Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1995

The vinyl cladding of the cafeteria seats hadn’t been replaced in years, veined with cracks. Frank’s fingers had found the peeling edges, picking at it absentmindedly as his eyes scanned down the pages of his book. It was some new science-fiction book he’d picked up at the library the week before, fingers sticking to the plastic dust jacket as he turned each page. Around Frank, the cafeteria buzzed. In the corner of his eye, he could see a cluster of seniors pushing each other around — across from him, two girls with platinum-dyed hair whispered conspiratorially. 

“Please tell me you weren’t gonna eat that.”

His hands faltered at the edges of his book, and when he glanced up, he felt his hair fall in front of his face. The boy in front of him had wrinkled his nose up in distaste at the suspicious-looking slurry in Frank’s lunch tray. His hair was a mess of mousy brown, one side tucked behind his ear, and the hand that wasn’t holding his food fit snugly into the pocket of his loose, black hoodie. Some logo name had emblazoned the front, once, but it had been so well-worn that the vinyl had flaked off.

The edge of Frank’s lips quirked up, eyes raking along the boy for a moment. He reached for the plastic spork, and prodded at his food, trying to discern what the lumps were — potato, maybe? 

“I think it might come alive,” Frank said.

“It looks like it came from a nuclear plant waste disposal,” The boy knitted his eyebrows, “Maybe it’ll give you superpowers.”

“Or food poisoning.”

“Or food poisoning,” The boy agreed somberly. 

The moment the lunch lady — tall, wiry blonde hair shrouded in a hairnet, scowling at Frank as if he’d just personally insulted her — had given him his food, ladling it into his tray with a wet ‘ slop! ’, he was done. Even with the grease-stained paper taped to the wall that promised up and down that his food was vegetarian, there was no assurance that it was edible , and he’d done enough risk taking that day.

So much for that, then. He’d bring a packed lunch tomorrow.

Today had been circled on the family ‘ dog of the month ’ calendar for the past two weeks. In red block letters was his mom’s scrawl: “ First Day of Highschool!” . The plan originally had been for Frank to start at Belleville Highschool on September 1st, just like all the other freshmen had — they were seeping into October, now — but his highly efficient immune system had other plans. On top of catching mono from babysitting his stupid baby cousins, he’d spend the past few months wasting away in bed.

A new school meant new people, new friends, new beginnings. That’s what his mom had said, that morning, over breakfast. That’s really all we need, Frankie, for something to change.

But things were going to be different this year, he was sure of it.

“You’re wearing a Halloween shirt.” The boy spoke suddenly, snapping Frank from his wandering thoughts. The boy chewed at his chapped lip and rocked on the balls of his feet, as if he couldn’t stand to stay still. Usually, that was Frank, restless. Glancing down — sure enough, Frank was.

“I am,” He agreed, and met the boy’s hazel eyes, “You like Halloween?”

“Love. Can I sit? My friends, too, but they’re still in line.”

“Do your friends like Halloween?” Again, the boy’s lips twisted into an easy smile, revealing small, sharp teeth where they parted. He rocked on his heels once more, shrugging dismissively before glancing back to the lunch queues. Frank couldn’t tell who he was looking at, though, even as he craned his neck.

“Only Ray. Otter’s more of an action movie guy. Explosions and shit, you know.”

“I guess I can let it slide.”

With that, Frank pushed his tray further into the center of the table and kicked his bag off of the bench, allowing the boy to sit down. In his hands, he held a small black lunch bag that he unzipped slowly. He placed the contents out on the table, laid out neatly — a sandwich, an apple, and a bag of chips. 

“I’m Gerard, by the way,” the boy — Gerard — said.

Gerard started on his sandwich first, and every few seconds he would turn to see if his friends were out of the queue yet. His hoodie was faded, clearly well-loved, and his pale hands were covered in smudged ink and charcoal, nails bitten raw. Frank’s book was long forgotten now, his fingers running absentmindedly along the edges of the hardcover. Realizing he was still holding it, he leaned to tuck it away into his bag. 

“Hey, hey, here,” Gerard leaned forward and pushed his bag of chips across the table, towards Frank, “You didn’t eat.”

“Oh- dude- you don’t have to-” He wouldn’t have any of it, despite Frank’s protests, just rolling his eyes and shoving the bag into Frank’s grasp.

“Just take it, man. I don’t even like Salt and Vinegar.”

Gerard turned in his seat, waving a hand to flag his two friends who had exited the lunch queue, catching the taller of the two’s attention. The boy’s hair was shorn short, reddish-brown, and distinctly curly. On the bridge of his nose, he balanced a pair of wiry, round glasses. The other boy had shaggy, dark hair, cut haphazardly but tucked behind his ear to expose his glimmering earring.

“Ray, Otter, this is-” Gerard paused, squinting at Frank as if trying to recall if he’d given his name or not.

“Frank,” Frank supplied, scooting along the bench to make space for the two, “I’m Frank.”

“He’s a freshman. He likes Halloween.”

“I can see that,” Ray — Frank thought he was Ray, at least, he looked like a Ray — smiled a little as he slid into a seat.

Yeah, things were gonna be different this year. Things were gonna be okay.

****

Frank met Mikey two weeks after he met Gerard. The boy had promised an evening of horror films and pizza (if he could get over Mrs. Way’s collection of dolls, which he totally could — they were awesome), but warned Frank in advance about his ‘annoying kid brother’. Having no siblings of his own, and all his cousins being below 5, he didn’t quite know what to expect. 

Gerard pushed the stiff front door open with a creak, letting Frank wipe his muddied shoes on the doormat as they entered. It was a little past five, and the house was quiet — apparently his parents were driving up to visit his grandparents, so they had the house to themselves for the weekend. 

“I’m home! Frank’s with me!”

“What’s your brother’s name again?” Frank whispered. Above them, he could hear vague clattering noises as Gerard’s brother, presumably, made his way downstairs. That or Gerard had a very large cat he’d forgotten to mention.

“Mikey. Michael, if you want him to claw your face off.”

Gerard’s house was — well, it was very Gerard. The entire entryway was dim, dark patterned walls and old wooden flooring that creaked beneath his feet when he walked. Large wooden shelves lined some walls, filled up with various trinkets, dolls and fine china. Frank made eye contact with one of the porcelain dolls when he glanced around, clad in a pearlescent-pink dress, and, okay, maybe they were a little creepy. 

The noises grew louder before someone came hurtling down the stairs, skidding to a stop in front of the pair. He looked at Frank with wide eyes.

And— oh. Frank blinked in surprise, looking at the boy in front of him. He must have only been a year or two younger than Frank and Gerard, already a few inches taller than both. His hair was lighter than Gerard’s, spiked up awkwardly, and his glasses sat wonkily on his thin nose, taped together at the side.

“Mikey, this is Frank.”

“Yeah-“ Frank flashed an awkward smile Mikey’s way, not really sure what to say exactly. He’d never been good with introductions, and this is the first time he’s had a friend invite him over, “Nice to meet you, dude.”

“Mom left the money in the kitchen,” Mikey said swiftly, squinting down at Frank who all of a sudden felt very small, “But you’re gonna have to call the place because I won’t.”

“Fine,” The smile ghosting Gerard’s lips proved he wasn’t upset about it, “The usual? Frank, what d’you want?“

Feeling a little out of place with the brothers speaking so easily to each other, Frank shrugged. He hugged the strap of his backpack a little tighter. He didn’t want to be rude, or ask too much and risk not getting invited again; the look on his mom’s face when he’d asked to go over to Gerard’s had been unforgettable. She’d lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Anything. I don’t eat meat but the rest is fine, honestly. I’m not picky.”

“That makes one of you,” Gerard hummed. His hazel eyes narrowed accusingly at Mikey, who just frowned and punched his brother in the shoulder. It didn’t do much, not when Mikey was all skin and bones.

“Hey! Not my fault you like to put fucking corn on pizza!”

“No swearing, dipshit. Go show Frank the movies, okay? Whilst I order.”

When they settled down on the couch, Mikey wasted no time in curling up under one of the thick throws. He ran a hand through his hair quickly, watching Frank survey the selection of movies they had. Gerard hovered in the kitchen, speaking to the pizza place on their landline. 

The living room was a lot cozier than the entryway, without those creaking floorboards and hefty cabinets. Instead, every surface seemed to be littered in comics and trinkets, undoubtedly some of Gerard’s. Frank ran his fingers absentmindedly over the throw along the arm of the couch, listening to the murmur of Gerard’s voice in the background.

The house was cold, goosebumps rising along his skin beneath the thick fleece of his jacket. No wonder Mikey had crept under the blanket as soon as he could — as they approached mid-October, the autumn chill settled full-force. It had just begun to rain as they’d come inside, but the brooding clouds had lingered all day.

On the floor in front of the couch sat a large box, stuffed full of the Way brothers’ movie collection. Frank moved to look through it, carefully, scanning each cover carefully. He’d seen a few of these, already - Halloween , obviously. Carrie, The Wicker Man . Pulling one out of the box, Frank paused.

“Your parents let you watch R-Rated movies?” Frank asked, a little in disbelief, glancing at the rating on the cover of the movie he’d picked up, “My mom would throttle me. And then send me to bible study.“

When Mikey smiled, it revealed jagged, sharp teeth. He didn’t grin with the corner of his mouth like Gerard often did, and he squinted a little behind his thick framed glasses. Glancing at the movie Frank was holding, he hummed. 

“Mom doesn’t give a shit and neither does the guy at Blockbuster. He thinks I’m, like, 17 anyway.“

“How old are you?”

“14,” Mikey smiled a little wider, crookedly, “As of, like, last month. I’m in 8th grade.”

Frank may be awful at math, but he knew that didn’t check out. His eyebrows knitted together quickly.

“Huh. Gerard acted like you were so much younger than him-?”

“Don’t tell him I told you, he gets pissy about it,” Mikey leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a low whisper, “Gerard flunked 4th grade so he had to repeat. He’s turning 17 next year.”

“Oh,” He hummed, “That explains a ton, actually.“

Now that he thought about it, it did make sense. Whilst he had already known Gerard was older, as was Ray — both being upperclassmen — everything from the way he spoke to the way he towered over Frank screamed angsty 16-year-old.

Over in the kitchen, Gerard remained talking quietly into the phone. There was no way he could hear Mikey’s whispered voice from this far, but Frank wouldn’t be surprised if he had some sort of, like, psychic bond with Mikey. Maybe he was paranoid. Siblings were just weird like that.

Over the rims of his glasses, Mikey squinted once more at Frank, like he was picking him apart, breaking Frank down into digestible pieces. A spike of dirty blonde hair fell down onto his forehead messily.

“You don’t have any siblings.” Mikey said bluntly. His voice was monotonous the entire time they had spoken, unwavering despite his smile. It wasn’t so much of a question as a statement, an observation he’d somehow made within the few minutes of knowing each other. 

“No,” Frank agreed.

“You get lonely?”

“I mean- yeah. Doesn’t everyone?” Not having siblings sucked, sure, but he couldn’t help but be sort of glad he was an only child. It meant no sharing his clothes, and music, and food, no carbon-copies of him at his heels watching his every move. 

“When I get lonely, I go piss Gerard off.”

“Clearly,” If the rants Frank’s been subjected to over the past few weeks have been anything to go by — Mikey doesn’t just piss Gerard off— he excels in pissing Gerard off.

