it can't last, Mikey knows, there's no way it can last: Frank is Frank, after all, and unlike Mikey he has a life, and sooner or later there'll be some girl, or some guy, and Mikey will be relegated to the solitude of the couch, and oh, how he dreads that day.

But then there's the morning when he wakes up hard and in Frank's arms, cock pressed up against Frank's thigh, and he lies very still in panic and terror for endless moments until two items belatedly penetrate his sleep-fogged mind: one, that Frank is just as hard, and two, that Frank isn't asleep either, is holding himself just as still, short shallow breaths that could be fear, could be desire - Mikey doesn't know, and he doesn't know what to do, so he keeps still and quiet until he can't any longer, until he has to move, into that tantalizing heat; and Frank makes a restless, hungry little noise and shoves back against him and kisses him, all lips and teeth and morning breath and tongue probing deeply, demanding a response in kind, and Mikey gives it to him, gives it willingly, more than eager for whatever Frank might have in mind.

It's been awhile since he's had anything but his hand, and Frank's hands feel so different, that it's over far too soon; but that's okay, because Frank is just as quick as he is. Afterwards, they lie together, nestled comfortably close, and Mikey is just wondering if everything's going to get awkward when Frank says, "Next time, you're going to fuck me," with a sly little smile that holds a silent promise, and Mikey grins back, reassured.

So now they're friends with benefits, which is unexpectedly awesome. Mikey's somehow never thought of Frank that way before, but now that the thought's in his mind, he can't help but see it in him: a predatory sort of sex appeal in the lean lines of his body, in the way he moves, the flow of expression across his face during even the most mundane times. The sex is frequent, and varies in quality from merely good to mind-blowingly fantastic, and Mikey - who's always considered himself fairly knowledgeable - learns about and does things he'd never dreamed of before, because Frank is imaginative and adventurous and oh, so very much fun to have as a roommate.

He figures he's got everything he needs in life, now; he's content. But then they're out at a bar one night, and Frank's chatting up a girl, and somehow Mikey ends up talking to her friend, who's not bad looking and reasonably intelligent, and it's been so long since he's done this that it all feels very strange, but he manages. He looks over at Frank during a lull in the conversation, at Frank's animated face and the gleam in his eyes, and thinks, okay, yeah, he's gonna want the apartment to himself tonight, and throws himself into the process at hand, and it's not long before the girl is giggling and agreeing, and Mikey checks to make sure he's still got that emergency condom in his wallet as she slips off to the ladies room to freshen up, wondering why he feels resigned to the prospect rather than excited by it.

A touch on Frank's arm to draw him aside, and let him know that he's going to, uh, be a little late getting home that night, and the look of surprise and shock and anger on Frank's face is perplexing and worrisome. "What?" he asks, "what's wrong?" but Frank shakes off his hand roughly and turns away, leaving Mikey to wonder as he follows the girl out to the parking lot, gets into his own car to follow her back to her place.

Halfway there, he gets it, in a sudden wave of awareness that whites out everything else in his mind and leaves him stunned; and, OH, Mikey thinks, and nearly sprains himself throwing the car into a u-turn in the middle of honking swerving traffic to rush back to Frank's side.

He finds Frank at home, having already caught a ride home from the bar, slumped on the sofa and staring blindly at the TV blaring static, and, "I didn't know," Mikey says rapidly, urgently, and pushes Frank back against the sofa, kissing him as deeply and tenderly as he knows how, kissing and kissing him until Frank kisses back, one slow tear escaping to fall onto Mikey's cheek.

And for the first time, it's not sex but making love; there's a difference, Mikey can feel it, in every touch, every caress, in the way Frank looks at him and whispers his name. And he wouldn't have said he was in love, if someone had asked, he wouldn't have thought he was in love, but now when he looks at Frank, there's this surging, melting, bursting feeling that goes far beyond friendship, far beyond desire - and so he says the words, means them, knows they're true, and Frank blinks at him with a look Mikey's never seen before on his face and says them back.

