Feb. 6th, 2011 01:10 pm
cold_clarity: (headnshoulder)
[personal profile] cold_clarity
Mikey and Gerard have a conversation shortly after Bandit's birth

Notes: Uh. One-shot drabble written in like. An hour. Unbeta'd, so if you see any glaring mistakes, holla at me.  Otherwise, none of this is real, don't take it seriously, etc etc.

They’re in the kitchen, alone with the baby and Mikey leans against the counter, watching Gerard cradle his daughter. It’s with a quiet kind of wonder that he touches her hair and traces the soft lines of her fingers, like he can’t quite believe she’s real. He’s been looking at her like that—with that disbelieving adoration—for an hour now.

Mikey has never seen Gerard so in awe.

She makes a mewling sound as baby hands curl into tiny fists. She squirms a little and, like it’s the most important thing in the world, Gerard bends his head to kiss her. A curtain of black hair eclipses his face and Mikey hears him murmur something. He can’t make out the words, though; the language lost against the cheek of a not-quite-sleeping infant.

Mikey shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There’s something hard and sharp in the center of his chest, like a lump of amber turning his lungs to crystalline. He looks down at his hands. Flexes them. His mouth feels full of threat-fiber columns—a latticework architecture that travels in pinpricks all the way down the tunnel of his throat. Sewing him up from the inside out.

“She’s lucky,” he says, and the words drag like shards dredged up from his gut.

I’m lucky,” Gerard replies, not missing a beat. And then, quieter, “I don’t want to fuck up.”

Mikey looks up at that. A quick jerk of his head.

“Hey.” He waits for Gerard to meet his gaze. “You won’t.”

His brother smiles and ducks his head a little. Mikey recognizes the bashful gesture. His hand twitches, awkward. An aborted decision to reach out and—


“I’m serious,” he says, voice low. “Look at you. You’re in love.”

Gerard’s smile dissolves. He looks at his little girl again and lets her precious infant hand grip his finger, like a gesture of possession. And Mikey can’t look away. Can’t take his eyes off the angles of Gerard’s profile or the way his lashes fall in perfect inkwash lines when he looks down at the tiny living person in his arms. And when his mouth moves to speak, Mikey’s musculature draws itself up taut, like he’s standing under high-tension wires and waiting for the electric fall.

“Love isn’t always enough, Mikes.”

This delivered with solemnity; Gerard’s voice no more than a whisper, but still heavy with apology. They’re discussing something else entirely, now, and for a moment Mikey’s mouth is full to brimming with a clotted, bitter taste. And, because he knows Gerard belongs to this life, and because the bitterness makes him feel cruel—or because he wants to touch him or shake him or simply see him flinch (just find the proof that he can still draw blood, if he wants to), Mikey looks away and answers, flatly:

“It can be, if you want it to.”

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