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“Get up, asshole.”
Frank jolts, curling in on his stomach where a bottle of ice coffee had come flying in for a rough impact thanks to Mikey throwing at him. It's definitely an efficient way of waking up. The pain quickly fades away, but Frank gives Mikey an annoyed glare just to get the point across - it's his way of saying thanks.
If it weren't for Mikey Way, infamous party boy on campus and New Jersey's favourite pastime entertainment, Frank would probably never wake up and make a slow emergence from the comfort of his beloved creaky bed. Bought second hand from this creepy old dude on Craigslist complete with a stain Frank doesn't want to name and scratchy bed sheets his mom was gifted off her cousin last winter. Mikey was simultaneously the best and worst roommate Frank could ever ask for; the guy was clean and neat with his belongings, he never hogged the bathroom for too long, he's got the best taste in music and video games in Frank's humble opinion, but Mikey was also incredibly too popular. Frank's about four levels below Mikey on the scale. Mikey gets invited to frat house parties - Frank gets eaten alive if he steps too close to the football field during daylight hours. Mikey gets discounted tickets to his brother's band's gig - Frank gets kicked out of the shitty punk band he formed, all because his ‘attitude doesn't align with the artistic vision of the rest of us guys’. The kid - he was 14, Frank was sure of it - who replaced him plays the guitar like a blind baby with no hands. It's shit.
“We'll be late. I'm not showing up late for Gerard's gig, it's a big one this time.” Mikey says.
He's throwing Frank's jeans at him now. Then picks up a ratty torn t-shirt from on the floor, sniffs it to see if it's socially passable, and it follows the trajectory towards Frank like the rest of the rest of his floor orientated wardrobe. He pulls the shirt over his head noting the band logo shoddily ironed on; Misfits, Mikey's got good taste.
The two lived off their college campus in this shitty run down apartment, holes home to mice in the walls and a fridge that needed replacing four months ago of which the landlord keeps promising to fix but never shows up. They were more than lucky to find a place cheap enough that they didn't need to scrounge around for a third roommate from off the street or, worse, from the student union. Frank thinks this place is the highlight of his young life as freshman year he was cooped up in a tiny dorm room with a fuckass sports scholarship kid who downed protein powder every morning and night - Frank would wake up with that powder, and probably other kinds of powders too, in his bed and in between pages of his course books.
“Dude, you're not gonna shower first?” Mikey asks.
“You are literally rushing me! You said we'd be late!” Frank replies. “And I'm going to be balls deep in a mosh pit for three hours, no one showers before that.”
Though maybe Mikey's right about showering. Despite knowing him for two years, Frank's never met the mystical and illustrious ‘Gerard’ who's apparently Mikey's older brother, tonight changes that so he probably should make a good impression by at least smelling decent. It's always been a case of ‘you just missed him’ or ‘I have to bunker down in the library for the next week, I can't meet your extended family’ whenever the slightest inclination of Gerard started showing up. He supposes it's more likely to be meeting Gerard now that Frank doesn't study nearly as much as he used to.
Mikey leaves Frank's room for just a moment - Frank thinks it's for privacy, but that notion is gone when the former walks in on Frank changing his underwear. He thinks Mikey's about to throw another article of clothing at him, but instead a white envelope is placed on the desk beside his bed.
“This came for you, by the way.”
He rips open the seal, no respect for keeping it a clean cut, and reads the printed out formal jargon. It flies over his head at first. Mikey peers over, resting his chin on Frank's shoulder to read the same words.
“Oh shit.” Mikey whispers.
“They're gonna put me on academic probation if I don't start going to my classes.” Frank reads aloud, and honestly turns pale and cold to the touch.
Linda is going to fucking kill him.
“You've been to how many classes this semester?”
“Uh… two this month I think? Second year is hard! Don't give me that look, Mikes.”
“Y’know Chris was put on probation in his second year, and everything worked out well for him.” Mikey explains, throwing his arm around Frank in consolidation.
“Yeah?” Hope fills Frank for just a second. “How did he get out of it?”
Mikey hesitates, then a shit eating grin spreads across his face. The hope in Frank drains faster than flood water without a dam.
“He got kicked out for pissing on the statue of the college founder. And ‘cus these girls complained he was spreading chlamydia around.”
“How the fuck is that something that ‘worked out well’? Frank gawks.
“He runs a comic book store in Kearny. He met Harrison Ford.”
