Gloves

"So Mikey," started Frank, folding his hands under his chin. "Why does Ray have a bear-sized man crush on you?"
Mikey laughed lightly. "Man crush? Well, probably because I play bass. We've been writing some riffs together."
"His skills are ineffable," Ray insisted, putting the can of beer up to his lips. Bob grunted in affirmation. "I played a track for Bob once, for constructive criticism. He liked it."
The shortest of the boys in the basement huffed indignantly. "And you didn't bother showing me?" He glared at Ray in faux-annoyance.
The 'fro-ed boy held his hands up in a sign of surrender. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't think about it. Sue me!"
They fell into a somewhat awkward silence before Bob spoke up. "So Gerard," the red-eyed boy snapped his head from where he was staring at his still glove-clad hands. "What's with the gloves?"
Gerard let his head tilt to the side, covering his left eye with long black locks. "What about them?" he murmured, an undertone of malice in his voice.
Bob did not catch it. "Did you, like, get your hands mangled and disfigured with scars and stuff? Is the skin melted off-- chemical burns? Do have burn scars all over your body? What is it?"
"Bob," Frank warned, "don't push it." He did not know how sensitive the odd boy was about his hands, and judging by the sound of his voice, he was not fond of discussing it.
The two Way brothers seemed to be having a silent conversation. Mikey was looking pleadingly at Gerard, while Gerard gave a hard stare back, seemingly unmoved by his younger brother's pleas.
Finally, Gerard shook his head and sighed heavily, staying silent. Mikey rolled his eyes and motioned for Bob to ask another question.
"Why are your eyes red, then?" asked the stoner as he puffed on a cigarette (not a joint, shocker).
The eldest Way shrugged. "Genetics, puberty, supernatural entities, magic, who knows?" he said casually, a vague note of mocking in his voice.
"So I hear you like drawing me," Frank said smoothly, raising his eyebrows.
Gerard glared at Mikey and glanced coolly back at the shorter boy. "Don't flatter yourself; I draw everyone," he crooned, obvious venom coating his words.
Mikey threw a shoe at his brother. "Don't be a bitch, Gerard."
Gerard threw it back. "Come up with better insults, Mikey."
"Are brothers always like this?" Frank asked Ray.
He nodded and lit up a cancer stick. "Yeah, pretty much."
They lapsed into yet another silence, which lasted until all of the beer was gone and Bob was out of cannabis. "I Walked With a Zombie, anyone?" asked Frank when he noticed the majority of his guest were dozing off. He popped out of his seat and pushed the DVD into his TV, smiling when the familiar sound of the beginning credits played. He sat on his bed, Bob at his feet and Ray sprawled across the floor. Mikey climbed onto the bed and Gerard curled himself up into the corner beside the bed, watching the television with hooded crimson eyes.
By the time the movie was over, the Way brothers were both asleep. The three friends looked at each other and nodded, creeping towards Gerard's huddled figure. His left hand was sprawled over his head, giving the boys a clear vantage point. Frank slowly reached out, his fingers just barely brushing the black fabric. Gerard did not stir. He grasped the tip of the middle finger and pulled gently, sliding the glove over his hand seamlessly.
The hand that was revealed was stark-white and smooth, no flaws visible. There goes Bob's theories. He reached out to touch the fingertips, a sudden longing to feel the sleek, pale skin overtaking him. He brushed his fingers against Gerard's slowly, relishing the sensation.
"Frank, no!"
And then it faded to black.

Notes

Any ideas as to what's going on? Any at all? You can tell me, if you want.
Good god, it's the third chapter today. I deserve an award for this shit. I'm like James Patterson; it's like I have a sweat shop full of writers who do my bidding.
Comment and subscribe and shit.
-Stitches