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Sometimes, it takes him too long to say something. He'll back himself up, with each clipped syllable rewinding in his head. He tries to understand how the word is supposed to sound when it comes out, so that by the time it gets to his tongue, he knows what he'll say. People don't realize that it's really a long process to talk. It's when his stomach starts to ache that he really begins to lose control of everything on him that enables him to speak.His tongue swells with horror of the bitter taste of vomit. His head gets dizzy from the thought of a nosebleded that could possibly break into his words.His throat gets tight. Next, his oxygen, the stuff he's breathing in through his nose starts to diminish in it's quality.

When it gets to this point, he'll hold his hand over his mouth and disappear before he can attempt to get another word out.

The anxiety that leeches itself onto the back of his stuttering only makes social events that much more awkward for him. Looking people in the eye with the looming potential of conversation is enough for him to fake his own asthma attack and flee the scene with his thumb and index finger pinched on his nostrils, excusing himself when he bumps into the furniture and people.

On the balcony of Frank's apartment, Mikey tries to catch his breath, and pinches his nose for the pain creeping up right between his eyes. Frank knows better than to come out and check on him, so when the door opens and slides back shut quietly, Mikey turns, butterflies spreading their wings in his stomach and chest. The balcony is reasonably big - the entire apratment is after Frank landed that writing job with the paper - so the person, the other man, keeps his distance. With peripheral vision Mikey can see the man light up. Living with Gerard, Mikey's learned that people smoke to calm themselves down from an stressful event or a painful one. As he turns his head a fraction to see the smoke shoot out into the dark sky, Mikey can't help but belive that this person didn't want to be at the party either.

It makes him feel a little bit better. He pulls his hands up inside the sleeves of his jacket that Frank handed him on the way out. And he smiles to himself. It's cold, but Mikey really wants it to rain.

"So," the stranger says. "Your nose isn't bleeding." And he's not looking at Mikey, just out at the city. The dark streets, the few flickering lamps below them. Mikey clenches fists to the inside of his sleeves.

"What?"

He looks at the person. In this light, Mikey can't tell if the hoodie the guy is wearing is black or purple. He swallows like it's the most difficult thing he could do at this point. From here, there's nowhere to run. He either stays outside with one person, or he goes back inside with thirty or forty other people.

"Your nose," the guy says, "seems fine." He's still not looking at Mikey, but that's fine. Eye contact wouldn't really help. He's still talking to the sky.

Mikey struggles with what to say. He can feel his mouth going numb. "I don't - I - I," he stumbles over the explanation in his head, which is feeling lighter with each stupid syllable he's tripping on. "I - uh. I." One deep breath. Two, three. Mikey takes out his inhaler.

The guy blows more smoke at the moon. As Mikey inhales, his eyes follow the trail of gray-white in the sky.

"So, if you're okay with faking your nose bleeding, are you eventually going to like, fake your own death?" The guy is observing the cherry at the end of his cigarette. He's so casual about conversation, it's making Mikey's head spin even more. The stars are moving. He doesn't know why Frank talked him into this, or how. It had to be his personality. The way he uses positive words to get Mikey to believe that people aren't so bad and that talking is nothing, really. When really, it's everything.

"Or your marriage? Like, for money. Would you fake that, too?" The guy is still talking, breaking Mikey's train of thought. He wants to say no, but he can't. He's not sure it would come out. He's completely appalled by the idea of lying about things like death and marriage for cash. He wants to tell this person his thoughts, but he can't seem to open his mouth, even though his brain is telling him to.

Mikey's brain is telling him to say, "No, what the hell? That shit's for gold diggers and the mafia." It just won't happen. Instead, he catches the stranger's eyes, and Mikey shakes his head.

"No? You wouldn't do that?"

Mikey shakes his head again, looking at his feet. He scuffs his boot on the perfect cement. He can feel his tongue growing and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He wants to scream, but mostly, that would come out wrong, too.

"It's good that you're okay, though," the guy says. He says it so conversationally. Mikey can only stare at him. "I'm Gabe, by the way," he says. He nods once, up. And then, as if he hadn't seen him standing there, Gabe looks Mikey up and down.

This makes Mikey wish he were invisible. Anytime he meets somebody new, they have something to say about his appearance. This can range from anything, to his glasses or his shoes, and everything in between. As if to hide himself, Mikey folds his arms across his chest. He can feel his ribs, even through his jacket. He promises himself he'll eat when he gets home. Maybe when his stomach isn't sick. Maybe when he can swallow normally. Maybe before bed. He looks at the ground as Gabe stands up straight, and not on the railing.

