(no subject)
under the bright lights
pete/mikey
R
strange, weird dystopian AU thing. helped along by the april 12th prompt at we_are_cities.
there's more fighting over in the next town, but when he looks up at the sky he can pretend the explosions are just fireworks, when he's watching from the right angle.
sometimes he turns, opens his mouth, ready to tell gerard that he should try drawing them one day, before he remembers gerard's not there anymore. that as far as he knows, gerard's just. not anywhere.
--
mikey hasn't seen anyone familiar since the day gerard disappeared, but it's not for want of trying. it's just hard: he remembers a time when everywhere was too built up and congested, but then things fell, got torn down, and now there are miles and miles, stretches of nothing between settlements of people and no way of getting between them but walking.
mikey and gerard never settled. nowhere was quite right (nothing was right) but it didn't matter, then. it was the two of them; they had each other.
mikey labels the day gerard disappears as a tuesday. there's no way of knowing, but he always liked those least.
it's been eleven days and three settlements since tuesday, but mikey's still looking.
--
every time mikey meets someone he asks, "i'm looking for my brother. dark hair, pale, called gerard, have you seen him?" every time, his voice cracks and croaks, dry with the dust of travelling.
every time, he gets a mistrustful, only occasionally pitying look, a quick shake of a head, sometimes a sharp, "no, sorry," but sometimes not even that.
everyone is pale and dark haired, not enough sunlight and too much dirt.
every time he meets someone, mikey ends up muttering, "thanks," anyway but not meaning it in the slightest, before just walking on further. he thinks about letting go, just going crazy, but he's too focused on one thing to let it happen.
--
the world, if that's what it still is, is a monotonous thing now.
asking a guy too far on the outskirts of the next town, just another loner who looks too pale for his skin beneath tattoos on his arms, and getting the reply, "you find a short kid with red hair and the best voice you'll ever fuckin' hear and i'll help you out," is the biggest break in the monotony mikey's had since he woke up to find a backpack next to him, sketchpad still inside, attached to no one.
--
what's stranger is that the guy, who is a stranger, then says, "sorry. it's just, it's hard, i know." and then, "you look like you haven't eaten in about a thousand years, stick around a little, grab a bite." and then, "i have too much to go around now, anyway. hi. i'm pete."
"mikey," mikey manages after a second or two of nothing. "i. uh." he thinks for a moment; after all this time it probably won't hurt anything but a little of his hope. "okay. thanks."
he means that this time, genuinely. he can't remember a time when people really did things like this.
"no problem," pete says. his smile has too many teeth in it to be real or happy, but when he turns around, heads into what constitutes his house and busies himself with pots and pans, his shoulders are square. drawing determined parallels.
--
pete cooks -- something. mikey doesn't know what it is, other than that it's better than whatever he's managed over the past couple of weeks. pete's place is better than wherever he's been, too; it's more like a shack than a house in the way mikey remembers them, but it's got walls to block the wind out and mikey's not even shivering, after a while, for the first time in too long.
"thanks," mikey says around a mouthful, and feels inadequate. not awkward, though. the situation doesn't call for it, and he lost the ability anyway, back when the electricity first wiped out all over and he walked in on all sorts.
"don't worry about it," pete says. "the company--" he stops, and puts his plate down on the floor next to where he's sitting.
mikey waits.
"it's pretty nice, to have some company again, i mean," pete adds eventually. "not someone who's just looking to raid and like, what, pillage or something, i guess? since." he stops again.
mikey, who may not have gerard here right now for strength but learnt a lot about drawing out painful or reluctant information from talking to him for years, says, quietly, after a careful pause, "short kid with red hair?"
"the greatest fucking voice," pete says. there's a hint of fierceness under the hollow quality of his words. "i swear, never heard anything like him. never met anyone like him."
mikey thinks that if there was enough water around to spare, pete would have tears on his cheeks, not just in his eyes where he's probably not even aware of them. he takes a deep breath.
"my brother used to sing," mikey says, eventually. the look he gets in return is as fierce in its understanding as pete's voice, earlier; subtle but definitely there.
"you should stay," pete tells him. "i mean -- if you can spare the night. rest up, and."
mikey thinks of gerard, of fourteen days ago and how this is just another tuesday, a different kind this time.
"okay," he says, and pete doesn't smile but mikey doesn't even try to.
