Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"C'mon, Mikey, get up! You don't wanna be late on your first day!" I said, nudging my brother's arm before leaving his room.

I headed back to my own room to finish getting ready. I'd already showered, so I threw on a Misfits t-shirt, my leather jacket, and some ripped skinny jeans. Paired it all with my trusty black Converse—y'know, the usual. After that, I smudged on some eyeliner for a smoky look and gave my hair a quick brush.

While Mikey hopped in the shower, I went downstairs to whip up some breakfast for the both of us. My mom's always too zonked out on pills to get out of bed before noon—or maybe later, who knows. Sometimes Grandma handles breakfast, but she had a doctor's appointment this morning and took the car. So now, it was up to me to get Mikey to school, then walk to my high school. It's not a super long walk, but it's definitely easier with a car.

"Are you nervous, Mikes?" I asked while we ate at the kitchen island.

"Yeah, a little."

"Don't be. You're cool, Mikey."

"No, I'm not, Gerard."

"Says who?"

"All the kids at my last school."

"Forget them," I said, waving it off. "You're starting fresh here. Nobody knows you yet, so don't worry about that crap. Just try to make some new friends."

"I guess."

I leaned over and kissed the top of his head. Mikey's been through a lot. He got bullied at his old school for being a geek—because he likes rock music, wears glasses, and is, well, scrawny. But he's stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He's always been there for me when I needed someone, even though he's just a kid. My kid brother. I don't ever want him to grow up.

"Go brush your teeth, and I'll finish up here. Then we'll head out, okay?"

"Thanks, Gee."

He shuffled off to the bathroom, and I finished cleaning the kitchen. I lit a cigarette and took a drag, grabbing our backpacks before we left.

As we walked to Mikey's school, I admitted, "I'm a little nervous too."

"Yeah, I can smell it," he teased, scrunching his nose.

"Oh, sorry, Mikey. I know you hate it, but you've gotta understand—this stuff calms me down."

"If you keep smoking like that, you're gonna wreck your voice. You won't be able to sing anymore."

"Yeah, but not for a while. Like, when I'm thirty or something. I'll deal with it then."

"You shouldn't stress about it. You're cool, Gee. They'll like you."

"Hope so."

We walked in silence for a few minutes until we got to Mikey's school.

"Here we are," I said, noticing how Mikey tried to hide behind me.

"Oh no, Mikey. Don't hug me—they'll think you're still a little baby," I joked, though seeing the sad look on his face made my chest ache.

"Go on," I said, patting his back with a smile.

"Bye, Gee. Good luck."

"Good luck to you too."

I watched him disappear into the building, looking so small compared to the swarm of kids. He'd told me the place was scarier than his last school—bigger, busier, more overwhelming. Poor guy. So alone. Just like me. But I'm older. I can handle it.

I walked to high school alone, a cigarette dangling from my lips, my nerves eating at me. When I got there, I flicked the cig to the ground and headed straight for the main entrance. The place was massive and looked... nice. Too nice. There was even a skate park off to the side, where a few guys were already messing around on their boards. It was still early, and I had to be here early today to deal with the new-student crap—schedule, locker, all that boring stuff.

After wandering a bit, I found the new student office. A young ginger lady greeted me, took my info, and handed over my schedule and a locker key.

First period was French, which I was actually excited about. Being on time wasn't the problem—it was finding the damn classroom. On the way to the lockers, I fiddled with the padlock, trying to get the combination right. That's when I noticed the hallway suddenly clearing.

A bunch of skater guys swaggered in, taking up all the space. Leading the pack was this small guy covered in some tattoos and piercings, rocking a Metallica t-shirt. He looked... really good. Like, distractingly good. Next to him was a blonde punk girl holding his hand, and behind them were a few more skater types who probably hung out with him.

I shoved my books into the locker, hearing the bell ring, and the hall emptied fast. Almost.

Except for him.

There he was, still leaning against his locker, saying goodbye to the blonde girl like they were never gonna see each other again. Full-on kissing in the hallway. She left, and he stayed there, totally unbothered about being late.

I figured he'd know his way around, so I worked up the nerve and went over to him.

"Hey, dude, sorry to bother you. I'm new, and I have French first period. Can you help me out?"

He glanced at me, not rushed at all. "Uh... yeah, I can. Lemme check something. I think I have that too."

He grabbed a crumpled-up schedule from his messenger bag, glancing at it lazily. "Oh, yeah. C'mon, I've got it too."

Relief flooded me. At least I wasn't totally lost anymore.

When we got to the classroom, the vibe was still chaotic—everyone catching up about their summer or whatever. I grabbed an empty desk by the window, my favorite spot for zoning out, and he slid into a seat behind me in the corner.

"Iero! Long time no see," some guy called out to him.

I half-turned, pretending not to listen too hard.

"Yeah, man," the skater replied casually. "Sorry I couldn't make it to your party last week. Had stuff going on, y'know."

"Stuff like Haley?" the other guy teased.

"No, dude. I would've brought her, but I was with someone else. She was boring as hell—didn't like parties—so yeah, that's over."

"So... you and Haley, serious or what?"

"I don't know, Brendon. It's complicated."

"Bonjour à tous, asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaît," the teacher called out, shutting everyone up as the lesson finally started.

The teacher got things started, and Brendon moved to the other corner of the room. I could still hear enough to confirm that the guy behind me was kind of a jerk—and straight. Great.

Mr. Harper, our French teacher, launched into the usual first-day spiel about how the class would work and what he expected. Then came the part I always hated: introductions. We had to stand in front of the class and introduce ourselves in French.

Some students managed okay, but most butchered it. Then the teacher called the small guy.

"Frank Iero, your turn."

I heard him let out an annoyed sigh before dragging himself up from his seat, hands shoved in his pockets. He made his way to the front of the class like he couldn't care less.

"Uh... Bonjour, je m'appelle Frank. Frank Iero. Je suis... shit. Mr. Harper, how do you say sixteen?"

"Seize, seize, Iero. We covered that last year. Also, it's not je suis, it's j'ai. Sit down, Iero."

Frank rolled his eyes and shuffled back to his desk, slumping into his seat like he couldn't wait for this to be over.

After a few more students, it was my turn. I stood up, introduced myself, and mentioned I was new. My French wasn't bad, and it earned me a few surprised looks, including one from Frank. Mr. Harper even complimented my level, which made me feel like maybe I wasn't a total outsider here.

Then came the groans.

"Alright," Mr. Harper said, holding up a hand to quiet everyone. "You're going to work in pairs to create a short story in French. You'll present it next class. And to keep things fair, I'll assign the pairs based on your levels."

I breathed a sigh of relief—at least I wouldn't have to awkwardly find a partner. The rest of the class, however, was less thrilled, grumbling at the news.

"Let's see... Urie with Ross, Lavigne with Martinez, Leto with Toro, Iero with Way, Briar with Saporta..."

Wait, what? My stomach sank. I was paired with the guy who had no idea how to say sixteen in French. I turned around to look at him.

Frank was sprawled across his desk, eyes shut, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. But damn, he looked... cute.

I reached out and lightly touched his shoulder.

"Hey," I said softly.

He jolted awake, blinking at me in confusion.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"What?" he mumbled, sitting up straighter.

"We're partners for this assignment," I said.

"Uh... what do we have to do?" Frank asked, looking at me with that same lazy expression.

"A story for next class," I replied.

"Oh, okay," he said, then pulled out his phone, scrolling without a care in the world. After a moment, he glanced up at me.

"Yeah, sorry, man. I can't stay in this class any longer—someone's waiting for me outside. We can figure it out later or something."

I hesitated. "Uh, if you want, you can come to my house tonight? I don't know..."

"Yeah, yeah. We'll see, okay?" he said, already halfway out of his chair.

I nodded as he stood up and left the classroom before the bell even rang.

While everyone else was chatting with their partners, I found myself doodling in my notebook, trying to brainstorm ideas for the story. But my mind kept wandering. When the class finally ended, I checked the time and realized I needed to take one of my pills for my anorexia recovery.

I headed to the bathroom to fill my water bottle since I'd forgotten earlier. As I stood by the sink, the sound of loud moaning echoed from one of the stalls.

What the hell?

It was awkward as hell, but I figured they were too... busy to notice me, so I focused on filling my bottle. Just as I finished, the stall door creaked open, and a blonde girl stormed out, yelling behind her.

"For God's sake, Frank! I told you to go slower!"

My eyes widened as she stomped past me, leaving the door to the stall open. In the reflection of the mirror, I saw Frank—pants and boxers down, standing there in complete shock.

He locked eyes with me through the mirror.

"Oh shit, man! Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

SLAM.

He kicked the stall door shut, cutting me off.

"GO AWAY!" he shouted.

I grabbed my water bottle, popped my pill, and bolted out of there, feeling both embarrassed and amused. It wasn't my fault, but it was definitely burned into my brain now.

The rest of the day dragged. Math and physics were a blur of boring equations, and Frank wasn't in either class. I didn't make any friends, either. My mind kept drifting back to the bathroom—Frank's horrified expression, the way he yelled at me, and, well...his dick.

I also wondered how Mikey was doing. He didn't have a phone yet, so I couldn't check on him, which made me feel uneasy.

By the time lunch rolled around, I sat alone at an empty table near the wall. My tray was almost bare—just some mac 'n' cheese and a juice box. I put in my earbuds, letting my music drown out the noise around me.

Then someone tapped my shoulder.

I pulled out an earbud and turned to see who it was.

Frank.

"Oh man, about earlier... I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to—" I started.

"It's okay, it's not that," Frank said, brushing it off. "Just give me your phone number so we can work on that crap tonight at your place."

"Uh, okay," I said, pulling out my phone.

"How was your name again?"

"Gerard," I replied as he punched my number into his phone.

"Frank, by the way."

"I know that," I said, smirking a little.

"Done," he muttered, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Then he hesitated before adding, "Hey, why don't you come sit with us?"

It sounded like he was just being polite, maybe even feeling bad for me sitting alone, but I wasn't sure.

"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to read his face.

"Yeah, c'mon."

I grabbed my tray and followed him across the cafeteria. As we approached his table, I started feeling nervous.

"Guys, this is Gerard," Frank announced casually as we got there.

I gave a small wave and an awkward smile. "Uh, hey. I hope you don't mind if I—"

"Just sit, dude," Frank said, cutting me off.

I slid into the seat next to him. Haley, the blonde girl from earlier, was sitting across from Frank but wasn't glued to his side like before. Clearly, they were still annoyed with each other.

"Hi, my name's James," said a tall guy with messy brown hair.

"Hi, James. Nice to meet you," I said, offering him my hand.

James gave me a once-over and raised an eyebrow. "Why do you wear eyeliner?"

Before I could respond, Frank jumped in. "Why you gotta ask dumb shit like that?"

"It's fine," I said, shrugging. "'Cause I like it."

James didn't shake my hand and just looked away, so I awkwardly lowered it.

Another guy with short dark hair and a mischievous grin leaned in. "My name's Brendon," he said, giving me a little nod.

"Haley," the blonde girl said flatly.

"Bob," a blond guy with broad shoulders added.

"I'm Ryan," said a pale guy with light brown hair and strikingly soft features. He gave me a small smile. He was... really cute.

"Nice to meet you all," I said with a small smile as they turned back to their conversation.

"So, you all skate, or...?" I asked, trying to make small talk.

"Yeah, well, most of us," Brendon said, leaning back like he was the king of the table.

"Frank, James, Bob, and me. Haley just watches," he added with a grin.

"Yeah, just Ryan doesn't skate," Frank chimed in, almost teasing.

"'Cause he's a filthy faggot," James said, smirking like he thought he was funny.

The table went quiet. Ryan's face hardened, and he rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Haley," he muttered, standing up and walking off with her.

Frank slammed his hands on the table and stood up. "Why do you have to ruin everything, James?!"

James just smirked and leaned back in his chair. "Says the guy who couldn't fuck her well. What, you gonna hit me, Frank?"

I could see Frank tense up, fists curling at his sides. Before things got out of hand, I instinctively grabbed his wrist to stop him. He flinched at the contact but sat back down, breathing hard.

"Jeez, can't we have a chill lunch just once?" Bob said, shaking his head.

"It's not that deep, Frank. Relax, man," Brendon added, trying to diffuse the tension.

The table settled back into a tense silence.

"Sorry about that," Frank muttered to me, his voice low and full of regret.

"Don't worry about it," I said, giving him a reassuring smile.

We finished eating without much more drama, and soon enough, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Everyone split off to their classes, and the rest of the day passed in a blur.

After my last class, I swung by my locker to drop off some books and grab the ones I needed for home. As I walked out of the building, I lit a cigarette and started heading back.

When I got home, I stepped inside and called out, "Hello? Mikey, you here?"

"Hi, dear," my grandma's voice floated in from the living room. She was sitting on the couch, watching TV with a plate of cookies on the table beside her.

"Hey, Grandma. Where's Mikey?"

"I picked him up, honey. He's in his room, though he wouldn't even come out for my cookies. But look—these are for you," she said, holding up the plate with a warm smile.

"Oh, thanks," I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek and taking the plate.

I headed upstairs to my room, dropping my backpack and jacket on the floor. Grabbing my phone, I shot Frank a quick text with my address:

Hey, this is Gerard. Here's my address for tonight. Let me know when you're coming over.

Then I flopped onto my bed, nibbling on a cookie while waiting for his reply.

I knocked on Mikey's door, but the music was so loud he didn't hear me. After a few tries, I just pushed the door open.

He was lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow, shaking as he cried.

I turned off his stereo and sat down next to him, gently rubbing his back.

"Mikey, what happened?" I asked softly.

"They don't like me," he mumbled through his tears.

"Oh, come on, Mikey. It was just the first day," I said, trying to sound reassuring.

He turned over to face me, his face red and wet from crying.

"It's not gonna be easy at first," I said, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. "You just need to find the right people. Don't rush it."

"You sure?" he sniffled.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Come here."

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close and rubbing his hair.

"Grandma made cookies. They're really good. If you don't eat them, I'm gonna finish them all," I said with a small smile.

He wiped his eyes and got up, heading downstairs. A little while later, I heard him laughing on the couch with Grandma as they watched TV together.

I went back to my room and checked my phone.

"In 10 I'm there."

What?! I thought. He's coming now? It's only 5 p.m. I thought he meant tonight!

Panic set in. My room was a disaster—drawings everywhere, dirty clothes on the floor, an unmade bed. I scrambled to clean up, tossing clothes into a pile and shoving papers under my desk.

"Honey, someone's here!" Grandma called from the living room.

"Yeah, tell him to come up!" I shouted back.

Seconds later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Then Frank was standing in my doorway.

"Hey, Frank! Come in," I said, patting the spot on my bed next to me.

"Nice house, bro," he said, looking around.

"Thanks."

He sat down next to me.

"Is that your grandma?" he asked.

"Yeah, and the kid there is my brother."

"Cool. I wish I had a brother."

"No, you don't," I said with a grin.

"Well, I have a dog," he said.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Aww, that's so cool."

"You can come visit it whenever you want," he said casually.

"Are you inviting me over?" I asked, feeling my cheeks heat up.

"Well, you were the one who invited me over first," he teased.

"Yeah, but that's for homework."

"Hmm..."

A silence fell between us before I finally broke it. "What happened with Haley?"

He shifted a little, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. We always... you know, hook up like that. Oh—sorry, I don't know if you wanna hear about that."

"It's fine. I don't mind," I said, trying not to sound too eager.

"She texted me saying she wanted to blow me off, so I left class. She was waiting, and then one thing led to another, and we were... yeah. But then she said, like, slower, and I got confused. We don't usually... you know, go slow. Then she started crying and yelling at me and just stormed off. And there was this creepy guy watching the whole thing."

"Sorry about that," I said, feeling awkward.

"Doesn't matter," he said with a shrug, then smirked. "I know you liked it."

"What?" I felt my face burn.

"Are you gay, Gerard?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"I'm not like them," he said, his voice softer now. "I'm not gay, but I'm not a homophobic asshole, either. I think homophobia is gay." He laughed a little. "Ryan's gay, and that's why he's been so uncomfortable in the group. I'm pretty sure he's not gonna hang out with us again."

"So why do you keep hanging out with them if you don't like that?" I asked.

He hesitated, then shrugged. "'Cause I'm a coward. I don't want to be alone... or judged by them."

Silence.

"Are you sure you aren't gay?" I asked, biting my lower lip.

He glanced at me, his expression uncertain. "Kind of... I don't know. I haven't tried, so... I don't know."

"Wanna try?"

"What?" His eyes snapped to mine, wide and startled.

"So you are gay?" he added quickly.

"Yeah," I said, my voice steady.

He was quiet for a moment, then smirked nervously. "Let's try, though."

I reached out, cupping his face gently, and leaned in until our lips met. They fit together perfectly, the cold metal of his lip piercing brushing against me. I could taste the faint bitterness of beer and nicotine on his lips. The kiss started soft, hesitant, then grew deeper, more passionate.

But I pulled back, breaking the kiss.

"Wait," I said, walking to the door to close it.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice shaky.

"Just for privacy," I replied, locking it softly.

He looked so nervous, his eyes darting between me and the floor.

"You don't like it?" I asked gently.

"No... it's not that," he muttered.

"Then what is it?"

"I—" He hesitated, searching for words. "I really liked it. I'm just... confused."

I nodded, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "We don't have to do anything more if you don't want to."

"Just... don't take my shirt off," he said quietly.

"Okay," I reassured him. "Stand up, babe."

He obeyed, and I moved closer, kissing him again. My hands drifted down to his waist, fumbling with his belt buckle, then unbuttoning his pants. The kiss deepened, a mix of urgency and restraint, but I broke it again, searching his eyes for any sign of discomfort.

"Can I?" I asked, my hands hesitating at the waistband of his boxers.

He nodded, biting his lip, his cheeks flushed. Slowly, I got on my knees, sliding his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His erection was right in front of me, glistening with precum at the tip. I felt a rush of excitement, my breath hitching as I wrapped my hand around him, stroking softly before replacing it with my mouth.

I started slow, running my tongue along the length of him, careful with my teeth. Frank's reaction was immediate—his mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he let out a shaky moan.

"Oh shit, Gerard," he gasped, his voice trembling. "Fuck..."

Encouraged by his reaction, I quickened my pace, using my tongue to tease him. His breathing grew ragged, and his fingers found their way to my hair, gripping tightly.

"Gerard—" His voice broke. "I think I'm gonna—"

I sped up, taking him as deep as I could until he tensed and spilled into my mouth. I swallowed most of it, wiping the rest off with my tongue while making sure he was watching me. His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

"Shit," he muttered, pulling his boxers and pants back on before collapsing onto my bed. I leaned back, wiping my mouth and smirking at him.

"Does this make me gay?" he asked, staring up at the ceiling.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe?"

"Fuck..." He let out a breathless laugh. "That was the best blowjob I've ever had in my entire life."

I chuckled. "Glad I could help."

Frank sat up, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know, though. I never felt like this with a girl—not just the sex, but... something else."

"Are you saying you have feelings for me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No! Shit, no." He groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I don't know, okay? This is all new to me."

"It's fine. We barely know each other anyway. Let's just... let this happen, figure it out as we go. You're cute, Frank. I like you."

Frank let out a nervous laugh, looking away. "Okay, fuck. Let's—uh—do that task or whatever."

"Seriously?"

"Look, I don't know a word of French. You do. Just make it yourself, and I'll... I'll pay you or something."

I smirked. "How exactly are you planning to pay me?"

He hesitated, flushing. "I don't know. Another blowjob? Whatever you want."

"Right now?" I teased.

"Hell no! I wouldn't even know what I'm doing."

"Guess you'll need to do some research."

"Shut up," he muttered, his face red.

"Make me, Frank Iero."

He leaned in, shutting me up with a kiss, climbing onto my lap. The friction between us drove me wild, but before we could take it any further, the door swung open.

"Fuck." I pushed Frank off me, and he tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.

"Oh crap, sorry!" Mikey stood in the doorway, looking at us wide-eyed. "I just needed your colored pencils, Gerard."

"Go ahead, buddy," I said quickly, trying to play it cool.

Mikey's eyes darted to Frank. "Uh... hi?"

Frank waved awkwardly. "Hey, Mikey."

Mikey frowned. "I don't want to be rude, but I'm not touching that hand. I'm Mikey."

And just like that, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Frank groaned from the floor. "Okay, I'm heading out. You don't mind doing the task alone, right?"

"Nope. I've got a ton of ideas already. Just practice your pronunciation, okay?"

Frank smirked, standing up and brushing himself off. "Sure thing, professor."

He gave me a wink before heading out, leaving me with a racing heart and an unfinished homework.

"Whatever, asshole. See you tomorrow," Frank said as he left my room—and my house.

I stayed in my room for a while, replaying everything that had just happened. My heart was still racing, and my lips still tingled. Eventually, I headed to the kitchen to make a fruit smoothie.

Grandma was in the downstairs bedroom, taking care of Mom. Ever since Mom's depression and bipolar disorder worsened, she'd been staying downstairs. The fear of her falling and breaking something kept us all on edge.

Mikey was at the kitchen island, hunched over his homework. He looked up briefly as I started cutting apples.

"Is he your boyfriend, Gerard?" Mikey whispered, careful not to catch Grandma's attention.

"No, Mikey," I said, rolling my eyes. "He's not."

"Then why were you kissing him?"

I froze for a second, then shrugged. "Because... maybe we like each other?"

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I don't know for sure. It's just a possibility."

"So you like him?"

"I barely know him," I replied, dropping the chopped apples into the blender. "But yeah, I guess I find him attractive."

"Do you think you'll love him? Like you loved Bert?"

That name felt like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and my pulse quickened.

"I don't know," I said softly, setting the knife down. "I don't think so. Bert was... special. He fucked me up, made me do shitty things, but I fell so hard for him."

"Why'd you love him if he made you do bad things?" Mikey asked, frowning.

I turned to face him, my throat tightening as I tried to explain. "He made me feel special, Mikey. You don't choose who you love."

"You think you'd like to love him?"

"Who?"

"Frank, dumbass."

I smirked, shaking my head. "I don't know yet, Mikey. Why are you asking me all this?"

"I'm just curious." He shrugged.

I sighed, finishing the smoothie and pouring it into a glass. I took it to the couch, laying back as I sipped. Grandma was chatting with Mikey while prepping dinner, her voice a comforting hum in the background.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a text from Frank.

