Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Gerard’s a mess—smeared eyeliner, paint stains, and whatever he had for lunch yesterday. But to her he was a voice.

Nia wants-well she moved to New York to figure that out. Well and to be with her best friend Mikey and her sister Sasha...didn't expect to like the shows so much.

Mikey keeps watch (unfortunately).

Frank can’t keep his hands to himself (that’s where Gerard gets it).

Kat just wants to see Paris—maybe end up in a song.

Nobody’s who they say they are.

A slow-burn of messy friendships, fangirl origins, grief, and the ugly, dirty ways people find themselves under our nails.

Featuring: bad decisions, emotionally complicated baths, all the grimy queer vibes the '90s had to offer, and enough baggage to fill the Twin Towers(for now).

It’s not a love story. It’s worse.

It’s Jersey Dirt.

Chapter Text

September 1990

Gerard stood in the cafeteria, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of bees in his ears. 

He still couldn’t smile all the way—stitches were out, but the skin tugged weirdly when he tried.

When people asked about it, he just shrugged and said he had started smoking and got used to keeping one side of his mouth closed. Sounded better than, “My kid brother clocked me because I wanted to watch Star Trek instead of He-Man.”

He’d bought a pack of Marlboros from the kids behind the school just in case anyone tried to call his bluff. Spent the last weekend before the semester practicing how not to choke when he took a drag. It made his throat burn, so he ditched it. Figured just having them in his back pocket was enough.

Everyone already had their cliques—skater kids in Vision Street Wear, popular girls laughing like they’d been told the joke he never seemed to get. He shouldn’t have worn the Poison shirt, but they were his favorite band.

“No place to sit,” he muttered under his breath, “Wish Mikey was here. Always had someone to sit with.”

Slowly, Gerard scanned the fluorescent-lit room, letting the smell of mystery meat waft past him.

Then he saw him—skinny, glasses thicker than Mikey’s, flipping through Action Comics with a Superman logo on his chest like it meant something. Gerard felt the Batman issue in his back pocket.

Holy shit. A fucking nerd.

Even Gerard was tempted to give him a swirlie.

Chucks dragging like bricks, Gerard ended up in front of the kid anyway.

He waited for a second. The way the kid was careful with the page... the way he smiled at the panels...

“Hey!” Gerard blurted. Too loud. The kid looked up, blinking, then smiled cautiously.

“Hey.”

“I, uh... I like your shirt.”

“Thanks,” the kid said, “But Batman’s my favorite.”

He was perfect.

“Adam.”

“Diesel,” he replied too loudly, finally smiling. Kind of. Still hurt.

Adam stared up at him with slime-green eyes. Gerard shifted slightly, hoping he could pull off the nickname. He didn’t look like a Diesel. Wasn’t tan or built like those guidos at the beach. He was still only 4’6”, barely 100 pounds, even with the shirt.

Still, Adam just shook his head and peeked over at his tray.

“You got anything to trade? I got a go-gurt.”

Yeah, this might work. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

___________________________________________________________________________

It started with an Oreo.

But before that, Nia hovered just outside Sasha’s bedroom door, toes curled into the hallway carpet.

She was still in her middle school uniform—wrinkled plaid skirt, socks that didn’t match, a beat-up paperback clutched to her chest like a shield. Her curls were barely contained in a high, poofy ponytail sagging under its own weight.

Inside, Sasha sprawled across her bed, flipping lazily through a notebook. A boy sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, papers scattered around him. Pale, thin, slouched shoulders, thick glasses. His t-shirt looked like it had survived more laundry cycles than he had.

Nia didn’t mean to stare. But she did. He had that look—like he’d rather be invisible. That made her stare harder.

He noticed. Lifted his hand in a small, awkward wave. Nia startled and disappeared behind the doorframe.

“Nia!” Sasha’s voice snapped, sharp with irritation. “Either come in or bring snacks!”

A minute later, Nia shuffled in, holding a paper plate piled with Oreos.

“They’re fat-free,” she offered, like that excused anything.

“You can stay,” Sasha muttered, flipping a page and turning to the boy, “his name’s Michael, “

“Mikey,” he corrected, “Only my grandma calls me that.” 

A laugh shot up from Sasha, low and deep, “Better than what they call you in the girl’s room,”

Nia dropped to the hardwood a few feet from the boy. She set the Oreos between them like a peace offering. Still staring.

“She’s not staring at you,” Sasha sighed from the other side  of the room,

“She’s just reading.”

“Reading what?” Mikey asked, trying not to sound too weirded out by the gaze. 

“Your shirt,” Nia admitted, “You can learn a lot about people from their shirts.”

He blinked. “Oh. Uh… it’s Dungeons & Dragons. My brother gave it to me.”

“What’s that?” Nia asked. “Some kind of book?”

“It’s a game, a board game."

Sasha rolled her eyes, “Like I am with this conversation.”

"No like, monsters and dice and-" The boy flushed, “Anyways, I could teach you sometime. Just... not this week. I’m grounded.”

Nia’s eyes lit with curiosity, “What'd you do?”

“I hit my brother. With a bat.”

Her mouth fell open slightly- all little kids think about it. Heck, she wanted to throw a book at Sasha just that morning, but she knew better - this kid must’ve been tough, “Seriously?”

He nodded, “He had to get stitches and everything, messed his face up pretty good.”

Sasha snorted, “You? You can’t even hold a bat right.”

“I was practicing,” he muttered, “wasn’t even on purpose.”

There was a long pause as Sasha went back to copying notes so they’d at least pass the presentation. 

Then Nia picked up an Oreo, split it open, licked off the cream, and stared at the chocolate halves. Without really thinking, she held one out to him like an offering, “Want it?”

The boy blinked with a twisted face, “You just licked that.”

“I hate the chocolate part,” she said with a shrug. “Sasha never eats them, so…”

He looked like he was weighing food poisoning against politeness. “I was raised to be a good guest,” he mumbled—and, to Sasha’s horror, popped the cookie into his mouth.

“Oh my God ,” Sasha groaned. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

Nia stared at him with the kind of awe you saved for kids just like him,  “Neither can I.”

They both laughed. That sharp, helpless kind of laugh that bubbles up before you can stop it.

Later, in the kitchen, they all sat aimlessly.  Mikey’s mom was late. Their parents were gone, work, or at least that was the excuse they gave.

Nia perched at the edge of the counter, reading a Go-Gurt tube like it held state secrets. Mikey stood nearby, shifting awkwardly, pretending not to notice her watching him again. Not that he minded; she mostly smiled when their eyes met- that’s more than any of the other kids at school gave him. Better than ending up with his backpack in a tree-the cookies weren’t that bad. 

“You hungry?” Nia asked, trying to break the silence. “Sasha never eats, so you’d’ve starvedaiting for her. But I’ve got a whole box of Go-Gurts in the fridge... we could split ‘em.”

“One,” Sasha warned. “That stuff’ll make you fat.”

“I eat them all the time,” Mikey shot back,  “Still a twig.”

A grin stretched across Nia’s chocolate-crumbed face, “Because you don’t eat them like I do. ”

Before he could ask what she meant, Nia slipped away—and returned moments later with a cereal bowl, already brimming with chaos.

Two emptied tubes of Go-Gurt, crushed Oreos, and a fistful of Pop Rocks. Strawberry sugar crackled like static across the top.

“It’s... a masterpiece,” she announced.

Mikey grinned, pulling a roll of Bubble Tape from his hoodie pocket,  “I’ve got gum.”

“Perfect!” She tossed it into the mix with no regard for her sister's glare, “Now it’ll crunch and pop.”

They each took a spoonful. It didn’t bubble. But they couldn’t stop laughing.

Sasha stared in disbelief,  “You’re feeding him now?”

Mikey shrugged, “She’s so weird.”

Nia grinned,  “So are you.”

Her head tilted, she leaned in a little closer to see through his glasses. Mostly green eyes but a spot of brown that looked like someone had spilled paint in them.

“What’s up with your eyes?” she asked, softer now. “They’re... kinda weird.”

He tensed, already used to the teasing.

But then she added, “I like weird-makes you look like a cyborg or something-maybe you ate a twin!'.”

Embarrassment began to fill her face, "I'm sorry, I don't normally talk to boys and-"

He blinked. Smiled, "It's okay- I like weird too."

Sasha watched in horrified fascination as they both popped a mouthful, cheeks bulging with fizzy yogurt, cookie crumbs, and gum—the bubbles never came, but their laughter never stopped.

It was like her sister didn’t even care about the rules:

You don’t hang out with losers.

You especially don’t feed them- they'll keep hanging around. Then what kind of reputation would she have?

But Nia never cared about that. Never wanted to sit at the tables with the clean seats. Mikey didn’t have a choice, but he just laughed when he saw her face covered in pink crystals.

And just like that, two kids stitched together by a shared taste for the weird became friends for life.

Chapter Text

Adam and Gerard are friends for years.

Gerard thinks he's cool—can’t figure out why a kid who can do a wheelie on a dirt bike doesn’t have more friends.

He even lets Mikey ride sometimes.

Gerard doesn’t know why they still hang out when all he wants to do is stay inside and watch Star Wars. Spends half the time explaining WHY it's the greatest movie ever.

Adam's only flaw is not "getting" it. That can be overlooked though, he at least sits throught the movie quietly unlike Mikey. 

No matter what the weather is Adam always comes by, even after Gerard moves into the basement.

It’d look badass with a Misfits poster.

They put it up together. Adam lends him a CD—changed his fucking life.

The summer before sophomore year, Gerard finds his mom’s lipstick. Reminds him of the girls on that Hustler cover he keeps under his mattress. Never does anything with them—just looks.

Like superheroes.

They all have something Gerard wants. Though he's not sure entirely what.

Adam laughs when Gerard tells him.

Mom and Dad don’t.

Gerard thought he was alone.

They were supposed to be at dinner.

Mikey’s at a sleepover.

He forgot he told Adam they’d go see a movie.

The lipstick slips from his hand and streaks the magazine he was trying to copy.

His best friend just stands there.

Silence stretches between them as Gerard fumbles for a lie.

But Adam just looks at the magazine, then back at Gerard, “Black would look better,” he says with a grin, “You look like the Joker in red… but it, uh, looks decent.”

Boys don’t cry in front of other boys, but Adam pretends they’re laughing.His parents didn’t think it was funny. Their son in smeared lipstick, "hugging" his best friend...

Therapy.

That’s what Mom says.

Just once a week until...he never did find out what he was supposed to be doing there. 

He’s pissed—it’s on Thursdays.

He’ll miss Star Trek.

After the first session, Adam’s waiting in the basement with a VHS and a tube of black lipstick. Says he won’t press play unless Gerard puts it on.

He’s never been watched that closely before. Wonders if Adam has trouble paying attention too—their knees touch the whole time.

He can’t focus on what Spock’s saying.

When junior year starts and Gerard dyes his hair black, Adam does too.

Says they look like brothers now.

It wasn't enough that the f fucking pills made him feel, well nothing, they had to make him fat too.

He jokes about no girl wanting to kiss the fat kid as they watch the cheerleaders from under the bleachers.

They call him The Whale. It was funny the first time—he was wearing a blue Superman shirt, could kinda see it.
It hurts more when he’s changing in the locker room. Who decided this is what he gets? If he squints, it almost looks like he has tits.

But Adam? Adam looks like fucking DiCaprio. Always turns the girls down, especially when Gerard’s around. Says he’s holding out for D-cups—and all these girls are still working it's their way through the alphabet.

They’re the last ones in the showers after gym. Hard not to notice when you finally beat your best friend at something.

Thought Adam stared a little too long.

Told himself it would be rude if he didn’t look too.
“Just don’t go showing that to the girls,” Adam laughs, though it seemed nervous, “I’d never get you back.”

Every hug after that feels like belts touching and hands tempted by warmth and skin.

Adam joins the football team after that.

Gerard doesn’t get why he isn’t happier- he’s gonna get one of those jackets with the letter on it. Maybe he'll find a girl give it to.

Finds him sitting on the bleachers, helmet in his lap. He reeks of sweat and grass, but the dirt looks good.

Real.

“He made me join,” A whisper slips out from his best friend, “… too soft, I guess.”

Gerard doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t want to lose his only friend.

So when Adam asks him to wait after practice, he does.

He likes watching him walk through the cheerleaders to get to him.

Loves to read him poems while they wait for privacy.

Even lets Adam talk him into being towel boy, ‘just to spend more time together’.

Worth the humiliation of walking out on the field every game.

At least their dads seem less… concerned.
They have their first beer together over fall break.

“Swiped it from the warden—fuck him. Doesn’t need any more anyway.”

The taste is awful, like someone crushed up crackers and made tea. Made him want to gag. 

Didn't want Adam to think he’s lame.

Not when they’re talking about getting a place together after graduation. College, then jobs at DC—that was the plan.

He should’ve asked why Adam stared at him so long after their second round.

But instead he says it’s late. Bio test tomorrow.

Adam gives him a broken smile he wishes he didn’t remember so vividly.

Wishes he’d leaned in too.

Maybe then he’d know why.
Nobody should ever feel that angry.

Or that sad.
He was crying, wasn’t he?

But he also tore the Misfits poster off the wall. Taped it back together with tears in his eyes and words he’d later regret under his breath.

Gerard’s parents made him go to the funeral. He sat in the back. But everyone heard him anyway.

No note.

No phone call.

Gerard was pissed.

He walked into senior year holding his brother’s hand.

He couldn’t do it without him. Told Mikey it was social suicide, like that old Poison shirt… but Mikey didn’t care.
Mikey even stayed with him in the bathroom until the breathing sounded normal.

A hug from your real brother doesn’t feel the same.
He wasn’t alone.
He was worse.
He was invisible.

Chapter Text

Even though Mikey is a Freshman now, he always waits for her after school- because the middle school is close he says.

All the other 6th grade girls  are jealous that Nia has a friend in high school and she's always happy to see him. The hug is his favorite part, he thinks she knocks him over on purpose. She never denied it.

Except on Monday he thinks he might have done something to make her mad... She doesn't talk to him, just walks really close and really fast.

Tuesday he goes pick her up and she's sitting on the curb crying.

He's never seen her cry before.

He nervously asks her what's wrong?

"I broke my favorite pen, the one you gave me."

He thinks she's being dramatic about a pen he brought her from a class trip to the museum.

"We can get another one-Gary's up there all the time looking at art schools," Mikey offers, the name Gary still sounding weird, bur thats what Gerard wanted to be called thos year, "I'll have him grab one."

How dare he? Nia thinks. Doesn't he know that it's special? It had ALL the colors, HE gave kt to her on the first day of school and she was just supposed to what? Use another?

That really pisses her off, she stands and sighs loudly. “ I don't want another pen. I want that one,” she stomps.

Mikey doesn’t know what to do, not even sure why she’s so mad even though she’s still got tears in her eyes.

All he can do is ask if they're still going to walk together?

She huffs yes and shoves her books at him.

It's a long week.

Friday she seems… normal. Must’ve been the candy bar, a peace offering for a war he didn’t know he started. He still holds her books, she still laughs with her mouth full.

Normal.

Maybe it was allergies.

It was spring and Mikey was sprawled out on the floor of his room, a pile of CDs scattered around him.

The sunlight streamed through the half-open window, casting a soft glow on the posters of bands like Green Day, Nirvana, and The Offspring plastered on his walls.

Nia, sitting on the edge of Mikey’s bed, was flipping through a magazine—something about Seventeen or Teen People—her leg swinging back and forth absentmindedly. Mikey handed her the CD he’d been obsessing over for the past week: The Misfits.
"Check this out," Mikey said, pulling a pair of headphones from around his neck and handing one side to her.

"This is way better than that boy band crap you listen to." He grinned, nudging her playfully.

She stuck her tongue out at him but put the headphones on anyway.

Mikey turned the music up, the gritty guitar riffs and eerie vocals of Halloween flooding her ears. Nia tilted her head, giving Mikey a skeptical look.

"This sounds... weird," she said, laughing as the track rumbled through the headphones.

"I know, right? It’s different. But it’s awesome," Mikey said, feeling a little defensive.

He wasn’t sure if it was because he was proud of his new find or just wanted to look cool in front of Nia.

Nia smiled, shrugging. "I guess it’s kinda cool. I’ll listen to more of it." She turned the volume down slightly, leaning back on the bed.

As the next track played, Mikey sat down next to her, grabbing the magazine out of her hands.

"You’re not really gonna buy that crap, are you?" he teased, flipping through the pages of the teen gossip magazine, pretending to be bored by it.

Nia rolled her eyes, reaching for it again. "I’m not buying it, I’m just looking. You’re such a dork."

Goddamn pollen.

She felt a sneeze building up in her nose and scrunched her face.

“Ahh…choo!” came out too loudly, the sound echoing through the room.

Mikey smirked at her, "Bless you. You okay?"

Nia paused, her hand hovering over her nose.

The sneeze had been stronger than she expected, and as she looked down at her lap, she froze.

Something felt off-it slid between her thighs. Warm. Thick and seeping out no matter how hard she pushed her knees together.

She glanced up at Mikey quickly before lowering her eyes back to her lap.

Why couldn’t he be a girl? All of Sasha’s friends were girls.
Mikey noticed her change instantly,  "What’s wrong? You sick or something?" He furrowed his brow, leaning over her shoulder to see if she was okay.
Nia didn’t answer right away, her fingers brushing nervously over the edge of her shorts.

Mikey asked again, his voice getting a little more concerned. “What’s your malfunction?”

She couldn't find the words. Really she didn't know what was going on. Just that she felt...something , then—without looking up—spread her legs just a little.

Mikey’s gaze flicked to her and then down.

He instantly froze.

The blood and not good kind like in the movies he and Gerard watch.

No this was like those commercials his couson made him sot through.

His face went white, and he immediately shot up from the bed.

“MOM!” he shouted, nearly knocking over a stack of CDs in his frantic movement.

Nia, mostly embarrassed, tries to shush him. But Mikey wasn’t having it. He could barely breathe, his stomach flipping.

"What—what the hell, Nia?" He was too shocked to be mad. He felt grossed out and panicked, “What do I do? What do I do?”

Nia finally glanced up at him, her face warm,”How am I supposed to know? It'smy first.- , “

Mikey, looking completely bewildered, stared at her for a moment. “What? Didn't you get some sort of clock? It doesn’t have an alarm?”

What the hell is he talking about?

Her cheeks burned.

She didn’t know how to explain it any better. Didn’t even fully understand what was happening, but she and Sasha shared the bathroom-most of the pieces kind of fell together.
The way Mikey’s face looked like a tomato almost made Nia smile, but the look on his face kept it stuffed down.

“You... you can’t just... tell me that and then, like, expect me to—"

All over his Power Ranger sheets.

He stopped mid-sentence, turning toward the door and calling for his mom again, “Mom! Nia’s bleeding! She needs one of those things from the commercial about wings!”

Nia winced at his loud, frantic tone, shrinking into herself.

She could hear his mom coming down the hall, and she felt even more embarrassed.

Donna arrived quickly, trying to keep calm.

The sight of her son’s best friend sitting on his bed next to a bright red streak told the story.

"Oh, honey, come on.” She guided Nia to the bathroom.

Mikey still stood there frozen, unsure of what to do next. He’d never had a sister—he only had a brother—and boys don't do that.

Mikey sat frozen, his face pale with panic as he looked at Nia as she walked out of the door.

This was bad, worse than bad. This was change.

“Uh… you need something?” Mikey asked, completely at a loss.

Nia shook her head and mumbled, “Call Sasha- she’s at Weiner World.”

Mikey, still in a state of shock, quickly dialed the number to Weiner World on the phone in his room. He was too flustered to even think straight.

When Sasha picked up, he practically screamed, “You need to come get your sister!"

"Is she okay?" Sasha asked.

"She... she’s, uh... she’s bleeding- it’s everywhere you need to hurry!”

Sasha was on her way, but in the meantime, Mikey’s had to figure out what to do about his sheets.

Donna shut the door behind them and turned to Nia. “Do you know what you want to use?” she asked, her voice comforting but no-nonsense.

Nia hesitated, looking down at the floor, then shaking her head, “No,” she whispered.

Donna nodded, understanding. “Okay, sweetheart. You’re gonna be fine. Have you used tampons before?”

Nia shook her head again, looking even more embarrassed. “No... I don’t think I can-I havent-.”

Donna let out a soft laugh, her tone warm, “That’s okay, honey. Don’t worry about it. What you want is just a pad, alright?”

She pulled out a thick white square.

Wrapped in pink plastic like a gift or something.

She held it up to the light like she was trying to decode some ancient truth of girldom.

That was supposed to go in her underwear?

She grabbed the pad quickly, feeling more at ease with it even though she was still anxious.

Donna handed it to her, her expression soft, “You know how to put it on, right?”

Nia gave a tiny nod, still too embarrassed to meet Donna’s eyes, “I can figure it out... I’m on the honor roll,”

Donna didnt crack a smile. Mikey was right-she needed to work on her timing.

After a beat it came, a quick hug before Donna ruffed her hair affectionately. “You’ve got this, sweetie. Just call me if you need anything.”

Nia took the pad, her hands shaking a little as she stepped into the bathroom stall, closing the door behind her. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she followed the instructions the best she could, and it was... not what she had imagined.

Meanwhile, Mikey is stripping his bed like a robot with no oil.

Gerard peeks in-his mom told him to check in on him.

Probably just an excuse to drag him out of the basement.

Mikey was too busy worried about losing both his sheets and his best friend as he yanked a corner that refused to come loose.

“Relax, they're just sheets.” His brother’s voice whispered through the room.

“No- they’re Power Ranger sheets- and she ruined them.”

“They’ve got more at Wal-Mart, I bet mom’ll take you-”

“She's going to come out of the bathroom and be a completely different person…” The confession coming before Mikey could stop it.

Gerard's shrugs, " I thought the same thing when you walked out with that weird, barely there mustache,” he admitted, didn’t say how freaked out he was about the fact that he was also taller than Gerard now, “...but then you kept whining about He-man and I figured you were still my annoying little brother,"

Mikey's hand goes up to his face. The fuzz still there- he was working on it- he's glad someone noticed, "that's different..."

"No it isn’t"Gerard laughs and shakes his head and gives his brother a pat on the shoulder, “you’re just the one waiting outside of the bathroom now. “

Nia overhears.

She doesn't feel like a different person.

Just the girl that wants to her read magazines and listen to CDs with her best friend...

She thinks Mikey's going to be mad or worse avoid her.

She didn't even have a choice, couldn't even avoid it.

She doesn't feel like a woman, she looks in the mirror. She doesn't look like one. She's got all this acne and her chest is still pretty flat... She was going to go home and watch reruns of The Jetsons. The thought to watch try reruns of Degrassii crosses her mind. Sasha talks about it all the time.

If only Sasha were here.

She’d say something that’d make her laugh- or at least something that’d make sense of this like she did with the training bra.

Nia laughed so hard when Sasha told her she was lucky to get one with a wire…took her three years before she got that.

Then she hears a knock at the door.

"You okay?" It's Mikey.

"yeah, uh," She starts, trying to scramble plastic wrapping and find her pants, " Just finishing up..."

The doorknob turns and Mikey steps inside, shock washes over Nia’s face as she all but yelled at him to get the hell out.

“It’s my bathroom- you never made me get out before,”

“Yeah, well this is different,” She said snatching the green shorts and starting to change.

Mikey’s eyes tried to find a place to land-didn’t need to see whatever it was she had in her underwear.

“My brother said I'm supposed to treat you the same way-I've seen you pee a thousand times.

Her eyes roll on their own, “ you weren't supposed to be looking.”

"Trust me I'm not... I didn’t-”

Then he looks at her, constantly adjusting the crotch of the shorts that were a size too big for her.

Still looked pretty obvious.

"How's it feel?" .the question felt stupider once it left his lips.

“Kind of like wearing a  diaper again... uncomfortable, you're lucky you're a boy.”

An awkward laugh escapes him , "thats' because don't see me in the morning...ever wonder why we can't do sleepovers anymore?"

Shaky laughs bounce off the tile and Mikey tries to not focus on the fact that his friend was going to want to go shopping when she came out-start wearing that sticky shit on her lips like that girl that kissed him on the playground last year.

No more movie marathons-she'll probably want to watch Felicity or something. He doesn't even like that show.

Probably gonna want to hangout at the mall with her sister instead of him. The fucking mall?! They made fun of kids who hung out at the mall. Made him feel better that no one ever asked them to go with. It didn’t even have a comic book store and the closest book store was 3 blocks away. What would they even do at the mall? But then the laughter stops and he hears it: tears.
It's not over a pen this time.

He doesn't have to ask...

Later Sasha shows up in a panic.

Didn't bother to call their parents, no one would answer, so she left work early to come pick her sister up herself.

Even suffered the embarrassment of walking through the mall in that ugly ass uniform.

In a breathless panic she opens the door to the Way household, they've both gotten too comfortable there.

Mikey and Nia are standing in the living room talking quietly.

She looks at Mikey and then looks at her sister.

They both look fine. Her eyes land on the reason for her next check being short and closes the gap.

"What the hell Mikey, you said she was bleeding- I left work for this."

"She IS bleeding," He gestures to Nia who is holding a plastic bag and wearing Mikey's bright green gym shorts, “ruined my favorite sheets and everything.”

Sasha doesn't need to say it, isn't going to embarrass her anymore than she clearly already is. Just rolls her eyes and turns to Mikey who is standing further away from his best friend than he'd like.

"You're an idiot," She shoots, "didn't you pay attention in health?"

Then she looks back at Nia. A familiar look across her face- except Sasha remembers wearing a little mermaid costume and had to hide the evidence in a seashell purse until she got home..

Wasn’t going to yell at her like that. Just lifts her face and smiles,

“You want to go get ice cream, dweeb?"

The nod Nia gives is slow and unsure. The feeling of something foreign between her legs.

Uncomfortable and too warm.

She wonders how long she'll have to wear this thing. But her sister still calling her that means she’s not the same as her- not yet.

"Can we get pistachio?"

Sasha groans-that place is so far, but just tells her to get in the car.

For a moment Nia thinks about her sister-she does this every month. Never yells at her…just spends too long in the bathroom. That must’ve been the moment she became her hero. Like Wonder Woman in a maxi pad.

Nia turns to Mikey. Their eyes dance  awkwardly trying to land on the floor, the phot covered walls, anywhere but each other.

Don't have to look at him in a hug.

Didn’t knock him over this time.

When did he get so tall?

Words built up in her throat like vomit,  “sorry about your bed.”

Mikey hugs her tighter.

No, he wasn't going to let something like a little blood keep him from his best friend. Just like he ignored that weird bra she started wearing at the start of the year and she never laughed when his voice started to crack last month. No. This was Nia. They’d dressed up as The Wonder twins THREE years in a row. Were tilt-a whirl champs. Nobody could belch the alphabet like her or make milk shoot from his nose.

"Don't worry about it. Mom says we can pick out new sheets tomorrow, wanna come with?"

Nia nods, trying her best to not cry- she's not even sad. Can't ever really  be with Mikey around, something about his glasses she thinks, definitely wasn’t that new cologne.

The thread is still there.

Chapter Text

Senior year passes by like cold blood from a cut he didn’t get to make.

Red and blue. It's either fog or falling, upped the dose...balance or it's supposed to be.

Gets to see his brother all the time, at least.

Wonders why he never hangs out with that cheerleader he knows. Thought they were friends.

But Mikey’s always just as alone as he is. Always looking for a place to sit.

Gerard's barely there. Got a job at the comic shop and only 2 classes. It was initially to get his mind off of…everything. But stocking issues of Superman made him want to cry- he liked Batman better anyways. Adam’s favorite.

He just reads Marvel instead.

Almost didn't go to prom, but there wasn't a new episode of Star Trek and he'd watched the tapes so much they started to gain static.

She wasn't the type he'd normally go for. Taller than him, flat as a board but she was pretty.

Like the girl with the pearl earring…kinda funny too-he’d overheard her telling a joke that made him smile. Something about a beaver.

Gerard was surprised she’d agreed, waited until they were alone after art club to ask.

Her voice was a little shaky when she said yes.

He told her it'd be fun. Even smiled when he said it, didn’t know why she left so quickly.

The day came and he thought it migjt be a good day. Different than he expected, so there was a chance he could have a good time. but she didn't laugh at any of his jokes. Sat too far away in the back of her dad's car. Flinched when he put that stupid flower on her dress.

He didn't really want any parts of it, anyway.

The suit felt weird, too tight. Like a breath he couldn’t let go of.

His hair was shorter than he wanted it to be. His mom cut it, his dad said it looked good.

Mikey stifled a laugh and said he looked like Clark Kent. Didn’t feel like a compliment

. Still black because he wanted to remember his other brother.

College comes as a relief.  He goes to New York. Art school. Just like he always wanted.

But now he’s alone.

Him, two bottles of pills—Xanax and Wellbutrin—and a TV he keeps too quiet.

He goes to parties just because they have free booze. The older guys have whiskey, that's a whole lot better than warm beer.

He can’t buy his own yet, so he just pockets them from the bodega on the corner. Always leaves enough money for it.

He’s eighteen. His parents love him. He knows because they visit every weekend to tell him.

Sometimes that's all they say.

A kiss on the cheek, a hand on a shoulder -

Then they go home. And it’s too quiet.

He was supposed to have a roommate.

He tells Dr. Levine it was an accident when he'd found out that whiskey and Xanax made great friends when you're by yourself. Doesn’t feel so lonely when the edges start to darken around him. But when he wakes up, he’s always crying.

Every morning.

He was supposed to have a fucking roommate, not just pictures on the wall.

One day, he’s had enough.

It's never gonna stop.

The plan he's had for a while and he follows every step-it's going to be perfect.

He puts on Return of the Jedi. Turns it up as loud as it’ll go.

The bottle of pills goes down smoother than he expected. The edges blur faster the more he drinks. Thank god for whiskey.

He can't wait for the dark.

Then the thought pops into his head: he won’t get to know how Hellboy ends.

The RA finds him clutching the floor. Gerard begs him not to call 911-tries anyway, the words come out like cotton wrapped marbles.

But he does.

And his parents.

He wakes to Mikey crying over him in a hospital bed. Gerard can’t move his arm without hearing the sound of a metal cuff.

Can’t look at his mom.

His dad doesn't even look mad, just red eyed and tired.

They all talk about how they love him, ask how he could do this. Gerard doesn’t answer. Just stares out of the window, can’t tell if it’s day or night.

He’s pissed.

Word gets around campus. Kinda hard not to. The whale in a room with the TV blasting, knocking everything over while begging to be left alone.

Kinda funny if it wasn't you.

At least Frank thought so.

They'd passed by each other on campus. Always got a guitar in his hand. Always with those guys- the ones girls circle around like they’re a big deal.

Tattoo on his arm, a few crude letters on his fingers- not that Gerard looked or anything. Just walks into the caf where he pretends to eat.

Frank meets Gerard’s gaze with a smirk. FUCK.

He doesn’t want another friend.

Especially not another one that looks like that.

Still, he watches as his fate is sealed with a sideways smile. Neither of them speaks at first, just glances over fries and panels.

“So, you the kid that tried to off yourself in the bathroom?” He asks finally. The words falling between them like dead weight.

Gerard gives him a side-eye and turns away to read his back issues he missed while they were trying to convince him a hospital bed was better than his own.

Half a semester’s worth.

Frank sits down anyway, still laughing because he gets the joke, “They said you slit your wrists and got blood everywhere.”

Gerard scoffs, but doesn't look at him, “Wouldn’t be that cliché- I used Xanax.”

“Classy,” he responds with with a smirk that makes Gerard wonder what a lip ring feels like.

Gerard says nothing else. Hopes silence will drive him off- but Frank just asks for ketchup and says Gerard’s haircut is weird. He thought the same thing about Frank’s. Never knew an Italian guy with dreadlocks…or whatever he wanted to call them.

They become friends fast, not that Gerard has any say so. Thinks Frank just likes to fuck with him him. Likes to see his reactions. Always calls him “soft.”

Gerard can’t tell if he means he's sensitive or just fat. Doesn't think he matters.

He draws him a lot, sometimes before he even realizes it’s not some guy in tights and a cape. More than he'd like to admit. Frank’s got a nice face. Same eyes as he's got but his cheeks aren't as full.

Shows him one on a whim one day while they sit in the quad,passing a cigarette back and forth. Thinks he might like it, took him all week-made his tattoos look better on the page.

When he takes it, Frank looks over the page quickly before he smiles at him the way that tells Gerard he did good.

“We gotta find you a girl…”

“Nobody wants to fuck The Whale,” Gerard admits, but he’s not bitter, just accepts it. It’s been long enough since he’d first realized it.

“Maybe not, but they probably won't notice with a guitar in your hand,”

They spend the whole first semester together; playing guitar, letting Frank drag him to shows. Wonders why he calls the girls bitches in his songs…Frank just says they like it. And he must be right because they crowd around before he even has a chance to put the guitar down.

Hugs are better when they're sweaty. Probably why Gerard thinks about Frank in the shower. Tries not to, but water feels a lot like sweat only less sticky.

But he’s not gay.

At least, he doesn’t think so. Never put much thought into it, but really it's not his fault.

Frank’s the one that's always shirtless.

Always showing off new tattoos, getting closer than he needs to be. Smells like sweat and Irish Spring-it's becoming Gerard’s favorite combination, never really liked the summer much before they started sitting so close.

Thighs touch.

Frank walks around in a towel like it's no big deal. Thank god for guitars.

Then everything changes.

It happens on a Saturday. Nothing else to do when it rains so they’re sitting in Frank’s apartment practicing a song. Summer- no shirt, just tattoos. Frank asks if Gerard’s crashing, like it hasn't been every night that week.

“Nowhere else to be,” Gerard says still strumming, he’s gotta keep up otherwise he’ll find another guy to call pretty.

Frank lips stretch in a way that makes Gerards stomach flip, “Good, You like the pizza?”

Gerard nods, “You know anchovies are my favorite.”

“But did you really need the pineapple too?” Frank laughs. 

“It’s good, you should try it sometime. ”

He doesn't tell him it was Adams favorite. Doesn't talk much about Adam when he's with Frank. Mostly just thinks about them both when he's alone.

Saturday nights meant movies, Frank’s choice: Return of the Jedi.

He remembered Gerard once said he had a thing for Leia.

As it plays, Gerard starts to piece it together. The pizza. The song? Helena, by the Misfits—his favorite.

Then it happens.

Gerard's cousin Joe told him about it the night before prom, said it's a Jersey boy's best friend: the yawn and stretch.

He tries to ignore it.

No way Frank’s doing that.

He's just tired. No way.

He gets all the girls Gerard is too scared to talk to. Guys like that don’t make moves on other guys.

But he is.

Leia’s on the screen, but Frank’s watching him more than her. His hand’s on Gerard’s thigh. It’s going higher than friends should go. He’s making a fucking move.

“I’m not gay,” Gerard blurts. The first time he actually says it out loud-not even he believes it.

Frank pauses, smiles—sips his beer, “I know, We both like Leia.”

Gerard turns back to the screen, but he can smell him.

Sweat and Irish Spring.

Without looking away from the screen, Frank smiles against his can, “You know… I’ve had three of these. One more and I can’t remember what I did the next day.”

Gerard looks down. He’s had three too. He downs the fourth like a deep breath.

Frank tosses his can to the side and leans in closer, “Just look at the screen.”

Frank’s a good kisser, he thinks so at least. Wouldn’t really know. Never used tongues.
He thought guys did it bent over but Frank said he wanted to see his face, so he got on his back. Liked seeing Frank over him.

Blood and spit don't do a good enough job, but it didn't matter.

Not when he got to look up and see Frank looking at him with soft eyes and a perfect smile- he couldn't feel anything except how lucky he was.

Didn't even matter that he had to finish up alone in the bathroom. Too scared to do it in front of someone else.

With sunlight in his face, Gerard wakes up to what feels like his first Sunday ever. Frank is never available Sunday mornings. Gerard never asks why.

Just wakes up alone with TV static, empty beer cans, and a pain somewhere he was too embarrassed to name.

Now as he sat there wondering if Frank would mind if he stayed , he just felt alone.

His clothes he picked up off the floor. His body stiff from them both trying to squeeze on the tattered couch.

When he stood he wondered if anyone heard what they did- he tried his best to be quiet but Frank told him it was okay- that was his favorite part.

Afterwards Frank rolled next to him, smiled, and asked if he wanted to hit his bong. Two firsts in one night.

But the loneliness the next morning was too heavy. Didn't know whether to stay and wait or leave.

What’s the girl supposed to do?

But if last night taught him anything it's that he's definitely not a real girl.

The tears come no matter how hard he tries to stop them...so much for what he learned from Dr. Levine.

Frank comes in wearing a tie, a nice jacket and his hair pulled back. Evidence of his friend still there-his shoes by the door.
If having five sisters and a string of girls taught him anything it was how to clock a virgin-he's really gotta stop doing this.

"Gee?" His voice was both exasperated and soft. Gerard paused and a breath of relief escaped him: He got a nickname.

Frank opens the door and sees him in the bathroom. Just sitting on the tile floor with eyes that look like pools. Gerard just looks up feeling more exposed than he did the night before.

He walks over to his friend, gets down on his level, pulls out a pack of Marlboros as an offering "You wanna grab a slice? On me."

Gerard just nods and his new best friend helps him up.

He wants to hold Frank's hand on the way there, but settles for shoulders bumping into each other.

Hard not to notice how good he looks against the haze of the city.

Pizza tastes a lot different now.

Worth the sting when he sits now.

As they laugh together in a booth, something Frank thought was funny, Gerard wonders when he'll get to see Frank smile at him like that again.

Chapter Text

The mall was buzzing, a hum of neon and nerves. Sasha walked like she belonged—hips swinging just enough, chin high, hair perfect. Nia followed a few steps behind, a silent shadow in hand-me-downs, chewing on her sleeve.

School was starting next week, and they both knew they wouldn’t be getting anything new—unless Sasha found a way. Their mom was behind on rent again, and their dad had vanished with the last working car and a box of Pop-Tarts Nia had been saving to eat with Mikey on their Friendiversary.

They stood outside the window at Jeans West, staring at the display. Sasha’s reflection looked fierce in the glass, but her stomach was tight.

She wanted those Jordache jeans—the ones all the girls on the cheer squad had. They’d made fun of her last year for not having a pair. For wearing the same tattered cheer shoes three years in a row.

She wanted those fucking jeans. Wanted them bad. Low-rise, dark wash, gold stitching. She could already picture herself in them.

All her money from Wiener World had to be saved for college applications and lunch for both of them—lunch she always said came from their mom. Couldn’t even buy herself the new Aaliyah CD.

Not this year.

She knew how to do it now. More like noticed it—eyes on her all the time. Been happening since sophomore year. Started with her smile, but last year it was all about her belt buckles—sometimes from behind.

Started with tips. Then she just wanted to see how far a smile could get her.

Her parents never asked where she got the earrings.

“You got school clothes?” Sasha asked.

Nia nodded. “Your stuff still kinda fits. Mikey gave me some old shirts he can’t wear anymore.”

She remembered the tiny stab of embarrassment when she took the stack of fabric. Mikey must’ve noticed too, because he mentioned something about a growth spurt. Said they’d just end up at Goodwill otherwise. Figured if Nia wore them, he’d still get to see them all the time.

Nia had never hugged anyone so tight.

It pissed Sasha off to have to smile at his mother. Never wanted to feel that way again.

She glanced at Nia. “What do you want?”

Nia shrugged, eyes on the ground. “Nothing.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are . You’re doing that thing where you act like you don’t want shit just because you know we can’t have it. I’m not doing this for nothing. So what do you want?”

Nia hesitated. Her voice was small. “Black Chucks.”

Sasha nodded. “Okay.”

They walked the mall in silence, past perfume counters and food court grease. Sasha was scanning, always scanning. Nia could feel her sister’s energy shift—the way her eyes sharpened, the way her pace slowed when she spotted something.

Or someone.

Near the pretzel stand, they split one. Warm and salty. Nothing else in their stomachs.

That’s when Sasha saw him: older, probably late thirties. He smiled at her. That’s how it always started—a smile. This guy didn’t even see it coming, but Sasha did.

What he looked like didn’t matter. All she saw was the suit and the flashy watch. The way he stared. Too much cologne. He looked at her like she was already his.

She split the pretzel with Nia. Figured if she was going to be meat, she might as well be filet mignon. Might as well get something out of it. She shouldn’t have to feel bad just because some guy couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.

She looked back. Smiled.

Then she turned to Nia, her voice calm, like she was just going to the bathroom—but her smile told Nia that she was getting those jeans.

“Call Mikey. Go home. I’ll see you later.”

Nia looked up. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back before your bedtime. Lock your door in case Dad comes back.”

Nia nodded and collected the change from the table.

Sasha stood. Smoothed her hair. Adjusted her shirt. Then she walked toward the man like it was the most natural thing in the world—like she’d done it before.

Maybe she had.

Nia watched her leave. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t going to find a guy of her own. She wasn’t going to argue with Sasha—that never worked. Sasha did what she wanted.

So Nia did the only thing she could: what she was told.

She called Mikey. She had just enough change for the payphone. His mom came to pick her up. Took her home so Nia could feel embarrassed about that too. Mikey just said they’d have a sleepover next weekend.

Sasha was gone a long time.

Nia waited up for her. Felt like days. Years. Weren't sisters supposed to stick together? How could she leave?

What if she ended up in a ditch? Maybe she'd end up on milk cartons. Nia paced to the spiral of thought until she got relief.

She caught hher sister climbing through the bedroom window.

Nia ran over and hugged her. “I was so worried, I thought…”

Her hands trembled against her sisters face, searching for some sign that she was hurt. Or okay. Something.

“What are you doing in my room?” Sasha asked, " i told you to wait in yours."

“I couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to be here alone if….”

Sasha exhaled softly. “Here.” She shoved a bag into Nia’s hands, not looking at her.

Nia looked inside: a black-and-white box that said Converse . She’d never had one of those.

She looked back at her sister. She didn’t look any different.

Still the coolest girl Nia knew.

Cooler now.  

“What’d you have to do for these?” she asked.

Sasha’s voice didn’t waver. “Nothing the rest of the squad doesn’t get to do for free,”  She just stood a little straighter. “You want them or not?”

“I want them. Did you get your jeans?”

Sasha smiled wide and held up a gold bracelet.

Later that night, Nia could hear her sister in the bathroom. Softer than she’d ever heard her—aside from her sixteenth birthday, when she heard their dad’s footsteps too clearly, too late at night.

At least she got a bracelet this time. She’ll smile when she sees it in the sun.

****

Nia stepped into the lunchroom, her heart a little lighter than it had been all morning. The first week of high school had been overwhelming—new faces, new routines, new rules—but at least one thing hadn’t changed: Mikey. He was her constant, the Kirk to her Spock, her Frodo. They’d sat together every day in middle school when they were there together- three long years of silent lunches later-and things were finally back in place. She even brought a pack of Oreo cookies to split- double stuffed because it was a special occasion. 

 A sea of kids that mostly looked the same, but none looked like her. Except Sasha, but that uniform she wore meant Nia was on her own. The lecture before the first bell was more of a warning:

Don’t talk to me. You and your little friend eat in the back. Don’t make yourself my problem.

She said like they weren’t the only two kids in the school that didn’t need sunscreen- people knew they were sisters.

But Sasha didn’t care, they were strangers once they hit the bus stop, been that way since Sasha stepped foot in this brick hell-hole. 

But then she saw him-they’d decided to wear matching  t-shirts to find each other in the crowd.

He was sitting there, but he wasn’t alone. Three older boys stood around him, laughing too loud, their body language hostile and smug.

She recognized them vaguely—upperclassmen who hovered around her sister Sasha and her crowd with letters on their jackets.

They were the kind of guys who turned torturing nice boys like Mikey into a sport.

One of them had knocked Mikey’s glasses off the table, and another was poking at the lunch Mikey had brought from home- they were supposed to share it. 

Her steps faltered.

She saw Mikey’s face—flushed red with humiliation, his shoulders drawn inward. He was trying to reach for his glasses on the floor without drawing more attention to himself.

A quick glance upwards before he found her- faded Nirvana shirt. He regretted the decision now, and didn't want her to know where he fell on the totem pole because she always seemed to put him at the very top.

Didn’t want to let that go. 

 But it was too late. Everyone could see, most of them just laughed, but Nia? She could feel the heat rise in her chest.

Sasha’s voice floated through her head from earlier that morning: Never eat school lunch, never sit with losers.

But Sasha wasn’t here now. And Nia couldn’t care less about cafeteria rules.

What mattered was that look on Mikey’s face and the fact that these assholes were making him feel small.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her tray. Her breath came in sharp bursts as she marched forward, shoes squeaking across the floor.

None of the boys noticed her approach—only Mikey did. His wide eyes followed her, filled with surprise and something close to fear. Maybe he thought she’d get caught up in it too. Maybe he thought she’d just stand there and watch.

But she didn’t.

With one swift motion, she slammed her lunch tray down on the table. The sharp clatter cut through the noise of the cafeteria like a blade. The boys looked up, startled.

“Give him his glasses,” Nia said, her voice too soft, too high to take seriously. 

One of the boys blinked at her, then let out a low chuckle, “Who’s the dwarf? Don’t tell me Way is cruising frosh?.”

Mikey stammered, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t know him down a few places. She glanced at him, not wanting to make it worse. But he couldn’t see the look on his own face, didn’t feel the heat in her chest when she looked at the asshole responsible for it. 

Nia stood a little taller, the confidence of new shoes making her chest  flutter, she took a deep breath before standing closer. “ No, I’m his best friend- and you need to give his glasses or I’ll...I’ll shove this tray down your throat.”

The guy turned away from her laughing,  his jet black hair flipping behind him, “Get a load of this little bitch standing up for this Krelborn,”

Bitch.

It was better than any of the other words she’d been called at school.

Still. 

It happened so fast she couldn’t even register it- one of them threw it. A chocolate pudding cup that landed right on her new shoes. The ones her sister…cried about. Rage turns into tears before she could stop it.   

The lunch tray felt lighter in her hands as it found its way to the guys back. If she’d been a little bigger maybe it would have actually done something. 

There was a beat of silence. The cafeteria seemed to hold its breath. Mikey remained frozen on the floor, glasses still out of reach. The boys exchanged glances—uncertain now. She didn’t look scared. She looked ready .

Finally, the one holding the glasses scoffed and tossed them onto the table with a sneer.

“There. You gonna cry about it too?”

Nia ignored him. She grabbed the glasses and turned to Mikey, holding them out. His hands trembled slightly as he took them, pushing them back onto his face with a muttered “Thanks.” He looked at her like he couldn’t believe she’d actually done that.

Neither could the teacher standing behind her: her first detention no matter how hard she tried to explain that it wasn’t her fault, he can’t see without those glasses. 

Her explanations didn’t fall on completely deaf ears, couldn’t let her go down by herself.

So Mikey stood up, picked up his tray, and with a glint in his eye that she hadn’t seen in weeks, he flung it upward. Mashed potatoes flew through the air, smacking into the ceiling and slapping down onto another table.

Chaos erupted.

Students screamed, laughed, ducked, and retaliated. Within seconds, food was flying in all directions. Mikey grabbed a roll and launched it like a grenade. Nia couldn’t help but laugh—really laugh—as she ducked under a flying spoonful of peas.

In the madness, they slipped out the side door, breathless and wide-eyed. Mikey’s grin was triumphant.

“Thanks for that,” he said, brushing mashed potatoes off his shirt. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” Nia said with a shrug. “But you shouldn’t let people treat you like that-I’ll be in detention all year. ”

He looked at her for a long moment, his smile softening. Then, after giving the halls a quick scan for anyone else, he pulled her into a hug that made it hard to breathe.

Even cleaned her shoes in the boy’s bathroom.

The walk back to class was hand in hand. Nia smiled up at him with that face that made him less embarrassed about it. He didn’t even mind that people stared, he’d planned on trying to get a girlfriend this year, but she was better.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about being rejected for the 100th time. 

That night, Nia sat on her bed, the room dimly lit by her desk lamp. She hadn’t been able to shake the adrenaline or the look on Mikey’s face when she’d stood up for him. It had been a weird day—messy, loud, and somehow... good.

A soft knock on her door made her look up. Mikey stepped in, holding a small, square package in his hands. He looked awkward, like he wasn’t sure he should be here, but he crossed the room anyway.

“I brought you something,” he said, voice low.

Nia blinked, confused, but took the package. She peeled back the paper slowly and revealed a thick, worn leather-bound book. The Complete Works of Kafka , embossed in faded .

“Kafka?” she asked, raising a brow.

Mikey gave a half-shrug. “My brother left it for me when he left for art school, thought I’d like it, but honestly? I think you’d get more out of it than I did. It’s weird about a bug or something... I don’t know-you like reading all that weird shit, right?”

She looked down at the book again, then back at him. Something about the gesture made her chest tighten.

Mikey had always been thoughtful, but this felt different. This felt like he was giving her something that actually mattered to him.

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically,  “I’ll  definitely read it.”

He smiled, visibly relieved. “Maybe it’ll be fun to read in detention since you’ll be there anyway?.”

A shared laugh, 

She chuckled, thumbing open the first page. “Might as well-what kinda name is Franz anyway?” 

 Nia lingered for a second longer than he should’ve, then gave her a little nod and turned to leave.

The door clicked shut behind him. Nia stared down at the book in her lap, the pages yellowed and familiar with someone else’s history. There was even a little doodle in the corner. 

A boy with six arms, rounded everywhere with antennae with a speech bubble that says “Boy or bug?” 

G.W 1993

She laughed a little to herself before turning the first page.

Metamorphosis. 

Chapter Text

She’s never met him. Mikey's brother.

He’s in college she thinks—home sometimes, but never around long enough to feel real to her.

A ghost drifting through Mikey’s stories.
Gerard, the artist. Gerard, the guy with the biggest comic collection, who knows all the best bands.

Mikey talks about him too much.

She never says anything. Just takes it all in—grateful Mikey never hears the way she talks about him when he’s not around.

Probably why he’s her only friend.

Then one day, Mikey shows up to school with his face already wet but it's not sweat. 

He doesn’t speak.

Not in homeroom—even though they begged to be placed together.

Not in the halls, where they’d normally steal a high five or a passing joke.

That doesn’t sit well with her.

So, she does what any good friend would do: follows him into the boys’ bathroom—staying far enough behind to go unnoticed.

He walks into a stall. She goes into the one next to it. Her Converse slide against the porcelain as she peeks over the divider.

“Hey.”

Mikey looks up but doesn’t answer. Just sinks to the floor, knees up, arms wrapped around them, forehead pressed to the wall.

Silent. Shaking.

Nia slips in beside him without a word.

Doesn’t care if someone sees.

Doesn’t care if she’s not supposed to be there.

She sits on the damp tile next to him.

“Mikey?” she asks, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.

He doesn’t look at her. Just stares at the tile, takes off his glasses, tries to dry his eyes.

“He’s so fucking selfish,” he says, voice cracking before the rest is swallowed by tears.

That’s all.

She doesn’t ask who he is.

She doesn’t need to.

She wraps her arms around him as he cries into her shirt. His hoodie is cold and damp under her hands.

Bell after bell rings through the halls, echoing off the tiles. They don’t move.

She keeps her back to the door, yelling “fuck off” at anyone who knocks.

They get detention for skipping class.

He cries through that too.

It only made sense for her to follow him home, holding his hand the whole way.

Donna’s no better. She’s never in bed during the day. But now she is. No dinner. Just matching sobs.

Nia doesn’t ask questions. She calls home, tells her mom she’s not coming. Sasha answers. Says it’s okay.

The bed feels smaller than it ever did during sleepovers.

Mikey’s arm isn’t slung around her this time—he’s clinging to her.

Holding her like he’s afraid one of them might disappear.

All she can do is hug him tighter. Let him know she’s there. That she’ll always be there.

They stay that way all night.

Nia and her best friend—
No.

That was her brother.

Chapter Text

Gerard and Frank keep hanging out.

No kisses, no hand holding just...two guys playing guitar and watching shitty horror movies.

Normal.

Except, Gerard wants anything but that.

Can't ignore the way Frank smiles or the way he looks at him when he tells him he passed midterms.

Definitely can't look away when he starts to play and Getard feel stupid for wanting g to trade places. Easier to focus on lyrics.

Doesn't really 'get' why Frank keeps him around but likes the attention.

Can't focus on the words when he sings.

A Gerard can think about us that night. 

About everything he couldn’t see, but felt, in the glow of the TV.

Next time he’ll look.

Next time.

Frank always jokes about getting Gerard a girl.

At least that's how Gerard takes it.

Guys like Frank don't get it, bets he never had to wonder what a girl would say to a date. He can see every yes while he watches Frank bring them back to his dorm- he hopes he doesn't notice, so tries to stay in the furthest corner, waiting for the moment one of them says no...if there ever was a spot for him he'd take it.

Frank thinks Gerard is...clingy.

Always waiting outside of his second class-claims it's close to the art building, but Frank knows it's not. Always has to sit on the same side of the diner booth even when it's just the two of them. Needs to shower more, but he's still got a cute face. Nice eyes too. The girls would probably think he's "adorable" if he just...tried.

But he doesn't. Doesn't do anything but look at them, it's weird, at least Frank thinks so. Gotta get that kid laid

So when he invited Gerard to watch his band, Pency Prep, play he didn't tell him it was so he could meet girls.

Hating parties is part of Gerards DNA,but can’t ever say no to Frank.

Not that it ever did any good, always seemed like Frank knew best even if it didn’t seem like it.

"It'll be fun,"

That Friday Gerard gets ready like he actually wants to be there. Thinks he might. He'll fake it if it's bad. 

Clean Joy Division shirt because they are Frank's favorite. New jeans,- the first pair he brought in a while. Even does his hair, easier because Frank says he likes it messy. Talked him out of his signature boycut- long looks better.

More him- or whoever he was trying to be.

A blue pill and whiskey so he can be fun enough to not wake up alone. 

The party is loud.

He likes that, doesn't have to pretend to talk to anyone. Just watches the crowd as they all just...do it. Easily. Wonders how many of them end up in a chair with a guy asking them how shit makes them feel...wonders if their answers ever change. His dont.

Adam would have liked that blonde in the corner. Bet she doesn't fuck whales either.
He makes it out just barely: next up, Pency Prep.
That's Frank, he thinks to himself.

He forces himself to endure the front row. Him and a group of girls...all looking at Frank the same way.

Spotting Gerard in the crowd makes Fran's night, the kid never gets out, so it's a luxury. So he gives him a smile. Gerard thinks he blows a kiss, but maybe that's for the redhead next to him.

She Is definitely a no.

The show is fast.

If Gerard wasn't stuck to the gum on the floor he thinks he would have missed it.

Frank's good, better than good- he's real. Walking around the plywood stage like it's his, why is he standing on a drum set? Doesn't matter, not when he's not wearing a shirt.

Afterwards Frank finds him. A tight hug that He wants to last a little longer than it does.

Frank pulls away from the hug, smile on his face when he says I got somebody. I want you to meet.

Great, Gerard thinks. 

He didn't even want the one friend and now he's going to have another... To his surprise, it's a girl. Two of them, one for Frank and one for... Shit.

" Ladies, this is Gee,' He said with a smile," Gee, this is Carrie-"

"Sherry," The dark haired girl corrected with a smile.

" Right," Frank, laughed," and Crystal... She's always a good time."

The blonde girl smiled just a bit, like she was in on some joke.

" I've seen you around campus, surprised Frankie said you wanted to meet us, everyone says you're a f-"

Sherry nudges her with her elbow, but she didn't need to finish the statement. Gerard knew what was coming after that F.

" Yeah, a feminist... love women." He says though he doesn't know if he even believes it yet.

Frank just gives a quiet laugh and nudges the blonde In Gerard's direction.

Gerard tries, really tries. Even though he knew what the answer was going to be.

But the girl—Crystal, he thinks—doesn’t seem all that into it.

She keeps glancing around the room, like she’s scanning for someone better. Gerard knows the feeling, he's looking for Frank.

But he knows he can't go over without at least saying he did something. So he tries despite knowing where it’ll end up

So he clears his throat, “You want to hear a poem?”

She perks up, suddenly attentive and wearing a smile he never got from pretty girls, “Yeah, got any love poems?”

He nods, more to himself than her. Takes a shallow breath and pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Doesn’t mention he wrote it for someone else. Just reads,

I brought you my bullets. You brought me your love.

Together we can stare at the stars above.

Underneath soil and earth we'll lie,

Forever in love beneath the night sky.

 Blood-soaked kisses stream down your face,

While hands press tightly as fingers lace.

I'll bring you my bullets if you bring me your love—

He stops. The smile’s gone from her face.

Frank was right. Probably just needs the guitar.

Gerard’s eyes flick over to Frank, who’s deep into it with the other girl—what was her name? Sherry? She’s leaning in close, whispering something that makes Frank laugh. Gerard wishes he knew what it was. Wonders if Frank laughs that hard his jokes. Harder,

Frank’s hand is on her thigh, casual and confident. Not even trying to hide it.
Was he supposed to?

Gerard looks back at Crystal. She’s giving him the weirdest look—like he’s a bug under glass.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, throat burning, and mutters a quick apology before slipping away.

He finds Frank right where he left him. Only now that girl pressing kisses against his neck.

Frank looks up, a little  more surprised than annoyed, “What? You guys done already?”

Gerard wants to say yes

Say he hated it.

s

Say *I hate this*—but instead, he shrugs and says, “I’m f—fucked up. Don’t know how I’m getting back to my room,”

The way he shifted on his feet, his words not running together like they do after too many beers and movies they pretend to watch- he’s lying.

Still, Frank looks at the girl on his lap and gives her a practiced excuse before helping his friend out into the night.

They both stumble through the door. Laughing Because if it's funny it won't be what it is.

Echoes of events from the night fill the halls as they stumble through the door. Jackets end up on the floor and Gerard lands on the couch. Frank kicks off his shoes and goes to the kitchen, comes back with two beers.

Gerard looks up at Frank, standing in the dimly lit room like he just stepped off a poster in some girl's room, "I told you I'm drunk. I've already-"

A laugh from Frank interrupts, “No you're not,” and hands him the beer.

The truth making it harder to look up, wondering he pretends his shoes are jnteresting. Just takes the beer.

Just like always, Frank's smiling at him, then flops down looks over and leans a little closer, “what'd you think of the show?

Tapping fingers against the can, trying to play it cool he shifts then opens his beer, "It was great... You were great- a lot of energy."

Frank smirks against his can, “ yeah, you seemed real interested in my.... Energy. Want to get up there sometime?

Gerard shakes his head quickly , "could never do that- not the way you do it. All those people staring at me-"

"Who cares if they stare, you got a nice face," Frank's words spill out too casually," Heard you singing in the shower the last time you stayed over- you're pretty decent... besides, chicks loves singers, isn't that why you learned the guitar?”

If he had been honest, Gerard would have said he only learned it to spend more time with frank period the ice tea never got him anywhere.

“You told me my poems would sound better to a melody, but can't really find anybody to play them for, my hands get all sweaty when I think about doing it any with anybody but you.

The laces of his shoes feel like a good distraction as Gerard avoids looking back, Franks word's get quieter,

“ You ever- just me?”

Gerard nods, feeling the weight of his words like a confession, “Yeah, just you”

There is a smile on his face that Frank can feel. Sure, Frank assumed, tried to be nice- but hearing it? Almost made him feel proud. Girls tossed it his way like it was some big deal, always wanted him to treat it that way though he really couldn't have cared less. They wanted it and he gave it.

But Gerard said no, let him do it anyway, and stuck around even when it wasn't on the table. But it mostly always was.

Kept following him around like the puppy he never got- that was his favorite part.

Never had to worry about wondering where he was. Always just there.

He looks over at Gerard again, “Uou know, I didn't say thanks for coming.,”

"Yes you did, you hugged me."

"Yeah, but I know how much you hate it, kind of a big deal."

Before Gerard can respond Frank leans over and Kisses him. There's a flutter in his stomach, that's what he came for right?

It doesn't stay soft, Frank's lips move real fast. That familiar sensation of metal against his mouth. Warm.

Hands against his waist, the urge to pull away when too much of him is gripped. It’s not gentle, not asking him to feel bad about what was under his shirt.

Singers make real good kissers.

He ends up on his back. Belts touching. A kiss on his neck that makes him louder than the first time.

Denim against denim.

But he’s not the only one excited, so he doesn’t have to feel bad. Can’t when Frank feels so good pressed against him.

Friction. Too much of a reminder of how good it felt the last time they were this close. Relief when the buckle felt looser.

A warmth in his stomach he only felt when he was alone and trying not to think about moments like this.

Sweat and soap.

Stubble followed by a bite against his neck.
Damp cotton.

Frank can feel the absence of his best friend. Pulls away just the bit, a laugh escapes him but Gerard doesn't feel a sting. Franks looks at him as a half smirk and says did you just-?

Gerard looks away well, too embarrassed to admit it.

Frank, kisses him again, deeper deeper and a way that makes Gerard moans against his lips.

"Ever blow a guy?"

He wonders if every night with Frank will feel like a first.

The next few weeks are fine.

Fun.

Guitars tossed to the side just like belts.

For the first time taking off his shirt made Gerard feel excited instead of embarrassed.

Likes the difference- both of them are pale, but Franks likes to workout-barely eats anything. Always tells Gerard he feels nice. Soft- kinda like a girl.

It’s not hard to smile at that.

Doesn’t even need the lipstick, but Gerard wonders if he’d mind.

Nights carry on until the sun starts to rise. Doesn’t even hurt as much anymore…wouldn’t know if it did- all he can focus on is the fact that they wake up together, always making eachother late for class.

This morning was different though.

It wasn’t the sun waking Gerard this time. It was Frank shaking his shoulder, the sound of muffled music in the background.

Gerard blinked awake, groggy. “What’s your deal?”

Frank was already up, moving around the room. “You gotta go.”

“Why?”

Frank didn’t look at him as he pulled on a shirt. “Because everyone else gets two. This is like your fourth time, dude.”

“Fourth time what?”

All he got in response was Frank cursing under his breath, more at the lack of clean clothes than the situation, “Look, I’m not looking for a girlfriend or whatever it is you’re doing. You can’t keep staying over after.”

Gerard sat up, covers pooling at his waist, “But we’re friends, I thought—”

“Friends don’t do what we do.”

There was a pause that seemed to stretch between them, heavy. The quietness of Gerard's voice broke it, almost like he was holding on to the small amount of courage he'd been saving, “What if I don’t want to go?”

Frank smiled, crooked. “Then we go back to guitar and cold pizza from the fridge. But if you wanna keep making that weird fucking face you make when I finish—you’ll get out.”

He dropped a small pile of clothes beside Gerard on the bed. Leaned in just a little.

“Don’t be like that. You wanted to be the girl—well, girls get kicked out in the morning.”

“Can I come back?”

“Planning on it,” Frank said, tugging his sleeves, “Gonna grab A New Hope after class. Thought you might wanna—”

Lips pressed against his cheekcut him off. A little too long, a little too soft.

