Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Frank was a teenager, a girl once kissed him so hard she split his lip, her technique all teeth and hunger. They were in the back of his car, and he hadn’t even realized he was bleeding until she touched his mouth and drew her hand away with reddened, coppery fingers. He’d bled all down his chin and onto his jeans and her nice shirt, and had tried (and failed) to wash the stains out under the cold tap when he got home. 

He’d forgotten just how gory it could look. Mikey looked like he'd been through a shredder.

“What the fuck happened?” 

Getting home from work that evening, all Frank had wanted to do was sleep – and he had, for a while, curled up on the couch beneath a blanket and with Sweetpea by his side, nuzzling into his chest and looking up at him with her big, stupid, sad eyes, just begging to be scritched behind the ears (and who was he to deny her that?). He’d put some random sitcom on the TV and dozed off in no time. It had been two harsh knocks to his front door that had woken him up, sending Sweetpea skittering off his lap.

“Uh,” Mikey rocks on his heels, “Can I come in?”

The first thing Frank saw is the blood; there was so much blood, staining the dress shirt Mikey’s wearing— sleeves rolled, tinting the whole front in speckled scarlet. It was hard to look beyond that when it’s streaming at a steady pace down Mikey’s chin, and immediately Frank was looking around for something to staunch the wound. Or, at least, soak up the blood. 

“You look like shit, dude.” Frank said, but he moved aside to let Mikey in anyway. In an instant, the remnants of sleep that weighed heavy on his sluggish muscles dissipated, leaving something tense and antsy behind— waiting for something.

“Thanks.”

They stumbled their way into Frank’s bathroom— it was a tight fit, Mikey gripping onto the porcelain edge of the sink to guide himself down, slumping on the closed toilet seat. In the harsh white light, Frank could see the thin sheen of sweat beginning to form on his skin, feathering the edges of the still-wet blood on his temple like watercolor paint. Frank’s thoughts bounced around his skull, refusing to settle on anything coherent. He was still heavy with sleep.

“What the fuck happened?” He asked eventually, rifling through the cabinet in search of a clean towel. There was a lot of shit there— empty deodorant cans he’d forgotten to throw away, an array of hair dye stained towels, Brian’s shirt that they thought had been lost months ago. He should probably return that. Eventually, he procured a clean cloth, and began to run it under the warm sink tap.

“I got- uh, jumped.” Mikey hums, watching with dazed eyes as Frank wrings the cloth out. 

When he spoke, Mikey’s voice was as a hoarse rasp, tired and croaky and tired out like he’d been yelling. Instead of meeting Frank’s eyes, his gaze flickered around the small bathroom— from the cracked ceiling tile to the map-of-the-world shower curtain, even down to Frank’s colorful array of toothbrushes. He’s probably wondering who needs that many toothbrushes , Frank thought to himself, and in that moment decided he’s a freak who owns too many toothbrushes in too many colors, and Mikey probably thought he’s some sort of whore, or maybe a serial killer who likes to collect his victim’s toothbrushes. 

Mikey didn’t seem to mind. He looked at his own hands, in his lap, fingers twisting around each other in the way they always did when he wasn’t sure what to do or say, a common thing with someone as awkward as him. 

“Jumped?” Frank touched at the tender, red spot under Mikey’s eye, and Mikey flinched, “Sorry.”

The skin was soft and hot and would probably bruise by the next morning, but nothing was burst or broken or bound to scar. The blood around Mikey’s temples and lips had scared him initially, because there was just so much of it, but Frank was pretty firmly convinced that Mikey wasn’t going to die on him any time soon.

“It’s okay.” 

“No it isn’t,” Frank snorted, because it was probably the most Mikey Way response he’d ever heard, and leaned forward to dab away some of the drying blood on Mikey’s temple. “Did they take your wallet? You should call your bank. And maybe also your mom.”

“No,” Mikey hummed. “They didn’t.”

Wiping away some of the blood revealed a thin, jagged cut high on Mikey’s cheekbone, the blood smeared upwards across his temple and eye socket. The skin itself blushed bright under his fingertips, a sign it’d form into a nasty bruise. It would heal quickly, so shallow, but Frank still frowned.

He furrowed his brow, glancing up again to look Mikey in the eye. It was the kind of cut that comes from a ring, maybe, considering the bruised state of his cheek.

“So you got jumped and they didn’t think to take anything?”

Frank’d never been jumped before— knock on wood— but he knew that wasn’t how it worked. He wiped away more blood. Mikey’s skin was cold and sallowed under the light, washing him out pale and sickly. When he looked down at his hands, dabbing at Mikey’s cheek, he realized they were shaking.

“Yeah,” Mikey nodded. ”Yeah, sure.”

Stepping back, Frank rinsed the cloth under the hot tap, watching the rust-colored water circle down the drain. The whole bathroom smelled strongly of metal, and the fan whirred over Frank’s head, and he wondered how Mikey hadn’t been sick everywhere yet because this sucks. 

It reminded him of all the times the roles had been reversed. When they were younger, much younger, and Frank had less of an understanding of when to back down and more to fight for. Sure, sometimes Ray or Gerard (even Otter, once, on one incredibly strange occasion) were the ones to patch him up— but more often than not, it was Mikey. It felt weird to be the caretaker now, rather than being taken care of.

Frank’s eyes flickered down to Mikey. He was still looking at the tiled floor of the bathroom, hands fidgeting in his lap. Tugging his lip between his teeth for a moment, Frank knocked knees with Mikey, bringing him back to the present. 

“Okay, so what actually happened?”

Mikey’s gaze met his for a second, before flitting away— he fumbled with his fingers, long and spindly, nails bitten raw. He’d always been a nailbiter, a nervous habit, and Frank couldn’t exactly criticize, at least— not when his own were in a similar state.

“Nothing happened,” He scowled when Frank’s fingers touched a particularly tender spot, flinching away, “Dude- ow?”

“Sorry,” Frank mumbled, “You don’t end up like that from nothing.”

He was pushing it, he knew. This was usually about the time old Mikey would shut off, and it seemed he was edging close to that point. Mikey leaned back until their knees were no longer brushing, and his hands moved swiftly up to pop the top button of his shirt open. His knuckles were red and bloodied, too, scraped raw. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mikey quickly tucked his hands away, crossing his arms defensively, and echoed;

“It was nothing, I got jumped.”

Pursing his lips, Frank leaned to rinse out the cloth again. The water ran orange-red, the color of rust, and the sharp smell of metal grew stronger in the air. Overhead, the bright light burned at the back of his neck, warm and clinical, and he moved to brush his hair out of his eyes. He measured his words carefully, rolling them around on his tongue for a moment before speaking.

“Well, try not to make a habit out of- getting jumped.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Mikey said, voice stiff but hoarse, and he released a little in his seat, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Reaching, Frank lightly brushed his fingers at Mikey’s jaw and tilted his head, squinting in the light— it was hard to get a good angle, obscured by his own shadow. Mikey didn’t move away like Frank had expected him to. Instead, he seemed to collapse a little into the touch, like his body had finally found rest.

“Move your head, there- to the side, like that,” He murmured, “Yeah. Dude, there’s so much blood.”

“I know.” Mikey hummed, eyes flickering closed and dark eyelashes brushing at his high cheekbone, and Frank felt the vibration all the way down to his elbow, “I think your neighbor thinks I’m a serial killer.”

“She thinks everyone’s a serial killer,” Mikey cracked an eye open as Frank moved downwards with the cloth, dabbing at the sweat-glistened skin of his neck. His jaw was lined with a day’s worth of stubble, the scritch of the terrycloth against it loud in the silence of the small bathroom. He glanced up at Frank with big, dark eyes, and then let his gaze wander the room once more.

“She thinks I’m a serial killer.”

“You own a lot of toothbrushes,” Mikey observed, “Are they your thing? Like what serial killers collect?”

“You caught me,” Biting back a chuckle, Frank released his grip on Mikey’s chin to wring out the cloth a final time. He’d done his best at cleaning off all the blood and sweat, leaving Mikey’s face pale and tired looking. It was the best look he’d gotten at his friend in a long while, and he took the sight in slowly. The injuries weren’t anything life-ruining, really. Bruises and scrapes, but nothing permanent. It had been the blood that made him panic.

Mikey was pallid, sallow like he had always been with a long and thinning face. The bags under his eyes seemed darker than Frank had remembered, two indigo thumbprints relaying the story of one too many sleepless nights. Traces of mascara, or maybe eyeliner, ringed Mikey’s eyes lightly. 

“She probably thinks Sweetpea is a serial killer.”

“Sweetpea has her moments,” Mikey pointed out. He reached and touched wearily at his face, wincing when his fingers ghosted along more tender patches of skin. Frank could only shake his head, and resist the urge to pull Mikey’s fingers away. He’d do more if he could, but Frank was pretty sure the first aid kit had been emptied the last time he’d accidentally shattered a glass whilst doing the dishes.

“She doesn’t even weigh ten pounds,” Frank sank down, leaning his back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub and looking up at Mikey, who still sat on the closed toilet. “She couldn’t hurt a fly if she wanted to.”

There was a long, heavy silence after that. Frank watched Mikey’s chest rise and fall, slowing from heaving breaths to something calmer. His hands never stopped moving, though, twisting the ring on his finger or trying to crack his knuckles, and the flash of rust-red with every movement made it hard to keep his eyes away. 

Sliding down until he could feel the lip of the porcelain tub digging into the base of his neck, Frank knocked Mikey’s foot gently with his own. Mikey didn’t pull his foot away, rather, he nudged Frank’s back playfully. His hair had raised all along the bare skin of his arms in the chill of the bathroom, and he hadn’t even noticed until then just how cool it was.

Mikey looked older without his glasses, more world-weary. The swooping bangs had become tussled too, revealing the face he seemed to work hard to obscure— all angles and sharp edges, from the cut line of his nose to his angular jaw. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Frank how much Mikey would have changed after all this time. He’d been immortalised, in a way, in Frank’s fading memory— forever eighteen, gangly and awkward and with that stupid haircut ripped straight from The Crow , because teenaged Mikey was exactly the sort of guy to do that.

Finally, Mikey spoke. His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Frank to hear him— but Frank was astute, and he always had been when it came to Mikey.

