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Chapter Four – We’re Getting There


Gerard’s POV





“You should have said something, Gerard.”

I love my Frankie, really love him like all of the synonyms in the world can’t even begin to describe, but does he have to be so unwilling to give up; so sure of himself? I know that he cares about Mikey, that he loves the poor kid like a kid brother, but he just can’t seem to believe that I ever know the right thing to do anymore. It’s like he’s becoming more of a brother to Mikey than I am and it kills me; after all that me and Mikes have been through together I would have thought that his unconditional love would be a given.

I’m his big brother and he should treat me like I am, like he trusts me and loves me more than he seems to trust and love Frankie.

But no; I tried to be what he told me he wanted and nothing changed.

Not really anyway, he’s still depressed like he was a few months ago; he’s still unbearably quiet, like any wrong word could cause him to get hurt, like he thinks he’s going to get hurt like he used to; he’s still all jumpy when things aren’t a hundred percent perfect for him, like his own shadow would slit his throat given half the chance.

I tried to be better and it didn’t work, he’s still just a fraction of the person that I know he should be.

Frank told me to be patient, that mending my little brother’s tortured soul will take time and we can’t expect it to happen overnight like I want it to; that the physical wounds from his drastic cry for help will heal a lot quicker than the mental ones that forced that drastic cry to take place. But his casts and numerous dressings are off, his body is healed apart from a fair few scars that I see him constantly staring at whenever he sees a mirror, his body is physically better but he still isn’t. Is still like the shadow of a ghost of a boy. My boy, the boy that is in my care because I’m all that he has by the way of family.

And I’m failing him, still am despite all of the shit that we went through a few months back. Shit that I thought fixed us, shit that taught me things that I never wanted to know; things that showed me just why my little brother is so messed up inside. It’s all my fault that he is the way he is. No, it’s not my fault; it’s the fault of the alcohol and drugs that used to rein my life like Mikey does now.

It’s Mikey’s fault too, his fault for being too quiet to tell me that I used to hurt him in the worst possible ways.

Tell me that I made him bleed like a punctured lung; made him bruise like a slammed around bag of worthless apples; made him cry like his best friend had just stabbed him the back; probably made him pass out a few times too.

And I can still see it replaying in his quivering irises whenever we’re alone, just the two of us, it’s the ever-present storm that he’s too frightened of to mention. So I never mention it either. It’s the least I can do for the kid; he never mentioned it through fear of upsetting me with unwanted memories, so it’s only fair that I give him the same respite. Frank doesn’t agree though, is always telling me to get Mikey to open up about it even though it obviously hurts both of us to remember it. I absolutely love that Frank cares so much about my baby brother, it makes him even more wonderful than he is without the addition of his brotherly care for our struggling little charge, but why can’t he just let me deal with Mikes the way that I see fit?

Because I’ve proven how bad I am at that too many times before.

Because I have a temper even shorter than my Frankie and Mikey’s tears seems to be the perfect lighter fuel to ignite the fuse. It’s not my fault that I hate seeing him sad, that it frustrates me when he won’t let me help or when I get something wrong with him; I wouldn’t be a good big brother if I didn’t. But I shouldn’t let my concern and frustration get wound up so tightly that they end up unfurling with the spinning precision of a deadly flying dagger, because I know how much Mikey gets frightened whenever I get mad, which is why I’m thankful for Frank’s input at those times. Frank can always calm me down before I start yelling things that I’ll regret and will make Mikey run off to his room in tears. That’s only happened twice since he came out of hospital, Frank having to calm me down I mean; I have yet to make him run from me.

I never will. Never again. I love him way too much for that. But he’s still constantly melancholy unless he knows that either Frank or myself need to see his smile and even then the smiles are, more often than not, faked. And that kills me as though it’s Medusa smiling at me, not my baby brother.

He’s definitely getting slowly better though and for that I am truly grateful to whichever merciful force I should thank. I think it’s got something to do with this new school of his, the new school that’s got a very good anti-bullying policy, as it’s website puts it. I think that the kids are a lot nicer to Mikey there than those little shits that used to treat him like a piece of meat in a lion’s enclosure at his old school; I don’t know what I’d do with the kid if these kids were just as bad. At least, I don’t think that they are; he hasn’t said anything about getting hurt at school and I know that he would say something about it now, if not to me than at least to Frankie.