When he pulled away, Frank just stared at him for a second. Then muttered, “See? That’s why you gotta go-starting to like that too much,"

He likes it, too. That was the problem. Too much time alone with his thoughts let Gerard know exactly why he had to go. Too close to the real thing.

So he got dressed quietly, trying to focus on anything but the smirk tugging at Frank’s mouth.

Didn’t want to have himlooking for a good time with someone else-someone with real tits and longer hair.

So he left. On time to class for the first time that week.

He sees Frank outside of his first class, he’s waiting for him-he’s even wearing that hoodie Gerard though he lost last week. That makes him smile. The girl that walks up and kisses him stops him in his tracks.

Frank's hands go a lot lower than her belt.

The pounding in his chest makes him want to run, hide-something other than stand there watching like a fucking idiot.

Wishes he could use ‘the force’ to pry them apart.

But he doesn’t, so he can’t.

A bump to the shoulder reminds him where he needs to be. He's supposed to be doing a still life today.

Loves his Drawing class, a bowl of oranges make a good distraction.

Still, every so often his mind goes back to the hall. To that girl.

To all the girls he'd watched go into the same apartment he did. Wondered if they made it to the bed, they all got two.

That's what Frank said- Gerard got four. That's gotta mean something right?

Doesn't matter, he wasn't going to wait around to find out exactly where he landed in the race.

He can rent Star Wars on his own.

Frank doesn’t hear from Gerard all day. Waits around with a copy of a movie he didn’t want to admit he was excited to see. Debates on calling, but doesn’t. If he wanted to be there he would.

Crystal’s always a good time anyway.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few weeks and she's almost got Mikey back to normal.
He's stopped crying at least.
Lunches have been quiet. Mostly him moving around food while she scribbles poems that sound like something Kafka would like... She's already finished the book for the second time. Moved on to Wilde, not that Mikey noticed. Not that she cared if he did—she just wanted her friend back.

Mikey had noticed.
Noticed the change of books.
Noticed the way she never wanted to leave his side.
Always there.
Climbing through his window so he didn’t have to sleep alone, waiting outside of classes out of breath so he didn’t have to face the stares and whispers…
He didn’t want to talk about it, and she was the only one who didn’t make him.

They’d found a corner near the gym to eat at. Behind the stairs where it was quiet.
Just the sound of pencil against paper and pages turning.
He wanted to say something—thank you, maybe.
But how could he thank her for that?

So they just stayed close.

“You wanna hear a poem?”

Mikey looked up at her, the first real thing she’d said in three weeks—up until then all it had been was “you done with that?” or “need a hug.”
All he could do was nod.

Nia smiled softly and held her notebook like she was about to read a declaration.

Remember when we met in spring—
Oreo cookies, dragons and things?
The playground felt so warm, finally heard birds sing
Laughs laced with milk like nosebleeds
Eyes like autumn leaves
Green and brown
Yours and mine
Let the wind blow cold as we walk the line
Together forever, that much is true
I could never find another friend like you

As her voice grew quieter, she glanced over to see if he was listening.
Mikey just stared at the scuffed tile under them.
She’d said it—everything he needed—all scribbled down on that piece of paper.

“Can I see that?”

Nia looked down at the notebook in her hand and gave it to him without question.
He stared at it for a moment. Then she heard it: the sound of paper being torn out.
Watched as he carefully tucked it into his forest green Trapper Keeper and fought back words he didn’t need to say—because she knew them already.

Still—he had to do something.
His eyes fell to her lunch—PB&J just like every Tuesday.
He had ham and cheese.

Nia watched in almost horror as Mikey grabbed the mushy pieces of bread she’d assembled that morning.
He grabbed his own and took them both apart only to reassemble them like some kind of mad scientist.

When he passed it back, it was the grodiest thing she’d ever seen.
Her eyes dragged over to Mikey, who was already regretting his choice after the first bite.
The sandwich found her lips—cold, slimy, and oddly sweet.
Still, they both ate the whole thing like some sort of private ritual.

When they’d both swallowed the last bite, they looked at each other.
That thread pulled a little tighter.
Their laughter echoing against the stairwell until the bell rang.

She’d missed that sound more than anything.

Sasha had other plans.

Mikey didn’t need her help—at least, not now—but Sasha insisted anyway.

“You’re going,” she snapped. “You’re gonna have fun for once instead of crying into your fucking pillow, and she’s gonna come home. Got it?”

He tried to explain—we’re feeling something, or it’s not like that—but Sasha didn’t want to hear it.

A girl from the cheer squad needed a favor. Sasha made it a trade. Mikey was the favor.

A cheerleader? He figured if Gerard got to pull this kind of shit, he should get something out of it too.

So he said yes. Drive-in movie. It wasn’t like he had other Friday night plans.

Well…

Nia was confused when he told her. Not mad. Not really.

They’d planned to watch Xena. He promised.

But he looked happy. So she let him go. Smiled like she meant it when he told her it was fun. Said it sounds like you had more fun than we usually do.

She got up when Nicole—the cheerleader—walked over to sit with them at lunch. She bumped into her in the hallway later. Told Mikey she was in a rush. History quiz.

Mikey could tell something was off.

“Could you… I don’t know, be nicer to her?” he asked Nicole.

“Nice? To her? I barely want to be nice to you,” she snapped.

“Yeah, well… thanks for that,” he muttered. “But she’s my sister. She just likes to hang around. Could you maybe just talk to her?”

Nicole made a face. “Your what?”

“My sister,” Mikey said. “Sort of.”

Nicole wanted to walk away—maybe even cuss him out. But Sasha had connections, and Nicole wanted to be top of the pyramid next year.

So she just rolled her eyes and said, “Fine.”

That didn’t stop the fight.

“What’s your deal?” Mikey asked as Nia shoved her books into her bag.

“I don’t have one,” she said flatly. “Don’t have much of a friend either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s been two weeks. You missed Star Trek and Xena. I didn’t even tape it for you. You didn’t even ask.”

“So that’s what this is about? You’re jealous because I’m spending Fridays with a real girl now?”

“I’M A REAL GIRL.”

“Yeah, but it’s different. I don’t wanna—you know it’s different, right?”

Nia made a face, confused and disgusted. “Different than what? What do you even do at that drive-in?”

Mikey looked away. He didn’t want to admit they didn’t do much. He hadn’t told her about the kiss.

“Look—I’m not your boyfriend or anything. Why does it matter?”

“You? MY boyfriend?” she spat. “I don’t—how could you even say that? That’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Mikey blinked. “What’s so bad about me?”

“For starters, you wear your glasses at the end of your nose like a psych-o. What’s that even about?”

“Yeah? Well, you can’t even reach the books on the top shelf without me helping you. Always scarfing down my cookies like you’re a fuckin’ Keebler elf.”

Her jaw dropped. “You never eat the tops. You said I could have them!”

“Only because you never bring your own! I always bring extra so you can—”

He stopped.

Her eyes were wide. Wet.

He’d hurt her.

And all he could think of was the time his brother made him cry. Nia had been there then, too. She even ate that nasty sandwich.

“Don’t do that,” he said quickly, crossing over to her. “I’m sorry.”

She turned away to hide her face.

“I’m sorry! I won’t go out with her again. We’ll watch whatever you want.”

She sniffled. “Whatever I want?”

He nodded. “If you stop crying.”

Nia wiped her face with her sleeve. Glanced back up at Mikey who she had to look up at now, thought she’d catch up by now. He WAS always getting books for her when all the other guys were out with real girls on Friday nights, always did bring extra cookies…maybe he was getting tired of taking her to dances just so they can make fun of everyone else. The last time he didn’t laugh as hard. 

She smiled. “I’ll tape Xena next week. Come over right after the drive-in.”

Mikey let out a breath. “So we’re cool?”

She tilted her head. “As long as you keep her away from our lunch spot.”

“Deal.” He said it too quickly.

He hugged her. She let him.

She figured she should feel bad.

But she didn’t.

She got her friend back.

Chapter Text

Is he mad?

This is the question Gerard had been asking himself all weekend. All goddamn weekend. There was nothing else to do. It was too hot to even want to move. Wonders of everyone's vents leak at night-that gives Some relief.

Should’ve gone, he thinks.

Should’ve just watched the damn movie and waited to see which scene led to a kiss. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Not after seeing Frank practically face-fucking some girl in front of everyone. He didn’t even care.

Or maybe Gerard just cared too much.

Either way, Frank didn’t call. Didn’t apologize. Didn't even come by for a beer.

He’s supposed to be the guy. There’s supposed to be flowers. Candy. A phone call. Something.

Instead, it’s just another quiet weekend with Captain Sisqo.

Monday passes, and all Gerard gets is some eye contact in the dining hall—fleeting and sideways, like they’re trying to pretend they’re not staring from across the room.

He looks down at his tray. Must’ve been distracted—he grabbed Frank’s favorite veggie burger instead of real food. Great.

Tuesday.

Gerard always waits for Frank after class on Tuesdays. Looks forward to the way Frank always acts annoyed—eye roll with a smile, hug longer than the bell. But today? No Frank. No hug. No whispered complaints about professors or pillowcases or whatever dumb shit Frank always finds a way to make interesting.

Not like him to skip. He never skips. Always ranting about becoming a music therapist. Gerard never got it—told him so once.

Frank had said, “You do get it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t play The Smiths when you think I’m not coming by.”

That made sense at the time. But now Frank isn’t here.

It’s only October, but the semester feels like it’s already ending.

This fall’s been better than the last thats one thing that Gerard knows. The leaves looked like they had color again- he'd missed them last time. Couldn't wait to get out and paint. Wasn't as much fun alone.

He hoped the winter might be, too.

He’d been planning to ask Frank what he wanted to do for his birthday. Maybe a movie. Maybe dinner. But he couldn’t figure out how to make it sound like something that wouldn’t scare him off.

Not that he got the chance.

Because Frank is missing.

At least, that’s how Gerard sees it. And he can’t be expected to just go about his day like normal while wondering where his best friend is.

Dr. Levine will understand.

Hopefully.

He’s also going to have to explain running out of Xanax again. Can't keep using exams as an excuse.

Weaving through the quad is easy when you're invisble. As long as he doesnt bump into anybody he can stay that way.

Doesn't even have to say excuse me.

Too many fucking people.

There’s music blasting from Frank’s dorm. Loud. Too loud.

It makes his stomach drop.

The last time music was that loud, Gerard woke up chained to a hospital bed.

His books hit the ground with a dull thud as he pounds on Frank’s door.

“Frank? Hey—Frank, open up!”

The door swings open fast. Frank stands there, shirtless, in pajama pants and nothing else.

“Jeez, you trying to break the damn thing down?” he mutters.

Gerard scans him. No red eyes. No tear-streaked cheeks. Just pupils wide as dimes, jaw clenched like he’s chewing gravel.

“What’s uh… where’ve you been?” Gerard tries not to look past him, but he does. There’s someone inside. Not that he cares. Doesn’t mean anything. At least it never did when it was a girl.

This one isn’t.

Frank leans into the doorframe with a grin, “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You wanna be able to crash here next year?”

Gerard blinks. “…Yeah?”

“Then tell all your little paint-by-number buddies I can get them through finals.”

Gerard squints. “Are you stoned?”

Frank’s jaw works a little harder. “Just—”

He stops. Opens the door wider. The sound of beer cans behind the door-not and surprise. An invitation would have been nice thought. 

Gerard sees it now, the reason Frank's been so '"busy".

Baggy-eyed guy on the floor. Thin. Pale. Long black hair and a DIY band tee Gerard’s never heard of. There’s a small mirror balanced on the his chest, a couple lines already waiting.

“You know Bert?” Frank says, flopping into the chair beside the guu who was now laughing at nothing.

“No.”

“Really? He's my best customer, cool guy, " He turns to Bert and smirks, "You ever watch Star Trek? It's all this kid talks about.”

Gerard glances between them. At Bert’s lazy grin. At Frank, who looks like he wants to bolt out of the room, but can’t move.

He turns to leave. Goes to gather his books.

Then Bert laughs—high-pitched, nasal.

Something about it stops Gerard. He turned, the room didn't smell like sweat, just smoke. They were both dressed. Maybe it was nothing. But he knew Frank too well now.

He wondered who ended up on their back.

If that’s why Bert’s really here.

He turns back to Frank before he can stop himself. “I was worried about you, you know.”

Frank doesn’t flinch.

“You should show up to class once in a while.”

Frank shrugs. “Not like you called or anything. Figured you had better things to do.”

“Yeah,” Gerard mutters, “well I don’t. So… call next time you’re gonna disappear, okay?”

Frank doesn’t answer. Just looks down at the table, hands busy near the mirror. Gerard sighs loud enough for him to hear, then drops his books again and sits beside him.

He doesn’t have to. Just wants to be close.

Bert goes first. Quick, like ripping off a bandage.

Frank takes his time. Savors it. Makes a sound Gerard’s never heard from him before. Something between a hiss and a moan. 

A cheer with smile that could have made him do anything in that moment.

Then he turns to Gerard. 

That fucking smile.

“Bert’s heading out soon,” he says too fast. “Wanna watch Star Wars? I haven’t returned it yet.”

A pause.

Thats it?

He should leave. He’s got class. Got therapy-promised himself he'd tell Dr. Levine about Frank this time.. Got a thousand other reasons to walk out.

But Frank is smiling.

So he stays.

Kisses laced with powder are better than beer flavored ones.

All over. All teeth that send electricity to places that missed tattooed fingers.

Feels like he did it too. Frank’s hands are faster than usual, good at taking off their belts. Apologies sound better against Gerard’s neck- and Frank’s stomach.

He wonders for a moment if Frank skips condoms with everyone, why it always has to be spit.

Watching it fall into Frank’s palm make him more excited than the friction.

Much more fun since it stopped hurting. Since Frank stopped being gentle-the exception being when he whispered in Gerard’s ear.

It was always something different.

“You’re my best friend,” Falls out in ragged, short breaths before Gerard feels exactly how close they are.

Definitely better than flowers.

Chapter Text

Fridays.

Sasha loved Fridays.

Especially ones hotter than they should be. Gave her an excuse to roll the waistband of her skirt up an inch as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. 

A smile crept onto her face as she hummed, smoothing the flyaways from her freshly permed hair.

Her cheer uniform was on.

 Gold bamboo earrings—courtesy of Darren or Erin… she couldn’t remember his name. Would have if he'd gotten the necklace to go with it. 

Made a note to herself as she fixed her edges- stop dating townie.

It had been her weekly ritual. Her lips were lined and glossed, her mascara was always just enough. She had practiced this—this whole version of herself—until the mirror finally started saying something back.

She didn't always like what it had to say.

Sixth Grade, 1988

Back then, the cafeteria had felt like a punishment. She had never seen so many groups so sure of themselves. Girls with matching barrettes and matching laughter. Not one face looked like hers. She scanned the room. She hadn’t seen anyone with a new Tony! Toni! Toné! CD. She wondered if any of them even knew who that was. Her loose change savings hadn’t been cutting it, and radio singles only gave you so much. That was when she saw them—cheerleaders, all of them. Ponytails bouncing, uniform skirts swishing with every exaggerated laugh. Different hair colors. But every one of them could sunburn. They looked like a TV show.

Sasha stood up straighter. She was just as good. Maybe better—if they gave her a chance.

She walked over and said, “Hi. I’m Sasha. You should want to get to know me.”

One of the blondes looked her up and down: ripped Goodwill jeans, old Michael Jackson tee. Her lip curled. “Why?” the girl asked.

Sasha smiled with every ounce of bravado she could fake. “You see anyone else that looks like me? I’m, like… special or whatever.”

The girls didn’t laugh right away. Just eyed her, especially the jeans. The shift in Sasha’s posture gave her away.

“What’s so special about that?” one finally said, and then they all laughed.

People were always laughing. Sasha was tired of it.

That night she cried.

Nia asked what was wrong, hadn’t heard her sister make that sound too often.

She didn’t answer—just threw a stuffed bear at her and told her to get lost.

Later, in the mirror, Sasha studied her face. Her nose. Her skin—deep brown but not too dark because she avoided the sun when she could. Not creamy either.

Oreo with no cream, she thought.

Her hair was a mess. Not curly enough to be cute. Too curly to comb, even though she begged her mom.

The slurred response was a no.

Her eyes were dark, not green or blue or hazel... dark. But her smile—her smile was nice.

She looked down at the Vogue magazine she had stolen from the grocery store—Naomi Campbell on the cover—and thought nobody laughed at Naomi.

She almost looked like that.

Same skin, the hair… she could do something about that.

She’d been collecting makeup from the beauty supply one piece at a time. Made Nia go in first so they followed her around instead. 

When she was done, she smiled at herself in the mirror. That didn’t feel right. Naomi didn’t smile.

So she tried a modeling face, one that cut. That was her.

Nobody was ever going to get the chance to laugh at her again.

She went to the kitchen, grabbed the metal comb from the drawer. Put it on the stove.

All those girls had straight hair, and so would she.

Nia sat underneath her by the kitchen table, seeing smoke and a jar of Blue Magic in her hands, waiting for Sasha.

“What’s that smell?”

Sasha winced from the heat against her ear, “My hair.”

She went to her room, grabbed the nicest thing she had: her Easter dress. She couldn’t remember the last time they had gone to church. The bottom of it kind of looked like a cheer skirt. Scissors, needle, and thread from the spool shed kept ever since she got that sewing kit for her birthday.

When she stepped into school the following Monday, she felt it—not a single eye on her. She blended in for once.

That was, until practice.

She had worked on that routine all weekend.

A mix of things she’d seen in music videos and moves she’d practiced watching the squad from the sidelines after school.

She slept with those pom poms every day for a week. She had something new for once, the uniform fit perfectly. It was her and nobody was going to take her spot.

Nobody was ever going to get the chance to make her cry again.

1995-Senior Year

Sasha’s reflection in the mirror smirked.

Worked.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had spent a Friday night at home. Parties, boys—friends. The uniform had given her everything. Even that scholarship she needed.

She had made it to senior year. Captain. All those girls under her on the pyramid. It felt good. No, better. It felt like power.

Then came the banging on the bathroom door.

“Sasha! We’re gonna miss the bus!” Nia’s voice squeaked through. “I gotta get these books to the library so I can get more.”

Same as always. Sasha opened the door and saw her: in Mikey’s old Poison shirt, jeans frayed at the knees, curls wild and free. Didn’t seem to care that everyone stared. Remembered picking spitballs out last week after she came home crying about some guy who told her she was in the way.

Felt good to tell him he’d never get so much as a finger under any of the cheerleader’s tops…

But her sister? She was a lost cause that didn’t realize it yet. And with Sasha and Mikey leaving for college next year, she was going to be prey.

Sasha looked her over, lips pursed. She couldn’t have that. So she gave her a lifeline.

“You’re going to tryouts,” she said flatly.

The look on her face told Nia she shouldn’t argue, but she tried anyway.

All she got was an eye roll and a shove towards Mikey at the bus stop.

Nia didn’t want to go to tryouts; Sasha knew why—she wouldn’t get to spend time with her little weirdo friend.

So despite being in public, the eyes of the squad glancing at her leaving their table, she went up to him during study hall.

“Hey,” she said quiet enough so no one would hear them talking, “I need to talk to you.”

Mikey looked up at her, almost surprised she was talking to him here. “On school grounds? Isn’t that against your code or something?”

Sasha crossed her arms. “Everything about you goes against my code—but we need to talk.”

Mikey never turned down an opportunity to be seen with the head cheerleader, so he scooted over.

Sasha scoffed, “I’m not sitting on the ground—get up.”

He did as he was told, dusted himself off, and tried not to look down her top because it got weird last time.

Still having those dreams—Gee said not to worry about it.

“Yes?” He signed, already dreaming the conversation.

“You need to talk to her.” 

“Who?”

“Nia—she doesn’t want to go to tryouts.”

“Aren’t they on Wednesdays? We watch Doctor Who on Wednesdays…”

Sasha scoffed, “I don’t give a damn about your geeky little shows—that’s exactly why she needs to be on the squad—needs to get away from…”

Mikey smiled, “Careful or I’ll tell her what I really think of cheerleaders.”

“First of all I have a 3.7—” Sasha softened, “Look, you and I are going to be graduating soon—she’s going to be stuck here by herself… you want her sitting under the stairs alone?”

“She won’t, she’s—”

“A fucking loser thanks to you,” Sasha finished, “and I let it slide because you're mostly alright— but what happens when you get to Rutgers and see a campus full of girls half as pretty as me wanting to give you the time of day?”

“It doesn’t matter—I’m going to live at home, those girls don’t look at me twice… I don’t even have a car yet.”

Sasha leaned in close enough so that the next things that fell out of her mouth were just between them. “Not now, with that weird haircut and the contacts that you think work…but you got that jaw line and you’re really tall, somebody’s bound to take pity on you if you get better clothes.”

Mikey fought the warmth in his face. Never knew he had a jawline, “It doesn’t matter, I’m not going to just ditch her. We're friends.”

Sasha got closer to him, wondering when she started having to look up.

Boys got dumb when she got that close. She hoped Mikey was normal for once.

“You need to tell her to go… I’m not going to have her spending Friday night staring out of a window waiting for one of us to call.”

Mikey turned away, watching the halls empty out for the next bell.

Sasha could see he wasn’t going to budge, so she rolled her eyes. “Come on, don’t you remember sitting alone every day? You want that for her?”

The memory crossed his mind. Cold lunches on a tile floor because he wanted to keep his glasses. Sasha pretending to laugh right along with the others just to give him the look that told him she was sorry… he knew she wasn’t.

“I’ll talk to her IF you get Nicole to go out with me again.”

“Nicole? Why her?”

“She’s, uh, I like her. She was nice.”

Nice? Sasha thought. The girl tore him to shreds in the locker room. Talked about his sweaty hands and how he kissed too wet. Tongue when he didn’t need it. Why her? What was so special about her?

But it was for her sister. So she knew she had to agree.

Sasha nodded. “She wants to be captain. When I leave, you get Nia to get on the squad and I’ll get her to go to prom with you.”

Mikey sighed and extended his hand. “Fine, but if she gets too cool for me I will never forgive you.”

Sasha smiled. “You ever get a good look at her? That uniform won’t help much. When people look at her they’ll see you written all over her. This is just… insurance.”

And with that she turned away, leaving behind a trail of vanilla Mikey was sure he was going to miss next fall.

After school ended, in Mikey’s room as always… They were sitting there. She liked to be on the bed when she played. Lying on her stomach, legs crossed behind her, laughing at something on the screen.

She was having too much fun for a girl in his bed… She was the only girl who wanted to be there.

Underneath his Misfits poster he got from his brother, he saw that she was wearing his old t-shirt. It fit her perfectly even though she wasn’t as skinny as he was.

She took a bite of the sandwich his mom made for her… that was the only reason they kept strawberry jam around.

Used to have to lie to his mom and say he liked it, but now it was Nia’s family.

His sister.

He’d do anything for her… even tape Doctor Who.

“So,” he sighed, “aren’t cheer tryouts coming up? Sasha must be real busy.”

“Yeah,” Nia half-laughed with a mouthful, “she takes that stuff way too seriously.”

“She takes her eyebrows seriously.”

They both shared a laugh, but Mikey remembered the deal he made with earlier. 

He really wanted that date and-to help his friend.

. “You know… those uniforms are kinda sweet, kinda like a superhero or something.”

Nia raised an eyebrow. “Superhero?”

Nervousness coming through his voice, Mikey just nodded. “I mean, they do all those flips and stuff—imagine if they had weapons or powers or—”

Nia shook him off. Silence stretched between them. It felt thick, like it wasn’t supposed to be there. They were supposed to be having fun. That’s why she hung around him. But there was something she couldn’t place. He was being weird. All this talk about cheerleaders and superpowers… he hated cheerleaders. They made fun of them all the time while they waited for Sasha to be done with practice. Why would he be saying nice things about them? Then she remembered Sasha’s half-demand from the bathroom…

“She got to you!” Nia gasped, clutching the controller to her chest. “Mikey how could you?”

“Wait, it’s not what you think! I just—what’re you gonna do when we leave?”

Nia got quiet. “The library is usually empty—I figured I’d have lunch there…”

Mikey avoided eye contact. “That’s no fun, trust me. Had two years of it after Gee left, only got better when you showed up.”

Nia started the game again. “So what’re you saying? You want me to hang around airheads and miss the Daleks?”

“You wouldn’t miss them. I’ll tape them—won’t watch it without you, could add it to the Xena night…”

Nia tried to focus on collecting gold rings. Maybe if she ignored it, he’d drop it.

He paused the game and said her name the way she knew meant he’d use that voice that stopped cracking a few months ago.

“If you don’t like it, I’ll personally tell Sasha to back off, but… I think she might be right on this one. Remember when she talked me out of the highlights?”

Nia put the controller down and groaned loudly. “You don’t get it, I’m not her. I like my hair the way it is. I like the clothes you give me… I like sitting with you at lunch.”

The bed shifted as Mikey filled in the spot next to her. “We can still sit together—and I just had another growth spurt so you can have all my old shirts if you like them that much… You can just have the uniform under it.”

With a quiet voice she tried to focus on the sheet patterns. “You gonna come to all the games?”

Mikey wanted to say no, but they were in this together, so he said with colors on.

“Fine—but you’re helping me with my routine.”

Mikey kept his word. He helped her with her routine all week. He and Sasha. Mikey picked a song she liked: We Will Rock You by Queen.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How am I going to work with that?”

“She likes it,” Mikey half-whispered, “gotta be something that won’t make her realize how dumb this is.”

That earned him a pinch on the arm. Sasha was too quick to fight off.

They worked on it for four days. Handstand Sasha taught her when she was a kid. Mikey lifting her… He never knew she was so heavy.

Monday came around and she was nervous. The gym was a lot bigger than Mikey’s front yard. Hotter too. What if she slipped on her own sweat? All those perfect little smiles laughing at her? The thought alone made her stomach twist.

She saw the girls from Sasha’s clique scanning her as she wore her sister’s old uniform like she was already on the team.

It was too small, but the idea was there.

Sitting with her only friend as she waited for her name to be called. Mikey glanced over—Sasha’s old uniform and the shoes she never took off. Biting her nails. Bouncing knee—she was nervous.

She wanted this.

It was the only thing he could think of to help. He uncapped a Sharpie and leaned over.

“What are you doing?”

His gaze was focused on the tip of the shoes, black ink forever marking them. “I just don’t want you to forget about me when you’re all popular.”

One skull, one star. Both badly done but made the shoes better. Made them a memory.

Her name was called. She slowly started to walk into her new reality. She hoped Mikey still wanted to hang out with her after—they had just made it to level two and she needed him to play Knuckles.

Is he going to make fun of me? she thought. Knew the answer was no. Not when he was waiting on the bleachers. She saw that he was in school colors and holding a boombox.

He better be at every game.

Then the music started.

The gym floor echoed underneath her.

Stomp. Stomp. Clap.

Sasha walked over to her sister and let out a breath. “You couldn’t just straighten your hair?”

Nia shook her head. “I like it this way… Did they?”

Sasha smirked. “No. But they don’t get the final call, I do. You’re at the bottom.”

That flicker of excitement was unforgettable. Mikey even gave her one of those hugs that made her feet leave the ground. Made it feel less like a death sentence.

But when the next Friday rolled around and Nia finally got to wear her uniform, she saw the pride in her sister’s face as Sasha helped her shape the perfect afro — even let her wear the clear lip gloss that was always off limits. Almost made it worth feeling like it was a mistake. She liked the skirt though. 

Sasha could enjoy her senior year in peace — with her sister by her side.

Nia got to feel like a girl instead of a Krelborn for once.

Mikey got to walk into school with a cheerleader who actually let people know they were friends.

Senior year was going to be perfect.

At least for two of them.

Nia was just a freshman. 

Chapter Text

It was rainy. It had been rainy all week. Still Gerard did it. He slugged himself out of bed even though there were no classes. His friend was off doing whatever it was he did when Gerard couldn't get ahold of him.

Gave his best effort to justify not passing the sniff test before grabbing his walkman and heading out to the subway.

it was crowded. Always so fucking crowded. Metallica helps though. 

Tourists. Couples. Kids...that weirdo talking to himself in a corner.

THIS was exactly why he was moving back to Jersey first chance he got. 

Too many reminders of where he might end up around the city...

Easier to just focus on finding the track that he'd had his brother burn for him last summer. Makes a mental note to figure out computers. 

Made another note to wash his shirt. Batman was cool and all, but he hadn't had pizza for a week...

Maybe the rain would help. Gave him an excuse to rush last people without faking a hello.

When his shoes finally squeaked against the stained linoleum he was almost eager to get it over with.

This was a special visit. His mom had sent him money: he can finally buy something other than crackers.

He’s still gotta thank her for the microwave—technically against dorm rules, but she pretends not to know.

Wishes she’d stop buying the plastic knives, though

. Frank says they’re bad for the environment. Cares about shit like that. So now Gerard does too.

Not that he has any other options. You try to kill yourself one time and suddenly you can’t be trusted with a steak knife. He didn’t even use a knife. But she still makes him take the pills. Doesn’t make sense.

He walks the aisles, fluorescent lights humming, everything in bright packaging that promises more than it delivers. Prepackaged food that isn’t anywhere near as good as home, but he has to say he’s trying. He is.

Trying.

Better to drink on an empty stomach, but that wasn't what he was supposed to do. It didn't matter,  not like he could buy anything—just turned twenty.

Might ask the guys who hang out behind the store; they’re usually willing to do anything for ten bucks.

More aisles. Too many people. Why are they playing Billy Ocean? Why don’t grocery stores play punk? Might make people move faster.

He turns into the wrong aisle.

Makeup.

He slows down.

All the colors line the shelves like paint. Doesn’t mean to look, but there it is—black lipstick. Wasn’t on the list.

Still, he picks it up. Feels heavier than it should. Last time he had a tube like this, it landed him in therapy.

But his mom’s not checking his dorm drawers anymore. Thank god.

It’s not a big deal.

Then he sees the eyeliner.
Black.
Danzig wears eyeliner.

So did all those guys from the shitty hair metal bands he liked in middle school- Bret Michaels wore lipstick on that album cover he gave Mikey, back before Adam showed him “real” music.

He hurries out of the aisle before he can change his own mind.

His heart feels heavy when he reaches the register.

Tries to look busy. Doesn’t want questions.

A magazine catches his eye. Cosmo. Why don’t they make those for men? Figured he could use some tips too- wanted to know how to please his…friend. 

Must have been staring to long because he heard someone clear their throat.

The cashier is older, maybe his dad’s age. That kind of guy always looks a little pissed off when you leave him alone too long.

The man rings the lipstick up twice, holds it up with a look Gerard doesn’t know how to read.

“It’s, uh... my girlfriend always makes me get her that,” Gerard blurts. “$1.99.”

The guy chuckles. “My wife sends me to aisle nine when she can’t get outta bed. Things we do to keep ’em happy, right?”

“Right,” Gerard says. Too quickly.

He hurries out.

Back in his room, he puts everything away. Not much fits in the mini-fridge, but he makes it work.

Still no roommate. Might ask Frank next semester. They’re together most of the time, anyway. Mostly.

The lipstick and pencil sit on the desk like they’re waiting for him.

No Adam around to make him feel like it was less of a deal than he knows it is. No one to say it’s just for fun. Just him. Just this.

Would Frank care? He likes when girls wear lipstick. Red, not black.

But black was their favorite color. This felt right. 

Maybe the eyeliner would help—whatever it is that makes Gerard’s eyes look so weird in photos. He makes a note to stop taking the red pills so early.

He exhales.

Puts the tube and the pencil in the drawer. Closes it.

Not today.

Steam curls against the mirror, blurring the edges of his reflection. Gerard wipes at it lazily, the condensation streaking under his fingers. His skin is warm from the shower, still damp, his hair dripping onto his shoulders.

He used to keep it short—practical, forgettable—but it’s different now. Darker, longer. He’d told himself it was just to match Frank's dreads.

That was easier than admitting he liked the way it felt, the way it softened him.

Frank liked it too. Liked to twist his fingers in it, tug at it, tangle it between his knuckles in the dark.

Gerard told himself that meant something. But it was Friday, and Fridays weren’t for him.

He leans in closer, his breath fogging up the mirror again.

His face isn’t the same one he remembers. The fullness in his cheeks has thinned, the angles more pronounced.

He expects to see Frank in his reflection—sharp, cocky, carved out of something solid.

But he doesn’t.

Christina Ricci stares back at him.

It makes him smile. He’s pretty.

His fingers brush over his cheek, over the smooth canvas where he shaves every morning.

Stubble makes him feel wrong, so he gets rid of it before it can take hold of his face.

His hand unsteady as he reaches for the razor blade. The whiskey was supposed to help with that-or maybe the xanax.

Either way, everything just started to blur together, made the blade harder to track as he lifts it to his skin.

The metal bites before he even realizes he forgot the shaving cream.
 

Blood beads up then smears as he swipes at it with his thumb.

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. He just felt it. Another reminder of who he really was. 

Christina probably doesn’t need to shave every other week.

Can’t even be a boy right, always comes in too patchy, makes him feel like someone else. 

 He wonders, just for a second, if Frank would still put his hands in his hair if he knew what Gerard saw when he looked at himself. 

His smile lingers even as the blood drips into the sink, a part of him spiraling down the drain. 

Next time, he'll try the eyeliner
*****

The sound of Joy Division spills through the walls letting the floor know Frank  was getting ready for a show. Used to be his alone time, but he doesn't get much of that lately.  If it's not the shows, it's family dinners- but mostly it's Gerard.
 It used to be weird, having someone just there all the time. 

Gerard even stopped looking at him all weird when he lowered his face in the mirror to get ready for the show. Been a lot more fun since he started singing, might ask him to do more than one. He's really good. Playing for him made it better for Frank, more fun. Not just an outlet now. 

Tonight they're getting ready together underneath posters of guys who used to do the same thing- maybe not what they did before.  

Gerard showered for the first time that week so his hair looked good. Wasn't really Frank's fault. Thinks he might be losing weight- good for him.

He's got something in his hand. Staring at it like it has some sort of secret.

Always gotta be so fucking weird about everything. Frank reaches over and grabs it.

They've both got hazel eyes.

He lines his eyes with black just like he used to do in high school when his girlfriend said it made his eyes sparkle or whatever- it killed time until she took of her bra. Draws two X's over his eyes just for fun.

Debates on whether the dreadlocks still work- makes him look different than all the other guys on campus. That and the lack of a tan...both on purpose. Gerard's just as pale though.

And always watching him. He doesnt even have to really be doing  anything and he just feels it. That gaze on him, just like it is while he finishes up his left eye. Kid could use all the help he could get and Frank had some to spare. 

"Turn around,"

Gerard turns slightly, just enough to see Frank’s smirk. Frank leans in close enough to tell Gerard's wearing his Axe spray from the bathroom. Might as well be roommates now. 

"You gotta stop making everything such a big deal," Frank murmurs as he titled Gerard's face, "even if people talk shit it's usually a whisper, you should only care when it's not."

Gerard feels the smoothness of the application. Frank could be gentle if he wanted to.

When he finished he tossed the pencil back into Gerard's lap.

Gerard just stared at his reflection. Couldn't tell how it looked. Not when they were next to each other. Same hazel eyes lined in black.

They looked like brothers.

Chapter Text

It’s late. Nothing weird about that, Sasha always gets visitors after midnight.
Not boys. Not really.

But they still crawl through her window like they're afraid of getting caught. 
 
Nia used to peek sometimes just to see if they were cute, or if they went to her school, or if they had license plates from out of town.
But this one she knows.

Mousy brown hair. Thick-rimmed glasses.

The way he climbs in like he’s done it a thousand times—only not this one. Nia’s is two over. 

Her first instinct is to duck. She’s not supposed to see this.

But something feels different.

They’re not kissing. Not touching. Not doing any of the things that makes Nia run away holding back a laugh. 

They’re on Sasha’s bed—her bed!—with two big yellow envelopes in their laps.

Mikey says something she can’t hear. Sasha listens. TO MIKEY. 

They switch envelopes and then open them.

Together.

Without her. 

Nia holds her breath like she’s the one waiting on good news.

There's a beat. They both stare at the papers in their hands before trading again.

Then they look at each other. Sasha looks like she might be crying. Mikey just stares at the paper before turning to her. 

A freakin’ hug?

Nia freezes.

Sasha doesn’t hug people. She barely lets people hug her. She says Mikey’s weird. She rolls her eyes when he talks about Star Trek and says she only puts up with him because he’s nice to Nia.

So why is she hugging him?

Why do they look so... close?

Not just regular close,  kind of close Nia thought only she and Mikey were.

She stays crouched by the door a minute longer, suddenly aware of how cold the floor is.

When Mikey brushes Sasha’s face Nia feels something in her stomach, tight. Like when she hears her dad walking towards her sister’s room at night. Like when Mikey dared her to jump off that bridge last summer. 

If they wanted her in there, they’d have invited her.

She doesn’t cry,  just walks back to her room, shuts the door, and doesn’t close her eyes the whole night. 

If they’re still best friends, maybe he’ll still eat the cookie tops when she surprises him tomorrow.

The next morning, she ends up at his house- because she doesn’t know what else to do.

It's a Saturday and she wants to hang out. She's used to climbing in his window- better than Donna knowing how much time they've been spending together... Everyone's being weird about that lately. They’ve gotta keep the door open now, Sasha always tells her to stay off of his lap. Even Donna says they should stay in the living room instead of on his bed.

Nia just wants to spend as much time as she can with him...he got into Rutgers despite all of her efforts. She tried to get him to ditch all last semester...he never wanted to risk the detention. 

Today though, she's not looking for trouble- just someone to eat the Oreo tops. 

She knows by now to sneak in through the back, that way she can just walk right to his room without anyone noticing. His parents are at work anyway, he's alone.

She goes up to his door, barges in like normal and is met with a sight that nearly blinds her. Mikey hunched over his bed with a playboy next to him. 

She screams. 

He scrambles to cover himself with a pillow while yelling, “ what the fuck,”

 Nia is trying to look anywhere but down as she closes her eyes. 

She drops the cookies, “My eyes! I'm gonna fucking go blind.”

He can’t get his pants up fast enough. She can’t open her eyes-headfirst into the doorframe. 

“Why didn't you fucking knock?” 

“You never make me!” She shrieks back.

 So much for no one knowing she’s there. They were right- the living room was safer. 

A book comes flying at her head as he yells at her to get out.

Down in the basement all Gerard wants to do is finish his goddamn painting. 

It’s been three weeks and he’s barely made any progress. Started as a self-portrait, now it just looks like that little doodle he did back in highschool. Where’d that book go anyway?

“My fucking eyes,” 

Huh, Mikey’s got a girl over. Just one more thing that he wins at, was the height not enough?

They’re loud. Too loud to let him finish this piece of…art. 

Can’t focus on shades of green with all the yelling, so he just shuts his door. He needs all his concentration on the canvas- he’s trying to graduate early and has no time between the band and apartment hunting. Frank’s gonna meet him any minute now. They’re supposed to be looking at apartments for him. Gerard told him selling out of his dorm was a bad idea, but where else was he supposed to go?

Scrambling to get his belt on, tight so that there aren’t anymore surprises, Mikey finds Nia in the kitchen helping herself to his last Yoo-hoo. Great, he was hiding that from Gerard, but Nia was on a roll today. First the window, then his favorite drink. Then he remembered it was hers too. 

Everything in the room seemed like a safer place to look. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend their last few weeks together. 

“Why didn't you knock?" Mikey sighs. 

Nia looks up with a chocolate milk mustache, leaning on the dark wood counter top, “Why were you doing that?" 

The sting in his cheeks lets Mikey know he’s going bright red, what was he supposed to say? “Because I had privacy for once... What do you even want? It's 10:00? A.M.”

A scoff fell out before Nia could stop it, too much like her sister already,  “I had cookies and Star-Trek is on- I didn't think you'd be doing THAT. Didn't even know you had one of those!”

Mikey pauses as he looks at his friend. Covered in milk, holding a broken cookie. 

Wait, what did she say?

“You mean like a Ken doll? 

She nods, taking the last sip, ”With cooler hair,”

 He can’t help it, feels it building before he could stop it- he laughs. Looks at her confused face then laughs hysterically. 

The sound of his hands slapping the table and the sight of him all but doubled over makes Nia consider whether or not she’s finally broken him. He HAD been acting weird ever since he got that yellow envelope in the mail. Maybe he’d finally jumped off the deep end. 

“What’s so funny?” She asked wiping her face with her sleeve.

Running a hand across his watery eyes Mikey just grabs his best friend by the shoulders and looks at her with a playful seriousness. 

“If I'm Ken you got a promise to stay Barbie until I graduate,”

A smile that he hopes is real as she looks up at him, “Promise.”

It was the most awkward hug of his life. Nia just smiles, he definitely didn’t hug Sasha this tight. 

 He doesn’t think they stopped hugging all week- he was really going to miss her. 

Even if she never knocks. 

Even if he has to spend the day picking up cookie pieces and getting his nails painted black. Even if he hasn't told her he's gonna live on campus. Won’t be able to walk her to the bus next year.

It's not like it's forever, right? 

That’s what he tells himself when she orders him to “be still,”

When he looked at her all he could wonder is if they’d be able to stay just like this a little longer. If She’d still think he was cool when he came back. 

But then she did something that let him know they would. 

She made fun of him for the Playboy.

Chapter Text

Frank says he's not gay.

Doesn't sleep with men, just a man- though Gerard barely counts at that. The others are either like Frank- too Macho to be fun- or they walk around like girls- if he wanted that he'd get it. Gerard is just... Both and neither at the same time. Someone he can check out girls with, but also the guy who gets on his back when they both strike out. Sometimes he's the better choice. 

It's comfortable.

Until it's not.

Until he starts to like the feeling of Gerard next to him at night- he's real soft in places Frank's not. Gets weirder when Frank starts to miss the smell on his pillow. Sweat and turpentine- feels like less of a intrusion than it used to.

But it mostly just feels like hanging out.  

Wearing the tie was supposed to help things, at least Gerard thought it would,  but it doesn't.

Just gets called cute and told to walk in behind his friend.

Gotta stop letting Frank talk him into things.

Last week it was skipping dinner with his folks, tonight it’s singing. In front of people who just can’t wait to hate him. The band’s been nice, guys he doesn’t pay much attention to.

One song.

That’s what he promised Frank.

One song then he gets to bolt. He’d wrote it a week ago. Figured he’d get ahead of the crowd- say what they were thinking before it felt like a big deal.

“If you get nervous, just look at me, “ Frank reminded him, “or find a nice pair in the crowd,”

An eyeroll and a tap on the shoulder. Gerard took a deep breath and started to sing:

Fat and alone

You're on your own

And no one is calling

On your telephone

A couple of snickers, a few faces of confusion. But the stage lights are dim so it feels like hiding. Frank jumping in on the chorus made him keep going:

Things aren't getting any better

(You're fat and alone)

And you stretched out all your sweaters

(So fat and alone)

Things aren't getting any better

They never, no never

It’s over before he can feel the judgement. Doesn’t even care if they liked it or not, just that his friend saw. Can’t wait until the show is over. That’s when he gets the hug. If it was good he’d get a kiss.

He gets a seat in the corner. Close enough that their thighs touch, but Frank keeps getting closer. He’s being very...nice tonight. Can't keep his hands out of Gerard's hair, called him pretty like three times...he likes that- not many 19 year old guys do. 

He also likes the way Frank looks at him, like guys do in the movies just before they kiss the girl. 

"Got a nice face," he slurs.

Gerard feels himself blush as he brushes his hand away but it's too late-

 "Yo, aren’t one of you guys in the faggy band?" Gerard's eyes follow the sound of that word he never thought would be thrown at him.

He recognizes the guy from a few other parties, always too loud. Too drunk. Takes the girls even Frank can't get. Thinks one of them's following behind him. Doesn't go to art school that's for sure- never sees frat symbols in his classes.

Still, too many guys like that around tonight. Gerard wondered if this one would let them off the hook. 

 Gerard looks at Frank silently begging to leave,  but frank is smirking, playing with that new lip ring of his...he's got a nice tongue Gerard thinks.

 "That's my faggy little band,” He laughs, “he just sings and lets me bend him over after the set, "

Embarrassment almost makes him spit out his Zima, the same reason he forced it back down. Glaring at Frank, begging him to knock it off before they both ended up crying in the bathroom. 

The guy scoffs, almost laughs as he turns to Gerard who is trying his best to use the force to get him out of it. 
 “Him? The fat guy? If you were gonna switch teams could’ve gone for something better? Or did you still want tits?”

Frank smiles wider and sips his drink, he leans back and asks the guy for one more... one more what? he says. "Insult about my friend...was hoping tonight could get fun." 

Gerard freezes- he always considered himself a pacifist. Frank liked ‘pussy’ better.

Never seen him do much except smile at whoever looked easiest. The look on his face tonight, though? Like he was asking for it.

"Whatever, just- keep your weird make out sessions to the dorm- oh wait- aren't you the guy that tried to off himself last year? What a pussy.” 

That’s it, Frank thinks. He stands up, hands Gerard his beer and cracks his knuckles. 

Gerard finds anywhere else to be, doesn’t want to be roped in to whatever this was going to be. 

 Still, he watches from the corner...almost feels bad for the guy, feels something else watching Frank get so mad- for him. That's probably what made him feel that flutter under his belt buckle. 

But then he thinks he sees a tooth on the floor.

Follows his best friend into the bathroom afterwards. Finds him rinsing red streaks down the drain. Flexing his fingers under the water.

Gerard leans against the sink, watching him splash cold water over raw knuckles. Blood swirls down the drain in thin, fast circles. 

"You hurt your hand?" Gerard asks, voice low.

Frank glances over his shoulder, grinning, "That's not my blood."

Gerard lifts an eyebrow, "I think he might be missing some teeth."

Frank shrugs, pleased with the new information,  "Good. Shouldn't have talked about you like that."

Gerard huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "I'm the one that wore the eyeliner, Frank. I'm the one who picked out these jeans."

Frank turns, hands dripping, "Yeah, and you just showed up here to—" He cuts himself off with a tight, crooked grin,  "We were having a good time. He tried to ruin it."

Gerard crosses his arms. "You were laying it on a little thick, don't you think? What'd you think was gonna happen"

Frank shrugs again, lazy, "What difference does it make? If you were a real girl, no one would have said shit. If I had my hand up your skirt instead of under your belt, it would've been just another Friday night for everybody"

Gerard looks away, feeling his face heat. "But I'm not. And you knew that before you started fucking with my hair. You saw them staring before you kissed me."

Frank wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie, “I wanted to anyway," he says simply, "Shouldn't matter."

Gerard swallows. His palms are sweaty. He laughs, a little more than embarrassed. "Well. Thanks, you know. For defending my honor or whatever."

Frank snorts. "I see you on your back making that stupid little face with words that barely sound like English, dude. You got no honor to defend. I just don't like people being dicks to my..." He hesitates, then says too fast, "Friend."

Friend.

Friends don't kiss the way Frank kisses.

Friends don't share jeans pulled from the floor after a night tangled up in each other.

Gerard shifts, "You can't just go around punching everyone who has a problem with it," he mutters.

Frank deadpans, "Why not- they do? You know what they do to guys that do what we do? Why cant I get even?"

Gerard laughs despite himself, "Because your hands'll hurt too much for what I want to do to thank you." Frank flexes his fingers, blood flicking onto the mirror.

He steps in close, crowding Gerard against the sink the way he does in the mornings, breath warm against his mouth. "What're you gonna do if I don't stop? " Frank asks.

Gerard smirks, the edges of him tipping reckless. "Nothing. I like it. I just... I think you should give them a chance. You know. A warning. Like baseball."

Frank quirks a brow. "Three strikes?"

Gerard nods. "Yeah. That way I know you're not just using me for an excuse to play tooth fairy.." Frank grins, wolfish.

"You get me bloody and laid without the punching," he says, amused. "But okay. Three strikes."

"Thanks," Gerard breathes. There's no one else in the bathroom. No one watching. So he does it first-He kisses him. It's his choice this time. 

Soft, almost shy, but real.

Frank's face tingles from it. He nudges Gerard's shoulder, muttering, "Don't be such a pansy about it."

Still, he lets his eyes roam—slow, deliberate—the way Gerard's jeans fit now, not ripped at the knees for once, not dirty. He looks...clean. Good. Good enough that Frank doesn't feel guilty about what he’s about to ask for.

"You wanna go back to my place?"

"Why? So you can take out the rest of your mood on me,"

Frank laughs, pulling him out of the bathroom, "I'll be nice- I swear."

Gerard raises an eyebrow but follows him anyway- Frank holds his hand on the way out.

Everybody can see, but nobody says a thing.

Chapter Text

Thursday 4:00

Gerard's sitting in a chair that feels both too small and too big. The clock on the wall is so loud today. He shouldn't have had so much to drink last night, but it was Wednesday and, well, there was nothing else to do.

Dr. Levine is nice. Nice enough, at least. The last five years haven't been that bad. It's a nice place to sit when things feel too real. When he starts to remember his friend too much or becomes invisible. Last time he joked it might be his superpower—that got the real laugh.

Always wearing a cardigan—might look good in leather.

Dr. Levine breaks the silence. This time. He looks at Gerard and says, "Your hair looks good, growing it out?"

How's he supposed to answer that question without saying something that'll end up in that notebook? Wait—does his mom see that? He said everything stayed in the room, but his mom was the one who paid for the sessions. He’d tell her if she—

"Gerard?" Dr. Levine repeats a little slower.

Gerard lifts his gaze, startled for a second, but then reaches up and says, "Yeah, all the guys on campus have short hair. I figured this would help me stand out."

There was a pause, that goddamn ticking, then traffic before Dr. Levine speaks again. "Is that what the eyeliner is about? Standing out?"

Shit.

He forgot he had worn that this morning. Last time he wore it, the subway worker didn’t call him "sir," so he figured he’d try it again. Worked.

"No, that's for the band. I'm, uh, in a band now."

Dr. Levine's bushy little eyebrows raise. Why does he have to make everything a question?

"Yeah, my fri—Frank, said I have a decent voice. Teaching me to play guitar," he adds, a little softer. "Says I look cool under the lights."

Dr. Levine doesn’t miss the flash of a smile when he mentions the lights. Doesn’t write it down, just leans back in his leather chair.

"You haven't told me about Frank. He somebody you want to talk about?"

Gerard shifts uncomfortably for a bit, trying to make the chair feel the right size before settling his gaze on the clock that now feels like it's counting down to something Gerard's been avoiding.. "He's the reason I'm not a virgin anymore," he stops mid-sentence, "I think."

Dr. Levine is a little startled, a little taken aback.

"Does it count if you don’t—"

Dr. Levine cuts him off., "Why don't we just start from the beginning. Who's Frank?"

Everything falls out like a deep breath Gerard didn’t know he had been holding. Before he could ask himself whether or not this was going to end up in that little notepad, he was telling him everything: about Star Wars, about being on his back, the punch at the party—even the eyeliner…

Saved the lipstick for another time. He had enough to worry about as it is.

By the end, Dr. Levine is just listening. Gerard expected something else. A look, disgust maybe. Tears? A threat to call his dad. But no. Just a long glance that made Gerard feel like he was being scanned or something.

Then fucking writing. Slowly.

His eyes fall back on Gerard, shifting in his chair again.

"How does Frank make you feel?"

There it was. The question he never asked himself, but knew he should have.

He tried not to think about it too much. Didn’t know exactly what the answer was. Knew he liked being under him. Knew he liked hanging out with him. Thinks they're friends, knows he wants to be more. Also knows better than to ever say that out loud.

So he just shrugs. "You don't get it. Nobody never did that."

Dr. Levine gives a gentle laugh. "What? Punch somebody?"

Gerard smirks too.

Makes it easier to admit, "No. Not look away when they see me. Adam watched... my mom had to. Frank just smiles and tells me not to be a pansy. Or that we're friends..."

Everything else just feels like an excuse for something he couldn’t name.

The session ends the same as the rest: a piece of paper and a promise to do it all again in a week.

He got his thirty-day death sentence. He's glad that dose is the same. Back when he was at the hospital, they gave him too much. And it made him feel like he was in the same place Adam was. Like he was looking for him—found Frank instead.

Maybe that's why he ended up at Frank's new apartment. Why he didn't need to knock anymore.

Frank opened the door with a smile, one that didn't fade when he said, "Looks like you've been cryin'."

It’s easy to pretend when the place is so warm. "I'm fine."

Frank sits next to him on the couch. He's lying.

Where does he go on Thursdays?

A deep breath before the crack of thunder, "You know that weird board game you tried to show me the other day…"

Gerard meets his gaze. "Dungeons and Dragons?"

Frank gives a nod, absently kicking an old pizza box. "You're a shit teacher. Found this group on campus... They meet every Wednesday. Figured we could check it out."

"Together?" Gerard asks trying not to get too into the idea.

Frank hands him a beer, smiles. "You're the only reason I even wanna play."

It’s not that Gerard agreed. More like... he just had nowhere else to be, and Frank knew that.

They show up to the game store on Wednesday. A bunch of guys that all look like Gerard—shirts for heroes Frank never cared about until he met Gerard, bad haircuts and not a girl in sight... it was almost sad.

Must be how Gee feels at all those parties. The thought almost made him want to apologize. Instead, he just pushes Gerard through the door.

Alright, so it was kinda cool, if Frank had to admit it. Gerard knew all this shit by heart. Explained what all those numbers meant and why the dice looked like that.

They sit at the table. The dice clatter like nervous teeth. Frank picks up a twelve-sided one and stares at it like it’s from another planet.

He tries, though. He really tries. Makes a character, names him "Nightblade" because it "sounded fucking cool."

Rolls initiative.

Asks what "AC" stands for.

Yawns after the first hour, stays for all three.

Threatened to unplug the phone for a week unless Gerard promised to tell the Dungeon Master he’d come back next Wednesday.

They walk home together in the rain. Neither of them brought an umbrella, but Frank tossed him his jacket before he got too wet. Didn't even say anything, just tried to light a cigarette despite it pouring.

By the time they make it to the house, they're both dripping. Frank can’t get out of his boots fast enough, and Gerard just watches as he moves from spot to spot.

When he catches Gerard’s eye, Frank just gives him a confused look. "What?"

Water was still dripping from Gerard’s face. The words came out slow, with disbelief. "You went."

Frank shakes out his hair like a dog who finally dragged himself inside. "Of course I did. I wanted to play—"

He’s cut off by a scoff. "You had no idea what was going on... you thought there were regular dice."

"How was I supposed to know? You never told me..." Frank shoots back.

Gerard moves across the streetlight-lit room, trying to close the gap. "I did. You just ended that lesson with my hands down your pants."

A laugh echoes through the small room before Frank notices how close he’s getting. "Now THAT was unforgettable," he admits.

Gerard wants to ask but doesn't have to: he likes him.

He always liked that Frank was just slightly shorter than him. He smiled at him. Frank smiled back.

It takes all his courage for Gerard to ask this time, but he pulls the question up through his stomach.He wasn't sure if he was supposed to ask, but how else was he supposed to say 'thank you for wasting your night with me'? Didn't think they made a card for that so he pulled out the only thing he had to give, "You wanna fuck?"

Lips brush against his, soft. "No... I kinda wanna watch Star Wars..."

That's how they end the night.

Darth Vader on the screen, Frank’s hand on his thigh, and a kiss before bed.

He didn't need to be anything other than "there."

Definitely counts.

Chapter Text

The apartment is big enough for two, Frank figures. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t want things to get weirder…but he keeps an extra toothbrush around. 

Gerard doesn’t have to know it’s shared with whoever sleeps in the bed when he’s not there.

Best thing about living in the city: parties.

 Better than the ones on campus. Real people out here, not trust fund babies that think they're deep trying to blend in.

Not wide eyed girls always expecting him to be something he’s not. 

Just him, almost free booze, and his best friend rambling about whatever was going on in the latest issue of Batman. 

If it wasn’t for the ass in the white jeans that walked by Frank would have missed it: Gerard didn’t look. At any of them. His eyes were always fixed on Frank.

They’d both had three…honesty was at the bottom of the fourth, so he asked Gerard about a blonde girl in the corner, if she was hot. 

Gerard looked over to see a girl that looked pretty nice. She had on a Clash t shirt- might like good music. Nice shoes, red looked decent enough. Matched her lipstick. Wondered if she did it on purpose. 

He looked back at Frank and shrugged, his fingers bent the tab of his beer off, ” All girls are hot. I guess. They all got tits right?”

 Frank gave a half laugh, “That's why chicks bang artists- you guys find ‘beauty’ in anything. She's a grenade.”

Gerard sighed and turned back towards the stereo, “I told you girls don't look at me like that,doesn't matter what I think. You don’t get it, they look at you like-”

“They look at me like you look at me,” Frank finished like a shot, “ Starting to think you like me…" he teases. 

The way he moves his lip ring makes Gerard wonder if he does, but it doesn’t matter. He knows how it’d end, gave it too much thought when gasping woke him up.

“No!” he said, nearly spilling his drink on the guy next to him, “You just got those new tattoos, it's crappy line work.”

 “Yeah? Draw me something better-but you still look.”

He debates on telling Frank about the sketches he did, they’d all look better than whatever that was supposed to be on his arm. 

 There wasn’t anywhere else to look except Frank it seemed, Gerard couldn’t keep it in, “ Because, I actually have a chance with you- they just see…” His hands scan his body before going back to his drink.

Frank's smile drops a bit. Can't let his best friend talk about himself like that.

Then he debates it, they've only known each other for a year and a half.

How can he be his best friends?

Oh right, because they've seen each other cum.

He takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Gerard's shoulder and says we'll find you a girl. 

Gerard doesn't even look up from the can, "Might be easier to find me a Zima,”

A bark of laughter escaped Frank before playfully shoving his best friend, “We will! But in the meantime this party's pretty dead- wanna blow me?

Gerard hesitates and swirls the liquid in the can, “You gonna do me this time?

Frank laughs again and hits him on the back and gives him a very important lesson: bottoms don't get blowjobs- that's what the girls are for. 

****

 During the last few weeks of the semester, Gerard tries to get a girlfriend- really tries- but they're all weird.

Don't like his poetry, always saying he should do something with his hair…might go blonde like the last one suggested. 

None of them get his poetry.

They just aren't used to romance, he figures. 

“Maybe if you wouldn't write about killing them all the time…” Frank offers with a side of stale potato chips.

Gerard just leans back onto the floor in desperate need of a broom,“ It's romantic,”  

“Maybe,” Frank said making sure his lines were straight before lowering his face, “but it might sound better to music. Let the band play one instead of that whiny little journal entry you gave us,”

Might as well, Gerard decided. So far, seemed like everything Frank said led him somewhere better than his bed, so it was worth a shot. He’s practically in the band anway, besides, somebody should hear them. 

 Performing still sucks- makes him too nervous to keep his lunch down. But he gets to hang out with his best friend and a new guy he doubts kisses guys- but never makes a face when he and Frank do. Ray or something. All Gerard remembers is that he was…tall. Had to be like 6’1. And he’s cool. Reads Fangoria, just like Gerard. Always talking about horror movies no one has heard of- gave Gerard a tape of one. 

The lights stayed on that night. 

 The other cool thing about being in a band: groupies. And they all want the singer- even if he's fat. 

But Gerard doesn't want them, he wants Frank. 

Frank wants Gerard to be happy.

 Can't be happy when he's on his back half the week. He NEEDS to get laid- for real. Spends too much time waiting around like someone's supposed to give him permission. Even Ray gets more action and he's…sweet.

No, Frank won't stand for that. He's gotta 

Classes are over!

Gerard barely made it. Couldn't graduate as early had he'd like…what artist in the world NEEDS math. 

One more semester won't hurt-well maybe a little since Frank decided to drop out. Said he wants to do the band full time. When Gerard offered to do the same he threatened Gerard's most prized possession: Action Comic number 45…a relic he was lucky enough to find in the bottom of a box his grandma gave him before any of this started. 

Told him that art was his “thing”, had to keep it up or else he'd have nothing going for him except that face and that voice.

Talks about his face too much, getting harder to not see what he's talking about. Especially when Gerard’s alone and his face can be as covered as his canvases are. 

Adam was right- black does look badass.

Only for the bathroom though. 

 The eyeliner is almost worn to a nub now, but Gerard still applies it every time he goes out. Especially when he's trying to catch Frank’s attention-that was the plan tonight.

He was trying to get noticed, trying to get Frank to keep his eyes in his direction tonight.

Take a walk on the wild side…

Lou Reed was just getting to the good part when when Frank barged in.

Gerard regrets not locking his door, but it was the easier than waiting up or dealing with campus security when Frank lost the key he wasnt supposed to have.

He turned instinctively, expecting to see him holding a pizza box or a 6 pack to split beforehand. But no.

Frank's got a friend.

She's blonde, wide smile- seems to be into Frank who knew Gerard was here…they'd both been here all week. 

Black smeared as he dropped the liner, he watched Frank ‘help 'the girl inside and tried to have anger in his voice “  Who the hell is this?”

“I don't know,” Frank admitted like it was the pun line of a joke, “ I've been calling her Babydoll all night, she likes it I think.”

 He kicks past books covered with beer cans and dropped the girl on the bed with a soft thud. Guess the name worked, she looked just like a doll- lifeless.

Great, she's going to get perfume all his new Star Wars sheets…looked for those everywhere. Had to convince Frank to let him put them on.

Would've taken them off of he'd known a girl would be on them. But she doesn't seem to mind, or notice. She just laughs loudly and her skirt rides up too high for Gerard to stay polite. 

Frank smiled triumphantly, "You're going to go down on her" 

That hit harder than whiskey ever could. He glanced from Frank to the now rambling girl rolling around on his bed. 

He wasn't THAT guy- didn't want that girl to wake up next to him,  couldn't imagine the look on her face when she realized it wasn't Frank. 

"No I'm not- she's shitfaced,"

Frank looked at her, then at the half empty fifth on the desk, "so are we,"

“I'm not even that drunk!” The girl slurs before falling back onto the bed.

“She barely walked through the door!” Gerard whispered, giving his best effort to not embarrass the girl. 

Frank rolled his eyes, " She won't notice when you're on your knees- not like I'm asking you to fuck her-"

Gerard gives him a warning look.

This wasn't how Frank expected him to react. If someone had brought him a present like this he'd have jumped on it before they could close the door. I mean this girl was A1. Brunette like that chick in Star Wars, skinny…thought he liked that. Even got hazel eyes because Gerard's always looking at his. Why was he acting so ungrateful. 

"If you're going to be up tight about it then wait in the hallway, she won't know the difference..."

Those words felt like a barrel to the temple.

Gerard thought Frank was a nice guy, nice guys don't have girls like that. But she IS kinda cute, sloppy grin and a decent body...thin but he could work with that. 