Putting the movie back into the box, he continued rifling through it, listening to the quiet hum of Gerard’s voice. He was on the phone with someone else now, most likely his mom, if the soft tone of his voice was anything to go by. Frank pulled another movie from the box, surveying the cover carefully. It had some stylized zombie-like creature on the front, it’s face half hidden beneath the title. Every inch of its pallid skin has been splattered in vibrant fake blood. It looked perfect. 

“You wanna watch that?” Leaning over to see the cover, Mikey cocked his head to the side. “‘S one of my favorites.”

“Then we should watch it. I love zombies. And fake blood. Lots and lots of fake blood.”

He really did. Any movie could be vastly improved with fake blood, this was an indisputable fact. 

Tugging the movie from Frank’s grasp, Mikey pushed himself up off the couch. His spindly fingers worked the case open, sliding the DVD into the player by the mantle quickly. All of him was spindly, really, from his hands to his arms and legs. Like a gust of wind would snap him in half if he wasn’t careful. 

“You’re so much better than Otter, thank god,” Mikey groaned as he flopped back on the couch, gangly limbs sprawled out. He kicked one socked foot up onto the coffee table, “All Otter wants to watch is action with guns and explosions and no zombies.”

“He’s not actually called Otter, right? Or do his parents hate him that much?”

“One to speak, Frank.” The younger boy chided, before grinning a little, “‘Matt. Matthew. He tried to strangle me the last time I called him Matthew.”

“Oh?”

“He thinks I’m annoying,” Mikey continued, “Cause he’s all high and mighty now that he’s in highschool. And he plays drums without a click track which makes him better at drums and not totally out of time. You know.”

“You play?”

“Guitar, but anyone could tell Otter needs a click track.”

“Are you talking about the fucking click track again?”

Finally, Gerard had returned from the kitchen. He clutched two unopened soda cans in his hands, the condensation already beginning to drip onto the beige carpet. As soon as he’d stepped into the living room, Gerard seemed to know exactly what Mikey was on about. It was kind of funny, really, and Frank suppressed a snicker. 

“I’m always talking about the click track. You know how I feel about the click track.”

There was a long pause as the two brothers held fierce eye contact. Once again, Frank’s theory of the Way Psychic Bond prevails. The changes in their facial expressions were minute, indecipherable, but it was as if the two had developed their own language. Frank coughed awkwardly. 

“So- Dawn of the Dead ?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, the guy said the pizza’d be here in half an hour.”

“Good, I’m fucking starving.” 

“Language, asshole.”

****

Quickly enough, Frank had fallen into a routine with the others. On Tuesdays, when his mom was working a later shift than usual, he’d go around to the Way brothers’ house. They’d usually end up listening to a new record one of them bought or playing video games. 

Mikey seemed to prefer the games with more blood and guts and guns than Frank was really into, but he figured if it was what Mikey wanted to play, then he could suck it up for a half hour. 

On Fridays, Ray and Otter would join them at the Way house and they’d spend the evening jamming out on their various instruments. It wasn’t exactly a band, not really, but being able to play with his friends felt good, especially when they all came together and the songs actually started to sound halfway decent. 

Ray was good. Like, really good. His fingers darted across the fretboard with ease and precision, the motions meticulously practiced. When it came to skill, Ray undoubtedly had the most. He could conjure melodies and riffs out of nowhere, and it kept Frank humbled. Gerard, though — he wasn’t the best guitar player, really, even if he did try his best. So at least Frank’s ego wasn’t entirely crushed. 

Otter wasn’t good, but that was okay, Frank figured. It wasn’t like they were trying to be a legit band, anyway. 

He refused to use a click track, which he could maybe have gotten away with if he’d kept in relatively good time without it, but Otter’s pace was sloppy and distracted. He sped up and slowed down unpredictably and it threw the rest of them off. 

Every time Mikey would make some snarky comment, Frank would watch as Otter’s face twisted into a snarling scowl, even if everyone else laughed. 

Any moment they could, the two end up bickering. Over anything – who got the last can of soda. Whether Mikey’s guitar is properly tuned. The damn click track. It’d became a constant background hum to Frank — like the buzz of the fridge or the droning TV, always there. 

“I don’t get how you hate each other so much,” Frank had said once. He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, surveying Mikey over the top of his soda can. Mikey was plucking away at the strings of his guitar boredly, not even looking at Frank as he shrugged. 

Mikey often hovered in the corner hunched over a guitar of his own, but he remained meek and refused to play loud enough for the others to even hear, let alone know if he was good or bad. From the harsh callouses on Mikey’s fingers, there was no doubt that he practiced religiously, and Frank had to wonder how he’d gotten it in his head that he wasn’t good enough for the others to hear. In the end, Mikey resolved more to making the quick-fire quips and narrating their process in the most condescending tone he could muster. 

In the kitchen, Frank could hear the sounds of Gerard, Ray and Otter as they spoke. They were in charge of ordering the pizza — and bickering over who would have to use the phone. 

“It’s just the way it is,” He sighed, “You know. I’m just Gerard’s kid brother. He thinks I’m annoying.”

“Gerard should tell him to knock it off,” Frank said, squinting as he watched Mikey’s hands. They weren’t perfectly fluid, but practiced enough, moving lazily. 

“He’s always been like that. No point in stopping now.”

If you asked Frank — that wasn’t really fair, in the way that a lot of things Otter did weren’t fair, but he bit his tongue. But looking at the younger boy in front of him, he wondered how Otter could find so much to hate within him. 

When Frank’s 15th birthday came by (Gerard was thrilled to discover it was Halloween, of all days) they all huddled together and played until their fingers were numb and Frank swore he wouldn't even think about barre chords for another year. And it was good.

Otter went home early and no one was really complaining there, the four of them splayed out in the basement where Gerard’s room was — the walls plastered with posters, of course — and goofing around. 

Spending time with them was so easy. For all of his life, he’d been on the outside looking in, as if there was a glass pane between him and all the other kids. But Gerard and the others had taken him in so quickly, as if it was always that simple. 

****

2006

Frank woke up to the sun in his eyes and a weight beside him. His cellphone buzzed away at the bedside table.

The first few days of summer had come slowly enough, dragging itself along the heels of June, scraped up and tired. It was only starting to get warm, now, the sun aching to stay longer in the skies with each passing day. It rose earlier, too, sunlight filtering through the gaps in Frank’s blinds in stripes of gentle warmth. 

“God,” He groaned and stretched out beneath his sheets. The joints at his hips and knees cracked with a satisfying pop, and he kicked back the sheets. The alarm clock by his bedside informed him it was far too early in the morning for all the noise, but there was no hope in getting back to sleep now. Not when the phone on his bedside table was buzzing with Ray, who had enough common sense to know by now that you don’t call this early in the morning unless it was, very genuinely, life or death. 

“Someone better be dying,” Brian echoed from beside Frank, rolling to face the younger man. His tattooed hands moved to rub at tired eyes. All Frank could do was just groan in agreeance. He shifted under the sheets, pressing into Brian’s side. 

There was an odd comfort in curling up beside someone, watching the skin of Brian’s inked arms against his own. Beneath the sheets, they had tangled their legs up throughout the night. 

“He isn’t letting up,” Frank grimaced, “He really might be.”

“I’ll put the coffee on, then.” 

Brian kicked back the covers, and Frank watched the tattoo on his back ripple as he padded into the kitchen. 

They weren’t dating. 

Frank didn’t know how it got like that. Brian was just Brian , the guy from work, and it started with him coming over some days to watch whatever game was on TV and get halfway through before deciding he’d much rather kiss Frank hot and wet until they both ended up tipsy and curled up on the couch together, half-naked. 

But now Brian was staying for coffee in the morning. He was making the coffee, and some days when Frank woke up late he would find post-it notes on the fridge with little x’s all over and it was all very new and all very strange. 

They weren’t dating. Frank didn’t do dating. 

He listened, for a long moment, to the gurgling of the coffee machine in the kitchen as it spluttered to life. Brian always made his coffee too bitter, but he wasn’t going to complain if someone else made it. The sun, warm on his skin as it seeped through the window, was bright and ached his eyes. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and gave a long sigh before finally answering the call from Ray. 

“Frank!” Ray didn’t even bother with greetings, not giving Frank a chance to breathe before launching into speech. 

“Gerard just called,” He began, “He’s coming down with Lindsey. And fucking Bandit , dude. This weekend.”

That got Frank’s attention. He sat up a little straighter.

“Bandit?”

“Bandit.”

“No fucking way, dude.”

“Many fucking Ways. Three of them.”

Bandit was Gerard’s daughter — he’d never met her in real life, and honestly wasn’t even sure she existed. Same with Lindsey, his wife. As happy as he was for Gerard, a part of him refused to believe that the greasy, horror-movie nerd he’d known in highschool had managed to settle down before Frank. 

Gerard had moved to New York for college, to study cartooning and animation, before getting a place at a studio in California. Across the country, he had lamented, but it was the sort of offer you couldn’t refuse. Frank wouldn’t let him refuse, not when he’d spent his whole life working towards an opportunity like that. 

In the 4 or so years Gerard had been away, they’d kept a steady stream of emails back and forth. Frank had witnessed through his laptop screen as Gerard met Lindsey, as he got eloped, as his daughter was born two years before. 

“Eat shit, Toro,” Frank couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, “I’m gonna be the best fucking uncle and that’s, like, not up for debate. You will never beat me.”

Maybe it would run his bank account dry, but he was going to be the best uncle. 

“Is that a challenge?”

“One I’ll always win.”

There was a long pause, before Frank spoke. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Do you think- that Mikey-“

“ Frank .” 

“Right, right. Too busy conquering the world, right?”

On the other end, Ray kept quiet. That was answer enough for Frank.

Frank heard the click of the door, and Brian slipped into the room with two mugs in hand. Balancing his cell between his ear and shoulder, Frank made grabby-hands at his mug of too-bitter coffee. Great timing on Brian’s part, because Mikey was the sort of topic you didn’t want to linger on for longer than you had to. Otherwise he’d get all sad and brooding and no one liked Frank when he was sad and brooding.

Brian mouthed a “Who is it?” as he crawled back beneath the covers beside Frank. He nursed his own cup of black coffee. 

Brian didn’t know Ray — not really, at least. They’d met in passing, once, the night that Frank had met him and subsequently taken him home. And, well, Ray didn’t know Brian. Ray didn’t even know Frank was gay.

“Ray,” Frank mouthed, trying to keep up with whatever it was Ray was talking about now — something about guitars. Usually he’d be all up for that, but Gerard was coming back.

Gerard was coming back.

When Ray finally bade his goodbyes (Frank could hear the lilt of Christa’s voice, no doubt telling him to spare Frank), Frank could barely contain his excitement. He was gonna see his best friend, and he would finally get to meet Bandit and Lindsey and it would be just like the old times. 

“You look like an idiot,” Brian snickered, poking Frank’s cheek as he couldn’t help but grin.

“I’m happy, man. Lay off of me.”

“I can lay on you and we can see where it goes from there.”

****

1998

“I hope he falls off of a bridge.”

“Dude,” Frank rubbed at his tired face with sweaty palms, glancing between the gaps in his fingers to see Mikey’s disappointed face. His lips tugged down into a deep frown, eyebrows furrowed as they often were when he was in an unsavory mood. 

“Kidding, kidding,” Mikey carried on, brushing off Frank’s scowl, “He wouldn’t. Out of spite, cause it’s the only thing I want him to do. You know how he is.”

Swinging his long legs off the side of his bed, Mikey kicked one of the cardboard boxes with a dull thwunk , sending it colliding with Frank’s leg. 

“Dude.”

“Sorry.”

