male/nonbinary reader x mcr oneshots

(Way Brothers) Faster And Faster

Gerard set down the final box, standing up and rubbing his eyes.

"Thank you, honey. I think you've earned a break," his mother, Donna, smiled. "Why don't you take your brother out somewhere? I can give you money for ice cream."

Gerard shrugged petulantly. "I don't know anything about this town. Y'know, cause we just moved here." His voice betrayed the obvious petty mockery with genuine sadness.

Donna sighed and shifted the stack of books she was holding to rest on her hip so that she could give Gerard a one-armed hug. "I know it sucks, sweetheart. But I promise, this is the last time we have to move. This is it. We're staying here. You have the entire basement to yourself, and our backyard leads to some very pretty woods. Maybe once you settle in you could paint me some trees." She gently knocked her shoulder against Gerard's.

He gave her a half-smile. "Maybe."

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"C'mon! I can hear water!" Mikey crowed excitedly, scampering off and darting between trees. Gerard laughed and tucked his pencil behind his ear, shifting his sketch pad under his arm as he stood up from the boulder he had been resting on, and followed his little brother.

"You ruined the perspective, Mikes. Now it's just your floating torso and some trees," Gerard laughed as he considered the unfinished sketch of Mikey, standing in the woods, clutching a handful of small pink flowers and looking more calm and thoughtful than he had probably ever been in his entire life.

"Boo hoo, Gee. You gotta see this!"

Gerard shook his head fondly, following his brother's voice to a clearing by a small stream. The water ran clear and even, snaking through the undergrowth. The only sounds were the quiet rush of the stream, leaves rustling and, now and again, a bird chirping.

"It's so quiet here," Mikey whispered.

"Not for long," Gerard said innocently, setting his drawing supplies down before turning to his brother with a wicked grin. "Tag! You're it!"

The boys chased each other through the clearing, ducking behind trees and jumping over small rock formations. Eventually, Gerard called a T and sat down against a tree's trunk, breathing heavily.

"I'm an artist for a reason, Mikes. I'm not athletic."

Mikey just laughed and kept wandering through the underbrush, picking more of those small pink flowers.

"Jock Gerard, captain of the football team," he teased playfully. "I can see it now. You, on the field."

Gerard snorted and leaned back further, closing his eyes and listening to the gentle sounds of the clearing.

"Gee! Look what I found," Mikey called loudly, interrupting the peacefulness. "It looks like one of those old army drums. I bet it's a hundred years old."

Gerard opened his eyes and directed his attention back towards his brother, curiously watching as Mikey pulled out what did, in fact, appear to be an old military drum. The brambles of the underbrush wound thickly around the rods, as if trying to pull it back, away from Mikey.

When he finally wrested it out of the bramble patch, he carried it over to Gerard, showing off his newest treasure.

A cold chill ran up Gerard's spine, an icy hand gripped at his neck, making it hard to breathe. "Hey- it's, it's getting pretty late and that thing is kinda giving me a bad vibe..."

Mikey scoffed. "C'mon, Gee, don't be a big baby. Whoever's it was is long dead. They don't care if I mess around with it."

"Seriously, Mikes, I think we should go." Gerard insisted, scrambling to his feet and looking over his shoulder, to where he could see a little glimpse of the house.

But Mikey sat down, dumping his handful of flowers on the ground, forgotten, and held the drum steady between his legs. He experimentally hit it with one hand, then the other, slowly at first, then faster and faster, almost as if he could not stop.

"Mikey-"

Suddenly, there were shouts in the woods and the sound of gunshots.

Movement rose from behind a line of trees. Then, men in fatigues, carrying rifles, started sprinting towards them.

"Mikey! Let's go!" Gerard shouted, tugging on his brother's shirt. He began to run. "Hurry!"

Mikey dropped the drum and ran after him, spurred on by a bullet just narrowly missing him and embedding itself into a tree merely a foot or two to his right.

Gerard heard the crack of the gun firing, followed consecutively by two more bangs. Then he heard Mikey scream.

As Gerard turned, he saw Mikey pitch forward, eyes rolling back, spine crumpling, arms flailing. He hit the ground hard, drew in one shuddering breath, and never exhaled. His eyes stared unseeingly at Gerard, glasses cracked and dangling off one ear.

Gerard stood, frozen in shock. A hysterical laugh ripped itself from his throat as he fell to his knees, rough twigs and wild vegetation scraping his legs although he didn't notice their sharp, persistent pain.

He shook his little brother, checked for the wound, tried performing CPR, before eventually collapsing over Mikey's body, holding him close and whispering over and over again I'm so sorry.

Even as Donna cried out, and policemen with bright flashlights gently tugged on Gerard's shoulders, he would not let go, insisting he's not dead. He's alive, see?

But the coroner found no bullet wound in his body, and found no discernible cause of death. And when the police tirelessly searched, there were no men in uniform, there were no shell casings, and there was no drum.

All there was, was an unfinished drawing of a thoughtful little boy, and a handful of dead pink flowers.