The girl reached up for Frank's arm before he said something just quiet enough for Gerard to miss it,

When he looked up he was still smiling, trying to make it seem like another part of Fridays, “ she asked to come here- I would have just settled for you, but figured you deserved to actually finish for once,”

Gerard looks at the girl as she's trying to sit up but can't. He looks back at Frank, “You're not seriously going to do this right? They made us sit through that long-ass seminar Freshman year…”

“Whoa,” Frank interrupted, “I didn't put anything in her drink, just bought her shots and brought her back here. She wanted to meet you- likes singers or whatever,”

“I don’t do drunk girls-”

 Frank let's the girl fall before turning fully to Gerard, “ You don't do any girls and I'm starting to wonder if you even like them.”

There it was. The way it made Gerard's stomach tighten, he'd been waiting for that. 

“I like girls, I just- I'm not the one getting blown by a guy every other night.”

"Hey I cum where I cum, but you? You don't even get anything out of it.”

His voice softens despite Gerard's best effort to keep it from shaking , “I get plenty out of it.”

“Oh yeah grunts in the bathroom when you think I'm asleep. News flash: I'm not gay."

“Neither am I! “ Gerard’s voice spills out now a bit louder than he expected, he stares at the record still spinning but only giving static, “ I'm Catholic.”

But then he thinks about it. His eyes wander for a second scanning the room, no crosses, too much him and paint and the shirt Frank left on the nightstand two nights ago, “no... I'm just Italian.”

“So  am I,” Frank half laughs, “ you don't see me getting on my knees every time someone asks me to,”

“Yeah, because you're an asshole who never returns the favor- let the girl sleep. You have five sisters! What if it was them?”

Frank rolls his eyes, loosens his belt and turns to the bed, “it wouldn't be - taught them to be smarter than going home with weird guys,”

"Whatever," Gerard says looking over at the girl trying to position herself on the bed, "do what you want-I'm going to your place…”

The walk back is cold.

Too cold for summer to be starting soon. Too late for him to be by himself when everyone on campus knows what they do now.

Still he's, unsure if he did the right thing. Guys walk out with girls like that all the time, none of them seem to feel bad about it. Frank didn't look like he cared much. Maybe that was the difference between Gerard and them.

He cared too much.

Should've done what he was told-it's been working for him so far. He's got a best friend, they let him join the band-he thinks...could have had a girl for once instead of trying to make up for not being one.

Still.

Whiskey he'd saved for the night he was alone too long.

A canvas for all the shit he couldn't get out of his head.

He spend too much time here. Starting to feel like his place too.

An unneeded knock at the door.

He doesn't want to open it.

Letting people in never solved anything.

Still, his makeshift pallet gets tossed onto the nightstand and he fixes his hair before he opens the door.

It’s Frank- always Frank.

He’s standing there, with his oversized hoodie and baggy shorts leaning against the doorframe like nothing happened.

"You better be as good as she was going to be."

"How good can an unconscious girl be?"

"She was talking! She asked where you went-"

"She couldn't even sit up!"

Frank waves him of and pushes his way inside, "So we doing this or what?"

"Why didn't you just fuck the girl? Why's it gotta be me?"

Frank peeks around at the canvas- shades of red and black streaked together- a mess, not a masterpiece.

"Because, can't have you going around looking at me like some fuckin' guy who waits in alleys because I wanted to have a good time,"

"Could have had a better time with another girl," Gerard mumbles.

"Maybe, " Frank says picking up the paintbrush, "but you're better."

"You're not gay remember?"

A thick black stroke through the middle, "Neither are you, we're friends."

He ruined it.  Or made it better. Gerard can't tell. Just notices that his hands were stained with paint. Before he could answer Frank was already closing the gap between them. Definitley couldn't say no to that.

"Just- can we use something other than spit this time?"

"No," Frank said brushing his thumb against Gerard's lip, staining them black before kissing him.

Paint tastes worse than he thought.

____________________________________________

He finishes himself off in the bathroom like he always does. Uses spit because that's what he's used to now. Needs to find something better.

Tries to ignore how pathetic it makes him feel- wonders if it still makes him a virgin.

Got to think about something else.

Used to be Leia. Sometimes Christina Ricci. Recently, it’s been Frank’s new tattoo—still red and swollen, probably infected. Gerard had joked about the line work. Frank must’ve taken it seriously.

His hand moves faster when he thinks about seeing it so close up...might mention he needs more on his chest. Felt nice under his lips. Got brave and used his tongue- Frank really seemed to like that.

He’s almost there when his mind flicks to the girl— He could’ve fucked her. Could've had the real think instead of spit and porcelain.

Blonde. Nice tits. Red lipstick, eyeliner was smudged but still hot.

Frank again.

He brought her there. Said it was a gift. Said Gerard deserved it.

Purple panties Gerard wasn’t supposed to see.

A laugh that was too loud, bets she would have felt better than a grip that was always too tight.

He was just trying to be nice. He’s a good friend.

His body trembles as he tries to land on something.

Purple panties that looked like lace.

It feels like an accident.  

Cum and guilt hit at the same time.

Clean towels feel better, he wonders if he Frank ever thinks about him? Has to- likes eye contact too much.

Wonders if he looks at other girls like that.

Catches his reflection in the mirror. When did his hair get so long? Makes the fullness of his face look like it actually belongs there.

Has to look away because it feels too much like what he wanted to see.

Why couldn't it just be Leia?

Chapter Text

A Week Later

Gerard came home to do laundry, at least that’s what he said. Told Frank he’d be gone all weekend. That was the plan.
Really, he just needed time to think. Or not think. He couldn’t decide. Just knew he couldn’t stop thinking about that night.
About that girl. The one who wore purple and had his friend all to himself for—had to be an hour.
Gerard had spent enough time on his back to know that was more than enough time.

Besides, it’d been too long since he’d been home, and the last time he talked to Mikey, he’d mentioned something about prom—gave him the perfect excuse to be gone.

His parents are happy to see him, that loud, cheerful kind of relief that makes him feel weirdly guilty. His mom keeps asking if he’s eating. Gerard can’t tell her the truth, so he just smiles and nods while she leaves lipstick all over his face.

His dad tries to give him money. The first "no" was to be polite, but he didn't give a second- wanted to buy that action figure he saw the last time he was in the comic book store- could use the rest for whiskey with a name he recognized for once. 

Mikey’s got questions—so many questions.

“Did you pass your finals?”
“Do you get to drink at parties?”
“Is it true they have vending machines just for condoms?”

Every question hits his temple like a nail in a coffin. Too much talking. Too much attention.
Should’ve known this was a bad idea.

They’re in the living room now. Gerard’s sinking into the couch with a Yoo-hoo, trying his best to look fine. Mikey’s talking like they still share a room.
He says something about a cheerleader he might be taking to prom. Gerard squints.

“You?”

“Yeah. Might ask her to kick it over the summer—might be down for a ride in Dad’s car.”

“She have a head injury or somethin’?”

“Cram it,” Mikey says, tossing a bottle cap his way. “My friend Sasha set it up.”

“You’re letting chicks play matchmaker now?”

Mikey shrugs, “Did her a solid. She owed me big.”

What kind of favor could Mikey be doing for a girl? He would’ve asked if he wanted to get on his case, but it wasn’t every day they got to hang out. Didn’t want to be a pill, so he just leaned forward, letting the bottle in his hand dangle.

“You grow an extra layer of doofus , or am I seeing things?”

Mikey grins. “Yeah. Bet I could buy you beer—nobody ever cards me for cigarettes.”

Gerard flips him off.

Whatever’s playing on MTV fills the room—both brothers wondering who put this on.
Though Gerard has to admit, this Mariah chick’s pretty good. Great voice. Cute in a probably-too-good-for-you way.

Something in the air makes him feel like he’s really home: ziti. He loves his mom’s ziti.

A quick glance at the brother he’d shared a room with for the first twelve years of his life tells Mikey all he needs to know. Something’s off.
The way Gerard just stares at the TV instead of watching it.

Should’ve asked if he wanted to watch that copy of Barbed Wire he’d rented when Dad wasn’t looking. If anything could fill the silence, it was Pam in leather.
But Mariah was almost as good—he wished it was that music video filled with girls like Sasha. Always let that one play before finding something better.

“You paint anything lately?”

Gerard just nods.

“Anything good?”

“Nope.”

That answer clearly doesn’t satisfy him. There’s a look on Mikey’s face—like it’s Saturday morning and they’re watching cartoons and Gerard’s about to show him his superhero sketches.

Gerard rolls his eyes, digs the sketchbook out of his bag, and hands it over.

“Second to last page. Don’t flip through.”

Mikey obeys, for once. When he sees it—Yoda, weird and green, holding a lightsaber—he can’t help but smile like he used to, back when it was stick figures and gel pens.

“This is... holy shit, Gee.”
Gerard shrugs. “I was bored. It was on. Missing you or whatever.”

“Barbie’s gonna flip when she sees this.”
Gerard lifts an eyebrow. “Who’s Barbie?”

Blocks away, on the other side of the tracks, 

Nia’s sitting between Sasha’s knees while she braids her hair.
The sun’s gone gold. A Tupac song thumps from three houses down. Someone’s grilling. Kids keep running past, bumping her arm—Sasha’s already cursed at two of them.
“Bad-ass kids,” she mutters.

She’s still learning, so she practices on Nia. Can’t risk ruining her own hair, and Nia doesn’t seem to care what she looks like. Acts like she can’t sit still, flinching like something’s wrong.

“You good?”

Nia winces, trying to hide the fact that it feels like she’s being scalped.

“Yeah. You almost finished?”

Sasha looks at the half-done set. “Nope. Not even close.”

Nia groans into the void as her head is tilted toward the sky. Looks like rain.

“These are gonna look fresh,” Sasha says between clicks of gum. “Those boys won’t be able to stay away.”

“In that case, shave it off.”

Sasha snorts. “What, you don’t like boys?”

Nia shrugs, or tries to—but Sasha holds her in place.

“I like that Boyz II Men poster in your room. And Danzig’s pretty cool, I think. But the boys at school? They look at me like I came from another planet or something.”

Sasha sighs. She’s told her sister too many times not to pay Jersey boys any mind. That the guys in the city liked variety.
But Nia always brushes it off, saying she’d rather save up for something called a Game Boy.

“They just don’t know what to do with you. You walk around like queen dork and kinda look like me. It’s gotta be confusing.”

“I don’t look like you—I’m not all... Sashafied.”
Sasha’s laugh echoes off the brick.

“Of course you don’t. Look at this face. You think God would bless this family twice? But you’re a close second. You just let Mikey write his name all over you with those shopping trips to his hand-me-down pile.”

“He’s got good handwriting,” Nia smiles. “Plus it all smells like pizza rolls and those things his dad smokes—way better than your old stuff. That just smells like Pink Sugar.”

A smile stretches across Sasha’s face. That perfume brought her some fun times.
Might leave the bottle for her sister—help her blend in with the locker room.

Then comes the quiet.

Burgers.

“So... what’s it like?”

Sasha narrows her eyes. “What?”

“You know.”

“If I told you, you’d wanna do more than stare at that poster, okay?” She laughs.

“I won’t. I think I might be defective or something. Can’t even look my lab partner in the face,” Nia admits to the concrete. She makes a note to herself to never let Sasha do this again.

“Good,” Sasha says, tugging a little gentler. “That means you won’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

“Oh, I will. Planning to miss curfew every Friday.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing video games. Mikey’s campus is only a 30-minute train ride.”

Sasha pauses, tightens a strand.
“You sure he’s gonna want you following behind like his shadow? Probably gonna wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

Nia laughs, nervous. “He’s my best friend. He always wants me around.”

Sasha doesn’t answer. Just starts over on a section she messed up.

Saturday Night

Nia can’t go. No freshmen allowed.
Even if she had a date—which she could have. All she had to do was… be someone else. That might’ve worked. She could’ve put on the uniform, thrown on that dizzy little look the other girls wore, made some jock take her.

But that would’ve gone against everything she stood for. Wasn’t worth it.
Not even to laugh at Mikey in a tux.

She’s getting tired of always being left behind, but it’s okay.
The TV Guide said they’d be playing some old Marilyn Monroe movie tonight. She wanted to check it out. See why that face was always plastered on everything.

But now? She’s too busy watching Sasha smear on lip gloss and adjust the white dress that hugs her like armor.

She looks like a funhouse mirror at the pier.
A maybe .
Something you’d tear out of an issue of Sassy and stick on the vanity.
Or—God forbid—her future.

“You look... great. You should call Ma to come up here, take your picture or something.”

“I keep telling you—say fresh or phat. Stop sounding like you just walked out of one of those corny-ass movies you spend Friday nights with.”

“Whatevers ,” Nia says, trying her best to sound like she belongs in this conversation, “You should still get the picture.”

Sasha laughs, knowing there wouldn’t be any point. She’d already noticed the half-empty bottle when she asked for a bobby pin, but didn’t let on. Just smiled at her sister.

“Don’t go getting all mushy. Gonna screw up my image.”

Nia grins. “You could take one with Mikey. Bet he’ll look all dorky in that suit.”

“That boy looks goofy in anything. He’ll be lucky if Nicole doesn’t ditch him halfway through.”

Nia doesn’t argue. Just watches Sasha fix her hair in the mirror—gold hoops swinging, hips already starting to sway to a song only she can hear. Satin low on her back. The glitter Nia had rolled on while doing her mascara. Her favorite gold bracelet tying it all together.

The night had to be remembered.

So Nia grabs the old Polaroid and takes pictures as Sasha poses like a supermodel clinging to her poster of LL Cool J, who she swore would marry her if he ever got a good look.

She looked like Naomi—at least that’s how Nia sees her.

She wishes she could’ve met her sister’s date. But Sasha made him wait a block over. He called from a payphone to say he was ready.

A kiss on the cheek.
A promise to wait up.
Nia watches her sister walk out the door.

She hopes she has fun.

6:28 PM — Prom

They don’t speak.
Mikey and Sasha catch each other’s eyes exactly once—from across the darkened gym floor, over someone else’s shoulder.

A look.
Then nothing but bass and attempts to have a good time.

Mikey’s been trying to tell Nicole about a new hobby he picked up, but she doesn’t seem too into Magic: The Gathering .

Sasha listens as her date tells her about his dad’s dealership. It’s hard to focus—he didn’t even listen when she told him the suit should be navy , not blue .

He’s lucky she agreed to let him in her pictures.

Paid extra to get a couple of just her.

Wanted to get her 200 bucks’ worth—make sure she remembered this dress.

Nicole finds out Mikey has two left feet. She finds a corner to stand in instead.

The slit in Sasha’s dress almost gets her escorted out during her favorite song, but she’d promised to be good.

She wasn’t.

Midnight — Party

They’re both at a party they don’t want to be at.

Mikey’s date ditched him an hour ago—ran off with some blonde guy in a navy suit.

He’s sitting alone by the speaker, red Solo cup in hand, looking like a space cadet. Really needs to push his glasses back. 

Sasha makes a mental note: Make Leslie cheer captain.

She walks over. It’s midnight. She has the perfect excuse to bother her favorite loser.

“My date’s buggin’ in the corner,” she says flatly. “I need a lift home.”

Mikey doesn’t look up right away. “Can’t find another guy? The party’s just getting good.”

She shrugs. “I don’t need another hand up my dress. He kept saying he wanted to see my garter.”

That gets his attention—but he doesn’t know why.
He’s gotten to see a whole lot more than that back when they used that old Slip ‘N Slide in the front yard.

“This is the first party I’ve been to all year,” he mutters. “Can’t ditch before something good happens.”
Something about that hits her sideways.

“Seriously?”

He nods, eyes down. “You never take me with you. And nobody else asks.”

She sighs. “Yeah, well... this one’s wack. Me walking in was the highlight, so you really won’t be missin’ much.”

They leave together.

Mikey rolls his eyes like she’s being dramatic, but he still opens the car door for her.
Still lets her pick the radio station—not that he had a choice. He’d learned that the hard way.

The white dress. The hoops.
The way she didn’t ask for a ride—she told him.
There wasn’t any room for a no.

12:22 AM — The Ride

They end up in front of her house—because that’s where she told him to go.

He’d promised his mom he wouldn’t get into trouble.
Told his dad he’d try to make some- figured he should only disappoint one of them.

“Where am I dropping you?” he asks as they drive.

“I’m supposed to have the car back by midnight.”

“Relax,” Sasha says, feet up on the dash. “We’re making one more stop.”

“You could’ve told me that before we got on the turnpike.”

 “Just drive.”

The Park

A park. That’s where she takes him.
Nobody’s there.
The wind makes the swings creak and the trees hiss.

Mikey parks. Engine still running.
He’s nervous—for reasons she hasn’t given him yet. Maybe it’s the way she’s sitting. Quiet.
Sasha was never this quiet.

It makes him feel like he has a stomach full of spiders or something. He turns the radio down and stares out the windshield like it might give him a map.

“So,” he says, voice tight, “is there a reason you want me to be grounded for graduation, or…?”

Sasha doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches fireflies spark and fade across the grass. She counts three.

“I think it’s cool,” she says finally. “How you and Nia are all the time. You’ve been real cool to her.”
Mikey blinks. “She’s my best friend. No other way to be.”
Sasha huffs a laugh. “Your only friend.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I always thought you and I were…”

“We’re not,” she cuts in. “You’re a loser.”

He flinches. But she keeps going.

“But she likes you, so you’re not all bad. She’s gonna spazz once you leave.”

A beat. Mikey, quieter: “Yeah. College’ll be… fun, though. Can't wait to show her the campus-she should see the library.”

She glances over at him, he looked like he put some effort in. Had that hair like Leo in that one movie, eyes that looked greener than they usually did. The suit was too big, the yellow flower felt out of place- he was hopeless. 

There’s a big letter V written across his face in invisible ink.

She sees it clear as day in the moonlight.

“You know,” she says, letting the sound of the park swallow her voice, “that campus is probably crawling with nerds like you. Some of them might even be girls.”
He snorts, trying not to trace the strap of her dress with his eyes. Trying not to figure out how it’s still staying up.

“So?”

“So… wanna be out there having girls laugh at you in the bathroom?”

He squints at her. She looks nervous. Like she’s asking something.

“What are you saying?”

She swallows. “I’m saying… it’s the most I could do. So be grateful.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at her with a slightly parted mouth.
Sasha laughs—weakly.

“We haven’t even done anything yet. Relax.”

Mikey collects his nerves and gives her the truth.

“Just never thought it’d be you…”

That lands harder than she expects. Something in her chest flutters.

She turns away.

“You don’t have to,” she says suddenly, voice softer now. “I know what people say about me. I won’t trip if you wanna wait for…”

“Yeah, I hear them,” Mikey says. “But I know it’s not true.”

“It is,” Sasha says flatly. “Highest bidder, or whatever they wrote in the boys’ room.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got like $3.75 in my pocket and I’m driving my dad’s old car. And here you are—giving me the biggest deal in Jersey.”

She doesn’t smile.

Just reaches into her purse and grabs the seal of the night.

She leans in and kisses him.

Nicole was right.

He’s terrible.

Clumsy. Unsure.
Hands shaking the whole time. Couldn’t find what he was supposed to. Tried to stroke her hair—caught her earring instead.

Terrible at that, too.

But it’s okay.
Because he doesn’t grab.
Doesn’t demand.
Doesn’t brag about what he doesn’t really have.

Because he looks at her like she’s more than the thing between her legs.

Because she’s known him since she was thirteen, and he was the only guy who never made her feel like meat.

That’s what her first time should’ve been like. Not in a hotel room with a gold bracelet and a box of Chucks for her sister. Not with a man who moved too fast. Who unhooked her bra like it was a magic trick. Who expected her to keep up.

Mikey’s not like that.

He kisses her like he’s trying not to fuck up.

She kisses him like she already has.

They fumble with buttons. Zippers. Her dress sticks to her hips from sweat—mostly his. By the time his hands figure out where they’re supposed to go, he’s already playing catch up.

He freezes when she exhales too hard.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“No,” she says, more attitude than she means to, “just—keep going.”

Can’t get the straps of the dress off. Who designed this?
So much he could see, but it was like a puzzle. Tiniest silver clasp his hands can't focus on undoing. 

So he breaks it.

Figured if he at least got a peek, it’d be worth whatever she did to him for ruining the dress. Wasn’t expecting the laugh. Or the hitch in her breath when his mouth brushes her collarbone.

It’s not graceful.

They’re too close, then too far.

Her back hits the edge of the car seat and she gasps—not from pain, just surprise.

He steadies her with both hands. Runs one down the center of her ribs like he’s afraid she might disappear.

When he’s inside her, it’s all breath and skin and sound.
Not like the videos he snuck out of Gerard’s room that first summer he came home from college—
Too rough. Too fast.
This was better.
At least to him.

She bites her lip and stares at the ceiling in disbelief that she’s letting him do this. That she thinks she might like it.
He’s watching her face like he’s waiting for something.

His hips stutter.
His hands still don’t know where to go.
One ends up clutching her chest—too tight.
The other grips her waist like a vice.

The weirdest sound when he's done- almost like an apology.

She doesn’t cry.
But her face is wet.
Maybe from the heat.
Maybe not.

It was awful.

But when it’s over, he’s got the dumbest smile on his face.
The look they share afterward feels like something neither of them can name.

The cicadas seem to know, though.
They sing louder than before.

Her face feels wetter than her thighs.
Her breath leaves without permission.
Mikey doesn’t know what to do. He had fun. Didn’t she?

He probably shouldn’t have looked her in the eye.
Probably shouldn’t have tried to make it romantic or whatever.

If he thought the night would’ve ended up here,
he would’ve asked Gerard better questions.

Didn’t know what to do,
so he did what he hoped a guy would do for the other girl in the room:

“You want a hug?”

Disbelief settled in her chest and Sasha couldn't help but laugh. Here she was with her mascara smeared-Great Lash my ass- and her hair nothing but bobbies and curls trying to come back. 

His arms wrapped around her anyway. Lanky, warm, too tight.

It was better the second time—he thinks.

He couldn’t hear the cicadas.

1:45 AM — The Couch

Nia’s curled up on the couch in one of Mikey’s old hoodies, her thumbs through the holes they'd put in them last winter. 
TV on mute.
Waiting for someone to come home.

She slipped her thumb through the hole they made in the sleeve last winter.
Sometimes, when she was alone, it was the closest thing to holding his hand.
She had no plans of giving it back.

Sasha gets back first.
Holding her shoes. 
Lipstick faded.
She doesn’t look like the girl that left the house-not picture perfect.

She looks happy.

A weird little smile on her face.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks past and mutters, “Party was lame.”

Nia notices the sound of her sister’s voice—lighter, not slurred like it usually is when she comes home this late,
usually full of stories about boys Nia could care less about. But tonight was different: She thought she recognized the car in the window.

Not that she’d been waiting or anything.

“Where’s your date?”

Why is she so goddamn nosy? Sasha thinks.

Always asking questions Sasha doesn’t want to answer.

The truth sits at the tip of her tongue.
But she swallows it—along with the leftover lip gloss—cherry-when she sees the hoodie Nia’s wearing.

Sasha pauses in the doorframe.

“Ditched him. Got a ride home with a… friend.”

A friend.

Her sister’s never called Mikey that before.

Nia waits.
But Sasha doesn’t offer more.
Doesn’t say where she went after.
Doesn’t say who took her home.

The white dress is wrinkled.
One of the straps looks broken.
But she doesn’t hear her crying like she normally does.

She must’ve had a good time.

She hears her laugh quietly, instead.

2:00 AM — Gerard’s Couch

Gerard hears his brother sneak in sometime around 2.
That’s when The Twilight Zone is on.

“Mom and Dad are gonna kill you.”

“Yeah,” Mikey says lightly, like he couldn’t care less.

Older brothers should care where their baby brothers are, right?
Doesn’t matter that he’s taller now—he’s still only 18.
Should’ve been home two hours ago.

“You, uh, find a party afterwards?”

“Yeah,” Mikey repeats, dazed.

It makes Gerard’s stomach twist.
Is he drunk?

He stands and crosses the room. Mikey’s just standing in the doorway.
Gerard looks at his eyes—normal. Always thought that speck of brown looked badass. But his face is red. And he’s smiling.

Doesn’t smell like weed. Couldn’t swallow pills when they were kids, so it’s not that.

“You good?” Gerard asks warily.

“Yeah…”

That’s it.
That’s all he says before brushing past him and plopping on the couch with his bowtie undone. He'd been so excited to wear it, but now it just sat there like an afterthought. 

Gerard, confused, follows.

“Swiped one of Dad’s beers,” he offers trying to fill the room with something other than worry, “you want a sip?”

Mikey doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and drinks the rest.

Gerard’s about to say something—but then he feels it.

A weight on his shoulder.

“You have fun?”

No words.
Just the nod against his shoulder.
And the faint smell of sweat and perfume.

Gerard smiles a little, despite himself.

He really likes having a brother.

Chapter Text

Sunday:

Mikey was smiling—like, really smiling.

He’d been doing it all morning—even while his dad gave his annual speech on being a man. More of a warning, Gerard thought. Bills, respecting women, gotta get a job at some point—and he was the right person to give it.

Despite usually sitting around with his arms crossed, there wasn’t anyone who walked the walk better. Gerard knew why their mom’s friends always smiled and called her lucky.

Not like what Gerard had waiting for him back in the city. He wondered what Frank was up to. Wondered if he had a girl over—nobody ever really knew why you added vodka to your orange juice. Helped Gerard focus on the day.

Suit and tie.

 That’s what they all had to wear to sit in the gymnasium Gerard used to try his best to avoid with his partner in crime.

Adam brought the chips, Gerard brought the comics.

It felt emptier now, despite being filled with families.

That tie felt too loose on his neck, but that’s how he liked it. Made it feel like more of a choice than a cover-up.

“Figured you could hold the camera,” his mom said, smiling through bright red lips. “You being the artist of the family and all.”

Artist.

 Why the word felt heavier, he didn’t know. He had been spending the last week thinking about everything. About school, the future—Frank and that fucking girl... He didn’t know which him he was supposed to be. The guy in the bathroom, the angry...roommate. Too many versions of himself he could be. 

Artist.

That’s how his mom saw him.

He could live with that.

*******

Everyone was up in Nia’s house for once—she’d made sure of it.

The curtains that usually stayed closed were open, and she just knew someone would come banging on her bedroom door if she blasted that copy of Insomniac she “borrowed” from Mikey.

Dad.

Worth it.

She’d even done her own hair so Sasha wouldn’t have to—though they both wished she hadn’t once Nia emerged with two loose puffs on either side. Didn’t really bother her-today wasn't about her(even if she was planning on taking the big room).

Sasha, on the other hand, used every minute. Had to figure out a way to make green and gold look like something worth walking out in. When in doubt she always chose hoops.

If she had any ounce of nervousness, it was wiped away by the sound of their mom stepping into the small, pink-tiled room.

They hadn’t talked much in the last two years—neither of them had much to say to the other. Just missed glances and a layer of pissed-off Sasha never thought she’d get rid of.

Today wasn’t about that. It was about her. Her and her ticket out of this shitty shadow of the place she knew she’d always end up: NYC, baby!

Didn’t know where she’d end up exactly, but she’d been working all summer and saved up enough for a shitty hotel for a few days—figured the dresses she’d carefully packed away in a school-issued duffle bag would do the rest.

Standing there with her mom brought it all up. The words almost fell out:

 “I told you so,”

 “Look at me now,”

 “I’m better.”

Wanted to rub it in the face that looked too close to her own reflection.

If Sasha was Naomi, her mom was Tyra. Only Tyra never looked so worn down, smiled sometimes, and had better clothes.

“You look nice,” said a voice too soft to be the woman she’d known the last few years.

“Thanks,” Sasha said with just a little bit of hope. “Can you fix my hair?”

And for the first time in a long time, Sasha let herself feel like a kid again.

It was short-lived though—everybody had to show up.

At least the gym was going to be packed.

After all the names were called and Nia was covered in confetti, they found each other in the sea of bodies.

Sasha had her gown halfway off and a hand in the candy bag Nia had smuggled in under her jacket. Her mom looked good. Their dad showed up sober.

She was glad he just took the photos—wouldn’t have to cut him out later.

Click. Flash.

Nia held her hand in every one, the reality settling in for them both.

Sasha didn’t care. Couldn’t.

She was too busy looking at the piece of paper in her hand like it was the ticket out of her own personal hell.

It should have felt better than this, like a big deal. But all she could do was wonder what time her train was going to get in.

She and Mikey caught each other’s eyes across the crowded gymnasium.

He smiled at her—maybe he cared about the back seat of his dad’s car more than she told him she did, but no. She just rolled her eyes and held up the hand she was always telling him to talk to.

At least that would stay the same.

Gerard snapped the picture. Thought it might be the best one he’d ever taken—Mikey, full smile, no filter, no shadows. Just light. Just joy.

Click. Flash.

Frank was sitting on the floor, legs out, arms draped like he owned the place. Gerard had been gone for two days. Maybe three.

He had to come back by Sunday. Right?

Someone had to clean this place out. Maybe take a vacuum to the last semester’s worth of take-out crumbs in the carpet. Or the science experiment on the plate near the bed.

Smoke curled to the ceiling- he hated Marlboros but they were cheap and the only thing Gerard didn’t choke on.

There were better things to do than hang around your friend’s apartment on a weekend—but Frank called it dorm sitting.

He had to admit, though, he liked that Gerard’s shirts were a little bit bigger than his own.

Gave him an excuse to raid that movie collection and check out what was on those canvases Gerard kept turned to the corner.

For a guy who acted like he was still scared of cooties, the kid loved drawing women. Enough blood to make a vampire jealous.

It kind of felt like waiting after a while. But Gerard didn’t walk in.

So Frank stayed until he did.

Saturday: one beer, two whiskeys. He had Black Flag on—debated asking the girl from the coffee shop to come up and hang—but settled for taking her number instead. Didn’t want to risk hearing Gerard whine about morals again, so he spent the night with reruns of The Simpsons and a six pack his fake ID got him.

Sunday: Church. Excuses to skip family dinner—the sound of five girls yapping and his mom asking why he was so skinny just didn’t feel like the best way to spend the night. So he grabbed a hero on the way home and by 7, he was lying in Gerard’s bed.

Sheets smelled like them. Sleep and sweat, imprinted on the shirt Gerard swore he cleaned.

Frank was glad he was a good liar.

He was already halfway into his plan to find where Gerard kept his stash when Gerard finally walked through the door.

He didn’t look too surprised—not even annoyed. Just tired. A little wobbly.

“Brought my mom’s ziti,” Gerard mumbled as he brushed past him.

Frank stood. Grinned wide, “Good. We’ll need it after.”

Gerard froze. “After what? There a game on or something?”

Frank stepped into his space. Closer now. Closer than friends were supposed to be, but neither of them had felt like that in a while

“Nah,” he said, voice low. “After you pack your shit. You’re moving in.”

Gerard laughed, too confused to be flustered. “What?”

“Just for the summer,” Frank clarified, brushing Gerard’s hand with his own. “You practically live under my belt anyway, might as well.”

There wasn't any reason to fight it. Just a shrug and a crooked smile. The kind that always made Frank want to give him one too.

Two days had gone by. Then three. Gerard didnt want to say he was stalling, but he at least had to check with Dr. Levine. It seemed like a big enough step toward whatever version of normal he was supposed to be aiming for.

But instead of an answer her just got, “What does moving in with Frank make you feel?”

Yoda had more fucking wisdom. 

So by the next Saturday they were moving. 

 Cursing, sweating—took a break to use the bed one last time, and it was done.

Stacks of books Frank hadn’t put away yet next to boxes of comics Gerard insisted were too important to stuff in the back of the closet.

Cheap air freshener and the smell of spilled turpentine... it was home.

They spent the night sitting together, complaining about the sound of traffic. But neither of them closed the window—too happy to be back together on the couch.

Sharing a bed wasn’t a big deal anymore. Just part of what made it work.

Gerard being gone in the morning, on the other hand, was a surprise. One Frank was glad to have because he could do the one thing he learned from his sister Fiona: "finding' things.

His find of the day?: A notebook he peeked at.

Not on purpose. But c’mon. You leave a notebook with a purple gel pen tucked in the spine, you’re basically asking for it. And the kid tried to off himself before—what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t check to see if Gee was about to go off the deep end?

There were drawings. Of course there were.

There were poems. Some of them were better than what he gave the band. Some of them so Gerard it almost hurt to read.

Mentions of soms dude named Adam—whoever the hell that was. Stopped after ’93. Must've been a bad breakup.

Then Frank saw a list.

Ellie

 Gina.

 Christy.

 Tessa.

Okay—the guy did get girls.

Leia.

 Frank snorted. “Who names their kid Leia?”

Then he saw the last one.

Illi.

 Circled. Twice.

Didn’t sound like any chick name he’d ever heard. Exotic.

That’s when Gerard walked in.

Didn’t suspect a thing as he went on about how sunny it was. Something about a tan he didn’t want.

The fridge hummed.

 The door clicked shut.

 Gerard stood in the threshold, sipping what Frank knew was black with no sugar.

He watched as he moved to the kitchen. Had his hair down, looked like he’d brushed it. Come to think of it—he spent a long time just brushing his hair.

Frank knew five other people who did that, and he’d ditched dinner with them all last weekend.

The day moved fast. Coffee, hanging posters, veggie burgers, beer. Enough to where they couldn't even tangle in eachother. Just fell asleep to the sounds of some crazy guy yelling abour the end of days. 

Frank woke up to traffic. Honking. Apparently there were a lot of 'assholes' on the road.

He watched Gerard sleep. Didn’t know who he was looking at though. Always joked and called him soft, but now he really looked like it. Hair in his face, last night’s eyeliner—he looked like those babies on the ceiling of the church his whole family went to every Sunday.

Gerard woke to a shift in the bed. Frank just staring at some book in his hands. His eyes focused, and he recognized the spiral notebook with the purple gel pen. Like cold water on his face. He sat up quick.

The bed shifted. A breath caught.

His eyes couldn’t decide if they wanted to land on Frank or the stake he was holding in his hands.

Please don’t fucking read it.

“Dude, give that back,” he said, fast. Defensive.

Frank didn’t.

Flipped a page instead.

“This one. Illi," his eyes ran across the page again, "You like that one?”

Gerard rubbed at his face. Hair in his mouth. Didn’t answer right away.

Friends don't keep secrets and Frank didnt hide any of himself away from Gerard. Figured he should return the favor.

“Been trying to come up with something better,” he muttered.

It felt like there should have been something between them. He expected Frank to tell him to say a Hail Mary or something.

Got his notebook back instead.

Their fingers brushed.

 Electric.

Gerard pulled it close like it was the most precious thing he owned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he all but whispered.

Frank did anyway. Something that looked like fear, like he wanted to run. But they lived together now. He had nowhere to go—Frank hoped.

The book was still tight in his arms when Frank’s hand found the curve of his back.

“It’s a nice name.”

Not even traffic could cover that exhale.

 The first kiss was on the cheek, slow. Like apology. Like a promise. Like breath after drowning.

The second, on his lips—like all the prayers that went unnoticed.

Gerard propped himself up on his knees. Not because Frank asked. Because he wanted to. Because he needed something to do with his hands other than clench paper, with his mouth so he couldn't take it back, with all the need burning in his chest.

Frank’s hand found his hair. Twisted thick stands around his fingers. Gave him an excuse to try and get closer.

Gerard didn’t look up. Just stayed there, lips open, tasting the salt of skin that lingered in his throat as his tongue worked to hear the truth again.

“Oh, Illi.”

It was like he’d just been stunned with a phaser.

But he didn’t pull away.

Frank’s hand stayed in his hair, not pushing, just there. Anchoring.

“Oh, Illi.”

This time, Gerard let the sound wrap around him.

And for once, he didn’t feel like a secret.

He felt as loud as Frank when he yanked his hair closer.

Chapter Text

Monday.

Again.

 No Lisa Frank alarm clock buzzing.

No Sasha yelling about lip liner she lost or hogging the bathroom dancing to whatever was playing on the top 40 station. She moved out last week- didn’t even think twice about it! The hug was quick- something about missing her train. Nia didn’t recognize the car she got into, but it looked nice enough-blue, clean. Couldn’t make out what the guy looked like, but Sasha seemed happy enough to see him. 

Nia was supposed to be happy for her. She was, or at least she tried to be. Wasn’t jealous no matter how much that voice in her head tried to make her. Worried, sure. New York City was less than an hour away, but it felt like a different world. Never made it there herself, no reason to waste the $2.75 on that when there were plenty of things to do in Newark. Easier to get to Mikey’s from there- oh yeah…he’s moving too. Gonna have a roommate and everything, maybe the guy won’t mind if she hangs around.

Fucking Rutgers. 

Fucking design school. 

No Mikey.

No Sasha. 

No one to wake her up now.

Just the neighbor’s dog —Puff- barking like there’s something remotely interesting happening on that street. She’s hated that white haired rat ever since she was eight… still tries to pet it when it slips through the hole in the fence.

The heat from the sun practically fried her face even though she’d closed the blinds and hung a black sheet over the window the night before. Her sheets are damp and sticky. A gross reminder of summer. She wonders how much it would cost to run the A/C, but doesn’t want to ask. Her parents already work too much, yell too much about working too much, then find some way to make it her problem. 

She’s 15 now. Been begging everyone in town for a job. Nobody’s hiring, not even Sasha’s old job at Wiener World. Would’ve loved to wear that uniform, another piece of her sister to try and live up to . 

Mikey said he’d try to pull some strings at Borders — get her in as soon as there was a spot for her.  She was excited the second he’d told her about getting the job in the first place. Couldn’t wait to use his employee discount and spend afternoons with new books. Ones that didn’t need to be returned. 

But today she just lies there in sweat and silence, bored before she even opens her eyes.

There’s only so much poetry a girl can write without proper inspiration.

She stretches out of bed and stares at the green and gold pom-poms she hadn't touched since the last game she had with Sasha, couldn't see her from the bottom of the pyramid. Probably won't look at them until she has to next year; just kicks them away and drags herself to the bathroom, floorboards groaning like they’re sick of her too. The pink tile on the walls feels like it's pissing off all of her senses at once- even the ones still hiding under the blanket. Nobody had noticed the ones she’s filled in with the pack of sharpies she collected over the last semester. If she kept it up, she’d be done before summer ended. 

Nothing else to do anyway. 

The mirror gives her the same thing it’s been giving her all year: acne. No matter what she did, no matter how many of her sisters home remedies she tries she still ended up with the same face. 

Sasha never had pimples. Of course she didn’t. She got nice skin and barely had to try to stay a size two. 

Nia reaches up — tempted. But doesn’t squeeze. Sasha would kill her if she left a scar. Just makes sure to not make too much of a sound when the SeaBreeze touches her skin. Feels like acid, doubts it would help with anything. 

Still... sometimes she thinks the pimples are worth it.

They kept the guys out of her orbit. Kept her out of the mindless locker room conversation while the cheerleaders reapplied their lip gloss and whispered about blowjobs like some holy script. Still, she’d always lingered a second longer to see what the fuss was about. Not that any of the information was useful. Most attention she ever got was the nicknames — Pizza Face, Eclipse, Pimple Patty. 

She could live with that if it meant she didn’t feel that twinge in her stomach she got whenever her sister teased her about liking anybody. 

The shower is hotter than it should be, but she gets in instead of debating it too long.

Wonders if everyone feels like they’re being watched when they drop the towel.

 Books. 

They make better friends than the kids she pretends to like when she's really desperate- still can't figure out how to turn double-dutch, so she doesn't get asked much anymore. She bets Kafka never jumped rope. 

Has lunch with Dorian...she wonders what that painting looks like. If he'd hate bologna as much as she does.  Probably never even had, probably just eats those tiny sandwiches and drinks too much tea.

She glances over at the time...2pm. She slept until noon...again. Mikey wouldn't be off until five, Sasha promised she'd come by, but Nia promised herself not to hold on to that too hard. 

The TV’s been on all morning, volume low, flickering through static and neon and nonsense — Jenny Jones, Power Rangers, reruns of The Fresh Prince- everything too...colorful. 

She watches from the floor, feet up on the wall, head dangling off the couch like a bat in her living room cave. Better alone. 

Everything’s upside down. The world. Her hair as it falls on the floor. Her summer.

Then: black and white.

A long hallway. A screen door. A man slouching in from the heat.

“STELLAAAAA!”

She blinks. Sits up like she was the one being called. 

The room shifts right side up.

She doesn’t know why she stopped here in the first place, started flipping when that goddamn commercial started, who smiles like that while holding a tampon?  Just knew that when Stanley Kowalski walks in, shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, mouth curled into something that’s not quite a smile, crooked — hungry and mean — she feels it.

Not in her chest. More like her stomach she thinks. 

He’s loud and sweaty- too much of everything she didn’t know how to want yet. Didn’t know if she ever would, but when she watched him slink across the screen towards a woman, Blanche she thinks, she saw it clear as day. 

That.

That’s the kind of guy she might let touch her hand(or knee?). Wouldn’t matter though- that was the kind of guy that wouldn’t ask. 

That’s a man. 

When the credits roll, the first thing she does is grab the TV guide. 

Just have to keep busy for another hour then they’re playing it again-all week long. 

Mikey rolls his eyes whenever she talks about this movie. Says it’s old. That Brando’s a jerk. That black and white is for nerds.

He’s never seen it. He doesn’t get it.

She only wishes Stanley and Blanche could’ve ended up together. That’s how she would’ve written it.

They belonged together. They understood each other. In that way no one talks about out loud, but it’s there clear as day. 

She needs it on tape. Needed to see him again. Needed to feel that heat in her stomach one more time-even though it almost scared her. So she called Sasha, begged for the $5.

"Please," She begged, trying to put on her best little sister voice.

"No-I'd have to come all the way-"

"You said  you'd visit anyway, I've been waiting a whole two weeks!"

A loud sigh as Nia felt her sister roll her eyes through the phone, "Meet me at the train station, not stepping foot in that piece of shit apartment. "

A smile of relief danced across Nia's face, now all she had to do was figure out how she was going to get there.

*****

Dust collects on the edge of the glass counter. The smell of cleaning solution burns his nose as he drops them into the worn VHS tapes that desperately needed to be tossed in the trash bin. There were a thousand other ways to spend a Saturday but he was saving up for a car so he could  go back home and visit his friends- the ones that would have made this gig worth something more than the paycheck that barely made a dent. 

 Patrick sees her the second she walks in, recognizes her from school. Cheerleader he thinks. Most of the time she was sitting with that guy who had glasses like his- Michael or something. Hasn't seen her with anybody else since he graduated. Thought he saw her in the boy’s room once, leaving out with that Michael kid, but it couldn’t have been- but he couldn’t think of anyone else that had hair like that. 

Why the hell does it feel like he just swallowed a bunch of superballs? 

She didn’t even look his way, just scanned the room before making a B-line to whatever she was looking for-heard her humming to Ironic as it filled the store.  

Excitement practically spills from her fingers, staining the boxes that lined the shelves. Sasha gave her enough money to rent the movie, wonders how long she could keep it for. Usually Mikey would come with, but college must be fun already. The semester hadn't even started yet, but he’d said something about orientation the last time he called. 

If it’s sold out I’ll jump off a bridge, she whispers. 

 10 copies sitting right there. She smiles to herself and grabs one, clutching it to her chest like it was going to fly away.  

Patrick watches her, she barely looks up from that VHS box even when she reaches the counter. 

  A Streetcar Named Desire,   sounds like a porno he thinks....but there’s no way she’s that cool.  Besides, Brando's on the cover. She must like him the way she’s smiling- wonders what he has to do to get her to do that in his direction. He glances down at her shirt, likes D&D. 

 Say something,  he thinks as he hesitates with the tape , but what do you say to a girl that looks like she wants to dart out of the door when you say Welcome to Movie Gallery, gotta make it something good. 

“So you go to St. Anne’s too?” he asked, trying not to notice the way she smelled like that perfume that every girl in school seemed to have, but hers was different. Like sweat. She must’ve walked. 

Nia looks up, that accent- she's heard it before. school assemblies, random ‘my bad’s’ in the hallways she couldn’t wait to get out of- he doesn't sound like anybody else around here.  Same height as her, thick glasses like Mikey, red hair but no freckles... The bluest eyes she's ever seen. 

" Yeah,” She said, a little shakier than it was supposed to be, “ I-I'll be a sophomore when school starts back." 

“I'll be a Junior...Nyla right? Though I saw your poem on Mr. Gilispie’s wall, had a star and everything.”

Nia shakes her head, nobody ever gets those three letters right- tries to remember his name.Then she remembers hearing Nicole giggle about some redheaded guy that tried to ask her out last year. 

"Nia,” She says trying to make it casual, “you're Mick right? Heard some girls talking about you in the locker room," 

Patrick's jaw drops as she keeps talking. He can’t believe she just said that like she was talking about the weather. 

 "What's it short for? Mickey?” She giggled, reaching into her purse and counting out the 4.95 out exactly,  “ Never heard a name like that around here."

 Patrick shakes his head slowly, not able to blink, “No-Irish.”

The shock hit her, making her eyes go wider. She would never call anybody anything like that- Not when she knows how it feels. Especially not to someone who looked so…nice.  She searches her mind for something to say, something that’d pull her Chucks out of her mouth. She always has to do this, say the wrong thing to the right person.  Can't find any words that sound like a good enough apology or make things feel smooth again so she just sits the money down and grabs her tape. 

This is why she doesn’t talk to boys. Nothing good comes of it. Should have gone with her first thought and just ignored him. Seemed to work on her lab partner. 

Patrick tries to tell her it's okay- honest mistake, but he can barely get out the first word before she's retreating to the door. Bets she has no problem running that half mile in gym class, he barely saw her move before she disappeared.  

Nyla. He'll remember that.

Fuck, he forgot to tell her his name. But then he stares at the green letters on the screen.

He’ll tell her when she comes back in three days. She looked like the type to return them on time, won't charge the late fee if she doesn't. 

Maybe that'll get him the smile.

Chapter Text

Gerard's lacing up his boots in the corner of the apartment, nervous energy twitching through his knees. Saturday. Hot. Boring. Stale.

He's taking a break from job hunting, though he's feeling better than usual—just interviewed at Midtown Comics. New spot opening in Times Square. Made the Jersey locations feel like supply closets. The guy—Tobi, he thinks—called him "Jared" twice. Gerard nearly let it slide. Almost apologized for correcting him. But Tobi noticed the copy of Akira in his messenger bag, and that changed everything.

He could talk comics for hours. Felt good to be somewhere that might actually matter.

He wishes practice was that easy.

Frank's easy enough—home is... comfortable. Gerard likes that his name isn't just in notebooks anymore. Sometimes it's shouted across the room with a guitar pick to the head. Other times it's that soft, slurred murmur—like a secret only Frank uses.

Ray? Chill. Best drummer in Jersey, if you asked Gerard. Loved the last song. Didn't even laugh when Gerard said it was about aliens, not heartbreak. Always asking to hang out. Gerard always found a reason to push it off. Ray smiled like he believed every excuse. Never asked him for that tape back. 

But Tim and Neil? That's where it turned. They weren't always assholes, not all the time, but they were the only ones who cared that Gerard wasn't Bobby Steele. He was still learning- at least that’s what the defense always was. 

Besides, he wrote the songs. One new one every other week—minimum—to earn keep his spot. Not too different from poetry-repeat a few lines and you got a chorus. 

 Screaming helped. Let him say things he'd never say aloud- better when even he could barely understand it. 

But they made him play, too.

 So he did. Not that well, but he got through the songs. Most of the time. 

Okay—he'd botched a few notes last show. Thought whatever they were handing out behind the bar would help. Didn't. But he tries. It's just hard to focus when every practice ends with Frank's breath on his neck.

He always tells himself it'll be different when he moves out. He's supposed to move back into the dorms next semester. But lugging all his stuff again? For one term? Doesn't make sense. He's thought about bringing it up to Frank—but it’s easier to just paint the world blue for a while.

The reds don't quite do anything. Just fuzz the signal.

Walking was Frank’s idea-he’s sure of it. Something about how they need to save money. The fucking train is 2 bucks and some change- that’s what he argued. But Frank insisted they walk.

They stopped at the new bookstore Gerard had brought up  last week-a weakness for them both. It’s always a good time when Frank goes on one of his tangents about how it’s not a real bookstore unless you’re tripping over stacks of cracked spines. 

It’s also one of the only places they can hold hands without it being a big deal.  

By the time they get to the garage, it's already a sauna. Tim's got two girls draped on a couch—loud ones. The kind that stare like the lyrics are for them. Gerard wishes he could say something, but every time it feels like a guitar string snapped in his chest. So he keeps his eyes down.

"Let's get it out of the way," Tim sighs, " Gee, you go first,"  Doesn't even say hello.

It starts okay. He knows the beginning. Frank wrote it slow on purpose.

Caught staring again, like a deer in headlights. When I can't move fast enough, I take a hit for the team...

But the second verse? Disaster. Too fast. Always forgets it's a C, not a G. The wrong note rings out, sharp and just under to tempo.

"Let's try it again," Ray offers, "just try to keep it on the 2,"

"Jesus, again?" Tim groans, flinging his pick to the floor like it'll fix something, which earns a half amused reply from Frank. 

"It's not that deep, just start the shit over, he'll-"

 "It is if we want to not sound like shit for once." Tim glares.

Neil crosses his arms, i "We can't keep a singer who can't play through a set- makes them think we’re a fuckin’ joke"

Gerard's throat is dry. Hands tight against the strings, "I can-" 

“He can play," Frank cuts off, "just needs practice-took you all of middle school to be able to not piss yourself in front of everybody.”

“One fucking time that happened,” Neil shot back, before turning to Gerard, “Either learn the songs or go back to waiting for him by the stage-”

 "Let him pick the song,” Frank mostly told him, “he’ll play it though-easy.”

Annoyed glances in Gerard's direction as Frank tries his best to sound encouraging, “Just play something you like."

Gerard hesitates on a stray chord, "Like what?"

He had to think of a song Gerard would actually finish- and maybe sound halfway decent in- couldn’t be too fast…simple chords he’d remember. 

"Helena,” Frank suggested, almost too quick to feel natural, “we play it all the time.”

"Not this again, "Tim groans, "we don't even play that one,"

Frank doesn't blink, just picks up his own guitar in support,  "Play it."

Gerard nods. Fingers to strings. 

He tries.

He knows the song, he does. But it's hard to not fuck up when  you got two guys just waiting on you to choke. It sounded pretty good, at least you could tell what he was playing. A few jumbled notes, couldn’t keep tempo on the last bit.

A hand slid down Frank’s face with a sigh-they played it all the time. 

Only the amp buzzes. Like it's embarrassed for him.

Neil whistles low over his bass,  "That it?"

Tim wipes his neck with a towel, clearly frustrated with the repeated attempts at keeping this guy around. Can’t even remember how he got in the band. They didn’t need another guitarist. 

 "You're out, man,” Tim shot with no warning, “this isn't working."

Frank doesn't say anything right away,  just looks over at Gerard as he fumbled with that old beat up thrift store find Frank gave him back when he just started. Used to sit in his bedroom at home, now at least he could see it everyday. Frank wished it was under better hands. But at least this way it gave him something to fill the week-  didn’t have to worry about what was going in that notebook as long as it could go to a melody.  

Then, cool and calm his eyes rose to Tim in the corner, "Alright, if you wanna lose him then you gotta write something."

 "What?" Tim scoffed.

"You heard me, You’re always saying we don't need more diary entries, right? Said if he couldn't play, he was out. Fine. Write something better or you're out."

"I could write circles around your little girlfriend-” Tim announced,” the only reason you keep *it* around is so you guys can play grab-ass after the set."

The girls in the corner give their giggle of approval he had been looking for that 

Frank doesn't flinch, wondered how many people he’d have to hit before they started to mind their business . "And what's that got to do with you? I don't say shit about the dogs you drag back."

Neil steps in trying to keep things from escalating,  "It's got everything to do with us. We don't wanna be in that kind of band."

The guitar came off pretty easily with that-by Frank’s count that made two.  "What kind of band?"

Ray tries to smooth it over by stepping between the two,  "Think we should take 5, guys. It's like ninety-eight today, you both need some air."

Tim's too deep in it to back down, someone needs to say it, “The kind that sings songs that make as much sense as that guy standing up there. Seriously, what are they even about?"

Gerard clears his throat, "Stuff. Wrote the last one watching Labyrinth. Ray said it was good-I"

Neil rolls his eyes, “See what I mean? What the hell is wrong with you-nobody want's to hear that shit in a mosh pit."

"The songs aren't weird," Gerard says. "They're—"

"Romantic," Frank finishes. "You see the way those chicks eat it up?"

 "Yeah, and then he runs and hides like a —"Tim snaps,

Frank cuts him off. "Careful. That's two."

Neil raises an eyebrow, "Two what?"

Frank's voice drop "One more and I can break your face without him bitching about it,”

Gerard doesn't argue. Doesn't wait to see if they’ll get another strike . Just packs his bag and finds the door.

Frank watches him walk out. Doesn't move.

And the amp buzzes on, alone.

The heat had died down, hours ago. The sounds of the city were drowned out by Jawbreaker- Gerard wonders how many bands their singer had gotten kicked out of before they found him. Or her? Didn’t matter, whoever it was, it was better than whatever he was doing. 

Frank gets home a few hours later-Gerard's already half-gone, orange bottle open. The tapping against the table, tiny white lines—the habit he picked up from watching too closely before the shows. 

The weight of his bag hits the floor, his shoes gave a heads up that he was getting closer,  trying to ignore that he was mostly just making a mess. "You good?"

Gerard doesn't look up, just focuses on what his hands are doing, "Ask me again in five minutes."

Frank rolls his eyes. "One bad day and you run off to la-la land?"

A silent shrug is the only response he gets. 

"It's not the end of the world," Frank continues, kicking off his vans,  "plenty of other bands in the city."

Gerard doesn't answer. Just a sharp inhale through the nose. There are three beers on the table, two empty, one halfway there.

Frank sighs. If you can't beat him, find a spot next to him on the couch, he figures.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he moved when the music got too loud, it might have occurred to Frank to check if he was dead. It’d been two days since the band had gone back to two guitars and Gerard was taking it-well taking it.

Frank just shook his head. Liked it better when he pretended to be a girl over a corpse. More fun. 

Sunday. 

Monday. 

Seemed like he had just…stayed in the same spot. Didn’t matter if it was the bed or the couch- he was still in the same place.

The phone rang on Wednesday, but only Gerard was home. Him and the good news. 

He got the job. 

He moved. 

The shower- that’s where Frank found him. Or heard him. A new song-at least it sounded like one. Couldn’t really make out the words. When the curtain opened he was just standing, backed against the tile. 

The shower was big enough for them both, something that Frank was grateful for after he heard the good news-until they decided the bed was better. 

The rest of the week passed like a new record. Gerard went off to learn the ropes- sorting and alphabetizing books he was already too familiar with. Frank handled his business and they met over whatever they could scavenge in the fridge. 

Maybe they could afford a real dining room table. 

Still, the conversation was short and tight whenever they separated. Seemed like just the sight of him picking up the guitar put a frown on his face. 

“We’ll play when I get back-practice until then.”

But Gerard didn’t do that. Sketching was better. He was good at that. Better when he was left alone to focus. 

Friday. Some houseparty Gerard stands in the corner of. Some girl around Frank’s neck-a long trip to the bathroom while the ink stains on his hands make him wonder if he could get tattoos too- but he’s always been scared of needles, so he just waits until Frank walks back, adjusting the cracked leather belt and smiling like they were friends.

Still, they left together, laughing about how two people apparently can’t fit on a toilet seat.

Friends. 

Saturday. 

They’re on the couch, legs too tangled together. Gerard’s arms fall to his side, holding the sweating Bud Light like it's an Oscar. Label halfway peeled off already, saving it for a collage.

Frank's sitting next to him with a sorry excuse for a joint burning between his fingers, half-mumbling about needing to score something if he's going to have his half of the rent.

They're halfway through The Simpsons—part two. Waiting to find out who shot Mr. Burns.

Frank's yelling that it's definitely Moe. "Has to be Moe!" He's scooping chips into his mouth like he hadn't had a decent meal in a week. One of them should probably learn to cook, he thinks.

Gerard shrugs. "I still think it's the girl."

Frank laughs so hard he chokes, coughs beer out his nose. "Freak. You would pick Lisa, you both are annoying as hell."

The phone rings just as a commercial begins.

Frank groans. Pulls himself up with the last bit of effort in his body. He’s wobbly, but he moves-  knocks over a can, wetting his sock. "Y'ello?" Then, after a beat,he sits up straighter, clearing his throat

 "Hey, Ma."

The difference is instantly noticeable as Gerard watches the way Frank's hand slips into his hair. The way his voice drops when he says, "Yeah, Sunday. Yeah, the girls'll be there, right?"

Then he turns, nodding toward Gerard. Still slumped over like the saddest chick he's ever seen on his couch. Figured he could do something to cheer him up. "Put out another plate. I'm bringing a friend."

"Gee's great," Frank adds, a little slurred. "Loves—"

Gerard's head tilts. "Who was that?"

Frank hangs up, rubs his nose and prepares to lower his face to the table. "You got plans for Sunday?"

Gerard shrugs. "Nah. I got the day off."

"You're meeting my folks," Frank says. Just like that. Then gives Gerard a look—up and down. "Shower, though. Don't want them thinking I picked you up off a corner."

Sunday comes too quick. He doesn't think he slept the whole night. Meeting the parents? That was supposed to be a big deal right? Not like he had other plans. 

He showered, twice just to make sure. Parted his hair down the middle the way his mom always said looked best…doesn’t feel right now. Feel too much like the old him, so the makeshift bangs work. He thinks. 

Clean shirt. Tries on one of Frank’s, but it’s too small–so he chooses something with buttons instead. Promised himself we wouldn’t wear the eyeliner, but it made him feel better about the shirt. 

A quick once over at his roommate and Frank gave a nod of approval that made the buttons feel a little looser. 

“Lookin’ good,  Il. “

The Iero house is loud before they even reach the porch. You can hear the TV through the screen door, something tinny and Italian—reminded him of his grandparents’ place.  There’s yelling, somewhere deep in the house. Laughter. Familiar smells-God and garlic.

Sauce and floor cleaner.

Judgement.

It’s hard to get comfortable in the clothes that feel more like a costume. Should have worn something with paint on it. Maybe a hoodie to hide, well just hide. Worked at home.

But then again Frank would never have tried to fix the collar of a tshirt, just an excuse to get a little closer before they stepped into the red brick house behind the chainlink fence that should have prepared Gerard for what he was walking into. 

The front door opens. A girl—older than them, maybe mid-twenties—grins with red lipstick and too much familiarity, 

“Frankie!” She said, wrapping her arms around her shorter brother, who just kissed her cheek. It was* sweet. *The she looked at Gerard “You must be Gigi, didn’t know Frankie liked them healthy,” 

Gerard blinks, unsure if it was an insult- hard to tell with girls- “Uh… yeah.”

“Frankie didn’t say you were so pretty,” she says, and before Gerard can decide how to react, she’s dragging him inside by the wrist.

---

The living room is a reminder of where Frank gets his chaos from. Crosses on every wall. Mismatched chairs.

 One of the twin sisters is trying to sneak out the back with a guy in a Mets cap. Frank’s already barking: “You’re not leaving the house dressed like a fuckin’ Spice Girl, Faustina!”

Gerard snorts at the irony, Frank *only *goes for girls dressed a lot worse than a crop top and shorts-but he’s glad he only has a brother to worry about. 

Frank shoots him a look that lets Gerard know he has to either back him up or be quiet- so he just sips the glass of wine someone handed him. 

A woman with big, black hair and thick eyeliner fills the room with her voice- Italian too fast to pick up- Frank’s mom. She smiles at him then  kisses Gerard on both cheeks, calls him “bella” and ushers him into the seat closest to the altar-sized Jesus. Frank’s dad offers a too-firm handshake and a once-over like he’s measuring Gerard for a coffin.

Dinner with the Iero’s is…different. Food. So much food. More yelling- mostly Frank at one of the girls. Seems like the only one he didn’t yell at was the tiny one that clung to him like one of his tattoos. It was kind of nice-in a way. Silly faces and an awkward attempt at giving her her first piece of prosciutto that just makes Frank laugh softer than he’s ever heard. But when their eyes met, he looked embarrassed. Gerard tried not to laugh- not too hard when there was enough food to feed a small army-which judging by the looks of the family around the table, they were. 

“What’s your real name, sweetheart?” his mom asks, dabbing sweat from her brow with a floral napkin.

Gerard’s voice jumps half an octave-it’s normal pitch when he wasn’t around other guys. “Frank just calls me Gee.”

“Is that short for something?” his dad asks with a slight tilt in his voice.

Gerard doesn’t know what to say. The sound of the knives against the plates was too loud for him to think of anything else.

 “Illi,” he blurts out.

None of the forks move for a second, everyone’s face laced with confusion.  

Why? Why did he have to say it? It was one thing in bed, he liked that, another when some guy couldn’t see past his face to notice they had the same thing stuck in their throat… 

A look of disbelief from Frank hits him from  across the table as he adds, “The G is silent,”

Then one of the twins pipes up: “How tall are you?”

Gerard tries to shrink a little in his chair,  “Five-nine.” It’s the first time in his life he’s said it without flinching.

Someone whistles, the younger sisters give glances to each other.

“Tall drink of water,” Felicity murmurs. She’s the butch one, the one from the door.  Flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, hair shaved on one side. She’s been watching Gerard like a record she wants to spin,  “You remind me of Patti Smith,” she says. “Didn’t Frankie say you were a singer?”

Gerard, stunned, blushes. “Uh. Kinda. Sometimes.”

The food disappears quickly, there’s no left overs, not   Gerard’s trapped in the most Jersey looking living room with three of the sisters trying to figure out where Frank had gone. The youngest—*baby* Frankie—is holding Gerard’s hair captive with a plastic, pink barbie brush and strands that look like glitter. Fabiana, the twin who clearly hadn’t heard grunge died with Kurt, is journaling in the corner like she’s trying to curse someone.

Felicity sits right next to him, knee-to-knee. She’s halfway decent looking, Gerard thinks. A little older, but kind of likes that. Looks a lot like her brother- likes that even more. 

“I like your hair,” Gerard murmurs, pointing to his own faded roots , nervous, ”What dye do you use?”

Felicity leans in close enough that Gerard gets jealous of her perfume “Can’t get color like this from a box. That’s Sicily.”

“I’m Italian too, ” He gestures to his naturally brown curls that were dyed a faded jet black, “But this is just Jersey.”

“Must be where you get those eyes,” 

Gerard fidgets. “No, my mom’s Scottish- greenest eyes you’ve ever seen.”

“Is she pretty like you?”

Gerard freezes. His voice goes soft, but he doesn’t know exactly why. “Gorgeous-everyone says so.”

Just then, Frank storms in, freshly done threatening a 17-year-old’s life in the hallway. He clocks Felicity doing the lint move.* His *lint move. The one he taught her to pick up girls at the bowling alley.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over to his sister, who smirks like she’s already won. “Hey, Frankie,” she says, “just getting to know Gigi here. She’s *sweet. *What’s she doing hanging around you?”