The entire house was filled with cardboard boxes — Gerard was packing his things for college, and Mrs. Way had gone slightly overboard with it all. 

The robin egg blue of the basement walls was visible now, previously obscured by layers and layers of posters. Beneath Mikey, the duvet had been stripped of Gerard’s Star Wars bedsheets in favor of the guest set that usually sat folded away in the back of the laundry cupboard. It smelt musty but sweet, like old perfume and dust, but so did the rest of the Way house. Frank curled his calloused fingers beneath the edge of the bed frame, feeling the soreness of carrying boxes up and down the driveway in his arms growing already.

Gerard’s collection of figurines had been taken away, too, leaving bare wooden shelves coated in a thin layer of dust aside from where the figures had stood. Even the large box beneath the bed, once full of comic books, had been divided neatly into sections. Gerard had taken a portion to read, and would switch them out the next time he came down. 

Even though his semester at college wasn’t due to begin until September, their grandmother lived in the city nearby — he would be spending his summer up there, staying with her like the brothers had done as kids. 

“Gerard invented spite.” 

It was only New York. It was only New York — Gerard would come down on the weekends. And the holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas and the summers and he would be there for his and Mikey’s graduation, too, and it really wasn’t that bad so Frank wasn’t sure where this big gaping hole in his chest was coming from. 

He was happy for Gerard. Of course he was. Art school was a big thing, let alone Art school in New York; he’d been watching the boy work tirelessly for the past three years for the chance to secure a spot. Charcoal under his fingernails and paint stained hands and many an all-nighter, with Frank as the designated barista. The day Gerard had opened his acceptance letter was the widest Frank’d ever seen him smile, ear-to-ear and ceaseless. 

“Yeah,” Frank grimaced. He watched as Mikey kicked off his sneakers and tugged his feet up onto the bed, crossing his legs and jabbing Frank in the thigh as he did. Damn Mikey and his daggers-for-bones. 

Evening had drawn in slowly as they finished packing, and it was well past dinner now — only a small sliver of golden light filtered in through the basement window, where the room peeked above the soil. It cast a fuzzy, warm glow throughout the room. Frank leaned and clicked the bedside lamp on.

“You’ll stop being mad some day.” 

“I know.”

It flickered on, sparking the room in warm light. The shadows of Mikey’s form harshened under the glow, cutting his jaw and cheek sharper. Where his glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, a shadow cast onto his cheeks, and Frank could see that his eyes were closed firmly shut.

Mikey sunk himself down onto the bed, curling up a little and pressing his cheek against Gerard’s pillow. Frank followed swiftly, moving atop the covers to lay beside him. Neither had the energy to go back upstairs, to Mikey’s room and the air mattress on the ground — neither of them really wanted to, either.

“You will,” Frank’s voice was soft, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause between them, where all Frank could do was stare up at the ceiling. He listened to each of Mikey’s rattling breaths, saw in the corner of his eye how his chest rose and fell with each inhale and exhale.

He was right, he knew, Gerard had done nothing wrong. So why did it hurt so much?

“You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I know.”

“Mikey. Come on.”

Mikey hummed, shifting atop the covers a little. Their knees knocked awkwardly, but neither made complaint. Instead, the taller boy murmured;

“I miss him.”

“I miss him too.” Frank frowned, “It sucks.”

He watched Mikey’s fingers trace patterns into the bedsheets. His slender fingers, calloused at the pads, were designed for playing — he moved smoothly, absentminded. 

“When we were kids he used to yell at me for following him around everywhere,” Mikey’s lips tugged into a small smile, “And I used to copy everything he did. Read his comics, watch his favorite movies. I stole his guitar and started trying to learn.”

“You two are close.”

For as long as Frank had known the two — almost three years, now, since that fateful day in freshman year — they had been tightly-knit. 

“Yeah. We weren’t always.” Mikey continued;

“There was this one day where, um, where Otter was over — G knew Otter before he knew Ray, they met in elementary — and they were watching some scary movie and I wanted to join, but they wouldn’t let me.”

Donna Way kept their childhood photos up, plastered on the walls in ornate frames, much to the brothers’ chagrin. Mikey with his bowl cut, grinning widely to display missing baby teeth. Gerard had been similarly smiley, something he had never outgrown.

“They were both pissed, because I’m like, his loser little kid brother, and Gerard went off on me about how I needed to stop following him around, you know, I was embarrassing him.”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded, tilted his head to get a better look at Mikey as he spoke. He was staring up at the popcorned ceiling, finding patterns in it like Frank had always done as a kid when he couldn’t sleep at night. 

“And I went to bed, but I just lost it . Bawling my eyes out, uncontrollable sobbing, terrified out of my mind. I had this nightmare, with this big old monster, and it was hiding under my bed. I was just a kid, you know? And Otter was mad because I ruined the movie but Gerard made him turn it off.”

Mikey turned, facing Frank now. In the warm light, he was sallow and olive, the redness of his cheeks washed out. His glasses sat crooked with the awkward angle and his hair stuck up in every odd direction. 

“And he sat with me until I calmed down and he said it was just a nightmare, you know, and he checked under my bed with a flashlight and said ‘No monsters here, Mikes.’”

Frank smiled, and he smiled because Mikey smiled and Mikey smiling was sort of like a shooting star where you’d do anything not to miss it. Because it was there and then it wasn’t, more often than not, when it rarely came around. Sometimes Frank wished he could pause life there, to never see his friend’s happiness falter. 

“He didn’t care— Gerard, he convinced our mom to make us hot cocoa and to let us make a pillow fort in the living room. It must have stayed up for a month, even if mom hated it.”

Mikey moved to brush a piece of hair out of his face. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. 

“He said- you know, he was my big brother. And he was always gonna be there for me,” He said softly, and paused, like he was remembering the moment as he spoke. His voice cracked, hoarse with incoming sleep.

“And he was never going to go anywhere where I couldn’t follow. And I can’t , Frank.”

“You’ll feel better in the morning.” Frank echoed. He didn’t know if he believed it.

“So will you.”

Eventually, Mikey succumbed to sleep. He slipped peacefully, and Frank didn’t even notice until Mikey shifted, leg tangling with his own. The scar on his leg ached. 

His eyes flickered across Mikey’s face. In his sleep, he was so calm- dark eyelashes fluttering as he breathed, jaw unclenched and calm. Slowly, Frank moved to pull his glasses off, folding them and setting them on the bedside table.

“It’s just you and me, Mikes,” He murmured, even if the boy couldn’t hear him, “You and me. We don’t need anyone else.”

He clicked off the light, and Mikey disappeared into the dark.

****

One day, back when he was younger, Frank’s mom caught him stuffing newspapers into the bottoms of his shoes. The rest of the kids in his grade had hit the growth spurt that came with being 14, being 15, and his own had yet to come.

“It will come, eventually, Frankie,” she’s said, frowning as she shook her head, “You just have to be patient. Get your calcium.”

His growth spurt never did come — Frank’s sure by now that if he’s 5’6 at nearly-18, he’ll never grow another inch. Mikey, though, got lucky. He grew another inch, one that Gerard wasn’t too happy to hear about. Over the 5 months leading up to his junior year, he dropped seventy whole pounds and grew into a lither, lean frame. The baby fat on his cheeks disappeared to leave hollowed cheekbones and a sharpened jaw. 

He’d played this game before. They stick around until they decide they’re better than that, better than him, and then they move on. Mikey, though - Mikey stayed. 

The blaring woke Frank up. The harsh, distorted tone ripped through the silent room, tore him from his sleep. Bleary-eyed, he fumbled for his phone and pressed the answer button, not even knowing who was on the other end. 

“What the fuck,” he grumbled, “Hello?”

“Frank,” Mikey breathed on the other end of the line. Frank sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Mikey,” he echoed, before realizing he had to continue it with something- “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Mikey hummed. His voice unsteady, wavering, and Frank could hear the slight slur that lined his words.

“Can you come pick me up?”

Most Fridays didn’t end like this. Usually, Frank would be there with him — wherever he was.

New Jersey’s music scene was far from sparse. Friday nights — seeping into the early hours of Saturday — were spent at shows. Whatever they could get their hands on. Bands they’d loved for years, up-and-coming acts playing their first ever gigs. It was there that Mikey really came into his element. Under the shadow of a club, bodies against his own, music pulse through him like a second heartbeat. 

That night, though, had been quiet. Frank’d had to stay at home to help his mom with the house — their grandparents were coming over the following week — and Mikey didn’t want to go alone. 

His bedsheets were off before he even registered fully what he was doing, stumbling across his room to find a shirt. His pajama bottoms hung low around his waist. 

“Where are you?” He asked, clamping his cell between his shoulder and ear to rummage through his things. Mikey hiccuped through the address. The feedback was staticky, but the background was quiet and his voice echoed as he spoke — a bathroom, maybe. He wondered if it was just as warm, there, as it was in his bedroom.

The summer before Frank’s senior year had been thick and hot and that night was no exception. All through the days, the air stayed wet and smoldering and heavy on their shoulders - on the worse days, they peeled off their shirts and shed their jeans for shorts, danced around the garden with the hosepipe on the sprayer settings until they cast rainbows in the light. When the sun sat its highest in the sky, they worked away in the Way’s backyard. Tearing through the ivy and bramble, ripping up weeds. Frank didn’t trust Mikey with the lawnmower.

Some days, as the evening drew closer, they found themselves on drives around the city with the windows of Frank’s beat up Mazda — the one with the peeling paint and the ‘ I <3 Hot Moms’ bumper sticker — blasting music as loud as their stereo would let them. Mikey was on some new Britpop phase, so it was Blur on repeat. Blur , Frank would think, I can tolerate Blur ; he wasn’t about to question the ‘shotgun gets full-control’ rule.

It was almost on instinct that Frank restarted the Blur disc in his car’s staticky stereo when he clambered in. He shifted, feeling the pedals beneath his feet and the gnawing exhaustion in the back of his mind, like anchors around his heels, and started to drive. 

Despite Gerard leaving, things had fallen into a routine soon enough. Evenings at the Way’s watching bad horror movies, jam sessions in the garage — Mikey was still too nervous to play in front of them. More nights than not, Frank would sleep over and go to school the next day in one of Mikey’s shirts — too long around the torso and too tight around the sleeves.

The Way house had always been like a second home for Frank. And now, even more so. His mom had gotten a new boyfriend and it wasn’t like Frank didn’t like him, he was nice enough, but Frank knew by now that they were both itching for him to start looking for a place of his own. Especially now that he wasn’t going to college.

He drove through the city center on his way, faster than winding through a suburban labyrinth of houses that all looked the same. Past the pizza joint they always ordered from, past the highschool he’d graduated from that summer, past Comic Planet.

The house Frank pulled up to was somewhere in the suburbs, on the other end of town — two stories, peeling white-picket fence and creaking porch steps. It swelled with life, teeming with noise that seemed to ooze from every doorway and window. A blur of music and buzzing and bright lights, Frank grimaced at the sight. This was where Mikey had ended up?

He pressed the heels of his palms up to his eyes until his eyelids became a blurred kaleidoscope of colors. He inhaled deeply, tried to focus on the expansion of his chest with each rising breath and not the tiredness that tugged at his bones. Mikey would be coming home with him, which meant a sleepless night of taking care of his best friend.

By the time he was inside the house, Frank’s head was pounding. The pulsing music rattled him from the inside out, bass-boosted as it sounded through the speakers. Around him, the sea of unfamiliar faces bustled — a college party, maybe. Everyone seemed so much taller (and older), but then again, most people were taller than Frank.