Nothing changes, really. They still talk about comic books and stupid shit, argue about meaningless crap the way friends do, watch sports things on TV that Mikey couldn't care less about, take turns with laundry and dishes and trips to the grocery store. The difference is in the sparkle in Frank's eyes when he looks at him, and the way that makes Mikey feel, and in the slow soft kisses, and the harsh demanding ones, and the fact that there are no nightmares anymore, none at all.

And when he meets someone new, and introduces them to Frank, Mikey says, "This is my best friend," and beams, and it's really, it's just as simple as that.

Fic: [MCR] Tired (1/1)

Sat, 03 May 2008 16:18:50 GMT

Written via blackberry, so please excuse any typos. Rated G. DEPRESSING. You have been warned.

Tired
by Random Epiphany

It's a grey day, heavy clouds overhead, forming a sky that looks as tired as he feels, and the bus has been rolling for so long now that he doesn't know if it's ever going to stop.

He's lost track of the cities, in the endless flickering slideshow that his life has become, of one screaming crowd after another, wringing himself dry every night so that he's drained afterwards, so exhausted he can't think, can barely even move, and he needs a break like burning, more than breathing even. They all do; but it's he who needs it the most - and yet, in his case, it doesn't even really matter anymore.

The bus is quiet, as if the thick grey-cotton clouds beyond have stilled sound and motion even within this rolling metal box, and in the silence he can feel the eyes upon him, the little darting glances that they think he doesn't notice. The sympathy, he's used to; but it's the other looks that get him, the fleeting expressions of pain that cross his bandmates' faces every time the realization strikes afresh, as raw as if the first time, that this will be his last tour. He feels their pain as acutely as he feels his own: they're his family, these guys, the brothers he's never had before, and he knows what kind of loss it will be for them, the size and aching shape of the hole he'll be leaving behind.

For himself, he only feels tired. Well, that and the lingering strangeness of having to make the arrangements for his own departure, dealing with details more commonly left to others. But his is an orderly mind, and it brings him comfort to know that these things have been taken care of, that the wounded souls he'll be leaving behind will have nothing more strenuous to deal with than their grief.

He feels the weight heavy upon his shoulders, the burden of the terrible secret being kept from all but his nearest and dearest, and wonders distantly what it will be like for the fans when the truth becomes known: whether they'll be angry at not having been given the chance to say goodbye, or whether by some miracle they'll understand - how he wants to spend these last few months in some semblance of normalcy, living the only life he's ever wanted to lead, in the company of the men who are as much a part of him as his own flesh and blood and bone.

He feels the weight upon him of his brothers' concern and misery; he feels a hand settle upon his shoulder in silent communion, and doesn't know whose it is, nor does it matter, as his own hand comes up to cover the grasping fingers that clutch at him as if to hold him in place, keep him firmly in this world, and by sheer force of will, never let him leave.

He feels the chill of the inclement weather outside the bus's window, blinks at the first patter of a raindrop against the pane; and he wishes - helplessly, hopelessly - for the bright warmth of the sun, to chase away the shadows and banish his bone-deep fatigue to the realm of nightmares, where it belongs. Where there's life, there's hope, and he refuses to give up, he will continue to hope... for as long as he's got left, every hour, every second, for his family's sake if not his own.

But he's tired. So, so tired. And the gloomy grey sky is spilling forth the tears he refuses to shed, and the hand grips his shoulder in a silent plea so tight it's painful, and there is no place for him to rest, none at all.

Fic: [MCR] Once (1/1)

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 00:54:55 GMT

Rating: MCR, rated PG-13 for profanity and general naughtiness. OMG IT'S WAYCEST. I blame madelinesimone.

Notes: Written 24th April, 2008 over sushi, and dedicated to My Girls.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Once
by Random Epiphany

It was just the once. Just the once, and they were both drunk, and no, seriously, never gonna happen again, never ever EVER, because there's flouting conventionality and then there's Just. Fucking. Wrong. and this, yeah, latter category, without a doubt.

Just the once, and they both pretend with utmost seriousness that it never happened, that they were too drunk to remember it afterwards, even though sometimes he can look into his brother's eyes and see the memory there, bold and vivid and stark and real enough to reach out and touch and relive all over again... but no. No. Living it once was enough. More than enough.

