MCR RPS: Through the Longest Hours (Part 1)

[nilyn]

Master Post

The sun is already starting to set, golden light streaming into an apartment hazy with smoke. The overhead light flickers and buzzes. Gerard is flat on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His cigarette is held between his teeth, nearly forgotten, and there are ashes dropping onto his faded t-shirt.

Mikey watches him from the floor, quiet. Outside, there is the usual roar of the city, cars rushing by and people chattering on the street, car alarms going off in the distance, horns sounding, the rush and clatter of people going by without even stopping to look at what's around them.

"We have to think of something," Mikey says finally, to break the silence, biting at a hangnail absently. "Eventually."

"You're the writer," Gerard says through his teeth, and Mikey is a little glad that he doesn't have his coffee cup, because he thinks he might dump it on Gerard if he did. It's resting on the counter, empty, because they couldn't decide who was going to be the one to make the coffee, so no one did.

"You like coming up with ideas more than I do," Mikey points out, rubbing at his temples. "I haven't been able to think of anything. We've got the characters, Gee. Come on."

Gerard rolls over onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, and the couch creaks beneath him. His knees are bent awkwardly and he shifts again, trying to make himself comfortable. "S'not like I'm going to think of anything you haven't already thought of."

Mikey's eyebrows go up. "Try me."

"Vampires."

"No."

"Zombies."

"No."

"Zombie vampires?"

Mikey makes a face. "We did that last time."

"Well, then you think of something, Mr. I-Did-Werewolves-Three-Times-Because-I-Didn't-Think-Anyone-Would-Notice." Gerard flicks ash onto the carpet, right next to where Mikey is sitting, and Mikey swats at him.

"I had some variation," Mikey points out, scowling. He wonders, absently, if sitting on Gerard would help with motivation any. He deserves it.

"Yeah, yeah, one of them was only sort of a werewolf, fuck off," Gerard says, sticking his tongue out at Mikey, the same way he's done since they were three apples tall.

"Anyway." Mikey prods at him, tempted to text Pete to make him bring the two of them coffee. It's a weekend. He is completely justified in being lazy. "If you were Bob Bryar, investigator of all things abnormal, what would you be investigating?"

"Where to find some coffee," Gerard says, under his breath. "Aliens in the sewers? Baby Godzilla? Flying monkeys? Ghost rats?"

"Ghost rats?" Mikey's eyebrows go up. "We need to get out of this apartment if you want to write about ghost rats."

Gerard grins. "Think demon cockroaches would be better?"

"I am going to hit you and I am going to enjoy it," Mikey informs him. "No ghost rats, no flying monkeys, Jesus, I am never letting you watch the Wizard of Oz again, no dem-hmm."

"What?" Gerard sits up, tucking his feet under him. "You've got something?"

Mikey shrugs, biting his lip. It's an idea, and they've been short on them lately. He can't afford to be picky, because they need to eat, and the lights are burning out, and the freezer doesn't work anymore, and the couch is threatening to collapse under them any day now. He's half expecting Gerard to break it right now.

"It's kind of cliché," he begins, even though he knows every idea they do is cliché, and that's half the fun of it. " But we could go with a regular demon, if you want. Just no cockroaches. I see them enough without you drawing them all over everything."

"We've only seen one." Gerard is biting the inside of his cheek like he's trying to keep himself from laughing at Mikey, and Mikey's going to make him draw something impossible, just because he can. Something impossible and complicated and annoying, like a tentacle monster, except Gerard might like that.

"One was too many," Mikey says, with an air of finality. "What do you think, though?"

Gerard frowns thoughtfully, picking at the threads of the couch. "It's not the most original idea in the world," he admits, but he's smiling faintly, the way he does when he gets a good idea. "It works, though. Shit, I can't believe my demon cockroaches actually got us somewhere."

"They didn't. That was all me," Mikey informs him smugly.

Gerard laughs. "Sure." He shifts to the other side of the couch and gestures at Mikey to come up with him and sit, and Mikey gets up too fast, feeling the stinging in his knees and the rush of blood to his head. The couch isn't going to support the two of them forever, but he's taking his moments while he has them, and he settles down beside Gerard with a soft sigh. They lean their heads together and Gerard stubs out his cigarette on the arm of the couch, flicking it into the corner before reaching for another one. He hands the pack to Mikey and Mikey hesitates for only a moment before taking one too, holding it gingerly between his fingers.

Gerard lights Mikey's and his own at the same time, holding the ends together, and Mikey settles back, blowing smoke at the ceiling, pressed against his brother's side.

"So," he says, "demon. What kind?"

"I don't know," Gerard admits, wrinkling his nose. "I hadn't gotten that far yet. We can figure it out as we go, though. "

Mikey smiles. "You just want to get to the part where you get to draw guts and gore all over the place, admit it."

Gerard grins helplessly and Mikey doesn't need an answer to that half-question, because Gerard is nothing if not predictable. He doesn't know if there's going to be gore, but it makes sense, and he knows Gerard has been itching to draw some ever since he gave in on the vampire zombie issue.

"We keeping Ray around?" Gerard asks, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"'Course." Mikey rolls his eyes, elbowing Gerard in the side. "Why would we get rid of him? Bob needs a sidekick."

"Tech guy," Gerard corrects. "He's not a superhero, even if he is fucking badass. He's better than a superhero."

Mikey snorts. Sometimes he thinks Gerard has a crush on his character, which is so many levels of ridiculous he doesn't even want to start getting into them.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Tech guy, sidekick, whatever. Either way, he's sticking around. What about Frank?"

"Frank stays," Gerard says firmly. "You like him, anyway."

"He's cool." Mikey shrugs. "And besides, we can have Bob blame him for causing trouble when it's actually the demon. Maybe there's an epidemic of sheep or something."