Through the crowds, it was hard to find his bearings. He’d never been here before, even if he recognized the area. He didn’t even know whose party it was, let alone what Mikey was doing here. The stench of booze and sweat and way too much deodorant hung thick in the air, and the dim lights strained his eyes. He wanted to go home already, God, but Mikey needed him. Glancing down, there was something sticky beneath the rubber sole of his sneaker.

“Frank, dude!”

When Frank looked up, he was met with the towering figure of Gabe Saporta. An ill-fitting t-shirt (too short around the torso, too tight around the sleeves) and too-low jeans, happy-drunk. His hair stuck to the nape of his neck where it had been soaked with sweat and his skin tinted red all from his jaw to the collar of his shirt. As Gabe Saporta often was, he was smiling. His voice sent a prickling sensation up Frank’s spine, along the hair of his neck.

“I didn’t know you knew Travie!”

So that was whose house it was. Gabe stumbled forward a little, and his drink splashed out in droplets onto Frank’s shoes. His grin didn’t waiver.

Gabe was — well, Gabe was Gabe . He’d been in the grade above Frank and the sort of guy who knew everyone, for better or for worse. Over the years, he had become something of a local celebrity, where you couldn’t really be sure if the stories you heard were true. Some of them, at least, Frank hoped weren’t true.

“I- um, I don’t,” Frank rocked on his feet, “I came to pick Mikey up.”

“Oh,” The corners of Gabe’s lips curled upwards, even more, at hearing Mikey’s name. He leered at Frank, unstable on his feet as he leaned closer. Frank continued, meeting his gaze.

“You seen him?”

“Mhm,” Between sips of his drink, Gabe motioned broadly to his left. Following his arm, Frank could see a corridor leading up to a stairwell, slightly more vacant than the kitchen where they were stood.

“I think he’s in the bathroom. Last I saw him, at least.”

He tried to make his smile look easy, not toothless but not too-much teeth, act like he really was happy to see Gabe as if he wouldn’t much rather just be up in bed already, Mikey curled beneath the covers beside him and sound asleep. Frank cleared his throat.

“Thanks, man.”

To Gabe’s credit — he was right. When Frank pushed the door of the bathroom, it gave way easily. His eyes settled on Mikey.

It had been somewhere in the mid-summer that Mikey started being attractive. Frank had noticed, and it seemed others had too. They’d come back after shows and Mikey’s arm would be decorated with numbers, smudged ink along his skin and grinning sheepishly.

Hell — Mikey had even started wearing eyeliner . They’d picked it up from the drugstore on the way to the gig, figuring it couldn’t hurt. When Frank was 15 he’d bought a magazine from the newsagents just to rip the double-spread poster of Green Day out of it, Billie front and center with black-ringed eyes. 

It seemed tonight was no exception — Mikey’s hair gelled and eyeliner smudged. His favorite Anthrax t-shirt clung to his skin with sweat, despite the coolness of the bathroom. When he looked up, face pallid and gleaming, he smiled loosely.

“Frank!”

When he lifted his head, it revealed a constellation of bruises along his neck. They were fresh and angry, the reddening skin bright against his pale complexion. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last — he had always been ill at concealing the marks, and he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He must have. Frank wondered if she was pretty.

Whoever she was.

The door creaked as it closed behind him. He kneeled down onto the cool tile, opposite Mikey — who had leaned up against the bathtub. With a tentative hand, he touched Mikey’s cheek. His skin was warm. Mikey smiled wider. One of his hands clutched a red cup. 

“I missed you,” Mikey said softly, leaning up into Frank’s palm. “You should’ve come with me. It was fun.”

“You worried me.”

When Mikey hummed, Frank felt the vibration of his jaw tremble through his hand, down his arm. He blinked past heavy lids, met Frank’s eyes with his own hazel ones.

“How much did you drink?” The smell of alcohol on Mikey’s breath was undeniable — acrid and unpleasant, Frank himself had never liked drinking. It reminded him of being a kid; raucous adults at family gatherings and sneaking sips from his dad’s beer bottle during games.

“You came.” Even with the door closed, he could hear the pulsing music. His heart throbbed through his fingertips, against the skin of Mikey’s cheek. If the acidic smell in the air was anything to go by, Mikey had already puked his guts out, and ended up tiring himself out.

“Of course I did.” It’s you . “How much did you drink?”

“Enough.”

Prying the cup from Mikey’s hands, he swished it out under the tap before filling it with cool water. Kneeling back in front of Mikey, he urged him to take slow sips. Mikey obliged, seemingly more sober than he had been before Frank arrived.

“Don’t tell Gerard,” Mikey said.  He’d put down the cup and instead tilted his head up to the ceiling, exposing the skin of his neck. He gulped, and Frank watched his Adam’s apple bob. 

Frank was not a prude. Really, he was far from it. He’d lost his virginity at fifteen, awkward and clumsy. The girl was pretty and doe-eyed and she had traced patterns on his bare chest before they fell asleep, murmuring about her favorite book. He had been fixated on her the moment he watched her sneak a cigarette break during lunch, behind the bleachers. It was all knocking knees and flushed cheeks and then six months of flushed cheeks afterwards because she sat behind him in his math class. 

But there was something about Mikey that made it weird. In his head, somehow, Mikey had always just been Gerard’s kid brother. Perpetually 14. He realized now that really wasn’t true. His eyes glazed over the bruised skin of Mikey’s neck again, and Frank felt his face grow warm.

“He’ll fucking kill me.”

“Damn right he would,” Frank agreed, because he had to sneak out in his stupid car in his pajamas, and he’d probably woken his mom up and she had work in the morning, “And I should, too.”

“You wouldn’t,” Mikey grinned. When he did, he flashed a set of crooked, sharp teeth, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, “You love me too much.”

****

“You’re an idiot,” Mikey murmured, “Such a goddamn idiot.”

He pressed the dampened cotton pad to Frank’s lip, dabbing away the remainders of dry blood that had trickled down his chin. When Frank would tense beneath him, he would murmur a sorry so soft beneath his breath it was almost imperceptible. 

“Spare me the lecture,” Frank grimaced. His face ached, his body ached, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed, “Your mom already gave me an earful.”

The bathroom of the Way house had seen better days — the tiles cracked in some places and the overhead light was failing, flickering every few minutes as it clung to its last moments of life. Much like the rest of the home, it was cluttered and eclectic and cold. Too cold, Frank could feel rippling goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of his arms. 

“I was there. You’re still an idiot.”

The cotton pad came back with speckles of vibrant, crimson blood — he was still bleeding. Frank shook his hands loosely, feeling the soreness of his reddened knuckles. They would be bruised up in no time, the skin splitting where it pulled taut over bone. They hurt. Everything hurt. 

“Maybe.”

You fight like someone who isn’t seconds away from falling apart, Mikey had said in the car home, hands tight around the steering wheel. And he was right, maybe, because Frank’s lungs were suffering now. He took a shaky, labored breath. 

“G’s gonna kill me.”

“You?” Frank shuffled, leaning up against the bathtub. He could feel the lip of the porcelain tub, cold against his back, could feel his shoulder blades digging into it. Mikey leaned into him, slightly, moving onto wiping away the speckled blood by his temple, where the guy had split his eyebrow open. He had a solid punch, the guy, Frank had to at least give him credit.

“For letting you get in trouble.” For getting your ass kicked . Frank would get beat up a thousand times if he had to, for Mikey. That’s what friends did — they fought for each other.

“If he was here he would have been the one throwing the punches.”

“Frank.” 

“He was being a dick to you. I couldn’t just let him.”

The guy had been calling Mikey a fag. And Mikey wasn’t even gay, and even if he was it wasn’t exactly okay to call someone that, and he wasn’t going to sit around and listen to some asshole heckle his friend. 

“I didn’t mind. It was fine. You could have left it.” Moving from his face — now free of blood, but reddened and tender and purple by morning — Mikey’s nimble fingers ghosted along Frank’s side. They pulled a little at the hem of his shirt in askance. 

“I couldn’t have and you know it.”

Frank obliged, lifting his sore arms to let Mikey pull the shirt away. When he did, the chill of the bathroom brought a shiver up his spine. His hair raised. Mikey didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look up gaze flickering along Frank’s battered torso, across the few tattoos that had already begun to decorate it. 

“Mikey.”

His favorite tattoo had been the bird. Above his hips, detailed with precise gradients. Mikey had been there when Frank had gotten it done, sipping a juice box and laughing whenever Frank winced. Mikey moved to touch it, but paused before he did. 

“Mikey.” He pulled his hand away. Finally, he looked up at Frank — their eyes met. 

“Thank you.” 

Before he could speak, a sharp pain shot through Frank. Spiking up from his ribs, in fractals that seemed to prickle in every inch of his body. He winced. 

Mikey’s hand pulled away from the purplish skin of Frank’s side. 

“Sorry.”

"It’s okay,” Frank heaved a breath. His heart was pounding. Looking down, he could see the outline of a boot sole silhouetted on his skin. It had taken on a vibrant, angry hue, and was tender to the touch. He hadn’t broken a rib, though, which he considered a win. 

“You just caught me off guard.”

“How bad does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch.”

“Oh. Pussy.” Despite the exhaustion between them, the aching bones, Mikey cracked a grin that Frank couldn’t help but mirror. He blinked tired eyes and moved to punch Mikey’s bicep lightly. 

“I’ll try not to get my ribs kicked in next time, God.”

“Good idea. Best one you’ve had yet.”

Frank rolled his eyes. Mikey’s hands retracted from his side, but his eyes still wandered along the groove of Frank’s rib where the bruise burned. The corners of his lips tugged into a frown that never quite came fully. 

“I just, like, defended your honor. You’re being far too mean to me.”

Mikey chewed his lip. He settled beside Frank, leaning on the bathtub and craning his neck up to stare at the popcorned ceiling. The overhead light flickered. 

“I didn’t need my honor defended, Frank. I need you to not be broken.”

“I’m not broken.”

“Your face is six shades of purple. You’re bleeding.”

Even if it was true — he didn’t want to hear it. Overhead, the aircon whirred and rattled. It sent a breeze of cool air across them, biting at the expanse of Frank’s exposed skin. The attempt at holding back a shudder proved futile, and crossing his arms did little to soothe the cold. He flexed his stiff fingers.

“Can we just go to bed? It’s freezing.”

Having cold hands reminded Frank of winter as a kid. He had always hated wearing gloves, and refused to wear them, watching as his knuckles grew white and his nails grew blue. Despite his mom’s disapproval, he would stay out in the snow until his hands went numb before running them under the hot tap to feel them tingle and burn.

In the corner of Frank’s eye, Mikey frowned. He leaned forward and took Frank’s hands — his own skin was warm to the touch, achingly so. With heated palms, he sandwiched Frank’s hands between his own. They didn’t tingle, or burn, but it still felt nice. 

“You’re freezing,” Mikey said softly, “Okay. We can go to bed. You can borrow one of my shirts.”

So they hauled each other up – Mikey ended up having to hook his hands under Frank’s arm to heave him to his feet, weakened – and began towards Mikey’s room. 

Much like the basement, Mikey’s room was a mess. His walls had been covered in posters from ceiling to floor, and a large shelf on one side of the room displayed Mikey’s extensive music collection. Discs for the car, Frank’s car, vinyls for the house. The sheets of his bed sat in a crumpled heap, unmade, and Mikey sheepishly smoothed them out. 

Frank shimmied off his jeans as Mikey continued to try and straighten up his room. As if they both hadn’t grown to expect the mess by now. As if Frank hadn’t been in Mikey’s room a thousand times before. The lights clicked off, and the room was bathed in darkness. 

