Chapter 3
Warmth.
That’s the first thing Michael feels even before he opens his eyes, something warm and solid against his cheek, rough texture pressing marks into his skin as he slowly comes to his senses. A hand brushes over his shoulder, light and tentative and comforting, coming to rest over his heart as he lays still. Gerry’s palm is hot, his touch hesitant, fingers twitching slightly as Michael sighs and relaxes further into him. The low hum of the car engine thrums underneath them, Michael matching his breathing to the steady rhythm of Gerry’s thumb swiping back and forth over the front of his cardigan, the sound of the radio soft in the near silent interior of the old vehicle. Gertrude drives steadily, not speaking as Michael half-dozes in Gerry’s lap in the backseat, exhausted after the case they’d been following up on.
He could stay like this forever, he thinks drowsily, Gerry’s skin summer-warm through his tattered jeans, radiating heat against the side of Michael’s face. It’s lovely to be touched gently by this man who shows so little vulnerability, and Michael craves it in a way that’s truly shameful if he thinks on it too long, so he doesn’t. He shuts his brain off, drifting off to sleep once more, cradled against Gerard’s thigh as the inky countryside flows by, smooth and smeary as an oil painting. The hour slips along, steady and slow and Michael feels eternal, feels alive and at peace in a way he hasn’t felt in so very long. Tattooed fingers caress his chest absently, slowing as Gerry himself drops off into unconsciousness, wonderfully relaxed beneath Michael, and oh, this, this is perfection. He feels giddy and lazy and like he might be able to stay like this forever, Gertrude in the drivers seat, Gerry holding onto him like this, two people he cares for most slotted into his space like they belong. The radio hums on, the miles eat away under the wheels, and for tonight, Michael Shelley is happy.
-
Sunlight falls through the thin curtains of Gerry’s art studio, illuminating the room and casting a pastel golden glow over Michael’s face, burning red under his lids as he wakes slowly, the phantom sensation of Gerry’s hand pressed to his heart making his skin feel too small for the hurt that follows. His phone buzzes by his ear, and he forces himself to roll over on the small cot, grabbing for it to check the time. 6:02, the screen blinks, and below that, a text from Gerry reads, u up? :) in the neighborhood if u want to get a bite!
“Jesus Christ,” Michael mutters, running a hand over his face and flopping back onto the mattress, dropping the cheap phone back onto the pillow beside him. Another buzz. Michael picks up the phone again, squinting at the screen. No problem if not, ik it’s early haha
With a low huff, Michael gathers his strength and stumbles out of bed, grabbing a pair of discarded jeans from the floor and thrusting his long legs into them, ignoring the little splotch of orange on the thigh from a spilled bit of curry before rummaging around in the plastic drawer in the corner for a shirt, gooseflesh rising on his bare chest as he slides off his sleeping tee. Pausing a moment to shoot back a text and an address, Michael chews at his lip as Gerry sends back a thumbs-up reaction and leaves it at that. Ten minutes later he’s exiting the building, clambering down the stairs of the front entrance and tugging his coat tighter around his too-thin frame. It takes a few minutes to reach the coffee shop where Gerry waits, hands shoved deep into his emerald peacoat, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, cheeks pink with the early spring chill. Gerry smiles when he spots him, and despite himself, Michael smiles back, feeling his stomach swoop as Gerry steps forwards to push the door open for him.
It's not the same, his mind whispers guiltily, his dream-slash-memory heavy in his mind as they step into the quiet coffee shop, the immediate warmth gratifying. The Gerry you knew isn’t here.
“Hey,” Gerry says, pushing his glasses up, thin and framed in black wire. “I know it’s early, but I know you work in an hour or two and I thought it might be nice to buy you breakfast before I storm the Castle.” The Castle being Gerry’s one bedroom apartment-turned-art studio that Michael is now using for its intended purpose until he, as Gerry says, ‘gets his feet back under him’. It’s been two months now, and Gerry hasn’t urged him to leave yet, but he can’t help but wonder where he’ll go when the Robinson-Keay’s hospitality wears out.
“The Castle is a bit of a mess right now, I’m afraid,” Michael sighs, trying not to squirm under Gerry’s kind gaze, not missing the way his eyes suddenly flick over his shoulder, staring at the empty corner, his expression carefully controlled yet obviously nervous as his hands twist together.
“That’s alright, I’ve made bigger messes with my own supplies, I’m just glad you’re willing to live with that paint smell.”
“I like it,” Michael says, scanning the menu above the counter as Gerry continues to glance at the corner every few seconds. Leaning in, his fingers brush over Gerry’s sleeve. “You okay?”
Gerry looks quietly startled, glancing up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I-yes. Just…my head’s acting up again, you know how it is.”