"… Why would Frank be turning everyone into sheep?"

"Same reason he has seventeen dogs?" The dogs had been Mikey's idea originally, a way to spite Gerard because it was Gerard's turn to make coffee and he'd taken a nap instead. He'd decided that every time someone pissed Frank off, Frank would turn them into a dog. The little, yippy dogs were for especially annoying offenders, like the guy in line for coffee ahead of Frank who wouldn't stop talking on his phone.

He thinks that Frank is kind of twisted, as far as characters go, but he's never going to deny that writing a tiny hardcore dude who just happens to be the human form of Loki is fun.

"I guess." Gerard looks thoughtful. "Yeah, if I woke up surrounded by sheep and I knew a trickster god, I'd probably be going to him first."

"… does that happen often?" Mikey asks, smirking, and Gerard flicks ash into the tangled blonde birdsnest of his hair. He probably deserves it.

"Every Tuesday," Gerard tells him, fighting to keep a straight face. "It's awful."

"That explains the smell," Mikey says, under his breath.

"You're the one who keeps saying the shower is haunted," Gerard points out. "Unless it's you and Pete in the shower, and then suddenly it's okay again."

"Ghosts are scared of Pete. They're afraid he's going to hit on them."

Gerard snorts. "I believe it. Tried with me enough times."

"… Yeah," Mikey says, making a face. The silence following is a bit awkward, and Mikey takes another drag on his cigarette, trying to distract himself. "So."

"Yeah." The two of them lean back against the cushions of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. There 's still more to decide, more plans to make, but Mikey's satisfied for now, and until they get coffee, they're both going to be useless.

"You move first," Mikey suggests, after a moment, and Gerard doesn't even look over when he says, "No, you."

"You."

"You."

"You!"

"I'm calling Momma and telling her you're a lazy bum."

"Yeah, and she'll just tell you you are too."

Gerard elbows Mikey in the side and Mikey elbows him back, and they only call truce once Mikey starts breaking out the tickling, Gerard trying to curl up into a little ball, laughing breathlessly, his hands flailing.

"I surrender," he wheezes, grinning. "Surrender!"

"Where's your white flag?"

"Don't have one. I'd wave my underwear but I don't think you want to see that."

"No, I'm alright," Mikey says, making a face. "Surrender accepted." He reaches down to pluck Gerard's cigarette off the couch, because he's smelling burning fabric, and that's the last thing he wants, to catch on fire because he decided to take revenge by tickling.

"So, what's in the peace treaty?" Gerard asks, taking his cigarette from between Mikey's fingers, even if there isn't much left.

"Hmm." Mikey pauses, thinking. "We go to the studio tomorrow, at least for a little while, and you make me coffee for a week."

"A week?" Gerard puts on the best horrified face he can manage. "Isn't that cruel and unusual?"

"Do you want me to do it again?"

Gerard shakes his head, grinning despite himself. "I'll pass. And I still say it's more like a fucking closet than a 'studio'."

"Bigger than this."

"Yeah, and this isn't even a closet." Gerard looks around, wrinkling his nose. The apartment is tiny, everything crammed together into one tight space, the couch pressed up against the kitchen counter and the double bed they share only feet from the couch. The bookshelves are against any place they can fit, spilling over with old issues of comics and piles of books that would tip if either of them bumped them. Gerard's art supplies are strewn across what used to be a clear patch of floor, a sketchbook or five and a stack of markers, and every time Mikey gets up in the middle of the night he trips over them.

The studio isn't much bigger, but Pete pays for it, mostly, even if he hardly ever uses it. It pays to have a friend with some actual money, even if it's because his parents send it. The studio's never even close to clean, but it's got a fold-out couch and a good desk to work at and Mikey's favorite coffee maker, so he's looking forward to being back.

"Tell me about it." Mikey shifts and the couch squeaks in protest again. "At least there are no cockroaches there."

"There might be ghost rats," Gerard says brightly. "Sneaking into the room while you're sleeping and eating your pants, or some shit like that."

"Is that why yours all have holes?" Mikey asks, poking at Gerard's hip with no real force behind it. He's content to laze around for the rest of the afternoon, until he thinks of something new (like what the demon actually does, because it's a comic, not a novel, and they don't have to put in every detail, but there are only so many things he can omit before things stop making sense) or he gets tired enough to nap.

He's leaning towards the nap, for the most part.

***

Mikey wakes with a start in the middle of the night, not sure what jerked him out of slumber. He wouldn't be surprised if it was a bad dream, but he's also awoken suddenly enough to know that sometimes there doesn't need to be a reason.

He stares up at the ceiling, fingers tapping against the side of the couch. The world is silent, or nearly so, closer than it ever gets during the day. He can hear his own ragged breathing, the roar of a car outside as it goes by, water hitting tile from behind a closed door. Gerard's in the shower, for the first time in at least two weeks, and Mikey smiles, letting the steady drumming of the water calm him. It's like rain against the windowpanes, constant and soothing.

A car rolls by, music turned up loud enough to make the windows shake, and he rubs at his eyes, wondering how late it really is. He guesses around three, but can't be sure.

The noise from the shower abruptly stops and the door creaks open moments later, Gerard padding back into bed like he's trying not to wake Mikey with his footsteps. He has a towel around his neck, but not his waist, and Mikey wants to say something to him, just to see how embarrassed he'll get.

"Hey," he whispers, finally, and Gerard's whole body goes rigid.

"… Sorry," Gerard tells him, and doesn't turn around, trying to inch back into bed and cover himself with a sheet. It's still dark, but the dim light from the streetlights outside and the still-lit apartments from across the way give him enough light to see Gerard's face, bright pink.

Mikey smiles. "It's fine, dude. Sorry. I couldn't sleep."

"You were sleeping when I went in," Gerard points out, crouched beside the bed, fumbling in the dark for his sleep pants. "You've been out since four."

