Into The Sun

by stereomer

Summary:

Mutants AU

It first happened on the night he turned twenty years old.

Gerard had reserved that entire week for getting drunk and trying not to think about the fact that he was another year older and had nothing to show for it, and thus was still drunk when the first hints of noise flitted through his brain, quick as anything, from one side of his mental periphery and out the other.

He held the bottle at arm’s length in front of him and stared dubiously at the label. It was the same faux-emblem as always, the sweeping script and elaborate swirls probably designed as a distraction from how horrible the actual drink tasted. A cautious sniff revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Mikey had been drinking from the same bottle a few hours ago; he’d ambled off to his room just fine. Gerard finally took a swig to get him to quit worrying and another three to make sure it didn’t happen again.

But it did happen again, once the bottle was empty and rolling out of his lax grip as he flopped onto his back. The ceiling tilted up and the walls reeled down, like he was living inside a die for board games and someone was rolling their turn, and then that mindless comparison was pushed away by another voice in his head wondering what was on TV that night. Not a voice, exactly, but sort of a wordless intention of the thought.

Gerard didn’t even have a TV in his room.

“I think I’m schizophrenic,” he announced loudly as he swung open the door to Mikey’s room and hung onto the knob with a sloppy, damp grip.

“You’re drunk, not crazy,” Mikey replied without looking away from his computer screen.

“Yeah, but I’m hearing things.” Gerard pressed an index finger into his temple to demonstrate exactly where. “Not – not in my ears, but directly into my fucking brain, man. Someone’s plugged in, know what I’m saying?”

Mikey didn’t look impressed, but he did squint over at Gerard. “It’s called internal monologue. You have a lot of it.”

“Mikey,” Gerard said, trying to pull the ‘listen to me because I’m older than you’ card but instead coming off as pleading and slightly desperate. Mikey turned his chair so that his body was angled more toward Gerard, but he didn’t speak right away.

“Do you,” he finally started. “Do you really feel not good?” His phrasing of the question made Gerard pause and try to sift through the mush of whatever the fuck was left of his brain. He didn’t feel good, per se, but then again, he didn’t really feel not good, either.

“I’m not not good.” Gerard thought this over because something didn’t sound right, but he didn’t know how to fix it. It was an effort just to sound coherent and not babble like he actually wanted to. “But I’m not good either. I guess. What?”

“Maybe something didn’t mix with what you ate today. Too much cake?” Mikey crinkled his forehead. “Listen, if you really don’t feel so hot, you should go tell mom or something.”

Gerard balked at this suggestion. His mom would actually make him do something about it. Maybe she’d even declare a trip to the hospital; start the car in her bathrobe and give him a beady look until he got in on the passenger side. He’d told Mikey mostly because he was pretty sure Mikey would hear him out and then just try to convince him otherwise and leave it at that.

“Nah, I think – I’m feeling better now. Maybe it was the cake.” He hadn’t even eaten any cake, but it sounded like a good conclusion to grasp on to. He realized that his little brother was sixteen and having to talk him down from things like being paranoid about suddenly becoming a schizophrenic. Guilt trickled down his spine with sudden clarity, magnified by the alcohol still running through his blood.

“Yeah, I just probably needed to get up and move around,” Gerard invented wildly. “Never mind. I’ll let you get back to your,” he wiggled his fingers, “computer thing. Hey, thanks again for the present.”

Mikey smiled; it was small, but genuine. He’d gotten Gerard a plain black hoodie, since the old one was so worn out that it had fallen apart in the dryer a couple weeks ago. Gerard had held the pieces in his hands, and then stashed them in the bottom drawer of his dresser instead of throwing them out. He didn’t know why.

There were soft typing noises. Mikey was already turned back to his computer, the angles of his face lit up sharp by the ghostly shine of the monitor. It took Gerard a moment to return to the present. His reason for coming to talk to Mikey in the first place seemed far away, years ago. Losing touch never seemed that impossible, especially in this house, with its shadowy corners and low ceilings, but this – hearing voices? Splitting into more than one personality? The thought seemed beyond stupid now, as he rehashed the flash of horror that had settled over his nerves not fifteen minutes ago.

Gerard tightened his grip around the doorknob – he wanted to hug Mikey and apologize for being such a fuck up. Instead he closed the door softly, spidering one hand on the wood to temper the sound. Once it clicked shut, he walked to the bathroom, puked twice, and fell asleep hugging a towel on the floor.

 

*****

 

“What is it?” Gerard stares down into the pot, which is currently filled with slow moving liquid that hugs the sides and slops back down in lazy waves as Mikey stirs it.

“Soup,” Mikey answers.

“Soup,” Gerard repeats.

“Yup.”

He stares for a moment longer and then forces himself to move away. Moving means keeping his mind occupied with something else other than the fact that he’d run away from home and probably fucked himself over for life. Not only that, but his younger brother had tagged along, too. It’s already been months since he left, and yet he can’t stop thinking about it. That night, specifically. The creak of loose stairs under his feet, how he held his breath as the front door whispered open by his careful hands. How he had been so worried about someone waking up and finding him, and then, once he was standing safely at the end of the driveway, being disappointed that no one had.

Except he’d obviously been wrong about that last part.

“I’m going to kill you so fucking hard,” Gerard had hissed when Mikey showed up at the door not fifteen minutes after Gerard even signed the piece of paper that constituted his week-to-week lease and shoved it under the manager’s door.

Mikey had crossed his arms over his chest. “Come on, Gerard,” was all he said, and Gerard was weak or stupid or secretly glad, maybe all three, but he said, “Fuck you,” while stepping aside and giving Mikey room to pass.

Some days Gerard pushes him away out of guilt and other days he has to restrain himself from clutching onto Mikey’s hands and begging him not to go, no matter what. But outwardly, he just keeps trying to convince Mikey to return home, despite the fact that if Mikey actually did, Gerard would probably go crazy in a very legitimate way.

He doesn’t know what he wants. Most days he just lies down on the couch while clutching at handfuls of his own hair, trying to ignore the feeling of having every earthly conversation bottled up and then poured into his brain in a waterfall of words, noises, and pictures. The alcohol’s been traded in for bottles of aspirin that Mikey sometimes has to open for him because his hands tremble too much to successfully pry off the childproof caps. Months of this shit, and the word still sits heavy in his mind; he’s unable to process it or even take it seriously.

Mutants.

He was a mutant.

Everyone had heard of mutants, but it was a phenomenon that flew under the radar ever since it first started occurring on the other side of the world. Someplace where insidious leakages from nuclear power plants could be blamed for the strange things that were happening to people – the ability to lift a house off its foundations, to see through walls, to power up dead electrical panels with a simple touch. There were stories, of course, and websites with sketchy pictures and videos, whose validity was somewhat compromised by all the porn ads that framed them. It was real, but it wasn’t real – not proven or tangible or even reported about by any reputable source.

And then, one day, there was talk of a case in Maine. A little girl who could move faster than cars and trains and airplanes – teleportation, they eventually figured out. This tiny blonde-haired kid who could barely write her own name could teleport. News teams collectively shit their pants; it was instant celebrity status for Ashley Dowling. After a clip of an interview surfaced on CNN.com, there was an explosion of confirmatory reports about similar things happening to people all over the world. Even more cases emerged in Europe and Asia and almost every single other continent on earth, this time verified by wind-blown reporters in constant ‘breaking news’ segments, but Ashley Dowling’s was the only known case in the United States until finally, weeks later, there was another report from California. Then Kentucky. Then Washington, Florida, Kansas, Michigan – and New Jersey.

Gerard had been one of those who weren’t stupid enough to tell people about it. He was sure there were more out there that kept it a secret. There had to be. Despite the fact that he lived in a basement, he wasn’t a paranoid basketcase who thought the entire government was a conspiracy. Even so, he hadn’t missed the way the entire basis of science was forced to be changed by what they were starting to officially call ‘mutations’ – because that was what it was, changes in DNA that morphed cellular composition so much that the impossible was somehow possible. He didn’t want to be a part of that, to have microphones being shoved in his face, to be singled out from the masses, to stray away from normal yet again.

At least his power wasn’t a big deal. Like, he could fucking read minds, right, but it wasn’t a physical power that couldn’t go unnoticed. Hiding it was no problem. He was even able to hold down a job, as long as he told his bosses that he had unique form of epilepsy and that yes, he was fine, and no, these vomiting spells weren’t normal. Mostly he’d get fired after a few weeks, but that was a few weeks of pay right there, and he could just move on to another company because nobody ever had too many office lackeys.

There’s a clicking noise when Mikey turns off the stove. Gerard walks back into the kitchen as Mikey doles out half the soup into a bowl and slides it down the counter, keeping his own portion in the pot. They eat in silence. The soup is thick in consistency; it coats Gerard’s throat and swallowing becomes a chore, but he eats it until only a shallow pool is left at the bottom of the bowl.

“It’s not too late to go back,” Gerard suggests in a mild voice. “Home, I mean,” he clarifies unnecessarily. He feels like he’s practically reading from a script nowadays.

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep pushing me because I really might,” Mikey retorts.

Despite the fact that Gerard doesn’t actually mean it, he still gets pissed when Mikey mouths off in response to his half-hearted suggestions. They’re too old to shove each other or throw wild punches, so Gerard just drops his bowl into the sink and stalks into the bathroom, his face heating up with anger. On cue, the sounds in his head multiply and increase in volume as scattered conversations buzz through like he’s a fucking telephone line. Another thing he’s learned through the course of his – mutation, is that he has to be a fucking emotionless android in order to keep the mind-reading in check.

“ – gotta remember to buy oranges at the store – ”

“ – one more time, I swear I’m going to kill her one day – ”

“ – a little to the left, oh god – ”

“ – 93. 4892693. 4892693. 489 – ”

He grips the edge of the sink and leans forward, staring at his reflection. “Shut up shut up shut up,” he murmurs, watching his breath fog up the mirror repeatedly. When he was young – younger, at least – and indulging in fantasies about becoming a superhero to show those fuckers at school what was really up, it hadn’t ever been like this. It should have been easier, neater, more simple.

The voices continue. He squats down and scrabbles for aspirin in the cupboard under the sink.

*

 

It’s already dark out when Gerard swings the door open, the handles of a plastic bag hanging over his wrist. He’d picked up two wilting sandwiches from the deli down the street, which sucked up the last of the cash in his wallet, but these days he’s more than willing to pay for the price of convenience. The kitchen light is on and he places the bag on top of the counter. Mikey isn’t in sight.

“Yo, Mikes,” Gerard calls while busying himself with laying down napkins and setting the sandwiches out. There’s no answer, but he can feel there’s someone within the apartment. His hand stills inside the bag when he hears faint retching noises coming from the bathroom.

Light is spilling out into the hallway through the open door. He finds Mikey throwing up into the bathtub, hunched over with his hair completely obscuring his face.

“Whoa, fuck. Hey.” Gerard immediately runs in and kneels, rubbing at Mikey’s back, at the notches of spine that protrude like a stack of stones under his skin. “Are you okay? What the hell did you eat?”

