Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gerard's P.O.V.]

He cocked an eyebrow, opening the door further to allow entrance. I lowered my head as I passed him by, trying to ignore the accusing look he was sending me. I hadn't even begun to speak and already he was angered; it simply wasn't good. I took a seat at his desk, keeping my gaze focused on the black and white bass propped up on his pillows. "So, talk if you have to."

"Hold on, Mikes; I'm thinking."

"About what? About how you've been lying to me?"

"How could you say that?"

"Gerard, I've known you my entire life. You're my brother and I know when you're lying. You wouldn't stop fidgeting with your hands." He gave me a smirk that sank my heart as every blatant lie flashed brightly in my head. His smirk grew wider as he picked up the bass, fingering the frets briefly.

"Turn off the music," I ordered suddenly, pointing at the radio on the bedside table. He sighed, reaching over to turn down the volume until it was nearly non-existent.

"You should have some background music while you talk," he smirked again. Damn that smirk. He leaned back on his bed, his bony shoulders pressing against the wall, his hands gripping the bass guitar tightly in his hands.

"Come on, Mikey; shut off the music. I don't need it." He shrugged but didn't bother moving, playing out a rhythm on the instrument in his hands.

"Why don't you turn it off if it bothers you so much?"

"Fine, I will." He chuckled softly as I stood up, jamming the off button angrily. "Listen to me now."

"I've been listening to you for the past minute but you haven't said anything of importance. I've been waiting for you to talk; that's why you came here, wasn't it? So talk Gee before I get pissed off."

"You're already pissed off!" I screamed indignantly, waving my arms around in emphasis. He sat up, throwing the bass on the bed next to him.

"You're damn right I'm pissed off! You haven't told me shit even though there's classmate of mine living in your room, doing God-knows-what who came here drenched in blood. I have a right to be pissed off because I thought you could trust me with whatever happened but you haven't told me anything. You just came in here with him, expected us to help you and not ask any questions. This is my house too Gerard and I've got a goddamned right to know what the fuck is going on."

I was stunned, any words that had risen in my throat now completely and totally gone. Mikey had never yelled at anyone like that, least of all me, his own brother. I opened and closed my mouth various times, gaping like a fish out of water. "If you're not going to say anything, get out of my room."

"Mikey, please; just calm down. It's a long, complicated story-"

"And I'm listening. Just start." I took a deep breath, opening my mouth to speak. He didn't interrupt this time but simply stared at me, waiting for my story to begin. There was no other way to begin than with the murder and that would definitely disconcert Mikey which would probably make him want to thrown Frank out of the house. I couldn't have that; not at all.

"Mikey, what I'm about to tell you, you're not going to like. You're going to want to thrown him out of the house but please, I beg of you, don't. Whatever I say, I want you to swear you'll let Frank stay."

"Gee," he warned, pointing finger at me. "You've grown attached to him, haven't you? You like him! By God, Gee, what is wrong with you? He's younger than me."

"He's not!"

"He's got to be fucking seventeen, for Christ's sake, Gee. He's young."

"Just shut up Mikey. Now, will you swear it?"

"I can't make any promises without knowing what's going on."

"You're going to kick him out!"

"And what if I have to?"

"Mikey, please don't. He won't be able to handle you rejecting him from this house. He's got no where to go. He can't go home; he can't go anywhere."

"Then he'll live on the streets."

"Come on Mikes, for me. Just swear it for me."

"Fine Gee, I swear. But you're completely responsible for him." I sighed in relief, knowing I had just spiked his curiosity a thousand-fold. Still, I had promised a story and boy, was he going to get one. So I began to speak, omitting the reason for my being out in the street, omitting the fact that I had gone out to buy vodka. I explained the entire macabre scene I had found him in, muttering under his breath, the broken bottle still clutched in his hand.
I explained how we hid from the ambulance, afraid of being caught, afraid of him becoming a prisoner. He was much too young to be in prison; he could never survive it. I explained how I took him home in an attempt to nurse him, giving him a change of clothes, giving him a place to stay. I didn't even bother sparing him the details of our watching Rocky Horror Picture Show: how it made him happy to see it, how it made his face light up in a smile. I spared him, though, the details of our drinking, the details of his failed escape and my nervous breakdown, the way he couldn't hold down his food or the way we spent our morning.