He asks Mikey, "Do you wear contacts?"

Mikey shakes his head.

"You remind me of somebody who would wear contacts," Gabe says offhandedly. He shrugs. "Guess not. I'd have to know your name first. Before I knew what kind of dude you were, you know?" he leans forward, braced on the rail, towards Mikey. "So, what's your name?"

Mikey breathes in through his mouth, deeply, and then shrugs. He shakes his head. It gets this bad. It hasn't been this bad in some time, but when the other person talks this much, Mikey can't seem to think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound like he was mentally handicapped. He never knows if it'll come out the right way. He could say Mikey, if he tried really hard. He puts his lips together.

"M-M-Mikey," he finally spits out.

Gabe flicks the ash of his cigarette off the edge of the balcony. Mikey wants to look and see what happens to it. He wants to watch it spinkle like dirty snow all over the ground. They're far too high to see where it lands, but, it's the idea that Mikey has, that everything eventually lands in its right way.

"Can I tell you something, Mikey?" Gabe's leaning forward more. His middle and his feet look like they're in two different places. Mikey can't keep his eyes off the ground. He nods, he'll listen as long as it's not a question he'll be obligated to answer with a lengthy response.

Gabe is quiet for a second. Mikey glances up through his eyelashes to see Gabe finish off his cigarette. He flicks the butt over the edge with the ashes. He says, "I hate being in there as much as you do."

Miket doesn't realize Gabe is right in his face until he sees bright green Nike's in front of his own boots. He looks up. It's weird. Mikey's never been this close, physically to a person that wasn't throwing up from whatever they drank while he held back their hair. He takes note that Gabe has a short haircut. To Gabe's comment, Mikey can't think of anything to say. He just tries to smile.

Gabe's eyes are focused entirely on Mikey's mouth. Mikey brings up his hand to finger the string around his neck, and he's looking at the gold around Gabe's neck. His knees are going to give out. He can feel it. He needs to eat. And he needs to not feel like he should say something. He shouldn't want to thank Gabe. He didn't do anything.

"I should get back, though," Gabe whispers, because of their closeness. "Haven't you heard?" Mikey looks up into Gabe's eyes. "I'm the life of the party." There's something like sadness in his eyes. Mikey takes in a breath, readying himself to apologize, but Gabe's gone before he can.

*

On days like today, when the mere thought of having to open his mouth overwhelms him, Mikey gets out of bed long enough to get a bowl of cereal, knock on Gerard's door as a form of greeting and put The Smiths on. When his throat feels dry just from the idea of conversation, Mikey doesn't even bother putting his glasses on; he's not going anywhere.

Gerard knocks on Mikey's door near dinnertime. The door is pushed open and Mikey can't even sit up. Gerard frowns and sits on the bed with his brother. He says, "Hungry?"

"Nope," Mikey says quickly, just to get it out. Gerard is the one person he's most comfortable talking to, and he still has to do it quickly, in clipped sentences. "I - I already - Earlier. I - I, uh." Mikey closes his mouth and points to the cereal bowl on the dresser. He ate.

"Frank called," Gerard says, softly. "I heard you met Gabe."

Mikey tries not to let his eyes widen. He licks his lips and then nods against his pillow. Gerard continues. "I was going to see Frank tonight. Do you wanna come with?" He runs his fingers through Mikey's hair. It's all fresh soap and toothpaste. "You don't have to, Mikes," Gerard adds. "I get it, Kid."

"Why - Frank's, what's. . ." Mikey sighs. "Activities?"

Gerard smiles a little. "Just movies or something. The thing is - there might be more people than just me there."

Mikey stiffens under his Spider-Man blankets. (He's really glad that doesn't come up in conversation - being a grown man and re-reading every issue of Spider-Man he owns on Peter Parker's birthday. And then MJ's.) "Do you want - I could."

"You don't have to, Mike. You can stay home."

"No." Mikey sits up, but has no intention of looking respectable. He tells himself that's okay. Mikey assures himself of a lot of things when he's not sure he wants to put efforts forth, when all that's going to come out of it is a conversation he'll end up throwing up over.

Gerard is nice enough to stay quiet in the car on the way over to Frank's. Sometimes, the beforehand of a get together is far worse than the actual event. The build up of possible hyperventilation, the nosebleeds that might be the highlight to a night of stuttering and near tears during conversation. Mikey pulls his sleeves over his hands and presses his forehead against the window. He tries to shut his mind off.

