InsaneJournal

Fic: Art of Codependency: Gerard -- gen, mature
Title: Art of Codependency: Gerard
Author: Lise aka lisa roquin
Pairing: more or less gen, but multiple pairings, predominantly het, in passing mention, can easily be read pre-slash
Rating: mature
fandom: bandom (god help me), MCR in specific
POV: Mikey, Gerard
Summary: It's no one's fault but that final straw that shatters everything is still that final straw.
Disclaimer: oh, what? of course this is the gospel truth. And I love your hat, tinfoil is all the rage this year, and so useful about keeping those pesky aliens and telepaths from getting in your head, I agree. Hello. Reality Check. This is pure bullshit. Fiction. Look it up.
Author Notes: a million things I should and need to be doing, but I took a very necessary mental health time out to try to find words again before I lost my damn mind. And this is what showed up.
Dedications: points. it's her fault. all hers. and she knows who she is. she's a little busy rolling on the floor laughing at me right now. but I swear. It's her fault. And yes that is so a dedication. if she can make death threats to make me post this, I can blame her for a dedication.



Silence.

It's unnatural. Silence.

Complete silence.

Mikey checks more than once to make sure his brother's still breathing, even if Gerard's sitting there with his eyes open staring blankly at the muted tv, Mikey's watching for the slight movement of Gerard's chest, the blink of an eye.

Sullen. Gerard can do that like a pro. Even if he's not speaking or moving or making any audible sound, Gerard's soundless sullen is louder than any thirteen year old's.

He's even better at lost in thought with little twitches and a smile or frown or compulsive chainsmoking while god knows what raced through his head. Not making any noise but not SILENT and STILL.

Scribbling or writing or babbling manic cryptic shit that even Mikey took a few minutes to sort out and most anyone else wouldn't have a chance in hell of deciphering, except maybe Frank, Ray and Bob and possibly not them. Not when Gee got on one of his babbling kicks.

Mikey swallows almost thankful for the scuff of a foot, Frank's standing there, hair a rat's nest, yawning and scratching his balls through his boxers.

"Been there all fucking night?"

Mikey nods.

"Gee, man.."

Gerard didn't so much as glance in Frank's direction.

Frank plops himself in Gerard's lap. "It's--it's just a break, not--Jamia and I've had breaks..."

Gerard closes his eyes.

Mikey fights the urge to cry. He has no fucking idea what happened. None of them did. Because Gerard was silent. Nothing beyond he and Lindsay were reevaluating things.

Re-evaluating.

Yeah.

Right.

Something had happened.

Mikey hates Lindsay more than just a little right now, but he was the first to have to admit what a fucking pain in the ass his brother could be to live with, and likely get a chorus of amens from Frank, Bob and Ray. Worm would say he needed elected for living sainthood trying to keep them all in the direction they were supposed to be going when they were at a signing or something.

Frank.

Well.

He had a point.

He and Jamia had taken a couple...breaks. When the first wear of the road really hit, and a second at a later date that was...well..Mikey hadn't really asked. More of a let's be sure, please god be sure cause this is the way it's going to be even ten years and three kids from now. That Frank was going to be on the road and on the road and on the road or in the studio and as married to the band as Jamia than any sort of trouble or problem between them. Last chance to see what else you might want, Jamia, cause this is the way it is...But...

He and Alicia hadn't had breaks. But there was still the same factor that...that the band was as huge as anything else in their relationship.

"I'm this close to getting fucking drunk and stoned out of my mind just now."

The first words Gerard's said in a full day. The first fucking sound he's made, not so much as a sigh or sniff or yawn..or anything. The sound that escapes from Mikey's throat is weak, quiet, beathy-soft and agonized, and it tears through the quiet like a goddamn foghorn or something.

"Like. Hell." Frank growls.

"No." Mikey agrees just as forcefully. "No fucking way. Talk, don't talk, we'll fucking play games or fuck.."

"Fuck." Frank latches onto the idea, cutting off Mikey's panicked chain of thought and whatever he'd been going to suggest.

Mikey stares at him. "Have you been reading the shit Pete sends me links to, Iero?"

"Not you. Me...I will. That's what you need to be distracted..."

"Yeah. Sure." Gerard says bitterly. "Two broken marriages are better than one."

"No, wouldn't be that." Frank murmurs color rising up his cheeks. "Wouldn't be the happiest girl in the world but...Jamia wouldn't...I mean..." Frank sighs. "She'd understand this."

"Understand pity fucking me to keep me from getting fucked up."

