Fic: The Science of Sleep - Part Three

[chimneythunder]

Sitting alone in the Better Living Industries canteen, Frank can’t help but sigh. His earlier relief at the monotony of his job very quickly turned to sheer disappointment; only in Frank’s life could he find himself living in a parallel universe and still have the same crap job. Typical.

If only he had someone he could talk to about what’s happened, to find out exactly what’s happened here...

He needs a Gerard. He needs a Gerard-like person who immediately accepts weirdness and doesn’t question it if he’s said the wrong thing or doesn’t quite know something he’s supposed to. He thinks back to yesterday; him and Gerard had talked for almost three hours over coffee about art and possible ideas for Frank’s ‘novel.’ Gerard was convinced that Better Living Industries is ‘your standard stereotypical evil corporation’ but Frank disagreed. For one thing, aside from being incredibly creepy, there’s nothing to suggest that.

“They’ve got their logo on everything,” Gerard said, like that proved it.

“Yeah, but so does Apple and they’re not evil!”

Gerard grinned. “Oh please. Apple are taking over the world.”

“Like Starbucks,” Frank said, raising his coffee cup.

“Exactly. Like Starbucks.” Gerard grinned and took a large sip of his own Starbucks-brewed coffee. “And they’re evil too. They make good coffee but they’re slowly taking over the world. Face it Frankie, it’s a staple of Science Fiction; if there’s a big corporation that controls everything, they’re evil.”

“Yeah, but in real life, corporations aren’t all evil!” Frank said, thinking back to the office he works in. It’s one of those companies that prides itself on being the kind of company to ‘celebrate the underdog and favour the little man.’ On his first day, he was impressed by this statement and felt genuinely hopeful that this office would be a fun place to work with amazingly interesting people. Once the glamour had worn off and Frank started to settle down in his role though, he quickly realised this was a lie to make people the people feel like the work they were doing actually had some meaning. Disillusioning, yes but not necessarily evil.

Ray sits down opposite Frank, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Hey man!” Ray says. There’s something off about him today, barely restrained excitement showing all over his face. “So, did you hear?”

Frank is resigned to the fact that he will never know anything that’s going on in this world in advance.

“Apparently there was a Killjoy raid last night, just outside of Zone 1,” Ray says, leaning in, talking in a hushed tone.

“What, to do with Party Poison?” The only Killjoy names Frank knows are Fun Ghoul and Party Poison, and seeing as Fun Ghoul’s dead, he’s going with what he knows.

“Nah, Kobra Kid,” Ray says. (The name vaguely rings a bell to Frank, he suspects he’s seen it on a report somewhere.) “But here’s the thing; nothing happened. The Dracs got there and the place was completely cleared out.”

“So? Maybe they had a look out stationed?”

Ray shakes his head. “This raid was apparently planned for months in advance and it was on one of the refugee camps. There’s no way they could have gotten that many people out in such short notice, not without a firefight. Rumour has it –” Ray pauses, looks around to make sure no one’s listening and lower his voice. “Rumour has it that there’s a mole in the company who tipped them off.”

Now Frank’s interested.

“A mole?”

“Yeah. I would have thought you’d have heard all about this, seeing as it’s Scarecrow’s area and all...”

“Nope. Come on, man, you know I’m on desk duty. You’re the only other person I see around this place!”

“You’d get the reports in though, surely?”

Frank shrugs. “Maybe... what kind of refugee camp was this anyway?”

“One of the interim ones, apparently. You know, they get the people – families and kids mostly - out the city into the camp in the Zones and then they go from there.”

Kids? Frank thinks back to the pile of folders he’s shredded and suddenly feels sick.

“When you say kids...”

“From the orphanages. Come on, you know this,” Ray says.

“So, these Killjoys are kidnapping kids out of orphanages and then... what?”

“They get them out across the Zones. Train them up.”

“For what?!”

Ray shrugs. “Various things, I guess. It’s not so much what they’re doing out there, it’s more the fact that they’re out there.”

There’s no way Better Living Industries can be evil. Not if the ‘other side’ is kidnapping orphans and training them up to be solders.

“Uh oh, heads up; Angry Dracs at two o’clock,” Ray says suddenly, nodding towards the door.

Frank looks over and tries not to groan. Five Draculoids have just walked in. They’re all wearing those monster-masks but Frank can recognise amongst them the three that spoke to him. He turns back to his coffee and keeps his head low, trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Good move,” Ray says out the side of his mouth, not looking up from his sandwich.

“I can’t be bothered to deal with douchebags,” Frank says.

“Well, I’d stay out their way especially today. Word around the office is that they’re the ones who were at the raid last night; they’re especially pissed at the lack of the results.”

Frank doesn’t question how Ray knows these things. In hindsight, he later thinks not asking that question was stupid.


~*~*~


The drive home is uneventful. Frank’s in a worse mood than ever having also discovered at lunch that he has to work weekends as well (“well, what else are you going to do??” Ray asked, looking genuinely baffled).

Feeling rebellious, Frank snuck a few of the folders he was supposed to have shredded home under his jacket; perhaps he can try to decipher them and find out what the fuck is really going on here. Ray certainly seems to think he knows something...

However, an hour and three cups of disgusting coffee later, Frank is sitting on his uncomfortable sofa and absolutely no further to deciphering what they mean. Colours are used a lot, along with random phrases – Keep Running pops up a fair amount. He opens up the PP Files, hoping that the cipher might be in there somewhere.

“God, what I wouldn’t give for a fucking laptop,” Frank mutters. “Someone get me Google!”

Something Frank noticed incredibly quickly about this world was that for all the high-tech computers, there was a distinct lack of personal computers and even the internet. He tried finding a web browser on the computer at work but the closest thing he could find was the internal instant message system that seemed to be entirely localised within the company. He hasn’t seen anyone use a mobile phone here either although he’s seen several Dracs using what looks like radios.

It’s frustrating and Frank feels incredibly isolated without his phone. He’d tried flipping on the TV that’s stationed in the corner earlier but the only program it seemed to show was Better Living Industries approved Fact News, which played the same news stories and weather reports over and over again. He’d left the TV on in the hopes of gaining some information but then the reporter mentioned a congratulations to Korse for leading a successful raid into Zone 2 on one of the dangerous Killjoy camps last night, at which point Frank turned off the TV with a noise of disgust. At least that part was still the same as Science-Fiction dictated it; you really couldn’t trust the media.

He shifts through the papers idly – there’s a few parts he hasn’t read yet because he took one look at the technical jargon and weird code names and felt his brain start to leak out his ears – when a name catches his eye.

Kobra Kid.

Hey, wasn’t that who Ray said the Draculoids had been after?

He reads on. It’s another profile page, set out in the exact same way as Party Poison’s was.


Name: UNKNOWN – SUSPECTED TO BE MISSING BATTERY CITY CITEZEN MICHAEL WAY BUT THIS IS UNVERIFIED.
Alias: KOBRA KID
Gender: M
Age: UNKNOWN – BELIEVED TO BE EARLY TO MID 30’S.
D/O/B: UNKNOWN
Height: aprox. 5ft10
Weight: UNKNOWN
Ethnicity: WHITE/CAUCASIAN
Hair: BLOND. BLEACHED. SHORT SIDES. PUSHED BACK. DARK ROOTS AND SIDEBURNS
Eyes: UNKNOWN – WEARS SUNGLASSES THE MAJORITY OF THE TIME
Distinguishing marks/scars etc: NONE KNOWN FOR CERTAIN. BELIEVED TO HAVE A TATTOO ON LEFT INNER FOREARM BUT DESIGN IS UNCERTAIN.
Location: BELIEVED TO BE RESIDING IN ZONE 6. HOWEVER, HAS BEEN SIGHTED THROUGHOUT ALL OF THE ZONES AND IN BATTERY CITY SEVERAL TIMES.
Family: UNKNOWN – SEE “EXTRA COMMENTS” SECTION
Known Associates: PARTY POISON. DR DEATH DEFYING.
Suspected Associates: SHOW PONY. FUN GHOUL. AGENT CHERRI COLA. DJ HOT CHIMP. NEWS A GOGO. ALSO SUSPECTED TO HAVE CONTACT WITH BATTERY CITY CITIZEN RAY TORO (see pg 4).