Mikey retches again, but nothing comes out. His hands are curled over the edge, pale-knuckled, bones jutting out sharply. They’re skinnier than Gerard remembers; his eyes travel up Mikey’s arms and - shit, Gerard hadn’t noticed how fucking thin Mikey has gotten. He blinks, trying to convince himself that he’d noticed it before this, but everything’s unfamiliar to him. He feels terrible.

“Hey,” Gerard says softly, settling onto his heels and wrapping an arm around Mikey’s shoulders. The cold porcelain of the tub chills his knees through his jeans. Mikey sluggishly spits a few times, wipes away the clinging strands with the back of his hand, and finally sits back, turning his face up to Gerard. There’s a flash of an unfamiliar chin and a forehead that’s too big, and –

“Shit!” Gerard instinctively pushes away, stumbling onto his ass and scrambling backward with clumsy hands until his back meets the wall. “What the fuck – ”

Mikey inhales deeply through his nose as he lets his head fall back against the opposite wall – but it’s not Mikey. He’s got dark hair and Mikey’s body type, but with blue eyes and a long, hooked nose, and no wonder everything had felt off. This isn’t even fucking Mikey. Gerard stares at him as his heart hammers away, trying to force a decision between fight or flight, but the guy’s not making a move to strangle Gerard or anything and Gerard sure as hell isn’t going to just saunter out of the bathroom at this point. But still, he doesn’t even know where Mikey is.

The stranger doubles up coughing. “Mikey?” Gerard settles for calling out the name over the noise. He doesn’t take his eyes off the guy in front of him. “Mikey!”

There’s still no answer. The idea dawns on him suddenly; for the first time, he actually makes a voluntary effort to open his mind. It’s mostly a bunch of static and panicked rambling, but he manages to make out some small phrases.

“ – jesus fuck what the hell is happening how do I even – ”

The coughing ceases, and then the guy wheezes out, “It’s me, asshole.” The voice is all wrong – lower, with more twang on the vowels, but the glare is all Mikey’s.

“I don’t – ” Gerard is breathing heavily now, as the beginnings of a panic attack start scratching at his lungs. He had only heard one set of thoughts, but that didn’t mean that this guy was telling the truth, because it didn’t even fucking make sense. “Fuck, no, you’re lying, this isn’t right. You’re not – ”

“Fuck, it’s me!” the guy practically yells, pitching forward and to the side. The last syllable breaks abruptly as he – his face fucking changes right there, right then. The cheeks fill out, his entire body fills out but his limbs retract and his hair shortens until there’s a pudgy kid, there’s a fucking kid hanging over the bathtub with his eyes squeezed shut, limbs swimming in the now over-sized clothing and dry heaving just like Gerard had done on his 20th birthday. The same sterile lighting and panicked breaths, except Gerard had merely thought it was the whiskey going straight to the vomiting center of his brain. In his mind, a sped up memory of the scene that night plays alongside this one – the similarities hit him like vertigo and he has to press a palm against the toilet tank to steady himself.

When the kid opens his eyes again, they’re green and blurry with tears.

“I’m fucking scared, man,” the kid says, and his voice is high and nasally, a sound that should belong on a playground, not echoing around the bathroom of some seedy apartment. “Gerard, I’m fucking scared, what the hell is happening?” he gasps out.

Gerard can’t stop staring; the kid is compulsively rubbing the heel of his palm right above his nose, over the bridge between his eyebrows. The action is almost sickening in it’s familiarity, and Gerard’s stomach turns as he thinks of all the times Mikey has done the exact same thing whenever he was struggling not to cry.

“Oh my god.” Gerard finally crawls forward and puts a hand on the kid’s foot, feeling the bones shift under his grip, solid and concrete, and yes, this is all real. This is happening. He hardly exhales the name. “Mikey?”

*

 

Gerard tosses a newspaper at Mikey and drops himself onto the empty chair across the table. There are rustling noises as Mikey puts his spoon down and thumbs through it, peeking at the section headlines before reaching the last of it and asking, “Where’s the comics section?”

“Seriously, what did I tell you about reading comics in the newspaper? It’s like eating bugs off a log when you’ve got all these gourmet restaurants ten feet away from you,” Gerard says. Mikey ignores him, as he always does when Gerard goes off on some spiel that’s been heard many times over but never heeded.

“Sorry, just read the – Christ, read this.” Gerard reaches over and flips out the bottom half of the paper. He pushes a fist against the middle of it when it tents up. The front-page headline stands out both in boldness and size, and there’s a picture underneath it that’s almost as impressive. It shows the bare bones foundation of what looks to be a gigantic building in the making; an inlay at the upper right corner has a bird’s eye view of the finished product. A row of smaller but similar looking building sites lines the bottom.

“’Center for Mutant Sciences to be opened in March’,” Mikey reads aloud. It’s all he says, but Gerard can tell he’s reading the article by how his eyes swivel from left to right.

“The smaller branches are opening even sooner. Didn’t I tell you this was gonna happen?” Gerard says as soon as Mikey picks up his spoon again and dips it into the bowl, passively letting bits of cereal float on. Mikey shakes his head.

“Life isn’t a comic book, Gerard. This might just be exactly what they’re saying it is: some sort of research center. Like the Bureau of Education or something.”

“Yeah, but who the fuck do you think they’re going to do research on?” Gerard asks. “And you know they have to research on something. These are spontaneous mutations, which means they can’t induce anything similar in animals. They’re going to use actual test subjects. Us.”

“Suddenly you’re a biologist,” Mikey says off-handedly, but Gerard isn’t his brother for nothing. The way Mikey doesn’t look up as he talks, the way he just leaves it at that – he’s worried, but Mikey is Mikey and he never says so out loud.

Gerard studies him. He hasn’t forgotten anything about that night in the bathroom. (“Figures you get the cool power,” Gerard had said yesterday as he shoved another box of candy bars into the cupboard. The symptoms had become clear only after both of them had endured the process. There was the exhaustion, the puking, the intense physical pain as the body first resisted the change before finally giving in.) They’d laughed about it later, but in that moment, Mikey had been terrified and Gerard maybe even more so. Watching dozens of strangers occupy the same body one after another, like someone flipping the channels on a television, and having no fucking clue what was going on with Mikey. Everything had seemed so tenuous then – life, death, being alone. And in the wider scope of things, this whole Mutant Sciences movement hadn’t been making anything better. Despite the fact that Gerard had lost all faith in humanity when he was eight years old and some kids in his class had egged him by the bus stop, he couldn’t help but be shocked when the measure passed by a landslide during the last election.

Mikey is still huddled up in a knit blanket, head poking out of his hooded sweater. Controlling his power seems much more difficult. At least Gerard can knock back a few Tylenol PMs whenever his head feels like it’s going to explode. Everything about Mikey is constantly changing and Gerard comes home to a different person every day.

“Goddammit,” Mikey suddenly hisses. He drops his spoon against the bowl and curls his hand around his other wrist, as if to stop the change from traveling up his arm. His fingers have turned wrinkled and liver-spotted, blue veins protruding like twine underneath skin; they shake with a geriatric sort of tremor.

Gerard tugs the newspaper toward him and looks down at the weather blurb so he doesn’t have to keep watching Mikey. “It’ll die down once your body gets used to it. I think it just goes crazy at first and then gets better with more time,” he theorizes. It holds true for him, anyway. A low level buzz is mostly all that comes through his mind nowadays, muffled and dampened out unless he chooses to focus on a specific one.

“I’ll believe it when it actually happens,” Mikey croaks. Apparently he wasn’t successful in containing it, because a man of at least seventy years is sitting there in Gerard’s old university sweater.

“Be a sport, will ya?” Gerard grins and musses up Mikey’s hair – or what’s left of it, anyway. It’s weird that he can feel like laughing and crying at the same time. “I have to go. Maybe if I start clocking in on time, they’ll overlook the fact that I suck at my job.”

Mikey snorts and waves him off with gnarled hands.

Outside, the sun is warm enough to make Gerard’s collar stick to the back of his neck, but there’s a thick layer of clouds obscuring most of the light. It makes the air damp and heavy against his lungs every time he inhales. He tucks in his shirt as he walks, and then pats down his hair repeatedly, trying to make himself look vaguely presentable. Getting fired has become tiring. At least he isn’t spending lunch breaks curled up in a toilet stall and cringing at the lewd thoughts coming from his boss’s mind and feeding directly into his own. Learning how to control it had been a complete nightmare, but it was possible now. He was doing it.

Right before crossing the street to the last block, someone going in the opposite direction bumps into Gerard’s shoulder hard enough that they both stop.

“Sorry,” the guy says, and since he said it first, Gerard echoes it back. He glances up and makes eye contact, inhaling a little sharply at the sensation of having a new stream of thoughts touch down against his consciousness. The guy tilts his head almost imperceptibly and gives Gerard a curious look.

“Hey,” he begins.

“Sorry,” Gerard repeats, not knowing the reason for panicking but giving in to it all the same. Somehow his feet start moving again. He pushes through the crowd and doesn’t look back.

*

 

Gerard is almost late for work again. He hurries along the sidewalk, turning sideways to squeeze through gaps between the shoulders of people who are actually on time. An empty pocket of space opens ahead and he speeds up, almost popping free of the crowd, but then something yanks on his arm and he’s pulled backward, through an open doorway and into an dimly lit shop.

“Jesus Christ.” Gerard only manages to react after all this happens. By the time he shoots out a hand to try and open the door again, the person who’d pulled him in sticks a foot in the way and there’s only a disappointing click-thunk as the door hits against his shoe.

He says, “Hey. Wait,” in a calm voice and pushes the door shut once more. Gerard sees broad hands, shaggy blond hair, and unnervingly blue eyes. In a split second, Gerard recognizes him as the person he bumped into that one day, but more by the rhythm of his thoughts rather than his face.

“What the fuck,” Gerard spits out. “Are you fucking psycho? Have you been following me?”

“Maybe,” the guy smiles.

Both of them pause. Then Gerard grabs for the door handle again. “Let me out, you fucking asshole – ” but the door gets pushed shut for a third time.

“I was just kidding, seriously. Calm down, would you?”

Gerard tries a new tactic. “Listen, maybe you made some sort of mistake,” he begins.

“No mistake. Well, at least I don’t think so. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“One of them?”

“A mutant.”

The word makes Gerard flinch. Jesus Christ, did he flinch? He doesn’t know if it registered on his face. “Oh. No, why would you even – ”

“So yes, you are, basically,” the guy cuts in. He stares Gerard down. This, and the span of his shoulders, makes it easy to imagine him snapping Gerard’s neck with one easy twist, but the way he leans his weight on the leg that’s not blocking the door seems almost like an amicable posture. There are no spikes of harsh emotion, no plans of murder or beatings – just a gentle whine of thoughts and the guy’s inscrutable expression.

“What do you want?” Gerard finally asks. He has always hated the way his voice rises in pitch every time he’s pressured. When he imagines scenarios like this one, he’s always firm, articulate, and violent, if need be.

“Quit acting so fucking scared. If I wanted to crush your throat because you’re a mutant or whatever, then I would have done it already.”

“I know, I believe you,” Gerard says, but he’s still wary despite all evidence.