Frank: My dick misses you.
Me: So sad.
Frank: How's the story?
Me: I haven't done it yet. Calm down, it's not due until Wednesday.
Frank: If you don't do it today, I can't pay you tomorrow.
Me: So bad. I'll have to wait.
Frank: Fuck you.
Me: You sound desperate to pay me.
Frank: Shut up.
Me: I could send you a pic of me 4 u 2 jerk u off
Frank: Yes, please.
Me: XD

I didn't send him anything, though. Let him wait—I liked keeping him on edge.

Back in my room, I changed into something comfortable and sat at my desk. The story came together quickly—vampires, love, and death. Totally my vibe. I even doodled on the back of the paper, writing our names next to it.

Honestly, the task was easy. I didn't know why I'd invited him over in the first place. But as I stared at his name, scrawled beside mine, I realized something.

I didn't regret it. Not one bit.

Chapter Text

FRANK'S POV

When I got home, Mom was passed out on the couch, an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table. My dog greeted me excitedly, and I decided to take him for a walk. I lit a cigarette as we strolled, the cold air waking me up a little. On the way back, I grabbed some groceries to make myself dinner—nothing fancy, just some microwave food.

Back in my room, I checked my phone. Still no picture from Gerard. That asshole. I sighed and resigned myself to watching gay porn on my laptop, partly out of curiosity and partly to—well, you know. I was clueless about all this, so I figured I might as well research. I even took one of those stupid "Are you gay?" tests. The result said I might be bisexual, but I wasn't convinced.

The next morning, I woke up groggy and tempted to skip school. But Gerard would probably be there, so I dragged myself out of bed. After a quick shower, I threw on a T-shirt, a hoodie, baggy jeans, and my Vans. In the kitchen, I found some leftovers, but my attention was drawn to the whiskey bottle Mom had left on the coffee table. I took a small sip—just enough to shake off the sleep—and headed out to catch the bus.

On the bus, I sat in the back between James and Haley. Haley leaned over, planting a kiss on me.

"Why do you taste like alcohol, Frankie?" she asked.

"I just had a sip this morning. I'm not drunk," I replied.

"It wouldn't surprise us," James chimed in. "What did you drink?"

"Wanna taste?" I teased, smirking.

"What the fuck, Iero?" James said, rolling his eyes, while Haley laughed.

"Aren't you mad at me, Haley?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes again. "Kinda. But I missed you."

I didn't miss her. I didn't want to kiss her anymore. I wanted Gerard. I wanted to kiss him, not her. He was hotter.

First period was art, and thankfully, Gerard was there. I came in a little late because I'd stopped to smoke by the skate park. Sliding into the seat next to him, I whispered, "Hey, Gerard."

"Hey," he whispered back. "Why are you late?"

"I was smoking."

"Why didn't you invite me?"

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Well, now you do." He passed me a sheet of paper.

"Here you go."

I glanced at it—it was the story. I didn't understand a damn thing, but I gave him a smirk. Then he passed me a Post-it.

"How r u gonna pay me?"

I scribbled a reply: "bjob bathroom 3rd floor 9:15"

It was 9:00. I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom, making it seem like a coincidence. Once there, I stood in front of the mirror, pretending to wash my hands but really just waiting for him. The door opened, and Gerard strolled in.

"Hello, motherfucker," he said, smirking.

I stepped into one of the stalls, and he followed, locking the door behind him.

"Did you do your research?" he teased.

"Yeah," I muttered as I unzipped his skinny jeans.

"Aren't you gonna kiss me first, or does that make you too gay?"

"Shut up," I snapped, pulling him into a kiss. It was passionate, messy, and electric. I pushed him against the stall wall and continued with his jeans, pulling them and his boxers down in one motion.

I dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth, feeling his body tense under my touch.

"Oh—Frankie," he moaned, his voice strained.

"Shit," he cursed, his head falling back as I worked him over.

His hands tangled in my hair, tugging gently as I continued. The sounds he made—soft curses, desperate moans—sent a strange thrill through me.

When it was over, Gerard leaned back against the stall wall, catching his breath.

"Frank, that was so good," he said, his lips curving into a lazy smile. "You still need some practice, but it was good."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smirking. "Glad you approve."

"C'mon, man," I said, standing up and wiping my mouth.
"Kiss me, Frankie."

I leaned in, pressing my lips to his. I always had to stand on my toes to kiss him, which was kind of ridiculous but also kind of cute.

"I like you," he said softly.

"I think I might like you too," I whispered into his ear.

"We should skip today," I added, pulling back to look at him.

"Yeah, but we can't go to my place. My mom and grandma are there, and if they catch me, I'll be grounded for the rest of my life," he said with a small laugh.

"So let's go to mine. It's a mess, but it's just me and my dog."

"Let 's go."

We slipped out through the gym door. It was easy; I'd done it a thousand times.

When we got to my place, I felt the need to apologize immediately.
"Sorry for the mess," I said, kicking aside some empty liquor bottles and cans. Gerard didn't say anything, but I could see the concern flicker across his face. Then my dog came bounding up, tail wagging, and Gerard's expression softened.

"Looks like somebody likes me," he said, crouching down to pet my dog.

"Follow me," I said, leading him to my room.

It wasn't much better than the rest of the house—clothes were strewn everywhere, and my bed wasn't made—but it felt like home to me.

"You play guitar?" he asked, noticing Pansy propped up on her stand.

"Oh, yeah. Her name's Pansy."

"You named your guitar?"

"Yeah, it's not that weird," I said, shrugging.

"Can you play something for me?"

"Sure."

I grabbed Pansy and started strumming one of my favorite Misfits songs. I wasn't expecting Gerard to start singing along, but he did. His voice was incredible—smooth and rich, with just the right amount of rasp. It gave me chills.

"Damn, you sing so well," I said, genuinely impressed.

"And you play so well," he replied, smiling as he reached up to caress my cheek. His fingers brushed my lips, and my heart skipped a beat.

I set Pansy back on her stand and leaned in, pressing my lips to his again. We tumbled onto my bed, kissing and laughing as my hands roamed across his back. I let my lips trail from his jaw to his collarbone, then to his neck, where I sucked gently, leaving a hickey that made him moan softly.

The tension between us grew as I felt him press against me, my own jeans tightening. My hands slid to the hem of his shirt.

"Lift your arms, babe," I murmured.

"Only if you take yours off too," he teased.

"It's... different, I—"

"C'mon, Frankie. Whatever the reason is, I won't mind right now. We'll talk about it later," Gerard said softly, his voice steady and reassuring.

I nodded, swallowing my hesitation. "Okay, then."

He lifted his arms, and I pulled his shirt off, revealing his pale, slender torso. He was breathtaking in a way that felt raw and unfiltered, his confidence somehow both intimidating and intoxicating.

Then he reached for the hem of my shirt.

I hesitated, my chest tightening as the scars and stories they carried threatened to surface. But when he looked at me, it wasn't with judgment—it was with curiosity, with warmth. Slowly, I raised my arms, letting him slide my shirt off.

His gaze lingered on my tattoos, tracing the designs with his fingers like he was memorizing every line and shadow.
"Those tattoos are really hot," he said, his voice low and filled with genuine admiration.

His hands explored my bare chest, his touch firm but tender. When he leaned down, his lips brushed over my skin, and I couldn't hold back the soft sounds escaping my throat. Every kiss, every flick of his tongue sent shivers through me, making me feel seen in a way I never had before.

He pulled me back onto the bed, positioning himself on top of me. His hands worked quickly, unbuckling his belt and tossing it aside. His clothes followed—shoes, socks, pants, boxers—landing in a messy heap near the bed.

"Do you have condoms?" he asked, his tone half-playful, half-serious.

"Of course, motherfucker. First drawer, with the lube," I said, nodding toward the nightstand.

He smirked, shaking his head as he retrieved them. "You're fucking ready, aren't you?"

"Ready to fuck," I shot back with a grin.

Gerard knelt down, his hands deftly undoing my jeans and sliding them off along with everything else. He added my clothes to the growing pile on the floor.

"Well," he said, rolling the condom onto himself with a practiced ease and that same confident smirk, "I'm gonna fuck you, badass."

"Shit, I never imagined I'd be the one bottoming," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and excitement.

"Never say never," he teased, grabbing a couple of pillows and sliding them under my lower back.

He coated his hands with lube, the cool sensation making me gasp as he touched me. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if testing my limits.

Then I felt the first finger, tentative but steady. I flinched slightly at the unfamiliar pressure, but his free hand rested on my thigh, grounding me.

"You good?" he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Yeah," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He worked gently, adding more lube and another finger, stretching and preparing me with care. It was new, a little overwhelming, but the way he looked at me—with a mix of desire and tenderness—made it all feel okay.

"Fuck, Jesus Christ—my virginity," I muttered, half-joking through the intensity.

"Oh, shut up. I didn't know you were Catholic," he teased, his laugh low and breathless.

"I'm not, motherfucker," I shot back, smirking despite myself.

He laughed again, the sound melting into a groan as he leaned down to kiss me.

He chuckled and then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to my jaw before adding another finger. The stretch was new, a mix of discomfort and pleasure that made me shiver.

"Shit," I moaned, feeling him move his fingers inside me, careful and deliberate.

Then, I felt the tip of him. My breath hitched.

"Oh—Gee... fuck," I gasped, gripping his arm for support.

"Relax, Frankie," he whispered, his voice soft but commanding.

Slowly, he pushed in, filling me inch by inch. My body tensed, but his free hand rested on my thigh, grounding me. He felt warm, almost unbearably so, and as he began to move, a shiver ran down my spine.

He set a slow rhythm at first, his hips pulling back and then pressing forward again.

"Oh, Frankie," he moaned, his head tilting back, hair falling into his face.

I held onto his arm tighter, desperate for stability.

"I'm gonna need my arm, baby," he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk.

Reluctantly, I let go and instead gripped the blankets beneath me. With one hand steadying himself, Gerard reached between us and started to stroke me, his movements firm and sure.

"Fuck, Gee, you're so good—" My voice broke into a whimper as he hit a spot inside me that sent sparks through my body.

He groaned, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he found it again.

"God, Frankie," he breathed, his voice strained. "You're so tight—so good."

The pace quickened, and my moans grew louder, the pleasure building with every thrust.

"I'm fucking close, Gee," I gasped, my head falling back against the pillow.

"Hold on, babe," he said, his voice tight as he drove into me faster, deeper.

I couldn't. The pleasure was too much, and with a final, broken moan, I came, spilling over his hand, his stomach, and my own.

"Fuck," Gerard groaned, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release. Moments later, he let out a low, guttural moan and collapsed against me, his chest heaving as he pulled out carefully. He removed the condom, tied it off, and tossed it into the trash bin beside my desk.

He collapsed onto the bed beside me, his hand resting on my knee as we both tried to catch our breath.

"I loved it," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Yeah, me too," he murmured, turning to look at me with a lazy smile.

I sat up, glancing at the mess on both of us. "I'm gonna clean myself up—I'm a mess right now."

"Let me help you," Gerard said, sitting up and brushing his hair out of his face.

We made our way to the bathroom together. Grabbing some wet towels, I started cleaning him up, and he did the same for me, the silence between us comfortable, almost intimate.

As he worked, his eyes lingered on my chest, his hand hesitating for a moment. "I saw them," he said softly.

"Yeah, I figured." My voice was quiet, guarded.

"Why?"

I let out a shaky breath, feeling my walls go up. "Look, I really don't want to discuss it right now, okay? I just... I deal with my shit that way. It's not a big deal."

"Frankie, I just want to help you," he said, his tone earnest. "It's not the best way, and you know that. I've done shitty things to deal with my stuff too."

His words made me pause. "What did you do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I drank. I did drugs. I starved myself," he admitted, his voice cracking slightly.

"Why?" I asked, the concern evident in my tone.

"To deal with my shit," he said simply, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm seeing a therapist now, taking meds. But it's so damn slow, Frankie."

"You'll have to be patient, Gee," I said, my hand brushing his arm lightly.

"Yeah, I guess so." He sighed, lifting his head to meet my eyes.

"You're clean now," he said softly, pecking my lips.

"You too. Thank you," I murmured, leaning into him just slightly, feeling safe in a way I hadn't in a long time.

"Let's go put our clothes back on—it's kinda weird sitting around like this," I said, breaking the silence with a small laugh.

"You don't like seeing me naked?" Gerard teased, raising an eyebrow.

"I love it, honey. But if you don't get dressed, I'm gonna get really horny again," I admitted, grinning.

That got him moving. We both slipped back into our clothes, the intimacy of the moment still hanging in the air.

As he sat by my desk, staring out the window, I rummaged through my nightstand for a pack of cigarettes. "Wanna smoke, Gee?"

"Sure," he said.

I lit one for him, holding his chin gently as the cigarette hung from his lips. His eyes locked on mine, and for a second, the world felt still.

"Where are you going?" I asked when he suddenly got up, heading toward the door.

"You don't smoke outside?"

"Nope. Come here."

He hesitated but eventually sat down beside me on the floor, both of us leaning back against the bed.

"Your room's gonna smell like it," he pointed out.

"I know. My mom doesn't care. She's too busy being a drunk."

His brows knitted together. "I'm sorry, Frankie."

"It sucks. When she's not 'working,' she's passed out, yelling at me, punching me, or hooking up with some random guy—sometimes in her room, sometimes in the goddamn living room."

"Jesus... I'm sorry, man," he said, his voice soft. "You know, you can crash at my place whenever you need to, right?"

"Thanks." I took a long drag of my cigarette. "What about your mom? I didn't see her last time I was at your place."

"She was in her room," he admitted. "She's bipolar and depressed, so... she can't do a lot. Most of the time, she ignores me and Mikey unless she needs something or decides to yell at us. My grandma's there to help, but it's... rough. My dad? Total workaholic. I see him maybe once or twice a week, but he doesn't like me much anyway—he's homophobic, and my mom's not much better. My grandma's cool with it, though."

"That's fucked up," I said, exhaling smoke.

Gerard nodded. "Yeah. That's why you cut yourself?"

"What?" I froze, my cigarette paused mid-air.

"Is it because of family stuff?"

I sighed. "Yeah... I guess so. My dad left us when I was twelve. Everything just fell apart, and cutting became my way to numb the pain. It still is, sometimes."

"Do you miss him?"

"Sometimes." My voice cracked as I felt a tear slip down my cheek. "He taught me how to play guitar, and all my music taste is because of him. But he was a dick to my mom, and I guess he didn't love me enough to stay. He left without saying goodbye, and I never saw him again."

I rested my head on Gerard's shoulder, seeking comfort in his presence.

"What about you?" I asked, breaking the silence. "The things you said in the bathroom... what happened?"

He hesitated, taking a drag from his cigarette before speaking. "I'm from Summit. I lived there until a few weeks ago."

I nodded, urging him to continue.

"When I was in middle school, I was... fat. Chubby, awkward, and obsessed with comics and rock music. Easy target, right? The kids at school bullied me constantly. And I've always been kinda feminine, so, you know... the 'fat emo faggot' label stuck."

My chest tightened at his words, but I stayed quiet.

"So, when I was thirteen, I started starving myself. I'd eat once a day—sometimes not at all—and when I couldn't help it, I'd puke up whatever I ate. I lost a lot of weight fast. Suddenly, people liked me more. I had more friends. Guys were interested in me."

He paused, staring at the floor.

"I started dating older guys—eighteen, twenty-six. They obviously just took advantage of me, but I felt loved for the first time in my life. Or at least I thought I did."

"Then I met this guy, Bert, when I was fourteen. He was seventeen, went to my school, and had this whole rockstar vibe. He had a band, and I fell hard for him. I did everything to make him notice me, and eventually, I did."

I felt a twinge of jealousy but pushed it aside.

His voice grew quieter.

"We dated for a while. Fucked. Got high and drunk together. He made me try all kinds of things—drugs, parties, whatever. I thought he was just being nice. That he loved me as much as I loved him."

Gerard set his cigarette aside, his hands trembling slightly.

"But Bert had a lot of issues—cops, parents, addiction. On his eighteenth birthday, we almost died in a car crash. He was driving high and drunk. The cops found cocaine and weed in his truck. I was with him, so they assumed the worst. He was sentenced to jail. His parents couldn't afford bail. My parents were furious, and they refused to help. Everyone blamed him, including me."

I noticed his voice breaking and reached for his hand.

"The day after his sentencing, he overdosed on pills. I found him—dead in his room."

Tears streamed down Gerard's face as he buried it in my chest, his body shaking with sobs.

"I'm so sorry, Gee," I whispered, wrapping my arms around him and kissing the back of his head. "It's okay, baby. I'm here. You can cry all you want."

I stroked his hair gently, letting him release everything he'd been holding in.

About five minutes passed before he looked up at me, his red-rimmed eyes meeting mine.

"I don't want another boyfriend of mine killing himself, Frank," Gerard said seriously. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a deep vulnerability.

I froze. My chest tightened with guilt. I'd tried to kill myself—twice.

"I'm not—" I stammered, searching for the right words. "I promise, Gee. You make me happy." I leaned in and kissed his salty, nicotine-stained lips, hoping he'd believe me.

"So... am I your boyfriend?"

"If you want," he said softly.

"Yeah, I want to," I replied.

Holy shit. I was happy—so damn happy—but also completely freaking out. What the fuck? I'd never been in a serious relationship before. Everything was happening so fast.

Gerard let out a small sigh. "After Bert... I just spiraled, you know? Got so depressed. My eating disorder got worse, and I started drinking every chance I got. It was bad." He paused, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. "That's why we moved. My parents wanted me to get treatment here. And... I guess I'm still recovering."

"You'll get better, Gee. I know you will. You're strong," I said, squeezing his hand.

"I wish I felt that way," he muttered.

Then his eyes flicked to the clock. "Shit, what time is it? I have to pick up my brother. Wanna come?"

"Sure," I said, eager to spend more time with him.

We smoked and talked on the way to Mikey's school.

When we got there, Mikey was sitting on a bench, his head down. As we got closer, my stomach dropped.

"Who the fuck did this to you!?" Gerard exclaimed, pointing at Mikey's black eye.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath.

"No—no one," Mikey stammered, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Oh, c'mon, Mikey, don't—" Gerard was cut off when Mikey threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"Let's go to McDonald's, Mikey," Gerard said, still holding his brother close. "You'll get your toy and all that crap, okay?"

My heart melted at how gentle Gerard was with Mikey. It was... adorable.

As we walked to McDonald's, I offered to carry Mikey's bag.

Once we were seated, Gerard wrapped an arm around Mikey's shoulders, holding my hand with his other one under the table. Mikey seemed more relaxed now, munching on some fries.

"Hey, Mikey," I said, "if you tell me who did that to you, I promise I'll kick their ass."

"It's not important—don't worry," Mikey replied, brushing me off.

"It is important," Gerard said firmly. "I'm calling the school."

"I don't want to talk about it, okay!?" Mikey snapped, his voice rising.

"Okay," Gerard relented, his tone gentle.

When our food was ready, I grabbed the tray and set it down. Mikey dug into his Happy Meal, Gerard sipped his coffee (seriously, coffee and nuggets?), and I tackled my Big Mac.

"Mikey, I have to tell you something," Gerard said, breaking the silence.

"What?" Mikey asked through a mouthful of food.

"Frank's my boyfriend now," Gerard said casually.

I blushed so hard I could feel the heat on my face.

"Cool," Mikey said, nonchalantly.

Cool? Just... cool? Okay, that was easier than I expected.

Gerard and I locked eyes and burst out laughing like idiots. Mikey gave us a confused look but kept eating.

"Thanks, Gee," Mikey said suddenly, his voice small but sincere.

"No problem, kid," Gerard replied, ruffling his brother's hair.

"Let's go home. I have homework to finish," Mikey said.

"Alright, let's go," Gerard said.

The three of us walked back to the Way house, joking and telling funny stories. But as we got closer, my stomach churned. I remembered that my mom would probably be at home—with one of her "friends."

"Gee, can I stay over tonight?" I asked.

"Sure, babe," Gerard said without hesitation.

"Don't be loud—I'm in the room next to his," Mikey teased, smirking.

"I won't," I teased back.

"What? Of course not! We're not gonna do that, Mikey!" Gerard said, his face flushing.

We all laughed as we approached the house. When Gerard knocked on the door, his grandmother opened it.

"Hi, Grandma," Gerard said. "I took Mikey and Frank to McDonald's, so that's why we're late."

"Oh, I didn't even notice, Gerard, dear," she said warmly.

Mikey headed straight to his room, leaving Gerard and me with his grandma.

"So, this is your friend, Gerard?"

I stepped forward, offering my hand. "I'm Frank Iero. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Helena, dear. The pleasure is mine," she replied, shaking my hand.

Gerard grinned. "He's more than a friend, Grandma. He's my boyfriend."

"Oh, I see," she said with a knowing smile. "Well, I hope you don't get my grandson tattooed like you."

I laughed. "Don't worry. Needles scare the shit out of me." He said.

Gerard took my hand and led me upstairs.

"Stay here in my room for a bit, okay? I'm gonna check on Mikey—and my mom. I'm still worried about him."

"Go ahead," I said, giving him a reassuring nod.

I stood there, taking in Gerard's room. It was just as chaotic as the last time I'd been there, but I loved it. The walls were covered with posters of bands I adored, his bed was piled with soft blankets and pillows, and his desk overflowed with drawings and notebooks filled with song lyrics. A bookcase packed with comics and books lined one wall, and there was a TV with an Xbox and a stereo surrounded by stacks of CDs. It was basically the room I'd always dreamed of having.

I grabbed one of his comics, kicked off my shoes, and sprawled out on his bed. It was a Star Wars comic—classic.

Then my phone vibrated. I groaned and glanced at the screen.

James: "Why haven't you come to skate, bro?"
Me: "I've been with Haley. Sorry."
James: "Why are you lying?"
Me: "I'm not."
James: "She's with Ryan rn."
Me: "Look, I'm not in the mood, okay?"
James: "You're never in the mood lately though. Are you on your period?"
Me: "Probably. Idk."

I sighed, tossed my phone aside, and went back to reading the comic. I didn't have the energy to deal with James right now, let alone tell him the truth.

Gerard came back into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the bed next to me.

