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Jepha buys Frank a toothbrush and puts it in his bathroom without saying anything.
They have separate places, but Frank's apartment is more like a formality than anything else. It's a place to keep his things. The guy selling it had called it an efficiency studio, with no stove and no bathtub, the perfect bachelor pad if you don't want to be a chef, the right spot for one, the man's man's apartment. When it comes down to it, it's an out, a sticking point for when Quinn makes fun of Jepha for being gay-married or when Bob starts buying mood rings for Frank, jamming them onto his ring finger and calling it practice. Before, when he and Jepha had just started dating, Frank had made a big show of keeping the place clean enough to spend nights on the lumpy pull-out couch. Private space was scarce; they were used to tour buses, bunk beds, other people farting in their sleep. Frank's place had been a luxury with a Starbucks down the street. Now it's a hovel whose floor is under three separate layers of clothing, and they sleep on Jepha's pillow-top, queen-sized mattress.
So Jepha buys Frank a toothbrush. He buys a bottle of Frank's favourite aftershave. He keeps his porn under the bed instead of next to it, and there are three empty drawers in his dresser that are waiting to be filled with Frank's shirts. Jepha stops complaining when Frank falls asleep after he blows him, sweat-drenched hair stuck to Frank's forehead and fingers still clutched around the fabric of Jepha’s wristbands. After they fuck, Frank always starts laughing when Jepha swipes his thumb through the come smeared over Frank’s belly. They fall asleep stuck together and don’t care in the morning when it hurts to pull apart.
*
"What the fuck is this shit?" Frank is asking as Jepha chomps on his breakfast in the bedroom, bowl of cereal in one hand and his bass stuck over his knee. Frank's lips curl awkwardly and spit out the cereal that Jepha brought him.
"Um," Jepha says, trying to find the right words in the early morning stupor of someone who got pushed off of the mattress the night before. A little bit of milk dribbles down his chin and his tongue chases it with no luck. "It's Lucky Charms?"
Frank looks unimpressed. "Where are the marshmallows?" He pokes around the cereal with his spoon, trying to find the pots of gold that might be hidden underneath the wheaty crisps. "Is this," he sniffs twice, "soy milk? Man, I haven't had this in forever."
The thing about Jepha is this: he pays attention to what people say, and he remembers it all, but sometimes he misses the big things. The first time they met Frank had cornered him into -- well, a corner -- and started reciting the reasons and steps (easy and painless, both) for becoming a vegan. Jepha was already a vegetarian at that point, so it wasn't like that shit was entirely new to him. Frank had been so earnest that it took him by surprise when Frank had replied with an easygoing, "oh, no, it's okay, dude, I get it if it's not your thing," when Jepha had smiled apologetically through the entire speech. So that morning, when he went to get some breakfast as Frank snored on Jepha's pillow, he made sure to pick out the marshmallows from the other stuff; there had to be animal product in them, right? Gelatin, or eggs, or something. Jepha couldn't remember because he eats them because marshmallows are fucking delicious. He made sure to give Frank the soy milk he bought for him yesterday instead of the 2% fattening actual milk that came from, you know, actual cows, and he brought it to Frank in bed with a smile on his face. So --
"Yes," Jepha says slowly, making sure his information is correct. "Soy milk. Because you're a vegan."
Frank blinks at Jepha a few times, a grin slowly spreading across his lips. "Asshole," he says, rising to his knees on the bed. Frank slowly dips his hand into Jepha's Lucky Charms and picks out a big, bright rainbow marshmallow from the soggy mess that's started to form; he uses two fingers to slip it into his mouth and sucks on them, humming contentedly as he watches Jepha's eyes go wide. "That was three years ago."
*
Jepha camps out in front of the Starbucks a few blocks away from his apartment on September 3. He shows up at 4:17 in the morning and sits down against a wall to wait while Rancid blares through his headphones, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck; when he sinks down, he flips silently through the contacts in his cell phone and his thumb stops over Branden's name. He doesn't call, if only for the hour. Instead, Jepha listens to the drumline of the song and imagines his friend laughing behind the kit, throwing sticks into the audience on the tour he's headlining this month. The tinny music resonates through his ears and Jepha braces himself for the morning rush. There's no way he's missing out on two lattés today (one for himself and one for Frank): motherfucking pumpkin spice is making its return. He's got another month to wait before pumpkin cheesecake is back at the Cheescake Factory, but this -- he can have this today. Jeph switches his playlist to the I Am A Graveyard EP that Frank tossed his way a few years ago. He falls asleep with his head leaned into the center of the Starbucks logo, Frank's off-key screams slowly fading into the background.
