Chapter Text
2002
Gerard can’t stop shaking. His leg twitches quickly under the table, a piston firing repetitively, shaking the cup of water on the desk in front of him with each involuntary tremor. The window in his dank bedroom is cracked open an inch, letting a sliver of glary white sky filter through, illuminating the room in a wash of grey. The notebook in front of him is almost framed with crumpled up bits of ink-splattered paper, Gerard’s writer’s block a physical adornment, mocking him from below.
When a phantom fist knocks tentatively on the door, it breaks Gerard out of his melancholy so violently, he almost spills his water over his notebook.
Not that it would matter. There’s nothing of real worth in there.
“Come in,” he grumbles, taking a sip of water as he pushes it back from the edge of his desk. He leans back in his chair just enough to see his little brother, Mikey, poke his slim face through the gap in the door; the edge of which is caught on a mass of dark clothing on the floor.
“You still alive down here?” Mikey asks, smiling tightly from behind round-rimmed glasses perched delicately on his thin nose. His hair is sandy, parted in the middle, with some half-hearted gel spikes pointing out at awkward angles. His pale, spindly fingers grip around the doorframe like some cheesy special effect in a horror flick, a skeletal ghost hovering in Gerard’s doorjamb.
“Mostly. Almost entirely,” Gerard sighs, nudging an empty beer can with his toe, watching it roll until it bumps against Mikey’s foot with a jolt of amber liquid. The younger brother wrinkles his nose, picks up the can and crushes it absently in his fist. He takes a lack of immediate banishment as an invitation, and delicately nudges his slender hips past the door.
The smell in Gerard’s room is heavy, the air seeming damp and oily as the door creaks shut behind Mikey. The bed, complete with Star Wars sheets, is in complete disarray, half on the floor and marked with stains Mikey doesn’t want to think too hard about. The only place that’s moderately clear is the windowsill where Gerard displays his action figures, and the desk he’s currently writing at.
The latter, of course, only being so because he shoved all the clutter on it onto the floor before he sat down to write.
“You don’t need to work so hard,” Mikey mumbles, tugging the too-high hem of his shirt down over his jeans, “you can take a breather. Come to this label party with me.”
Gerard laughs – a nervous, trembling sound that shivers past his lips. He rubs a hand over his chin, thick eyebrows furrowed as he casts a glance down at his crumpled paper tower of failure.
“I’d just embarrass you.”
“Well, yeah,” Mikey agrees, grinning broadly as he perches on the end of Gerard’s bed, “but you’re the frontman. It’ll be good for you to make an appearance. And my buddy Frank’s band is playing, I think you’ll like them.”
Gerard barely glances up, doodling webs around the edges of the half-finished lyrics in front of him. He shrugs, setting his pencil down in defeat with a sharp grunt.
“Which one’s he? The smart one with the spikes?” Gerard asks absently, twisting the short hair of his sideburns in between his thumb and forefinger as he stares distractedly at a spot on the ground. His hair is in its typical short, spiked style, achieved through too many days between washes and a steady buildup of gel run haphazardly through his scalp.
Mikey’s jealous, in a way. Gerard has the worst hygiene and sense of self-care of anyone he’s ever met – yet he’s still pretty, attention-grabbing in a way that leaves him almost too self-conscious.
“No, that’s Shaun. Though I think you should hang with him a little more too,” Mikey notes. He nudges a half-empty bag of chips away from him with his foot, fighting the urge to wrinkle his nose, lest Gerard snap at him and kick him out before he can get to the punchline.
“Frank’s the frontman, the one with the blonde-ish fauxhawk.”
“I don’t remember him,” Gerard frowns, glancing up at Mikey, “did I meet him?”
“Um-,” Mikey squints, as if trying to see through his own past haze of alcohol and weed. Had Gerard met Frank? They’d been at the same events before, because Mikey knew Frank, and so did Ray. But he couldn’t quite place if he’d ever seen Gerard speak to him.
“Maybe not. I don’t think you’d forget him if you had.”
“Why? S’he hot?” Gerard smirks, taking a sip of several-day-old diet coke from a half-crumpled can. Mikey shrugs.
“In a sort of conventional way, yeah,” Mikey muses, “but not your type, I don’t think.”
“My type?” Gerard grins, a sort of ironic tilt to his smile that makes him look even more youthful than his baby face suggests, “what’s my type?”
“I dunno,” Mikey groans, tucking one leg under himself as he watches, with glee, Gerard pull a baggie of weed from under a notebook, “with girls it’s definitely someone who could beat you up. But with guys it’s harder to say. I just… don’t think you’d be into Frank.”
Gerard nods thoughtfully as he rolls a joint, passing it and his lighter over to Mikey without even lifting his gaze. He’s silent as he hears the lighter click, noting Mikey’s shaky inhale. In fact, Gerard doesn’t speak again until he has his own joint pressed against his lips, flicking his lighter a couple times until it sparks.
“Then I don’t have any real incentive to go tonight,” Gerard finally says, hollowing his cheeks as he breathes in deeply, tilting his head back to send plumes of smoke to the ceiling, “you and Otter and Ray can handle the networking. And I’ll just-,”
“Sit around and get high?”
“Finish writing,” Gerard snaps, eyes narrowing through the wall of smoke beginning to curl between them. Mikey knows a strike one when he hears it, and holds up a hand in wordless apology.