"What time is it?" Mikey doesn't know why he's whispering, but it doesn't feel right to be loud, not when the world around them is so utterly, strangely quiet, so quiet he can hear the buzzing of the streetlights.

"Three thirty," Gerard whispers back, tugging his pajama pants up with a frustrated little noise. "Guess you were pretty tired."

"It's your fault," Mikey mumbles, growing more sleep-fuzzy as he relaxes. No matter what his dream was about, Gerard is there, and that's just about all that matters to him. "Didn't make any coffee."

Gerard laughs, the sound startlingly loud, tossing a sock at him. "It was your turn to make it. And I was thinking, while I was in the shower-"

"We're not writing the coffee shop girl into the comic, because that's creepy," Mikey tells him automatically, and when he makes a move to protest, adds, "But if you want background zombies, you can have background zombies."

Gerard grins, quick and bright. "Nobody's better than you. Nobody."

"And don't forget that." Mikey's back is starting to twinge, too many hours curled up on a too-small couch, and he tries to push himself up into a sitting position with a wince. The couch sags alarmingly, and he tries not to shift around too much. There are still questions in his mind that he wants to ask Gerard, but at the forefront is worry, the concern that he won't be able to get anything out when they leave for the studio in what's now barely more than a few hours.

He hesitates, trying to string together the right words in a tired brain. "Have-I was trying to think of more specifics, for the-you know. For writing. I don't have anything yet, though."

"You wanna know if I have something?" Gerard guesses, and Mikey nods. "Sort of. It can't be anything serious, not at first anyway, if Bob's gonna think it's Frank's fault."

"No mysterious deaths," Mikey clarifies, and Gerard smiles, continuing. Mikey doesn't have his glasses, but he can see the blurs that are Gerard's hands, gesturing as he explains. It's comfortable. Familiar.

"I mean, to be honest, dude, I like the sheep idea."

Mikey groans. "That was a joke."

"Come on. Epidemic of sheep! And then we can make it more serious, after."

"I am not awake enough to be actually talking about having an epidemic of sheep in it," Mikey grumbles, and rolls over, back to Gerard. "Sheep aren't even part of Bob's job description."

"If aliens in the attic or ghost rats or vampire zombies are fair game, then an epidemic of sheep is fair game. He investigates the abnormal, and if that isn't fuckin' abnormal I don't know what is."

"Your face is abnormal," Mikey says, half-muffled by his face pressed into the pillow.

Gerard sighs, relaxing back into the mattress. "Can we at least mention it?" Mikey wants to give in to him, but the last time he did that, he ended up having to write about half-monkey half-pony monsters that were created by a mad scientist as birthday presents, and he still has trauma from it.

Then again, he's never been good at refusing Gerard anything.

"Maybe," he concedes finally, and he hopes Gerard is at least grateful. He'll give in eventually, and they both know it, but he likes to think he's not that easy.

Gerard grins, pleased to have gotten his way once again, and Mikey wants to throw a pillow at him. At the very least, they have two ideas, even if one of them is ridiculous. He can rest easier, knowing that, and he lets his eyes slip closed against the rough fabric of the couch cushions.

"… You could get in bed, you know," Gerard points out. "I showered and everything."

"Yeah, well, I didn't," Mikey mumbles, but he forces himself to sit up and stumble towards the bed, still in his jeans and t-shirt. He'd take them off, but he doesn't want to have to deal with them. He wants to sleep, and not think about deadlines and sending scripts to editors or Gerard's tendency to draw things at the last minute, because he still thinks he's in art school and capable of pulling six all-nighters in a row. All of those things start tomorrow, and he'd like his peace while it lasts.

"Going to sleep?" Gerard asks softly, rolling over to face him, and Mikey nods, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Night," he mumbles, drifting off nearly the moment his head hits the pillow. One arm reaches out for Gerard, pulling him close to have something to hold onto.

***

This time, Mikey wakes to the sound of his phone going off, "Bittersweet Symphony" blaring throughout the apartment.

"What the fuck," he hears Gerard say, and he's inclined to agree. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but it's too early to even think about it. And someone is calling him. He heaves out a sigh and pulls his pillow over his head, trying to muffle the noise, but it's no use.

"Stop calling," he snaps at the phone, as though he's expecting it to listen to him, though it doesn't. It'll stop eventually, but for now he hates it more than any alarm clock, because it's someone that wants to get ahold of him, and he doesn't want to have to deal with deadlines yet. He needs at least a week or two to get back into the swing of things for that.

The phone finally, finally stops ringing, and Mikey lets out a long sigh of relief.

"I'm going back to sleep," he announces to no one in particular, flopping back down onto the pillow.

He doesn't open his eyes again until he hears the creak of the bed and feels it dip. Gerard's getting up, and he cracks one eye, managing to get out a vague, incoherent noise of confusion. He can't see well enough to figure out what Gerard is doing, anyway, not until he gets his glasses from where they're resting beside the couch.

"Pete called," Gerard tells him, and he groans into his pillow. Gerard tosses Mikey's phone over and it lands beside the pillow soundlessly. He reaches out for it, still bleary, and types out a text, knowing he's getting most of the letters wrong.

'it.d too rst;u fpt thid oui vsn cpme to yhe stifio ;ater'

Gerard sinks back into the mattress beside him and peers at the screen, trying to stifle a laugh. "What does that even say?"

Mikey finally opens his eyes properly to read it. "Shit," he grumbles. "It's supposed to stay 'it's too early for this, you can come to the studio later.'" He's not quite sure how he managed to get it that far off, and he scowls at the tiny keys of the phone as he deletes the message and tries again, this time with a little more success.

His phone buzzes a moment later. 'id bring coffee,' the message reads, and Mikey considers it for a moment, but really, they have work to do. Uninterrupted work.