“You’re not gonna like the truth.” 

“You’ve given me worse ones,” Frank hummed, and he leaned forward. His hand reached to brush against Mikey’s own, curled around the bone of his knee. “Come on. Mikey, it’s me.”

Their hands collided and Mikey retracted like he’d touched something scalding.

Confessions had always been a kind of sensitive subject for Frank— he’d done it a few times when he was younger, back when he still went with his mom to mass on Sundays, and each time had been the same: a building knot of dread in his stomach that festered and festered, carrying whatever guilt he had like it was a brick tied to his ankles, until it was too heavy to handle. He’d shuffle into the confession booth and try to find something beyond the mesh screen, and at first he wouldn’t know what to say, but once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop, and the priest would tell him to pray and he would. And it helped, maybe.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“It was some guy, and I thought- I dunno, I thought he was flirting with me…” His eyes were scrunched shut, like he was trying to block everything out, forget where he was. Something twisted in Frank’s stomach.

“Guess he wasn’t,” He gave a bitter, forced laugh that echoed harshly against the tiles, “Didn’t appreciate me assuming, either.”

“Oh,” Was all Frank could think to say, feeling as if his mouth was full of sand, “Mikey, fuck.”

He suddenly felt very small, and very unsure, and he didn’t like feeling that way. It seemed like he felt like that more and more these days, looking for guidance from anyone who would give it to him. The knot in his throat was more of a boulder, now, and he could feel his stomach churning as the deep dread settled in. Mikey just shook his head. He was shrinking back in on himself, again, knees together and calves pressed against the seat, like he was resisting the urge to curl up.

“I don’t know what I expected. It’s- it’s fine.”

It was not fine.

“It’s not fine.” He said, because it wasn’t.

Mikey huffed another bitter laugh. He shook his head softly, a piece of hair flopping down onto his forehead as he did. He wrung his hands out again, fingers dodging the raw skin of his knuckles in a jittery but practiced motion.

“Yeah, well,” His voice echoed, hollow-sounding, “Can’t take it back now, can I? People will always hate me for- nothing’s gonna change that.”

“Mikey.”

Frank watched helplessly as Mikey moved to wipe at his face, pressing into his eyes with the heels of his palms. They were unsteady, his hands, as he moved, and his blushed knuckles seemed to glow under the white light that washed the rest of his skin out. For a long moment, there was silence, and then Mikey’s entire body began to shudder. Frank saw the movement in Mikey’s shoulders first, globed and curling in on himself, and soon it was accompanied by muffled, stuttered breath.

“I’m twenty-fucking-six and I let some guy just beat the shit out of me. For being a queer.” Mikey hiccuped, “God, I’m a fucking failure.”

The Mikey that Frank knew— he didn’t do tears. He didn’t really do much emotion at all, not really, and Frank didn’t exactly know what he was supposed to do. He figures he should know, maybe. Tentatively, he nudged Mikey’s foot with his own.

“Hey, hey,” Frank said, “No, no you’re not. Don’t say that.”

The worst part is— he could see it. Hear it. Between Mikey’s ragged breaths, he could almost hear the yelling, picture what hits landed first, see Mikey shrinking back and shielding himself, or maybe he’d fought back. The thought alone is enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. Frank reached for his cell, somewhere deep in his jean pocket.

“I should call Gerard.” 

Mikey’s hands jerked away from his face in an instant, eyes wide and panicked. His hands moved towards his hair, carding fingers through it swiftly, pushing it back and away from his face. He always looked so much younger when he did that, like they were just kids again.

“Don’t.” He began, “He doesn’t know. I’m not- you know- it’ll ruin him, come on.”

“I can’t just-“ Frank stilled his hands, even if he didn’t want to, “Not tell him? Let him think everything is fine?”

“You can,” Blood tinged where Mikey had run his fingers, leaving pale red streaks along his hairline, “We didn’t tell him about all the other times we got our asses kicked, when he was in college. I didn’t tell him wh-”

“They weren’t trying to fucking hate crime you, Mikey.”

“You can’t tell him,” Mikey pleaded, “Come on, Frank. Give me this. Please. There’s a reason I came to you.”

Something twisted in Frank’s stomach. He didn’t want to lie to Gerard, but he didn’t want to go against Mikey either. This was – he knew how scary it must be. Frank worried his lip between his teeth, tasting the sting of copper as he bit into broken skin.

He sighed, heavily, and slumped his shoulders. Mikey whispered;

“Thank you,” and then, “Don’t worry about me.”

“I do,” Frank admitted, because he did, and always would, “You can’t make me not worry.”

His eyes latched on to the backs of Mikey’s hands now, the dusting of dark, cracked red over his knuckles where the skin had split and bruised. Mikey’s fingers were twitching like they hurt, but he didn’t seem to pay it much mind.

“And look where that got us,” Mikey cracked a forced half-smile up at Frank, as if saying - I’m fine , even if he wasn’t, “I’m not gonna do anything stupid. Nothing you need to get me out of. I’m an adult, you know.”

“I know.” Frank smiled softly. He reached out to take Mikey’s hands, palms-down, “Let me see your hands?”

Mikey offered them up without complaint. Looking closer, it was easy to see how the skin had scraped away, the wound shining. Most of the blood must have been from Mikey’s face, then, drying all down his hands as he tried to rub it away.

“I punched a wall. Maybe two. Three, I don’t remember.”

“Should’a punched him,” Frank murmured, more to himself, “Bastard.”

“I don’t think I’d have won,” Mikey had never been the confrontational type. They both knew that too well, “Someone was screaming the whole time.”

“At you or him?”

Mikey was silent then, looking down at the damage on his knuckles. He pursed his lips like he was rolling words around on his tongue, but never answered. Instead;

“Sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“I don’t,” Frank agreed, much preferring Mikey fully intact, “But it’s not you I’m upset at.”

“I know,” Mikey frowned, “Still sucks.”

Mikey settled in Frank’s room after that, in some of Frank’s clean clothes, his bloodied ones thrown in the wash. He barely complained when Sweetpea jumped up on the duvet and headbutted at him until he pet her, running his fingers gently through her coat until he’d passed out entirely. Frank had seen him then, through the crack in the doorway, sleeping soundly. He looked so peaceful, asleep, untroubled. 

One year Before Mikey, Frank cut his leg open on a rusty nail trying to hop a fence into someone’s backyard and play with their dog. He told his mom he tripped.

He had bled practically everywhere , this bright, crimson blood that was hot and wet against his skin, and he’d thought that people only bled like that in the movies. By the time he’d limped home it had soaked all the way through his jeans and his hands were stained and sticky with it, and his mom had sewn him up with the family first aid kit that usually sat in the cupboard above the fridge that Frank had seen a thousand times before but never thought he’d have to use. 

Afterwards, he had peeled off his clothes— sticking to his skin with all the sweat and the blood, and the vomit once he’d watched his skin get stitched together, wondering how the hell he’d made it home with a wound so big— it’d spanned half of his calf. The scar healed thick and white and when he touched it, he felt how the tissue was stiff and raised, and in the summer it itched and itched and itched. He promised himself he’d never do something that stupid again, unless he had a good reason.

This, probably, definitely, was the stupidest thing he’s ever done. 

He dialled up the number, reading it from Mikey’s cell, and his mouth felt dry as he pressed the call button. The call picked up on the third ring. 

“Hello?” Pete asked.

Since the day he first met him, six years ago under the lights of some dingy bar, Frank decided that he would only ever speak to Pete Wentz if it was a life-or-death situation. He figures this doesn’t exactly constitute that, but when it came to Mikey he’d always been willing to make exceptions. 

“Pete? It’s, um, Frank- we met a while back- you might not reme-“

“This is about Mikey.” And of course it was.

“Yeah,” He nodded, as if Pete could see him over the phone, “Yeah, it’s about Mikey.”

****

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” Frank said, the next day, “About him. I don’t know. I keep making all the worst decisions.”

He’d been feeling fuzzy all over since Mikey came over, fallen asleep in Frank’s bed. Since he’d called Pete. Like his head’d been pushed under the water and he’d lost all bearings or sense of direction. He kept asking himself if he did the right thing, calling Pete. Letting Mikey in.

Brian was on the other line, and in the gaps of silence between his words he can hear the sizzle of dinner on the pan, the crackled hum of whatever music Brian was listening to over the radio. It was a quiet sort of comfort, and then Brian spoke all low and soft. 

“I think you’re scared, and in love, and people make bad decisions when they’re scared and in love.”

Frank swallowed thickly and the rock in his throat didn’t budge. It left a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Has anyone ever told you to tone it down with the introspective one-liners?” he asked, and he clicked off the call before Brian can answer.

****

”Pete called.” Mikey tells him over dinner, the next evening. He was still in his clothes from yesterday— Frank’d been trying to scrub the blood stains out of his dress shirt all morning— but he’d been sleeping, and eating, and looking a little less like he’d been plucked from a slasher film.

Evening had fallen easily. They’d both slept late into the afternoon, on one of Frank’s few days off, ended up doing that thing Frank and Brian had sometimes done— the thing where they kind of coexist together in the same space, going through the motions of their day without interacting at all. Like kids again, parallel-playing in the sandbox. It was weird, but it was nice. Frank figured Mikey wasn’t in much of a talking mood: he couldn’t blame him.

“He asked me how I was doing.”

His lip had bruised the worst, where he’d been punched. Reddish-purple spread all down to the corner of his mouth and to his chin, as if his skin had been stained. Around the cuts and grazes, it had become an angry, tender red, but they weren’t bleeding anymore. Frank hummed through a mouthful of pasta.

“Yeah?”

He wasn’t sure what Mikey planned to do, how to hide it from Gerard. Maybe he’d believe the mugging story.

“Yeah,” Mikey pushed the food around on his plate, “You told him. About what happened.”

“Are you upset?” 

There was a pregnant pause for a long while, a thick and tense silence that settled heavy on Frank’s skin. With the midsummer, it’d been hot and dry all morning, but goosebumps still rippled across the bare, tanned skin of Frank’s arms. When he loked up, Mikey was staring holes into his mac and cheese.