"What are you reading, babe?" he asked, glancing at the comic in my hands.

"Star Wars," I replied.

"That one's cool. I've got the next parts, too," he said with a small smile.

"How's Mikey?" I asked, tilting my head to look at him.

"Still sad," he said, running a hand through his hair. He looked stressed.

"Poor kid," I murmured.

"Why does everyone have to be a piece of shit? Why can't they just be nice to him?!" Gerard whispered angrily, his fists clenching slightly.

"Come here, Gee," I said, pulling him to lie down next to me. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. "You're a great brother. You're doing good."

He let out a shaky sigh and relaxed a little against me. After a moment, he sat up. "I'm gonna change—these jeans are so tight."

"That's why I wear baggy," I teased.

"These are more emo, so..." he said with a smirk, starting to pull off his jeans right in front of me.

"You just gonna change right there?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's not like you haven't seen me naked before," he shot back, smirking again.

He swapped his jeans for a pair of red-and-black checkered pajama pants and slipped on a black tank top that showed the pale sides of his torso.

"That top looks hot on you," I said, smirking.

"Everything looks hot on me, Frankie," he replied smugly.

"And I thought I was the annoying one," I quipped.

He ignored me and rummaged through his drawers. "Here, you can wear this. It's the smallest shit I've got, but I'm sure it's still not gonna fit you well."

He handed me a black-and-white striped long-sleeved shirt made of soft, cool fabric and a pair of black sweatpants.

I changed right there in front of him, not caring if he looked. The clothes were oversized, just as he'd said, but I kind of liked it. He thought it was cute, too—so much so that he suddenly hugged me, lifting me off the ground and spinning me around the room.

"Gee, put me down!" I laughed, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

He finally set me down, grinning. "You're so light. I could do that all day."

I rolled my eyes, but secretly, I didn't mind one bit.

I sat on Gerard's bed, hugging one of his pillows tightly. The faint scent of him on the fabric was oddly comforting, but my thoughts were anything but calm.

"I need to talk to you about something," I said, my voice low.

"What is it?" he asked, pulling the chair from his desk and turning it around. He sat with his arms resting on the back of the chair, watching me closely.

"James texted, asking why I haven't gone to skate," I began, glancing at my phone on the bed.

"Uh-huh," he prompted, leaning forward slightly.

"I told him I was with Haley... because I'm not sure if I should tell him right now. I'm scared, Gerard," I admitted, biting my lip.

"Why?"

"Because I thought I didn't like guys. And he's such an asshole about all this gay stuff, and... shit, I don't know. I know I should stop being friends with him, but he'll make my life miserable if I do."

Gerard frowned, looking thoughtful. "I think you should talk to him. Look, if he's your friend, he should be okay with it. It's not like you're in love with him or anything. And if he turns you down, well... he's not a good friend, then."

"He knew I was lying when I said I was with her," I muttered, frustrated.

"You need to finish that thing with Haley," he said firmly.

"I know, I know. I will, okay? I'll do it tomorrow. I promise."

"Good. And when are you going to talk to James?"

"I don't know... I'll try to make it soon, but it's hard, Gee. Let's keep this discreet, like a secret, just for now. Please."

He sighed but nodded. "Okay, that's fine. But hey—you don't have to be ashamed of who you are, you know? I get it; I know how it feels. You're confused, and maybe lost in a lot of thoughts, but I'll be with you, okay? It'll be fine. You need to accept yourself first."

"Yeah, I guess so," I mumbled.

"Thanks, Gee," I added softly.

He smiled and stood up, stretching. "Wanna play something?"

"Yeah, what do you have?"

"GTA, Mario Kart..."

"Mario Kart," I said quickly.

"Okay," he said with a grin, popping the game into the Xbox.

"Ask Mikey if he wants to play. He's probably bored or still feeling sad." I said

"Yeah, good idea," He said, standing up.

Gerard didn't wait, though. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "MIKEYYYY!"

"WHATCHA WANT?!" his brother's voice echoed from downstairs.

"COME HERE!"

We heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and Mikey appeared in the doorway, looking curious.

"Wanna play Mario Kart with us?" Gerard asked, already holding out a controller.

"Oh, sure," Mikey said with a small smile, stepping into the room.

The three of us settled on the floor in front of the TV, and Gerard handed out controllers. I ended up sitting between them, the screen glowing with the colorful chaos of Mario Kart.

The vibe quickly shifted into something fun and lighthearted. Mikey chose Yoshi, Gerard picked Waluigi ("Because he's hot," he claimed), and I went with Luigi. The banter started immediately.

"Yoshi's a baby pick," I teased Mikey.

"Yeah, well, Luigi's just Mario's shadow," Mikey shot back with a grin.

"At least I'm not Waluigi," I said, glancing at Gerard.

"Excuse you, Waluigi is an icon," Gerard said, gasping in mock offense.

We raced through tracks, laughing as Mikey repeatedly knocked me off course with shells and Gerard drove straight off the rainbow-colored track on Rainbow Road. At some point, Mikey started laughing so hard he snorted, and Gerard followed with a laugh so loud it almost startled me.

After an hour or so, Mikey stood up, stretching. "Okay, I'm gonna go finish my homework."

"Need help?" Gerard asked.

"No, I got it. Thanks for letting me hang out," Mikey said, grinning a little before disappearing into the hallway.

Gerard turned to me once the door closed. "So, Waluigi kicked your ass, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "Barely. I was distracted."

"Excuses, excuses." He leaned back against the bed, looking at me with that soft, amused smile that always made my chest feel tight.

The light outside was starting to fade, casting a warm glow through his bedroom window. It was quiet now, just the hum of the Xbox and the faint sound of Mikey moving around downstairs.

"Thanks for today," I said, breaking the silence.

"For what?"

"For letting me be here. For making me feel okay about... everything," I said, glancing at him shyly.

He smiled and leaned over to kiss me softly. "You don't have to thank me for that, Frankie."

I didn't say anything after that. I just leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling content for the first time in what felt like forever.

After the gaming session, Gerard and I threw on our coats. The September air was crisp, and the evening sky was already a deep shade of indigo. Gerard led the way as we quietly climbed out his bedroom window and onto the roof.

"You done this before?" I whispered, nervously glancing at the ground below.

"Only a million times," he said, smirking. He settled on the edge of the roof, patting the spot next to him.

I sat down, my legs dangling over the edge, and watched as Gerard pulled out a pack of cigarettes. The faint glow of the streetlights lit his face as he flicked open his lighter, shielding the flame from the breeze.

"Want one?" he offered.

"Sure," I said.

Gerard lit my cigarette before lighting his own. I watched as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke, the way it curled and danced around his lips before disappearing into the cool night air. He looked effortless, like he belonged in some kind of moody art film..

As we sat there, I couldn't stop sneaking glances at him. The way he leaned back on his hands, his head tilted slightly upward. The cigarette hung loosely between his fingers, and his lips looked so soft as they pressed around it. My stomach twisted in the most confusingly pleasant way.

"What?" he asked, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I said quickly, looking away and taking another drag.

He let it slide, blowing out a puff of smoke and watching it drift into the night.

"I was thinking," he started, his voice quiet, "Mikey's birthday's coming up in a week."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He's been wanting a bass forever. I've been saving up to get him one. I mean, it probably won't be the nicest one out there, but still..." He trailed off, his expression softening as he stared into the distance.

"That's really thoughtful," I said. "He'll love it."

"I hope so. He's been through a lot lately. I just want him to have something that makes him happy, y'know?"

I nodded, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I like being here," I admitted, surprising myself.

"On the roof?" he teased.

"No, I mean... in this house. With you. With Mikey and your grandma. It feels warm, like... there's life here. My house is so quiet. And hostile, sometimes. It's just my mom and her... friends."

Gerard frowned, looking at me with those big, expressive eyes of his. "That sucks. You can come here anytime, you know that. My grandma loves feeding people, and Mikey likes having someone to hang out with."

I felt a lump in my throat and nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Before I could say anything else, Mikey's voice rang out from the kitchen window below. "Dinner's ready!"

Gerard groaned. "I don't wanna eat," he muttered, stubbing out his cigarette on the roof.

"You have to," I said gently. "You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry," he argued, but I gave him a look.

"C'mon, for me?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Fine. But only because you're cute."

The dining table was small but cozy, lit by a simple hanging lamp. Mikey sat on one side, happily digging into his plate, while Gerard's grandmother, Helena, sat at the head of the table. Donna, Gerard and Mikey's mother, sat across from me.

She looked tired, her movements slow, her expression vacant. I could feel the tension in the air as Gerard and I took our seats.

"Frank, dear, you don't have to be shy. Eat up," Helena said warmly, passing me a bowl of mashed potatoes.

"Thanks," I said, offering her a small smile.

Donna looked up, her eyes meeting mine briefly before shifting to Gerard. "Who's your friend?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp.

"This is Frank," Gerard said, not missing a beat. "He's... a friend from school."

"Hi," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Way."

She nodded, but didn't say anything else, focusing instead on her plate.

Gerard barely touched his food, picking at it with his fork. Mikey, on the other hand, was cheerfully recounting something about school, some science project that he had to do, trying to fill the silence.

"It's good to see Mikey smile," I whispered to Gerard when no one else was looking.

He gave me a small, appreciative smile but didn't say anything.

By the end of dinner, I felt both relieved and drained. As we cleared the plates, Helena patted my arm. "You're welcome here anytime, Frank," she said with a kind smile.

"Thank you," I replied, meaning it.

After we'd settled back into Gerard's room, the air felt a little heavy again. He sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

"For what?"

"For lying to my mom about us. I just... I don't know how she'd react, and I didn't want it to get weird tonight. But I feel bad, like I'm hiding you or something."

"It's okay, Gee," I said, sitting beside him and resting a hand on his knee. "Really. It's fine. I get it. I mean, I've got stuff to figure out too. Haley, James... It's not like I've been totally honest with everyone either."

He nodded, his fingers brushing against mine.

After a while, he yawned and stretched, flopping onto the bed dramatically. "Let's sleep, Frankie. We can't skip tomorrow too." He patted the spot next to him.

"Why not?" I teased, sliding under the blankets beside him.

"'Cause we have to present our story, remember?"

"Oh shit, it's true." I laughed, rubbing my face. "I'll improvise, don't worry."

"You just have to read," he reminded me, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling the blankets up over us.

"Whatever," I mumbled, leaning over to press a quick kiss on his lips.

He smiled sleepily. "Night, Frankie."

"Night, Gee."

The next morning started way too early for my liking. Gerard's alarm blared through the room. I groaned as I stirred awake, realizing just how tangled up we were. My leg was slung over his crotch, our legs intertwined, my arm under his shirt resting on his chest, and our faces so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"You're good at cuddling, Frank," he teased, reaching over to silence the alarm.

"What the fuck? Why do you wake up so early?" I grumbled, burying my face into the pillow.

"Well, I have to eat breakfast, or Mikey will snitch to Grandma. And I gotta take him to school," he said, already starting to stretch and untangle himself from me.

"Fuck. I wanna sleep more," I mumbled as he stood up.

"Where are you going?" I asked, squinting at him as he walked toward his closet.

"Shower," he said casually.

"Can I join you?" I offered, grinning lazily.

"Hell no," he replied with a laugh.

"Why not?"

"We'll get distracted, and we'll be late. Maybe another day."

I groaned and rolled my eyes. "You're too responsible. It kills me."

"I'm not washing my hair, so it'll take me, like, three minutes," he said, rummaging through his closet for clothes. "While I'm in there, you can pick something clean to wear. Hope you find something that fits."

"Thanks," I muttered, still trying to wake up.

After Gerard disappeared into the bathroom, I dragged myself out of bed. His closet was a chaotic mess, but he had so many cool clothes that I didn't care. I picked a red T-shirt with a black skull on it, some skinny jeans (which weren't so skinny on me, so I had to roll up the cuffs), and a black sweater with a skull design on it. While searching, I found a pair of fingerless gloves with skeleton designs on them. This guy had a thing for skulls. I loved it.

Then Gerard came back, dripping wet, a white towel slung low around his hips. My mouth went dry. He looked... hot.

"You got your outfit ready?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, you've got cool clothes," I managed to reply, trying to play it cool.

"Don't be shy—grab some clean underwear too," he said, smirking.

I flushed but did as he said, grabbing a pair of dark blue boxers and some socks. As I turned to leave, he dropped his towel to dry off. Of course, I couldn't help but glance.

"Use this towel. We're out of clean ones," he said.

Unable to resist, I slapped his ass with the towel and bolted out of the room.

"HEY!" he shouted after me, his voice echoing with laughter.

I took a quick shower, dressed in his clothes, and went downstairs. Gerard was in the kitchen with Mikey, making scrambled eggs and toast while sipping coffee.

"Good morning, Mikey," I greeted, sliding into a chair.

"Hi, Frank," Mikey replied, looking up from his cereal.

"I wasn't loud," I teased Gerard with a grin.

"Oh, shut up, Frank. We didn't do anything last night," Gerard shot back, rolling his eyes.

"I really don't wanna know," Mikey muttered, clearly done with us.

"Want some coffee?" Gerard asked, holding up the pot.

"Sure, thanks," I said, taking the cup he handed me.

Soon, he set plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the table. He took a smaller portion for himself, but it was something. I gave him a small smile of encouragement as we all ate. Gerard may have been too responsible for my taste, but he had a soft side that made mornings like this kind of nice.

"Go brush your teeth, Mikey, grab your backpack, and wait for us here," Gerard told his brother, already tidying up the table.

Mikey rolled his eyes but did as he was told, mumbling something under his breath as he walked off.

"C'mon," Gerard said to me, motioning for me to follow him. He led me into the bathroom and handed me a toothbrush still in its packaging. "This one's new. You can keep it."

"Thanks," I said, starting to brush.

While I was at the sink, Gerard leaned into the mirror and carefully started applying eyeliner. Watching him do it with such focus was mesmerizing. The way his hand moved, the small tilt of his head—it was like art in itself.

"The eyeliner suits you," I said between swipes of my toothbrush.

"You can borrow it whenever you want," he replied without looking away from the mirror.

"Maybe another day I'll try," I said, rinsing my mouth.

When he finished his eyeliner, he swapped places with me to brush his teeth. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment, unable to stop myself from admiring how good he looked even doing something as mundane as brushing his teeth.

Once we were both done, we headed back to his room to grab our bags. He slung his over his shoulder, and I followed him downstairs. Gerard grabbed his car keys off the counter and called out to Mikey, who was waiting by the door.

The three of us piled into Gerard's car, Mikey taking the backseat. Gerard turned on the radio, and soon we were all singing along to the songs, laughing when one of us got the lyrics wrong. It felt easy, natural—like I'd known them forever.

When we pulled up to Mikey's school, Gerard turned to his brother. "Have fun and I think Grandma is picking you up today, ok?"

"Okay," Mikey said, hopping out of the car.

Once Mikey was inside, Gerard turned to me with a mischievous smile. Before I could say anything, he leaned over and kissed me—deep and full of emotion. My hand instinctively went to his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was intense, his lips warm and soft against mine, and for a moment, the world outside didn't exist.

When we finally broke apart, I was out of breath, my head spinning.

"Wow," I managed to say, grinning like an idiot.

"Yeah," he said, his cheeks flushed, but he looked just as happy.

"Alright, let's go," he said, starting the car again and heading toward our school. As we drove, the music played softly, but all I could focus on was the lingering feeling of his kiss and the way my heart was racing.

Once we were at the parking lot, Gerard gave me a quick kiss before we both got out of the car, acting like nothing had happened. As we walked into the school, Haley was the first person to greet me. I could feel Gerard rolling his eyes before heading toward his locker, leaving me to deal with her.

"How are you, Frankie?" she asked, grabbing my arm.
"I'm fine, Haley," I replied, already dreading the conversation.
"Why are you ignoring my texts and calls?"

I sighed. "Look, Haley"—I pulled my arm away—"I don't want to keep this thing going. It needs to end. I'm sorry if I meant something to you, but I'm seeing someone else."

Her face twisted with anger. "So, I was just a fuck for you, Iero? Like all the other girls? I thought I meant something to you, you asshole!" Before I could say anything, she shoved me against the lockers with a loud crash. Everyone turned to look as she stormed off, tears streaming down her face.

At the end of the hallway, I caught Gerard's eyes. He looked at me for a moment before glancing away, giving me some space.

I ran after Haley, but she was already crying into Brendon's and James's shoulders by the time I caught up.

"I don't wanna see that jerk!" she sobbed, clinging to Brendon.

"What the fuck, Frank?" James said, pulling me aside.

"Look, I'm sorry, but this isn't your business," I said, trying to keep calm.

"She's our friend, so yeah, it is my business. And you're my fucking best friend, Frank. Why are you acting like this?"

"I just don't want to mess around with her anymore, okay? What's the problem?"

James glared at me. "The problem is you're being a complete idiot. Haley's different. She's not like the other girls you've hooked up with."

I sighed, trying to hold back my frustration. "Then go for her, James. I don't care. I'm seeing someone else."

"Who?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I can't tell you. Sorry." I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

"I'm supposed to be your best friend. You know that, right?"

"I know, but you wouldn't understand. I don't want to argue anymore, okay?"

He groaned, letting go of my arm. "Just... whatever. Go."

The bell rang, and I headed to French class, where Gerard was waiting. As I slid into my seat behind him, he turned to me.

"Are you okay? Did she hurt you?" he asked quietly.

"Not as much as I think I hurt her," I admitted, feeling guilty.

He gave me a small, pitying smile before the teacher started class.

When it was our turn to present, Gerard nailed his part, and the teacher praised his creativity. Meanwhile, my pronunciation got a few complaints, but at least the teacher appreciated the effort.

As we sat back down, Gerard leaned toward me and whispered, "You did great."

The rest of the day dragged. During chemistry, I paired with Ryan for an experiment.

"Hey, dude. How are you?" I asked.

"Fine, Frank," he said, sounding stiff.

"You're mad about the Haley thing, aren't you?"

"Yeah, man. She's my friend. I care about her."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt her... She knew it wasn't serious."

"She fell for you, though, and you didn't even try," Ryan said, shaking his head.

"Fuck." I hesitated. "Ryan... you're gay, right?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm dating a guy, okay?" I admitted in a whisper.

Ryan blinked at me. "Wait—you're dating a guy?"

"Yeah. I know how it sounds."

"Shit... well, congrats, I guess?"

"I don't know what to do, Ryan. James has been asking why I'm acting weird, and I'm scared he'll lose it if he finds out."

"Forget him. Screw them all."

"I need to tell him, though."

Ryan shrugged. "Then wait for the right moment. He's your best friend; he should understand."

"Thanks. I just needed to tell someone."

"No problem. And I forgive you for the Haley thing, by the way. Who's the guy?"

"Gerard Way," I said, glancing down.

"The new guy? Nice. He's kinda cute. Anyway, let's finish this experiment, or we'll be here all day."

At lunch, I sat with Gerard and his new friends—Ray, Avril, and Lindsey. They were great, talking about music and cracking jokes the whole time. I avoided James and Brendon, who thankfully left me alone for now.

Under the table, Gerard took my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. At one point, he let his hand wander, brushing my thigh and making me squirm. He smirked, clearly enjoying my reaction. Despite the chaos of the morning, I felt... okay. For the first time in a while, I felt like I was in the right place.

At one point during lunch, Brendon came up behind me, grabbing the hood of my hoodie and making me stand up abruptly.

"What's going on with James? He's been down... And, wait, why do you look so emo today?" he asked, his tone half-joking, half-concerned.

I shrugged. "He's being annoying with some stuff, and I just don't want to talk to him right now. When he calms down, I'll deal with it."

Brendon studied me for a moment before nodding. "Okay... I hope it doesn't take long. We miss skating with you and hanging out, like old times."

"Sorry," I mumbled, guilt creeping in.

He sighed and walked off, leaving me to sit back with Gerard and the others

When I finished my classes, I headed straight to Gerard's car in the parking lot, lighting up a cigarette as I waited. Leaning against the side of the car, I enjoyed the quiet moment until I saw him walking toward me, his signature lopsided smile already on display.

"Hi, babe. How was your day?" he asked, snatching the cigarette from my lips before I could answer and taking a drag.

"Chaotic, as usual. Yours?" I asked, arching a brow as he passed the cigarette back to me.

"Pretty good, considering. Oh, and thanks for the smoke." He grinned, opening the passenger door for me with a mock bow.

"Such a gentleman," I teased as I slid into the seat.

"Roll the window down, though. Can't have the car smelling like a chimney," he added, climbing into the driver's seat.

"Where are we going, Gee?" I asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"You'll see."

"Cryptic much? What's the plan?"

"It's a surprise," he said with a smirk, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Are you going to kidnap me or something? Should I be scared?"

"Maybe," he replied, his smirk widening.

He drove down a road I didn't recognize, the surroundings turning into dense woods. Finally, he parked by the side of the road and turned off the engine.

"C'mon," he said, taking my hand and leading me out of the car.

We walked through a narrow path in the woods until we reached a clearing. In front of us was a lake, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon light.

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "This is amazing."

Gerard turned to me with a mischievous grin. "It's about to get better."

Before I could ask what he meant, he kicked off his shoes and started pulling off his clothes.

"Gee, what the hell are you doing? It 's cold!" I said, laughing as he stripped down to his boxers.

"Come on, Frankie. Live a little!" he yelled before running full speed into the water and diving in with a loud splash.

I stood there, shaking my head and chuckling. "You're insane, you know that?"

"Maybe! But you love it!" he called back, his voice echoing across the lake.

I couldn't resist. Laughing, I pulled off my clothes and ran after him, the cold air biting at my skin. When I hit the water, it was freezing but exhilarating.

Gerard swam up to me, his hair slicked back and water dripping down his face. "You're crazy for following me, you know."

"You're worth it," I said with a smirk.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cold skin. "I know."

"Cocky much?"

"Just confident," he teased before splashing water at me.

I retaliated, splashing him back until we were both laughing so hard we could barely breathe. Eventually, we floated closer, the playful energy between us shifting into something softer.

He brushed a wet strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek. "Thanks for trusting me to bring you here."

"You can kidnap me anytime," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, leaning in and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. The cold water around us seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth of the moment.

"Let's stay here forever," he murmured, forehead resting against mine.

