Calculated, Cold, Without Remorse

by Broken_Record

Summary:

The knowledge that the Dracula wannabe had no doubt burnt it, before Mike could even potentially use it made his anger burn hotter. He’d never had the best hold on his temper, and Gerard just got under his skin. Obviously, he didn't hold the highest opinion of him.

(The times where he’d run into him after the fact, pissed off, and maybe snogged him a little didn’t count towards any feelings towards the contrary, even if finding black lipstick stains still smudged on his skin when he got into the shower at his uni accommodation the next morning made something deep in his gut flutter with a delight he dare not name, despite what anyone else might say about it if he ever admitted it out loud.)

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Mike Crew and Gerry Keay, a non-linear look into how their lives intertwined from age 18 onwards.

Chapter 1: Mike Crew and the consequences of having feelings.

If you'd asked him a few years ago what he'd thought of Gerard Keay,  he'd have probably spat out quite a few insults about the man, about his shitty dye job and how he needed to learn to mind his own bloody business. If he died pursuing the power to kill that awful creature of fractals and white hot electricity, that was his problem. He didn't have to try and convince him to give up his books, or even offer entirely unsolicited advice on “leaving these things be”.  

 

Mike had thought Gerard had been a right prick, in short. 

 

Now it was different. 

 

Back then, they'd stumbled into race after race for the next accursed book, who'd get their hands on it first. It infuriated him to find out that prick, who couldn't keep his pierced nose out of Mike's business for the life of him, had gotten to a book that could have potentially freed him from his nightmarish, supernatural stalker. The knowledge that the Dracula wannabe had no doubt burnt it, before Mike could even potentially use it made his anger burn hotter. He’d never had the best hold on his temper, and Gerard just got under his skin. Obviously, he didn't hold the highest opinion of him. 

 

(The times where he’d run into him after the fact, pissed off, and maybe snogged him a little didn’t count towards any feelings towards the contrary, even if finding black lipstick stains still smudged on his skin when he got into the shower at his uni accommodation the next morning made something deep in his gut flutter with a delight he dare not name, despite what anyone else might say about it if he ever admitted it outloud.) 

 

After he'd gotten what he wanted, though, he made the stark realisation that his rivalry with Gerry was.. over. He'd won, hadn’t he? There was no point in chasing the books anymore, now, and he had more power than he'd ever imagined after pledging himself to the vast. It left a sinking feeling in his chest that he’d tried his best to ignore as he went about his new life, tying up odd ends at Uni, and moving out of the city to somewhere closer to the sea. Away from London, away from Gerry. Away from it all. Most importantly, he tried not to think about it. 

 

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He really, really tried. 

 

It got to the point where he'd utterly moved on with his life and settled into the role he'd set up for himself, not to mention the sudden influx of money from one generous Mr Simon Fairchild, courtesy of being a follower of their patron Fear, he had much more freedom than back when he'd been pursuing the Leitners of London and the surrounding counties.  He spent years in his new life, enjoying himself, travelling, feeding the Vast, nourishing himself.

 

Then he'd seen someone with familiar, long inky dyed hair and warm, olive skin when walking through the town centre. 

 

It wasn't Gerry. 

 

He'd been so upset that the poor passer-by would trip over nothing and simply keep falling, disappearing without so much of a trace to everyone else. She was going to be plummeting forever, and he'd left her to it, satisfied with the undeserved punishment. And then Mike had stormed home, wondering why he'd been so upset that it wasn't that stupid boy he hadn't even liked. What would he even have said, if it was Gerry? Would he have even approached him? What the hell was wrong with him now,  Keay had re-entered his mind and was now firmly implanted there like a malicious tumour. 

 

Hell, he'd hopped in the shower to cool off from his frustration only to be utterly confused at his own unhappy reaction to those kiss shaped black marks not being there. 

 

After a few days of thinking of nothing and nobody except Gerry, the way his lips curled into a smirk or a snarl, his stupid crooked nose that could only only achieved from being punched in the face a few too many times, the way his cheeks would light up red with anger when Mike would show up to Pinhole Books to antagonise him after a thrilling chase… Mike decided he'd had enough. He had to go back to London. Find Gerry, and… well, he’d figure out if he wanted to sock him or snog him when he got there. If it was anything like old times, probably both. Hopefully both. It’d be nostalgic. 

 

But it had been years since he’d last been to London, and he didn’t even know if Gerry still lived there or who he’d gotten entangled with in the past few years. What if he had died? Or worse, had gotten himself entangled with a Fear like he had, but one of the worse ones, like the crawling rot or the buried. If Mike had to stake a guess at which entity Gerry might've chosen, he'd put his money on the Dark, if only because Terminus did not need many avatars, and he'd not heard of one, at least not in the UK, though he didn't like the idea of Gerry being in cahoots those lunatic cultists of the church of the divine host. 