“You’re not gonna finish the album by sitting around and stressing over it. Come out with us, maybe show your notes to some people, see if you can get some outsider feedback. And if you can’t, then at least you can get good and drunk and watch some good music. C’mon. Please?” Mikey asks, nudging Gerard’s thigh with his foot. Gerard groans, but his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile as he kicks a leg out, trapping Mikey’s foot against his chair, grinning when his little brother howls at the sharp pain of his ankle being bent.
“Fine. But you’re buying my drinks all night.”
“Fucker,” Mikey grunts, tearing his foot away and rubbing his ankle pointedly, like a dog with a hurt foot.
“I’m not buying you shit, I don’t have any money.”
“You have more than me,” Gerard says brightly, as if that settles it, “and think of it this way. Maybe after tonight I’ll be inspired to finish writing the album, and it’ll be kick ass, and we’ll become rich and famous rockstars and change the world of music forever. Then spending like, twelve dollars on beer is gonna be nothing.”
Mikey’s not one to entertain Gerard’s delusions of grandeur, but he can’t deny that the thought makes him smile. He ashes his joint thoughtlessly onto Gerard’s duvet, shrugging nonchalantly as he gives his brother another, swift kick to the shin.
“Fine. I’m gonna remember you said that, though. When I come asking for my twelve dollars back in five years, don’t act surprised.”
“Mike, if I’ve got twelve dollars spare to give you in five years, it’s all yours.”
*
Gerard’s used to dive bars, but this really is something. For a label ‘party’, there’s something oddly ominous to Gerard about finding himself in a basement-turned-bar, with just enough room for maybe a total of thirty people to fit in at a push.
Other than his bandmates, who he’d carpooled with, Gerard hasn’t spoken to anyone yet. Save, of course, for the bartender, to whom he’d happily given a wad of Mikey’s bills to in exchange for a few bottles of beer, which he’d downed one after the other. He’s a nervous drinker – less because of the dulling effect of the alcohol (though that is a plus), and more because he just needs something to do with his hands that isn’t nervously tapping on his thighs.
“G, you good?” Ray asks, slinging one arm over his friend’s shoulders. As their usual designated driver, given a night off by an unusually generous Otter, Ray is unsurprisingly wankered, his grin loose and broad as his teeth flash nearly right in front of Gerard’s face.
“I’m good, I’m good,” Gerard laughs, pressing his head into his friend’s shoulder, “don’t tell Mikey, but he was right. I’m glad I’m out.”
“Shit, you’re glad to be out? Did you meet God in the bathroom or something?” Ray teases, climbing up on the barstool next to Gerard. The singer waits patiently for his friend to order another beer and take a long, eager sip before replying.
“No, not this time. Just… I’m so in my head about the album. What we have is so good, what if I fuck it up?”
“You won’t,” Ray assures him, steeling a firm hand on his shoulder, “you can’t. You’re good at writing, and we’re all good at playing. This isn’t just on you – we’ll figure it out together.”
Gerard presses his lips together for a moment, staring down into the tunnel of his drink, watching the liquid swirl under the dim light of the bar. There’s a band setting up, and the sound of feedback is humming through his ears, making him sway faintly in his seat.
He’s drunker than he thought. And he really, really needs to pee.
“I know,” he replies eventually, unsure of if it’s been minutes or seconds since Ray stopped speaking. He doesn’t know Ray too well yet – they’re friends, but he knows the guitarist is closer with Mikey. Still, he’s never had an unkind word to say to him, is patient with Gerard’s specific brand of bullshit. And that makes him an ally in Gerard’s books.
“I just feel like I’m missing something here.” Gerard slides off his bar stool, bracing himself a little on Ray’s arm as he rights himself.
“Well, we’ll find it,” Ray murmurs, tilting his bottle towards Gerard in a playful salute, “and if we don’t, we’ll crash and burn instead. But at least we’ll do it together.”
Gerard’s replying laugh is little more than a nervous squeak, but Ray barely hears it over the band tuning their instruments, anyway. Under the cover of the increasingly loud blares from the stage speakers, Gerard takes his leave, beelining to the bathroom like a man on a mission.
It’s like walking out from underground into broad daylight. The bathroom lights that accost his sensitive eyes are yellow tinged, immediately providing a good accompaniment, vibe-wise, to the overwhelming scent of urine that seems to have stained the very air around them. Walls covered in stickers, gig posters, and graffiti, the bathroom houses two stalls – one whose door has been ripped off, and the other that’s locked, leaving Gerard to meander over to the urinal. He closes his eyes, body seeming to float against the too-familiar current of being drunk in a bathroom. It’s like he’s spinning, the room rotating around him like a funhouse tunnel, like a slow-moving tornado enveloping only him.
He's almost sorry when he’s done, unceremoniously tucking himself away and zipping up. He considers not washing his hands, but he thinks too hard, just for a moment, about the kinds of germs you could find in a place like this, and swiftly splashes his palms with hot water, wiping the excess on his Iron Maiden shirt.
The entirety of his life, of his parents’ lives, of the existence of every relative and ancestor he’s ever had is what leads up to the second that follows this. Gerard, drunk and swaying, wiping his wet hands on a band shirt is the last thing he ever does before the proverbial page in the book of his life is turned, opening on a new, important chapter.