The guy smiles crookedly. “But only because you can read my mind. That doesn’t count.”

Gerard freezes. The only thing that registers in his mind is that he’s still somehow holding on to his briefcase. It weighs heavy in his hand; he bends his knees a little, stiffly and with effort, and places it on the floor. It’s strictly unnecessary anyway – there are a couple pens rattling around in it, and nothing else.

“I knew someone like you. He left the city a few months back, but I always remember what he looked like when he, you know.” The guy motions to his head. “There’s always this look. Plus, you didn’t really manage to hide your shock very well when I brought it up.”

Something crashes further within the building and it’s followed by a muffled curse. Both of them turn their heads toward the noise, and for the first time, Gerard looks around at where they are. It looks like a pawnshop of some sort, with display cases and sagging shelves lining both sides. There are pieces of furniture shoved against each other like puzzle pieces that don’t fit and things like wooden carvings and instruments occupy every single inch of free space, minus one clear pathway that cuts through the middle. An entire wall is taken up by clocks that tick off-time. Gerard hadn’t even noticed the sounds until now.

A mess of hair emerges from behind a stack of boxes. “Did you find him?” a male voice calls before a face comes into view. “Oh okay, I guess you did.”

“He needs to work on his deniability skills,” the blond guy says as the second one makes his way over to them by climbing over chairs and stepping around more boxes.

“I’m Pete,” he says, sticking his hand out. Gerard just looks at it. Pete immediately rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Bob, you always scare them. Why don’t you ever think about tapping on their shoulders instead of grabbing them off the street?”

“Listen,” Gerard tries. The wall of clocks has reminded him that he’s now incredibly late for work.

“Here, I’ll just try to break this down for you,” Pete says, obviously taking the hint. “You’re a mutant, you can read minds. Bob’s the one who identified you after that other day.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Anyway, I’m a mutant too, but Bob’s not. We’re part of this group that helps those who. Need help, I guess. People who are just starting to go through it. We’re also involved in the politics of it all, especially since that fucking Bureau decided to open up. So that’s what we do.”

The clocks continue to tick. Bob smirks a little; Pete looks earnest and like he’s expecting a response.

“What the fuck?” Gerard finally says.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Pete reassures. “But I also know that you already know we’re telling the truth.”

“Yeah, but.” Gerard tries to organize everything he’s been told. “What’s the point of manhandling me all of a sudden? Couldn’t you have just handed me a pamphlet or something?”

Pete grimaces at Bob, but Bob lets out a single, appreciative laugh. He says, “How do you feel about underground mutant activist groups?”

*

 

The warehouse looks sketchy as hell from the outside, all shattered windows and rotting bricks. It should have been overrun by squatters or homeless people by all means, but when Pete lifts the oversized wooden latch and slides the door open, the interior is clean, smooth concrete, and there are high ceilings with overhead lamps hanging down every ten feet or so. Not a huge space, but not that small, either – it reminds Gerard of hole-in-the-wall bars and all the independent music venues that Mikey used to drag him to.

“Come on,” Pete says, closing the door behind them. He starts walking and Gerard follows. “It’s not much, but it’s enough.”

“So, what…” Gerard trails off and Pete picks it up.

“Basically, it used to be like a support group. People really suck at hiding their mutations in the beginning, so it’s pretty easy to get out there and spread the word. We try to set them up with whatever they need – homes, if they got kicked out, or jobs if we can, like at my humble little establishment. But we have a bigger purpose now, as you can tell.” Pete points to the wall on their left, which is covered with newspaper clippings and computer printouts. “This ‘Bureau of Mutant Sciences’ thing isn’t looking too good. We’ve already helped some people get out of the city. They didn’t want to stick around for the onslaught.”

“Is it really going to be that bad?” Gerard has been speculating, but he hasn’t thought about the reality of it. Picturing the worst never prepared you for it actually happening.

Pete shrugs. “It could be. Or we could all just be worried for nothing. Who knows, right?” He flashes a smile and tugs open another door, one to an inner office by the looks of it, and yells, “Patrick!”

A guy sitting behind a desk with glasses and a hat jumps at the sound, sloshing coffee all over his hand. “Shit, Pete, I swear to god.” He sets the cup down, snaps his hand back and forth a few times, and sends droplets everywhere.

“Patrick,” Pete explains, pointing to Patrick for Gerard’s benefit. “Patrick, this is Gerard. Mind-reading Gerard,” he adds in a more breathy, mysterious tone.

Patrick finally looks up as a flicker of interest passes over his face. “Oh hey, it’s you,” he says, rising from his chair and sticking out his left – his drier – hand. They shake awkwardly. “Bob found you, huh?”

Gerard nods, and Patrick says, “Sometimes I don’t believe him when he says he doesn’t have any powers. You’re the third one he’s spotted.”

“Bob has good, womanly intuition,” Pete says, hopping up to take a seat on the desk.

“So this is your organization thing?” Gerard gestures to Patrick and around the office. He still feels weird referring to this whole thing as an ‘organization’, like he’s some hardcore rebel and this is some sort of resistance movement, but when he thinks about it, that’s exactly what it is.

“Not ours, per se,” Patrick makes a face. “I mean, we were around when it first got started, I guess, but it’s not ours.”

“We’re the de facto leaders,” Pete says. “Large and in charge.”

“Don’t pay attention to him,” Patrick says.

Gerard cautiously leans against the wall. “What are your – powers?” he asks. He laughs a little. “Or whatever you call them.”

“Yeah, just ‘powers’. It sounds cheesy as hell, but what else are you going to call them, you know?” Patrick shrugs. “Pete can astroproject – ”

“ – astroproject,” Pete says almost simultaneously, except now there are two of him sitting next to each other. “Goddammit, Patrick, you ruined the big surprise.”

“Whoops,” Patrick says with a smile, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Gerard blinks at the two Petes. One of them is reminiscent of a wax figure – open eyes and healthy pallor, but lifeless. The other is moving and looking around just like the real Pete. He grins.

“I can project myself to other locations while leaving a little behind. He’s breathing and he’ll pay attention to you – ” he waves his hand in front of the other Pete’s face; the other Pete’s eyes shift to follow the movements “ – but he’s not a very good conversationalist.”

Gerard is kind of speechless. “Fuck, man. That’s awesome.” Other than Mikey, it’s the first time that he is seeing another mutant in action. It’s unnerving and a little creepy, but pretty much the coolest thing Gerard’s ever seen.

“ – can’t all be in two places at once, but I guess bending light has its benefits too,” Patrick is saying.

“Wait,” Gerard interrupts. “You can bend light? What does that mean?”

Patrick looks thoughtful. “Well, like. You see everything you see because of light rays that bounce off them and project into your eyes. Any spectrum of light the object doesn’t absorb, it reflects. So – so I bend light and I can do this.” Patrick holds up a folder – it disappears in the next second. His fingers are still tensed like he’s holding onto it, but Gerard can’t see anything past that. Patrick’s hand twitches a little and the folder reappears, as if the whole thing was some sort of hologram.

“Jesus,” Gerard gapes. “Wow. So can you do it, you know. On yourself?”

“Nah. I’d love to be invisible, but it doesn’t work on me. Or people in general, for that matter. Plus, I have to be touching whatever I’m bending, so that’s sort of limiting.”

“Still. Jesus,” Gerard says again. Patrick gives him a small smile, almost bashful.

“Yeah, we’re a bunch of freaks,” Pete says ruefully, whole once more and swinging his ankles against the desk in arrhythmic patterns. Patrick leans back in the chair and tugs the brim of his hat down over his forehead. He’s still smiling a tiny bit, with the corner of his mouth quirked up, and Gerard gets flashes without even meaning to. Kissing a girlfriend, looking up at trees that definitely aren’t native to the state, an image of a younger Pete laughing as they drive somewhere.

Patrick sits up abruptly and touches a palm to his temple. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” Gerard says hastily, straightening up. This is the first time someone has actually noticed it. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I can control it most of the time but it still gets away from me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick replies after a pause. Pete is looking curiously between the two of them. “Wasn’t thinking about much anyway.”

“Oh whoa, he read your mind?” Pete finally catches on.

Patrick points to Pete. “I wouldn’t go in there unless you want a mindful of stupid ideas for pet tricks or creative titles for porn.” Pete leans back and tries to swat at him, but Patrick manages to duck away while laughing. The sound is easy, as is his open-mouthed smile, and Gerard finds himself wondering what their story is and how they ended up here.

He sees the wall opposite the door has a bulletin board on which several pictures are tacked up. Some look like posed license photos, others are candid. Gerard studies them carefully – he has to remind himself that they’re probably mutants too, despite outward appearances.

“You can join in if you want to,” Patrick says in a quiet voice. Gerard looks over at him. “No pressure, seriously. You’ve got a job and you seem to be handling your power pretty well, so it’ll be cool if you don’t want to get involved.”

But Patrick is lying. There’s a tiny shred of connection still there and Gerard can feel his worry about the fact that there are more mutants, it’s happening at an almost alarming rate – fear and anxiety about the future, what will happen now that Mutant Sciences has launched – the steps they’ll have to start taking – the steps people will start taking on them –

He shuts it off firmly. “No, I do. I want to get involved,” he says, because really, he does. He’s always imagined having a purpose, but he just didn’t know how to go about it. “Yeah, definitely. I’ve got – ”

Gerard stops talking before Mikey’s name can slip out of his mouth. Mikey knows about this whole thing, but Gerard has dragged him this far away from home and he’s not about to push him into something he doesn’t want to do. And maybe it's more selfish than that - he doesn’t know if he can handle it if Mikey gets hurt.

“I’m in,” he reiterates, and Pete smiles.

“Great,” Patrick says warmly. He doesn’t question it.

It’s almost midnight by the time Gerard gets home, shoving some money into the cabbie’s hand and letting himself into the dank building. The apartment is dark but he can feel someone in the bedroom. Moonlight floods everything with a bleak glow – the chair in front of the window is occupied with a familiar silhouetted slope of shoulders.

There’s no way it’s possible, but Gerard still whispers it: “Dad?”

His dad turns to him halfway, only enough for Gerard to see his profile. Then there’s a shift in his features, subtle but definite. Gerard had been expecting it, he knew it, but it was still difficult to stop his brain from believing visual triggers over logic.

“Don’t do that again,” Gerard says harshly.

“I’m practicing,” Mikey says with a defensive tone.

“It’s not gonna be any good to practice with people we know,” Gerard shoots back, even though this doesn’t make any sense. They’re more than three hundred miles away from their childhood home and impersonating anyone they know won’t matter at all. Mikey doesn’t call him out on it, though. He just turns back to the window and slouches a little, his hair peaking up over the chairback. He’s staring down at his arms, as if the altered DNA will manifest itself right there on his skin. To be fair, it can, if he wanted it to.

“It’s happening to more people,” Gerard murmurs. His chest is heavy – he doesn’t know if it’s apprehension, resignation, or just plain fucking fear. He doesn’t know if he wants to lead an army or grab Mikey and take the first available means of transportation out of this city. He doesn’t know.