 

When he managed to get to London, though, he hadn't been expecting to be pointed in the direction of the fucking Magnus Institute. But apparently, Gerry had cozied up into getting himself a place under the wing of The Archivist. He absolutely wasn't going in there, not with her in the building, so instead he waited outside, even when it started pissing down with rain, though weather like this had ceased bothering him back when he became what he was.

 

Eventually, he'd see Gerry leave the doors of the institute, and take note of how he'd changed. His roots were grown out, a mousy brown that invaded the artificial black. The tattoos of eyes on each knuckle, on his wrists, the one on his throat. Something in him burned with jealousy at the idea of another Fear's symbols covering yet unseen expanses of Gerry's skin. 

 

And then he was captivated with how familiar he was. That same slightly crooked nose, the piercings that now glittered in the orange streetlamp light, like stars embedded in his face and ears. That jet black lipstick and heavy eyeliner, the leather jacket emblazoned with studs and symbols he'd never bothered to learn the meaning of, ripped black skinny jeans he remembered sticking his fingers into the holes of when Gerry had his tongue down his throat. 

 

He stood there like a jackass for a few moments, watching Gerry's hair get soaked by the rain before he made a move. He marched on up to Gerry, standing right in his way, between him and the institute and the still bright and busy streets of Chelsea, with everyone in a rush to get home from work. It was a tense few seconds as he watched Gerald Keay's eyes light up with recognition, and reel through all the emotions that Mike had gone through over the past few weeks in only a few short breaths. He found himself watching Gerry's lips. He spoke before Mike could.

 

"A phone call would have been nice, Michael." The name rolled off his tongue with some contempt, and Mike rolled his eyes. They'd always used their full first names to dig under each other’s skin, but he'd be nice. No use antagonising Gerry now, when he wanted him to agree to leave with him.

 

"That's an interesting way of saying you missed me. How do you feel about grabbing a Costa and catching up?" He'd seen one down the road from there. It was as good of a reason to get the fuck away from the institute as any. Gerry seemed to be considering the option to go with him, until behind him stepped out an elderly woman with the foreboding presence of a grizzly bear, and Mike immediately took a few steps back.

 

“Gerard.” She said, regarding him, before her gaze fell onto Mike, and he felt it pierce through him like a bullet. He frowned at her, and she frowned back, cold and stern as stone. “This must be your Michael. Certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. Come now.” Without much else to say, she began walking off. Gerry looked at her, and then at Mike, and then went to follow The Archivist. Mike stood there in the rain and watched them go, seething. Stood outside the Magnus Institute until they both disappeared from sight, as if Gerry was going to turn back. But he didn’t. So he left.

 

He booked himself into a decent hotel, not that those were hard to find in London and given his access to Simon’s money he had his pick of the lot. He’d stay for however long it took to actually talk to Gerry, hopefully without The Archivist around. He sat in the hotel room in his boxers, having left his wet clothes over the radiator. Someone outside would fall out their balcony and fall and fall and fall and fall and… He couldn’t believe Gerry had just left him standing there like a twat while he walked off with the fucking Archivist. He wondered if Gerry worked at the institute. He’d always thought Gerry would never commit to any Fear, least of all the watcher, and to be an archival assistant in the institute was a fate worse than death, or so was the word among those in the know. Gertrude either killed you or you’d be working under her until she died. If she died. 

 

He turned over on the pristine white sheets, huffing. The Archivist had spoken like Gerry had talked about him. “Your Michael.” He repeated out loud, feeling a little breathless. Perhaps she meant it as though she also had known a Michael, which, given her age and her penchant for burning through assistants like a nicotine addict to cigarettes, was likely. But the way the inflection of her voice was, it felt like when someone said something like 'your friend’, ‘your cousin’, ‘your… Michael’. He wondered what the hell Gerry had even said to Gertrude to get that kind of response, that he was not what she expected. What did she even know? Gerry probably left some details out, or perhaps she hadn’t been listening to him when he talked about him. Or maybe he’d spoken really terribly about him? Surely not, otherwise she surely would have killed him instead of just leaving him there.

 

This was all far too confusing. He groaned into the pillow. The next room over, one of the cleaning staff who had been scared of heights since a nasty fall off a playground set as a child would open the door to a room with no floor that just went on and on and on forever.  He’d be gripping onto the door, hanging on by adrenaline, though the sweat on his hands was making his grip falter. He’d cry out for help eventually, and someone staying in a different room would leave to see him just as he would loose his hold, falling right into the abyss. They’d rush over, but find the room restored, and the only trace he was even there was the cleaning trolley left by the open door.  Mike sighed, longsuffering, and really almost wished he’d never come to London in the first place. Gerry didn’t even say goodbye when he left to go do.. Whatever it was archival assistants do.