Because as soon as Gerard wipes his soggy hands on his shirt, the moment he frowns at the two damp stains that are too-visible in the ugly light of the stinking bathroom, he meets Frank.
He doesn’t hear the door to the stall opens, but it’s open somehow, letting out a plume of weed-tinged smoke that gives a solid reason to why it was closed to begin with.
Frank’s short, with a mess of a burnt-bonfire coloured fauxhaux swept carelessly to a point at the top of his head. His white t-shirt might be the cleanest thing in the entire bar, and that’s the first thing Gerard notes about him.
What kind of psychopath wears a white shirt to a dive bar?
“There’s paper towels on the wall there,” Frank mumbles, gesturing with his head to the box affixed on the door, “you didn’t have to ruin your shirt.”
“My shirt’s black,” Gerard mumbles, though his nose is wrinkling at the feeling of the damp fabric on his chest, “you can’t ruin a black shirt.”
Frank shrugs, not even really looking at Gerard as he tucks his shirt into the waistband of his jeans.
“You here for the show?” Frank asks, casting Gerard a careless glance out of the side of an eye.
It’s not love at first sight, but Frank will remember later how startled he was at seeing Gerard up close for the first time. He’s pretty – feminine lips pressed into a soft pout as he bats at the matching splatters of water on his chest, with a sharp, cute nose buried in an otherwise incredibly round and youthful face.
“What? Uh, no,” Gerard mumbles, meeting Frank’s gaze for the first time.
The guy’s cute, he thinks. He’s got one of those conventionally attractive, angular faces that Gerard’s always envied, but with a softness that makes him both boyish and pretty.
“I mean, I guess so. I’m here because my brother dragged me out.”
“Who’s your brother?” Frank smiles, leaning back against the edge of the sink. He knows, in the back of his mind, that he needs to be onstage, but between the weed, the alcohol, and this dude being pretty and awkward in equal measure, he feels no real inclination to go anywhere.
“Mikey? Mikey Way? He’s… tall, thin, glasses. Awkward but funny-,”
Any words after ‘Mikey Way’ become a dull hum in Frank’s ears as he realises that he does know this dude’s brother. And, by connection, he knows exactly who this is, and he can’t believe he didn’t realise before. He’s never seen him without his leather jacket and bathed in stage light – but now that he’s piecing it together, he’s not sure how he didn’t immediately know. Gerard on stage is something otherworldly, but in person he’s got a ‘boy next door’ vibe that makes Frank’s knees a little weak.
“Gerard?” he says. The name fits in his mouth perfectly the first time he says it, like a rich chocolate truffle melting on his tongue, coating his throat in a sickly sweetness that’s only too easy to swallow.
Gerard glances up, alarmed as the other man’s expression changes from politely curious, to almost awe.
“Um, that’s me? I guess you do know Mike then?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do. He’s told me about you,” Frank grins, “I’m Frank, I’m in Pencey Prep.”
“Oh. Oh,” Gerard laughs, wiping a still-soggy hand over his face, “right. I am here for your show then.”
“For real? Dude, I love your band. I’ve seen every show. And Mikey played me some demos last week, I think you’re incredible. The way you write, the way you sing-.” Frank knows he’s definitely entering the arena of gushing, but he can’t stop. Above all else, he’s embarrassed for not having recognised the voice the moment Gerard started speaking.
It’s difficult for Frank, later, to pinpoint the exact moment the coffin lid closed for him, with Gerard. He knows the events of that evening did it, but if pushed for an exact time of death, he’d place it at the second he glances up and realises that all his praise has caused a soft blush to bloom across Gerard’s pale cheeks.
“Wow, uh. Thanks, Frank.” The name sits oddly on his tongue the first time he says it, like a tab of acid balanced on the surface of it, dissolving into a passionate fizzle of colour. He likes the way it feels, the way it sounds. “Mikey told me he wanted us to hang out tonight. But um-,” he casts a look to the bathroom door, as if he’d be able to see through it and to the stage, “I think you’re on.”
“I am,” Frank grins, “I am really, really late. But um. I think Mikey’s right. I think we should hang out. Are you staying after the show?”
“I think so. It depends on what my ride home wants to do.”
“Right. Well um-,” Frank fishes around in his pocket for a moment, producing a short, worn-down eyeliner pencil. With far more confidence than he really feels (thank you, substances), Frank grabs Gerard’s wrist, tugging it towards him.
The first time he touches him is like something otherworldly. Frank feels like his skin is sinking in to Gerard’s skin, fusing them, their veins humming together like a ley line of magic, bubbling just underneath bluish veins. And maybe it’s the drugs or the blood rush, but it’s like Frank can hear Gerard’s heart thrumming as he swipes his rough thumb over his skin.
“If you do leave,” Frank mumbles, scribbling his phone number along Gerard’s forearm, “you call me tomorrow, and we’re gonna grab coffee.”
“Okay,” Gerard replies softly. There doesn’t seem to be any other response he could give, no other action that would seem to make even a glimmer of sense in this scenario.
“But try not to leave,” Frank beams. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glimmering with an intensity that takes Gerard entirely by surprise, yet seems to fit the vibe perfectly.
And Gerard thinks that maybe Frank’s going to kiss him. He’s not sure why – maybe it’s the fact he’s still holding his wrist, or the way Frank’s eyes dart erratically over his face, but he feels certain of it until the moment the shorter man finally drops his arm.