The silhouette of Mikey, faint in the darkness, tugged off his own clothes before the bed dipped. He crept in beneath the covers, knee knocking with Frank’s shin. 

“Scoot over, asshole.”

In Mikey’s twin-sized bed, it was impossible to stay apart entirely without one of them falling off. Easily, Frank twined their legs together and shuffled closer until his head was up against Mikey’s shoulder. 

The quiet in the room hung softly, without tension. Faint, but still there, Frank could hear the hum of the television downstairs where Mr. and Mrs. Way were watching game show reruns, as they often did, dabbing out cigars into cracked china saucers and sipping their glasses of wine. It was a pleasant life, he figured. It was simple, but they were happy spending their days like that. 

He had come downstairs in the night for a glass of water once to see them asleep on the couch, illuminated only by the light of the TV playing Seinfeld reruns. Her feet had kicked up into his lap, and they leaned into each other closely, comfortable, and it all looked so easy. Nothing like the stiffness between his own parents on the rare days he got to see his dad, or even before they had split. Frank figured he wanted a love like that. Where things were easy. 

“Thank you,” Mikey whispered through the silence. Something swelled in Frank’s stomach, like a stone rolling and begging to rise. He swallowed it down. 

“You don’t have to say that,” Was all he could think to say back, “I’m just- I don’t know. That’s what being a friend is.”

“Let me say thank you.”

“Sorry. Okay. Yeah. You’re welcome.”

He felt something touch his shoulder. Craning his neck, Frank could see the outline of Mikey’s hand — the arm that he was currently resting his head on — taking long, languid movements up and down the skin of Frank’s arm, beneath the heavy duvet. Maybe he should have minded, but he didn’t. 

Turning back to the boy, Frank watched his heavy eyelids flutter. Without glasses, Mikey’s eyes were large and deep, like they swallowed everything they saw whole. 

He wondered how Gerard was doing. All the way over in New York, in his new dorms. He wondered if Gerard’s roommate was nice or if he was an asshole, or maybe they didn’t speak at all. How were his classes going — was he keeping on top of it all? Maybe he was going to office hours. Did Gerard think of them? He hadn’t called Frank yet, despite his promises.

It was as if Mikey could read his thoughts.

“Do you think mom will tell him?” 

“Will you tell him?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” His long fingers started moving in circular motions, steady, barely ghosting along the surface of Frank’s skin. Despite the callouses on the pads of his fingers, the rough touch was oddly soothing.

“He told me not to get in any trouble. None he couldn’t get me out of, at least.”

That had been Gerard’s parting message. They had packed all of his things into the trunk of Mr. Way’s car, stripped the house clean of his presence, and the entire family stood out on the driveway. Gerard had tugged Frank into an iron-tight hug.

Don’t get into any trouble, don’t let Mikey get into trouble, and don’t die. Gerard’s creed.

“He didn’t call.” Mikey reached out to brush a piece of hair out of Frank’s face. He was long overdue for a haircut, as it was bristling the cusp of ‘uncomfortably overgrown’, but his mom’s grief over the length only served as fuel for Frank to let it grow out even more. Frank closed his eyes. He felt the calloused finger trail along his hairline, then, down to his temple where it traced the edge of his tender bruise.

“Gerard?”

“He didn’t call,” Mikey repeated, voice barely above a whisper, “He said he was gonna call. And then he didn’t.”

“Maybe he was busy. College isn’t exactly a walk in the park.” Mikey hummed and Frank could feel the vibration against his body. He dropped the hand that had been hovering by Frank’s face.

“Yeah. But he promised. And he keeps his promises.”

“Always?”

“The ones to me.”

A pregnant pause passed between the two — Frank all too focused on the sensation of Mikey’s fingers moving in a circular pattern along his arm. His own hands had yet to warm up, still, and when he flexed his fingers he felt the ache of the cold. Almost on instinct, Frank pressed his hand up against the warm skin of Mikey’s torso, and stifled a giggle when the boy flinched beneath him.

“Nowhere where I couldn’t follow,” Mikey said, and their knees knocked. The hum of the TV softened - Mr. and Mrs. Way were likely heading to bed, meaning the evening had drawn in fully by now.

“I don’t know how you deal with it.”

Frank furrowed his brow. He could hear the creak of the stairs as they came up onto the landing.

“With him leaving?”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Despite Gerard’s departure being over two months ago now, Mikey had yet to get over it. In the quiet moments between them, they always ended up here - how was he, how was he finding New York, maybe he was out there getting famous and maybe one day they’d be helping him respond to fanmail, or something. Frank didn’t really want to dwell on how much more successful than him  Gerard was bound to be, going to college and pursuing his dream, and the discussion felt more like prodding at an open wound than anything else.

“Yeah,” he swallowed thickly, felt the rising lump in his throat quell, “I don’t know. I don’t really- I try not to think about it too much.”

Mikey pressed on, oblivious;

“But when you do.”

Frank’s hand — now warmer, thanks to the other boy — raised quickly to rub at his face. His eyelids had become heavy with exhaustion, as if he had lead weights for eyelashes now, and when his fingers touched the skin of his jaw he could feel the beginnings of stubble where he had been too lazy to shave.

When he was in freshman year — what felt like decades ago, even if it had only been a few years — Frank’s English teacher had adored him. He was a middle-aged guy who spoke with the strongest Jersey accent Frank’d ever heard, second only to his father, and he only wore weird ties he found at the thrift store, and his name was Mr. Ricci. He was Italian, which already put him in Frank’s good books. Like all English teachers seemed to have the innate supernatural ability to, he had sniffed out Frank’s bookwormish nature like a bloodhound and did his best to nurture it. It was rare you got a kid who engaged with the subject as much as Frank had.

Maybe he should go to college. Get some degree in… English Literature, or something, like his highschool teachers had been pressing him to do. Deep down, though, he knew it wasn’t in his heart. He didn’t know what was , not yet, but he was sure he’d find out some day.

“I mean… of course it does. But it hurts less when I remember he’s happy.”

Even through the dark, Mikey’s bitterness was impossible to miss. Despite his attempts to hide it, Mikey was a language Frank had become fluent in — he knew all of his tells. 

“I wish I could feel happy for him. I really want to.”

“He’s doing what he loves,” Frank shrugged, not really sure if he fully believed what he was saying, “Who would we be to stand in the way of that?”

“I’d be happy. Selfish, I guess. But I’d be happy with him here.”

“Maybe at first.” But it would eat him up inside , he thought, and he knew that Mikey knew it too. Even if he didn’t say it out loud. They both knew Gerard had needed to leave Belleville behind and find something new, carve his own path in the soil, even if it meant leaving them behind.

Gerard was the sort of person who had always been destined for greater things than the small town. He wasn’t supposed to end up rotting away here — his place was somewhere bigger, somewhere better, and who was Frank to deny him of that?

The holes Gerard had left behind when he’d moved were ones they wouldn’t be able to truly fill, he knew. Playing music in the basement with Ray, and Mikey, and even Otter — it was nice, but it lacked something. Mikey’s parents still had 5 seats around the dining table. One for Frank, spending more time there than at his own home, but some nights during dinner he would catch Mikey staring into the empty seat that used to be Gerard’s. 

“Have you called Ray?” Frank asked gently. He could hear the faucet running next door. 

“Mhm,” Mikey murmured, heavy-lidded, “He asked us to come for dinner next week. With his girlfriend. Olive Garden.”

“Christine, right?”

Over the few times they’d seen Ray since college had started up — he was going to William Patterson, majoring in something to do with film that Frank really didn’t understand. 

“Christa. I don’t know. She’s in his philosophy class, apparently. She sounds nice.”

“Good for him,”

“Yeah,” Mikey looked away. He turned a little, to look at the ceiling, “Yeah. He deserves her. And he’s happy.”

Beneath his words, undeniably, Frank could hear a bitter thread through Mikey’s voice. His mouth twisted around the phrase like he hated having to say it — jealous, maybe. Mikey didn’t talk much about his love life but they both knew it was fleeting at best. Party hookups and getting numbers from girls at shows, girls who weren’t looking for anything more than someone to make their bed a little less lonely that night.

Admittedly, Frank was much the same. He’d tested the waters a little throughout highschool — the pretty girl from his math class who he’d lost his virginity to, and dated for two solid months before she’d broken it off in time for summer break. There had been another girl in sophomore year who he took to prom, but there was nothing that had lasted. In all honesty — well, Frank wasn’t really interested . He frowned.

“It’s weird when I think about it for too long. Everyone’s — I don’t know. Settling down. I feel like I’m being left behind.” 

They were closer, now — Mikey staring up at the ceiling as Frank lay into him, pulling him in close. His head sat flush against where Mikey’s collarbone met his shoulder — the flesh was bony, but smooth, and in the quieter moments that lulled between their conversation he could focus in on the steady thump of Mikey’s heart.

“You have me, though,” Frank’s voice was softer, again, “We have each other.”

If that’s enough , he thought, if you’ll have me.

“Yeah, I do,” Mikey grinned. Wide and all crooked teeth and like Frank really was enough, “You and me, remember, Frankie? We don’t need anyone else.”

Finally, he broke his gaze away from the ceiling to look down at the boy on his shoulder. His hand fell to the mattress and it left an unfamiliar, empty feeling on the surface of Frank’s skin where it had hovered, drawing those dazed patterns. Frank hummed.

“You have an eyelash on your cheek,” He said. When Mikey tried to wipe it away, but couldn’t, he reached up to brush it away gently. His cheek was warm to the touch, flushed. In the dim shadow, all they could hear was the steady, shallow breath between them.

“There,” he pulled his hand away, and Mikey exhaled, and then he smiled a little weaker than before, “Did you make a wish?”

“Yeah,” Mikey breathed, “Yeah. I did.”

“I hope it comes true. Whatever it is.”

“Me too.”

****

Gerard did come back down to Belleville, eventually. Thanksgiving wouldn’t be the same without him — Mrs. Way had demanded he come and stay for a few nights at the very least, if not for the entire break. He’d told her over the phone that he had finally gotten a haircut, and that school was going well, and that was about it. Frank couldn’t wait to see him, and neither could Mikey — he was practically buzzing with excitement on the night before Thanksgiving, waiting on the couch for the sound of Mr. Way’s car pulling up in the driveway.

“You’re going to get a leg cramp,” Frank chided as he knocked knees with Mikey, and placed a hand on his thigh to soothe him. The younger boy had been bouncing his leg violently all evening. Although he stiffened at first, eventually Mikey calmed down a little. 

“I just- I missed him.”

“I know.” He had, too – the house didn’t feel right without the sound of Gerard’s music pulsing from the basement, without the perpetual smell of coffee that lingered in the kitchen. Days where Frank slept over, he couldn’t help but quell the surprise he felt walking downstairs, not seeing Gerard hunched over the kitchen counter nursing a cup of coffee. As much as he was glad to see Gerard escape for better and bigger things, he couldn’t help the feeling that Belleville would always be calling Gerard back. He belonged there.

“I did too.”

Donna was in the kitchen, swaying to the sound of the radio as she chopped vegetables. She was preparing them for the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, not trusting either of the two boys to assist her, no matter how much they offered. The day before, when she had come back from grocery shopping to find Frank and Mikey splayed out on her couch watching sitcom reruns – no surprises there — she’d informed them that she’d found some meat alternative at the store for Frank. 

