Gloves

The five boys gathered back in Frank's basement at 6 pm with the coffee maker from upstairs plugged into the wall, five mugs sitting next to it and the jug of Folger's sitting next to it. Bob had his little bag of goodies in his pocket and a six pack of Budweiser. And Ray, never one to be outdone, decided it was a good idea to bring a bottle of vodka. How he had smuggled that out of his house and into Frank's, none of them knew. According to him, it was a happy accident.
The Way brothers were completely sober by the time the six pack was gone. When Mikey had reached for it at the beginning of the night, Gerard had slapped his hand away and given him his almighty glare of doom, gloom, and destruction.
"You are sixteen, damnit. I'll be damned if you start drinking that early."
"How is it fair that you get to drink but I don't?!"
"Who said I would be drinking?"
Now the other's were cracking open the vodka and the brothers were making their third pot of coffee. A tipsy Frank sat on the bed with Gerard below him, braiding his hair and letting his heavy hands trail around his face. The only time it really got annoying for Gerard was when his slender fingers poked him in the eyes or dug into his nose. Otherwise, it was somewhat soothing and reminded him of his mother, vaguely.
Ray and Bob were both shitfaced and pounding away at the bongos Frank had in the closet. Seriously, bongos. What the fuck?
Mikey was flipping through The Encyclopedia of Punk coffee table book and marking the pages that struck him.
"Hey Gerard?" said Frank, letting his head hang upside down over his sire's own.
"Yes, Frank?" replied Gerard, letting his eyes drift up to stare at his childe.
The boy fell from the bed, landing on his back next to Gerard. "I want to play a game."
Mikey threw another shoe. "No SAW references!"
"Damnit Mikey." Gerard through the shoe at him yet again. "What kind of game?"
"Hmmm." He paused for a few long moments. "I don't know." He dragged himself into Gerard's lap-- well, more or less in; more like sprawled completely over his, arms and legs splayed out. Maybe he was a little more that tipsy.
Gerard glared at the figure sprawled over him. "Get off of me, childe," demanded the somewhat-sorta-necromancer.
"Nooooooo."
"Childe," he boomed, giving him the destroyer-of-worlds look.
Frank scampered off of him, opting to sit next to his resurrector and lay his increasingly heavy head on the jacket-clad shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbled, the tone reminiscent of a child being scolded.
Gerard simply patted his leg in response.
"Damn Gerard, you have some power over him, don't you?" Mikey chuckled, pushing his glasses further up his nose.
The black-haired brother nodded thoughtfully. "It seems to me, he has some kind of loyalty to me now, after the whole 'I killed you then brought you back' thing. A ridiculous notion." Gerard rolled his shoulders lightly, making Frank's -- now asleep -- head loll onto his chest. He huffed in annoyance, but decided to leave him there; he brought it on himself.
"A just punishment for scaring the ever-loving shit out of him," Mikey mumbled.
"Nobody asked you, Mikes."
And Bob and Ray continued ignoring the conversation, popping some songs off on the bongos and smoking mutliple rolls of paper.

Notes

Ignoring conversations.
I'll drink to that.
*drink*
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-Stitches