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Frank is woozy and seeing double.
One moment, he was casually crossing the parking lot at a music festival during the hour where most bands were in the midst of their preparations, fiddling with the ring of keys in his hands in search for the copper one that would unlock a trunk of equipment at the back of the van. His distraction is partially a cause to blame considering he hadn’t realized he was also crossing through a kickball game in session with the burliest members of a band that must’ve been built from pure fucking testoterone. One brutal kick with a soccer ball of steel collided with his head, causing him to stumble into a traffic cone and crumble to the floor, injured head landing hard on the asphalt where he went into a state between conscious and unconscious.
It’s safe to say Frank never found the key.
Everyone involved panicked and his bandmates scraped him off the ground to take him to the emergency room with the obligatory ‘how many fingers am I holding up’ test, which he took and failed in his dazed state. Frank’s been to the hospital enough times for it to be mortifying, especially right now since they’ve landed in his hometown where the closest hospital happens to be the one he frequents with deathly rattling coughs and sprains from hopping around task to task with few breaks in between. At this point, the doctors are never surprised to see him, but perhaps a bit disappointed to see he has yet to give his body a rest as instructed so they won’t be so familiar with his face that they can tell when he’s gotten a haircut or a new tattoo.
It’s Halloween, his birthday, and it explains why the doctors and nurses are dressed in old-fashioned uniforms— otherwise he’d be convinced some brain damage occurred and he’s hallucinating something truly haunting. He blinks blurrily as he’s carefully guided to the back to be laid in a bed as he waits for someone to come check his vitals before the doctor enters to lightly scold him again for being oblivious to his surroundings as a mobile magnet for danger.
The lights are excruciatingly bright and the room is decorated in wall stickers of tiny pumpkins and bats that are blurring into colorful blobs of orange and dark purple, almost entirely out of focus. He wants to sink into sleep, but he was advised not to at least for the first three hours after sustaining his injury in any case he has a concussion— and Frank has no idea how that’s up for debate when it’s obvious he does. He’ll swear until the day he dies that the soccer ball was made of a lethal material. Not that he exactly knows what ordinary soccer balls are made of.
The door opens and in comes the nurse he’s patiently awaited. At first, she’s a blur of white, a tinge of golden brown that’s definitely her hair curling around the top of her neck. She’s dressed in costume like the rest of the nurses; long white dress, a tiny hat secured at the top of her head, white stockings and shoes to match. Frank doesn’t think much of her at first, politely mustering a nod that makes him groan.
“Hi honey,” says a slightly shrill and warm voice, soft and sweet like caramel. “I must say, I’m not very surprised you’ve landed here again. You’re basically famous here, you know? The staff is talking about what trouble you’ve gotten into this time.”
Frank grumbles. “‘M a walking disaster.”
The nurse chuckles, carrying in what Frank believes in a clipboard only according to memory. “Just a small case of bad luck. No worries. I used to accidentally hurt myself all the time when I was a kid. It’s a surprise I barely even have the scars to show for it.”
Frank likes her familiar voice and how it calms him. He rotates his head on the pillow to squint at her as she stations herself at the desk with a computer, typing in a couple of things and clicking around, occasionally humming under her breath as she searches up Frank’s information. Her back is to him this way and he makes out the shape of her. She’s a bit broad around the shoulders, or maybe it’s the state of his vision that’s warping his surroundings.
“And today’s your birthday,” The nurse exclaims. “Gosh, honey, I wish you’d be more careful. I nearly got a heart attack when I heard you hit your head. We have lots of patients coming in with head injuries all day long, but I didn't know what to expect when it came to you.”
Frank hums agreeably, assuming this nurse is one he’s had before for the way she speaks to him as though she’s known him before. It’s a bit strange, he thinks, but he isn’t thinking of complaining. Something small and mighty pesters him deep under his haze, too far away to process.
“Perfect. Okay, let’s see . . . well, there’s no new allergies to record. Right?”
Frank croaks out a tiny ‘yeah.’
“Alright, great.” The nurse sighs, rising from the stool and pivoting around to set up the monitor and sleeve to check his blood pressure. “Just gonna check out a few things to make sure you’re doing okay, Frankie. The doctor thinks you might have a concussion after the blows you took. Parking lot floor is no joke.”
“And a fuckin’ . . . soccor ball from hell. It's like the pits opened and spat one right at me.” Frank huffs.
Her laughter is sweet and goofy. She approaches, splitting into three according to Frank’s terrible eyesight, but it’s easier to focus as she settles down at his bedside to gently take his arm to wrap the velcro blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. When Frank is able to truly decipher her, a blush stains his cheeks at the realization of his mistake.