Mikey plays with the zipper on his hoodie, tugging it up and down and up again. Normally, the noise would be grating and Gerard would tell him to cut it out, but instead he only gazes out the window and wonders how many are out there; how many already exist, and how many have yet to be.

*

 

“ – twenty more bucks and, okay, now we’re talking – what’s that kid’s name again, Michael, Mike – ”

Gerard drops his cup. It clatters to the floor, spinning onto its side and spilling water all over the linoleum. He’s already in the bedroom before the water stops spreading, throwing everything he can grab into the duffel that has been sitting next to the door, unzipped and waiting for months, just in case. He doesn’t know who they are or why they’re looking for him and Mikey, but he’s not waiting around to find out.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Gerard says the word to himself in a steady rhythm, matching his movements with each syllable to keep himself going. Fuck fuck fuck. He tries to gauge how much time has passed as he slings the bag over his shoulder just as Mikey is emerging from the bathroom with damp hands. He eyes Gerard standing at the doorway and focuses in on the duffel.

“We gotta go,” Gerard says. Mikey hesitates, then starts to head into the bedroom. “Now,” Gerard stresses.

Mikey turns on his ankle and walks to the couch to pick up his glasses from the armrest. “Change up,” Gerard tells him.

“Why – ”

“Change up,” Gerard repeats. Mikey looks annoyed, but his nose narrows and becomes longer as his lips thin out into a tight line. Gerard waits until the hair is almost all light brown and chin length before leading the way out.

They leave the door open behind them; let burglars and whoever the fuck in, Gerard doesn’t care. The streets are crowded and they blend in seamlessly with their dark clothing and nondescript appearances. It’s rush hour and the trains are crowded, but Gerard manages to snag two seats right next to the sliding doors.

“What the fuck was that?” Mikey finally asks.

Gerard stares at his reflection in the window, an image that stutters and blinks in time with the sporadic tunnel lights as the train zips through the underground. “We just got sold out for a hundred bucks by someone who couldn’t even get your name right.”

Mikey blinks at him, obviously waiting for a more plausible explanation. As if Gerard would pack up their shit and shove him onto a train for the sake of a few laughs. It wouldn’t even be funny, anyway. Gerard just returns his gaze pointedly.

“Jesus.” Mikey sits back. “Now what?”

“Now we find somewhere else to go. Do you know anyone?”

Mikey squints. “I could stay with Pete,” he offers. “He has that place above the shop. I don’t know if there’s room for the both of us, though.”

“No, it’s okay.” Gerard is thinking, thinking. He bites on his thumb. The skin is abnormally smooth under his tongue. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of lacking fingerprints. “Yeah, no, you should go stay with Pete.”

“Where are you gonna go?” Pete’s shop is only two stations down from where they got on. The train is already slowing.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you, okay? And someone better answer the fucking phone or I’ll assume the worst.” Gerard manages a crooked smile as Mikey half-stands and gives him a harried hug as the train jerks to a stop. People start streaming off the car, pulling Mikey with them. Gerard gives him a push, anyway.

Mikey keeps looking back. “Wait – Gee – ”

The doors close. Gerard turns around in his seat and cranes his neck a little to study the subway map posted up behind him. There’s an address in his head and he doesn’t even know why it’s the first thing he thought of, but it’s a place with four walls and a roof. Good enough.

They clatter through the city in a rumble of steel and sparks. Gerard waits until they get three more stops uptown, then exits the train as he slips on his sunglasses and jogs up the escalator. Thankfully it’s not a long walk to his destination – two blocks and he’s standing under a shaded doorway that’s one building over. He smokes a cigarette and scans the people walking by. When a familiar profile catches his eye, he blinks and then reacts quicker than he ever thought he could.

“Fuck off,” Bob snarls, yanking his arm out of Gerard’s grip when Gerard pulls him off the open sidewalk.

“Calm down, I’m just getting you back.” Gerard grins big and fake. Bob’s eyes light up in recognition.

“Gerard. What the hell?”

“Yeah, um.” Gerard drops his cigarette and rubs his nose. “I kind of need a place to stay.”

To his credit, Bob only looks at him for a split second before digging out a set of keys from his pocket. “Sure. Come on, quit skulking in the shadows.”

He leads the way to the right building and lets them in. A flight of stairs greets them; Gerard is out of breath by the time they reach the third floor with heavy, plodding steps. Bob’s place is messy and in disarray, but the sink is devoid of dirty dishes and the couch looks clean. Gerard hesitantly puts his bag down by the front door as Bob moves into the kitchen and starts rattling around.

“What happened?”

“Some dude.” Gerard pauses again, then takes off his shoes by scraping his toes down the heel of one foot and repeating the process for the other. “I couldn’t get exactly what happened, but it seemed like someone was paying off the manager to point out where me and Mikey’s place was.”

“Shit. How much?”

Gerard snorts. “Hundred bucks.”

“No kidding,” Bob says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “Hundred for the both of you? That’s just rude.”

“We’re diamonds in the rough, I always say.”

Something starts exhaling water – Bob must have turned on the coffeemaker. Gerard sits on the couch as a cheap but strong scent of coffee starts filling the apartment. He fiddles with his own hands.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about all this. That asshole of a manager just started that fucking ‘no mutant tenants’ thing. I didn’t know this would happen so soon.”

Bob emerges from the kitchen with two steaming mugs. He holds one out to Gerard, who takes it with a murmured thanks. “I don’t doubt that your manager is an asshole, but it probably wasn’t that. Maybe you were being watched, or Mikey was.”

“By who?” Gerard blows on his coffee, straining to hear Bob’s answer.

“Most likely those cheap gangs who’ll drag you off and sell you to the highest bidder. A nice lifetime stay at your nearest Mutant Sciences center.”

“Sweet deal,” Gerard grimaces. The first sip of coffee sort of tastes like piss, but it gets him thinking more clearly.

Bob gulps from his own mug. “I don’t want to hear anything more about you being sorry. You can stay here as long as you want. I’m sure,” he adds before Gerard can ask.

“Thanks Bob, seriously.”

They drink their coffee in relative silence as Bob shuffles around and moves things into neater piles. The blinds are drawn over the windows, lending a strange sort of exhaustion to the room. Gerard stares at the opaque slats. He tries to remember the last time he saw an unobscured window in the daytime.

“It’s getting bad, isn’t it,” he finds himself asking. He hears Bob stop behind the couch. “I mean, for us.”

Bob pauses. Gerard can practically see him trying to organize words in his mind. Not that Bob has a propensity to sugarcoat things, but he does tell it like it is. No better, no worse.

“It is,” Bob agrees. “I never actually thought it would turn out this way. I think that’s the only reason we’re managing to keep it all together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really know.” Bob snorts a little. He says the next words fast, like he just thought of something and has to let it out before he messes it up. “Like. Think of Alice in Wonderland. She goes down the rabbit hole and shit just keeps getting weirder and more fucked up, but she keeps going and does what she needs to do. Eats that, drinks this. I don’t know.”

Gerard hmms. He drains the rest of his coffee and balances the mug on his knee, tapping his fingers against the porcelain with dull thumps. “That’s the weirdest fucking comparison I’ve ever heard, you know,” he says conversationally.

“Fuck off,” Bob says.

“But I get what you’re saying now, so I guess it paid off,” Gerard finishes. He tilts his head to the side when Bob lightly hits the rim of his cup against his skull. When neither of them says anything more, Bob pads into the kitchen and starts rinsing out the coffee pot.

“Alice, huh,” Gerard mutters softly. He sits there for a moment, then reaches for the phone to call Mikey.

*

 

Pete pumps the gas pedal a few times. The beat up sedan finally stutters its way over the crosswalk, picking up speed and passing through the intersection as the traffic light is turning yellow.

“Piece of shit,” Pete crows, pounding on the steering wheel once for effect. He’s already in love with the heap, even though it’s only been two days since Patrick had managed to hotwire the car out of an old gas station at 4:00 in the morning, just to see if he could get away with it.

Gerard smiles into his hand as he stares out the window. “What else do you expect?”

“I’m actually surprised that it runs. And hey, check this out.” The engine whines; presumably, Pete is flooring the gas. They actually start moving faster. Pete laughs, and Gerard does too. He thinks about how they can laugh about stealing shitty cars despite the fact that they live in a place where being a mutant makes you an insignificant, fucked up blot in the population. It’s a fleeting thought, though – he’s genuinely happy, and other things seem unimportant.

That is, until he catches a glimpse of something coming up on the side of the road. There’s a squad car pulling away, lights swirling but with the siren off. It takes Gerard a second to fit the pieces together.

He spreads his hand over the window, hoping to god he’s wrong, and breathes, “Wait. Wait.”

“What?” But Pete slows, craning his neck to see out Gerard’s window. And then, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He pulls over with a jerky movement, causing Gerard to lurch to the side, but Gerard’s already popping off his seatbelt and getting out of the car before it comes to a full stop. With every step he takes, it becomes clear that the lump is someone, unconscious and with his hair matted and clumped in the back of his skull. There’s a scent of burning too, potently bitter like singed hair, but Gerard doesn’t know where it’s coming from.

Pete sounds shaky. “Is it a kid? A mutant?”

It is a kid – can’t be more than twenty. Pete stares down as Gerard kneels and touches the person’s hair carefully. His fingers come away wet. There aren’t any streetlights nearby and the car’s headlights are busted; he can’t see how bad it is. What he does know is that if the cops didn’t bother with him – or if this was because they had finished bothering with him – then it was pretty safe to assume that he was a mutant.

Gerard stands up. “Let’s get him in the car.” He goes to open the back door on the passenger side, then returns to help Pete heft the kid into the seat. For one stupid moment, Gerard worries about getting bloodstains on the interior. Mentally, it’s all radio silence – he’s knocked out cold.

“Gerard,” Pete says, and Gerard realizes that he’s still leaning halfway into the car, hovering over the pair of unmoving feet.

“Sorry.” He ducks out, closes the door, and gets back into the front.

There’s nothing remotely funny about Pete driving anymore. Gerard is practically trembling with anger, now that the shock has worn off. He licks his teeth and drums his fingers against the door, wishing for a cigarette.

“Like ants. We’re like ants to them,” Pete says flatly. “Insects. Stomp us the fuck out, what does it matter.”

“Fuck them.” Gerard means for it to sound vehement, but the words barely make it out of his mouth. He clenches his teeth together until his jaw aches.

A groaning noise that’s definitely not the engine emerges from the backseat. Gerard turns around quickly, tugging at his seatbelt for more give.

“Hey. Hey. We’re going to get you some help soon, okay?”

“Gonna light you motherfuckers on fire,” is the response.

“Don’t light us on fire, we’re taking you to the hospital,” Pete cuts in smoothly.

“What’s your name?” Gerard asks. He gets the answer in an echo, circling around his mind like even thinking takes up too much energy. “Brendon,” he repeats. “That’s your name, right? Brendon?”

“Who are – ” Brendon frowns with his eyes closed, as if something is sinking in. “No hospital.”

“You’re bleeding from your head,” Gerard argues.

“Just a bump. Concussion. No hospital.”

“Listen kid, we found you on the side of the road. Do you remember that? Do you remember what happened?”