Frank blinks, stares at the report again, trying to read it as anything else.

Nope, still there, clear as day.

Ray Toro.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

He flicks to page 4.

Frank’s eyes widen.

Ray’s been drawing attention to himself these past few weeks. He’s been asking the wrong kinds of questions and been seen in wrong kinds of places and while there’s nothing to suggest that he’s been leaving the city, there’s several pieces of evidence that suggest he’s been passing information on to Kobra Kid, a known associate of Party Poison.

Frank thinks back to how Ray always knows the latest gossip and how he’s always asking Frank questions about his work.

“Fuck,” he says again.

He thinks further back to how he first met Ray here.

“There was a rumour – I mean, I’d heard that you were – that Scarecrow were possibly testing some new weapon today... I wanted to see if... if I could be of any use.”

“Double fuck,” Frank groans.

He carries on reading Ray’s file when he sees something that makes his blood run cold.

Ray’s under covert supervision and by none other than Scarecrow’s finest Grade 5 Exterminator, Frank Iero.

Abruptly, nausea rises up in the back of Frank’s throat and he has to run to the toilet, retching.

“I’m impressed, Iero,” Korse says in a monotone as they walk down yet another boring corridor. “Already integrating yourself and gaining trust, that’s showing initiative.”

Fuck, how had he not realised? Frank wipes his mouth on the edge of his sleeve, trying to stop shivering.

“Nice pet!” says the one Drac the pink mouth, gesturing to Ray.

He wouldn’t have been socialising for fun, especially with someone like Ray. And those Dracs must have fucking known.

A horrifying thought occurs; he’s an exterminator. He’s a fucking paid murderer. He’s killed Fun Ghoul, whoever that was, and if he gets any damning information on Ray, he’s probably supposed to be setting him up nicely for ‘extermination’ too.

He can’t stop shaking. He really doesn’t know how this world works, and unless he starts to figure it out – and fucking soon – it’s going to get him killed.

“I want to go home,” he whimpers, curling up in a ball on the bathroom floor. “I want to go home.”

He wants to sleep. He closes his eyes, rocking back and forth, trying to sleep. It’s a lost cause though; he’s far too worked up to sleep. Tears and mucus run across his face as he fights against the hysteria threatening to rise over and drag him down.

Something – somewhere – has gone horribly wrong in this world. And whatever it was, he’s undeniably a part of it.

He breathes deeply though his nose. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Deep breaths, the kind he used to employ when he’d been shoved inside a locker at school. In. Out. In. Out. Waiting in the dark for someone to let him out. Trying to calm down enough so that the darkness felt less like a cloistering void threatening to engulf him and more like a comforting space he could hide in, safe from the world.

In. Out. In. Out.

It takes time, but eventually, it starts to work. Eventually, Frank begins to feel that he’s going to be OK if he uncurls himself from the bathroom floor and gets up.

“Christ, I need a cigarette,” he mutters.

He automatically reaches into his pocket for his usual packet but there’s nothing there. He pulls his hair off his face with a shaking hand and pushes himself off the bathroom floor, catching sight of himself in the bathroom mirror as he does.

He looks fucking wrecked. There’s snot and tears smeared across his face and his eyes are red and bloodshot. But aside from the physical surface imperfections, there’s something else in his expression that wasn’t there before.

It takes him a few seconds before he realises its blind fear.


~*~*~


Frank almost turns his entire apartment upside down before he has to resign himself to the fact that he simply does not have any cigarettes in his flat. From force of habit, he keeps patting down his pockets, like he’ll miraculously find a hidden box he’s missed.

He frowns. Something about that isn’t right but his brain still hasn’t quite caught up from the earlier revelations and quite honestly, Frank’s quite happy to coast along in ignorance and not think about how simply wrong it is that he doesn’t have any cigarettes in his flat at all. Instead, he simplifies the problem; He wants a smoke. He has no smokes. Therefore, he has to go out and get some.

He grabs his coat off the edge of the sofa from where he’d thrown it earlier when he got in; it’s a simple enough mid-length military-style grey coat. There’s nothing particularly fancy about it and the only extra decoration on it is the usual black X in a box on all the arms of fucking every piece of clothing Frank owns here. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and heads out the door.

After a bit of walking, he finds a BLI convenience store a few streets away from his apartment. The man behind the counter smiles inanely at Frank and wishes him “have a better day” when Frank hands over his BLI ID to pay for the cigarettes , which is just far too annoyingly appropriate considering the day he’s having so far. The cigarettes cost 6 credits, which seems oddly expensive and even more bizarrely, the packet Frank receives has a fine layer of dust on it (although it’s no surprise at all that the packet itself has the BLI logo stamped over it).

It’s almost as if... as if cigarettes aren’t really in high demand here, which is daft because people are always addicted to these things –

Except – and this is a pretty big ‘except’ – Frank’s suddenly realised something. He hasn’t had a single cigarette in this world so far. And more than that, he hasn’t even really been craving one up till this point.

There’s something in the water!! a panicked voice in his head screams.

He dismisses the thought. He’s being paranoid.

But... it is a bit weird.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he’s not paying attention to where he’s going until he turns down a street and realises he has no fucking clue where he is.

“Fuck!” he hisses. His voice echoes as he looks up and down the unfamiliar street.

There’s not even anyone else around to ask. No pedestrians on the sidewalks. No cars on the road. It’s not even dusk. He looks up at the buildings that line the streets; there are lights on in nearly every window.

A new thought suddenly occurs to Frank; what if there’s a curfew? He’s read enough dystopian totalitarian state novels to know that most of them keep tight control on the general populace.

“Fuck!” he says again.

The back of Frank’s neck tingles and he turns around. The street is still completely deserted but he can’t shake the feeling he’s being watched. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the sound of a car’s engine.

He shouldn’t be here.

He takes a step backwards, and then another, and before he knows it, he’s turning around and practically sprinting back the way he came.

“Kid, you shouldn’t be here!”

A voice reaches his ears and Frank freezes.

“Well, I needed to check in, didn’t I? Get all the latest gossip from Battery City’s most reliable newsman.”

Another voice, lower than the first. Whoever they are, they’re clearly not talking to Frank.

“You still shouldn’t have come into the city. It’s getting more and more dangerous!”

Frank looks towards the alleyway a few feet away from him. With a sinking feeling, he realises he recognises one of the voices. Instinct is telling him to run, to go home, to pretend he was never here. Curiosity, on the other hand...

“Pfft, danger. We’re in danger days already.”

Frank peers around the edge of the alleyway. He can’t see the people talking clearly but there’s a dumpster a little of the way down it that he could hide behind. As quietly as he can with his back pressed firmly against the wall, he edges his way closer, careful not to knock into anything and give himself away.

“That sounds like one of Party’s motos,” Ray Toro is saying to an incredibly skinny guy in a red jacket. Ray has his back to where Frank’s hiding but even if Frank hadn’t recognised his high-pitched voice, his hair would have given it away completely anyway. It’s not scraped back in the usual ponytail he keeps it in at work but instead has exploded into the afro Frank remembers so well from school.

The skinny guy laughs and pushes his sunglasses up his nose where they’ve slipped down. “Probably is. If it’s not, I’m taking full credit for it... So. News?”

“Nothing much,” Ray says with a shrug. “The Dracs are furious about the failed raid last night. Haven’t seen Korse much around the building which means he’s either locked up in the Testing Room 6 or he’s out in the Zones –”

“Neither of which are particularly good,” the guy adds.

“Exactly. How’s things out in the Zones? What happened to the camp?”

“They’re all good; we managed to relocate the entire camp Briar Rabbit’s Workshop in Zone 3 as a temporary location. He’s not too happy about it though, you know how he is.” (Ray nods.) “Anyway, we’re moving them all out bit by bit until we’ve got a new location properly secured. Seriously, whoever gave us that tip off... we owe them big time. Any luck finding out who it might have been?”