It turns out, the nurse is male. His golden brown hair is streaked with silver that gleams in the lighting, his lashes long over his kind eyes, cheeks full and small lips pink— but there’s an unmistakable sharpness around his jaw and neck, the cut of his shoulders and his flat chest. The only reason Frank mistook him as a woman was due to the uniform and the honeyed sound of his voice with the inclusion of long hair, but even now, he finds himself confused in his jumbled brain that refuses to resume perfect functionality through the pain in his head. He looks so familiar in a way that brings a burst of warmth to the center of his heart that recognizes him in a way his brain can’t process just yet in his current overwhelming conditions, a cause for concern, but he thinks if he picks apart the fog piece by piece with the nurse’s help, he’ll understand why.
The nurse catches him staring, looking up curiously before understanding. “It’s Halloween so I thought I’d be extra fun and wear the women’s uniform. I’ve been confusing people all day.” His grin brings out the creases at the corners of his sparkling eyes and the tinge of pink blushing his cheeks.
“You’re so pretty.” Frank slurs out without thinking or even having the capacity to be embarrassed by it.
The nurse’s entire face goes pink this time. He chuckles sheepishly, choosing to watch the blood pressure cuff gradually squeeze tight around Frank’s tattooed arm. “I’m beginning to think you definitely have a concussion. But I’m not the one who draws the conclusions around here.”
“You look like an angel.” Frank smacks his mouth, wincing at the uncomfortable tightness of the cuff that verges pain before it begins loosening its grip.
At that, the first lines of concern start to fold at the nurse’s forehead. He assesses Frank’s face carefully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from his slowly blinking eyes in a movement too tender for a stranger.
“Frankie,” The nurse asks softly, worriedly. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Frank squints hard at him. He tries, failing, eyes almost crossing with the effort. “Kind of. ‘S hard to think right now.”
“It’s me, Gerard,” Gerard leans down to stroke his cheek. “Your husband.”
Oh.
That would explain some things.
Namely, the fact that Frank just about immediately fell in love with him.
Frank startles as he realizes he can hardly remember a thing or do much apart from settle in the present trapped in a misty and distant state. He knows Gerard feels and sounds familiar, for a right reason, and as he clumsily tries finding his own hand, he discovers the coolness of a wedding brand identical to the fresh kiss of the ring on Gerard’s finger attached to the hand that gently pets the side of his face to help him with some of the recollection that doesn’t come in full for the time being. Frank supposes he’ll have to trust it’ll come back— but for now, there’s a moment of a bizarre and joyful rush at the delivery of this news.
“My sweet wife,” Frank croaks out almost indecipherably, grasping the air in a couple failed attempts to cup Gerard’s face in his hands until he finally does so. His hands land more like a light slap on his cheeks than a gentle cradle and Gerard winces only a tiny bit. “You’re so beautiful. Maybe a kiss from you will make me feel better. Or a couple of them. A thousand.”
Gerard stares sympathetically, almost sadly, and wraps his fingers around Frank’s wrists carefully. “Yeah, you’re definitely concussed. It’s fine, it’s only temporary I suppose. You really need to take better care of yourself, Frankie, especially when I’m not around to make sure you’re being safe.”
Frank wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t know anything was going on. There were so . . . so many beefy men. Normally I like that. Not when they’re kicking balls from hell at my head.”
Gerard snorts, his grin broad as he gets up to move the monitor out of the way to transfer the written information into the computer. “I used to get kickballs and dodgeballs thrown at me all the time in high school during gym class. Not very fun. I can just imagine how bad it hurts to fall straight onto the concrete right after.”
“Fuckin’ sucks,” Frank closes his eyes, finding it almost too blissful, and they only snap open again when he feels a gentle but slightly urgent hand on his shoulder. Gerard, haloed in fluorescent lights like the angel he resembles, gazes down at him with eyes so wide the tips of his wispy lashes almost brush the bottom of his sculpted brows.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, okay sweetheart?” Gerard softly advises. “Just two more hours of staying awake. After that, I can take you home and you can get all the rest you want. I’ll be there to check up on you.”
Frank rubs the side of his face, thinking hard enough for it to hurt. “Oh god, we were supposed to play a festival today. I went and got hit in the fucking head instead— instead of setting shit up so we can play. Fuck, the fans."
Gerard shushes him soothingly and it runs along his skin as tranquil as lavender tea. “I’m sure your fans will understand. They’ll want nothing more than for you to feel better, okay? Tucker says he already posted an update about it on social media and he talked to the festival manager. There’s plenty more bands for them to enjoy there if they don’t want to waste their day.”
Frank groans, miserably leaning back on the pillow. “I really wanted to play. No birthday cake either. This birthday sucks.”
A warm hand strokes his hair back. “I have a cake with your name written on it back at home, my love. It was supposed to be a surprise, but looks like we have a slight change in plans. You can have some when you’re feeling better.”