Gerard stammers, “We, uh, met in art school.”

 “We live together,” Frank adds in case his sister got the wrong idea.

Felicity raises her brows,  “Somethin’ serious?”

Frank cuts in. “Nope.” He glances at Gerard, “but unless you want me to tell Mom and Dad who you really took to prom- hands off.”

She just brushed him off and turned back to Gigi “When you’re done letting him disappoint you, call me- all his old girlfriends say I’m better,”

The feeling of pen against his palm and gold-green eyes made him feel like the glare from Frank was worth it. 

Goodbye's and red lipstick stains on cheeks, gapped hugs that tried to prevent questions.

---

The walk back to the the train was long. The only people talking were strangers and the platform seemed a lot bigger than it had that afternoon. No matter how many times he searched his brain, he could think of anything more than a half-assed joke or comment about how shitty the weather was. Still, Frank sat by him so that meant he wasn't that mad. 

The car rocks gently. Gerard’s knee bounces. Frank’s fuming quietly beside him, arms crossed.

“What was that all about?”

Gerard doesn’t look at him, just on the guy pissing in the corner despite it being pretty crowded, “What?”

“You know what,” Frank says, pulling out a beer he grabbed from his dad’s fridge, “You, my bitchy sister-Gi-gi…”

Gerard tries not to smile at the name and just shrugs, “She thinks I’m cute- you’re  the one who told me to wear the eyeliner, besides she asked if I wanted to see a movie on Friday.”

Frank nearly choke and says, “you can’t do that-she likes chicks that come with less equipment.

Gerard rolls his eyes, “It’s just a movie, not like I’m gonna fuck her or anything. “

Frank punches his arm just enough to send the message, “She’s my sister, of course she’s gonna try. What’re you gonna do when she takes off your belt and sees-”

“I'll just go down on her or somethin’” Gerard said hoping the sarcasm would land,  “She won't even know the difference,”

Frank’s mouth opens slightly as the train jerks them backwards,  “Don’t talk about going down on my sister, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s not like I want to, but it’s not like I got the band to keep me busy-I have nothing to do. She asked if I wanted to see a movie.”

Frank narrows his eyes, lips twitching to lift at the pathetic attempt at leverage, “Are you threatening me?”

Gerard looks out the window, shadows just passing by, “No,  just wondering if you had a better plan.”

The tension was drowned out by the clatter of tracks.

Then Frank turns, eyebrow raised. “So you won’t go out with my sister—”

“Just a handjob!” Gerard blurts, too loud, raised brows and side glances from people with nothing better to do than worry about strangers, “I mean.. It doesn’t have be, I just-”

, “Careful, Illi—,” Frank hisses, “we’re not in the living room.”

 “I just—I wanna actually finish in the same room this time.”

When their eyes don’t meet Frank wonders if this is it. The fucking end-. It was bound to happen right? This is what he was trying to avoid-being nice never got him anywhere. But all he does is be nice to the kid-that weird little smile he did made it less of a pain in the ass. 

Then again... no one else has ever met his parents. His sisters seemed to…like him.

“Fine,” Frank sighs playfully. “It’s a deal. But stay the fuck outta my sister’s bedroom.”

Chapter Text

Patrick waited. Waited for her to come back—Nyla. She left so fast he couldn’t ask for her number. He thought she might have given it to him if he’d asked. Wrote his down on a receipt just in case his mouth did that thing where the words stuck to it like peanut butter.

School didn't start for a couple of weeks, so he knew he wouldn't bump into her. The due date on that tape was flashing on the screen. He wondered if she was going to bring it back—not like they'd miss it. They had all these copies; nobody ever rented it except those old people who always asked how to rewind it.

She was three days late, but he kept changing it so she wouldn’t get a late fee.

It was a regular day, still hotter than it needed to be, making everything look all wavy from a distance. Couldn’t have been the glasses—he’d just gotten new ones. Almost thought they’d fog over when he slouched in front of the fan to catch a breeze, but he wasn't that lucky. Still sweat through the uniform shirt.

The bell on the door caught his attention, or maybe it was the laugh underneath. It was her, but she wasn't by herself this time. Didn’t look as focused. Smiling, walking next to that guy, Michael—Patrick knew he couldn't compete with a guy that just graduated. He was only a junior—or at least he would be. She likes older guys. She had a new hairstyle—not an afro—braids. He liked that. Looked like all the girls on that TV station he watched; liked the music better than MTV.

The eye contact he tried to hold was quickly ignored, or maybe she just missed it. But she had to talk to him this time. She had to return the movie.

Just return the tape and go, she told herself.

Maybe she could just put it back on the shelf and leave—that would count, wouldn’t it? But then again she wanted to rent it again. Maybe Rebel Without a Cause too. Saw a little bit last night and thought James Dean looked like a... good actor.

Patrick saw her walk over, slowly, like she wished something were holding her back. Mikey looked down at his friend, walking like a zombie, holding a tape he told her he'd get for her if she’d stop talking about it. She didn't look excited. Maybe it was the heat.

By the time they reached the counter, both Patrick and Nia were avoiding each other's glances.

Mikey thought he was being weird. Thought Nia was being, well, Nia—didn’t know they knew each other.

Maybe they should. He saw that kid in gym class all last year. Looked like a good enough replacement. Harmless.

"Hey," Mikey said, making his best attempt not to scare him off, "Patrick, right?"

Nia looked up. That was his name. She wouldn't forget that. Wouldn't call him...

Patrick tried his best to look up at the guy but only found the Iron Maiden logo on his shirt. "Yeah, Michael? How've you been?"

Nia watched the brief exchange, but mostly she just knew this was Patrick’s eyes. Blue like the sky. But she shook that off. It wasn't even poetic—she could do better than that. Blue like... nothing came to mind.

She even missed when Mikey paid for the VHS. Just felt the tape in her hands when he told her they’d come back in two weeks.

An exchange of smiles they both tried to hide from the other. 

Relief when Mikey let her hold his hand on the way out while he talked about his new roommate.

Sasha had called bright and early-noon- to say she was going to stop by. Didn't say what for, only what Nia needed to be home- like she'd be anywhere else on such an occasion, two weeks without her sister felt like…well it was kind of nice. Quiet, but still seeing her would be a nice way to spend the night.

Only she didn't come alone and she didn't bring any bag except the one with two Gs across the front. 

The car, a Porsche as Sasha kept saying like it was a big deal, was parked like it belonged there—like it didn’t know it was too shiny for this side of town. Nia saw it before she saw him. Before Sasha even knocked. “He wants to meet you,” Sasha said like it was a compliment. Like being wanted by a man in a suit meant something more than trouble. Nia didn’t answer at first. Just pulled Mikey’s old shirt over her head and said, “Why can’t he come inside?”

 "Why would he want to?" She answered from the mirror, wants to meet you though,"

Said she’d told him all about her and he thought she was cool or whatever. Nia didn’t want to. Said she had better things to do than smile in some loser’s face. Sasha just pointed at the car. “Definitely not a loser. Besides, there’s a new pair of shoes in it for both of us and all it takes is a couple hours of—”

“I don’t do that,” Nia said with just a hint of embarrassment “I just—”

“Look, you don't gotta do anything but have a good time.”

Nia shrugged, watching her sister pull on a dress, she caught the tag: Donna Karin. 

Sasha rolled her eyes. “At least come and have something to talk about at the bottom of the pyramid.”

Every part of Nia told her to stay home. But she nodded anyway, and dressed herself: Mikey’s old oversized T-shirt and baggy enough to feel comfortable.

The guy was nice.

 Didn’t look like Brando. Nice watch–shiny. Ugly suit, brown. Dark brown hair parted down the middle like the boys from school.  The smile he gave her made her question everything Sasha had told her, but she smiled anyway.

“She needs braces,” he said, a smile faltering as he looked at her sister.

“I told you—good ones.”

Nia’s mouth dropped slightly, then shut. “She said I was getting dinner, not a dental exam.”

“Well lucky you,” he said, “you’re getting both.”

Sasha didn’t feel guilty. She was helping. Her sister needed braces. School shoes. Didn’t want her walking around with holes like Sasha used to. Mark was nice. Paid for Sasha’s first semester of design school. Said it was a drop in the bucket. That’s how Sasha knew he was a guy to keep around.

Dr. Mark was older. Nia never asked, but she didn’t have to.

They went somewhere dark for dinner. He didn’t seem embarrassed to be seen with teenage girls. Sasha drank wine—Nia didn’t know she drank. Tried to grab a glass but Sasha stopped her with a look,  “Drink your Pepsi.”

“Get whatever you want,” Mark told her simply, “Bet it’s been a while since you had a good meal.”

 “My best friend’s mom made ziti the other night. Let’s me come over whenever I want.”

A low laugh came from across the table, “Fiery.”

“She’s gotta stop that,” Sasha murmured as an excuse,  “They’ll start thinking she’s a charity case.”

“They don’t. Donna loves having me around, even without Mikey.”

“She’s just a kid,” Sasha said to Mark.

“I’m only three years younger than you,: 

Mark shifted at that realization. Sasha kicked her under the table.

Nia ordered the fil-et ming-on because it didn't have a price next to it.

“ Filet Mignon, sweetheart.”

Sasha smiled and ordered a salad.

They didn’t go home after. Ended up at a house. A nice one. Grass instead of concrete. More fireflies than she and Mikey ever caught.

She didn’t want to get out of the car. Not after watching Mark’s hand climb Sasha’s thigh. Sasha just laughed.

Was that what she was supposed to do?

Every time a boy looked at her, she just wanted to run.

Mark liked shitty music. That should’ve been the first sign. Who the hell listens to the Eagles by choice?

When the engine stopped, Nia’s chest tightened.

Sasha smiled back at Mark. “We’ll be in in a minute, just gotta have some girl talk.”

Mark kissed Sasha’s hair, stroked her cheek, and stepped out.

“I don’t wanna fuck him,” Nia said.

Sasha laughed. “Please. You think I’m gonna leave any of this up to you? We’d barely get McDonald’s.”

“Then why am I here?”

Sasha fixed her lipstick. “Because I want you to see what you could have if you just—”

“Laugh like ma after a couple glasses ?”

“No,” Sasha said, puckering. “If you were just nice. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do and I still get these.”

She pointed to diamond earrings.

“I sleep in bedrooms that don’t need locks. I want you to have nice things too.”

“I don’t want nice things,” Nia mumbled. “I like McDonald’s. Mikey always gets me a Happy Meal. Got me a new lock for my bedroom and everything.”

“Look,” Sasha hissed. “Just come inside. Have a soda. Sleep in a real bed for once. We’ll go home in the morning. Just—don’t fuck this up for us, okay? I need tuition next year. You need braces.”

Nia nodded.

The art on the walls looked expensive. Everything had a place. No beer cans. No passed-out bodies. Definitely not a place that needed locked bedroom doors.

The couch was softer than her bed. Mark had name-brand soda. Gave it to her with a smile.

“Where do I sleep?”

“Upstairs, whichever open door is fine.”

Sasha smiled. “I’ll be down here. Just get some sleep, okay?”

Nia thanked Mark. He said, “Sorry it wasn’t ziti.”

She nodded and  found a room—left it dark— didn’t want to get any ideas of her own.  Didn’t know it’d be a sleepover, so she slept naked. Even the sheets were cold, satin, though she couldn’t tell what color. Might be nice to have a set like this at home.

Curtains kept the sun away, but she woke up to the sound of mowers instead. A warmth next to her that wasn’t there when she closed her eyes, she jumped and pulled the covers.

“Sasha!” Nia half-whispered, trying to keep her voice low enough to keep those footsteps down the hall.

Nothing.

“Sasha!”

Still nothing, so she had to resort to her secret weapon: pinching her sister’s nose. 

After a few seconds, a sharp gasp echoed through the room, “What the fuck is wrong with you,” 

“Me? Why are you in this bed? Can’t you see I’m naked?”

Sasha rolled over, checking the time before stretching, “Relax. I used to give you baths, remember?”

“Where’s the old dude?”

“Making breakfast, I told him you like pancakes-have two-carbs.”

“I could have stayed home- ate the last Eggo..”

“I told you—real bed. Ain’t it nice?”

“Yeah,” Nia admitted. “The AC actually works.”

“See? Not that bad. Now you gotta do something for me.”

“What?” 

“You’re going with Mark to work. He’s gonna do something about your teeth. Say thank you. Tell him you had a good time.”

“But—”

“And then Mikey will pick you up, take you to the store for something to kill the pain. You’ll go home and tell Mom you were with him all night.”

Nia didn’t know what to say. Sasha kissed her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

Downstairs, Sasha was laughing. Mark whispered something in her ear while she swatted him away. Nia shook her head and found a spot furthest away.

The pancakes sat in front of her, warm, golden and crispy: homemade. The syrup was the kind from commercials. 

Mark said good morning from the table like a Dad from those old black and white shows 

Nia ate. Tried to keep it down by looking the other way. 

When she finished, she and Sasha walked to the car. Every step felt too heavy against the pavement. 

“Don’t worry,”Sasha smiled watching her buckle her seatbelt,  “Told him you’re still jailbait,  he’s got too much to lose. It’s just a doctor’s appointment.”

Mark smiled in the mirror,  “You can pick the music.”

She scanned the channels until she  landed on something punk.

“I like Green Day too, ever seen them live?”

“Never been to a real concert. Just TV. Mostly the radio” 

“Next time they come to town, I'll call your sister up-might have something nice for you.”

“Dinner was nice enough,” she said scooting towards the window,  “I liked the napkins, the wine list was real long.”

That just earned her a quiet laugh, “You’re not like your sister, are you?”

 “Sasha was a cheerleader. I’m a cheerleader. We’re not that different.” She said, feeling silly for trying to make herself sound better to a guy that wore white shoes.

“That’s not bad. You’re lucky, you know? A sister like that means you get to stay sweet.”

Sweet . No one ever called her that before.Nice, bitchy, weird . But never sweet.

“The pancakes were good. Did you make them?”

He laughed. “No. Maid. Great cook. Hates that your sister never eats.”

“She likes those modeling mags, tries too hard to stay skinny like them.”

“We’ll get her headshots, then. What about you? What do you want to do when you grow up?”

Nia looked out the window. No one ever asked and sounded like they cared. 

“I want to write, I think. Got all these notebooks. Stuff from my head that just comes out. None of it’s any good.”

“Who says that?”

A shrug is the last thing she says about it.

The car stopped in front of a small office.

“It won’t be bad,” he said. “I do this all day. Pinch, then you’re free—no candy for three years.”

“Three!”

“I’m afraid so. But when it’s over, you’ll have a smile that your face can catch up to.”

That made it easier to follow him inside.

She didn’t remember much after the gas. Just the way he smiled and touched her shoulder. 

When she woke, her face ached like someone hit her with a bat. Mark handed her a mirror. She looked like all the other kids.

 It made her smile wider despite the pain in her gums.

“Glad you like my work,” he said.

“Thank you! I mean—”

“Thank me by telling your sister you had a good time. I don’t unless she knows that.”

“I’ll tell her.”

She offered her hand. He shook it.

“Someone’s waiting outside.”

Mikey hugged her tight.

“Missed you. Wanted to see you yesterday but Sasha had you on a tight leash.”

She smiled and showed off her braces.

“Nice, " he said trying to stifle that laugh, “guess you're a metalhead now?”

His arms were still around her. They always felt better when they were.

“Wanna crash with me tonight? Brother’s in the city. Extra spot at the table. Mom’s making ziti.”

She looked back at Mark. He waved.

“Can we get a Happy Meal?”

Mikey laughed. “Whatever you want.”

Later, they sat on the curb. Pavement hot beneath them. Nia watched him shove fries into his mouth. No effort to be anything other than what he was: nice.

“Why are you so nice to me?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Sasha says boys are only nice when they want something. You never ask for anything.”

“So?” 

“So... don’t you want anything?”

“You’re like the kid sister I never asked for—any more than that and I think I’ll have to commit myself.” 

He paused,  But if you really want to give me something... I’ll take that Red ranger you got.”

She wrinkled her nose and clutched the bagged toy to her chest, “Hands off!”

Mikey shrugged it off and turned back to his own box with disappointment— already had two Greens in his dorm. The smell of something greasy under his nose, 

“You can have the fries.”

The metal smile makes him laugh too hard—they end up in his lap.

Chapter Text

There were only a few more weeks left of summer before school started—less for Mikey—and they were determined to make it count.

The sun, unfortunately, had other plans. It was already high in the sky, yellow and blinding, beating down like it had a personal grudge against friendship.

“You sure this thing even works?” Nia squinted at the cracked Slip ’N Slide, arms crossed over her cutoff Misfits shirt. Her braids were pulled into a high ponytail, sweat curling down the back of her neck like it had somewhere better to be.

“It’s vintage,” Mikey declared, holding it up like a sacred scroll, “Add soap, water, us—we’re golden.”

She eyed him, too much confidence for a kid that once put a fork in the toaster, “Is this one of those Mikey experiments that always ends with us getting yelled at?”

“Would it help if I said I learned it from Bill Nye?”

“No, not really,”

He grinned anyway, “Gee taught me, it went uh…fine.”

“Right, you forget I know what your report cards looked like before you got the red pen,”

They got two pathetic squirts from the hose before it sputtered out like it had lost the will to live.

“City shut it off?” she asked, nudging the plastic sheet with her foot.

“Nah—just… stupid hole,” Mikey muttered, yanking uselessly at the kinked rubber. “Fuckin’ squirrels.”

“Awesome,” she said, deadpan. “So now we’re just rollin’ around in Dawn like a couple of Hoboken raccoons?”

He flung the hose aside. “New plan: find an ice cream truck, eat as much as we can afford.”

They rode in loops around the block, bells chiming, shirts sticking to skin. Passed pools full of kids, sprinklers slicing through yards. The asphalt threatening their tires with every turn.

“There’s always a truck when you don’t need one,” Nia grumbled on the fourth go-round. “It’s a damn conspiracy.”

“Against us personally?”

“Gotta be. There’s always one blaring Pop Goes the Weasel when I’m trying to nap. But now? I wanna split a Bomb Pop with you? Nada. ”

She skidded to a stop, scanning the street like she could manifest one by force of will.

No dice.

So they ended up at the footbridge behind the park. They were older now—fifteen and eighteen—and in that cursed in-between: too big to climb trees without judgment, too broke to afford anything cooler.

Mikey leaned on the railing, chewing the last of the ice from their 7-Eleven cup. The Slurpee was long gone. They were puddles pretending to be people.

He eyed the water. Familiar murk. Faint shimmer. A turtle blinking lazily by the reeds.

“Ten bucks says I can hit him with a loogie,” 

“You’re disgusting,” she laughed, reaching for the cup like it might make a difference,  “That turtle didn’t make it hotter than Satan’s armpit out here.”

“It’s tradition,” Mikey was already filling his mouth with just enough spit to make it memorable, “He probably won’t even notice.”

The wad hit the water with a plop . The turtle dipped under, didn’t even notice them. 

“Dude. We’re going to hell, that poor little guy, ”

“Newsflash, Barbie—this is Jersey-we’re already halfway there.”

The metal of the railing burned her slightly when she tried to lean against it.  The water looked almost inviting. Shimmery. Brown-green. Just deep enough to be a bad idea.

She was sweating. So was he. It was their last real summer. Someone had to do something reckless.

Just… not him.

“I dare you to jump,” his voice echoed from the cup.

She looked down at the water, nose wrinkling. “Do I look suicidal?”

“You look sweaty. But if you’re too chickenshit…”

The way her ponytail flipped when she turned away made him grin. Sasha had pulled that nerve too tight.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I think about dragging you on an adventure,” she muttered.

He was about to suggest they go home, play Magick under the A/C. He had the cards and everything.

But the sound of shoes hitting pavement interrupted the thought.

Then came a blur. A blur that looked a lot like his best friend launching herself off the bridge.

“NIA!”

She vanished. Just bubbles.

His heart shot up into his throat.

She didn’t come up.

Fuck. The turtle got her. Or the water was deeper than it looked. Or Sasha was going to murder him and they’d find his body duct-taped to a stop sign.

Then—

Bubbles. A head. Braids plastered to cheeks. A grin.

“The hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted.

“Water’s cold as shit,” she called back, doing lazy circles. “Come on, it’s not even that deep.”

“They pulled a body out of there last week!”

“Who’s chickenshit now, Way?”

He laughed, more from relief than humor. Dropped the cup in. Watched it float.

He muttered, “Should’ve stuck to being an only brother,” and kicked off his shoes.

For a kid shaped like a drumstick, he hit the water like a piano. She shrieked, delighted.

They splashed. Laughed. Ducked and tackled. Old kids in creek water pretending not to care what was next.

Then—she paused. Tilted her head.

“…Wait.”

“What, you finally afraid I’ll hold my breath longer?”

“Is that a drainage pipe ?”

They both stared. A wide, rusted outflow just under the bridge, leaking something dark and slow.

“Oh my god ,” she gasped, scrambling for the rocks, “Why would you let me do that?!”

“ Let you?! You jumped!”

She wiped her hands against her equally damp shorts. Two showers definitely would be enough. 

“I just—I wanted to have fun so you would wanna come back, ya know, once you get on campus and find somebody better.”

He froze, shirt clinging to his ribs. Water dripping from his ears.

“…Of course I’m coming back,” he said. “It’s Rutgers. It’s only thirty minutes away-mom still does my laundry.”

“Sasha keeps talking about how fun college is gonna be. Just didn’t want you guys to forget about me.”

He blinked. Then deadpanned: “I swear I won’t forget the day I got covered in piss water with you.”

“You wear it well.”She snorted, “Better than that guy under the bridge.”

“Fuck you .”

A splash. A laugh.

They walked their bikes home, soaked, stinking like sewage and sunscreen. Still laughing.

An hour away—two if there was traffic—Gerard was already sweating through his shirt and glaring at the sun like it had personally wronged him .

“Whose idea was this again?” he grumbled, dragging his boots through the sand like a sulking Victorian child. Black jeans. In June should be considered a crime against whatever humanity he had left. 

Frank was already shirtless, flicking his lighter open and shut as he scanned the beach like it owed him something, “Pretty sure it was yours.”

“No, I said I wanted a break from whatever that smell is- you said ‘beach,’ said it’d be nice to get fresh air.”

“It is nice,” Frank barked through a laugh,  “There’s wind. Water. Chicks in bikinis…”

“Reeks like fish and cheap beer, ” Gerard muttered. “I burn under fluorescent lights—I’m gonna tan like a vampire with a death wish.”

Something warm and wet hit his face, a slick palm against his cheek. When he turned he saw Frank licking his hand, threatening to do it again, 

“SPF Frankie,” he said, “Organic- got a whole lot more if you don’t stop complaining.”

“Fuck off.” But Gerard didn’t pull away.

Swimming was out. So was taking off his shirt. He’d rather die. So he dragged himself under the pier instead—shady, cool, just damp enough to feel like privacy.

They settled there. Sand beneath them, salt in the air. Frank flicked his lighter again. That familiar, warm chemical smell—their apartment. Burnt edges and sweet rot. Home.

He nudged Gerard the joint. Gerard took it without looking. He didn’t even like pot.

But it was Frank. And Frank was looking at him like the rest of the beach didn’t exist, just them and the waves crashing against the rocks.

He had that look again—staring into the middle distance. It wasn’t noticeable to everyone, but then again someone was always looking at him these days. 

Frank followed his gaze: a busted boardwalk prize rack. A faded Spiderman plush swung lazily in the breeze from a bright green string around the neck.

“You want it?”

The trance broke and Gerard’s eyes darted back to the damp sand that stuck to his fingers,  “What?”

“That thing, from the comics or whatever, you keep looking at it.”

“I—no. We’re broke, remember? Rent’s due next week.”

If hanging out with Frank had taught Gerard anything, it was that he got his way when he wanted it. Sometimes it was the bed, other times it was the guitar finding its way back into Gerard’s hands. Made him learn something other than songs he likes. 

Today it was the Spider-Man plush. 

The guy manning the booth was half-asleep. Frank leaned in, whispered something, then palmed a pack of cigarettes—or maybe a baggie, Gerard wasn’t sure. The guy didn’t hesitate.

A minute later, Spidey was in his hands, dangling like an unwanted child. Like he was too cool for it. 

Hit him square in the chest when the two were together again. 

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You’re welcome.” Frank flopped back onto the sand. “Now don’t hog all the shade.”

The toy sat in his hands, cheaply made, but…cute in its own way. They’d gotten the number of web-lines wrong. Made him look lumpy instead of heroic, but it was better than any of the ones he’d slept with as a kid. None of those smelled like smoke and ocean water. 

He liked it.

Something came to mind, a thank you, well not really. An offering to keep things even. A pale finger, dipping into the sand and scratching the beginning of something that might have said more than he could in the moment. 

Frank glanced over. A small, crooked heart was taking shape.

He watched, quiet for just a moment, then nudged Gerard’s elbow with his foot.

“Stop bein’ such a pansy.”

Gerard looked up, startled.

Frank pointed. “Draw me something cool. Like… me punching a shark.”

Gerard sighed but wiped the heart away and replaced it with the logo he’d been working on for the band he just got kicked out of.

“Give it devil horns,” Frank said, leaning in, breathing warm on Gerard’s neck.

He did.

When it was done, Frank whistled. “Dude. That’s actually fuckin’ badass.”

“I know,” Gerard said. But he didn’t mind hearing it.

Frank grabbed the plush and held it up to a sliver of sunlight like he was holding the messiah.

“We need a Mascot.”

“Hey,” Gerard half whined, reaching for it—trying to hide how much he liked it, “You said that was mine.”

All he got was a smirk and the sight of a tongue grazing lips, “Come get him.”

A grin curled Gerard’s lips before he could stop it. He launched forward, not a real tackle—just limbs and laughter. The plush was pressed into his chest. So was Frank.

A press of lips, salty and wet. Heavy breaths that tangled like fingers, though those found their place along waistbands. 

Then—a new sound.

Laughter. A group of girls walking past—just legs at first, then long shadows and bikini tops.

Both boys froze. Then glanced—at each other, then at the redhead in the blue bikini.

Frank smirked.  Gerard did not.

“We should get you one of those,” Frank teased.

“Don’t think I’d fill it out,”

“Oh come on, you gotta be at least an A,” 

The sound of seagulls was the only response he gave him, so Frank laid back- the day was already shit, wasn’t like he ruined anything. 

Gerard turned back to the sand. Picked up the stick. Started redrawing the logo.

The lighter flicked again. Salt in the air. Smoke in their lungs. Not a word more.

They stayed and watched the sunset anyway. Almost worth the sunburn.

Chapter Text

It was still summer. Hazy and hot-dragging on longer than it should. But the comic shop was like salvation with a dripping A/C. People in and out all day. It wasn’t like the shops back home, empty until the schools let out. Even then, only a handful of scrawny kids were picking through the shelves with excited fingers. It was almost fun to watch the cycle from excited kid to embarrassed teenager-liked to see people his age. Some embraced it- overstaying by hours to get into some half-heated debate about which hero could kick the other’s ass or which heroine had the best outfit- Wonder Woman if anyone had asked him, though the new Starfire was a close second.

Drawing her was how he passed the time; he always gave her a little more coverage, figuring it was the decent thing to do.

Been drawing more lately since he’d left the band-at least that’s what he told Dr. Levine. Said he was trying to focus on finishing his last semester. He’d wanted to finish back when Frank dropped out, but couldn’t. Only a semester’s worth of classes left- a whole year early. His parents had to be impressed by that. Maybe they wouldn’t care so much that he’s not planning on moving back home after graduation.

Easier to focus on getting the right shade of purple on Starfire’s costume, so that’s what he does.

Coloring until someone interrupts, because they always do.

“Hey!” A voice too cheerful to belong there on a Tuesday. New comics were on Wednesday, and that’s when people sound that cheery.

None of them look like her, though. Bright green hair- not quite neon, but noticeable against the off-white walls, grey eyes like ice, and black lips that mirrored his.

Smiles like that usually don’t come his way.

The name tag says Gerard, but she squints anyway–eyes scanning his face and back to the piece of plastic, brushing a thick curl out of her face as she leans over the counter.

“You new?”

Gerard straightens. His mouth’s a little dry, lips still tacky from the lipstick that felt like a good idea that morning, “Yeah,” he says, “Kinda, I’m… Illi- uh- how can I help you?”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t feel like a lie. It felt a little easier. Softer. It fits his mouth better than the one on his chest.

She gives a deep sigh, as if it were a relief. “Too many guys in here usually, was starting to think I missed a memo or something.”

Gerard blinks, “Yeah, this place is kind of a sausage factory.”

That gets him a laugh.

She smiles up at him, “You ever ask where Swamp Thing is, and suddenly they wanna quiz you on Alan Moore’s fuckin’ life story- easier with another chick around...”

Gerard lets out a low laugh before he can help it, “Yeah, us girls gotta stick together, right?”

“Exactly.”

She’s got a sharp jawline and one of those thrifted shirts that hangs like it’s been worn by five cooler people before her. Her nails are chipped. One of them has a spider web drawn on with a marker. Gerard’s eyes flick down for half a second—red pin on the collar, chest barely visible under the fabric. His jacket suddenly feels too warm.

He shifts his weight and clears his throat. “So… uh. How can I help you?”

“I usually grab Action Comics,” she says. “Live and breathe Stan Lee. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Stan Lee? Action comics? He should tell her, save her the embarrassment later.

But then again, it was...cute.

He leans forward, palms on the scuffed counter. The register hums behind him like a fly in a jar.

“Oh?”

She grins, eyes bright, her voice gets a little lower, like she’s telling him a secret, “You guys got any copies of Cherry Poptart #3?”

Gerard startles. For a second, he forgets where that kinda thing even gets shelved.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we should. Back left, just a sec.”

He walks too fast to the spinner rack in the corner, almost trips over a folding stool someone left half open. His hands are shaking. It’s stupid. It’s just a comic. Just a girl. Just a moment—maybe she’d give him a chance. Looked like she’d give him her number if he’d ask. She didn’t make a face when he tried to smile.

But then he remembers: she thought he was one of them.

Not some guy in lipstick or some freak with a name that doesn’t sit right in his throat. She didn’t pause or blink. She just… saw another girl.

He finds the copy and brushes dust from the plastic cover before handing it over.

She takes it, thumb grazing his finger, following his eyes downward, “You like my shirt?”

Gerard’s gaze snaps to her chest again—shit, “No—I mean—uh… the pin. Cool design.”

She grins. “My boyfriend’s, he always finds the coolest ones!”

Of course. At least he doesn’t have to fake the smile anymore. 

“Hey,” she says, leaning in again, “I’m new to the city. If you’re seeing someone, maybe we could double sometime?”

He freezes. Thinks about Frank, really thinks about him.

Then: “Nah. Single.”

“Too bad, maybe we could go shopping sometime,” She tucks the comic under her arm and winks, “See you next week, Illi.”

She walks out, and he stands there a second longer than he should, heat crawling up his neck. When the door shuts, the air feels heavier, like she took the last bit of oxygen with her.

He looks down at the name tag. Gerard.

Wishes he had the guts to take it off.

Maybe he’ll draw over it next week.

 By the time the shift is over, Gerard tries his best to get out of the door without anyone asking him to hang out. There was always one. The Walkman was his excuse. 

Shouldn’t have taken the train, but how else would he get home? Gerard picks a seat by the door and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. The lipstick’s started to dry weird—it’s cracking at the corners and clinging to the dry patch under his lower lip.

Every reflection in the window feels like someone who knows.

He stares down at his knees. Bounces one foot.

Across from him, a guy’s staring. Older. Not familiar exactly.  The look isn't a threat—the guy's just studying him.

Like he knows him.

Gerard looks away, pretending to be interested in an ad for Camels. Then back again-still staring. 

Shit.

It’s someone from school, of all places. The name doesn't come; just memories of sitting behind him during still-life sessions, did this weird thing with his brush.

They get off at the same stop.

Maybe walking faster would get the guy to back off, the hood is just in case he didn't get the hint. 

“Gerard?”

He freezes. Not because he’s scared—because it’s his name. Not Illi.  Not “Hey, man.” Didn't look like the kind to call him “Sweetheart.” Just Gerard.

He turned slowly, knowing there were a hundred ways this conversation could go, and none of them were good.

Was it really that hard to get people to leave him alone?

“Hey,” he says, his voice too high, still working on that.

Every time he tried to smile, it was a reminder that he was still the same person he had been for a while.

The guy nods slowly, as if double-checking his mental file. “Didn’t expect to see you like...this.”

Gerard shrugs. “Yeah. I’m, uh… in a black metal band now.”

“Oh yeah?” The guy seems amused. Not mocking—just surprised. “You a singer?”

Gerard nods.

“What’s the band called?”

His mouth opens. Doesn’t even have a second to think before it comes out,

“Pencey Prep.”

The guy blinks and takes a step back, “No shit? That was you?”

Should he ask his name?

“My girlfriend dragged me to your show a few months ago. That basement one. She loved you, man—kept going on and on about this song you did. About, like, heartbreak or space or… whatever. Said your voice gave her chills.”

Gerard feels something climbing up from the depths of his stomach

“She’s dragging me to another one this weekend. Said you might be playing?”

He swallows. “Uh… maybe.”

The guy grins, “Do me a solid?, give her a shoutout or something? It’s our anniversary and she'd flip.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kayla.”

He says it like it matters. Like Gerard might forget.

“I’ll… try.”

The guy slaps his shoulder like they’re friends. “Sick. Good seeing you, man.”

Then he’s gone, just like that.

Gerard stands there a moment too long. Breath tight. Shoulders tense.

He lied. He’s not in the band anymore.

But someone remembered his voice.

Not his face. Not his name.

Just his voice.

And for one unbearably hot second, that’s enough to get him thinking.

Frank mumbles into the mic, barely keeping up with the beat.

“Bitches love me ‘cause they know that I can rock...”

Not screamed. Not sung. Just recited, like reading graffiti on a bathroom wall.

“Bitches love me ‘cause they know that I can…fuck,”

This is what they came up with?

He had gotten too used to screaming about love. Loss. Rot. Whatever fell out of Gerard’s head and onto the page. Lyrics that made him remember why he wanted to be in a band in the first place. 

Now?

It’s this. Songs about nothing. Things he could hear on every other radio station. 

Ray taps the hi-hat, basic as hell. Shrugs like you tell me.

They both just keep the tempo…3 minutes left. 

When the song’s over, Tim and Neil are practically vibrating.

“Dude,” Tim whipped his guitar around, “ That’s the one. I can feel it.”

“Chorus hits like a fuckin mack truck,” Neil added, “You killed it, man.”

Frank’s already unplugging. He doesn’t look at them when he says it, can’t, feels too close to a long overdue breakup:

“You guys can keep the name. But you need a new lead. Probably a new drummer too,”

“What? Is this about your boyfriend? Come on we’re so much smoother—”

Frank’s movements are quick; they have to be if he’s going to do it and not turn back. 

“I’m late for another thing. Great song. New singer, maybe that guy Jimmy?”

He doesn’t slam the door on the way out.

He doesn’t have to.

Frank always makes it home later these days. Sometimes it's practice, and other times it's a drop-off-filled day, with his new hobby: tattoos in some guy named Geoff’s basement. He’d been practicing--mostly on himself- the letters on his fingers were decent, you could read them at least. Figured it was worth some drunk guy’s 20 bucks. Wondered if Gerard would let him, but the last time he mentioned needles, the guy turned green, so that was a spark and fade of an idea.

The sound of the front door shutting too hard almost made Gerard spill the slightly overflowing shot glass on the table- he liked to make sure he was in a good mood when Frank got home, and the Wellbutrin had stopped helping before it got so hot outside, probably because he hadn’t been taking it. Couldn’t see the point when he had everything he needed. All he had to do was smile, even when he didn’t want to, or find a reason. That's the best part about Xanax: it makes everything pretty funny when you use it as a chaser.

Iggy and the Stooges, in blocky letters across the front, was the first thing Gerard saw. Then Frank’s face. He looks tired. Or high. Or both- hopefully. Gerard needed to talk to him.

It wasn’t like he actually wanted to be back in the band, but he’d already told that guy he’d do that thing for his girlfriend. And, okay, it was nice for once, not having to be anything other than the voice behind the music, but that was the point, right? Why Frank had asked him to join in the first place?

A hand waves in his face, "You lost or something? I said I'm starving, what's in the fridge?"

Gerard doesn’t answer right away. Just tries to stop the words before they come out.

"I wanna be in the band again,"

"Gee..."

"I wrote three songs last week," Gerard blurts out "One of them's about a girl."

Frank raises an eyebrow, "Gee."

"I know I fucked it up before, but—"

"Gee, you don't-"

"I'll practice, like on my own- I know I can get it if I just-"

"Gee! " Frank says loud enough to make Gerard's words fall silent, "I quit the band."

Silence. That couple two doors down argues too much.

As long as Gerard had known Frank, he'd been talking about making it with the band, school even seemed like a backup plan. Couldn't think of any therapist he knew who had tattoos, felt like it was on purpose.

"You what?"

Frank shrugs like he’s telling him it rained. "Tim and Neil wrote a new song. I listened to it yesterday. Whole verse about how much bitches love them. I can’t keep screaming that shit."

Gerard smirks despite himself, "That used to be your favorite part."

"No," Frank moves closer, hovering over him, "My favorite part was looking left and seeing you trying not to piss yourself."

Shrinking into the couch, Gerard looked at him with confusion, "You can't quit."

"I can do whatever I want. Been working out so far. Better since you started following me around, hate that it's not on stage anymore,"

"I was only doing it because you asked me to- felt good to get some of the shit out of my head, thought maybe somebody would hear it.."

Frank turns, finally, voice low: "Every word. That's why I can't play for anyone else."

"It's not my dream," Gerard admits, pouring another shot, "You live and breathe this shit. Me? I can't imagine my life without color. I don't want to."

Frank wasn't accepting that, "Ray'll come. Didn't you say you had a brother?"

"Mikey? He doesn't play anything."

"Bass has like four strings, "Frank says more like he's fitting pieces together, "I could teach a dog to play in a month, you barely hear it anyway."

Mikey? In the band? He'd have to see him up there, with the makeup, screaming...he'd have to hear the songs...

Frank softens. "Look, I never ask you to choose. I let you be whatever you want. I’ll kick anyone’s ass if they have a problem with it. But I can't do it without you anymore."

Gerard closes his eyes. "I'm not giving up on comics."

"I'm not asking you to. Just give me three nights a week and weekends, we're together anyway."

The look on his face let Gerard know that he was serious. No smile, no sign that they were going to end up pressed together, sticky with summer and each other. Even without it, Gerard felt the need to give him what he wanted.

Gerard doesn’t answer right away. He looks down, pulls at the thread on his sleeve.

“I don’t know if I can… be that,” he mumbles. “The frontman.”

Frank raises an eyebrow,not in that shade you can't...seriously, wanna try something other than black?

"I'm serious,"

Frank says so am I- trust me, I've seen the crowd. They never get it at first, but when they do...your eyes are always closed, you miss the whole thing

“I like doing my song, maybe hiding behind the mic stand after. I don’t like being the one everyone looks at.”

Frank’s voice softens. “You don’t have to be. You just have to mean it when you sing. You already do that.”

Gerard chews the inside of his cheek. He’s always been louder on paper. Always felt safer behind a comic panel. On stage, it’s like being dissected in real time.

“I just don’t want to fuck it up,” Another drink.

“Then don’t,” Frank shrugs. “Let me worry about the rest.”

Gerard nods slowly. "Okay. But I don't wanna be in that kind of band."

"What kind of band?"

"The kind that plays songs just to get girls to flash their tits."

Frank grins, he was always so jealous, "You asking me to give up groupies?"

Gerard breaks his own heart with the truth, "No. Just... no drunk girls. They gotta walk straight."

Frank raises an eyebrow. "That all?"

Gerard shakes his head, "Condom every time, don't need any more of you running around."

Only one of them needs that rule. They both know it.

Frank smirks. "I gotta trade my balls to get you to sing for me?"

Gerard nods. "And the third rule. It’s just me and you. No other bands. I sing for you if you play for me-but I don't want this to be just another...;'thing' we do."

Frank studies him. No jokes this time.

"Deal."

Only one way to seal it: Gerard’s going to do it this time. Has to.

It’s not the kiss itself that makes Frank nervous, it’s the way Gerard leans into him, how his lips burn in a way that he misses when Gerard pulls away to look at him.

Silence stretches between them, long and soft except for the question no one would ask. Gerard’s still catching his breath-or holding it, 

“Can you say it again?” 

Frank’s eyebrows knit. “What?”

Gerard doesn’t look at him. “The thing. About the band. Me and you.”

Frank rolls his eyes, but it’s not dismissive—it’s fond. He shifts closer, so close they’re sharing breath.

“I want you up there with me,” the words are the truest things he's said all night,  “Nobody else.”

Their mouths crash together, hot and sloppy, like they’re both afraid of what might happen if they slow down. Gerard grinds his hips down, moaning when he feels Frank hard under him. He’s not sure if he's ready, but it doesn’t feel like he has a choice. Shaky hands find belts, between promises so quiet they sound like kisses. 

“Just,” Frank mutters, sitting up to mouth at Gerard’s chest, “don't get too crazy okay, I never-”

Groans cut him off, clumsy pulling Frank’s shirt over his head. 

Gerard wants skin. He wants warmth. He wants to stop thinking about all the ways he could fuck it up. 

Frank pulls him back down and they move against each other, Gerard huffs a breath against Frank’s neck, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Frank’s jeans. He tries to keep the gasp quiet, eyes watching Gerard finding the drawer, they both stare at the clear bottle for a moment before Frank shakes his head. 

“You sure?” Gerard asks, voice low and hoarse.

“Gotta be spit,”

“That doesn’t work, it’s just gonna h–”

Frank just slips his hand lower, palm warm and greedy, “It’ll make it mean something, gotta make sure I remember it."

Gerard nods, slow and serious, he stares down at his best friend- softer than Gerard’s ever seen him, “Okay, but we go slow. You tell me if anything feels wrong.”

It does. At least at first. Frank’s fingers are patient along trembling lips but Gerard’s shaking just like he was on the couch back when the only thing they had was Leia and four beers each.

Frank grits his teeth, makes himself breathe, pushes through the sting because he wants this. Wants to know what it’s like. Wants to be the one doing it, this time.

When he finally takes him, it feels like pressure and fire- something bigger than he thought he could take. 

But Frank’s eyes stay locked. One hand on Gerard’s hip, the other gripping his back, bracing himself as their breathing syncs with every move closer. “You good?” he pants.

Gerard nods, sweat beading along his hairline- he didn’t want to hurt him. 

“Keep going.” Frank winced.

He moves, and the pain doesn’t vanish, but it changes. Shifts. Chokes out a moan, grabs at Frank’s thigh, and starts thrusting.

The sound of their bodies is just like the music their threading themselves together with—skin slapping like drums,  desperate. Gerard’s hips stutter, and Frank’s legs tremble beneath him. Frank’s eyes roll back as Gerard finds a rhythm.

“Fuck, Gee,” Frank moans.

Gerard doesn’t say anything about the name-doesn’t miss it, not now. Just leans down and kisses him—open-mouthed, messy, tongues tangling like it’s the last time they’ll ever get to.

He comes first, with a whimper and a soft curse, clinging to Frank like he’ll float away. The sensation making Frank follow, muttering Gerard’s name like a song while the space between their hips filled with warm streams.

After, Gerard collapses on top of him, heart racing.

For once, Frank doesn’t crack a joke. Just lets his fingers trail up and down Gerard’s spine.

It’s quiet.

Then: “You okay?”

Gerard nods into his shoulder, “Think so.”

They lie there for a long time. Sticky. Breathless. 

Pieces that fit together too well to stay apart.

A promise they don’t have to make with words. 

When Gerard finally stirs, it’s because the voices in his head got too loud. 

You ruined it.

He didn’t mean it.

This doesn’t change anything.

The sheets are spilling off the bed. Frank’s not beside him. The spot’s still warm. No reason to freak out. 

For a minute, Gerard thinks maybe he just got up to take a piss. Maybe he bailed. Shouldn’t have switched it up…

He pulls on his boxers and steps into the hallway.

The bathroom door’s open.

Frank’s standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, towel around his waist. He’s holding scissors, the small kind—cheap ones, the kind they use to cut threads from patches or the occasional joint tip.

In his other hand, a piece of hair clutched silently. 

Gerard leans in the doorway.

Frank meets his eyes in the mirror. No words, they weren’t needed. The snip of the scissors filled the room, just for practice. 

Then he cuts off one of his dreads. Lets it fall into the sink.

Then another. And another.

No ceremony. No speech. Just… change. 

Gerard watches silently, can’t tell exactly what’s happening, but he feels something.

Frank was serious.

So he had to be, too.

Red might be better than black.

He'll start with the roots, they're growing out anyway. 

Chapter Text

August was starting to die down. Wasn’t much more to do than sit by the window and try to come up with more excuses. It happened every day like clockwork, she woke up with sore gums and tired skin, cursed the sun before pulling something her sister would find offensive off the floor, and went down for breakfast. 

Every morning her mom would peer over the coffee mug, asking why Nia was rummaging for frozen vegetables. She’d given every excuse that came to mind before her mom caught the flash of metal the second week. Something about the look on her face hit Nia in the stomach. It was like disappointment behind a scowl. Her mom didn’t need to say what she thought for it to hit all the same. 

But focusing on that was the last thing on Nia’s mind, she’d scrounged up enough change for a little piece of salvation: a cherry slurpee. She’d dreamt about it all night, could feel the ice hitting her teeth with a wash of relief. 

Walking the streets alone felt different. She hadn’t found any place to spend the last bit of summer. It wasn't like she was lonely, she liked the silence— gave her more time to write. To find the right way to untangle all the things buzzing around her head. These days none of it seemed to make sense. All coming too fast, too loud– but none of that mattered. 

Her mouth fucking hurt. 

So she popped in the headphones from the Walkman Mikey had given her last Christmas and started her trek to 7/11.

The streets had finally started to thin out,all the older kids were off to college and everyone her age was busy school shopping. Sasha had promised to take her before classes started, but she was already in a rush when she said it, so Nia figured she wouldn’t hold it against her if she didn’t. New York sounded busy. 

Very few things could make Nia smile like red dye and sugar. Especially when it was the only thing that stopped her teeth from feeling like they were moshing and that first sip was like a little piece of heaven just for her. 

With her cup in her hand Nia made the glorious mistake of taking the long way home. That’s where she tripped over the curb where the kids from school were hanging out, a tangle of limbs, denim, and beat-up sneakers gathered around a boombox that looked half-dead but still loud enough to drown out the traffic. Their shirts all had the same grinning skull—white and smug and crowned with roses.

She tugged at her own Misfits tee as she readjusted herself, the logo faded and warped across her chest like it had been through someone else’s laundry too many times. She’d loved it when Mikey gave it to her. But right now, it made her feel like she had a golden ticket to something she’d promised Sasha she’d try to get this year:

Something to do on a Friday night. 

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound breezy and casual, like she just happened to be passing by and wasn’t entirely dying for someone to talk to. “I like the Misfits too.”

One of the boys looked up, squinting. “The Misfits?” he echoed. “That punk band?”

Nia nodded quickly, hopeful. “Yeah. I’ve got all their tapes.”

The kid snorted. “This ain’t the Misfits. It’s a Stealie.”

“Stealing what?”

That got a laugh, maybe she could be the funny one. “Your face,” A guy with hair longer than hers barked, “It’s the  Grateful Dead. We’re Deadheads. You know Bobby? Jerry?”

“Sure am gonna miss him,” Another boy sighed, pouring out the last bit of his soda.

“Jerry Only?”

Their laughter was bigger this time, but not cruel. It wasn’t the kind of laughter that meant get lost, just the kind that meant you’re new.

A girl with frizzy, loose curls patted the concrete next to her, “ It’s your lucky day, you found the bus stop,”

The curb was hot against her thighs, giving her the mental note to wear jeans the rest of the summer. But it was a small price to pay for kids who just laughed with her instead of at something she missed. 

The music was already drifting through the humid air—strange, stretchy stuff, like someone dragging her through some kind of dream. The guitar wailed, not fast like she was used to, it melted.  The drums danced in the background. A voice—mellow and slow—sang something that didn’t rhyme or crash. It didn’t want to be a song. It wanted to be a haze. 

Nia stared at the sidewalk, watching a crushed soda can reflect the sun. Her jaw ached from the braces, throbbing like a distant siren under her skin.

"You like punk, huh?" The girl beside her asked—older maybe, or just burned out enough to seem that way. Sun-scorched shoulders. Bright nail polish chipped and faded. Didn't seem like it mattered to her what Nia liked, just wanted to know.

“Mostly,” her voice landed just above the music, “punk and whatever’s on Q101, kinda like the oldies,”

The girl took a long drag, exhaled something that smelled like that jacket Mikey said he borrowed from his brother. “Punk’s for kids who still think everything is a fight. The Dead don’t punch shit. They…drift.”

Before Nia could decide if that was cool or stupid, someone tapped her arm. A joint hovered in front of her face like an offering.

She took it, glanced at the glow of the tip to make sure it was really lit. It felt like something she promised that Lion in the DARE shirt she wouldn’t do.  Meant to fake it—quick puff, pass, act natural. Instead, she sucked in too hard and her throat lit up like a house fire.

She coughed once, then again. Her eyes watered. Her lungs felt like they were ripping apart as she tried her best to not gasp so loud. 

“Fuckin’ lightweights,” someone muttered, though not unkindly.

“I’m not—,” she croaked, one hand covering her mouth, “just not the brand I usually smoke.”

More laughter. Softer this time.

“Sweet Jane here thinks we’re passing Cloves,” The frizzy haired girl teased, nudging one of her friends. 

Nia handed the still-burning joint back, eyes still stinging. The world around her was already changing.

The sidewalk glittered . Like someone had cracked open a snow globe and smeared the pavement with stars that she found on the ceiling of her bedroom. The trees looked like they were dancing to the songs that…didn’t seem so long now.  Someone’s tie-dye shirt flapped in the wind and she swore she could pick the bee off the painted flower on her new friend's back.

The wind spoke, not in words—just feeling.

She leaned back on her palms and let herself go quiet.

Nobody asked her questions. Nobody tried to impress her. Didn’t even say anything when she’d followed them to the park. Just passed her another one of those “Cloves” and gave her a lesson on real music. 

She still liked the Misfits, but she loved Cloves. 

The moment passed, but she had thought about it all week. Hadn’t had a day like that since she left the curb and real life was starting to feel like a drag. 

 She stood in line with Sasha, a shopping cart full of things she ‘trusted’ Nia to make. Ramen, off-brand hamburger helper…she wondered if Sasha thought she was a kid, but didn’t ask because the answer might have pissed her off—everything seemed to do that these days.  The pale orange lights buzzed. Someone’s baby screamed like it was growing a second head—or realizing they had a first. 

Sasha wore sunglasses inside. She always did when she came home. Always had her hair done up to look like those girls in the magazines their aunt kept on her table. None of those girls wore afros and Nia was starting to wonder if it was on purpose, a memo she had missed along with all the other things Sasha told her made her a “Oreo”.

It wasn’t her fault, Sasha’s the one who introduced her to her best friend, wasn’t her fault he liked stuff nobody ever heard about or that everything always felt like a secret between them. If Nia had it her way Bellevue would be filled with more girls like them, but it wasn’t. Just people who looked at them funny and acted like knowing the Misfits was some sort of badge of honor. 

“Put the ramen on top,” Sasha whispered, “If the eggs crack again, I’m blaming you.”

Nia didn’t answer. Her mouth still hurt. Something about the brackets scraping the inside of her cheeks. Mark said it would pass, but it hadn’t yet. Everything still tasted like pennies and reminded her what she was supposed to be.

A short, bottle tanned woman in front of them pulls out a bright red stack of food stamps. Nia wished she had that kind of confidence– Sasha scoffed, “That’s why we carry cash,”

An eyeroll threatened Nia’s face as her sister tucked the stack their mom had given them into her pocket before turning to the woman,  just to add to her embarrassment. 

The cashier—a boy Sasha's age, too pimply to flirt without it coming out like an apology—scanned their stuff without looking up.

Something caught her eye as they walked towards the exit. A rainbow across someone’s chest and a logo she’d never forget.

“I’m gonna meet you outside,” Nia mumbled, clutching the money she’d asked for earlier. 

Sasha glanced at her. “We’re not done—you need to carry these bags, I just got my nails done.”

“I just—I need air, okay?”

It wasn’t like Sasha really needed the help, Nia told herself. It only took a half glance and like magic some guy appeared  scrambling to take the paper wrapped weight from Sasha’s freshly manicured hands. 

“Fine,” Sasha muttered. “Darren let me use his car, so don’t fuck off too long. You’ll be carrying this shit all the way home.”

Nia didn’t argue. She ducked out into the parking lot, the sunlight making her eyes throb.

She walked past the rows of carts, past the corner of the building where the Deadhead kids usually lingered, their laughter echoing faintly off the bricks. One of them—tie-dye shirt, something resembling dreadlocks, chipped tooth—saw her coming and grinned like they’d been expecting her. Thinks she remembers his name from the curb with the music that seemed like it’d never stop.

“Cheese? The shakiness in her voice let him know she wasn’t sure. 

Smiles never grew that wide for any other reason, “You got twenty?”

She nodded, already pulling the folded bill from her bra.

They made the exchange fast. A plastic bag in her palm, his fingers brushing hers. She turned to go.

Then she heard it.

“Nyla!”

Her body tensed. She turned fast, already rolling her eyes—ready to snap—when she saw him. That red hair, the cereal boxes, the same nervous smile from the video store.

Patrick.

“It’s Nia,” she said automatically. Her voice softened before she could help it.

“Right, Nia. Won’t forget this time,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

“You with your mom?”

“Needed to use my car, pop’s got the other one while hers is in the shop,”

She smiled, just a little at the way the words fell out of his mouth, “Why do you talk like that? You from the city or something?”

Patrick’s cheeks warmed just a little, “Chicago—moved here freshman year. Still kinda holding on to the accent.”

“I like it,” she admitted, more shy than cool now,“Kinda sounds like James Dean.”

He blinked. That one got him. Here he was with an arm full of Raisin Bran and Ultra Slimfast and she said he was cool, no not just cool— fucking James Dean. That was a big deal right?

The laughter from behind the store caught his attention, and he motioned behind her , trying to distract from the fact that his arms were starting to shake, “So... what were you doing back there? With that guy?”

She looked guilty, then sighed and reached into her pocket, revealing the dark green bomb she’d hoped her sister wouldn’t smell,  “Please don’t tell my friend. You know him, right? Mikey?”

“Only seen him in school,” Patrick admitted with a small smile, “don’t really know him.”

She held the bag between her fingers, like it wasn’t supposed to be there, “ it’s not like I do it all the time, you know, I just–- my mouth’s been killing me ever since this hack job,”

Patrick raised an eyebrow and looked around to make sure the coast was clear of his mom, “You like joints?”

“Been thinking about stuffing it in half-empty cigarettes, my dad always leaves a pack around.”

He had an in, or so he thought. It was just one more thing he could add to the list of things he’s glad his friend Pete had taught him, “If you wanna learn how to roll a real one, I’m not doing anything this Saturday— could spend the whole day practicing.”

Nia smiled to herself, but it was small. She didn’t want to give him her address, didn’t know what he’d think. Sasha never had this problem, she always knew what to do. And she never let guys come to the front door. 

“Can I give you my number? I’ll tell you where to meet me,”

Sounded mysterious , like the women in those black and white movies she figured, The look on his face told her she hadn’t embarrassed herself too much, not enough to matter at least. 

Patrick dropped his bag to look for a pen. Thought it was nice when she held his hand to write down the number.

“NIA KNOWLES!” Sasha’s voice echoed through the parking lot. 

“Gotta go, Saturday—don’t forget to call okay?”

He nodded and looked a little too long when she ran to a car that looked nicer than his dad’s. 

Nia didn’t give him her address. Just told him which corner to meet her. Figured she could lie and say she was buying candy beforehand. 

They’d bumped into each other before she could duck inside for the excuse. He was just trying to get there earlier, let her know he was excited. She must’ve been excited too, he figured–-she was waiting by the door like she was looking for him.

For a second, he debated passing her up, he was getting kind of tired of giving girls rides just to be waiting by the phone on Friday nights. But she didn’t look like the type, so he  just pulled up in a beat-up Nissan with a cracked dashboard and a bumper sticker that said God Don’t Make Junk .

She climbed in. Her legs felt too long in the shorts she’d swore she’d throw out  last year. She tugged at the hem and tried not to notice him staring at her with those eyes that were bluer than...she was still working on that.

The car smelled like stale cigarettes and old fast food. Receipts were scattered like confetti across the passenger floor. A Dairy Queen cup balanced just right in the cupholder.

 That made her stomach twist. This was his car. His car. No borrowing. No begging. Probably didn't have a curfew either.

“Wanna swing by my place?” he suggested more than asked,  “got some new CDs we could check out.”

 “Yeah,  I, uh,  brought some tapes too. Thought maybe we could trade.”

They’d only gotten a few blocks away before it happened. Patrick knew the car was going to do something stupid. He just didn’t expect it to die completely. 

Not with her in the car. 

Usually it was fine after a full tank, even got premium while he begged the navy blue beast to behave, but of course, it didn’t listen.

He coasted to the shoulder, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary, trying to pretend like this wasn’t humiliating.

Beside him, Nia shifted close to the window, trying to make the shorts seem longer than they felt. 

He tried not to look.

Which meant, of course, he absolutely looked. Long enough for her to notice and cross her ankles like it made a difference. 

She was a cheerleader, he almost had to remind himself. She wasn’t the loud type, the girls-who-clap-on-the-bus type. But still. He knew she was on the team though. Seen the uniform while she followed behind that tall girl who sort of looked like her, or laughed too loud in the lunchroom with the kid with the glasses. 

And now she was in his car– and they were stuck. 

The seat made a weird hissing noise when she adjusted. The kind that only happened when you were sweaty and fidgety, which she clearly was.

Which made two of them.

He tried the key again. Nothing.

Cool. Great. Impressive.

She leaned back, arms crossed, hair starting to frizz at the edges. “So this is what rich guys mean when they say ‘I’ll take you for a ride’?”

Patrick snorted, “Rich guys?”

Nia nodded, “This your car right?”

“Yeah, I mean I saved up for it all last year— couldn’t show up on the first day walking, but yeah I guess, real romantic.”

In his glove box, a backup joint waited in its crushed Altoids tin. He debated whether it was a good idea. Then remembered the part where a cheerleader was sitting next to him and lit it like his life depended on it.

He took a hit, then handed it over.

She took it—sort of. Her fingers grazed his. He flinched a little, but played it off by coughing like the joint had betrayed him.

Smoke filled her mouth when she hit it. Immediately choked.

He tried to hide a smile.

But not because it was funny. Because she looked... real. Awkward. Water rimming her eyes…not trying to be anything.  It made him feel less like a walking zit and more like a person with a chance.

“You always this smooth?” she croaked, still recovering.

“Only when I have cheerleaders getting stoned in my car.”

Her eyes cut to him, the look on his face seemed unsure.  He’d meant it as a joke, though he didn’t know how it landed.

A nervous laugh fills the car and she softens— that’s what she was, right? Hadn’t touched those poms since the last game, didn’t know if she would pick them up when school started back up or if she’d take her chances in the lunchroom without them. But then again- the way Patrick smiled when he said it: cheerleader. Felt like less of something to be embarrassed about. 

Kind of.

She raised an eyebrow, “Even the ones who buy weed behind grocery stores?”

The back of his neck gave him something to do with his hands, “Especially those ones.”

They’d been sitting in the dead car for maybe twenty minutes.  Long enough for the weed to mellow, for the sweat to settle into their clothes, for the silence to feel... not quite comfortable, but not exactly bad.

The smoke had thinned. The windows were cracked just enough to let them feel the sun.

Nia shifted in her seat. Her stomach made a low, traitorous sound. Always betraying her at the worst possible time.

Patrick turned his head, his hair sticking instead of flowing like he’d hoped when he washed it, “Was that you?”

 “No.”

That didn’t seem to convince him.

Rumbles came again. Louder this time. Like it was mad. Shouldn’t have skipped lunch, but it was the best way to fit into the shorts.

Embarrassed, Nia crossed her arms,  “I’m not hungry.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but not mocking. “Okay.”

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare .

In her head, Sasha’s voice echoed like a slap:

“You never let a date know you’re hungry. You eat before. Or wait till after..”

It was dumb. Nia knew it was dumb. But it stuck.

Patrick leaned forward, opened the glovebox with a creak and a grunt, and started digging.

“I think I got something,” he muttered. “Unless my brother already stole—oh. Wait. Jackpot.”

He turned around and held up a torn pack of cherry Pop Rocks, the corner taped shut with what looked like a sticker from a gas station.

Nia blinked.

“Fine dining,” he said. “Vintage. Possibly expired. High-end shit.”

 “Pop Rocks?” She laughed despite herself.

“You’re hungry and we’re not moving any time soon. It’s this or, like, the fries under the seat.”

She stared at the packet. Her stomach growled again.

He opened it and offered her some.

She hesitated. Took a few. Let them fall onto her palm like rubies.

They looked the same as they always had—glittery, dangerous. Tiny bombs.

She placed one on her tongue. The sound exploded in her ears. Fizzing, snapping, loud.

And suddenly, she wasn’t here.

She was ten again. Sitting next to Mikey in the kitchen with a sparkling bowl of gogurt that they’d concocted together. Wasn’t the same without the gogurt and bubble tape. Wasn’t the same without him. The thought crossed her mind like a flash: would he care that I’m here?

She blinked hard.

“You okay?” Patrick asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just... haven’t had these in a while, they're getting stuck.”

He poured some into his mouth and winced. “Jeeze, they’re louder than I remember.”

 “That’s the point,” Nia laughed, loud enough to hide the rumble under her waistband. 

They sat there, chewing (even though you weren’t supposed to), the sound of sugar violence snapping between them.

And for a moment, the car didn’t feel dead. The air didn’t feel stale. She didn’t feel like a girl trying not to be too much.

She was just hungry, and he was just a nice enough guy to give her what he had. 

The silence was too much for Patrick. Too many different things to focus on the way the sun beamed through the window, the flies whizzing in and out; how the hell they were going to get home. The change in the cupholder was enough to call his parents—he wondered if she’d think it was lame. 

A distraction was waiting for him just under his seat. 

“I call it the rotation,” his gaze fell like he was giving her some ancient truth, his hand gently cracked open the thick black box, 

“Shit I never lend out, but you can take one i—if you want.”

Nia peeks inside. The box is chaotic. Bootlegs, Sharpie-labeled Maxells, mostly tapes with no labels. No rhyme, barely reason.

She pulls one, squints. “ De La Soul? ”

 “The Stakes is High, but that one’s personal.”

