Archive of Our Own

“I paid off those late fees. Forty bucks, Mikey.”

Gerard taps the long bridge of ash hanging from his cigarette.  

“If you keep forgetting to return shit, I’m not gonna let you use the Blockbuster card anymore. Anyways, uh, they had Night of the Creeps so, I re-rented it. And I scored some weed. You in?”

He casts a suggestive look in his brother’s direction. He feels jittery today, teeth clenched too tight around hope. The invite is a transparent inquiry for sex, which he elects to not really give a shit about concealing.

Outside, the red rust sun hangs low in the sky like a minor coincidence. It’s mid-May and the weather is turning. Rainy days are yielding to more of these balmy, pink-tinged afternoons that bleed resinous warmth through the glass block window near the kitchen sink.

It’s just him and Mikey in the house right now.

The old bones of the structure hiss and groan like a piece of pneumatic equipment as it settles around them, which is unnerving and carries with it a vague sense of doom. Probably only because such sounds, which must always be present, he assumes, can’t usually be heard, typically absorbed by the constant shuffle of their matriarchy.

The twenty dollar bill left magnetized to the fridge for a pizza delivery was instead better spent by Gerard on obtaining the aforementioned eighth (most of the weight probably by reason of seeds and sticks) from a fellow SVA postgraduate a couple blocks over whom he’d kept ties with. He’s excited to imbibe.

See, their parents are up in New York right now for an in-law wedding, and though they didn’t want to fork it, they booked themselves an overnight stay in a three star hotel by the venue. They were easily persuaded to do so, if only to sever themselves temporarily from onerous parental duties.

Orphaned, it’s the perfect opportunity to indulge in the simple pleasures he craves, things like getting high and fucking his kid brother like a rabbit on ecstasy during mating season.

“Huh?” Mikey says, dully, not looking up.

His tongue pokes into the corner of his mouth as he dutifully punches T9 into his Nokia. The tiny blue squares of light apprehended in the lenses of his glasses shake with his frantic typing. His ears, lagging, grant access to Gerard’s words only when he finishes his seemingly crucial text. Colon, bracket, send.

“Oh, uh, sorry. There’s an after-hours pep rally at seven and then, like, this bonfire everyone is going to afterward. There’s gonna be beer and, um, I think I heard that someone is bringing a piñata filled with a bunch of those little 99 shooters, too. So.”

And cute girls will be there and maybe they’ll be juiced enough to put out, is the unspoken sentence that lingers in the air like a timid ghost.

“Cool,” Gerard says. Lame, he thinks. He stubs his cigarette into the ashtray. It’s unappetizing now. 

It’s been three weeks since they’ve fooled around and he could totally strangle his brother with his bare hands.

Gerard imagines himself doing exactly that, actually. He pictures lunging over the solid oak of the kitchen table where they currently sit oppositely, arms outstretched cartoonishly, like a ghoul, to find Mikey’s throat. The force of his assault would tip his brother back in his chair and he’d follow him to the floor like a promise, knocking his head back against the tile. This would send his stupid librarian glasses and his stupid cell phone full of friendly digits skittering, as if gliding on ice, and he’d sever the airflow from his brother’s trachea, squeezing. He’d crush his larynx as easily as the empty Dr Pepper can next to him. 

The revenge scenario fortifies him enough to release the tightness lingering in the hinges of his jaw a bit, at least.

Now all he’s left with is sourness for what droll high school shenanigans Mikey devotes himself to these days instead of spending time with him, where he’s meant to be, and a predictable pang of arousal that resides in his groin in response to the envisage of the light leaving Mikey’s eyes.

“That sounds, uh, really rad, Mikes. Regular buckets of fun.” Gerard says, sardonically. He’s toying with the tab of his soda can now to stop himself from giving Mikey the finger. “A quickie before you get going, then? I can dick you on the couch.”

He’s begging, he knows. He’s shaking a little weather-beaten cup in his brother’s numb face that says WILL WORK FOR SEX and it’s pathetic and he can’t bring himself to care. Mikey is lucky he finds outright rape beneath him. 

“Nah,” Mikey declines, “I don’t wanna mess up my hair. I just put gel in it.”

Maybe he should just hang himself. 

“When you get back, then?”

“I don’t know, G. You probably shouldn’t wait up for me.”

“Fine.”

