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Gerry has no idea how Michael manages to get them invited to parties.
It makes no sense. This house party is being thrown by one of Gerry’s classmates, and Michael doesn’t even go to their school. Logically, he should not be the more socially-connected one in their relationship. Gerry chalks it up to the art student appeal. No one can resist a charming art student.
Besides, he doesn’t need to think about why they’re drinking free booze, he only needs to be drinking it. And that’s exactly what he’s been doing for the past four hours, with a lot of dancing and corner-of-the-room makeout sessions thrown in. The night has gone great so far. He’s drunk, sweaty, and covered in fresh hickeys, and he couldn’t be happier.
It’s time for a break, though. Gerry slips out through the back door, tugging Michael along with him. There are only a couple of other people outside, smoking in the yard. Gerry sits down on the porch steps.
It’s quieter out here, with the sounds of music and raucous laughter muffled by the walls. Gerry takes a drink from his cup. He is well and truly fucked up at this point, but there are no good songs playing and it’s too loud inside for conversation, so he’s content to just and sit and float in the pleasantly woozy feeling.
He sets his drink down on the step next to him and takes Michael’s hand, putting it in his lap and patting it. Michael grins. “What’re you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Gerry says absentmindedly.
“I don’t believe it,” says Michael. He playfully knocks his shoulder into Gerry’s.
“Watch my drink, babe,” Gerry says, moving his cup out of the way so he can wrap his arm around Michael. “Okay, you want the truth?”
“Mm-hmm!”
“I’m actually thinking about that one My Chemical Romance live show where Gerard changed the lyrics of The End to call himself a faggot,” Gerry muses. “Should’ve been on the album. That shit blew my teenage mind. It was…” He stares into space, his brain too fuzzy to find the right adjective. He settles on, “Necessary.”
“Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing,” Michael mumbles into his hair. “Show-stopping, spectacular, never the same—”
“Okay, but it was, though!” Gerry insists. “The Black Parade changed everything! With the fucking—the—” He sighs. “Liza Minelli, babe, come on.”
Michael cracks up. Once he starts laughing, he can’t seem to stop, clutching Gerry’s arm and giggling uncontrollably.
They are, perhaps, both too drunk to be having this conversation.
The back door swings open. Gerry startles and manages to knock his cup over the edge of the steps. “Oh, fuck,” he says, and bursts out laughing along with Michael. He can’t even be mad about it. He should probably cut himself off anyway.
“Oh,” says a voice from above them. “Hi, Gerry.”
Gerry looks up. It’s dark outside, and he has to squint into the light coming from inside the house. It creates a sort of halo effect around the guy looking down at them, who, after a moment, Gerry is able to place as Martin Blackwood.
“Hey, Martin,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“I, er. Fine. It’s fine. I was just… coming out for some air,” says Martin.
Gerry pats the open space beside him, on the side that is not occupied by a still-giggling Michael. “Sit,” he says.
“Oh, er, okay,” Martin stammers. He steps over and takes a seat.
“So, how’s life?” Gerry asks. He hasn’t seen Martin since the last Ex Altiora show. He has to admit, he’d been surprised that Jon had actually invited him. Jon’s typically pretty shy about that kind of thing—but then again, Gerry had gotten a glimpse of him with Martin earlier, and by the look of it, he seems to have gotten over his shyness.
“How’s Jon?” Gerry asks with a grin.
“He’s… he’s good,” Martin says. He doesn’t sound as excited as Gerry would expect. They’d been all over each other on the dance floor, for fuck’s sake; he should be over the moon. Martin actually sounds kind of awful, though. His breathing is shaky, and he won’t make eye contact. Yeah. Shit. That definitely is not a happy look. That is not an I-snogged-my-crush-tonight look. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Martin almost looks like he’s about to—oh fuck, he’s crying. Fuck.
“Sorry,” Martin says miserably, wiping at his face. “I’m so sorry, I—I just—”
“No no no,” Gerry says quickly. Michael sits up. “It’s fine, do you… want to talk about anything?”
Martin leans over and puts his face in his hands. “Is he okay?” Michael whispers.
“I dunno,” Gerry whispers back. “Had too much, probably.” Gerry pats Martin on the back and pretends he can’t hear him sobbing into his hands. “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re okay, we’ve got you.”
“I’m so fucking stupid,” Martin says tearfully, with a definite slur in his words. “Why did I kiss him? Why did I think that was a good idea?”
“Sometimes you just do stuff because you feel like it,” Gerry says. “And then it’s… not a good idea, actually, but you still did it, so. Nothing you can do about it, really.” Fuck, he is so bad at this. Beside him, Michael stifles a snort.