'some of us actually have to work, Pete.'

'yeah yeah later'

"He gets good coffee, though," Gerard mumbles, like he's mourning the loss of it already. "Really fucking good coffee."

"We've got work to do," Mikey points out. "He'll be being distracting."

"Only 'cause he keeps trying to make out with you."

Mikey flips Gerard off and rolls over, facing the wall. Noon sounds good. Noon sounds like a fucking dream at this point, and he knows he's being lazy, but he doesn't care. They'll be up late. He can make up for a few lost hours.

"Truth hurts," Gerard says under his breath, and Mikey can hear his grin. He closes his eyes and makes a face at the wall, because at least the wall can't make faces back. Seconds pass, and then minutes, and he comes to the frustrating conclusion that he can't get back to sleep now. He doesn't have it in him.

He rolls back over. Gerard is curled up on the couch, knees tucked to his chest and a sketchbook resting against his thighs, immersed in his work. He's sketching with pencil but he has an inking pen between his teeth and an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, for later, and Mikey can't help but smile. He tries to slip out of bed quietly, so as not to distract Gerard, but the bed creaks as it always does, and Gerard looks up, startled out of his drawing reverie.

He lets the pen drop from his mouth onto his lap and clears his throat a little. "I thought you were going back to sleep?"

"Nah." Mikey shrugs. "Not tired anymore. Did you make any coffee?"

Gerard jerks his head towards the kitchen. "Just made a pot. Get me some too."

"What time do you want to get going?" Mikey asks him as he searches around in the bare cupboards for two mugs that are at least vaguely clean. There's one, at the back, but he has to blow the dust off of it first. The rest are in the sink, water gone grey-brown long since. He tries not to breathe too much, because then he has to smell it. He's starting to question the wisdom of suggesting that they alternate who does the dishes, because Gerard just lets them fester when it's his turn. He holds his breath and snatches one out of the water. There. Problem solved, for now.

"Get going?" Gerard asks vaguely, absorbed in his work once again.

"To the studio?" Mikey reminds him, filling his own mug with coffee. He knows how they both like it, and soon he's coming back with two steaming mugs, holding them carefully away from his skin. He's been burned by his own coffee more than enough for a lifetime already.

"Oh. Oh, yeah." Gerard takes the mug without so much as looking up. "Let me finish this?"

Gerard's barely started on the drawing, just sketched in vague outlines and half-formed shapes, and Mikey knows if he waits for Gerard to be done they'll be waiting for at least another hour or five. He taps at the sketchbook, tracing over the pencil lines with his fingers. "You're barely started," he mumbles. "You're going to be at it all day and then we won't get anything done."

Silence hangs heavy between them for a moment, and then Gerard sighs. "Fine, you're right." He looks up at Mikey and sets his sketchbook down beside the couch without another word, sipping at his coffee. "You win."

"I always win," Mikey tells him, his face the very picture of smug contentment.

Gerard rolls his eyes but he doesn't argue, and Mikey's tempted to rub it in further, but he has to resist that kind of thing at least occasionally. He's still in his jeans, but he figures he should at least find a shirt he hasn't been wearing for a week if he's going out. No one pays much attention to them, but he'd at least like to pretend he's capable of smelling better than Gerard.

He sifts through the mass of clothes at the foot of the bed, holding up each item and giving it the sniff test. Gerard lounges against the couch, watching him, until Mikey tosses a pair of socks at him.

"No going out barefoot," Mikey says, not looking up, and finally finds a shirt that passes his inspection. It's black and mostly plain, but it'll do, and he slips the shirt up and over his head, making a face as the seams make a ripping sound. He inspects it carefully: not ripped, but more stretched out than he'd like.

"So," Gerard says, trying to hold the coffee mug with one hand and put on his socks with the other. "Are we going to find Pete there when we get there?"

"I hope not," Mikey mutters, still dressing. "He'll want to know what we're writing and probably stick around until we have something to show him." He picks out two socks-unmatched, one black and one grey and blue striped, for luck. It's an old habit, but it seems to work well enough. He's keeping it.

They finish dressing in silence, Mikey fumbling around under the bed for his boots and Gerard insisting on finding the old jean jacket he wore the last time they tried writing. They both have their traditions. Jean jackets, mismatched socks, leaving salt in the doorway because it was something Gerard saw in a movie once. Ritual is comfortable, familiar.

They both press a palm to the door on the way out, like a prayer, and Mikey folds his arms tight to himself to ward off the chill in the hallway. It's not heated, and though it's only August the cold goes through straight to his bones. Winter's going to come early this year. He can feel it. The hallway is musty and dim even in the morning sunlight, but he can hear the clatter of noise from the other apartments as they walk past, people waking up, arguing, clattering around with pots and pans, the spray of a shower.

Their footsteps echo as they climb down the stairs and Mikey grips the railing tight to steady himself, just in case. He only fell once, and Gerard was there to catch him, but he remembers the feeling of it, the way his stomach dropped out and his mind blanked. A flight, then two, then three, and finally they are on the ground floor, stepping out into the late summer sunlight. The street is a blur of noise and color, and Mikey always takes a moment to adjust to it.

They take the rest of the steps down to the street like overexcited children, two at a time, and Gerard can barely keep up with Mikey once he gets going. "Hey, wait up," he calls, and Mikey just grins at him and says, "Maybe you should stop being old; you could keep up." He keeps going.

Gerard only catches up to him once he gets to the sidewalk, and he's a little out of breath. "Don't do that, shit," he wheezes out, and Mikey pauses to let him catch his breath.

"It's all the smoking, dude," Mikey informs him. "I'd beat you in a race any day."