“Nope. And my job’s suddenly got a whole lot more difficult with how Fra- Iero’s been acting.”

Frank’s stomach jolts. What?! Why are they talking about him?!

The guy frowns. “Is he still acting up?”

“That’s putting it mildly. I think... I’m not sure. Either he’s detoxing or they got to him.”

“What?!” Frank mouths.

The guy snorts. “Are you sure?”

Ray nods – even from where Frank’s hiding, he can see the moment magnified by Ray’s hair.

“It’s the way he talks... it’s like he’s completely oblivious to... well, everything. He’s blatantly not on the pills but he’s not even trying to hide it and he doesn’t even seem to realise how dangerous that is.” Ray puts his hand to his forehead. “I really can’t figure him out. How he talks to me... it’s almost as if... well, you know... never happened.”

“So you think BLI wiped him?”

Ray shakes his head. “They would have put him on the pills if they had, and... well, something’s not right with him anyway. In the company, I mean. The way the Draculoid’s are around him... some of them openly threatened him a few days ago. I’ve never known Dracs to be so blatantly rude to someone of a higher rank. None of it makes sense. I think... I think something might have happened during that fight with Fun Ghoul.”

The guy makes a “hmm” noise.

“He’d have been reassigned immediately if they thought he wasn’t useful anymore,” the guy says.

“No, true... Except... I don’t get why they’ve put him on desk duty. He could easily be up in surveillance but instead they’ve got him logging files in a sealed room.”

“Do you think they’re keeping him out the way?”

Ray shrugs. “I have no idea... all I know is that -”

“It doesn’t add up,” the guy finishes.

There’s a small pause. Frank tries not to fidget uncomfortably but from where he’s crouched down behind the dumpster, his legs are starting to go numb.

“What about Fun Ghoul?” Ray asks. “Have you heard anything from him?”

The tall guy in the red jacket shakes his head. “There’s nothing. We’ve been trying to locate him but there’s no sign of him. It’s worrying; he normally checks in via Briar Rabbit every other day or so, but even he’s gone quiet on the subject.”

“Iero’s saying he killed him – Ghoul, that is, not Rabbit.”

“I’ve heard. Wouldn’t surprise me, it’s probably the kind of high-profile kill Iero needs to get himself another boost up in Scarecrow.” There’s no mistaking the venom in the guy’s voice, and Frank’s half-tempted to jump out and demand to know what the hell this guy’s problem is. “But then where’s the body?”

“Probably under a Drac mask right now,” Ray says but then winces, like he immediately regrets the words. “Any luck identifying who his accomplice was?”

“None. Dr Death put out a call with the description but no one’s come forward.”

“And... how’s Party?”

Frank blinks. Wait... Party? As in... Party Poison??

“He’s... he’s not happy. He doesn’t like how Fun Ghoul’s gone quiet. He’s fearing the worst. We all are.”

Ray nods. “Tell him we’re keeping our eyes and ears open here.”

“Keep Iero out the Zones, OK? I do not have time to deal with that asshole and if Party happens to meet him... well. It won’t end well.”

Frank’s head is reeling. Party Poison wants him dead. Ray and this guy are in league with Party Poison.

The gears whirl in Frank’s head and the penny suddenly drops.

Oh. This guy. It’s Kobra Kid.

“I’m just worried that he’s going to do something stupid. Or reckless. Or both,” Kobra Kid says, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “He thinks Iero knows something and with the mood he’s in right now, I don’t want him intentionally going out looking for an Exterminator, especially that Exterminator. It’s bad enough Party’s got Korse chasing him down already –”

“Just tell him to stay out the city, OK?” Ray says. “At least until we’ve figured out what side Frank’s on.”

Kobra Kid snorts. “We know what side Iero’s on. He made that one perfectly clear. And getting in and out the city... Easier said than done – how do you think I got here?!”

The thought that Frank’s being mistaken for being on the same side as a wanted terrorist makes him want to yell out and correct them but he manages to stop himself in time. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to hear this. Anything that could implicate him in... whatever it is that Ray’s mixed up in isn’t worth knowing. As quietly as he can, he starts to move back towards the main street.

And then, as he steps out the alley, he sees them.

Coming round the corner are three Draculoids.

Frank looks back down the alley to where Ray and Kobra Kid are still talking, oblivious.

OK, so maybe Ray’s connected to Party Poison and it’d be the right thing to do to hand him over to the police... but there’s still something about the Draculoids that Frank really doesn’t trust. In a split second, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his new pack of cigarettes and throws it as hard as he can in Ray’s direction. It hits the back of Ray’s head with a loud thunk –

“Hey, Iero!!”

One of the Drac’s calls out to Frank.

“Fuck!” Frank hisses, scrabbling to his feet. He doesn’t have time to think. He turns and runs.

“Hey Iero!! Where you going?!”

He’s not sure where he’s running but he can hear the Dracs behind him give chase, yelling delightedly. His feet pound against the pavement and his breath is already coming in gasps. He runs, taking random turns down sidestreets, trying to lose his pursuers –

Frank skids to a halt.

“FUCK!”

He’s run straight down a dead end. He stares up at the buildings surrounding him, looking for a window to climb into or a fence to hop but he’s literally boxed in. The three Draculoids have already caught up with him, casually walking down the middle of the road towards him. He can’t see their faces under the masks but he can imagine they’re grinning.

“So... nice night,” Frank says, breathing heavily.

“Yeah... I mean, we were just on patrol and what do we find?” the tallest one says – and fuck, Frank realises it’s the same three who threatened him in the canteen a few days ago. “Why, we find ourselves our favourite Grade 5 Scarecrow!”

“Where’s your raygun, Iero?” Pink-Mouth asks.

Frank suddenly realises they’re all holding guns. White, futuristic-looking guns but unmistakably guns.

“It’s like my cock. Unlike you three, I don’t feel the need to get it out and wave it around constantly,” Frank snaps, then immediately mentally winces. Mouthing off to three loaded lunatics looking for a fight probably isn’t the smartest move.

“Shame. Would have made this all a lot more fun,” the tallest says. “Still, you ran from us. Know what that means?”

Frank swallows down a number of retorts. His heart is hammering against his rib cage.

“It means you’ve got something to hide,” the Drac continues. “Which means you’re not on our side. Which means –”

Simultaneously, all three Draculoids raise their guns and point them at Frank.

He’s suddenly furious. Of all the ways to die, he gets himself fucking gunned down in an alleyway like a fucking animal in a fucking alternate dimension! And by what? By three mask-wearing lunatics that aren’t much more than douchebag thugs who think they’re so badass! Jesus, what a fucking joke.

“Fuck you,” he snarls.

There’s a blinding bright light and a loud roaring noise. For one wild second, Frank thinks he’s already died but then he realises it’s actually the headlights of a car coming rapidly up behind the three Draculoids.

Frank dives out the way at the same time as the three Dracs realise what’s happening. Two of them manage to get out the way in time; Pink Mouth doesn’t. He bounces off the bonnet of the car and lands next to where Frank’s lying on the pavement, and doesn’t move. The car screeches to a halt and the passenger door flies open.

“Get in!!!” a scratchy voice yells from inside the car.

Frank scrambles to his feet and practically throws himself inside; the car’s already reversing at breakneck-speed out the alley as Frank pulls the door closed. He catches a glimpse of the remaining two Draculoids running after the car, their guns out and about to fire, but then the car rounds a corner and roars off down the road, leaving the Draculoid’s long gone behind them.

“Are they following??” the driver yells over the noise of the engine.

Frank turns around and looks out the rear window.

“Nope, they’re gone.”

He sinks back down in the seat, adrenaline and relief rushing through him as the car speeds through the streets of Battery City.

“You OK?” the driver asks. “I saw them chase you down, thought you needed a hand.”

The street lights whizzing past outside illuminate cars interior. Frank looks over to his savour, entirely grateful, at the same time as the driver looks at him –

Icy cold horror fills him.

A blue leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Red, greasy hair. A yellow mask.