And yet never enough, never fucking enough, and memory is no substitute for the feel of skin as familiar as his own heartbeat, long lashes veiling wide dark eyes and hands gripping him with desperate intensity and a taut body pressed close, hot and hard and wanting, and sometimes? in just the right mood? he can come from the memory alone, without so much as a touch, just remembering how it had felt to be as close physically as they've always been to each other's souls.

And he doesn't, he can't, he won't let himself feel what lurks just beneath the surface, roiling and seething and pulsing: that aching, pounding need to do it again. Just one more time. Just once more.

They're as close as they ever were: they talk together, laugh together, they touch and hug and it's all the same as if nothing had ever happened, just exactly the same, except for those few burning moments when he looks up and catches his brother's eye and knows they're both back there together, in that drunken memory - and then he can't look away, not until the moment passes and leaves him unable to look his brother in the eye at all.

Just the once: and holy hell, it was heaven, years of desire he hadn't even known he'd been repressing surging forth in an unstoppable tide, flattening all resistance and sense of moral propriety with its force. Not so much undressing as wrenching clothes off each other, frantic for more more more MORE, and kissing - oh god, kissing - and hands all over each other, and coming so hard he thought he'd never be able to come again; and yeah, he doesn't, can't, won't admit it, but nothing has ever felt that good, not before and not since.

Just the once. And never again. And not just because of the Just. Fucking. Wrong, but because this would be his addiction: he knows it, as surely as he knows his own name. Just once more, and he would never be able to stop, never be able to let go, never be able to settle for anything less in his life than the heat of his brother's flesh wrapped up in that love so unconditional and pure that nothing else could ever possibly compare.

And so he closes his mind, blocks it out, shuts it away, does his best to lock the memory up tight in the dusty recesses of his mind where he rarely ventures, in the hopes that it will grow dusty and brittle with age and eventually crumble into dust, leaving him whole and unscarred by brutal reminders of how Just. Fucking. Good. it was, reminders that he cannot face without flinching.

And then there'll be some random moment when he meets his brother's eyes, and there it is all over again, fresh and raw and new as if it was yesterday (years ago, now, years, and still only a heartbeat away) and he is once again defenseless, and all but trembling, and wishing he dared to be brave enough to fall face-first into that addiction and let it consume him whole.

Just the once. And much too much. And never, never enough. And he thinks sometimes that once is a demon's dream, an endless agony, a taste of heaven and hell in the same glorious, dangerous mouthful; and he knows that once is etched upon his soul, marking him forever, so that he will never be free again.

Fic: [MCR] Back (1/1)

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 02:02:56 GMT

Rating: MCR, rated G. Frank/Gerard, maybe, if you squint.

Notes: Written 23rd April, 2008, and dedicated to My Girls.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Back
by Random Epiphany

Six months. And six months isn't supposed to feel like forever; and afterwards isn't supposed to feel like ice and fire, burning and acute, like a blade trailing along abraded skin in lines of sensation so sharp as to be pain. Six months is just six months, easy, simple, a mere hiccup in time, but he feels like he's been packed away in cotton wool at the bottom of a drawer, inactive and inert, and coming up from it is like gasping for air, re-learning how to breathe, and he just can't get enough.

He goes to see Mikey, and Mikey just doesn't get it, all inane chatter and small talk, when all he wants is to sit and stare into his brother's eyes and immerse himself in the feeling of being home, back where he belongs again after so long. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Mikey pauses and says awkwardly, "uh, so, how're you doing?" and he finds that he has no words, nothing at all with which to describe the state of his being. Because six months has been forever, an eternity; and yeah, he's been places, done stuff, but none of it is him, none of it is real, none of it matters anymore, or ever really did.

Six months: and it amazes him that he can still sing, that his body still remembers how, after all that time. Everyone else has been just fine, going about the lives they'd never had time to live before, while he's been in what feels like suspended animation: for everyone else, the six months have been real, a long-awaited and yearned-for reality, an interval to be lamented in its passing, so that he's the only one feeling this near-hysterical relief that the down-time is coming to an end.