It is so not fucking fine. His dick can’t take much more of this. He knows that Mikey will find his way back to him, he’s sure of it, but it’s the waiting, the jerking off into the toilet while his brother is out doing whatever he does, that’s the silent killer.

It’s so predictable.

Mikey’s mind lately is all thumping house parties and mall crawls and boobies and over-inflated juvenile dilemmas probably so banal he can’t even bring himself to wonder what they might be about. So of course he doesn’t give a shit that Gerard is contemplating roping, or that every second ticking away on the clock is time they could be devoting to an uninhibited and raucous fuck.

If this were a couple months ago, they’d already be halfway down the long laundry list of shared family furnishings, shaking the walls with the booming sounds of their sweaty, zealous sex. Every inconsequential corner these walls hold would’ve been thoroughly befouled before the sun even had a chance to touch the trees.

Popularity, recognition. It’s a shiny new toy that’s pulling his little brother farther and farther away from what’s real, what’s important. He wants to shake Mikey’s shoulders and scream. 

His obstinance and recent proclivity to swat Gerard away, as if the person that practically raised him is nothing more than some common housefly, an ornery pest whose mere existence is an offense to the senses, is obviously unfortunate. It’s becoming orthodox, which is even more unfortunate. It doesn’t even look like Mikey’s hair has gel in it, so that stings. He’s not even worth the time to think of a good excuse, apparently.

The jealousy which curdles his insides like active decomp is a little more complex than what Mikey’s brain, pickled in youth, is able to comprehend, so he doesn’t mention it to him. He can’t help but to compare himself to his little brother, though, seeing him in his budding acclaim as something of a social yardstick. It’s a one-sided contest he’ll never win. 

Mikey is blazing through his Junior year, resembling a shadow of something that will soon mutate into a very handsome man. He’s still on the cusp of boyishness, but he’s molted his growing pains, the clunky adolescence that had left him so soggy and unsure, burying it all under damp soil. The afterbirth had been a quiet confidence, a befuddling slinkiness. Peers noticed this just as Gerard had, and now they’re nipping his brother’s heels.

Gerard, contrastingly, is as much of a social outcast as he’s ever been.

There’s a morbid finality to his sorry rank in the world that makes that nasty little pill an easier one to swallow. It keeps him stagnant. And so he doesn’t bother to change his stringy Beatnik hairdo, doesn’t work on his shitty posture, and doesn’t try to alter his peculiar way of speaking that has people looking at him like a Martian. He’s still jobless, unless eBay counts, still drawing vampires and beheadings in the basement, and everyone — his brother included, now, can see the loser he is.

He’s used to being shaken off like dog shit on a shoe. He’s not used to the shoe belonging to Mikey.

“Yanno, Mikes, I’m excited for you, really. I’m happy you’ve found your crowd. Just be careful, alright? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but, no glove, no love.” Gerard wags a finger at him.

The words are heavy with mock and contempt. 

Mikey looks freshly showered — even the clothes he’s wearing seem crisp and clean. Unprecedented. He’s bathed in Acqua di Gio and when he speaks, his breath wafts warm Listerine. Everything about his disposition gleans that he’s trying to get lucky tonight. Just not with him. It’s got Gerard feeling pissy and childish and so gives himself over to that feeling because he has nothing left to lose, not even his dignity. 

“Gerard,” Mikey starts, likely about to tell him to lay off, but Gerard interrupts him.

“You’re growing up, baby brother,” Gerard feigns wiping a tear. He reaches over the table, lightly noogies Mikey’s head. “I just hope you’re planning on giving it up to someone you trust. Just promise me that, okay? Your virginity is a special thing, indeed. It’s sacred. Very sacred.”

Mikey hasn’t been a virgin since he was eleven and Gerard was fifteen. That antiquated card was snatched from him with haste.

Mikey rolls his eyes, fixing his hair back into place.

“G, have some self respect, okay?” Mikey sighs, exasperated. “You’re being really lame about this. If you’re gonna act like a baby, we don’t need to talk.”

Mikey’s words deflate him, only a bit. He never imagined there would be an expiration date on this. When he peered through his proverbial crystal ball and down the long hall into the future, he saw both of them ugly and spotted with age, but not discouraged. Their diet would consist of lime Jell-O and porridge and Viagra.