Mikey doesn't hang his coat when they get to Frank's despite the warmth of the apartment, the room. Before he makes a beeline for the bathroom, Mikey glances at Frank, pats his shoulder in greeting, as thanks for the invite. His hands are shaking already, because there are a few people sitting around in the living room. He knows them - it's Jamia and Lyn. Jimmy's in the kitchen, yelling about how Frank is a little shit for not having anything good to drink.

Mikey's stomach is churning.

The bathroom door is locked. Mentally, Mikey curses. Even to himself, Mikey can't talk. He squeezes his hands together in tight fists the more Jimmy clangs around the kitchen, in his quest for something stronger than a Coke to drink. (Mikey notes that Jimmy has never cared that Frank helps Gerard with his recovery by not keeping alchohol in the cupboards or in the fridge anymore.)

Mikey twists the doorknob again, praying it'll open; it doesn't. Seconds later, almost as soon as his hand is wrapped around the cuff of his sleeve, it does. It opens and Gabe stops in the doorway. "Oh," Gabe says. "Mikey, right?" He shuts the door. The hall is completely open, but Mikey suddenly feels claustrophobic, and he backs himself up into the wall. He thinks Gabe can sense the discomfort, as he leans against the wall opposite.

"Did you just get here?" Gabe asks. He casually picks a piece of lint from Mikey's jacket. He watches Mikey, expecting an answer.

Eyeing the silver doorknob to the bathroom, a haven of sorts, Mikey nods. "And Gerard."

Gabe squints. "Yeah, yeah, right. Your brother?"

Mikey nods. Frank must have told Gabe about him and Gerard that night at that other party. Mikey flinches when Gabe leans forward. "Are you okay?" Gabe asks, sounding more concerned than he should at this point in the conversation. Whatever point it is. Mikey believes that they're still, maybe, somewhere at the beginning. He nods to answer Gabe's question.

"I -uhm. B-Bathroom." Mikey points.

Gabe steps away from the door. He's still wearing Nike's, but these are yellow. Mikey smiles. "What?"

Mikey points to Gabe's shoes and smiles. Gabe says, "Thanks."

Mikey watches Gabe walk down the hall and turn, to join everybody else and hopefully keep Jimmy quiet, at least for a little while. Mikey sighs against the bathroom door, not realizing he'd been holding his breath most of the time Gabe stood there with him.

The light in the bathroom is too bright. Mikey drags his fingers down his flushed cheek. He watches his reflection remove his glasses and scrub his eyes with cold water. He wants his bed back. He picks at the skin around his left ring finger until it looks raw and red from the aggrivation. For some reason, it helps Mikey catch his breath. He forgot his inhaler at home. Even though Gerard said there could be more people here, Mikey doubted it; he didn't think he'd have an asthma attack. With on last look in the mirror, Mikey fakes a smile, and even he thinks it looks forced.

Jimmy settles down enough with Frank's unopened gallon of iced tea, though he looks antsy to get the movie started. Lyn is playing in his hair, like a cat. Jamia and Gerard are talking about her art, with her sketchbook open across their laps and Frank's in the kitchen making popcorn. Mikey can smell it, and it isn't helping the fact that Gabe's across the room, eyes flickering on him every few seconds. Both of them are the third wheels.

Mikey's glad when Gabe picks up the DVD case to show him what will be the feature presentation tonight - Dawn of the Dead.. Mikey can feel the smile break across his face, all forcing aside.

Frank walks in with cans of various drinks for everybody and a bag of Twizzlers hanging from his mouth, like a dog with a frisbee. He hands Mikey a ginger-ale, Gerard the same thing. Gabe gets the pink lemonade, as does Lyn. Jamia gets the regualr lemonade with a straw ("Because rats shit all over cans, you pigs") and Frank keeps the Coke for himself. He motions for Mikey to sit after he turns the lights low for the movie. But there's nowhere to go, other than next to Gabe on the smaller couch. Jimmy's claimed one all to himself, and Frank sits himself on the other side of Jamia. Mikey's thankful that Gabe has the decency to not pat the seat next to him or anything like that. He's just looking at the TV.

"Skip this one," Jimmy says to the trailers before the movie. "This one. This one."

And then the movie starts. And Mikey eyes the bowl of popcorn that Jamia brought in as Jimmy complained about the previews. It's just sitting there, getting cold. Even though this is his favorite movie, Mikey's looking at the popcorn more, because he's starving. Twice, he thinks he'll get up and do it. He knows if he does, though, Gerard's going to think he's going back to the bathroom, and he'll ask if Mikey's all right. Everybody would look and Mikey would have to say something.

