Mikey and Gerard share a traumatic childhood that brought them closer than they ever should have been. Now grown adults, Mikey feels Gerard is in need of a reminder.
"Why did Gerard get married to Lindsey so suddenly?"
Ray contemplates the question out loud, from his seat on the tour bus couch. It's a casual question, brought on by a conversation regarding Lindsey's faults. No one bothers to answer because its a question that has been overly discussed, and already resolved. The general consensus is that Gerard had so spontaneously made his proposal the minute Frank's back was turned, when he had been in his hotel room taking a nap, in an attempt to spare Frank's feelings -- so he would never see the ceremony. Neither Frank or Gerard have yet to confirm this theory, mostly because we never have these conversations when either were around --- like now.
But it doesn't matter.
Because I know they're wrong.
Well, half wrong is a bit more accurate. My brother did marry Lindsey on a whim, out of fear for someone's feelings. He did it because someone who was usually there, someone who had always been there, for a moment... wasn't.
But that someone was never Frank.
It was me.
Let me rewind things for you.
Gerard and I have a long history of secrets. Some of them heavier than others. But possibly the heaviest ones were the repeated episodes of sexual abuse.
It started off when we were both very young. Gerard was only 12 when our father first took him. Since our dad had been violent before, Gerard couldn't understand it as anything but an unusual way of being beaten. We were both sexually naive...I suppose that was our downfall.
Our mom had never spoken to us much about the birds and the bees, but then again she never spoke to us about anything at all. It was hard for her to, since she was never home to begin with. So it took us a while to comprehend what dear old dad was doing to my older brother. For some time, all I knew was that Gerard would return to our bedroom at five in the morning, bleeding and in terrible pain.
At one point, I began to follow them... and I would just watch. I would crouch behind the doorway, peering into the slight opening that dad would leave so he could listen for any outside noises. Too bad he had shit hearing.
I would never try to save him, coward that I was. Gerard had said he would never want me to interfere anyway, afraid that dad might hurt me too. God knows I'd snap the neck of anyone who tries to touch my brother now, but back then I guess I wasn't anything but a scared and confused kid.
This went on for years, both of us too paralyzed in fear to do anything about it. Then one particular night down this nightmare ridden road, I truly believed Gerard was going to die.
He came into our room, bleeding waterfalls and all different shades of purple. I should have taken him to the hospital somehow. Mom wasn't home as usual, and dad was the cause of the problem. All he had was me, and I should have done the responsible thing and found someone, well, responsible to help him. An adult. A neighbor. Something.
But instead I got whatever supplies I could from the medicine cabinet, and I applied nearly all of its contents on him. As he laid in bed, I rubbed creams on his bruises. As he cried and sobbed, I placed bandages in embarrassing places. As he moaned and writhed, I fed him pills that I had figured were for pain.
And as he whimpered and trembled, I kissed him on his mangled lips.
I didn't know it was wrong.
We didn't know.
Daddy did it all the time. But we knew why he was wrong -- he was wrong because he was hurting Gerard. I would never hurt Gerard. In fact, the only reason I did it was because I wanted to take away the hurt.
How could it be wrong?
After a few moments of hesitation, I felt his lips weakly trying to kiss back my own. We stayed in this awkward position for almost a minute before Gerard fell back into his pillow, too agonized to focus on anything but the pain. We didn't discuss it afterwards.
But it wasn't the last time.
We continued to kiss. It would be very mild, no tongue or anything like that. The kisses remained to be sloppy, awkward. We would cuddle with one another immediately after. I think it made Gerard feel more connected with me, during times when our father made him feel helpless and alone. It enforced a bond, like some twisted secret club handshake.
I usually only initiated it when Gerard was hurting. Although, admittedly, he was hurt nearly every night. He told me that I helped more than any other band aid or ointment. At the time, I was the pain killer he couldn't live without. Somehow, I felt the same. Gerard's arms wrapped around me made me feel safe and protected -- something I hadn't felt since our dad had begun his reign of terror.
Of course, we eventually realized it was wrong.
The dreaded word "incest" was introduced into our vocabulary. Observing other couples helped us put two and two together: we were committing a terrible act. While neither of us mentioned it to the other, I think we both realized it around the same time.
Still, that didn't stop us.
We were addicted.
As a matter of fact, we began to get even more intimate. As we grew older, our actions suited that of older people. We just knew to keep it a secret, even when we both began to date other people.