"Deal," I whispered, pulling him in for another kiss.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had vanished—just us, the water, and the quiet rustling of the trees around the lake. When we finally pulled apart, Gerard chuckled softly, his breath visible in the crisp air.

"Okay, Frankie, you're turning blue," he said, brushing his thumb over my lips.

"You're the one who dragged me in here," I shot back, playfully splashing him one more time.

He shook his head, water droplets flying everywhere, and swam back toward the shore. "C'mon, let's get out before we actually freeze to death."

I followed him, the icy air hitting me the second I stepped out of the water. We both stood there, shivering and dripping wet, looking at the pile of clothes on the ground.

"Well, I didn't exactly plan this part," Gerard said with a sheepish grin, picking up his shirt and wringing it out.

"Clearly, genius," I replied, smirking.

After a moment, Gerard spread out his jacket on the soft grass and motioned for me to sit. "Here, we'll make this work."

He laid his hoodie and shirt down beside it to create a makeshift blanket, then sat down, patting the spot next to him. I sat beside him, and he immediately pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me.

"You're freezing," he murmured, rubbing his hands over my arms to warm me up.

"Gee, we're both freezing. I think my toes are officially numb," I said, leaning into him anyway.

"We'll warm up," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's your brilliant plan for that?"

Without answering, he leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of my mouth before pulling back with a smirk.

"That's your plan? Half-assed kisses?" I teased, leaning closer.

"Not my fault you're hard to impress," he shot back, his lips brushing mine again, softer this time.

I kissed him back, slow and deliberate, sliding my hand up to tangle in his damp hair. When we broke apart, he grinned, his cheeks flushed—not just from the cold.

"Still unimpressed?" he asked, his voice low.

I pretended to think for a moment. "Hmm... Maybe. You could try harder."

He laughed, tackling me gently so I was lying on my back on the makeshift blanket. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here you are," I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He hovered over me, his weight pressing against me in the most tantalizing way, his breath warm against my lips. He kissed me again, slower this time, his lips moving with a deliberate tenderness that sent heat spiraling through my chest. His hands slid down my sides, fingers tracing patterns that made my skin tingle, igniting every nerve in their path.

"Better?" he murmured, his voice low and laced with a teasing edge, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke.

"Getting there," I replied with a smirk, my fingers tangling in his damp hair. The lake water still clung to his skin, cool against my fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth building between us.

He leaned down again, this time trailing kisses along my jawline, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. I let out a soft laugh, unable to help myself. "That tickles," I whispered, but I didn't stop him.

"Good," he replied, the corners of his mouth curving into a grin against my neck. "You're squirming—it's cute."

"Shut up," I said, but the words came out breathless, lacking any real conviction. My hands slid over his back, feeling the ridges of his spine beneath my palms as I pulled him closer. His weight felt grounding, anchoring me to the moment.

The makeshift blanket of clothes beneath us did little to shield us from the roughness of the ground, but I couldn't have cared less. Gerard's lips found mine again, his kiss growing deeper, more insistent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. My hands roamed up to his face, cupping his jaw as I kissed him back, pouring everything I had into the moment.

"Frankie," he murmured against my lips, his voice barely audible, as if the word itself was meant only for me. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hazel eyes darkened, but still soft. "You're dangerous, you know that?"

"Me? Dangerous?" I laughed, shaking my head. "You're the one who dragged me out here and threw us into a freezing lake."

"Yeah, but now I'm stuck here, wrapped up in you," he said with a crooked smile. "And I don't think I ever want to leave."

I didn't reply—didn't need to. Instead, I tugged him back down, capturing his lips with mine. The wind rustled the trees around us, the lake glinting in the fading light, but it was just noise in the background. Everything that mattered was right here: Gerard, his touch, his laugh, his weight pressing me into the earth as if to claim me entirely.

We stayed there, stealing kisses and teasing each other until the afternoon melted into a golden evening, the air cooling around us but never quite reaching the fire between us.

After a while, the chill of the approaching evening began to creep in, making us both shiver. Gerard rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy of leaves above us, a lazy smile still playing on his lips.

"We should probably get dressed," he said, his voice light but his teeth faintly chattering.

"Yeah," I chuckled, sitting up and reaching for my soaked jeans.

Gerard grabbed his shirt, trying to tug it over his head, but it got stuck halfway. I couldn't help but laugh as he wrestled with the fabric.

"Stop laughing and help me!" he groaned, his muffled voice barely audible from under the shirt.

I crawled over to him, tugging the shirt free and smoothing it down his chest. "There. Now you look halfway decent," I teased.

He grinned, then grabbed my shirt and hoodie from the pile and held it up. "Your turn. Arms up, Frankie."

I rolled my eyes but complied, raising my arms as he pulled the hoodie over my head. The damp fabric clung to me, making the process even more awkward, but we were both laughing too hard to care.

"Dressing while wet—one of life's cruel jokes," Gerard said, trying to shove his legs into his jeans while hopping on one foot.

"Speak for yourself. You're making this way harder than it needs to be," I said, pulling on my sneakers.

When we were finally fully dressed, though still a bit damp and disheveled, Gerard leaned in to kiss my cheek. "You're lucky you're cute when you're frustrated," he teased.

"Yeah, yeah," I replied, swatting at his chest but unable to hide my grin.

As we made our way back to his car, Gerard glanced over at me. "Can you stay with me tonight? Like, at my place again?"

I hesitated, not because I didn't want to, but because I knew my mom would start asking questions if I didn't check in. "I'll have to ask her," I said. "She might freak out if I stay out two nights in a row without saying anything."

"Fair enough," he said, shrugging as he unlocked the car. "First stop: your house. Let's see if we can sweet-talk her into letting you come back with me."

I laughed, sliding into the passenger seat. "You and your charm, huh? I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"Oh, come on," he said with a wink. "I've got this."

As he started the car and we pulled back onto the road, I couldn't help but smile. Whatever happened next, I knew I wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

When we pulled into the driveway, another car was parked there—a beat-up sedan I didn't recognize. The house lights were on, and I felt my chest tighten. My mom was home, but clearly, she had company.

I glanced at Gerard as we walked up to the door. "Just... don't mind her, okay?"

He didn't answer right away, just gave me a reassuring smile and nudged my side. "I'll follow your lead."

As we stood at the door, waiting for her to answer, Gerard started tickling me out of nowhere. His fingers found my ribs, and I couldn't stop laughing, even as I tried to push him away.

"Cut it out, Gee!" I hissed between bursts of laughter.

"Make me," he teased, grinning as he kept at it.

The door flung open mid-laugh, and my mom stood there, scowling. "Why are you being so nois—" She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Gerard. "Who the hell is he?"

I straightened up, trying to hide how nervous I felt. "He's my friend, Gerard."

"And why didn't you come home last night?" she snapped, leaning heavily against the doorframe. The sharp smell of alcohol hit me immediately.

"Why are you home with someone else?" I shot back, my voice firmer than I felt. I leaned to the side, catching a glimpse of a guy sitting on the couch in the living room, a beer in hand.

"That's none of your damn business," she barked, crossing her arms.

I sighed, trying to keep calm. "I stayed over at Gerard's place last night," I explained, "and I want to stay with him again tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she muttered, stepping back from the doorway. "It's better that way, anyway."

Gerard, who'd been silent the whole time, opened his mouth to say something, but I quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him inside just long enough to grab a few things from my room.

"Let's just go," I whispered to him once we were alone upstairs.

"Frank," he said softly, his brow furrowed, "are you sure you're okay leaving her like that?"

I nodded, shoving a hoodie and a charger into my bag. "She's drunk, and he'll probably leave before morning. This is just... how it is."

Gerard didn't say anything, but the look on his face said he wasn't thrilled. Still, he didn't push me further.

We walked back downstairs, my mom barely glancing up from her conversation with the guy on the couch as we headed for the door.

I clenched my jaw and kept walking. Gerard stayed quiet beside me, his hand brushing mine as we stepped out into the cool night air.

Once we were back in the car, Gerard started the engine and glanced at me. "Want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

He nodded, reaching over to squeeze my knee gently. "Okay. But you can, if you need to."

I smiled at him, grateful for how patient he was. "Thanks, Gee."

He leaned over, kissed my temple, and pulled out of the driveway.

Chapter Text

GERARD'S POV

When we got home, Mikey practically flung the door open, his excitement bubbling over.

"Hi, Gee! Hi, Frank!" he greeted, bouncing on his toes.

"Hey, Mikey," I said, ruffling his hair.

"Hi," Frank chimed in with a small smile.

"Guess what!" Mikey said, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

"What?" I asked, playing along.

"I made a friend!"

"Whoa, that's awesome, Mikey!" I said. "What's their name?"

"Peter," he said, looking a little shy but proud.

Frank leaned in slightly. "That's cool. You should invite him over sometime. You know, do friend stuff."

"Yeah... maybe," Mikey said, giggling a bit.

"I'm happy for you, Mikes," I said genuinely.

"There's dinner in the kitchen," he added. "Grandma went to bed early, and I think Mom is asleep too."

"Got it, thanks," I replied, heading toward the kitchen with Frank following behind.

We sat down, and I handed him a plate of pasta my grandma had made earlier.

"Thanks, Gee," Frank said before digging in.

I made us both coffee and sat across from him, watching as he devoured the meal.

"So," I started, "did you settle things with Haley?"

"Yeah..." He paused, swallowing. "But I still have to apologize. I think I was kind of an asshole, and I'm pretty sure she fell for me."

"You didn't want anything serious with her?"

He shook his head. "Nope, and I've never had anything serious with anyone."

"So... I'm your first couple?" I asked, feeling a little surprised but also weirdly honored.

"Yeah," he said simply, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Nice," I replied, smirking.

Frank sighed. "Now I've gotta deal with James. Brendon told me he's been all moody because I blew him off. But he was just so fucking annoying."

"It'll be fine," I reassured him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Don't stress about it."

After we finished eating, we headed upstairs to my room.

"I've got some homework to finish," I said, pulling out my books.

"You're so fucking boring," Frank teased, flopping onto my bed.

"That's not true," I shot back, grabbing some pajama clothes. We both changed, and then I sat at my desk, ready to get to work.

"Don't you have homework or something?"

"Dunno. I don't do it anyway," he said, grinning at me.

"Watch TV or something. I'll be done in like twenty minutes."

"Or..." he drawled, walking over to me, his voice soft and warm, "you could let me sit on your lap while you work."

I couldn't say no to that. I nodded, and he climbed onto my lap, resting his head in the crook of my neck.

I kept one hand on my math problems and the other on his back, absently tracing circles against his shirt.

"I like this," he murmured against my skin, his breath sending shivers down my spine.

"Me too, sweetheart," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

By the time I finished my equations, Frank was half-asleep in my arms.

"You asleep, honey?" I asked softly.

"Mmm... nope," he mumbled lazily, though he sounded like he was already dreaming.

I carried him to the bed, turned off the main lights, and left only the soft glow of the nightstand. When I slipped in next to him, he wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me close.

His hand slid up under my shirt, fingers brushing against my chest. I squirmed, letting out a quiet laugh.

"Frankie, that tickles."

"Good," he teased, grinning against my skin.

His hand wandered lower, slipping past the waistband of my boxers. I gasped, my breath hitching as his fingers teased me.

"Oh—Frankie," I whimpered, my voice catching.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. "Just relax, baby. I've got you."

"Frankie," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Relax," he repeated, his tone low, almost sultry, as he tilted his head up to kiss me. His lips were soft but demanding, and I couldn't help but give in, kissing him back deeply.

The kiss grew hungrier, his hand exploring me further. I felt my heart race, the room's quiet replaced by our heavy breathing and the rustle of sheets.

I broke the kiss, leaning my forehead against his. "You're gonna drive me insane, you know that?"

"That's the plan," he said with a wicked grin, his fingers tracing patterns over my skin, making me squirm.

I chuckled, pulling him closer until he was practically on top of me. His weight felt grounding, perfect. I ran my hands down his back, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin.

Frank let out a soft hum of approval as my hands wandered, his body molding perfectly against mine. He shifted slightly, his lips finding their way to my neck, leaving a trail of slow, deliberate kisses that made my breath hitch.

"You like this?" he teased, shifting his hips just enough to make my breath hitch again.

"You know I do," I admitted, my voice low. "But you're a little shit for teasing me."

"Mm, maybe." He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. "But you love it."

I didn't argue—because he was right.

I kissed him again, slow and deliberate this time, pouring every ounce of affection I had into it. His hands slipped free from my grasp, but instead of teasing, he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me as close as possible.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours, tangled in each other, kissing, touching, exploring, but without any pressure. It wasn't about crossing lines or rushing things—it was about being close, connected, lost in each other.

Eventually, we pulled back, both of us breathless but smiling.

We shifted under the covers, settling into a comfortable silence, his head resting on my chest. My hand traced lazy patterns on his back as his breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely against mine.

As he drifted off, I held him close, my heart full in a way I'd never experienced before. Whatever this was between us, I knew I didn't want it to end.

And we both fall asleep.

The rest of the week went by pretty normally. Frank didn't stay over again, saying his mom would probably lose it, and I didn't push him—though I really loved having him around. I'm so in love with him.

At school, we only shared a few classes, but we always met up during lunch with Ray, Avril, and Lindsey. Frank hadn't been hanging out with his usual group, which I secretly didn't mind. Therapy went well; I had two sessions, and everyone kept saying there was progress—my family, my therapist, even Frank. I wasn't sure if I felt it, but knowing Frank believed in me made it easier. It made me love him even more.

Now it's Saturday, and I'm picking Frank up to help me find a bass for Mikey's birthday tomorrow. He mentioned knowing someone at a music store he used to shop at, and it seemed like the perfect excuse to spend the day together. Mikey's birthday plans are simple: pizza, sodas, and a sleepover with Pete tonight; cake, presents, and arcade games tomorrow. Grandma's making lunch, and we'll finish it off with ice cream.

"Finish shower. You can come now."
"I'll be there in 10 <3," I replied.

When I pulled up to his driveway, he came out looking effortlessly gorgeous, as always.

"Hellooo, Gee," he greeted, sliding into the passenger seat. Before I could say anything, he leaned over and kissed me.

"Hi, babe. How are you?" I asked, smiling.

"Happy to be with you again."

"Aw, you're so sappy." I grinned, rolling my eyes playfully.

"Shut up," he teased, giving me directions to the music store.

At the store, Frank immediately took charge, scanning the rows of basses like a pro.

"Look, this one would be perfect for him," he said, pointing to a sleek, black model. He launched into a string of technicisms—something about tonewoods, pickups, and neck profiles—that I only half understood but loved hearing from him.

"But this color's better," I teased, gesturing toward the same model in a ridiculous neon green.

Frank groaned, rolling his eyes. "Gee, if you give Mikey that, he'll disown you."

"I don't know, I think he could rock it," I said, grinning at Frank's exasperation.

He smirked, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"Maybe, but you like me."

"Unfortunately," he quipped, but his playful grin gave him away.

We decided on the black bass, and as we waited for the guy at the counter to process the purchase, Frank nudged me with his elbow.

"By the way," he said, "you didn't tell me Pete's coming to the sleepover."

I shrugged. "Figured it'd be a nice surprise for Mikey. Plus, Pete seems cool."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "He is. Just... watch out. I've heard that kid is like a tornado of chaos."

"Good," I said. "Mikey could use some chaos in his life."

Frank laughed, leaning against me. "You're such a good big brother."

"Thanks," I said, stealing a quick kiss before we grabbed the bass and headed back to the car.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, wrapping Mikey's birthday gift, having wild sex and listening to music , our laughter and whispered conversations filling the room until the sound of the front door closing announced my family's return from the supermarket.

"Gerard, I called Pete, and he said he's ready for us to pick him up," Mikey said, poking his head into the room.

"Alright, let's go," I replied, standing up and tugging on my jacket. Frank stretched lazily before getting up to join us.

The Wentz house wasn't far, and soon enough, Pete came bounding out the door, his excitement palpable.

"Hello!" he greeted as he climbed into the car, his energy filling the space.

"Hi, Pete!" Mikey chirped, clearly thrilled to have his new friend along.

"Hey, Pete," Frank and I said in unison, exchanging a quick smile.

"You ready?" I asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah, I am!" Pete nodded enthusiastically, buckling his seatbelt.

As we drove, I couldn't resist playing the concerned older brother. "So, Pete, how old are you?"

"Uh, I'm 14," he answered, sounding a little cautious but confident.

"And how'd you and Mikey become friends?"

Pete shrugged modestly, but there was a hint of pride in his voice. "Well, there were these guys who kept teasing him, so I kinda stepped in."

I raised an eyebrow, looking at Mikey through the mirror. "That true?"

Mikey looked down, clearly a little shy but nodded. "Uh, yeah."

"Well," I said, smiling at Pete, "thanks for saving my brother's ass in that hellhole."

Pete laughed. "It's no problem, really."

Frank nudged Mikey playfully. "Looks like you've got a good one here, Mikes."

Mikey giggled, his cheeks tinged pink.

The rest of the drive was filled with light chatter and laughter as we made our way back to the house, ready to celebrate Mikey's big day with pizza, soda, and whatever chaos the evening had in store.

After everyone changed into their pajamas, we gathered in the living room, the energy warm and cozy. A stack of DVDs sat on the coffee table next to bowls of popcorn, chips, and candy. Soda cans littered the space. Mikey insisted we watch Star Wars, and no one argued, so the marathon began.

The sound of lightsabers clashing filled the room, and I found myself glancing over at Mikey and Pete. The way Mikey was laughing, the way he leaned toward Pete to share some inside joke, it made my chest ache in the best way possible. My little brother, who usually kept to himself, looked so alive tonight, like he'd found someone who just got him.

Frank nudged me, breaking my thoughts. "You okay?" he whispered, his voice low enough not to interrupt the movie.

I nodded, smiling. "Yeah. Just... happy for him."

"Me too," Frank said, giving my hand a quick squeeze before going back to his chips.

By midnight, the movie marathon ended, but no one was ready to sleep. Mikey and Pete migrated to the console, each taking turns trying to destroy the other in Super Smash Bros. Frank and I joined in for a while, though it was clear the younger duo had more stamina.

I sat back on the couch, leaning into Frank, his arm draped lazily over my shoulder. I watched Mikey and Pete's faces light up with every win and groan with every loss. They were loud, chaotic, and endlessly amusing.

"They're so close already," I murmured to Frank.

He smiled softly. "He's a good kid. Mikey needed someone like him."

Around 3 a.m., the energy finally started to wane. Pete yawned, rubbing his eyes, and Mikey stretched dramatically, claiming he was "so not tired" but then immediately contradicted himself with a yawn.

"Come on, you two," I said, standing up and ushering them toward the hallway.

Mikey gave me a quick hug, which caught me off guard but warmed me to my core. "Thanks, Gee. Tonight was awesome."

"Anytime, Mikes." I ruffled his hair, earning a playful swat.

Pete grinned. "Night, guys."

"Goodnight," Frank and I said in unison, watching as they disappeared into Mikey's room.

For the next hour, their muffled laughter and chatter seeped through the walls, a testament to the kind of friendship that only comes with youth and sleep deprivation.

Frank and I retreated to my room, the quiet wrapping around us like a blanket. I flopped onto the bed, letting out a long sigh.

"They're cute, huh?" I said, glancing at Frank.

He nodded, crawling in beside me. "Yeah, Pete seems like a solid kid. Mikey really clicked with him."

"It makes me happy," I admitted, staring at the ceiling. "Seeing Mikey like that. He's been so quiet lately, and now he's just... alive. I'm glad he has someone."

Frank smiled, resting his head on my shoulder. Frank laughed lightly, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my arm. "Well, you threw a pretty awesome sleepover. I'm sure that counts for something."

I smiled, my heart feeling full as we drifted into the kind of comfortable silence that didn't need to be filled. Just knowing Mikey was happy—and that Frank was here—made everything feel right.

The next morning, the house was filled with the smell of pancakes, coffee, and hot chocolate—my grandma was already up, preparing Mikey's birthday breakfast. The delicious aroma drifted into my room, waking me and Frank. He groaned, burying his face in my chest as I chuckled and stroked his hair.

"Come on, Frankie," I said softly. "We've got a birthday boy to wake up."

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice muffled.

"Grandma's making pancakes," I teased.

That got him moving. We both pulled on some clothes, grabbed the cake from the kitchen, and lit a single candle. Together, we headed to Mikey's room, where he and Pete were still passed out, tangled in blankets.

"Wake up, birthday boy!" I said loudly, starting to sing Happy Birthday with Frank joining in, slightly off-key.

Pete stirred first, blinking groggily before grinning, while Mikey groaned and tried to hide under his pillow.

"Make a wish, Mikes," I said, holding the cake closer.

Mikey sat up, his hair a mess but a smile creeping onto his face. He blew out the candle while Pete clapped enthusiastically.

Grandma gave Mikey his first gift: a black hoodie with a cool guitar design on it. "Thanks, Grandma! This is awesome!" he said, pulling it on immediately.

Next was my mom, who handed him a pair of classic black Converse. "Perfect for stomping around the house," she joked, and Mikey beamed.

Frank gave him a Smashing Pumpkins CD, which Mikey looked thrilled about. "This is great, Frank. Thanks!"

Pete handed over a comic, and Mikey's face lit up even more. "This one's awesome! I've wanted it for ages," he said, flipping through the pages.

Finally, it was my turn. I handed Mikey the bass we'd picked out, and his jaw practically hit the floor. "Holy crap! This is... this is amazing!" he exclaimed, holding it like it was made of gold. His excitement was infectious, and I couldn't help but grin. Seeing him so happy made everything worth it.

After the gift-giving, we sat down for breakfast—pancakes piled high with syrup, cups of steaming hot chocolate and coffee all around. Everyone was laughing and joking, teasing Mikey about turning a year older and reminiscing about silly memories.

Once everyone was ready, we headed out to the mall. First stop was the cinema, where we watched a movie Mikey picked. After that, we hit the arcade, competing in every game we could find. Mikey and Pete were an unstoppable duo, while Frank and I just goofed around, occasionally stealing kisses when no one was looking.

We ended the day with ice cream, everyone too full and tired to do much else. We dropped Pete off at his house first. Mikey and Pete hugged like they'd been friends forever, promising to hang out again soon.