Frank slumps back down to his bed, crushing a half empty packet of chips, and resigns himself to a life of misery and minimum wage workforce labour. Meeting Harison Ford is cool and all, but Frank had worked so hard to get into college; his mom was working overtime too, putting half her wages towards paying Frank's tuition on top of the saved up child support from his dad. He could not afford, nor survive Linda’s fury, to flunk out of college. But Frank wanted to drop out so bad. He skips almost all of his classes, pays off one of the girls in his course to put his name on group projects, and wallows in his bed all day feeling guilty about what lectures he's missing. Frank doesn't even know the names of his professors from this year. Freshman year was better, easier, and Frank doesn't know where it all went wrong though he does blame getting kicked out of his band as a pretty big part of it, and the drinking thing too. If Frank isn't wallowing then he's out getting drunk.
He doesn't know how Mikey does it. Mikey Way drinks himself into oblivion, snorts lines in sorority girls bathrooms, sleeps around with anything with two legs and a beating heart, yet wakes up at eight every morning looking fresh as heaven itself ready for his morning classes. Mikey Way takes three extra elective courses and is passing every single one.
Mikey Way is a college dean's wet dream.
“You better get your ass to class right now, Frankie.” Mikey jokes.
“It's nine thirty pm on a Saturday-”
“Exactly, which means we're gonna be late. The car is outside.”
Going to this gig would take Frank's mind off things at least. It'll calm him down, put him in a better place, and then tomorrow he can mentally punch himself until he builds up the courage to start going to classes. The letter is pushed out of his mind, though the threat of a similar warning being sent to his mom still lingers, and Frank ties the laces on his beaten up shoes.
The car sitting outside their apartment building was this tiny, deep blue Ford Fiesta from the late nineties. It could hardly fit five grown adults, and Frank seemed to be the sixth. He's sitting on Andy Hurley's knees, battling with a seat belt because he still fears death, when a familiar voice comes from the driver's seat.
“No, no fucking way.” Frank yelps. “Get me out of this car, I am not being killed by Pete fucking Wentz.”
“Baby what's the problem, I am a wizard behind the wheel! A true Casanova of the roads! King of the New Jersey turnpike!” Pete laughs, throwing his arms out in dramatics and almost hitting Mikey in the face.
A chorus of protests come from everyone crushed in the car, mostly telling Frank to shut the fuck up.
At one point Gabe threatens to drive, and that makes everyone curse him out instead.
The problem, as it was, is that Pete Wentz can't drive. He claims to have gotten his licence last year but Frank knows he doesn't have a real one at all; the fake he carries around claims his name to be ‘Jason’. Every time Frank has gotten into a car with Pete he's almost died, whether the fucker was driving or not - Pete once tried making out with William Becket while he was driving, almost flipping the car over while Frank called out to every Catholic saint his mom made him memorise in first grade. And there was that one time Pete insisted the fuel tank was full, and yet the night ended with the rental car missing both the hand brake and the front passenger door as the whole thing rolled into a nearby lake. The missing door was the only reason they made it out alive, so maybe Pete's chaos does brings some good.
Such a shame that Mikey worships the ground Pete walks on, even if he doesn't like to admit it.
It's a twenty minute drive to the gig, in a basement under a dive bar Frank is sure used to be a gay club, and that's twenty minutes too long with Pete ‘I love to commit vehicular manslaughter’ Wentz at the helm.
“Just hold Andy's hand, you'll be fine.” Mikey finally says, shutting them all up indefinitely.
It's a dead silent ride. Frank's too paranoid to even sneeze, and he sends a look of death to Joe when he tries to turn on the car radio by reaching over Gabe. Andy's a sweetheart in it all; he's fairly close with Frank ever since he opened Frank’s eyes up to the world of vegan menus because quite honestly who knew someone could be more than just a vegetarian. Andy is probably the only reason Frank and Mikey have food in their fridge. Being strapped in by a seatbelt onto Andy isn't the most heart warming situation Frank's been in though.
It's the longest twenty minutes of his life.
— — —
The gig venue is cramped, over capacitated by thirty to forty people, so sticky warm that sweat appears just three steps in, and it's any sane person's idea of hell. To Frank, this is exactly where he wants to be.
Mikey was right about this being a big night for his brother's band - Frank discovers it's not Gerard's band, but a guy called Geoff’s - seeing as everyone and their dog had shown up, bought tickets, and pushed their way to the front. The stage, if it could be called that, was just a taped off square at the back end of the basement with most of the space taken up by amps and wires feeding into guitars.