Sharing a bedroom with him made him the easiest affair possible.
And then the band happened... and we went from sharing a bedroom with each other to sharing a small bunk room with six other people.
The ride was over.
Pretty anti climactic ending, huh?
Yet I don't know if it ever really ended. We relapsed again when I became depressed during the recording of The Black Parade, during those nights at the Paramour Mansion. And on the evenings of overdrinking, when Gerard was beyond wasted, I would spare him a kiss before he'd push me aside to vomit on the floor beside me.
And I do think he was afraid to marry Lindsey due to me. When he began to date her, I would only acknowledge her with snide remarks and criticism. Gerard interpreted this as jealousy, he had said it himself. To be quite honest, it never had anything to do with jealousy. I simply didn't like the broad.
I told him he was free to date whoever he wanted.
So I go away for my own honeymoon, and the minute I come back, he sheepishly tells me he got hitched without me. Me, his best friend, brother, and so much more. He got hitched without me.
When I asked him why he would do this, he told me he felt it was better for everyone this way. And then I asked him if this marriage meant we were done for, even though we had been for quite some time. He just repeated his answer to the first question, and then avoided any more conversation by walking away... mumbling excuses.
While I never did ask him about it again, I stood there in our childhood bedroom, the setting of our affairs, for some time. I felt betrayed, even if I knew that he was somewhat right. Sure, it would have never worked out between us. It had (I think) been purely sexual anyway. But to not invite me to my only brother's goddamn wedding? And why? Because it was better for everyone? Who the fuck was "everyone"? Him and Lindsey, that's who.
Never invite an ex to a wedding, right? I --
I'm ejected from my train of thought by the familiar voice of my former mistress. Gerard stands in front of me, two slushees in his hand. He places one next to me. It's the blue one. My favorite.
I smile a grin of thanks as he sits down next to me, on the pull out couch by the window. He starts talking about things that I automatically tune out. I just sit there, quiet, thinking. I admit that I had not delved so deeply on this issue in some time, but now that it's resurfaced in my mind, I can't shake it.
My breathing rattled, my fists clenched, I turn to face him. His long, red locks glare back at me invitingly. His flawless skin glows. I remember the bruises and cuts that used to make daily appearances on his face. I remember the face of a boy who wasn't this pretty. Who didn't have rockstars and fangirls pining after him with soaked panties. Who had no one else but me.
Without warning, with the entire bus watching, I dive in and kiss him hard.
I know they all see, because they had all been paying attention to whatever the fuck Gerard was saying. And I hear their scattered gasps echo throughout the bus.
Gerard's lips are stiff against mine, coated now with lip gloss instead of blood.
When I finally pull away, he stares at me, shell shocked. He looks like he wants to ask "Why?" but no sound emits from his mouth. I've left him breathless.
To spare him the effort, I answer "I think it's better..." I pause, grabbing my slushee and getting up to leave, "...for everyone this way."
I retire to my bunk, away from the awkward questions that are sure to be hurled at us for the next couple of days. I lie in my bed and wonder if Gerard even remembers.
We check into the hotel a few hours later, and I get my own separate room. It isn't until the wee hours of the morning that Gerard comes in, somehow having gotten the key. I'm lying in my bed and I look up, confused. He has a glint in his eye as he locks the door behind him. For a moment, I think he's going to yell at me for my earlier stunt.
Instead he crawls into my bed, and proves to me that he remembers much more of our old tricks than I had previously thought.
As he sucks me off, I stroke my hands roughly through his hair. After a while of foreplay, I grab him by the shoulders and pin him down to the bed. He resists, and I know he hadn't expected this turn of events -- but I'll be damned if I let him have the dominance in this situation, which I know he wants. But I'm the scorned one here.
Removing his underwear, I can feel he's hard. He pretends to resist me further, trying to shove me off, but the evidence between his legs is irrefutable -- he wants this too.
I give his ass a gentle slap, and he calms down long enough for me to penetrate him. He screams a little, and I stroke a hand through his hair. Its my first time inside him, and it feels amazing. I don't want to say anything, afraid that the sound of my own voice might snap me back to my normal senses. Instead I proceed to pound into him as hard as I can muster, reminding him that wedding or not -- he is still mine. He is always mine.
I explode into him fairly quickly, and he moans at the sensation. An indescribable rush comes over me.
The relapse begins, and I am addicted all over again.