All We Are (Is Bullets, I Mean This)
Title: All We Are (Is Bullets, I Mean This)
Author: fallingfortruth
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey, Gerard/Frank/Mikey implied
Rating: NC-17
POV: Third person limited (Gerard/Mikey)
Summary: This is a cultverse AU, focusing on Gerard and Mikey's relationship.
Disclaimer: None of this is real, I have no claim to any of these people. Made it all up. I do not condone ANY of these activities, and none of the opinions reflected in this piece are meant to reflect upon my beliefs.
Author Notes: Many thanks to joker_and_thief for the inspiration and the beta, and insunshine, spleenjournal, the_staci and liveintrees for letting me flail at them.
Warnings: Hooboy. Brainwashing and general creepiness, as per any cultverse fic. Also incest, implied sexual assault, graphic violence, murder, suicide, mutilation, and dubious consent. Very strong language, one strong racial slur.


Hand in mine, into your icy blues
And then I'd say to you we could take to the highway
With this trunk of ammunition too
I'd end my days with you in a hail of bullets

In the end, it's just the two of them. Just Them, together. They stumble off the stage together, the Message reverberating through their bodies, humming like Mikey's low E, a buzz that's so deep that you feel it more than hear it, in your rib cage and your hips. They drip sweat, smile breathlessly, foreheads together and so-similar eyes bare blinks apart, mouths even closer.

Gerard had been worried about the Lasik, afraid that something might go wrong - he controls everything about his brother's life, to make it perfect, to keep him perfect, unsullied by the filth of the world, but he can't control a surgeon's knife - but now that it's done, it's perfect. Just like everything about Mikey. Being able to look into his eyes from across the stage, green-hazel to their slightly darker siblings, and know that his Mikey sees him just as clearly as if they were right next to each other. As clearly as he used to see him only when they were curled up together on Gerard's marginally-larger bed in their basement bedroom at home, not so very long ago. Clearer than anyone else could possibly hope to.

He likes to think that Mikey sees him clearest because he's most honest with him, his baby brother, his lover, his best friend. But he knows that it's just because he's known him so long that the lies are just different ways of telling truths, that he can discern what Gerard means to say by the falsehoods he uses to try hiding it. How he knows that I needed to make sense of it, to make it mean something means He was fucking lost, and I had to give him meaning again. I had to give him something to live for.

How he knows that and still lets Gerard tell his pretty, convenient lie. How he lets him believe it. How he embraces it, because it's part of the meaning that Gerard has created for him. For them. And that's good enough. Better, even. Because Gerard's always wanted to be understood.

I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know just how much you mean to me
And after all the things we put each other through and

I would drive on to the end with you
A liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full
And I feel like there's nothing left to do
But prove myself to you and we'll keep it running

Sometimes it feels like Gerard is losing Mikey, and it's the only - the only - times that he questions the Message. The Plan, the sweet dance of control and pain and false rebellion that he leads these children through, like some mad eyed Piper playing the way to Limbo, too innocent for Hell - these bright eyed plebeians who flock to his flag, red and white and black, who paint their faces and call themselves the Black Parade - and too damned for Heaven. When Mikey leaves the Paramore and it takes him a week to talk him into coming back, he can't eat. Frank spends hours petting the awkward jut of his spine as he retches into cold, unfeeling porcelain, his rough, callused hands shaking as he whispers meaningless reassurances in his scared little voice, muffled against the still-soft of Gerard's side.

But Mikey comes back, because he has to, because he can't not. He can't exist without Gerard, just as surely as Gerard can't carry on, without him. They don't leave their room for two days, after, and Gerard can't help but notice the way that Ray won't meet his eyes until they're immersed in the music. Because that's what this is, for Ray. Music, and everything else is just window dressing, a means to an end. He's never been comfortable with Gerard and Mikey, with the simplicity of their relationship. Love so all encompassing that it supersedes all boundaries, all definitions, brothers, lovers, soul mates. And Gerard respects that. Ray's room is as far away from theirs as is practical, in the Mansion, in hotels, and they're always quiet on the bus.

Secretly, Gerard likes it. It makes this feel real.

Because this thing, this Message, it's worked too well. One night it was him, his little brother (his Mikey, always his, never anyone else's) and some guys they half-knew from local bands, in their basement. And he swallowed down the nervousness in his gut and enough beer and vodka to pickle the liver of a wildebeest and opened his mouth, started talking about this dream he'd had. This idea. These lyrics. It was so out of his comfort zone, him, little Gerard Way, the geek who almost didn't graduate because math was Just That Hard for him, that he was screaming into the face of roaring crowds and falling apart on stage before he ever paused to wonder if this was the way it should be. And somehow, along the way, it's like gears shifted, in his head. And instead of needing the alcohol and the drugs to get to that place, that magic, manic not-caring place, it was just there, and he stopped. And now it's like he's a passenger in his own head.