At the same time as Frank screams “Fuck, you’re Party Poison!!” Party Poison sees the black X on Frank’s sleeve and yells “Fuck, you’re Scarecrow!!”

“Look man, I’ve just saved your life, you owe me at least that!!” Party Poison says quickly.

“I’m sorry, don’t kill me!!”

There’s a pause.

“... What?!” both men say in unison.

Party Poison is gripping the wheel of the car incredibly tightly.

“Look, I’m just going to drop you off here and we can forget this ever happened –”

“No!! Don’t leave me alone out there, what if they come back!?”

Panic is clearly not helping Frank think clearly. However, if he has to pick between three Draculoids who want him dead and very nearly just succeeded, and a wanted terrorist also wants him dead but hasn’t tried to kill him yet, Frank’s going with the latter.

“You shoot them!” Party Poison says as if it’s obvious.

“With what?!”

“Your... gun?” Party Poison looks over quickly at Frank, sounding confused.

“I don’t have a gun!”

Party Poison slams the breaks on; the car screeches to a stop in the middle of the road. Frank’s terrified he’s going to kick him out into the street.

“What do you mean, you don’t have a gun?! How can you not have a gun?!” Party Poison asks, and there’s a note of genuine hysteria in his voice. “Are you fucking with me?!”

“No!!” Frank cries desperately, holding open his coat to show he’s unarmed. “I don’t have a gun!!”

Why doesn’t he have gun?! Everyone else here seems to have a gun. Why isn’t he carrying one?!

“Please, don’t – don’t leave me here,” Frank says, looking around the streets. “I – I don’t know where I am.”

Underneath the mask, Frank can see Party Poison’s eyes are wide as he stares at Frank. For a few seconds, there’s a horrible silence in the car and Frank’s genuinely not sure what outcome he wants.

Party Poison starts up the car again.

“OK, I’m going to drop you off on the street where I found you, alright?” he says, turning the car around. “The Dracs should be gone by now – can you get home quickly from there?”

“Err, I... I don’t know. I’m not sure where you found me.”

“Motherfucker!! I’m not a fucking taxi cab!!”

Frank shrinks back into the seat. Any second now, this guy is going to pull over and throw him out...

Or shoot him, even!! Fuck, he’s in a car with Party Poison, the same guy who’s trying to take down Better Living Industries, and also the same guy who apparently wants to kill Frank for ‘exterminating’ Fun Ghoul!

“OK, what street do you live on??” Party Poison asks. He sounds stressed but Frank’s not sure why; after all, he’s not the one who’s entire survival depends on not saying the wrong thing right now.

Frank tells him. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest he can feel it in his throat.

“Right. I’ll take you to the end of that road. I swear, if this is some kind of trap though, I will not hesitate to shoot you. Do you understand?!”

Frank nods, too scared to say anything else.

They drive in silence for a while. The seconds tick by like hours. Frank half expects Party Poison to ask him his name or something like that but he stays silent.

“Fuck, I need a cigarette,” Frank mutters, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips and staring out the window. He thinks mournfully of the pack he threw at Ray; he didn’t even get to open the fucking thing.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Party Poison look over at him quickly but says nothing.

When the car slows and pulls up at the side of the road, much to Frank’s surprise, he recognises it as his own. He was half expecting Party Poison to dump him out in front of the next group of Draculoids they came across.

“This never happened, Scarecrow. You got that?” Party Poison says in a low voice. “I was never here.”

Frank nods and fumbles to get the door open.

“Thanks,” he manages to squeak out. “Seriously.”

His legs don’t feel like they’ll support him but somehow, he gets out the car, and now he’s not being blinded by the headlights, he sees that it is indeed Party Poison’s incredibly distinctive, graffitied 1979 Trans Am. In a daze, he manages to navigate his way into his apartment building, up the stairs and into his own home. He slams the door shut behind him, bolts the lock and sinks down onto the floor.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck... Fuck!”

He pulls his fingers through his hair, trying to process what’s just happened. Apparently, he just got a free ride home from Battery City’s Most Wanted.

Right.

Well, at least that broke monotony.

Slowly, he gets back to his feet, leaning against the wall. The damp patches under his arms feel horrible and the high-collar of his shirt is really cutting into his neck, so he unbuttons it and pulls it off over his head. Having to spend so much time covering them up, Frank always loves seeing his tattoos in all their glory; the sight of the familiar shapes and colours always manages to calm him down or cheer him up.

It still feels too hot and stuffy in his apartment though, so he pushes open the window as far as it will go. The cool air feels nice against his skin, drying the sweat. He looks at the shirt in his hand; it’s soaked.

“Right, laundry,” he murmurs to himself.

It’s only when he gets into the kitchen and looks at the usual spot where his washing machine is at home that he realises he apparently doesn’t have one here.

“Huh,” he says. “That’s... odd.”

How the hell does he do laundry?! Maybe if water’s in such short supply then people can’t have individual washing machines. There must be a laundrette around somewhere but there’s no way on earth he’s risking going out his apartment again tonight.

With a resigned sigh, he chucks the sweaty shirt in the corner of the kitchen and heads back out into the living room –

“AHHH!!”

Party Poison jumps about a foot in the air, startled. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting to be greeted by a scream.

“How did you get in here?!?” Frank shrieks.

Party Poison says nothing – he’s staring at Frank’s chest. Even with his mask on, there’s no hiding that his eyes are as wide as saucers. Frank suddenly feels very exposed.

“How did you get in here??” he asks again, trying to cover himself with his arms as best he can. “Get out before I call –”

... Who, exactly? The cops? Do they even exist in this world?

“Well, just get out!!” Frank finishes, somewhat lamely.

There’s a long pause. Party Poison is still staring at Frank’s bare skin.

“You have tattoos,” he says eventually, sounding a little bit simple.

“Yes, I have fucking tattoos!! How did you get in here?!”

Party Poison gives his head a small shake.

“The window,” he says. “You left this in my car.”

He reaches into his pocket and chucks something across the room; it lands at Frank’s feet, face-up. His BLI ID tag.

Fuck.

“So... You’re Frank Iero,” Party Poison says.

Frank suddenly sees the holster strapped to Party Poison’s leg. There’s a bright yellow gun poking out of it.

“Relax, I’m not going to shoot you unless you do something stupid,” Party says, seeing where Frank’s looking. “Although really, I would have thought you’d already be keeping your gun strapped to your chest at all times, seeing as the ones on your back aren’t doing you much use.”

Party’s eyes dart to Frank’s chest again at the chest-piece of a bomb in roses that he never quite got round to getting finished. Frank thinks about the guns he has tattooed on his lower back and wonders how the fuck Party Poison knows about those, as he hasn’t turned his back on him at all so far.

“What do you want then?” Frank asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. You answer honestly and I’ll go without any fuss. You lie and... well. You can guess. So, think you can do that?”

“You’re not really giving me much choice.”

“True, true. Well, let’s begin. Number one – Did you kill Fun Ghoul?”

Frank groans. That’s it. He’s going to die.

“I shot him.”

“But did you kill him?”

“Depends on how strong his chest muscles are at reflecting bullets.”

Really Frank, is NOW the time to get an attitude??! screams a voice in his head.

A muscle in Party Poison’s jaw twitches.

“OK, Number Two – What did Fun Ghoul look like?”

Frank stares at the red-haired man in disbelief.

“You’re seriously asking me that?! Surely you already know that!”

“The real question is, do you?” Party Poison folds his arms. “Or did you just happen to get some kid who’s just bragging about being Fun Ghoul.”

Frank blinks. That’s actually a fair point.

“I – I know who I got. And he was - hang on – you really don’t know what he looks like, do you?”

“What? Course I do –”

“No you don’t. I’ve seen the files,” Frank says, his mind working at a million miles an hour. “He’s never been arrested, no one even knows who he might be and he’s only listed as a ‘possible’ associate to everyone else. Your people only had contact with him through Briar Rabbit, Fun Ghoul checks via that guy and then he reports to you, I heard – someone - say it!!” (He stops himself in time; revealing that he overheard Kobra Kid would just cause one too many questions.) “You’ve never actually met Fun Ghoul, have you!?”