No one wakes him up.
Jepha shivers and startles awake on his own, and he blinks against the blinding sunlight. He shoots a hand over his eyes, shading and hopefully saving his retinas as he blearily tries to swallow against the dry, growing lump in his throat. "Fuck, shit," he swears. He hops up and nearly trips over his own shoelaces as he falls unceremoniously through the double doors and into the buzzing social arena that is a corporate coffee shop. As he stumbles into line, Jepha can hear people staring, can feel them whispering something about the "crazy hobo," and he catches the clock out of the corner of his eye: 2:53 in the afternoon.
"Spice, two," he stutters out as he reaches the counter. "Lattés, pumpkin," he clarifies. Right. "Two pumpkin spice lattés," he strings together, and the girl behind the counter -- Melissa, Jepha will remember later, who ruins dreams and happiness -- smiles apologetically.
"I'm sorry, sir," she intones sympathetically. "We ran out of syrup about 20 minutes ago."
Jepha groans against the counter and stops his hands from their frantic search for change. "Fuck, shit." People at tables sipping their pumpkin spice lattés curl their hands protectively around their drinks as he slumps out the door.
On the short walk home, Jepha calls Frank. "I tried to get you a pumpkin spice latté from Starbucks today," he tells the answering machine of Frank's cell phone; Frank's in the studio with the guys while Gerard lays down vocals and writes impromptu harmonies badly. "But there was a bear -- I mean the animal kind, not a really butch gay guy -- outside of the store who wouldn't let me in. When I tried to battle him for the last free sample to prove my honor, he mauled my face and broke my leg and called me a pussy, so now I'm on my way to the hospital to get shit stitched up," he says, and starts tapping his free hand against his leg. "It's okay, though. He broke my left leg, so I can still drive. I'm going to need you to corroborate this story, man. It's the only explanation for why I could have possibly failed to bring you a motherfucking latté." Jepha pauses, breathes. "Hope recording is going well, dickwad. Come over when you're done and I'll make you dinner."
When Frank shows up that night and pushes the door open slowly, slowly, precariously balancing things in his arms, Jepha's wearing nothing but an apron around his waist. "Punk," Frank laughs at him. They never drink the two lattés and one green tea that Frank nearly drops onto the countertop before stripping off his jacket and ducking his head.
The next morning, Jepha finds them still on the counter and stirs one coffee with his finger before he gulps it down, ignoring the chunks of clumped flavor and curdled milk at the bottom of the cardboard cup.
*
"So, hey." Frank's voice is muted and far-away, coming at Jepha from the other end of a cell phone that has spotty reception in soundproof rooms. "My mom's flying in, right," he continues.
Jepha nods even though Frank can't see him and he rolls a piece of bread over in his mouth before he sticks it into his cheek so that he can respond. "Yeah, I know, you've only told me eight times. She's coming in from the dirty Jerz," he answers. He's more nervous about meeting Frank's mom than he was about the very first day that Dan showed up at Bert's house, because he's not even sure that Frank's mother has ever heard his name -- he doesn't know if she knows who the fuck he is, which is terrifying, because Branden has been hearing about Frank since the time Frank groped Jeph through his pants and drunkenly told him that "we're going to get married one day in Canada, Jepha Howard, because they let people do that there because they're good people there, and they let dudes marry other dudes, so let's dude-marry each other in Canada one day, okay, Jepha Howard?"
Frank's voice tightens at the reference to his great home state, and then laughs, loosening. "Anyway," Frank answers, and there's a pause where Jepha can hear him switching the phone from ear to ear. "She gets in around 6PM, but I'm going to be stuck in the studio. Bob's had a really long day and his wrists are starting to give and Ray's head's somewhere else. He's been calling Krista all day and whispering under his breath and shit, I don't know. He looks worried. Anyway, they -- they want me to stay and lay down some tracks because we've got to get this shit done, you know?"
"Oh, fuck, Frank, are you -- "
"Could you? Jeph, come on, it's not that far to the airport and you've got your car out here and I don't want to leave her there by herself. Just pick her up and take her to my place!"