“Speaking of leaving-,”
“I’ll see you out there,” Gerard smiles, gesturing to the door.
For a weird, jarring moment, Frank considers kissing him as he goes. Which doesn’t make sense, because he doesn’t know him. But the urge to kiss him goodbye like they’ve done it a million times feels like something his body just knows, and ignoring the impulse takes every ounce of self control he has.
He makes it out the door without grabbing Gerard, but only just. And by the time he makes it onstage, he’s twitching with a nervous, eclectic energy.
**
“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Mikey mutters, taking the bottle from Gerard’s hand and taking a long swig from it instead.
“Oh shut up, you’re barely old enough to drink, how do you even know what too much means?” Gerard bites back. Mikey’s right, of course – he’s reached the point of drunkenness where he’s sweating so badly, he can even smell it on himself. It’s a sour, vinegary smell that makes his stomach twist; in the cover of the people-filled bar it’s easy enough to cover, but the embarrassment of it just makes him want to drink more.
“Who’s number is – was that?” the younger brother asks, tilting his head to the smudged black eyeliner on Gerard’s forearm that was, a couple hours ago, Frank’s phone number.
“Ah, shit,” Gerard grumbles, frowning as he tries to make out the numbers, now just imprints of smoke along his skin, “I was meant to call this guy.”
“This guy? You’re getting numbers?” Mikey grins, eyebrows wiggling. Gerard sniffs, snatching the beer bottle back from Mikey – more to be indignant than a genuine desire to keep drinking.
“I can get numbers. You’re not the only one of the two of us people are into.”
“I’m the only one of the two of us that’s single,” Mikey teases. Gerard shrugs, though his teeth scrape against his lip in a tell-tale sign of guilt. Nothing had happened with Frank, yet their moment together had felt oddly intimate – significant in a way he’d never felt before.
“You know how it is with Kat,” Gerard sighs, waving a hand dramatically in the air, “and besides. This was a friendship phone number written on my arm, not a hookup one.”
The look Mikey gives Gerard in response to this information is an annoying mixture of disbelief and smugness that sends a shiver of distaste down Gerard’s spine. Enough so that he downs the last of the beer, smacks Mikey just a little too hard on the shoulder, and disappears into the crowd.
There had only been maybe five people in the room, other than the members of My Chemical Romance and some Eyeball staff. But since they left the stage and the pre-nightclub crowds had begun to flood, Gerard finds himself squeezing between sweaty bodies, dodging shot glasses thrown haphazardly backwards and trying not to slip on the sticky floor.
He doesn’t even realise he’s trying to get to the stage until he breaks through the crowd and almost walks face-first into Shaun.
“Hey, G,” the keyboardist grins, clapping a hand on his back, “I saw you watching out there. What’d you think of the show?”
“Oh, it was incredible,” Gerard replies easily. It’s not a lie either – though he can’t really attest to how well Shaun, personally, performed. From the moment he rocked up onstage, Frank held Gerard’s attention the entire time – thrashing around, screaming his heart out. The room was practically empty, but watching Pencey Prep, Gerard could’ve been anywhere.
“That Frank is really something, huh?”
“You think so?” Shaun smiles, leaning back against the stage, watching Gerard with a soft, knowing expression.
“Oh, yeah. That’s what’s missing with My Chem, I think. We don’t have that… energy. Ray’s a genius, but he keeps to himself. Same with Mike and Otter. And I’m not really the type to… do any of that. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from him.”
“Maybe you could,” Shaun shrugs. “I think Frankie could learn from you too, though. He’s a little too passionate. He loses himself entirely, it’s hard to get him to focus.”
“So what you’re saying is, if we blended our band with your band, we’d have the perfect mix of people willing to set themselves on fire for their art, and people who are dedicated enough to make it work?” Gerard laughs, though he’s only half joking. He’s not implying Frank should dump Pencey Prep and join their band, but he does know that My Chem is missing something, and he thinks he knows, now, exactly what it is. It’s a beating heart.
“Don’t say that to Frank. He’s already obsessed with you, even joking about working with him would have him panting like a dog,” Shaun laughs.
Gerard smiles back, but feels his face flush at the image. It’s not entirely unattractive, the idea of Frank panting for him.
“Speaking of him – where can I find him? I bumped into him earlier and promised I’d grab him for a chat.”
“Oh, we know,” Shaun laughs, “he couldn’t shut up about you after the show. Kept talking about how he embarrassed himself in front of you. I told him you’re probably too drunk to remember anyway.”
“I am,” Gerard agrees – though it’s not true, he remembers every second he’d spent with Frank in that bathroom. It’s the highlight of his night so far – even above watching them play.
“But I’m also a man of my word, so-,”
“Last I heard he was going to find Mikey, so I think you’re probably best going back the way you came,” Shaun replies with a soft, apologetic smile. Gerard grimaces as he glances back into the swell of sweating, dancing bodies, already shivering with displeasure at the thought of delving back into it.
The thing that convinces him, though, is the realisation that if Mikey talks to Frank about him, he might make him look bad. Not that Mikey would ever say a bad word about his older brother, but the ammunition of embarrassing big brother stories is enough to have Gerard ducking back into the crowd, walking with stringent stiffness as he makes his way back over to his bandmates.