Michael does, a pang of sympathy passing through him as they step up to the register to order, waiting until after to comment, “is it…worse than usual?”
A shrug, faux casual and breezy as Gerry brushes him off. “it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Michael, I’m sure, now tell me about how you’re doing, how’s work?”
Work is…well. Work is nothing, really, he’s hired off of forged papers, homemade and shitty, manufactured off of stolen knowledge from something Gerry taught him years ago. They’re enough to pass the lazy scrutiny of Ms. Berta Jeane Craye though, who’s only interests are playing cards. She lets Michael manage her books while she plays endless matches of card games with her friends, but the books do not change much, as all she does with her generous funds is buy groceries and pay Michael once a week. He does other things too, of course, picks up said groceries and does odd jobs around her home, but mostly he sits in her study and re-reads her dusty old expense catalogue until his eyes feel sore. Eight hours a day, practically wasted, but it’s better than being on the streets, or perhaps back in the Spirals halls.
Hiding a shudder, he finally answers. “Work is alright, going slow.” Very slow, good god, it’s so slow, Michael wonders if Berta would even care if he showed up today, he still has another week until he needs to pick up her groceries. “Ms. Craye has gotten into poker recently,”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Nearly lost you the Castle to one of her matches, she’s really quite good,” he says, a pathetic attempt at a joke, but Gerry smiles in a way that makes swirls twist at the edges of his hair, bleeding into the background. Michael blinks, looking away for a moment until his vision clears once more. “How is your work going?”
“Good, Gee-Gee wants me to give you her best.”
Michael does not stiffen, keeps his posture lax and calm despite the mention of the woman, something that still manages to send him into a silent sort of panic every time he hears her name. “That’s kind of her; tell her I said thank you.”
Gerry nods. “She’s doing well for now, very busy, she asks after you every so often.”
Well.
Michael tucks away that information to think about later while he steeps in his stale, useless rage, but for now he avoids Gerry’s keen hazel eyes, glimmering behind those glasses that his Gerry never wore.
His. Like Gerry had ever been his.
“—Quite good at it, really,” Gerry says, grabbing their cups off the pick-up counter and leaving Michael to grab the bag of pastries and scramble to deduce what it is he was saying.
“I’m sorry, Gerard, could you repeat that? I seem to have… lost myself in thought for a moment.”
Gerry smiles easily, but his eyes flicker at the lack of enthusiasm and attention on Michael’s end. Christ, Michael can read him so easily, he’s so very different and yet exactly the same.
“It’s alright, I was just saying that Gee-Gee’s been taking lessons in Spanish, something about expanding her horizons, I think. She’s actually decent, she’s picked it up quickly.”
I didn’t think you’d want it in Spanish—
“That’s nice, I hope she’s enjoying these lessons. Are you taking them as well?”
“Me? Oh, no, I’m too busy for that, I’m working on new commissions for some clients, they saw a piece I have up at a local gallery and wanted some for themselves.”
Gerry looks so smug, so proud, it makes something twist sharply in Michael’s chest to see it as they exit the coffee shop and begin back up the street to the Castle, the sight of him feeling pride at his accomplishments nearly too much to bear. He takes his cup from Gerry’s hand, ignoring the dry brush of skin on skin as Gerry shivers in the cool morning air, before taking a long sip of the too-hot tea.
“I’d like to see that piece sometime.”
An olive branch, for the way he’d ignored him earlier. Gerry looks pleased with this.
“Alright then, I’ll show you a picture later. Jesus Christ, it’s chilly out here.”
“It’s not so bad, you just have low cold tolerance.”
Gerry laughs, pushing up his glasses with his free hand. “That’s fair.”
-
The Castle is much less of a mess than Gerry was expecting, honestly. For all of Michael’s griping and moping, the main mess is the takeout boxes on the floor by the cot and the pair of boxers tossed over the back of one of the chairs. Michael, taking all of this in immediately, begins to apologize while stuffing the boxers into a random drawer and shoving the boxes into the trash. Gerry lets him, not making a comment as he notices how flushed the other man has become, instead crossing to the opposite wall to gather some supplies into a satchel he has slung over his shoulder.
In all honesty, he’d prefer to work on the commissions in his studio rather than his grandmothers kitchen, but he’d never tell Michael that, not when he’s already so jumpy and quiet, so afraid to impose.
“I’ll come back later for some canvasses, maybe while you’re at work, I hope you don’t mind?” He says, stuffing a tube of bright blue paint into his bag.
“It’s your space, come and go as you please,” Michael shrugs, moving to straighten his bed, those molten grey-blue eyes avoiding his. Gerry huffs out a breath, moving to where he’d left his coffee cup on the small table near the kitchenette.
“You’ve been living here nearly three months, Michael, I’d say you have a pretty good claim on it for now.”
Another shrug.
