Give Me A Label (I'll Make Confetti)

Chapter 39: Jesus Of Suburbia

After they'd stuffed themselves with food, Greg groaned and patted his stomach as he went to grab another beer. Mycroft was only halfway through his and shook his head when Greg asked if he wanted another.

Mycroft disappeared briefly to throw out their rubbish and Greg put the leftover food in the fridge before turning to the CD player. He liked Green Day's new stuff- it reminded him a bit of their earlier music before American Idiot and 21st Century Breakdown. But he was in the mood for some American Idiot so quickly found the CD and put it on.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft asked when he re-entered the secret room, closing the hidden door behind him.

'Changing the CD,' Greg said.

'Do you not like ¡Uno!?' Mycroft asked.

'I do,' Greg said as he pressed a few buttons on Mycroft's CD player, 'it's a bit like their early stuff; Nimrod, Warning, ya know?' Mycroft nodded. 'But I feel like listening to American Idiot; why, is that a crime?'

'Maybe; this is my room,' Mycroft said.

Greg just grinned as he pressed play. There was a few seconds silence before the guitar rift for American Idiot sounded and Greg started jumping around, playing what appeared to be air-guitar, and clapping his hands together during the drum parts. Mycroft couldn't help but smile as Greg darted back and forth around the room, singing along to American Idiot and using the walls as a drum kit.

He seemed to really like the "faggot" part and sang that particularly loudly, Mycroft's lips pulling into an even broader smile. Greg was so comfortable in his own skin and Mycroft couldn't help but admire him and feel a little jealous. He'd never be able to jump around like that- making an absolute fool of himself- and have fun in the process. But Gregory could, because he was just so... Gregory.

The guitar-solo started and Greg danced around Mycroft, using Mycroft's body as a guitar and making the taller boy squirm as heat pooled in his crotch. Greg licked Mycroft's neck, making Mycroft gasp, and sang, 'Is going out to idiot America!'

He kept on going, never seeming to tire as he shouted loudly and bounced off the walls of Mycroft's secret room. When it was finally over, Greg slammed himself into the wall, back against it, arms spread, and went silent.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as the music cut off, the CD moving to the next track.

'Dun, dun, dun- I'm the son of rage and love!' Greg shouted, making Mycroft snort. 'Dun, dun, dun- the Jesus of Suburbia, of the bible of, none of the above, on a steady diet ooff...' He trailed off and jumped to the guitar and drums before continuing.

'Soda pop and Ritalin- bam, bam, bam- no one ever died for my sins in hell, as far as I can tell, at least the ones I got away with!' He pointed at Mycroft, head flapping up and down. 'And there's nothing wrong with me,' Greg sang loudly, 'this is how I'm supposed to bee-' he ran his hands over his body, Mycroft chuckling, '- in a land of make believe, that don't believe in mee!'

Greg grabbed the cricket bat leaning against the wall, slotting it into his arms like it was a guitar. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Greg started playing along to the song.

'You know there's an actual guitar, right there,' he said, pointing at the black and white Fender.

'I don't know how to play,' Greg said over the music, jumping onto the armchair and playing air-guitar. 'Get my television fixed! Dun, dun, dun! Sitting on my crucifix-' Greg put both arms out, head dropping, looking very much like Jesus on the Crucifix, '- the living room, or my private womb, while the Moms and Brads are awaay! Dun, dun, dun! To fall in love and fall in debt- dun, dun, dun- to alcohol and cigarettes and Mary Jane, to keep me insane, doing someone else's cocaainne!'