Family legends goes that Frank was born with a guitar in his hands, playing chords before taking his first breath.
Being in a band was all Frank has ever wanted to do. His dad would let him fuck around with the drum kit sitting in their garage, and would encourage Frank to go out and meet other kids with the same spur and energy to meet his passion. He's attempted to learn every instrument just so no one could turn him away if they already had a guitarist or bassist, pulling out the classic line ‘well I play flute too if you need that’. He's swallowed fish for a live audience for fucks sake, and yet here he is without a single semblance of a band.
Joe hands Frank a plastic cup full of beer, though there's a taste of vodka in there somewhere, and he has to hold it almost above his head to stop anyone from bumping into him and spilling it all. The floor is sticky, telling of everyone before him has already spilled their cheap alcohol. Joe mentions something about his friend - Pat? No, Paul? no that's not right either, Patrick or something like that - being a temporary drummer for the first band up to play.
Frank has been watching the stage intently the past fifteen minutes waiting for the first band, Gerard's band, to come on. A tall guy, hair frizzy but long down past his shoulders, walks out holding this beautiful epiphone sheraton painted with yellows and reds, scratched from years of use. It's embarrassing to say, but Frank practically pops a boner looking at the thing - he had to get his hands on that guitar if it was the last thing he'd ever do. Andy nudges Frank, whisper-yells something like ‘go ask him out’ obviously thinking Frank's making goo goo eyes at the guy rather than the guitar.
“I'm not gay, Hurley.” Frank scowls back, Andy just laughs.
Call it weak tolerance or an insanely long waiting time, but Frank is definitely piss up drunk by the time the rest of the band make it to the stage. He's moved onto vodka completely, taking shots from Pete whenever they're brought over, by the time someone's whining vocals take precedence over the loud chatter of gig goers. A warm hum of guitar strings, the bass is louder than it should be and Frank revels in the sound, the vocalist doesn't pronounce a single word correctly through his alcohol induced drawl. It sounds so shitty and perfect in all the ways Frank wants it to be. He thinks of seeking out one of the guys after the gig and clapping them on the back, grinning wide and saying ‘holy shit you guys rocked!’ but that's only if he doesn't lose their faces in the crowd.
“Hey- Hey Mikey!” Frank shouts over. “Which one's your brother?”
“The guitarist on the right.”
At first Frank thinks Mikey's referring to Mr ‘Tall Dark and Epiphone owner’ that caught his eye before, but when Frank follows the line of Mikey's pointing finger it's someone else entirely at the end. He's the total opposite to the first guy - Ray, Frank later learns the name - with greasy black hair cut jagged above his shoulders and eyes sunken so far into dark circles that vampires probably used him as make up inspiration. This was the infamous Gerard Way he had heard so much about. This was the guy playing guitar in the worst way possible.
Gerard could not play a single chord right. The song was a Smashing Pumpkin cover, Frank could recognise it in death, he knew each and every string to pluck to recreate that original sound - and somehow Gerard was missing every single one.
Okay so, Mikey had never said Gerard was good. He just said his brother was in a band.
Yet here Frank stands, utterly still and frozen with a crushed plastic cup in hand, staring across the mosh pit at Gerard screaming back up vocals into a mic that probably isn't turned on. But Frank hears Gerard's voice in shades of autumnal browns and leafy reds. Everyone else has their eyes on Geoff singing, if they're even looking at the stage at all, but Frank is captivated by his best friend's brother. Here Frank is making a mental note to apologise to Andy because yeah he is gay. He's so gay looking at Gerard Way.
This is a crisis Frank needs to put away for later. Or rather never, he's not actually gay.
Gerard is attractive though, in the same way crushed beer cans look cool when lined up with tire tracks ran through. He's attractive like extras in a horror movie who get killed almost immediately, but their face was in frame for just long enough that you form an infatuation with them, frantically looking at the credits to see if their name appears to find any other film they've stared it. Gerard is pretty, Frank thinks, in the same way people collect porcelain dolls not because they're good decor but because they possibly hold the ghost of someone terrifying. Gerard looks kissable in that same way every other pretty girl looks when they attach themselves to Frank in a bar. And oh God does Frank want to kiss Gerard. Frank's into freaks, the supernatural, anything that bites really, and Gerard’s facial features are exactly akin to the human embodiment of it all.
