Chapter Text
When Gerard isn't creating, he's trembling. There's a certain withdrawal to being unable to do the one thing you're good at; that is, taking a page--blank and unassuming--and giving it the life you never had in you until you saw it being mapped out. Frank knows this. He feels it in his bed sometimes. The cold trembles with him.
Crows bark and the wind whistles in the latest hours of the night. Gerard isn't completely sober in this kind of weather. When there's a cold breeze and a 1 A.M. opportunity, what does anyone expect him to do? At that rate, his life is no more than cigarettes and the bitter sprawl across his mouth when there's nothing left to do but think. His teeth are rotting. He knows this, yes. He knows his teeth are rotting and he knows his eyebags look worse than they did a week ago. He knows he has nothing to sink his teeth into unless he's half-dead and driven with the passion of a musician. Passion. It's all he can think about. His passion is what got him free drinks at the bar. His passion is what left him places he can barely recognize.
He's so fucking funny.
Sex. Sex is real. It's carnal and involves images. Gerard doesn't think about much during sex, but it always has something to do with Frank, because Frank's always there, whether it be in passing or literally. Frank's not overly gentle with his touches; Gerard doesn't mind. Frank knows everything Gerard likes. He knows what gets him going. He knows the little things that send Gerard over the edge. Even when his hair is short and edgy, prickly and white, Frank knows what to tug on when things get rough. His hair is his leash. Whenever he's sent over the edge, he knows to hang his head low, and Frank's usually there to straighten him out. Still, at the end of it all, they're just two men in a kitchen, unsure of what to say or how to say it. This is it, Gerard realizes one night. This is the kind of thing men were made to do. If men weren't experimenting with each other, swapping sweat and heat, if men weren't cradling each other in pure tightness, what were they doing? What were they really, truly doing? It's carnal. It involves images. It's all Gerard can think about when he's alone. Sharp, small hips. Careful hands. Never too rough. Never perfect.
His brother's eyes are far gone. His face gets paler day by day. Gerard's not sure why. He tries to talk to him, less like a man and more like a boy, asking him what's wrong over cans of warm soda. Mikey never breaks down, but Gerard's always worried he might. What does he need, Gerard asks sometimes? What will it take to get my baby brother back? Mikey never has an answer, but he purses his lips in a way that makes Gerard worried he might shatter on the spot. He never does. He never has an answer.
Gerard lives through the next album and the hallucinations that keep him up at night. He doesn't sleep for days on end. He often ghosts around his house like a zombie when he's not tossing and turning in his bed. Something--a force--leads him places he didn't know he was capable of reaching. Into the pavement. In front of the pool. Behind trees. He leaves his mark in the form of foot prints. Nobody ever sees him unless they're awake, and they never really see him there anyways. He's just trying to get away. He really would do anything to get away.
Sometimes Frank will come to him for anything but the one thing they're known for. He'll ask if he's okay. He'll tell him he doesn't have to write on the walls. That he can write, just not on the walls. That he doesn't have to stalk the house. That everyone is worried. Whenever Frank talks to him, Gerard begins to understand his brother a little more. There's nothing to hold on to when it comes to Frank. They're like ladders leaning up against a wall. With enough pressure, somebody is going to fall over, and when it happens, it will not be pretty.
Dye your hair black, Gerard thinks to himself one night, trembling in bed. Dye your hair black. Check your wrists. Sing to the world.