Frank and Mikey both wince at the harsh bitter edge to Gerard's words.

"Understand because you're you." Frank manages. "Same as she would if it was Mikey or Bob or Ray....but ..."

Mikey twitches uncomfortably.

"Your ass is safe, Mikey" Frank snorts. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah. Alicia'd understand any of you but Gee. Not that..hell would freeze over first but..."

"Alicia would--you actually discussed that?"

Mikey groans quietly because Gerard's staring at him with an intensity that he knows he's caught. "NOT YOU!" Mikey snaps. "But--strange tangenting conversation and annoying text from Pete in the middle of it and...kinda went to have you ever and...just please no. Because, no." Gerard's looking at him like he's sprouted horns or a second head, or a second head with horns or something. "Oh for shit's sake, Gee." Mikey mutters, sometimes his brother tends to think he's...fucking twelve or something. Despite Gee's obnoxious teasing at times it always seems to startle him Mikey's all grown up, and has a wife, and has sex and conversations about sex with his wife. And fantasies and have you ever and yeah. Mikey avoided such conversations that occasionally cropped up on the bus like the plague because Gerard could be the world's most obnoxious big brother and tease forever. Mikey's avoidance of conversations that went anywhere near sex seemed to equate Mikey avoided sex as well to Gerard, and it was much better for everyone's sanity to allow Gerard his delusions. Especially Mikey who'd borne the brunt of some out of control drunken teasing that Gerard probably didn't even remember way back.

"Can we hate her?" Bob asks appearing from the bunks tilting his head til his neck cracks.

"No." Gerard says flatly.

Mikey really doesn't think that's going to make a bit of difference. He's going to hate her. Just quietly and not when his brother's looking. He's pretty sure Frank and Bob and Ray will do the same. If it was Gerard's fault he'd be going on how badly he'd fucked up and they'd know at least part of what the fuck had happened. If it was entirely her fault, that she'd done something really really horrible, they'd probably be hearing a good bit too. Gerard was silent. Or had been. Not thinky silent or sullen-silent or antisocialdickhead silent. Dead fucking silent. For too long. Considering it was Gerard, way too long. Silence indicating there was nothing to say because there was nothing to fix or bemoan or...

Ray pushes past Bob and flops on Gerard's other side, Frank flops his legs over Ray's. "Gee?"

Gerard shakes his head.

~*~*~

Three more weeks and the tour is finally. finally. finally done. Gerard barely notices but he's never alone. Mikey or Frank, or both pressed into the bunk with him with bony elbows and knees every which way and something that later Gerard can't figure how the hell they managed when it was both Mikey and Frank pretzeled in holding onto him. Ray playing his guitar in the kitchen and lounge of the bus rather than in the back, and the rounds of video games are endless. And Bob's there in the thick of the games, and occasionally holding Gerard on his lap when Mikey or Frank park Gerard there so they can shower or call Alicia and Jamia.

Mikey doesn't leave his side the first week they're back in Jersey. At. All. To the point that Gerard half wonders if his brother is going to damage his kidneys or something because Mikey seriously, literally, doesn't let Gerard out of his sight to so much as piss when Gerard's awake unless someone else is there.

Then Frank's there, freeing Mikey to go home to his wife and Frank's nearly as bad.

It's Ray who gets Gerard's venom all the snarling about watchdogs and how he's not going to do anything fucking stupid and...at least Ray doesn't crawl in bed with him.

Mikey and Frank both had. Mikey had clung to him like he was four and had a nightmare through the night, Frank at least hadn't made his offer of fucking verbal again but the snuggling from Frank presented it's own offers without words even if they were ignored. Or rather let go without comment. Frank could do subtle, just not often and Gerard appreciated the sentiment at least that it was genuine offer of caring. If Ray'd crawled in bed with him, Gerard just might have jumped off the goddamned balcony or something because that would have been just too much. Ray, thank god, had slept on the couch.

Then there's Bob.

Three weeks in Chicago and he's packed up and in Jersey with--everything. His drums set up in Gerard's apartment living room and he's there for the duration, having spent time with his family he's moved himself into Gerard's apartment at the end of their third week off.

Gerard glares at the drums.

"Hurt them, I hurt you," Bob says conversationally.

Gerard slumps. "I won't--"

"I know." Bob shrugs. "So, pizza or Chinese,"

"Not hungry."

"You look like shit. And you've probably dropped ten pounds since I last saw you. Your pants look ready to fucking fall off."

"Looking at my pants, Bryar?"

"You're fucking eating, Way. What do you want?"