“Holy fucking shit, Mikes! You didn't tell me your brother was hot.”
Frank's words go unheard as he turns to face Mikey. Instead of seeing the face of his friend enjoying the music, he sees Mikey and Pete desperately trying to suck the faces of each other. Making out in such violence that if this were a film, Frank would have to rate it R. Annoyance rolls through him because of course this was the entire reason Pete came along to the gig - the reason why Frank thought that twenty minute car ride would be the last moment of his entire life. All so Mikey Way could jump some bones.
There goes Frank's ride home. And his home entirely because no way is he going to listen to his roommate have sex all night.
Maybe Mikey already knew Frank would fall flat on his face at the sight of Gerard, so seeing him getting off with Pete in public was just Frank's just punishment.
The next song begins, their last and Frank can't believe it's been twenty five minutes already, and Gerard doesn't have any vocals this time. It's an original, not a cover. Frank misses the sound of two voices, he's not all that interested in what Geoff’s going on and on about. He really doesn't care for any of the other punk bands set to play after Gerard's.
Frank decides at this moment that it's Gerard he'll track down after the gig. It's Gerard he'll compliment wildly and attempt to get the number of - to invite him to any future gigs or to hang out with friends of course, no other reason at all. Frank lies and tells himself it's all to get to Ray’s guitars. It's the alcohol talking, or the weed induced high from smoking the second he walked down to this basement, it's anything but Frank's mind telling him that Gerard is so attractive he needs to go talk to him. Needs to find out what Gerard's voice sounds like in a quiet room with no one else around.
Frank's not gay. But Frank can recognise when someone's above the usual standard of beauty, and surely that goes beyond the realms of sexuality.
Frank's totally not gay, not in the slightest, but he would so let Gerard-
There's a harsh sound. Too quick and sudden to recognise before everything turns to shit. A smashing of glass to the floor, cutting Frank's shoes and the cuffs of his jeans, along with shouts of words Frank can't make out over the band's song. It all happens so swiftly in one fell swoop that Frank doesn't know what's happening until a fist collides with his face. Square in the centre, shattering the bones in his nose to open the floodgates for blood to pour out. He tastes it as it drips down into his mouth. The pain doesn't even set in yet. There's no time to register pain as Frank blacks out completely.
It's not the first time. But it's pretty shit to be punched when he's not even in the pit, basic decency and all that etiquette expected. And holy fuck this is going to hurt in the morning.
— — —
There's this distinct metalic taste in Frank's mouth as he wakes up. Pain ebbs through his entire face, focusing in the centre but the headache is pretty god awful too. He licks at the split in his lip and realises the taste is blood.
It's disorientating to say the least as Frank pushes himself to sit up; he's on a worn through leather couch? He doesn't recognise the room he's in at all. Orange painted walls lit with mismatching lamps, a fan whirls in one of the corners but it's turned away from him making it entirely useless. Frank jumps when he hears the door open and close within seconds.
It's better to lie back down, Frank decides, it's nice and safe and warm there with a cushion under his head and a jacket thrown over his torso. Whose jacket was this? It's not his, nor is it Mikey's - Mikey would never let Frank touch his wardrobe. Either way it smells like cigarettes, sweat, and cherries from a Shirley Temple, and Frank breathes it all in warmly. He could fall back asleep here, definitely.
He's way too drunk to be left alone. And way too high to figure out a way home without Mikey. Getting high wasn't nearly as much of a problem for Frank as drinking was, being the lesser of two evils and all as his friends would always say, but it made things so much more frustrating once the high peaked above fun and declined into debilitating. His weed induced munchies are the worst, and a hungry Frank was no one to be messed with. So here he is in an unknown room stuck in the worst part of being drunk and high.
“Here, have this.” A voice says and a water bottle appears in Frank's line of sight.
“Holy fucking shit-” Frank jolts, then winces from the sudden movement in his face as the pain spreads.
He definitely wasn't alone in the room.
“Woah, hey, don't move dumbass.” It's Gerard, leaning over Frank with one hand resting on his hip. “Drink that, you'll feel better. And lie back down.”