He’s not a man of many words, is he?
“But if I do come by while you’re still in tonight, would you mind helping me carry them? I’ll call a cab, of course, but the idea of lugging six canvasses down a flight of stairs by myself doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“Sure,” Michael says, still fiddling with a pillow, his own cup abandoned by Gerry’s.
“You should eat something before you head off,” Gerry says, sitting in one of the chairs and pulling the two pastries out of the greasy paper bag, the smell of Pain au chocolat making his stomach growl. Michael finally joins him, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of his seat, reaching for his tea and one of the flaky baked goods. Gerry absolutely does not let his gaze linger on the bit of exposed collarbone that peeks out from under the stretched-out collar of his dusty mauve sweater as the jacket pulls free, and he definitely doesn’t stare at the fine line of his wrist as he lifts the cup to his mouth to drink.
Fucking hell, get a grip, Keay, he thinks, focusing instead on his own food as they begin to eat in comfortable silence, his eyes flicking occasionally to Michael’s face. He looks much better than he had two months ago, he’s still pale but there’s some color in his cheeks, and he doesn’t look so alarmingly thin. His hair has gained a bit of shine, it looks a bit thicker, the curls less wilted and more pronounced. Gerry feels strangely responsible for him and his health now, like just because he rescued him from the institute, just because he made Gerry see things, he now has to keep him close, keep him safe, make sure he has somewhere to sleep at night and someone to call if anything goes wrong despite the fact that Gertrude has told him many times to just leave the poor boy alone. Gerry knows Michael is on edge, has good reason to be, but he just wishes he’d open up more often, tell Gerry things, let him understand him. Despite their rocky beginning, he wants to befriend the man, if only Michael would let him. He understands that he might not be the best company, but honestly the only people he knows Michael talks to besides himself are his employer and the pothead college student who delivers his takeout. Gerry can’t just let it lie like that, can’t let Michael continue to wallow like this. Besides, it’s not like he’s got much going on right now besides painting and trying to spend time with the strange, fascinating man living in his art studio.
Glancing up, he meets the gaze of another figure, spine stiffening as he observes this new intruder. A many eyed man stands by the door, smirking and brushing invisible lint off a pristine pinstriped suit. A dangling chain hangs from his left ear, a small eye pendant swinging from the end of it as he Watches, but not in the same way the smaller man does, the one with the scars and grey stripes in his hair. The way this man is watching him makes Gerry feel like he’s being eaten alive. Beside him stands a solemn old man with milky white eyes that send a chill down Gerry’s spine. Well, that one is certainly a new one. Clearing his throat, he looks to Michael, needing to distract himself.
“So, any plans after work?”
“None in particular, why? Do you need help moving the canvasses?”
“That would be nice, but uh-well, I’m having dinner with a few friends tonight, would you like to tag along?”
Michael blinks, and if Gerry didn’t know better, he’d say his eyes were swirling again, a curl by his cheek winding tighter. “Really? You want me to…come along?”
“Yes, Michael, I’d like it if you would,” Gerry says, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip. Michael looks unsure, brows creasing.
“What time?”
“Six o’clock, I can come by around 5:30, we can get a taxi and take the canvasses back to my place then head up to Olivia’s, would that work?”
“I—” Michael pauses, mulling it over, and for a moment Gerry thinks he’s going to say no.
“You don’t have to—” he says, and the smirking man grins at Gerry’s quick back tracking.
“I will,” Michael interrupts. “I’ll-yes, I will go. Thank you for the invitation, Gerry.”
“Of course,” he says, trying to hide his pleased expression, instead shooting Michael a half smile that he mirrors.
There, he’s done…something. He’s not entirely sure what exactly he’s done yet, or if his friends will mind that he’s bringing a guest, but he has a very good feeling about it all, like maybe this will be the thing that hurtles him and Michael into the friendship he’s been wanting to start for the past few months now. Michael breaks eye contact finally, and Gerry hides a grin in his cup.
-
The thing about dominos is that they will always fall the way you’ve lain them. Put them in order and soon you’ll have a pristine line of toppled ceramic pieces falling down one by one. It’s satisfying, really, to watch it go down, because of course, Watching is what It does best.
Of course, sometimes Something can be far too distracted by Its shiny new world with Its new little playthings to notice someone quietly redirecting the dominos, pointing one just a bit to the left, sliding a finger in to interrupt the chain of events and change course.
The cascade of pieces shifts, changes, moves into something new due to this interruption, becomes a game. If only It had noticed the darkness sweeping up onto either side of Its vision, maybe it could have sheltered it’s toys from the Big Bad Night, from the finger that changed the playing field into something brand new.
This trick is funny because it was all so easily predictable if only you knew where to look.
Fear is funny in the way that it’s never where you expect it.