--
pete's fucking crazy in all the ways mikey won't let himself be. mikey learns this in the night, between fraying sheets and all the things people simply don't do anymore, because there's no call for it.
he learns that pete was crazy deep in love with this guy, with patrick, between deep kisses that are just a little too dry, like the air around them; that they were last together here, but not like this, as pete bites, as he arches up against mikey in the same way mikey arches against him in return, because patrick -- patrick wasn't. pete presses secrets into the skin of mikey's neck: he lost all hope when there was fighting close by, when patrick never came back. never came back -- home, he chokes out when mikey pushes into him, along with, "yes, fuck, please, god, so good," and then it's just that, over and over until it is over, until they're both over and mikey feels more exhausted but together than he has in all his memory.
it's not done, not anymore, but mikey kisses the scars on pete's knuckles as they lie there together anyway. pete tells him how the scars are only there because he tried to put his fist through an old abandoned warehouse which is hardly even there now, when he found patrick's hat but nothing else, because there had already been both kinds of scavengers, and they both think of somebody else.
--
when mikey wakes up to arms around his waist, gripping tight, he knows right away it's not gerard, that it can't be. he's never been the sort of person to wake up and take a while to remember where he is.
it still hurts a little, though. and again, in an unexpected and different way, when pete mutters, "i guess you're going today, then," even though he doesn't let go.
"i guess," mikey says. and then, because the feeling was unexpected and so he can be unexpectedly bald, because there is nothing, nothing he has to lose anymore but something he could maybe gain, "i guess you could come with me."
pete makes a sound like he's half asleep, and then a slightly more startled one. his grip tightens, a little.
"or not," mikey adds. his voice is flat, falling down between them, but then, it always is. "i mean, if i ever head back this i could just drop in here."
"stay another night," pete mutters after a few moments. "just one."
mikey thinks of gerard, maybe still out there, maybe just another day or night away. his heart flutters. but a day and a night alone lasts a long time and he's already had a lot of them, and pete's lips brushing against his neck as he talks whispers to him of the past, the real past, when the only reason to hate tuesday was because it was too far from either weekend and there were never any shows. when it was easy to tell just when tuesdays were.
"i shouldn't," mikey says. "my brother--"
he doesn't say no, though, just adds, "well maybe you should come tomorrow, then," and kind of means that genuinely, too.
--
trusting someone: another thing that just doesn't happen anymore.
so maybe mikey is fucking crazy for that, after everything anyway, even though after this tiny break he's going to keep on going. he'll keep looking forever, and maybe that's part of it. but maybe it's okay, because pete is seriously, seriously fucking crazy too, because.
pete says yes.
--
there's more stuff to carry with pete. he's brought with him the entire contents of his -- well, home. but there's the two of them to split it all between, so it's easier.
they get to the settlement pete had been on the outskirts of, and mikey asks, just like normal, anyone who will pause to listen long enough anyway: "hey, have you seen, i'm looking for my brother, he's..."
he gets the same response as ever, so he carries on just the same, as well. only this time pete follows, a few steps behind, eyes boring into mikey's back as though he doesn't even blink.
they don't talk like mikey and gerard had. mikey's voice still cracks a little, croaks a little. mikey doesn't mind: he doesn't want pete to ever become any kind of replacement. doesn't want gerard to ever be replaced in any kind of way.
he's still got hope. if anything, that's the craziest thing of all.
--
"i used to wish on stars," pete tells him one night, looking up at the blank, dark, dull sky. mikey doesn't know what day it is, or how many it's been, now. and then, "wished on anything, really, even fireworks." and then, "used to want to be peter pan."
"i believed in unicorns," mikey says, feeling like they're trading secrets, the only kind that don't matter anymore. "gee -- gerard, he'd draw them for me."
"if the stars were still there i'd wish on you finding him," pete mutters, lips on his neck; mikey closes his eyes and nods. "i think you can. i -- patrick, it was different, i know he's not there or coming back."
there's a bloodstained trucker hat in pete's bag. mikey's never commented on it. "yeah."
"i know you're not him," pete says, but he kisses mikey anyway, as though it doesn't matter.