Gerard's voice is higher in pitch than what Frank was expecting. It's yellow, warm in hues and intertwined with shades of reds and pinks like a sunset with each word Gerard mumbles out. It's a far cry from the vocal fries he pulled out on stage. He looks calmer now too, no longer enthralled by music or the violent attempt to feel up a guitar like a prom date. If it weren't for the headache permeating Frank's entire consciousness he would most likely talk Gerard's ear off and ask every question he could think of to keep the guy's attention. Ask about his guitar, when he learned to play, what's his favourite Pumpkins song, why does he play if he's bad at it, did Mikey pay Geoff to let him into the band? Though other pressing questions were on the mind too; did he know his eyes are a perfect mix of sea glass green and wood hazel, does he dye his hair that jet black or is it natural, are there any piercings or tattoos hidden under that oversized t-shirt and jeans and is Frank allowed to find out? Mentally he slaps himself out of that mindset. Now's not the time.
And for once Frank's brain to mouth filter actually works, which is a miracle his mom has obviously been praying for over the last twenty one years.
“Uh…Where exactly am I?”
“The green room.” Gerard smiles. “Well, it's not really er- Professional enough to be called that? Geoff calls it the back room, Ray calls it a crash pad.”
Gerard is really pretty when he smiles. Fuck, shut up, Frank needs to stop smoking weed at this rate.
“The guys and I, we brought you over here. Some fuckers started a fight right in the crowd and I saw you get knocked the fuck out - how's your nose by the way ‘cus that shit looked painful - and no one else was going over to check on you.”
“Thanks, man, really.” Frank replies.
“I mean I didn't really know what to do. Am I meant to drive you to the ER? Oh fuck, I shouldn't have let you sleep! You could have a concussion or something. Fuck, I could've killed you, you wouldn't be thanking me much then.”
Okay so Gerard likes to talk a lot, more than Frank. He's totally met his match. Though Frank's starting to think either Gerard or Mikey is adopted because there's no way Mikey would ever talk someone's ear off this rapidly. He's sure he doesn't need to go to the hospital at least - Frank's had concussions before and they've never felt like this, he's just drunk. And for the state of his nose? It'll heal once he sets it back in place with a hard push, it always does, which is significantly healthier for his wallet without all those hospital bills. They charge for space just to breathe in ERs.
Gerard scoots closer to Frank now, he perches on the edge of the couch like a cat and uses the water bottle to wet a napkin. Frank watches intently and tries desperately not to say a word just in case his voice cuts all of this too short. The napkin is brought up to his face, his nose, mouth and eyebrow, as Gerard cleans away most of the blood that's turned brown and has become a layer of disgusting crust on his skin. The guitarist's touch is gentle but firm. Frank can't remember the last time someone else cleaned him up after a fight or a fall from a BMX bike jump off a bus. Even when he was twelve and shattered the bones in his leg there hadn't been anyone sitting in the hospital room with him besides a nurse on too low a pay - his parents occupied with finalising their divorce and settling custody disputes.
It's warm here in this makeshift green room and all Frank wants to do is sleep.
“I need to-” Frank winces when Gerard presses too hard on his nose. “I should head home.”
“Yeah? Yeah, I'll drive you. What's your address?” Gerard's already reaching over to his leather jacket - oh, that's who it belongs to - for his car keys.
Frank's about to give his address over when he remembers that it's not exactly the best place to nurse a hangover and broken nose. He remembers Pete and Mikey in the crowd and decides anywhere but his apartment is the best place.
On any other normal night he would ask Joe, but by now he's definitely gone home, or Andy; but Frank had overheard a phone call from Andy's girlfriend saying the electricity in their apartment went out so that's a bust too. Frank's mom's house is too far, it would just be rude to ask Gerard to drive that long at this time of night. His Dad's place is off limits now that his grandpa lives in the spare room permanently and Frank's step mom forbids anyone from sleeping on her plush sofa. Especially Frank of all people. There's a chance he could scrape together enough money for a motel room for the night, maybe if he asks nicely Gerard would lend him a few bucks and Frank would rattle off with ‘I will definitely pay you back, man, I'll get it back to you within forty eight hours I swear’. He would probably get murdered in a motel though.
Gerard takes notice of how long it's taking Frank to answer such a simple question. He must look like a computer shutting down with a blank look on his face.
“You could come back to mine.” Gerard says.
Frank's starting to think he's being set up.
“No, nah I can't ask that of you. I'd be- I'd be totally intruding. You don't even know me! I could- I dunno, I could be an axe murderer or one of those freaks who collects baby pictures from people's houses to collage into their perfect family. I could snore in my sleep.” Frank rambles on.