It was small things like that that made Frank feel so at home. Like he belonged somewhere — like someone wanted him there. He’d spent a large portion of his life never quite fitting in. He was too sick to stay at school for months at a time, and when he could, the other kids didn’t want him there. Even his parents had passed him back and forth through their split and it left a feeling of instability in Frank’s chest. 

“Why do you think he did it?”

“Did what?” The smell of fresh onion being diced hit the air, and Frank’s eyes watered a little. He looked ahead, away from Mikey, and focused on the TV. The guy on the game show they were watching had just insisted that Queen had been the ones to perform Space Oddity , and he wrinkled his nose up in annoyance. 

“Not call. You know. Like he said he would.”

“He’s busy, Mikes,” Frank sighed, “College isn’t easy. He’s probably still settling in.”

“He’s never been too busy for me.”

“Don’t think about it now,” He knocked knees Mikey, really not in the mood for this conversation again. “Not when he’s coming in a few minutes. You’ll make yourself upset.”

“Easy for you to say,”

“I’m his friend, too, you know. I care about him too.”

“It’s different.” He listened out for the sound of the car, or voice. Mr. Way had called around an hour before to let them know they were on the way back. It was only a matter of time now.

Frank put his hand on Mikey’s thigh, soothing its bouncing once more. He waited for a moment before Mikey put his hand overtop, and laced their fingers together. His hands were warm, as always.

“I know. But I get it, still.”

A comfortable silence fell between the pair. Mikey finally relaxed a little, leaned into Frank’s side as they watched the TV. The volume was dialed down too low for them to properly hear, and Frank wondered how he could read the subtitles without his glasses, but decided not to mention it – Mikey was calm. Mikey’s hand was still intertwined with his.

A few minutes had passed by in near silence. Donna’s radio still hummed and the smell of food cooking hung heavy in the air. Mikey’s heartbeat steadied beneath his fingertips. 

There was a noise in the distance, the faint rumble of an engine and tires against the pavement. Like a bloodhound, Mikey straightened.

“Was that him?”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded, hearing the slamming of the car door. When Mikey stood, breaking the tangle of their hands and darting towards the doorway, he called — his fingers wrapped around Mikey’s bony wrist-  “Mikey- wait-“

“What, Frank?”

Mikey was almost shaking with anticipation. He bounced on the balls of his feet, and couldn’t look at Frank for too long at once. Instead, he would crane his head back to look through the hall to the front door, yet to open still. 

“I- You know he loves you? Don’t forget that. And he’s probably tired and he’ll be cranky — you know how he gets — but he doesn’t love you any less.”

The words come out in a flurry, and they probably didn’t make as much sense as they did in Frank’s mind. Mikey nodded, disinterested. 

“Yeah,” He breathed, “Yeah, just let me see him.”

Frank’s grip around his wrist loosened, and then eventually fell entirely — he watched, heart racing, as Mikey darted for the door and twisted the key. He swung it open and the cool, November air flooded into the hall, soothing the rising warmth that had bloomed across Frank’s skin. In the distance, through the doorway, Frank could see them. 

Gerard looked mostly the same; the biggest change had been his hair, shorn much shorter and dyed a light blonde. Frank had been anticipating the cut, but certainly not the color - it looked good, he had to admit. The rest was all the Gerard he had come to know and love, though. Black jeans and a leather jacket, both looking like they’d been put through a shredder, and the flush on his pale face from the biting cold. He trudged through the few inches of snow that had settled on the driveway, meeting Mikey on the porch. His face lit up.

Even if Frank couldn’t see the younger boy’s face, he didn’t doubt it was just as bright.

Frank hung back in the doorway. He watched the two embrace tightly, Gerard’s bony hands clawing at Mikey’s back as if he couldn’t cling onto him enough. They loved each other in a way Frank knew he would never be able to really understand, having no siblings of his own. Something ached in his chest.

When they finally pulled apart, the pair were grinning like idiots. Mrs. Way had emerged from the kitchen, hearing the ruckus, and immediately launched into fussing over Gerard. Asking if he was eating well, sleeping well, if classes were tougher than he anticipated, why he hadn’t mentioned going blond. The whole time, Mikey clung to his side like he was afraid Gerard would disappear if he let go. 

It was a solid few minutes later that Mr. and Mrs. Way retreated to the kitchen to make coffee and continue with dinner preparation, and Frank was left in the hall with Gerard. Mikey had been tasked with shoveling the snow out of the driveway, despite his protests.

They stood at opposite ends. Frank stared. He couldn’t help it. It was Gerard, his best friend, his best friend who had left him behind in New Jersey to go to college, and now he was back. A cocktail of emotions whirlpooled within him, ones he couldn’t even begin to pick apart.

“Gerard.” He breathed. 

“Hey.” 

Gerard looked into his eyes. He always did — didn’t shy away from eye contact like Mikey did, hazel gaze boring through Frank. There was a tired look to him, a little rough and worn around the edges. More so than usual, at least. Frank blinked, before cracking an easy smile. 

“Long time no see, Way,” He said, voice a little rough, “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,”

Mirroring his smile, Gerard moved forward. He shook some of the snow that hadn’t melted from his hair, dusting it along the entryway carpet. He was lucky Mrs. Way had missed him so much, she’d have his head otherwise. 

“Well, you know, Mikey’d kill me.”

Tugging Gerard into a hug, it all felt so familiar. The curve of his best friend’s body fitting into his own, like the thousands of hugs they’d shared before. As time had gone on, the wound had healed in a way — he wasn’t mad. Not anymore. But something about this, it just brought all the hurt crashing back. Frank pressed his face into Gerard’s shoulder, laughing wetly.

“I don’t blame him.”

Pulling away, Frank blinked back the tears gathering in his eyes. Instead, he focused on fixing the lapel of Gerard’s winter coat, brushing the dusting of snow off quickly. He glanced up at Gerard.

“He missed you, you know.”

Gerard looked tired, he realized. More than just not sleeping enough — something he’d expected — but drained. His eyes still glimmered the way they always did, but there was a dull tone to his skin that screamed of exhaustion.

Gerard swallowed. He nodded. 

“Yeah.”

“A lot.” Frank continued, “You didn’t call him.”

“I know.” 

“He was all hung up over it.” 

Try as he might, Frank couldn’t shake the resounding sadness that clung to Mikey in the months after Gerard’s departure, thick and sticking to his skin like the summer air. He hated seeing Mikey fall apart like that. 

“He does that,” The boy shrugged, “I was busy.”

“That’s what I told him. He thinks you should have made the time.”

Frank glanced out the front window as he led Gerard into the living room; Mikey had made quick progress on the porch. He was wearing his stupid little had with the bobble on the top, the one Frank had gotten him for Christmas the year before, and his lithe frame had been swallowed up in a big, cosy jacket. Frank couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him. 

“There was no time.”

The three of them situated themselves on the couch easily. The smell of cooking food, rich and warm, was even stronger than before. It mingled with the smell of fresh coffee in the air, Gerard’s strong cologne, and the slightly floral smell of Mrs. Way’s favorite wood polish. It smelled like home. 

“Tell him that, then. And say sorry. And don’t wait until he brings it up, because he won’t, and you know it.”

“Of course,” Gerard nodded, eyes wandering to the kitchen. He’d picked up on the smell of coffee. “What about you? Mom tells me you’ve all but moved in.”

At his phrasing, Frank blushes. Because- yeah, he really did spend a lot of time there. In the times when he wasn’t working (he had picked up a job at the gas station not too long ago, more so for the free coffee than anything else), he was curled up on the couch or up in Mikey’s room. They’d been joined at the hip all summer. He had even graduated from sleeping in a mess of blankets on the floor by Mikey’s bed to sleeping in the bed with him, cramped and tangled up and giggling like idiots until they finally succumbed to exhaustion. 

He loved his mom, really. But things had been getting tense lately — they always had been, since the split — and her new boyfriend didn’t particularly like Frank. With Frank not planning to go to college and a new lover to capture her attention, the pressure to find his own place was growing stronger by the day.

And, well, she didn’t need Frank anymore. Not in the way she had once, to soothe her lows when she couldn’t get out of bed, to reign her in from her highs when she would disappear for days at a time with her new lover, and to pick up extra shifts at work just to cover all her credit card bills.

“Yeah. I’m saving up for a new place. But my mom’s been hinting at me moving out for months now. You know how she is.”

“She got a new boyfriend?”

”Why, were you interested?”

“Asshole.” Gerard punched Frank’s shoulder lightly, but couldn’t help grinning despite it. Frank held his hands up in surrender. 

“Hey, hey, you fully walked into that one.”

“I guess I did. I’m glad I came back.”

Mr. Way — Frank hadn’t graduated to Donald status yet, and he figured he never would — emerged from the kitchen balancing three coffee cups in hand, Mrs. Way swiftly following. She passed one to Frank and another to Gerard, giving him the mug with the chip in the handle that said ‘Jersey Devils!’ on the front. Leaning into his mug, Frank inhaled the warm, earthy scent. 

“Tell him that too.” He said to Gerard, “He needs to hear it.”

“Are you staying for dinner? Tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Nodding, Frank hummed into his drink. His voice reverberated as he spoke. “Yeah. My mom and her boyfriend are going out of town to see her parents. And my dad doesn’t — you know.”

He watched the edges of Gerard’s lips twitch awkwardly. Not quite a frown, but certainly not indifference. Frank’s parents had always been a sensitive subject. 

“Oh. Sorry I asked.”

Since the day the pair had met, all of those years before, they had shared three solid, unspoken rules. One — never piss Ray off. He was 6 feet of solid muscle and hair and the only thing keeping them from being thrown to the wolves. Two — do not let Mikey out of your sight. Ever. He will do something stupid, and you will have to save him, and you will want to rip all the hair out of your head. It is never worth it. Three — you don’t talk about Frank’s parents. 

Frank swallowed. He looked at the mottled green carpet beneath his feet, tracing a swirling pattern with the edge of his rubber sneaker sole. 

“I am too.”

It was then that Mrs. Way sent Frank out to the driveway to retrieve Mikey, relieving him from his shoveling duties. The boy kicked his boots off at the doorway and still managed to track snowflakes all down the hallway, but he took a mug of his own and settled into the couch between Frank and Gerard with a warm smile on his face. When his glasses fogged up, he didn’t seem to care, and only leaned further into his brother’s side.

The sun had already set by now. As if weighted by the hefty clouds that came with November, it dragged low along the horizon and dusted the coming night’s canopy of darkness and speckle of stars. 

Frank crossed his legs one way, and then the other, and in the end he gave in and hooked his ankle around Mikey’s own, bony and cold from the November air, and they both pretended not to notice. 

****

Four days after Thanksgiving, Gerard, employing Frank and Mikey’s help, packed up his things and set off back home. On the second day, there had been a snowstorm that unraveled all of Mikey’s dutiful shoveling, burying the house in a foot of snow. They had ended up spending the day cradled in knit blankets and sweaters they had found in boxes in the back of Mikey’s wardrobe, ones that still smelled like mothballs and their grandma’s favorite brand of chewing tobacco. By some miracle, they fit. Mikey’s crept a few inches above his wrist and hips, but otherwise they made do. 

On the third day, the three were up to their knees in snow and shoveling until the driveway was clear enough for Mr. Way to get to work in the morning. They tracked mud all along the floorboards downstairs, much to Mrs. Way’s chagrin, but tucked down in the basement with hot chocolate. Gerard’s things were put into cardboard boxes, less things than the first time they’d had to do this, and heaved up into the living room. 