Gerard is such a huge fan of fucking his brother’s brains out that he’s bereft to even grasp the concept of these sudden hindrances, which are proving to be such a mighty thorn in his ass. The rigidity of his mind just won’t allow it. Concepts such as girls and dating and then perhaps even marriage and children are only arbitrary notions that totally elude him. Why would he to care to waste his time with that bullshit? Family (that you don’t fuck) and meatloaf and sickeningly wholesome copulation in a marital bed, what a snooze. He’s got everything he needs right here in front of him.

“Do you really wanna talk self respect right now, Mikey? Seriously?” Gerard says, a warning.

Gerard has the gift of a semantic memory. He won’t hesitate to weaponize this and embarrass Mikey with little anecdotes from his cerebellum. He’ll use vivid descriptors to detail their last fuck that are sure to liquify him. He’s not above imitating the bitchy whines, either. He’s got perfect pitch, so, how’s that for self respect, asswipe?

Mikey apparently has not completely lost the ability to know what’s good for him, so he shuts the fuck up. Instead of a retort, he simply stands up and pushes his chair in, letting it scrape across the floor. He grabs the car keys.

“I’ll see you later, G.”

After the bonfire, Mikey is feeling sufficiently drunk. Whatever amount of booze he had was just the right dose, it’s sloshing nice and warm in his gut. The moon is but a glowing fingernail standing alone in a starless sky, and its humble presence imbues him with courage.

He needs it, too, because he’s dry humping with Adriana Guiliani, maybe. Hard to be sure. All of these people had looked more or less the same, borderline identical haircuts and dress.

In any case, she’s sucking on his beer soaked tongue, which is hanging out of his mouth like a limp piece of chewed up bubblegum, like an afterthought. They’re in the backseat of his shit-box car, cramped, and he’s trying to be considerate of his sharp and bony angles so he doesn’t put her eye out.

He’s got her smashed into the cracked seats. The yellow cushion pokes out from the synthetic upholstery like fascia. His hands are running a conciliatory marathon under her clothes, grazing soft skin stretched over hard muscles, a signifier of her dedication to cheer, if he had to guess what kind of girl she is. When he makes his way back up, he squeezes her tits like an experiment. What a weird sensation.

Her body, her face, mimics almost mannequin perfection, so why is he so demoralizingly flaccid in his pants?

Don’t think about it.

He keeps humping up into her skirt where their parts meet. There’s a striking lack of eroticism about the whole experience. It’s like they’ve got Barbie doll anatomy, cold and sterile sexless mounds that clash together in a nothing way, like they aren’t meant to do that.

If she feels his lack of interest, his deficiency, she doesn’t say anything. It’s probably true that none of this really matters to either of them. Mikey thinks she must be trying to piss off an ex-boyfriend. There’s no other reason for her to have been so insistent on him giving her a hickey.

Lip-locking keeps them tethered, and he brings a hand back down to rub against the cotton of her panties. He had expected them to be at least a little moist, but they’re not, which is disappointing, soaks his bones with insecurity. Surely he isn’t that bad a kisser? He’s had plenty of practice.

Visions of his brother obstruct his mind, circling birdies that daze him. Gerard gets wet so easily. He leaks an almost unbelievable amount of precome, sometimes it’s grotesque. His dick is like a drooling Saint Bernard.

He continues to rub broad circles into her crotch, dimly mashing into her cloaked genitalia. He’s fairly certain the elusive clitoris is somewhere within his zone of touch right now? It’s not his expertise, he’ll admit — not only pussy, but being on top of someone else, being the one doing to instead of being done to.

Either way, she’s moaning in this way he’s pretty sure is totally artificial and meant to placate. She’s fucking with him. She’s probably laughing at him in her head, and he doesn’t blame her. What and who he’s thinking of in his own private cerebral corner is infinitely more horrific and indeed, laughable.

After more minutes of this, she’s pulling away from him to speak. Mikey gives thanks to a God that he knows doesn’t exist no matter how many years of Catholic conditioning he’s had, for the reprieve from his self inflicted torture.

“Do you have a condom?” She says, looking a little vacant, a little bored. Like she’s imagining herself somewhere else.

No glove, no love. Even in his own mind, his brother finds a way to infiltrate, to scorn him. It’s like he knew this would happen. The brown leather wallet in his back pocket does contain such a thing. A little beat up piece of foil that he had obtained an embarrassing amount of years ago, sex ed.