He can feel his stomach work up a really good complaint, and it rumbles loud enough for Gabe to hear. He looks at Mikey with a slight smile and gets the popcorn himself and nods at Frank for the Twizzlers.

Without a word, Gabe takes a handful of popcorn and easily offers the bowl to Mikey. The movie is much more enjoyable on a settled stomach.

But when the movie ends, there's a mad rush for the bathroom. Mikey stays seated while Frank, Jamia and Jimmy all run to the bathroom. There's yelling done by all of them and then eventually the door slams. Frank and Jamia come back. Jamia let's Frank know, though, "I'm next."

Frank laughs like Jamia just challenged him and says, "Yeah, well. we'll see about that," and turns the radio on. The mood isn't tense, except from where Mikey's sitting. Everybody seems to know exactly what to say and do to each to make themselves comfortable. In a way, it almost makes Mikey want to cry. The candy he's chewing on won't go down. And he starts to panic. He swallows once, twice. The licorice is still lodged in his throat. He reaches for whatever drink comes first and the liquid makes the candy go down.

Gabe's hand touches Mikey's. He says, I just want my drink back," with a smile. It's nice, even, the way he does it. Quiet, and polite so that nobody else makes a big deal out of it. Mikey speaks his entire first complete sentence of the night, in a hurry.

"I'm going outside."

The chill of the October air hits Mikey in a good way. It's refreshing. He almost wants to unbutton his coat, but he doesn't, because the door opens and slides shut again. "Gerard. . ." Mikey starts, but looks over and it's not Gerard.

"Nope, Gabe," he says. "I just wanted. . . I don't know. I wanted to see if you were okay. Are you?" Gabe digs around in his back pocket and extracts a pack of cigarettes. Mikey's telling himself that Gabe's a little worked up over the drink thing too. But he doesn't quite believe it. Gabe could just like cigarettes for the taste. "Do you smoke? No - you had an inhaler the other night, right? It was blue?"

Mikey nods. Gabe says, "I'm like three inches away. is my smoking going to bother you? Because I really don't want to move away."

"It's not going - I won't - It's." Mikey bites his tongue.

"I'll take that as a yes," Gabe says quietly. He lights up and hits his cigarette once. "So, Frank's a writer. Your brother and Jamia work the paints pretty well. . . What is it that you do, Mikey?"

Mikey's worked for the same record label for as long as he can remember. He got the internship when he was seventeen. They just kept giving him things to do, until they realized his internship was over and started paying him.

"Uh. Complicated," Mikey says. "It's - It's industry. . . stuff."

Gabe nods. "What kind of industry?"

"Music."

"Nice. You're a corporate A-hole, huh? Do you get a ton of shit for free and all that?" Gabe leans over the railing and blows his smoke downward. Mikey tips on the toes of his feet to watch. He nods when Gabe looks at him for an answer.

"That's cool."

The silence is nowhere near as awkward as Mikey thought it was going to be. He didn't feel the urge to need to say something. He just let Gabe enjoy his cigarette and by touch, found out that he had three pennies in his pocket.

"Listen," Gabe breaks the silence. Mikey was just starting to revel in it. The way it felt. Natural. "I kind of get that you're a quiet dude. I appreciate that, even. So, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to do something. . . with me. Like, with just me sometime."

"Why?"

The butterflies have opened their wings again in the pit of Mikey's stomach. He's still hungry. He starts to scrap at the skin around his finger again. The pierce of it makes him feel calm, somewhat steadied as Gabe launches into some explanation.

"Why? Because I want to. Because the things Frank tells me about you - and the way you looked that night. In the dark. I don't know - I liked it, though. So, can we pretend like this isn't high school and you tell me your cat died or something and give me a flar no. I'm a man, I can take it."

Mikey's staring at his feet, and chewing on his lip. He's never had somebody say something like that to him before. At all. He's slightly confused, but tingling and dizzy all at the same time. He should say no. He should shake his head, or take a few seconds to politely say no. He should do anything but nod as Gabe stares at him. But he does. Mikey looks up, pushes his glasses up his nose and nods.

"O-Okay."

"You won't fake a nosebleed or your death?" Gabe asks.

Mikey smiles, but the nosebleed seems pretty unavoidable. And he's shocked, stunned, feet rooted to the cement when Gabe leans forward a little and kisses his cheek. He whispers something in his ear, too, but it's mostly just white noise. Mikey draws up a mental note that Gabe smells like cigarettes (which was obvious before) and lemonade.

Mikey's alone on the balcony. He takes his coat off and goes back inside.