Frank chases after the indescribably therapeutic touch running along his head, almost as if it soaks in the painful throb in his head and heals his sustained injuries better than any antidote packaged in orange bottles or packs of ice. He feels that familiarity spiking warm in him again as he turns and Gerard’s hand moves accordingly to brush the back of his knuckles down his cheek and across his lips.
"If you're really my sweet loving wife," Frank blinks blearily, "Then what's my favorite cake flavor?"
"Strawberry," Gerard says straight away. "You think vanilla is way too boring unless it's in a cupcake and chocolate overwhelms you, you much prefer it as candy. You only like yellow cake when it's warm."
Frank eyebrows go up. "Well . . . I can't remember what the correct answer is, but you sound pretty confident so we must be married."
Gerard hums and leans down, planting a gentle kiss at his brow bone. “I love you. I’ll be right back, I just need to show this stuff to the doctor and then I’ll come back with him for the diagnosis. Don’t fall asleep.”
Frank puckers his lips and angles his face towards him. Gerard chuckles, granting his wish by touching his lips to Frank’s in a brief yet meaningful kiss that makes Frank’s heart rate speed up. He pulls back, only knowing there’s a kaleidoscope of yellow-gold and warm brown mixing in with green like stained cathedral glass. Frank honestly has no clue how he managed to pull someone like this in a relationship, let alone a commitment as serious as marriage. Frank doesn't think he's nearly as gorgeous as Gerard— wait, what exactly does he look like again? His brain processes no such image to recall on. Well, he reckons he must be one solidly handsome fellow to ever gain the attention of the beauty who's lips have made his tingle permanently like he's been met with the fresh kiss of spearmint.
“Damn,” Frank mumbles. “Can I marry you again right now so I can remember already? Wanna . . . wanna remember you all the way.”
Gerard gazes down at him for a moment. He takes Frank’s free hand, sliding his own wedding band onto it that’s left warm from his skin, smiling tenderly at him. “I do.”
Frank takes his off with poor coordination, almost dropping it, but he manages to slide it onto Gerard’s empty waiting finger in a shaky glide. “I do. I really do.”
Gerard warmly laughs and kisses the back of Frank’s hand, getting up and heading towards the door. “The honeymoon will have to wait until later. Wait up for me. Maybe we can kick it somewhere in Europe.”
“For you, baby, I’d wait a hundred years.” Frank slurs, dopely smiling at the giggle he receives as a response just before his new, or semi-new, husband disappears out into the bustling hallway to deliver his records.
—
To absolutely no one’s surprise, Frank is properly diagnosed with a concussion and is under the order of mandatory rest for as long as his symptoms disrupt him. This, paired with the fact that his nurse is also his husband, is undoubtedly going to lock him in restrictively and keep him at home for an unprecedented amount of time, which means the band withdraws from the music festival entirely and postpones whatever little is left of their tour dates until further notice.
Frank sleeps like the dead when he’s finally allowed to. One moment, it’s daylight out, and when he next awakens, it’s still and dark apart from the chirp of crickets outside, not so much as the whistle of wind adding to the chorus of their song. He’s still slightly foggy, mostly due to the heavy grogginess that tells him he slept for longer than a couple hours, but he feels the consequences of the concussion steadily thrumming in his head like he’d been thrust under a jackhammer. He moans into his pillow, rolling over in the tangle of blankets wrapped around his body, burying his cold fingers under them. He keeps his eyes shut until they fly open when his stomach grumbles obnoxiously loud with the pull of hunger. He can't remember the last time he ate— it’s a strain to even think about and the doctor told him not to overwork his mind, so he disregards it and rubs his growling belly to get it to settle down.
On cue, someone walks through the doorway with a tray in hand, carefully balancing it. Frank startles for a second, but instantly recognizes Gerard. He’s clad in his Mercyful Fate longsleeve and sweatpants instead of the white nurse’s uniform he donned earlier, though his hair is still nicely brushed and tucked behind his ears, little black clips keeping it in place.
Thank god Frank fully remembers him now. It’s crushing to think he could’ve ever forgotten— even for the briefest amount of time for understandable reasons, maybe it was even expected for someone who smacked headfirst into the concrete like a royal class idiot.
“I made you some soup,” Gerard chirps. “I’m normally a shitty cook, but this came out pretty good. It’s my grandma’s recipe, which means it’s practically a health potion. Chicken noodle.”
Frank carefully sits up in bed, wincing at the pounding in his head. “How long was I asleep?”
“About eight hours,” Gerard shrugs, saddling onto the side of the bed and carefully draping the tray across Frank’s lap, fixing the stand. “Kind of expected that to happen. I heard your stomach growling in your sleep and figured it would wake you up, so I went to make some soup.”