"Frank, how long has it been since you've been at your place?" Jepha asks, smiling into the receiver. "Are you sure there isn't mold growing out of the sink and fucking dildos lying around on the couch?"
"No, no, I'll be right there!" Frank calls to someone on the other end of the line, "yeah, Gee, shut the fuck up, no, seriously, I'll beat your ass down if you call him that again, shut the fuck up," and then, to Jepha, "terminal D, 6PM. Be early, okay? This is my mom we're talking about." He hangs up.
Jepha sighs and clicks his phone shut, then goes to find his keys.
*
Jepha is an hour and forty-five minutes late to pick Frank's mom up from the airport. He's sitting in traffic at the one-hour mark and silently panicking inside his car, sitting alone with Avril Lavigne playing on the radio.
"WHY YOU GOTTA GO AND MAKE THINGS SO COMPLICATED," he belts out, slamming his fists against the steering wheel while he rocks out, trying to relieve the stress that's tightening his thighs and toes. He watches the car in front of him inch forward and poises himself to slam on the gas, but the two-door stops and Jepha sighs, rolls down his window and turns the music up. If he's got to suffer through this, the rest of L.A. is going down with him. "LIFE'S LIKE THIS, YOU, YOU FALL AND YOU CRAWL," he screams, and the woman next to him changes lanes next time the cars start to move.
When he gets to the airport, he parks and goes inside -- and then he panics again; his breaths come shallow and fast. He doesn't know what Frank's mother looks like. He's only seen one photo of her, has no idea what her phone number is, and Jepha doesn't think he'll ever find her in the mess of people standing by the baggage claim looking weary and for all the world like they don't want to be there. There's an old couple wandering around with their hands tucked into each other's fingers; they're looking for an attendant to help them with their baggage. Jepha smiles softly at them and points when he catches their eye, signaling to a man in a red cap by a desk on the side of the room.
There's a woman sitting tall with her legs crossed strongly, smirking at the people around her. She's judging them, probably, but kindly. Maybe she's imagining their stories, Jepha thinks, telling their lives in her head the way she thinks that they should have happened. He starts a little bit when her eyes catch his and she smiles, direct.
"Jepharee Michael Howard," she calls to him, standing -- she's smaller than he is, now that she's stretched, and not nearly as intimidating. Jepha freezes in her gaze, ducks his head; his hands shoot into his pockets and he blushes, bashful as he walks toward her.
"Mrs. Iero," he says, and there's an awkward pause where she sizes him up before he remembers to pull his hands out of his pockets and extend one to her.
She laughs, full and round, and envelops him into a hug; he gasps in a breath. "Come here, honey," she chuckles into his ear as she pats his back. "We won't tell Francis about this, all right?"
Jepha exhales.
Frank never finds out that Jepha fucked up and for the week that she's there, his mom makes them dinner while they hold hands under the table.
*
"Which cummerbund do you like better?" Frank asks, looking up at Jepha through a swipe of hair falling across his eye. He's holding two up: one is bright pink and one is teal, and neither are appropriate for a younger cousin's wedding where family will be hovering all night.
Jepha tosses the bag he's holding onto the bed and flops down next to it, pulling Frank down by the hand. "Neither," he says seriously as Frank curls an arm around his waist, and then, "wear my red one." Frank snorts against Jepha's chest.
"How gay is that shit," he laughs, squeezing his fingers tighter into Jepha's hips as he mashes his face down and presses them together before he starts talking again. "I'm going to a wedding on the Jersey shore and the only real outfit I have is a tuxedo that I have on loan from Bert McCracken, and you want me to wear your cummerbund. It's like one big gay orgy of clothes," he giggles, and that triggers something in Jepha's head.
"I totally forgot!" Jepha yells, scrambling to find the bag he had in his hands. "I bought you more socks. Weren't you totally talking about how all of yours have holes in them 'cause Mikey went batshit?"
"Yeah," Frank sighs, smiling and propping his head on his elbow. He looks up at Jepha, remembering. Mikey got bored one day when Gerard was off being a diva in the recording booth and started cutting holes in anything he could get his hands on. He nearly cut off Frank's big toe and actually did take a chunk out of Ray's heel, but Bob smacked him before he could even think about cutting thumbholes in his sleeves and Mikey sulked out of the room. Frank laughs, remembering, and Jepha chimes in on cue:
"Bob's a take-no-shit kind of guy." He kisses Frank’s temple, and then says, "yeah. Yeah, anyway, I got you a new pack of 10 pairs. Perfect for mixing with sandals and for smelly tour buses."