“I don’t think so,” he says, voice low and slow, “No. Well, not really. It’s Pete.”

“He’s an interesting guy,” Frank followed, keeping his voice low, too— he could hear the sounds of the settling house, the humming of the radio and the lights over his head, and somehow despite the quiet it was so loud. “I ran into him once. Outside a bar, a few years ago.”

He wrinkled his nose at the thought— he’d had to throw the pair of sneakers away, in the end, and Pete hadn’t paid him back like he’d offered. They had been his nice sneakers too, ones he’d sharpied all over on the rubber, but the puke-smell hadn’t come out no matter how many times he’d scrubbed them. Mikey quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“He bummed a cigarette off me and threw up on my shoes.”

Mikey huffed a laugh, scraping his fork against the porcelain plate for a second.

“That sounds like something he’d do,” He paused, glancing up at Frank for a moment before back down at his plate, “He’s a good guy, you know. Treated me well.”

Past tense. Frank tried not to think about that too much. He reaches his leg out beneath the table tentatively, knocking Mikey’s calf with his socked-foot, swift enough to play off as accidental. Through half-lidded, tired eyes he tracked Mikey’s hands across the plate as they wrapped around his cup, condensation already forming on the outside of the frosted glass. He cleared his throat.

“I know. And I know you wouldn’t have stayed with him if he hadn’t.”

Mikey hummed noncommittally into his soda, the sound bouncing around in the class, and his long fingers clung tight around the glass as if trying to soak all the cold from it. He picked up his fork again, eyes still not meeting Frank’s.

“Sure.” He stabbed a piece of macaroni, with a little too much aggression, “I really liked him.”

That, Frank knew. That, Frank had tried to forget. The way he’d seen Mikey’s eyes light up the first time they settled on Pete on that stage, hair slicked and sweat seeping through his tank top, shimmering under the colorful club lights. It had been years since that day, the day he lost Mikey for good, but he’s never been able to get that look on Mikey’s face out of his head. He leaned forward, pressing a little on the tender bruise Mikey’d been skirting around.

“But?”

“But,” Mikey twisted his mouth around for a moment, “He was Pete.”

That made sense, kind of. Frank thinks. Probably made more sense to Mikey than Frank, but that sort of thing happened a lot these days— when they were younger, sometimes it felt like they were sharing one mind.

Mikey stabbed another piece of macaroni, stacking them up carefully on one prong of his fork instead of actually eating. His plate was only half-empty. Frank was about three-quarters through his own meal. 

“I asked him, once- it was after this long night, a really shitty show where the crowd just weren’t taking us well— and I asked him if he wanted me and he said he did.”

He could almost hear Mikey’s voice, as small as it is now. The man in front of him was shrinking with every second as he spoke, curling in on himself as he hunched over his plate. He wondered if Mikey had been as small in that moment, as meek, trying to tuck himself into something so tiny he almost ceases to exist.

“But then, well- I asked him if he loved me, really, properly loved me— the way Gee and Lindsey love each other, or Ray and Christa, you know.”

“Mikey,” Frank says, his throat feeling rough, and he reaches out to take a sip of his own drink. It doesn’t help. Mikey continues.

“Shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to,” His voice quivered, “I don’t think he could answer me. Even if he had, you know, I don’t think it would have been honest.”

“Oh.” Frank put his fork down with a clatter against the porcelain. “I’m- I-”

The thing was— maybe ten years ago, he might have known what to say to Mikey then. Might have understood Mikey, what lead him to ask in the first place, know how to placate him and soothe him like a sore muscle pulled too taut for too long. Mikey’d always been the sort of boy to carry the whole world on his shoulders, and never raise a fuss, only giving in when the weight of it crushes him to his knees. Mikey scratched at his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a few days.

“You don’t need to feel bad for me. It’s over,” he said, “We were better off as friends. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who can ever love someone, not really.”

“Are you?” Could you have loved me? If you’d wanted to, like I’d loved you?

“Yeah,” Mikey’s eyes met his. Looking up through curtains of dark lashes, his eyes were wide and uncertain, like he was afraid Frank could look right through him, pick him apart as easily as he used to be able to. He tugged his lips through his teeth for a second. They were all red and raw, the skin bitten off over nervous days like Frank’s nails bitten down to the quick.

“I mean, I haven’t had much practice. He’s kind of- I think I loved him.”

They don’t talk much after that. After they eat, Mikey turns on the TV and Frank listens to the hum of it in the background as he washed the dishes. He’d never been one for quiet, always preferring some sort of noise in the back of his mind— it made it easier for him to zone in on what he was doing, place him in the moment instead of two steps away from it.

He settled on the couch beside Mikey after the dishes were cleaned and dried, let himself get comfortable. Mikey’d made himself at home, kicking his socked feet up onto the coffee table and tangling himself up into one of the throw blankets Frank’s mom had given him as a housewarming gift when he moved in. Mikey was looking at the screen— some crime procedural— but he wasn’t actually watching, like he was stuck inside his own thoughts.

“Hey,” Frank says softly, and he reached a hand out to settle it on Mikey’s shoulder, where his neck curved out and Frank could feel the soft flesh above his collarbone, “You okay?”

Mikey kisses Frank hard, all teeth. 

It’s rough and needy and begging for something more, the way Mikey leaned his entire weight into the kiss and pushed Frank back. His hands gripped at the sides of Frank’s face, fingers tucked beneath the curve of his jaw and beginning towards his hairline to slide through his hair, long and thin but sure. Frank pressed his other hand flat against Mikey’s chest, feeling the bone of his sternum, and the hand on Mikey’s shoulder slid easily up to rest at the nape of his neck, feeling the protrusion of his spine. 

When Mikey pulled away, his eyes were wide, and his face flushed pink. He pressed his forehead against Frank’s, and when he spoke his voice was pleading and desperate.

“Give me a chance?” He asked between heaving breaths, “You loved me. I know you did.”

The thought sent Frank’s head spinning. He’d known. He’d fucking known, and he hadn’t ever done anything about it, and he’d let Frank sit with this guilt inside of him eating him up every goddamn night and he hadn’t done anything. He had left . Something foul twists in his stomach, a tight-clenched fist around his organs that brought a wave of nausea rolling over him. He thought he might be sick.

“You knew?” 

Mikey leaned forward again, moving to pepper desperate kisses against Frank’s face. First, at the corner of his lips, and then at the curve of his jaw, and soon he was speaking in between pressing kisses to the crook of Frank’s neck, lips bristling against stubble.

“I had- I hadn’t realized. Until later. I was already gone. It was too late.” 

Until you had decided you were done with me.  

All of this time, Frank had wondered what Mikey would be like to touch, to kiss, to be able to love. For so long Frank had wanted and now Mikey was giving and he didn’t know if he could stomach it. 

“Maybe,” His voice shuddered as he spoke, “I can’t- Mikey, you know I can’t- don’t do this to me.”

“Frank?” When Mikey whispered, his hot breath fanned against the sensitive skin of Frank’s neck — every nerve felt on fire, electrified with the sensation — and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Pressing his hands on Mikey’s shoulder’s, Frank pushed him back.

“Don’t make me get my hopes up. You don ‘t love me.” He was begging now, “I can’t do that again. I- I won’t.”

Mikey looked up at him, hazel eyes wide with surprise. His lip quivered as he blinked, quickly, and then pulled away.

“Frank,” He said, but Frank was on a roll now, words spilling from his mouth— he didn’t even know where they were coming from, but they were coming. He pushed back onto the couch, and the distance between their bodies— only a foot or two— became an ocean.

“If we were younger- if we were still- you know. The way we used to be,” Frank wanted to disappear, “Maybe I could.”

He closed his eyes tight for a long second, heaving a shuddering breath.

He thought about himself as a teenager. Younger, less certain, more desperate. That Frank would have taken Mikey any way he could have him, true love or pity sex. Not caring if Mikey was picturing someone else, if Mikey was only touching him because he was there, he would have taken it and convinced himself it was the best he could ever get. He was better than that now, he knew, knew he deserved something better. 

“Give me some time,” he said, then, willing himself into something halfway calm. Because he still wanted Mikey. Just not like this.

“Give me some time and if you- fuck- if you still want me then,” Frank pursed his lips, feeling them still wet with spit, “You can have me.”

The skin of his lips tingled still from the contact— every inch of him was buzzing and electric, his heart pounding so rapidly in his chest he could barely hear Mikey speak over the thud. Like he’d been pricked by needles all over, blood rushes in Frank’s ears. 

“Fuck,” Mikey’s voice was hoarse and panicked, “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry- I’m- I shouldn’t have-“

“Mikey,”

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry.” He continued, and when Frank looked at him his wiping furiously at his eyes, eyebrows knitted close and tight like he was angry at something, “I- fuck, Frank. I need to- I can’t do this- I need to go.”

Mikey’d always been this sort of way— the sort of person to run away. Frank knew this to be true, the same way he knew the sky is blue and that Otter damn well needed that click track. It seems the years hadn’t changed that about him. He allowed Mikey the distance this time, rather than letting it be taken from him— didn’t reach out to soothe Mikey’s trembling hands. Instead, he asks;

“Do you… need a ride back home?” His voice was unexpectedly steady, “I can call Gee to pick you up- he wouldn’t mind-”

Mikey shook his head, moved to wipe again at his eyes— he wasn’t crying, but he was damn close, face red and avoiding Frank’s gaze.

“No,” He stood, “I need to, fuck, I need to go back. I don’t know why I ever even left Chicago.”

“What?“ Frank couldn’t have heard him right.

“I have to,” Mikey echoed, “I don’t belong here, Frank. Not when- Not when I ruined everything by leaving and I’m making it all worse by coming back.”

Mikey moved like a nervous dog. Cornered, and afraid— like he’d snap his teeth because he didn’t know how else to scare Frank away. Any way it’d take to get out alive. Kill or be killed. 

“Hey, no,” Sweetpea whined, somewhere in the background— all Frank could focus in on is the rushing of the blood in his ears and on Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, “I want you here, okay?” 

“Right,” He said the words like he didn’t believe them. He didn’t. Frank pushed. The TV droned on beside them. He wondered if maybe he should call Gerard, in the end, get him to talk some sense into Mikey. Mikey pushed himself off the sofa. In slow, loose circles, he paced besides the coffee table, wringing his hands all the while.