 

He hadn’t said goodbye when he left London. 

 

…Maybe he deserved to be ditched like that.

 

He turned over and forced himself to stop thinking about it so that he could actually get some sleep.

 

He didn’t know what to think of Gerard Keay, not anymore.

Chapter 2: Stealing is a surefire way to have a love poem bring you to your knees

Summary:

Mike uses windows 95, steals a book, and kisses his rival. Also, Shakespeare's sonnets.

Mike stared at the monitor screen, blinking once before cursing quietly to himself. A familiar name stood out as the winning bid of the book, an anthology of all 154 William Shakespeare’s sonnets, with that telling Library of Jurgen Leitner stamped onto the first page. He knew exactly who that book was being shipped to. His foot tapped on the rough carpet of the library, a few people around him researching or just working on the other computers around. He took a quick note of the estimated delivery date in the listing and then packed up his things, logging out and leaving the library. He had a lecture to get to, either way, and he’d rather not miss it. He plugged his headphones into his discman and walked across the university campus in order to get to the right building.

 

With Madonna’s voice meeting his eardrums, he tried to figure out what he was going to do when he got to Pinhole Books. Gerard would be there no doubt, after all, he was anticipating the arrival of the book. He couldn't intercept it then, though Gerry was most certainly going to burn it as soon as he got his hands on it. 

 

Okay. 

 

He had no idea. He'd wing it once he got there. 

 

With all that sorted and Erotica lyrics fading out into the next song he had burned onto his CD, Mike smirked to himself, confident that nothing could go wrong. 

 

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He'd managed to guess the right day the package would arrive at Pinhole books, waiting just around the corner before the Royal Mail van, in its blazing red glory, would make a stop where the double yellow line stopped and allowed for parking. He waited. Watched until he went and knocked at the door to the bookshop, and was then called inside. Waited a few more moments, before making his way over, slipping inside right as the mailman left. Spotted the book, still in its packaging, sat nicely on a nearby empty shelf. 

 

Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought. 

 

He walked right on up to it, reaching out to grab it and bolt out the door-

 

"Michael." Red handed. Damn.

 

Ah. Fuck it. He looked to Gerard, and then back at the package. 

 

"Don't you dare." Gerard's tone was warning. Alright. A literal chase this time, then? A gamble he was willing to make. Always used to finish fairly early during the 1000 metres at school. Sprinting wasn't a problem. 

 

He grabbed the book. Gerry sprung after him, but he was already out the door, onto the streets of London, getting the hell out of there. Though Gerry was still on his heels, he had to keep moving. They both knew the area by now, so Mike needed to find out how to ditch the goth, and fast. He glanced at a busy street. 

 

Yeah. That might work. 

 

Almost getting hit by several vehicles and a bike, he managed to cross the road without being run over, and Gerard was on the other side, visibly fuming, trying to find a good opportunity to cross and continue to give chase. Mike took it as his cue to hightail it the fuck out of there, continuing to run like hell with the wrapped up book clutched to his chest. He'd give it back if it wasn't worth anything to him, anyway, Gerard knew that, he'd done it a handful of times before, though with books he hadn't literally stolen from Gerry in front of his face.  

 

Though, it was kind of thrilling. He'd have to do it again sometime, if only just to see Gerry's frustration again. Gerard's frustration. Goddamn it. 

 

Eventually, he'd slow down, panting softly. He'd gotten far enough away that he was sure it was fine to just relax for a minute. He peeled off the brown package, flipping open the cover, just to check the nameplate. His fingers brushed against it, nodding to himself. Now he just had to figure out what the damn thing did. 

 

He knew better than to read it now, though. Not when Gerard could still catch up to him. He walked to a bus stop, and got onto the first bus towards his Uni, sticking the Leitner in his bag. It wouldn't take too long to get back to his accommodation, sitting on his bed. It didn't seem to have any passive effects, like some of the other books he'd picked up before, at least none he'd noticed.

 

Given it was poems, perhaps it was the Slaughter, given their penchant for music. Though it was love poems and sonnets, so it might also be the Rot. He almost hated the rot as much as he did the Spiral, though at least it was straightforward in its horror. Corruption, bugs, all things wretched and disgusting. Awful, yes, and the reason he was orphaned not so long ago. He had reason enough to dislike both of those Fears. 