“Er, no, sorry.” He answers, feeling so lame. 

Can’t she feel how fucking soft he is right now? There’s no way he’s going to be able to fuck her unless the circumstances change, and fast. Maybe they could swap places and he could be the girl. Maybe he could convince her to finger him while she calls him names.

His existence is a miserable one. His brother has Pavloved him into finding the idea of sex with this nearly perfect specimen a complete bore because she’s not related to him. One last parting glance at her tits. Total apathy.

“Bummer,” she sits up, looking like she wants to push him away, like she knows something’s really, deeply off with him but can’t figure out what.

He doubts she’d ever be able to guess.

“Look, Mikey, I think I’m just gonna go.”

Heavy footfall down the wooden steps leading into the basement where he knows he’ll find him. The creaky, dusty bowels of the place welcome him in, and he doesn’t know yet whether he’s seeking Gerard out to make him eat his teeth or to fall to his knees in front of him, hugging his ankles in penance.

The place smells like a fucking turtle tank. It’s disgusting. The air is so thick and damp and unfiltered, choking him. Ripeness like yeast. A look around at the impressive collection of empty bottles, there’s the culprit. He finds his brother in his usual corner in the dark, sitting on the edge of his bed, stewing in ennui. The murmur of the television is low and his fingers are curled around the amber bottleneck of a Budweiser, gingerly sipping from it.

“Mikey,” Gerard acknowledges him. He’s not looking up from the TV, can’t see the pained expression on Mikey’s face, but he’s smiling still as if he knows it’s there. “Whassup? Aren’t you supposed to be getting busy?”

“Fuck off, you jerk. I hate you so fucking much.”

Gerard rolls his eyes, not really in the mood to talk Mikey down off the cliff of a tantrum. It’ll kill his buzz.

“Kay, received,” Gerard giggles, cheeks rosy from the drink.

Mikey wishes he were drunk, too, but his pores pushed out the alcohol much faster than he wanted. Should he ask for a sip? Gerard’s eyes are still fixed to the creature feature on the screen.

“Couldn’t get it up, could you?”

This pisses Mikey off, a lot. Of course he knows, knew, the whole time. He caterwauls, has to honor the years of frustration in his body with a noise, feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He charges over to where Gerard sits, shoving him by the shoulders, hard.

It sends some beer splashing from the mouth of the bottle, but Gerard doesn’t lose his grip on it. Instead, he braces his free palm behind himself on the mattress, thwarting Mikey’s assault. He’s smiling like something’s fucking funny.

“You’re such a piece of shit, fuck,” Mikey gets his hands in his hair, teasing it wild with the way he’s pulling on it. “Why can’t you ever just leave me alone and let me be normal? Do you know how selfish you are? Do you care?”

A finger, full of ire, jabs accusatorially into the plush of Gerard’s chest.

“Mikey,” Gerard sighs his name, suddenly very serious. “I have been leaving you alone. It’s not really my fault that you like my dick in your ass so much it’s made you impotent.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Really, really?” Gerard is ready to have this conversation, and too drunk to sugarcoat it. He reaches for the remote and shuts off the TV so what he’s about to say next really soaks into Mikey’s skull. “Because you sure never fucking complained before! Why didn’t you run to mom and dad, or tell a school counselor, a trusted neighbor, anybody, if you always hated it so much? Seems to me you weren’t too eager to be saved. I’m such a fucking monster, right? You’re no willing participant, right, the angel you are? What we get up to is just something I do to you? You always could’ve told me to stop, and I would’ve.”

Mikey didn’t know that was an option, and really doubts it ever was.

“But you didn’t. Because you liked it. The whole time. You. Are. Not. Normal.”

He punches the words out hard, like every syllable is the swinging hammer he brings down to nail this malevolent fact into the soft meat of Mikey’s brain.

“You’re sulking like a victim to make yourself feel better about it.” Gerard shrugs, taking a perfunctory swill of beer. “Just quit it and own your shit. I’m tired of you treating me like a leper.”

“I don’t even,” Mikey says, rancorous. “You’re incredible. Have another fucking beer! How delusional are you? I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Wrong. You ask for it all the time. You beg me for it. If it’s what you really want, get the fuck out of my room and I won’t touch you ever again. Boom. Done.” Gerard sets his beer on the floor to gesture, dusting his hands off. “Happy?”