Seeing Frank leaning against the bar and talking to Mikey sends Gerard down two, parallel routes of emotion. The first is the relief that he’s found him, and that he can explain that he smudged the number, and maybe give Frank his number so they can talk tomorrow.
The other is pure, bitter anxiety at what Mikey is currently talking to Frank about, whispering in his ear with a grin on his face that Gerard doesn’t trust for a minute.
“G, you’re back,” Ray smiles, gesturing him over to the rest of the band – and Frank. Mikey pulls away, giving Gerard a neutral wave that, at least for the moment, assuages any fear that he could’ve been telling Frank anything embarrassing.
And then Frank turns around to grin at him, and Gerard feels his heart plummet into his stomach.
“Speak of the devil,” Frank laughs, leaning close into Gerard’s ear to speak to him over the music, “I was just asking Mikey where you were.”
“You were looking for me?” Gerard asks, dumbfounded as he watches Frank’s eyes glimmer with amusement.
“Sure I was. I wanted to know what you thought of the show.”
He fights the urge to say “of me” by a hair, but it’s so tempting to outright ask for Gerard’s approval that Frank has to bite the inside of his cheek as Gerard responds.
“I loved it. I was just talking to Shaun about it, actually. You guys sound great. And you-,” Gerard smiles, cheeks blossoming pink as he shakes his head in an awed bewilderment.
Frank wants to kiss him so badly, it’s like a physical ache.
“Me?” he asks instead, laughing to cover up the barrage of nerves.
“You,” Gerard smiles, “you were… unbelievable. You put your whole heart into it. I’ve never seen that much energy-,” he’s gesturing wildly with his hands, and for all Frank’s concerned, his fingertips might just be exploding with fireworks. Frank laughs, gesturing towards the bar with his head.
“Well, praise that good feels like a reason to celebrate. Can I buy you a drink?”
There’s something in the way he asks it – eyebrow raised, teeth tugging gently on his lip ring, eyes wide from under his eyelashes – that makes Gerard feel, with absolute certainty, that Frank is flirting with him. He’s not entirely surprised by that – he can feel the connection between them, he’d be shocked if Frank didn’t. The thing that catches him off guard, though, is how desperate he is to immediately fold.
“I have a girlfriend,” Gerard blurts out. Frank blinks a couple times in genuine shock, lips parting a little.
“Me too,” Frank replies with a soft, nervous laugh. His fingers tap anxiously on the top of the bar, though his gaze doesn’t break from Gerard’s face, “I think she’ll survive me buying a new friend a drink.”
He says it with a laugh in his voice, but it’s only to cover up the way his whole body shudders with the force of the rejection. Truth be told, his flirting experience in the last few years is little-to-none. He’s allowed to do what he likes, as is his girlfriend – but he rarely finds anyone but her who makes him feel enough to want to try.
Being turned down on his first attempt feels bad, but the fact it was Gerard Way makes it worse.
“Sorry. That was presumptuous,” Gerard apologises, reaching forward to place an apologetic hand on Frank’s arm, “I just…,”
“Mm?” Frank raises an eyebrow. He holds a hand up to Gerard for a moment, pausing the conversation to order them each a shot. They’re both silent until they’re served, cheers each other with a smile, and swallow the liquid whole.
Once his eyes stop watering, Frank gestures for Gerard to continue.
But Gerard’s distracted, eyes wide as he watches Frank cautiously.
“Are you even old enough to drink?” he asks, voice too loud for his proximity to the bar. Frank grins mischievously, curling his hand around Gerard’s wrist. It feels like a habit, even as he does it for the first time.
“Almost,” he murmurs conspiratorially, “in a few months.”
“You’re younger than Mikey.”
“Yeah. Not by much,” Frank shrugs, scuffing his shoe on the floor, “why do you ask?”
“Just thought you were older.”
Frank’s eyebrows raise slowly, his lips forming a soft, surprised smile.
“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that to me before. But uh, thanks,” he laughs. He puts their shot glasses back on the bar, gesturing to Gerard with his free hand – trying not to think too hard about the one that’s still wrapped around his wrist.
“You were explaining why you were being presumptuous,” Frank teases. Gerard laughs, taking a subconscious step towards him, leaning in to speak directly into his ear.
“I don’t get out much,” he murmurs, “so I don’t really know how to… be normal.”
“Mikey warned me about that. He said you were a bit of a freak,” Frank says brightly. Gerard’s not offended – he can only imagine the affectionate tone Mikey said it in, and it makes a genuine smile split across his face.
“He’s right. But um. Can I say something sort of embarrassing?”
“Shoot.”
“I think I felt a kind of… vibe in the bathroom. Between you and me. It felt like there was something going on there. So I guess when you asked to buy me a drink…,”
Frank rubs his free hand over his own face, trying to dispel the bright and immediate blush that creeps over his cheeks. Gerard is beautiful, all sweat-slick and shy laugh, eyelashes fluttering delicately each time he looks at Frank. They’re so close, Frank can feel his warmth, and he wants it more than he can remember wanting anyone but his girlfriend. He’s electric.
“Something going on? As in… you were into me?” Frank asks slowly. Not to mock him, but to clarify. Frank knows how easy it is for his mind to run with the smallest glimmer of hope – he doesn’t want to start hardcore crushing on this guy if he knows he doesn’t have even the slightest chance.