Gerard touches Pete’s arm. “Take it easy,” he says to him, and then he turns back to Brendon. “Seriously, you might have some bad injuries.”

“They’re gonna call them,” Brendon almost cries out, startlingly loud. “They’re gonna call them to take me away, don’t, don’t do it.”

Coming from any other person, this would have just sounded like babbling bullshit, but suddenly Gerard realizes how stupid both he and Pete have been. He twists back around as his cheeks warm over with shame.

“We can’t take him to the hospital,” he tells Pete, who gives him a quick, incredulous look.

“Why not?”

“They’ll fix him up, but then what? Who are they going to call after that? The fucking white coats from BMS,” Gerard says under his breath. He watches understanding bloom over Pete’s face.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Pete slams the steering wheel for the second time that night.

Brendon continues to whimper, mostly to himself. “No hospital. No. No.”

Gerard turns around again. “We’re not taking you to the hospital, calm down. Okay? I promise. We’re not taking you to the hospital.” He’s surprised to find that his voice wavers. Heat is building up somewhere near the bridge of his nose, too. He quickly sits right and angles himself toward the window before Pete can see him cry. At least Brendon finally falls silent.

Pete runs a red light and breezes by several stop signs until they pull up in front of Patrick’s place. He must have called ahead without Gerard noticing, because Patrick is already waiting outside, holding open the door to the building with his foot. The car shudders quiet when Pete yanks at the wires that stick out from beneath the steering wheel.

“How bad is it?” Patrick asks as soon as Gerard gets out.

“Not sure. It was dark.” He and Pete gently try to pull Brendon out, feet first.

“Here, wait, get him to sit up,” Pete says. Gerard goes around to the other side and pushes Brendon’s torso up until he actually starts falling forward, but Pete is there, squatting and hefting Brendon into a piggyback hold. Pete’s stronger than he looks, but he’s panting by the time they make it up to the second floor and into Patrick’s apartment.

He awkwardly places Brendon on the couch. When he moves away, Gerard is startled to see that Brendon’s eyes are open, aware. His face is relatively unscathed, save for some tiny scrapes over his left cheekbone.

“Who are you,” he croaks, but he sounds cognizant, stronger than before.

Patrick kneels down and touches his forehead. “We’re here to help.”

“I doubt you can help this.” Brendon closes his eyes. Flames, explosions, Brendon sitting in his garage, covered in soot and water.

Gerard understands the smell now. “Fire,” he states dumbly. Pete and Patrick turn their attention to him.

“It’s fire,” he repeats. “That’s his power.”

All three of them look down at Brendon, at his banged up state.

“Call everyone we know,” Patrick tells Pete. “Tell them to be careful.” Pete disappears into the bedroom, and Patrick nods at Gerard. “Help me clean him up?”

“Yeah.” Gerard can hear Pete talking, quick and urgent. “I – Yeah. I’ll get some towels.”

He heads to the bathroom, passing the bedroom on the way. Pete’s back is facing the doorway, shoulders hunched, both hands clutching the phone to his ear. His posture betrays fear he hadn’t shown in the car.

Gerard keeps walking.

*

 

Gerard drops his book onto his chest and sits up. It slides off to the floor in a mess of crinkled pages, but he’s not paying attention, clutching at his head instead. Pain reminiscent of lightning or hammers and nails seems to be splitting his skull into pieces. Throwing up seems like a possibility. He puts his head between his knees.

He doesn’t throw up. The pain clears, leaving only a distant imprint in his sinuses, but he can’t shake the disconcerting feeling that remains. No noise in the apartment, which means Bob’s still gone. Gerard reaches across the couch and fumbles for the phone. He calls Patrick, but there’s no answer. Pete’s, no answer. Patrick’s again, same thing.

It doesn’t take long to think about what to do next. He tugs on a jacket and makes his way to the warehouse, breathing in the cold air through his mouth to feel it knife at his chest. Twenty feet away from the entrance, he balks. There’s something – he can feel it, but he doesn’t know what it is. His body wants to turn around and walk back the way he came, but he forces himself to pull the door open and slip inside.

There’s someone in the office, judging by the lights. Probably Patrick, since there aren’t any voices and Patrick’s the only one who actually sits in there by himself. Gerard calls out to him before he opens the door.

“Patrick, are you here? I can’t get a hold of anyone – ”

Gerard stops talking. Something heavy settles in his stomach; he clutches the doorknob tightly enough for the skin of his knuckles to stretch milky white over bone. He tries to breathe normally but it smells like copper all of a sudden and his lungs feel weighed down, coated with the stench of metal. It’s wrong; something’s wrong, and it’s so obvious that he can barely swallow the thought of going into the office.

Instinct takes over. One measured twist of his wrist and the door opens into the dimly lit room as he hesitates, then asks, “Patrick?”

Patrick is sitting behind his desk, silent and still. Dark spots fleck his shirt, his left cheek, the front side of his cap. His hand is resting on top of a stack of folders – it shakes with twitches in muscle, barely noticeable save for the shift of shadows and the dry scratch of paper.

“What happened?” Gerard hears his voice, but it’s through a fog, like there’s cotton stuffed in his ears.

Patrick blinks rapidly, several times. He doesn’t answer.

Gerard doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching. Long enough for the silence to start buzzing in his ears. Dread is slowly filling every inch of his body, stealing away the ability to move, or even speak. All he can do is breathe. Wait.

When Patrick starts talking, the words are slow and scratchy, being pulled from the depths of his throat. The backs of Gerard’s eyes feel prickling hot.

“Do you know – do you know what happens when you astroproject and then get shot in the head?” Patrick isn’t even looking at Gerard – he’s staring off somewhere over Gerard’s shoulder instead, with glassy eyes and the space under his nose rubbed red. Gerard drops his gaze to his shoes.

A pause. “Do you?” Patrick asks again.

“Christ, Patrick.” Gerard’s voice is whisper-quiet. No images, but he’s getting a sound repeated over and over: the pop of a gunshot and its echo. Over and over.

“No, really, I’m asking if you know, because,” and Patrick laughs haltingly, in disbelieving little hitches of breath, “because I could tell you what happens.”

Gerard squeezes his eyes shut. Over and over and over –

“You fucking die,” Patrick bites out, startlingly loud, and Gerard opens his eyes again. “You die, that’s what happens, Gerard. Just.” He lifts his hand and brings his fingers together, all five tips kissing, and then flicks them out wide. “Boom.” His voice cracks.

Boom: Gerard sees three people in ski masks that show only the determined set of their eyes – the sound of an idling engine, Pete trying to project himself into the driver’s seat – a wild shot as soon as he splits – the ensuing noise, the sharp jerk of his chin – Patrick running, running –

His heart is pounding in the strangest of places – his stomach, his temples, under his teeth. He swallows repeatedly and tastes bile in the back of his mouth. Minutes pass; hours, weeks, years, he doesn’t fucking know. All he’s aware of is his feet against the floor and the doorknob still in his hand, now warm from the heat of his skin.

“Hey.” Someone is tugging at his elbow. Bob. “Come on.”

His fingers take awhile to unstick, but Gerard lets himself be led away. “Patrick is – ” His tongue feels too big for his mouth. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“I know. I know. We’re leaving. I’m taking him with me to Chicago.”

“To Chicago?”

“It’s where we’re from.”

“All of you?”

Everything is hazy, but Gerard sees a flash of what he saw in Patrick the first time they had met – Pete grinning as he’s driving somewhere, but this time Bob is in the backseat.

“Yeah. All of us,” Bob says tightly. “We have family there.”

This is something Gerard hasn’t thought about, which was stupid of him, really. It makes sense that they would have a family. Maybe not in the city, but elsewhere.

“Gerard,” Bob says.

“I’ll be okay.” Gerard finally focuses on Bob’s face – his drawn expression and red-rimmed eyes, lashes darker than usual from the residue of tears.

“We’re leaving,” Bob repeats. He looks down when Gerard says, “You should. It’s a good decision.”

“Take care of them,” he orders suddenly, and at first, Gerard doesn’t know what he means. Then he remembers: the others working with them. Gerard has spent countless hours in contact with everyone, and yet he can’t even recall half their names right now. All he can think of is Bob grabbing him off the street, Pete introducing himself, Patrick laughing his easy laugh, Mikey just being here.

“And take care of yourself. Don’t – don’t fucking do something stupid like crawl into a hole and never come out. Not because I think that’s stupid at all, but because I know you’re going to hate yourself if you do that.”

“I know,” Gerard says faintly.

“Because you’re a psycho who actually cares about saving people,” Bob barrels on. “But you better be safe while you’re doing that. Okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” Okay. Such a simple response, but it sounds like a promise anyway. Gerard means it as such.

Bob stands there for a minute longer, and then he retreats back to the office. A low murmur of voices starts up, followed by a tense silence. Gerard keeps listening. As he does, he remembers the first day: “We’re the de facto leaders,” Pete had said, and Gerard finally understands what he meant.

 

*****

 

Brendon chews slowly as he tries to read through the newspaper at the same time. “We caught something over the radio. There’s a van stationed on the corner by the old Catholic church. Probably staking someone out – that guy who can see, I think. Do you think we should go swoop in there before they do? Fucking vultures, man, I swear.”

They’ve had to extract more and more people each week, yanking them from moving cars, ambushing groups of deadbeats who only managed to successfully kidnap mutants because of their sheer number. Easy money, to capture mutants and turn them over to BMS, no questions asked. There are bulletins online now, with pictures and names and addresses, an alert system that anyone could add to. Gerard had hired a documents guy a couple months ago; people were starting to leave in handfuls.

Gerard is tired and he hasn’t seen Mikey in days, but he says, “Yeah, okay. Good job finding it out.” He finds Jon hanging around outside – this new guy with a mild-mannered disposition and unbelievably powerful telekinesis.

“I’m down,” Jon says after Gerard explains the situation. Brendon is already walking ahead of them, leading the way. He’s still a few paces in front by the time they reach the church, even after pausing to shift the cover off a sewer entrance about a block down.

Jon yells, “Hey!” when Brendon suddenly runs out into the street without looking.

“Brendon!” Gerard shouts at the same time, and then he sees the beige van barreling towards Brendon. He runs toward it, yelling over his shoulder at Jon. “Get over here! Get ready!”

The van screeches to a stop as Brendon shoots an impressive stream of fire toward it. In the commotion that follows, Gerard manages to go around to the back doors, yanking both of them wide open. They’ve already got the IV in the guy and he’s passed out on a ratty gurney that these fucks probably stole from a nursing home or something. Gerard quickly removes the needle with a slight wince and somehow manages to heft the guy over his shoulder and run in stumbling steps toward the sewers. He doesn’t look back until he’s already climbing down the ladder; he catches sight of Jon almost calmly sending a bunch of parking meters flying, and then a fire hydrant. Torrents of water shoot everywhere, soaking all of them immediately. Gerard grins before the asphalt obscures his vision and they disappear underground.