Gerard finally opts for pizza if only to get Bob to quit glaring at him.

"Mikey says you still haven't said shit. Brian's bitching about a statement. Mikes and Frankie have been keeping him back. Pete aparantly has texted and emailed a shitload of links. Everything from you getting stoned and fucking Frank or Bert or somebody, hell think there's even one account of you and Jimmy Urine, and Lindsay walking in on any of those. Then there's the ones where she's drugging and you can't take it, or she's screwing someone, she left you for a woman is a popular one, as is her punching your lights out for calling her Frank in bed...Something's got to be said."

Gerard looks up at the ceiling, pizza, what little he's eaten, sitting like rocks in his stomach. "Yeah...mutual decision, no fault what the fuck ever...let Brian work it out with.."

"I'll call Brian," Bob says quietly.

Gerard doesn't notice Bob leave the room, notices him return though, hard not to when Bob hauls him to his feet. "Next order of business--you fucking stink."

Gerard finds himself propelled to the bathroom. Bob just there in the doorway, staring off at some spot beyond the ceiling but very obviously not moving until Gerard is in the shower. Or not at all, as it were because Bob's still standing there staring off into space and ignoring but not having gone anywhere when Gerard steps out of the shower. He had left, obviously. Clean boxers, tshirt and sweatpants on the closed toilet lid. He'd been there most of the time though, orders of "Use Soap" and "Wash your fucking hair" had been called from the bathroom doorway. Which Gerard had, unwilling to find out if Bob would climb in the shower and wash and shampoo him if he didn't do as he was told.

Gerard dresses. "Now what, Mom?"

"Bed or playstation?"

"Bed," Gerard sighs. He's too fucking exhausted to withstand anymore of Bob's quiet bulldozing. Hurt too fucking much, to try to just stay inside his skin, to stay where he had to be and not go buy a fifth of whatever cheap rotgut he reached for first or ...

"Why?"

"What?"

Gerard glares at Bob. And...the sheets on the bed are clean. He wonders how long he'd been in the shower. And he finds himself totally unsurprised when Bob strips down to boxers and crawls in next to him. He should be, because this is Bob and Bob doesn't crawl in other peoples beds, but he isn't.

"Seriously what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Are you fucking stupid or does it seriously not occur to you we give a shit about you?" Bob asks, sounding slightly confused.

Bob's slight inflection on you is barely noticeable but so very loud, that this is nothing to do with My Chemical Romance, or at least the band is such a distant second as to be non-existant and everything to do with Gerard being Gerard.

"I--"

"Owe Ray one helluva apology." Bob snorted. "Think I'd've decked you by hour two."

Bob probably would have. Bob's patient. But he doesn't let the level of venom roll off him that Ray can. Which is, sadly Gerard has to admit, why of all of them Ray got the venom. Got all the snarling and bitching and attitude, because Ray would let him get it out of his system and not take it as personally as Frank might, no, Frank would. And Mikey...no. He'd done enough to Mikey, lashing at Mikey like he had at Ray was unthinkable. And Bob he'd be flat out scared to.

Not that he was scared of Bob, more of what Bob might, very rightly, and all to accurately retaliate with, calling him on every bit of bullshit before he was ready to be called on it.

"Frank didn't love Jamia so much I'd've fucked him when he was here."

"No shit." Bob snorts.

Laughter is sudden and stark and startles the hell out of Gerard even if the laughter is coming from him. There'd always been a faint, and at times not so faint, current between himself and Frank, but Frank belonged to Jamia, and the most he'd ever actually done with a guy was on stage with Gerard. A hum of something that had been sharp and vaguely unsettling years ago but now just was. Everything they'd been through over the years, the current of attraction not...not diminished or even converted into anything else, just simply far on the backburner friendship and respect and everything else too strong to let it ever get in the way. The attraction to Gerard the abberation for Frank, whether in the fact that Gerard was a guy or just simply not Jamia it didn't make any difference.

He knew it.

They knew it.

That's why Mikey stayed first. And Frank second. Ray when he'd hit the point to snarl and Bob now. They...had codependancy down to an art. They had to in a way. Almost every band did, the bands that lasted had learned it, and had learned a way to make it work.

"Why are you smiling?"

"You're thinking."

Gerard wonders if he's lost his mind, or he Mikey and Frank have finally driven Bob nuts.

"You've been a zombie for six weeks. Shut down, nothing, I can see the wheels spinning now though."

"Co dependancy."

