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Frank, sitting in the basement with an unshowered Gerard, watching reruns of The X-Files, waiting for that one hoodie that fits him just right to get finished washing. He’d wash it at his own house but that would mean facing the undoubtedly-coming punishment of chopping all his hair off. “Now [insert that horrible dead name that he doesn’t care to bring up], you know I’m going to have to cut off all your connections with those Way boys, they’re bad influences and I can’t have my only child turning into some….,” she whispers, as though she’s threatening her own beating heart by speaking louder than a dull murmur, “homosexual…” her words, though quiet teenager that just snuck home after a great party, cut deeply and leave scars. Because as much as Frank does love his mom, he does, she grew up in a different time and that, my friends, is apparently enough of an excuse to live miserably in your friends basement living off left over bullshit with a side of, ‘Is this apple juice or wine? When was the last time you even went shopping, Gerard?’.
He stares at the wall, waiting for greasy-haired friend to bring back those jeans he’s been wearing for what, 6 months? They make his thighs just a little more masculine, enough to pass and that’s really all that matters to him. He wonders why Gerard is so protective, not that he minds, he actually really enjoys being stood up for considering no one else will do it. Hell, that one time his kid-brother made a comment about Frank’s shitty self-shaved hawk Gerard chased him out of the basement. And that’s saying a lot because there is no one Gerard loves more that Mikey. Not Frank, not that bat he named “Gustav” that lived in the corner pipe for a little while, not even all those old actors Frank doesn’t remember the names of that Gerard draws constantly.
Buried in a nest of blankets, the taller boy makes his way back with kinda-fresher warm clothes for Frank to change into. The smaller one couldn’t be happier to put on not one, not even two, but 3 different shirts and his hoodie, and of course, those jeans that are falling apart at the seams and smell of Gerard’s bed. Which might I say is not the best smelling area of the Way’s house. By far the worst, actually. The only laundry the wanna-be Billy Corgan (only with more hair, Frank laughs to himself) does is Frank’s and sometimes this one jacket Gerard wears all the time. Nothing more than that.
“Hey, Gerard, I’m like…really appreciative of what you’re doing for me but can I ask a question?” Frank almost stutters out, you’d think he was freezing or suffering a cold sometimes when he spoke. Anxiety man, what the fuck.
Gerard waves at him as he throws the rest of Frank’s over-sized hoodies at him, directly at his face, god damn it Gerard. Be mature, Frank is trying to be serious.
Frank smiles big before getting serious again, clearing his throat before speaking, “Why do you care?” Frank immediately wishes he could rethink a way to say that a little more politely. God, he is so moronic sometimes. He sits, ponders, Gerard is furrowing his brow at the smaller boy who is now covered in a mountain of cotton and zippers.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but, you seem to be the only one who sticks around even when I’m too depressed to do anything. You could just be using me for my amazing habitat,” Gerard waves and turns his body to look and present the dingy basement they’re both in, “or my washer,” he looks directly at Frank, much more seriously than before, “but I’m pretty sure I need you just as much as you need me.” Gerard smiles, sincerely, before throwing himself on the unwashed bed and flicking through the channels on the tiny TV before laying his head on the smaller boy’s leg and getting comfortable.
Frank breathes in everything Gerard said before distracting himself with the horror movie playing before them, “Thanks” he whispers before becoming fulling writhed in terror of classic horror. He could get used to this.