Frank stayed back. Watching from his perch on the couch, he let his eyes wander across Mikey— thin and tired and stretched out with exhaustion. It’d been getting better, lately, being back home healing his aching body in the way only family can. He wondered how bad it had been before, how far Mikey had let himself be pushed before he’d had to give in the end. If he could, he’d soothe Mikey’s moving hands, wipe away the thumbprint-bruises under his eyes, make Mikey okay again.

“Even if we can’t- If I can’t- you’re still my best friend, you know? I want you here, man. You can stay. As long as you need. Not just for tonight.”

Eyes trailing along the cut of Mikey’s face, the tender skin of his bruises shimmered under the golden lamplight and the cool blues of the TV screen, cutting his features sharp and clear in hard shadow. The dark marred most of his wounds, made him younger, less battered, but more afraid. 

“I don’t hate you, you know. If you think I do. I don’t.” He continued, and it was true, “You had to leave and I get it- maybe I didn’t get it when I was 18 but I get it now. And I’m not angry anymore.”

The fact was that— Frank was older, now. He was older and wiser and when he was a teenager he had been so angry all the time. About everything. He’d been angry at his parents and at school and at the world for being so damn unfair all the time, the kind of anger that was big and growing, and he had no idea where to hold all of it inside him. The bitterness had mellowed with age, the spite quickly following suit, once he’d realized all it did was eat away at him inside.

So he didn’t hate Mikey for leaving. He understood, like he had when Mikey had first left, and he couldn’t hate Mikey for it anymore. Not when Mikey had needed it so badly— Frank could survive without him, but Mikey couldn’t survive in Belleville. It was an obvious choice.

Mikey looked down at him. Long, dark eyelashes feathered at the apex of his high cheekbones.

“You aren’t?”

“I’m not,” Frank shook his head, jaw feeling numb, “Mikey, I’m not.”

“I thought you wanted me. I really thought-“ Voice small, shrunken, Mikey wiped for a final time at his eyes with his sleeves pulled up over his hands. His hands were clenched tightly.

“I do,” Frank lips his lips, mouth dry, and it’s honest, “But not like this, Mikey.”

He had— still did, really. More than anything. But he couldn’t let himself do that, sink as low as Mikey’ll let him. He needed something real this time.

“I want you.” He said, and Mikey met his gaze. It’s uncertain, but Frank desperately wanted him to know that he’s being true here, “Fuck. So much, Mikey. But you’re not– I don’t want to ruin our chances. I don’t want to just be a hookup.”

They went to bed after that. After Frank talked him down, and they went for a smoke break out on Frank’s balcony and stayed out there until the cherry burned their fingers and until Sweetpea was whining for cuddles, and then Frank made up the couch for Mikey to sleep on whilst Frank took the guest bed. He’d insisted on taking the couch himself, but Mikey was pretty adamant.

In the end, though, Frank didn’t even flinch when Mikey cracked open the door to his bedroom. When he slipped under the covers, he didn’t say anything. He just listened, listened to the creak of the bed under Mikey’s weight and his soft breath, and willed himself to sleep. Because it hadn’t been a no, he’d said it himself, and they both know they’d finally breached the line between friends and something more that they’d been dancing around for the better half of a decade now. The point of no return.

Mikey touched his shoulder, traced a thin line up from the base of Frank’s spine to the nape of his neck, slow and steady as it incited a shiver that rippled across Frank’s entire body, even in the summer heat. When Mikey whispered, his breath is hot and billows out across the plane of Frank’s bare neck.

“I wanted to ask you to come with me,” Mikey admitted.

****

“You’ve reached my voice mail— ow, fuck, get off of me Pete! Leave a message if you- fuck- want!” 

Frank pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until they were sore. He listened to the braying laugh of Pete fucking Wentz one final time, before the beep sounded, and snapped his phone shut with a groan.

It had been a week since he’d last spoken to Mikey. Instead of showing up at his own leisure, as he’d taken to doing, the boy had seemed to vanish into thin air. Whilst Gerard had assured him that Mikey was very much not dead, that had presented the reality to Frank: Mikey was avoiding him. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. The boy was a well-established master of disappearing off the face of the earth on a whim, running from any problem that he had to face. He figures he’ll let Mikey run for a while. 

Brian didn’t come around anymore, either. Ray and Christa were busy being the gold-star perfect couple, of course, and Gerard and Lindsey were always too busy with a kid on the way and a house to renovate to come around. Frank went to work, a 9-to-5 where he didn’t make a habit of lingering to make small-talk with his colleagues, and came home to an empty apartment, falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV with Sweetpea curled up on his lap. She was a good companion but, well, she wasn’t human.

The apartment had become lonely. Consumingly so.

Frank went to see his mom.

“You’re just so lonely these days, Paco,” She told him over coffee, like he didn’t already know. It was some special arabica blend, she told him too, now that she’d finally figured out how to use the coffee machine he got for her two Christmases ago.

“Yeah, well, my friends are busy,” Frank swirled his spoon around in his mug, watching the plumes of pale creamer in the dark coffee, “Gerard and Lindsey are having another baby, you know.”

Linda Iero loved many things in life— Oversized sunglasses, Jesus, and her two little dogs— but she loved little kids more than anything. Frank knew this to be a cold, hard fact, with all the force she’d put into asking when he was finally going to settle down and have kids. He was only 25, but she’d insisted she wasn’t getting any younger. A sparkle in her eye, she leans forward and presses her elbows down onto the dining room table.

“A boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know. They don’t know. It’s meant to be a surprise,” He hums into his drink, blowing lightly before taking a sip. The spoon clatters against the ceramic mug, “It’ll be fun for Bandit to be an older sister, I think. Either way.”

Bandit’s young, and he hasn’t known her long, but he knows well enough that she’ll be an amazing older sister. If she’s taken after Gerard at all— to which she’s proved to on many occasions— Frank was pretty certain she’c be kickass in that department. He smiled at the thought.

His mom twisted her lips in deliberation for a long second before taking a sip of her coffee. With her hair pulled back tight like that, it was easier to see her time-worn face, the thin cheekbones and pinched lips that Frank was so used to.

“We thought you were a girl for the longest time,” Me and your father, “I was already quite far along by the time you decided to let us know. We’d almost painted the nursery pink.”

“Pink is nice.”

“Not for a boy’s nursery, no,” She shook her head decidedly, “We kept the blue for a long while. Up until you were, what, 12? And then you wanted grey.”

“Grey was cooler,” Frank cracked a smile, his mom barely cracked one back, “Not that you could really see it.”

He’d covered his walls ceiling-to-floor in posters. Anything he could get his hands on— tour flyers, photos ripped from magazines, postcards and photographs. His room had been his sanctuary as a kid, away from the stresses of the world, the place where he could wind down and not have to worry about anything outside of those four postered walls. 

“All your posters,” Linda nodded knowingly, “Your father entertained that for far too long.”

Since Frank had moved out and he no longer relied on her fleeting presence, his relationship with his mom had gotten vastly better in some regards. They didn’t argue as much as they had when he was a teenager. A lot of those arguments had been about dad, and getting to see him— after the split, Frank had been graced with three weeks over the summer break to spend with his dad, playing music and failing to learn how to fish. 

“You’ve entertained a lot of my chaos,” He defended, “Remember when I got that drum set for Christmas?”

Before guitar, it had been drums. It had been drums all the way down, really— his dad, his granddad, playing music had always been in his blood. He’d found over time that he preferred the freedom to move around on stage, the feeling of the strings under his fingers, but he’d always loved playing the drums too. 

“I’m so sorry for all those sleepless nights. I sucked .”

His mom picked at the cuticle of her manicured nail absently, humming to herself. Behind her glasses, her green eyes had narrowed in concentration on the task. 

“There was a reason we eventually weaned you onto guitar,” one of her dogs skittered around his ankles, “Have you gone to church recently?” 

“For Easter, Ma,” Frank sighed heavily, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

No visit to his mom’s would be complete without a proselytization. He blinked slowly as he sipped his coffee.

“Well, maybe you can come by with me some time. Meet some of my friends. Kathleen’s daughter is just wonderful, she’s around your age-“

“Maybe, Ma,” He’d probably rather die, “How’s Melissa? You said she got that hip replacement.”

That was a story he’d heard a thousand times over their phone calls. She loved to relay the gossip about her church friends (Maureen’s husband cheated on her and Paula makes box-mix cookies and thinks they can’t notice), and Frank tried his best to keep his mind wrapped around it. His mom sniffed.

“So that’s a no,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “She’s recovering well. Her youngest son’s starting freshman year this fall. Samuel, you remember?”

Frank didn’t, given there’s a solid ten years between the two and he hadn’t been dragged to one of his mom’s services in well over five years now, but he decides to play along. 

“Sure.”

Frank’s mom had his eyes, he knew this, and she had his passive-aggressive streak too, he knew this even better. She twisted her red-lipsticked lips into a small grin.

“I remember when you came home after your first day in highschool,” she drew a languid line down the table with the edge of her nail absently, “And you’d made friends, and good ones. And I was so proud of you.”

Before highschool, he’d never really had friends. There’d been people he got along with, but Frank had always struggled to find a place where he fit in properly. He was too excitable for the quiet kids, too bookwormish for the loud kids, and in the end had given up on trying to find a place at all. 

And then he had met Gerard, and Ray and Mikey and Otter, and then he’d thought,— Oh, so this is where I fit.  

“They’re good to me. Always have been,” Frank admitted, and then, “Gerard asked me to be the godfather.”

“Did you say yes?”

“Of course,” It had been a no-brainer, “I thought they would ask Ray, if anyone.”

Ray had it so much more together. He had a girlfriend he loved, who he’d settled down with. He had a job he was passionate about, that he pushed himself into full-force. His mom pauses for a moment. A dog paw scratches at Frank’s jeans. 

“You know, I really can’t wait until you have kids of your own, Frank.” She smiled tightly, “You’re all grown up now.”

He really didn’t feel like it— most days, he felt more like an overgrown child, stuck in a body too old for him. If he could he’d pause it all, if only for a minute, long enough to find his footing in the world. He tells her this.