She snorts, “Is it all… this?”

“All what?”

 “Nothing,” she said nervously, “just you got a lot of rap in here.”

“I mean… yeah?” he shrugged like he got it all the time, “ that and soul was all that played back home.”

“That’s all that plays around my place, I get it.”

 “Don’t let these blue eyes fool you,”  Patrick shifts, “I am down with the culture .”

That earns him a smile. She digs into her own bag and pulls out a sleeve of tapes. Handwritten labels, a few drawn-on skulls.

He picks one up, staring at it like it was in a different language, “Misfits? Wait— is that blood ?”

“Red sharpie.”

“Scary,” he joked. 

She watches him flip through, expression unreadable. “You don’t know any of it, do you?”

Patrick’s laughing now, that’s a good sign right?

“Not a clue. Blink what? You make these names up?”

“They’re all real,” she says, shrinking just a bit in her seat, “And good for when you’re pissed off.”

“Clearly.”

She holds up one of his tapes— Nas, Illmatic, it makes her face twist. It wasn’t on purpose , she wanted him to think she was cool…but she couldn’t bob her head to the beat. Couldn’t make out what she was supposed to be paying attention to. Patrick must’ve noticed because he turned the volume down before the end of the first track.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you don’t know this one,”

“Ye-yeah,”  The lie was forming just behind her teeth, “I just— it’s not really my thing ya know? My sister likes it though,”

“Not your thing?”

A flash of light from the crack in the windshield caught her eye,  she hoped it’d make her think of something better than the truth.

 “If I wanted to hear about bitches and hoes, I could’ve just driven with my sister.”

Fuck. 

  Everything always sounded meaner when it came out. 

Nerves started to climb up Patrick’s neck, “It’s not all like that—most of it’s actually pretty deep. Kinda like poetry.”

“No, I mean, it’s good just…Oscar Wilde never called anybody a bitch,”

Thick silence grows again, like a weed that just won’t die. 

She looks at him for a beat too long. “You always trade music with girls or am I the exception?”

“You always carry around murder plans that sound like music?”

Touché.

The sound of tapes shifting as he pulls out the only CD in the box and hands it to her like a relic, “You’ll like this one, bought it out of the guy’s trunk in bedstuy last week,”

“ You go to Bed-Stuy?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said faking offence, “ they got the best weed there, they always overcharge me, but I get shit like this so I figured it’s worth the extra 10.”

Nia looks the CD over, “Well, I dunno who the hell Jay-Z is, but Cheese only charges me 20 bucks and he said I’d be a good Deadhead,”

“Yeah and made you listen to those novels he calls songs.”

They swap without another word. His fingers brush hers—quick, but not shy. Just... intentional. 

“What if I don’t like it?” 

“Then next time we’ll blast it until you do.”

“What if I still don’t?”

The smile he gave made Nia sure she’d love whatever came out next, “Then we’ll play…Nine Inch Nails?”

She shoved the CD into her bag as Patrick checked the sun as it started to set, he had to be home before the streetlights started buzzing.

“C’mon—we gotta find a payphone.”

The black sheet dances in the wind of her window. The bed is a relief— they’d had to walk 4 blocks to find a payphone that actually worked. Patrick’s parents didn’t seem to mind dropping her off–- probably because she gave them Mikey’s address. His dad wasn’t mad when she’d asked him to drive her the rest of the way–- asked her about school like he cared, said he’d tell Mikey to call. Almost made it hard to get out of the car. 

But she did . Let herself in and darted up to her bedroom with a hole burning in her bag. 

She stared at the CD in the case for a moment, felt like a bigger deal than it was. Like a betrayal or something. She didn’t recognize the name. Jay-Z. Sounded made-up. Like a guy who didn’t want you to know his name. Still, something about the confidence in the way Patrick handed it to her stuck. Like this was the tape that meant something.

Laying in the bed, volume on the radio as low as it could go, she held the silver disc in her hands. Giving it a try wouldn’t be a big deal, but that would mean something right? Didn’t matter—she didn’t have a way to play it. Figured she’d just hold on to it. If he really wanted it back he’d call again. 

She hoped it was his favorite. 

Chapter Text

Nia wore the Mario shirt on purpose.
The blue one with the faded print and stretched neckline that was supposed to be saved for the first day of school, but she wanted him to know she was cool, even if she didn’t exactly listen to the CD. Not like she could anyway. She only had the Walkman and the radio with the busted tape deck. 

She’d almost worn the cheer skirt. Almost. But gym shorts won out.
She wasn’t meat. Not yet.
She just wanted a friend, didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. No perfume. None of the clear lip gloss Sasha left. Just made sure there wasn’t anything stuck in her braces, ran a comb through the curly mass on her head, and tried her best not to look like she was trying too hard.

When they talked on the phone earlier that week, Patrick gave her his address—she’d have to take a bus if she didn’t want to show up sweating like a pig.

Sneaking out in the middle of the day wasn’t as easy as Nia had counted on.
The only reason she’d said noon was to make sure the house would be empty—no questions about where she was going. Her mom used to say she and Mikey were together too much, that they didn’t need to have sleepovers every other weekend. Nia always just rolled her eyes. Her mom didn’t get it. She obviously didn’t have a best friend like him. In fact, when Nia thought about it long enough, she wasn’t sure her mom had any friends. None that she’d ever met.

Maybe she’d ask to watch a movie later. But right now, all that mattered was making it out the front door without her dad—or one of their nosy-ass neighbors—noticing.

Thank God for windows.

Patrick was waiting at the basement door trying to act  like he hadn’t been checking the window every five minutes.He was sure he gave her the right address. Double-checked it and everything.

Thought about offering a ride, but didn’t want to risk getting stuck in sticky silence again.He just wanted to show her he was cool .

Maybe she got lost. Or found something better to do, he thought.

Inside, the place was actually clean.
Weirdly clean.
Vacuuming didn’t seem like a big deal.  Sprayed that awful air freshener his mom insisted smelled like ‘heaven’. Folded the blanket on the bed so Nia would think it was a good place to sit. Didn’t want to risk his folks walking in—he’d made sure they’d be gone for the day. 

Not that he’d planned on doing anything, just never had a girl on his bed.

But they’d shared that joint. Their lips had practically touched already.

Maybe this time he’d get the real thing.

The movie he’d placed next to the VCR was some old black-and-white thing he found in the back of the video store after his shift. Reefer Madness.
Seemed good enough for what he had planned.
If she ever showed up.

When the familiar sound filled the house, he tried to not seem too excited.
Watched her from the window next to the front door, just to make sure he didn’t look too eager.
Pete always said chicks didn’t like that. Told him to call her ‘ shorty ’---but they were almost the same height so that felt weird. 

He waited until she was just about to turn away, then swung the door open like he’d been doing something else.

Nia wasn’t the least bit impressed. How could she be?

“It’s hot,” she said flatly, arms crossed tight, "do you know how far I had to walk from the bus to get here, why’d you make me ring the bell so long?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Would’ve given you a lift, but didn’t want to risk it. Big Blue’s been—”

“It’s fine,” She huffed handing him the reason she came all that way.

Then she got a good look at him. He had on those glasses she liked. Looked like he might’ve just rolled out of bed. Messy red hair. A hoodie that’d hopefully seen better days.

He looked out of place in the otherwise neat house.

“My room’s upstairs,” The words came out too rushed, “wanna watch something, to cable and everything.”

“In your room?”

He nodded.

“I’m supposed to teach you how to roll a joint, remember?”

Nia’s gaze went past him, down an empty hall lined with too many pictures.

“Your parents home? I’m not supposed to hang out with guys by myself.”

The question made him nervous. But he’d put in all the effort—couldn’t let her leave just because of that.

“No, they’ve got a date or whatever. But they’ll be back later... Besides, we hung out in the car, right? I got you home safe.”

After a moment of weighing her options, Nia figured a guy who smiled like that couldn’t be anything to worry about. So she nodded and followed him upstairs into a bedroom that looked like nobody even slept there.

Everything was neatly put away.

And ther was a TV. In his room.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, eyes darting toward the little tray on the floor, “I’ve been practicing all day.”

“I’m not,” Nia said. And she meant it.

They smoked badly rolled joints and watched cartoons on mute while Patrick rambled about the new tapes he got.
He played something she didn’t hate—Otis Redding and quietly hummed along as he sat cross-legged, patting the floor beside him.

“Just get everything in the paper and pretend it’s a burrito.”

Nia tried to roll once and made a mess. Thought that'd get her a laugh, but no. He just grabbed it and gave her the slowest lesson and offered to give her few to take home when she didn't get the hang of it. 

She made a mental list: a guitar. A drumstick. A poster of a girl wearing a bikini on a bright red car that made Nia look down at her own chest.
This was a boy’s room. And here she was, just sitting there like it wasn’t breaking some unspoken rule.

“I got something—a movie,” Patrick said, standing like he’d just remembered. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

He watched her more than the screen. Every laugh. Every drag.
He’d done it.
She was having a good time.

They spent the last few weeks of summer like that. Too much pizza. Too many phone calls that stretched past midnight. Patrick came to her window after three days of radio silence.

Slept on the floor when she told him she was home alone.

Nia didn’t miss Mikey as much. He wasn’t calling much anyway— even when she left all those voicemails. Said something about having to share the phone.  

That’s where Patrick came in.

She kind of liked him.  Called him her second-best friend in her head. Kicked a security cop in the knee so they wouldn’t both get arrested for smoking behind the mall.Told herself it was practical, couldn’t explain to Sasha why she got banned from their favorite hangout.

But it was for him. So he’d think she was the kind of girl he liked enough to keep hanging around.

When school started back, he picked her up while she waited for the bus.
Felt kind of nice for once, seeing the other cheerleaders in the rearview, sweating.
Patrick at least had A/C. And those eyes . Blue like the dress she picked that day, even wore yellow earrings to match the middle.

“Show me your schedule at lunch?” he asked when the engine stopped, “wanna see if I gotta switch my study hall.”

She gave him a smile and a nod. Looked forward to it all morning. But when she got the slip of paper in homeroom, she froze.

She couldn’t show him:
Honors English. AP Math. Choir instead of band. He was going to think she was a fucking try-hard.

Did it matter? She couldn’t decide.
All she knew was that she’d lie. She could say she dropped her slip, just tell him she had study hall fourth period.

That thought disappeared the moment she walked into the lunchroom.

Too loud. Always too loud.

Scrawny freshmen walked in like they’d never seen tile and cheap lighting before.
Fresh meat, she heard the sophomore guys whisper by their lockers.

Thank God it wasn’t her.

She didn’t have to worry about where to sit. Or if her sister would see.
Thought about trying to sit with the other cheerleaders and their meathead boyfriends... but they’d already turned her away.

Her eyes cut to the table full of tie-dyes and beanies. They didn’t mind when she bought weed from them. Let her walk with them whenever Patrick was busy.

Patrick.

Where did he sit?

She scanned the room—and then she saw it. Like déjà vu. 

Some junior with a letterman jacket and a face too smug for his own good. Laughing too loud. Standing too close. Patrick was hunched into himself, not talking. Eyes on his shoes.

Nia didn’t think. She just crossed the room with her tray and dropped onto the bench beside him.
Didn’t look at the guy. Just sat there. Patrick didn’t look at her, neither did his friends. Nia turned to the guy, once over to build up her nerves. 

“You should back off,” she said with just enough of Sasha to sound serious.

“Or what?”

“Or,” Nia sighed, “I’ll make sure none of the girls on the squad go out with you this year.”

“You’re at the bottom . They don’t listen to you.”

“Maybe, but I think they’ll care when I tell them you asked me out.”
The smirk was replaced with a look of confusion. 

“Don’t think they’d want a guy who goes around kissing girls in busted Keds, might make them think they’re too good for you.”

They guy sucked his teeth and looked back at Patrick and his friends, “Fuckin’ pussies,” 

Nia rolled her eyes and waited for Patrick to say something. A thank you , maybe, follow her out into the halls like Mikey had. 

 He didn’t. Just turned away and focused too hard on collecting his peas. He clearly hadn’t gotten the memo: Never eat school lunch. 

Took her tray, but didn’t say anything, almost walked too fast for her to catch up in the crowded halls. 

“I was just trying to help,” she muttered against the first day frenzy

“I don’t need girls fighting my battles,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ve got enough problems- now I’m gonna be the dude that needs cheerleaders stickin’ up for  him.”

“Mikey never cared,”

“You didn’t hear what they said about him in the locker room…”

As much as Nia wanted to say something more, let him know that the only thing standing between him and the inside of a locker was her and her pompoms, all that care out was:

“Sorry—”

“Next time? Just... don’t, I can take care of myself, I don't need you making it worse...”

Something inside her fell like a rock. Thought maybe she screwed everything up-this is why she didn’t go around trying to make friends.

But when the last bell rang, the only thing on her mind was trying to apologize. It’s not like he wouldn’t have done the same thing if it were her—he seemed like the type.
 

A breathless girl showing up at his locker wasn’t how Patrick had expected to end the first day of school. The apology that came out too fast and the eyes that didn’t look up from the floor made it hard to stay mad. 

“I was only trying to help,”

So he smiled. Enough to show he wasn’t that mad at least.

The drive was mostly quiet. He let her pick the music, so she picked Helena- her favorite song lately. The most romantic one she could think of—even if romance was the last thing on her mind.

She almost smiled when he nodded along.

Until the lyrics started, and he paused just to glance over at her.

Okay. Maybe he wasn’t that cool.

Still. The eyes, or whatever.

They sat in front of her house for a while, letting the tape play out.  Neither of them moved when it just became soft static. Just waited out that part where they both pretended they didn’t want to hang out more.

“So, um… you get your schedule? ” Patrick asked, casually, like it didn’t matter.

Nia winced.  She almost made it- just had to get out of the fucking car. But of course, she didn’t.

She looked at him once, then down at her backpack.

The folded paper inside felt like a time bomb. Like a secret that could ruin everything.

Patrick watched as she pulled it out too slowly, brushed it off as something to add to the list of weird things she did.

He reached for it, but she clung too tight—she even pulled it back to her before she realized it.

A nervous smile broke across her face, too wide, too late she handed it over in defeat.

This was it. The moment he’d figure out who he was really hanging out with.

Not Nia the cheerleader. Not Nia from the video store.

Just Nia the nerd.

But Patrick didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You know,” he said, eyes skimming the classes,  “Honors is just junior shit. I could move a few around. We’d have the whole day together on Mondays and Fridays.”

“Really?” It was a half laugh, half gasp, “ You’d do all that?”

That got him to laugh, sort of. Quiet, but embarrassed.

“If you don’t mind sitting with the Krelbornes. We kinda hang out in the back.”

“By choice?” she teased.

The paper slid back into her lap. Lighter now.

“I’ll pick you up here tomorrow,” his hands raised to start the engine,  “You don’t have to walk all the way to the bus stop.”

Nia nodded.
Didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

When she got inside, she pressed her forehead to the back of the front door and smiled, teeth caught in her bottom lip.
It wasn’t that serious.
It wasn’t anything.

But she felt... lighter.
And maybe that was enough

She didn’t even mind when he showed up to her place saying they had to walk- he even carried her books.

Friday.

Tryouts were coming up.

Usually second-year cheerleaders didn’t have to worry about that, but Nia hadn’t shown up for a single summer practice.
She’d had better things to do. Mostly just getting stoned in her room, but it was better than the way they looked at her when she showed up in Sasha’s old gear.

Then there was the new accessory she’d gotten.
Nicole laughed the second she saw it. Said there was no way some metal-mouth was gonna fuck up her pyramid.

Nia didn’t beg.

Well, maybe a little.

Couldn’t disappoint her sister—Sasha’d never let her hear the end of it. The look on Patrick’s face when she mentioned practice on Wednesdays didn’t hurt either. 

So she accepted the terms: Try out with the freshmen as a “formality”.

“Why do you have to try out if you’re already on the team?” Patrick asked.

“They didn’t want me in the first place,” the admission coming with a loud of smoke, "this is just their excuse. Like I don’t get humiliated enough on game days.”

“I’ve seen you in the uniform, you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

The laugh was nervous, so was the way he looked at her. Or didn't.

Shit. There wasn’t any chance of her bailing now. 

The day of the audition, she was full of nerves and half a granola bar.

Patrick was already in the bleachers, tapping a pair of drumsticks against his thigh. She’d told him to just wait in the car. Didn’t need the embarrassment coming from both sides. But he insisted, and she didn’t want to say no to the only friend she had. So they both waited in the gym. 

Then they called her name.

With a deep breath,  she stepped into the middle of the mostly empty gym and found the boombox. She’d picked the perfect song, figured she could make up the moves as she went. 

Now, if there was one thing Nia didn’t do, it was lose track of her stuff. It was one of her best qualities if anyone’d ever bother to ask. That’s why it didn’t take her long to figure out why her tape was missing from the deck.

Nia stood there like she’d glitched, heart pounding like a fist that wanted to punch the smirks off those perfect little faces staring back at her. 

She didn’t even breathe.

Until—

Drums. Well, sort of.
He was banging on the bleachers.
Fast. Heavy. Familiar—not because she liked the song, but because of him .

Then:
A voice.
His voice.

Motown Philly back again…

She blinked, confused.
For a second, she was somewhere else—

Dancing in the mirror with her sister.  Sunday drives to church with her grandma.

All pouring out of some chubby redhead she called her second-best friend.

She didn’t even know the song.

It was bouncy. Too happy. The kind of thing that lived on cassette decks and front porches.

Patrick had hummed it once in the parking lot, trying to moonwalk in his Chucks.

He couldn’t do The Misfits? 

But no. This is what he picked.

He was smiling like a kid in a cereal commercial.
Grinning like he was the lucky one.
Like she wasn’t just some sweaty girl in polyester that should've worn better deodorant.

He looked so proud.

And Nia?

She wanted to run.
Disappear behind the bleachers.
Melt into the floor.

But she didn’t.

Because Patrick looked at her like she had to do something. 

So she danced.

Not the one she practiced. Not even close.

But she moved. Stayed on beat. Fought back the urge to make a bee-line for the door.

Got through it with a fake smile.

Afterward, she walked past the other girls without making eye contact.
Snatched her gym bag.

Found Patrick leaning on the bleachers, still catching his breath like he’d just been out there.

He held out a juice box. Her favorite kind. Didn’t say anything.

She bumped his shoulder, “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I needed a reason to show up to the games this year,” he said.
No grin this time.

Her hands felt too tight around the drink in her hand. 

She tossed him the sweaty towel.

 It landed in his hands—warm and damp. Almost smelled like something familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“C’mon,” Nia said , nudging him with a grin. “We can still catch X-Files if we hurry.”

Later, when she was alone in her room she stared at the poms on the nightstand. That’s where she kept the lighters she’d swiped from the gas station, right next to her last two baggies. That copy of Lord of the Rings...all of it felt like a choice.

Her back hit the bed with a thud, a sigh, and thought that lingered in the back of her mind.

Would she ever get to pick who she’d be?

Chapter Text

The bell rang, and Nia walked out into the burnt neon orange haze that were the first signs of fall in Jersey, still tucking her hair behind her ears as she tried to keep pace with Patrick’s latest ramble about why she just HAD to check out Third Rock From the Sun , said it was the funniest thing on tv, she couldn't wait to show him MADtv and change his mind.

The Trapper Keeper under his arm hid the nervousness bleeding from his pits. Should have worn black, but she seemed to really like blue. 

Every conversation with Patrick, or Pat, as Nia decided to rename him, felt like it came straight from the bathroom mirror, Nia thought, so she always made sure to practice what she’d say in her head while he drove them to school. Worse when they had to walk and everything sounded too…real. 

“I rented Streetcar, ” he said, squinting at her. “Thought you’d wanna— I dunno, chill this weekend. I also got Cherry Coke. And those weird bagel things you said you liked.”

Nia blinked. He remembered. He was always remembering things she couldn't care less about. She didn't even try to remember that he never put ketchup on his hot dogs or called it pop instead of soda like a normal person.

“That sounds… perfect.” She really did mean it. They’d been spending all the other weekends together, what could one more hurt? Sounded like the perfect excuse to escape what was becoming her parents’ latest week-long blowout.

Until she saw him .

Standing by the curb, arms folded, was a figure she hadn’t seen in almost a month—faded bootcut jeans, too-tight band tee, hair slicked back like he was trying to look older. But he just looked like a wet mouse.

Her heart was about to crawl up through her mouth.

Mikey Way in all his nerdy glory.

She barely heard Patrick ask, “You okay?”

“I think I’ll have to catch you next week,” she said, shouldering her bag and grabbing her books from his hands like they didn't feel empty without the weight.

“Why?” he asked, more confused than hurt.

She smiled,-eyes locked on the boy waiting across the street.

“It's his birthday," she said like that explained everything, "didn't think he'd wanna hang with me."

Patrick didn’t say anything. Just watched as she jogged over, dropped the books as her arms flung around Mikey in a hug so hard they almost toppled. Mikey laughed as he caught her just in time. 

“You’re gonna knock me out one day, twerp.”

“You wish,” she grinned, pulling back to look at him. “You look like you sell loosies behind the Wawa.”

He shrugged, "You smell like public school.”

Then she moved back, scanning him. He looked fine. Good even. Not dying, not missing a limb. 

A punch to the arm for his lack of an excuse.

“Why haven’t you called? Didn't you get my messages?”

He laughed nervously, “Semester's been busy.”

She moved in close to his face, trying to close the 6-inch gap,  “Was it a girl?”

“No, It was Calculus.” The response had a hint of nervousness to him; he didn’t want to end up on the other side of her fist again.

He still hadn’t told her about Sasha, and that’s how he planned to keep it. Didn’t have anything else to hide–no matter how hard he had been trying at the parties. 

That's the answer she accepts and pulls away.

“Happy birthday, or whatever."

They fell into step like nothing had changed.

He drove his dad’s car like it was made of glass—he had to since he just got the privileges back. 

“So…Mikey-”

“It’s MJ now.”

“MJ?” Her voice dropped flat, “Who are you trying to be?”

“Nobody,” he said, dead serious. “Mikey’s just… for kids.”

“You’re still scared of the dark.”

The way he rolled his eyes almost made her think he didn’t get the joke: “That’s called a quirk now.”

At the red light, she turned to him. “Don't tell me you picked me up just to cruise around the hell-hole; what's the plan birthday boy-I mean birthday man?"”

“Dunno. Could steal some of my dad’s beers. Or maybe Sasha knows a club in the city?”

Her eyes cut to him, head tilted, “How am I supposed to get into a club?”

“Oh. Right.”

They sat in silence. The car just grumbled.

“If I drink a beer,” she said gently, “will you at least smile a little?”

He glanced sideways, and for a moment, he looked like the same old Mikey.

“Sorry. I just… I thought it’d be different. I thought me and Gee would be out doing...something better than sitting in my room, but he didn’t pick up.”

There was something softer in his voice when he turned away slightly, “ Been calling him for weeks.”

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, she thought. Her best friend slumped over himself like she wasn’t right there! Could’ve hung out with Patrick if she wanted to see someone pretend not to look at her. Still, she  bumped her shoulder into his and got close enough to be knocked out by too much of whatever was being sprayed around Jersey like the plague, 

 “I’m here, right? We could do something fun.”

A soft metal-filled smile made him fight the urge to chuckle, “I could kick your ass at Pac-Man…”

“You never beat me, Mikey.”

“’93. You cried like a baby.”

“I was 12!”

“Like a baby,”

*****

Rolling Rock tasted like dirt, Nia thought, but watching Mikey get looser was almost worth the sip. Figured she’d let him have the rest. It was dark, so he couldn't tell she was faking it, could he? 

By the end of the night, they found their way into his bed, the quiet making causing their muffled laughter.

“So no gift?”

Not smiling was harder with him, “Get me a job at the bookstore so I can get you something better than poetry.”

He shook his head, “That's always the best part, whatcha got?”

Metal grazzed her tongue that held her bottom lip tight.

“Roses are red, violets are blue…I really missed hanging out with you.”

His hug was too loose, reeked of those three cans that shined like stars in the glow of the TV. Couldn't help but sink into it, she'd missed every bit of her friend, even the new parts.

Even though she'd liked the warmth that came with Mikey, she couldn't shake the look on Patrick's face just as she ran to find it.

No way he was as bummed as he looked.

Not that it mattered.

It only crossed her mind because he was nice, he let her play the music she liked even when it freaked him out. Always the only face in the halls worth stopping for.

If she had wanted to think about it, which she didn't, it was all wiped away with a lazy smile pressed against her face. 

“Love you, Barbie.” 

Those words, slurred together like cursive, felt like everything she didn't want from anyone else. 

“Love you too, Ken,”

Being the only girl in his bed had to mean something, right? He couldn't possibly forget that. 

A breeze drifted through the windows, the faint orange glow prying his eyes open with a force that made the sweat on his face stick to his hair. The bed was damp and empty. Cold coffee next to him, should've had it yesterday. Wouldn't have it today either. Just counted his steps to the hallway.

Gerard stood in the bathroom, hand gripping the edge of the sink, the button of his jeans sinking into his thumbs. The tile was cold under his bare feet, slick. Steam clouded the mirror—showers were supposed to be relaxing, right? If it weren’t for Frank, he would have given it another day, but even roommates have their limits.

Denim covered a lie…that’s what it felt like lately.  A disguise even he fell for on a good day. He had the hair and could finally get the liner on without stabbing himself in the eye.

Splinters meant he’d suffered for it,  just like what ended up on the canvas.

Until he caught sight of himself and remembered. 

Always at the worst time—taking a piss was his least favorite way to end up reciting that bullshit Dr. Levine made him say.

Levine promised not to tell his mom about the…changes. That’s what they were calling it, even got him to use the name. 

Didn’t sound as good as it did when Frank moaned it.

Still, Gerard had to do it.

Had to look down, at his real hair color growing in thick between his thighs. At the dick that felt more like a punchline than anything worth showing off.

For a second, he wondered if you could dye there too. It was just hair, maybe he could ask his mom…

Nearly shriveled up at the thought--though that wouldn’t have exactly hurt things. 

7 ½ inches of terror—all his.

Frank had said he wouldn't get on his back again. Maybe because of the smell. Maybe the size-just like everything else about him: too much.

If they'd actually used the lube Frank bought, it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe he would've  let Gerard try again if they didn't. use spit.

The hot water was going to run out if he didn’t reach down deep. He had to do something,  so he turned off the lights.

Showered in the dark and pretended the echoes on the tile were laughs.

That’s how it had been for the last couple of weeks. The semester had been insane, too many classes, probably just as many hours at Midtown; he didn’t know how long it was going to last, but he was trying.

Had to. Didn’t want his friend to worry.

Frank had already had that covered. 

Watching Gerard had been taking up more time than it was worth. It got real quiet around September.

At first he thought Gerard was just focused on classes. Maybe work was busy, but Gerard just didn't say anything. Stopped going to D&D on Wednesdays, no matter how many empty threats Frank gave him. Still hung around the house on Thursdays instead of coming back with a pharmacy bag he tried to hide.

Those red pills had started piling up in the nightstand they were supposed to share.

Made it easier for Gerard not to ask why Frank came home late on Fridays or why there were always Playboys under the bed. Everything felt like a reminder of a choice he never got to make.

Blue helped with the guilt. Frank wanted to be doing music; he left Pencey and everything-- and Gerard said he'd write the songs

How the fuck was he supposed to do that when everything in his head felt like static?

Hadn't asked his brother about the bass- hasn't talked to anybody but Frank it seems like. Even brushed off Ray when he came to visit. 

They talked for a bit, about the weather, how Ray liked the “shit” on Gerard's face…that was the last time he put it on his cheeks.

When he brought up Mikey, Gerard made some excuse to end up in the bedroom—he couldn't disappoint two people at once. A quick no, then off to the bedroom. 

When he was alone, when he was sure he was alone, Gerard reached under the bed for the old Playboy he swore he didn't care about. Just to prove it. To himself, his parents, Frank…anybody.

But the second he opened it, rage bloomed in his chest. She was Brunette, pretty, and that was the problem. Right in the way he wasn’t. Pretty in the way Frank still reached for on the nights when he locked the bedroom door and Star Wars played too loud.

Tears don’t come when you know.

He held his dick in his hands, desperate for something. Feeling. Confirmation.

Miss September smiled back at him. Covered in lace, but still looked…sweet. Like she wouldn’t laugh when he read her poetry or look bored when he mentioned Star Trek.

Gerard had tried.

The sound of paper tearing filled the room along with the grunts that took every bit of oxygen with them. 

By the time Frank found him, Gerard was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by glossy, torn limbs and faces that stared up between them.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank blinked, stepping over a ripped torso. “What’d Ms. September do to you?”

Gerard didn’t look up. “She didn’t do anything. It was you.”

“Me?” Frank huffed a laugh. “I didn’t tell you to go digging under the bed, Il-"

The name hit Gerard like a slap.

“Don’t call me that. It’s Gee , okay?”

“Is this another one of your fucking…things? What’s crawled up your ass besides me?” Frank frowned, his steps sticking to the whiskey that coated the floor,  along with glass shimmering in a streetlight creeping in through the window.

“Nothing, I just...” Gerard finally stood, pages sticking to his legs, “We got the same shit down there, y’know. You don’t have to pretend like—”

“I’m not pretending like anything,” Frank said, placing a hand to his face, still warm and wet. “I just don’t care—why do you?”

Gerard hesitated. “You just... I just...” He shook his head, picking up a giel he'd spared, “I’m not that.”

Frank looked from Gerard to the scraps of Ms. September around him, and the truth started to set in, dull and confusing.

“So that’s what all this is about?” he asked. “The shit between our legs?”

“It’s not about that,” Gerard snapped,  “You don’t get it.”

Frank crossed his arms. “No, I get it. I’ve been waiting for you to do something. Anything . You know how long it’s been since we played a show? I thought it was all those red pills piling up in your drawer. I thought maybe you were crawling in your hole for a bit, thought maybe you’d bring something worth reading when you came back, but this? This is what you put me on the back burner for?”

“It’s not just—”

Frank picked up a shredded page and let it flutter back down.

“Have you even talked to your brother? Ray said he’s got a spare bass, just needs strings.”

Gerard looked away,  “No.”

“Jesus,” Frank  half laughed under his breath,  “Why don’t you spend some time thinking about something other than yourself or what’s between your legs— write a song or something.”

Gerard sank onto the mattress, eyes on nothing, “I can’t!” Then murmured towards the hall, “That’s why I stopped taking the pills.”

Disappointment softened Frank’s face from the rage, “You don’t even fucking try.”

A door slam never sounded so quiet. 

They didn’t talk after that. Not for a while. But neither of them left.

October 31st. Frank’s birthday.

Gerard didn’t say anything that morning. Just left the usual mug of coffee, black, and crawled back into his hole. Same hoodie he had on for a week. Same bedsheets draped over the couch that hadn’t been washed since September.

Frank needed to go out.

Not to party, not really. Just to move. To feel anything that wasn’t frustration and stale air. He drank enough to keep warm, smoked enough of whatever he could find to get buzzing, and came back louder than usual.

“Gee!” he called, dropping his keys. “Get up. We’re going dancing, or whatever it is you chicks are always whining about.”

Gerard didn’t answer, just curled into himself on the couch. 

But anger didn't come like he expected. Just shaky laughter that disappeared into their room, followed by echoes of drawers opening and shutting. Frank bounced into the living room and dropped a little baggie on the table.

“Fine. We’ll stay in, but you gotta do something for me.”

Gerard stared at the coke like it was a void. Back at Frank, like he had to be joking. 

“It’s not that big of a deal, you watch me do it all yhe time- and look at me, ” Frank said, easing down beside him, “Just something to get your ass off the couch,"

Gerard didn’t move.

“It won’t kill you.”

Gerard snorted softly, “ Too bad, nothin' else's been working.”

He leaned down, face hovering above jagged lines, grateful he hadn’t talked to his parents in a while. They’d never forgive him. 

Eyes lifted back to Frank, just…watching. 

“Look,” he said, pouring out just a bit more, “I’ll do it with you, anything goes wrong and it’ll be both of us.”

That sat a little better on Gerard’s head.  

"One," Came out almost like a joke, but he knew Frank wouldn't back out. 

"two" eyes that looked like a reflection, followed him down to the table.  

Three was a sharp inhale that felt like a baptism. 

Fire up his nose that made him feel everything. Taste how badly he needed to bathe. 

Then he laughed. A strange, light sound, like all the wrong notes in the right song. 

Frank blinked back at him, wide-eyed. “ You okay?”

“Yeah,” Gerard said, standing, nearly spinning from all the things suddenly catching his attention,  “I’m great. Fuckin' A!.”

He started talking. About a movie they watched last year. About how Danzig would totally wear leather chaps to a funeral. About how he'd give everything up for the chance to be a Jedi.

Then he needed a marker.

He tore a Sharpie out of the junk drawer and made his way over to the corner of the room. The screech of the half-dry marker against cheap paint sang as bold letters grew on the wall. 

Cause I can't shake the pain of what it's like to pretend.  This is why I always save the greater thoughts of my intention.

Frank watched him. Something clicked into place.

“What do you think?” Gerard’s voice hummed off the drywall,  "new song."

Frank couldn't smile like his friend, just closed the gap between them, "It’s- you’re good."

“No,” Gerard turned, all chattering teeth, “I’m on the fucking moon!”

Fingers laced through his hair, “You can be both.”

For the first time in weeks Frank got to see that goofy, crooked grin smeared across his best friend's face, “Happy birthday, Frankie.” 

Pride. That's what he would tell you he felt, even if it did make his stomach tighten like the knot he couldn't learn in scouts.  

“You wanna make it the best one?” he asked.

Gerard nodded, buzzed and glowing like a cheap motel sign..

It was still Frank’s birthday, and he was spending it with the one person he’d been looking for all month.

Thats what made him undo the belt, “Then show me much you missed me."

Apologies wrapped in too much spit and shivering teeth.

Still, he had to show him.

Watching him swallow with a smile was the best apology Frank ever got. Liked tasting himself on lips that tried to convince him that his forgiveness was something worth getting on your knees for. 

That's when Frank decided birthdays were better spent with your best friend.

Chapter Text

There were only a few things that Gerard was sure of. That he was probably going to die alone, that comics were his favorite thing in the world, and that following Frank always led to things that felt right—even if they didn’t at first. 

Exceptions were rare.

It wasn’t like Gerard wanted to like it. If he had things his way, it’d just be him and 7 crowns until his own weight eventually came down on him. 

Coke just…made everything easier.

He could drink all night and wake up for class without a hangover. Forgot to eat— that he was supposed to eat. Hadn’t realized a guy could survive on crackers and tap water for so long. His clothes fit looser now. Balance. The meds made him fat, but this stuff? 

One night, while Frank was out, Gerard tried on his Sex Pistols t-shirt. It almost fit. Not too tight. Figured if he gave it another few weeks, they could probably share it. 

The reflection in the mirror was starting to feel like something he wanted to see. Face was still soft enough, easy to hide behind the liner and the hair; he almost felt like the guy somebody might look twice at.

 Almost normal.

That song on the wall finally had a chorus, added a line every other night so that Frank could see that he was doing something. That he wasn’t just leaving him on the back burner. 

Lines bled into each other,  too true to not finish. Fingers bending wrong, like panic and melody had fused into something that sounded better to a few strings. 

I'm wide awake most minutes/I'm not asleep most days

When I close my eyelids/I see light/What did I say?

Didn’t remember writing most of what ended up on that wall.

 When he stepped back, he wished he could erase every word that felt like a confession.

It’s why his fingers were always stained with Sharpie.

He was scared that was him.

The real him. Not the sad art kid in week-old sweats or the one trying too hard to forget what he was.

 Just this—this twitchy, shallow-eyed thing that mumbled against a wall until it was time to do something else.

Dr. Levine noticed immediately. 

The teeth thing was still something Gerard was working on. It’d only been a few weeks since he’d found his new hobby, hadn’t really figured out the best way to hide it. 

"Are you cold?" the older man’s voice echoed. "We can turn the heat up."

Gerard was already talking too fast. "No, I’m good, actually— wearing layers. Working on a new look."

Dr. Levine looked over the tops of his glasses. "Why the sunglasses, Illi?"

“Part of the look,” he let slip, "gotta get used to it, right? The band’s gonna..gonna blow off people’s private parts. We’re aiming for total obliteration."

"The band—I thought you quit that?"

"Yeah. New one. I’ve got a song, lots more waiting to come out. Frankie’s doing the music. Gonna be big."

Dr. Levine smiled, barely. "You taking your meds?"

Gerard hesitated, then forced a smile. "Yeah. That’s why I’m so happy, right? Must be finally working."

"Still drinking?"

The words stopped time. Made the leather on the chair feel too close to his skin. 

“Weekends—nights Star Trek’s not on, did you see they moved it to Thursdays?”

Dr. Levine looked at him gently, "Can you do me a favor and take off your glasses, Illi?"

He thinks using the name is gonna help?

Gerard shrugged. "How much time do we have left?"

"Ten minutes. Why?"

"Just wondering how long I’d have to keep saying no."

Dr. Levine didn’t push, just dropped his notepad slightly, "You know I never make you do anything—not even take the pills. The glasses are the same. Just a suggestion."

Gerard hesitated, then slipped them off.

Dr. Levine nodded, wrote something down.

He didn’t get the refill for Xanax. 

Just Wellbutrin. Same dose.

What the hell was that? A whole hour of his day, and for what? Another nail in the coffin? The Xanax was helping. Made everything smooth out just enough to be tolerable. Didn’t have to worry about that twinge in his gut when a guy stared too long at a bar, trying to figure out if it was okay to look at Gerard the way guys looked at things they wanted to take.

Gave him enough of a blur to get through getting dressed in the morning without having to say those stupid fucking lines. 

Who the fuck was Dr. Levine to tell him he couldn’t have that? He was the one who gave it to him in the first place. Never even mentioned that he’d been running out faster than the script said. Just drank enough to not notice as much.

As he brushed past people on the street, Gerard tried to think of a plan. He had to do something. There were still a few more weeks in the semester, and he had to make it through. The plans he’d made were still at the back of his mind, just like his friends always seemed to be. 

Even if they hadn’t spoken since one was in the ground.

Across a sticky table, Frank looked down at a menu like he had a personal vendetta against it.

“This is ridiculous,” the words carried out with the smoke of their last Marlboro, “ half this fuckin’ city must be vegetarian and the only options they got are a salad and a veggie burger.”

“You like their veggie burger,” Gerard answered, less than interested in this weekly rant, “you could always go somewhere else.”

“Yeah, right,” Frank scoffed, tossing the menu to the side, “where else they gonna let us start a tab for those nasty ass sandwiches you order?”

“It’s tuna and whipped cream…” The lazy-mouthed boy answered with a reach for the cigarette.

The thought alone made the newly inked spot just under Frank's rib twitch. 

“Forgot to tell you, gotta go down to Camden for a pickup this weekend, so you're on your own.”

That’s it! After all this time, Gerard always seemed to forget that the answer to most of his problems always picked the veggie burger.

“Can you get me Xanax?”

“I can get you whatever you want as long as you’ve got cash. How much you need?”

“.5mg, three times a day, thirty days…” Gerard mumbled, pulling out his wallet, “nothing less than that,”

 “I’m not a pharmacy,” Frank laughed, running his hands through his barely grown-out hack job, “gonna need more than that if it’s gonna be worth my time,”

“I'm a lightweight…”

They walked home just barely touching arms. It was easier that way. No stares, no questions.

Besides, they could touch as much as they wanted when the lights went off for bed. 

Tonight, though, Gerard wasn’t in a rush for their new routine of Voyager and uneven lines from the cover of whatever Frank had been reading that month.

 The mirror in the bedroom grabbed his attention like a void. Couldn't go more than a few days without checking.

Tired skin. Red circles around his eyes that hid late nights. Pupils blown wide. Pale like he liked it.

He looked great.

Dr. Levine was overreacting; wasn’t this the point of therapy? 

He was finally happy—and it had nothing to do with the coke. He’d prove it.

Not one line all weekend.

Besides, he had that final project to keep him busy all next week. 

Of course, it had to rain. Orange and yellow leaves. Gray skies. Thunder against Danzig singing about being turned into a Martian.

This was supposed to be inspirational?  

The coal pencil teetered between his chewed fingers, mostly just teasing him. 

The spiral sketchbook stared back at him, stained with shit. 

He gave it his best shot. 

But the lines weren’t coming out straight. The cowboy looked flat, couldn't get his space helmet right. The pacing was all wrong, and the ending felt rushed, empty.

It was easier to blame the traffic for his lack of focus.

Totally wasn't the way his eyes kept darting back to the bedroom door.  Not like Frank hadn't told him to help himself to whatever was left in his stash while he was gone.

That buzzing in his skull had to stop. Couldn't use whiskey-nothing would get done.

One bump.

Just to help him focus.

He didn’t remember finishing off the second baggie.

 Just that when he was done, he held a full-color comic in his hands.

Read it back to himself when he had stopped wanting to finish that song on the wall.

It was great. He hated it.

Turned it in anyway.

The ugliest “A” he ever earned—tucked it into his bag the second class was over. 

“Hey, Gerard,” Professor Megen called after him from behind a cluttered desk, ‘hold on a sec, will you?”

Great.  

The short, too-young-to-be-gray-haired man motioned Gerard over towards his desk like neither of them had anything else they'd rather be doing. 

“I wanted to talk to you about that assignment you turned in.”

“Sorry about all the blood, guess I got a little carried away with the new set of pencils I got.”

“No, no,” he chuckled, folding his arms,” it's been two years, I've gotten used to your style.”

The last part shot through with a warmth he usually only found from a bottle. 

He had a style.

“I wanted to talk to about a great opportunity, now I know you're a little shy about sharing, but there's this program we do every year with seniors who show a certain kind of potential,” he started, pulling out a slip of paper, “DC likes to give kids a chance to get their name in print, really helps out with jobs and—”

The paper found its way into Gerard's hands.

“The Big Book of the Weird Wild West?”

“That's just the theme for this year, but I think your piece would be a great addition, think about it?”

Think about it? That was an understatement. 

It was the only thing on his mind.

 Not saying excuse me to that girl he brushed past, the subway tokens that fell from his hands because he just couldn't focus on anything but the fact that HIS name could be right next to that copyright he'd dreamt about for almost his whole life.

Actually thinks he smiled back at the woman on the train…

As soon as he walked through the front door, he scanned the apartment for the right place to hide it.

It took Frank 3 days to find it. The kid didn't even bother to put his name on it, but Frank knew. This was it. 

“So what, you ditching me to draw your dream guy in tights?” He asked late one night when they were still stuck together with sweat from a Tuesday night well spent.

“No, fuckin asshole, just thought I should—not gonna waste my time.”

“You mean not gonna take the chance,” Each word vibrated against Gerard's face while he attempted to create swirls on Frank's barely covered chest.

“They're not gonna want me,” he mumbled back.

Unfortunately for Frank, he knew that wasn't true.

 After making snooping through Gerard's things his new favorite pastime, Frank had come to two conclusions:

1.) The guy was certifiable—never seen so many ‘poems' about dismembering women he couldn’t even talk to.

And 2: He was a fucking genius—just the kind that didn't know it.

Good thing, too, or he might have figured out he was too good for shitty tattoos and a guitarist that wasn't sure he could make it without him.

“They will.”

“Would it piss you off?”

Smoke seeped out of his lips before Frank answered, “Not as long as you finish the songs.”

“What if I'm not…good enough?”

The feel of fingers running through his hair was the only thing that seemed to shut his brain up.

“Then you come back to me.”

Gerard mailed the submission off on Thursday.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not Frank, not Mikey, not even Dr. Levine.

 His feet were planted in front of the blue mailbox on the corner, like it might swallow him the second he stuck his hand in.  The envelope felt heavier than it should have, like it just knew how important it was.

“ Do or do not, there is no try ,” Yoda's words came out in a whisper.

“Hurry the fuck up, kid, other people gotta get to work.” A thick, harsh accent slapped him back to this galaxy.

 With shaky hands, Gerard slid it into the slot and walked away before he could change his mind.

 That weekend, he found something to keep himself busy. Frank invited Ray over to work on some chords. They all tried to pretend that using drywall as sheet music was normal.

By the time Ray was through with it, the mess sounded like a decent enough song. It was almost fun watching him and Frank go at it from their different angles.

Ray liked metal, said he ‘saw’ the music. It's why he played almost every instrument in the room. Not even Frank could play the stuff that he arranged on the first try. 

Gerard had a hard enough time keeping up, but Ray never complained. Just gave soft smiles and told him to start again.

Figured it was about time he got to know the drummer, so Gerard suggested a movie afterwards. 

When sleep was too far out of his reach, he stayed up sketching, mostly Frank if he'd have been a real hero instead of just a secret one.

A naked girl holding a severed head that would eventually land him in the bathroom holding his breath in the dark.

It was the longest weekend he’d ever had

 Monday, he got the call. 

It rang halfway through a rare moment; the two boys had nothing better to do than play tapes too loud and ignore the neighbors knocking at the door. 

Powder under their noses and marinara on their lips from sloppy kisses almost made them miss it, but Frank got it just in time.

“Yo, you got Iero, whatcha need?”

His posture relaxed as the cord tangled around his finger, “ Mr. Way ?” He half laughed, “ depends on who's looking for him.”

A pause as Gerard shoved another slice away from himself. He was still working on the shirt.

Frank's eyes cut to Gerard, and he smiled, “ DC, huh? You know I've been meaning to ask you, what's with all the guys in tights? They-”

Gerard pulled the phone away, “ Hi! Hello, I mean…this is Gerard.”

The voice on the other end belonged to some editorial assistant with a voice like loose change and forced excitement.

They were printing it. 

Mentioned that the creative director had flagged his submission personally , that they’d love to meet him in person, if he was interested in some part-time work.

Frank had never seen the smile go all the way before. 

Then a flash of panic as the phone was placed back on the base.

Great , another night spent telling his roommate things were gonna be fine.

Couldn't leave his side, not after this. 

Just let him hold on as tight as he needed to and pretended not to love it.

What do you wear to an interview for a dream you only got because of a hobby you're not supposed to have?

No eyeliner, too messy. Too confusing. 

Jeans–not ripped, not too baggy. Normal. 

Batman t-shirt under a black button-down shirt he left open. Hair pulled back instead of being brushed back into oblivion. 

He looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t quite recognize the guy staring back. Not sharp enough to be a Gotham hero. Not soft enough to be carried away by one:  something in between. 

Shaky fingers fastened the top button, then undid it again. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—no drinking before something this big. 

"The first duty of every Starfleet officer is to the truth," he whispered, like that would make any of what he was looking at feel less like a lie.

The good luck kiss from Frank helped more.

All the way across town, took 3 buses and a train to get there, Gerard found himself standing in front of two glass doors. There wasn't anything particularly intimidating about them. Just the address.

The office smelled like old coffee and fresh paper.  Everyone looked like they belonged there— like they mattered. Nobody asked him who he was, so he returned the favor. 

That made it worse. 

He was invisible in a room full of people whose names he probably knew from the inside of a cover.

There wasn't much time to take it all in because he was interrupted before he could get comfortable in the awkwardness.

A frizzy-haired blonde woman smiled at him with chapped, red lips and a lightly dazed look:she has a cold. 

Relief. An excuse to not shake her hand. 

“You must be Gerard,”

“How'd you-”

“I know every face in here none of ‘em look like they've just landed,” she laughed, “follow me, Mr. Gordon's been waiting.”

She led him into a brightly lit room with framed covers on the wall-he didn't belong there. 

The guy from the phone call—Jordan, apparently—felt different.

They talked about his panel. About the layout, the pacing, the expressions on the faces. Jordan said it felt like someone had finally drawn what chaos feels like.

Gerard nodded. Smiled, but not too much,  "Yeah, that was kind of an accident,”

He used his real name on the form. All of it. Even the middle one he always hated, even though he wasn’t sure why.

Jordan handed him a copy of the compilation. Thick, fresh off the press. 

His.

“You know, Gerard, it's not every day we come across something that gets us so…excited.”

They were looking for new hires, needed someone in the mailroom—fast.

It wasn't exactly the dream, but he'd get to be under the best —Grant fucking Morrison was all he heard.

Get close. Learn the system. Maybe more.

"You interested?"

The fastest yes of Gerard's life.

The only thing he was sure of.

He took the subway home—a manilla envelope with the logo on it clutched in his hands like it might disappear the second he took his eyes off it. Blamed the shaking on the train. Couldn’t explain the wet spots.

There was only one person he wanted to tell. 

Didn’t matter that he was underground. 

He wore layers just in case. 

Chapter Text

Friday

Nia hated Fridays. Well, maybe not hated, more like…tolerated. 

 There were two things she looked forward to: finally getting to have pizza for lunch and driving home with Patrick after rallies. He was always in the stands, reading in between time-outs or making a face to make her laugh on the bench. It was nice, almost made the whole thing worth it. 

Then there were the things she had to tolerate : wearing the uniform that had been shrinking lately- she’d checked three times and she was still 5’2 so that couldn’t be it- and sitting through another night of too loud cheers and stares that she couldn’t figure out.

 Nia tolerated Fridays.

The gym was already loud enough to give her a migraine, but the cut eyes from Nicole made her feel like she wanted to make friends with the janitor. 

She’d practiced the toe-touch, stayed on the bottom like she was supposed to, memorized every dumb count and swing of a hip. 

She even wore the stupid green ribbon Sasha gave her to blend in. 

So why were they staring?

First, on the court. Then, again in the locker room---only their whispers echoed off the lockers and melted into little spirals of laughter behind her back. She caught her name and ‘sasquatch’ in the same sentence. 

Probably nothing.

She reached up to fix her hair, wondering if they’d noticed the effort. Couldn’t bring herself to part with the curls, so she’d spent the night with a broken comb and a bottle of Pink Lotion trying to mimic a look she’d seen on Martin the day before. 

It almost came out right. There wasn’t anything a phone call with Sasha couldn’t fix.

The mirror on her locker nearly fell off after she’d slammed the reflection into the darkness. 

That’s when she saw the three girls walking over. Not the meanest ones. Just the ones polite enough to speak directly. Her eyes darted in every direction- no escape. 

“Hey, Nia,” said the blonde one with a fake smile and arms crossed over the school letters on her chest, “Can we talk to you for a sec?”

She turned slowly. “Uh, yeah?”

The brunette—Jenni or Janelle, she could never keep it straight—glanced at the other two for backup before closing the gap between them. 

“We just thought maybe someone should tell you before next week... people are starting to confuse your pits with the pom-poms.”

“Yeah,” the blonde added, “ kinda hard to tell you’re even wearing a skirt half the time.”

Nia blinked. “It’s... not that bad.”

The third girl, the one who always smelled like Bath & Body Works and cheap cigarettes, shook her ponytail, “Jacob Moretti called you a grizzly after kickoff last week. We would’ve said something, but you were like eye fucking that weird kid.”

Brunette Rachel nodded solemnly. “We let it slide last year. Thought maybe you were just bummed about that Kurt Corbin guy—”

“Cobain,” Nia muttered.

“Whatever,” she said, like Nia had just corrected her spelling mid-eulogy. “Point is, it’s not a good look for any of us, fix it or find a new hobby to half-ass.”

The third girl smiled, “Great, uh, tuck by the way, almost landed that toe-touch.”

They didn’t wait for a response. Just left her standing there, arms suddenly super glued to her sides, eyes darting down to check what they had already seen.

Patrick watched as she walked out into the parking lot with deflated poms and a look on her face he hadn’t gotten to see before. She was walking so slow, he wondered if she’d ever run to him like she did whenever that Mikey kid came around. Never asked her what that was all about, didn’t want to meet him either, just wondered…

By the time she got to his car, there was no doubt about it: she was pissed.

“Whose head you gonna bite off?”

For a moment, he thought she’d actually tell him, let him anywhere near whatever went on under that mess of curls, but she just took a deep breath, gave a smile that’d make the Joker jealous, “Did you see me out there? Almost got the routine down.” Her voice raised slightly, just enough to be heard underneath the sound of the squad and the team piling in the other direction. 

Neither offered anything more. Just shut the door and the sound of her shuffling his tapes until she’d landed on something halfway decent. 

At least they could both agree on one thing: That Usher kid had a great voice. It was the only thing that filled the car except tension. He could tell something was bothering her, wanted to ask, but she might get mad. Might not let him drive her home anymore. 

Nia had started noticing the way Patrick looked at her sometimes—longer than anyone else did. Not like the boys who laughed when she tripped or made jokes about her braces. Patrick actually looked.

She thought the baggy clothes would help, that if she kept her head down, nobody would pay attention to what was going on underneath. 

 But Patrick just found something else to focus on—her eyes, her hands, whatever. It didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t even flinch when she smiled with all that metal in her mouth.

Sometimes she caught him staring and didn’t know whether to run or yell at him. He never said anything. Just looked. Hard to blame it on the pot when he did it in class too. Always looked away when their eyes met.

He had the same look when he dropped her off---she made a mental note to bring a t-shirt next week.

In the bathroom that night, she looked. It wasn’t that bad, was it? So it was a little…bushy? So were the girls that Cheese let hang around, all covered in ‘tie-dye’ and whatever clung to their hair. 

Did Patrick notice? Couldn’t have, otherwise he wouldn’t stare so long. 

Fingers ran up and down her legs in the bath. Felt kind of like grass at the park, probably the softest thing about her, how could she give that up so easily?

And for what? To fit in with girls who didn’t want her around anyway? 

They’d just have to deal with it.

Nia had been avoiding him all week.

Patrick knew exactly why.

When it was the Homecoming dance, she said she had the flu. He didn’t question what kind of flu lasts twenty-four hours and comes with a new hairstyle.

When it was the Halloween dance, she told him she’d rather go trick-or-treating while they were still short enough to get candy. He’d even driven her to the side of town that gave out full-size bars.

Now it was the Fall Formal and Nia had run out of excuses. All she had to do was make it past this and she was free until after Thanksgiving. 

She’d tried to get grounded. Left dishes in the sink for four days straight. All she got was a threat and a belt slapped across the kitchen table.

She left early that morning just to avoid Patrick waiting at the bus stop. Got to school late, hoping for detention—no luck. Of course, it had to be English first period. Her favorite class. The one she had with him .

For the past two weeks, Patrick had been sitting on the edge of the class alone, Nia just walked by with her eyes straight ahead and found those kids who all needed a group shower-- pretending to help Cheese with his essay about why Jerry Garcia was a literal god.

 Wouldn’t even look in Patrick’s direction when he’d pretended his highlighters were tusks, which usually got her to laugh so hard they’d had to stay behind and clap erasers. 

It had gone on long enough, he decided. 

The last time he’d tried to talk to her, she ran from him—like a full sprint in the other direction. 

So today? He wore his new Jordans; he’d initially begged his mom for them so he’d look a little cooler in the locker room, but then he got too scared they’d crease. 

He figured the risk was worth it today.

They made eye contact in the hallway. He saw it the second it happened—that split-second flicker where she decided to bolt.

“Nia!” he called after her, but she was already weaving through bodies like she was trying to escape a fire.

She bumped into someone’s backpack. Yelled an apology to the kid whose locker she almost tore the door off of. Still, she didn’t stop. Every time she looked back, Patrick was still there. 

For a chubby kid, he was fast.

Her feet took her where they always did when she wasn’t thinking—right to the edge of the parking lot. 

Right to where Patrick parked his car.

The chill of the wet metal against her back almost made it worth being so close to him when he caught up. She’d tried to escape, but he blocked her in with his arms, palms on the roof. Not quite touching her. But close. Close enough that it felt like they could share a breath if he leaned in a little more. 

Nia leaned against the passenger side, chest still rising hard from the run. Hair damp at her temples, eyes wide—not red from smoke, just… open and dark. 

Patrick looked at her. Hated what he saw. 

She couldn’t have been crying. Maybe it was sweat or the rain, but she looked like she might fall apart if the wind shifted wrong. Her chest rose and fell in quick, sharp movements, like she’d forgotten how to breathe. She didn’t look like that when she ran to Mikey.

She always looked—fuck—happy. 

This was different. This wasn’t happy. This was a girl who was scared . Of him, he thinks

A short breath carries his initial plan away; his thumb skimmed the car key in his pocket.

“Wanna go see Mars Attacks on Friday?”

She blinked. And for the first time in five minutes, she smiled.

 That’s how things should be. 

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror wasn’t exactly how Nia prepared to hang out with Patrick, but after another ‘talk’ in the locker room, the squad-and Nia by fear- had decided it was time for her to take the next step of girldom and shave. 

She’d swiped the pink bic from the bodega, bought candy to balance out the crime. The first stroke felt like the ultimate betrayal of everything she believed in. 

 Now she was halfway through one leg, foam dripping down into the sink. 

The phone was tucked between her shoulder and ear.

“Don’t forget to get everywhere,” Sasha reminded her on the other end of the line, “even behind the knee.”

Nia sighed, “I don’t think anyone’s going to be looking that hard.”

“They will if you show up all patchy-- trust me. About time you started cleaning up anyway—maybe one of the guys will ask you out now.”

Nia was quiet as she dipped the razor into the tub.

Sasha smiled against her receiver, letting the red nail polish drip onto the pink light bill on the table, “Wait. Did one?”

“No, I mean not really, I don’t know.”

“Ooh, who is he? Football or basketball?”

“A.V. Club. My friend Pat. You don’t know him.”

“Wouldn’t want to, probably.”

Nia rolled her eyes. “He’s nice, always gives me a ride, brings snacks sometimes...”

“Oh, then it’s definitely a date.”

Nia felt her stomach twist. It wasn’t supposed to be a date. Just a movie. Just Patrick.

She stared at her leg. Still covered in lathered soap. Her hand moved to shave more, but she stopped herself.

Why was she even doing this? She didn’t want anyone looking there. Let alone touching.

She dropped the razor in the sink. Grabbed her hoodie.

Ran to the only person who never cared about fuzzy legs. 

Mikey blinked when he opened the door,  “Nia?”

She stood in the hall with a backpack and a stack of books she’d probably force-read to him.

“Your mom gave me the address, said you needed company,"

Mikey glanced back at his roommate, who laughed from behind a controller. “You trolling high school girls now, MJ?”

He shook his head, pushing his glasses up just a bit, “My kid sister,”

The roommate looked between the two. One tall, lanky and pale, practically suffocating in his too-tight jeans; and the other short, brown skinned against school colors he didn’t recognize.

“She adopted?”

That got a laugh out of her, Mikey only half-amused by it.

“Why are you here?” He asked with a grin fighting to come out. 

Nia stepped inside, already toeing off her shoes. “I got tricked into a date,”

“With a boy?” Mikey repeated, locking the door behind her, “like somebody actually asked you?”

“I think so. That’s why I’m here. Figured we could hang.”

Nia looked around the room, couldn’t believe it was her first time there. Looked nothing like his old room. Not as messy, the bed didn’t look as familiar. None of the poems she wrote for him on his wall-she’d pay him back for that later. Then her eyes landed on his desk, a picture of them as kids dressed in Halloween costumes made her hands unclench. 

“As much as I love your company,” Mikey said, watching her flop onto his bed, “don’t you think the kid deserves a heads-up or something?”

She collapsed dramatically onto his bed, hugging a pillow. “He won’t care. He never cares when I ditch him.”

Mikey scoffed, looking at the half-grown high school cheerleader sprawled across his twin sheets, no way he was letting her turn into one of them for real,  “You can’t just ditch the kid, what’s he gonna think?”

That didn’t get a response.

“You’re going, at least let the guy down easy--you don’t know what it’s like to be waiting for someone to show up and they just…don’t.”

Looking at Mikey confused her.  He’d only had the one date, well as far she knew, but he looked…sad. She never stood him up. Sasha had made sure that the cheerleader from back in high school showed up, it didn’t make sense. Probably just trying to guilt-trip her. 

“Who’s gonna make me? You?”

“I am bigger than you.”

She cracked one eye open, “Don’t let the skirt fool you—I still remember all those moves from Karate Kid.”

Mikey rolled his eyes and grabbed his coat, “Will you go if I drive? Just got myself a ride, need to break it in--don't tell mom, she thinks I bought books. ”

She didn’t answer right away. Then peered from underneath the pillow, “Will you stay for the movie?”

He hesitated, halfway into his hoodie, “Which one?”

“Mars Attacks,”

"Fine," he sighed, "but if he starts crying we’ll catch the late show.”

He led her to the most hideous piece of metal she'd ever seen. Rusted blue hood, 2 different color tires--didn't know there were that many shades of red. When she looked over at him, he just jingled the keys proudly.

"Best 400 dollars I ever spent,"

Her best friend could be an idiot sometimes, but at least he's an idiot with a set of wheels now.

The parking lot smelled like movie theatre butter and cigarette smoke. Nia gripped the slurpee tighter than she meant to.

“Is that him?” Mikey asked, nodding toward a redheaded kid hovering near the entrance, scanning faces.

Nia nodded, “That’s Patrick.”

“The one from the video store?”

“Yeah. He’s really cool. You should see his room.”

But as Patrick spotted them, Nia instinctively stepped behind Mikey, half-shielded.

Mikey raised a hand, signaling the boy over. From a distance, it almost felt like looking into a memory. Patrick approached, each step heavy with confusion. 

 “Pat, right?”

Patrick’s eyes flicked to Nia, hovering just behind her friend, hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized hoodie, “Is she okay?”

“Not really sure, “ Mikey half joked, trying his best to cut some of the tension,  “this isn’t a date, right?”

A date? Patrick hadn’t thought about it that way. Is that why she was acting so weird?

“No,” his voice sounded confused, “I just wanted to see the movie.”

It didn’t take a genius to tell that the kid could probably care less about the movie, if she wasn’t going to make it easy for him, Mikey could at least try to soften the blow. 

 “I’ll get the tickets. You like popcorn?”

Great.

A row of red velvet seats made her stop mid-joke. One row left. Four seats. A guy in a trench and faded JNCOs pushed past them.

 Shit. Three seats. 

She could sit on the end, let the guys sit where they wanted. 

No, then Patrick might get too close and she’d remember how he always smelled a little like smoke and old books. 

The middle? At least she could still sit next to Mikey and--

“What’re you doing?” Patrick asked, snapping her back into reality. 

“Just, um, trying to find the best view.”

The middle was best. Safety on one side and a stop sign on the other. 

 She laughed too hard at Mikey’s dumb joke that he whispered close to her ear. Rested her head on his shoulder at one point when the dark got too heavy—until she noticed Patrick watching. Then she sat up fast, offered Patrick a piece of pretzel like it meant something. 

He took it like he did. It was stale. At least the movie was decent.  

Mikey drove them home after. Patrick first. Nia watched him walk away, her eyes flicked to her best friend, who just nodded his head in the direction of the deflated boy. 

“Fine!” She groaned getting out of the car, making a half attempt to catch up with him.

They stood in the soft glow of the porchlight. That kind of silence that only shows up when you know the bomb is coming. 