--
mikey doesn't know how long it's been, but that doesn't really matter. it doesn't really change anything.
there's more fighting over in the next town. fireworks, mikey thinks, and he squeezes pete's hand just a little more tightly as they keep on walking, and doesn't turn once.
pete/mikey
R
strange, weird dystopian AU thing. helped along by the april 12th prompt at we_are_cities.
there's more fighting over in the next town, but when he looks up at the sky he can pretend the explosions are just fireworks, when he's watching from the right angle.
sometimes he turns, opens his mouth, ready to tell gerard that he should try drawing them one day, before he remembers gerard's not there anymore. that as far as he knows, gerard's just. not anywhere.
--
mikey hasn't seen anyone familiar since the day gerard disappeared, but it's not for want of trying. it's just hard: he remembers a time when everywhere was too built up and congested, but then things fell, got torn down, and now there are miles and miles, stretches of nothing between settlements of people and no way of getting between them but walking.
mikey and gerard never settled. nowhere was quite right (nothing was right) but it didn't matter, then. it was the two of them; they had each other.
mikey labels the day gerard disappears as a tuesday. there's no way of knowing, but he always liked those least.
it's been eleven days and three settlements since tuesday, but mikey's still looking.
--
every time mikey meets someone he asks, "i'm looking for my brother. dark hair, pale, called gerard, have you seen him?" every time, his voice cracks and croaks, dry with the dust of travelling.
every time, he gets a mistrustful, only occasionally pitying look, a quick shake of a head, sometimes a sharp, "no, sorry," but sometimes not even that.
everyone is pale and dark haired, not enough sunlight and too much dirt.
every time he meets someone, mikey ends up muttering, "thanks," anyway but not meaning it in the slightest, before just walking on further. he thinks about letting go, just going crazy, but he's too focused on one thing to let it happen.
--
the world, if that's what it still is, is a monotonous thing now.
asking a guy too far on the outskirts of the next town, just another loner who looks too pale for his skin beneath tattoos on his arms, and getting the reply, "you find a short kid with red hair and the best voice you'll ever fuckin' hear and i'll help you out," is the biggest break in the monotony mikey's had since he woke up to find a backpack next to him, sketchpad still inside, attached to no one.
--
what's stranger is that the guy, who is a stranger, then says, "sorry. it's just, it's hard, i know." and then, "you look like you haven't eaten in about a thousand years, stick around a little, grab a bite." and then, "i have too much to go around now, anyway. hi. i'm pete."
"mikey," mikey manages after a second or two of nothing. "i. uh." he thinks for a moment; after all this time it probably won't hurt anything but a little of his hope. "okay. thanks."
he means that this time, genuinely. he can't remember a time when people really did things like this.
"no problem," pete says. his smile has too many teeth in it to be real or happy, but when he turns around, heads into what constitutes his house and busies himself with pots and pans, his shoulders are square. drawing determined parallels.
--
pete cooks -- something. mikey doesn't know what it is, other than that it's better than whatever he's managed over the past couple of weeks. pete's place is better than wherever he's been, too; it's more like a shack than a house in the way mikey remembers them, but it's got walls to block the wind out and mikey's not even shivering, after a while, for the first time in too long.
"thanks," mikey says around a mouthful, and feels inadequate. not awkward, though. the situation doesn't call for it, and he lost the ability anyway, back when the electricity first wiped out all over and he walked in on all sorts.
"don't worry about it," pete says. "the company--" he stops, and puts his plate down on the floor next to where he's sitting.
mikey waits.
"it's pretty nice, to have some company again, i mean," pete adds eventually. "not someone who's just looking to raid and like, what, pillage or something, i guess? since." he stops again.
mikey, who may not have gerard here right now for strength but learnt a lot about drawing out painful or reluctant information from talking to him for years, says, quietly, after a careful pause, "short kid with red hair?"
"the greatest fucking voice," pete says. there's a hint of fierceness under the hollow quality of his words. "i swear, never heard anything like him. never met anyone like him."
mikey thinks that if there was enough water around to spare, pete would have tears on his cheeks, not just in his eyes where he's probably not even aware of them. he takes a deep breath.
"my brother used to sing," mikey says, eventually. the look he gets in return is as fierce in its understanding as pete's voice, earlier; subtle but definitely there.
"you should stay," pete tells him. "i mean -- if you can spare the night. rest up, and."
mikey thinks of gerard, of fourteen days ago and how this is just another tuesday, a different kind this time.
"okay," he says, and pete doesn't smile but mikey doesn't even try to.