He goes outside to smoke a cigarette, and there's comfort in the small rituals of fumbling with lighter and pack, inhaling nicotine-laden smoke against the December chill. He's forgotten to pack anything resembling warm clothes, and he can't stop shivering, yet even that is a welcome response: proof that he's real again, that the world is real, that he's back in it, even if he's the only one in it who knows how that feels.

The door creaks, and he glances away from his abstract study of the alleyway to see a familiar figure, bundled up against the winter's cold as firmly as he's not, breath a small gasp of white vapor against the twilight. "Hey," says Frank, and the sound of the single word makes him want to weep, both because it's a reminder of the reality of the camaraderie he shares with these men, and because - maybe it's only he who sees it or feels this way, but - it doesn't seem to be there anymore, not the same way.

He nods instead of speaking words that might betray his heart's secrets, extends his lighter in response to Frank's request, and for a time simply stands there beside him, leaning against the same wall, feeling home and not-home at once. What should be familiar and comforting is instead an agony of strangeness, and he doesn't know how to handle it, doesn't know how to cope.

"You okay?" says Frank at last, and the words hang there in the air between them as if frozen like their breath, still and stark.

He shrugs, as if doing so can change their meaning, or their impact. "'m fine," he says, in casual dismissal, because Frank doesn't understand, none of them do, and saying more would only set him apart, make him even more the outsider than he already is.

Frank surveys him - he can feel it without looking, those eyes on him, assessing, gauging, probing. "You're not okay," Frank decides, and again he wants to weep, because while none of them may understand, at least someone's fucking noticed.

But it's not as if he can even explain how he feels, the alienation, the sudden wrenching aliveness after months of being dead, and so again he merely shrugs. "It'll pass," he says, dismissively, as if it's nothing, as if he isn't dying all over again within his bubble of solitude.

And for a moment it seems as if it's over, the little brush with comprehension; and then Frank moves, and before he knows what's happening there are arms around him, the solidity and warmth of a body pressed close, urging him into an embrace. And he doesn't want to respond, doesn't want to let on how alone he feels, how starved he is for this contact; but it's all too much, and he just can't help himself - he clings to Frank, and can't stop shaking, and hopes the other man will ascribe his tremors to the cold.

Lips brushing against his ear, forming soft words: "It's okay now. It's all over. We're back, everything's back to normal, everything's fine," and it's a little like a miracle, to be understood, and accepted that way, and the acute awareness of the arms wrapped around him sharpens into something too vivid to be borne, slicing away the layers of deadness around his soul. And for all he's longed for someone to get it, the reality of that understanding is frightening, leaving him vulnerable and exposed... yet he feels safe here, enfolded in Frank's embrace, and knows instinctively that no harm will come to him now.

Six months: and it all comes down to this, the too-rapid shudder of his heartbeat in a frosty alley in the New Jersey twilight, and the precious crystal clarity of Frank's perception; he draws in great gulping breaths of crisp cold air and feels something within himself settle, calm.

"I'm all right," he says finally, and knows it's true: he's alive again, not as a novelty but just back to himself, and it feels all right, natural, to live and breathe and exist inside his own skin.

But Frank doesn't let go, just adjusts his posture slightly, so that the embrace is no longer an active reassurance but instead simply a state of being, and he hangs on, enjoying the closeness and the contact and the feeling of all the pieces falling at last into their proper place.

The door creaks open again, and a blond head pops out. "Hey," says Bob, "c'mon, pizza's here," not evincing any surprise at the sight of the hug, and yeah, what was he thinking? This is the way it is, the way it's always been, his boys, his family; and he's always been understood and accepted, no matter how different his thoughts and feelings might be: that's just the way it is.

"Yeah," says Gerard, "let's go, I'm hungry," and laughs a little, at himself and at the world, for leading him so far astray, and together he and Frank go back inside, back to their world, back to where they belong.

Fic: [MCR] Broken (16/16)

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 11:35:41 GMT

Rating: MCR, rated NC-17 for sex and profanity.