Gerard swats at him with no real force behind the motion, and he stops to light a cigarette, blowing the smoke in Mikey's face as retaliation. Mikey scrunches up his face and tries not to sneeze, but he's smiling despite himself. It's going to be a good day. He can feel it in his bones.

They set off down the street together, not bothering to keep any real distance between them. The crowds are out this morning, people going in every direction without so much as looking up to see who they're walking beside, heads down, cellphones pressed to ears. Gerard and Mikey wind through the crowd, dodging tourists wheeling suitcases. It's nearly noon, and the sun is high.

When they finally arrive at the subway, they're out of breath. Gerard leans against Mikey, drawing in shallow breaths and listening to the other trains screech to a stop at the station. Their own comes in a few minutes later and they squeeze on next to at least a dozen others, holding on tight to the poles in the middle of the train as it starts to move again. Mikey's never been the best at balancing, and he clings tight to the pole until he can get himself stable.

Once they're above ground, he watches the scenery rush by without much interest-it's nothing he hasn't seen before and his eyes glaze over a little. He's still tired, enough that his movements feel clumsy and his eyelids heavy, and Gerard gives him a concerned look as he sways. It doesn’t matter; none of the other passengers look up from what they're doing, but he feels awkward all the same.

The train finally shudders to a halt at their stop and Gerard takes Mikey's hand, leading him out through the crowd pressed together at the door. The studio is only a short walk from there, and they weave in and out of the crowd.

"C'mon," Gerard says, and Mikey follows faster. This time he's the one falling behind, and he knows Gerard is going to make sure he gets reminded.

They take the elevator, not the stairs, even though it's old and creaky and Mikey is always convinced that one day they'll go up in the elevator and the cables will snap and they'll fall to their deaths. It's not the way he'd want to go, if he could pick, and the elevator is stuffy inside, lingering smells of perfume and sweat and old Chinese food. He holds his breath and grips onto the wall, watching the numbers change.

"We'll be fine," Gerard tells him, but Mikey knows Gerard is more paranoid of untimely death by falling elevator than he is. They make a fine pair, trying not to be too obvious about the way they twitch every time there's the slightest noise, the smallest creak.

The elevator dings to a stop and Mikey relaxes, a little. He's got to start taking the stairs, he decides, even if it's six floors up, because it is not worth the stress of taking the old elevator all the time.

"I swear to god that thing is haunted," Gerard mutters as he steps out, glaring back at the elevator. "Haunted by-" He pauses, thinking, and finishes lamely, "something."

"You just don't like it," Mikey says, quirking an eyebrow.

"And you do?"

Mikey shakes his head. "Hate that thing."

"It might be haunted," Gerard says, in an attempt to be reasonable. "You never know. There could be zombies and shit at the bottom… but we haven't died yet."

Mikey snorts. "That's comforting. Yet?"

"It could happen."

"Next time, we are taking the stairs," Mikey says firmly, unlocking the door to the studio. It looks basically the same as they've left it, except there are two Starbucks cups sitting on the desk at the far corner of the room.

"Pete's been here," Gerard points out, stating the obvious, and Mikey climbs over stacks of papers and art supplies strewn across the floor to get to them. "Still warm," he says, grinning triumphantly.

Coffee in hand, they settle into the studio once again. Gerard still has his supplies from the last issue they did, sketches and half-done pages that Gerard thought better of partway, test pages for new pens. There's a stack of crumpled-up pieces of notebook paper in the corner, next to the overflowing trash can: story ideas that were rejected, pages that didn't sound right. A desk takes up one corner of the room, a drawing table near it, and on the other side a pull-out couch that they've spent more than one long night on. The studio is big enough that they can move around easily, even if they have to avoid the debris on the floor, and Mikey takes another look around and sighs, settling down onto the couch. It's good to be back, he decides. Even if it has been only a week or two since they finished the last issue.

"Where do you want to start?" Mikey asks, looking around. He's tempted to get some of the trash out before they do, so he'll have somewhere to get rid of the pages that didn't work out, but he figures there might be something useful among the crumpled-up papers. It's safer to keep them.
Gerard shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee, fingers tracing over the pens he used last time, still scattered across the drawing desk. He treats them like old friends, gentle and careful, testing each one in turn, lines of black and grey and colors in patches on the scrap pieces of paper on the desk, a mass of colors, and then on his arm, snakes of blue, red, grey. Mikey watches out of the corner of his eye, trying to find where his papers are. Another ritual.

"From the beginning," Gerard says, finally satisfied, snapping the cap back onto the last pen. "What happens first?"

That, Mikey doesn't know. Not at first, and he spends a long moment just thinking, shifting from one foot to the other, arms crossed.

"Little things," he begins, frowning. "Things you wouldn't notice at first." Freak storms, things Bob sees that he shouldn't, omens. Mikey is thinking of a hundred different things all at once, insignificant things that could work, and it makes his head spin.

"And then an epidemic of sheep?" Gerard asks, and Mikey snorts.

"Rabid petting zoo animals?" Mikey counters, because then Gee can have his sheep and Mikey can have some semblance of a normal, sane reason for it. Demons are always a better explanation than 'oh my god, my brother has lost his mind, and he is the only one I have to bounce ideas off of.'

"Little Johnny never should have fed those ducks," Gerard says mournfully. He ducks his head, hiding his smile from Mikey. "Yeah, stuff like that."

Mikey nods, scribbling furiously onto the first scrap piece of paper he can find that isn't already covered in scribbles, doodles, or vaguely obscene notes of Pete's, every idea he can manage to get out before it slips free of his mind again. They're half-formed and vague, but he and Gerard are getting somewhere, he can feel it.

"So, first off, Bob hears about some petting zoo massacre?" Mikey asks, and Gerard thinks for a moment before nodding.