Description
Sometimes, it takes him too long to say something. He'll back himself up, with each clipped syllable rewinding in his head. He tries to understand how the word is supposed to sound when it comes out, so that by the time it gets to his tongue, he knows what he'll say. People don't realize that it's really a long process to talk. It's when his stomach starts to ache that he really begins to lose control of everything on him that enables him to speak.His tongue swells with horror of the bitter taste of vomit. His head gets dizzy from the thought of a nosebleded that could possibly break into his words.His throat gets tight. Next, his oxygen, the stuff he's breathing in through his nose starts to diminish in it's quality.

When it gets to this point, he'll hold his hand over his mouth and disappear before he can attempt to get another word out.

The anxiety that leeches itself onto the back of his stuttering only makes social events that much more awkward for him. Looking people in the eye with the looming potential of conversation is enough for him to fake his own asthma attack and flee the scene with his thumb and index finger pinched on his nostrils, excusing himself when he bumps into the furniture and people.

On the balcony of Frank's apartment, Mikey tries to catch his breath, and pinches his nose for the pain creeping up right between his eyes. Frank knows better than to come out and check on him, so when the door opens and slides back shut quietly, Mikey turns, butterflies spreading their wings in his stomach and chest. The balcony is reasonably big - the entire apratment is after Frank landed that writing job with the paper - so the person, the other man, keeps his distance. With peripheral vision Mikey can see the man light up. Living with Gerard, Mikey's learned that people smoke to calm themselves down from an stressful event or a painful one. As he turns his head a fraction to see the smoke shoot out into the dark sky, Mikey can't help but belive that this person didn't want to be at the party either.

It makes him feel a little bit better. He pulls his hands up inside the sleeves of his jacket that Frank handed him on the way out. And he smiles to himself. It's cold, but Mikey really wants it to rain.

"So," the stranger says. "Your nose isn't bleeding." And he's not looking at Mikey, just out at the city. The dark streets, the few flickering lamps below them. Mikey clenches fists to the inside of his sleeves.

"What?"

He looks at the person. In this light, Mikey can't tell if the hoodie the guy is wearing is black or purple. He swallows like it's the most difficult thing he could do at this point. From here, there's nowhere to run. He either stays outside with one person, or he goes back inside with thirty or forty other people.

"Your nose," the guy says, "seems fine." He's still not looking at Mikey, but that's fine. Eye contact wouldn't really help. He's still talking to the sky.

Mikey struggles with what to say. He can feel his mouth going numb. "I don't - I - I," he stumbles over the explanation in his head, which is feeling lighter with each stupid syllable he's tripping on. "I - uh. I." One deep breath. Two, three. Mikey takes out his inhaler.

The guy blows more smoke at the moon. As Mikey inhales, his eyes follow the trail of gray-white in the sky.

"So, if you're okay with faking your nose bleeding, are you eventually going to like, fake your own death?" The guy is observing the cherry at the end of his cigarette. He's so casual about conversation, it's making Mikey's head spin even more. The stars are moving. He doesn't know why Frank talked him into this, or how. It had to be his personality. The way he uses positive words to get Mikey to believe that people aren't so bad and that talking is nothing, really. When really, it's everything.

"Or your marriage? Like, for money. Would you fake that, too?" The guy is still talking, breaking Mikey's train of thought. He wants to say no, but he can't. He's not sure it would come out. He's completely appalled by the idea of lying about things like death and marriage for cash. He wants to tell this person his thoughts, but he can't seem to open his mouth, even though his brain is telling him to.

Mikey's brain is telling him to say, "No, what the hell? That shit's for gold diggers and the mafia." It just won't happen. Instead, he catches the stranger's eyes, and Mikey shakes his head.

"No? You wouldn't do that?"

Mikey shakes his head again, looking at his feet. He scuffs his boot on the perfect cement. He can feel his tongue growing and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He wants to scream, but mostly, that would come out wrong, too.

"It's good that you're okay, though," the guy says. He says it so conversationally. Mikey can only stare at him. "I'm Gabe, by the way," he says. He nods once, up. And then, as if he hadn't seen him standing there, Gabe looks Mikey up and down.

This makes Mikey wish he were invisible. Anytime he meets somebody new, they have something to say about his appearance. This can range from anything, to his glasses or his shoes, and everything in between. As if to hide himself, Mikey folds his arms across his chest. He can feel his ribs, even through his jacket. He promises himself he'll eat when he gets home. Maybe when his stomach isn't sick. Maybe when he can swallow normally. Maybe before bed. He looks at the ground as Gabe stands up straight, and not on the railing.

