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What's that you say? There isn't enough gen about Gerard during the summer of like? Okay!
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strangecobwebs, who saves me from being randomly aphasic and doesn't mind sharing. This is actually the story I was aiming for, the first time I wrote Gerard sobriety genfic.
Gerard, Pete. Summer of Like.
1,033 words.
"Is this the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your brother?"
Q&A
The knock came while Gerard was painting his right middle fingernail. He ignored the sound for a few seconds, concentrating on wielding the tiny brush left-handed, and then yelled, "Come on in unless you're an axe murderer."
"Just a porn ninja."
Gerard looked up, startled, as Pete walked--no, sauntered--onto the bus, his hands in his pockets, looking around idly.
"Hey, Pete. Mikey was headed over to your bus, did he miss you?"
Pete sat down across from Gerard, dropping like an awkwardly-handled puppet, hands still in pockets. "Nah," he said, and finally raised one hand to sort through the other bottles of polish on the table--all black, different brands. "Mikey said you wanted to talk to me."
Gerard blinked. He hadn't really expected Mikey to remember to pass that message along the very first time Gerard mentioned it. He'd had a whole plan for actually making contact with Pete. "I didn't mean right this second."
Pete shrugged, frowning at the Revlon (too nice to use, it didn't chip right). "Is this the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your brother?"
Gerard snorted and moved on to his ring finger. "No, because I don't fucking care what your intentions are. If you hurt Mikey I'll hunt you down and kick your ass, and when I'm done I'll hand you over to Frank and Ray and Bob. Bob's kind of scary when he gets mad."
Gerard glanced up before moving on to his pinky; Pete was still staring at the nail polish, but he seemed to be taking this with an appropriate level of seriousness. There was a little frown line on his forehead, but he hadn't plastered on some fake-attentive interview face.
"But I figured you would guess that," Gerard added, shrugging as he finished up his hand. "I'm sure Mikey's gonna be in a world of hurt if he fucks things up with you."
Pete smirked a little. It was an expression that would make him look like an asshole if captured on film, but face-to-face Gerard could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes, Pete's certain knowledge that his band (and his label, and the kids who read his blog) had his back. It made Gerard want to smile back. It made Gerard want to believe Pete's silent assertion that he had all the friends he could possibly need.
Gerard looked down at his nails, gleaming and wet. One more coat, one more friend. Couldn't hurt. "I just wanted to ask you if you're okay."
Gerard counted off ten seconds, watching paint dry and waiting for Pete to answer. When he looked up Pete's smirk was rock-solid, camera-ready. "Am I supposed to answer in the form of a song?"
Gerard rolled his eyes, picked up the Wet'n'Wild and threw it left-handed, squarely into Pete's chest. It hit hard enough to startle him a little, making his fixed expression flicker like Gerard had bumped the TV and made the antenna wobble.
"Wentz, you can tell me it's none of my business, you can tell me you're doing fine and there's nothing to worry about, but don’t act like it's a stupid fucking question."
Pete looked away and Gerard waited, watching him. This couldn't have been what Pete was expecting when he came over here. Mikey would have left him thinking it would be a lecture, maybe Crazy Gerard threatening to come to his house and suck his blood. Walking over here in the July heat and the noise of Warped Tour, Pete must have felt far away from that February night in a parking lot near Chicago.
Hazy as his memories of it were, Gerard never felt far enough away from that late night in July in a city he didn't remember playing.
Pete finally heaved a sigh and squirmed in his seat before slapping his Sidekick down on the table, inches from where Gerard's right hand was still splayed flat. "Talk therapy twice a week, my mom knows when my appointments are and they go up on the white board on the bus. I take my meds every day and I'm pretty sure Patrick is counting the pills every night, but I pretend not to notice."
The phone was a silent offer, go ahead and check. If Gerard had been curious about Pete's intentions toward Mikey, that gesture alone would have satisfied him.
"It's weird, isn't it?" Gerard tried out a small smile. "On the phone, I mean. I can't decide if it'd be worse or better if I could see the guy while I'm talking about this stuff."
Pete wrinkled his nose. "Oh, so much worse, man, I did it in person when I was a kid."
"Yeah," Gerard said, raising his nails to blow on them carefully. "Yeah, when I was in art school. I guess now we work with what we've got, huh?"
It was a clumsy way to say we're the same, you're not alone, and Pete could have said no we aren't, could have played the straight-edge card and thrown that in Gerard's face. Straight-up depression won over alcoholism and drug addiction in the moral superiority sweepstakes, without even breaking a sweat.
But Pete just nodded, turning the nail polish over in his hands. If he was going to let it go, Gerard should really return the favor.
"That was all, man, I just wanted to ask you that and let you know I meant it as an actual question, not just your cue to smile and nod."
Pete quirked a smile, ironic enough to excuse the nod. "Yeah, okay."
He set the nail polish down, picking up his phone and pocketing it as he stood. Gerard looked down at his nails--they were perfect for now. In the morning he'd need to scuff them up a little, but right now they gleamed, smooth and shining.
"Hey."
Gerard looked up to see Pete hesitating, halfway to the door.
"What about you? You okay?"
Gerard grinned. It wasn't like he'd never known what Mikey saw in this guy, but he suddenly saw something all his own. "Yeah, man, you know. One day at a time."