The silent commentator, picking at his fingernails and working on his comics, while some other Gerard, some better, more impressive Him takes over the world, one album and show at a time. One band member at a time. First Frank, lured away from a cushy scholarship and a nice job somewhere, some day. His (that other Gerard, the better one's) Frank, who is the Message as thoroughly as anyone could hope to be. Every fiber of his fucking body, tiny and fragile but willing, so willing to keep pushing, through the blood, the pain, the shit-Gerard-it's-not-gonna-fit-ohgod-it's-not-gonna, I'm-not-Mikey-I've-never-done-this-before. Giving everything he's got and then some. Then Bob. Big, reasonable, logical Bob, who abandoned a good job to skid across Europe with them in a van, running mostly on fumes and the seat of their pants, but somehow they made it work. In no small part because they had a drummer who got It, whether It was the Message or the usefulness of a fucking click track. Bob gets everything, and still wants to be there, and that's why he is.

But he'll never win over Ray, and that's... Comforting. Because Ray, if no one else, will remember Gerard. Gerard, the chubby loser who read too many comic books and wanted to get his cartoon optioned by Cartoon Network. Who still lived in his parents' basement in Jersey with his little brother, even though he could leave if he wanted. Because Ray's never going to leave, either. He can't, any more than Frank or Bob can. Not because of the Message, but because of the music. Because it moves him like nothing else ever has or will. And that's its own kind of magic, but he can still see. Sometimes.

But sometimes it's like even Ray gets lost in it, a little, like when he smiles and goes yeah, those costumes'll be fucking brilliant. I'll be like Brian May! and even though he's the one who drew them, Gerard's a little horrified that NO ONE argues with him. It feels like it's all out of his control. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and somehow no one argues. No one complains. Not in a meaningful way. Not in a way that gives him a chance to say 'What? Yeah. You're right. This is too big. We should maybe tone it down some.' To even try to, because he's pretty sure that the other Gerard, the better one, the one that makes fans scream and rival record label execs quiver? Is more in control than he is, any more.

But this time, I mean it
I'll let you know just how much you mean to me
As snow falls on desert sky
Until the end of everything
I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know how much you mean
As days fade, and nights grow
And we go cold

When it happens, no one's watching. That's why it's wrong, why it's not right, why it's broken. No one's watching, and Gerard still has Mikey up against the wall, his fingers dug into the slight give of his ass and his other hand fisting his hair back, hard enough to hurt, before the door to their bedroom is even fully closed. Kissing that pretty little mouth, so used to uncertainty and frowns, with enough force to bruise it, to wrench a gasp from deep inside that thin fucking chest.

A gasp that turns into a shove, weak and wretched, which shocks Gerard into immobility. And one shove turns into another, then another, turns into Mikey beating himself into a wheezing, sobbing wreck against Gerard's chest, as he tries to remember how to make his fingers relax, how to make his hands open and close, pet soothingly at the messy tangle of his brother's hair. While he tries to remember how to make his face move, because it seems like it's been ages, since he tried.

But his hesitant attempts at soothing only make Mikey angrier, more scared. Make his dark eyes wide behind his glasses, as Gerard fists his hand through his hair and chokes on all the words he wants - needs - to say. "You're not my brother," he says, and his voice is terrible, rational in that fragile way, sanity strained to the point of breaking. "You can't be, he would never touch me that way. He- He wouldn't."

And Mikey would know better than anyone, wouldn't he? More than a decade after the first night, the first dream that scared them into the same bed, so terrified of being alone that being together - together, sweaty handedly, breath shakingly, earth shatteringly together - was less frightening. But by the time he slams the door shut in Gerard's open-mouthed face, he still hasn't found the right buttons to push, to make himself speak. He doesn't find them until a few days later, and Mikey doesn't actually take his phone calls until a few days after that.

The first time Mikey fucks him when he comes back is so intense that he comes like he hasn't in years. Since before he started college, at least, and when Mikey chokes off a laugh against his shoulder blade, crooked teeth rasping a little on the soft of his skin, it's impossible to tell if it's relief or schadenfreude at Gerard's mortified groaning. But even though he's Gerard Way when other people are watching, the better Gerard, the stronger one, the one who can mend hearts and take souls with a smile, when they're alone, he remembers how to be Gee, Mikey's big brother, and that's enough. It has to be.

