Christmas Lights and Cigarette Butts

The air in the apartment was full of smoke. So chock full of smoke that it looked like San Francisco on a foggy day, or a cloud of pollution had drifted through the house. Empty vodka bottles and packets of Marlboro Reds were scattered around the room, like a sick, warped twist on the Christmas decorations that lined the streets outside. Everything stank of alcohol – it was a scent that seemed imbued into the furniture, into the walls of the apartment. The smell of booze seeping through the walls, creeping out from beneath the cabinet.

And the man, oh, the man... His clothes lay on him in a mangled heap, twisted and tangled over his emaciated frame. He lay on a ratty love seat, his shoulder length hair was oily and disgusting, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. And to think, on Christmas Eve? He was a drunk bastard, wasted and alone. Gerard Way. What a fucking train wreck.

Gerard grabbed the bottle nearest to him, what it contained he didn't care. He untwisted the cap shakily, his eyes now half closed and drooping. A good quarter of the bottle sloshed out as his wrist buckled, dampening his black clothes and soaking the sofa. Gerard didn't seem to notice though. Swigging down nearly half of it in one gulp, his head pounded against his skull. His heart started racing, and he reached into his shirt pocket for a packet of smokes, only to find it empty and fruitless. He could feel his chest pounding now, right up to his brain; and the sticky, sweaty clothes he was wearing seemed to trap him. Sickly, his stomach flip and vomit threaten to rise up his throat.

He swore inaudibly. The TV was blaring on full volume, but was still drowned out by the strains of a rickety stereo, playing some shit but it didn't matter, didn't matter, there was booze and cigarettes to numb it. He breathed in, and breathed out, it doesn't matter, itdoesn't matter.

“Fuck!” His stomach lurched and what little food remained in him splattered out around. The vomit lay there, as sickening as ever, on the maple floor. Gerard wiped his mouth with the cuff of his tattered shirt, and ran and clammy hand through his greasy hair. His stomach was queasy from the alcohol, head spinning from the puke. His apartment seemed to dilute and dissolve in front of his eyes, the walls seemed to move right before him. Head-thumping music was now serenaded with the late news, but Gerard could care less about that.

He felt his stomach heave again, and tried to lean forward but it was too late. Nothing in his body seemed to be coordinating, nothing was getting through to his brain, blocked by nicotine and poison. His shirt now stained and damp, he lifted it over his head to reveal a thin, bare chest. Protesting it against the chills, he threw it somewhere across the room, and sunk deeper into the worn out cushions. Closing his eyes softly, and begging his stomach to settled, his bare chest rose and fell slightly. All the noise in the room seemed to louden and soften as he breathed, earsplitting and white-noise all at once.

Suddenly, there was a pounding at the door or was it my chest? He dismissed it, it was probably just the neighbors wanting him to turn the music down. Or worse, carol singers. Gerard wasn't in the mood for company, wasn't in the state for company.

More pounding. Gerard's brain groaned, whatever, he'll just pretend he wasn't home. Slowly, the pounding stopped, but the latch turned. Even in his intoxicated frame of mind, Gerard twitched and sat up.

What. The. Fuck?

“M-Mikey?” Gerard's voice shook, his eyes widened. Hands clutching some blankets beneath him, his shoulders trembled.

“Gerard?” Mikey looked at him behind his thick, rimmed frames in disbelief. There was his brother, sprawled on that disgusting sofa of his, in an apartment full of cigarette butts and liquor. The floor was a mess, Gerard was half naked in New Jersey winter – Mikey spotted a shirt halfway across the room, thrown on some half finished bottles of beer in a frenzy.

He made his way to his brother, Mikey did. The eyes on those boys connected; Gerard's in surprise and Mikey's in shock. Gerard's hand lay limp on the side of the couch, and the younger took hold of it.

“Gerard... What happened?” he asked softly, sliding off his parka and lifting it onto his brothers shoulders. Gerard didn't reply, but only squeezed his brother's hand. The two remained there for a second – a moment of silence, and care, and love.

“What the fuck are you doing here, on Christmas Eve?” Gerard finally asked softy.

Mikey smiled softly, “I'm spending it with you.”