“Fine. Good.” Mikey says, he hears his own voice reverberating off his skull and it doesn’t sound too relieved.

They stare at each other for a while. Mikey, sulking. Gerard, with this stupid look of smugness and satisfaction on his face, like he knows what’s gonna happen next. Annoying pasty little fuck.

When Mikey does, eventually, turn to make his exit, Gerard reaches out to snatch up his bird-bone wrist.

“You’re gonna miss me, though. You already do, otherwise you’d be out getting your dick wet right now. Am I right?”

He just can’t help himself. Mikey’s sullen disposition is like a glowing buoy to Gerard’s sharp senses, begging to be fucked with. He hates it, wishes he weren’t made of such soft stuff. Gerard’s words are true, though. In some alternate universe touched by the plain and ordinary there’s a home run occurring, and being sodomized by his brother is the furthest possible thing from his mind.

He shoots Gerard a tight-lipped scowl that’s dripping with everything he can’t bring himself to say.

“Just come here for a sec.”

Mikey lets himself be dragged, docile as ever. He’s so weak. How much of that is his own natural programming and how much of it is Gerard’s handiwork?

“Look, I’m sorry this is so difficult for you. I don’t want to hurt you, Mikes. I really do love you so fucking much, you know. And I miss you. So stop being such a whiny brat and just… just come back to me, okay? What is it you want?” 

Gerard rubs his upper arms in a soothing gesture, as if warming up his skin against an invisible nipping cold front. Mikey feels whiplashed and confused. The words stick to his skin like summer sweat, anecdotally warm. 

He clasps both of Mikey’s hands in his own as if to begin a joint prayer.

“I don’t know,” Mikey sighs, “I’m just, tired. I’m so tired, G. This is too hard. I don’t. What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re making it hard, and there’s nothing wrong with you. What exactly is so bad about what we do? Who are we hurting?”

Who do you think, Mikey screams internally.

“You wanna assimilate to appease the moralists of the world? You wanna fit in, be like everyone else? That’s not us, Mikey, sorry.”

He gives up on trying to marshal the conversation at this point. There’s a pathetic, spineless creature that huddles in a dark corner in his mind that supposes Gerard is right. He knows that even freaky sex shit with his brother aside, his dalliance with popularity is a true time waster, a pipe dream swirling the drain. He’s infiltrating on a space that doesn’t want him there, that isn’t meant for him.

The simple act of making eye contact with his peers is in itself difficult and imposing. It feels like if his pupils happen to meet theirs, they might be able to look inside of him, beyond his physicality, and suddenly his cover would be blown. Everyone would see past his disingenuous abstraction of aloofness and sniff out the real him — the wimp, the loser, the pervert, his disease.

Gerard releases his hold on Mikey’s hands to cup his cheek, so fucking tenderly it scorches.

“You’ve got everything you need, right here with me. That other shit, it’s not meant for you, and you know it, so, uh, fuck it?”

The words have Mikey toying with detachment. His hopelessness and sadly, his love, the old chestnut, ruling over intellect.

Is it so improbable that what he’s got with his brother is merely a consolation prize bestowed upon him by the universe? A nice ripe piece of fruit fit for picking? Why let it rot on the vine if he’s hungry? Quietly, something in him rebels against his anger, his desire to fit in, the blaring sirens of danger, all of it. Fuck it. If this is what he’s for, then so be it.

He lets Gerard’s hand on his cheek pull him in and they’re kissing, mouths crushing, teeth gnashing. The fight seeps from his body like a wheezing balloon. He’s so tired. His mind is stretched past its limitations like a worn out rubber band.

This, the hard press of Gerard’s lips against his, is something he chases in his dreams, or maybe it chases him. Either way, he cannot escape it. The urge to do this, to let this be done, is paroxysmal.

Mikey can feel his brother smiling against his own wry mouth, licking against his teeth, inviting himself in. Here they are, back at it, coalescing, as if the past few months of his life trying to osmose had never even happened. 

He climbs into his brother’s lap, limbs feeling watery, splays his knees on either side of his thighs. He fits himself against Gerard’s soft angles, chests pressing. Arms wrap around him like a cage. Maybe this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“What do you need, Mikes?” Gerard smiles cheshire. Sometimes he’s really creepy. 