Until the end, until this pool of blood
Until this, I mean this, I mean this
Until the end of...

I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know how much you mean
As days fade, and nights grow
And we go cold

This tour? Was a mistake. It isn't that Gerard doesn't like the other bands. Doesn't like Pete, and that's really what would cause trouble, because where Pete goes, Ryan and William and the rest of them follow. They're friends of a sort, Pete and Gerard, and that fucking girl is better cement than any number of record contracts or shared tours could be. That girl that his brother smiles at, that he pushed Mikey towards one night, towards the end of Warped, and whispered, just as on as he'd ever been on stage, "She'll look pretty on your arm."

Only now it's a tattoo on his brother's arm, a Forever that doesn't belong to him. He designed it, he sent them off to get them, he put ointment on their angry skin, oozing ink like blood, and bandaged them up with a smile and a kiss for each. Seethed inside himself as he did it all, for all that none of it showed through his perfect smile, through the possessive warmth in his eyes.

But Alicia, as much as he hates her, despises her, loathes the necessity of her existence, even though he knows, understands on some better, more rational level that she loves Mikey because he told her to, that Mikey only smiles at her, hugs her, fucks her to see the satisfaction on his face, isn't the problem. No, the problem is Gabriel fucking Saporta.

Gerard doesn't understand how Pete allows him to continue, how he lets anyone get away with the idiocy that this tall kike from the city does. But he's going to be gracious, to ignore the fact that he killed one of his followers, one of his precious Black Parade. Kids he would never have had anything to do with, Before, who all flock to his siren song. And what does his generosity get him?

He's so full of cold fury when he gets to the hotel room that it's all he can do to keep from kicking the door in, which would be needlessly dramatic. He's still enough himself that he manages to keep most of his dramatics to the stage, and this? This isn't about the stage. It's not about the music, it's about what's his. He barely even sees Alicia as he bundles her up, red and bloody and broken - splotchy without her makeup, he hates it when she isn't wearing it, it makes it even harder to pretend that she's beautiful, that she's worthy, that she's enough - and whispers meaningless platitudes against her forehead.

The mocking rise and fall of Gabe's voice is lost on him, the sweet tones and soft vowels, and he feels like a mongoose, edging in, compact and sharp-eyed against a looming foe. His shoulders hunch and his eyes flash, his teeth small and pointed, yellow as he watches for his angle, for how he's going to get out of this room with his chattel and his reputation intact. But then it fuzzes through the haze, the anger-buzz that fills his ears like a thousand swarms of bees. Do you even know if it was his or yours? Do you care?

And it's all over.

When he comes to his thighs are squeezing against Gabe's ribs so tight that he'd have trouble breathing, if he weren't already choking on the blood filling his trachea, face red then suddenly, horrifically pale. His wide brown eyes stare up, shocked, almost uncomprehending, and he makes a little 'huh' sound, from the diaphragm, because when your throat's slit, you can't scream. Gerard squints against the splat of blood from the gust of air, because he doesn't even want to think about where it's been, and pulls his little switchblade back out of the ruin of Gabe's windpipe with a grisly drag and scrape of metal against bone.

It was a present from Frank, a long time ago - so long ago - and once he's rubbed his fingerprints off on Gabe's shirt he tucks it into the pocket of his obnoxious fucking hoodie, thinking with a little grin that it's just as well that it's black. It won't show the blood that's already clotting on Gabe's olive skin. This won't go anywhere. He's from Jersey, he knows how things happen, or rather, don't. How some crimes just never get solved.

He almost makes it to the door before grimacing and turning around, in a moment of weakness tempted to leave her, to just- Just let her add her blood to the mushy stain on the carpet, until she isn't his bother any more. But she is, and Gerard Way wouldn't leave his brother's fiancee to die in a dirty hotel room with the body of a psychopath in it, no matter how much Gerard might be tempted. So he hefts the blanket up into his arms and steadies her head against his shoulder with a little shrug, another grimace, before he walks out the door.

But somehow the sloppy hack job that Gabe did on her wrist is cleaner by the time he gets her to the ER. Neat, with almost surgical precision, entirely shredding the colorful ink that used to live under her skin. The cops take a few pictures, an impression, but even though some of the marks look like they might have been made by finger nails, the forensics are inconclusive.

But this time, we'll show them
We'll show them all how much we mean
As snow falls on desert sky
Until the end of every...