Party Poison looks murderous but Frank knows a victory when he sees one.

“Alright!!” he admits. “He was just a contact. But he was a fucking good one to have.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “I don’t think any of you guys could be classified as ‘good.’”

“Could you?!” Party asks, sounding incredulous.

“I’m not Battery City’s most wanted terrorist.”

“The majority opinion isn’t always the correct one, Iero,” Party says with a nasty sneer.

“Just fuck off already, would ya?!” Frank snaps. He’s not sure if this recklessness is a delayed adrenaline rush or if his fear’s just worn off but either way, he wants this man gone now.

“Fine! One more thing. Tattoos. You have them.”

Frank rolls his eyes.

“YES. Jesus, haven’t you ever seen a man with sleeves before?!”

“Not one who’s working for BLI. It’s against company policy – you should have gotten rid of those years ago.”

“Well, I like my ink,” Frank says, folding his arms somewhat defensively. “Besides, I keep it hidden; who’s it hurting??”

“It’s art,” Party Poison says softly. He steps towards Frank and, as if hypnotised, lightly takes one of Frank’s arms between his fingers, holding it out so he can see the designs properly. Frank doesn’t try to resist. “This... this is beautiful. The colours, the shapes, the pain...”

His fingers trace over the Our Lady of Sorrows design on Frank’s forearm.

“It’s so brutally honest and true.”

Frank gulps. There’s a weird lump in his throat and his skin tingles where Party Poison’s meets his. Every nerve in his skin suddenly seems brightly alert like a live wire. Up this close, he can see just how vivid a shade of red the terrorist’s hair is and the dark brown roots starting to poke through. He can see the stubble lining his jaw. He can smell gasoline and sweat.

“And... completely forbidden.” Party Poison grins and flicks Frank’s nose. The pain is sharp and sudden and it makes Frank’s eyes water.

“You’re not taking the pills, are you?” Party says, sounding triumphant.

“What?!” Frank asks, clutching his nose. He wants to ask what fucking pills and why everyone here seems so obsessed with them but then Party Poison’s lips are pressed against his and that line of questioning goes completely out the window.

It’s an aggressive kiss but Frank’s initial hesitation is more out of shock than repulsion. Party Poison persists and pushes Frank – he feels his bare back slam into the cold wall, and then Party’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him down, their lips never separating. Party Poison’s body is already invading the space between Frank’s legs, one raised up on the floor, the other stretched out while his hands flail useless at the side, and oh -the heat radiating from Party Poison’s body is just fantastic. On its own traitorous accord, Frank’s arm wraps around Party Poison’s torso, pulling him in closer and holding him there, savouring the feel of another physical body - it’s been far too long since he was last with someone. Party Poison’s fingers are lacing through Frank’s hair and tugging and when he bites down on Frank’s bottom lip, Frank can’t hold back the gasp that escapes from deep down in his chest; Party Poison’s tongue is already exploring the furthest corners of his mouth. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes and something Frank can’t quite put his finger on; he wants to say dirt and desert dust but he’s not sure if that makes sense.

Just as abruptly as it begins, it ends. Frank blinks a few times, trying to process what the fuck has just happened. His mouth is wet and swollen, and his chin feels prickly from where Party Poison’s stubble scratched.

“You’re not taking the pills,” Party Poison says again.

Frank’s not sure how that response quite answers his question. He’s also not sure what’s causing the sparkly lights that seem to be flashing in front of his eyes.

Party Poison rocks back on his heels, crouching in front of Frank slumped against the wall. Matted strands of crimson hang down over his face, contrasting with the vivid yellow mask that keeps his eyes completely in shadow, and there’s a triumphant smirk twisting his lips.

He looks feral. Wild. Dangerous.

“Wh- what?”

“You’re not taking the pills,” Party Poison says for the third time. “You don’t taste the same.”

“The same as who?!”

“Everyone else.” There’s such a casualness in the way this is said, Frank’s not sure he likes it. “The pills... it’s something to do with how they control you, an unexpected side-effect. They literally leave a bad taste in your mouth. The people who are taking them have a metallic taste to them. You don’t.”

Frank’s head is still reeling and now he feels like he’s just been kicked in the stomach too. That was all an experiment?!

And wait –

“The pills – they control you??” Frank squeaks out.

“Of course!” Party says, like it’s obvious. “You must have realised, everyone does once they stop taking them.” Off Frank’s blank look, Party rolls his eyes. “They control your emotions. Emotional sedation, memory suppression... is any of this ringing any bells?!”

Frank suddenly remembers the graffiti on the wall of the pill with a cross underneath; of the vending machine at work that gives out free pills; of the friendly voice that asks if he’s taken his medication today.

“And... Better Living Industries is behind this??”

Party Poison stands up, looking down at Frank in confusion. Frank makes no attempt to get up.

“Jet Star was right... there is something wrong with you,” he says, though it seems more to himself than to Frank.

(“And who the fuck is Jet Star?!?” Frank thinks.)

He crosses the floor and he’s got one foot on the window ledge – Frank almost cries out “don’t go!” but stops himself in time – when he pauses and looks back. His body is framed in the window and in the background behind him, the night sky and city lights bleach out the colour as he looks at the floor.

“I’m not done with you, Iero. You’ll be seeing more of me very soon... but I wouldn’t go around trying to set any traps. If word gets out about your art treachery and pill defiance... well. You can probably guess.”

And Frank can. The words ‘promotion’ and ‘job for life’ aren’t featured.

“Oh, and also...” Party Poison suddenly turns his head and looks at Frank with the most devastatingly beautiful and inhumane smile he’s ever seen in his life. “No one - and I mean no one - on the pills would kiss like that.”

He reaches into his pocket and throws something else to Frank (whatever it is, it lands halfway across the room) and then there’s a small whooshing sound as Party Poison jumps out the window.

Out the goddamn window, like he thinks he’s fucking Batman or something.

Frank’s not sure how long he sits there on the floor for, staring at the window. He’s half expecting to see Party Poison reappear in it, terrified, disappointed and relieved all at once when he doesn’t.

He’s just been kissed by Battery City’s most wanted and dangerous criminal.

And worse still... he liked it.

“Fuck,” he hisses (which is apparently his word for the night).

He scrabbles across the floor to see what Party left for him; a laugh escapes out his mouth that sounds slightly hysterical as he realises it’s a cigarette.


~*~*~


Waking up back in his own reality, Frank’s immediate reaction is relief. He’s back in his own boring, sweet, glorious world where nothing exciting ever happens, where he doesn’t have terrifying criminals breaking into his flat and holding him to ransom and kissing him... He’s in such a daze that he completely fails to realise it’s Saturday until he gets to the office and realises the doors are locked and there’s no one else around.

“Shiiiitt!!” he wails pathetically, dropping his bag onto the pavement. He’d quite like to drop down to his knees as well in a completely over-dramatic manner but he’s pretty sure there’s CCTV around here and to the casual observer, it’s just going to look like he was that desperate to come to work.

Lifting his chin, Frank hoists his bag up onto his shoulder and leaves the grounds, trying to retain whatever little dignity he has left.

“I’m going fucking mad,” he mutters, trying to avoid the crowds of Saturday shoppers as he heads back towards the high street. “Totally going mad. I’ve killed a man, kissed someone who wants me dead and now I’m forgetting the days of the week.”

A punky, fierce-looking girl nearby with fishnets and lots of facial piercings stares at him with wide eyes.

He heads towards Starbucks immediately, hoping to see Gerard but the moment he pushes the door open, he knows it’s a lost cause; the queue is barely moving and almost reaches the door, and every table is already occupied by annoyingly fashionable teenagers and mothers with prams. No sign of a weirdly cute greasy-haired comic artist anywhere. Frank scowls but gets in the queue for a coffee to go, figuring he might as well get something out of this day. He’s already pulling a cigarette out his pocket when he leaves, coffee clutches tightly in his other hand, and heads down the high street. He’s still undecided about whether or not to go home or head to the park, when someone carrying lots of bags walks solidly into him, nearly sending him flying to the pavement.