Patrick looked at her as she shifted in the wind. Hands in the pockets of the hoodie, he could just barely see read Rutgers University. Figured he’d say it first.

 “I get it,” his voice said before his head could catch up, “ You don’t like me. But you don’t have to act like this.”

“I’m not acting,” Nia shot back 

“You were hiding , or trying to, at least.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it, unsure of exactly how much of herself she was willing to give up,  “Because I was scared , okay? You’d hide too if—”

“If what, someone bothered to buy me popcorn?”

“Look...” She rubbed her arms like she was cold. “Me and Mikey? That’s just... nature or somethin’.  I don’t think either of us really have a choice-- couldn’t get rid of him if I wanted to. He’s just... Mikey.”

Patrick waited, hoping that there was a ‘but’. 

“ But you? ” She swallowed the spit collecting in her mouth, “You’re like... my second best friend.”

Second. The word hit Patrick right in the stomach like a punch, “So the guy you ditch whenever something better comes along?”

“Yes! But don’t you get it?” the words coming out lighter, her last guard falling, “It’s better.”

 “Yeah, because that’s what every guy dreams about- coming in second.”

She shook her head, “No, not--I  always read Kafka, you know? But lately I’ve been loving Lord of the Rings, Frodo and Sam are friends and-”

. “I’m not some guy in a book, Nia. I have, I dunno, feelings or whatever.”

“I know that... I just...” She looked up at him, pale under the porch light, she remembered what Mikey said. Gotta let him down easy. 

“I’m not looking for that. A boyfriend, or whatever, don’t know if I ever will be. I just... really need a friend.”

“That won’t change how I feel,” Patrick said softly, feeling the inside of his chest tear in two. 

Nia looked at him for a long second. Then stepped closer. Not enough to touch—but closer than friends usually stood. 

Easy.

“Your eyes...” she said just above a whisper, the way the girls did in those old black and white movies,  “They’re weird.”

 “Thanks?”Patrick said tightly, trying to fight the sting in his cheeks. 

She tilted her head, enough to let her hair fall, “Sometimes they’re like the sky before it rains. All soft and blue with those yellow spots in the middle. But sometimes they’re green. Like that slime candy we share that gets all stuck to your hand.”

She tried to stop the words before they came, but she couldn't,  “I just want to rip ’em out sometimes.”

“Fuck, Nia,” he laughed, remembering why he liked her so much, “what the hell.”

 Rocks rustled under her shoes, “I mean—I like them. Or whatever.”

A honk cut through the air. Mikey’s car.

Nia grinned like she hadn’t just threatened to blind him, backed away a few steps.

“I had a good time,” she mumbled against the rustle of trees. 

“Me too,” He was telling the truth, even if it was only for her. 

A shared smile before she jogged back toward the car, hoodie sleeves flapping, already forgetting to zip it.

His chest pounded as he watched her climb in next to her "first" best friend. Still felt the flutter in his stomach. He wondered is she'd really meant any of it. Didn't matter if she did. That song only played for her. 

The heater was on, humming low. Outside, the November wind blew hard against the glass. 

“So…” Mikey started, drumming his fingers on the wheel, “was it a date?”

Nia shook her head, still staring out the window. But she didn’t say anything. Just... looked a little sad.

Mikey glanced at her. Looked away when he saw that look on her face, somewhere between anger and confusion. No tears, just lips between teeth and a glance back at the porch.

“It’s Friday night, your folks are out, my room’s free.”

That pulled her attention. She turned just enough to see him, like she was trying to gauge what he meant. 

“Do I gotta drink beer this time?”

Mikey smiled. Just a flicker,  “I got Yoohoo in my mini-fridge.”

That made her grin. A small one. But real.

She nodded, sank deeper into the seat. Said nothing more.

And Mikey kept driving.

Patrick sat on his bed fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Ripped it off with a huff. 

He didn’t get it. She laughed at Mikey’s jokes. Barely looked at his way all night. Hid behind people like he’d done something wrong.

Did he?

 Didn’t even ask her to the dance. But he’d thought—maybe—if things went okay tonight maybe they could catch the next one. The red glow of the alarm clock caught his eye. 9:30, couldn’t call Pete for advice, he was probably still out with some girl he’d get in the backseat before 10. 

So he just stared at the stack of tapes by his stereo. One sat just a little out of place. She’d left it in his car at the beginning of the year. Told her he hadn’t seen it since. Didn’t want to give it back yet. Not when it had her handwriting on it. 

Helena, scribbled in red ink. Felt like a key to a lock he didn’t know if he wanted to open, still…

He slid it into the deck. Hit play.

The room filled with fuzzy guitar and drums that sounded like it’d been recorded with a hairbrush.  He didn’t get it. Not really. But if she thought it was romantic...he’d listen until he figured out how to speak her language.

Couldn’t settle for second. 

Even if it scared him a little. 

Chapter Text

Fort Greene, Brooklyn 

Wind cracked against the window in place of her alarm clock. 

5:00 AM run—six miles, no excuses. The cold only reminded her what she was doing it all for.

By the time she got back home, her breath came heavier. She used that as an excuse to walk a little slower past the guys on the corner. Most people liked coffee first thing in the morning. 

Sasha liked “Hey baby .”

A cold shower, quick enough to keep the skin from swelling, but not long enough to run up the bill.

Makeup to erase the exhaustion from finishing that dress for class the night before.

Outfit she had picked three weeks ago after seeing Aaliyah wear something almost identical on the TV—all white, something that landed somewhere between “I’m serious” and “you’ll never afford me.”

Breakfast: one slice of toast. Half a mango. Hot water with lemon and honey. No coffee. She couldn’t afford to stain her teeth.

By 7:15, she was out the door.

The subway shook her awake—like it was mocking her for not having a car. Didn’t matter as long as she got to class on time—8 AM sharp—because she didn’t need to prove anybody right.

At noon, she flew across town for a casting call. She jogged up the steps. Breathed through her nose. Rolled her shoulders back. She had been walking this walk since middle school. Hips back, long steps so her hair flowed just like everybody else's, the deliberate click of heel on concrete.

If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was make sure eyes landed on her.

Inside, it was a sea of faces that scanned her with the same elevator eyes. A laugh almost slipped out, but she just gave them a taste of what they could only dream of being. Head held like a crown. Hair falling loosely at her neck. Body tight. Lined lips.

The team glanced at her exactly once. Asked her to turn around. Then looked back at the folders in front of them.

They didn’t want her.

If the brand had an “image” in mind, they should’ve put it on the damn flier.

 Sixteen blocks home—she didn’t take the train. She made herself hit every stride like it was a runway, even with her stilettos biting her ankles. That would remind her. 

By the time she hit her block, every bit of her ached for the Calgon bath beads she had stashed away under the sink. They weren’t luxury, more like comfort. She wished she could use them, but had to settle for the smell. 

There were roses on the doorstep. Deep red. Long-stemmed. Wrapped in a satin bow because she had thrown the last set back at him for using tulle.

The lack of impact on her mood fell from her lips with exhaustion from the walk. They never remembered she liked lilies.

The card was plain, simple curving letters: Catskills this weekend. Bring something exotic.

He always used that word. It always made her feel like a pet or something that belonged in a real cage. Usually it just meant he wanted her to look like an extra in those videos he watched, thinking it'd impress her. Maybe she'd throw in those gold hoops with her name on them.

There was a check folded with the note. Enough to cover the bills this month with a little left over for that purse they had passed in Macy's the week before.

Acrylic nails tapped the edge of the card, the sound doing more to earn a smile than the offer, then she pressed play to stop that blinking red light she thought clashed with the rest of the room.

One: “Hey, it's me—you coming home on Thursday? Ma's making me crack eggs by myself this year. Could use the help. Miss you.”

Two: Mikey, voice cracking with static—“Gee's not picking up, I'm guessin' There’s space for two if you wanna swing by Jersey.”

Three: “Congratulations Ms. Sasha Knowles. Your submission was selected for our next Jet Beauty of the Week! An envelope with details will arrive later in the week.”

She froze. It should have felt like a win. Paid decent. Professional shots for her portfolio. An excuse to wear the bikini that—

But she wanted haute, not hot.

Wanted them to crop her face, not zoom in between her thighs.

She sat on the arm of the couch, roses dangling from her hand. 

Jet.

 When she was fifteen, she used to rip those pages out and tape them to her wall. Thought that would be enough. Being seen. Being chosen. But now she wanted more. She didn’t want “Beauty of the Week.”

She wanted Vogue.

She wanted to be cropped at the cheekbones. She wanted sharp light and sharper shoulders. Not ass shots. Not thighs and smiles and gold hoops chiming in her ear. She knew she should have felt grateful.

Instead, she just got a fire under her.

Next time, she won't let them turn her away. 

Mark picked her up that night—always at night. He gave a whistle when he saw the black lace poking out above the low-rise jeans. The top, the one she’d originally bought for clubs, left nothing to the imagination as it clung close to her chest. That was why she’d chosen to carry the Starter jacket. 

This time there was a new car. Leather seats. Red, which she thought was funny because she’d mentioned liking the color the last time they met.
She smiled like it was impressive—it would have been if it had been a newer model.

He always drove with his hand on her thigh.

THE CATSKILLS – SATURDAY NIGHT

The bath was ready when she got there. The room was dimly lit, rose petals floating, steam carrying jasmine.

He always did a decent job at that—making it look like a fantasy.

His or hers, she wondered.

Still, sinking into the bath was a luxury not even he could afford. Her apartment only had a shower, and she couldn’t wait to tie her hair back and sink a little—
even if eyes were on her the whole time.

She told herself it was better with an audience anyway; it made her feel in control.

Wine. Soft hands on her shoulders while he told her she was worth every dollar —it almost made him sexy.

Almost.

Grey hair poking out through the dye and the way he watched her walk always reminded her what it really was, so she made sure to swing her hips a little more on her way to the bed—the same sheets as always.

“Hands and knees,” because he liked the way she looked from behind. Added to the fantasy, she figured.

At least the pillows were fluffed, stuffed with feathers instead of fake cotton. They stuck to her lip gloss.

“Say you love it.”

The response never came. Just pathetic grunts and moans that sounded real enough to get the job done.

As if on cue, the image popped into her head, the same way it did whenever she had to pretend she was into it—thinking about that night in the car, how she’d been enough to make hands shake, how he hadn’t stopped looking at her the whole time.

She stayed quiet. Let Mark do what he’d paid to do. Smoothed her hair after. Fixed her makeup in case he wanted to be generous.

“I’ll take you home Wednesday,” he told her casually from the bed.

A pause. She’d thought the whole week was hers—a reason to skip going back home.

“I gotta spend time with my family. The wife’ll be up here any day now.”

Wife.

It landed like a rock in her shoe. An annoyance, not a pain.

Besides, its’s not like sounded sorry for either of them. In the mirror, she could see his face-anticipation.  Waiting for her to say something.

“Come fix my robe,”

That made him smile more than seeing her step out of the bath.

What fuck did she give about who he had at home? The tightness in her stomach was probably just from skipping lunch.

Bills didn’t care where the money came from, and she needed time to figure out a way to use this to her advantage. Plus, she figured she could probably get a lot out of a man who was scared of his wife.

And Mark didn’t seem like the type who’d have her in check; Sasha always thought she could probably take him if things ever went south.

For now, she just smiled. The same way she did in the pictures.

When the room had gone dark and all she felt were slow breaths on her neck, she pulled back the sheets,  slipped from under his arm, and stepped onto the plush green carpet— careful not to wake him.

Once he’d figured out she was a girl he could ‘trust’, he’d started keeping the wallet on the nightstand. 

The heft of it in her hands was tempting, but she only had one thing on her mind, and she found it in an 8x10 folded in the pocket like a lottery ticket.

He had kids. One boy, one girl, a wife that probably couldn’t even see what he paid Sasha for every time they met: jackpot.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured groggily into the darkness.

A laugh tried to work its way out, but became a deep breath as she padded back. She just had to think of a way to make it work for her.

By Wednesday, she’d almost figured it out, but decided to let the guy enjoy his holiday before she put him on the hook.

Until then, she told him to drive her back home.

His hand crept up her thigh the whole time, but she didn’t work overtime.

Mark adjusted his cuff as Sasha reached for the door. “So when do I see you again?”

Her smile widened just a bit, “Next time you can afford it.”

Mark just returned her smile with a grab of her hand, “I can always afford you.” He said it like it was sweet, while a knowing grin grew slowly,  “Doesn’t your sister need her braces tightened?”

She clicked her teeth before pulling away,  “Next time, bring the flowers I actually like—or you can freeze out on the stoop.”

“Lilies, right?”

She slammed the door without saying goodbye.

THANKSGIVING DAY

The wind had smelled like leftover stuffing and burnt cloves since the night before. She thought driving around with Patrick would help, but it just landed them on the corner of her street.  The wind cut under Nia’s hoodie despite Mikey’s promise that it’d be warm enough. She tucked her hands deeper into the front pocket and sat beside Patrick in a thick silence, watching her breath come out in soft white clouds carrying scattered snowflakes. 

Patrick turned the key again. And again.

It didn’t catch.

“Still dead?” she asked, nodding toward the corner.

“Piece of junk won’t turn over.”

Nia gave a soft sigh.

 They always ended up walking. Lucky for her, Patrick was decent company. Always kept a lighter and never made a big deal when she had nothing to add except the occasional joke. 

They walked nowhere in particular, just killing time before they had to face folding chairs, fake gratitude, and dry turkey.

He wore that long flannel again—the one with the hole near the cuff. Nia had noticed it weeks ago but never mentioned that she liked it. Especially on days when the sunset made him look kind of soft or whatever. Not like she’d looked.

Just noticed. Always made sure to look away before he got the wrong idea. 

They stopped near a busted mailbox covered in old gum and rust.

Patrick dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope. Bent. No name.

He held it out to her like it might burn him. “Here.”

She took it in her hand, confused. “It’s not Christmas yet.”

He started doing that thing where he got all shifty. From one leg to the other, eyes glued to the ground—she hated it, “Thanksgiving present, then.”

Whatever was in the envelope was thin, she could feel it between her fingers just like whatever it was that lingered between them since that night on his porch. Sure, they kept things the same, but she could always see it. It was there whenever there was more than a millisecond of silence. Just waiting for one of them to say something. Waiting for him—she’d already left it all under the porchlight. 

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Got to see you laugh when I mixed up the hobbits.”

“Gandalf’s not a Hobbit,” she giggled, shoving him lightly.

It went quiet again, made her too aware of her breath against the cold and the way her hair stuck to her chapstick in the wind.

“You gonna be okay getting home?” she asked, hoping he’d say no.

“Yeah, There’s a bodega up the street. I’ll call my folks.”

Right. No reason to invite him over.

They parted at the intersection. No hug. Just a slow wave she almost didn’t return and the weight of the paper in her pocket.

He drove home that night, glad she knew nothing about cars. 

But for Nia the real surprise was at home cursing under her breath as her sister stepped through the door. The stereo played Toni Braxton low enough to pretend it wasn’t covering something up. Nia knew Sasha only played Toni when she was trying to forget something.

Everything about her looked too expensive to risk hugging, so Nia settled for a smile and tried to sneak past to the bathroom.

“You’re late,” Sasha chimed, without looking away from the pot of soft green leaves neither of them could wait to dig into.

“I, uh, went for a walk.”

Sasha didn’t ask with who. She didn’t have to. Just tilted her head slightly as Nia reached for a plate.

Her eyes flicked to the mac and cheese, then back at Nia—sending the message it wasn’t on the menu for them.

Nia hated that part. Hated the way Sasha was always watching—not mean, just… taking notes.

Later, after the table was cleared, Sasha curled up watching The Wiz like because she'd finally gotten it to come in through the static.

Perfect. She wouldn’t notice Nia inching away to lock the bathroom door and sit on the edge of the tub.

She opened the envelope carefully, not wanting to tear the part he’d licked.

It was a poem, or a song. Handwritten. Edges frayed from where it was ripped from its spiral home. A few words were crossed out, rewritten in a different pen. It smelled like him—the smoke they’d shared and the cologne she swore he must’ve borrowed from his dad.

Hope this is the last time
'Cause I'd never say no to you
This conversation's been dead on arrival
And there's no way to talk to you

This is side one
Flip me over
I know I'm not your favorite record

The lines were weird. Some parts didn’t rhyme.

But she didn’t cry. Just stared at it, confused. Was he mad?

It wasn’t good. 

Not the Misfits.

But not terrible… she would’ve helped him make it better if he’d asked.

He didn’t.

So she folded it back up. Might toss it once the smell wore off. Just not tonight.

When she stepped back into the room, Sasha was sitting on her bed.

“You said you missed me, right?”

Sasha looked at her sister in the doorway. Rutgers hoodie, almost new. Hair still a pile of kinky curls. Same baby face she’d left six months ago. But there was something else—a smell that followed her when she climbed into bed.

Cologne. Cheap. Lingering like alcohol.

She thought her sister didn’t like boys.

Hiding things from Sasha was never something Nia was good at, but she tried.

Tonight, Sasha just watched as she slipped something inside a pillowcase. Whoever it was couldn’t have meant much. Good. She deserved more than knockoff cologne and crumpled paper.

THANKSGIVING NIGHT

Nia was asleep when Mikey climbed through her window. Or at least, he thought she was—until the shape in the bed rolled over.

Not Nia.

Sasha.

She propped herself on an elbow, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, voice heavy with something close to sleep,  “The fuck are you doing?”

Mikey froze halfway over the sill. “Was gonna see if—what are you doing here? Thought you were going camping.”

She watched him fall to the floor with a thud.

“First of all, I only tell you things for emergencies, ” Sasha yawned, smoothing the blanket over her legs, “I don’t do camping. It was a cabin in the ‘Skills.”

Mikey stared. “You live in New York now. Thought you said you’d never come back.”

“Yeah, well, I used to live here too.” The satin scarf slid with her words. Mikey always liked how different she was from his best friend. No way he could confuse them.

“She out?” he asked, peeking at the silhouette.

“Like a light,” The sound of wind drawing her attention to anywhere other than the room, “But I’m up now. You wanna take a walk?”

The hesitation in his voice warmed Sasha's chest. It'd been a while since anyone looked that nervous around her. 

The night was colder than he expected. Their breath made ghosts in the streetlights. Sasha zipped her jacket to her chin, heels clicking on the cracked sidewalk. Nobody cared if she wore them—but it made them the same height.

“So,” she said, shooting him a look, “what’s got you climbing through my baby sister’s window like some pre-asthmatic Romeo?”

Mikey shrugged, hands stuffed into a too-thin hoodie. “House got too crowded. Missed the only person I wanted to see.”

“Jeeze, you’d think you wanna fold her up and carry her in your pocket,” Sasha teased.

“Not her,” he said quietly. “Gee.”

Her hands went into her pockets. “This the brother who used to waddle through the halls talking to himself?”

“He didn’t waddle…”

“Mhm. I thought you said he came home for graduation.”

“Yeah.” Mikey kicked a rock that echoed against the fake silence snow gave. “Didn’t see him much before that either. And I—”

He stopped. Felt stupid.

A head tilt, a laugh that made another cloud. “You know that’s on you, right?”

“Me?” He laughed short. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Exactly. People just… do what they’re gonna do. You putting him on some magic mountain, don’t do nothing except hurt your feelings. Might as well let him off the hook.”

Mikey shook his head, glasses slipping slightly. “You don’t get it. You guys got to leave first. Nobody left you behind.”

Sasha stared at him. “You think leaving’s easy? You think I don’t feel bad every time I can’t call? Or that I don’t wonder what ugly-ass outfit she picked for the day? You and Nia don’t get it either.”

They walked in silence for a block. The streetlights didn’t do enough to hide the look on his face. For a moment, she saw it—she wasn’t the cheerleader anymore, and he wasn't just the kid who’d been stood up after prom.

Felt almost like they were friends. No, not friends, but close enough that he felt worth the walk. 

The chill of the wind gave him an excuse to feel bolder. She was

“I—I got a car now,” Mikey said. “Just up the street.”

Sasha’s lips curved. “So you don’t have to have it back anytime soon?”

He nodded. “I can go wherever I want.”

She stopped under a streetlight, trying to push down that feeling of knowing exactly what she needed to make it a good holiday,  “Lead the way.”

“Where we going?”

Mikey watched as she got slightly ahead of him, trying to tell himself the look was just from the cold, but then she turned. Looking him in the eye for a moment,

“It’s got a backseat, right?”

Suddenly, his throat felt a little tighter when he swallowed.

Who in their right mind would buy that piece of shit, Sasha thought to herself. But she didn't say it out loud-just...smiled like it was the most impressive thing she'd ever seen and reached for the handle

“Wait!" He stopped her like she was about to break something, "I forgot something.”

“Seriously?” she sighed, arms crossed.

He opened the passenger door, grabbed a Tupperware box off the seat.

“You brought dessert?”

“Nia likes it. Figured I’d bring her a slice—pumpkin.”

Sasha looked down. It’d been too long since she’d had something sweet. She popped the lid, placed a finger in the middle, and took a bite.

Mikey watched her mouth. Watched her chew. Wondered if he’d ever actually seen her eat. 

“You’re not having any?” she asked, slowly lifting her finger to her lips again, dragging it slow enough to leave a trail of whipped cream behind. 

For a moment, he froze from the memory of them pressed against his own,  stuck wondering if he should try again.

The girls on campus all turned him down, even when he mentioned the car.

But Sasha wasn't like them, at least not to him. A little scary maybe, but mostly…nice. As nice as anyone ever was to him.

Without a second thought he let himself pretend to me the guy he wanted to be and kissed her under the flicker of the streetlight.

Hard. Suddenly. Dripping down her face.

The box tipped in her hand, crust crumbling on the sidewalk.

He'd bring another slice tomorrow.

NYC

The bedroom was filled with the sound of a holiday well spent. Porno was still playing, but neither of them paid the screen much attention.

Fake moans bled through the static of the worn VHS. The screen flickered, lighting up the empty takeout containers scattered across the bed.

They had both given half-truths about why they couldn’t be bothered to leave the apartment that day. Frank’s mom had spent the previous Wednesday using every guilt trip in her arsenal, trying to get her son to make an appearance—after all, family is important. It took about as long to get her to drop it.

Gerard, for what it was worth, had meant to call. He forgot to return Mikey’s call—work was busy. Envelopes or whatever. Spending half the day getting coffee and the other half licking stamps wasn’t exactly how he had imagined his dream job turning out, but it was worth it. At least that’s what he muttered to himself when he stayed late, rummaging through the trashcan.

Last week he had found a crumpled half-sketch of Nightwing underneath somebody's half-eaten lunch—worth cleaning the edges to hang it on the wall.

Between that and Frank's gigs, there hadn’t been much time for anything fun in a few weeks.

So when Frank suggested a night of lines and cheap takeout, it felt like the only way to spend the weekend.

Gerard was laughing so hard at the faces on the screen that he almost choked on a bite of veggie burger. Frank hit his chest like he was performing CPR, grinning around a clove cigarette they had convinced themselves to splurge on.

“Jesus,” Gerard wheezed, tears at the corners of his eyes. “You trying to kill me?”

“Better than dying anywhere else,” Frank muttered, searching for another baggie.

A thin white line on his stomach, still sticky with beer sweat even though the radiator was broken.

Like it was second nature, Gerard took the rolled bill, did the rail with his tongue cleaning up what he left, and collapsed back with another sound—almost like he was singing.

Frank turned to him, finger tracing the edge of the soft flesh barely peeking out under the red Flash shirt. “Better than your mom's turkey?”

Gerard shrugged, eyes half-lidded. “Ghosts don’t eat turkey, do they?”

Frank held back a laugh, then looked down at the mess of a roommate beside him—the one who didn’t smile because he said it looked weird. It did, but they both got used to it. One of them even liked it. Liked hearing the laugh even more, especially when it was because of him.

If he looked close enough, there wasn’t any difference between whatever Illi was and the girl on the screen.

When Frank leaned down to kiss him, Gerard wanted it to feel like a surprise. Instead, it just felt warm and familiar, like the blankets they let bind them together.

He looked up at the face that always felt like a mirror—or a goal—that made him feel like he had won something for once.

Outside, the wind howled against the window. Inside, the world was warm and spinning. Tasted like salt that made his lips numb.

The girl on the screen moaned louder. If he didn’t pay attention, it almost sounded like she knew.

The thought didn’t get far, because fingers slipping inside his waistband distracted him.

He hadn’t needed to look at the screen in a while. Hadn’t needed to ask permission before diving in after.

Ragged breaths and soft laughter filled the space as hands did what lips were too shaky to do in the moment.

Warmth bloomed on Frank’s neck, Gerard whispering his name like a gift that had just unwrapped him.

It really was a Happy Thanksgiving.

Chapter Text

Winter crept in through Nia’s window, while the room carried the familiar signs of leftover holidays in the Knowles household: overfilled ashtrays, the sound of heated card games seeping in from outside, and music — the party had started hours ago.

 Leftovers heating up in the microwave — lunch.

They slept until noon.

The radiator had kicked off sometime before dawn, so the air had that sharp edge of winter, the kind that made you curl into yourself before moving.

Only, it wasn’t herself Nia found herself shrinking into. Sasha’s arm slung around her, heavy with sleep. Mikey’s snoring echoed against the walls.

Where’d he come from? She wondered, shifting just enough to be able to move without disrupting her sister’s “beauty sleep” — codeword for drooling all over Nia’s shoulder.

Careful fingers slid under her pillow until they found the folded paper.

Patrick’s poem.

A quick glance to make sure they were still asleep, then the nervous girl smoothed the creases out flat, eyes darting over the words, not the sloppy handwriting. Something was supposed to happen, right? A flutter, butterflies, or whatever people write all those top 40 whine fests about. 

It didn’t make her stomach flip — not even a tickle. No, not for Patrick. Thinking of him mostly just made her smile, since it usually meant the day wouldn’t be a total pain. Maybe he wasn’t her Riker, but La Forge isn’t that bad — is he?

Why couldn’t people just be like books? Or better yet, poetry.

She liked poetry because it always meant something, even when it didn’t. The ones she wrote were the best, in her opinion, because she always knew what they meant. This one… she wasn’t sure of yet.

Mad. Definitely mad. But he didn’t seem mad when he gave it to her. Shifty, maybe, but it was cold. Probably was just trying to keep warm.

Sasha stirred; blinked once, then squinted at the blurry figure of her sister staring at a sheet of paper. No smile, just a twisted frown like she’d just realized how ridiculous that stretched-out skeleton sleep shirt looked.

“Who’s that from?” came out like a mumble that only Nia could understand.

“Nobody,” she said, trying to shove it back in the pillowcase. “A friend.”

On the floor, Mikey groaned into the hoodie he could have sworn he’d lost, “Patrick? Thought you let him down easy.”

“I did! I told him… well, I’m not telling you what I told him, but I thought he got the hint

Sasha scratched her head, voice thick from sleep. “Boys don’t understand easy unless it gets you in the backseat of their car. You gotta tell him to fu—”

“He’s a nice kid,” Mikey cut in, rolling onto his back, “Don’t go hurting his feelings.”

Sasha side-eyed him. “Maybe he shouldn’t have feelings to begin with. They’re like, twelve.”

“I’m almost sixteen,” Nia said, sitting up straighter.

“Exactly,” Mikey yawned. “Old enough not to be an asshole. Just… try the nice thing again.”

Nia glanced at her sister, who was already shaking her head,  which Nia noticed didn’t have a tightly tied scarf around it.

“Does he have any money?” Sasha asked.

“He gets me the good lunch sometimes — pizza on Fridays.”

Sasha’s hand found Nia’s shoulder with a slap, and her voice went high like it was a crime, "You eat pizza?"

Nia winced and didn’t answer. Just glanced down at Mikey, wondering why his belt was undone.

The day had slowed like sap from the tree outside her window.

Having Sasha around usually meant being dragged all across the city in search of what she called a good time. Mostly window shopping and bragging about her life in the city.

“You guys should have seen it, the second I walked in they said they wanted me,” The older sister bragged, “but I had to turn them down, Jet offered me a whole spread to myself, so naturally—”

“Jet magazine?” Nia asked with a mouth full of carbs her sister chose to let slide.

Sasha smiled wide, “You two are looking at the newest beauty of the week,”

Nia's smile grew wide with excitement, Mikey's with disbelief.

“So you're like a real model now?” 

“Been that,” she corrected, “just getting paid for it now.”

Nice, he thought, trying his best to keep a blank face. 

Maybe Gerard bailing wasn't all bad, wouldn't have ended up in the backseat without the pity .

For a moment, he thought Sasha looked over at him, but when back to beaming at her sister.

“And I met a guy — Ben or Dan or something — who said we could go to Florida for spring break… he’ll pay for everything.”

“Florida?” Mikey perked up.

“Like for real?” Nia smiled.

The two looked at each other in excitement, but Sasha gave a twisted look. 

“You two aren’t going anywhere. While you’re here slipping through mud, I’m gonna be lounging on the beach with some guy whose wallet is my toy for a week.”

“That all you care about?” Mikey asked with a voice lifting with touch of jealousy he hoped neither girl noticed.

Sasha’s eyes found him, and she smiled sharply. “That’s all that matters.”

Nia looked between her best friend and her sister, wondering why the air had suddenly shifted — but decided picking at the pretzel she and Mikey shared was safer.

Sasha turned to her and dropped her voice. “If I don’t teach you nothin’ else, pay attention: a guy’s only as good as what he can do for you.”

Mikey scoffed and leaned into his seat, wondering what exactly it was he did for her?

Sitting in the back of her math class, the thought stuck with Nia later — the “try again” part, not the pizza conspiracy.

She had to do something. Couldn’t risk losing the only other friend she had to something as ridiculous as his feelings.

Maybe it was the uniform? Even Mikey used to treat it like a big deal. Acted like the world stopped just because one of them went out with him. 

Never did find out how that happened.

Nia watched the rest of the squad walk towards her in the hall and wondered if that's what she looked like. 

Wide smiles,  Skirts swishing, lids glittered, hair placed just right.

Maybe it didn't matter who was wearing the colors.

She caught the girl, Haley, between classes. Bottom row like her, decent-looking face — but not better—not that it mattered. 

In a school where cool points felt like currency, Nia knew she was just above bankrupt, but Haley? She wasn't much better. Junior who would have easily been a loser if she hadn't earned that reputation Sophomore year; didn't have the perfect skin yet, but didn't need braces. Always complaining about her parents grounding her for grades.

She was perfect. 

That's how Nia saw her when she'd asked her to give Patrick the time of day.

“Just one time,” Nia pleaded, “Just so that he thinks he could do better than—”

Haley just chewed her gum absently,  “You want me to go out with that lame-ass drummer boy?”

“He’s pretty cool once you get to know him,” Nia mumbled, leaning against the lockers like she saw the boys do when they wanted something 

The girl rolled her eyes. “What do I get out of it?”

Lack of a good reason tilted Nia’s voice, “The joy of helping a teammate?”

A glittery, deadpan blink.

Nias mouth parted, nht nothing came to mind, “I’ll get back to you.”

By fourth period, the high school gods had answered her prayers.

 Mr. Kriest loved pop quizzes, and Nia usually had nothing better to do all weekend than study. Haley, on the other hand, looked like she was going to chew through the middle of her pencil. 

Perfect.

There wasn't any effort to hide the smile that was dripping with victory.

Defeat hit her like a dagger from the glare.

An hour later, they spotted Patrick at the vending machines.

“He likes movies and crappy music… can’t stop talking about his new guitar,” Nia whispered to Haley, who was dreading the walk over.

“Look at him,” Haley’s voice shook, “he’s like… weird or something.”

Nia turned to see Patrick kneeling in front of the machine, trying to convince it to take his crumpled dollar.

“Hey, I got you a guaranteed A, ” 

The reminder didn't seem to do much to get Haley to budge. So Nia pulled out her last resort.

“He's got a car, “

Haley cursed under her breath, it was sale season, even she couldn't say no.

 The girl took a deep breath before giving a smile and slowly headed over to the redhead as he stood, the sunlight bouncing off his thick sideburns. Glasses pressed against his face like contacts didn’t exist. Couldn’t believe she was about to talk to a guy who thought clothes that tight were in style, but —an A and a ride to the mall was almost worth the embarrassment of being seen with him. 

Nia watched the interaction like a slow crash. Didn’t want to watch him do what any guy would in his position, so she found the library instead of the lunch table.

Patrick sat alone, wondering why she wasn't there pretending she didn't want to be.

Her phone didn’t ring all weekend.  Which would have been a bigger deal if she cared.

 Which she didn't. Obviously. 

He probably just didn’t get her messages she left on the machine—should have left a fourth, but his mom picked up and said he was busy.

Sunday, she only called once, but made sure to tell him all the stuff he missed out on until she got cut off. 

Busy. 

That could be a good thing, right? 

Hanging out with a girl might have kept him busy. She’d heard enough about the parties and late-night Wawa runs in the locker room to picture it. Now that they all knew how cool he was, there was no way he’d wanna hang around some girl with nothing to offer but bad joints and music that made him do that thing with his face.

Practicing routines kept her mind off all the what-ifs. 

She kept going until she was the same as Haley: 

Perfect.

Monday morning, she’d taken the bus — didn’t want Patrick’s new girlfriend getting the wrong idea about them.

When her almost too-tight Converse hit the ground, he was just there — didn't give more than a glance when she took her seat next to him, but let her borrow a pencil when he saw her desperately searching her pouch for one.

Her thank you was ignored. 

The day went by without another word.

 Regret was the only thing she felt, should never have let him switch his classes. Wouldn't have had to see him not looking at her, but that's what she wanted. Right? 

Didn't even bother trying to sit together at lunch. Just found a seat next to the tie dyed crew of Misfits and pretended to laugh at something Allison said—even if she was the only one who found it funny.

For once, she was kind of looking forward to cheer practice. For starters, her backbend was perfect. She'd spent her usually free weekend stretching over the arms of couches and balancing against the wall—-would have been better if she'd had help.

The second reason: Patrick would definitely show up. He liked to watch her fall on her ass or end up on her knees with nails digging into her back—Nia was certain that made him a sadist. 

He never showed up. All that work for nothing. 

Well, maybe not nothing. She needed the extra strength when Haley ‘accidentally’ dropped her.

Didn't ask for a reason, figured she could just pick one.

Patrick was waiting on the curb—she almost ran to him. Almost.

Walked over instead, unsure if she was the person he wanted to see.

No smile. Didn’t ask if she wanted a ride; he just dangled the keys unenthusiastically and flatly told her to get in.

She almost told him she’d walk, but then she remembered the last time she said that and he’d just laughed, trailing her down the street anyway until she gave in. It wasn’t worth the fight.

Every glance over at him showed the same straight, tired face that came from a day spent thinking of reasons. She studied him a little longer, waiting for that jolt she sometimes got watching her favorite movie — the one that made her chest feel tight in a good way, like it might split open. Instead, she got the other feeling. The one in her stomach she got when she reread her favorite book, because she already knew the ending.

“So…” Nia started, fingers tapping against the window, “heard you had a hot date this weekend.”

The glance she got in return drowned out the radio. “I turned her down.”

They drove a few blocks in silence before she built up the nerve to ask, “Why do you like me, anyway?”

He shrugged like it was obvious. “I just do. You’re nice.”

She laughed, staring out the window. “You’re the only one who’d say that.”

“You’re cool,” he said like it was something she should have already known.

“You’re the one with the car,” she noted, more concerned with the speck on the glass.

“None of the girls around here look like you.”

That made everything inside her want to open the door and run right into traffic, but instead:

“That why you wrote that crappy poem?”

“It’s not crappy,” he said defensively, “just not finished — it was a first draft.”

“Sounded like you were mad or something…”

“Not… mad.”

“That’s not fair," Nia half whined, "I didn’t even do anything this time.”

“I know.”

“I did what Mikey said, I was nice, I told you I’m not… wired like that or something, I—”

“Laugh at my jokes, can get through a session without choking, don’t make a face when I bring up Otis or Marvin… plus you’ll fit right in when I take you to the city.”

Nia looked out of the window as the light changed from red to green — that damn speck was still there. 

“I do all that because we’re friends, not because I want you to like me,” Sasha’s words rang in her brain, “ I don’t want anything from you.”

Patrick pressed the gas lightly, “You can have it anyway — $1.25 for pizza, movies you don’t have to return all summer, rides home whenever you want, just—”

A silence let the sounds of almost-bare tires fill the space between them.

“Could you at least try?”

Nia looked down at her empty lap, she couldn’t admit it to anyone, not even herself. Just let the brief silence of the winter road hang in the air before she spoke, “I don’t think so, I just…no.”

“Right,” Patrick muttered, “wires…”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. He carried her books to the door, and she hugged him goodbye.

Patrick knew she was just running her mouth like always. The signs were all there: The way she’d said his eyes looked like candy or clouds or something, the way she let him drive her home every day. Always smiled up at him from the bleachers like she was glad he was there, what cheerleader in her right mind would do that without a reason? 

 She liked him, no doubt about it— just needed someone to help get her wires right.

He'd have his chance tomorrow since they'd do it all over again.

Chapter Text

Saturday

The mall was crowded — screaming kids on Santa’s lap, parents zig-zagging between Toys “R” Us and Gadzooks just to walk back out with their love wrapped in a bow.

Mikey still had no idea what to get his brother. “Don’t even know if he’ll show,” he muttered, scanning store windows.

Nia was broke. She wasn’t about to ask Sasha to pay for her own gift.

They wandered, Mikey trailing a few steps behind as she looked at the men passing by, wondering if they looked at her the way they looked at Sasha when Sasha never needed to borrow cash.

It wouldn’t be that hard, would it? Smile like she liked them, let them put their hand on her knee. She didn’t know if she was ready to go higher, but maybe if they offered enough…

Jewel cases clicking behind her pulled her attention back to her best friend. She wondered what he’d think if she did it.

He caught her staring at a perfume display. Sixty bucks. He had a little more than that saved up, “Sasha might like that,” he said, mostly just hoping to show her he could do something for her.

“She’s easier to shop for anyway; we know what she likes.”

Gerard? Not so much. Couldn’t even find clues in his old room. Felt like he wasn’t even the same person anymore — someone who’d never go four months without so much as calling.

They walked through the mall a bit longer, Nia remembering a time when neither of them would be caught dead there. Stopping for coffee made it feel like they had a better reason.

Her gaze still lingered back to the store, though, didn't take a genius to know why. 

“If you want, we can put both our names on it,” Mikey offered. 

“I’ll never be able to pay you back,” she sighed,  “I already owe my friend Cheese like thirty bucks.”

What kind of name is Cheese? Mikey thought to himself. 

“You can pay me back with your first check.”

She blinked, “My what?”

“I was gonna wait until Christmas, He reached into his jacket and handed her a blank Borders name tag, “but we’re kind of swamped and—”

The white-and-red plastic felt like a key in her hands.

“Figured it’d be some steady cash,” Mikey said quietly, “don’t need you thinking you’re too good for me, too.”

What fell between the lines didn’t miss her as Nia slid out of her chair and squeezed into the booth next to the guy, bracing himself for the hug, “Sasha’s too good for everybody, but I’m just as much of a loser as I ever was.”

Mikey smiled into the paper cup of coffee sitting in front of him, fogging his glasses.

Worth it spilling all over his shoes when she said thank you.

Across town, freezing his ass off on the train, Gerard's week had been off to a rough start.

On Monday, he got almost all the coffee orders wrong— thought everyone liked black coffee as much as he did. What the hell is a frappuccino anyway?

The train made him feel like an anchovy packed into a can. Home was supposed to be his Fortress of Solitude, but the girl on the kitchen counter had paid good change for the stick and poke tattoo Frank was bullshitting his way through. 

At least the couch was comfortable. Just him and reruns of Twilight Zone to drown out his friend’s voice. 

Tuesday wasn't much better---all the mail got mixed up, so he spent an hour trying to sort it by hand in the too-small closet that was his ‘office’. No time to even finish the detail on the cape he'd been drawing until his lunch break. Swears he'll puke if he has another cup of ramen.

 Wednesday, slick sidewalks almost made him miss his train, which, of course,  had a kid screaming better than he could for 6 stops.

 Frank was at home already passed out in a small pile of beer cans—no shoulder to lean on, so Gerard just grabbed a Xanax and a beer to help him get through the night. 

By Friday, he could see the shadows of his roots in the subway window. Regretted the eyeliner the moment he stepped into the bright white lights of the office—he looked as tired as he felt, but it was better than showing up as…him. 

When he clocked in, he tried his best to look forward to the day. “Happy thoughts,” or whatever Dr. Levine told him to say whenever he regretted getting out of bed. Today, it barely worked.

Gerard’s shoulders already ached by the time he made his second round through the cubicles. The mail cart’s front wheel stuck like it knew it’d be the last straw, squeaking every few feet.

He didn’t talk to most of the people he’d passed, just a quick nod or a point to his headphones if they did try to start a conversation. Not because they weren’t friendly— a few had even tried to invite him out to Bennigans for drinks— but because he couldn’t stop thinking how badly he wanted their jobs. How impossible it felt to say that out loud without sounding like he wasn’t grateful for the chance to just be on the same payroll. 

Halfway down the aisle, his steps slowed. The name on the next padded envelope made his throat tighten: Grant Morrison:  JLA PROPOSAL.  

No one had mentioned it when he’d lurked around the water cooler earlier in the week. None of them even seemed excited. Their days going on like usual.

But it was Grant. Fucking. Morrison. 

Gerard’s hand went damp around the package. He’d been telling himself for weeks that when this moment came, he’d say something. Anything.

Big fan. Loved the Doom Patrol spin-off special you did. Kill Your Boyfriend was the best thing Vertigo had done all last year.

But when he rounded the corner, there was Grant in a corner office— hands full of half colored pages, phone cradled to his ear-a confident smile from whatever he was hearing — and Gerard just… froze.

Sat the envelope on the desk and walked away too fast to even get a good look at him.

On the other side of the corner, his chest pounded as though the words actually came, like his body couldn't tell the difference. Neither could his palms, that had been slick with nerves ever since he’d read the name. 

By the time he was back in the mailroom, sorting junk mail into bins, his chest still felt tight. He hated himself for it —for walking away,  for wanting to be someone else so badly he couldn’t even speak to them.

The train didn't offer much relief—the screaming kid again. A little boy. Gerard looked to the mom, just drowned it out with an issue of Good Housekeeping.

 Everyone else just looked at the kid like he was Public Enemy Number One for the next 5 stops. 

That didn’t sit right; it wasn’t the kid’s fault that he was annoying.

Still, the screaming. 

The gesture wasn’t supposed to mean anything, just an attempt at a moment’s peace before he made it home. He dug in his bag, pulled out the sketch he’d been working on all week, and slid it into the kid’s hands like a silent agreement. The sketch wasn’t even that good, but if the way the train got ten decibels was a sign, the kid disagreed.  A cape, a city skyline. Something that looked like a logo on the chest. Basic stuff.

 The boy blinked at it, then grinned, sticky fingers smudging the graphite. “Cool!” he said with a wide smile, “Mommy, look, it's Batman! Thanks—”

Then, without hesitation or judgement: “Are you a boy or a girl?”

Gerard laughed through his nose, “What do you think?”

The kid looked back at the drawing, chewed his lip, and didn’t answer.

Bummer, Gerard thought. He was hoping the kid could tell him.

Still, the smile was something. 

By the time he hit his stop, he almost felt warmer despite the snow falling. Frank would be home, and he always had a way of making him feel like the right one, whichever one he needed to be in the moment.

The sound of drums and a guitar spilled under the door before he even made it down the hall.

Right, they had practice. 

He’d been looking forward to it all week, but let it slip in between the cracks of his brain, which had been more concerned with finding out a route to the coffee shop that wouldn't leave his hands frozen.

At least it was warm inside.

A deep breath 

Frank and Ray were already in the living room, running through something loud enough to rattle the windows.

Every step he took felt like a weight, but he dropped his bag and took an energy boost up his nose before he picked up his guitar.

The drumset positioned perfectly along the wall caught his eye, “That gonna be permanent?”

Ray nodded, sticks tapping absently against his thigh, “No room for it at my place. Frank said it was cool if I kept it here for a while.”

“ Of course he did,” Gerard half muttered, pulling off his coat, “Can we start with Sister to Sleep?”

They played for hours — or at least, it felt that way. Gerard’s body reminded him he hadn’t eaten since lunch—the day before, his stomach held a low, pitted rumble that he’d tried to hide underneath the sound of his own screaming. But he couldn’t get rid of the feeling. That feeling in his head that’d been happening on and off for the last few weeks.

Emptiness churning. The room tilted just slightly.

He leaned back in the chair he barely remembered sitting in, flexing his fingers, tired from strumming, “Wanna grab a slice before the streets freeze over?”

Frank didn’t even look up from re-stringing his guitar, “Spent the last of my cash on these.” He plucked at the new strings, sharp and bright. “So, ramen ‘til you get paid.” 

Gerard rolled his eyes, annoyed but too tired to argue about where he got the cash for them. 

“Bed it is, then.” He breathed to himself. 

The sound of practice going on without him pounded against the wall as Gerard shut himself in the room. 

The sheets felt softer than they really were as he collapsed on the bed. Heat and sweat poured from his body from the hours of playing—but the idea of standing upright in the shower felt impossible.

Not even “Illi” pressed against his ear could budge him.

Everything had to wait.

Gray sunlight slicing across his pillow and the faint sound of Frank in the kitchen, rattling through cabinets, yelling something about Folgers. It was morning. 

 He sat up slowly, still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt from the night before. The work week radiated off of him — not rank, just like sweat dried into fabric.

Shower Day. Had to make sure Dr.Levine didn't ask questions. 

Gerard stood under the showerhead in anticipation. He’d built up the courage to step in. Didn’t bother looking down. He’d gotten it down to a five-minute routine — most of it spent on his faded hair.

Only today it was different. He’d grabbed the bottle of a cheap shampoo that was dripping against the tile and poured it on his head with a deep breath. He gripped the knob in anticipation, but when he turned the knob he didn't feel the droplets like bullets against his skull. Just the signing of hollow pipes that echoed behind the wall.

Frank was balancing a half-empty cereal bowl on his knee when Gerard came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair like it’d been a productive morning.

“You need to get a real job,” Gerard announced, dropping onto the couch.

“I have a real job,”

“Back-alley tattoos and dime bags don’t pay the water bill.”

Frank rolled his eyes,  “Neither does minimum wage. Your check’s gone before we even get groceries.”

“Exactly,” Gerard said, leaning forward. “That’s why you need to help out.”

“I’m a musician. I don’t punch a clock.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m an artist,” Gerard shot back flatly, “and I have to if we wanna eat.”

“That’s different — you draw pictures, gotta work your way up the shit ladder or die before someone pays you for it—besides the comic shop is like your mecca or something.”

Gerard raised a brow, “And you play guitar. I’m sure you could find a gig playing at—”

Frank shot him a stern look, right in the eyes, “I don’t whore out my music.”

“Just your dick?” The smirk found Gerard’s face as he tightened the laces on his boots.

“Hey…” Frank snapped with a smile, “Maybe I could—”

“Don’t even think about it, nobody’s gonna pay for what they can get for free with a case of Rolling Rock.”

Frank laughed like it was a personal challenge, “I bet I could find some takers— those uptown chicks like tattoos.”

The thought made Gerard want to throw more than the newspaper at his roommate, “Find the want ads,”

A barely passable shirt found itself under his coat before he turned to leave, “I gotta get to Jersey… think about it?”

Frank rolled his eyes and flipped him off instead of kissing him goodbye—if this was his way of dropping hints for gifts this year, Gerard was in luck:

He'd saved a whole 75 bucks just for him.

Nia's first paycheck came on December 15th. Crisp bills in an envelope, barely making an outline in her jacket pocket.

A whole seventy-five bucks to herself!

The job was everything she knew it would be.

 Mikey couldn’t get on the same shift, but he was always waiting to take her home, and their boss never minded if she hung around and kept her best friend company while he complained that it was "like a lecture with a cash register,”.

Two whole weeks of the most time they’d gotten to spend together in months.

Sure, it meant less time with Patrick, but it filled in the week. He needed the time to realize that the two of them weren’t destined for anything other than friendship — and not even the best kind. 

Okay, so she gave in when he insisted on being the one to drop her off after school on weekdays. Didn’t seem like much of a choice since he hadn’t really asked so much as told her they were going—and she was tired of hurting his feelings.

They broke down on day three.

The best part, though? Books.

All of the new ones she’d walk by on the way to one of Sasha’s outings or that called to her in the store — the ones she never asked her mom for because she already knew the answer. Usually, she just waited, collected her change, and hit the used bookstore when she’d saved a few bucks.

But now? Now she could sneak a page here and there while stocking, use the excuse of “helping a customer” to actually talk to people about them, and best of all? Any book she wanted, and she didn’t even need to pay for it! Just came out of her check.

Best two weeks of her life.

Alone, she made her way down to The Plaza and scanned the street for stores—still enough time to buy a gift for everyone. She’d gotten Sasha a knock-off perfume from some guy on the corner, and hoped she wouldn’t notice the extra L in Chanel. Mikey was easy—she’d waited in line all night for Smashing Pumpkins tickets—and hoped he wouldn’t mind her tagging along. 

She had no idea what to get Patrick. 

Pot was out; they’d already had too much of that.

A book? She’d never seen him read anything worth mentioning. He’d said he liked Metamorphosis when she showed it to him once, but buying him his own copy would be a gift for her, not him.

As she scanned the storefronts, Nia felt defeated. This would be easier if it were Mikey. She knew all his favorites without thinking.

By the third store, her frustration turned into a marching band in her head. She didn’t even know why she was doing this. It wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or anything. A gift might give him the wrong idea — but he’d already gotten that, so what harm could a new video game do?

So she went home and made something.

Spent the afternoon surfing radio stations, calling in requests, and recording the ones that made her think of his car — the way the seats smelled like weed and Dr. Pepper even though he claimed not to like it, the way the streetlights slid over his face while they talked about nothing. Biggie. Tupac. Jodeci. Used a pencil to rewind the tape after Busta Rhymes and snuck in some Nirvana and The Offspring in case he wanted something good. 

It wasn’t romantic. Not in the slightest .

Just… them.

She needed something more, though. Something that said it was special, not just something she’d thrown together. So she searched for a pen, found the back of an old envelope, and started writing:

Songs for your car, not your heart. That’s how it’s been from the start. Nothing to say? Just press play — don’t dig too deep, just something for you to keep. It’s just something for whenever you can’t sleep. Think of me, but don’t try to dream it true. Your BEST FRIEND was just thinking of you.

But a heart still appeared at the end. The urge to cross it out built in her chest, but she ended up just filling it in—-black so he’d hopefully get the hint. 

Wires or whatever.

Just hoped Patrick would understand this time.

Her face hit the desk with a thud; she was doomed. Or terrified. Couldn't tell the difference.

Job hunting wasn’t exactly how Frank had imagined spending his Friday. Especially not in the middle of winter when it seemed like no one in the city owned a car, they all just pressed together on the train waiting for their stop to show up like a lottery ticket.

But Gerard had sounded serious. Besides, he had the time to kill, couldn’t really do much except sit inside waiting for everything to thaw out.

So he gave it his best shot.

Tattoo shop? They wouldn’t hire him without “training” —even after he tried to explain that he didn't need it- he had all the experience he needed plastered on his body—you could really see the progress, at least he thought so.

The pizza shop he and Gerard went to all the time? “Fully staffed”. 

Bartending? Needed a “license”.

Finally, he tried a random spot on his way home-walked in despite not fitting the dress code tastefully taped on the front door.

 The owner—some asshole in a suit that looked older than him and had an Italian accent he could clock as phony from the first syllable—gave him an interview on the spot. The years spent trolling chicks at the back of shows had taught him anything; it was how to clock desperation, and that desperation usually led to him getting what he wanted. 

First question: would he be willing to cover his arms, since his tattoos went against “policy’?

“What? Like a sweater?”

“Dress shirt, somethin’ with buttons,”

“Even in the summer?”

A tight smile that said “afraid so”.

Frank scoffed, but remembered that fucking face Gerard made and accepted the job.

Worst decision of his fucking life.

He was late on the first day because he couldn’t pull himself out of bed on time.

 Dropped so many plates that his boss, Emilio, said it’d come out of his paycheck. And every goddamn day, he had to wear a long-sleeve button-up—he thought he looked like a tool.

Gerard thought so too because he could see the faint attempt at a full smile when he came home the first night.

“Don’t say a fuckin’ word,” Frank muttered before flopping down on the couch next to him to bathe in the dim glow of the TV. 

But Illi rubbed his back, told him it’d get better after a shower. Frank almost believed her. 

He gave it two weeks. He really had no choice. 

It happened during the lunch shift. Too many voices, all those fucking orders for food he couldn't pronounce—he couldn’t focus. The stack of dirty dishes in his hand, the grease against his fingers—he didn’t notice the girl with hot food scrambling out of the kitchen.

Glass and silver making a symphony of curse words he was probably gonna get written up for. 

Broken pieces of a plate sliced through his palm like butter.  Blood dripped all over the shirt he’d just ironed that morning.

But it wasn’t the pain that got to him. 

Frank showed up late to practice, hand wrapped in paper towels he’d swiped from the restaurant bathroom. He tried to play it off—blood blooming through the cheap wad

Gerard’s head snapped up, “Jesus what took you so long, we've been waiting for-”

“I’m here now, aren't I?” The words came out flat, defiant.

Ray gave a sympathetic glance but didn’t push. Just twirled his sticks and asked, “Wanna work on lyrics instead? Looks like the walls got a few more lines”

Frank ignored him, cradled the guitar like it might prove something, “Just play the fucking song,” 

Ray and Gerard looked at each other before finding spots next to the red-faced Frank. Watching as he tried hopelessly to position the guitar comfortably.

They got through half a song. Half a song of Frank biting his lip, cursing under the drumbeat.

Red beads slid down the front of the white guitar onto the floor but nobody noticed but Frank. Just watched as tiny pools of sacrifice formed by his feet.

He winced when the pressure lit fire in his palm. He muttered a curse, shoved the Strat against the amp, and stomped toward the bathroom. The slam of the door rattled the frame.

Gerard stood frozen, pulse still quick from the song.

 He wanted to go after him, but didn’t. Instead, he just sat there with the weight of whatever Frank had left behind.

Ray cleared his throat, light as ever. “So…movie?”

Gerard nodded.

 The guitar’s strings still hummed from where Frank had abandoned it.

Halfway through Children of the Corn, Gerard could barely make out something on the floor. Red, splattered…the same shade streaked on the guitar. Too black to not be red. 

Frank didn't come out of the bathroom until he was sure everyone was asleep. Then he unplugged from the amp. Kept strumming until he talked himself into going back the next day.

The realization came to Frank on his way home. Exhausted, sore, and desperately wanting to deck the guy whose elbow was digging into his spine, he stared at his first paycheck. FRANKLIN ANTHONY IERO right there in bold letters. His head fell. 

Not even his mom called him that anymore.

A quick glance around the train car showed the extent of his humiliation. Shoulder-to-shoulder with people wearing white dress shirts like clones and cotton nooses hanging around every neck. Cogs in a machine he didn’t want to be a part of. Same way he’d thought about the professors at SVA — fucking sellouts.

He stared at the proof in his hand. Didn’t care how much it was — there wasn’t a price big enough to justify selling his soul.

So he got off a few stops short of the apartment and cashed it at some bodega on the corner. Took the money and went to the nearest tattoo shop.

Walked out with a scorpion as high as he could get it.

Later, he met Gerard at the bar for a drink. He was getting tired of sneaking him in, but the kid had a few more months until the big 2-1, so he did it anyway.

When Gerard saw him, Frank had a large white bandage on his neck.

Gerard smirked. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought we were past the point of you trying to hide hickeys.”

“I’ve been with you all week.”

Gerard looked him up and down, his face looked too broken for his first payday,  “So what’s your deal?”

Frank just shrugged.

Gerard didn’t know what he’d done to piss Frank off so much, but it didn’t really matter. He usually just forgave him by the end of the night.

“It’s been two weeks. Got your paycheck?”

Frank nodded absently.

“I’m proud of you,” Gerard smiled, “Seriously — let’s see it.”

Frank sighed and pulled off the bandage, revealing the still-angry tattoo.

Tired eyes went wide, then shut before he could give himself more of a reason to walk out. Instead, he just said,

“What the fuck, Frank, you can’t go doing shit like—”

“Hey, I told you: I don’t punch a clock, and nobody tells me what I can and can’t do. Not you, not my old man, not some prick in an office.”

A sharp exhale carried Gerard’s frustration, “Everybody’s got to—”

“I’m not everybody else. I got shit to… say. Do. Did you talk to your brother?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Frank scoffed, “Right, and here I am, stuffed in this fucking straightjacket covering up all my hard work, “ He hissed down the bottle in his hand, “Two weeks, or I’m finding somebody else. And a new singer, too.”

Gerard looked at his face — plastered with seriousness. The new ink, a scorpion just under his ear, must’ve hurt. The job too. For two weeks, he’d watched him drag himself out of bed, never smiling when he came home. Thought he’d get used to it just like everyone else.

The anger radiating off of his roommate weighed down on him, and the guilt of trying to force someone to be something he's not. Frank never did that to him.

 So, he just gave a deep exhale, " Guess it's back to ramen?"

 Frank gave a smile, "I got 20 bucks left, want a Zima?" 

Gerard dropped his messenger bag and sat next to his friend, the urge to let out the frustration bubbling in his gut. But he didn't know how much he was willing to lose, so he just smiled against his bottle and listened.

Chapter Text

Sasha had prepared for it.

The makeup he liked — glossy lips, lashes dark and heavy, foundation blended to perfection so he couldn’t say she looked “tired.” The lingerie too: red satin cut high and thin, the one that always made him grin like he was getting away with something. She even slipped in “Baby”  when he picked her up, let it roll off her tongue, and right into his ear while he drove. 

The car still looked newish despite it snowing for three weeks straight, leather still carried that smell that Sasha savored on her clothes when she left him. 

 She ran her nails across the dash as he drove, already filing away the idea that struck her then: this should be mine.

And it would be, if she had her way—and she liked getting her way, 

It was the best performance she ever did. Wide mouth, tight eyes—she felt bad for the people in the next room. Mark’s hips slapped against her ass, his breath hot against her shoulder as he groaned like she was the best thing he’d ever tasted. As he moved faster, the mattress squeaking under them, Sasha dug her nails into the sheets, not to hold on, but to keep from shoving him off. He didn’t know what hit him. Not even the second time when he pulled out with a gasp and smeared across her stomach, whispering that word that made her want to laugh—sweet.

Sweet? Like she ever had that luxury. Sweet was for daughters, for a wife who probably thought he was just “working late”, for girls who got dresses on their sixteenth birthdays instead of hands on their thighs.

 He thought she was sweet? He might as well have spit in her face

But she didn’t let the irritation show, just arched her back and let him think it was. 

When his grip on her hips loosened and they parted, she tried her best to pull courage out of the air 

While they dressed, she knew it was now or never, her voice felt sticky between her lips, “Your kids ever get disappointed in you?”

Mark gave a nervous laugh, fumbling with his belt, but not turning to her,  “No. I give them everything. Just like you.”

“You don’t give me enough,” Sasha scoffed, snapping her bra strap into place.

The room suddenly felt bigger,  “Why are you asking about my kids?”

She shrugged, staring at the stucco ceiling,  “Me and my old man don’t get along.”

“I figured as much,” he said, softly.

 “He disappointed me,” Sasha’s voice cut sharply against the tension that was steadily rising, “Sixteenth birthday… he really liked my dress.”

“I took you away from all that,” Mark insisted quickly, “Don’t you like it here?”

“You just paid for it,” she snapped. “ I did this.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighed, letting her have it, “What’s the problem? This is supposed to be fun.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said flatly. “A blast.”

He leaned closer, voice softer than the snow collecting on the windowsill,  hand on her thigh, “Come on, Sasha. You gotta talk to me. I can’t fix it if you don’t talk to me.”

Her eyes flicked to his hand, still resting on her thigh like he thought he could pry them open with the right words. Sasha just rolled her eyes, letting a soft sigh fall.

 “Why don’t you talk to your wife ?”

“Because I’m talking to you,” he said evenly,lifting her chin to meet his tired gaze,  “So. Speak up.”

She let the pause stretch until his patience thinned just enough to be visible.

 “I want the car.”

He laughed, short, right in her face, “What? My car?”

“I want to borrow it.” She raised her chin, steady now. “Or I’m telling.”

The smile faded, “You think you’re the first one? My wife—”

“Not your wife,” Sasha half-whispered,  “That’d be too easy. She walks away, and you what? Come back here? But your daughter?”

Fear sat in brown eyes that scanned her, that's when she got a taste of the one thing she knew she wanted.  

“She’d never look at you the same.”

The threat swept Mark’s hand back to his own lap.

It landed right where she wanted it to, she could tell. 

For a moment, they locked eyes, a silent challenge Sasha was determined to come out on top of. 

“How long?” he asked quietly.

“Till I’m done with it.”

Mark chuckled then, like he’d found his footing again. “I’ll give you the old one.”

“The Porsche?” Her voice tilted with her smile. 

He shook his head, “That’s my wife’s now.”

She felt herself shift a little closer, tilting her gaze like he was the one in control, “Then what do I get?”

“A Volkswagen. She drove it for years before I… upgraded .”

Her lip curled. “You gotta be playing with me?”

He laughed at her disgust, “She made that same face until she saw it.”

There were no hard feelings when he dropped her off. Even walked her to her bathroom door. Insisted watching her shower made them even. 

Cold showers don’t leave steam.

The next morning, a deep blue VW Beetle sat parked by the curb. Lilies on the dash, bright against the gray of the morning. 

A note tucked into the stems, written in his scratchy handwriting, 

Next time, ask nicely.

The Beetle purred when she pulled up to the shoot. The paint was the only thing that stood out. She left the lilies sitting on the dashboard on purpose. Red velvet petals — the kind she’d once asked for like a joke.

 He’d remembered this time. 

Her own design clung to her body — satin sat soft against her skin. The gold hoops on her ears chimed as she stepped out, trench coat swinging behind her.

At first, the photographers barely looked up. Just another girl in heels pretending to be something. But that's the thing people never understood about Sasha: she never had to pretend to be anything. Just had to make other people see what she already knew was there. 

“Doin' it here,” she tapped the hood before they could ask her

The photographer tried to argue, told her the lighting wouldn't work. Sasha didn't care, she wanted to do this her way.

As she posed, their eyes flicked from her body to the people passing and watching. That’s what she wanted.  She let them imagine she was the kind of girl with a man who left flowers and handed her keys to something almost good enough.

They didn’t need to know it was a hand-me-down. Or what she had to do for it.

Click . Her legs stretched across the hood, snow melting under the heat of her body.

Click . Red satin bikini that left nothing but the imagination, chin high, because she had to win.

Click . A pile of lilies just visible through the windshield, the flowers Mark thought would win her over.

Fuck the week. They were gonna talk about her all year.