“I thought… maybe it was okay.” Martin draws in a hiccupy breath. “I thought maybe it wasn’t just me? Like, there were signs? Sometimes he looks at me and he smiles this certain way and I, I thought it might be something more, but…” Martin curls into himself, letting out a small, broken sound of absolute anguish.
It sends a pang of sympathy through Gerry’s chest. He rubs circles into Martin’s back. “What happened?” he asks. “I mean, I saw some of it, but not enough, I guess.”
“He just ran away,” Martin says thickly. “He looked at me like… like I’d done something awful, and he ran away.”
“He’s stupid,” Gerry says immediately.
“He’s not stupid,” Martin mumbles.
“No, he’s very stupid. I’ve had to live with him for two years and I can say with absolute certainty that he is very stupid,” says Gerry. “So I’m sorry. For him being stupid.”
“Stop saying stupid,” Michael hisses at him.
“Oh God,” Martin says faintly. He looks up at Gerry with panic in his eyes, grabbing his hand. “Oh my God, you’re his roommate, I forgot—please don’t say anything to him about this, please, I don’t want him to—”
“Don’t worry, your breakdown is safe with me,” Gerry assures him.
“Thanks.” Martin sighs and goes quiet, staring out into the darkened yard. “I just wish I knew why,” he says. “I really thought he might like me back. I guess it was just wishful thinking.”
“Maybe he does like you,” Gerry suggests. “You never know. People make dumb decisions, especially when they’re drunk.” He would know; he’s the one trying to have this conversation while he’s barely coherent. Jesus.
“But if he liked me, why wouldn’t he want to kiss me?” Martin asks. “He wouldn’t just drop me after that, that’s…” He trails off. Gerry waits. Martin wipes at his eyes and keeps staring into space, not saying anything for a while.
“Do you know if Jon’s ever dated a trans guy?” he finally asks.
Gerry shrugs. “I just live with him, mate.”
Michael reaches over Gerry to pat Martin’s knee. “I’m sure it’s not that,” he says. “Gerry wouldn’t live with Jon if he was that kind of terrible, so don’t—”
“I don’t think he’s terrible,” Martin says sadly. “I like him.”
“Okay, yes, but I’m just saying I don’t think he’d lose interest in you because of that,” Michael says patiently.
“But you never know,” Martin frets. “I just… why does everything have to be so hard all the time?” He leans over, slumping into Gerry. “You have a boyfriend,” he asks, his voice muffled where his face is mashed into Gerry’s shoulder. “How did you do it?”
“I have no idea,” Gerry says truthfully.
“By being honest even when it was hard,” Michael says, more helpfully.
Martin makes a distressed noise. “But that’s what I did,” he says. “I finally… I showed him, and…” Gerry reaches up and curls his fingers into Martin’s hair, gently scratching his head in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. Michael always likes it when he does that. It must work, because Martin trails off and doesn’t start verbally beating himself up again.
“Was Michael always nice to you?” Martin asks.
Gerry nods. “Yeah. Even when he shouldn’t have been.” Michael gives him a reproachful look, but it’s true. Young Gerry was an asshole. He was bitter, and pretentious, and he certainly hadn’t deserved someone like Michael, but somehow, Michael saw through the fifty layers of bullshit he’d hid himself behind. Somehow, he was willing to see Gerry at his worst, help him work through it, and come to love him at his best. Somehow, this is where they’ve ended up. And Gerry’s so fucking glad they have.
He really should stop thinking about this before he gets as emotional as Martin.
“Was he always nice about you being trans?” Martin asks in a small voice.
“Yup,” says Gerry. “He always knew, and he was always nice about it, yeah.”
“Well, technically that’s not true, but he told me really early,” Michael amends. “And it didn’t change anything.”
Martin shudders against Gerry’s shoulder. “Wow,” he says thickly. “That’s… You’re really lucky. Sometimes it just feels like that can’t even happen, y’know? Like it’s not a real thing that can—”
“It is,” Gerry insists.
“—that can actually happen to people. Or to me, at least.” Martin swallows hard. “I just want a nice boyfriend,” he says, sounding as if he’s about to cry again. “I just want a boyfriend who’s nice like Michael—not Michael, though, obviously, I want it to be Jon, and I thought he was nice, but—”
“Not everybody can be as nice as Michael,” Gerry says sympathetically.
Michael gives him a look. “What?” Gerry asks. Michael scoots off the porch step. He pitches a bit too far forward, and has to shove his hand into the grass to keep himself upright, but he gets himself sitting down on the ground facing Martin. “What Gerry meant to say,” he says patiently, “is that Jon is very nice, and you should really just talk to him. Talking helps.”
