fic meme part last.
for affluence who is ridiculously patient. i apologize profusely for the obscenely long wait. i hope it's alright.
-gerard/mikey
-orange
-derive
-patchouli
Mikey has a key to Gerard’s apartment. No one questions this, because after all, they are brothers and best friends, and even though no one will say it, they know that Gerard still needs a baby sitter of sorts, sometimes. On tour, they all take this responsibility, and Gerard is never alone, but here, at home, in between tours, Gerard becomes restless. And if there is one thing Mikey has derived from that whole mess, it is his heightened awareness that the devil really does make work for idle hands. And so, because he doesn’t want to risk anything, Mikey checks up on him, almost daily. Sometimes, he spends the night. Curled around a pillow on the couch or curled around Gerard in his bed if Gerard has had a particularly trying night.
Secretly, Mikey far prefers Gerard’s apartment to his own - Gerard’s taken the time to hang paintings and posters and paint the walls and buy furniture that isn’t just for show. It is lived-in, Mikey thinks, whereas his own apartment still has the bluish-white walls, bare except for a few posters, and expensive chairs that he is loathe to sit in, because he is acutely aware of his sprawling limbs and the way they scuff and track dirt all over them. His apartment smells like nothing, like air, an absence of everything. Gerard’s always has the lingering scent of patchouli clinging to it. Their mother had loved that scent, and apparently had passed on the affinity to Gerard. The thought makes him smile as he shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t bother to announce his presence, why should he? He checks his watch - it’s only 10 am, which means that Gerard is still asleep.
Sure enough, when Mikey pushes open the door with his hip, the first thing he spies is an arm flung haphazardly off the side of the bed. He follows it up to a white shoulder, pale neck, tangle of black hair. The smell of patchouli is stronger in here, and the blinds are open just slightly, orange light partitioning off Gerard’s shoulder and back. The smell and the rich orange of the light make Mikey sigh and smile, a little. Gerard rolls over and takes in a deep breath (Mikey still doesn’t know why people take that deep breath before they wake up, and it baffles him), and even though he’s heard it a million times before, it makes him hold his. Gerard is rubbing his eyes, blearily, interrupting the light on his face, making it strobe warmly against his cheek.
“You’re home,” His voice sounds like the glow coming from the window. Rich and sunny. He always sounds like this when he wakes up. Mikey likes being the only person to hear him sound like that. Misses it when he isn’t there. Then, he thinks about what he’s said. He’s not sure what the appropriate answer is, because of all places, his brother’s house would be the least acceptable to consider home. Their mother’s house, his own apartment, but not Gerard’s apartment. He blinks back at Gerard, who he has been with his entire life. Walks over to the bed and sits so his back soaks up the warmth from the light slowly fading from orange to yellow to white.
“I am,”
x-posted to crossyourself and mychemicalslash
-gerard/mikey
-orange
-derive
-patchouli
Mikey has a key to Gerard’s apartment. No one questions this, because after all, they are brothers and best friends, and even though no one will say it, they know that Gerard still needs a baby sitter of sorts, sometimes. On tour, they all take this responsibility, and Gerard is never alone, but here, at home, in between tours, Gerard becomes restless. And if there is one thing Mikey has derived from that whole mess, it is his heightened awareness that the devil really does make work for idle hands. And so, because he doesn’t want to risk anything, Mikey checks up on him, almost daily. Sometimes, he spends the night. Curled around a pillow on the couch or curled around Gerard in his bed if Gerard has had a particularly trying night.
Secretly, Mikey far prefers Gerard’s apartment to his own - Gerard’s taken the time to hang paintings and posters and paint the walls and buy furniture that isn’t just for show. It is lived-in, Mikey thinks, whereas his own apartment still has the bluish-white walls, bare except for a few posters, and expensive chairs that he is loathe to sit in, because he is acutely aware of his sprawling limbs and the way they scuff and track dirt all over them. His apartment smells like nothing, like air, an absence of everything. Gerard’s always has the lingering scent of patchouli clinging to it. Their mother had loved that scent, and apparently had passed on the affinity to Gerard. The thought makes him smile as he shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t bother to announce his presence, why should he? He checks his watch - it’s only 10 am, which means that Gerard is still asleep.
Sure enough, when Mikey pushes open the door with his hip, the first thing he spies is an arm flung haphazardly off the side of the bed. He follows it up to a white shoulder, pale neck, tangle of black hair. The smell of patchouli is stronger in here, and the blinds are open just slightly, orange light partitioning off Gerard’s shoulder and back. The smell and the rich orange of the light make Mikey sigh and smile, a little. Gerard rolls over and takes in a deep breath (Mikey still doesn’t know why people take that deep breath before they wake up, and it baffles him), and even though he’s heard it a million times before, it makes him hold his. Gerard is rubbing his eyes, blearily, interrupting the light on his face, making it strobe warmly against his cheek.
“You’re home,” His voice sounds like the glow coming from the window. Rich and sunny. He always sounds like this when he wakes up. Mikey likes being the only person to hear him sound like that. Misses it when he isn’t there. Then, he thinks about what he’s said. He’s not sure what the appropriate answer is, because of all places, his brother’s house would be the least acceptable to consider home. Their mother’s house, his own apartment, but not Gerard’s apartment. He blinks back at Gerard, who he has been with his entire life. Walks over to the bed and sits so his back soaks up the warmth from the light slowly fading from orange to yellow to white.
“I am,”
x-posted to crossyourself and mychemicalslash