In the early hours of the morning on the fourth day — so early that the sun had barely peeled up past the skyline of houses, the sky a marbled canvas of pale, dusty purples and fading indigo, they put the boxes in the back of Mr. Way’s car and bade Gerard goodbye. With the next college semester starting in only a few days’ time, they didn’t want to risk another snowstorm trapping him at home. To Mrs. Way, there were two people you never put doubt on — Jesus Christ, and the Belleville Radio Station weatherman. Mikey hugged him, tight and bone-breaking, and he didn’t let go until Gerard pulled away. 

Mikey stayed in his room for the rest of the morning. Frank brought him lunch, and then a cup of coffee, but the boy didn’t say much. This time, dinner in hand, Frank lingered in front of the doorway of Mikey’s room. They were still making their way through a mountain of leftovers. He had piled the plate high with all of Mikey’s favorites. 

“Hey, Mikes,” He said softly, as he knocked. Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open with his knee and stepped inside. The room was shrouded in dim shadow from the early evening, and a single lamp cast a warm glow throughout the room. It cut harsh lines into Mikey, who was all sharp enough edges. 

He was hunched over a guitar, sat on his bed. Already, his jeans had been traded out for pajama pants, and a blanket had been wrapped around his shoulders. He looked cozy, but tired, and when he glanced up at Frank there was a heavy look in his eyes.

“Mikey.” Frank echoed, “Mikey, come on. Come back downstairs?”

“I can’t.” His voice crackled when he spoke. Looking down at the guitar again, Mikey feebly plucked a string and slid his hand along the fretboard into another chord.

“Mikey.”

“I don’t- just, I really don’t want to have to talk to anyone. Right now. I don’t know.”

The skin of Mikey’s knuckles had become cracked and red from the cold and dry air, and even in the dim light he could see the cracks of blood where the skin split. How he kept playing, Frank didn’t know. 

“You’re talking to me.”

“Yeah, but it’s you.” Mikey blinked. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He cocked his head to the side, fingers faltering on the fretboard. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re more than just anyone, you know? You’re- I don’t know — you .”

Kicking a dirty t-shirt out of the way — how Mikey lived with half of his wardrobe on the floor, Frank would never be able to wrap his mind around — Frank closed the door behind him and stepped towards the bed. It squeaked and sunk as he fell down onto it, but Mikey didn’t even blink. He set the plate down.

“Oh.” Mikey said slowly, “Thanks, I guess.”

When Mikey leaned into his side, he didn’t complain. The boy was warm and the blanket around him was soft, a far cry from the biting cold outside. Frank was still wrapped up, heavy socks and layers of shirts and jumpers and fingerless gloves that didn’t do anything to keep his hands warm but they looked cool, and that was more important. 

Tangling their ankles, Frank focused on the sound of Mikey’s breath. Slow, labored, chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. His hand moved, tracing random patterns onto the denim of Mikey’s jeans, swirling motions that started small, but quickly rose to span his entire thigh. Mikey hummed contentedly. 

“I’m tired.” He spoke, voice soft and nasally. Something heavy fell in Frank’s stomach, like he’d swallowed a peach pit. His heart pounded all the way down to his fingertips, an aching, thrumming beat. He put his chin to Mikey’s shoulder and peered down at the guitar strings. 

“Yeah,” Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Frank nodded, “Yeah, we all are.”

Against him, Mikey shook his head. He sighed again. 

“Not like that, Frank. I’m so tired .” 

The way he said it was - well, it was tired. More than just sleepless tired, but the kind where it sat heavy in your bones and dragged you down like lead ankle weights until you couldn’t really think of much else besides the exhaustion. Days where you laid down and couldn’t be sure you would get up in the end. Having grown up ill, with his weakened immune system and paper organs, Frank was well acquainted with the feeling. 

His dad had always been the one to soothe him through it, when the exhaustion got bad. He would find stacks of blankets, half moth-eaten in the back of the laundry cupboard and layer them up on Frank’s bed until he was practically swallowed up by them. From there it was noodle soup and all his favorite films from when he was a kid, until he could sleep away the pain. 

On the especially bad days, he would crawl beneath the covers with Frank and hold his frail body — often shivering with a fever — and croon softly until he succumbed to sleep. Leaning further into the boy, Frank figured this was the next best thing.

He couldn’t fight the frown that tugged at his lips. His fingers froze, hovering millimeters over the fabric of Mikey’s jeans. 

“I just- I gotta get out of here some day. I don’t know.”

“Belleville?”

“New Jersey,” Frank frowned impossibly deeper, but Mikey just kept talking — the stone in his stomach was rolling now, unpalatable and crying to get out somehow, “It’s home. Always will be, you know, but I just- I need to try something new some day.”

Mikey pulled his ankle from where it had looped around Frank’s. He set the guitar down, if only to allow himself closer into Frank’s space. The crook where his neck tapered out into broad shoulders fit Frank’s head perfectly, and a second hand moved absentmindedly up the boy’s back. 

Ghosting over the skin and over the layers of fabric Mikey wore, Frank traced along the contour of muscle that made up his back, along the outlines of bone where his shoulder blades jut out. He had always been bony. Mikey shuddered beneath him, but didn’t pull away. 

“You’re not happy.” Frank’s voice had dropped to a low murmur. “I can tell. I always could, I think.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Mikey would never have to apologize for anything if Frank could have it his way. Mikey would have the world in his hands, if Frank could have it his way. His finger brushed up along the nape of the younger boy’s neck, feeling the bump of his spine and then the wispy baby hairs that began to grow, how it sent a rolling shiver all the way through him. Frank imagined, beneath his shirt, that Mikey had goosebumps all along his skin from the contact. 

“I have to be. You know I do.”

After a moment, considering his words and rolling them around his mouth a marble, testing their weight, Mikey continued;

“I’m not mad anymore. I used to be. I’m not really, now. I get it.”

The anger had become secondary to the sadness after the nights of cradling up beside him and knitting their bodies together to offer what comfort he could, it had turned into grief, in a way, and whilst Frank had never been good with handling loss, he would try his best for Mikey. And then came the bitterness, and the resentment that bubbled beneath it all, coming to a spitting head. And Frank had been there for that, too, and he had done his best, and he would always try his best for Mikey.

He opened his mouth, only for a moment, before shutting it swiftly, deciding to leave whatever it had been unsaid. He did that a lot, really, when he decided that people didn’t care about what he had to say (Frank cared, Frank always cared, but Mikey was the sort of boy who could never be convinced of these things).

“It’s stupid.” He shook his head.  “I’m stupid.”

“It’s not. You’re not.”

Frank knocked their knees together, like he had the few nights before, like he always did when he was trying to knock the boy out of overthinking. That’s what Mikey was, and always had been — an overthinker. 

“Do you love him?”

“Huh?”

The question caught him off guard. Mikey often did, these days, caught him by surprise like a dagger under the arm when he’d least expect it. Like the bruises on the back of his knees and the back of his neck where the baby hairs curled up, but that was the kind of thing you never talked about. Frank didn’t want to know if the girl who kept Mikey’s bed warm on the nights when he wasn’t there was pretty , if she was blonde or brunette, if she was tall or short or the perfect height, Frank didn’t give two shits .

Mikey hummed.

“Do you love him? Gerard.”

“I mean- yeah. He’s like my brother. I’ve known him for years.”

“Yeah?” 

Peering down at Frank, their eyes met. Both were hazel, similar enough, Mikey’s iris on one eye decorated with a large speckle of dark brown that he hadn’t noticed for two whole years before Gerard had mentioned it. Something shifted inside of him. Almost on instinct, Frank reached to pluck the glasses from Mikey’s face and wipe the dirtied lenses on his jeans. 

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes trained on the pair of glasses in his hands. 

“You’ve known me for years.”

“Yeah, and I love you too.” 

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do, dipshit,” A smile made its way across Frank’s lips, gently, almost in disbelief. After all these years — how was he still unsure? He couldn’t stop loving Mikey if he wanted to. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t?”

Rolling the words around in his mouth, Mikey’s jaw tightened the way it always did when he was trying not to smile. Frank slipped the pair of glasses back onto his face, reaching to brush his hair a little out of his face in the process. Like the rest of him, the boy’s cheeks were warm to the touch and flushed pink from the weather.

“You never know,” He gave a noncommittal shrug, “Maybe you’re just using me for my good looks,”

Frank nodded somberly. 

“And your mom’s cooking.”

Finally, Mikey cracked. He smiled, wide and crooked and exposing the gap in his teeth where he’d hit the steps of the front porch mouth-first years back, the kind of smile where his eyes crinkled and only one side of his mouth would quirk up like the other side of his face hadn’t quite caught the memo yet. 

“See? Exactly!”

“Come on,” Biting back a laugh, Frank nudged his knee with a bit more force than before. Mikey shoved him back, but he was a toothpick of a boy and Frank wasn’t giving in that easily, “What’re you playing?”

“Nothing. Nothing good, at least.”

“Fuck off, you’re good and we both know it.”

“You’ve never heard me play.” 

It was true that Mikey had never played in front of him — or any of them, even. Maybe Gerard, if he was lucky, but it was the sort of thing the boy was all cagey and uptight over because he’d gotten it in his head that he was impossibly bad at guitar. Frank doubted that.

“There’s no way you’ve been playing for years and aren’t good. Seriously.” 

He leaned down, past Mikey, hand firm on his knee, and picked up the guitar from its stand. It was heavy, but nothing he wasn’t used to by now, and he pressed it into Mikey’s arms and watched as the boy took it. The callouses on his fingers alone, toughed, ones that Frank had felt against his own skin, were proof enough of Mikey’s dedication to playing.

“Play something? For me?” 

“Frank-” He started, but faltered quickly when Frank gave him a look. He’d been working on the doe eyes, and Mikey was a perfect test subject. 

“Please.” He pressed, “I’d love to hear you play. Seriously.”

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”

“Cross my heart, I won’t. I swear. I really wanna hear you play.”

To hammer in his point, Frank made a swift crossing motion across his chest, where his heart sat pulsing in his chest. In the quiet of the room, it felt like the loudest thing there, and a part of him wondered if Mikey could hear it with the distance between them.

Finally, finally, he gave in. Curling in a little on himself, Mikey hunched over the guitar and placed practiced fingers on the frets. His hands had always been big, long spindled fingers and bones that jut out at every odd angle. Just like the rest of Mikey — Frank had lost count of the times he had been jabbed by a sharpened elbow or knee. 

“Fine.” With a hefty sigh, Mikey scrunched his eyes shut for a brief moment. When he looked back up at Frank, though, his face eased a little. His cheeks were pink, still.

“Does it have a name? The song?”

“Um,” Mikey hummed, “Romance.”

And then he started to play.

****

1999

On the top row, to the left of the canine, there was a gap in Mikey’s teeth, and when he got all nervous he would flick his tongue over the gap and feel the tender gum like he’d forgotten a tooth wasn’t there anymore. It hadn’t always been like that. 

He had lost it in the summer moving up into sophomore year, with all of the reckless abandon of an almost-16 year old. The family had driven up to New York for the summer break to see their grandparents and Mikey had tripped on the porch stairs, caught his mouth on the second-top step and bled like a motherfucker all the way down to the hospital, including on Mr. Way’s new leather seating he had just gotten upholstered the month before. 

Mikey wasn’t a sentimental guy by nature. He didn’t feel like he needed to keep all the stuff he had, more so, he was too lazy to throw it away. He’d told Frank he kept the tooth in a little box under his bed with the rest of his assorted crap, to rot away. 