“And if he’s a dick about trans stuff, then you’ll find someone better,” Gerry adds.
“But he won’t be,” says Michael. “Because it’s Jon.”
Right. Gerry’s kind of losing track of the conversation thread here. “Yeah,” he says. “Jon isn’t a dick, I’d move out if he were. Well, he’s a dick sometimes, but only about, like, Latin. Not important stuff.”
Martin slowly sits up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes again. He gives a watery smile. “He really does like to shit on Latin poets,” he says.
“Yeah,” Gerry says encouragingly. “And you’re not a Latin poet. You’re just a regular poet. So you’ll be fine.”
“You are a regular poet and you will be fine,” Michael confirms.
“You should talk to Jon,” says Gerry, ruffling Martin’s hair for emphasis. “And not be mean to yourself, even when it feels like the default thing to be. And also maybe get some water?”
Martin sighs. “I don’t want to get up,” he mumbles.
The back door creaks open, and light floods out onto the porch. Gerry turns around, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “Martin?” says a voice.
Martin blanches. “Oh God,” he says. “Quick, hide me!” He tries to scoot in front of Gerry, as if that’ll hide him from sight at all, but the voice cuts him off: “Oh, Martin,” it says, relieved. “There you are, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Martin cringes. “Hi, Basira,” he says.
With a name to connect to the face, Gerry vaguely recognizes the girl in the doorway as one of Jon’s friends. She walks over and crouches down beside Gerry, looking concerned. “Are you all right?” she asks Martin. She sounds totally sober. Thank God; that makes one of them.
“I’m fine,” Martin mumbles.
“He might need a bit of emotional support,” Michael says in a stage whisper.
“No, don’t tell her that!” Martin says weakly.
“Wait, what? Why not? Martin, hey. Look at me.” Basira touches Martin’s shoulder. “We’ve been worried about you, you know that? I have. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Yeah,” Martin says with an uncomfortable smile. “And here I am, having a mental breakdown.” He laughs, quiet and self-deprecating. Basira squeezes his shoulder.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
Martin sighs. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” he starts, but Basira just cuts him off again.
“Don’t even start with that,” she says. “It’s perfectly reasonable to be upset. Come on, let’s go find the others. I think we’re all about ready to head home.” She holds out her hand. Martin looks at it for a minute, then tentatively reaches out to take it. Basira stands up and pulls him to his feet. Once they’re both standing, she hugs him.
“Oh!” Martin squeaks. “I-I didn’t know you did hugs, okay—”
“I’m not a total marble statue, you know,” Basira says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier.” She squeezes him briefly, then lets him go, looking down at Gerry and Michael. “Thanks for taking care of him,” she says. “Whatever he said… do me a favor and don’t tell Jon about it?”
“Of course not,” says Gerry.
This seems to satisfy Basira. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll make sure Martin gets home safe. You two have a good night.” She gives them a nod, then leads Martin through the door.
Gerry watches them go. “Martin’s not going to remember any of this by tomorrow morning, is he,” he says.
Michael giggles. “Nope. And you probably won’t, either.”
“I sure fucking hope so,” says Gerry. He leans against Michael. “No offense to him, but. Jesus. Fuck, am I glad getting together with you was simple.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m the one who searched all around a school you didn’t go to trying to figure out your name,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. Gerry pats his face clumsily.
“You found me, though,” he says. “And I said, this boy is very pretty, and I am going to be his boyfriend, thank you very much.”
“You did,” Michael agrees. “And you are.”
“I am.” Gerry pushes himself up, grabbing onto the railing. “Take me home, Shelley. I’m tired.”
Michael gets up and wraps his arms around Gerry. He starts to go up the steps, but Gerry stops him. “Wait, wait.” Gerry grabs onto him and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he whispers.
Michael grins. “For what?”
“I dunno. Being pretty. Being, like, respectful and shit. Being better at having emotional conversations while plastered than I am.”
Michael laughs. “Are you really surprised that I’m better than you at having any sort of emotional conversation?”
“Okay, fine, that’s fair, you don’t have to get all… all logical on me,” says Gerry, waving his hand. “It is useful, though, your logic. So, thanks.”
“You still don’t need to thank me.”
“And I still am. So get used to it.”
Gerry kisses him, and just like every kiss before, from the first to the hundredth to whatever they’re on by now, it drains all the tension out of him until he’s loose and relaxed and purely content. Thank God a love like this is easy. Thank God they’ve loved so long that it feels like it always has been.
Michael breaks away and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s go,” he says. Gerry nods, and they start up the steps. It’s time to go home. Where he’s meant to be.
He hopes that, with a little time, Martin finds wherever he’s meant to be, too.