His arms are trembling with the effort of supporting two people, but he somehow makes it to the bottom. The tunnels echo with the sounds of rushing water, sending every noise he makes back to him multiplied ten-fold. It seems safe to stop after a handful of yards and his legs feel like they’re going to give out anyway, so he finally sets the guy down carefully and kneels by him, panting and waiting for him to come around. After a few minutes of sitting there, his lungs finally stop clenching and he’s able to breathe normally.

Now it’s getting kind of awkward – he hates this part, being around when they wake up and having to explain to them what happened and what they need to do. The first guy Gerard had done this to had clocked Gerard in the mouth and ran away, splashing through the rivers of water as Gerard just watched his silhouette get smaller until the rest of the darkness swallowed it up.

There’s a scraping noise as a knee jerks up, and then the guy is groaning a little, shifting his shoulders against the cold concrete. Gerard recognizes the strain of muscles and the curled fingers as reactions to bodily pain – they must have gotten him pretty early, then. Gerard waits patiently, kneeling with a hand in his jacket pocket and grasping a flashlight, which he pulls out as soon as the guy starts talking.

“What’s going on?” he croaks with a frown, and there, Gerard can see his eyes finally blinking open, glistening in the dim light that filters down from the surface.

Gerard touches his cheek and clicks the flashlight on. “Don’t be scared. We’re the ones that busted you out,” he answers calmly, directing the beam into the guy’s left eye. Even though it’s twitchy and glancing in all different directions in confusion, Gerard can see the pupil contract. The change is crisp, almost disconcerting – he has hazel irises, brilliant both in color and shade, and lit by some unknown genetic pattern that loans a slight preternatural look to it.

Jesus, Gerard thinks. He checks out the right eye just before the guy starts with the coughing. Gerard decides to wait it out. He thinks about the person they saved last week, the one who could sprout tentacles instead of legs, and then this guy here, the one with perfect facial bone structure and a mutation that served to make him even more attractive. For the first time in a long while, Gerard feels a flicker of something deep in his belly.

“Hey, take it easy,” he says. “Your body’s still adjusting to the mutation, it’s going to be hard.”

The coughing continues, along with more squirming, but it begins to subside after a few moments. “You’ve been seeing things, right? Hey,” Gerard says sharply, grabbing a hold of the guy’s chin and keeping his head in place. “You’ve been seeing things?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” is the croaky reply. Satisfied, Gerard clicks off the flashlight and relaxes a little, settling back so that his heels dig into the backs of his thighs.

“Cool. So you see people for what they really are, huh?”

“That’s a fucking poetic way to put it.” This is the first whole sentence that Gerard’s heard him utter – his voice is deep but a little reedy. “Who the hell are you?”

Gerard smiles involuntarily at this punk kid with torn up shoes and tattoos disappearing up under his sleeves, who has the ability to see mutants. The expression is almost unfamiliar – he’s surprised at how easily it comes.

He says, “I’m Gerard, your savior for today.”

*

 

Gerard has never prided himself on making good decisions, because he does the exact opposite all the fucking time. For some reason, he figures as long as he is aware of the fact that he’s making a bad decision, it makes it okay.

He and Frank start sleeping together two weeks after they meet.

They’re walking through the middle of the city as Gerard explains the finer points of containing one’s powers, like how to shut it off or if it’s even possible to do so. As it turns out, Frank could more than see mutants – he could even see what their powers were, most of the time. In addition to visible wavelengths of color, Frank’s eyes were attuned to a new cellular energy that was unique to mutated cells. He had described Gerard as looking “like you’re wearing this weird, clear helmet. And Mikey’s face is always changing.”

“I’m sure you see way more of us than I know about,” Gerard says now.

“Maybe,” Frank muses.

It takes Gerard a few seconds to realize that Frank has fallen back and now he is walking alone. He opens up almost immediately – it’s strange, to think about exactly how much his power has become instinctive – and is startled to see thoughts of himself. Pale skin, his smile – how he’d held onto Frank’s chin the day he’d first found him, and Frank’s viewpoint of that scene. The next thoughts cause blood to fill his cheeks.

Before he knows it, before he can even think about the fact that this will give away his connection to Frank’s mind, Gerard is turning around and smiling inquisitively over his shoulder. Frank stares right back. His eyes flash in realization.

“You might call that an invasion of privacy.” He says it placidly.

When they get to Frank’s place, a cheap studio apartment sandwiched in between a well-known drug den and the highway, Gerard is almost late for an informal meeting. He doesn’t care enough about it to not push Frank against the door as soon as he closes it, undoing his pants and, after quickly licking the web of skin between his index finger and thumb, slipping a hand inside Frank’s underwear. Frank tries to take off Gerard’s belt too, but Gerard pushes his hands away and soon Frank is too busy to protest, arching his shoulders off the wall with his head is tilted back; eyes closed, mouth open. Gerard tries to leave him alone, but snatches of words come through anyway – nothing that makes sense, mostly just scattered curses and white noise.

There is an audible sound as Frank closes his mouth and swallows. “Gerard,” he says roughly, and Gerard doesn’t think he’d be lying if he claimed that all he wanted to hear for the rest of his life was Frank saying his name.

“Yeah,” Gerard answers in a quiet voice. He keeps moving his hand in smooth strokes, occasionally twisting his wrist or using his thumb. Frank never stops fidgeting; crooking his knee up and then straightening it back out, rubbing his leg against Gerard’s. Gerard tries to take this all in, to focus on the visual instead of prying into Frank’s mind. He ducks in to kiss Frank. It’s messy, sloppy, and Christ, the noises alone are dirty enough to make him wish they had time for more than a quick handjob.

Frank finally opens his eyes and fixes them on Gerard with a glazed stare, but that still doesn’t hide the new glow in them. They burn a bit brighter, unnaturally vivid in both color and definition.

Gerard bares his teeth and bites Frank’s chin firmly before pulling back. “Are you watching me get you off?”

“I can feel,” Frank hitches his breath as Gerard rubs his palm over the head of his dick, “more,” he manages to choke out. He grabs at Gerard’s shirt and twists as he comes, eyelids fluttering in rapid movements. Gerard pulls him through it, scraping the hair off Frank’s forehead with his other hand.

You’re so fucking pretty, is what Gerard wants to say. Instead, he just looks at Frank until he has to blink. He glances down at the tangle of undone belts and the wrinkles of fabric but Frank pulls his gaze back up by tugging on his hair. He kisses Gerard gently.

Gerard pulls away far too late. “I gotta go,” he says.

“Hit it and quit it, huh,” Frank breathes. His head lolls over the wall, eyelids heavy and suggestive. Gerard moves away to the bathroom to wash his hands before he can do another stupid thing. By the time he comes out, Frank has his pants done up but the ends of his belt are hanging loose and useless. He’s still leaning against the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

Fuck it. “I’m going to come back later,” Gerard tells him.

“Okay,” Frank says.

This image – Frank and the easy tilt of his head – stays with Gerard even when he gets to the warehouse, even as Nick explains what needs to be amended on the new information sheets, even as Vicky reads off a list of those amongst them who’ve been missing for the past week. He still chimes in, telling everyone to be stay alert and not to be in open areas as much as possible. At the end, Mikey introduces a new guy, Ray, a non-mutant but he was the new owner of the pawnshop and had somehow gotten wind of them. Everyone disbands before he knows it, and then Gerard pushes through to get to Mikey.

“Hey.” Gerard grabs Mikey’s arm and leads him into the office. Before he says anything else, he sits and rummages through all the desk drawers until he finds a box of cigarettes he stashed in the back of one of them a few weeks ago.

“What’s going on?” Mikey asks.

Gerard lights up a cigarette, filling the silence by moving his hands around. “Me and Frank,” he finally begins, but then he just inhales and lets smoke pour from his mouth. Mikey’s face twists with understanding.

“I know,” Gerard says before Mikey can get a word out. “I know everything that can be said about it from every angle, so. I know.”

“I wasn’t going to condemn you or anything. You and Frank – that’s good,” Mikey says, sounding far more relaxed than Gerard had been expecting. If this says more about Mikey or himself, he doesn’t know.

“I want you to be happy,” Mikey adds.

“Sure,” Gerard says. He rubs his eyes with his free hand.

It’s quiet for a while. Then Mikey declares, “You’re doing a good job with everyone.”

“You don’t have to say that to me every week, you know,” Gerard smiles.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m just being supportive,” Mikey defends. “Best misanthropic leader of a quiet mutant revolution in the tri-state area, I’d say.”

“Prepare to be hexed,” Gerard says.

Mikey snorts. He twitches his hand at Gerard; Gerard tosses him the box of cigarettes and a lighter. As Mikey smokes, Gerard leans his head back against the chair. Okay, he tells himself. Okay.

*

 

“When am I going to do my part for mutant society? Fight the good fight?” Frank asks. He finishes off the rest of his bagel and swipes cream cheese from the corners of his lips.

“I don’t want you to,” Gerard says automatically.

Frank stares at him with a funny twist to his mouth. A prequel to a smile, ready for the punchline, but Gerard doesn’t have one. The waitress comes by, holding up a pot of coffee as a wordless question. They both shake their heads.

Frank swallows and says, “You’re not seriously telling me what to do, are you?”

Gerard finally snaps out of it. “What? No. I’m sorry, I don’t – I seriously don’t know where the hell that came from.”

A pause, and then he starts again. “It’s just. Dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt or anything.”

“I’m not here for you to worry about me like that,” Frank says firmly, but his voice is soft.

“I know.” Gerard repeats it once, more to convince himself: “I know.” He smiles at Frank, and whatever strange cloud was there between them is lifted with that simple gesture. “We could use you,” he says, and it’s like he never slipped up at the beginning of the conversation.

“Okay.” Frank slouches a little in the booth. “So, when?”

Gerard shrugs. “Whenever, I guess. Vicky is usually around after four, and Nick is sort of in charge of the assimilation process. Mikey just steals stuff.”

He watches Frank laugh. It’s a sight he hasn’t gotten tired of, even though Frank does it all the fucking time. Laughs and smiles and giggles with his mouth pressed to the joint in Gerard’s shoulder like nothing’s wrong. He tries to act like Frank is the same as any other mutant who comes to him for information.

“We just moved house again,” Gerard says. “It’s annoying, but whatever gets the job done, right? Anyway. I haven’t ever heard you say you need to get to work or anything, so I’m assuming you were unemployed before all this happened.”

Frank presses his lips together. A slight red tinge, like watercolors, spreads over his face. “Well. I guess you could put me in the same category as Mikey.”

“What?” Gerard looks at him blankly. Frank rests his hands on the table and drums his fingers all in a row, pinky to pinky, and then Gerard gets it. He laughs out loud; wonders what this noise sounds like to the other patrons and the employees at the diner. Maybe it’s catching – maybe he caught it from Frank, this whole laughing thing.

“Christ, you’re a petty thief,” he states.

“I relieve people of their excess material burdens,” Frank corrects him. But he still looks embarrassed despite the joke, like Gerard will be offended or turn his nose up at the very notion.

Instead, Gerard reaches across the table and takes one of Frank’s hands with both his own, holding it palm up and uncurling the fingers. He rubs at the whorls of fingerprints with his thumbs and studies the way the nails are short and clean.