“Watch it asshole!” Frank says angrily at the same time as the person says, sounding rather delighted, “Frank?!”

Well shit. Now Frank feels like a douche.

“Gerard!” he says, surprised. “Shit, sorry man, I didn’t realise it was you!”

“Did I spill your coffee??” Gerard asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

Frank checks; a few splashes down his front but nothing too major.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Frank says. “What are you doing here?”

He looks at the three bags Gerard’s carrying; they’re so stuffed full of something that looks soft and squishy that they’re barely closed. They’re probably filled with arty materials or something. They look heavy.

“Do you want a hand?” he asks.

Gerard’s face splits into a giant smile.

“Do you mean it?? That’d be awesome – I’m just going home, if you could help me get to the bus stop –”

“Well, I’ve got my car parked up nearby – I could give you a lift home if you wanted.”

“Are you serious?? That’d be awesome!! Do you mind??”

It’s just a lift, Frank thinks. Yeesh, you’d think no one had ever done a nice deed for the man before.

He suddenly thinks back to the impromptu lift he received last night. Well, one good deed deserves another...

“Not at all! Come on, I’ve got nothing planned today!”

He hoists one of the bags off Gerard’s shoulders onto his own, staggering slightly under the weight.

“Fuck man, what have you got in here?!” he asks as they head over to the car park.

“Laundry,” Gerard says with a grimace. “The one closest to our house closed down last month so me and Mikey have been taking it in turns to come into the one here.”

Oh. Mikey. So Gerard lives with another guy. Frank tries not to immediately assume the worst.

“But then I forgot to go last week,” Gerard continues, oblivious. “I mean, I didn’t mean to but then I had to wait in because I had this delivery of paints that was supposed to be coming to the house and I had to wait for the delivery guy because Mikey just tends to ignore the door if he’s not expecting anyone – it’s the same with the house phone, actually, he never answers it because he figures if anyone’s going to call him, they’ll call his mobile, ya know? Anyway, I had to stay in and by the time the delivery guy showed up, it was too late to go out to the Laundromat and they weren’t open on Sunday for some unknown reasons, so I had to wait until this week!”

They’ve reached Frank’s car by this point. Frank pops open the boot and they dump the bags in. He wonders if there’s any way to find out who Mikey is without sounding like he’s got an ulterior motive.

“So, what are you doing in town today?” Gerard asks when they’re in the car and Frank’s started driving.

“I – I kinda forgot what day it was and came in for work,” Frank admits before he has to time to think up a cool reason for being in town.

Gerard stares at him for a few seconds then bursts out laughing.

“Oh man, seriously?”

“Shut up, I’ve had a strange few days!”

“But seriously, you came in for work?” Gerard asks, giggling. He’s got a weird, high-pitched laugh but it suits him. “Do you, like, really really like your job??”

“Shut up!!” Frank says again. He’s really trying not to smile but Gerard’s laugh is so infectious. “I just messed up the day, that’s all! I had a really weird night.”

“Weird like didn’t sleep well or weird like aliens showed up and started demanding to know the results for last years American Idol?” Gerard asks seriously.

“Weird like aliens showed up, except they were also demanding to know why Buffy the Vampire Slayer isn’t real too.”

“Wow. That’s weird.”

“Yeah. And there also may have been shoot outs and running from Draculoids as well.”

“What are Draculoids? Take a left on the next street.”

“Well, they’re these kind of soldier-type guys. Douchebags who wear masks and go around just a little bit too trigger happy for their own good... and they really don’t like me.”

“Huh. That is weird,” Gerard agrees. Frank glances at him; he’s staring at Frank with a curious smile on his face. Frank wants to ask what he’s smiling at but takes the next left instead.


~*~*~


Gerard’s house turns out to be on a street in the better part of town about half an hour away from the main high street. It’s a surprisingly nice house; Frank was expecting something that looked a bit more suited to a struggling artist, not a middle-class family of four.

“Wow, the rent on this place must be ridiculous,” Frank remarks as they open the boot.

“Nah, it was my grandmothers – she left it to me in her will and I’ve never really wanted to sell it. Hey, you wanna come in for a coffee? Least I could do to say thanks.”

As Gerard opens the door, the first thing Frank notices is the strong aroma of coffee mixed with cigarettes and... is that turpentine? Gerard dumps his laundry bags in the corridor on the floor; Frank carefully puts the bag he’s carrying next to them.

“Mikey? You in?” Gerard calls up into the house as he pulls off his coat. When he gets no reply, he shrugs. “He must be out.”

“Is Mikey your b –” Frank stops himself from saying ‘boyfriend’ before he makes a fool of himself and trails off awkwardly.

“Brother? Yeah,” Gerard says absently, then sees Frank’s expression and bursts out laughing. “Nah, Mikey’s my little brother, we live together.”

Frank hopes his face isn’t burning too much as he follows Gerard into the kitchen.

“So, coffee?” Gerard asks, flipping on a vintage-looking coffee machine. “Sugar, milk?”

Frank nods to both and sits down at the wooden table, looking around the kitchen as Gerard makes the coffee. The kitchen is quite small but there’s a homely, cosy feel to it. Aside from the coffee machine, most the appliances look fairy low-key and there are random pictures and post-its tacked to the cupboard doors and fridge that read things like “trash goes on THURSDAY“ and “Mother War?!” and “Mikey – GET NEW PC SCREENS!!! BOSS WILL NOT BE HAPPY IF YOU FORGET AGAIN!” Every surface is covered with some kind of clutter, ranging from books, bits of computers, sketchbooks, hard drives, paints, pencils, guitar picks, tweezers, empty coffee mugs, opened mail, ash trays...

Frank picks up a teddy bear that’s wearing a little black military jacket. It’s lying amongst all the clutter with its paws sticking up in the air helplessly.

“Gerard, help me!! I’m turning into one of the garbage ladies from Labyrinth!” Frank says in a squeaky voice, making the bear run across the table.

Gerard laughs and sets two steaming mugs of coffee down on two clear patches of the table.

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. It’s not dirty, it’s just cluttered,” he explains, sitting at one of the free chairs.

“Organised mess,” Frank says, taking a sip of coffee; he nearly chokes at how strong it is but Gerard’s drinking his own without any problems.

“Yeah... in theory anyway.”

“So, who’s this little guy?” Frank asks, holding up the teddy.

“He was part of this project I had.” Without any further prompting, Gerard launches into it. “See, a while back, I got commissioned to work on a comic that was supposed to be about these teddy bears that organised parades for sick children... I think it was supposed to be sent out to kids in hospital and stuff, or for some kids cancer charity? Can’t remember... Anyway, it started off OK – they told me to “make it friendly and not scary” so I started thinking about these kids and how they must have been feeling, like wondering if they were going to get better and if they were probably scared of dying, coz, you know, if I’d been in hospital as a kid with cancer, I’d be shit scared. Anyway, I wanted them to feel it wasn’t, you know? So I drew out this whole storyboard – like, the teddy bears and the parade were what came for you when you died, as like this huge celebration of your life and to welcome you to what comes next. Anyway, my publisher had suggested when they gave me the project that I showed how it could be marketable as well, so I made that little guy -” Gerard points to the bear in Frank’s hands “-to show how the kids could have the teddy’s to hug in hospital if they were scared, like actual teddy bear hugs from the bear leading the parade, the one who’d be holding their hand throughout and beyond...”

Frank stares at Gerard in amazement.

“You must have made a fortune from that,” he says.

“Are you kidding?! I’ve never been kicked out a building so fast in my entire life!” Gerard says with a laugh. “Apparently, personifying death in a cartoon for sick kids is ‘grossly inappropriate’ and ‘morbid’.” He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “They’d actually wanted something more like a Carebears rip-off with the kids forgetting they were sick and being happy, which is nice, you know, but it’s not really real. I mean, sure, you could try and take your mind off it but I don’t think you should patronise kids or lie to them about how things are going to be perfectly normal and fine when they’re not.”