Notes: Written 13th-18th March, 2008, with awesome instant karma provided by fleurdeliser, madelinesimone and mrs_batman, without whom writing would be a whole lot less fun.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Welcome to day sixteen. This is the end of the story. Thanks for reading.

Songs to accompany parts 1-8.
Songs to accompany parts 9-16.

Broken (16/16)
by Random Epiphany

Part One: Shattered
Part Two: Sundered
Part Three: Illustrated
Part Four: Besieged
Part Five: Exiled
Part Six: Burst
Part Seven: Reoriented
Part Eight: Reacquainted
Part Nine: Oscillated
Part Ten: Inflamed
Part Eleven: Enfolded
Part Twelve: Disintegrated
Part Thirteen: Persuaded
Part Fourteen: Reclaimed
Part Fifteen: Settled

Part Sixteen: Renewed

~ EPILOGUE ~ ONE YEAR LATER ~

The cheers of the crowd follow them backstage, as the adrenaline excitement of the show slowly ebbs away; and this is the moment Gerard anticipates and dreads with equal passion, the moment when it's all over, work done for the night, his raison d'etre past and gone - at least until tomorrow, when it'll start all over again.

He collapses into an easy chair, faded and battered but comfortable enough, and rests his head against the back. "Aaaaugh," he says, the inarticulate comment pretty much summing up the combination of exhilaration and exhaustion he's feeling.

"Yeah," Ray concurs, slumping onto the couch, "yeah, but that was fucking fantastic, Gee, you kicked ass."

"I kicked it," Gerard murmurs lazily, "I knocked it out of the ballpark, straight into orbit, and there it is, an ass, shining down upon us like the moon. The moon, get it?" and giggles.

"The moon," Mikey says, "it's a giant ass in the sky," and giggles with him, and Gerard feels a vast sense of contentment that no matter how much of an idiot he might be at any given moment, there is always going to be someone in this band who'll understand him, or at least forgive him for it.

"Your face is a giant ass," says Bob, throwing a towel at Mikey; Mikey throws it back, and the two of them commence a towel war, knocking over an abandoned half-can of soda in the process.

Gerard rouses himself wearily to move his bag out of the way of the dripping liquid. Struck by a sudden thought, he digs out his cellphone and looks at the display, and is gratified to see that he's gotten a text message. Keys it open, scans it quickly and laughs. "Hey, Frankie," he calls out lazily.

"Nnnrgh," says Frank, approximately, from where he's sprawled over a worn loveseat, a splayed tangle of limbs, limp and drained from the exertion of the show.

"C'mere," Gerard coaxes, and, "Nnnrgh," Frank says again, so Gerard pries himself out of his seat and goes to him, wedging himself into the small sliver of loveseat that Frank's not occupying.

He holds the screen up so that Frank can see it too: Jamia's number, and a succinct splatter of alphabet soup: th btr b a gd fckg wtg fr me n Ptsbg, 2 shws + encrs "A command performance," he says, grinning.

"Nngh." Frank blinks at him. "I may be awake by then. Possibly even capable of motion."

"Oh, you will be," Gerard says cheerfully, "wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you?"

"Never," says Frank, closing his eyes again, "but it's two more fucking nights on the bus till we get there, and my back is killing me."

"Lean forward," Gerard tells him, shoving at him until Frank wearily obeys, and then begins digging his fingertips into sore muscles, massaging, knowing just where Frank always hurts and how to ease the pain, and, "Nnnnngh," Frank murmurs, but this time it's an entirely different tone, and one Gerard vastly prefers.

"Ha!" says Mikey triumphantly, as his sweaty towel smacks Bob squarely across the face, and, "Fucker," Bob growls and lunges for him, and Mikey's up and darting away, laughing as he evades Bob's attempts to strangle him with the towel. "You're gonna break something," Ray advises them wearily, and, "We love you, Ray!" Mikey sings out as he dashes into the adjoining room that holds the little shower, and Ray sighs and shakes his head; and Bob pursues Mikey into the shower room, and there's sounds of a scuffle, and then a blast of water running and a shriek, and Gerard grins at the mental image of Mikey being caught and held under icy-cold water, fully-dressed.