Next, we drove Frank home. As he leaned in for a goodbye kiss, Mikey groaned dramatically from the backseat. "Ugh, can you not? I just ate," he complained, making Frank and me burst out laughing.

Frank smiled as he got out. "I had a great time, Gee. Thanks for everything."

"Anytime, babe," I said, watching him head inside before driving home.

Back at the house, I made myself a cup of coffee and climbed onto the roof to smoke. The night was quiet, the sky dotted with stars. I sat there, thinking about the day—how happy Mikey had been, how close he and Pete seemed, and how much I loved having Frank around.

I pulled out my phone and texted Frank. Wish you were here... or at least in my bed right now. ;) Goodnight, baby.

After checking on Mikey—who was in his room plucking at his new bass—I told him that Frank could help him learn.

"Pete plays too," Mikey said, looking excited.

"Maybe we can all jam together," I suggested. "I'll sing."

"Yeah, that'd be awesome," Mikey said, grinning.

I ruffled his hair. "Goodnight, Mikes."

"Night, Gee."

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

School went as usual. I kept avoiding my so-called friends' gazes, and during lunch, I asked Gerard if he wanted to hang out today. He said he couldn't—he had therapy and needed to pick up his meds. I tried not to feel disappointed, so I decided to go skate after school instead.

God, I missed this. I loved skating almost as much as I loved playing guitar and... as much as I loved... wait, do I love Gerard?

Fuck.

"Look who's here," Bob's voice echoed across the skatepark.

"Hey, dude!" Brendon was the first to approach, giving me a quick handshake.

"Yeah, sorry I haven't come around this week," I said, glancing over to where James sat on a bench, smoking. He wouldn't even look at me.

I sighed and decided to face it. I walked over and sat next to him.
"Hey, man. How's it going?"

"Good, I guess," he muttered, still avoiding my gaze.

"Can you just look at me for a second?" I said, frustrated.

He finally turned to face me. "What do you want now?"

"To talk to you."

"Go ahead, then."

"Look, I'm sorry if I've been a jerk, but you've been a jerk too."

"How's that?" His tone was biting. "You're the asshole here, not me. Don't make me remind you of all the times—"

"I have a boyfriend," I blurted out, cutting him off.

His reaction was instant. He coughed, pretending it was the weed, but I knew better. "What?"

"I'm dating a guy," I said again, slower this time. "And I know you're a homophobic douchebag who treats gay people like shit. So, if you can't handle this, then I don't want your friendship."

"Goddamn it, Frank. All the fucking times you've seen me naked, all the—"

"Oh, shut up! You're not even my type."

He stood up, his face twisted in anger. "I hate faggots, you know that. Why the hell—why would you—fuck, Frank, why?"

I stared at him, my voice calm but firm. "I don't give a shit what you think. You've never cared about me anyway. You don't know a damn thing about what I've been through, and I don't need your permission or approval to be happy. So, fuck you."

That was the breaking point. He lunged at me, fists flying. The punches came fast—my face, my legs. I barely managed to stay upright on the bench. The rest of the guys pulled him off me, shouting for him to calm down.

"Get out of here, you filthy faggot!" James yelled after me as I grabbed my skateboard and stormed away.

My head was spinning, my body aching, but I didn't stop until I got home. I tossed my skateboard aside and collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow. The tears came fast and hard, and my dog jumped up beside me, trying to comfort me.

I couldn't stop crying. Why was I so stupid? Why did I waste so much time on someone like James? My chest ached with anger and sadness. I punched the bed, then the walls, the pain in my knuckles barely registering. My dog whimpered, and I felt a pang of guilt.

Then I opened the drawer.

I pulled out the blade, my hands shaking. Without thinking, I pushed my jeans down and made a deep line across my thigh. The sharp sting made me gasp, tears streaming harder as the blood started to flow. I threw the blade across the room and pressed my hands against the cut, trying to stop the bleeding.

The pain grounded me, but it didn't fix anything. I sat there on the floor, my hands covered in blood, my dog curled up next to me. I whispered apologies to her, to myself, to Gerard.

I felt so weak. So small. So broken.

I texted Gerard.

Me: "babe, when are you home?"
Gerard: "prolly like 5 hours, I'm out of the city... and there's a lot of people for the meds."
Gerard: "Everything fine?"
Me: "Yep."

I tossed my phone onto the bed and sighed. I needed him. I needed someone. It hit me how much of a lonely asshole I'd been lately. Probably Brendon and Bob would side with James after what happened.

I grabbed my phone again, scrolling through my contacts until I found Ryan's name.

Me: "Ryan, it's Frank. You busy?"
Ryan: "Hey, not at all. Why?"
Me: "Can you come to my place? I have beer and whiskey. I need to talk to you... about James."
Ryan: "Sure, gimme 10."

I put my phone down, trying to clean up the mess in my room while ignoring the dull ache in my thigh. My dog trailed behind me, wagging her tail like nothing was wrong. At least she didn't judge me.

A knock on the door came quicker than I expected.

I limped over, my leg throbbing with each step, and opened the door.

Ryan stood there.

"Hey," he greeted, giving me a once-over.

"Come in," I muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

Ryan frowned as he walked in, "Dude, you look like shit."

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze, and grabbed a beer and I handed one to him and a bottle of my mom's whiskey.

"So," he started, popping open his bottle. "What's going on?"

I hesitated, taking a long swig before answering. "James. He knows."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Knows what?"

"That I'm dating Gerard."

"Well, I just told him I have a boyfriend" I added

"Shit." He leaned back on the couch, his expression unreadable. "How'd he take it?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "How do you think? He called me a faggot, tried to beat the crap out of me, and then he basically told me to get out of his life and humiliated me infront of the people in the skatepark."

Ryan winced. "Damn. That's rough, man."

"Yeah, no kidding." I stared at the floor, twisting the bottle in my hands. "I feel like such an idiot. I wasted so much time being friends with him, pretending he wasn't a shitty person just because we've known each other forever."

Ryan stayed quiet for a moment, then said, "You know, you don't owe him shit. He showed you who he really is, and yeah, it sucks, but at least now you know."

"I guess," I muttered.

"You've got Gerard, right?" he said, taking another sip of his beer. "And me. And, honestly? Fuck James. You're better off without him."

"Frank, I get it. I really do. James... he's a piece of shit, man. You're not the first person he's treated like this."

Ryan sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Back when I came out, James was one of the worst. He used to call me all kinds of crap behind my back. Made sure everyone in the group knew I was 'different,' like it was some disease or something. I tried to ignore it at first, but... it was bad. There were days I didn't even want to show up to school because of him."

My chest tightened. "Why didn't you tell me? Or Bob? Or anyone?"

"I was scared," Ryan admitted, his voice low. "I didn't think anyone would care, and honestly? I didn't want to lose the only group of friends I had. But looking back? Staying quiet gave him more power. That's what he does, Frank. He uses people's fears to keep them in check."

I clenched my fists, anger bubbling under the surface. "I can't believe I let him treat you like that. I'm sorry, Ryan."

"It's not your fault," he said firmly. "But now you know. And you're standing up to him, which is more than I could do back then. That takes guts, Frank. Don't let him drag you down."

I nodded, his words sinking in. "He really is a coward, isn't he? All that crap about loyalty and being there for each other, and the second I do something he doesn't like, I'm the enemy."

"Exactly," Ryan said, leaning back with a small smile. "People like James? They only care about control. Once you take that away from them, they lose their power."

Ryan's smile faded a little as he glanced down at his beer, turning the bottle in his hands. "You know, Frank, I'll be honest. I didn't like you much at first."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What? Why?"

He shrugged, giving me a pointed look. "The way you treated girls, man. Especially Haley. She's my friend, and seeing you blow her off like she didn't matter? It pissed me off."

I felt a pang of guilt and looked away. "Yeah... I screwed up with her. Badly."

"You really did," Ryan said bluntly. "She's not just some girl, you know? She's kind, funny, and way too good to be treated like a backup plan. I had to listen to her cry about you more times than I can count."

"Shit," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "I... I didn't mean to hurt her, Ry. I just—"

"I never had strong feelings for her," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't that I didn't want to date her. I mean, she's amazing, and I knew that. But I just... I couldn't feel anything real, you know? Not with her, not with any girl I've been with."

Ryan arched an eyebrow but stayed quiet, letting me continue.

"I was trying to fit in," I confessed, the words tumbling out of me. "Being 'the guy.' The straight, tough guy everyone expected me to be. And for a while, it worked. I had this reputation. People liked me. But then... I fell in love with Gerard, and all that crap—the reputation, what people might think—just crumbled. My whole world turned upside down."

Ryan studied me for a moment, his expression softening. "So, you were scared."

"Terrified," I admitted. "Still am, sometimes. But Gee? He makes it worth it. And I know that doesn't excuse what I did to Haley—or any of the other girls I strung along—but... I don't know. I was just trying to figure myself out."

Ryan sighed, then nodded. "At least you're being honest now. That's something. Haley would probably appreciate an apology, you know."

"She deserves one," I said, guilt gnawing at me. "I'll talk to her."

"Good," Ryan said, his smile returning. "And for what it's worth, Frank, I respect you for coming clean. You've got a long way to go, but you're doing the right thing."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a little lighter. "And... I'm sorry for how I've acted, to you and Haley."

"Apology accepted," Ryan said, raising his beer again.

We clinked bottles, and for the first time, I felt like I wasn't just trying to survive—I was starting to grow.

I wasn't just drunk—I was obliterated. The room spun like a carousel on speed, and my emotions were everywhere. I cried like a total idiot, babbling about everything from James to Haley to Gerard. Ryan tried to stop me from downing another drink, but I brushed him off every time.

"Frank, you're done, okay?" Ryan said firmly, trying to take the bottle from my hands.

"Why do you even care?" I slurred, yanking it back and nearly spilling it everywhere.

He sighed and pulled out his phone. I barely noticed as he dialed.

Somewhere in the haze, I heard Gerard's name. I think Ryan was answering my phone for me, his voice distant and tense. "Hey... uh, he's not doing so great. You better come here. I gotta leave soon."

Minutes felt like hours, but suddenly, Gerard appeared in the doorway, his face a mixture of worry and frustration. Ryan stood, grabbing his jacket. "He's all yours. Take care of him, Gerard. And Frank?" He glanced back at me, his expression softening. "Get your shit together, okay?"

I mumbled something incoherent as he left, and then it was just me and Gerard.

Chapter Text

Gerard's POV:

I stood there, staring at Frank. His eyes were red and puffy, his face streaked with tears. Empty bottles littered the table, and he slumped on the couch like a broken doll. My heart twisted at the sight of him like this.

"Frankie," I said softly, walking toward him.

He glanced up at me, his lip trembling. "Gee?" His voice cracked, and I could see the pain in his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me," I said, sitting down beside him. "What the hell happened?"

"I'm so fucked up," he muttered, burying his face in his hands. "I messed everything up. I hurt people. I don't even know who I am anymore."

I put a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're just drunk, Frankie. We'll figure it out."

He shook his head, tears spilling over again. "No, it's not okay. I'm a mess. I—" His voice broke, and he leaned into me, sobbing into my chest.

I held him tightly, letting him cry it out. "You're not a mess," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You're just hurting. And I'm here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

After a while, his sobs quieted, and I helped him drink some water. "Come on, let's get you to bed," I said, standing and pulling him up gently.

He wobbled but let me guide him to his room. Once he was lying down, I grabbed a blanket and tucked him in.

"You shouldn't be here, Gerard—my mom—she's gonna be here soon—you're not supposed to—" Frank muttered, his words slurring slightly.

"But you shouldn't be alone, babe," I said softly, caressing his tear-streaked cheek.

"If she comes, I can tell her you're upset over some girl breaking up with you. I don't care," I added with a shrug, trying to keep things light.

Frank sat down abruptly, gripping his head, then bolted upright, stumbling toward the bathroom. I followed close behind as he barely made it to the toilet, puking. His shirt and pants were stained.

"Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs.

"Hey, don't worry about it," I said gently, reaching to help him. "Let me take care of you."

I tugged his shirt off carefully, then moved to his pants. He leaned into me, his arms weakly wrapping around my neck as he tried to steady himself. I crouched down to pull off his jeans and boxers, and that's when I saw it—a deep, angry red line slashed across his right thigh.

My breath caught in my throat. I froze, staring at it, but Frank was too drunk to even notice. Instead, he started crying again, loud and broken sobs that made my chest ache. I swallowed hard, pushing my emotions aside for now. This wasn't the moment to bring it up.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," I said softly, holding back my tears as I helped him into the shower. He was too out of it to protest, so I made sure the water wasn't too hot and gently washed him off, careful not to touch the wound too much.

Once he was clean, I wrapped him in a towel and carried him back to his room. He felt so light in my arms, like he could break apart if I wasn't careful. I laid him down on his bed and rummaged through his drawers to find some clean pajamas.

That's when I saw it—the blade lying on the floor near his bed. I picked it up, my stomach twisting, and slipped it into my pocket. He wasn't going to see that thing again.

After dressing him carefully, I tucked him under his blanket and kissed his damp forehead. "Stay here, okay? I'll be right back."

I headed to the kitchen to make him some tea when I heard the front door open. Shit.

"AAAH!" A woman's shriek echoed through the house. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Iero," I said quickly, turning to face her. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Frank's friend. He's upset because, uh, his girlfriend broke up with him, so he called me. He's sick, and I just wanted to make him some tea. I hope that's okay."

Her expression softened slightly, though her tone stayed sharp. "Okay, fine. Whatever. Just keep to yourselves. I've got company coming over, and I don't want any trouble."

I nodded quickly, grabbing the tea and heading back upstairs.

"HEY!" she yelled suddenly. "Did you guys drink my alcohol!?"

I froze, keeping my voice calm. "Oh, I don't know. I wasn't here earlier, I promise."

"That little rat..." she muttered angrily, storming off toward the living room.

Back in Frank's room, I locked the door behind me. He was curled up in a fetal position on the bed, his hair damp, his face pressed into the pillow.

"Hey, babe," I said gently, sitting beside him and handing him the mug. "Drink this tea. It'll help."

Frank sat up slowly, taking the mug with shaky hands and sipping it in silence. His shoulders were hunched, and he still wouldn't meet my eyes.

"You don't have to apologize for anything, okay?" I said after a moment, watching him carefully. "I'm here for you, Frankie. Always."

His lip quivered, and he set the mug down, burying his face in his hands. "I'm so fucking sorry, Gee. For... for being like this. For dragging you into my mess."

"Hey, stop," I said, moving closer and wrapping an arm around him. "You're not a mess".

Frank leaned into me, his tears soaking into my shirt as I held him. I kissed the top of his head, silently vowing to do whatever it took to help him heal.

He turned his back to me, curling up toward the wall, clearly trying to fall asleep. I stayed there, sitting on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing his back in soothing circles. As I watched him, my heart ached; he reminded me so much of myself during my worst times—times when Mikey had to step up and take care of me. At least Frank had me now.

My eyes wandered around his room, noticing the mess: a tipped-over desk chair, clothes scattered everywhere, and a few things on the floor that looked like they'd been knocked over in a fit of anger. Quietly, I started picking up, organizing the chaos while he drifted off. His breathing evened out, and once everything was tidied, I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my shirt, and lay down beside him.

As I settled in, my gaze flicked to his phone on the nightstand. Notifications were lighting up the screen. I didn't want to invade his privacy, but I caught sight of Ryan's name in the messages. Curious and cautious, I grabbed my own phone and saved Ryan's number from Frank's screen before texting him.

Me: Hey, it's Gerard. Thanks 4 watching over him. I was out of town. He's better now.
Ryan: Ok, no prob. I'm glad he's safe.
Me: What happened?
Ryan: He asked me to come over to talk about James.
Me: Did he tell him?
Ryan: Yep. You didn't know?
Me: No, so it was bad?
Ryan: Yeah, kinda. James punched him and said a lot of bullshit about him.
Me: Fuck. Well, thank u again.
Ryan: Ok.

The conversation left a heavy weight in my chest, but I pushed it aside for now. Frank needed rest.

The next morning, we both woke up late. Frank was still groggy, hungover, and clearly in no state to go to school—not after everything he'd been through. I woke up first and lay there for a moment, watching him. He looked so beaten down: the bruise on his eye, his lips chapped, tear tracks dried on his face. His small frame was curled up under the blanket, looking fragile and lost.

I quietly slipped out of bed to check if we were alone in the house. Thankfully, we were. Making my way downstairs, I winced at the sight of the mess in the living room—empty alcohol bottles everywhere, clothes and even underwear strewn across the floor. The whole scene was grim, but I pushed through it, heading to the kitchen.

There wasn't much in the fridge, but I managed to put together a decent sandwich and brew some coffee and tea. I brought everything back upstairs, placing the food on his desk. Then I sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to caress his cheek gently.

"Mm," he mumbled, shifting slightly but staying half-asleep.

"Morning, Frankie," I said softly.

"Fuck, I don't wanna wake up," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

"I made you breakfast. You should eat something," I coaxed.

"Feel like shit, Gee," he groaned, his face still half-buried in the pillow.

"Yeah, I know, babe," I said, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "But you'll feel a little better once you eat."

He grumbled something incoherent but slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. His movements were sluggish, his body clearly protesting the effort.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice barely audible, before reaching for the tea. I watched him carefully, making sure he didn't push himself too hard.

Frank took a small sip of tea, wincing slightly as he swallowed. His hands were shaky, and his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight that I desperately wished I could lift.

"Eat the sandwich, too," I urged gently. "It's not much, but it'll help."

He sighed, grabbing the plate and taking a hesitant bite. "You didn't have to do all this," he mumbled, barely looking at me.

"Of course I did," I said, scooting closer to him on the bed. "You're my boyfriend, Frank. Taking care of you is kind of part of the deal."

He gave a weak laugh, though it was more out of exhaustion than amusement. "You make it sound so easy."

"It's not always easy," I admitted. "But I don't care how hard it gets. I'm here for you, no matter what."

He put the sandwich back down and covered his face with his hands, his voice breaking as he said, "I feel like such a fucking mess."

I leaned in, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him against my chest. "You're not a mess, Frank. You're human. Everyone has bad days, and yeah, this one's been really fucking bad, but it doesn't define you."

He didn't say anything, just let himself melt into the hug. His head rested on my shoulder, and I could feel his shallow breaths against my neck. I held him tighter, trying to let him feel every ounce of love I had for him in that moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Stop," I said firmly, brushing my thumb along his cheekbone. "You don't have to apologize for needing me. That's what... love is, right? Being there for each other."

He gave me a look, one that was equal parts vulnerable and grateful. "I don't deserve you," he murmured.

I shook my head. "You deserve so much more than you think, Frankie."

He nodded silently, leaning his forehead against mine. We stayed like that for a while, the quiet between us feeling oddly comforting.

After a few minutes, I stood up. "Come on," I said, holding out my hand.

"Where are we going?" he asked, looking confused.

"Nowhere. You're going to shower properly while I clean up this mess downstairs."

He rolled his eyes but let me help him off the bed. "You don't have to do all that."

"I want to," I insisted, guiding him toward the bathroom.

Before he went in, he turned to me, his expression soft. "Thank you, Gee. For everything."

I smiled and kissed his forehead. "Always."

As he disappeared into the bathroom, I headed downstairs to tackle the disaster zone that was his living room. It wasn't glamorous, but it felt good to do something that might make his day just a little bit easier.

When I finished tidying up downstairs, I made my way to the bathroom door, tapping on it lightly.

"Hey, are you okay in there?" I called out.

"Ye-ah. I'm good," Frank replied, though his voice wavered slightly.

"You're taking so long," I teased gently, leaning against the doorframe.

"Just... lost in my own thoughts, I guess," he admitted.

I paused for a moment, debating whether to press further. "Do you want me to come in?" I asked softly.

There was a pause before he said, "Yeah. The door's open."

I hesitated for a second before pushing the bathroom door open. The steam hit me first, warm and thick, as I stepped inside. Frank was sitting on the shower floor, the water off, his arms draped around his knees, completely naked. He didn't even flinch at my presence; he just stared at the tiles like they had all the answers to the universe.

"Frank," I said softly, kneeling beside the shower. "What's going on, babe?"

He glanced at me, his eyes rimmed red and tired. "I couldn't... I couldn't bring myself to get out," he murmured. "Just... felt too heavy."

As I did, my gaze trailed downward—down to his thigh. The angry red line stood out starkly against his pale skin. My stomach twisted into knots the same way it did yesterday..

"Frank," I whispered, my voice catching.

His eyes widened slightly when he realized where I was looking. He instinctively moved his hand to cover the mark, but I gently caught his wrist. "Don't," I said firmly. "You don't have to hide it from me."

"Gee, I... I didn't want you to see that," he said, his voice breaking as tears filled his eyes again. "I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to—"

"Hey, hey," I cut him off, squeezing his hand. "I'm not mad, okay? I'm just... I'm worried about you."

Frank bit his lip, his whole body trembling. "I feel so fucking broken," he admitted, the words spilling out like a dam had burst. "I hate myself for doing it, but it was the only way to make the pain stop for a second."

My throat tightened, but I forced myself to stay calm for him. "You're not broken," I said, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. "You're hurt, and you're struggling, but you're not broken."

Tears rolled down his cheeks, and I reached out to pull him into a hug, ignoring the water still dripping off him. He buried his face in my shoulder, his sobs muffled against my skin.

"You're gonna be okay," I whispered, holding him close. "We're gonna get through this together. I promise."

After a while, his sobs quieted, and I helped him out of the shower, wrapping a towel around him. I caught his gaze, holding it. "Frank, I need you to promise me something."

"What?" he asked, his voice small.

"Promise me that if you ever feel like that again, you'll talk to me first. No matter what. I don't care what time it is or what I'm doing—you call me, you text me, anything. Just let me be there for you."

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I promise," he said softly.

"Good," I said, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Now let's get you dressed."

Frank nodded, his eyes still a little glassy but calmer. I helped him into some clean clothes—an old band t-shirt and a pair of soft sweatpants—and then guided him back to his bed. We crawled under the blankets together, and he nestled into my chest, his arms wrapping around me tightly.

We spent the rest of the day like that, just talking. It felt easy, natural. He told me about how he'd first picked up a guitar, how it became his escape from everything. I told him about my art and how Mikey used to tease me for drawing comics all the time. We laughed, we shared stories, and for a little while, the weight of everything else disappeared.