“You’ll outgrow it.” She assures, and leans across the coffee table to push his hair out of his eyes, “With time. And help.”

“I don’t need help,” He insists, but she tsked despite it and pushed his hair further back. It was shaggy and too-long, long overdue for a haircut now and they both knew it. She threaded her fingers through his hair and he felt like a kid again.

“You came here, Paco.”

****

He met Brian for coffee two and a half days later, during his lunch break. Or rather, Brian slams a coffee cup down on the breakroom table and gave him a steely look before sitting down.

“Don’t you have clients to tend to, Schechter?” Frank grumbled, nursing his aching head. The bright lights of the office hadn’t done much to quell the dull pain that had started in the morning when he’d woken up. He swayed a little as he looks up at Brian, whose hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee of his own.

“I’m on my lunch break. And so are you. We’re spending it together, you know, like friends tend to do sometimes. It’s this crazy new concept.”

Brian knocked his leg against Frank’s, his slacks thinning at the knees. He grinned, all teeth, when Frank just groaned. A lot of Brian was like that— a little terrifying. Even if his office attire hid the expanse of tattoos across his body and he took his piercings out for work. He still looked, well, scary.

“Come on,” His voice lilted, “You know you love me, really.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank leaned and picked up the coffee cup, inspecting it dubiously. It was still warm. Smelled good, too, “Is this-”

“Soy milk?” Brian answered before he could finish. He quirked an eyebrow knowingly, “Yeah. I remember- your weird stomach shit. The coffee place didn’t have any so I grabbed some.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really know how to respond to that. It was a nice feeling, to be remembered, he supposed. “Huh. Thanks.”

Rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, a little past his wrist, Brian exposed the tattooed skin of his forearm. He leaned back on the small couch of the breakroom.

“You’re all fucking.. Dark and twisty.” Brian poked at Frank’s back, “It’s really killing the mood, dude.”

“Did you just Grey’s Anatomy me?”

“So what if I did?” Brian clicked his tongue in disapproval, but was clearly smiling, “Get off your emo high horse, dude.”

Frank frowned. He guessed he had been a bit miserable lately, not much in the mood for conversation. A pang of guilt stretched through him at the thought— he’d probably been making everyone else around him just as miserable. 

“Sorry, sorry,” He took a sip of his coffee— Brian had made it too bitter, as always, but it was good, “I’ve just had a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“You always have a lot on your mind. Your life is always a fucking mess, dude. It’s like you live in a soap.” His eye roll was almost audible, aggressive as sarcasm lilted through Brian’s voice. He was right. They knocked knees again.

“Yeah, well- this isn’t a therapy session, Schechter. I’m fine .”

Leaning back against the couch himself, Frank glared up at the popcorned breakroom ceiling. The lights were bright and white, too bright, and it pounded his heavy-feeling head. These days, he’d been all water-swollen, like he was barely keeping his head above the surface. 

“No you aren’t,” Brian said, decidedly, “We’re going out on Friday. You and me and enough booze to knock out a horse. Non-negotiable, Iero.”

****

“You need to get your shit together, man.” Gerard told him over the phone, “Come to dinner? My mom misses you. She wants an excuse to try some new vegetarian lasagna recipe.”

And really, who was Frank to say no to vegetarian lasagna.

Gerard was, of course, right. Frank did need to get his shit together and he was hyper aware of that, but hearing it from his friend’s mouth felt a bit more real somehow. So he went to dinner. 

The tension was almost palpable, suffocating silence and avoidant gazes. The bruises on Mikey had started to heal, hidden behind his long fringe, and Frank had to squint to see them. When Mikey caught him staring, though, he turned away, and made a point to avoid Frank’s gaze all night.

Frank sat at the far end of the table, Gerard and Lindsey flush next to eachother on one side with Bandit tucked in a high chair beside them. Mikey sat sandwiched between his parents, and the sight made Frank’s leg itch. The way that they were all just sitting there, as if nothing had happened— how to Gerard and Lindsey, nothing had happened. He felt sick, could barely stomach his food every time he remembered the blood.

Donna pressed questions into them all about work, how things were, asked Lindsey all about the baby. It was nice to have something to focus on, hearing Lindsey complain about the unanticipated struggle of assembling baby furniture and how Gerard’s bedtime stories for Bandit have become increasingly complex, and feature blood-sucking zombies more often than not. Frank talked about the office, about his friend Brian and how the printer never works but his boss refuses to get a new one. 

It was one of those wet, warm summer evenings— graced with a storm in the later hours of the afternoon, the bright sky only just beginning to peel away into shades of pale pink. When Frank stepped out onto the porch for a smoke, he could smell the rain in the grass, feel the weight of the humid air on his skin.

He didn’t light the cigarette straight away. Let it dangle between his fingers instead, for a moment, eyes pulling across the horizon as he tried to piece himself together. He felt so unsettled. The moment before the race begins, just behind the starting line, like you know something is coming and you’re antsy and paranoid but you just can’t go.

Behind him, he could hear the hum of talk in the background— of Lindsey’s nasally voice, of Donna’s loud, raucous laughter. The light of the kitchen casted a warm glow, his silhouette cut in shadow across the porch decking.

There was a shck as the light flickers behind him, and then Gerard was stepping out to stand beside Frank. His heavy boots creaked on the deck as he does, and he flashed a half-smile.

“Haven’t we been here before?” He snickered, “You got a light?”

Frank fumbled in his jean pocket, procuring a bic lighter after a moment. He watched Gerard hold the smoke between chapped lips, leaning forward to where Frank cupped his hand around the flame. Frank then lit his own.

“Fuck,” Gerard grimaced with a deep exhale, smoke billowing from his lips. He stretched his legs out in front of him, digging the heel of his boot into the crack in the soft, wooden plank of the porch decking. It gave way easily, half rotted from the rain. His fingers were yellowed with nicotine.

“Fuck,” Frank agreed. He rubbed at the bare skin of his arms, that jittery feeling still yet to dissipate. He felt like he’s waiting for something to happen, waiting and waiting and unable to relax.

“You’ve been off all night.” Gerard didn’t ask— he stated. And Frank couldn’t even refute him, because he was right, and instead he stretched his neck and cricked it to the left, then the right, avoiding the gaze he can feel on him. Gerard hummed.

“I never thought my life would be— well, this. You know. I never really say myself getting far.” He said. Frank cast his gaze over. Half-illuminated by the warm glow of the lights inside, the shadow softly cut across Gerard’s features, made the sharpness of his face more apparent. He frowned.

“Gee-”

“Come on, Frank,” Gerard waved him off, “I was a wreck and we both know it. At the rate I was going- I wasn’t gonna live past 25.”

Rocking on the balls of his feet, he wasn’t sure what to say. Gerard was right, but— he’d always tried to forget about that. College had been rough for him, being away from home and his safety net disappearing, and things had gotten far worse before they’d gotten better. He knew Gerard was going to AA, still, or at least had back in California— but outside the odd mention, it wasn’t something they ever brought up.

“But you did,” His voice was small, unsure, “You made it.”

“Yeah, I did,” Gerard nodded, “And I’m really, really fucking glad I did. It was worth it.”

Frank thought, briefly, about Bandit. Her big, round eyes, bright and hazel just like her dad’s. He thought about her laugh and her creativity and her unbridled love and fascination for everything around her. That was all Gerard. 

“You and Mikey fell out,” Gerard supplied, then. He turned to face Frank better, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “Something happened.”

“It’s nothing,” Frank was quick to reply, casting his gaze to the floor, “We’ll get over it. We fought all the time as kids.”

“You did,” The corner of Gerard’s lip quirked up, “I remember. Mikey fought with just about everyone. He was annoying like that.”

“It’s nothing we can’t get past,” Frank worried his bottom lip between his teeth, glaring down at the burning embers of his cigarette. He knew he couldn’t lie to Gerard, he never had been able to, not really. Lie by omission, maybe, but to his face— Gerard knew him like the back of his hand, the result of their decade-long friendship. Despite the years apart, they fell back into it easily.

“You and Ray- you guys are like brothers to me. But Mikey is my brother, Frank. I can’t- I’m supposed to keep him safe and keep him okay.”

He figured this was Gerard’s version of a shovel talk. Gerard never liked to be straightforward about things. It was what had made him so interesting to Frank, at first, what made him want to be Gerard’s friend. Over time, with age, they’d outgrown a lot of their childish selves - this, though, Gee had never grown out of.

“You’re doing a good job. You always did.”

“I’m trying. I have to make up for all the lost time when I was a total wreck. When he was the one keeping me okay. I have no idea how he forgave me for some of the things I did.”

“He loves you,” Frank’s lips felt numb around the cigarette. He could hear the soft summer breeze as it breathed across them, fresh and cool, “You know that.”

“I know. And I want the best for him, Frank.” Gerard smiled wryly, “You just- whatever it is, whatever’s going on between you guys- you know he’s never gonna face it himself unless you make him.”

If he closed his eyes, Frank could hear the murmur of music in the house— Donna’d put on the record player, maybe— of laughter, conversation, as if everything was okay. He wanted to scream. Nothing was okay, it was never okay, it would never ever be okay.

He breathed in deeply. The warm summer air felt soft in his throat, in his lungs, like it was barely even there. He rocked back on his heels, and then forward.

“I’m gay. Bi. Whatever.” He said, then, after a pregnant pause. “I thought you should know. I like dick.”

“Oh,” Gerard blinked. He nodded. “That’s- good.”

“Good?”

“Dick’s good.”

And then they were laughing. Gerard bent at the waist a little, his head narrowly avoiding colliding with the paneled wall behind him. It was a good look on him, laughter, Frank thought, something well-worn and deserved.

****

If he was being honest, Frank didn’t expect Mikey to come back as soon as he did. He knew Mikey, had for years, knew he was stubborn to a fault and, more than that, scared. But when he opened the door to his apartment, one late evening, Mikey was there.

“You’re back.” Frank said. Mikey nodded. When he gulped, Frank could see the awkward bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Gerard is pretty convincing when he wants to be,” The taller boy rocked on his heels, “Can I come in?”