The funeral is a mockery. The only person who actually looks sad in the first four rows is Vicky T, even with the black eye that her makeup only partly covers, her neat black dress disheveled for possibly the first time all tour. Even when she had blood and come threatening to drip down her thigh on stage, from quick, violent fucks behind the amp stack she always looked put together, cool and above it all, but this has undone her. Gerard sits between Frank and Mikey, Alicia and Jamia bracketing them, cool and collected in his nice suit, his hair still smelling of black hair dye, glittering like raven's feathers in the sun. Pete stands up, says some words that hold together pretty well, even if Gerard can practically see him speaking in all lowercase, shortening his words. Parsing English into something else, more palatable for the kids who are going to hear all about this on Buzznet, Absolute Punk's coverage. Heychris is even there, at the back, with his little camera, his knowing smirk, like he knows what's up but is too smug to help anyone else figure it out if they aren't already in the know.

Gerard actually kind of respects Christopher Gutierrez, for surviving some shit that he knows that he probably couldn't've - he's not strong, he's never been. His strength is his vision, the things he can see, can see a way to make real. In some ways he's the weakest of them all, because increasingly it feels like he's the only person who's chafing, who's faltering under the weight of the message that he created - for seeing what Pete was up to and getting himself out. For making his statement in plain words, words that stand or fall on their own merit, without a Ray or a Patrick to back them with music that crawls into people's souls and sets up housekeeping. But he fucking hates heychris, if for no other reason than he's had to hear Pete whine about him, hear Mikey whining about Pete whining, for what seems like forever. It gets old.

He realizes that he's thinking about everything other than the real issue here, the body up on the bier. They've put him in a yarmulke, and there's something very strange about that. Gerard wonders if they'll loop a rosary around his wrist when he dies. If they'll twist his face into that little smile that all morticians seem to think that dead people should wear. Like only when your heart stops beating will you get just how much of a fucking joke this all is. But Gerard's already heard the punchline, and it wasn't worth waiting for. He shifts, a little, rubs the edge of his pinkie against Frank's thigh, watching through his lashes as he shifts and coughs, a picture perfect little attendant. A little kid all dressed up, paying attention but unaware of the subtleties. Maybe he'll explain it to him after the service is over, on the way to the wake, in their mirror-windowed limo, necessary to hide them from the mourners outside, from the world of television cameras and people who don't get It. Mikey will help, and Jamia will watch, Alicia will stare dumbly out the window - isn't the sky lovely today? is all it will take, and she'll be rapt for hours, still hopped up on pain killers and not exactly all that bright to begin with - Bob will read, and Ray'll go back to the hotel with his laptop.

It actually takes so long that the driver has to circle slow around the few-block square radius of the downtown in what passes for a town center here in BFE Ohio, and when they arrive Frank's limping a little, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen, but he smiles as he tucks himself into Jamia's side, stumbles off to go say hello to Beckett and bum a shot of the Butcher's Jager. Gerard knows that he still drinks, that even Mikey does, sometimes, and that's just fine with him. Secretly, he's a little reassured. That maybe only his strengths come across in the Message, rather than his weaknesses as well. But smiles or no Frank starts fading fast, after an hour or two, his pretty hazel eyes obscured by the sweep of his lashes as he presses his teeth into the LL's of his middle finger as he blunts his yawn, shakes his dark hair into his eyes as he tries to focus. Gerard makes their excuses, leaves Bob in an intent discussion with one of the techs to make his way back on his own - he always does - and they all go back to their impromptu hotel home.

Since there's press coverage Frank and Jamia and Alicia and Mikey get their own rooms, leaving Gerard to lay in the middle of his King sized bed alone. To stare up at the ceiling, his iPod headphones shoved into his ears as he listens to himself, to his own voice playing back almost unrecognizable in his ears. To try and find out where there's room, in this music that Ray's shaped for him, in the words that he wrote, to make room for the blood on his hands. It's like a logic puzzle, a brain-teaser, and Gerard's actually shocked when someone touches him, a soft, cold hand resting over his for a second before shaking, gently. Like whoever it is thinks that he might be asleep.

That's when Gerard knows who it is, because only one person who has a key code to this room is dim enough to forget that he never sleeps on his back, relaxed and sprawled, and it takes a real effort to open his eyes, tug a headphone out, smile. He wants to stay silent, to ignore her, to tell her to go away. Back to Mikey. To the husband he gave to her. To his little brother, his lover, his everything. Who she's too fucking stupid to appreciate. Always looking to him, always, no matter how many times he turns her head back, makes her eyes face where they belong. He grits his teeth for a second before patting the bed next to him, smiling his awkward little close-mouthed smile, and sits up, running his hand through his hair as he tries to find the right words. The words a rock star would say, the better Gerard would say, the feelings he would feel. Because it just - it feels like he's rudderless, like even though it wasn't his idea, his hand that held that knife, the blood's left on his hands, his problem to deal with. It occurs to him that the better Gerard is just as much of a coward as he is, if he's leaving this for him to deal with, but it doesn't make his voice sound any different, as he mutters softly, without much enthusiasm. "What d'you want?"