“Uh,” There’s a lot he could ask for. Getting his dick sucked sounds pretty good, but maybe not. He feels so vacant. He needs Gerard to fix that. There’s a piece of him that wants to, God, make love or something. But that’s gay, so instead he says, “Take my ass.”

Gerard nods, caaaan do.

“I’ll grab the lube.”

“No,” Mikey says, “Let’s do it without.”

He’s depressed and he wants to punish himself. He’ll relish all the searing glory of Gerard’s cock rawing him, daggering into him like murder. Maybe it’s a little dramatic and self-flagellating to want to martyr himself on his brother’s dick but, whatever, he can feel sorry for himself if he wants to. He deserves that. 

“Um, pretty sure that’s gonna break your asshole.” Gerard says, perturbed.

“It’ll be fine.”

“If thats what you want, I guess,” Gerard shrugs, downplaying his excitement. “Little freak.”

Mikey climbs out of his brother’s lap and removes his shirt, settling into position on the bed, elbows and knees. Then there’s the shuffling sound of Gerard disrobing and he’s saddling up behind him to join him.

He reaches to pop Mikey’s fly, struggles only a little to yank down his overly tight girl jeans. The fine golden hairs that dust his thighs stand alert, bristled, soldiered up like the fur on a hissing kitten.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you. I can’t believe you had me nutting into a sock for three weeks,” Gerard says, affectionately, as if this were all a big game. “You want fingers first?”

“No, just,” Mikey says, head hanging between his shoulders. “I don’t wanna waste time. Just go.”

Okay, then.

Gerard takes his cock in his hand. He’s been hard since Mikey found his way into his room with that persnickety look on his face. He taps the length of himself lightly against Mikey’s bony, flat ass. He hums, seemingly appeased by the visual.

Then Mikey is being spread open and there’s an awful sound — a loud, snorting noise through the nasal passages as Gerard charges his salivary glands. He bends over and hurls a ball of snot that lands roughly against his exposed asshole.

The wet glob runs a snail trail down the seam of Mikey’s perineum, and Gerard is unceremoniously scooping it back up with the flushed head of his dick, pushing it toward the intended target. He holds it there.

Mikey’s feels a hand come down on him to brace his knobby tailbone, fingers splayed. Gerard doesn’t breach him just yet, pausing for dramatics and likely to watch Mikey squirm for him. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction but it’s beyond him; a slow shudder runs down his spine like notes on a xylophone.

“You ready?” Gerard asks.

“Yeah.”

Gerard pushes in, carefully, slowly. There’s a lot of resistance. It’s not pleasurable. Mikey’s body is hostile, trying to stymie the intrusion. The head does pop in with relative ease, but past that point, it’s clear Gerard is having difficulty cramming himself. The spit is drying up already, too, beginning to cool and crust.

“Fucking Christmas, Jesus,” Gerard pants.

It hurts so bad, it burns, that’s all Mikey can think about. Good. Pain and pleasure share the circuit breaker and he’s pushing his ass back onto Gerard’s cock, taking more, which makes his brother gasp like he’s been wounded. Mikey feels wounded, too. He’s groaning long and ugly like a dying animal, can’t help it.

Gerard spits again, drool creeping from his mouth in a long string until it snaps, trickling directly down into Mikey’s crack. He continues to push against the resistance, making himself fit, until his pubic bone is nestled right up against Mikey’s ass.

He doesn’t wait for Mikey to adjust to it, his own fault. He had asked for it, Gerard was right. Every time his brother pulls out, the tight ring of his asshole clings to him like an anxious lover. It’s utterly claustrophobic. 

Mikey lets his face meet the pillow. This feeling, his brother inside of him, fucking him, must be comparable to how junkies feel when needle meets vein. He imagines Gerard, the essence of him, as the toxic fluid that weeps from a syringe. There’s some heroin doll out there anesthetized on a begrimed mattress rife with cavities from cigarette burns that knows of his pain. 

“Remember the first time, Mikes?” Gerard’s eyes are wide and wild, glittering. He’s really going for it now, snapping his hips with ardent fervor against Mikey’s ass. “How you begged for it? God, your dick was so little and cute. You used to be so shy.”

Of course Mikey remembers. And of course his dick was small, he’d barely sprouted his first pube.