Gerard shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at a small puddle of liquid left in one of the shotglasses, distracting himself with the way it vibrates along to the heavy bass of the music.
“Yeah,” he admits softly, not meeting Frank’s eyes, “I think so. Is that fucked up?”
“Nah,” Frank grins, finally dropping Gerard’s wrist. He’s being nonchalant in the same way a widow is cheerful after killing her husband. It’s a performance, it’s practically drag.
“I’m fuckin’ pretty. And you’re pretty. It makes sense we’d kind of… want each other like that.”
“Right,” Gerard laughs, shoulders dropping as he feels the tension slip from them, “so you don’t think I’m a massive loser?”
“Oh, I do,” Frank teases, “but like, it’s cute. I think you’re really, really cute, Gerard.”
He knows he probably shouldn’t flirt with him after he’s already been turned down, but it’s so true it almost hurts. Gerard is the prettiest guy Frank has ever seen, and it’s so, desperately tempting to keep flirting just to watch him blush.
“I’m glad I haven’t embarrassed myself too much,” Gerard smiles, demeanour shifting a little as he pulls back from Frank. “I really wanna be friends with you. And I really want to talk to you about music. I’ve been so fucking stuck on what to do with My Chem, how to finish this album. Do you think you’d be up to help me out? Maybe we could hang out some time and I can show you what I’ve got?”
Frank can feel himself deflate a little despite himself. It makes sense that Gerard would deflect the tension, but it’s no less humiliating and disappointing.
“Sure, man. You’ve got my number, so-,”
“Uh, actually, I don’t,” Gerard grins shyly. He holds out his arm, revealing the almost entirely erased black lines, “sorry, I um. Sweat a lot.”
Frank laughs, head falling back as he grins back at him.
“It’s all good, man. Lucky for you, I don’t sweat too bad, so-,” he pauses, reaching over the bar to grab a marker from a pint glass haphazardly filled with pens. He hands it to Gerard with a wolfish, almost challenging grin.
“Remember to put it somewhere I’ll see it tomorrow, though.”
Gerard chews his lip, eyes glimmering with amusement as he runs them over every inch of Frank’s body, a little too appraisingly to be entirely platonic.
“Okay, Frankie,” he smiles sweetly, remembering the nickname Shaun had called him. He leans forward, curling one hand over Frank’s shoulder as he leans in close to his face. Frank can feel his breath hot on his jaw as Gerard begins to write his number across the side of his neck. His grip is firm, breath shaky as he marks him, and Frank has to hold the bar until his knuckles whiten to stop himself from turning his head and kissing him.
But God, his lips are so close, and Frank is starving for them.
The feeling isn’t staved when Gerard pulls away, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
“You won’t forget me now,” he laughs.
Frank’s head is practically spinning with desire as he forces out a punchy laugh. As if he could forget him when he feels like every touch has been burnt into his skin. His skin is bare, but suddenly he feels like he’s covered with tattoos, a swirl of light and colour marking every single place Gerard has laid his hands on him. Starting with his neck, right below his ear, where he’s still feeling the phantom of Gerard’s lips.
“I’m gonna go help the guys pack the van,” Frank says into Gerard’s ear, hands shoved into his pockets to force himself not to try and hold him, “but I’ll come find you before I go so we can set a date.”
His use of the word is intentional, and he watches carefully as Gerard hears it, stiffens, then relaxes into a slow, bashful smile.
“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll see you later, Frankie.”
Frank practically trips over his own feet to get away from him, just to find the space to breathe and think at the same time. With Gerard’s intoxicating presence, doing one of those things is a chore – both at the same time is near impossible.
“So you’re getting along with Frank pretty well?” Mikey asks, appearing suddenly at Gerard’s elbow. His voice is smug, dripping with the self-satisfied knowledge of having played a role in the heat transpiring between the two. Gerard turns to face him, eyes wide like a cat’s as he leans in to speak into his brother’s ear.
“Mikey, I’ve never wanted to make out with anyone so bad in my whole life.”
***
Frank desperately needs to cool down and sober up before he even thinks about going back inside that bar. He already had a lot of respect for Gerard as a musician, practically revered him as a writer. But knowing he’s hot is enough to just about crumble any chance Frank ever had of being able to be normal around him.
He’s smoking a cigarette behind the back of the bar, t-shirt rolled up so he can feel the cool brick against his back. Tonight it’s warm in New Jersey, a humidity rolling through the air, seeming to cling to Frank’s already damp skin. It’s nice, in a way – something Frank can lean into, breathe deeply into his lungs and try to wash himself clean from the inside out.
Shaun had asked him, with a smirk, how ‘things had gone with G’ in a way that implied he knew exactly how things probably had gone. And Frank didn’t know what to say – could he honestly say it’d gone well? He feels like any outcome that isn’t him dropping to his knees in front of him won’t be enough.
The thing is, Frank already knew Gerard had a girlfriend. Mikey had mentioned, offhandedly, that his brother was in the “off again” part of his “on-again-off-again” love affair. In his eyes, that meant he had about a 50/50 chance of being able to seduce the singer.
Even with those odds, he’d still fallen flat on his face. It’s almost more pathetic than if he hadn’t tried at all.
His hand reaches up, fingering the black letters embedded into the skin of his neck, and smiles despite himself. That, at least, had been a chink in Gerard’s armour. Even if he can’t have him, he knows that, for even a moment, Gerard considered it.