But the peace shattered when we heard the front door slam.

"Frank!" his mom's sharp voice echoed through the house.

Frank tensed in my arms. "Shit," he muttered, sitting up.

We didn't even have time to say anything before his mom burst into the room, her face red with anger.

"School called," she said, her voice rising. "You didn't show up today, and they told me you're failing four classes, Frank! Four!"

"Yeah, well, maybe if you cared enough to notice how much I'm struggling, I wouldn't be failing!" Frank shot back, his voice shaking with anger.

"Don't you dare put this on me!" she yelled, stepping further into the room. "You're the one skipping school, lying, and acting like a damn delinquent!"

"I'm not lying!" Frank yelled, standing up now. "You don't even pay attention to what's going on with me! Gerard had to take care of me because I felt like complete shit today, and where were you? Off doing God knows what while the house is a disaster!"

Her eyes flicked to me for the first time, narrowing. "And why the hell is he here anyway? You're grounded!"

"I don't care!" Frank shouted. "He's the only one who actually gives a damn about me! He cleaned up the mess you left downstairs while I was falling apart upstairs, so maybe don't come at me with your bullshit when you can't even take care of your own house!"

Her face twisted with anger. "Why do you care so much about this kid, huh? Why does he matter so much to you?"

Frank froze for a moment, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Then, almost like the words tumbled out against his will, he said, "Because he's my boyfriend."

The room went silent.

Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed into a glare. "Get out," she said, her voice low but dangerous, directed at me.

Frank stepped in front of me, his voice defiant. "No. If he's leaving, I'm leaving too."

"Don't be ridiculous, Frank!" she snapped. "You have nowhere to go!"

"I'll go with Gerard," Frank said firmly. "At least he cares about me."

Her face contorted in anger. "You're not leaving this house."

"Watch me," Frank spat, grabbing his hoodie from the back of his chair and pulling it on. He turned to me, his expression softening. "Let's go."

"Frank..." I started, but he shook his head.

"I'm serious, Gerard. I can't stay here."

I hesitated, but the resolve in his eyes was unshakable. "Okay," I said finally, my heart breaking for him.

Frank grabbed his backpack, stuffing a few essentials into it, and we walked past his furious mother. I held his hand tightly as we left the house.

Frank sat next to me in the passenger seat, his elbows on his knees and his hands covering his face. His whole body was trembling as he tried to hold back the tears that were clearly threatening to spill. My heart ached seeing him like this—so broken, so lost.

"Frankie," I said softly, glancing over at him as I drove. "It's okay, baby. You can cry all you want to."

He shook his head, his voice muffled by his hands. "I hate this, Gerard. I hate all of this. I hate that she doesn't care."

I reached over, resting my hand on his knee, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I know, babe. I know it hurts, but you're gonna be okay. We're going to my place, and you'll be better there, I promise. You don't have to go back until you're ready, okay?"

He nodded silently, sniffling but still refusing to look at me. I kept my hand on his knee for the rest of the drive, hoping it gave him even the smallest bit of comfort.

As soon as we stepped inside, Mikey was there to greet us. He and Pete were sprawled on the living room floor, controllers in hand, surrounded by snack wrappers. Mikey paused the game when he saw us, his brow furrowing.

"Gee, what's going on?"

Pete looked up too, concern written all over his face.

"It's a long story," I said, keeping my arm around Frank as we moved toward the kitchen. "Where's Grandma?"

"In the kitchen," Mikey replied.

We walked in to find my grandmother stirring a pot on the stove, the smell of dinner filling the room. She turned to us with a warm smile, but her expression quickly changed when she saw Frank's red-rimmed eyes and the tension on my face.

"Gerard, what happened?" she asked, putting down her spoon and coming over to us.

I guided Frank to a chair at the kitchen table, sitting him down gently. "It's... it's been a rough day," I said, glancing at her. "Frank's mom... she kicked him out."

Her eyes widened in shock, and she put a hand to her chest. "Oh, my goodness." She pulled out a chair and sat across from us, her voice softening. "Frank, sweetheart, are you okay?"

Frank nodded, but his face crumpled as tears started to spill over. "Not really," he whispered.

She reached over, taking his hand in hers. "You're safe here, honey. Whatever happened, you're safe now."

I sat down next to him, my arm draped around his shoulders.

She stood up and poured us all mugs of coffee, setting one down in front of each of us before sitting back down. She sipped hers quietly for a moment before speaking.

"You know," she began, her voice steady and calm, "life can be cruel sometimes. People you love, people who should love you, don't always act the way they should. But that's not a reflection of who you are—it's a reflection of them."

Frank stared into his mug, tears dripping down onto the table.

"You've got a good heart, Frank," she continued, "and it's okay to feel hurt. It's okay to cry. But don't ever let someone else's lack of love make you feel like you're unworthy of it. You're surrounded by people who care about you, who want to see you happy."

Frank sniffled, finally looking up at her. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice cracking.

She smiled warmly. "You're part of this family as long as you need to be, dear. You take all the time you need to heal."

Frank let out a shaky breath, and I pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head.

"You hear that, Frankie?" I said softly. "You're stuck with us now."

He let out a watery laugh, leaning into me as the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift just a little.

In my room, Frank sat cross-legged on the edge of my bed, picking absentmindedly at a thread on his shirt. I was leaning against the desk, watching him closely, unsure of how to bring up what was on my mind without making things heavier than they already were.

"Wanna smoke on the roof?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.

Frank glanced up at me, his face softening slightly. "Yeah, sure."

We climbed out onto the roof, settling into our usual spot, legs dangling over the edge. The stars were bright tonight, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter on black velvet. I handed Frank a cigarette, lighting it for him before lighting my own.

We sat there in silence for a while, just smoking and watching the stars. It wasn't healthy, and we both knew it, but right now, it felt necessary—something grounding in the middle of the chaos.

"You wanna go to school tomorrow?" I asked eventually, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

"Nope," he said immediately, making me chuckle. "But I don't want any more calls from the school, so I guess I have to."

I nodded. "I can help you with the subjects, you know that, right?"

"Thanks," he said, flicking ash off the edge of the roof. "I'm really stupid when it comes to numbers and stuff."

"Yeah, you really suck at that."

He shot me a mock glare, but we both ended up laughing. It felt good—normal, even, for a moment.

Frank sighed, taking another drag of his cigarette. "I also have to apologize to Haley."

"Okay," I said simply, not wanting to push him for more than he was ready to share.

The cold night air started to settle in, and Frank shivered slightly, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. "I'm getting cold, Gee. We should head back inside."

"Okay," I said, stubbing out my cigarette and helping him climb back.

Frank went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and stuff, leaving me in the room to change. I was halfway through pulling on my pajama pants when the door swung open, and Mikey stepped inside.

"Jeez, Mikey!" I yelped, clutching my pants to my waist. "You scared me! Ever heard of knocking? I'm half-naked!"

"Sorry," he muttered, plopping down on the bed without much concern.

I sighed, yanking my shirt over my head. "What's up? Pete already left?"

"Yeah," he said, fidgeting with his hands. "I, uh... I need to talk to you."

I paused, glancing over at him. "What's going on?" I asked, moving to organize some clothes in my closet while waiting for his answer.

"How do you know if you like someone?" he blurted out.

I froze, turning to face him. "Wait, what? You like someone?"

"Just tell me!" he insisted, his cheeks flushing.

I raised a brow, leaning back against the closet. "Okay, okay. Well... it's hard to explain. But when you like someone, it's like... the way they talk makes you crazy. The way they look, the way they move—it just gets to you. You want to be around them, make them happy, and you wish more than anything they felt the same about you. That's how you kinda know."

Mikey sat there, chewing on his lip. After a moment, he nodded. "Yeah... I guess that makes sense. Thanks." He stood abruptly, heading toward the door.

"Wait!" I called after him. "Who is it? Who do you like?"

"No one!" he shouted, bolting out of the room before I could press further.

Frank walked in just as the door slammed shut. He looked at me with a curious expression, "What was that about?"

"Mikey," I said, shaking my head with a grin. "He barged in here asking me how you know if you like someone. That little bastard has a crush, I'm sure of it."

Frank smirked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Mikey? A crush? That's priceless."

"Right?" I said, sitting beside him. "But he won't tell me who it is. He got all flustered and bolted the second I tried to ask."

Frank laughed, shaking his head. "He's probably dying of embarrassment right now. You think it's someone from school?"

"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "Or someone he doesn't know how to talk to. Either way, I'll find out eventually."

"Mikey's like Fort Knox when it comes to this stuff, but I'll try" I added

Frank rolled his eyes, poking my side playfully. "You're such a dork."

"Oh yeah?" I said with a mischievous grin, leaning in to kiss him. His mouth still tasted like liquor, coffee, nicotine, and toothpaste. Frank melted into the kiss, his hands sliding up to my shoulders as I trapped him beneath me, deepening the kiss until we were both breathless.

"You want me to suck your dick?" I asked, a teasing smirk on my lips.

His eyes widened, and he let out a nervous laugh. "Fucking yes."

I smirked, closing the door behind me as I knelt between his legs, tugging down his pants and underwear. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was how to make my boy feel good.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

Art class was supposed to be my escape, the one place where I could just shut up and lose myself in sketches or paint or my boyfriend's face. Gerard always sat across from me at our table, and even though we weren't out at school, there was this unspoken comfort in having him there. It made things... manageable.

But of course, James had to ruin it.

I was bent over my sketchpad, shading in the folds of a crumpled jacket I'd been working on, when I heard his voice from across the room. Loud. Mocking. Like always.

"Hey, Iero," James called out, just as Mr. Callahan walked out to grab supplies from the storage room. "How's your boyfriend?" His words hit like a punch, and I knew everyone heard it because the room went dead quiet.

I froze, my pencil still pressed against the paper. My face felt like it was on fire. Gerard glanced up at me, his expression shifting between anger and concern.

"Shut up, James," I muttered, barely audible. I tried to focus on the drawing, but my hand wouldn't stop shaking.

"What's that, Frank?" James sneered, striding over to our table. His smirk was the kind of thing that made my stomach churn. "Speak up. Oh wait, is your throat sore from all the—"

"James, stop it," Gerard snapped, standing up before I could. His voice was firm but calm, and somehow that made James laugh even harder.

"Oh look," James said, clapping mockingly. "Your knight in shining eyeliner. How romantic."

I stood up, knocking over my chair in the process. My chest was heaving, and I could feel every pair of eyes in the room glued to us. "Shut your mouth, James."

"Or what?" He stepped closer, towering over me. "You gonna cry? Or run to your boyfriend? God, it's pathetic watching you pretend to be something you're not, Frank. Everyone knows you're just a fag. Always have been."

That word hit harder than any punch. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

Before I could even think, my fist was flying. It connected with James's jaw, and the sound of it echoed in the silence. The whole class gasped. For a second, James looked stunned, but then his expression twisted into something ugly, and he lunged at me, tackling me to the ground.

Chaos broke out. He swung at me, landing a hit on my lip, and I could feel the sting of it splitting open. I tried to push him off, but he was bigger, stronger. Gerard was shouting—something about getting off me—and then someone else was pulling James back.

"Enough!" Mr. Callahan's voice boomed as he stormed back into the room. He grabbed James by the arm and yanked him off me. "What the hell is going on in here?"

I sat up, wiping the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. James was smirking again, looking proud of himself, like this was all a game to him.

"He started it," James said, pointing at me. "Came at me for no reason."

"That's not true!" Gerard shouted, his face red with anger. "He was—"

"Quiet, Mr. Way," Mr. Callahan said, his tone sharp. He looked down at me, his expression a mix of disappointment and concern. "Frank, is this true?"

I didn't answer. My hands were trembling, and I could still feel everyone staring at me, waiting for me to explode or break down or do something. My throat felt tight, and I couldn't get the words out.

"Frank?" Gerard said softly, crouching next to me. His hand brushed mine under the table, a quiet reassurance. I just shook my head.

"Both of you, to the principal's office," Mr. Callahan said, rubbing his temples. "Now."

As I stood up, James leaned in close, just loud enough for me to hear. "This isn't over, Iero."

The principal's office felt like a pressure cooker. I sat stiffly in the chair, staring at the edge of the desk like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. James was slouched in the seat next to me, his arms crossed, wearing his trademark smirk. But even I could tell he was trying to cover up how pissed he was.

Principal Donovan leaned forward, his gaze stern and unyielding. "I don't know what's going on between the two of you, but this behavior stops now. Fighting in the middle of class? In front of your teacher and classmates? Absolutely unacceptable."

Neither of us spoke. I kept my eyes glued to the desk. James just sat there, radiating defiance.

Donovan sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You'll both serve detention after school today. No arguments. And I strongly suggest you use that time to figure out how to move past whatever this is."

"Yes, sir," I muttered, my voice barely audible.

James didn't even bother responding. He just grunted and rolled his eyes.

When detention finally rolled around, the classroom was eerily quiet. The only sound was the clock ticking and the faint hum of the air conditioner. I sat at the front, as far from James as I could get, but I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head.

I was about five minutes into doodling aimlessly in the margins of my notebook when he spoke.

"You know why I hate you, Frank?"

I froze, my pencil hovering over the paper. I didn't turn around. "Because you're an asshole?"

He let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, maybe. But that's not the real reason."

I turned slightly in my seat, frowning. "What the hell are you talking about?"

James sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly like he was trying to keep himself together. "I'm in love with you, Frank."

The air seemed to leave the room. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"What?"

"I've been in love with you for years," he said, his voice quieter now, like he was afraid of his own words. "But I knew it was wrong. I mean, being gay... it's not something I'm allowed to be. Not with my dad. Not with my family."

I turned fully to face him, my stomach churning. "James, I—"

"Just shut the fuck up and let me finish," he snapped, his voice breaking slightly. "You don't know what it's like, Frank. Growing up with a dad like mine... a soldier who thinks being anything but straight makes you weak. I've spent my whole life terrified of him finding out. And then there's you."

He looked at me, and for the first time, his expression wasn't mocking or cruel. It was raw. Vulnerable.

"You're everything I can't be," he continued. "You're loud, and funny, and you don't give a fuck what anyone thinks. I hated you for that. Hated that you made me feel things I wasn't supposed to feel. But I couldn't stop."

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. "I wanted to kiss you so bad. But you were always so fucking straight. I thought I'd convinced myself it didn't matter, but then you show up with him."

He said the last word like it physically hurt him.

"Your boyfriend," he spat. "Like it's so easy for you. Like it doesn't scare the shit out of you every second of every day."

I shook my head, my throat tightening. "James, I don't... I don't feel that way about you. I never did. I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen."

He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You never even gave me a chance, Frank."

"You never gave me a reason to," I shot back, anger bubbling up inside me. "You treated me like shit, James. You think that's love? I don't want someone who hurts me. I want someone who cares about me. Someone who makes me feel safe."

For a moment, he just stared at me, his face unreadable. Then, before I could react, he stood up and crossed the room in two quick strides.

"James, what are you—"

He grabbed my arms and pulled me against him, his lips crashing onto mine. I froze, my brain short-circuiting. His grip was too strong, and I felt trapped, suffocated.

I shoved him as hard as I could, breaking free. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I yelled, my voice cracking.

He just stood there, looking like I'd punched him in the gut. I didn't wait for him to say anything. I bolted out of the room, my chest heaving as tears blurred my vision.

I didn't stop running until I was outside, collapsing onto a bench. I buried my face in my hands, my whole body shaking.

What the hell just happened?

Do I tell Gerard? Would he understand? What the fuck do I do now?

As soon as I was sure I was far enough from James, I pulled out my phone with trembling hands. My fingers felt clumsy as I scrolled through my contacts and hit Ryan's name. The phone rang, each buzz making my heart pound harder.

"Hello?" Ryan's voice came through, muffled and a little breathless, like he'd been rushing around.

"Ryan," I said, my voice cracking. "Where are you?"

"Frank? You okay? You sound—"

"I just... I need to talk to you," I interrupted, swallowing hard to keep my voice steady. "Please."

He hesitated for a second. "I'm at work—Olive Garden. My shift's almost over, though. You can come by, and we'll talk after. Are you okay? What's going on?"

"I—I'll explain when I see you," I said quickly. "I'll be there soon."

"Okay," he said gently. "Hang tight, alright? I'll be here."

I hung up and stuffed my phone back into my pocket, my legs already moving. It was like my body was on autopilot, my mind a jumbled mess of emotions. By the time I reached Olive Garden, the cool air had chilled me to the bone, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside me.

I sat in one of the outdoor waiting benches near the entrance, my knees bouncing anxiously as I tried to make sense of everything. Ryan's shift wasn't over for another fifteen minutes, but I didn't care. Just knowing he was here made me feel slightly less alone.

When the door finally swung open, and Ryan walked out in his black uniform, his face immediately softened when he saw me.

"Frank," he said, concern etched across his features as he jogged over. "What's going on? You look like shit."

"I... I don't even know where to start," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He sat down next to me, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Well, I'm here. Start wherever you need to."

I looked at him, my throat tightening as the tears I'd been holding back threatened to spill over. "It's James," I finally said. "He—he kissed me."

Ryan's eyes widened, and he turned to face me fully. "What the fuck? He did what?"

I nodded, my hands trembling in my lap. "We were in detention, and he just... he started talking about all this stuff—how he's in love with me, how he's been hiding it because of his dad, and then out of nowhere, he just grabbed me and kissed me."

"Jesus Christ, Frank," Ryan muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"I pushed him off," I said quickly, shaking my head. "I got out of there as fast as I could. But... but now I don't know what to do, Ryan. Do I tell Gerard? What if he freaks out? What if he thinks—"

"Hey, hey," Ryan said, cutting me off. "Take a deep breath, alright? You didn't do anything wrong. James is the one who crossed the line, not you."

I nodded, sniffling as I wiped at my eyes. "I just... I don't want this to mess everything up. Gerard's been through so much already. I don't want to make things worse."

Ryan sighed, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Look, you don't have to figure it all out right now. But you should talk to Gerard when you're ready. He deserves to know, and you deserve to get this off your chest."

I nodded again, taking a shaky breath. "Thanks, Ryan. I just... I needed to tell someone. I felt like I was gonna explode."

He smiled softly. "That's what I'm here for. Now, come on. Let's get you something to eat before you completely fall apart."

Despite everything, I managed a small smile. "Yeah, okay."

We stood up, and for the first time since I left school, I felt like I could breathe again. Ryan always had a way of grounding me, and right now, I needed that more than ever.

As Ryan drove me to Gerard's house, I stared out the window, my thoughts racing. I couldn't stay at my place tonight. The idea of being there—trapped with my mom's yelling or my own thoughts spiraling—felt unbearable. It would only make things worse. Maybe I'd do something stupid.

I kept replaying what happened with James in my head. The guilt sat heavy in my chest, even though I knew I hadn't done anything to lead him on. But Gerard deserved the truth, and I knew if I didn't tell him, that asshole would. And who knows how he'd twist it to make me look bad? It could ruin everything.

By the time we reached Gerard's house, I had at least calmed down enough to wipe my face and try to look like I wasn't completely falling apart. I thanked Ryan, and he gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before driving off.

Mikey opened the door when I knocked. He gave me a curious look, probably noticing how red my eyes were. "Gerard's out," he said. "Therapy appointment. He'll be back soon, though."

I nodded, stepping inside. "Thanks, Mikey."

"Grandma's in the kitchen," he added.

I went to greet her. She was making something on the stove, and her warm smile made me feel a little less like I was falling apart. We made small talk for a few minutes. I could tell she knew something was up—she always seemed to—but she didn't push, and I appreciated that more than I could say.

When I wandered back to the living room, Mikey called out from upstairs. "Frank! Can you come up? I need help with something!"

Curious, I climbed the stairs and found him sitting cross-legged on his bed, bass in his lap.

"I'm trying to learn this riff," he said, looking frustrated. "I want to impress Pete."

I paused, raising an eyebrow. "Impress Pete?"

His ears went bright red. "Shut up," he muttered, plucking a string absently.

I grinned, sitting next to him. "Okay, Mikey. Spill. What's the deal with Pete?"

"It's nothing," he said quickly, but the way he fumbled with his bass gave him away.

"Come on, man. Gerard already told me you probably have a crush on someone. You might as well just admit it."

He groaned, clearly uncomfortable, but I noticed the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Fine. Maybe I think Pete's cool, okay? That's it."

"'Cool,' huh?" I teased, picking up the bass to start demonstrating the riff he was struggling with.

"Frank," he whined, his face flushing even more.

"Alright, alright," I said, laughing. "I'll help you."

We spent the next forty minutes working on the riff. Mikey picked it up faster than I expected, and by the time Gerard got home, Mikey was grinning with a newfound confidence.

"Thanks, Frank," Mikey said, setting his bass aside.

"No problem," I said, standing up as Gerard appeared in the doorway.

When our eyes met, my heart sank. That guilt I'd been trying to push away hit me like a truck. Still, I smiled and followed him to his room.

As soon as the door shut behind us, he pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around me. I melted into him, letting his warmth calm the storm in my chest. He kissed me softly, and I kissed him back, but it didn't feel right—not with what I was keeping from him.

Gerard pulled me onto his bed, and we settled into our usual spot—his arms around me, my head resting on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and comforting.

"How was therapy today, babe?" I asked, my voice soft.

He exhaled, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on my arm. "It was... good, I guess. Still a lot of work, though. Dr. Marin keeps pushing me to eat more and stop skipping meals, but it's hard, you know? I want to, but it's like my brain won't let me sometimes. I've been trying, though. Like, really trying."

"You've been doing amazing," I said, tilting my head to look at him.

"I don't know," he murmured, a small frown tugging at his lips. "I'm still not gaining weight like I should be. It's frustrating. I just feel stuck sometimes."

I squeezed his hand. "You're not stuck. You're moving forward, even if it doesn't feel like it. You're trying, and that's what matters. I'm so proud of you, Gee."

His lips curved into a soft smile, and he kissed the top of my head. "Thanks, Frankie. That means a lot."

We lay there in comfortable silence for a while before he asked, "So, how'd detention go?"

My stomach twisted into a knot. I couldn't meet his eyes.

"Frank?" he said, his tone more cautious now. "What happened?"

I sat up slightly, running a hand through my hair. "I... I need to tell you something important that happened there," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His brows furrowed as he shifted to sit up, giving me his full attention. "Okay. I'm listening."