The other Gerard would have asked what she needed, touched her, but she isn't wearing her makeup, and her eyes are puffy with crying, nostrils red and bandage all fluffy and fucked up, like she's been picking at it. He starts to press his lips together, to chastise her for looking sloppy - Mikey deserves better - when she starts talking, and he forgets. Forgets what he was going to say. Why he's trying to pretend to be someone he isn't. Because if this is what that other, better Gerard thinks is worthwhile... Ugh. "I- Gee. Gee, I want- I wanted to say thank you. For coming. For- For saving me. I knew you would. He said- He said that you didn't care. That- That only the cobra would care for me. That you h- He said that you hated me, Gee."

He winces, a little, because there are very few things he hates more than that word, on those lips, high and piercing and he knows intellectually that as a Jersey Boy he has no room to accuse other people of being unduly nasal, but Christ. But then he actually hears what she's saying, or trying to, and he feels - he shakes his head, a little, and tries to look concerned, even though he feels like laughing. Like finding Gabe's grave and pouring him some libations, a few tabs of acid and a baggie full of pills to see him into the aftertrip, because he never actually gave Gabe that much credit when he was alive. And even if he was probably making it up, imagining something completely different from the truth, Gerard has to give him credit for his dumb fucking luck. "Why would he say that, d- Alicia?"

The endearment dies on his lips as she rubs the back of her hand against the underside of her nose, sniffling wetly. He swallows and grimaces, his lips twisting down in the corners, and tastes the bite of bile at the back of his throat as her face - plain and undistinguished, without the kohl and colour that she cakes onto it for appearances sake, and what, he wonders, makes her think that she shouldn't be trying to impress him - transforms, slips into an almost childlike grin of wonder as she reaches for him, tries to touch his face, his arm, snot still glistening on her skin. "I knew it, I knew that you cared! I told him, and told him, that you would come for me. You love me, Gee. And I love you!"

Disgust is a little too simple a word for the feeling that washes over him, through him, as he jerks away from her, smacking her hand away from his face with an uncareful blow to her forearm that makes her cower and whimper, clutching the gauze-wrapped ruin of it to her chest. Her eyes are wide, uncomprehending as she cowers, whines high in her throat, and says uncertainly, like she isn't sure of what she's saying, a very real fear showing in the backs of her dark eyes. Eyes that he'd thought might be like his brother's, once. Enough like to let him smile into them, but they aren't. There's none of the understanding, the knowledge and the awareness in them that Mikey's have, and it makes him feel like he's talking to a child. "Don't touch me, Alicia. Go back to Mikey. He's the one who loves you."

"But I love you." She pushes her hair back from her face, lips set in a stubborn little moue, and Gerard finds himself up against the headboard without really remembering when he started moving. He tucks his knees up as she looms, kneeling in front of him, taller than he is, if thinner, almost as waifish as his brother. Like - like she'd tried to become as much like him as possible, down to the dark sweep of her hair and the slight, sun-kissed tan of her skin.

Suddenly, Gerard feels sick. "No, you don't." She doesn't even know him, he realizes suddenly. She loves him, the other Gerard, the one who's abandoned him to all of this- This bullshit. He's so busy being horrified and bitter that she surprises him, again, leaning in to grab roughly at his cock, fingers too rough, unfamiliar. Long nails and soft, fleshy palms, too-pink lips parted and breasts soft against his knees as she giggles, high and light. She shifts her hand, pressing with her palm, and reaches for the waistband of his pajamas with her other hand. He moves without thinking, and the next thing he knows her head's cracking with a sick thud against the foot board and her eyes are rolling back into her head. His foot stings and the back of his knee burns, unprepared for the sudden snap of movement. He glares at her, arms wrapped around his knees, for a long time, before he realizes that she's probably not going to wake up on her own, if she hasn't by now.

He clambers down the bed, checking her pulse with a hand that shakes a little, and wrinkles his nose with it's steady. Almost screams, when she reaches up to touch his hand, the edge of the bandage scratchy against his skin as she blinks her eyes open woozily and smiles that hateful dreamy smile of hers. "I know why you did it. Why you- Why you took it off. Because you wanted me. Gabe- The cobra took the baby, because- Because it wasn't yours. He didn't save me. You saved me. He didn't deserve Forever."