That could be enough. He could try and make that enough.
The back door opens, revealing a flash of sharp jaw and straight nose that Frank, at first, mistakes for Gerard. When it’s Mikey that steps through the door, his heart rate begins to slow, tension dropping from his shoulders as he melts back into the wall, waving his friend over with a loose gesture.
“Hey, how’s it going in there?” Frank asks, offering Mikey a cigarette, which he accepts with a smile. He doesn’t, though, answer Frank’s question. He’s stony as he lights up, leaning back against the wall just beside Frank, close enough that their hands might touch if they tried.
“So, my weirdo big brother wants to make out with you,” Mikey says suddenly, “and he’s not going to do anything about it, so I thought I’d let you know.”
If this were a film or a book, Frank thinks his character might have choked on smoke, or spluttered, or stared at Mikey with wide, shocked eyes.
But he’s not shocked. He’s vindicated.
“Right,” Frank says calmly, breathing smoke out through his nose, “he has a girlfriend though.”
“Barely,” Mikey snorts, “they’re not even together right now. He’s just bracing for the impact of them getting back together as soon as she calls.”
“Should I brace for that impact too?” Frank smiles, nose wrinkling with chagrin. Mikey laughs, shrugging good-naturedly.
“Depends on how attached you think you’ll get.”
“I think I can handle him. But uh-,” Frank laughs, dropping the final, smouldering end of his cigarette, you think he’d be okay if I went in there and kissed him?”
Mikey considers this for a moment, staring up into the bleak New Jersey sky as he blows out a puff of smoke to it.
“I think you should let him come to you. But he’s a little crazy about you, so I think if it comes to it, he’ll want you to kiss him.”
“Is this weird to talk about?” Frank asks, tucking his shirt back into his jeans. Mikey waves a hand dismissively in a gesture so Gerard-like, it makes Frank’s stomach clench.
“Nah, not really. I love G. I want him to be happy, and sometimes that means getting involved where I probably shouldn’t. Which also means-,” he turns, fixing Frank with a steely glare, “if you tell him I told you to kiss him, I’ll kill you.”
Frank takes the threat as seriously as Mikey says it, holding his hands up in playful surrender.
“Trust me, I’m taking full credit. Um. Thanks,” he smiles. Mikey rolls his eyes, though he grins as he gestures with his head to the door. Frank beams, hesitating for only a moment before ducking back into the darkness of the bar.
Finding Gerard doesn’t take long. He’s standing in the middle of the room, talking to a girl whose face Frank can’t see – and for a moment, he feels his heart clench at the thought that this might be his girlfriend. Maybe Gerard had called her to pick him up: or worse, called her and told her that some dude was hitting on him and he wanted her to make him stop.
The closer he gets, though, the more he can read the expression on Gerard’s face. He’s talking with his hands, a soft smile on his lips as he’s explaining something to her, pausing occasionally to let her respond before, adorably, nodding and continuing to launch into his description.
The girl has short, dark hair, and is nursing a beer bottle to her chest. As Frank approaches, he realises that he does know her – she’s an intern at Eyeball, likely someone Gerard has spoken to several times before but, crucially, also a lesbian.
Frank’s surprised at the feeling of pure relief that washes over him, taken aback by the intensity of it that threatens to, quite literally, sweep him off his feet, as he stumbles along the beer-slick floor. He manages to right himself just as he approaches Gerard, bracing a hand on the other man’s shoulder to announce his presence.
“Oh, hey Frank,” says the girl warmly, immediately turning to invite Frank into their conversation. Gerard immediately turns, shooting Frank a broad, delighted grin. He places his palm on Frank’s hip to nudge him into a circle, but leaves it to linger, his thumb pressed firmly, almost possessively against his hip.
“I was just telling Lana about my plans for My Chem. How we’re gonna amp it up a little, get more drama in there,” he shouts into Frank’s ear. The sound makes his head ring, but he doesn’t mind – he’d rather his head burst with Gerard’s voice than find peace in silence.
“I told him he could get pointers from you,” Lana supplies with a soft grin shot towards Gerard.
“Everyone’s been telling me that tonight,” Gerard supplies, wrapping his arm fully around Frank’s waist, tugging him into a one-armed hug, “seems like you’re the guy to know.”
“Me?” Frank laughs, blushing as he leans greedily into Gerard’s side, “nah, it’s Mikey. Mikey knows everyone.”
Lana and Gerard share a look, before shrugging and nodding their agreement. Mikey does know everyone. Gerard takes a bit of credit for that – he, himself was always an awkward kid, so Mikey was usually the one making connections. And, crucially, he was the only one of the two of them able to get a job without nepotism.
“Mikey’s so likeable,” Gerard agrees, “he’s a great kid. I’m lucky to have him. You know, he came up with the name of our band-,”
Gerard launches into a story about Barnes and Noble and Irving Welsh, and all Frank can do is stand before him with a wide, dumb grin on his face as he soaks up every word like it was gospel.
“Hey, I’m gonna head to the bar. I’ve heard this one before,” Lana giggles into Frank’s ear, patting his shoulder as she slips away into the crowd. Frank’s heart skips as he’s finally alone with Gerard, taking a bold, intentional step towards him so their toes are almost touching.