Taking a shaky breath, I started from the beginning—how James had been acting weird and angry during detention, how it escalated into him confessing that he was in love with me, and then how he kissed me. I told Gerard everything, not holding anything back, wishing with every word that he wouldn't be upset.

By the time I finished, I couldn't bring myself to look at him. "You believe me, right?" I asked, my voice cracking.

Gerard reached for my hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Of course I believe you," he said softly. "Thank you for telling me, Frankie. That couldn't have been easy."

His calm response surprised me. I finally looked up at him, and though he seemed sad, there wasn't a trace of anger in his expression.

"I'm sorry," I said, guilt washing over me.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said firmly. "I know that. It's just... a lot to process, you know? But I'm glad you told me."

I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and lingering guilt.

Gerard squeezed my hand again, offering me a small smile. "Come on. Let's go make some coffee. I think we both need it right now."

We made our way to the kitchen, Gerard keeping a comforting hand on my back the whole time. His grandma was reading a book in the living room and gave us a small, knowing smile as we passed by.

Gerard pulled out two mugs from the cupboard while I leaned against the counter, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened. He poured the coffee, handed me a mug, and gestured for us to sit at the small kitchen table.

The warmth of the coffee between my hands grounded me a little, but I still felt jittery. Gerard sat across from me, watching me closely.

"You okay?" he asked after taking a sip of his drink.

"I think so," I said, my voice shaky. "It's just... I keep replaying it in my head, you know? I don't get why he'd do that. It felt like—like I was being punished for something I didn't even do."

Gerard reached across the table, resting his hand over mine. "You don't have to feel guilty anymore. You told me, and we'll deal with it together, okay?"

I nodded, grateful for him. For a while, we just sipped our coffee in silence, letting the quiet moments settle between us. Then, a thought popped into my head, and I hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"Hey, Gee?"

"Yeah?" he said, looking up at me over the rim of his mug.

"I, uh... I think Mikey has a crush on Pete."

Gerard choked on his coffee, setting the mug down quickly to avoid spilling it. "What?"

I tried not to laugh, but the look on his face was priceless. "Yeah, he kind of let it slip earlier. He was nervous as hell when I brought Pete up, and it was... pretty obvious."

Gerard blinked a few times, processing. "Mikey? A crush on Pete? Are we talking about the same Mikey?"

"Yes, your Mikey," I said with a grin. "Don't act so shocked. He's human, Gee."

He shook his head, a small smile forming. "It's not that. It's just... Pete? Really?"

"What's wrong with Pete?" I asked, pretending to be offended on Pete's behalf.

"Nothing!" Gerard said quickly. "It's just unexpected, I guess. Mikey doesn't really talk about stuff like this."

"Well, he didn't exactly talk about it with me either. I had to connect the dots," I said, taking another sip of coffee.

Gerard leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. "Damn. My little brother has a crush. What do we do with that?"

"Nothing," I said with a smirk. "Let him figure it out. But maybe give him a nudge if he starts panicking around Pete or something."

Gerard laughed, shaking his head. "This is wild. Thanks for telling me, though."

"Of course," I said, smiling. "It's kind of cute, actually. Don't you think?"

"Yeah," Gerard admitted, his smile softening. "It is. It's just... I don't want him to grow up this fast."

I tilted my head, watching the way his brows furrowed. "He's not a kid anymore, Gee. He's finding his own self now, and that's a good thing. Besides, he's got you. You're like... the ultimate older brother guidebook."

He snorted, shaking his head. "That's generous. I'm still figuring my own shit out."

"And you're doing a damn good job," I said, leaning forward and poking his hand lightly. "Cut yourself some slack. Mikey looks up to you, and if he's starting to navigate all this stuff, it's because he knows he's got a safety net in you."

Gerard sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. "I guess. It's just weird seeing him... like this. Crushes and... Pete, of all people."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You really can't get over the Pete thing, huh?"

"It's not Pete specifically!" Gerard said quickly, holding up his hands in mock defense. "It's just... I always imagined him, I don't know, having a crush on someone quieter. Pete's—well, he's Pete."

"You're overthinking this," I teased. "Maybe Pete's exactly what Mikey needs. Opposites attract, right?"

Gerard rolled his eyes but couldn't fight the small smile creeping onto his face. "Yeah, maybe. Guess I'll keep an eye on it. God help me if Pete notices and decides to mess with him."

"I think Pete wouldn't do that," I said confidently. "He's a lot, but he's not an asshole."

"Fair," Gerard said with a chuckle. He reached out, giving my hand a small squeeze. "Thanks for telling me. And for... you know, helping him out earlier."

"Anytime," I said, smiling at him.

The kitchen door creaked open. Mikey walked in, completely unaware of the conversation we'd just had about him. Gerard and I locked eyes, trying to stifle our laughter, but it was no use.

"What?" Mikey asked, his voice defensive as he stopped by the counter to grab a bag of chips.

We both burst out laughing, and Mikey's brows furrowed. "What? What's so funny?"

I couldn't hold it together, and neither could Gerard. I tried to take a sip of coffee to compose myself, but I ended up choking on it, spilling a little on my shirt.

"Holy shit, Frank," Gerard said, half-concerned as he handed me a napkin.

"Sorry," I sputtered between coughs, wiping at my mouth. "It's just—nothing, Mikey. It's fine. You're fine."

Mikey narrowed his eyes, looking between the two of us. "Am I a joke to you? Do I look like a clown?"

That set us off again, and Mikey groaned. "You guys are ridiculous. I just came in here for snacks, and now I'm getting roasted for no reason."

"No, no," Gerard said, still laughing as he tried to wave him off. "It's not you, Mikey, I swear. Just bad timing. Really bad timing."

"Yeah," I added, wiping tears from my eyes. "You kinda walked into the middle of something."

Mikey gave us both a suspicious look, grabbing his chips and muttering, "Whatever. You two are weird."

As he turned to leave, Gerard and I exchanged another glance and started laughing all over again.

"Poor Mikey," I said once the door swung shut behind him.

"He'll be fine," Gerard replied with a grin.

Chapter Text

"I'll catch up with you guys at lunch," I said to Gerard as the bell rang. "I need to find Haley."

He gave me a curious look but nodded. "Okay, see you in a bit."

I made my way to the spot where the girls usually hung out, Ryan included, and stood there awkwardly as they all turned to look at me. Their eyebrows shot up, and Ryan gave me a small, hesitant smile.

"Uh, Haley?" I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

She glanced at one of her friends, clearly annoyed. "Yeah, sure."

"I mean... in private," I added.

She sighed, stood up, and followed me a few steps away from the group.

"Listen, I just wanted to apologize for what happened," I started. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hope we're good now."

She crossed her arms, her expression guarded. "Yeah, I got over it. I'm dating James now, anyway."

"Wait, what?" My stomach dropped.

"Yeah," she said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "I thought you knew."

"No, I didn't know," I said, trying to mask the shock. "Uh, well, that's cool, I guess."

She gave me a shrug. "Okay, I forgive you. Not that it matters. Honestly, I don't even know why I had such high expectations for you."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Ouch. That stung more than I expected. And James? Seriously? What the actual fuck?

I stood there for a second, processing. That motherfucker just kissed me yesterday, and now he's dating Haley? Sure, I told him to move on, but I didn't think he'd take it this far. Whatever. Not my problem anymore.

I headed back to the lunch table with the guys, trying to shake it off. The rest of the day went by mostly fine—except for James.

He'd stopped making his stupid jokes, but the glances? Those were unbearable. I wanted to punch him again, but I knew it wouldn't fix anything. Still, every look he threw my way made my blood boil.

"Hey, you okay?" Gerard asked me later while we were eating lunch. He placed a hand on my thigh under the table, his touch grounding me.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, though I could tell from his skeptical look that he didn't believe me. "Just... thinking about stuff."

Gerard leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, "Wanna skip the rest of the day and go to your place? We could, you know... have some time to ourselves."

I glanced at him, the corner of my mouth twitching upward despite myself. "Hell yeah, and I have to grab some clean clothes there"

"Perfect," he said with a grin.

-

We barely made it upstairs before our bags and coats hit the floor. I pulled Gerard onto my bed, climbing on top of him as our lips collided hungrily. I kissed him like I was trying to erase everything from my mind—his lips, his jawline, his neck. He let out a low moan when I nipped at his collarbone, and his hands found my waist, pulling me closer.

"Fuck," he muttered, tugging at the hem of my shirt.

I pulled it off and helped him with his before standing to strip completely. Gerard's eyes roamed over me as I leaned down to unbutton his jeans, sliding them and his boxers down in one motion.

"C'mere," he murmured, reaching for me, and I climbed back onto the bed, losing myself in him all over again.

"Oh baby you sure know how to turn me on" He said as he touched my ass and lower back, me having my hips on top of his leaning on my knees on the bed. I then got on my knees at the edge of the bed and started sucking him off, he grabbed my hair and moaned my name, then I grabbed the condoms and lube I had on my nightstand, I put the condom on his hard cock and he put lube on his hands before telling me to go back to the previous position, I sat on his lap, lifting myself up with my knees and he started putting the lube on my ass while stimulating it with his fingers .

My body shuddered at the contact and I put my arms around his neck. I moaned near his ear and licked his neck, sucking and leaving a few hickeys that he will have to cover with hoodies or makeup. He slowly inserted his fingers as I gasped each time at the touch of his fingers and cock near my entrance. "Oh Gerard you make me feel so good" I said moaning, then he directed his dick into my ass and slowly pushed the tip in, leaving me speechless "shit gee, shit, ahh" I got used to the sensation and lowered my hips more so that his cock could go deeper inside me. "You're a good boy Frankie" he told me as he held my hips and I moved them for the satisfaction of both of us.

I returned to his lips while I was being penetrated by him, our movements more and more intense and our tongues tangled, separating only to moan in each other's mouths. I had several orgasms at the moments when he touched my prostate and I buried my nails in his back and neck. He moaned so hot and sexy which made me feel even more pleasure than I was already feeling. This felt like being on another fucking planet.

Then his hand moved desperately towards my cock, jerking me off at the same time as I gently jumped on top of him as he penetrated me. "I love you Frankie" he said between moans. I was quite confused by the sensations in my body and I couldn't answer right away. "Is this a fuck I love you or is it for real?" I asked him how I could. I was about to cum and I knew he was too. "I love you, I mean it," he said. "Fuck, Fuck" I said when I came in his stomach, in mine, we were covered in cum and Gerard came too, he helped me get off his cock and I threw the condom he had on in my trash can, then I licked the remains of cum on his cock and finally we both lay down on the bed.

"I love you too gee" I whispered somewhat hesitantly. This is something new for me but I think what I feel is love.

We lay there, still naked, tangled up in each other, just enjoying the silence. Gerard ran his fingers up and down my arm lazily, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, "Wanna go shopping with me? I wanna dye my hair red."

I blinked. "What?" I turned my head to look at him. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "You could help me."

I laughed. "Okay, let's go then."

-

At the store, I watched as he scanned the shelves, picking up boxes of bleach and red dye like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"But you love your black hair," I pointed out, crossing my arms.

"Well, yeah, but I'm sick of it. I don't want it anymore," he shrugged.

I raised an eyebrow. "I've never dyed hair in my life, y'know."

Gerard smirked. "I'll teach you, don't worry. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know... maybe you'll go bald."

"Maybe," he said, throwing a box of dye into the basket. "But I'll keep an eye on you."

-

When we got back to his house, we were greeted by Mikey, who was holed up in his room, playing bass—with Pete.

Gerard and I exchanged looks before bursting into laughter.

"Gee, don't be jealous," I teased.

"I just don't like the idea of my little brother being in love with someone. Kissing someone. It's weird."

I snorted. "Dude, he probably thinks the same about you and me."

"Yeah, but I'm older," Gerard huffed.

"He's barely a teen, Gee. He's gonna start doing all that shit soon, so get used to it."

Gerard groaned, running a hand down his face. "I guess."

He started mixing the bleach, and I watched, feeling slightly nervous about what I was about to do to his hair.

"Okay, babe, take your shirt off," I said. "I already know I'm gonna make a mess."

"Be careful," he warned, shooting me a look. "I don't wanna be bald."

It took forever—like three fucking hours—just to lift enough of the black out so the red would actually show. His hair was stubborn as hell, but when I finally applied the red and washed it out, I had to admit... he looked incredible.

"Fuck, Gee," I said, running my fingers through his damp, newly red hair. "You look beautiful. You look like blood. It suits you."

Gerard examined himself in the mirror, tilting his head. "Yeah... it's kinda nice. I like it."

Then he turned to me, grinning. "Could you cut me some bangs?"

I scoffed. "Shit, I should get paid for this."

"C'mon, asshole," he laughed.

"If I fuck it up, it's not my fault. It's yours," I warned.

"You've been saying that all day."

I rolled my eyes and carefully trimmed his bangs, trying not to panic. When I stepped back, I had to admit—he looked fucking perfect.

"You're so gorgeous, baby," I murmured.

He smiled. "Thank you, honey." He leaned in and kissed me, his hands resting lightly on my waist.

As we made our way downstairs for dinner, we passed by Mikey's room—where the door was now closed.

Gerard's face immediately changed.

He knocked hard. "Mikey!!"

"WHAAT?!" Mikey's voice came from inside.

"Dinner's ready," Gerard said, trying to sound normal.

From inside the room, Pete started laughing his ass off.

"We'll be there in a minute!" Mikey called back.

Gerard turned to me, horrified.

I bit back a laugh. "Relax, dude. They're not doing anything."

"Hell no," he muttered sarcastically, stomping downstairs like he had just witnessed a crime.

Dinner at the Way house was already awkward enough with just Donna there, but tonight? Tonight felt like a fucking battlefield.

Gerard's grandma was the first to break the silence, smiling warmly as she looked at him. "I love your new hair, sweetheart. You look younger! And, you know, less dead. Like you always like to look."

Mikey snorted into his drink. "Yeah, I had to shield my eyes when I saw him."

Pete nodded dramatically. "Blinded. Couldn't see for like five minutes."

Gerard rolled his eyes but smirked. "You guys are idiots."

Pete shrugged. "Nah, it's fucking cool. I actually love it. One day, I'm totally dyeing my hair that color."

That made Gerard pause for a second, staring at Pete like he'd just said he wanted to marry Mikey or some shit. And maybe that was the problem. He was still coming to terms with the fact that Mikey—his baby brother, his barely-a-teenager, still-plays-Pokémon-on-his-Gameboy brother—probably had a boyfriend now. And Gerard had to accept it. He just hoped Pete was the right guy. At least Mikey seemed happy.

His mother, however, did not seem happy.

She sighed, setting down her fork. "I really don't like it," she said, frowning at Gerard's hair. "It's too... fictional. No one has that color naturally."

I scoffed before Gerard could say anything. "That's kinda the point, isn't it? No one here has hair like that. It makes him stand out."

Donna's eyes snapped to me, and something about the way she looked at me made my stomach twist. It wasn't just disapproval—it was something worse. Like she already didn't want me around.

Gerard noticed too. His posture stiffened, and his grip on his fork tightened.

"So, Frank," she said, tilting her head. "You've been spending a lot of time here lately."

I swallowed. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

"Why is that?"

I blinked. "Because I like hanging out with Gerard?"

She hummed, clearly unconvinced. "And your mother? She doesn't say anything about it?"

I clenched my jaw. "She doesn't care."

"Hm. Interesting." She took a sip of wine and then her gaze dropped to my arms. "So many tattoos for someone your age. And piercings, too. Did your mother allow all of that?"

My blood boiled. "Why does it matter?"

Gerard jumped in. "Mom—"

"I'm just curious." She smiled, but it didn't feel real. "It's unusual, that's all."

"She really doesn't care, he can do whatever he wants, with his appereance." Gerard said firmly.

His grandma nodded. "And he looks just fine. Stop interrogating him."

Before Donna could respond, the front door opened.

Everyone turned as Gerard's dad walked in.

Donald Way was everything Gerard wasn't—tall, broad, clean-cut, dressed in an expensive suit like he had just come from closing some million-dollar deal. Even his voice sounded rich when he said, "Evening, everyone."

Donna tensed immediately. "I thought you weren't coming this month."

Donald gave her a polite smile, but there was an edge to it. "Well, I finished business early, so I'm here now. Why, do you not want me here? Is that what you're implying?"

Mikey, who had been happily shoveling food into his mouth a second ago, suddenly looked like he wanted to disappear.

Their grandma quickly tried to cut the tension. "Oh, stop it, both of you. Let's just eat."

Donald's gaze landed on Gerard, and his eyes widened slightly. "Jesus Christ, Gerard. Your hair."

Gerard took a slow bite of mashed potatoes. "Yeah?"

"You must be kidding."

"Nope."

Donald adjusted his tie, then turned his attention to the rest of the table, eyes settling on me and Pete. "And who are these two?"

Pete, always ready to play the charming idiot, flashed a grin and stuck out his hand. "I'm Pete. Friend of Mikey's."

Donald shook it but didn't look particularly interested. His gaze moved to me.

I swallowed. "Frank."

His handshake was firm, businesslike. "You're Gerard's friend?"

I hesitated for half a second. "Yeah."

"And Mikey's," Gerard added quickly.

Donald hummed, his expression unreadable. Then he took his seat at the head of the table. His eyes landed on Gerard, and his expression twitched.

A long pause. Then Donald sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. How's school?"

"Fine."

"How's therapy?"

Gerard hesitated. "...Fine."

Donald clearly wasn't convinced, but he didn't push it. Instead, he turned to Mikey and pulled something from his pocket. "I brought you something for your birthday."

Mikey perked up a little. "Oh, uh, thanks."

As Mikey unwrapped the gift, Donald's gaze swept over the table. "So many guys here tonight," he mused. "Who has a girlfriend?"

I stiffened.

Gerard damn near choked on his drink.

Mikey and Pete exchanged a quick glance.

"...Girlfriend?" Mikey asked slowly.

Donald nodded. "Yeah. Who's got one?"

Fuck. I had to say something. I could feel Gerard practically vibrating next to me, biting his nails and bouncing his leg under the table like he was about to have a panic attack.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, yeah. I actually have a girlfriend."

Donald looked pleased. "Good." he asked Pete.

Pete grinned. "Yeah, me too. She's older than me, but we love each other so much."

Donald chuckled. "That's nice. I think my sons aren't having as much luck, though." He turned to me. "Maybe you could help them out. "

I forced a smirk. "Oh, don't worry, Mr. Way. I know plenty of chicks I could introduce them to."

Gerard shifted uncomfortably beside me. I grabbed his knee under the table, squeezing gently.

Donald, thankfully, seemed satisfied with that answer and moved on to eating. But Donna? She hadn't stopped glaring at me the entire time.

And I had a bad feeling about it.

Donald kept talking. And talking.

It wasn't even a conversation at this point—just him droning on about his business, some deal he closed, some trip he was taking soon, something about the market, taxes, whatever. It was all delivered with that cool, controlled voice, but the worst part? Half of it was clearly aimed at Donna, little digs disguised as respectful comments.

Things like "It takes a certain level of discipline to maintain financial stability, but of course, not everyone has that foresight."

Or "It's about making the right choices early on, setting yourself up for success instead of struggling later."

Each word made my stomach twist into tighter knots.

None of us had spoken in what felt like forever. We had all finished eating—except him, because of course he took his sweet time, not even pretending to be interested in anything else.

Mikey had actually tried to engage, mentioning he was learning how to play bass, but Donald barely even acknowledged it. Just a nod, a quick "That's nice" before he went right back to himself.

Their grandma had given up entirely. She was already at the sink, washing dishes just to avoid the whole thing.

Gerard, on the other hand, looked like he was barely hanging onto consciousness, head almost sinking into his plate. I was tempted to kick him under the table just to see if he'd fall asleep completely.

Then, finally, Mikey cut in. "Uh, sorry, Dad, but Pete has to go now."

Gerard shot up instantly, like a man escaping death row. "Oh, yeah! I can drive you, Pete."

Pete, who had been slumped in his chair, lit up. "Awesome! Thanks, dude."

They both stood so fast you'd think the house was on fire.

"Thanks for dinner."

"Drive safe." Donald told him.

Donald barely acknowledged Pete at all. But when I stood up too, he raised an eyebrow. "And you? Heading home as well?"

Gerard, ever the lifesaver, jumped in. "Actually, he's staying here for a while. Some, uh... troubles at home."

Donald narrowed his eyes. "What kind of troubles?"

Gerard sighed, already exasperated. "Jeez, Dad, it's personal. Maybe later."

Donald stared at him for a moment, then gave a slow, dismissive nod. "Alright. Just don't drive too fast."

Yeah, wouldn't want Gerard crashing before you get the chance to disappoint him further.

We left before he could say anything else.

Gerard slammed the driver's door shut and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "What a fucking asshole. I can't stand him."

I put a hand on his leg, squeezing gently. "Don't worry, Gerard. He said he's only staying a couple of days."

"I don't care," he snapped, before sighing and running a hand through his hair. "He's a douche." Then, more quietly, "Mom's probably gonna get worse, Mikes."

Mikey sighed from the backseat. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Yeah," I said. "Just try to ignore it."

Gerard exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the wheel. He seemed to settle a little, enough to actually start the car.

As we pulled out, he glanced in the rearview mirror. "Dude, you really have a girlfriend?"

I snorted, turning to look at Pete.

Mikey, meanwhile, went bright red.

Pete grinned. "Yeah. Her name's Mikey."

Gerard groaned. "Jesus Christ."

"I knew it!" I said, pointing at Mikey like I had just cracked some major FBI case.

Mikey groaned. "Sorry I didn't tell you, Gee."

Gerard turned in his seat to glare at him. "Why? You always tell me everything."

Pete chuckled. "Because he said he was embarrassed that you'd figure out he actually has feelings."

Mikey smacked Pete's arm, but it didn't stop me from bursting out laughing. "That's real stupid, but I can get it."

Gerard shook his head. "Just... don't kiss in front of me or anything. I don't like it."

Mikey shot back instantly. "Oh, but you've done it plenty of times, and I don't like it either."

Pete and I nearly lost our shit laughing as Gerard groaned dramatically.

The rest of the drive was just us messing around, but when we finally pulled up in front of Pete's house, the mood shifted.

Gerard and I exchanged glances as we watched the very awkward moment unfolding in the backseat.