Gerard doesn't remember much, after that.

All we are, all we are
Is bullets I mean this

As lead rains, will pass on through our phantoms
Forever, forever
Like scarecrows that fuel this flame we're burning
Forever, and ever
Know how much I want to show you you're the only one
Like a bed of roses there's a dozen reasons in this gun

When Mikey was little, he had night terrors. Dreams that made him scream and shake, clawing at everything nearby as he tried to escape, to move, to do anything to make them stop. But once he'd woken up, heart pounding and limbs jittering with adrenalin, he would remember that it was just a dream, that he wasn't alone. That it was Gerard's hand petting back his hair, finding him his glasses so he could stumble to the bathroom to wash his face.

Then, later, it was Gerard's lips that he settled for, sleepy and soft, his hands touching other places, ones that made him gasp and moan, but the message was always the same. This is real. This is your reality. It was just a dream.

But sometimes, he would just wake up, like flipping a light switch or falling down. It was always with a jolt, and usually by the time he was sure he wasn't going to keep falling, he'd know why. Because Gerard had locked himself into the bathroom and forgotten how to open the door, because Gerard had accidentally locked himself out and fallen asleep on the back steps, a small huddle of baggy black clothes and vodka that might have gotten there on its way in or out. It hasn't happened since It, since the Message knit their lives together in a neat shape, but deep down, Mikey is just waiting.

The first time it happened, Gerard was crying. Mikey had just gotten his first pair of glasses, made and lost his first school friend when he shoved them for making fun of his brother as he came to pick him up from the first day of kindergarten, and he felt very grown up. That didn't mean he didn't feel helpless as he climbed into his brother's bed, crawling up the grade that separated his trundle from Gerard's twin. "Gee, Gee," he hissed, poking with his sharp little fingers until Gerard had uncurled, sniffling. The darkness leeched the red from his eyes, but it didn't do anything for the wet gleam of his cheeks, and Mikey was a lot gentler, when he brushed his fingers over the soft curve of his brother's cheek. "Gee? You okay?"

Gerard had choked, a little, tried to halt the stop and start of his breathing, and pulled Mikey into a tight, desperate hug. When he was curled as thoroughly into his little brother's spindly arms as he could be he hid his face against the flannel of Mikey's pajama top and mumbled, his voice scared, defeated, "It's all real," and then fallen back asleep. Mikey had spent almost the entire night trying to figure out what Gerard meant by that, and his mom had had to threaten him with suspension of his Saturday Cartoon privileges to get him out of bed the next morning. They never talked about it. Never. Not even after the point where having secrets was kind of pointless, when they'd shared as much and more than any two people really should.

But when Mikey wakes up with a start and a sick feeling in his stomach, part of him thinks finally.

It's such a shock that he bangs his hand on the night stand reaching for his glasses and stubs his toes on a wall that's not supposed to be there before he realizes that he's not at home. He isn't still a college student living in a subterranean basement bedroom with his big brother, and this anonymous hotel room is nothing like familiar. He barely even recognizes himself as he hops past the mirror, smoothing his short, dark hair out of its sleepy quiff with something like unfamiliarity. He doesn't bother with clothes since this entire wing of the hotel has been coopted by funeral attendees, which means that him stumbling across the hall in his Stone Roses t-shirt and black boxers is definitely not enough to raise any eyebrows.

He fumbles the code once, then again, before he can get his fingers to cooperate. 103181, because otherwise certain band mates forget and wake them up kicking the door and whining, and the latch disengages, lets the heavy door slip open. Mikey presses through it and kicks it closed again so quickly that he doesn't think about it, eyes automatically seeking out- "Gerard."

But his brother - his brother - doesn't respond. Just sits there, slumped, the slight upturn of his nose silhouetted against the blue-white of the wall. It's gotten dark and he hasn't turned on a light, is just staring towards the foot of the bed, so Mikey walks over and turns it on for him. Sometimes - sometimes Gerard gets so caught up in thinking, in being himself, that he forgets little things like lights. Like sleep. Like eating. So Mikey reminds him, because that's what Mikey does.

Once the light is on he turns around and comes up short, his brow furrowed as his gut twists, sick, hot jealousy thrilling bitter on the back of his tongue as he sees her. Alicia. Laying curled up against the foot board of Gerard's bed. His first thought, his first step, is all over jerky and almost-angry as he steps forward and his lips twist, words right on them Go back to the bedroom, baby, no need for you here, before he realizes that she's not moving. That it isn't the possessive look on Gerard's face, the one he knows so well, has spent hours basking under, but something... Different. Blank.