I think that he might have even made a friend. I sincerely hope that he has, it’s the very least that my baby brother deserves; someone to lift his day up whenever his thoughts are dragging it down. I hope that he has made a friend with the same vehemence as a prisoner waiting for execution via the electric chair hopes for a power cut, yet at the same time I kind of dread it too. A friend means that he can get hurt deeper than by the bullies; if the person lucky enough to have his trust is evil enough to betray it, I doubt that Mikey will be able to take it. I doubt that Mikey can take being let down again, doubt that he’d survive it. Especially when it’s only been a few months since my baby brother tried to do the single most terrifyingly horrific thing I’ve ever had to have knowledge of; especially when it’s only been a few months since he tried to end his endless suffering by ending his life.

Which is exactly why I didn’t say anything to him this morning about what today is, about what it should be and would be if all was good with the world and Fate wasn’t a constantly pissed off bitch in need of a good slap; today mine and Mikey’s mom would have been forty-three if she were still capable of filling her lungs with the air needed to blow out birthday cake candles. I haven’t said anything about it purely because he hasn’t; if he hasn’t realised what today is then I’m perfectly fine with that, the last thing any of us needs is Mikey going into majorly over-depressed mode and just crying all day. Because that is what will happen if I remind him of it, he’ll remember what he saw the day that she died and he just won’t be able to cope with it. It’s not like I want him to not remember our mom, I just don’t think that he can deal with remembering her right now; not so soon after trying to kill himself.

I don’t want to, no; I can’t lose him, we’re all each other have and I’m not about to remind of something that could well push him over the edge again.

But Frank had, of course, disagreed with me. Told me that I couldn’t just not mention something so important. Why can’t he see that I only want to do what’s best for my little brother; a little brother that he ultimately drove to running into the road that scarred his frightened little face. I appreciate his help and at times he really is a saviour, whenever Mikey becomes really withdrawn it’s always Frank that he’ll let in first, but at times I can’t help but resent him and wish that he’d just mind his own damn business.

Yet I have to accept that Mikey is his business now, has been ever since he saved the terrified sixteen-year-old from dying at the hands of some sick pervert in a hellish alley. I have to accept that, because I’ve fucked up way too many times, Mikey trusts Frank more than me and, therefore, Frank is more of a brother to Mikey than I am.

I have to accept it, but I loathe it. Loathe it more than I loathe myself and everyone who has ever been nasty to my little brother put together; the kind of soul-consuming hatred that would eat me alive if I didn’t have my beautiful Frankie by my side, living with me and loving me like he’ll always be mine. And he will be. Forever. And as long as forever really does mean forever, then I will always have a way of getting to Mikey, of getting him to open up to at least one person.

Because he really does need to talk to people more, not just to build his meagre self-esteem but to lessen the weights that weigh his heart down enough to prevent it from beating. I think that he still cries himself to sleep like he always has done, cries as though his tears are some sort of anaesthesia and he is an insomniac that can’t sleep without it. The first few nights back from the hospital, when Frank was already asleep in bed, I tried to comfort Mikey but he had just been too distraught and exhausted to even stutter something to me. So after the first few nights I just gave up, if crying like that helps him then I’ll let him do it. If wants me in there with him he knows that he only has to ask and I’ll come running.

Another thing that breaks my heart is the fact that whenever he can see a reflective surface I can see him scowling at his wobbly reflection, or rather scowling at that scar that will forever remind him of the lowest point in his life; the day that he tried to end it. He seems to hate that scar as though it’s his past self, the self that caused it. He tries to hide it whenever we go out, but it couldn’t be clearer and he knows it; knows that everyone stares at it whenever he walks past, wondering how on earth such a gash could have come to rest upon such a fragile face. So whenever we see anyone staring Frank and I will nudge them or hiss at them to fuck off or just stare straight back, just as long as they stop staring at my ridiculously self-conscious little brother.

I can remember the first time that we went out together, the three of us, after the accident. It didn’t end well; it ended with my poor baby brother hiding in the bathroom stall of the restaurant that we were eating at.