He asks Mikey, "Do you wear contacts?"

Mikey shakes his head.

"You remind me of somebody who would wear contacts," Gabe says offhandedly. He shrugs. "Guess not. I'd have to know your name first. Before I knew what kind of dude you were, you know?" he leans forward, braced on the rail, towards Mikey. "So, what's your name?"

Mikey breathes in through his mouth, deeply, and then shrugs. He shakes his head. It gets this bad. It hasn't been this bad in some time, but when the other person talks this much, Mikey can't seem to think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound like he was mentally handicapped. He never knows if it'll come out the right way. He could say Mikey, if he tried really hard. He puts his lips together.

"M-M-Mikey," he finally spits out.

Gabe flicks the ash of his cigarette off the edge of the balcony. Mikey wants to look and see what happens to it. He wants to watch it spinkle like dirty snow all over the ground. They're far too high to see where it lands, but, it's the idea that Mikey has, that everything eventually lands in its right way.

"Can I tell you something, Mikey?" Gabe's leaning forward more. His middle and his feet look like they're in two different places. Mikey can't keep his eyes off the ground. He nods, he'll listen as long as it's not a question he'll be obligated to answer with a lengthy response.

Gabe is quiet for a second. Mikey glances up through his eyelashes to see Gabe finish off his cigarette. He flicks the butt over the edge with the ashes. He says, "I hate being in there as much as you do."

Miket doesn't realize Gabe is right in his face until he sees bright green Nike's in front of his own boots. He looks up. It's weird. Mikey's never been this close, physically to a person that wasn't throwing up from whatever they drank while he held back their hair. He takes note that Gabe has a short haircut. To Gabe's comment, Mikey can't think of anything to say. He just tries to smile.

Gabe's eyes are focused entirely on Mikey's mouth. Mikey brings up his hand to finger the string around his neck, and he's looking at the gold around Gabe's neck. His knees are going to give out. He can feel it. He needs to eat. And he needs to not feel like he should say something. He shouldn't want to thank Gabe. He didn't do anything.

"I should get back, though," Gabe whispers, because of their closeness. "Haven't you heard?" Mikey looks up into Gabe's eyes. "I'm the life of the party." There's something like sadness in his eyes. Mikey takes in a breath, readying himself to apologize, but Gabe's gone before he can.

*

On days like today, when the mere thought of having to open his mouth overwhelms him, Mikey gets out of bed long enough to get a bowl of cereal, knock on Gerard's door as a form of greeting and put The Smiths on. When his throat feels dry just from the idea of conversation, Mikey doesn't even bother putting his glasses on; he's not going anywhere.

Gerard knocks on Mikey's door near dinnertime. The door is pushed open and Mikey can't even sit up. Gerard frowns and sits on the bed with his brother. He says, "Hungry?"

"Nope," Mikey says quickly, just to get it out. Gerard is the one person he's most comfortable talking to, and he still has to do it quickly, in clipped sentences. "I - I already - Earlier. I - I, uh." Mikey closes his mouth and points to the cereal bowl on the dresser. He ate.

"Frank called," Gerard says, softly. "I heard you met Gabe."

Mikey tries not to let his eyes widen. He licks his lips and then nods against his pillow. Gerard continues. "I was going to see Frank tonight. Do you wanna come with?" He runs his fingers through Mikey's hair. It's all fresh soap and toothpaste. "You don't have to, Mikes," Gerard adds. "I get it, Kid."

"Why - Frank's, what's. . ." Mikey sighs. "Activities?"

Gerard smiles a little. "Just movies or something. The thing is - there might be more people than just me there."

Mikey stiffens under his Spider-Man blankets. (He's really glad that doesn't come up in conversation - being a grown man and re-reading every issue of Spider-Man he owns on Peter Parker's birthday. And then MJ's.) "Do you want - I could."

"You don't have to, Mike. You can stay home."

"No." Mikey sits up, but has no intention of looking respectable. He tells himself that's okay. Mikey assures himself of a lot of things when he's not sure he wants to put efforts forth, when all that's going to come out of it is a conversation he'll end up throwing up over.

Gerard is nice enough to stay quiet in the car on the way over to Frank's. Sometimes, the beforehand of a get together is far worse than the actual event. The build up of possible hyperventilation, the nosebleeds that might be the highlight to a night of stuttering and near tears during conversation. Mikey pulls his sleeves over his hands and presses his forehead against the window. He tries to shut his mind off.