He barely even blinks as Mikey climbs up next to him, just keeps staring at her face, bluish-lipped and red-spotted eyes, stringy dyed-black hair and soft, shapeless cheeks. Mikey tries to tug him away, to distract him with a palm to his cheek, soft and urgent, a kiss quick and wet, tongue pressing past his lips only to find... Nothing there. He doesn't even push him away, just hums at the back of his throat, leans a little to maintain his line of sight. And that- Mikey just can't take that. He rounds on Alicia - on Alicia's body, one very small, strangely unperturbed part of him points out reasonably - and snarls wordlessly, his lips twisting unpleasantly. Mine. He's mine and you can't have him. Not even his attention. Mine.

He almost knocks his brother over grabbing hold of his arm, his other hand splayed flat against the bedspread, and lashes out, his long, lanky leg viper-quick. But his first kick barely rocks her back, a little wheeze squeezed past her parted lips, and he has to tighten his grip probably bruise tight on Gerard's arm to give him the leverage to wedge his foot under her rib cage and lever her up over the low foot board, thigh trembling with the effort. What a fucking cow he thinks irritably, even while other, smaller, so-easily ignored parts of his mind are quietly mourning her lean curves, her pretty face. It isn't pretty now, and a quick, sharp kick to still ribs is enough to tip her weight over and the unresisting bulk of her body slithers over the thin padding and slick upholstery fabric easily. By the time she hits the cream berber carpet Mikey's forgotten her.

He turns on his brother, tips his face up, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the gentle bow of his lower lip as he sighs. Gerard's face is blank, withdrawn, and usually it would be about this time that Mikey would be trying to remember where the nearest box of tissues is, calculating how many steps it would take to get Gerard to the nearest trash can, and then from there to the bathroom. But he knows that his brother is clean, knows with bone deep certainty. That decision's already been made, and when Gerard Decides Things, he does it heart and mind and soul, and the world might as well be shaped without even the possibility of it being any other way, after.

So instead he just lifts his brother's arm, tugging up the sleeve of his t-shirt to press gentle kisses and soft, soft touches to the red marks his fingers left. Once he's apologized for the hurt he lets Gerard's arm drop and guides it against the angle of his hip, thumb against the cut of his thigh and his fingers gently curled into the vague divot where his ass would be if, you know. He had one. Pretends that Gerard's actually holding him as he slides across his brother's lap, thighs parting like his lips against Gerard's, drawing him in. Holding him, chest to chest and tongue to tongue until he begins to stir.

Body first, but his mind follows, the recognition flickering in his brother's wide green-hazel eyes as he holds his leg, pushes against his calf to hold him in place as he thrusts in, teeth bared and breath broken. Soft moans shape almost-words as he moves with him, over him, and as he comes he swears that he feels fingers tight for just a moment on his back. But as he lays against his brother, breath rushed and slightly-wheezy, not enough to make him reach for his inhaler but more than he can comfortably bear, it isn't his lover that his brother turns to. It's his best friend, his secrets-keeper, who shares things with him under covers, in back alleys and forgotten attics. In the soft, slow minutes before he can force himself to pull out, away, to abandon Gerard to what's left of himself, the only words he speaks are soft, so-soft. Heartbreaking, because this time, Mikey knows what he means, when he breathes, sounding too tired to be terrified. "It's all real."

He smiles down at him, and there's an answering smile on his brother's mobile face, one that makes his eyes burn and his chest ache. He reaches down, touches Gerard's cheek, and when he tips into his touch he gasps, so much more honest than anything he might have felt, before, because- Because it's Gerard looking up at him, his face twisting in simple, childlike horror. When he starts to cry Mikey has problems not following. Because where Gerard leads, he follows. Except- Except now? He doesn't know if he has the strength to go. "Forever." Gerard keeps whispering, as he wraps his pale, naked limbs around Mikey's darker, more-toned flesh, his face tucked into the side of his neck. "Forever, she said. She didn't- She didn't deserve forever."

As the night wears on Mikey talks to his brother, whispers and jokes and laughs, sharp and sudden like it's a foreign taste on his tongue. Sings him the songs that he wrote, that he wrote for him, plays them with one headphone stuck in each of their ears. Tries to show Gerard the rhythm in them. Anything, anything. But all he can do is laugh, and cry, and whisper. She. She didn't. She didn't deserve forever.