"Sounds good." He tosses out a line or two, and Mikey's face lights up. He's writing fast enough that his wrist is starting to sting, and he writes like he thinks-jumping from thought to thought without connections, so it only makes sense to his mind-and Gerard's, because Gerard always gets him.

They continue on until Mikey's stomach is growling too loudly to ignore, just tossing ideas back and forth, banter with the ease of knowledge that they have something they can work with, that they're not wasting their time. The sun is low by then, sky turning a smoggy, muted red as it dips below the horizon. Their coffee cups sit abandoned at the edge of Mikey's desk, empty and one with bitemarks all around the rim-Gerard's, another one of his nervous habits. Mikey leans against the foldout couch and watches Gerard against the opposite wall, the way he's trying not to stumble even as his gestures get expansive and overexcited.

"I could eat a horse right now," Mikey groans, slumping down onto the couch. "I'm so damn hungry."

"Tell Pete to bring us something," Gerard says, flopping down beside him and lighting his sixth cigarette of the day.

"You want to put up with him when he comes over?" Mikey asks, raising an eyebrow. "You keep saying you don't like him."

Gerard shrugs. "If he's got food, I don't care. And coffee. Need more coffee."

"You always need more coffee," Mikey points out, conveniently forgetting to mention that he lives, breathes, and dreams about the stuff himself. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and taps out a message to Pete, looking up at Gerard as he types. "What do you want him to get us?"

"Don't care." Gerard's organizing his pens, stacking them by color and how much life they have left in them. He isn't looking down at what he's doing, so Mikey isn't sure how he's managing. By feel alone, it looks like, and Mikey watches his fingers trace over the pens, moving one after another.

'coffee and Chinese and G might even put up with you,' Mikey types, and then waits, phone resting on his knees. As it buzzes, it slides down into his lap and Mikey reaches down for it to read it.

'if I do can I get a kiss' it reads, and Mikey rolls his eyes at it, even if he knows Pete can't actually see the face he's making.

'yeah. kiss my ass,' he types. 'come on over.'

Gerard and Mikey are curled up on the couch together, sharing a cigarette and trading ideas half an hour later when there's a knock on the door. Mikey gets up slowly, not wanting to disentangle himself from his brother just yet, not when he's finally getting comfortable. When he looks through the keyhole-and he's always a little afraid to, having seen more than one horror movie where someone gets stabbed in the eye through one-- it's Pete, food and coffee in his arms, and that's definitely worth getting up for.

He unbolts the door, trying to wrench it open before he realizes he hasn't unlocked it yet. He shakes his head at himself, unlocking it, and this time the door gives, though still not without a struggle.

"Door one, Mikey zero," Pete says cheerily, stepping into the apartment, arms laden. Their coffee cups are tucked into the crook of one arm and the boxes of takeout Chinese in the other, and Mikey doesn't know how Pete's made it this far without dropping anything.

He takes the coffee out of Pete's hands first, before Gerard can descend upon it. He's had more than one spill from Gerard grabbing at cups of coffee Mikey has too fast, and when he walks over to hand Gerard's cup to him, he holds it away from himself, just in case.

"Awesome," Gerard breathes, cup gripped in both hands. He takes a long, blissed-out sip, and Mikey turns away, back to Pete. "So," he begins.

"No 'I love you, Pete, you always bring good things'?" Pete asks, tapping his foot, shit-eating grin firmly in place. He hasn't handed over the food yet, and Mikey is not above resorting to violence, if violence extends to throwing chopsticks at Pete's head.

"Until you give me that shit, no," Mikey tells him. "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse. Or a Pete."

"Kinky," Pete says, waggling his eyebrows, and Mikey mimes strangling him until he finally hands the food over. Pete didn't get anything for himself, but he never does. That's what stealing Mikey's is for.

Gerard coughs meaningfully from the couch. "Are you two done?"

"Yes," says Mikey, in unison with Pete's "Never."

Mikey hands Gerard his carton and settles down on the couch beside him, leaving enough room for Pete to squeeze in by his side. It's a tight fit with the three of them, and Mikey shifts uncomfortably, stuck between Gerard and Pete, who sprawls out as much as he can and completely fails to get the hint. He's humming something softly as he reaches over and opens up Mikey's container, stealing a piece of sweet and sour chicken with his fingers. Mikey pauses, and then stares over at him.

"… Are you humming Can't Touch This?"

Pete puts on his best innocent face. "Sure you're not hearing things?"

Mikey rolls his eyes and clutches his food a little tighter to his chest, away from Pete. He gets rice on the front of his shirt as he tries to eat and his wrist twinges from the awkward angle he's trying to use the chopsticks at, but if Pete's going to steal his food, he figures he might as well make him work for it. It's only logical.

Pete makes a face and leans over, elbowing into Mikey's space and ending up half in his lap, and Gerard's watching the two of them with raised eyebrows. He's scooted as far away from the two of them as possible, pressing himself against the side of the worn couch, and the faintly disturbed expression on his face makes Mikey laugh even as he's elbowing Pete in the ribs.

"Get off," he says, still laughing, and he ignores Pete's answering pout. "Fine, fine, you can have some."

Pete does victory guns with his fingers and takes another piece, smiling smugly at Mikey. "This is the start of something beautiful. I can feel it."

"Oh, just eat your food." Mikey rolls his eyes and tries not to notice that Gerard is laughing at them, one hand pressed over his mouth to stifle it.

Pete doesn't stay long after they eat, because Mikey wants to get back into the swing of work, and he swats at Pete every time he tries to loom over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of what he's working on. He finally makes a face and pokes Mikey, saying "Hey, I'm going, don't miss me too much" and turns to go.

"Don't worry, I won't," Mikey calls after him, but it's said fondly. Pete turns and flashes him a grin, closing the door behind himself.

Mikey looks to Gerard then. There's only a page, and it's half-formed scribbles rather than a real script, but it's something. Words on the page that actually are going somewhere, and no words need to be said between them, just a look, as he passes it over.