Mikey doesn't hang his coat when they get to Frank's despite the warmth of the apartment, the room. Before he makes a beeline for the bathroom, Mikey glances at Frank, pats his shoulder in greeting, as thanks for the invite. His hands are shaking already, because there are a few people sitting around in the living room. He knows them - it's Jamia and Lyn. Jimmy's in the kitchen, yelling about how Frank is a little shit for not having anything good to drink.

Mikey's stomach is churning.

The bathroom door is locked. Mentally, Mikey curses. Even to himself, Mikey can't talk. He squeezes his hands together in tight fists the more Jimmy clangs around the kitchen, in his quest for something stronger than a Coke to drink. (Mikey notes that Jimmy has never cared that Frank helps Gerard with his recovery by not keeping alchohol in the cupboards or in the fridge anymore.)

Mikey twists the doorknob again, praying it'll open; it doesn't. Seconds later, almost as soon as his hand is wrapped around the cuff of his sleeve, it does. It opens and Gabe stops in the doorway. "Oh," Gabe says. "Mikey, right?" He shuts the door. The hall is completely open, but Mikey suddenly feels claustrophobic, and he backs himself up into the wall. He thinks Gabe can sense the discomfort, as he leans against the wall opposite.

"Did you just get here?" Gabe asks. He casually picks a piece of lint from Mikey's jacket. He watches Mikey, expecting an answer.

Eyeing the silver doorknob to the bathroom, a haven of sorts, Mikey nods. "And Gerard."

Gabe squints. "Yeah, yeah, right. Your brother?"

Mikey nods. Frank must have told Gabe about him and Gerard that night at that other party. Mikey flinches when Gabe leans forward. "Are you okay?" Gabe asks, sounding more concerned than he should at this point in the conversation. Whatever point it is. Mikey believes that they're still, maybe, somewhere at the beginning. He nods to answer Gabe's question.

"I -uhm. B-Bathroom." Mikey points.

Gabe steps away from the door. He's still wearing Nike's, but these are yellow. Mikey smiles. "What?"

Mikey points to Gabe's shoes and smiles. Gabe says, "Thanks."

Mikey watches Gabe walk down the hall and turn, to join everybody else and hopefully keep Jimmy quiet, at least for a little while. Mikey sighs against the bathroom door, not realizing he'd been holding his breath most of the time Gabe stood there with him.

The light in the bathroom is too bright. Mikey drags his fingers down his flushed cheek. He watches his reflection remove his glasses and scrub his eyes with cold water. He wants his bed back. He picks at the skin around his left ring finger until it looks raw and red from the aggrivation. For some reason, it helps Mikey catch his breath. He forgot his inhaler at home. Even though Gerard said there could be more people here, Mikey doubted it; he didn't think he'd have an asthma attack. With on last look in the mirror, Mikey fakes a smile, and even he thinks it looks forced.

Jimmy settles down enough with Frank's unopened gallon of iced tea, though he looks antsy to get the movie started. Lyn is playing in his hair, like a cat. Jamia and Gerard are talking about her art, with her sketchbook open across their laps and Frank's in the kitchen making popcorn. Mikey can smell it, and it isn't helping the fact that Gabe's across the room, eyes flickering on him every few seconds. Both of them are the third wheels.

Mikey's glad when Gabe picks up the DVD case to show him what will be the feature presentation tonight - Dawn of the Dead.. Mikey can feel the smile break across his face, all forcing aside.

Frank walks in with cans of various drinks for everybody and a bag of Twizzlers hanging from his mouth, like a dog with a frisbee. He hands Mikey a ginger-ale, Gerard the same thing. Gabe gets the pink lemonade, as does Lyn. Jamia gets the regualr lemonade with a straw ("Because rats shit all over cans, you pigs") and Frank keeps the Coke for himself. He motions for Mikey to sit after he turns the lights low for the movie. But there's nowhere to go, other than next to Gabe on the smaller couch. Jimmy's claimed one all to himself, and Frank sits himself on the other side of Jamia. Mikey's thankful that Gabe has the decency to not pat the seat next to him or anything like that. He's just looking at the TV.

"Skip this one," Jimmy says to the trailers before the movie. "This one. This one."

And then the movie starts. And Mikey eyes the bowl of popcorn that Jamia brought in as Jimmy complained about the previews. It's just sitting there, getting cold. Even though this is his favorite movie, Mikey's looking at the popcorn more, because he's starving. Twice, he thinks he'll get up and do it. He knows if he does, though, Gerard's going to think he's going back to the bathroom, and he'll ask if Mikey's all right. Everybody would look and Mikey would have to say something.