The proofs came back in a thick envelope, glossy and unforgiving. Sasha flipped through them, face twisted, with pride and the disbelief that it was actually her. In print. Almost like she was the real deal. 

The lilies sat in the background of every shot.

He’d remembered.

That was the problem. Too close.

 Too close to something real, too close to a man trying to prove he wasn’t a disappointment. 

Too close to her, almost believing him.

She couldn’t let that happen.

So she slid one glossy 8x10  into a plain envelope, block letters on the front:

Mrs. Moretti.

No return address. Just the picture. Sasha sprawled across the hood of a car that wasn’t supposed to be hers.

Her tongue dragged across it, recoiling at the taste, and she placed a glossed kiss on the back.  Dropped it in the box before she could think. Walked away with clicking heels, lighter with every step.

It wasn’t about hurting him. He was a decent enough guy. 

But faucets always run dry when you use them too much. If all that came from it was a shitty apartment in the Greenes and a used car, she knew she had to do better. 

The girl in that picture? She deserved better. 

Flowers showed up on her stoop a week later. Lilies. Again.

The card was small, tucked between the stems. Just five words in his curling hand:

I would’ve never disappointed you.

Sasha flicked it with her nail, watching it fall to the floor. Didn’t matter.

 She almost disappointed herself, believing even for a second that he meant it.

Instead, she set the flowers back down, shut the door, and leaned against it until her breath steadied.

This was what she wanted. No more Mark. No more settling.

So why did it feel like something had been ripped out of her chest?

The phone rang.

She grabbed it too fast, almost hoping it was him. Instead, her sister’s voice filled the line — warm, familiar, grounding.

“Hey,” Nia chirped on the other end, “You coming home for Christmas? I got you a real gift this year.”

Sasha pressed her hand to her forehead, swallowing the lump in her throat. She forced a smile into her voice, because Nia could always hear the cracks.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t let mama burn the mac and cheese this time.”

Nia laughed, soft and bright, and Sasha let her eyes close.

Whatever Mark had tried to give her, it was never going to be enough.

Not if he thought it was sweet.

Chapter Text

Two days before Christmas—Sasha stood on the corner of Wall and Broad, leaning against a smooth concrete building. The wind threatened to pry a hair out of place, but the extra sprays of Spritz kept her looking picture-perfect. She wished she could be like everyone else: punch a clock, work eight hours, count her tips, and go home with hands stained in grease or blistered feet. But she was just… better. And the problem was that she knew it. She’d always known it. That’s why she was standing in the cold instead of wearing a uniform.

No, Sasha had bigger plans. And they started there, on Wall and Broad.

Men in long coats shuffled like ants down into subways and parking garages, most of them still carrying the workday with them.

She just needed one to notice that on this dreadful, chilly day—she’d “forgotten” her jacket.

And when he did, she couldn’t help but smile at the way his words firmed when he said:

“Excuse me. Miss?”

She smiled against the wind before turning to meet him.

He offered his jacket and a warm spot in a bar.

“I’m only nineteen,” she said through thick-lined lips, letting her voice come out soft, the way that made it feel more exciting for them.

He chuckled, buttoning the heavy wool coat at her throat. “How about dinner then?”

“But it’s almost Christmas. Don’t you got a family to spend it with?”

The man ran his fingers through thick black hair and smiled with a knowing flick of deep brown eyes. “I’m Jewish. And single.”

Just one.

“Sasha,” she smiled, extending manicured fingers.

“Michael.”

Slick sidewalks gave her the perfect excuse to see how far she could push as she slid under his arm. 

The taxi was the second test. He didn’t even ask how far she was going. Just climbed in after her and told her to give the address.

On Christmas Day, they met again. 

The restaurant wasn’t someplace she’d normally pick—she didn’t even like Chinese food. But it had a dress code, and he had reservations, so she figured she’d give it a try.

When they sat, he pulled out her chair, leaning close enough that she just knew he smelled the last bit of Chanel No. 5 she’d sprayed behind her ear.

“This place is nice,” she sighed, uninterested.

“An old favorite,” he smiled over the menu. “You know how to use chopsticks?”

“If I don’t, then it’s not worth knowing.” She smiled knowing it didn't make a difference.

The laugh was a good sign.

“So you wanna tell me what you were doing out there like that?”

Sasha shrugged. “Having breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“Really? Because it looked like you needed help.”

Dishes chattering the background marked her silence.

“Okay, okay. Just had to make sure you’re not like all the other girls posted up and down Tenth Street.”

Sasha shook her head at the attempt to move her peg, “You already know I’m not like them, otherwise you wouldn’t be buying me dinner.”

“So what are you looking for? A boyfriend?”

Sasha scoffed. “Just got rid of one of those.”

“What’d he do?”

A soft smile, gaze hovering just enough for him to see. “He gave me a car.”

“What’s the problem with that?”

“It was the wrong color. He forgot I’d never be caught dead in blue.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Terrible,” Sasha agreed

“So where do I come in?”

She straightened a little, adjusting herself against the seat, “I need an apartment.”

A sharp laugh leave him, almost making Sasha flinch, “And what makes you think I’ll do it?”

Amusement spread across the table as she quietly sipped the bitter tea in her glass, “Because you don’t look like the kind of guy who spends time in the Greenes, and everyone in here is wondering how we ended up at the same table.”

Michael shook his head with a light sigh, glanced over at the girl in front of him smiling through red lips, 

“Why don’t we start with dinner.”

Sasha handed him her menu. “I’m sure I’ll like whatever you give me.”

When he dropped her off, he saw it—deep blue, parked against the curb.

“That it?”

Sasha nodded. “Hideous, isn’t it?”

“I’ll pick you up Friday—we’ll get it painted.”

Sasha fought back the smile. “Be here at 7—I like lilies.”

Her sister would understand.

Nia woke to music.  

The Temptations , thin through the walls, louder than usual for a holiday morning. The smell hit her just as hard—brown sugar, cloves, something warm that pulled her up out of bed before she even thought about it.

She crept down the stairs, socks singing against the carpet, braced for the usual holiday—silence, or worse, sharp voices—but stopped short in the kitchen doorway.

Her parents were dancing .

A flash of skin from her moms half open robe, her loose curls falling back, a glass of something amber spilling in her hand.  Her dad twirled her badly, laughing, one arm steadying the bottle on the counter. 

No arguing, no slammed cabinet doors. Just laughter and Motown.

Her mom noticed Nia in the doorway, clinging to her t-shirt, and smiled wide,  “Guess what’s in the oven?”

Nia smiled back before she could help it. Ham. It had to be ham. It was—

“Your favorite,” her mom sang, confirming it. 

Nia should’ve said thank you, but instead just smiled wider, “Did Sasha call?”

Another lazy sip and a loud laugh. 

“You know I can’t keep tabs on her,” her mom sighed, brushing it off, “but there’s something under the tree for you .”

The tree looked smaller this year, one corner of the lights already dark, but she crouched down anyway. The gift was wrapped in drugstore paper, Scotch tape curling at the edges. She peeled it back carefully, like it might split.

A notebook. Five Star. Thick, college-ruled . Glitter gel pens in every color— scented. 

It was the best gift she'd ever gotten her.  

She saw her.

“I knew you’d like it,” her mom said, sipping again.

Nia held on to the little box of knockoff perfume she’d bought for Sasha, fingers worrying the cellophane. When her mom kissed her cheek, she slid a folded page into her hand instead.

“What’s this?” Her mom asked too bright.

“A poem—spent all week on it.”

Her mom unfolded it, eyes skimming the lines. She gave a light laugh, not unkind. “I thought you had a job now?”

“My first check was short,” Nia muttered, admiring the new supplies in front of her. 

“Well, make sure you keep showing up,” her mom said, kissing her again, already turning back to the counter. “And turn the oven off at four—we’ll see you in the morning.”

She watched her mom get dressed, considered it bonding. Almost the same as when she used to sit with Sasha, they both smiled the same when the mirror matched the idea. Nia wondered if she’d ever want to line her lips or drench herself in perfume.

Sasha always bragged about having her own bottle of Pink Sugar; their mom always wore Loves.

A distant goodbye while Nia set her plate on the living room. 

Dinner with Lucy and Ricky. No Sasha.

By the time the Twilight Zone marathon started, Nia was curled on the couch, notebook on her lap, gel pens scattered like candy. The episode was new to her, but she couldn’t focus. The weird ones were usually her favorite, but it couldn’t distract her from the  pull in her chest that grew heavier with each commercial break. 

She stared at the demo tape on the shelf until she couldn’t anymore. Slipped it into her coat pocket, pulled on her boots, and climbed out the window.

The walk to Patrick’s left her hair damp with snow. By the time she reached his block, her boots were soaked through. She checked his window first. Dark. But the rest of the house glowed—music, laughter spilling out into the night.

She almost turned back. But her fist went to the door anyway.

It wasn’t Patrick who opened it. A girl with the same red hair—his cousin, maybe—smiled at her, cheeks pink from the heat inside. “Merry Christmas.”

“Is Pat home?” Nia asked, voice catching in her throat.

The girl tilted her head, amused, crossing her arms across a blue christmas sweater,  “Pat? He lets you call him that?”

Nia shrugged, “Sometimes.”

The girl turned back with a grin and teasingly called, “Pat, there’s a girl at the door for you!”

A roar of muffled oohs and laughs got to the door before he did, making Nia notice just how many people were inside. She wondered if everyone got that lucky. 

Patrick appeared with a slice of pie in one hand, wrapped in the same ugly  christmas sweater, making her feel colder than she had before.

Colored light spread across his face  while he smiled easier, trying and failing to look casual as he leaned against the doorframe—his fork fell with a clang , forcing a grin across her face as he attempted to save it. 

 “H-hey, Nia—what’re you doing here?”

Her eyes slid past him. A board game spread across the dining table. A tree glowed in the corner. People laughing. For the first time that night, she actually felt the chill of the wind. 

“Just, uh… wanted to bring you your Christmas present.”

“You could’ve brought it tomorrow,” he said around a mouthful of crust. “Would’ve picked you up.”

Nia shook her head. “Wouldn’t be Christmas.”

He finally noticed the snow in her hair, clumped against her lashes. “You walked? From the bus stop?”

She didn't have to answer for his gaze to soften the way she hated, the way everyone looked at her when they realized.

“You wanna come in? My mom made extra—”

She cut him off,  “No. Just the present.”

Her fingers brushed his as she handed him the tape, “Merry Christmas, Pat.”

Nia didn't know who started the hug. Just that she leaned into the ugly sweater, taking in how it made him feel softer against her cheek. 

A different boy would have let her sink into it, would have dropped their hands the way she'd seen the girls at school giggle at; but Patrick just stayed steady.

The smell of smoke and perfume she never wore meant he'd remember it.

If it wasn't for the fact that it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, she would have stayed there all night. 

Before Patrick could pull out a thank you she turned away, snow crunching under her boots, leaving him holding the gift in the doorway while the laughter carried on behind him.

Danzig filled her ears as she walked back to the bus stop, trying to keep her eyes straight ahead instead of on the glow of houses as she fought against the wind. 

Static, static, static

Chapter Text

Doesn’t remember the last time he cared about the holidays. This year, he didn’t even bother to call. 

Forgot. 

Just like he forgot Mikey’s birthday.

It’s been almost 6 months since he’s seen them—a year since any of the visits mattered. 

Never gave them his new address. Mikey only knows the number because he'd gotten fucked up, left some kind of voicemail back in August. Regretted it every time he let the phone ring for too long. It was like a superpower or something— He’d always known when he called.

The only people to call Frank were his mom, but that was getting rarer these days, and people looking for a good time—they only called at night, just like the girls.

Mikey calls anyway. He never got more than the dial tone, but he always wanted to give his brother a chance to do the right thing.

And on December twentieth, too tired from a long day at work, he did. 

For a moment, it's silence, breathing. 

“Hello?”

“Gee?”

Mikey smiles against the receiver, Gerard takes a sip of a beer.

“I was just calling ‘cause, you know, I was thinking and mom and I thought it’d be cool to see you for, um, Christmas.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I mean…last year there was just an empty spot,” Mikey says nervously, “I got you a Walkman, but you never showed, so I  ended up giving it to my friend Nia.”

Guilt creeps down Gerard’s neck and into his chest. Gets a blurred image of himself in the glass. He barely understands it, how can he expect them to?

“I’m, uh… busy. You know. Job hunt and all.”

 “Yeah… I get it,” Mikey sighs,  “Just—was hoping… never mind. New Year’s?”

“I gotta—”

Dial tone.

It’s not that Gerard doesn’t want to see his family. He loves them. Tells himself they love him too. But there’s no way they won’t see it. 

Almost three months since he took up his new favorite thing– Second favorite…comics—and he can’t deny it anymore: it’s amazing.

His clothes have been looser. Not too much, but that shirt he had been trying to fit into? It slid on easier the last time he’d tried it on. Looked pretty bad, but he got it on. Made it easier to skip dinner that week. Told Frank he had a bug that’d be going around the office.

His face, though? Had to start covering up the evidence of nights he’d rather write than sleep. He didn’t wear much, just enough to make the reflection in the mirror match what was in his head. When he’d added the eyeliner and brushed out the hair, it felt right. 

 Then there’s Frank. 

On Thanksgiving, they did the pizza thing.  It was perfect.

 He'd been spending the last few weeks on a gift that he wasn't sure he wanted to give, but he knew it was perfect. Couldn't get a guy like that just anything.

Frank walks in from the shower, towel slung low. Notices Gerard’s knee bouncing. Notices Gerard staring off again. Usually, all it takes is dropping the towel and a dirty joke, but tonight Frank decides to care instead.

He flopped down next to him on the couch, still damp, but not missing the worry on his friend's face.

“You good?”

Gerard didn't look. Just swallowed the rest of what was in his can, glanced at it before grabbing the other he’d started bringing because he’d stopped trying to convince himself. 

Flecks of water splashed him before he sighed, “My brother called. Asked about Christmas.”

Frank shared the same confused look, “So? What's the issue? You expecting coal?”

Gerard tried to laugh, but it was too weak to feel real, “I just… last month was fun, right?”

“Yeah, real nice. Cheap. Filthy,” The memory flooding Frank with a dull warmth, “Thought we could try to top it after Mass.”

Gerard shrugs, trying to sound casual, “Could always watch Heavy Metal again.”

. “You’re the only one that likes cartoon tits,” Frank grinned,

 “But I was kinda thinking…” Gerard wrung his hands, “Maybe we do Christmas at my mom’s this year?”

That had to be a joke, Frank thought,  “You want me to miss my mom’s gravy?”

“I dunno,” he answered too quickly, “Just figured… dinner. Family giving me shit. You could come, see why I'm all—.”

“You're asking me to meet your family?”

“No! I’m asking you to eat free food and fuck me in a bed that doesn’t squeak for a night.”

Meeting his family? Seeing his room? Who did Gerard think he was? They don’t do that, and yet:

“...There better be mashed potatoes.”

“ And gravy.”

A loud, playful groan filled the room. Frank doesn’t know if he wants to. Hasn’t said it out loud, but he’d been wanting to spend the holiday together. 

He even got Gerard a comic book he wouldn’t shut up about—had to go all the way to some place called Port Chester for it. Home was...too crowded. Too many questions he doesn’t wanna answer. 

Sisters that just wanted to be a pain in the ass….they even got to the baby. 

He glanced at Gerard, who was still staring at his shoes.

 “Fine. But only because you got me a gift, right?”

Gerard nods. Smiles a bit too wide. “Can I kiss you?”

“No,” the words holding no weight, “I’ll just want you to blow me after.”

Their lips found each other anyway.

December 25th

Neither of the two can believe they’re about to do it. This makes it real—something it’s not. 

Gerard hadn’t slept since the night before. There’s not a lot going on at 4 AM, but he made sure not to miss a thing. 

Lines. Whiskey. Beer. Anything to keep his thoughts from coming the way they always do when he’s nervous about something.

By the time the sun came up on Christmas, he could feel everything starting to blur. That’s when he knew what he had to do. 

 Suit and tie. Easier to hide there. Tried to convince Frank to wear one too, but got as far as the tie before the look on his face told him to focus on his own. Didn’t say anything about the shirt—threadbare, torn at the hem, but they both liked the Misfits, so he looked the other way. Plus—

“It looks punk,” Gerard offered as they both stood in the mirror of the dresser. 

A punch to the arm like a period. Eyes that scanned him before Frank clicked his teeth and pulled him closer to fix the tie. 

Watching Frank make lines was becoming the best part. The way his fingers moved, the smile on his face that always came when they came out even. When his tongue brushed against that sliver of silver in his lip, it was ready. 

Always started with a kiss. Always inhaled together.

The pills Gerard took alone. Just to blur the edges. 

They’d had enough for a taxi. The luxury of only needing half the groceries they should. Frank said it’d look better than them showing up on the bus. 

Donna had no idea that her oldest son would be showing up. Or that he’d be bringing a…friend. Took in the sight of a boy that didn’t look quite the same. 

Hated his hair; brown roots and faded red dye added insult to injury. He knew she was a hairdresser, couldn’t figure out why he always insisted on doing things himself. 

Donald, his dad, who always thought Gerard reminded him of a mirror from the days when his hair was black instead of gray, tried to focus on the lazy smile or the way his eyes felt too wide and too heavy. 

They both wrapped around him, lipstick staining his cheek. 

An awkward silence against music as Mikey stared at his brother. He didn’t even have a gift in his hand. Barely stood up straight.

It was moments like this that made him hate being the little brother. Because no matter what Gerard did, no matter how many times he fucked up or ‘forgot’ to call—Mikey just sees his fucking hero. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Frank watches as a picture-perfect family hugs a guy he just did lines with a half hour ago...can’t blow it for him, especially not when everybody’s looking at him like he might be the reason. Good Boy act it is. 

“So,” his mom starts opening the door a little wider, “who’s uh, your friend?”

Gerard’s gaze flicks over to Frank, who’s smiling too wide, “Oh, um, this is—”

“Frankie,” Frank cuts in, “That’s what my mom calls me.”

Donna smiled sweetly and let the pair inside. 

The dining room is humid with steam and perfume and cigarette smoke clinging to sweaters. The table’s overloaded with foil pans and mismatched platters. Somewhere in the living room, a game show plays too loud. Someone brings a toddler. Someone else brings potato salad.

Gerard’s knee won’t stop bouncing under the table.

Frank sits beside him, alert and glowing with coke confidence, mouthing along to the Bruce Springsteen song on the radio. He keeps making quick little jokes under his breath. Gerard half-laughs, but it’s distant—like he’s watching himself laugh from the other side of the room.

His grandma reaches across the table and grabs his face. Her nails are long and painted red, like Gerard always remembered. 

“Look at that face,” her voice still loud, bright, “ barely fit in my hands anymore.”

Gerard blinks, tries to hold eye contact, but can't quite control his own gaze. “I walk a lot-sssity's kinda big.”

She doesn’t let go. Tilts his face left and right like he’s a ragdoll doll before determining a solution to another problem she'd decided he had, “You need a car, can’t go walking around the city.  It’s just asking for trouble.”

"We're usually together, " Frank offered, "like it changed anything, "so he's in good hands."

Yeah—the one climbing up his thigh. 

Gerard twists away, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’m fine. Really.”

She steps away and surveys his body the way only a grandmother could, "You don't look well,” she huffs, “Your mother fed you junk, but at least she fed you.”

From across the table, his cousin Joe—built like a walking gym ad, voice like someone who just liked to hear himself talk, butts in with a laugh, 

“Junk’s why he's all soft now,”

 “C’mon, Joe, leave him alone.” Mikey chimed in.  Didn't need a reason to make him skip the next holiday. 

Joe points his fork at Mikey with exaggerated menace, “You too, twig boy.  What is it with you two? No sports, no fights, no broads–

'Language!" Donna warns over a bowl of peas that Frank couldn't wait to get his hands on. 

“We played t-ball,” Mikey mumbles against his spoon.

Joe scoffs, like it’s an offense. Gerard’s chest. Pounds. Almost sounds like part of the song, but it makes his head buzz. His breathing felt heavy at the judgment. 

Frank leans toward Gerard, smirking. “This the cousin you always scribbling about?”

Gerard nods, lips twitching against the mug he'd snuck wine into, “Just wait—it gets better.”

Joe rambles over a can of Rolling Rock, words pointed in Gerard's direction,  “Now it’s makeup and 200-dollar therapy sessions,” he turns to Frank, “What happened to guys just toughing it out? Jumping in the ring and going to town on some fucker’s---”

" Language !" Donna repeats, grabbing her unexpected son's plate in an attempt to fill in the gaps. 

“I think the eyeliner looks kinda cool,” Mikey cuts in,  “Kinda like Bowie.”

Gerard’s head jerks up. He hadn’t expected backup.

“I was going for Danzig,” he mutters.

Frank nudges him,  “Yeah? You already got the voice, just need the mesh shirt.”

Gerard’s mom chimes in, casually slicing turkey, “They let you wear that makeup at the comic shop? Midtown, right?”

He almost misses the question.  The coke makes it hard to gauge how loud he is. He tries to keep his voice casual.

“No! I mean—I used to.”

He stabs at some stuffing, not really sure how it'd ended up there, “I work at DC now.”

DC? The confession spreads warmth up through Frank's chest

“Wait, you got it ?”

Gerard doesn’t answer, just chases around peas and buries the flicker of pride inside him.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and a gaze dips to meet him. They both know how the celebration would normally go. Lips and tongues crashing.  Thank yous in the form of shaky breaths and trembling hands. 

But one on his shoulder feels just as good.

His dad smiles in his direction, “That’s great, Gerard, you always talked about drawing/?”

At least the answer to this one wouldn’t lead to more, “Uh, not drawing, just the mailroom. Envelopes, stamps---too much time to think. ”

His uncle—Arthur, half-drunk, but pretending not to be—chimes in: “Still. That’s something. DC’s big, guess all those trips we took to the shop really paid off.”

Mikey's still staring at him, both nervous and half falling into his plate,   “You didn’t tell me.”

“Was gonna,” Gerard slurs against his mug, “just wanted to..”

Joe cut in, “Just don’t end up jumping out of a window in a spandex suit.”

Frank smirks and licks mashed potatoes off his fork. “If he’s lucky, it'll have a cape.”

The table laughs, but Gerard doesn’t.

He just picks at his plate, wondering if anyone noticed he hadn’t taken a bite. 

Frank keeps nudging him with his knee, like say something, but all Gerard can think about is how loud everything is. How bright the lights feel. How his hair sticks to the back of his neck. How every set of eyes makes him want to scream. 

Why does everyone keep asking him questions?

Let it slip that there was just one room in the apartment.

His uncle Arthur eyes the tattooed boy who keeps looking at Gerard like he's waiting for something, “So… one bedroom, huh?”

Gerard nods slowly, “Yeah. Rent’s cheaper that way.”

“Used to be guys like that kept to the bathhouse,” Arthur says, grinning,  “Didn’t shack up and call it roommates.”

Gerard’s throat runs dry, "Frank brings girls back all the time…I crash on the couch,”

Frank tries to smile off the look from Donna, "It’s just logistics and a tie on the door.”

Grandma cuts through the silence, “Maybe next year you’ll bring a nice girl home, lots of decent ones at mass.”

Frank leans back, grinning like a shark, "Yeah, Gee, don’t you want a nice church girl?"

Gerard kicks him under the table before noticing what felt like everybody staring at him with eyes that screamed they knew. Knew he was hiding even if he wasn't sure what it was yet.

The room shrank. Someone switched to Sinatra, his pulse tangling with the melody. Can't make out any of the words or hold his fork with sweaty palms.

A hand on his knee felt like a shock, 

“Gotta pee,” he blurts with the squeak of a chair.

The mirror’s too bright. Gerard’s eyeliner is smudged, and his collar feels too tight. Cold water hits his face like shards. Gotta do something to make his pulse go back to a murmur instead of a drum.

His pockets hid the relief he needed. 

Coke to keep him talking, Xanax to make his steps feel like he's floating.

A laugh breaks his concentration.  His fucking mom is on the other side of the door. She'd looked so proud when he mentioned the new job. Wondered what she'd think about him bent over her pale pink sink with a baggie full of superpowers.

A knock.

“Occupied!”

“It’s me,”

Frank.

Gerard hesitates, then opens the door.

Frank slips in, shutting it behind him. His pupils are blown. His hands can’t stay still.

“You got anything? You good?”

Gerard shrugs. “Yeah. No. I dunno.”

Frank leans against the wall. “That dinner was fucked- I thought my family was rough.”

“I kinda liked it,” Gerard admits, "like a judgemental Rockwell in my mom's dining room,"

They both smile, just barely.

If anyone'd bothered to ask Gerard, they'd have known that Frank looked good in any light. Looked even better with a tie, even if it was over an Iron Maiden t-shirt. 

Ties. They were fun when Frank wore them, made it feel like he was unwrapping a present every time.

“I, uh…” Gerard digs in his pocket. “Got you something.”

Frank raises an eyebrow.

“Wasn’t gonna give it to you yet. But. Whatever.”

He hands over the little box. Frank opens it.

A new set of picks sits in front of them, all of them with that little logo on them. The one from the beach and the sketchbooks, carefully hand-drawn. 

“You did this?” Frank says, but it’s soft. Not mocking.

Gerard shrugs, "Didn't take too long, the picks were cheap and I already had the sharpie- just wanted you to know I was serious.”

Crash. Warm metal. Slick tongues rolling like a mosh pit. 

“Thanks,” Frank says, voice lower now, "they're fuckin' A,

He watches Gerard for a beat. Then grabs his face and kisses him—hot, messy, all teeth and tongue, like they’re trying to climb inside each other before someone knocks again.

Gerard gasps into his mouth. His hands find Frank’s shirt. Frank’s hand slides under his waistband, just resting there, not pushing yet.

Frank pulls back just slightly, breathing hard.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He says, almost sheepish. “You look good lately.”

Gerard goes still, hands smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt, “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Frank says. “Kinda hate how much I like it.”

Gerard’s laugh breaks. He kisses him again, slower this time, more tender. They’re pressed against the sink. Frank’s hands are on his hips now. It could go further—it wants to.

But someone pounds on the door.

“Bathroom not a fuckin' brothel!” Joe barks from the hallway.

Frank sighs into Gerard’s neck. “Buzzkill.”

Gerard straightens his shirt. Tries to breathe.

"We're not doing anything! "

Frank looks at him. Really looks.

“You okay?”

Gerard nods. “Yeah. You?”

Frank shrugs. “Always.”

It’s a lie, but it works.

They open the door together.

Dinner passes with better topics than him until Gerard drags Frank out for a cigarette.

Mikey tags along because neither of them can say no to a kid. Especially one that looks happy to see them.  Going on and on about college and some girl he’s supposed to meet up with tomorrow—someone from high school, he thinks. 

Gerard lets him talk, glad that Mikey still looks at him the way he used to. Not like their dad did after the hug—silent, calculating. No. Mikey’s just happy to see his brother.

Frank notices the way Mikey looks at Gerard, too. Like he’s some kind of hero. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, wondering if his sisters ever looked at him that way. Probably not. He exhales, slowly.

"Don’t you play the bass?" Frank asks casually despite already knowing the answer. 

Mikey shakes his head; he’d only ever played cards. Never thought about an instrument. 

"Wanna learn?" Frank offers, “You could come by our place sometime.”

Their place? In the city? Mikey tries his best to hide his excitement by giving an unbothered shrug, trying to ignore the cold.

 Gerard pushed him gently, “You got the arms for it, Frank’s a good teacher."

"Plus chicks go nuts when they see you up there,” Frank started, “You do like pussy, right?”

“Dude!” Gerard hisses against the cold air. 

“Chill out, he’s nineteen,” Frank shot back, before turning to Mikey, “ Look at that face, he’s probably drowning in it by now.”

The look Gerard and Mikey share was riddled with the weight of the question.

Mikey shifts a little, then mutters, “My best friend let me… after prom, Thanksgiving—she’s like a model now or something.”

Gerard chokes on smoke. Fuck. He beat him there, too. Was the height not enough? 

Nerves bring his fingers to his own hair--at least he won there. 

Frank’s laugh echoed against the brick house as he passed the lit cigarette to the younger brother,  “Alright! We got a band now.”

Mikey held back a cough. He wanted them to think he was cool enough to keep hanging around. 

A shiver ran up Gerard’s back—Mikey was going to see him. 

Chapter Text

Shadows danced across the wall, and the sound of a pen gliding across paper is how she'd spent the night. Lines that didn't fit together. Something about snow, she tried all night to make it sound less like a low-budget Frost poem, but no matter how she tried it just came out…

Sad.

Words spilled towards the edges of pages she’d tried to keep as long as possible. 

Even as her lids got heavy and the soft glow of daylight threatened sleep, she fought back with words that only she'd see.

A rumble in her stomach was the only thing that pried her away from the desk. 

Cold ham straight from the fridge. Picard and Xena played on in the background. 

"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life."

No phone call. No keys in the door. Just Puff, the little white dog next door, barking his throat raw. She turned the volume up, but the barking cut through anyway.

By the third rerun of Lucy, she checked the machine again. Still nothing. She wondered if her parents were okay. But then again, they always were.

Calling  Mikey MJ was her first thought, but he was working.

Patrick might’ve been up for a good time, but after she gave him that poem… maybe he was mad. Maybe he just hated it.

The couch almost swallowed her whole, the walls crept closer. Tears would have just been a waste, so she pulled on her coat, slid her headphones over her ears, and pressed play on the tape she’d borrowed from Mikey, learning the words to his favorite song before the next show.

The world is a vampire

The wind didn’t care her jacket was too thin. Snow seeped through her Chucks, socks squelching in rhythm. 

At the park, kids screamed with laughter, flying downhill on sleds. Nia stood there, realizing she’d never been sledding herself. Mikey was always too scared. Sasha wouldn’t risk her hair.

A look towards the top of the hill revealed the source of the screams, kids too small to be friends with. So she just walked along a half-frozen path, lips pressed into cold metal. 

Set to drain

Under her breath, she cursed numbing fingers—the tell-tale sign of needing to turn back. 

By the time she made it home, the damn dog was still barking. The echoes made her wonder if he’d even gone inside that day, if his paws felt like her toes as she slid them out of damp laces. 

He was so fucking annoying—but that wasn’t his fault, was it? 

The ham had gone rubbery, the microwave was the sound of being home alone again. 

Puff barked when she approached the fence— that was expected. She bent down anyway, a nervous smile twitching on her face. Tiny teeth bared, almost like a warning, but the smell of meat softened his guard. He wagged his tail, let her finally push her fingers through the slats. 

Soft, he definitely deserved his name. 

“You ever listen to Smashing Pumpkins?” she asked

Puff ripped the ham in two, chewing noisily.

“Yeah, me neither,” she muttered. “But Mikey says they’re good, so they are.”

Maybe she could have left if she hadn’t lingered so long on the big brown eyes or thought too long about how his fur was wet, dirty, too thin against the cold. He didn’t belong out here and she’d had a hard enough time trying to not sleep alone in that house. 

So she climbed the gate, coaxed him closer with another scrap, and shoved him under her coat. He wriggled against her chest, warm in a way she hadn’t felt in months.

Up in her room, Puff bolted in circles, muddy pawprints streaking her sheets. She laughed despite herself. He needed a bath.

The bathroom tiles were freezing under her bare feet. Puff shivered against the porcelain. “It’ll be quick, I promise,” she whispered.

He whimpered anyway, almost reminded her of Pat.

"Fine," she groaned, "we'll both be warm,"

Her shirt hit the floor with a silent thud and her jeans pooled at her ankles. The secret embarrassment was easier than hoping her clothes would be dry in the morning.

He didn't shake so much when she held him closer to her chest.

The blow dryer buzzed as she ran it over both their heads. They'd almost looked alike

That night, the bed was filled with more than tears. Billy sang through her headphones while Puff licked her face and for the first time since Christmas morning she'd let herself breathe.

Across town, Patrick was trying not to wear a hole in his bedroom floor from pacing with the phone pressed to his ear.

“She only ever wants to hang out, get stoned, listen to the same shit as you. Doesn’t even like Biggie or Jay. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Pete’s laugh cracked the line. “Doesn’t matter, dude. You said she’s got a nice ass, right?”

Patrick lowered his voice. “Yeah. You can tell in the uniform.”

“And she only hangs out with you?”

“…and some dude named Mikey. But I think they’re just friends.”

“Then you’re golden, “ Pete shot with enough confidence for them both. Silence told him Patrick wasn't buying it, “Think about it—last semester you were the guy picking your shit out of the bushes. Now? you’re walking into school with a cheerleader. She let you take her to that movie. Only thing missing is—”

“I wanna kiss her,” Patrick blurted, falling onto the bed, “but she's so…”

Silence. 

Then Pete barked out a laugh. “Bet it's like kissing a cheese grater.”

Patrick stared at the folded page on his desk, the one with her poem. A little heart drawn under the last line.

“…she’s supposed to get them off soon I think.”

“Then wait. Play the long game, man. Let her think you’re just her friend. Then bam—pull some of that Mack Daddy, east coast bullshit you’re always listening to.  Won’t know what hit her.”

Patrick turned the page over in his hands, not sure if that was advice or a trap.

*Songs for your car. Not your heart.*

The house was too cold, still no sign of her parents. Nia balanced a mixing bowl in one hand, dumping the last of the Christmas ham bones and a crust of bread onto the floor. Puff’s tail thumped like he’d been waiting all night just for her.

“Don’t get used to it,” she whispered, even though her chest warmed at the way he followed her.

She dragged a towel from the hall closet, laid it flat in the corner, and crouched in front of him, “If you gotta go, go here. Okay? Don’t touch my bed.”

Puff licked her fingers like he understood.

When she shut the door behind her, she lingered with her hand on the knob. “Wait for me.”

Mikey tried his best to get the heat working in the car while he waited for her, but when that failed, he decided to sneak a cigarette he'd stolen from Gerard's jacket before he left. Figured it might be an excuse for a phone call at least, but he was determined to like the taste in case he was invited to another smoke break; that'd make it worth the burn in his throat.

When the mess of curls barreled out the door, he thought she seemed happier than usual to see him—the hug she gave him nearly knocked the wind out of his chest.

“You okay?” he half-asked, half enjoying the squeeze. Didn't like the dank smell that clung to her. 

“Y-yeah. Just missed you.”

“Sure you’re not just trying to get out of my Christmas gift?”

She shook her head and pulled an envelope from her pocket, grinning. “We’ll be in the pit.”

On the drive back, she was quiet, not messing with the radio. Mikey tapped the wheel, then said, “So, uh… my brother asked me to join his band.”

 “Your brother?,” Her sigh was sharp, “you mean the one that never shows up?”

“He did this time,” Mikey shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t better than the Nintendo he got, “Brought a friend with him—cool as hell. You should’ve seen his ink. Gee shows up looking like fuckin’ Bowie. They’re the real deal.”

His excitement made Nia nervous, she was already losing him to college, but she couldn’t compete with a real brother, “If they’re so real, why haven’t we heard a song yet?”

The truth—at least the one he told himself— gave him a little boost of confidence,  “Because they were waiting on me.”

If her eyes had rolled any harder, they’d have gotten stuck. 

For once, Nia was too distracted to focus on books—thank Danzig for the crowds of returns of people disappointed with their gift certificates, otherwise she’d have thought too long about where her sister was or if Puff had actually used the towel. 

Warm lights and the smell of Seattle’s Best threatened her sleep at the register. If it wasn’t for her coworker Sean and his constant requests to see her smile for a laugh, she’d have drifted off to the sound of the Enya CD they insisted would get people to buy more.

8 hours. 

When Mikey dropped her off, the sunset caught in his hair. She noticed but didn’t say anything. Her feet hurt from wet socks, her back from lifting boxes. Still, she nodded when he told her to call him before she crashed. 

Inside, the answering machine blinked empty. The fridge was bare. She poured the last of the Sugar Smacks into a mixing bowl, drowned them in the dregs of milk. At least Brando would be reliable—she queued up Streetcar.

When she opened her bedroom door, Puff bounded from the bed. The towel in the corner told the story.

She dropped to her knees, rubbing his ears. “Smart boy. See? You belong here.”

Hearing her heels click across the cheap linoleum floors almost made her giddy as she walked into the house. Worth nearly slipping on the ice. Too bad the audience she wanted wasn’t passed out on the couch

Sasha’s perfume hit the room before she did.

The smell of wet dog filled the kitchen. Sasha’s eyes cut to the towel, the empty bowl, the scrappy white body in Nia’s arms.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“He’s good,” Nia said quickly. “Didn’t touch the bed. He waited.”

“Congratulations.” Sasha’s voice was glass. “You trained a mutt to piss on a towel. That’s disgusting.”

“He wants to stay, licked my face this morning.”

The growl Puff gave when Sasha reached for him settled it. It only took a sharp look for Nia to know what needed to be done. 

Didn’t mean she had to like it, though. Sasha decided to let the stomping slide. 

Minutes later, Nia was back outside, carrying him down the block, past the dark house he belonged to, past the fence he always barked behind. She shoved him gently through the slats. He whined, paws scraping wood, but she stroked him once more.

“Don’t worry. Sasha usually leaves me. My parents are never home. I’ll sneak you bacon next time.”

The house across the street was lit up with someone else’s holiday lights. She hugged her arms to her chest, boots slipping on ice, and trudged back up her own steps.

“Where’d you find him?” A too-loud voice called behind her. 

When she turned, Nia could just barely make out a figure in the doorway.

“He was cold you should take him inside,”

 The figure laughs lightly, a woman, and leans closer to the screen door, “ he likes it outside. 

A fire rumbled in her stomach. That’s probably what her parents told themselves.  Nia turned sharp on her heels, head lifted so she could be heard loud and clear, “Feed your fucking dog, take him inside- he's a genius you know?”

Puff was grateful, his eyes told her so as she knelt down to pat the top of his head,”Nobody deserves to be left alone–even if they’re annoying,” 

A lick on her fingers before she had to turn away. 

Her older sister watched Nia circle the car, hoping that Nia was where she could end up if she’d listen once. 

“Mark gave you this?”

 Sasha leaned against the hood, nails gleaming bright red against the sapphire paint. Her hair was pinned perfectly, not a strand out of place, stiletto boots braced against the curb, “Yeah. What do you think of the color?” 

“It’s… uh,” Nia hesitated, “ Blue. You hate blue.” 

“Exactly.” Sasha’s smile tilted, sly, “That’s why I had to drop him.” 

The words hit Nia like a betrayal, “What about my mouth? Who’s gonna take these off?”

 She tapped her braces lightly, cheeks hot.

 For a moment, Sasha just stared at her, unreadable, like she was seeing something Nia couldn’t.

 Then she reached out, tapping Nia’s nose with a manicured finger. “Girl, let me worry about that. For now—” she flipped her coat back, revealing the glint of gold hoops— “I need your help with a project.”

The leather seats felt cold against the uniform. Nia glanced up, noticed the tank was full. Wondered if that’s why her parents stayed gone so long, maybe they were stranded. Couldn’t decide if that would have been a good enough reason. 

Through the foggy glass, a flash of white pulled a smile onto her face—Puff, running along the fence, barking louder than she’d ever heard him.

Chapter Text

The building poked out of the concrete like it didn’t belong there, glass and clean lines. Nia craned her neck as they pulled up.

“You live here?” she asked, trying not to sound impressed, not quite sure if she was. 

“Wouldn’t be caught dead here,” Sasha answered flatly, fixing her roll on lip gloss in the mirror

She stepped out first, heels crisp against the pavement. Nia followed, hugging her jacket closer, and spotted the man waiting on the sidewalk. Polo shirt tucked into jeans. Brown leather belt. The most boring shoes Nia had ever seen. She wondered if this was the one who might finally get her braces off.

By the way Sasha glided over to him, Nia figured they must’ve known each other forever. The way his hand rested at the small of her sister’s back made Nia’s insides curl. The gum on the ground was better than watching the air kiss.

The guy, Michael, she thinks Sasha dragged out with her hello, squeezed before his eyes fell on a Borders nametag and wild curls unevenly combed out. 

An elbow found her side, “Say hi,” 

Nia looked him up and down before rolling back to the face that almost matched hers,  “This one a doctor too?”

If he’d laughed any lighter, she would have thought he heard a joke, “Acquisitions, trading…a little bit of everything.”

Whatever the hell that was. Nia didn’t ask. Just hummed like she did, nodded the way she knew she was supposed to.

“If I’d known you were bringing a friend…” Michael started, more nervous than excited. 

“She’s not a friend—she's my sister.”

His brows raised like she’d told him she had a second head or something, but it faded into something more tired,  “If you say so. Should we go take a look?”

As usual, the first thing that popped into her head fell out of her mouth just as fast, “Is this gonna end with something else in my mouth?”

Sasha’s nudge to her ribs was sharp, “Act right, or I’ll take you back.”

They followed Michael through the lobby, up the elevator, into a place that smelled like the gym before practice and dull hardwood that didn’t creak when she stepped inside. It wasn’t on the top floor, but the windows stretched wide enough to see the Hudson if they pretended a little.

“Two bedrooms,” Michael cut with too heavy foot steps,  “like you asked for. Decent view, good enough at least.”

Sasha ran her hand along the sill, a frown tugging at her face, “This isn’t what I asked for. I asked for something  nice.”

“This is nice,” he countered, a little stiff, “It’s just not—”

“Good enough,” Sasha finished, finally taking off her shades. 

Michael gave her a look that was almost patient, almost amused, “It’s just fine. You don’t need to throw my money around just to prove a point.”

“Do I look like I have to prove anything to anybody?” Sasha snapped, not dropping the sheer green curtains that felt better than any of the fabric she’d been able to afford,  “I deserve something nicer.”

Nia glanced between their reflection in the glass, confusion sitting on her lips. Why was Sasha trying to blow this?

 But Michael didn’t get angry. Didn’t threaten to pull it all away. He just smiled faintly and said, “We could always get you a better place in the Greens.”

The threat was as empty as the room. Sasha knew he wouldn't have come all this way to leave empty-handed, so she turned to her sister in the window,  “What do you think?”

The answer had to be somewhere in the air. It was a decent neighborhood—could’ve sworn she saw someone jogging, no dogs behind fences, but then again… “There are no record stores around here. Nowhere to buy books either.”

Sasha gestured at her like she’d proven her point,  “See? She’s from Orange, and even she can tell this place is janky…”

Michael’s timid gaze found Nia this time, scanning up and down in a way that made her skin itch. Then he chuckled, low. “Fine. We’ll look at more places tomorrow.”

If it wasn't for the birds she watched fly by Nia might've caught the way he scanned-Sasha couldn't care less about what was outside that window. But she stepped just a bit closer in case he forgot why he was here. 

With a too small voice, Nia tried to break the silence in the empty space,  “So… how long have you two been dating?”

 “We’re not dating," Michael echoed, "I just need her closer.”

“Closer to what?” Nia asked, blinking.

“Work,” Michael answered, like Nia couldn’t read between every line, “need a place to spend my lunchbreaks, didn't know it'd cost more than Katz's though.”

Only two laughs bounced off the page white walls. 

Sasha just found his arm and laced it with hers like she was in on the joke. The echo of heels followed as her voice filled one of the bedrooms. 

When they finally left, the sky was bruised and low. Nia watched as the buildings got shorter and the streets more colorful thanks to cans of spray paint. It felt more like home. Nia didn't know if that was a good thing or not, but she had all the time to think about it while she waited by the door. Sasha clung to Michael on the sidewalk for a moment before climbing into the passenger seat of his car, their goodbye long enough to fog his windows. If she looked away long enough, she could probably tell herself they were clouds. Only five minutes, nothing good happens that fast. Sasha was fully dressed when she got out; the only thing out of place was the faint smear of lip gloss that Nia caught when Sasha brushed past to save them both from the cold. Anyone else would have missed it. Just like they might’ve missed the way her perfume was laced with the smell of leather and smoke. 

It made her stomach ache, the feeling tried to claw it’s way out in the form of a question, but she swallowed it and followed her sister up the stairs, ignoring the elevator they could have taken. 

She needed her sister to still be the coolest girl she knew. 

Every window in the apartment had fogged over: heat. They’d finally had it after Frank made it his personal mission to camp outside the super’s door until he had no choice but to fix it. It would have been a good thing if it didn’t mean being pressed together all night meant laying in a pool of sweat that didn’t come from tangled arms and shaky breaths. Two nights of trying to pretend he was just reaching for a light when their skin touched. 

Torture. 

Still, Gerard had promised to pay Frank back for his service. By cleaning the whole apartment. Alone. Just him and Bon Jovi filling the too crowded space. He could only ever listen to it when he was alone. Didn’t want to have to listen to another speech from Frank about how they should only listen to real music. As if the song hadn't been in rotation on every radio station since before middle school, At least the broom made a good practice mic.

Trash. Dishes he’d let “soak” since that morning. 

Everything was going fine—until he got the mail. 

It wasn’t payday, so he figured the rest was a waste of trees, but then a flash of orange caught his eye. 

The envelope looked official. Not a bill, not junk mail. His name was typed across the front just like all the others. 

Gerard tore it open with caution, ash from his cigarette, dropping onto the flap. He didn’t bother flicking it away.

Inside: a thin sheet, university letterhead, like it was  

Application for Graduation – Spring 1997.

 Even as he read it the third time, it didn’t seem real.

 Graduation.

He’d forgotten that was even a thing. Barely remembered that after the sleepless nights, between work and the finals, half-assed with coke and pills, there was an end. 

And it was coming in April. 

Three years. He’d actually fucking done it.

For a second, the apartment blurred out. The unwashed dishes, the stacks of comics he needed to organize—the papercuts from work all gone and replaced with something that wanted to climb from his chest to his mouth.

He almost laughed. The word that came to mind didn’t fit him—pride. But it was there, humming under his ribs.

Couldn't wait to tell Mikey the good news, made him glad they were talking again. That Mikey didn’t bring it up at dinner and promised to come by to grab the bass. This was his way back in. 

The application? His parents had to be proud of that. 

First in the family. Tried not to let it go too deep in his chest.

Just locked the front door and rewound the tape. 

He grabbed the broom tighter this time and flipped his hair the way he couldn’t on stage, letting his voice get as loud as it could. 

Livin’ on a Prayer

Chapter Text

Sasha’s apartment smells faintly of fabric glue and perfume that clings to everything. Chanel No. 5, with one “L.” The letter is a reminder of all Nia can offer her sister—she tells herself she’ll make it up to her for her birthday.
Especially after Sasha leaves the password journal next to the couch for her to find when she wakes up.

If it weren’t for the fear of smile lines, Sasha might crack one, but instead she fills her mouth with mango, curses the juice that drips, staining her pink robe, and hands Nia the same.

If she squints, Nia figures it looks like bacon. She wonders how her sister survives on just fruit…but after her midnight inspection, she assumes they must be eating out.

Wrong.

After Nia calls in sick to work, they get dressed for the day and head into the city to meet Mikey.

Fabric. Thread. Some place called Bergdorfs, where they spray way too much of everything and sell clothes that Sasha explains, are almost couture.

Nia and Mikey just carry her bags through gray slush, dubbing themselves her low-budget sweatshop for the afternoon.

By the time they make it back to the brownstone, Nia understands why people drop after. She begs Mikey not to leave her alone with Sasha while she’s holding scissors, but he has to get to “practice,” so she settles for a promise of lunch during her next shift.

Even lets the hug he gives Sasha slide- like neither of them wanted it to be over so quick. 

There’s something about watching Sasha fall into her groove. She turns the radio up until Lil Kim whispers across the apartment. She sits on the floor, surrounded by a pile of chiffon and sequins, already swearing at a crooked seam.

“I need your help,” she says without looking up.

“I’m tired—can’t it wait?” Nia whines, kicking a roll of thread away from her sneaker.

“Gonna be my final project.” Sasha grabs a length of muslin from the couch. “I just need someone to stand while I drape fabric.”

“You couldn’t get a mannequin? Or a real model?” 

The look Sasha gave almost put the words back in Nia’s mouth,  “Do you have mannequin money? Those girls want to get paid too.”

Before Nia can argue, Sasha struts across the wooden floor and rummages in a drawer,

A tape measure never looked so terrifying, Nia thought. 

“Arms up.”

Nia sighs but does it, standing there while Sasha mutters numbers to herself.

34-25-36.

“Not terrible,” Sasha murmurs, looping the tape around her waist. “Skip pizza, stick with cheer, and by summer you could be a size two like me—— then we can have some real fun.”

Like her.

She says it like it’s just that easy, like it’s something Nia wants. Really, she hasn’t ever thought about it. Tries her best not to, never asks questions about how Sasha makes ends meet. It’s not her business.

The only thing Nia knows is that she couldn’t do…that. Any of it. Work is better. A couple hours a week is less than whatever that car cost, she bets. Besides, you don’t get book discounts from guys in boring suits. 

She watches her sister pin fabric in place, wonders if she hates Chinese food as much as pizza.

It takes Mikey nearly forty-five minutes in traffic to make it to Avenue D—or at least that’s what Sasha says it’s called. It looks like the kind of place he always pictures when he listens to the old punk tapes.

And then he’s there. Graffiti tattooed across grungy brick. Underdressed people huddled around a trash can filled with warmth that makes the whole street smell like burnt paper and cheap vodka.

The real deal.

Gerard and Frank’s apartment isn’t much better. Pizza boxes buried the floor that stuck to their shoes with every other step. Beer—warm, cheap. Lyrics sharpied on a wall, Gerard’s handwriting. One couch, milk crates instead of chairs, but at least they’ve got heat. 

Some band Frank insists Mikey NEEDS to check out spins low on Gerard’s busted stereo, just soft enough not to piss off the neighbors.

Clove smoke and garlic knots sit thick in the air, but Mikey’s just glad to get the chance to be close again.

Practice runs long. Well, if it can even be called that. More like Gerard and his friend Frank sitting around plucking strings while some guy named Ray keeps talking about something called a fret.

Four strings. That’s all Mikey has to learn if he wants to keep hanging around—and Frank promised girls next time. 

He’s never seen his brother so…loose.

 Cans form silver piles between him and Frank while Mikey fumbles through his first F chord, their laughter drowning out the music he’s been trying to mimic for the last hour.

From the corner of his eye, Mikey sees Frank whisper something that makes Gerard howl a playful fuck you.

“Might as well call it,” Ray sighs, rubbing his hands through short curls. “Once Frank gets him going it’s more of a party anyway.”

Before Mikey can thank his new friend for the lesson, another roll of laughter fills the room, making him wonder what’s so funny.

Gerard’s face is crimson. He’s on his fifth beer, legs draped across Mikey’s lap like he owns him.

“I passed all my classes,” he announces for the fourth time, 

“We know,” Mikey laughs, flicking a crust at him.

“And I’ve officially worked six Mondays in a row,” Gerard adds, lifting his bottle,  “and nobody called me a weirdo…yet.”

A raised arm covers the tattoo on Frank’s neck just before Mikey figured out what it was, “To the mailroom king.”

That earned a smile that almost looked even,. “To fuckin’ capitalism.”

They clink cans. Ray shakes his head and grabs the last slice of cheese, “You guys are wasted.”

Gerard slouches farther, half on Mikey, half reaching for Frank. “ Seriously, you guys are the best,” he mumbles,  “Guys, like, I fuckin’ lucked out. Best brother.  Best drummer. Best fr—”

A belch cut him off. 

Frank snorts, leaning in with a slap against his knee. “Best what?”

The look they share drowns out the music.

“Best Frankie!” Gerard slurs in his direction, voice too soft to not be honest.

Mikey watches his brother staring at up at his guitarist like…no. Like the girls on campus look at that Bio professor with the Harley, all soft-eyed and smiley. No, it’s different. He’s just drunk. They all are. Fuckin’ glasses fogging from the smoke and his own eyes tired from the beer Gerard let him have—how could he believe anything he thought he saw.

Frank stretches, the yawn too forced, his eyes finding Mikey’s. “Should probably start crashing. You good out here with Ray?”

Mikey nods, giving a second glance to the way Frank’s fingers lace in his brother’s hair. “Couch is fine.”

His words get lower as he leans down to find hazel eyes burined under dyed red hair, “C’mon, Illi. Let’s bunk.”

The name doesn’t sound familiar. Not Gary or Diesel…those he knows. This one? Doesn’t sound the same.

“Illi?”

Almost every part of Gerard stiffens at that name coming from his brother’s mouth. He goes through every excuse he could think of in his head, but they’re all jumbled around, spinning like the room seemed to be. His gaze fell to Ray who looked away quickly, then to his brother who was still staring at him sloppy confusion. 

Luckily for Gerard, his roommate is quick on his feet. Unfortunately, the laugh comes out like a stake through the chest.

“Oh, that? You know how Gee’s all…tragic and shit,” Frank drags out like it’s as good as the truth, “me and Ray gave him a nickname: Illi McIllian. Like some dead painter or somethin’.”

Ruffling Gerard’s hair was the only comfort Frank could give. A look that apologized with a smile Gerard had only seen when he asked why he came home so late. 

But Gerard doesn’t smile this time. Just glances over at Ray again, who silently winces at the lie.

Static. Music replaced by winter silence. A laugh escapes Mikey, loud enough for both of them. “Goodnight, Illi,” he says, nudging him playfully.

Good thing the glasses had gone crooked minutes ago, Mikey might’ve seen how forced the smile was.

“Night.”

When he looks up, Frank’s already halfway around the corner, grinning like he got away with something.

Gerard doesn’t move. Just stares at the peeling beer label before deciding he should follow.

The door clicks shut behind them, echo signaling sleep.

Bleach-stained chucks thud across the room,Frank strips his shirt, telling some half-assed joke to keep things at bay. 

But Gerard’s still frozen. Not smiling.

Always fuckin’ pouting, Frank thinks. Couldn’t have that. 

“You’re lucky I’m good on my feet,” he says lightly. “Mikey didn’t think twice about the name.”

 “I told you to call me Gee.”Gerard just stares at him.

Frank raises an eyebrow. That’s been off the table since the first time he saw Illi and that spark flashed across Gerard’s face—going back to not seeing that was out of the question.

“Can’t.”

“Yes you can—like everyone else.”

Frank walks closer. Softer now. “I like Illi.” His hand grazes Gerard’s arm. “It’s pretty. Like you.”

He leans in, voice beer-warm against Gerard’s ear. “And I really like you.”

Gerard flinches—not away, but Frank feels it coming. The question’s been building for weeks, months—he doesn’t care as long as it doesn’t interrupt their good time.

He thought they were having a good time tonight, but:
“Then why do you keep fucking other girls?”

Frank stills. His hand drops. He looks past Gerard. “Your brother’s in the next room,” he says. “We should wait till tomorrow.”

But he kisses him anyway. Even empty kisses make Gerard feel weightless.

No matter how hard he tried not to, Gerard kissed him back. Lips too familiar, the sliver of warm metal made it easier to part his lips. 

Why was he mad again?

Frank’s hand tangles in his hair. Gerard holds on like gravity’s gone. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away.

When they pull apart, the reminder gets whispered into his neck. Gerard says nothing. Just walks to the bed and lies down facing the wall.

They fall asleep inches apart, pretending it’s just about space. Pretending they don’t want to curl into the same position that usually gets them up before the alarm clock. 

He just likes the smell of him, likes to feel Frank's heartbeat against his back. Hard not to feel small when he's pulled close.

Boozy apologies spill onto him throughout the night--he'll remember to be mad in the morning. 

The phone rings late. Sasha almost doesn’t pick up—figures it’s another guy, another excuse. But when she sees home flashing across the caller ID, she presses the receiver to her ear and braces.

“Is Nia with you?” her mother asks, sharp but tired.

Sasha snorts. “What do you care? Found her in bed with some mangy little rat—y’all were nowhere to be found.”

“She’s fifteen, Sasha.” Her mother’s tone rises, defensive. “The lights were on, heat was working. Food in the fridge.”

“Half expired milk and dry ham,” Sasha spits back.

“Bring her home. She’s my kid, not yours.”

Sasha glances across the room. Nia’s knocked out, mouth slack against the cushion, the cheap throw blanket sliding to the floor while streetlight shines on the metal in her mouth.

Sasha’s chest tightens. Just a little more time, she thinks.

She presses the phone closer. “Since when? You treat her like dirty laundry, not—”

“Don’t act all high and mighty because you got some shoebox across the river,” her mother shoots back, the sound of keys jingling in the background. “Raised you too, got you to 18 with no problem.”

Sasha feels the anger building deep in her gut as she lets the silence speak for her like it always had. 

 “Don’t forget it.”Her mother’s voice sharpens.

Sasha exhales, heavy. She can almost feel the gas money it would take to haul herself across the river leaving her pocket, and she’s not giving it up.

“If you want her, you can come get her.” She rattles off the address, then hangs up before her mother can answer.

It feels like seconds later—always did for Sasha—when a tap on Nia’s shoulder jolts her awake. Her mother looms over her, eyes hard, mouth tight, signaling to the younger sister that she was in more trouble than the trip had been worth. 

“Get your stuff.”

Nia blinks, confused, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. By the time she pulls on her coat, Sasha has vanished into the bedroom.

The ride home is silent until Nia finally asks, “Where were you?”

Her mother gives her a long, flat glance, the kind that shuts down questions before they’re finished. “I’m your mother. You don’t question where I’ve been.”

Nia stares out the window the rest of the way, city lights blurring past, wondering if Sasha even said goodbye.

That’s when she sees it: a flash of red in the cup holder. Tropicana. Atlantic City arched across a poker chip like it’s proud to be caught.

Her throat burns with the question she isn’t supposed to ask.

“Was it fun?”

The words hang there, louder than the road beneath them.

Her mother doesn’t answer. Just grips the wheel tighter.

Nia leans against the glass, slow breath fogging the window. If she focuses on the passing lights, she can still smell the Chanel under her coat.

Chapter Text

Gerard woke with his head pounding. He really needed to stop drinking on Sundays.

 The clock on the nightstand glared 7:45. Manhattan by nine. No time for a shower, no time to check the mirror.

Frank’s arm tightened around him when he tried to slip free, but Gerard tumbled out of bed anyway. Jeans. He needed jeans.

He bolted from the bedroom, breathless. “Mikey, can I borrow the car?”

Mikey blinked, still half-asleep at the kitchen table. “Fill it up?”

Gerard hugged him—shirtless, damp hair sticking to his forehead, “Thank you!” 

He rushed out the door, came back thirty seconds darting to the bedroom.

When he made his third entrance, he was tugging on a wrinkled shirt. Mikey caught a muffled “later” exchanged in the hall before Gerard disappeared again.

Silence stretched, broken by the shuffle of bare feet. Frank drifted in, boxers, no shirt, hair a mess. 

Mikey sat up fully, reaching for his bass like it'd snap the pieces together.

“Long night?” Mikey asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Early morning,” Frank said, rummaging through the nearly bare fridge, “Don’t you got somewhere to be?”

Mikey shrugged. “Was gonna skip class.”

“At least one of you’s fun.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said, half-laughing. “Gee’s always been kinda… I dunno—”

“Weird?”

Mikey nodded. “But that’s what I like most about him. He used to be fun when we were kids and then…” He trailed off. Missed birthdays, distance, all the silence. But now this. “I’m just glad he’s letting me hang around again. It’s been fun. I’m learning a lot.”

Frank tilted the bottle of orange juice toward the bass in the corner. “You and that thing seem pretty tight. You wanna do it for real sometime?”

Mikey shrugged, reaching for his glasses off the floor. “I just like understanding how things work. Like how strings go together.”

“Yeah?” Frank asked, eyes narrowing.

“Like a F and a G,” Mikey said, glancing at the instrument. “They sound—”

“See,” Frank cut in, sighing, “you need to practice more. F and G don’t go together.”

Mikey didn’t argue. Just adjusted his fingers on the strings and tried to make sense of two guys sharing a room. No shirt. No pants…

But then again, he'd only ever shared a bed with his best friend, and she always kept her clothes on.

Across the river, Nia’s alarm shrieked. She smacked it quiet and rolled out of bed. 

Shower. As hot as she could get it to forget how cold it was in the house.

A quick attempt at dragging a comb through what she insisted was an afro before slathering herself in Palmers and tugging on her oversized Borders polo. 

The best part of Christmas break was working a full eight hours—even if it meant taking the bus that always smelled like piss and whatever everyone had for breakfast that morning.

Mikey had promised her lunch, so she only had to fake smiles for four.

Holiday traffic had died down, and the store was slow—just her, stacks of hardcovers, and too many coworkers pretending to be busy. She slipped a page here and there, lost in other people’s stories until her manager’s voice startled her.

Her stomach dropped. This was it, her bubble was going to get popped. She hadn't even worked there for two months yet.

Fired.

Maybe she'd spent too long trying to make the book displays look like the pyramids from cheer practice. Maybe she shouldn't have called in sick—thought the fake cough would sell it.

Her shoes dragged across the carpeted floor, her chest pounding along with the generic drum beat that leaked from the speakers.

Beg. She had decided that was the way to go. She'd do anything to keep the job, even if it meant not reading books she couldn't take home. 

When she found herself in front of her manager, Darren , she took a deep breath and prepared herself for the worst news of her life.

No. Just a message: Mikey couldn’t make it for lunch.

Relief was quickly replaced with annoyance, and she went back to the display she'd been working so hard for.

Of course, he couldn’t make it. Ever since he started college, she was always getting pushed to the curb for everything he thought was better. 

 Who wants to read Grisham when they've got Salinger? And the way Nia was feeling, she'd might as well been one of those chick lit books nobody bothered to pick up.

But when she finally took her lunch, she reached for it. It had some weight to it. Thick like her usual favorites, but she'd only ever seen it in the hands of tired housewives wrangling kids that hadn't gotten the message that there were limits. 

Chicken Soup for the Soul? 

Did she even have one of those?

 Didn't matter, it warmed her anyway.

Gerard’s head throbbed as he sat in traffic, the chorus of honking reminding him he was trapped. Mondays. Always Mondays. At least his neighbor called him sweetheart—he liked that. Made him feel less like a blur in a wrinkled shirt, more like someone worth noticing.

By the time he reached the office, he was sweaty from hustling through his rounds, sorting envelopes, trying to keep up with himself. He hated the mailroom, hated the fluorescent buzz, but then—

Her.

Sitting at a desk in the very back. Blonde. He liked blondes, or at least the thought he could. Especially ones that looked so…normal. 

Or at least her top half. The bottom was anybody’s guess, but after circling the aisle one more time he decided he'd take his chances.

When he dropped the letters on her desk, she did something most girls didn’t: She smiled.

Lipstick settled in the creases of her lips. Tinted teeth. Coffee stains maybe. Cigarettes probably. Either way, she probably tasted good. She looked almost like that character from the Batman cartoon Gerard loved, wondered if she'd mind if he called her Harley...

For a split second, he couldn't remember how to breathe.

Nobody smiled at the mail guy. They didn’t even look. Half the time they just grabbed the envelopes, not bothering to look up from a panel. 

But this one? She looked straight at him.

And fucking smiled.