 

He flicked through the book, knowing that these things usually showed their true power later on, luring the unaware into a false sense of security before the horror set in, if they didn’t allow the power into their souls like he had before, but they never resonated with him quite right. Nothing stopped him waking up with visions of white hot fractals and thunder echoing in his ears, a cold sweat making his clothes cling to him uncomfortably. 

 

The sonnet read;

 

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December's bareness everywhere!

And yet this time removed was summer's time;

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

Yet this abundant issue seemed to me

But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And, thou away, the very birds are mute:

   Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

   That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

 

Whatever the hell that meant. He'd done plenty of Shakespeare in school, but the lessons had never interested him much. He only really was into the books he'd scrounge for because of the power they held, not because he cared much for the literature inside them.  Time spent annotating anthologies and reading all the thines and thees and thous only really bored him back when he was doing his year 11 exams. 

 

The book hadn't seemed to have done anything for him yet, and so  read the next sonnet;

 

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

Could make me any summer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

   Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,

   As with your shadow I with these did play .

God. He'd never realised how gushy Shakespeare's sonnets were. They seemed so boring back in school, but now it was just ick worthy, whoever the bard was writing about must've had old William head over heels. He almosted pitied him, he had it so bad for them it was palpable. Gross. He quickly checked his mouth to see if there was anything in there that shouldn't be, like a bug or something. He didn't find anything, thank whatever God, if there was one, that was out there for at least granting him that small mercy. 

 

Still. He was increasingly worried the book was of the One Alone, given the continued theme of winter and a missing partner. He stood up, walking to his window, noticing the sun had dipped to be just above the horizon, burning a blazing orange and painting the sky in pink and purple. 

 

His eyes trailed to the ground, where he could still see people milling about, going to and from other parts of the campus. No, not the Lonely, then, either. Not to mention wasn't feeling particularly murder-y, so that also cut out the Slaughter. It did mess with his perception of time, though, it seemed, given the drastic change from late morning to late evening after reading just two sonnets. Deciding to take a break, he stepped away from the window, heading out of his bedroom to go and heat up some leftovers for dinner and have something to eat before reading anything else. 

 

His door would swing open just as the microwave dinged, and in his doorway stood a very unhappy Gerard Keay. Shit. He'd forgot he'd let him find out where he lived. 

 

"Gerard." He greeted, walking over, as casually as possible, shutting the door behind him. 

 

" You. Whatever the hell you think you're doing with that Leitner, you need to stop it. I can take you running around sabotaging me left and right, but using the books to mess with me is a step too far." With that, Gerry started heading towards where he'd left the book open on his bed.

 

He quickly made his way to step in front of Gerry, looking up at him. "I don't know how you think it's possible that I've been using it to 'mess with you'. I've barely read two paragraphs." He didn't know why he was slowing Gerard down, the book hadn't been useful to him at all, might as well let him take it off his hands. Some part of him was curious, though. "Say it did affect you, though entirely unintentionally on my behalf, maybe if you tell me what it felt like I'll have a little sympathy and let you take it." 

 

Wrong answer, apparently, because Gerry's face lit up red with anger and.. maybe a little bit of embarrassment? It was hard to tell with all his dark makeup making his face look more dramatic. "You want to know? I'll show you what it felt like." Before Mike could do anything, Gerry pushed past him to grab the book, reading from it out loud. 

"The forward violet thus did I chide:

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd ."

 

The effect was instant. Mike's knees fucking crumbled, sending him crashing to the floor. His face felt warm and chest tight, and his heart was beating at about a hundred miles an hour. It didn't feel unpleasant, like he was anticipating from a book like this, but it was extremely strange. He took a deep, shaky breath, and gripped onto the side of his bed, trying to pull himself back up. But then Gerry continued, sending him right back down and holding onto the bedframe for dear fucking life. Butterflies exploded in his stomach, he felt all too heavy and all too light at once, left breathless, looking up at Gerry as he read, smirking. He was going to wipe that smirk off his stupid perfect smug face if it was the last thing he ever did.

 

" The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,

And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

   More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,

   But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. "

 

"You've made your bloody point!" Mike hissed, using as much strength as he had left to reach up and smack to book out of Gerard's hands, and then using the chance he got now neither could read the book to stand up on still shaking legs and grab Gerard by the shirt collar, pulling him down to his level. Gerry beat him to the chase, though, kissing him hard, so Mike bit at his lip, making him hiss, and allowing Mike to take over the kiss, hands moving to hold Gerry's shoulders, while Gerry's hands slipped under his shirt, feeling up his back and over the scar that cascaded down it. 

 

It wasn't long until they were full on snogging on his bed, having lost the motivation to really fight for much else, the sun had long since set and left the room bathed in moonlight. Gerry looked at him, snickering as he broke their kiss to speak. "Look at you. Practically glow in the dark." 