”Mikey, come on, Kiddo. It’s alright, come out.” My soft voice coaxes through the wooden door of the stall that Mikes has fled to, the door that’s stopping me from drying the tears that I can hear loud and clear like some sort of siren declaring that the world truly is a shit place to live.

I look worriedly to Frank, who’s crouched next to me, and we exchange a concerned gaze; a gaze that says we both fucked up by bringing him out of the house that he had been reluctant to leave in the first place. He sighs and we squeeze one another’s hand, willing each other to get Mikey out of their and into our collective arms.

“C’mon, that little brat didn’t mean anything by it. She was just too young to know any better.” Frank calls into the sorrowful, sob-flooded silence, trying not to sound furious at the little shit that had triggered this by pointing at Mikey and laughing like my little brother is some sort of circus freak.

The scar isn’t even that bad, I think that it kind of suits him in a way that it really shouldn’t because someone as meek as him should never get that hurt, but little kids have a way of reacting stupidly to this sort of thing. The fact that it was just some spoilt little girl, probably around six, didn’t stop the fact that Frank had to physically restrain me from throttling the brat like her words throttled my little brother.

“It doesn’t look that bad, Mikes. You can barely notice it and besides, it does look kinda cool.” I hear Mikey howl even harder and Frank shoots me the look that he always does when I fuck up with my baby brother, the look that makes me feel instantly guilty even if I don’t fully understand why. “Just come out and we’ll get you home, alright?”

“Ever-eryone’s looki-ooking at m-me.”

It’s going to be a long night…

I know that he hates the way he looks and that’s why I get terrified of sending him to school each morning, if he gets picked on for it then he’ll just… I don’t even know what he’ll do if he gets hurt all over again.

And that’s what terrifies me; I just don’t know what the poor kid’s capable of doing to himself anymore.

Which makes me even gladder that he hasn’t remembered what today is; if he had he would have said something but he hasn’t and so everything must be alright with him. He knows that me and Frank will always listen, so if he did remember what today is then we’d know about it.

“You really should have spoken about it to him this morning, Gee. I’m sorry but it’s true, you need to let that kid know that you’re here for him when he needs you.” Frank looks up at me from the passenger seat of the car, wringing his hands together nervously, and begs me with his star-like eyes to take his advice on board.

I reach my hand from the gearstick and onto his knee, rubbing it a little in gentle reassurance; I know what I’m doing and, whilst I have disregarded his advice because I really do know better this time, I appreciate his concern. Appreciate it, listen to it but have ultimately decided to ignore it. Because I’m doing this my way and, so far today, it seems to be working. I mean, I haven’t gotten any phone calls from the school saying that Mikey’s crying in class; haven’t had any texts from Mikey himself saying that he needs me to come home or pick him up from school because he has remembered and needs his big brother to comfort him; haven’t had a phone call from the hospital telling me that he’s jumped in front of a motherfucking bus again.

“Babe, it’s fine. He’s fine, I’m fine; we’re fine. He knows that I’m ready to listen whenever he wants to talk.”

I smile slightly at him, hoping that the uplift of my lips will tug his own into a smile, only to see his mouth turn to a disappointed frown and his eyes narrow in almost appalled disbelief; great. Here we go; one of Frank’s infamous speeches on how I need to do this, need to do that, should do this, shouldn’t do that. At first it was cute how he was so dead set on being Mikey’s helper, but when it means that he gets like this with me I can’t help but resent Mikey for it. It’s like my little brother, who used to have a thing for my Frankie, is more important to my boyfriend than I am.

And I don’t like it. Not one bit.

But I have to take it because he is my boyfriend, I have to take it because it’s a part of who he is and I love every part of him.

“Gerard, you might want to believe that he knows that, but you know full well that he doesn’t. And even if he does, he won’t ever put into practice. That poor kid wouldn’t ask to be put out if he was on fire if he thought that it would upset or inconvenience someone. He needs your support, not you acting all ignorant about what’s going to be a really hard day for him. And for you.” He pauses, it’s his turn to rub my kneecap this time. It feels nice amidst his chastising to know that he really does care about me, something that I never fully doubted in the first place, but at the same time it saddens me that I know I’ll never be able to give him as good as he gives me; he is absolute perfection when he’s in comforter mode, and nothing/no one can top perfection. “I heard you last night, Gee. Talking to your mom.”