The sun is almost bright outside when he lapses into raspy, unsettled sleep, and Mikey pulls his boxers back on reluctantly, pressing a kiss to the crease between his brows as he pets his so-short, freshly dyed hair back from that sweet, sweet face, the birthmark on his cheek plain to see, without a trace of makeup to obscure it. "Sleep, sweet brother. I'll take care of you." His words seem to settle him, make him easy, and in truth, Mikey is barely gone long enough to warrant a pause. It's painfully easy to get what he needs. From Bob's bag, left at the foot of the bed that hasn't been slept in yet. From Gerard's case of art supplies, and that hurts him so gravely, because normally he would never be able to claim anything from that without his brother's querulous voice. And that's just the problem, isn't it.

He makes his work quick, the sharp smell of indelible ink acrid in his nose as he breathes through his mouth, hands shaking, hair-fine tremors. But he's been faking his brother's handwriting for too long for that to stop him, and he shoves it under the alarm clock, flicking the two alarms off irritably from where they were set. No need for that now. His brother created a Message for him, once. Something just for him, to give his life meaning, and now- Now his brother is all the meaning he needs.

He shakes Gerard's shoulder, gently, smiling something almost too broad to be a smile, too painful for joy or sorrow at the sweet, meaningless pleasure on his brother's face as he settles into the circle of his arms. He coughs, a little, and when he speaks, he's studiously deaf to the way his voice cracks. "Hey, hey bro."

"Hey Mikey." Gerard reaches up, pressing his hand to his little brother's face, brows quirked so-slightly together in confusion, before he looks back into his brothers eyes, leans in until the tip of his nose snugs up against his brother's, their lashes almost close enough together to tangle as they blink. "You're crying."

"I know I am, bro. But it doesn't matter now." He unwinds his hand just enough to reach behind him, his other arm pillowing his brother's cheek, clutching him close. He grabs what he's looking for and fumbles until he hears the safety click, then coughs, choking back his tears until they subside into a raspy giggle and allow him to whisper, pressing the words into the corner of his brother's mouth. "I love you, Gerard."

"I love you too, Mikey." And he jerks, a little, at the cold of metal resting against his chest, but doesn't move, just hugs Mikey tighter and leans away, just far enough that he can look him dead in the eyes as he whispers, voice full of emotion, raw and awful. "Forever."

And as we're falling down, and in this pool of blood
And as we're touching hands, and as we're falling down
And in this pool of blood, and as we're falling down
I'll see your eyes, and in this pool of blood
I'll meet your eyes, I mean this forever

Mikey presses his lips to Gerard's, to his brother's, and it's almost a relief when he kisses back, uncharacteristically rough, bruising Mikey's lip against his teeth as he holds him close, so close, like he never wants to let go. It's like permission, like thanks, as those same so-sweet lips wrap around the barrel, and Mikey can barely breathe, can't even whisper, just shake the words on his ripping exhalations as he tightens his finger, a little, sweat-slippery on the cross-hatched grip. "I'll- I'll be right behind you, Gee. Just- Just don't wait up for me."

And then he's crying, and it isn't at all like in video games, because the 9mm jerks as his hand spasms, and his eyes blink so hard at the retort that his vision takes a few seconds to clear. When they do he doesn't even remember to click the safety back on before he throws it away, his entire body shaking as he kisses those lips, washes away gunshot residue with saliva and pretends that the red that stains them is kiss-flush. He can't even see clearly enough to note the spill and pool of red that stains his brother's eye, blooming like some new and awful flower as he claws away just far enough to find his next piece. The last, so very nearly the last. He pricks himself on the sharp point of the exacto knife, ignores it, even when it makes his fingers slip as he works, hands shaking so very, very hard. Seven letters and his brother barely even bleeds, purple-red oozing sluggish from the cuts as he rubs the vine charcoal between his palms, smears it across, poking and rubbing and sobbing in ragged, bone-jarring jags until when he clears it away it's clear against the stark white of his skin, the red-raw of flesh stained black. Forever.

Mikey smiles, a little, rubbing his hands dully against his boxers, whisking away the residue, because he owes Gerard this. He owes him perfect. He owes him forever. Because the Message was for him, it was Gerard's gift to him, and now he's going to save it, because he could no more destroy something of Gerard's creation than he could stop loving him. He looks to the bedside table, nods, and takes a deep breath before curling back up into the circle of his brother's arms. Only now neither of them can see, no matter how close together they are, and only one of them is breathing, and fitfully, the awful wheeze sucking in the space between his collarbones and making his words an awful wreck as he turns the blade against his skin, ink-free and pristine, veins sharp against the thin sinew of his forearm, and whispers. "I hope you waited up for me."

And in the end, it's just the two of them. Just Them, together.

Forever.