Maybe it wasn’t even at him, maybe she just smiled like that at everyone. He told himself not to think about it. 

The image was burned in his head for the rest of the day. 

Made him spill ink all over himself. Why'd they trust him with that job anyway?

That feeling he used to get back in high school came back. Weird, needy. Kicking his stomach around until he wanted to puke.

What if it meant something? What if it didn’t? What if she saw him—sweaty, shirt wrinkled, hair still tangled with sleep—and smiled anyway? 

By the time he'd punched the clock, he'd convinced himself it was just polite. Something office people did. Didn't mean anything.

Then the elevator. 

Her arms full of scattered papers, her hair fizzed, strays falling from the messy bun. The smell of the workday seeping in through the thick cardigan she wore.

When their eyes met she did it again. Full, like she meant it: a fucking smile.

Before he could say something stupid, he forced himself to smile back. Quick. Small. Not enough to show that it was crooked, but enough to make her think he was a nice guy.

Then he ducked his head and hurried out the doors when they opened, not caring that it was the wrong floor. 

With his pulse pounding louder than the train that cracked by, he almost laughed to himself.

She thought he was the kind of guy worth smiling at.

By the time the Borders lights clicked off, Nia was dragging her sneakers across the sidewalk. She almost didn’t get in when Mikey pulled up late, leaning across the passenger seat with a sheepish look.

“You promised,” she mumbled, not really wanting him to hear how upset she wasn't. 

The pouting. Goddammit, Mikey hated that. She crossed her arms the same way her sister did whenever she didn’t get her way. But still, he had promised, so he couldn't really blame her for putting on the act.

That's why he came prepared.

“Look in your seat,” he said, rolling his eyes.

She crossed her arms tighter, but looked anyway. 

Jets Pizza.

The smile fought its way across her face before she could stop it.

“Don’t scarf it all down, Barbie.” Mikey warned, but she was already shoving a slice in her mouth, wincing at the sensation that steamed from her mouth.

“So,” she garbled around the cheese, “how was practice?”

“Great. You should see this dude, Ray. Taller than me. Plays… everything.”

“Your brother any good?”

“Dunno,” Mikey shrugged, He, uh, got too wasted to sing, I think. Had a fuckin’ blast anyway.”

Nia swallowed and grinned. “Well, if you guys need a real singer, Pat’s great. And he doesn’t drink.”

Mikey shook his head. “That would defeat the point. I only did this to hang with Gee. Plus Frank promised girls would show up.”

Nia scoffed. “I don’t see why you care so much about… girls. It’s not like any of them will think you’re cool enough to hang out with.”

A smirk crept across his face as they neared a red light, letting him glance over fully, “You do.”

“Yeah, well,” Nia said, finishing off the slice with an impressive fold, “ I’m not a real one.”

He blinked at her, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She licked her fingers, already reaching for another slice. “This pizza’s really good.”

When she asked if he wanted to hang out after work tomorrow, Mikey shook his head.

“Can’t. Frank’s gonna teach me how to play Astro Zombies.”

She rolled her eyes, tugged the last slice toward her, “Fine. I’m eating yours too.”

Chapter Text

8:23 AM, Tuesday

The phones had been ringing all morning. Message after message about deadlines and issues that needed to get off her desk and into the hands of the next person. Tired, that’s how she felt. Luckily there was one highlight of her day she could count on.

She caught him hovering by her desk, clutching the envelopes like they might shield him.

“What’s your name?” she asked, eyes bright, mouth tilted in that sly way that made his stomach knot.

“Diesel,” Gerard blurted. He almost winced. He almost never used his real name.

She arched her brow. “Sounds like a superhero.”

“What’s yours?” he asked, forcing his voice steady.

“Crystal. But everyone calls me Chrys.”

“That’s a guy’s name.”

“Do I look like a guy to you?”

“No, I mean—” He fumbled, heat creeping up his neck. “Not really. I just meant—”

 “You got my mail?” 

That look again. The one that kept him in place; he reminded himself to figure out how they do that. 

He looked down at the stack in his hands “Guess not.”

She hummed, he watched her eyes go up and down like she was looking for something, “Then I’ll catch you by the water cooler? Got work to do.”

He’d only half turned when her fingers snapped behind him, brow raised the same as the corner of her mouth, 

“Get me a coffee?”

“Right. Water cooler. Yeah, I can do that.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he bolted.

The third paper cone crumpled in Gerard’s hand. He stood by the water cooler, throat dry, brain screaming say something.

She was right there again—blonde hair, red lipstick, that crooked smile like she knew a joke he didn’t.

“Do you like Doom Patrol?” he blurted.

Her smile tilted, amused, “I letter it.”

He froze. Fuck. 

She’s cool. 

He’d thought maybe secretary, maybe a temp. But actually doing something? He was just the mail guy. 

What the hell were they supposed to talk about—stamps?Which brand of envelopes had the best tasting glue?

When he didn’t push further, her smile dropped. With a sigh she pitched her empty cup into the bin, wondering what this guy’s problem was.

 “See ya, around.”

He gave a half-smile back, already wincing. Fuckin’ idiot.

The buzz of the lights in his office were calling him to turn back when he saw it: a perfect red lip-print staining the cup she’d left behind.

His pulse raced.

He glanced around—no one watching—before he pulled it free.

Recycling, he told himself.

Ignored that little voice in his head to drop it. Felt like a line he was getting too close to and, yet…

Nobody would check his bag, right?

By the time he was ready to punch out for the day, the cone in his bag weighed more than the books. At least that's how he felt. When he made it past the security guard, who seemed more interested in the latest episode of Springer than Gerard's attempt to dave the environment, he let s sigh of escape in a cloud.

All he had to do was get it home.

He nearly tripped over his own guilt as he walked up the salt covered steps to his apartment. The strap of his faded blue messenger bag dug into his shoulder as he pulled his keys from his back pocket, the warmth of the apartment seeping through in the form of the sound of practice he had actually remembered this time.

Frank was barking at Mikey, who hunched over the bass like it might bite him.

 “You fuckn’ hold it like that on stage, you’ll take my head off.”

“Ray said it was fine last time!” Mikey shot back.

Not so gently, Frank adjusted the neck, “That’s ‘cause he’s a drummer,”

Ray rolled his eyes from the kit, “Like you stay still enough for that. Last show you fell into my set, almost cracked my cymbals.”

“Yeah, Frank wagged a finger, “but you didn’t kick my ass, just kept playing, and you wanna know why?”

Ray arched a brow, too used to Frank’s mouth running with nothing gassing it but his own bullshit. 

“Because drummers are all—”

“Maybe this is why he hasn’t gotten it yet,” Gerard cut in, dropping his bag by the amp. “You’re too busy threatening us to teach him anything good.”

“Then come shut me up,” Frank shot back, swinging his guitar up from the floor.

Gerard hesitated, then tugged his own out of the corner, “Let Ray teach him. You and me can put lyrics together.”

Frank smirked but followed him over to the wall, they really needed to use paper.

By the time Frank ducked out cause he “had to make a run”, Gerard was grateful for the quiet.

He plucked at strings, watching Mikey fumble with something for once. He didn’t want to ask. Clicked on the TV to drown out the nervousness, 

“So Mikey,” he sang over the theme song to whatever was barely making it through the scramble, “that girl you, uh—the model or whatever.”

Mikey felt his whole body cringe, “Yeah?”

“How’d you… you know. Talk to her?”

Mikey blinked. Was his big brother asking him for dating advice? “Her? We were friends…well kinda, since we were kids–-her sister’s my best friend, had an in already…”

“Well what about other girls? .” The words felt stupid in his mouth.

“Haven’t figured that out, yet,” He shrugged, “got the car…some of ‘em seem to be into that,”

Ray overheard the pair as he was carefully wrapping chords in the corner, “write her a note,” he offered,” Worked in high school.”

 A note. Like a fuckin’ kid? But what else did he have?

Mikey shifted, then chimed, “You got plans for New Year’s?”

“If Ray’s right? Maybe a date,” Gerard said, too quick. “You?”

Mikey scratched his neck. “Got invited to a party. First one. Well, technically my roommate did, but he needs someone to drive him home. Might skip, hang with Nia and nintendo instead,"

“Two? You’ve got two girls?” Gerard teased.

Mikey went red. “No, fuck. Nia’s… Nia. Probably just gonna watch movies and try to beat her high score.”

Gerard thought about all the college parties he’d missed. He didn’t want Mikey to miss his. With a sigh, he pulled out his wallet—forty bucks, all he had. He pressed a twenty into Mikey’s hand. “Have Ray grab you a keg or something.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m your brother. Mom would kill me.”

Mikey wanted to hug him, but just muttered, “Thanks.”

9:45 pm

Mikey met Nia—well, she was waiting by his dorm door. No work, but he never had to worry about her making her way to see him…wondered why she never asked his roommate to be let in. Figured it was just one of those weird things.

He didn't mean to tell her, not really. It just slipped out when she asked about his day.

“You got invited to a party? Like college party?” Her eyes widened.

“Better than those lame ass highschool parties.”

“I don’t even go to those! But college… people who read real books, that sounds fun!”

“Nia—”

“I can wear my cheer uniform! That way they’ll think I’m cool. Or maybe that Misfits shirt you gave me? Or the blue dress—”

“Nia.”

She stopped, breathless.

“We can hold hands at midnight!” She chimed as she flopped back onto his bed.  

Mikey’s chest squeezed. She just had to have that look, the one that was better than a neon sign: she was excited. This was just like all those times his mom made Gerard drag him to the park with his friend Adam. A part of him knew. Just knew. It was a bad idea. 

Still found himself laying next to her, the pillows softening the pain as he ruined any chance of getting anybody else there. 

 “It’ll be too cold for the uniform. Go with the Misfits. I’ll wear mine too.”

“This is gonna be the best New Year’s ever. Can’t wait to tell them all about Fellowship– bet they actually read it.”

Telling her half the people that were gonna be at the party probably only read the back of shampoo bottles didn’t seem like the best way to go, so he forced a smile, “Don’t forget the first one.”

11:56

Frank fell asleep early. Something like burnt candy wrapped in Irish Spring laced his hoodie that he tossed straight in the crate they’d been using as a hamper. Some muffled excuse about what took so long. Nothing about that red smear behind his ear.

Didn’t seem as big of a deal in the moment. Not to Gerard as he hunched over the kitchen table, pencil dragging. Not words. A drawing. Her smile, as exact as he could recall. Tried to match the color exactly. Wanted her to know he was the kind of person that paid attention. 

The thought of her smiling when she saw it was worth the heavy breathing as he stood outside of the shower the next morning. 

He left it tucked on her desk with the mail, came in an hour early just to cover his tracks.

At the water cooler, she was laughing with another secretary. Holding his drawing.

“It’s really… detailed,” Chrys murmured, too soft to tell if she’d really liked it—so he decided she did. 

The girl next to her sounded more…enthusiastic, Ivy , he went with until he found out her real one, “Looks just like you.”

He’d done it, really fucking done it. Couldn’t wait to tell Dr. Levine, maybe he’d help him out, give him something to stop his hands from shaking so much when he thought about it. 

A win.

8:34 AM, Wednesday

After a day of wondering if Patrick was still mad like Nia had decided he was—he showed up looking for her.

A woman in a deep green robe answered the door, coffee cup in hand. She looked him up and down before asking flatly, “Who are you?”

“Uh—Patrick. Is Nia here?”

Her laugh was sharp, almost like Nia's when he chokes too hard. “Nia's not allowed to have boys overs.”

If his "best friend” had clearer skin and stopped wearing clothes two sizes bigger, she would have looked almost like the woman who didn't seem to mind the chill that Patrick noticed made her hair brush the dipping neckline.

“We’re just friends,” Patrick stammered as his hands fumbled a folded page from his pocket, holding it up like proof. “See? Best friends, that’s all.”

His eyes drifted down the robe before he could stop himself. She caught it, smirked faintly. “I like you. The other one—Mikey?—never uses the door.”

She called for Nia, who appeared in baggy pajamas. Yawning so the metal shined just enough in the gray of the day.

Patrick saw her freeze when she caught him staring at her mother, and then something shifted—gratitude, maybe, softening her shoulders. Thought she might even smile.

“What're you, uh, doing here?”

His gaze broke and he tried his best to meet her eyes, but between the robe and Nia's lack of pants there wasnt anywhere safe.

“Wanna go to the arcade?” he asked, eyes quickly darting back to the woman at the door.

Nia looked to her mom for permission, though they both couldn't care less about where she spent the day.

“Just….wait here?”

“Not inside?”

“No,” the woman said before shutting the door.

The wind made Patrick wish he'd parked closer. Debated on whether or not coming was a good idea when she walked out in jeans and a coat that covered too much. 

On the walk, Patrick kicked at the slush. “Your sister seems nice.”

Nia laughed once, bitter. “Then you don’t know my sister. That was my mom.”

Patrick blinked. “Really? How old is she?”

Nia shrugged. “Old. Like… thirty-five.”

“You’re lucky. I think my parents had me when they were thirty-five.”

“Yeah,” Nia said quietly. “Lucky.”

A pause. Then she blurted, “Did you read the poem?”

Patrick brightened. “I liked the heart at the end.”

Nia groaned, tugging her hood tighter. She knew she shouldn’t have added it.

“What about the rest of it?” she pressed.

“You’re a good writer,” he smiled.

She groaned louder, trailing him into the cold leather of his car.

“So… arcade?” She said once she got her seatbelt on.

Nia had seen Patrick smile before, so she knew what it meant whenever he tried to fight it: they weren’t going to the arcade. 

Patrick parked a little crooked, engine ticking as it cooled. Their breath puffed out in quick clouds as they hurried across the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the wind.

The bodega bell clanged overhead and a wall of heat and fried oil hit them. Patrick announced, “Only place I can get a Chicago dog right.” He paid for two, loaded until the buns sagged—relish, onions, peppers, mustard—and an Arizona iced tea tall can sweating in the warmth.

Outside again, the cold bit fast. Nia tried to peel half the toppings off with frozen fingers, muttering, “You promised this stuff was good.” Her gloves dangled useless in her pocket. Patrick slurped mustard off his thumb like it was proof of concept.

They passed the can back and forth, breath fogging above it. Nia took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and gave a reluctant grin, “Okay. Relish isn’t terrible—needs ketchup though.”

You'd have thought she'd suggested human remains the way he looked at her.

Gray slush specked with cigarette butts and gum wrappers sloshed under them as they walked to nowhere it seemed. A man in a puffer jacket had tapes lined across a blanket, Lion King covers winking up in the dim light. He shuffled from foot to foot to keep warm.

“Five bucks,” he said, teeth chattering. “Still sealed.”

Grinning wide, Patrick took advantage of a chance to keep her in his room layer, “Five is a steal. We’ll watch it later.”

Nia laughed, mouth stinging from the sport pepper she'd just bitten into, and for a second forgot how her toes ached inside damp socks.

She looked around—salt-stained cars crawling by, kids in hoodies ducking into bodegas, breath fog rolling thick out of everyone’s mouths—and shook her head. “So this is why we came down here? Hot dogs and bootleg Disney?”

Patrick wiped his nose with his sleeve and grinned wider. “Nah. That’s just the bonus. We’re waiting for something better.”

“Ayo, P!” a voice rang out from down the block.

They both turned.

 Nia watched the boy, man? He looked older, jeans tucked into his Adidas, the brim of a Yankees cap pulled low as he waved from the corner, puffing smoke into the cold like a signal. Two others, shoulders squared against the wind, waited next to him stomping their sneakers to keep warm.

Patrick stuffed the hot dog wrapper into his pocket and jerked his chin, suddenly more serious, “That’s who we’re here for.”

The closer they got, the sharper the air felt. Nia’s fingers stiffened around the can of Arizona. She wished she’d gotten gloves instead of gifts with her last check.

The guy grinned when they reached him, eyes flicking from Patrick to Nia. Gold chain catching the streetlight. “This your bitch?”

Nia froze, words evaporating in the cold as she tried to figure out just how mad she was.

Patrick’s face went pink under his knit hat. “Nah, man—this is Nia. We’re just—”

“Friends,” she cut in, steady. Then she glanced at Patrick, daring him to correct her,  “Best friends.”

That earned a laugh, hot breath puffing out in a thin cloud. The dealer tilted his head, sizing her up again, 

“She funny. I like her. Keep her around, P.”

Nia’s pulse thumped. She wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the way he looked at her, like he’d already decided something.

Patrick shifted awkwardly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “So… you think about what I asked...about the cypher?”

The guy’s grin turned thin. “Told you before—ain’t nobody spitting over a drumbeat. And your voice? Don’t carry no weight around here,"

Nia felt heat rise under her coat, did he even know who he was talking to? Probably didn’t even listen to him sing?

“So what, you wanna shut him out ‘cause he’s not—what?—your type?” Her arms found themselves across her chest, “that’s fuckin’ racist.”

Her face froze. Why? Why do her words never wait for her brain to catch up? 

The guy’s laugh boomed out, echoed off the cars. “Damn, she got a mouth—You hear that, P?

”Patrick muttered, “She’s hilarious,” embarrassed. 

He nudged Patrick’s arm, “bring her to the spot next time, you might need an audience…”

The words froze in Patrick’s throat. Was that the greenlight? He knew it, she was good luck. 

The dealer shrugged, tugged a little baggie from his coat. “Anyway. For you? Regular price. Call it a holiday special.” He slapped it into Patrick’s palm, cash disappearing quickly.

Nia shivered as a gust blew down the block, rattling the trash at the curb. She edged closer to Patrick without meaning to, inhaling the damp smell of weed already leaking from the bag.

Patrick drove fast, heater blasting, windows fogging. Nia leaned her head against the glass, watching Brooklyn blur by.

Every corner looked...real. Kids in puffy coats darting between bodegas and , men with Yankees caps huddled together like penguins over dice and basketball debates. No houses that looked the same, nobody that stared like she was some sort of alien that didn’t belong,  just real. She tried to ignore the feeling as she watched herself get pulled back onto the turnpike.

"So, cyphyer?" She sighed, breaking the silence.

Patrick ducked into himself behind the wheel, "The do them sometimes, you should hear these guys..." The spark in his face wasn’t missed,  "sometimes I bring my sticks, been trying to get in there since June, but they keep saying—"

"Who cares what they say?" Nia flipped though the stations, letting herself feel the fire for once, " Nicole and Hayley used to laugh and say I'd never be a real cheerleader—I can almost do the splits and I can do a headstand while I read Asimov..."

"That's different," he murmured, " all they see is the red hair and glasses..."

A small tug pulled Nia's chest. She remembered how she felt when the other girls stared at her hair for the first time. How annoyed she gets in the locker room when they ask to touch it.

"Well," she started, "can't donmuch about that except show up and give em something else to notice, right? Next time we'll-"

"We?" He smirked.

Shivering fingers just turned the radio as Nia tried to pretend this wouldn't end badly.

First thing Nia did at Patrick’s was collapse on his bed. Her arms stretched out, making her shirt rise enough for him to get a quick glance at the skin he only saw during games and rallies. 

“Your place is always so friggin’ warm,” her voice dragged, "bed's not half bad either, could lay here all day!”

“You can—uh, if you want—folks won’t be home till 3.”

Nia’s eyes cut to the Bart shaped alarm clock, 12:34. Too much time to get comfortable, and if her sister were any sign of where that’d lead, she was better off.

 “I’d never leave,” she sighed, sinking deeper anyway, kicking off her shoes. 

If the air was any thicker, they might’ve suffocated. Nia didn’t mind though. It sounded like peace. No city traffic, no bookstore top 40…no mall muzak. Just the sound of radiator steam and Patrick's breath, heavy from the stairs she hoped.

“Wanna see my Christmas present?” He blurted.

She smirked. “Another guitar?”

“Guess my mom thinks it’s an easy gift. Think it’s the only thing she knows about me.”

A black-and-white guitar flashed in the light as Patrick adjusted the strap, nervous he clutched as if it were contraband.

“You play it yet?”

“Was waiting for you.”

He strummed Helena by the Misfits. Badly. Wrong chords, messed up half the words, but she thought it was the best cover she’d ever heard.

When he finished, she pulled a thick notebook from her messenger bag. “Wanna see what I got?”

Patrick frowned until she flipped it open, her excitement obvious despite the straight face. 

On the page, in the neatest letters he'd ever seen, a poem that had been erased and started too many times:

Snow falls

Covering streets with blankets warmer than home.

 If no one hears the tears are you really alone?

 Static and a laugh track,

 Hoping that they’ll come back.

 Snowflakes melt against the pane,

 Waiting for me somewhere—

 No two are the same.

 Blankets of snow,

 Warmer than the bed.

 Eyes leak with all that fills my head.

Christmas, 1996

Patrick read in silence, nodding slowly. She hugged the notebook tighter, bracing for him to call it weird.

“You uh…” He paused, words still lingering on the page. “Okay?”

Nia froze.

“Yeah. It’s just a poem…”

“Y’know, you can, like, talk to me or whatever—we’re, uh, friends, right?” 

His gaze was too soft, pulled her stomach in a knot and she had to get him to stop before she accidentally said something real instead of poetic.

 “Hey!” Her voice shook, “You got plans for New Year’s Eve?”

The words cut the thread sharply. Why wouldn't she just say it? Patrick wondered, he knew something was wrong. Never wanted to ask. Overheard more than he should when he'd pick up up for school, but she was always smiling, or trying to. He didn't wanna take that from her so he just sat the notebook between them and picked up the guitar again. Strumming a song he never heard.

If she had plans, so did he.

Chapter Text

Snow collected at the windowsill like ash, while the sounds of Patrick’s makeshift drumming on her notebook distracted Nia from the most important decision of the night: what book should she tuck into her bag. Her first thought was to go with a classic: Kafka. She got a kick out of the little doodle every time she opened it. But they’d probably read that already. 

There was that copy of Romeo and Juliet she’d had since her teacher said she could keep it over break…but Shakespeare might make them think she was trying too hard. 

A deep green stack of pages caught her eye, making it impossible not to smile.

 Everyone liked hobbits, right? 

After tucking it away, she stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of her oversized Misfits shirt, black and almost too faded to make out the logo. It looked loose the way she liked, covered everything the cheer uniform put on display every Friday. It twisted under her fingers as she tugged it down, leaving no question of how she wanted to spend the night. 

Patrick was sprawled across her bed, green gel pen tapping in one hand, joint burning in the other. The smoke curled lazily out of the window they’d cracked just in case anyone came home, which did nothing but push inside.

“What do you think?” Nia’s voice crept, breaking his concentration from what he was sure was going to be the last part of the song he’d been not so silently working out for the last twenty minutes. 

“You look like the lost member of Limp Bizkit,” he joked, hoping she’d notice the fact that he was trying—MTV all week instead of Rap City.

A lighter flew in his direction, hitting his chest with a quiet thud, “Mikey likes it when we match, easy to find each other when we realize everyone else sucks.”

Patrick caught it, grinning. “Yeah, well. You always look better.”

She swiped the joint from his fingers and took a short drag, the ember glowing bright against the yellow lights, “You sure your parents won’t start if you’re out late? They seem like the type to ground you for breathing too hard.”

“Please,” He exhaled, smirking, “ I’ll be 17 in two months, I’m practically an adult, so I can do what I want, just like you.”

The air thickened with nothing but a smirk and a gut glance, 

“I told my dad, said I was studying. ”

“Must be nice,” Nia said, grabbing the bottle of perfume her sister left behind, “ and I don’t do what I want — I do what they let me. Feels like as long as I don’t ask for lunch money, I could kill somebody.”

The drop in her voice made Patrick look at her. He glanced around her room — bare walls, no posters, no softness. It didn’t look like a kid’s room or a teenager’s room. It just looked empty.

 He was about to crack a joke, something dumb to break the silence, but she spoke first.

“Pat,” she warned, tugging on her dark blue puffer, “These are college kids tonight. Like, real, grown and shit. I don’t need you embarrassing me.”

He blinked. “Me? Embarrass you? You’re the one slurping spit through metal every thirty seconds.”

“It builds up!” she snapped. “And nobody’s gonna hear it over the music. But they will hear all your East Coast, West Coast conspiracy theories.”

“Hey, we already lost Tupac,” he said, grinning. “The people need to know Biggie—”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about half the time!” she laughed, giving her best attempt to hold the laughter. “All I know is Mikey’s cooler than that. He talks about real bands and books. and—”

Patrick laughed under his breath. “Yeah, he’s real cool. His best friend’s still in high school.”

“Hey!” she said softly, looking at him through the mirror, “You’re sticking around, right?”

He stared at her reflection a beat too long before answering. “Yeah, yeah—come on, we’re gonna miss the bus.”

They showed up at Mikey’s dorm together. Double laughs tangling with someone down the hall giving a piss poor Springsteen impression. The door swung open like they’d been waiting too long. Mikey’s roommate looked them up and down and groaned.

Fuck, Nia thought, should’ve left the jacket open. 

Mikey showed up a half second later, glasses hanging on to his already red face for dear life. His eyes fell on Patrick. It was bad enough he was bringing her, but she had to bring the only person who looked geekier than he did. A sigh escaped him. 

“Couldn’t just be happy to come?”

What’s that supposed to mean, she wondered, but instead she let her arms fold across her chest, “Had to bring backup in case all your friends turned out to be as boring as you lately,”

“We don’t need the puberty posse tagging along,” Mikey’s roommate cut in, pulling a silver orb-looking egg out of the door. Nia thought they should’ve used a bigger blanket. 

“Come on, Andy, they’re cool,” Mikey replied, “Plus if we get pulled over, we can say we’re babysitting.”

“With a keg in the trunk?”

 “We’ll say it’s root beer," Mikey shrugged.

Patrick glanced at the two guys, could just feel them knowing they didn’t belong. But there was always one thing that made Patrick more friends than he needed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny baggie like it was a VIP pass, “I got weed.”

Nia looked at him with wide eyes, he was a fucking sadist for sure. The burn of Mikey’s shock fell on her, but her shoe laces were a lot more interesting, or at least she hoped that’s how it looked. 

“Fuckin A!” Andy cheered, “now it’s a fuckin party.”

The party was nothing like Nia expected. No long talks about real things like literature or what the best way to get through a detention was. No. Just a bunch of college…kids drinking around a frozen pond, shouting over each other like animals while they fucked up the lyrics to some song she never liked. The air stung her cheeks, and her breath came out in sharp white bursts. 

Who thought of this whole party thing anyway? Probably someone with nothing better to do?

She sat on a rock near the edge of the pond, watching her reflection distort across the ice.

 Mikey found her there, sat next to her holding out a cup of almost flat beer, “You look miserable.”

“I am miserable,” she said, taking it but not drinking.

“Just try to have a good time, don’t want this to be the last one either of us get invited to.”

“Fine,” Nia huffed, “ but only because you wore the shirt.”

 The can went warm in her hand as she tried to make small talk with a group of girls nearby. Could hear them laughing and figured they’d be a nice place to start. Ignored the snow that seemed to want to keep her in place.Said hi first, even threw in a smile. 

“You guys like Hanson?” She asked, remembering hearing the name in the locker room more times than she could count. 

That seemed to do it. Before too long they were all sloppily debating which one was the cutest. When it came to her, Nia just said ‘the blonde one’. 

A laugh cracked that she pretended she was a part of. The conversation shifted back to lecture halls and which professors were too lazy to put in grades. All Nia had to offer was the fact that she’d probably be making the honor roll that year. 

They mostly just told her which moisturizer she should be using, and asked if it was okay to touch her hair. Saying no wasn’t something she’d figured out how to do yet.

When she looked back, Mikey was across on the other side of the pond with some girl she hadn't seen before. 

Figures.

It wasn’t too long before each of the girls found themselves swatting off slurring guys before eventually giving in, ending up behind trees or screeching from being tossed over a shoulder. 

Then it was her turn. Eyes that froze her. A denim jacket too thin to block the icy daggers she’d been trying to send his way. Her chest pounded when he started to move. 

Easier to just keep moving. Her feet couldn’t move quick enough without slipping. 

Not tonight. 

It was the first time all semester that a girl had so much as looked his way and the music made it hard for him to even make out what she was saying. Something about a biology final or maybe it was how much she loved that dance everyone was doing all year…either way she was talking and Mikey could tell she wasn't the type who cared about the Magic deck under his bed.

He was doing that thing where he tried to sound like Gerard — all slow voiced and too cool to care about whatever that little voice inside his head wouldn't shut up about.

Every so often his eyes clicked over to the family mess of curls making her way from group to group. Thinking about whether or not she was having a good time made it hard to focus. The girl noticed, dipped her head just low enough to interrupt his line of sight and laughed, her butterfly clips bouncing under the streetlight.

“Your girlfriend over there gonna mind you talking to me?” She asked.

Mikey laughed, nervous, realizing he'd never asked her name, “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s… my kid sister.”

The girl smiled. “She seems to really like you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s always threatening to kill me if I don’t open the door. Figured this was safer.”

“I got three brothers,” the girl said too loudly, “ none of them ever let me tag along to anything they did,”

“Well,” Mikey shrugged, “I always have a good time when she does, she's my best friend.”

He realized too late how weird that sounded, but the girl just tilted her head, amused. “You’re a good brother—That’s, uh, kinda… hot.”

That was a first.

He felt his neck heat up from more than just cheap beer, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” slipped out with a drink giggle, perfume he noticed as she was leaning closer, her fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, “Maybe later, we could have a private party. Thank you for little sisters everywhere.”

Mikey grinned — until a scream cut through the crowd.

Patrick was having more fun than he’d ever had—in Bellevue at least. Seemed like everyone thought rolling a joint was some sort of magic trick. 

One beer, two—he lost track by the time someone handed him a cup with barely anything in it. Burned all the way down though. 

Nia was wrong. As usual. They did care about what was going down between Biggie and the rest of the West Coast. One of them told him, for a fact, that Tupac was still alive in Cuba somewhere. Seemed to make the most sense after he emptied the cup.

Through the sound of laughter, a brief thought of why he was there in the first place. Looked around but  

 spotted her through a cloud of smoke, Nia by the pond. That book she brought in her hands like the Bible or something.

When he took his first steps toward her they were uneven, didn't feel like walking on air like when he was stoned. Wobbly, too loose—He was drunk, smiling crookedly.

By the time he made it to her the moonlight had settled, leaving a white halo against her hair. 

The red solo cup sloshed as he plopped next to her, the smell of whatever she sprayed in her bedroom hanging between them—candy. 

“You not having any?” he asked, gesturing to the unopened beer sitting on the ice next to her

“I don’t drink,” 

He laughed too loud, almost making Nia lose her place, “You don’t do anything fun.”

“What’s so good about smashing your words together and falling over?” she said.

“Makes you forget you’re here.”

People were always saying stuff like that. Half the squad talking about what they're gonna do after graduation, Sasha always talking about how she lives on the good side of the Hudson, it made Nia wonder.

“Who’d wanna forget Jersey?”

“Everyone with a brain.” He barked, his voice echoing in the cup.

Her book shut lightly, “It’s not all bad, is it? I mean, where you gonna find better pizza than Jet’s?”

“Yeah, I mean, guess you’re here or whatever…makes it worth…”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing, and for a second she thought he might kiss her.

 He did too. Couldn't stop himself from leaning in.

For a moment, she couldn't hear music, couldn't see anything other than blue eyes shutting and a flash of white streaking his glasses.

Her book slipped, the world tilted, and pain exploded in her wrist as she hit the ice.

Mikey was there before she even registered the fall — eyes glassy, breath hot with beer. He knelt beside her, taking her hand that she held tightly to her chest.

No matter how much her eyes stung she told herself not to cry.

“You good? What happened?”

“My fucking hand! It's broken.

“It’s not broken,” he half laughed.

“It is, it's broken and I'm gonna have to go to the ER and my mom’ll know I was out and Donna's gonna be so mad at you—’

He held her hand tighter, leaned down, and spat lightly into her palm. 

How could he be so disgusting, she thought as she yanked her hand back.

“The fuck the matter with you, that's so gross!”

“See? Not broken.”

Patrick stood a few feet away, frozen in place, watching. Wanting to go over and say something. Sorry maybe, but the weight of his own fuck up kept him frozen. Then a little piece of his heart out …

Mikey smiled and glanced up to see the butterfly girl smiling his way.

Good brothers were “hot” right?

So without hesitation, almost with permission from little sisters everywhere, he kissed her cheek.

She didn’t pull away. Just let the tears fall against the ice.

Something inside her dropped — hard as the ice. This isn't how she wanted the night to go, but he was holding her hand.

Crack. Pop

Blue painted over his red face and made them both laugh a little.

Patrick watched them staring up together, cursing at whatever made him do something so dumb. 

Pink and Blue danced on the ice.

If all it took was spit to make her smile he could've done that. She just never gave him the chance

The drive home was quiet. Andy had gone back with some girl and Mikey was stuck driving the two of them home. Nia was the only one who noticed the swerving, but didn't say anything. Didn't wanna ruin the night even more.

 The roads were empty except for the streetlights blurring past the windshield. The radio hummed some Top 40 track nobody liked.

Patrick had tried to get her in the backseat with him, give him a chance to show her he could make it better too. But she seemed determined not to let go of Mikey’s hand and Patrick was trying to keep down whatever his stomach was sending up.

The engine stopped in front of her house.

Mikey glanced into the back seat where a green faced Patrick leaned against the window, “You good while I walk her in?”

Patrick, trying his best to pull himself away from the chill of glass against his cheek murmured, “I can do it.”

Mikey laughed softly, trying not to sound like an asshole, but the kid could barely walk, “I’ll be right back, you just don't get anything on my back seat.”

Patrick watched through the fogged window as they stood by the porch light.

 He didn’t understand it — why she never ran. Why she always clung to him like she was scared he'd blow away.

From what he could make out she was asking him to stay.

But Mikey came back alone, brushing snow from his jacket, settling into the driver’s seat like nothing had happened.

The car started, the radio just loud enough to fill the silence.

“You have a good time?” Mikey broke in.

“Yeah. My baggie’s all gone—your friends used up my whole stash.”

 “Think you made some new friends tonight.”

“Think I might’ve lost one,” Patrick said quietly.

“How’d she even fall? Last time I looked, she was sitting.”

Patrick turned toward the window. “Had that beer you gave me. Then someone else handed me a red cup. Don’t know what was in it. She just looked so pretty.”

Mikey laughed, “Nia? Faded chucks and lumpy afro, Nia?”

Patrick nodded, “I wasn’t trying to kiss her, not really. Just wanted to know if she’d let me. But she moved, and you…”

“Nothing personal,” the words slid out of Mikey, who was trying to watch the road. “She’s always been like that. When Sasha would come home with Valentine’s cards and she didn’t, we laid in my bed and argued about what to watch, thinking we both got too used to that.”

Patrick tried to swallow the truth, “I was gonna get her a card, maybe some candy.”

“Don’t,” Mikey said. “Be a waste of your two bucks.”

“Don’t think it would be,” the younger boy said with all his liquid courage, “if you had other plans.”

Mikey frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just…” Patrick sighed. “You ever wonder what she’d do if you weren’t there?”

Mikey pushed up his glasses, eyes fixed on the road, “Don’t really have to, kinda part of the job,”

Patrick nodded, eyes on the blur of passing lights.

“I think maybe she’d do a lot more,” he said letting the liquid courage do it's job, “if you just moved out of the way.”

Mikey didn’t answer.

What else was he trying to get her to do? Then the memory of what he'd asked a cheerleader to do back what he was in high school. Nia would probably say no just the same, end up cross-legged on his dorm floor while he pretended he was as cool as she thought he was.

The radio filled the silence, a pop song bleeding through static.

Outside, fireworks cracked somewhere over Jersey as the leather changed colors.

Hot water cracked against porcelain as Nia lowered herself in something barely more than a puddle. The relief crept up her wrist as the bubbles grew. 

Fucking Patrick, why’d she even ask him to come anyway? Oh yeah, that look. The one that made her feel two inches tall, like she was some character in a book that needed saving. 

Mikey never gave her that look, not even when he held her hand…the spit on her palm was the best part, let her know how much he cared. Enough to almost embarrass them both. 

As she sank deeper into the tub, she played it over in her head. The way Patrick leaned in, the smell of alcohol lingering between them. 

For a moment, she wished she’d stayed. Let his lips find hers…would have had the fireworks like they showed in the movies…but her body never did the right thing. Always just did what it wanted before she could stop her brain from short-circuiting. 

The other girls didn’t seem to have that problem. They’d all laughed and pretended to scream, let the guys take them places she hid from between the pages of books written by men she’d probably have had more fun with. 

Still, the girls laughed, though.

Didn’t tell her to get lost or call her a loser…should’ve asked for their numbers, maybe they could help her figure out what she was doing wrong and why it always felt like the right thing to do. 

She could still hear the crack of colors in the background. 

Maybe she’d find the answer with more bubbles. 

Chapter Text

The kitchen table looked like a crime scene — three envelopes, all different shades of pink, all stamped FINAL NOTICE. Staring at his name in the little plastic window like it was a reminder of everything he wasn't.

Gerard picked at the corners like maybe they’d turn into something else if he stared long enough. Rent, utilities, and the phone he could live without. He could cover one. Maybe. Two if they could survive another week on peanut butter and half-stale bread.

A cigarette burned to its filter in the ashtray beside him, the third one in an hour. Kept his hands busy,  coated his mouth with thick smoke that made the drink beside him taste sweeter.

Here he was, dragging himself out of bed for 30 hours a week to go and watch people live his dream while he had to hope for enough time between coffee runs and copies to get some sketching done. 

Dishes in the sink, laundry that needed to be done, and now these fucking envelopes. 

This was the dream? 

Just as his thoughts were starting to bubble up, the front door crashed open with a bang against the wall. Frank stumbled in, arms full of a cardboard box,  “Good news,” he said. “I got paid.”

Gerard ran his fingers through his hair quickly, trying to look like the last thirty minutes of freaking out hadn't just happened, he deepened his voice enough to hopefully be found seriously, "That box better be full of cash.”

“Better,” Frank grinned, dropping it on the table with a thud,  “Payment in kind from Stacy in 2B.”

Gerard peeked inside: half a dozen jars of Manic Panic.

“You let some chick pay you in hair dye?”

“Not just some chick, you see the rack on her? Plus, she’s strapped  till Friday, wanted a butterfly right on her—.”

The dumb little grin on Frank's face made Gerard want to throw the lighter; he knew exactly what was on the other side.

“We could really use the cash, Frank.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank said, fishing a jar out, “tired of seeing us walk around looking like those faded Sharpies you keep under the bed.”

When Gerard didn't answer, Frank knew what was coming. Another lecture that he could shut down with the right smirk or a kiss placed right above that spot on his neck that was an automatic forgiveness, but today he was in the mood for a challenge, 

“Figured it was time we matched.”

Gerard groaned. “I’m not letting you touch my hair.”

Frank smirked. “Not yet.” He tossed a baggie across the table with a smirk Gerard exhaled through his nose, hating that it seemed to be the solution to everything lately,

 “Two lines, and don’t touch my roots.”

Frank grinned like a man who’d already decided otherwise.

Something about his hand kept Gerard watching Frank with a mix of annoyance and intent. Ink that had settled, blue bics didn't last long around their apartment.

By the time Frank was separating lines between the two with the pink envelope, Gerard had hypnotized himself into thinking this was a good idea. Easier when he watched Frank go first. Dipping his head with a half smile and daring Gerard to not get any ideas when his head tilted back, the scorpion tattoo on his neck dancing against his pulse.

Bad ideas never looked that good, so Frank never had one, Gerard decided.

The burn was always worth that spark. The one that made all the thoughts that usually bumped into each other swirl together into one giant blob that he could kick to the side for a minute.

Always sealed with a kiss, usually broken by their own laughter.

 “I'm telling you, this is gonna be the thing to get us noticed!” Frank's voice shook with excitement, “Like a real fuckin’ band or some shit.”

“Mikey’s pretty glued to his look, and Ray’s got the whole,” his hands gestured upwards, “—thing going on.”

“Then just us,” Frank said. “People’ll see you, they’ll see me. Give those old fucks on the second floor something else to stare at..”

Gerard frowned at the dye jars scattered, staining the cardboard,  “You ever try to get red out?”

“We could go black.”

“I’m tired of black, I want something….”

Tattooed hands shuffled through the box and pulled out a bottle of bleach that had swelled,  “Blonde then. Like Brad Pitt.”

A quick glance at the toaster and Gerard knew Brad was out of the question , but then his words escaped, sounding more like excitement, “Or Madonna?”

“Promise I'll make you look like a sweet little virgin or whatever she says.”

A smile tugged at Gerard’s mouth. 

Fuckin’ Madonna.

The bathroom smelled like chemicals and bad decisions. 

Danzig's voice tangled with Frank's as Gerard sat uneasily on the edge of the tub — at least this was a good way to get their shirts off,

“You sure it’s supposed to burn this much?” Gerard asked, picking at a strand too warm against his neck.

“Means it’s working, this ain't drug store, quality shit right?”

“But-.”

Frank leaned over the tub, squinting. “You’re fine. You’re just… sizzling a little.”

Then came the snap — a strand breaking under his fingers. Gerard froze. “What was that?”

“Your hair, it’s,” Frank mumbled, grabbing the comb. But more blonde floated down like ash.

“Frank.”

“It’s fine, Il, you look— it’s—fuck.”

The reflection in the mirror looked like something out of Fangoria. Fiery patches, soggy like warm paint. Tinling—burning at the nape of his neck. As it crawled up his skull, he was reminded of being shoved into lockers, backed against gym shower tiles, and that one time he’d hit it against the bottom of a desk trying not to be seen while he sketched cheerleaders in a pyramid. The smell he was used to, too many times being his mom’s assistant to forget it. When he pulled at it, he expected the slickness, expected his fingers to slide down each strand; instead, he felt a snap. 

Wide-eyed, Gerard’s breath choked his words as he held onto the only thing keeping him tied to the piece of who he wanted to be. 

“You— it's all—MY HAIR!” He managed to get out with something that sounded like a shriek. 

“Not all of it!” Frank said sheepishly, checking his own locks in the mirror, relieved it looked normal.

The comb slipped through Frank's hands, “Okay—okay, we can fix it. Lemme just—”

“Don’t touch me!” Gerard snapped, clutching at what was left, trembling. His leaned into the mirror like he was staring at a Picasso, “I look like one of those dudes in fucking Hanson.”

Frank looked at him for a long moment, then returned a sharp laugh, “At least everything matches now, Gee.” 

The silence that followed was worse than the smell of bleach.

“C'mon, just let me-”

Gerard didn't wait; he just took his melting hair and winter coat and headed out into the cold, hoping to find the one person who could actually do something about it.

The doors were always unlocked, which Gerard never understood. Almost like they wanted someone to walk out with all their…well, it didn't sit right with him anyway. Still, he let himself in. It was his home too, right? Didn't matter how many times he'd turned the knob.  Just standing in his mother’s kitchen, light yellow and merciless, he felt it. Every memory rushing back. Him and Adam painting figurines, laughing about whether or not the Hulk could kick Superman's ass. 

He'd have let him win one if he'd known…

A symphony of keys echoed from outside. Humming followed after, marked by heels he’d always wanted to try. His hands ran down his body, pressing a half-damp shirt in an attempt to have something to do with his hands. He wished he'd swallowed something before he got there. Probably would have to clench his jaw so tight. 

Donna’s grocery bags hit the counter before she did, snapping him back into reality. 

She stopped at the sight of her son fighting with the collar of his shirt; he looked like a crime scene. Still, she was happy to see him.

“Two visits in one month,” Donna smiled, placing the eggs on the counter. “Must be an early birthday or the apocalypse.”

Gerard mumbled something about work being busy, trains always full. Donna gave him one long look—long enough to make him shift in his damp shirt—then flicked her hand toward the hallway.

“What the hell happened to your hair? Thought I taught you better than that,”

Gerard tried to laugh. It came out like a cough. “Frank, uh… kinda messed it up,”

“Put the eggs away and get me a towel.

Being taller than his mom always bothered him, especially when it meant he had to crouch at the sink. But his gratitude overrode his shame, and he listened to his mother like he always had

At the sink, with warm water running over the wreckage of his hair, he looked at her the way he never let himself. Shampoo, nails scratching his scalp. Just like when he was a kid and they pretended he was Aquaman. Safe, stupid, home. He’d forgotten what it was like to be touched without it leaving a question behind. 

Gorgeous, just like his dad always bragged she was. Bleach-blonde hair, perfect tan, lipstick that never smudged until it was on his face. It’s why he lined his eyes thick when he wanted to feel pretty instead of like a mess.

The echo of her humming against the sink was the finishing touch—she was laying it on thick. Probably because he never visits. Almost wishes he had, it’d been too long since he’d been touched without it leaving a trail of questions behind.

White Diamonds clung to the air. Her nails—long, red, merciless—scratched lightly at his scalp. The same perfume he hoped she’d never catch him spraying on his own wrists. The same hands that taught him how to be still from the other end of a wooden spoon.

If he ever became something better than whatever he was, he’d smell like that

 The sound of scissors snipping in his ear as he watched pieces of himself fall into the sink. 

“You look good,” she said softly, rinsing foam down the drain. “Haven’t seen it this short in a while,” She laughed softly.

A towel dry and hands on his cheek as they both glanced in the mirror. 

It always hit him wrong when he realized that they didn’t look alike, worse when she squished his cheeks and called him something that made him feel too…cute.

“You always were such a sweet little boy,”

The word hit like a nail through glass. Boy.

He swallowed hard, wrapping around his neck like a noose as purple toner spiraled down the drain.  

Maybe he'll look like Brad.

When he came back, his hair was the main attraction. The spiky blonde caught the yellow light in all the wrong ways. All the ways that made Frank see him instead of the person Gerard knew Frank wanted.

Frank looked up from the couch, comic in hand. “You, uh… lose a fight with a Barbie doll?”

Gerard’s smirk was faint. “Yeah. She won.”

He looked smaller. Not Illi. Not the thing in between. Just Gerard — short hair, raw edges, hoodie zipped up too high. Frank wanted to say something real, but the air was too heavy for truth.

“Wanna watch the fireworks?”

Gerard nodded, still getting used to the emptiness near his ears,  “Sure.”

The rooftop was empty except for them and the bottle they passed back and forth. The whiskey burned; the wind didn’t care.

Pink and blue burst over the city skyline, painting his face in alternating shades. He didn’t have to choose yet.

Not when Frank still let him lean close, shoulder to shoulder, their fingers brushing by accident.

The sky exploded again — pink then blue, cracking over the city.  “Happy New Year.”

“You still mad?” Frank's voice carried along with a thin white cloud.

Gerard swallowed his feelings along with the lump in his throat. It should be a good night. It was a holiday right? Besides, maybe the blonde worked. 

Why couldn't he pull off Madonna?

He found the answer between his fingers as they raked against his scalp instead of a handful of hair he’d pretended he hated to brush. 

“About the hair? No…Stacy, on the other hand?

“For fuck’s sake,” Frank murmured, ‘’we didn't even do anything. Just a stick and poke befor-”

Lips cut him off; he reached up, trying to find his favorite piece of Illi, but his palms just gripped air. Found his best friend's jacket instead. 

Gold flashed against the windows of buildings that surrounded them, and snow melted under denim and shoes that looked better than they felt against the chill of the night. When the wind blew, Frank caught a whiff of shampoo, familiar and light. Not the cheap shit they’d past watered down. Smelled it when he walked past Donna on Christmas and knew it was Biolage.

He’d gone home. 

Smelled like his sisters, like every girl he’d snuck out of his room in high school and the ones he kicked out in college. 

They broke for breath. Fireworks smeared pink across Gerard’s face, and Frank saw it then, the inhale just under the drum of fireworks—the one  Gerard was holding, the same one he held whenever it was time to show off another lyric.

His eyes flicked up to the mess in front of him, couldn't start the year off right, so he figured he'd start it with something that'd get him a little closer to what he wanted, 

 “Happy New Year, Illi.”

For a moment, Gerard was glad Frank never listened to him. ‘Gee’ would have broken right there and let the pieces get taped back together with too much spit and metal pressed against his lips. Illi? Illi liked the way the fireworks looked in his eyes.

It was cold, that was the excuse they’d both tell themselves when it happened again. Wet, shivering. Worth every cold breeze that hit their cheeks. Enough to make Gerard ignore the fact that Frank’s nose was running down his face. Almost thought it was spit, didn't care when his tongue realized it wasn't.

Tomorrow he’d deal with the envelopes, the utilities, the phone bill he wasn’t going to pay. He’d call his mom back and tell her thank you, let her ask if he'd been going to therapy.  He’d bring a comb to work and pretend the new hair was on purpose and not the worst start to the year.

But tonight he let himself melt just a little, ignoring the taste of lips slick against his. Didn't care what it was.

It all tasted like him anyway and Illi could never get enough.

Chapter Text

If it was one thing Sasha hated more than waiting to find out if she'd passed her final, it was empty calories. Yet, when Michael guessed spending New Year's with a bottle of wine she couldn't pronounce and cheese that needed a special knife to cut it, the idea almost sounded like a good one.

It was the first time she'd come over. He'd sent a taxi, slid her purposely too thin coat off of her shoulders when he'd let her in. Everything a gentleman should do, the lilies she found waiting by the fireplace were enough to make her stay.

She'd only seen that shit in the corny ass movies her sister forced her to watch whenever she could.

Jazz, the good kind, frosted over windows glowing with people celebrating earlier than they needed to, it was almost…nice.

Inside Michael’s condo was soft — clean like he didn't do it himself, everything too deliberate. Couldn't blame the guy for trying to look like the kind of man who could get her there for less.

That's what she was starting to like most about him. He had the kind attractiveness money buys. God knows it wasn't last seasons Ferragamo loafers he'd insisted on wearing thinking she wouldn't clock it; but if there was one thing Sasha kept up with, it was what an opportunity looked like.

Sasha sat across from him, legs crossed over dark brown carpet that should have been hardwood, white satin draped with a neckline that drew Michael away from her face. It was leftover from prom, but he didn't need to know that. All she had to do was fix the clasp.

It had worked once and she was hoping it'd work again. She had to hook this one. Rent was due.

The sound of wine filling a glass was the soundtrack of her decision — rich, red, probably older than she was — attached, Michael smiled like a man proud of his taste.

“This how you wanted to bring in the new year?” she asked, eyeing the little tray of cheese and fruit. 

“Manischewitz,” he said, raising his glass, “and something almost as sweet—what else do I need?”

She gave him a look that would have been sharper if she hadn't smiled. But every time she looked up at his hair, curling almost like hers after a shower, she felt it grow, “You should know me better than that.”

He lifted a slice of cheese off a cracker and leaned in, “Sorry you got all dressed up for nothing.”

Sasha looked down at herself, smoothed the silk over her thighs, “This old thing? I wear it to take out the trash.”

Michael tilted his head, mouth full, eyes moving slowly, “Don’t know how they could strike with a view like that.”

She laughed, too loud, quickly grateful it was only the two of them. “Don’t start nothin’ you won’t finish.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s been a few weeks,” she said. “And all I’ve gotten is a sloppy kiss in your front seat.”

He smiled faintly. “Not enough?”

“No,” She sipped her wine, ignoring the burn, eyes locked on his. “You scared of women or something?”

“Not scared,” he said, “Just particular.”

“Particular, ” she echoed, popping a grape in her mouth, “You mean boring like this music?”

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Special.”

She arched her brow. “Oh, you’re one of those guys.”

“One of what?” he said low enough that it almost sounded like part of the song that drones in the background.

“Those men,” she started, not backing down, “the ones that like women to do that shit you find in magazines they sell in the back of bodegas.”

Michael sipped amused.

“Either that or you got a wooden leg or something.”

“Legs are all me,” He leaned in, elbows on his knees, tongue grazing his lower lip, “What size are you?”

Sasha met his darkened brown eyes and gripped the glass a little tighter.

“Size two,” she said instantly, knowing how perfect it was, smoothing the fabric over her hips just enough to let the slit tell him everything he needed to know.

“In shoes,” he corrected, voice echoing in the glass.

Her confidence flickered, but only for a second. “Seven.”

“That’ll do.”

He reached for her ankle, gentle at first — caught her breath when she felt his finger against her skin. She didn’t stop him when he settled at the silver straps. The heel slipped off with a quiet pop, and he turned the shoe in his hand like something to study.

“Michael,” she warned with anticipation, “Don’t—”

But he was already pouring. The ’69 Merlot hit the soles leather and pooled dark.

His voice dropped to a murmur she almost missed, “L’chaim.”

Her mouth parted, “You’re not—”

He was.

He lifted it to his lips, drank slow. The candlelight caught the red sliding down his chin — like paint, like sin.

Sasha should have felt disgusted. She didn’t. It was—electric. Wrong in a way that made her heart stutter.

Outside, fireworks cracked. His face lit up in bursts of pink, blue, gold. 

Speechless wasn't something Sasha ever was. But watching him, her heel in hand, lips still carrying the taste of her, she knew. She wouldn't be getting what she wanted that night, but he was hooked. 

Maybe it was going to be a happy New Year after all.

At the very least, she'd get a new pair of shoes. 

This season’s Manolo’s would work.

Chapter Text

Morning

Frank got up early, like asscrack of dawn early, the mattress dipping just enough for Gerard to groan and curl toward the warm spot Frank left behind. Ink-covered fists rolled over his eyes before he glanced back down to his roommate, drooling on Frank's pillow.

Last day off, and Frank figured Gee should spend it doing literally anything besides sticking to him like a goddamn barnacle under the docks, so he moved carefully so he wouldn't wake.

He thought slipping him a twenty for the electric bill would get him off his ass.

Nope. The only moment Frank got to breathe was when Gerard sent him to the bodega for cigarettes or when someone called needing a dime bag—Gee was too much of a pussy to ever tag along.

But it was Sunday, and on Sundays every mom in the tri-state area dragged her kids to Mass with the usual guilt trip.

Frank was no exception.

So he pulled out his one nice button-down, tied his red tie the same way Sister Agnes taught him to, smoothed out the miracle on his head, and slipped out the door. For a second, he almost leaned back in to kiss Gerard’s shoulder before leaving.

Thank God he was a heavy sleeper.

The hair didn’t go over well. His dad shook his head. Mom looked at him wide-eyed, French tips squeezing his cheek. His sisters all cackled like witches the second he got close to the parish. Even baby Frankie gave him a toothless smile as she wiggled out of her mother's arms and into his.

Inside, they fell into the same old Iero family ritual.

Beat the other families to the pews.

Save a row.

Pretend you’re not choking on incense.

But Frank had his own ritual — baby to one of the girls, smile at the old ladies that shuffled in the back, and find the longest relationship he's ever had.

The confessional smelled like furniture polish and ghosts. The flick of his lighter rang against the dark wood, letting the priest know who was there before he even spoke.

“Put it out, Frank.”

Same voice as when he was nine and got dragged there by his grandma after he stole baseball cards.

“Aw, c’mon, Father,” Frank muffled against the filter, “it’s been long enough, aren't we friends by now?”

A long, exhausted sigh. “You know the rules, Franklin. Out.”

“Yeah, well.” He crushed the cigarette against the wood. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… again.”

“Same one?”

“Same guy,” Frank smirked, tapping the pack against his knee, trying to sound proud, “three years running.”

“You still living together?”

“I pay my half.”

“And you…still share the bed?”

“It’s better than that,” Frank snorted, “Except he used to at least look like he had tits, but lately—”

“Language.”

“Sorry, but seriously, fuckin’ Gee should count towards charity.”

“Two Hail Marys.”

“Add that to the twelve from last week?”

“No,” Father Andrews sighed, his voice carrying like he was thinking of something better, almost amused with the challenge, “doesn’t seem to be working.”

A tapping foot echoed between them, the bridge Frank had been working on all week. Kept telling Ray the chord should’ve been a C not an A, but did he listen? No he just—

“If you’re going to keep doing it,” Father Andrews asked, breaking the silence, “why are you here?”

Frank stared at the smoke crawling between the slats. For a moment, he looked like a boy again, cornered by a question he couldn’t lie his way out of.

“Because I’m Catholic,” he said finally. “And you people got a problem with everything.”

“You come to Mass, you stay late, but you don’t follow the teachings.”

“I follow the ones that matter.”

“But you sleep with a man.”

“Not a man,” the correction fell before Frank knew it, “Illi isn’t… she’s—”

“A man in the eyes of God.”

“If God cared so much he would've made everything match. Wouldn’t have given him that face or let me know he exists when she looks at me.”

“You ever think about what your mother would say?”

Frank's stomach pooled with something close to embarrassment. “She likes Illi. Couldn't even tell the difference across the dinner table.”

“And if she knew?”

The quiet between them turned heavy.

“She’d think I’m a good person,” Frank hoped more than answered, softer now. “Mostly.”

Father Andrews cleared his throat, noticing the stillness that only came when Frank was getting what they both knew he was here for.

“The Sunday school teacher needs help getting the kids… interested in being here. Play them something. Show them it’s cool to be here.”

Frank snorted. “You want me to babysit a bunch of Bible babies?”

“I want you to have something else to do with your time. Give them something to talk about other than pokey-man.”

That almost earned a real laugh. He thought about arguing but didn’t. Just nodded, brushing ash off his jeans.

The confessional door shut with a quiet thud followed by the drag of Frank’s shoes.

Back to the ritual. Baby. Pews. Used Bible.

Peace be with you.

---

Afternoon

Fluorescent lights buzzed like flies waiting to have a crack at his insides.

Dr. Levine didn’t look up when Gerard walked in; he never did until he was ready. Which Gerard usually hated, but today he needed the brief moment where his existence didn't seem to matter any more than it did when he slept.

The leather chair was waiting, cracked and faded. It pulled him in like a magnet, or maybe it was just routine. Sit, cry, walk out with pills he knew he wouldn't take.

But not today. Today he had purpose.

“I’m glad you came,” Levine said, pen already clicking. “I like starting the New Year with a session for my clients who struggle this time of year.”

“Yeah, well.” Gerard sank into the chair. “Got me outta Mass. I’ll take the win.”

The red and black pack of calm slid out of his jeans with ease.

“Can I, uh, smoke in here?”

“This isn’t a hospital. You can smoke. Or yell. Or cry. Whatever helps you get through the hour.”

“You coulda just said yes,” Gerard muttered.

“So,” Levine breathed, “the hair?”

“Tried to do a Madonna thing,” Gerard said, raking his fingers through the bleached disaster. “Came out like… this.”

“I think it looks ....very nice.”

“No it doesn’t,” Gerard exhaled with a puff of smoke. “Thought you never lied to me?”

“Everything’s subjective.”

“Yeah? My head isn’t.”

Levine scribbled something. Gerard rolled his eyes.

“How’s your year starting off?”

“You see the hair?” Gerard said. “Exactly like that.”

Click. Another note.

“Still sharing a bed with Frank?”

A smile almost broke out. “Yeah. He met my family for Christmas. Mikey thinks he’s cool. Mom didn’t say anything about the tattoos. That’s, uh… something.”

“And how does that feel?”

Apparently, like the radiator clicking on.

“No sunglasses today.”

“Don’t need ’em.” Gerard rubbed at his face. “Was kinda hopin’ we could… talk about my alprazolam prescription instead.”

“It’s been one month.”

“I know. But I cut back on drinking. Mostly. Except when the train’s too crammed, and people at work won’t get off my back about stamps and showers, and— I can’t draw without the meds. I can barely breathe.”

“You’re not supposed to request medication.”

“You’re always talking about autonomy or whatever—well… here I am, trying to make a choice.”

Levine didn’t react.

“How are things with Frank?”

“Would be better if I had Xanax.”

“Problems at home?”

Always back there. Even when it was his folks instead of his roommate. Levine never accepted it wasn’t about home.

“Met a girl at work.”

Levine actually looked up. “A girl.”

“Yeah. Tall. Blonde. Has a dude’s name.”

“Since when are you into women?”

“I’m not into women… I’m into her. She’s got, uh… nice teeth.”

That threw Levine. “I just assumed because of Adam. And Frank.”

Gerard’s chest tightened. “That’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Well,” Gerard breathed, stubbing his cigarette, “Adam’s dead and Frank doesn’t tell me about the girls. Why should I tell him?”

“So this is about—”

“This isn’t about any of… that. I’ve always liked girls. A lot. Like ’em so much sometimes I watch 'em just to try and figure out how they….just are. They just assume before I can ask anything. Or laugh. Just like you do.”

“I never laugh at you, Gerard.”

“But you want to. Just like everyone else. Then you write something down and think you know me—this is a waste of time.”

Probably should’ve kept that last part, but sometimes things just slipped out.

He wanted to fold in on himself like a black hole, but the best he could do was make the chair squeak and bite his nails before pulling another cigarette from the pack.

“I just… want my head to be quiet longer than a commercial break.”

Levine watched him — the way he had since Gerard was fourteen and wouldn’t say his own name for three sessions.

“I’ll place an emergency script,” Levine said finally. “Two weeks. We’ll revisit.”

Gerard’s spine loosened even as guilt made his head dip. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Levine said gently, “the girl. What're you going to do about her?”

Gerard had no idea. Chys liked the first drawing he’d left, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her it was him. Women were impossible. Men were easy—Frank especially. Belt on the floor, reruns nobody was watching. A mouth, a hand, a heartbeat.

“I drew her once, she liked it. Thought maybe I’d try again. More… me.”

“And what’s ‘you’?”

Gerard smirked weakly. “Depends who you ask. Weird. Cool. Fuckup.”

“And if I’m asking you?”

“I try not to.”

Time ran out. He held the prescription like a prize.

Red and blue pills — salvation shaking in an orange bottle.

He practically ran home.

Frank was waiting on the couch, baggie out, smirk sharp.

“Double,” Frank said. “Got it cheap.”

Gerard should’ve said no.

He didn’t.

Shoved the bag in his pocket.

Just in case.

The couch swallowed them both. A beer found its way into Gerard’s hand.

Commander Sisko flickered onto the TV.

Frank nudged his knee. “Hey. Leave that shit out there.”

Gerard didn’t turn his head.

Just smiled and let Frank ask him questions they both knew the answers to.

Neither of them could wait to get to bed.

Frank insisted Gerard scarf down a sandwich, jump in the shower, and meet him in the bedroom.

Didn’t look at him weird when he hesitated at the door. Just grabbed a Misfits tape and wiggled the hoop in his lip with his tongue.

“Just one song and I’ll be waiting in there the whole time.”

Turning the lights off helped.

Dripping wet, shivering from the reminder that they were behind on the gas bill, he stood in the bedroom doorway.

Pale skin and tattoos waited for him on the bed with a chattering smile. Something stronger than The Force pulled them in.

When lips met, hands followed. No waistbands in the way. Just warm skin and slick palms finding their way.

Falling onto his back, Gerard looked up into a face that never asked the question. Never looked down long enough to make Gerard remember what he was.

Couldn’t admit to Dr. Levine that he liked that it still hurt — kept him from wanting it as much as he knew he would otherwise.

When Frank turned the slide into his first thrust — the one that joined them fully — he got what he was looking for.

The look.