“I was no-“

“Yes, you were. Don’t deny it; it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Gee.” His voice is all serious and dripping with the kind of sympathy that my little brother needs way more than I do.

But that doesn’t stop me from swallowing his soothing words like I had to swallow down sobs last night. Because I did speak to Mom last night, did wish her a happy birthday at midnight, did imagine what she would say to me if she knew what I allowed to happen to her baby boy; that I’d failed him and just can’t figure out how to make it better. I asked her what I should do but, just like when I hear Mikey lamenting to her almost every night, she didn’t reply. Because she’s dead. If she wasn’t I wouldn’t have the problem of having to care for my depressed, lost little brother.

A lost little brother that seems to have finally found a friend at his new school; a new friend that means he’s constantly checking his cell for texts.

And blushing whenever he gets one.

What if he’s in love with this friend of his? I wouldn’t blame him if he was, just for someone to be nice to him is more than enough to make my little brother think that they’re the perfect human, but I can’t help but pray that he isn’t. People like Mikey, people who are different and introverted, they just don’t suit love; don’t get love until everyone suitable is old enough to understand that differences and shyness are not necessarily a negative trait in a person. Because, and I know this going to sound shockingly awful, other kids just don’t fall for people like my little brother; not in a serious way, only in an experimental or teasing way. My baby brother, no matter how amazingly wonderful and kind he is, had better not have fallen for someone, better not have set himself up to get knocked down again. The very thought of him being in a relationship scares the living shit out of me; first loves never last, always end and usually end badly. I really don’t want to see his heart get broken. Again.

But I’m sure that he’d tell me if he had a boyfriend. Right?

I’d like to think so.

Like to but I just can’t; for the reasons that Frank stated earlier.

“I know.”

“I heard you asking her what to do with Mikey. Maybe you should be asking him that.” He sighs in contemplation as we round the final corner on our short journey home from Mr Casey’s record shop.

He lets us have shorter working hours than normal because he knows about Mikey; met him once actually, when we took Mikes to work with us because we couldn’t bring ourselves to leave him alone in the house with nothing but Frank’s beloved dog, Misfit, to keep an eye on him. Mr C took an instant shine to the kid, who was hiding behind Frank (even though he should have been hiding behind me) when he was first introduced to our boss. It was the day after the restaurant incident and he was still extremely jumpy about the whole thing, but Mr C had been patient and by the end of the day was giving Mikey loads of free Anthrax records to add to his small collection. Mikey hadn’t spoken at all, but they’d gotten by on soft smiles and warm eyes.

How is it that everyone can make Mikey feel comfortable apart from me, the one person that he should constantly feel comfortable with?

Oh yeah; because no one else used to be fucking beat him on an almost nightly basis like some evil monster in the possession of the cruel spirit of intoxication.

“Gerard, please speak to him about your mom when we get in. Please. He needs you more than you think.”

“But Frank, what if he flips out over it? What if he can’t take it? What if he doesn’t want to remember? Huh, Frank, what then?” I’m almost shouting now, tears fighting with frustrated fury to have dominance of my eyes, and Frank has retracted his hand from my knee like a snake into it’s burrow. “Look, just let me deal with this the way I want to. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal about it.”

There’s a painful silence as we approach our house, a painful silence that is full of the ticking of the bomb that I’ve just set off in Frank’s chest.

“Are being fucking serious?” It’s not a shout, rather a cold whisper of pure appalled horror at my own words. I’d rather it was an angry shout rather than a venomous whisper; at least with a shout I can pretend that he’s being as bad as me, with this controlled whisper I have to remember that he’s the one in the right. Always will be because he actually knows my baby brother. My baby brother. ‘My’ being the key word. “Of course he knows what today is, why do you think he kept staring at you this morning? He was practically begging you to bring it up, but oh no; Gerard does things on his own terms, not on anyone else’s. Well, now’s the time to stop being a self-absorbed prick and help him.” His eyes soften and his blessed hand returns to my knee like it was created to rest there. “Help your little brother like I know you can; like I know you want to.”