"Sweet!" Frank grins. He scrambles up on top of Jepha and sits on his hips while he laughs down at him. "Now I have quadruple the stock," Frank points toward the wall of the bedroom and Jepha's eyes follow the line of his finger over the bed and underneath the window. There are two packs of calf-high white ribbed socks and one pack of calf-high black socks sitting in a Target bag; Jepha's face falls instantly. "...and I had a free hour after lunch with Jamia so I just swung by and got myself more and I left a message for Mikey threatening his life if he went near them, and then I got us some Morningstar shit so we can have something on the late nights we get back from the -- oh, fuck," Frank is saying when Jepha turns back to look at him. There's a painful moment where Frank is scrambling off of Jepha's hips and Jepha gets hit in the groin with a knee or an elbow or a foot or all three, and then Frank is gone and into the kitchen; Jepha can hear plastic bags rustling, and Frank looks a little bit sheepish as he comes back over to the bedroom, crossing his ankles and leaning against the door frame.
"I forgot to put it all in the freezer," he shrugs, suddenly coy.
"Oh, okay, yeah, glad you remembered, I'll just -- take the socks back, then?" Jepha asks, going back to their conversation from a minute before.
Frank looks bewildered before he breaks into another grin. "Or we could use them to make sock puppets," he says, and runs to find a Sharpie.
*
Frank is across the country for a day and a half before he starts calling Jepha in at three in the morning. The first time, Jepha takes a minute to untangle himself from the wires of Dan's old N64 while Quinn throws pieces of beef jerky at him and Bert makes fake kissing noises on the couch.
Frank can't sleep in the empty hotel bed, needs something solid to keep his head on. Weddings do him in every time, with hundreds of family members and slippery shoes on the dance floor. Frank likes it when his baby cousins dance on his feet but hates the fact that he never gets a plus-one invite. Jepha reassures him, trying to ease the stress out of Frank’s rapid breaths, imagining the sun rising over the water in Atlantic City. He’s never been there, but Frank’s been sending him photo messages with shots of the boardwalk ceremony and cousins he didn’t know existed. Jepha wonders how many of them have seen his photo, the crinkled one of the two of them at an amusement park that Frank keeps in his back pocket; he doesn't know that every time an aunt or uncle asks Frank if he's seeing anyone, Frank pulls out the picture and yells, "we're getting a basset hound soon! I don't think he knows that, though."
Jepha keeps talking as he waits for Frank to settle; he tells him about the new tattoo he’s getting (a Dalí clock on the left side of his ribcage) and the new burrito place that opened up down the block that does a killer salsa with feta cheese and jalapeños. In the middle of one of his sentences, he hears Frank murmuring on the other end of the line.
“I love you, Jepha Howard,” Frank is saying, “but I’m going to sleep now.”
“Come home soon,” Jepha answers him. He rolls over into the empty space on the bed and falls asleep with a ferris wheel in his head.
*
Frank’s flight is delayed for four hours on his trip home and he texts Jepha twenty-eight times from the runway while he waits to take off.
i could be a pilot if i wanted to is the first. Somewhere in the middle, he sends your shoulder is a more comfy pillow than this headrest, and then this kid wont stop screaming so lets raise ours better, and the last one he writes before the plane starts to move is ill meet you at home baby go get some sleep. Jepha reads them all and responds to every one except the last.
Frank isn’t surprised to step off the plane and see Jepha grinning at him from the bucket seats by the baggage claim, pumpkin spice latte in hand and bleary eyes blinking back sleep through his smile.
*
Jepha buys Frank a dresser and puts it in the bedroom after they buy an apartment together. They talk about every detail of the entire fucking thing before they move in, what renovations they might want to make.
Frank wants a wall of windows and Jepha wants a little bit of privacy when he jerks off in the morning, but they both eat their eggs scrambled, covered in pepper, and without yolks. That makes things easier when one of them wakes up early and slides into the kitchen, boxers slung low over their hips and rank morning breath barely fading as they suck down burnt coffee that they brewed the day before.