 

"Oh yeah, sorry Dracula, forgot you just blend into the shadows. I'll work on it." He huffed, rolling his eyes. He yelped in surprise when Gerry pushed him off to stand, sputtering for a second. "What, where are you going?" 

 

"Gonna burn that book. I figure it's Spider related given how it connected both of us, and as much as I don't care about you being overrun with cobwebs, Michael, I don't want to be killed by spiders by letting it stay in tact. " Mike huffed, but he supposed that made sense. He didn't exactly enjoy the Web's manipulations or its creepy crawlies much either. It was an acquired taste. 

 

"God, fine. Make sure you burn it outside the building, though, I don't want to get in trouble somehow by you setting off the fire alarm." 

 

"Anything else, your highness?" 

 

"You're insufferable, I hope you know. Make sure you shut the door properly on your way out." Gerry laughed at that, picked the book up off the floor, and then left, waving as he shut the door behind him. 

 

Mike lay there for a few moments, before he shot up and made his way to the microwave where his dinner still sat inside, stone cold. 

Notes:

if there's anything that didn't exist during the 90's that I put in here let me know cause I straight up wasn't alive back then and I did the barest of google searches for it lmao.

Chapter 3: How to get a date in one easy step: don't ask Mike Crew

Summary:

Mike goes on holiday to France to clear his head after being rejected, talks to an old man, and then deals with budding Beholding avatar Gerry over the phone. Dialogue heavy chapter.

Even attempting speaking to Gerry in London had been a pointless endeavour. He didn't seem to go anywhere without The Archivist. At the very least he didn't when Mike came to visit, which was…

Fair.

 

He'd left without so much as a call, or a note, or even saying goodbye. He'd been so enthralled by his new state of being that he'd entirely forgotten about Gerry, and by the time he had remembered to say anything he was already gone. By then it felt too awkward to say anything, after all, he'd have to tell him "sorry I forgot about you", and if he said nothing he could at least pretend like it was on purpose. It had taken him years to even think about returning to London, but as much as he tried, Keay was just out of reach.

He lost count of how many poor souls he'd doomed while in the capital. The number didn't matter, anyway, it kept him fed, and kept the Dread God he served satisfied enough as not to eat him in their stead. But after a while even that began to feel hollow. The ache in his chest just didn't stop no matter how many people were afraid.

This time he was courteous enough to leave a note.

He hated every minute he spent in the institute lobby, the weight of a thousand eyes on him, burning into him, aching to Know more and more about every horror that had touched him until he was little more than a husk. He gave an envelope to the receptionist, told her to give it to Gerard Keay or else next time she ended up somewhere off the ground she might not find her way back down, before leaving. Sure, the whole affair was about five minutes, but it gave him a hell of a migraine.

He did hope Gerry read the damn thing. It was embarrassingly open about how sorry he was about leaving him high and dry, among other things. That he cared about him, that he hoped he'd been doing okay. There were a million things he could have said, but he didn't feel like baring his soul and handing it off to the stronghold of The Eye. It just felt like a bad idea, that was certain.

He remained in London for a few more days, just in case Gerry would seek him out, or at least give him the opportunity to say goodbye in person.

That was too much to hope for, apparently. At least Gerry was still good at infuriating him, and he was almost glad that part hadn't changed a bit.

Well, while he was away from home, he decided that to get his mind off of all his conflicting feelings, he'd go on holiday. To where? God knows. Everywhere? It's not like he'd have much trouble getting there, wherever that was, with Simon's money. So while he was still in London, he bought a map of the world and flipped a 5p coin onto it, deciding to go wherever it landed.

France was actually quite a beautiful country, if you could excuse the French people who lived there. Granted, they'd probably say something similar about England, not that he'd understand them much if they did. He'd taken Latin as a GCSE, after all, so he could stake a decent guess, but he didn't care enough to confirm it. Everybody who he needed to speak to, spoke English. The rest he ignored unless, they pissed him off, in which case he didn't need a dictionary to translate screams of terror.

When he had settled into his private apartment in the Alps after a week in Paris, he was not particularly surprised to find Simon on his balcony. Of course he invited the geezer in, both of them sitting down for a chat over some tea.

"I couldn't help but notice that my money was being spent in London before you decided to have a little hop abroad. Still upset over that boy are we, Michael?" Mike rolled his eyes at the jovial tone, as if they were gossiping about someone unimportant. To the hard, cold universe, perhaps, but to him? The same could not be said.

"I'm not upset. At least not over Gerard Keay, especially now he's bosom buddies with the Archivist, of all people." He did try and keep the contempt out of his voice, but Simon just chuckled into his next sip of tea.