"Yeah," Pete said, grinning back. "Yeah, I know."
strangecobwebs, who saves me from being randomly aphasic and doesn't mind sharing. This is actually the story I was aiming for, the first time I wrote Gerard sobriety genfic.Gerard, Pete. Summer of Like.
1,033 words.
"Is this the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your brother?"
Q&A
The knock came while Gerard was painting his right middle fingernail. He ignored the sound for a few seconds, concentrating on wielding the tiny brush left-handed, and then yelled, "Come on in unless you're an axe murderer."
"Just a porn ninja."
Gerard looked up, startled, as Pete walked--no, sauntered--onto the bus, his hands in his pockets, looking around idly.
"Hey, Pete. Mikey was headed over to your bus, did he miss you?"
Pete sat down across from Gerard, dropping like an awkwardly-handled puppet, hands still in pockets. "Nah," he said, and finally raised one hand to sort through the other bottles of polish on the table--all black, different brands. "Mikey said you wanted to talk to me."
Gerard blinked. He hadn't really expected Mikey to remember to pass that message along the very first time Gerard mentioned it. He'd had a whole plan for actually making contact with Pete. "I didn't mean right this second."
Pete shrugged, frowning at the Revlon (too nice to use, it didn't chip right). "Is this the part where you ask me what my intentions are toward your brother?"
Gerard snorted and moved on to his ring finger. "No, because I don't fucking care what your intentions are. If you hurt Mikey I'll hunt you down and kick your ass, and when I'm done I'll hand you over to Frank and Ray and Bob. Bob's kind of scary when he gets mad."
Gerard glanced up before moving on to his pinky; Pete was still staring at the nail polish, but he seemed to be taking this with an appropriate level of seriousness. There was a little frown line on his forehead, but he hadn't plastered on some fake-attentive interview face.
"But I figured you would guess that," Gerard added, shrugging as he finished up his hand. "I'm sure Mikey's gonna be in a world of hurt if he fucks things up with you."
Pete smirked a little. It was an expression that would make him look like an asshole if captured on film, but face-to-face Gerard could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes, Pete's certain knowledge that his band (and his label, and the kids who read his blog) had his back. It made Gerard want to smile back. It made Gerard want to believe Pete's silent assertion that he had all the friends he could possibly need.
Gerard looked down at his nails, gleaming and wet. One more coat, one more friend. Couldn't hurt. "I just wanted to ask you if you're okay."
Gerard counted off ten seconds, watching paint dry and waiting for Pete to answer. When he looked up Pete's smirk was rock-solid, camera-ready. "Am I supposed to answer in the form of a song?"
Gerard rolled his eyes, picked up the Wet'n'Wild and threw it left-handed, squarely into Pete's chest. It hit hard enough to startle him a little, making his fixed expression flicker like Gerard had bumped the TV and made the antenna wobble.
"Wentz, you can tell me it's none of my business, you can tell me you're doing fine and there's nothing to worry about, but don’t act like it's a stupid fucking question."
Pete looked away and Gerard waited, watching him. This couldn't have been what Pete was expecting when he came over here. Mikey would have left him thinking it would be a lecture, maybe Crazy Gerard threatening to come to his house and suck his blood. Walking over here in the July heat and the noise of Warped Tour, Pete must have felt far away from that February night in a parking lot near Chicago.
Hazy as his memories of it were, Gerard never felt far enough away from that late night in July in a city he didn't remember playing.
Pete finally heaved a sigh and squirmed in his seat before slapping his Sidekick down on the table, inches from where Gerard's right hand was still splayed flat. "Talk therapy twice a week, my mom knows when my appointments are and they go up on the white board on the bus. I take my meds every day and I'm pretty sure Patrick is counting the pills every night, but I pretend not to notice."
The phone was a silent offer, go ahead and check. If Gerard had been curious about Pete's intentions toward Mikey, that gesture alone would have satisfied him.
"It's weird, isn't it?" Gerard tried out a small smile. "On the phone, I mean. I can't decide if it'd be worse or better if I could see the guy while I'm talking about this stuff."
Pete wrinkled his nose. "Oh, so much worse, man, I did it in person when I was a kid."
"Yeah," Gerard said, raising his nails to blow on them carefully. "Yeah, when I was in art school. I guess now we work with what we've got, huh?"
It was a clumsy way to say we're the same, you're not alone, and Pete could have said no we aren't, could have played the straight-edge card and thrown that in Gerard's face. Straight-up depression won over alcoholism and drug addiction in the moral superiority sweepstakes, without even breaking a sweat.
But Pete just nodded, turning the nail polish over in his hands. If he was going to let it go, Gerard should really return the favor.
"That was all, man, I just wanted to ask you that and let you know I meant it as an actual question, not just your cue to smile and nod."
Pete quirked a smile, ironic enough to excuse the nod. "Yeah, okay."
He set the nail polish down, picking up his phone and pocketing it as he stood. Gerard looked down at his nails--they were perfect for now. In the morning he'd need to scuff them up a little, but right now they gleamed, smooth and shining.
"Hey."
Gerard looked up to see Pete hesitating, halfway to the door.
"What about you? You okay?"
Gerard grinned. It wasn't like he'd never known what Mikey saw in this guy, but he suddenly saw something all his own. "Yeah, man, you know. One day at a time."
"Yeah," Pete said, grinning back. "Yeah, I know."