“It’s a good band name,” Frank supplies when Gerard finishes his story, “and it’s kinda cool we both got our band names from books.”
Gerard pauses to consider this, before his face splits into a wide grin.
“Shit, you’re right. Guess we’re a couple of smart motherfuckers, huh?” Gerard hums, his arm still hanging loosely around Frank’s waist. The smaller man clinks his lip ring against his teeth for a moment, before turning to stand directly in front of him. He sucks in a breath, mustering all of his courage as he delicately wraps a hand around Gerard’s other hand, guiding it to rest on the other side of his hips. The blush on Gerard’s face is almost luminescent, a shy smile sweeping his lips upwards as he curls his arms around Frank.
“I’m um. Excited for tomorrow,” Gerard murmurs. Frank smirks, raising an eyebrow as he lets his hands rub along Gerard’s forearms. Neither of them feel drunk anymore – the moment is so intimately sobering, they’re both in a state of hyper-awareness of every touch the other gives.
“Yeah? What’s so exciting about it?” Frank purrs, tilting his head as his palms press smoothly over Gerard’s chest. The older man sucks in a shaky breath, eyes darting to one side.
“Y-you know. Band stuff,” he supplies uselessly, “getting to pick your brain about music. ‘Cause I think… me and the guys, we have something good going on. But it’s missing heart. I want us to do something so different, it’s like nothing else anyone’s ever seen. But like, at the same time, I really want to make it clear who’s inspired us. Bowie and the Misfits and stuff. I want people to hear our music and just know who we like.”
Frank’s face falls, just slightly. Listening to Gerard talk is wonderful, and every word out of his mouth feels significant enough for Frank to feel like he should probably be taking notes. But he’s made a decision, and Gerard dancing around the elephant in the room is making his (already weak) resolve falter.
“Yeah, well. I’m happy to help,” Frank smiles, squeezing over Gerard’s shoulders, “I’m a big fan. I come to every show, you know. But uh, maybe I’ll let you know next time I’m around, so I can sit by the stage instead of standing on a chair at the back.”
“I’d like that,” Gerard grins, “next time we’re here I’ll look out for you. Maybe we can grab a drink after.”
“It’s a date,” Frank replies smoothly, heart racing as Gerard shifts his grip to hold his hips between his hands. His palms are warm, and Frank can feel the heat radiating off him as his fingers skim under his shirt.
Gerard laughs weakly, eyes shifting around the room to look at anything that isn’t Frank. He’s too overwhelming, too present and beautiful in Gerard’s hands, an omnipotent aura blocking out his senses to anything that isn’t him.
“Gerard,” Frank says gently, stroking his thumb over Gerard’s jaw. The older man lets out a soft, defeated huff, finally turning to look into Frank’s eyes, wide and curious and so, so inviting.
“It’s okay, you know. Either way. I wanna be friends with you.”
“Either way?” Gerard whispers, his voice jumping as he leans down to press his forehead against Frank’s. Their playful flirting seems so serious now, a life or death decision that he knows he’s already made, but keeps second-guessing despite his instincts begging him to tear Frank apart from the inside out.
“Yeah. Either way. I’m like, your biggest fan, you know?” Frank teases, smiling as he leans up on his tip-toes, curling an arm around Gerard’s shoulders.
“Does that make you my first groupie?” Gerard smiles, the words whispered practically into Frank’s slack, waiting mouth. Frank bites his lip as he laughs huskily, his hand curling in the longer hair at the back of Gerard’s head.
“Shut up, Gerard,” he grins, finally leaning in and kissing him.
It’s not earth-shattering. It doesn’t have to be. Gerard moans the moment Frank kisses him, his hands immediately grabbing at him, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed flush together. They’re both hard, panting into each other’s mouths, but this kiss isn’t about that. Frank’s tongue flicks into Gerard’s mouth, whimpering when he meets it with his own. Gerard’s hand finds Frank’s jaw, curling around it as he kisses him deeply, slowly, like he’s learning the shape of his mouth, the things that make him shiver, the ways he can make him moan and buck his hips up into Gerard’s thigh, laughing a soft apology for his eagerness. The kiss is messy, lips wet with saliva, hot with panting breath, hands moving from hair to neck, to ass, to hips. They’re wrapped around each other, a two-headed creature pulsing with pleasure, feeling nothing but the swipe of their lips meeting over and over again.
Gerard pulls away first, gasping for breath as Frank immediately moves his lips to his neck, biting the smooth flesh with an eager growl.
“Oh- fuck,” Gerard whispers, wrapping his arms around him, “Frankie, you’re gonna kill me.”
Frank breaks off, laughing as he peppers quick kisses to Gerard’s lips.
“I’m glad we weren’t friends before this,” Frank giggles, stroking his fingers through Gerard’s hair to try and de-tangle it a little, “because I wanna do that again. I wanna do that all the time.”
Gerard purses his lips, hesitating only for a moment before cupping Frank’s cheeks in his hands, pressing a firm, final kiss on his mouth, lingering for just a moment before he holds him at arm’s length, staring him in the eye with an expression of pure, bubbling joy.
“Let’s just see how tomorrow goes, okay?” he says, but he’s grinning, and Frank can see his entire future in the reflection of his eyes. Somehow, this random Jersey bar with its sticky floor and too-small rooms that stink of weed, and beer, and piss, is the most important place Frank and Gerard have ever been.