“You ever get any passports as part of the spoil?” Gerard asks.

Frank breaks into a grin. He hunches his shoulders and leans forward conspiratorially, putting his free elbow up on the table. “Tons.”

“’Cause we need a new documents guy.”

“I’m an excellent documents guy.”

“We also need people to help fuck with those black market gangs. Fewer transportation options, fewer mutants being herded in to the nearest Mutant Sciences center. You gotta be fast.”

“I ran the fifty yard dash in junior high,” Frank informs him.

“Impressive.” He sees Frank with his hair buzzed short, wearing a regulation gym uniform that hangs loose on his frame. Spindly legs, feet kicking up dust with every pounding step on the track.

Under the table, Frank knocks his knees against Gerard’s. “Let’s go now. I want to see it.”

“Sure,” Gerard replies after only a beat of hesitation. “Sure, let’s.”

They slide out of the booth and take a cab there. Gerard supposes he’s lucky just for this – that neither he nor Frank has extremely conspicuous powers and that means they can walk around in public a lot more than some of the others. He shows Frank around, introduces him to Ray, Jon, and Ryland, the new kid who could stretch like gum. They still haven’t found a breaking point with him, despite valiant efforts. It’s all smiles and upbeat explanations about what they do, as if there’s a breakthrough right around the corner and they’re working toward what could be a huge turning point in mutant existence. Gerard believes it, he does, but he’s not naïve enough to think that they’re close to improving something. Mostly it’s just making sure things don’t get any worse, and even that’s questionable.

Afterwards, Gerard decides to take off while Nick is still informing Frank about the measures that have been passed regarding mutants and all that legal stuff. He walks for fifteen minutes before he realizes that he’s on his way to the old apartment, Bob’s old apartment. He’s lost count of how many times this has happened, so he only sighs and cuts across the city to Frank’s place.

He shouldn’t do this. To actually cultivate this thing with Frank when he’s now starting to work with them would be the stupidest thing he could do. Gerard already had Mikey to look out for, and with Frank – it just wouldn’t work.

This is what he tries to tell himself anyway, as he stretches out over his bed and lights a cigarette. He holds the first inhale within his lungs for as long as he can. When he finally breathes out toward the ceiling, he’s left feeling empty and deflated in all ways possible. Meandering thoughts fill his mind, and eventually he finds himself unable to stop thinking of Pete – of Patrick thinking of Pete. Pop, and the jerk of his chin.

The cigarette burns down between his fingers, untouched save for that first hit, and still, the same noise keeps running through his head. Pop. Pop.

*

 

“Do me a favor.” Frank pauses, then says, “If it happens again, don’t come after me.”

Frank’s stomach is warm under Gerard’s hand. “What?”

“I’m serious. Don’t come after me. I can understand what happened the first time – there were lots of you, and I was close by. But there’s fewer of us now, and if it happens again, I don’t want you to risk anything.”

Gerard breathes slowly and keeps his hand still. “Fine,” he finally says. “Are you going to do the same for me?”

“If you want me to.” The words sound casual but Frank’s voice is strained, stretched taut. He is thinking about Brendon, and then about what could have happened if Gerard hadn’t taken Frank from the back of that van. Little frames of scenes locking into place just long enough for the image to become clear before whizzing out to make room for another.

Brendon had been taken a couple weeks ago right in front of them, his terrified expression burning into Gerard’s memory like a flashbulb exploding in the dark. Numerous pairs of arms wrapping around his torso and pulling him into the open side of the van, and Brendon had fucking exploded, the entire street being lit up with orange and heat, but it hadn’t done anything. They had new heat resistant suits, a huge advance in modern technology; Brendon’s feet disappeared over the edge, limp and with the toes turned outward. New tranquilizer, another huge advance. Gerard had made eye contact with him just before the door slid shut and the van rumbled off through the streets. Mikey had cried with his hands clasped together against the back of his neck as Frank ran after the vehicle for another quarter mile.

Gerard has been thinking in ‘if only’s since then. If only they hadn’t been so outnumbered. If only Jon had been there. If only this wasn’t happening at all, at all –

“Hey, mutants who sleep together,” Gerard begins with an easy lilt to his voice, but he can’t keep it up, doesn’t even know why he would try to joke about it. He chooses not to finish the sentence and wraps his hand around Frank’s hip instead, tucking his face into Frank’s neck and breathing hot against it.

For some time, Gerard just lies there with his eyes closed, half on top of Frank; Frank tugs his arms out from underneath Gerard and wraps them around his back in a firm grip. They eventually get up and get dressed. Gerard leaves Frank on the phone with Mikey, working out new disguises that Mikey can take on. He has to glance down at the directions inked onto the palm of his hand, streets intersecting with his life line, and finds his way there by luck more than anything.

This new place doesn’t have an inner office – it’s actually a part of a cluster of townhouses that were halfway demolished and left to rot. Visible I-beams line the ceiling and the walls are stripped to their bones. Gerard steps through the paneled spaces and to the large table in the middle of the room, which is already covered with papers and various forms of identification. He’s shifting through them when he senses someone and looks up. Travis pushes through a hanging plastic tarp ten seconds later.

“I’ve been looking for you,” is the first thing he says. He rubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

“What’s going on?” Gerard asks, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“I heard something about BMS. A rumor.” Except it’s almost never a rumor. Travis, with his power of persuasion, who can get people to say or do almost anything. “They’re formally teaming up with law enforcement to bring us in. And – and they might start doing random testing in public. That mouth-scraping test you’d do in high school lab, you know. If something’s off, then they track you down and take a blood sample. And if something’s off with that, then. Yeah.”

Even after Gerard lets this sink in, the only response he can come up with is, “Fuck.”

“It’s not official,” Travis says; the ‘yet’ at the end of the sentence goes unspoken but Gerard hears it anyway. “I just thought you should know as soon as possible, if only to be prepared for it, you know?”

“How many more do you think they’ll get if this actually happens?” Gerard asks.

“They still get anonymous tips now, but if it actually happens,” Travis pauses, then shrugs apologetically. “I have no idea.”

It’s quiet. Travis says, “I could try to find the head guy and convince him otherwise.”

“No,” Gerard says immediately. “They don’t even publish his name, so you wouldn’t even know where to start. Plus, I’m sure he’s surrounded by security and even if you did manage to do it, people would be too suspicious.”

“Okay.” Travis raises his hands. “Okay. I won’t.”

Gerard feels suddenly tired and lost. “I know you’re trying to help. I really appreciate you letting me know about this.”

Travis nods. He leans against the table and crosses his arms over his chest. “So we’re just going to let it happen?”

“Yes,” Gerard replies woodenly.

“I mean, there’s no other choice, basically, but still. I feel like – ” Travis picks at his jeans and then sneaks his fingers under his sleeve to scratch at his wrist. Gerard catches a glimpse of inked skin – he thinks of Frank, the vibrant colors of his tattoos.

“I know.” Gerard sighs, but he makes sure that it’s almost inaudible. He says, “We’ll have to react as it happens. I don’t know how they’re going to go about it, or where it’s going to be and how often. We’ll just – we’ll wait and see how it turns out.”

“Right,” Travis says, but not skeptically. “You ever think they got one of us to spill information about what we’re doing?” he asks in a rush.

“No. Or else we’d all be in there by now.” Gerard manages a small grin. “Besides, we’re not the only ones pushing back like this, you know.”

“I figured.” Travis exhales a frustrated breath. “But sometimes it seems like we are.”

Gerard privately agrees with him but doesn’t let him know. Instead, when Travis starts tidying up the mess, Gerard joins in until the only sounds are those of the dry rasp of papers and their feet moving across the dirt.

*

 

The news broadcast had ended hours ago, but they’re still sitting on the couch and watching some show about wine country.

“That’d be a nice vacation spot,” Gerard comments as the camera pans over mountains, several wine tasting parties, and fields and fields of grapes.

“We should pencil it in after Ibiza,” Frank says.

“I’ll get on buying a day planner.”

Frank squeezes his hand. When Gerard turns to look, Frank is already gazing at him. He touches Frank’s cheek as he catches a sea of warmth right behind the eyes. He closes them automatically, then blinks them open wide at the next push of thoughts.

I think I love you.

Gerard’s hand drops away but Frank smoothly catches his wrist almost right after, effectively halting all movements. He keeps them there, their hands and forearms forming a bridge of an upturned ‘V’, and smiles unevenly. It highlights the exhaustion around his eyes, the smattering of stubble over his jawline. “You gotta stop doing that.”

“I can’t help it,” Gerard manages to say, “around you. I can’t help it.”

“I’m not going to say it out loud.”

Gerard blurts, “I’ve been acting stupid lately.”

“And distant,” Frank adds with a wry smile. “Emotionally distant, even.”

“And you’ve been a walking romantic movie cliché,” Gerard says.

Frank hums. The joke falls flat as he lets their hands fall into his lap, tucking his chin toward his chest and examining the tangle of their fingers. He glances up when Gerard quietly says, “I don’t want to see you get taken. I don’t want you gone.”

“Is that what you’ve been worried about?”

Gerard stays silent. Frank says, “You think I want that?"

“Shut up,” Gerard whispers.

Frank tugs one of Gerard’s hands up and presses it against his own chest. The steady thump of a heartbeat echoes against the heel of Gerard’s palm – he realizes that this is what Frank wants him to feel. Gerard is torn between laughing and sitting here forever, just being sure of Frank.

“Is this the part where I swoon and write poetry about hearts and love?” Gerard finally asks. He curls his fingers a little. The cotton of Frank’s shirt gets pulled along, fibers stretching with the movement.

“Pretty much,” Frank answers, pulling his knees up onto the couch so he can lean forward and kiss Gerard.

Frank fucks him hard that night, like he has something to prove. He tugs off their clothes and shoves Gerard up against the wall, presses his chest to Gerard’s back. The height difference between them allows Frank to dig his fingers around Gerard’s hipbones and drive himself up while pulling Gerard down at an angle. He drags out and then pushes back in, for so long that Gerard mindlessly rubs his forehead over the plaster of the wall, forearms pressed up by both sides of his face and trapping the sounds escaping from his mouth until all he hears are hollow, cavernous breaths as he pants.

“Fucking shit, Frank,” he gasps out, and Frank finally, finally speeds up, as if this was all he’d been waiting for.

“What,” Frank mouths against his spine. What. He moves one hand jerkily to Gerard’s stomach, then to his chest, and up over it so he can grasp a shoulder – anything that allows him to steady himself.

Gerard is shaking all over; he feels like maybe he’ll fall any second, just tip down head headfirst and never stop. He braces his arms and lets his head tip back, allows his mouth to open. Frank shifts a tiny bit without ever slowing and Gerard begins to moan in rhythm as Frank bites at the shell of his ear, then runs a palm up and over Gerard’s dick, skin slick with sweat.

The world rushes by in his ears – a bomb of words and pictures and emotions explodes in his mind as his spine curls and he comes over Frank’s hand. Frank thrusts a few more times and Gerard can feel his body stiffen, teeth pressing against Gerard at the spot where neck curves into shoulder.