Frank’s eyes grow huge. “Eight hours? Holy shit— what time is it?”
“Midnight.” Gerard nods towards the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Sadly, you missed your birthday and Halloween, but I think you would’ve been bummed to see not a whole lot of kids were trick-or-treating this year. They didn’t even empty the candy bowl.”
“Maybe they all got concussions,” Frank jokes, then winces. “Y’ouch. Not as funny as it sounded in my head.”
Gerard chuckles. He settles beside Frank, taking the spoon and moving it around the steaming bowl of soup that surprisingly smells and looks very edible, and appetizing. Gerard isn’t exaggerating when he states it’s a pure miracle one of his kitchen concoctions turns out a success. Apart from his mastered chickpea curry he’ll brag about until beyond the grave. He rests the spoon against the side of the bowl to feel Frank’s forehead and check for fever, eyes flitting all over his face inquisitively.
“So you remember me now?” Gerard barely contains his knowing smile.
“I can’t believe I could ever forget,” Frank forgets all about the soup to take Gerard’s hand in a rush and shower it in kisses, head injury be damned. “Some part of me recognized you. That’s a relief.”
“You called me your sweet wife twice,” Gerard smirks, “I kind of liked it. It was cute.”
“Well. You make a pretty girl.”
Gerard’s cheeks go pink. With warm hands, he delicately swaps out their wedding bands, moonlight glittering across the gold. “It was nice. Not the injury, but the other part.”
“Which part?” Frank asks softly.
“To know that you still think I’m beautiful after seventeen years of being together. And that even if you permanently forgot me, you’d still look at me and want to marry me again.” Gerard’s strokes across Frank’s ring, eyes soft and aglow.
“I’ll always think you’re beautiful,” Frank says instantly without a note of hesitation. “I know it sounds cheesy as all hell, but I’ve always felt like I was meant to be your husband. And I don’t know, maybe today was just a confirmation of that.”
Gerard cups his hands around Frank’s face— carefully handling his head as he turns it— and guides him into a kiss. Frank melts into the warmth of his lips that’s more effective than the pile of blankets or even the heat emanating from the bowl resting on the tray in his lap. Frank’s hand skims across the soft cotton of Gerard’s sleeve as he makes his way up and rests his palm over his thrumming heart to feel it and soak in all of the comfort his body soaks in like a remedy for all of the trouble he’s encountered in the past twenty-four hours. This heartbeat is one Frank has memorized from all the moments his ear has laid against it before sleep, or when Frank compacted himself further at their wedding to lean his head on Gerard's chest after they exchanged their vows.
Silvery moonlight beams through Gerard’s long lashes when they pull back and Frank watches them flutter as his eyes crinkle with his smile. Frank falls in love with that smile every time it appears, so he spends his life cracking terrible jokes just to watch it unfurl, trying again and again if he ever fails. He rarely ever does— Frank’s a hoot. He knows it, too.
“Eat your soup so we can have dessert after. I know it’s late, but I swear I’m not the least bit tired yet.” Gerard sits up beside Frank, propping himself up against the pillows and reaching for the remote to flick on the television. When he catches Frank smirking suggestively at him, he clicks his tongue and lightly elbows his side. “I meant actual dessert. No sex until I know for sure you won’t see little birds chirping above your head if I kiss any part of you that isn’t your lips.”
Frank pouts. “But it would make me feel better, doctor.”
“I’m a nurse. ” Gerard mumbles, failing to hide his shy grin even as he brings the collar of his longsleeve up to his nose.
When Frank finishes his soup and Gerard has collected his dishes to carry them to the sink, he returns to their bed with the unfinished purple bowl of Halloween candy Gerard painted himself. A scene of a graveyard wraps around the circumference, white friendly ghosts popping out from behind tombstones and grinning bats encompassing a crescent moon. Gerard nestles it between their bodies, his head resting on Frank’s shoulder as they dig through copious amounts of chocolates and Nerds, ending with Dum-Dum suckers that stain their lips blue and green as they sleepily watch a random horror film they discovered on Netflix.
“Don’t tell your doctor I’m pumping you with sugar. He told me we both should lay off the candy even though it’s Halloween to prevent a stomachache or something like that.” Gerard warns around his sucker, the candy clicking against his teeth.
Frank laughs, ignoring the throb in his head and crunching at the remaining chunk of his own that tastes of sour green apple. “Like I’d tattle. He’d probably crucify me, not you.”
Gerard lifts his head, beaming, and takes the sucker from his mouth to meet Frank in a sugary kiss combining blue and green that creates a neon blue shade transferring to both their lips. He pulls back, eyes bright as he pops the sucker back in his mouth, pushing it to the inside of his cheek. “You want a slice of your birthday cake and your presents?”
Frank grins wider in return. “I thought you’d never ask.”