"Well, when I popped in to see how Elias was doing, oh, don't give me that look, young man, he mentioned that you had come in, handed a letter addressed to Gerard, and threatened the employee at the front desk. He didn't seem too upset, just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Of course I couldn't tell him, so I came to find out right from the source."

"I'd prefer to be left out of your inane gossip. Gerard and I used to have somewhat of a relationship. It ceased when I dedicated myself to the Vast, and left London. It was an overdue goodbye letter. Unless he seeks me out, and I doubt he will, that will be the last of our communication." He didn't want to keep prodding at a hornet's nest by bothering Gerry while he was under the strange protection of the Archivist. Otherwise he would have shown up at.. wherever he was living now and demanded he speak to him.

Simon seemed to be able to understand, of course, putting his mug down. Or maybe he just thought the whole thing was below him, as detached as he was from relationships that were anything but transactional. He had no idea if Simon even had a clue what it felt like to miss someone you had no idea you'd even liked in the first place.

Right as Simon left, out the balcony, of course, like many others he enjoyed the theatrics of his Dread, the phone started to ring out. Odd, but, perhaps it was just the owner verifying that he'd moved in alright. He'd not done much travelling before this, after all.

"Hello?" The voice from the receiver piped up, all too familiar.

God fucking damn it.

"Gerry."

"Oh, Jesus, don't sound so happy to see me. Might gag. Look. I got your letter." Ah. He felt his face warm. Had he really read it? His stomach flipped, realising suddenly that Gerry actually would have been able to see the feelings he put into it.

" I did write it for you. Even put it in an envelope for you." What the fuck.

"Yeah. I noticed. Rosie looked really shaken when she came to give it to me, so I hope scaring the shit out of her was worth it."

"It was important you received it. It's been like a month, though. Why now? I was still in London when you read it."

"No, you weren't. I put off reading it until now."

"......" He rubbed his temples. Yeah. That seemed about right.

"Mike?"

"You're unbelievable. I hope you know that. How did you even get this number? It's only used to call the staff of this bloody skiing resort."

"Don't know. Just dialled it."

"Oh good, spending so much time with the Archivist is beginning to rub off on you. I'm guessing you also Know I'm in France right now, and I'm not going all the way back to England for whatever it is you're phoning me for. At least not for another week."

"I don't need you to come back to England right this minute, relax. I just wanted to talk. You wrote me a love letter."

He made a sound best described as utter indignation, and heard Gerry's laugh from the other end of the phone. "It was a goodbye letter, you ass. I felt… bad for not saying anything the last time I was in London."

"You felt 'bad', so you wrote.." he could hear the sound of crinkling paper before Gerry's amused voice came through again. "I saw someone who looked like you and it made me so pissed, not that it reminded me of how much I thought I hated you but because I realised that it wasn't you standing there." He cringed at his own words being read back to him in Gerry's voice hearing him snicker as soon as he finished reading the sentence. "It's almost poetic, Mike. It's a love letter."

"I was trying to explain why I came back to London." Weakly, he tried to defend, but he knew what he had written.

"That's why you went on about how you were sorry for leaving me back then, how you shouldn't have been such a prick, and that you 'really hope you've been doing alright since I left-"

"Alright! Christ, I forgot how much you enjoy my misery. Is this phone call just for you to laugh at me, or do you have an actual reason to speak to me?" He was really starting to regret writing the damned thing, but at the same time, he hadn't realised how much he missed hearing Gerry talk.

"And I forgot how easy you are to rile up. I'll save it for when you're back in England, though. So you really meant all of that, then? All that shit you wrote."

"Of course I meant it! God. I'm upset you think I'd lie about all that." He leaned against the wall the phone was on, fiddling with the cable on the phone. "Sure, it wasn't everything I wanted to say, but I know better than to bare my entire soul and hand it off to the temple of the Eye. Elias enjoys gossiping with Simon and I'd prefer both of them leave my relationship with you out of their mouths.”

“That much I can understand. Well… I’m not at the institute now.”

“You’re covered in eyes. I saw them on your fingers, and your neck. Are you sure that nobody’s looking through them?”

“Even if they were, something tells me that they’re not going to stick around just to hear you go on about how much you love me.” He could still hear Gerry’s snickering from down the phone. He hated how it made his stupid heart flutter.

“I can’t stand you.”

“That’s hard to believe. I’m clearly very lovable.”

“That’s it. I’m hanging up. I’ll be back in London in a week, you can speak to me then, once you’re over the rush of joy you must be feeling over the chance I might return your obvious crush on me,” Gerry scoffed, but he continued, “Only call me again if there’s an emergency.”

“Message received. I’ll see you in a week, then.”