“Shut up, shut up, just stop talking,” Mikey pants, voice as brittle as a saltine cracker. He continues to rock his hips back to meet his brother’s thrusts, though. “Fuck, oh god, fuck yeah, go faster, I need you,”

Gerard defies him, tempering his pace. The thrusts are shallow and lazy now, and it makes Mikey want to beg for more hurt, which is the goal.

“And in case you’ve forgotten, Mikey, the next time it happened, you came onto me. You were desperate.”

What? Was that really true? Mikey doesn’t remember that.

Gerard glides his hands over his body like two exploratory rovers, feeling on his ribs, the sharpness of his hip bones. He doesn’t eat very much these days. Curling himself over Mikey, he nuzzles his sharp nose into his hair. 

“Feels good, huh, Mikes? Look at you, you fucking love it so much, God, you can’t help it,” A searing kiss to his shoulder. “Does it make you hate yourself? Do you wish you were never born?”

“Yes, yes,” Mikey sobs. It’s a sorry plea for more touch, it’s a bleak confession.

Gerard smiles into his sweat slick neck, sucks the lobe of Mikey’s ear into his mouth, bites it. 

“Well, I don’t. You should stop being such an Eeyore, Mikeyway.”

“Oh my god, shut up, I don’t care, I just want to come,” Mikey isn’t sure when he began to truly weep, but the pillow is damp with tears and snot, which is discharging from his nose freely. “G, please, please stop fucking around, jerk me off, just hurry up andfuckingmakemecome.”

“Fine, since you want it so badly.”

He wraps his hand around the velveteen hardness bobbing between Mikey’s legs and jerks him off fast. He’s fucking him so mean, so hateful, and Mikey is thankful for it, for the lack of ambiguity. This is a conquering.

“Ow ow ow, don’t stop, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t take it, nonononono,”

His organs hurt. He’s seeing spots. It feels like his insides are being slushified, like his entire body is being extruded through a grinder. He’s hamburger meat, he’s nothing, he’s having a delicious orgasm, coming so hard on Gerard’s tight fist.

“Jesus Christ, Mikey,” Gerard grits, sounding like he’s gonna pop a vein.

His asshole is trying to guillotine Gerard’s dick clean off as he convulses through his orgasm. When the comedown bliss begins to work through him like Propofol, softening him, Gerard can finally move again, and so he’s back on fire. He’s being fucked through the overstimulation, his discomfort totally irrelevant. 

When his brother eventually comes, it’s with a continuous babble of his name, one long silky ribbon, mikeymikeymikeymikeymikey.

After some time spent catching his breath, Gerard unsheathes himself. A sick mixture of blood and spunk, frothy like poison, begins to ooze from Mikey’s asshole. It slides down like egg yolk, rancid and pink. When Gerard looks down, in his pubes, on the base of his dick, more dingy blood. It has left a ring around him like rust hugging a motel shower drain.

Mikey collapses like a shot deer into the mattress, crumpled into himself like a balled up soiled tissue.

“You feel better?” Gerard asks, satisfied. Mikey nods into the pillow, hiding his grimace. “Me, too.”

Gerard plucks a shirt from one of the many inconspicuous piles of dirty laundry littering the room. He tries to wipe the crusting blood off his dick with it, but it’s too dry, it just kind of flakes off in pieces like scattered confetti.

He cleans Mikey up, too. He’s not soulless.

“Wanna share this joint?” Gerard asks, plucking it from beside the ashtray on the nightstand. It’s yet to be smoked. He rolled it himself. It looks like shit.

Mikey finally sits up at that, rubbing at the soreness in the cleft of his ass. That does sound pretty good right now.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Before they spark it, Gerard plugs Psychocandy into the CD player. It’s nice to have something to listen to. The heavy hum of fuzz pedals fills Mikey’s ears like cotton.

They sit on the edge of the bed together, flaccid, exhausted, passing the joint back and forth. The bright red cherry hovers in the dark like a lone firefly. When they finish, Gerard extinguishes the stub into the ashtray and they fall back into the sheets.

“I guess I just had to try, you know? It was stupid. I knew that. Guess I’m really fucked up,” Mikey laughs wetly. “Kinda sucks.”

His voice takes on a fragile, aqueous quality that betrays him. There are tears in his eyes again.

Gerard’s mouth finds him in the black veil, always finds him, and silences his worries with a kiss.