I did, however, tell him in full detail the events that transpired at the police station, how I despised the woman. I told him Frankie's life, the memories that haunted him at every second, the dark trains that ran rampant through his young mind. He wasn't just any other Jersey kid; he was most definitely unique. I stopped suddenly, looking down at the ground, remembering the moments of passion we had after he woke up. There were things I simply couldn't share with my brother, not in the least.

I looked up at him finally, tearing my gaze from the rug beside his bed. He was staring wide-eyed, unashamedly, body frozen in position. His lips parted as he opened and closed his mouth several times, obviously trying to think of something to say. Finally, he put aside his bass, leaning forwards, running a hand over his face. He took a deep breath, his chest rising rapidly from the intake of oxygen rushing to his lungs. Exhale: a rush of carbon dioxide spreading into the air.

"You know, you were always like this: taking in strays whenever you could. I remember you would come home with a kitty you found up the street and ask if we could keep it, or the escaped dogs halfway down the block. This time though, you've gone too far." I swallowed hard, standing on shaky lags.

"That's it, Mikes. That's it." I turned towards the door, ready to get out of here already, ready to leave this tense atmosphere for the comfort in Frank's lips.

"Gerard?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that you're the one to take care of him. This isn't like the dozens of kittens and puppies you tried to bring home; this is a responsibility far past all that. This is another human being, Gee, who has feelings, who's got problems. And you're responsible for his well-being." Feeling the burden dumped on my shoulders, I fumbled with the doorknob, eager to leave this room. I leaned against the closed door once out in the hallway, taking deep breaths to steady myself.

I let a smirk grace my features, hiding the turmoil raging on inside me. Though he didn't think so, he needed me to be strong for him; he needed me to hold him up because he would fall otherwise. Practicing on holding that smirk, I walked down towards the kitchen, planning on grabbing a glass of water or two before facing the young man down in the basement. Unfortunately, however, I found I was not to be the only person in that particular room of the house. Ray and Bob were seated at the counter quite calmly, eating a steaming hot T.V. dinner meal each.

"Holy shit!" I couldn't help but exclaim, clutching at my speeding heart. "Don't you guys have homes or something?"

"We do," Bob replied, a smile on his face, "This house is much more interesting though. Besides we're curious on how the boy is."

"His name is Frank," I growled, wrenching open the refrigerator door with abandon. "He's not just a boy." I caught a glimpse of them exchanging glances as I turned back, a gallon of water in one hand and a cup in the other. "What was that?"

"If we ask you something, will you be completely up front, no lies: complete honesty?" Ray asked, setting down his fork, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Depends," I muttered suspiciously, pouring myself a glass of the water. I took a small sip, intent on what they could possibly be cooking up in those brains of theirs.

"Do you have a thing for Frank?" I coughed and sputtered, having taken a great gulp of water at that precise moment. I set the glass down, coughing still.

While hitting my chest and wiping my chin I asked, "Why would you think that?"

"Gerard," Bob warned, muscle bulging under his shirt. With a sigh of surrender, I nodded, taking another gulp of water. The only reason I was admitting it was because of my fear of Bob pushing me up against the wall again.

"Yes, okay? I do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to him." Leaving my cup half-full sitting on the counter, I sidestepped their figures, walking back towards the basement. With a groan, I clutched my head, rubbing my temples in thought as I walked. I was still struggling with my reason, with the sweat that had run in cold streams down to my trembling lips. I took a deep breath, letting a smirk cross my lips as I opened the door to go down into the basement.

I kept my features in place, holding on to the banister as I descended the wooden steps. He was seated in a corner next to my bed, head against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. His eyes were shut, his arms hugging his legs though they were now limp. A genuine, soft smile took over the smirk as I walked towards him. Though I took care to be quiet, he still opened his eyes wide, tearing his hands from his shins to push himself off the floor. "I talked to him," I greeted, stepping closer with each passing second.
"How did it go?" he asked curiously, voice rough.

I smiled again, pinning him against the wall, my lips mere millimeters from his. "Don't you worry about it; keep your head up, sugar, because there's a part of me that just wants to fly this whole mess into the sea."