When they’re lying in bed later, limbs sticky from sweat but still curled around each other, Gerard lies awake while Frank is lost in sleep. His index finger is throbbing a bit, although Gerard is sure that it’s all imagination. But rubbing his thumb against it just makes it more real: he’d gotten caught in a testing line a few days ago and they had drawn blood. Now it was more than likely that his name was on file, his picture, his fucking DNA. It was only a matter of time before they came for him.

He tries to entertain the thought of escaping, but it doesn’t go very far. Where would he go, first of all? And who with? He wonders if he would be able to spend the rest of his life hiding out, watching others get carted off.

Frank turns, nosing at Gerard’s collarbone and snuffling in his sleep. Gerard gently pushes into Frank’s mind; they dream together.

*

 

“Fuck you.” Mikey’s face is pinched, mouth twisted with anger. “You’re not putting yourself out there like bait.”

“I’m not bait,” Gerard argues. “What, you want me to shack up somewhere and never come out again just because they know who I am now?”

Frank cuts in quietly. “Think about it, Gerard. They not only know who you are, but they probably know what you can do. Your last known address is that place you had with Mikey, and it’s not that far away from here. A little bit of digging and they might even find out about how you’re basically the leader of a mutant resistance group.”

“Big fucking deal,” Gerard says. He stumbles backward and hits the wall with a dull thud when Mikey pushes him with a quick, hard jab of his palms.

“Shut up,” Mikey practically shouts. His eyes change to grey and then to green before returning to normal.

Frank has gotten up from his seat. He grabs Mikey’s arm and pulls him away gently. “Hey. Hey. Come on.”

“I never should have said anything.”

Frank’s eyes narrow the slightest bit but he doesn’t respond.

“It’s making you guys worry for no reason,” Gerard elaborates, pressing his hands flat against the wall behind him.

“This isn’t some unorganized street gang that’s looking for you. It’s the real thing, armored vehicles and all kinds of shit that’ll have you on the ground before you can even blink,” Frank states tightly.

Gerard takes a deep breath. “It’s been almost a month since it happened,” he tells them. Some of the anger drains away from Mikey’s face – it seems to transfer over to Frank, who clenches his hands into fists for a split second. “I must have walked by hundreds of them since then and I’m fine.”

“Yeah, for now. Don’t be a fucking martyr, Gerard. You’re going to be no good to anyone if you’re locked in a cell and doped up so bad you can’t even talk,” Mikey snaps.

“Listen,” Gerard tries again. He speaks slowly. “Okay? Just listen to me for a minute. The number of people getting taken away has gone down since this whole shitstorm began. Maybe they almost filled their quota, maybe they have enough resources and any more would be pointless. I don’t know. Yes, they probably know who I am. But I can’t fucking sit here and do nothing. I can’t just hear all these stories about people we know, or people who are newly turned, and do nothing. And you know that.”

He steps closer to Mikey, who doesn’t move away but continues to stare resolutely down at the floor. “You know that, Mikes.”

Mikey finally looks up at him. “Maybe it’ll die down until it’s like when we first joined up,” Gerard says. “Remember? Giving people places to stay and putting them in shitty jobs like at Pete’s pawnshop. Hey.”

He puts a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. Mikey stiffens under the touch, but he lets it stay.

“I’ll be alright,” Gerard tells him quietly.

“You better be,” Mikey finally says. He moves away after a beat, grabbing his jacket and making his way toward the front door. Frank opens it, and then closes it behind him with a firm click.

It’s silent in Mikey’s wake. Frank stays facing the door, hands still wrapped around the knob and pressed against the flat paneling, and repeats, “You better be.”

For some reason, Gerard can’t bring himself to reassure him of it. He walks over and stands behind Frank, reaching around to take hold of his wrists and bring them to his sides. A silent kiss behind Frank’s ear, and then Frank’s lifting his hands out of Gerard’s grip and turning around so he can kiss Gerard properly. It turns into a desperate sort of hug, with Frank clinging close, pressing his cheekbone to Gerard’s and murmuring, “Please don’t do this.”

“You worry too much.” Gerard rubs Frank’s back, then rocks them both side-to-side, trying to move beyond this point of tension plaguing their limbs and Frank still clutching on to his shoulders.

After some time, Frank finally disengages himself and says, “Come on,” leading Gerard by one hand. They climb into bed, only bothering to kick off their shoes before doing so. Gerard sticks a knee in between Frank’s legs; Frank shifts up until his chin is pressing against Gerard’s forehead.

“Get some sleep,” Gerard murmurs against Frank’s shirt, but he stays awake for a long while after Frank’s breathing deepens and slows. Frank is warm against Gerard; Gerard flexes his fingers and moves away, inch by inch, until he can slide out of bed without disturbing Frank. Frank stirs anyway, but he only rolls onto his back and frowns a little in his sleep. Gerard tugs the comforter up, then pulls on a sweatshirt and pads out into the kitchen.

The coffee is almost done when there’s a knock at the door. It’s so soft and so late that Gerard thinks he imagined it. He squints through the peephole anyway, bites his lip once, and opens the door.

“Hey,” he says, turning away and leaving Mikey to come in on his own. He hears the door close and quiet footsteps. Funnily enough, there are only two clean cups next to the sink and he fills both of them with coffee.

Mikey stares down at the mug when Gerard slides it in front of him. The liquid shivers, scattering the reflection of the kitchen light over its surface. They stay quiet for a while, hands wrapped around their cups for warmth.

“You’re always trying to convince me about stuff,” Mikey says absently.

Gerard keeps his eyes on Mikey as he takes a sip of coffee, but Mikey doesn’t look up. “Yeah, but most of the time you never listen,” Gerard counters.

“I’m your younger brother. That’s what I’m supposed to do, you know.”

“Be a stubborn fuck?” Gerard asks with a faint smile.

“That applies to both of us,” Mikey points out.

“True. Maybe it’s genetic.”

Mikey snorts. It's silent again, and it stretches so long this time that Gerard starts to feel sleepy. He gently kicks Mikey's legs under the table.

“Are you staying here tonight?”

“I guess,” Mikey shrugs. He takes off his glasses and folds them neatly into his coat pocket as Gerard gets up to spread out some spare blankets over the couch. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

Gerard is almost at the bedroom when Mikey calls out: “Hey.” He looks so much smaller without his coat on, Gerard notices.

“What?” he prompts when Mikey just picks at his sleeves.

“I’m listening this time. To you. Just,” Mikey exhales, “don’t let me down or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Gerard laughs softly and even Mikey smiles a bit. “Sounds good.” He waits until he’s sure Mikey has nothing else to add, then turns off the light and slips into the bedroom. Only then does he let the smile slip off his face, easy as anything.

Frank’s voice emerges from the dark. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Gerard blindly walks forward until his shins hit the mattress. He lies down close to Frank. “I hope so.”

“You’re a crazy motherfucker,” Frank mumbles against Gerard’s shoulder once he’s settled.

Gerard’s hands mimic the shakiness of Frank’s voice. He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t know what to say. So much passes in silence these days because of that. It’s almost dawn before he falls asleep with his knuckles resting against Frank’s chest, Frank’s arms locked around him like he’d never let go.

 

*****

 

“Keep an eye out. Train stations are almost always bad news,” Ray said to Gerard. Frank and Mikey were out by the door already, prepping Chris with elementary advice: don’t talk to strangers, here’s an emergency phone number, your parents aren’t coming but your uncle will be there.

“I know,” Gerard replied. He had never run into trouble, but Ray still found it necessary to warn him each time.

Frank knocked on the door, although it was open and he was already looking in. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Gerard grabbed the papers off Ray’s desk and shrugged on his coat.

“Keys,” Ray said, tossing them through the air. Gerard put them in his pocket. They trooped out to where Chris was looking at them apprehensively.

Gerard squatted down. “You ready to go?”

Chris nodded as Gerard straightened up and gave Mikey and Ray one-armed hugs and Frank a quick kiss. Frank hung on to his belt anyway.

“Hey now,” Ray said, glancing down at Chris with a barely contained smile.

Frank ignored him. “I’ll see you.”

“Are you sure – ” Mikey started, and Gerard said, “Yes. I want you guys to go see if you can find Travis. After tonight, it’s probably a lost cause, so just, do it.”

Mikey twitched his chin down and then up. Gerard waved, made Chris wave, and stepped out into the chilly streets. Ray’s car was parked on the curb, right in front, and it only took them about ten minutes to get to the train station. The parking lot was practically empty. Gerard killed the engine and stepped out, walking around to the other side to help Chris. They walked to the platform – the train was already there.

“Come on, Chris.” Gerard held his hand out and Chris took it. The train looked beat up and all the cars were graffitied to hell on one side, but through the windows it was warmly lit and there were people settling in for the night’s ride. He led Chris to the endmost car.

“So your uncle’s going to meet you at the station, okay? Make sure to go with him and no one else,” he instructed. Chris just stared up at him with solemn eyes.

“Make sure,” Gerard repeated. He felt a tickle in the back of his mind – he only remembered to release Chris’s hand when Chris had nodded three times. “Alright, up on the train.”

The steps were almost too high for Chris’s short legs, but he made it up, glancing over his shoulder and giving a tiny smile before disappearing around the corner. Gerard followed on the platform until he could see Chris climbing onto a chair. Someone yelled final call almost immediately. A groaning noise emanated from the tracks, and then the train started to move. Gerard stood and watched until it disappeared into the distance. His vision was suddenly blurred with tears – he kept staring out into the dark, recounting all that had happened to him over the years in a steady pace until he was ready.

The only thing that surprised him was that he felt much more calm that he would have imagined. It was okay; he didn’t regret anything. He just wished he could hug Mikey once more, give his hair a good tug and have him grimace in response.

“Come out come out, wherever you are,” Gerard sang quietly, way too soft to be heard, but someone stepped out from the shadows of the empty station.

Gerard made a show of looking around. “Where’s everyone else?”

There was no answer. Two more people emerged into the light.

“Oh, okay. Here we go.” He took a deep breath and it was only then that he remembered he was wearing one of Frank’s shirts. It smelled clean, like detergent and bedsheets. The scent made his heart start to beat crazily and here it was, rising up from the base of his spine: the terror of being dragged away from everyone he’d ever known. He could feel it in his limbs and the way his throat seemed to close up – whereas the thought of Frank a few minutes ago had been safely sequestered in only his head, this time his chest, his entire fucking body, seemed to be blooming warm with helplessness.

He wavered, almost broke, and wildly thought about running for it. There was a chance; there was always a chance. But then –

“Three more, I think,” he whispered.

Gerard could feel them coming up behind him. When they pushed the syringe into his neck, his muscles immediately betrayed him, releasing all tension and making him go limp. It happened quickly - too quickly to panic for even a moment more. He was aware of what was going on but experiencing it all through layers and layers of disconnect. The tranquilizer wiped his mind clean, like an ocean of static and white noise washing up on his consciousness. But before he slipped under, he curled his hands into loose fists – if he concentrated hard enough, maybe he’d be able to feel Frank’s pulse resonating through them, steady and solid.

He inhaled, felt a heartbeat in his wrists once, twice, and then he was gone.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Mutant-verse