“I don't think I'll have to worry about that. Can't imagine you'd admit to anything if it were true.” Gerard holds a hand out to help Frank stand from the couch. “Ah shit, I forgot, I'm Gerard by the way. I was playing in the first band tonight. Figured you should know that much before I kidnap you.”
Frank feels like a piece of shit for not introducing himself to Gerard. He kind of just assumed Gerard already knew who he was? Mikey talks about his brother all the time, so surely he would've spoken about Frank to him too, right? Even if that is true Gerard wouldn't necessarily know what Frank looks like.
“Frank,” he replies. “I'm Frank, just Frank I guess. No band or anything.”
The possibility of Gerard being the axe murderer in this scenario didn't exactly cross Frank's mind. He's too drunk to care - Linda won't like that attitude - or another truth he doesn't want to admit is that he's so turned on by Gerard that going home with him is straight out of a bad porno dream Frank's had about four hundred times just this month. Tonight has to be his lucky night even if it leaves his face permanently disfigured.
“I like your tattoos.” Gerard gestures to Frank's neck.
Instinctively he brings his own hand up to touch the scorpion that rests there. It's still new, sometimes Frank forgets it's there.
Frank mumbles out a ‘thanks' and turns his face away from Gerard, hoping to hide the rush of blood flooding into his cheeks. God, he must look like a fuckass school girl talking to her crush. He's way too embarrassing to be out in public anymore.
— — —
Luke Skywalker is staring up into Frank's eyes. These bed sheets are not his; these are Star Wars sheets and honestly Frank's only ever seen Return of the Jedi while high on a stranger's bean bag chair probably around junior year. A blond twink from the seventies near his crotch, however, is the least of Frank's worries.
He has no idea where he is, or how he got here.
There seems to be a running trend in Frank's life, and he swears it's not on purpose. But the last thing Frank remembers is being in the middle of a crowd, being shoved around as Andy tries to hand him another beer. Maybe it was the third beer of the night? The taste in his mouth is just proof that Frank very quickly moved onto more than just Budweiser. Every single part of his body aches, from the banging rage in his skull to the simple feeling of tired muscles in his ankles, so moving his head up to look around currently seems like an impossible task.
What's even more concerning is that Frank's only wearing a t-shirt - it's a graphic tee of David Bowie in The Labyrinth, so yeah, not his - and his underwear. Where the fuck did his jeans go? Though unexpectedly he doesn't feel any of that gross sheen across his skin usually associated with a one night stand.
A wave of calm floods over Frank as he hears the soft humming of someone in the room. It grows, evolves slowly into words spoken softly under someone's breath. Frank closes his eyes and basks in the sound of it. He remembers pinks and yellows from the night before but this is different, it's shifting from pink to maroon to purples with accents of midnight blues. He remembers hearing a voice that felt so much like a sunset, and now he's heading that same voice flow so sweetly into star speckled night skies.
“Your voice is pretty.” Frank drawls, not realising he's speaking out loud.
The quiet singing stops suddenly. Frank already misses it, he's already writing out prayers asking for it back. He groans, lifting himself to sit up in the bed, and catches sight of the stranger across the room. He's tall, he's hot, he's standing in front of a microwave in a tiny kitchenette built into the wall. The guy's face is familiar and it helps to bring back faded memories from last night.
“Shit, Frankie, did I wake you?”
Apparently the stranger knows his name.
“Don't stop singing,” Frank says, the man hums in response. “Didn't wake me, I liked hearing it.”
The colours come flooding in bright and vibrant, more opaque than they were before, when this man of Frank's secret gay dreams starts recounting words to a song Frank doesn't recognise. It's hard to find any lyrics Frank can't pinpoint. Looking at the kitchenette and back to the bed he's in, then back and forth once more to check, Frank finally connects the dots to what happened last night - he definitely had sex with the guy with the pretty voice.
And he's such an asshole. He doesn't remember any of that, now he has to act like he does in case he insults this stranger. What if the dude really enjoyed last night, remembered every second of it, and wants Frank to make some reference to what they did together? God he's so screwed. There is no way he's saving his dignity here.
The face, and hopefully a name, comes back to Frank. It's murkey, still, but slowly it creeps back into his mind like a helpful little nudge in the right direction. This guy was in that first band from last night. This was Mikey's older brother.
“Hey, uh, Jare- Gerard.” Frank hopes that's the right name. “Did we? Y’know… Did we sleep together last night?”
Gerard gives him a quick glance, it's not pity or even disappointment, but more of a ‘wow, you were really out of it last night’ kind of look. At least he isn't pissed that Frank doesn't remember it.