“...Bye, Gerry.” He put the phone back on the wall, leaning against it in silence for a few minutes before he groaned and slid down it.

Gerard Keay was a stupid prick.

 

And Mike was stupidly in love with him.

Notes:

yeah i spent like 20 minutes debating myself on the timeline for when this would take place timeline wise. in short: no fucking clue. tma wiki states rosie was hired any time between 1996 and 2015. But i hope everyone enjoys the update, sorry it took a while to come out, i've been recovering from covid and dealing with being back in school

Chapter 4: How to hold hands with your rival twice in the span of 24 hours; a guide

Summary:

Mike takes Gerry home after a fight, feeling bad for hitting him too hard. Later, he freaks the fuck out over a storm. He gets to hold hands with Gerry, though.

Notes:

there is a short part where Mike has a panic attack of sorts, so if you want to skip that if you need, its the paragraph starting with "He'd wake up with a start at the crashing sound of thunder" and ends with "he made his escape out the door, ears ringing. " <3

He was really starting to dislike how often he'd become acquainted with concrete floors.

 

His whole body ached, he groaned, twisting his neck to look at the body next to him. Gerard was panting, his cheek a little swollen and lipstick smudged where Mike's hand had collided with Keay's mouth. His knuckles were similarly stained black, some grazes where they had caught on his medusa piercing. Black hair spooled out like a spilled ink pot, eyes closed as he caught his breath. Mike glared. 

 

How dare he look so hot after being so beaten up. 

 

He hissed as he looked away from Gerard, and moved to sit up despite the ache in his ribs. There hadn’t even been a book to make them so pissed this time, they’d just run into each other and apparently neither of them could resist a punchup.  He was just going to limp back to his flat and send Gerard a box of broken glass for the trouble. They weren’t too far, actually. He could make it back there in five minutes, normally, from the alley they’d been tossing around in, maybe ten with the bruises and the ankle he’s decently sure he’s twisted. 

 

He was surprised Gerry hadn’t said anything yet. Usually he was quick to bounce back and start getting back on his nerves, but he’d been quiet for too long. Worried, he near enough snapped his neck back to look where Gerry was on the ground beside him. His face was scrunched in pain, eyes squeezed shut and looking a little less like himself, breathing more shallow now. 

 

God. Now he had to go and make Mike feel bad.  “Gerard?” He hoped he didn’t sound too concerned, but the worry was obvious in his tone despite his best efforts otherwise. He received a groan in return, which did make his shoulders relax some. “Ah. Responsive. Good.” He hadn’t meant to hurt him that badly. Had he hit his head on something? It was impossible to tell with all that black hair, but he couldn’t see blood on the ground or on his face.  Maybe it was his ribs? He had kicked him pretty hard, and he knew how badly that could hurt after a long day… Oh. That was probably it, wasn’t it? He stared back at Gerry for a few moments before pulling himself off the ground entirely, and then grabbing the other's leather clad hands to pull him up, too, despite the goth's protests spoken in grunts of pain. 

 

"Stop whining. My accom is a short walk from here. You'll live. Now, come on." He pulled Gerry along, trying to be gentle on his own hurt leg while keeping Keay from tumbling over himself.  It was a production, and he was glad the only people out on a night like this were other students trying their best to mind their own business and didn't stare at two beat up blokes stumbling down the street. Not that he cared what they thought. He was too busy looking after Gerard to care about the strangers on the street. He was focused on getting them to his building so he could sneak him into his room and.. let him do what? Patch himself up? Stay the night? Eugh. 

 

Sure enough, though, he found himself putting a cup of tea on his chest of drawers in reach of where Gerry was sitting up on his bed, putting his own on his work desk when he sat on the creaky old office chair, just staring at each other in silence. They hadn't talked much on the way over, but after taking a sip of his tea and mercifully not pretending to gag, Keay spoke up, though not before rubbing his neck and clearing his throat first. 

 

"Pretty comfortable here. Where do you keep the books?" Even though his voice was pretty hoarse still, there was a playful tone in the question. Mike rolled his eyes. 

 

"I don't." He shrugged, taking a sip from his tea. Take that, bastard.

 

"So what, you just resell them?" There was a disbelief in Gerard's voice now. 

 

"Sometimes. More often than not I'll just give them to libraries or charity shops. So they'll circle around to your waste bin eventually, provided you're as competent as you say you are." He raised a brow at the offence on Gerry’s face, smirking some.

 

"Unbelievable.” He laughed, putting his mug down. Gerard continued, “You know what these things do and you just… give them up? Why?”

 

“I’m looking for something specific to help me,” offhandedly, he rubbed his neck where that endlessly branching scar sat on his skin, “I haven’t found it yet. But until I do, who’s to say there isn’t someone out there who’s looking for a book that wasn’t the right one for me?” 