Gerard's eyes skim down the page, and he smiles when he gets to the bottom. He takes out a pen and writes this is only the beginning in thick, sloppy letters in the margin, and that's that.

"It's good," he confirms, answering Mikey's unsaid question. "Really fucking good."

Mikey smiles.

***

They don't notice the setting of the sun until it's already too late to go home. The sky is blue-black and the streetlights are out, pinpricks of light against the darkness. Cars are still rushing by, but people are leaving the streets. The constant buzz of chatter has faded, conversations here and there punctuated by car horns and the screech of tires.

Mikey doesn't know how late it is, exactly, but he can feel the ache of night settling into his bones, and Gerard keeps yawning in midsentence. He knows they're going to sleep in the studio tonight. He doesn't like to, not exactly, but it's grown more familiar, and it doesn't have that itch of wrong about it that sleeping in a strange place does, like it used to.

"What time is it?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. There are no clocks, but his phone's sitting on his desk, and Gerard reaches for it with another yawn.

"It's one AM, shit," Gerard manages, scrunching up his face. "I hate sleeping in here."

"It's not so bad." Mikey shrugs and starts taking the cushions off the couch to pull it out. He moves mechanically, forcing his body to cooperate with him even when it doesn't want to. "Least we don't have to sleep on the floor."

"Makes me feel so much better, thanks." Gerard snorts and moves forward to help Mikey, the two of them unfolding the bed together. The sheets are discolored and they reek of sweat, but at this point Mikey's too tired to care and he collapses onto the thin mattress without hesitation, springs squeaking.

He's only dimly aware of Gerard crawling onto the bed next to him and lifting his head to slide a pillow underneath, sliding his glasses off, and then nothing else, already taken by sleep.

***

His sleep is fitful, and when he wakes, it's to Gerard shaking him.

"Jesus, Mikey, are you okay?" Gerard asks, leaning over him. "Talk to me." His hands are clutching Mikey's arms tight, tight enough to hurt.

"… wha?" he asks, still fuzzy with sleep.

Gerard swallows hard, looking at him. "You were screaming."

It's still dark in the studio, and he can only see the dim outlines of Gerard's face, but he can hear the worry in his voice. He notices, in a distant sort of way, that he's shaking.

The dream comes rushing back to him all at once, storms and blood and chaos, walking down a dark street only illuminated by lightning splitting the sky, the mind-numbing panic of I can't find Gerard, coming face to face with something else entirely, something with bright, glowing eyes and a body so twisted, so contorted, that Mikey shudders with revulsion even at the memory. It knocks him back and he grabs at Gerard, pulling him close without another thought.

"Are you okay?" Gerard whispers into Mikey's hair, arms wrapped tight around his middle. "What was it?"

"Just a dream." Mikey shakes his head, burying his face into Gerard's chest. His voice is hoarse. "Nightmare. Whatever."

"You wanna talk about it?"

Mikey swallows, trying to find enough moisture in his throat to speak. "I couldn't find you. I was lost, and I couldn't find you, and everything was dark, and something had happened to you, and there was this thing-" He breaks off, shuddering again. "You know that one thing I showed you, the video of the robot dog? How it was alive but it wasn't and it made your skin crawl, just looking at it? Because it wasn't right. Because it moved wrong. It was like that. And it had these eyes that looked right through you."

"Hey," Gerard says softly. "Just a dream. That's all. It's just me. I'm here, and it's just us chickens. Promise. If there are any monsters I'll beat 'em before you ever see them."

"Like you'd be able to do anything," Mikey murmurs, but he smiles anyway. "Thanks."

"It's what I'm here for," Gerard reminds him. "I've got you."

"Yeah," Mikey says quietly, eyes slipping shut. "Love you."

"Love you too, kid." Gerard holds him a little tighter. "C'mon, it's late. We should go back to sleep."

"Mm," Mikey mumbles in agreement.

He sleeps.

***

The next morning, he opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. They've been staying at the apartment over the past two weeks, and the cracks in this plaster seem almost novel. Some of them are new. Most of them aren't. There's no sun streaming in on them; today is a dull slate-grey, and he can hear the first clink of raindrops coming down against the window.

Gerard is still half on top of him, snoring softly, and he smiles, ruffling his brother's hair fondly. He's glad to be here, to see the light of day. Sometimes he needs reminders that dreams aren't real. They're alone in the apartment, and they're going to get back to work, just like always. He's going to write out a half-assed script and Gerard is going to pick it apart until they've got something. They're going to send it off, Gerard is going to doodle for a few days, and then they'll get it back covered in notations. Then, Gerard will start drawing.

He always looks forward to that part the most. Seeing what he writes come alive and off the page, seeing nothings become somethings. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling for a while, until his eyes hurt, feeling the weight of Gerard bearing down on his chest. The rain drums down outside, harder and harder, until it's a roar, and Gerard sleeps on.

"Hey," he murmurs finally, pushing at Gerard's shoulder. "Hey, wake up, come on, we have work to do. Come on, asshole, wake up."

"What?" Gerard opens one eye and looks down at Mikey. He grins and rolls over onto his side, stretching out and giving Mikey a chance to breathe again. Mikey's not a big fan of breathing with a hundred-something pound weight on his chest. Not that he does it often, but often enough.

"Trying to crush me to death in my sleep," Mikey says, half-laughing. "I see how you work."

"I'm trying to take over this operation," Gerard informs him solemnly. "And you… well. We know what has to happen to you for that to happen."

"Dream on. I'll poke your eyes out with my elbows."

"I believe it. Skinny little fucker. Come on, let's get some breakfast."