"Uh huh." Bob says and its obvious he's not even going to ask. That's fine, Gerard doesn't really want to explain that one. Not to Bob. Mikey'd give him an odd look and nod yeah sure. Frank would give him a squint then a hesitant half smile and make a crack about Gerard's therapist occupying too much of his thoughts. Ray'd raise an eyebrow, shrug, and spend a couple hours more than usual off by himself playing his guitar and thinking.

Bob would either not get it entirely, snort and head for the phone to call Frank, Ray and Mikey and get them all over right now. Or he'd...

"How bout some co-dependent sleeping then. Ray says you paced all fucking night all last week." Bob rolls just enough, a strong arm flopped on Gerard's chest, leg partially on one of Gerard's.

Well that explained why Bob crawled in bed with him. Frankie and Mikey were--Frank and Mikey.

Frankie crawled in with all of them from time to time, climbed all over them all the time like some demented hyper puppy-monkey hybrid creature. It was hard to think much odd about Frankie being in demented hyper puppy-monkey mode. Because that was Frankie.

Mikey was Mikey and Mikey had crawled in bed with Gerard on occasion since Mikey could crawl out of his fucking crib.

"I--"

Bob's answer is to shift, pulling Gerard close and tight.

"I wanted this to work."

"Yeah," Bob says quietly.

"Wasn't her fault, not...not really anyone's. Everyones."

"Happens like that, sometimes," Bob agrees.

"Fuck," Gerard whispers brokenly.

"Yeah."

"This is...kinda girly"

Bob pats his head. "You'd make a pretty girl, even prettier than Christina Ricci."

Gerard snorts.

"Okay, it's girly," Bob agrees.

Gerard resists the urge to burrow into Bob.

"But you're Gerard, so no one's thinking girly, just Gerard-y"

"Gerard-y"

"Yeah."

"Fucker," Gerard murmurs. He doesn't fight the shift, the way Bob's arms tighten around him and hold him close. A little voice in the back of his head screams that Bob--Bob--is cuddling him. Christ how badly did he scare them? The last few weeks were nothing but a blur. Coming up just far enough to perform and then hide away in himself to finish the tour. Mikey, then Frankie, and even Ray's kind of blurry other than yeah, Gerard knows he really owes Ray some serious apologizing and groveling if he only remembers the red haze of rage and his chest reverbrating with sound. He has no clue what he'd gone off on Ray about. He's not so sure he wants to know. And now Bob--BOB--is cuddling him in bed.

~*~*~

The thought of getting drunk or stoned, getting high, fucked completely out of his mind and letting everything be blurred and dulled and washed away by that is there. The want for a drink so much stronger than it has been for so long. Just there. Burning. Hot broken glass in his veins, almost enough to make him twitch with the want like he hasn't in so long.

But so is Bob. And often enough Ray and Frank and Mikey.

They don't ask.

Gerard wonders idly what story they have or if they've pieced enough on their own. Doesn't matter. He doesn't want to talk about it, not even with the new therapist that Brian comes up with.

Routine is good.

Bob's good at enforcing something that resembles a routine. Gerard eats when told, and occasionally is even hungry as the days wear on. Showers obediently when shoved in the direction of the bathroom with orders every couple of days. Bob's ability to enforce some sort of routine also explains why Bob is the one that seems to be his now semi-permanent roommate. Mikey is Mikey and MIKEY. Though Mikey would in a heartbeat be the one trying to prod Gerard through some semblance of human just now, it wouldn't be good for anyone in the long run with the amount of stress. Frank is Frank, and wouldn't know a routine if it bit him in the ass, unless Jamia was there and told him what he'd been bit by. Itenirary, practice schedule, sure. Frank could do those, mundane routines and Frank didn't exist in the same universe though. Ray is Ray, and just too damned laid back and prone to letting Gerard have his way to the point it might be doubtful how it would work if he was the one trying to glare Gerard through the motions of living.

"Huh." Gerard stares at the paper in front of him, he'd only vaguely realized that he'd had a pen and composition notebook. Bob had regularly shoved them in his hands.

"Huh what?" Bob asks and the silence that suddenly filled the room startles Gerard. He's used to Bob's practicing. The steady beat that fills the apartment in the early afternoon, no matter what the beat is, their songs or something else. It's been there, and now it's silent.

"Just what the fuck have I all written or drawn while you practice?"

"Dunno, haven't looked and I haven't even let Mikey see it. That's the seventh tablet though."

"It is?"

"They're only little ones. And it's been a month."

"We need to start writing, for the new album."

"Cool. Just so you don't have us stuck with melodramatic emo shit for the next three years touring."

Gerard laughs, tired and a bit hollow, but real.