“Depends on the kid,” Frank says. “I mean, I actually love the idea – I was in and out of hospital all the time when I was a kid and I would have killed for a comic like that – but there’s probably some out there who might want to pretend they’ll be ok.”

“Of course,” Gerard agrees. “But they they’ve got every other kind of distraction for that. I was just trying to put out something that was real. You want lies and someone saying you’ll be fine? Great, go for it; turn on TV and watch the actual Carebears. Read Twilight. Listen to Beyonce’s latest album. But why hide the truth and pretend it’s not there just because it’s ugly?”

Frank grins. “Fair point. Controversial, but fair. Keep it ugly and all.” He raises his coffee cup in a toast and Gerard does the same.

“Keep it ugly,” he agrees.

They slip into silence for a minute or two, sipping their coffee. Frank looks at the bear in his hands.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think you should give up on this guy. It’s good idea – maybe a few tweaks or something though, like aim it at a different audience?”

“Yeah, my publisher suggested I aim it at the teenage market,” Gerard says with a wince. “But I’d like to see you offer teddy bears to teenagers.”

“OK OK, so change it from bears to people!”

Gerard opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but then stops.

“... you know, that might actually work,” he says.

“You hadn’t thought of that, had you?”

“Not exactly...”

“Or at all?” Frank chucks a pen at Gerard playfully.

“Alright, I hadn’t!” Gerard laughs, deflecting the pen. “You know when you get so wrapped up in something that you can’t step away from it to see the whole bigger picture? Well I just -”

“You just needed a fresh point of view,” Frank finishes.

Gerard grins. “I just needed you. You’re amazing, Frankie, you know that?”

Frank looks down, but he has a feeling his face is probably about the same shade of red as Party Poison’s hair.


~*~*~


It turns out that Gerard’s got a whole cupboard of paints that need sorting. Frank makes this discovery when he’s trying to find the toilet and opens the door to discover it’s so stacked with paint cans and brushes and all kinds of art paraphernalia that he can’t even see the toilet.

“Really?!” Frank asks.

“Oh God, I wondered what had happened to my empty paint cans,” Gerard groans, poking his head around the door.

“What do you mean, you wondered?!”

“Well, normally, I leave them outside the studio door and Mikey -”

“- shoves them in the toilet?!”

So far, Frank has been able to gather that Mikey is some kind of computer-person (seeing as Frank highly doubts that all the spare computer parts lying around the house are to do with Gerard) and apparently is also as lazy a fucker as Gerard when it comes to tidying up.

Gerard bites his lip and looks down. “I never use this toilet actually,” he admits. “There’s one in the basement, next to where I normally work.”

Frank stares at him. “Right, I’m going there to pee, then you and I are sorting this!!”


~*~*~


An hour later and they’ve only managed to make a small dent into the room-of-paint-cans-that-is-supposed-to-be-a-toilet.

“I’m seriously going to kill him when he gets back,” Gerard says, wiping some sweat off his brow. “He said he was taking care of them.”

Frank had offered up his car to help transport the paint cans to the local recycling point but then they discovered that some of the cans still had paint in them and some of them even had other things stuffed inside, like tiny notebooks, pencils and receipts. As a result, Gerard and Frank had to open and check inside every single can before putting it in Frank’s car.

“Where is Mikey anyway?” Frank asks, popping the lid off a can and peering inside; thankfully, there’s nothing but dried paint flecks. He chucks it in the ‘to go’ pile.

Gerard shrugs. “Probably band practice. He plays bass – hey, you know, they’ve got a gig coming up next Thursday, you should come!!”

Frank’s heart leaps in his chest at Gerard actually inviting him somewhere before common sense kicks in and the little voice in his head starts screaming not a date, not a date, not a date!! Gerard probably just wants to try and build up the audience a bit.

“Yeah sure, I’ve got nothing planned,” Frank says, trying to sound not bothered, like he’s casually invited to gigs by weird artists every other day.

“Awesome!! I’ll speak to Mikey, get him to put your name on the guest list!”

Sweet. A free gig. And totally not a date.

Frank reaches for the nearest can to him which turns out to be a terrible idea as there’s an ominous-sounding noise and everything shakes, and then with a tremendous clatter, an avalanche of paint cans and boxes falls down on them. He hears Gerard yell somewhere over the roar of clutter.

A few seconds later, there’s an odd sort of stillness. Frank’s lying on the floor, buried under art supplies.

“Frank?!” Gerard’s voice comes through sounding incredibly panicked. “Oh God, did I kill you?! Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead!!”

“I’m ok, I’m ok!” he calls out, pushing papers off his head and sitting up. Miraculously, he’s not injured; he might have a few bruises tomorrow morning but there’s no broken bones or head wounds. His clothes and skin feel oddly wet and cold though. He looks down –

“Shit!!”

His plain work shirt has been completely re-dyed.

“Oh my God Frank, are you ok?!?”

There’s a loud clatter of tins being shoved aside as Gerard’s suddenly there, crouching next to Frank with –

“What? Why are you laughing? Are you laughing at me??” he asks.

“Nope, not at all,” Frank laughs. He waves an ink-splattered hand in Gerard’s direction. “That’s a good look for you.”

Gerard stares at Frank, completely confused until he looks down at himself. Like Frank, he’s covered in a Technicolor wash of inks and paints and somehow, what looks like an entire tubs worth of red paint had been dumped on his head; giant bright-red drips are streaming down his face.

“I seriously hope that’s paint and not blood,” Frank says and on impulse, reaches out and wipes away with his hand some of the paint on Gerard’s face. It’s like a bolt of electricity at the contact; Frank suddenly has the urge to lace his fingers through Gerard’s hair, pull him in and –

Frank retracts his hand like he’s been burnt. He focuses on other things, like the way there’s splatters of blue ink dotted on Gerard’s lip; the way there’s red paint rolling down the side of Gerard’s neck and under the edge of his t-shirt; the way the paint in his hair gives a vivid red sheen to it...

“That actually suits you,” Frank blurts out, sounding surprised. “Like, red hair.”

Gerard laughs and tugs at a section, looking at it.

“Nah, should be brighter if you’re gonna do it. Really make a statement, ya know?”

“Make a statement?!” Frank snorts. “What are you, fifteen?! Fuck the establishment, man, I’m anti-conformist!!”

“Fuck you!” Gerard says, but he’s smiling. “I meant if you’re gonna do something like dye your hair a blatantly unnatural colour, you might as well do it properly and make it really bold and obvious!”

“Yeah right! You can’t fool me, you’re one of those weirdo-modern-artist-types who’s always got some kind of issue with society!”

“Damn, you’ve seen right thought me. And I thought I hid it so well...”

Frank laughs. This feels a bit like flirting, although he could be wrong; it’s been a while since he’s had anyone to flirt with.

“We look like we’ve escaped from a Jackson Pollock canvas,” Gerard mutters, tugging at a strand of his paint-dyed hair.

“We look like a unicorn threw up on us,” Frank corrects.

Gerard frowns, then reaches onto a nearby shelf. He grabs a packet of something and before Frank can say anything, he’s poured it all over him. Frank coughs, splutters, trying to escape from whatever toxic powder Gee’s just attacked him with –

Glitter.

“Now you look like a unicorn threw up on you,” Gerard says with a triumphant smile. It’s a triumphant, dorky and utterly adorable smile. Frank should be annoyed at him. Instead, he finds himself fixated on Gerard’s lips, on his weird tiny teeth, on how Frank can see his tongue poking through the gaps and Frank’s suddenly wondering what Gerard’s mouth tastes like, what his tongue would feel like against his own...

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Frank mutters darkly, shaking glitter out his hair. “If anyone else tried that on me, they’d find themselves with their heads bashed in by paint cans right now.”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” Gerard flutters his eyelashes in a completely ridiculous way. He laughs and holds out his hand. “Come on, we need to get you naked – before that ink completely ruins your shirt. I’ve got some clothes you can borrow.”

There was definitely a deliberate pause after ‘naked.’