There's no food in the studio-at least, no food Mikey trusts in the studio. He's never put much faith in expiration dates, and he doesn't want to check them, most of the time, because he really, really doesn't want to know things like the fact that Gerard's snacks of choice have probably become sentient.

"Where do you want to go?" Mikey asks, reaching around for his glasses until his fingers close around them.

Gerard slides into focus just in time for Mikey to see him shaking his head. "I'll bring you back something. Keep working, ok? I'd tell you to come with me, but we might as well at least pretend we're getting some fucking work done."

"Fine, fine, leave me to rot," Mikey says, shooing him, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He wobbles as he stands, reaching out a hand to the mattress to steady himself. "And get some fucking coffee," he adds as an afterthought, rubbing his bleary eyes.

He flips on the light at his desk as he settles down, more habit than anything else. It's bright, and it makes his eyes sting. It's still too early, he decides, and he hasn't even bothered figuring out what time it is yet. Not that it matters, really. The pen doesn't feel right in his hand yet and he grips it tighter, staring at a blank page.

He writes "Bob goes" and then scribbles it out, twice. That isn't what he's looking for. The first page sits next to him and he stares at it like he expects it to give him some wisdom of where to go from there.

It doesn't help much. He flips it off and stares down at the blank page again. Nothing. He leans back in his chair, chewing on the end of the pen thoughtfully. Gerard will be back soon, and he'll be damned if he has nothing to show for the time he's spent so far. All he's got so far is the setup, families at the petting zoo when the animals unexpectedly go rabid. He doesn't even think he likes it, mostly because he knows it's just an excuse for Gerard to draw blood spatters all over everything, as per usual.

He starts to write.

View of man walking down empty street in the rain, hands in pockets. Head down. Smoking. Old, seedy neighborhood, dirty brick buildings.

Present day

Stops to look in a window. TV is on and in view, playing the news.

REPORTER
Authorities are doing what they can to help families cope after this tragedy. No word yet as to what will happen to the animals, but there are reports that they are being tested for rabies. In other news, farmers across the country are puzzled as sheep populations grow at an alarming rate. Here's Jim Ambrosia, coming to you live from Bangor, Pennsylvania for more details.

REPORTER TWO
Thanks, Taylor. They are calling it an epidemic. Sheep populations have, by some reports, doubled or even tripled overnight. Farmers are baffled. No explanation seems in sight as scientists struggle to find the cause…

Laughs and keeps moving, taking a drag of his cigarette.

BOB
(to himself)
Sheep? Frank, man, you've fucking lost it if you're getting your kicks from sheep.

TEXT BOX
I figured it was just him being his usual self. Figured I'd go talk to him, later, get him to set things right before it got out of control, but that was all. Just Frank up to his usual tricks.

Pain in the ass having Loki for a friend, as always. Sticks his nose where it doesn't belong, makes a cow or two fall from the sky if life is getting too stale. Just stupid stuff. Harmless stuff. Something like this was right up his alley.

The door opens and Mikey looks up, startled out of his writing haze. "Gee?" he asks, pen still sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he turns around.

"No, a zombie from the local mall," Gerard says, failing horribly at keeping a straight face, as per usual. "Yeah, it's me. Come get the food before I drop it everywhere. The cockroaches don't deserve pancakes."

"Better not be any cockroaches," Mikey mutters, getting up from the chair with a groan. Gerard hands him a Styrofoam container with a little M drawn on it in fingernail, and Mikey grins, settling down on the edge of the bed to eat. "So if you're a zombie from the mall, what does that make me?"

"Shitty at barricading your door?" Gerard offers, sitting down beside him.

"Cruel," Mikey tells him, and then opens the container. Chocolate chip, which are basically all he'll eat in the pancake department. He hasn't had them in ages.

"Mostly cruel," he amends, and takes a bite.

"I'm sorry the truth hurts," Gerard says around a mouthful of pancake, syrup sliding down his chin. "But if it saves you from the zombies…"

"Yeah, yeah." Gerard is oddly serious about zombies. Neither of them would be able to use it properly, but he has a chainsaw stuffed into a closet at their apartment, for emergencies. Mikey has Gerard draw Bob's apartment having the same thing sometimes, because even if they can't use the thing worth shit, at least their character can.

"Get anything done?" Gerard asks, and Mikey nods, mouth full. "Spill syrup on it and I eat your brains," he says after a moment, swallowing. "Zombie boy."

Gerard swats at him with a sticky hand and gets up to go look at it. "Fuck, you put in the sheep part! Way cooler than freak storms, man." He grins, hands flailing a little in excitement like he can't quite help it.

"Dork," Mikey says affectionately. "Come back and finish your food so we can get back to it. And please tell me you got coffee."

"You think I'm gonna forget coffee?"

"If you get distracted by ogling the coffee shop girl, then maybe."

"I only did that once," Gerard grouses, but he comes back over and takes a bite or two of his pancakes. "So, next we've got him going to visit Frank?"

Mikey frowns, thoughtful. "That or dropping in on Ray. I don't know yet."

"Flip a coin?"

Mikey snorts. "Great way to decide. No, come on. Either he goes to Frank to ask what's up with the sheep or he goes to see Ray and hears about everything else."

"Frank, then," Gerard says. "So then he can go to Ray after Frank's said he's not involved with the sheep thing and then he can find out about everything else, which is probably also not Frank's fault. Does that make sense? I think that makes sense."

"In you-logic, yeah," Mikey nods, getting up to get his coffee. "Okay."

Gerard makes a face. "What do you mean, me-logic?"

"Nothing," Mikey says innocently, settling back down on the bed. "Help me out with the next page? We can't really do anything until the script's done, and I don't want you wasting away from boredom or anything."

"Like I do that."

"No, you just spend the whole time doodling instead. Come on, man."

Gerard heaves out a sigh and gets up. "Okay, okay. I'm coming, I'm coming."

Part Two