--
pete's fucking crazy in all the ways mikey won't let himself be. mikey learns this in the night, between fraying sheets and all the things people simply don't do anymore, because there's no call for it.
he learns that pete was crazy deep in love with this guy, with patrick, between deep kisses that are just a little too dry, like the air around them; that they were last together here, but not like this, as pete bites, as he arches up against mikey in the same way mikey arches against him in return, because patrick -- patrick wasn't. pete presses secrets into the skin of mikey's neck: he lost all hope when there was fighting close by, when patrick never came back. never came back -- home, he chokes out when mikey pushes into him, along with, "yes, fuck, please, god, so good," and then it's just that, over and over until it is over, until they're both over and mikey feels more exhausted but together than he has in all his memory.
it's not done, not anymore, but mikey kisses the scars on pete's knuckles as they lie there together anyway. pete tells him how the scars are only there because he tried to put his fist through an old abandoned warehouse which is hardly even there now, when he found patrick's hat but nothing else, because there had already been both kinds of scavengers, and they both think of somebody else.
--
when mikey wakes up to arms around his waist, gripping tight, he knows right away it's not gerard, that it can't be. he's never been the sort of person to wake up and take a while to remember where he is.
it still hurts a little, though. and again, in an unexpected and different way, when pete mutters, "i guess you're going today, then," even though he doesn't let go.
"i guess," mikey says. and then, because the feeling was unexpected and so he can be unexpectedly bald, because there is nothing, nothing he has to lose anymore but something he could maybe gain, "i guess you could come with me."
pete makes a sound like he's half asleep, and then a slightly more startled one. his grip tightens, a little.
"or not," mikey adds. his voice is flat, falling down between them, but then, it always is. "i mean, if i ever head back this i could just drop in here."
"stay another night," pete mutters after a few moments. "just one."
mikey thinks of gerard, maybe still out there, maybe just another day or night away. his heart flutters. but a day and a night alone lasts a long time and he's already had a lot of them, and pete's lips brushing against his neck as he talks whispers to him of the past, the real past, when the only reason to hate tuesday was because it was too far from either weekend and there were never any shows. when it was easy to tell just when tuesdays were.
"i shouldn't," mikey says. "my brother--"
he doesn't say no, though, just adds, "well maybe you should come tomorrow, then," and kind of means that genuinely, too.
--
trusting someone: another thing that just doesn't happen anymore.
so maybe mikey is fucking crazy for that, after everything anyway, even though after this tiny break he's going to keep on going. he'll keep looking forever, and maybe that's part of it. but maybe it's okay, because pete is seriously, seriously fucking crazy too, because.
pete says yes.
--
there's more stuff to carry with pete. he's brought with him the entire contents of his -- well, home. but there's the two of them to split it all between, so it's easier.
they get to the settlement pete had been on the outskirts of, and mikey asks, just like normal, anyone who will pause to listen long enough anyway: "hey, have you seen, i'm looking for my brother, he's..."
he gets the same response as ever, so he carries on just the same, as well. only this time pete follows, a few steps behind, eyes boring into mikey's back as though he doesn't even blink.
they don't talk like mikey and gerard had. mikey's voice still cracks a little, croaks a little. mikey doesn't mind: he doesn't want pete to ever become any kind of replacement. doesn't want gerard to ever be replaced in any kind of way.
he's still got hope. if anything, that's the craziest thing of all.
--
"i used to wish on stars," pete tells him one night, looking up at the blank, dark, dull sky. mikey doesn't know what day it is, or how many it's been, now. and then, "wished on anything, really, even fireworks." and then, "used to want to be peter pan."
"i believed in unicorns," mikey says, feeling like they're trading secrets, the only kind that don't matter anymore. "gee -- gerard, he'd draw them for me."
"if the stars were still there i'd wish on you finding him," pete mutters, lips on his neck; mikey closes his eyes and nods. "i think you can. i -- patrick, it was different, i know he's not there or coming back."
there's a bloodstained trucker hat in pete's bag. mikey's never commented on it. "yeah."
"i know you're not him," pete says, but he kisses mikey anyway, as though it doesn't matter.
--
mikey doesn't know how long it's been, but that doesn't really matter. it doesn't really change anything.
there's more fighting over in the next town. fireworks, mikey thinks, and he squeezes pete's hand just a little more tightly as they keep on walking, and doesn't turn once.