This is definitely flirting.

Mentally, Frank throws up the victory arms.


~*~*~


Gerard offers Frank a clean (“well, I think it’s clean”) black t-shirt to wear so they can put his shirt in to soak.

“I’m so sorry Frankie,” Gerard says, clearing old brushes out the paint-splattered sink to fill it up. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll pay to get it dry cleaned or get you a new shirt –”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Frank says as he unbuttons his shirt. His fingers slip on the buttons slightly, purple ink making them tricky to get a grip on. “We’ll try this and if the shirt’s fucked, I’ve got a whole cupboard full of them at home.”

And then some.

“Still...” Gerard frowns worriedly. The sink slowly fills up as he bends down under it, rooting around for some soap and as he does, his t-shirt rucks up to reveal the pale slice of skin between his shirt and the top of his jeans where his black boxers poke over the edge. Frank averts his eyes and does not imagine what the rest of Gerard looks like under the shirt.

He’s probably not ripped, Frank thinks. Just looking at the guy, you can tell he’s not the kind to spend all his time at the gym... or really, any of his time. He’s kinda chubby actually and his face is a bit weird-looking, and Frank’s pretty sure he’s never seen him with clean hair... he’s not really Frank’s type at all. Frank generally likes his guys ridiculously tall and skinny, very punky with lots of piercings and more like the guy you’d see throwing himself around on stage and never want to take home to your mother. Gerard’s this weird, rambling artist who would probably get murdered if he went near a mosh pit.

Frank gives his head a shake and slips his shirt off; it sticks to his skin slightly and he can’t help but grin as he sees where the ink has sunk through the material, giving his tattoos a whole new dimension of colour.

“OK,” Gerard says, standing up and turning around, “I got fabric softener and - WOAH!”

Gerard drops the bottle on the floor and his eyes widen as he stares at Frank.

“You have tattoos!” he says, sounding shocked. “You work in an office and you have tattoos!!”

“Didn’t you see these?!” he asks, waggling his fingers where the words ‘Halloween’ and ‘Bookworm’ are clearly displayed.

“I did, I did, but I didn’t think you’d have... wow.” He trails off, his eyes roaming over Frank’s chest piece to the birds on his stomach to the designs that cover his arms. “You’re... you’re covered in art, Frankie. Can I?”

He reaches out hesitantly for Frank’s arm which Frank lets him take. He steps in closer to Frank, so close that they’re almost body to body, holding Frank’s arm gently between his fingers and twisting it slightly so he can see the designs.

“This one’s beautiful,” he says softly, running his fingers over Frank’s Our Lady of Sorrows.

“It’s a bit ink splattered,” Frank says. His face feels hot and he’s scared to move in case he loses his self control entirely and pins Gerard against the counter or something equally inappropriate.

“Doesn’t matter, I can still see the colours under it. And the expression on her face, the pain in the details... It’s so raw and honest,” he says. “Did you design it yourself?”

Frank nods. He’s not sure if he can even speak anymore, not without making some weird kind of strangled noise as opposed to actual words. Meanwhile, Gerard’s pressing his hands against Frank’s stomach, pressing out the skin to look at Frank’s birds in more detail.

“What’s that on their eyes?” he asks. He’s bending in so closely that Frank can feel his hot breath on the soft skin of his stomach and Frank can’t help it as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back slightly.

“X’s on one and a bar on the other,” Frank says, clearing his throat. “They represent... uh... like... an angel and a demon.”

“Interesting,” says Gerard, slowly standing up. There’s a mischievous grin on his face and Frank realises he is very close. “Do you have tattoos all over you, Frankie?” he asks, very deliberately looking down Frank’s chest.

“I’ve got one in my mouth,” Frank says, letting Gerard make of that what he wants. He’s pretty sure that this has gone beyond just playful flirting now, but he’s been wrong about this kind of thing before. Gerard doesn’t seem to have much respect for personal boundaries, this could just be part of that. Frank’s heart is thumping loudly in his chest and he’s trying so hard not to shake.

“Really?” Gerard asks, sounding interested as he wraps his arms around Frank’s neck and then the gap between them is gone and Gerard’s pressing his lips against Frank’s. He’s hesitant initially, like he’s giving Frank the chance to push away but Frank’s already snaking his own arms around Gerard’s waist and crushing his body against his own.

There’s a loud splash behind them and they break apart.

“Fuck, the sink!!!” Gerard yells, switching the taps off. The water’s only just started to overflow so there isn’t too much of a kitchen flood.

“So...” Frank says with a grin, mopping up some water with paper towel. “Really didn’t think you’d get me on my hands and knees at this early point.”

“Yeah well, you almost blew it with that lame ‘I’ve got a tattoo in my mouth’ line,” Gerard laughs, dabbing a soggy towel at the floor. Where their skin touches the water, the ink bleeds into it creating faint hints of colour.

“No no, I seriously have one!” Frank says, pulling down his lip to reveal where he’s got the initials NJ inked in as a subtle tribute to New Jersey.

Gerard’s eyes widen. “Holy... how the hell did they do that?! Actually, no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” He winces and shudders.

“What?”

“Needles,” Gerard explains. “I’m not a fan. I mean, I love tattoos and art – especially your stuff, from what I’ve seen – but I just can’t get past the whole needle thing to get one myself.”

He shudders again.

“You know, you don’t actually really see the needle –”

Gerard sticks his fingers in his ears. “Nananana, not listening!!”

“BIG BIG NEEDLES!!” Frank yells, splashing Gerard with some water. It’s childish but he can’t help himself.

“So, what other tattoos you got?” Gerard asks loudly.

“A few. I’d have to take my pants off to show you though,” Frank says suggestively.

“Hey, I’m not that kind of guy!!”

He looks up and catches Gerard’s eye as they both laugh. Frank can’t resist flicking a few more splashes at Gerard playfully.

The moment is completely ruined three seconds later when there’s the sound of the front door opening and then slamming.

“Mikey?” Gerard calls out. “Kitchen!!”

Frank looks up in time to see a tall, very thin, lanky man walk into the kitchen. He stops in the doorway, staring down at Frank.

“This is Frank,” Gerard says.

Mikey says nothing, but continues to stare at Frank through his glasses. Frank suddenly has the distinct impression that Mikey doesn’t like him.

“Sorry, I’m not normally shirtless or covered in ink,” Frank explains, standing up and drying his hand on his trousers and holding it out. Mikey stares at him, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I am, but not this much! There was a bit of an accident with a bunch of paint cans in the toilet.”

Mikey looks back down the corridor to the toilet and at the paint cans stacked up in the hallway, and the corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“Whoops,” he says. He finally takes Frank’s hand and shakes it; his hands are long and cool. “Mikey. Gerard’s brother.”

“Frank,” Frank says, even though Gerard’s already kinda introduced them. “Gerard’s... coffee shop friend.”

Mikey’s mouth quirks up again as he looks from Frank to Gerard with an odd look. Gerard suddenly goes bright red.

“Have you got band practice?” he asks.

Mikey nods. “I just came back to get my bass. Nice to finally meet you,” he says to Frank, doing that weird mouth-quirk thing again, and Frank suddenly realises that’s his smile.

Frank’s about to say “you too” but Mikey’s already gone, his footsteps echoing upstairs.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Gerard explains. “It’s nothing personal.”

“‘Nice to finally meet you?’ ” Frank asks, trying to keep the smile off his face.

“Oh shut up,” Gerard says with a laugh. “I met this really cute, awesome guy in Starbucks, you think I’m not going to talk about it?”

Frank wants to ask just how much Gerard talked about him but decides against it. Instead, he lets his brain focus on the ‘cute’ and ‘awesome’ part and tries not to grin too much.



Part Four

Comments

[poorlifechoices_dontask]

gods, this is amazing!
this story is absolutely amazing.
I know you will most likely never get this —still, I’ll try. would you give me permission to make a comic based on this? it’s for entertainment and, if I ever published it (which I highly doubt), I’d credit you for the story.
i hope you reas this.
thank you, and so long.