 

“Because they’re bound to get someone hurt. You included.” Mike huffed, shooting another glare. 

 

“Don’t act like you care.”

 

“But you care. Otherwise you wouldn’t have dragged me back here.” 

 

“...” He didn’t really have much of a response for that. Hm. He twisted away, standing up and walking.. limping, rather, to sit in his bathroom to assess his ankle again, leaving Gerard laying on his bed. That was far too much sentimentality for him, certainly.  Especially for someone who pissed him off so much. So what he’d brought him back there? It didn’t mean anything. Just that he had some basic moral standards and sympathy. He did not care. He didn't even care that Keay had implied that he gave a shot about Mike, either! He was ridiculous to suggest it. 

 

Stupid fucking goth. 

 

When he left his bathroom, Gerard was… asleep. That made sense. He'd even pulled the duvet over himself. Really made himself comfortable. He rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that night, taking the half empty mug on his drawers and tossing the liquid down the sink before leaving it inside for him to wash up later. Where was he even supposed to sleep? Well… It's not like he hadn't shared the bed with Gerard before, but it had never been his own. Always at his room at Pinhole Books (when his mother wasn't around) or at cheap bed and breakfasts around the area where they'd ended up fighting, and then snogging and all the steps that followed. He'd only ever shared the bed with him to have sex. Not just to sleep next to each other. 

 

He watched Gerry’s chest rise and fall, scoffing softly. 

 

He’d crawl in next to him, and doze off to the sound of his heartbeat and the pitter-patter of rain on the window. 

He'd wake up with a start at the crashing sound of thunder that vibrated right down to his bones. The warmth and comfort of sleep washed away and replaced by soul deep fear as he saw that branching figure, white hot light twisting forever and ever, behind his eyelids, burning in his skin. He could barely make out Gerry being awoken by his mad dash out of bed, kicking the sheets off and trying to get as far from the windows as possible. The rain outside hammered against the walls and the inside of his skull. He needed to run, to hide, to get the hell away from it. He practically jumped across the room when he felt a hand on his shoulder, twisting away violently to face Gerry.

 

Who looked worried. His hair was a mess and that bruise had only gotten darker, a purple colour now. "Mike?" He was trying to speak to him. He could see his mouth moving, but he couldn't quite make out what he was saying. He opened his mouth to try and say something, anything, to explain to Gerry that this was what he was running from. This was why. But a flash of light followed by a drumming of thunder had him dashing away, a heavy ozone scent in the air making it too hard to breathe. Catching the ever outstretched hand of his eternal stalker at his window in the corner of his eye,  he made his escape out the door, ears ringing. 

 

He'd end up running for quite some time. He'd ended up outside in the pouring rain, running and running until the smell of zinc dissipated and he realised that he was shivering from the cold, the rain not seeming to be letting up. It was pitch black out, save for the street lamps, and he had no idea where he was. He wasn’t even wearing shoes, and his bad leg felt worse now the adrenaline had worn off. He froze in the middle of the pavement, his panicking mind finally catching up with his reality, when he felt a heavy jacket being put over his shoulders. He grabbed onto it, turning around and looking up at the equally soaked Gerard Keay, makeup that was already ruined streaking down his face, hair a wet mop, and a look of great concern on his face. 

 

"Gerard, I-"

 

"Shut up. Let's get you home, alright?" He was stunned, for a few seconds, before he nodded, letting Gerry lead the way now. God, he was tired. "... I've never seen you so freaked out." 

 

"... It's not something I ever intended for you to see." He admitted, quietly.

 

"I mean, it's not hard to tell what happened to you, even if you hadn't told me, but I didn't realize… You looked scared to death." He huffed at the sympathetic tone, tugging that leather jacket more tightly around himself. 

 

"..." He sighed softly, shrugging. "Everyone has a reason for doing what they do. You’re not obligated to change what you’re already doing to help me out. I know what I'm running from and what I'm looking for.” Mike wasn’t sure what else to say. Gerry hadn’t mentioned the Lichtenberg creature. If he hadn’t seen it, then what could he do, he wasn’t going to tell him about it.  Too vulnerable, too much at once. He held the jacket on with one hand, the other reaching out to take Gerry’s, wordless as their fingers intertwined. Neither of them spoke, but Mike felt that it was better like that. The less said, the better.  “Don’t bring this up again.”

Notes:

I lived bitch. Another 1996 chapter, happening before the Shakespeare Incident. Next chapter........ beholding avatar Gerry. after that? Who fucking knows. Ty for being patient with me ~w~

Notes:

Shoutout to the TMA listeners support group on discord ilu <3