“No.” Is all Gerard says.
Oh. Well, that's good isn't it? That's a coffin like weight lifted from Frank's shoulders in just a single syllable. And yet Frank feels so dissatisfied with the answer - somewhere deep inside of him hoped Gerard would've said yes. Maybe then he'd get to do it again and remember it this time.
“How come I'm in your bed then?” Frank asks.
“Well you were off your face last night, kept bugging me to use my shower so I let you - stressed me the fuck out thinking you'd slip and smash your skull in, so a thanks would be appreciated - and then stole my favourite t-shirt and collapsed onto my bed.”
“And you slept…”
“On the couch.” Gerard points with a metal spoon over to a two seater with a blanket haphazardly tossed over it.
It all looks so obvious now that Frank is actually paying attention.
A plate of eggs is presented to Frank; Gerard smiles wide and sits next to him on the bed. There's no chairs in here, the room is too small. Frank looks around more and notices it's just a basement with only one window at the very top of one of the walls. He should feel claustrophobic - he doesn't.
“Don't take this the wrong way, man, but your voice is really damn good. Why the fuck have they got you on guitar?” Frank asks as he scrapes the eggs.
“My brother always says that. He thinks I can't play for shit but my singing is up there with Patti LuPone.” Frank had no idea who that was, but Gerard seemed happy with it.
Shit. Frank forgot about Mikey.
“Fuck, shit, I forgot to call Mikey. I need to call him. He's probably putting up missing posters for me already. Pete's writing my obituary as we speak.” Frank panics and grasps around for his phone, though it's probably out of text credit.
The cogs in Gerard's head click into place. It takes him just as much time to figure shit out as it does for Frank. Frank also forgot he didn't tell Gerard who he is to Mikey.
“You're Franklin. Mikey's college roommate.” Gerard says.
“It's just Frank.”
“Oh. Really? Mikey always calls you Franklin.”
“He does it to annoy me.”
“So you're definitely not called Franklin?”
“No. What? I have my birth certificate, I can prove it. My mom has it, actually, not me.”
“You should call Mikey already, Frank.” Gerard reminds him.
One half an hour phone call later, and a smug look on Pete's face - Frank can hear it, he doesn't have to see it - tells him Mikey knew exactly where Frank had disappeared off to. He came to check on Frank in that green room last night and told Gerard to get Frank home safe, and outright said he had more important plans with Pete.
Mikey is always behind everything that happens in Frank's life these past two years. It's starting to creep him out. He tells Gerard how much of a freak his brother is; Gerard agrees.
“I mean it, Gerard, I think your voice is great. Do something with it, yeah?” Frank says.
They're both lying across Gerard's Star Wars bed sheets now, the box TV at the end of the bed playing episodes of the X Files on silent. Frank couldn't come up with a good enough excuse to leave Gerard's basement apartment so he figured he could just… stay a while. He rests his head on Gerard's shoulder. His hair is soft now, it smells sweet, they used the same shampoo.
Frank remembers everything from last night, well maybe not where Gabe disappeared off to, and decides having some sort of gay crisis in a former gay club basement is exactly something he would do. Written in his fate or something like that. So there's really no point in freaking out over it, not now at least. He can do that later when he's back in his own bedroom and the walls start looking far too empty without a second person taking up the small space.
“Can I give you my number?” Frank asks.
“Sure.”
“For like, to hang out. If I start a band and need a vocalist I'll need to be able to call you, y’know.” Frank explains.
“I'll give you my number.”
“Or if Mikey ever has an emergency I should contact you, family and all. I don't trust Pete to keep your brother alive.”
“Frankie,” Gerard sighs, but there's a laugh beneath it. “Take my number and just ask me out on a date already.”
Fuck, he should do that. That's such a good idea.
“You want that?” Frank asks, almost dumbfounded.
“I really want that.”
Gerard actually schedules a date on his calendar, a real paper one hung up in one of his kitchenette cupboards, circles it with a pen that says ‘Frankie’ and Frank can feel the aneurism bubbling up inside of him. That's so nerdy. It's so Gerard. Frank already knows he's head over heels for the guy despite only knowing him for twelve hours, most of which he was unconscious.
Mikey laughs when Frank eventually shows up in their apartment. But nonetheless he helps Frank choose which coffee shop to take Gerard to and which flavour was his favourite.
Maybe Mikey Way has his uses after all.