Moving aside, Frank turned back to the apartment, already beginning towards the kitchen. If they were going to talk, he was going to need coffee to get him through it. Mikey probably would, too, knowing him.

“Take your shoes off- oh.” Mikey’s were already kicked off, lined up right by the front door.

“Gee wanted me to come over, actually.” 

He could already hear it, Gerard’s voice, that tone he used whenever he wanted something. It had always worked, even back when they were kids, trying to get into bars with fake IDs.

“Yeah?” Frank heard Mikey’s footsteps as he trailed after Frank, pattering into the kitchen. “And you didn’t?”

It was easy to keep busy, avoiding Mikey’s gaze – or even looking at him at all – as he filled up the coffee machine, the sound of boiling water softening out the cutting edge of Frank’s sharp, wounded tongue.

“It’s complicated.”

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

When he finally couldn’t ignore Mikey any longer, the coffee machine set and rumbling and nothing to put away on the counter, he finally looked up. Hunched over himself, Mikey looked tired and stretched thin. His hair was getting too long, curling under his ears, and his glasses were slightly crooked, and he was so Mikey that it almost hurt to look at him. Sheepish, Mikey frowned. The coffee machine chirped.

“I know. Sorry.”

“You want coffee?” Seeking a moment of reprieve, Frank turned away to pull out the mugs, a sinking feeling in his chest. He didn’t want to be angry. But he was. Had wanted Mikey to reach out first without persuasion, but this was better than nothing. 

“Please,” Mikey hummed, “I am. Sorry. Really.”

“I’m out of creamer. Hope that’s okay.”

“I talked to Gabe, too.” Continuing, Mikey watched Frank pour the coffee, stirring each mug with a gentle clink. Frank didn’t look up, but he could feel the eyes boring into his back, all over him, just looking.

“Yeah? What’d Gabe say?”

“That I was an idiot. For leaving. And for coming back.”

“Well,” Frank bit the inside of his cheek, “Maybe Gabe’s right, for once.”

“You said you weren’t angry anymore.”

Frank could only shrug at that. He wasn’t, not really, the bitterness surface level. Maybe he wanted to be scathing, sharp and cutting at Mikey like Mikey had been to him. He balanced the coffee mugs in careful hands as he approached the counter, setting one down in front of Mikey and then one in front of himself.

“Careful. It’s hot.” There was a beat, and Frank really couldn’t help himself, “Were you and Gabe ever-?”

“It was never anything serious,” With a wrinkled nose, Mikey hazarded a sip at his hot coffee. When it burned the tip of his tongue, he blew gently across the surface and pushed soft plumes of steam out toward Frank, “And then they needed a merch guy so, well, you know.”

“Yeah.” Frank knew. He wondered if he could bite his cheek hard enough to draw blood at this rate. “Is that what you want? With us?”

“Frank,”

“You kissed me.” Frank pressed, voice cold, “Is that what you want now? Because I’m not- I’m not giving you that, Mikey.”

Mikey wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug, tightly, until they were flushed from the heat. He sighed deep, voice almost a whisper as he spoke;

“What do you want me to say? That I didn’t mean it? That I regret kissing you?” Something in Frank’s stomach lurched, “Because I don’t. And I won’t. I regret- I regret it being like that. I wish it could have been better. But I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t do it again.”

He had spent so long wanting, wanting, wanting, never thinking of how Mikey had maybe wanted him back. The thought felt so alien, a piece that didn’t align with the rest of him. The space he’d carved out in his life for Mikey all of those years ago felt too small now, outgrown by the tired man in front of him. No longer a boy. They weren’t kids anymore.

“You weren’t in the right frame of mind.” Frank stirred his coffee to hide the tremble of his hands, but the quiver of his voice gave him away. “It would have been cruel of you and it would have been wrong of me.”

“I know,” Mikey swallowed, “And I’m sorry. But I meant- I meant it when I said I wanted you to love me.”

“Mikey.”

“You must know,” He continued, pressing like Frank was a sore and purpled bruise, all tender and new, “You have to know I meant that.”

“What about Gabe? Pete? Chicago?” He could press back, too. Mikey was all open wounds by now, shaking his head and pursing his lips. 

“I’m not- I can’t go back. I can’t do that to myself again.”

“How can I trust that? “How am I supposed to put my faith in you when you- when you’ve already left once?”

He was on a tangent, now, words spilling before he could fully compute what he was even saying. Thoughts that had been simmering on the backburner all of these months, from the moment he’d first seen Mikey in that grocery store, Bandit on his hip.

“And the next time Pete calls, and it’s Pete and you act like you didn’t but you loved him, too, like you love me, and wouldn’t you drop it all for him?”

And who fucking wouldn’t. He’d met Pete. He’d seen the way people melted in the palm of his hand, easily, saw the charm beneath the layers of sweat and eyeliner, and he couldn’t even fucking blame Mikey because Pete was, well, Pete.

“You can’t know that.” Mikey said, firmly, “I wouldn’t.”

“You did the first time.”

“You think I’m just so easy , don’t you?” His voice had a venom now, a trembling undercurrent, and Frank could see him starting to get worked up. But he needed to know. “Desperate for an ounce of affection.”

“I never said that!”

“You’re implying it, Frank!” Mikey’s voice raised steadily. He’d probably rouse Sweetpea from her sleep on the couch, if he got any louder. It was unlike him to yell.

“I’m not fucking implying anything,” Frank stood his group, voice raising too, “Did Gerard send you here to fucking attack me?”

“I get it! I fucking get it, okay!”

Mikey flushed at the cheeks as he stood abruptly, beginning to pace in small, tight lines opposite Frank. His hands found his shirt, tugging at the collar and at the sleeves and anywhere where it seemed to keep them occupied.

“I failed! I failed! I got the nerve to somehow, somehow believe that maybe there was something special about me, something that meant I could make it when no one else would.”

He kept going, going and going and going and tugging at himself like if he pulled hard enough he could pull his skin from his bones, shed himself entirely and step into someone new. Frank felt his chest rise and fall rapidly as he watched, body still but mind racing. He hadn’t wanted this, even if he’d incited it.

“And I was fucking wrong, okay? You think having to move back into my parent’s house is fucking fun for me? Moving in with Gerard?”

“You fucking chose to do it-“ Frank grit his teeth, “It sucks, and I’m sorry, but sometimes life just doesn’t work out the way you want it to! You chose to risk it all and you got burned, okay? It happens.”

Mikey paused for a moment, eyebrows still furrowed in a frown.

“I- I had to leave, okay? You knew that. You knew because I couldn’t stay here and you knew if I did it would kill me and I just- I had to get out.” He said, voice so quick his words all spilled into eachother, slurring like he was drunk. “I'm not gonna ask you to forgive me for it. I don’t regret it.”

“Mikey-“ Frank didn’t know what to say, but he tried, the words stilting in his throat, “I didn’t-“

“And I wanted to come back, but,” Mikey interrupted him, “You— fuck, you know? You’ve got it good. You’re moving on, you have a new life that I’m not a part of-“

“I wanted you to be a part of it, Mikey.” He’d softened down now. Angry still, maybe, but softer. He didn’t want to yell anymore, spur Mikey on any more. “I wanted you to be a part of it and I- I fucking cut this big hole in my life for you.”

“I thought you wanted me. When I kissed you. It’s why I even did .”

“I told you I did.” He felt like there was a glass pane between them, something so frustratingly solid that kept them from being able to just make sense of it all. Nothing seemed to be working. “You said it yourself- I loved you.”

Mikey stopped pacing. His hands were still restless, wringing eachother over and over, but he seemed to be losing steam. Maybe the outburst had done some good.

“I loved you, then. When we were kids.” The admission came quiet from Mikey, almost a whisper, but Frank felt it like a shot to the chest, ricocheting through him. “More than I realised at the time. But I did.”

“Me too.” He could feel Mikey’s words in his bones, heart pounding, “It took me a while to realise. It was- it was Gerard, actually, who knocked some sense into me.”

“I wanted to kiss you, that time, when we were in your room. When we were kids.”

“Which time? There were lots.”

He thought back to the school cafeteria, giggling over comic books. Back to the shows, the heart of the pit where all Frank could feel was the slam of Mikey’s body against his, the thrum of the music like blood in his veins. Back to the nights spent curled up in bed, bodies pressed together to keep warm against the cruel winter, whispering until they both drifted off.

“Every time.” Mikey said, then,  “As far back as I can remember.” 

****

Lindsey went into labor in the early hours of the morning, in mid August. They were in the throngs of a heat spell, an unrelenting warmth where the humid air seemed to seep into Frank’s skin like a thousand tiny pin pricks. She was two weeks early, which sent Gerard spiraling despite the doctor assuring him that really, Lindsey and the baby would be just fine. 

Frank got the call an hour or two after the pair settled at the hospital— he was clambering halfway into his car by the time Gerard hung up, but that was half because Gerard fucking loved to talk.

“We haven’t even finished the nursery,” Gerard said in a frenzy to Frank— who really didn’t understand how much more there was left to do in the nursery, with how Lindsey and Mrs. Way had flung themselves into getting it done. He figured, in Gerard’s perfectionist mind, ‘not finished’ means he hadn’t arranged the baby’s no doubt hideous halloween-themed onesies in the dresser. When Gerard rushed off into the delivery room, Frank hazarded a call to Ray to make sure the nursery was, in fact, done up to Gerard’s standards. 

The wait was agonizing— Frank, soon joined by Mikey, hovered in the waiting rooms whilst Gerard and Lindsey had the room to themselves, with their baby, Frank cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee that was still too warm to drink in the sweltering heat of August. Mikey’d made a run to the store, Bandit in tow, for something to keep her satiated, and he was then cradling her closely against his chest as she lulled into a heavy sleep, blanketed by the summer air. 

But eventually, Gerard emerged. He was almost glowing, he was smiling that hard.

“It’s a girl,” He said, and Frank couldn’t help but smile too. He smiled all the way into the room, and he smiled at Lindsey, and she managed a weakened smile back. She was a wreck, black hair plastered to her forehead with a sheen of sweat that slicked her entire face. In her tattooed arms, she cradled a small, pink baby.

“Hey,” Frank breathed as he stepped in. He wasn’t even sure what to think. “Lindsey, wow.” 

