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Another Innocent Face	By : NHB Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 1982 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Another Innocent Face
- 2-The Same Mistakes
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- 2
Title: Another Innocent Face: The Same Mistakes

Author: Normal Human Being

Rating: PG-13

Summary: “Glances, gestures, psychic messages through the mattress…I tried everything short of jumping him in the bathroom, and only then because my parents were asleep in the next room.”

Disclaimer: I do not know or own any of My Chemical Romance. To my knowledge, none of this has ever taken place. The story is entirely fictional and therefore not worthy of any decent lawyer’s time.

A/N: Thank you! All of you who reviewed, I love you dearly. Sorry it’s taken so long to update, but most of my time has been taken up with moving to/starting Uni, and all of my creative energy has been going into my CV.

My first words, to Alex at least, were not impressive. I’d stumbled downstairs and into the kitchen, nothing really managing to penetrate the morning-after wreckage of my mind.

“Good night?” Gerard asked. “Sorry I left you. Something kinda came up.” I’m willing to bet there was a smug smile playing across his lips at that point, an almost malevolent pride in his tone, but I was too hungover to notice it at the time.

“The usual,” I grunted, trying in vain to remember any part of the previous night. Some bar, some guy, some cubicle…the details were vague, and the more I thought about it the more they seemed to blur around the edges, folding in on each other until there was no bar, no stranger, no stall, just a writhing, squirming serpent of pain in my stomach.

If it hadn’t been there, that sharp, persistent pain that seemed to have worked it’s way into every inch of me, I probably would have noticed more. I would have noticed the sweep of the slender back in front of me. The mass of dark hair (hair which I now know is not as soft as it looks, and which smells of smoke and lavender) above it and the tight curve of his ass below. I usually notice things like that but, like I said, I was hungover and he was simply an obstacle between me and coffee. So I just stood there, shoulders slumped, eyes bloodshot and breath ragged, and said: "Would it kill you to fucking move?”

I don’t think it endeared me to him.

Or maybe it did, because later (much later, when he was mine and I was lying on top of him slick with sweat and mutual lust, my weight pressing down on him as if I could absorb him into my skin and claim him forever) he looked up at me and said, “Would it kill you to fucking move?” with this smile on his face, this knowing smile that said I’d always been his favourite.

At the time, he just stepped aside, shamefaced. Maybe muttered, “sorry.”
It wasn’t until later, when I had some caffeine in my system and was capable of rational thought, that Gerard introduced him.

“This is Alex,” he said. “He’s a friend.”

Then his ‘friend’ gave a shy half-wave and said “hi” in a voice that sounded like all the cigarettes he never smoked. The kind of voice that hits some ancient internal frequency that drives all the blood from your brain.

“Um,” I replied eloquently. “Sorry. I’m kind of…umm…”

“He’s in my fine art class,” Gerard explained. “We’re working on something. Together.”

“I wouldn’t waste your time, Alex. I know my brother’s a nice guy and everything, but there’s no need for you to flunk art on his behalf.”

“I’m not failing.”

“Only because you’re giving your tutor head.”

Gee gave this hollow laugh then, because he knew I was snapping out of spite. The guy standing next to him was…was…imagine an amalgamation of every poster you’ve ever jerked off to, give it the kind of quiet intensity that could knock anyone dead at ten paces and paint a half-shy, half-teasing smile permanently across its face, and you’d almost have one tenth of what I was seeing. He was gorgeous in the same way that the sun is warm, and I was suddenly left feeling very, very cold. “I’m sorry,” Gee told him, “Mikey found a bar stupid enough to serve him last night. You should probably just ignore him from here on in.”

Annoyingly, he did. I tried everything – every look, every line, every trick I could think of short of jumping him in the bathroom, and the only reason I didn’t do that was because my parents were asleep in the next room over. I watched him constantly, intently, doting on details and looking for any sign, any signal which would tell me how to peel him out of my brother’s arms. I used to lie in Gee’s bed, surrounded by the stench of their sex, tracing my fingers over the curves he had left in the mattress and tasting his sweat off the sheets, trying to guess the texture of his flesh. I could lie there for hours, or sit staring at the few things he left behind (bus tickets, bits of sketches, a comb, a threadbare shirt which Gerard slept in so he could wear it in the morning, a silent boast across the breakfast table) as if they’d help me decipher the series of tiny intimate gestures and muffled screams which made up their relationship.

No dice.

Alex seemed untouchable. Miserable, I started picking up Alex facsimiles and letting them fuck me through the mattress face down, so I could pretend it was him. Pathetic, I know, but then I was never a good loser. It even worked for a while – all these boys were pretty little Alexes for a moment or two, until they lit up a cigarette or drank the wrong brand of beer in the wrong way, and then I’d storm out of the bar or house or car or wherever, stumble home and listen to my brother fucking his boyfriend on the other side of my wall. Like I said, I’m not a good loser.

By the time he rang, I’d almost resigned myself to the fact that Gerard had won, almost convinced myself to move on to blondes or bodybuilders or girls and get on with my life. But then Gerard decided to go to the Crooked House, our favourite bar because it didn’t believe in things like licensing laws, substance control or the age of consent. It was our kind of bar. Unfortunately for Alex, it wasn’t his.
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Another Innocent Face