And that is exactly why I adore my Frankie, why he can get away with yelling at me like I need to be yelled at; because he is always right in the end. Always knows what to do when everything falls to shit like it always seems to with my poor little brother. Always seems to largely because I’ve done something wrong, something that only Frankie can rectify because I’ve already blown it with Mikes. Not just in little occurrences, but as a whole; I have blown it with him. He’ll never look at me like he used to, I know that, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less; would removing the stake from a vampire’s heart stop the pain of knowing that it’s all over? No. Well, it’s the same kind of idea.

But I can at least try to douse myself in the light with which Mikey used to see me, can use Frank’s advice to make it happen. Because he is right; Mikey did keep staring at me this morning at breakfast, not so much stare as gaze at me as though pleading with me to say something. I saw it, but didn’t actually see it. Saw it in the sense that my eyes consumed the image, but I didn’t see it the sense that I didn’t pay it, something crucial to my little brother’s precious happiness, any sort of attention. I just ignored it, blinded by false belief that Mikey would talk to me if something was bringing him down.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

There’s something bringing him down, be it memories or self-loathing thoughts or his stutter or his scar or anything that could possibly play on the mind of a severely depressed orphan, and he never says anything to me. And I never really offer. Not until it’s too late.

But it’s never too late anymore because I’ve got Frank to see things like this for me; we’re the perfect team to look after Mikey.

I pull up in the drive and lean to wrap an arm around Frank’s neck, pulling him close to me.

“What would I do without you?”

“I dread to think.”

I smile at his sad, half-honest smirk and softly press my lips to his in an attempt to convey my great, overwhelming gratitude; I honestly don’t know what I’d do without my Frankie, what Mikey would do if I didn’t have my Frankie to guide me like a shining star. It doesn’t last long, but it gets across everything that I need it to; unbridled love, stunned admiration, but above all, an intense thankfulness that only a sinner on the brink of death who has just been given a second chance to live a good life can empathise with.

Without speaking, I open the car door and head inside, not even stopping to stroke Misfit as she comes to greet me and our beloved Frankie. I run upstairs, not caring that my muddy Doc Martins’ are leaving stains all over the carpets; I have way more important things to deal with right now. I just hope that Mikey’s been alright today, isn’t sat in his room crying over something that he wouldn’t be if I’d done the right thing in the first place. What if it’s affected him as I feared it would and he’s done something stupid, something that he might not be able to regret because he’s-

Wait. I can hear someone in his room. Someone that isn’t him. Someone that sounds all out of breath.

“Sugar… You’re a good kisser, Sugar. Very good.” A predatory, smirking voice purrs into the near-silence, a voice obviously intended to seduce and captivate and encourage.

I hear a loud moan, all loving and longing.

A moan that sounds a lot like my little brother. Apart from happier.

“Not as good as you.” Mikey’s stutter-less voice gasps back in complete exaltation and admiration.

I open the door, confusion and my protectiveness blinding me to the fact that his door is obviously closed for a reason. A reason that I don’t think that I’m going to like one little bit.

I storm in, ready to defend my brother form the prick that is most likely using him for some sick little experiment; using him because kids just don’t fall for the outcasts, not outcasts as out cast as my Mikey. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s true; I just don’t want to see my little brother get hurt in the heart again.

“Who the fuck are you and where the fuck is your t-shirt?”

A tanned, black-haired boy looks up from where he’s lying.

On top of my brother. Topless. Sweating. Hands in places that I don’t even want to think about. Not that Mikey’s any better, other than the fact the he’s still fully clothed. And besides, it’s obvious who started this and who the innocent party is. It’s not the muscular boy looking up at me in shock.

He has a pretty face; it’s a shame that I have to break it.







A/N: Thank you very much for reading; I hope that this was alright and not too boring. I’d just like to say a huge thank you to anyone who’s been amazing enough to read/review/rate this story so far; it really does mean so much and I actually nearly cried when I saw that the first chapter had gone green. So thank you very much to the amazing people who made that happen and to all of the lovely people who take the time to review. Have a happy new year, thanks for reading and please review so I know how to improve! :)