Lindsey groaned. She threw her head back against the stiff hospital pillow, scrunching her eyes shut tight before letting her face slowly relax.

“Ugh, don’t even talk to me,” She grumbled. “You are so fucking lucky you have a dick, Iero.”

Frank huffed a laugh, and the three of them shuffled the chairs that line the sides of the room closer to the bed. Gerard brushed the hair out of Lindsey’s face and pressed a kiss to the crowd of her head. The baby— their daughter— was so tiny, so so tiny. He’d never seen a newborn before, and logically he knows that they were small. But she was so delicate and brittle, and Frank decided in that moment that nothing bad was ever gonna happen to her if he could help it.

“Her name is Elena,” Gerard caught Mikey’s eye, and Mikey was grinning too, “She’s beautiful. Really.”

Mikey’s knee knocked against Frank’s as he leaned to get a better look at Elena, all flushed skin and— god, her hands were tiny, the way her fingers clenched into a small fist against Lindsey. He couldn’t stop grinning, god, he was a godfather . When he looked up, Lindsey’s gaze was trained on Elena, but she glanced up at him.

“Do you want to hold her?” She asked, lips quirking up in the edges with a smile. Frank breathed, and something in his chest picked up hard and fast, but he found himself nodding anyway. They shuffled around, and Gerard helped Frank adjust his grip to make sure he was supporting Elena’s head, and that he had her firmly, her body tucked in close to his chest. 

“God, she’s tiny.” He breathed. Like they didn’t already know. Gerard huffed a laugh. Frank could feel the pressure of Mikey leaning up against his side, their legs hooked together at the ankle and Mikey’s jaw resting on the bone of Frank’s shoulder.

“Yeah, she is,” He said, softly. “6 pounds and 3 ounces. The doctor said she’s just a tiny thing, but Bandit was too.”

“Hi, Elena,” Frank stroked the side of her head, at the beginning wisps of mousy brown hair along her scalp, and smiled. Her skin was soft and warm, and he couldn’t believe that she was really there, a living breathing person. Lindsey didn’t lean in like the others, on account of being shattered, but the smile in her voice was unmistakable.

“I think she looks like Gerard. Bandit looks more like me. But El’s got- she’s got his nose, can you see?”

At a closer look, Frank realized she was right. Bandit— still sound asleep, transferred from Mikey’s grip into Gerard’s sometime in the past minute or so— looked so much like Lindsey that it was uncanny, from her dark eyes to the tight brunette curls that had grown long now. Elena had something a little sharper about her, impish but dainty still, unmistakably Gerard.

“I can see it,” Mikey hums over Frank’s shoulder. His chin is still digging into Frank’s shoulder, and he feels the action vibrate down his entire skeleton. “She’s got that evil look to her.”

“You did not just call my baby evil,” Lindsey groaned. Frank snorted.

“Just like her father,” Mikey crooned, again, reaching his finger out to stroke Bandit’s temple with his knuckle, “She’s gonna grow up to be a beautiful, strong, independent world-destroyer.”

****

The first time Mikey kissed Frank, it was nothing special. 

He’d always imagined the moment to be something more— fireworks, a dramatic confession in the rain, whatever other tired tropes he’d seen on TV. 

But when he was curled up into Mikey’s side, the boy carding long fingers through Frank's hair before resting easily on the nape of Frank’s neck and using it to pull him into a sweet, gentle kiss, Frank decided he doesn’t need that. Mikey against him felt right, easy in a way nothing else did. Like he was made to do it. 

Mikey tasted like coffee and the dinner they’d made. Mikey was still not back to his apartment squatting tendencies, yet to set up camp in Frank's apartment, but he spent a lot of nights there regardless. They tucked into Frank's ded, or sometimes the sofa if they were too tired to get up again, and it was nice. There was nothing sexual about it – the way Mikey wrapped an arm around Frank’s waist to pull him in closer, tucked Frank’s head into the bone of his chest. It was nice. 

It wasn’t strictly official yet in the way that they hadn’t put a name to whatever it was that they had together, but it was a relationship in every other regard. Frank was dedicating himself fully, and so was Mikey, which meant no more hookups or one-night stands. Not that Frank was complaining. He’d take Mikey any day over them.

Things moved faster after that — it was like they were kids again, unable to keep their hands off of each other after all this time spent waiting and holding back. 

They slept together, for the first time, after a show. Frank didn’t even know any of the bands playing, a rotation of three or so small groups whose screams and deep, resounding bass seemed to shudder something inside of him. It had been Mikey who’d suggested it in the first place, just the two of them. It wasn’t even a proper venue— the house of some friend of a friend, with a mildewy basement and way too much booze.

They were four blocks out from Mikey’s childhood home on the corner of some suburban road where the house lights glow like a thousand fireflies, and Mikey’s hunched form cast a long shadow on the sidewalk. Evening had fallen, the sun dipping beneath the horizon, and maybe if he wasn’t doing this, he could find the time to appreciate the sunset. Instead, he could only focus on the sensation of Mikey’s hand ghosting above his lower back as they walked. His skin was burning up under the feeling, separated only by the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

“Mikey,” He said stiffly, and when he looks over, Mikey was stone-faced. “Don’t do that.”

Mikey’s hand didn’t move. The car was only parked at the end of the road. Frank felt like his entire body was burning, almost fuzzy, and he hadn’t had a single drink.

“Do what?“

The drive back home— to Frank’s apartment, at least— was unbearable. He almost felt dizzy with want, but at the same time he felt more focused than ever. Like everything was so loud, so awake, every nerve in his body burning. Home was too far away, every red light seeming to last an eternity, every stretch of road seeming to span for miles in front of them. Mikey, ever calm, didn’t seem to react. His spindly fingers tapped along to the radio on the wheel, but Frank could tell. He knew.

They barely made it through the door before they were kissing, hot and desperate, Mikey pressing Frank against the wall of the hallway with all of the weight of his body, crowding him. His shoulder blades dug into the wall as Mikey made quick work of slipping his hands up Frank’s t-shirt.

It was far from romantic by the time they actually got into Frank’s bedroom, but neither of them cared. When Mikey struggled to wriggle out of his skin-tight jeans, there was a brief moment where Frank just couldn’t stop laughing, and he laughed and he laughed until Mikey shut him up with a kiss to the jaw that knocked the wind out of him entirely.

Frank would love to stay and cuddle, really, bask in the post-sex haze that Mikey had left him in, but then Sweetpea had started whining and scuffing her paws up against the closed bedroom door, and he’d given this long, tired groan. Hoisting himself up out of the bed, Mikey had made a disgruntled noise, making grabby hands at Frank’s disappearing frame.

“I missed you,” Mikey murmured into his shoulder, lips and teeth flush against warm, bare skin when he slid back into bed. Frank knew he tasted like sweat, salt and water and musk, but Mikey didn’t seem to mind. 

“Sweetpea’s not gonna feed herself.” Frank huffed a laugh, felt Mikey press a hand flat against the skin of his hip, teasing fingers below his waistband. Not doing anything, even, just resting there against the curve of bone. “I only left for a minute.”

“Not like that,” Mikey’s voice was low. When he spoke, his warm breath plumed out across the valley of Frank’s skin, raising goosebumps. He pulled Frank a little closer. “C’mere. I missed you.”

Their legs tangled together beneath the covers, Frank’s ankle hooking around Mikey’s bony own. It was nice, this silence between them. All he could focus on was the rise and fall of Mikey’s body against him with every breath. The feeling of Mikey’s hair tickling his skin, the weight of Mikey’s hand against him. They stayed like that for a long while, until it was almost pitch black in the room. A sliver of moonlight spilt through a crack in Frank’s curtains.

“Did you mean it?” His voice rasped, “When you said you wanted me to come with you.”

Mikey stilled, and his hand moved across the plane of Frank’s stomach— across the Search and Destroys emblazoned on his skin, and then up against the swallows that rested on one side of his abdomen. The touch set Frank’s skin alight. He’d been there the day Frank got them done.

“I did,” He said, and he meant it, “I didn’t want to leave you. But you had just gotten a job and a place, you know. You were settling.”

“I never feel like I’ve settled.”

Mikey’s lips curved into a frown up against Frank’s skin.

“I don’t know. I wanted to- I wanted to disappear, I think. But I didn’t want to disappear from you. I did in the end, but it was never my first choice.”

“Okay, Mikeyway.” He soothed, “You’re here now. All mine.”

“All yours.” Mikey echoed.

****

The next morning, he kissed Mikey over breakfast, and it was right. It was right in a way few things have been, those past few years. That feeling where everything just seemed to slot into place, and he wondered how he’d lived without this— without him— for so long. 

It was soft, and slow, and when they pulled apart, Mikey gave a breathless sort of laugh and pressed his forehead up against Frank’s. He tasted like minty toothpaste and tobacco, and smelled like Frank’s shower gel. His hands had found Frank’s hips, holding him steady, Frank’s own in his hair and at the base of his neck and they fit perfectly.

“Be mine?” Mikey asked, chest heaving, “Properly. No backsies. Let me take you out to dinner, and- I don’t know, let me show you off to my friends and- I just want you.”

Frank’d never been so starstruck before. He was falling fast, and hard, and he knew it’s nothing like the love he’d felt before. The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he even thought about them.

“No backsies,” he agreed. Mikey grinned, all teeth. Their hips rocked together.

“Took us fucking long enough,” Mikey said, and surged to kiss Frank again as if Frank hadn’t been thinking about doing it for the past ten years. 

They pushed up against the counter, and Mikey kissed him all over. From his cheeks to his jaw to his tattooed hands until they were smiling like idiots and collapsing in on each other. Frank could barely keep himself steady, legs tangled with Mikey’s, and he had to grip the counter to keep from falling. 

The kettle whistled urgently from the stove top. Mikey pressed his face into the crook of Frank’s neck, flushed bright, and he laughed. 

****

After Elena was born, the pair of them started to spend more time at the house. They were there a lot, of course, Mikey still half-living there and the house needing finishing touches. But with two kids now, Gerard and Lindsey were adjusting to double the amount of work, and it was the least Frank could do to show up and offer to watch Bandit for a while, or with a home cooked meal in hand. 