"You should shower," Frank says to him.

"Nah," Gerard responds, after a moment's thought, "I'm too damn tired."

"No," says Frank, "you should shower, you really should, 'cause I'm not gonna have you crawling into my bunk all sweaty and funky."

Gerard feels himself grin. "You like it," he says.

"Not when it's show-sweat, I don't." Frank shoves at him. "Seriously. Shower. Or sleep alone."

"Come with me?" Gerard suggests, sliding his arm around Frank.

"Yeah," Frank agrees, "okay, if only to make sure you actually use soap," his hand sliding over Gerard's thigh and promising much more than that; and Gerard smiles.

"Fucker!" Mikey yells. "Motherfucker," and there he is, dripping wet, water streaming from his hair down his face, and Bob behind him, only mildly damp and looking extremely pleased with himself.

"Least I got one of the funky Ways into the shower," he says, popping open a soda.

"I got the other," Frank says, levering himself out of the chair with a groan.

"Good," says Ray, "get it out of your system now, so we can all get some sleep without you two banging and thumping and making sex noises all night."

"We love you, Ray," Gerard says, and pats him on the head as he and Frank pass by on their way to the shower.

It really does feel damned good to strip out of his sweaty stage clothes, and the hot water feels oh, so much better, and he stands under the spray for a long moment, just soaking it in. "Soap," Frank says firmly, and starts to lather him up, and even though they're brisk strokes, designed to cleanse rather than caress, it's still Frank's hands on him, and of course there's only one way he's going to react to that.

He pulls Frank to him, and Frank settles against him, and for a little while they just cling to each other under the shower spray, enjoying the feel of it and each other. "So good," Gerard murmurs, "so fantastic, my Frank," and Frank kisses the center of his chest, where the tattoo tells its story of a time long past, and a wound long healed, and Gerard hugs him even closer.

It's quick, just the few strokes needed to get them there, enough to sate the immediate need, and Gerard thinks longingly of the last hotel night, and languorous hours spent savoring each other. Pittsburgh, he thinks, feeling a pleasant tingle at the thought, because Jamia will be there, too, and that'll be, yeah.

He towels Frank dry, giggles as Frank dries him off and tickles him playfully, and then they're pulling on clean clothes and emerging to face the world again. "Are the well-fucked happy now?" Ray inquires, and, "Marginally well-fucked," Gerard corrects him, "nominally, and far too briefly," and Bob sniffs the air and says, "Well-showered, at least," in a tone of approval.

And then they're making their way through police barricades past rows of fans screaming their names, onto the bus again; and Gerard falls into a seat, stretches out and relaxes, as Frank takes his usual place by his side.

Two more nights, two more shows, and then they'll be in Pittsburgh for a two-day break, just enough time to catch their breath a little bit, and then more of the same, more and more; and the tour bus feels more familiar than anything else in the world right now, the only constant in an endless whirlwind of venues and hotels and faces in the crowd. But - Gerard's arm curls around Frank, soaking in his warmth, as he glances over at Ray, at Bob, at Mikey - it's okay, it's all good. He's with his family, and he's where he belongs; he knows that now, carries that knowledge with him everywhere he goes, deep inside his soul, so that no matter where they go, no matter how far they travel, he's always home.

He pulls Frank close and kisses him, long and deep and sweet, as the tour bus pulls away, on the road again, headed to another show, and into tomorrow.

~ the end ~

Fic: [MCR] Broken (15/16)

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 11:31:52 GMT

Rating: MCR, rated NC-17 for sex and profanity.

Notes: Written 13th-18th March, 2008, with awesome instant karma provided by fleurdeliser, madelinesimone and mrs_batman, without whom writing would be a whole lot less fun.

Disclaimer: The worlds I build exist entirely inside my head, and any similarity to real life is wholly a figment of your fevered imagination.

This is a work of pure fiction, centering on the public personas of people who are probably completely different in real life; neither infringement nor offense is intended.