He can feel his stomach work up a really good complaint, and it rumbles loud enough for Gabe to hear. He looks at Mikey with a slight smile and gets the popcorn himself and nods at Frank for the Twizzlers.

Without a word, Gabe takes a handful of popcorn and easily offers the bowl to Mikey. The movie is much more enjoyable on a settled stomach.

But when the movie ends, there's a mad rush for the bathroom. Mikey stays seated while Frank, Jamia and Jimmy all run to the bathroom. There's yelling done by all of them and then eventually the door slams. Frank and Jamia come back. Jamia let's Frank know, though, "I'm next."

Frank laughs like Jamia just challenged him and says, "Yeah, well. we'll see about that," and turns the radio on. The mood isn't tense, except from where Mikey's sitting. Everybody seems to know exactly what to say and do to each to make themselves comfortable. In a way, it almost makes Mikey want to cry. The candy he's chewing on won't go down. And he starts to panic. He swallows once, twice. The licorice is still lodged in his throat. He reaches for whatever drink comes first and the liquid makes the candy go down.

Gabe's hand touches Mikey's. He says, I just want my drink back," with a smile. It's nice, even, the way he does it. Quiet, and polite so that nobody else makes a big deal out of it. Mikey speaks his entire first complete sentence of the night, in a hurry.

"I'm going outside."

The chill of the October air hits Mikey in a good way. It's refreshing. He almost wants to unbutton his coat, but he doesn't, because the door opens and slides shut again. "Gerard. . ." Mikey starts, but looks over and it's not Gerard.

"Nope, Gabe," he says. "I just wanted. . . I don't know. I wanted to see if you were okay. Are you?" Gabe digs around in his back pocket and extracts a pack of cigarettes. Mikey's telling himself that Gabe's a little worked up over the drink thing too. But he doesn't quite believe it. Gabe could just like cigarettes for the taste. "Do you smoke? No - you had an inhaler the other night, right? It was blue?"

Mikey nods. Gabe says, "I'm like three inches away. is my smoking going to bother you? Because I really don't want to move away."

"It's not going - I won't - It's." Mikey bites his tongue.

"I'll take that as a yes," Gabe says quietly. He lights up and hits his cigarette once. "So, Frank's a writer. Your brother and Jamia work the paints pretty well. . . What is it that you do, Mikey?"

Mikey's worked for the same record label for as long as he can remember. He got the internship when he was seventeen. They just kept giving him things to do, until they realized his internship was over and started paying him.

"Uh. Complicated," Mikey says. "It's - It's industry. . . stuff."

Gabe nods. "What kind of industry?"

"Music."

"Nice. You're a corporate A-hole, huh? Do you get a ton of shit for free and all that?" Gabe leans over the railing and blows his smoke downward. Mikey tips on the toes of his feet to watch. He nods when Gabe looks at him for an answer.

"That's cool."

The silence is nowhere near as awkward as Mikey thought it was going to be. He didn't feel the urge to need to say something. He just let Gabe enjoy his cigarette and by touch, found out that he had three pennies in his pocket.

"Listen," Gabe breaks the silence. Mikey was just starting to revel in it. The way it felt. Natural. "I kind of get that you're a quiet dude. I appreciate that, even. So, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to do something. . . with me. Like, with just me sometime."

"Why?"

The butterflies have opened their wings again in the pit of Mikey's stomach. He's still hungry. He starts to scrap at the skin around his finger again. The pierce of it makes him feel calm, somewhat steadied as Gabe launches into some explanation.

"Why? Because I want to. Because the things Frank tells me about you - and the way you looked that night. In the dark. I don't know - I liked it, though. So, can we pretend like this isn't high school and you tell me your cat died or something and give me a flar no. I'm a man, I can take it."

Mikey's staring at his feet, and chewing on his lip. He's never had somebody say something like that to him before. At all. He's slightly confused, but tingling and dizzy all at the same time. He should say no. He should shake his head, or take a few seconds to politely say no. He should do anything but nod as Gabe stares at him. But he does. Mikey looks up, pushes his glasses up his nose and nods.

"O-Okay."

"You won't fake a nosebleed or your death?" Gabe asks.

Mikey smiles, but the nosebleed seems pretty unavoidable. And he's shocked, stunned, feet rooted to the cement when Gabe leans forward a little and kisses his cheek. He whispers something in his ear, too, but it's mostly just white noise. Mikey draws up a mental note that Gabe smells like cigarettes (which was obvious before) and lemonade.

Mikey's alone on the balcony. He takes his coat off and goes back inside.