Today, it was more than just the four of them. It was the weekend, which meant Ray’s off work— he had his lesson plans spread all across the small round table in the kitchen, though— and Lindsey was out on the porch with Gerard. If Frank listened, he could hear her ringing laugh, and Gerard speaking through a grin to Elena. Bandit babbled from her high chair, where Mikey was trying to get her to eat the cheerios he’d given her, instead of pinging them at the back of Frank’s head.

Frank, himself, was hunched over the sink, forearms deep in hot, soapy water. It was sort of a mind-numbing task, and one he didn’t mind doing, he liked the therapeutic sensation of the warm water against his skin.

When Bandit started getting all squirmy behind him, Mikey scooped her up into his arms. He made a show out of taking her out to Gerard and Lindsey, bouncing her on his hip and speaking to her. She wasn't old enough to talk back properly, yet, but she could repeat a few monosyllabic words. Her giggle was high and light and joyous, fading as Mikey slipped out the glass sliding door and out onto the porch.

The sun was hot and high in the sky, and its bright light spilled into the kitchen. The glare of it danced in flickering patterns across the tiled floor, sparking off the glasses on the drying rack, and Frank could almost sense how the heat would wane into a heavy, warm evening.

He heard Mikey patter back inside before he saw him, his shadow cutting across the light. Mikey ducked his head into the crook of Frank’s neck, pressing a kiss to the skin of Frank’s jaw— he had to lean down to do it. His hands ghosted over Frank’s hips to keep himself steady. Frank could almost hear the way Ray’s eyebrows soared up from his perch at the table.

He would be scared once upon a time, he thought, at this. At being seen like this, at being known, recognized for who he was. But loving Mikey was so easy that he couldn’t find it in himself to be afraid anymore. It came as second-nature, like speaking his mother tongue. Ray cleared his throat.

“You guys are..? You and- him?” Frank turned to see Ray pointing at him, eyebrows knitted together, and then pointing to Mikey. He grinned sheepishly. Already, he could feel the beginnings of pink dusting his cheeks. Mikey’s arm, anchoring, snaked around his hips.

“So, this is like.. A thing. A real thing, not just- you know-”

“Yeah,” Frank smiled, and Ray seemed to loosen in his seat. “For a few weeks now. Long overdue, you know?”

****

On the days when they weren’t babysitting, between Frank’s shifts at the office and Mikey’s gigs, they found moments of strange comfort. Over the weeks, more and more of Mikey’s things were taking up space in his apartment— his clothes in Frank’s dressers, his stupid cow’s-milk in the fridge because he just couldn’t stand the soy kind. It was weirdly nice. Even when Mikey wasn’t there, in the flesh, it made the whole place feel less alone.

Most nights, in the evenings, they ate dinner on Frank’s couch and watched reruns of all the game shows that Mikey loved and Frank hated (he always got too riled up, but it got a laugh out of them both). Frank kicked his feet up onto Mikey’s lap, but Mikey didn’t seem to mind, and they yelled so loud at the screen as if the contestants could hear them.  Afterwards, they curled up under Frank’s duvet and listened to the static hum of the radio on Frank’s bedside, or the sounds of the sleeping city outside the window. Mikey’s hands would be all over him— not even in a sexual way. Just feeling, seeking comfort, skin against skin.

This time, Mikey was carding his fingers through Frank’s hair. The shorter man’s head rested calmly on his chest, eyes fluttering shut to focus on the sensation.

“Remember when I buzzed the sides for you? And you dyed them red. Bright fucking red. And I had stains in my bathtub for weeks,” Mikey laughed. Frank remembered.

He remembered the sunlight streaming in gold through the small, high window of the bathroom. It had cast Mikey in this halo-like glow that made the sharpness of his features seem even sharper. Where the light didn’t reach, it had been dim and cold.

He had sat between Mikey’s knees— Mikey perched on the toilet seat and leaned up against him, toying with the dye-splattered laces of Mikey’s sneakers. He’d been dye-stained and lovesick, heart pounding the whole time.

Frank leaned up, rolled until his chest was against Mikey’s own, kissed him softly. In moments like that, he took his time. There was no rush, he knew. Mikey wasn’t going anywhere, not anymore. When he pulled away, finally, he reached to cup Mikey’s jaw. His thumb traced across the seam of Mikey’s lips, slick with spit and pink, and Mikey’s mouth opened.

The gap where Mikey’s tooth used to be was small, in reality, but in this moment it felt like a gaping valley between his canine and molar. Frank hummed.

“Does it hurt?” He couldn’t help but ask, “Your tooth. Or, well-”

“No,” Mikey said, lips still wrapped around Frank’s thumb, “Not really.”

Frank slipped his hand away, returned to pressing soft kisses to Mikey’s mouth, and then his jaw, and then the skin of his neck. He pressed one to the center of his throat, feels Mikey’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. They were half-upright against the headboard, bodies curling into each other.

On Frank’s left leg, on the curve of his calf, he had a scar. It was a pale pink color and spanned down the midsection of his calf, right in the crevice where the bone sat rigid and close to the skin. Most days, he forgot it was even there. Mikey traced his finger along the mottled skin of Frank’s calf.

“Does it ever hurt?” He echoed.

“Sometimes,” Frank admitted quietly, “Not all the time. When the weather gets bad.”

“But it stops. Eventually.”

“Yeah, it does,” Frank nodded against the curve of Mikey’s neck, where it met his shoulders, “Yeah.”

“Sometimes I have dreams where it falls out, again,” Mikey admitted, “And then all the rest come with it, and I’m just there with a mouth full of blood and nowhere to go.”

****

Christa’d been really into all of this spiritual stuff, ever since she cut ties from her admittedly abrasive, oppressively-traditional, Catholic parents. Frank thought it was interesting, genuinely, so he listened when they went out to brunch and tried to retain at least a portion of it.

She’d read his palms before, one finger tracing the lines in his skin as the other hand tracked along a guidebook she’d picked up. He’d even let her do a tarot reading once, and burn sage when he first moved into his apartment to ‘cleanse’ it, whatever that meant.

He decided, over brunch, to ask her what she knows about dreams. Dreams of losing teeth — her face twisted for a moment, and she told him with a frown that it meant he was afraid of losing something close to him.

****

One of the last afternoons of the summer was spent back outside, at the Way’s. They were in the backyard under the blistering sun, Bandit giggling in a shallow kiddie pool and slathered with sunscreen. The rest of them milled around— Ray hunched over a grill, Mikey pointing with a pair of tongs and clacking them together when the urge arose. Instead of stepping out under the sun, Frank sought shelter under the porch eaves with Gerard by him.

It was this sort of bittersweet feeling, because it felt like it’d only just started. But he knew that Gerard’s got a job back in California, they had a house that was more a home than New Jersey was nowadays. Lindsey was an artist, no roots to settle, but she went where Gerard went because she loved him. They’d be leaving soon, and Frank felt selfish for saying that he didn’t want them to.

“She’s adorable,” Frank praised, nodding to Bandit. She laughed loud and clear. Gerard grinned.

“Isn’t she?” He cocked his head to the side, “She looks more like me. Everyone agrees. It’s the first thing my mom said when they saw her, you know. She looks like me.”

“She does.”

“When you- I don’t know, before I had kids I didn’t really get it. Thinking your kid was, like, the best kid. You think it’s ridiculous, and then you have them, and then you really are convinced they’re the best. I didn’t think I could love anyone as much.”

When Mikey returned from the grill, his tongs confiscated by an increasingly-frustrated Ray, he leaned into Frank’s side easily. There was a sunburn on the back of his neck, and Frank put his hand flush against the tender, red skin and pulled Mikey in for a soft kiss. His fingers twisted at the nape of his neck, at the wisps of baby hair. His hand moved down, then, as the kiss breaks apart, trailing along the small of Mikey’s back, dipping his fingers down where the muscle breaks to make way for the sharp cut of his spine.

“Love you,” he murmured, and Mikey laughed breathily.

“Love you too.”

When evening came, after dinner, Gerard and Lindsey and Christa and Ray all crowded around a binder of photographs Gerard had dug up from the attic of the Ways’ childhood home. Frank could hear Christa cooing over baby Gerard from the kitchen, leaning up against the counter and cradling a glass of ice water. He was playing footsie with Mikey, leaned up against the opposite side of the narrow kitchen.

“You should have brought that photobook from your room,” Frank suggested, and Mikey snorted into his own glass of water.

“Nah,” He grinned, “I’m saving the halloween costumes for blackmail material, remember?”

He traced his socked foot up along the seam of Mikey’s jeans, too tight, up his calf. Mikey grinned. 

“I knew you were gay, you know.” He said, watching with a coy smile as Mikey’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Frank bit back a snicker, “I found one of your porno mags under your bed once.”

“Oh my god,” Mikey pressed his face into his hand, blushing wildly, “You did?”

“And then I realized you were fucking Gabe Saporta,” Frank laughed, tone not unkind, “I remember being just- shocked. Like, him? Really?”

“He’s nice!” Mikey defended, but he was still smiling. He reached to tug Frank’s glass out of his grip, fingers almost slipping from the condensation beginning on the glass. He settled it down on the counter.

“Come on,” His voice lowers, and he offers his now wet hand out. Frank takes it,  “Let me show you something.”

Frank didn’t know what to expect, really, when Mikey led him out onto the back porch. Everything was the same as it had been that very morning, when they’d been out there. Flickering porch lights overhead that needed to be replaced, paint peelings at the edges of the wooden panelling. Frank could feel the groaning decking beneath his feet, still without shoes.

“Some day,” Mikey pointed to an empty place by the door, “We’re gonna sit here.”

Something in Frank’s chest swelled. It was dense, and tight, like an ever-growing knot. He swayed on his feet. Mikey was still gripping his hand, but he was leaning into Frank until Frank’s head rested on his shoulder.

“All summer. In the afternoons into the evenings, and there’s gonna be two seats here and a table so we can talk over drinks. Your seat can be under the light so you can read your book when it’s dark. And we can, I don’t know, watch the kids run around the yard with a sprinkler hose or whatever. As long as you’re there with me.”

“Tell me about it,” Frank said softly, “Tell me all about it.”