Songs to accompany parts 1-8.
Songs to accompany parts 9-16.

Broken (15/16)
by Random Epiphany

Part One: Shattered
Part Two: Sundered
Part Three: Illustrated
Part Four: Besieged
Part Five: Exiled
Part Six: Burst
Part Seven: Reoriented
Part Eight: Reacquainted
Part Nine: Oscillated
Part Ten: Inflamed
Part Eleven: Enfolded
Part Twelve: Disintegrated
Part Thirteen: Persuaded
Part Fourteen: Reclaimed

Part Fifteen: Settled

There's a strange, unaccustomed feeling of normalcy about awakening in his own bedroom, in his own bed, and a brand-new wondrous joy in awakening with Gerard's arms wrapped snugly around him, and even before his eyes are open, Frank is smiling.

He reaches up to stroke the hair away from Gerard's face and plants a soft kiss on his sleeping lips, and Gerard opens his eyes just a little, murmurs something that might be his name, then closes them again, slipping back into sleep; and Frank grins a little more and slides out of bed, to begin his day.

The morning routine, newly-augmented by the ritual dose of painkiller - Frank breaks the pill in half; he's not hurting all that badly anymore, and he knows too well how easily medication can become addiction - their bags are still downstairs, so Frank digs into his drawers to find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that'll fit Gerard comfortably and lays them out where he'll find them before slipping into his favorite battered sweats and his comfy old bathrobe, then heads downstairs to see about breakfast.

Jamia is stretched out in the recliner as he'd predicted, covered by a light blanket, the recliner that's nominally his TV-watching chair but which she frequently occupies with the regal sovereignty of a cat claiming territory; the rest of the room is a mass of sleeping bodies, Mikey and Alicia tangled together in a way that defies physics on the narrow couch, Ray and Krista nestled together on one air mattress, Bob and Kat on the other. He steps over and around them, carefully and quietly, coming to Jamia's side and bending over to place a gentle kiss on her cheek; she barely stirs as he tugs the blanket down over her feet to keep her warm and cozy, before making his way onward into the kitchen.

The refrigerator's well-stocked: obviously, Jamia's been shopping while he was gone, and with typical foresight, has prepared for the inevitable invasion. There's cartons of the egg-substitute he favors, packages of fake bacon, bags of frozen hash browns in the freezer, everything necessary to put together a quick, easy and savory breakfast for a small army - or a large and tumultuous family, which is exactly what they are - and Frank gets to work.

Coffee first: and it makes sense to drag out the old, spare coffeemaker from the cupboard to help handle the demand, so Frank dusts it off and washes out the carafe and drip basket, and gets both machines busily perking. There's orange juice and cranberry-grape, and he pulls out both bottles and sets them on the counter, along with a package of paper cups, because that's just a few less things to have to wash up, later. Then the prep work starts in earnest: frying pans on the stove to heat, and the griddle out from its cabinet and warming, and Frank peels an onion under running water to keep his eyes from tearing and dices it, to add to the hash browns for extra flavor.

He's in the middle of de-seeding a red pepper when, "This," says a voice, "is why I married you," and Jamia shuffles in, slips her arms around his waist without disturbing his dissection efforts, and hugs him.

"I try to be useful," says Frank mildly, turning his head to receive the kiss she's waiting to give him, and lingering to savor the feel of her lips.

She rests her head against his shoulder, watching him slice the pepper. "Need a hand?"

"Ha ha," says Frank, "you're so funny," looking at his bandaged one.

"No," Jamia says, "seriously, you idiot," squeezing him again.

"Nah, I'm fine. Go be a lady of leisure and let your devoted love-slave earn his keep," Frank tells her, grinning, and Jamia leans in for another quick kiss before turning her attention to the coffeepots, hovering nearby, waiting for one to finish brewing.

A soft step by the threshold attracts his attention, and Frank glances up from his work to see Gerard standing there, looking between him and Jamia uncertainly. "Kiss him good morning, idiot," Jamia says, in exactly the same tone she'd used to Frank, "and do it right, or I'll spank you," and Gerard quirks a shy smile and comes to Frank's side and hugs him, with just the faintest hint of reticence. "Morning," he says softly, and kisses Frank's cheek, and Frank turns into the kiss so that it catches him on the lips, just the way it should.