Beneath Mikey’s bed was a fucking hellscape, and Frank was starting to seriously regret ever even touching it. He wasn’t a neat freak, and whenever he did clean it wouldn’t be long before his room dissolved into a mess again, but the Way brothers had this uncanny ability to turn anything they touched into a disaster. 

He had just wanted to find his Green Day CD. Dookie was a serious affair and it had slipped into the pile of Mikey’s things months before, and whilst Mikey braved the telephone to order pizza (like a big boy, Frank had teased) he’d let Frank search through the pile to find it. 

“What the fuck, Way,” He grumbled to himself as he pulled out another shoebox of things, rattling through them to no avail. Inside the shoebox were many things: an empty Altoids tin, two folded envelopes with the return address somewhere in New York, all in loopy handwriting, and six various coins that Frank pocketed swiftly. At the bottom of the shoebox was a wrinkled up Polaroid of Mikey as a little kid. Frank put the Polaroid on the top of the drawer, figuring Mikey might like to have it. 

The next box was just as unassuming and plain, and the next one after that was too. Pushing them aside, he kneeled down further to see something large and flat leaning up against the wall so that Mikey’s bed sat flush against. It was probably one of his comics. Mikey was always losing his comics here or there, except for the ones he kept still in the plastic seal because they were special editions, or collector’s items, or something. Those conversations were the kind where Frank would just tune out and nod along. 

Straining, Frank reached out and grasped the smooth, glossed surface of the comic and pulled it, tugging himself free from beneath the bed. When he looked at what he had picked up, though, he realized it wasn’t a comic at all. 

It was a classic porno mag, a little wrinkled at the edges with a crack on the spine that told Frank that it had definitely been opened . Emblazoned on the front in hot, bright colors was the woman splayed out in some provocative position. Knees apart, only slightly, hands resting on the bare skin of her tanned, poreless abdomen, teasing downward. Every inch of her was like that, airbrushed and perfected and tanned like the girls in his grade when they came back from a summer break spent somewhere hot and bright. She was all lace lingerie and pin curled hair.

The thing was — Mikey was 17 and that meant Mikey was a teenage boy, just like Frank, which meant he really shouldn’t be surprised because this was something all teenage boys did. But it was Mikey, and it felt just as wrong as seeing Mikey all bruised up around his neck after a show and pen ink smudged on his arms.

He couldn't help himself. Downstairs, still, the sound of Mikey’s wavering voice echoed through the old home. He was still on the phone. First, he touched the cover, felt the gloss sheen of the paper, eyes lingering for a moment before eventually flipping it open.

“Oh.” He said. And, well, that was all he could think to say. The magazine had been thick, surprisingly so, with another magazine slipped inside. It wasn’t some girl, spread-legged, like he had expected. It was a guy.

Here’s the thing. 

Gay people exist. Frank knew this, in the same way he knew the sun rose every morning and the sky was blue and that Otter Pelissier damn well needed that click track. And he was cool with it, really. 

But being gay — it happened to other people, like the way something tragic and awful never happened to someone you knew, only friends of friends and people you’d never even heard of before their name turned up in the newspaper. 

Folding the magazine closed, Frank pushed it back beneath his bed and took a deep breath. Mikey wasn’t any different, really, but it was just the sort of thing where Frank wondered how much longer he was planning on keeping it a secret. He wondered if Mikey’s parents knew, or Gerard, or even Ray or Otter. For all he knew, maybe Frank had been the only one kept out of the loop. 

He just wanted to find his damn Green Day CD.

Before he could continue, there was the sound of Mikey up the stairs. Oftentimes, he was almost silent as he moved around the house, but slowly Mikey was learning to stomp a little as he walked so he wouldn’t keep scaring the shit out of Frank. 

Feeling like he was about to be caught red-handed somehow, Frank straightened up and wiped at his face. There was a light spray of stubble across the base of his jaw, barely there, but he could feel it. He felt dirty , somehow.

“Hey,” Mikey greeted, flopping onto the bed and peering down at Frank, who was still kneeling on the floor, “You find it?”

“No,” Tugging his lip between his teeth, Frank grimaced, and tried to steady the racing in his heart. He couldn’t look at Mikey. Instead, his eyes remained firmly on the carpeted floor of Mikey’s bedroom — what little of it was visible, at least, with all the clutter. 

“This place is a fucking dump, man. If I go in too deep I’ll end up in Narnia.”

That managed to bring a snort out of Mikey, who was now in the process of fiddling with everything on his bedside table. He picked up his deodorant aerosol (Frank was surprised he even had one, given the Way brothers’ distaste for showering, or maintaining any semblance of personal hygiene) and began to toss it up into the air, catching it with wide, skinny hands.

“Yeah? You’d make a good Susan.” He paused for a moment, considering, “Wait, no. Lucy. You’re not tall enough for Susan.”

Scoffing, Frank pushed himself up off of the floor. He looked down at the boy in front of him, tossing an aerosol can carelessly. Their eyes met. His stomach flipped. He looked at the rubber tips of Mikey’s sneakers, instead.

“Fuck you. Lucy’s the best one anyway.”

Frank hadn’t read The Chronicles Of Narnia in the better part of a decade, but he was sure enough of that. She was the reason the whole story existed. There was a stain on the rubber, he noticed, a weird purplish-brown that he figured likely came from helping to dye Gerard’s hair. 

“No she isn’t. Edmund is.”

“Edmund’s a little rat bastard.”

Glancing up at Mikey, Frank forced a small grin. He couldn’t help himself. A part of him wondered if Mikey could tell something was off, if he was onto Frank somehow. The nausea building inside of him was almost impossible to take, by now, and he thought he really might throw up.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Watch your tongue, Iero.”

Breathing a little shakily, Frank leaned up against the rail of Mikey’s bed. He pushed Mikey’s foot, which had been kicked up on the bed and crossed over the other, and glanced back up. Mikey was looking at him behind drooping eyelids.

“What took you so long? No one takes that long for a pizza.”

Mikey hummed, and the second time Frank pushed his foot, he pushed back and delivered a gentle nudge with the rubber of his shoe. He stretched out on the bed.

“Gabe called.” 

“Gabe? Saporta?” 

Tilting his head, Mikey blinked slowly. Like he couldn’t believe Frank was even asking. 

“You know any other Gabes?”

Gabe fucking Saporta. Christ , Mikey. He gestured wildly. 

“The one in our art class. You know. With the- with the sideburns.”

“And I would be calling that Gabe because…?”

The unimpressed look directed towards Frank was pretty telling. By now, Mikey had very much mastered the art of looking entirely displeased, or dissatisfied, and he didn’t hold back with his power. Not even with Frank. 

“I dunno,” Frank shrugged. He swallowed, but it did nothing to soothe the ache of his sandpaper throat. “Why were you calling Gabe ?”

“He asked me if I wanted to be his merch guy. Said something about my petite figure . And that I could sleep with any hot chicks I sold shit to, but I couldn’t exchange sexual favors for Midtown merch. He was pretty clear on that, something about giving the band a bad rep.”

“Because Midtown is famous for its chastity.” He’d heard the stories. Everyone had. “You gonna take the gig?”

Giving yet another of his classic Way Brother shrugs, his lips curled a little at the corners.

“I’d be an idiot not to.”

“I’ll come to the show,” Frank nodded, “You got me tickets, right?”

“Of course I did. Wherever I go, you won’t be far to follow. I thought we’d established that in like, 96.”

“95. You warmed up to me fast.” He teased.

“You wish.”

When Frank went home that night, he washed his hands three times in the sink. When that wasn’t enough, he took a shower, and scrubbed his skin raw. Afterwards, he curled under his sheets and thumbed through his copy of Catcher In The Rye — the one where the corners curled and crinkled from how many times he’d read it over — and tried not to think about Mikey, or his swollen lips, or the sinking feeling in his stomach.

****

It started there: eighteen and tipsy. 

He felt sick. It was probably just the booze, really. He was admittedly a lightweight, but there had been a twisting sensation in his gut that refused to cease all night, like fingers tugging at his stomach, poking and prodding at flesh. 

Swallowing the weird feeling back, Frank focused in on what he did best: playing. He let his fingers move across the fretboard, tightening his practice of Romance until it was polished to perfection — it was Mikey’s song after all. He wouldn’t settle for anything less.

Spring had come full force and settled upon Jersey quickly, icy mornings and warm, bright days. Today was no exception — a light, warm air had settled in the basement, now that the sun was setting later and rising earlier. It’s light streamed in through the single window of the basement that peered out just above the ground, and when Frank blinked hard he could see the dust speckles floating around the room. 

There was some movie on the TV in the basement. Something gory and bloody and Frank wasn’t really paying attention. The screams of whoever it was on screen getting murdered were cut between quick fire melodies churned out on instruments. Dry mouthed, Frank watched the stiffness of his hands, feeling like he knew something he shouldn’t.

Brushing it off as best he could, Frank glanced down at his fretboard again. His fingers plucked at the guitar, trying to focus again on the chords he knew he should be playing, but his mind just couldn’t stay on one thing. Opposite him, Mikey was silent as he picked up his own guitar and started to strum something out. 

That weird feeling in his stomach was back — something like nausea, the way it twisted and tugged at him, but he’d been sick enough times to know the tells of a stomach bug like the back of his hand. This was different. His heart thrummed hard in his chest, all the way down to the tips of his fingers against the strings of his guitar. Mikey hummed something.

“Hey, what about this?” He asked, prompting Frank to move closer. Frank could only watch as his fingers darted across the fretboard in unpracticed motions, sounding out a melody and watching his fingers with careful concentration. Humming in deliberation, Frank leaned forward to adjust the positioning of Mikey’s thin fingers on the fretboard. The pads of his fingers were indented cleanly by the strings, and Frank grazed over them.

When he was about to pull away, he peered down. Mikey blinked up at him behind dark eyelashes, staring for a long moment before leaning in. 

It was barely a real kiss. Mikey’s lips were soft against Frank’s own, and Frank couldn’t even think to kiss back before Mikey pulled away. 

“Oh,” Frank said softly, and Mikey flushed. He ducked down, looked at the ground despite the burning color of his cheeks and ears. It was unusual to see him this flustered, really. Frank was numb-mouthed, like Mikey'd given him a shot of Novocaine to the gum. 

And suddenly the turning feeling in Frank’s gut made a little bit more sense. It was like one day he woke up and the boy was suddenly just different. He’d always been Mikey, Gerard’s brother, but he was Mikey now. He let his hand drop from Mikey’s, curving at the base of his neck and pressing their foreheads together.

“I thought it was obvious. I thought you knew.”

“No,” Frank shook his head quickly against Mikey, “But I’m not— mad about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He breathed, and Mikey’s hot breath fanned across his cheek, “Do it again?”

They did more than just kiss, in the end. Feeling like a virgin again, he pushed their guitars aside and instead let his thighs clamp tightly around Mikey’s own. Between the rough fabric of their jeans, the friction was enough to send a ripple of hot, white pleasure up his spine.

Pressing into Mikey desperately, he whined into the boy’s mouth, all needy and breathless, unsure where to put his hands — anywhere, anywhere, as long as they were on Mikey. The knot in his abdomen only grew as his hips shifted, and Mikey moved to meet him halfway, pushing closer and closer to his breaking point. 

“Come on, Frank,” Mikey’s voice was stained with roughness, urging him to go faster. His large hands settled on Frank’s hips — only resting, letting Frank push against him at his own pace.

And he was so close, so goddamn close, Mikey whimpering things into his ear as he climbed to his peak. It was so within reach he could almost taste it, tinged copper as Mikey bit into his lip. And just before he could reach it, he opened his eyes.