"Now my turn," Jamia directs, behind Frank's back, and Gerard hesitates for just a moment before obeying. Just out of curiosity, Frank turns to look, and sees Jamia hugging Gerard firmly, a full-body hug with no reserve whatsoever, and just when it looks like he's getting used to that, she kisses him on the lips, briefly but like she means it. "Morning," she says to him.

"Uh," says Gerard, "g'morning," gazing down at his armful of Jamia as if he's not quite sure what to do with her but really wouldn't much mind finding out; and Frank grins and goes back to his cooking.

The backup coffeepot is just making its characteristic choked, gurgling noise, the one that signifies the brew cycle is done, when Ray stumbles in, hair forming a fuzzy halo around his head, rubbing at his eyes. "Izzat breakfast? Oh, you rock," he says faintly, "whereza coffee?" and Jamia hands him a mug as she finishes filling Gerard's, and Ray takes his place in line for the precious brew. Krista comes in next, spurning coffee in favor of the orange juice, and Bob comes in with Kat just as Ray and his lady are departing the tiny kitchen, greeting Frank with identical light punches to the shoulder as they grab their drinks.

Mikey and Alicia are just pouring themselves juice and coffee when the doorbell rings, and "Get that, will you, honey?" Jamia says to Gerard as she places slices of toast into the oven to brown, and Gerard nods and goes to answer it; and moments later, Frank hears, "Long time no see, motherfucker," in Brian's distinctive voice, and pokes his head out of the kitchen just long enough to see their manager drag a willing Gerard into a tight hug, cursing him out all the while in an affectionate tone. "Need another plate," he says to his wife, and Jamia reaches into the cupboard to retrieve it for him, and, "Go set the table, you lazy bastard," to Mikey, who obligingly grabs fistfuls of silverware and heads out to do so, while Alicia goes with him, presumably to scavenge up more chairs from various corners of the house.

The dining table is meant to hold six, but it's possible for ten to fit when they're friendly enough, and Frank places the huge bowls of scrambled faux-eggs and pseudo-bacon and hash browns in the center of the table amidst much acclaim from his fellows; he squeezes himself into his seat between his wife and his lover as arms start reaching across each other for things, everyone serving themselves and each other and "Pass the butter," and "Gimme the jam," and "Hey, dump a couple slices of bacon on my plate, willya?" and a stray strand of Ray's hair wafts into Frank's plate and lodges itself atop his jam-spread toast. He plucks it out without making a fuss, surreptitiously wipes his fingers on the back of Gerard's shirt, thinking, what the hell, it's my shirt, anyway, and digs into his meal, suddenly ravenous.

But he finds himself pausing, in the middle of his scrambled eggs, and just looking around the table, at all their faces in turn. Jamia, the woman of his dreams, who he loves as fiercely now as the day he married her, the day he proposed, pretty much the day they'd met, lovely even in a bathrobe with a mouthful of toast. Ray, calm steady Ray who he will never again forget to appreciate, and Krista, with whom Ray's about to begin the same grand adventure he and Jamia share. Brian, so much more than a mere business associate, as much a part of the band as if he shared the stage. Bob, who always gets it, who's never afraid to care or to show that he does, and Kat, bright-eyed and lovely, who is to Bob what Bob is to everyone else. Alicia, amazing irrepressible Alicia, who loves Mikey like burning, and Mikey, bright and animated and far, far removed from the withdrawn, miserable wreck he'd been only a little while ago, leaning over to cut Gerard's bacon into manageable pieces for him. And Gerard, filling the empty space he'd left in all of their lives, but Frank's most of all; Gerard, alive and back to himself again, more types of miracle than Frank can begin to count.

He looks at them all, at his family: his family, whole and unbroken, just as it should be, and everything, everything is fine.

Frank smiles, at peace with the world and himself, and reaches for another slice of toast.

(to be continued)

next: in which we glimpse a taste of the happily-ever-after