Pete and Mikey obviously wanted to kiss goodbye, but they were too shy, fidgeting like two middle schoolers at their first dance.

Pete finally sighed. "Shut your fucking eyes so I can kiss him goodbye!"

Gerard let out a horrified groan. "Oh, fuck. This is—"

I cracked up and covered Gerard's eyes with my hand. "There. Problem solved."

Through my fingers, I could still hear the kiss happen. Gerard was making gagging noises like a five-year-old, but I was too busy laughing my ass off to care.

Pete pulled away from Mikey, grinning at us. "Bye, guys! Thanks for the ride, Gerard."

"Yeah, yeah, get out of my car," Gerard grumbled.

Mikey was still red as Pete waved one last time and jogged inside.

As soon as the door shut, Mikey sank into his seat. "Fuck, that was so uncomfortable."

Gerard snorted. "Tell me about it, man."

We barely stepped through the door before I turned to Gerard.

"So... what the hell are you guys gonna tell them?"

Gerard frowned. "Who?"

"Your folks, dude," I said. "About us. About Mikey and Pete."

Gerard ran a hand through his (now very red) hair and sighed. "I don't fucking know. Just... try to be normal about it for now, okay?"

He turned to Mikey. "You too. Don't mess it up. You know what happened to me back then—I don't want you going through that. And you—" He looked at me. "—I don't want them messing with you either. So... let's keep it like we're just mates for now."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, hating that he had to even think that way. But I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Mikey did too.

None of us liked it.

But for now? It was just the way things had to be.

Everything was quiet in the house, so we figured everyone was already asleep.

Mikey mumbled a tired goodnight before disappearing into his room. Gerard did the same.

I headed to the bathroom first, brushing my teeth and doing all the necessary nighttime shit. When I was done, I passed Mikey, who was now in his pajamas, slipping into Gerard's room.

Gerard was half-heartedly organizing his room, probably just moving things from one messy pile to another. Mikey lingered in the doorway.

"Gee... I want a cellphone so I can chat with him," Mikey muttered.

Gerard rolled his eyes. "You must have savings or something—I don't have money for that."

Mikey sighed dramatically and turned to leave, looking like a kicked puppy.

Gerard groaned, rubbing his face. "Jesus. C'mere."

Mikey perked up.

"Use mine tonight. Just don't snitch anything, you little bitch. And tomorrow, ask Dad to get you one—use him for something useful."

"Really?!" Mikey's whole face lit up.

"Yes, yes, now get out."

Mikey snatched the phone out of Gerard's hand like it was a sacred artifact and bolted out of the room.

Just as he left, I stepped in, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

Gerard turned to look at me, his freshly dyed red hair a mess from all the times he had run his hands through it tonight.

I smirked. "You look so hot with that hair, motherfucker."

He grinned. "Hotter is my hairstylist."

My fingers brushed against the hem of Gerard's shirt, tugging it up. He lifted his arms lazily, letting me pull it off. I did the same with mine, then pushed my jeans down, leaving myself in just my boxers. I climbed onto my side of the bed—yeah, my side. Against the wall. It was an unspoken thing now.

Gerard followed, stripping down to his boxers before sliding under the covers next to me.

I turned toward him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder. "You sure you deleted my dick pics?"

He snorted. "Fuck, I don't know. Maybe."

"Jesus," I muttered, throwing an arm around his waist.

"Sorry about dinner," he said after a moment. His voice was quieter now, like he was only half-awake. "It was awful. I know."

"I get it. Don't worry," I murmured.

He exhaled, relaxing into me. "Just sleep, honey."

"You too. Night, babe."

He kissed me, just a quick peck, and we both drifted off.

-

I woke up to a horrible noise.

A loud crash.

Glass breaking. Something slamming hard against the floor.

Gerard shot up so fast it shook the bed, his breathing ragged. He fumbled to turn on the lamp, eyes wide as he scrambled for his pants.

I barely had time to process before he was on his feet, yanking the door open in one motion and disappearing into the hallway.

"Fuck—" I muttered, grabbing my own jeans and stumbling after him. My head was still heavy with sleep, but the sheer panic in his reaction was enough to jolt me awake.

Mikey didn't stir. He always fell asleep with his headphones on, music blasting. Heavy sleeper.

Downstairs, the bathroom light was on.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw them.

Gerard. His dad.

Frozen in place. Staring.

Then Donald's voice tore through the silence.

"Donna! What the hell did you do?!"

His voice cracked. He turned to Gerard, his face twisted in panic.

"Call the fucking ambulance!"

He shoved past me, taking the stairs two at a time, bolting toward Mikey's room. Gerard's phone was in there.

My stomach dropped. My hands were trembling.

I didn't want to look.

But I did.

And that's when I saw her.

Chapter Text

Blood. So much blood.

It was everywhere—on the floor, on the sink, staining the white towels red. Donald was on his knees, pressing a hand towel against her wrist, his face pale and twisted with panic.

"You! Help me with her!" he barked at me.

It took a second for my brain to catch up, but when it did, I grabbed another towel from the rack and pressed down on the wound. My hands were shaking so bad I wasn't sure if I was helping or making it worse. The gash was deep, too deep, and the blood wouldn't stop. My stomach churned.

"Jesus Christ, Donna! What the hell were you thinking?" Donald's voice cracked as he tried to keep pressure on her arm.

"They're coming," Gerard's voice cut through the chaos.

I looked up. He stood in the doorway, his face drained of color, his eyes locked on his mother's limp body. Behind him, Mikey appeared, frozen in place, and then their grandma—her expression so full of sadness it made my chest hurt.

Pill bottles littered the floor. A shattered mirror. Pieces of glass stuck to her skin.

Fuck.

I swallowed hard and tried to focus, but everything felt distant, like I wasn't really there. I barely registered that I was still shirtless, kneeling in a pool of someone else's blood. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. She was slipping away right in front of me.

Then the paramedics burst in, shoving me and Donald aside. Someone was talking, asking questions, but it all blurred together.

"One person can go with her," one of the paramedics said.

"I'll drive us there," Gerard spoke up. "Dad, go with her."

Donald barely hesitated before nodding, climbing into the ambulance as they wheeled Donna away.

As soon as they were gone, Gerard turned to his grandma, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. "She'll be okay, it was just... a breakdown," he muttered, trying to reassure her, though he didn't sound convinced.

Mikey was still standing there, staring at the blood on the floor like it might swallow him whole.

"Go get dressed, Mikes," Gerard told him. "Grandma, you too. We'll leave in a second."

Mikey disappeared down the hall without a word.

Gerard helped his grandma to her room, his voice soft as he spoke to her. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled toward his bedroom, my hands still stained red.

I got dressed fast, but my fingers kept fumbling with the laces of my shoes. My heart wouldn't stop racing.

Gerard walked in just as I finished tying them, standing in the doorway like he didn't know what to do with himself. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. He wasn't just scared anymore—he was angry. Devastated.

"Gee, it's okay," I said quietly.

His eyes flicked to me. "It's everything but okay, Frankie." His voice broke.

I stood up and pulled him into a tight hug, holding him like I could physically keep him from falling apart.

"I got you," I whispered.

He let out a shaky breath and nodded against my shoulder, his hands gripping the back of my hoodie.

"Get dressed, babe," I told him, rubbing his back. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Gerard sniffed, pulled back, and wiped at his face. He nodded again, this time more firmly. Then he grabbed a shirt and started getting ready.

We were about to face a long, long night.

The hospital was too loud and too quiet at the same time. The steady beeping of machines, the rustling of papers at the front desk, the occasional ringing of a phone—it all blurred together in a way that made my skin crawl. Nurses walked by pushing carts, whispering in hushed voices. Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying.

Mikey was curled up against his grandma, asleep on her shoulder while she held onto her rosary, mumbling prayers under her breath. She hadn't stopped since we got here.

Gerard sat next to me, silent, staring at nothing. His knee was bouncing, his fingers picking at the skin around his nails. I took his hand, threading our fingers together, rubbing slow circles into the back of it with my thumb.

"You think she's gonna die?" he whispered suddenly, barely moving his lips.

I squeezed his hand. "No, Gee, don't think like that."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "It's just—" He sighed. "It's ironic, how my dad acted with all this, y'know? I haven't seen him worried about her in a long time."

I didn't know what to say to that. He was right. Donald had always seemed indifferent toward Donna—like she was some sort of obligation, just another item on his checklist. But tonight, when he'd been kneeling on that bathroom floor, pressing towels to her wrists, his voice cracking as he begged her to stay awake—he'd looked like a man breaking in half.

"Well," I muttered, my voice quiet, "it's hard, Gee. For everyone."

Gerard hummed, watching his knee bounce like he wasn't even the one doing it. I reached up and ran my fingers through his hair, then down the back of his neck. He leaned into it, barely, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again.

We just had to wait.

Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate. A doctor appeared, older, tired-looking. Pulling off a pair of gloves as he approached.

Something in my stomach twisted.

Gerard's grip on my hand tightened.

The doctor cleared his throat, looking over all of us before settling on Gerard's grandma. "I'm very sorry," he said, his voice steady but final. "She didn't make it."

The world just—stopped.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then, a sharp gasp, and his grandma was gripping her rosary like it was the only thing keeping her together. "Oh my God—" She stood up, her voice shaking. "My daughter! Please, let me see her!"

The doctor nodded, stepping aside, and she rushed past him down the hall.

Mikey's head snapped up, blinking rapidly like he was still half-asleep. "Wait—" His voice wavered. "She—she's gone?"

Gerard didn't even hesitate. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in tight before the first sob even left his throat. Mikey clung to him, face buried in his hoodie, his shoulders shaking.

And Gerard just held him. One hand cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his shirt, his own breathing shallow.

I sat there, frozen, watching their world collapse.

The doctor walked away. Nurses kept moving. The hospital went on like nothing had happened.

And Gerard's face—his face didn't change at all.

He just kept staring at the wall, like he already knew this was coming. Like he'd been waiting for it.

I swallowed hard.

"Gee—" I started, but I didn't know what the fuck to say.

He shook his head slightly, staring past me, past everything.

There was nothing else to do but sit there and let it sink in.

The doctor sighed, glancing at all of us before focusing on Donald, who had just returned from the hallway. His face was blank, but his hands were still stained with dried blood.

"She lost a significant amount of blood from the wounds on her wrists," the doctor began, his voice steady but distant, like he'd done this speech a hundred times before. "But ultimately, it was the overdose that stopped her heart. Based on the toxicology, she ingested a large amount of benzodiazepines—most likely Xanax. Given her history, I assume she was prescribed it for bipolar disorder?"

Donald didn't answer. He just stared at the floor, jaw locked so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

The doctor continued, his tone softening. "The combination of blood loss and the depressant effects of the overdose slowed her heart rate until it eventually stopped. We tried to resuscitate her, but... she never regained consciousness."

A choked sob escaped Gerard's grandma. She clutched her rosary so tight her knuckles turned white, lips moving in frantic, whispered prayers.

Mikey let out a sharp breath and covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking.

Helena exhaled through his nose. "Can we see her?" Her voice was raw, wrecked.

The doctor nodded. "You can say goodbye before we prepare the body."

She turned and walked stiffly down the hall without another word.

Mikey swallowed hard and wiped his face. "I— I wanna go too."

Gerard hesitated, his grip tightening around Mikey's sleeve before he nodded. "Okay."

Their grandma, whispering prayers under her breath, stood up on shaky legs and followed them both down the hall.

I stayed behind.

I didn't belong there.

Gerard sat frozen for a moment, gripping my hand so tight it almost hurt. Then, without a word, he stood up and followed his family down the hall.

The waiting room felt heavier now, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing over my head. The distant beeping of machines, the occasional crackle of the intercom, nurses wheeling carts down the halls—none of it felt real.

I ran a hand over my face, exhaling sharply before leaning forward, elbows on my knees. My fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to keep myself grounded.

And then, I waited.

I reached for my phone in my pocket. 6:00 AM.

Missed calls from my mom. A lot of them.

I sighed and stepped out of the waiting room, pressing the phone to my ear. It barely rang before she picked up.

"Frank, what the hell is going on? Someone told me they saw an ambulance outside Gerard's house last night."

Her voice was sharp, but not angry. More... serious.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah. It was his mom." My throat felt tight just saying it. "She—she didn't make it."

A long pause. Then a sigh. "Shit."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Yeah."

Another pause. Then, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just... I don't know."

"Right." She was quiet for a moment. Then, her voice turned even more serious. "Listen. I know I've been a shitty mom. I'm not gonna give you some sob story, but—I just wanted to say that. I fucked up."

I blinked. "Uh... okay?"

"I mean it. I don't expect you to forgive me overnight, but I want to fix things. Try, at least."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"And I wanna meet your boyfriend."

That made me pause. "You—what?"

"Not now. Not today. But eventually." She exhaled. "I don't know if I'll ever understand it, but... I don't wanna be that person, Frank. I don't wanna be my parents. So. When all this settles, maybe we can sit down. Talk. Whatever."

I rubbed a hand over my face. I wasn't sure if I believed her. If I even wanted to.

But still...

"Okay," I muttered. "Yeah. We'll figure something out."

"Alright. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

I hung up and just stood there for a second, staring at my phone. My head was spinning.

Everything felt so fucking unreal.

About half an hour passed before they came back into the waiting room. They all looked wrecked—red-rimmed eyes, drained, like they'd been hollowed out from the inside.

Donald ran a hand down his face and exhaled. "I have to go. Need to start the funeral arrangements." His voice was hoarse.

He pulled out his wallet and handed some cash to Gerard. "Take them to get something to eat. Then go home and rest."

Gerard just nodded.

"You okay to drive?" I asked.

"Not really, but—"

"I'll do it."

He gave me a tired look. "You even have a license?"

"No, but I've driven before."

"Oh, Frank—"

"Let me."

He was too exhausted to argue. He just sighed and handed me the keys.

We stopped at a gas station to grab something to eat, but no one really ate. Just sat there in silence, staring at nothing, picking at their food like it was an obligation. Mikey stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Gerard just held his, not drinking.

Then we went home. Well, Gerard's house.

Helena went straight to her room without a word.

The second Gerard shut the door behind us, Mikey turned and hugged him again, tighter this time, like he was holding him together. Gerard melted into it immediately.

I didn't say anything, just stepped forward and wrapped my arms around both of them. Held them close.

When Mikey finally pulled away, I leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Gerard's lips. They were salty, and for once, they didn't taste like coffee.

Then I went to the kitchen and made him some.

By the time I got upstairs, his door was half-open.

I pushed the door open all the way and sat next to him, holding out the cup.

He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hair still damp from a quick shower he took upstairs. The bathroom downstairs was still a disaster, and I felt like I needed to clean that up 'cause it would be awful for his family to do that. His eyes were red and swollen, and he was wearing an oversized band tee I didn't recognize, just his boxers underneath, a thin blanket barely covering his legs. He looked exhausted. Completely drained.

"Made you coffee."

He blinked, like he'd just noticed me, then slowly sat up and took it from my hands. "Thanks." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

I watched as he brought the cup to his lips, his hands trembling slightly. He took a slow sip, but I could tell he wasn't really tasting it. Just going through the motions.

I shifted closer, resting my hand on his knee. "You should try to sleep, babe."

He let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah. Right."

I didn't push. Just sat there with him, letting the silence stretch between us. The room was dim, the only light coming from his bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across his face. Outside, the house was eerily quiet—Helena had gone to bed, Mikey had disappeared into his room. It felt like the whole world had stopped.

After a few minutes, Gerard set the cup down on his nightstand and exhaled shakily. "It's weird," he murmured. "Knowing she's... gone. Like, I keep thinking I'm gonna go downstairs and she'll just—be there. In her room, or watching TV I dunno... " He swallowed hard. "Like maybe this is just some fucked-up dream."

I squeezed his knee. "I know."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do now. Like, what do people do when their mom dies, when – she fucking just kill herself? Just—keep going? We weren't that close or we didn't have the best relationship ever but she's... was my mom after all."

I hesitated, then moved my hand to his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. "I don't think there's a right way to do this, Gee. You just... get through it however you can. I'll be with you, you're not alone ok? I think she was in pain for so long and sometimes you can't get over it that easily... but I think she fought for all of you, even if you think she didn't"

He leaned into my touch slightly, letting his head drop forward.

For a moment, we just sat like that. The quiet hum of the house around us, the faint sound of Mikey's music playing low through the walls. Then, so quietly I almost didn't hear it.I shifted, pulling the blanket up over both of us as I lay down beside him. He curled into me, pressing his face against my chest, his breaths shaky and uneven.

I ran my fingers through his damp hair, rubbing the nape of his neck gently.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you more, Frankie"

Eventually, his breathing evened out.

When I was sure he was completely asleep, I carefully slipped out of bed, making sure not to wake him. His breathing was steady now, slow and deep, his body finally resting after what felt like the longest night of our lives.

I grabbed my hoodie from the chair and quietly made my way downstairs.

Mikey's door was still closed, but I could hear muffled sniffs coming from inside.

I hesitated for a second before speaking softly through the door. "Hey, Mikey. It's Frank. Want me to call Pete?"

No response at first, just silence. Then, after a long pause—

"Yeah. Okay," he said, voice small. "Thanks."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me, then walked back upstairs and grabbed Gerard's phone from his nightstand. Scrolling through his contacts, I found Pete's number and dialed.

He picked up almost immediately. "Yo, Way, you good?"

"It's Frank," I said quickly. "Listen, Mikey needs you. Can you come over?"

There was no hesitation. "Yeah, of course. Be there in a few."

When Pete showed up, I let him in and pointed toward Mikey's room. He didn't say anything, just nodded and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, then turned toward the bathroom.

I hadn't even stepped inside yet, but the smell was already creeping into my nose. Something metallic, sharp, mixed with the heavy scent of antiseptic and whatever chemicals the paramedics had used. It was fucking awful.

And it made me feel sick.

Not just because of what had happened, but because—fuck. I'd been there before. I knew that place, that headspace. The blood, the pills, the desperation.

I swallowed down the nausea and forced myself to move.

The towels were the worst part. Stained beyond saving. I tried, but after a few failed attempts, I just carried them outside and dumped them in the trash. No one needed to see that again.

Then the mirror. Shattered all over the floor. I carefully picked up the broken pieces, each one catching the dim light from the hallway, sharp and jagged in my hands.

By the time I was done, the bathroom almost looked normal again. I stood in the doorway for a second, taking in the clean tiles, the fresh towels I'd put out, the faint smell of bleach instead of blood.

It wasn't perfect, but at least now it wasn't a crime scene.

I exhaled, rubbing my face, then headed back upstairs.

Gerard hadn't moved much, still curled up on his bed, his face relaxed in sleep.

I looked around his room—our clothes were still scattered across the floor from earlier, so I quietly picked them up, folding them neatly and tucking them into his closet.

Finally, I pulled off my hoodie and climbed back into bed beside him.

I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, just near his ear, and he shifted slightly, murmuring something in his sleep. His skin was warm, his breathing steady.

I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling the soft strands slip through my fingers. He'd been taking such good care of it lately, trying to keep it healthy despite all the bleach. It smelled nice, some kind of citrusy shampoo, clean and fresh.

It was rare for him to have clean hair.

After a few minutes, he stirred, rolling over to face me. His eyes were still heavy with exhaustion, but there was awareness in them now. He knew I was still there. That I hadn't left him.

"How's Mikey?" he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"I called Pete over. He's with him—I thought he might need him."

Gerard just nodded, then reached out, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me closer. His grip was weak, but desperate, like he needed to feel something solid, something real.

"I have a fucking headache," he whimpered. "It's really bad, Frank."

"Yeah, I bet," I murmured, rubbing his back lightly.

"Can you get me the Tylenol?"

"Where's it?"

"Drawer. In my desk."

I sat up, slipping out of his hold, and crossed the room to his desk. The drawer slid open with a quiet creak, and—

Fuck.

A whole goddamn pharmacy.

Bottles upon bottles of pills. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, opioids, painkillers—shit I didn't even recognize. My stomach twisted at the sight.

I clenched my jaw and forced myself to focus, rummaging through the mess until I found the Tylenol.

I walked back over and handed it to him. "Wait, I'll bring you water."

"No need," he muttered, popping the pill into his mouth and swallowing it dry like it was nothing.

I frowned. "Gerard—"

"C'mere," he cut me off, voice pleading. His hand reached for mine, fingers curling around my wrist. "Don't go, Frank."

I sighed but didn't argue. Instead, I slid back under the covers, letting him pull me close again.

He buried his face in my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "I don't wanna sleep alone."

"You're not," I whispered, threading my fingers through his hair again.

His grip tightened slightly, his whole body melting against mine.

I didn't say anything else.

Just held him.

Chapter Text

The day passed in a slow, heavy blur. The house was eerily quiet, except for the muffled sound of Mikey's bass from the room next to ours—though it wasn't Mikey playing. Pete must've taken over at some point, filling the silence with soft, familiar notes.

Gerard and I barely left his bed. We stayed tangled up in each other, talking about anything that could pull his mind away from reality, even if just for a little while. I told him about my mom, about the weird shit she'd said on the phone, about how I wasn't sure if I believed her but that it still gave me a weird kind of hope. I talked about random things too—stuff I found interesting, dumb facts, music, anything to keep his head from sinking too deep.

We ordered Chinese food for lunch and pizza for dinner, barely tasting any of it. The hours melted together as we watched all the Saw movies on his TV, letting the mindless gore distract us from the real horror of the past twenty-four hours.

By the time night fell, Donald had come home. He stood in the doorway of Gerard's room, looking drained, and told them that the funeral would be tomorrow at 4 PM. It felt too soon, but I guessed when you had money and the right connections, things moved faster.

Gerard barely slept that night.

Whenever he did, it wasn't for long. He'd jolt awake from nightmares, his body twisting in the sheets, breaths coming fast and uneven. The first time it happened, I shook him gently, whispering that it was just a dream, that he was safe. He clung to me after that, and every time another nightmare pulled him under, I was there to pull him back.

By the next morning, exhaustion weighed on all of us.

We dressed in black, the reality of the day settling in like a weight on our shoulders. At the funeral home, I met people I didn't know—family members I assumed were Gerard's. His Aunt Marie, a kind woman with soft eyes, introduced herself, along with a few of his cousins and other relatives. They all looked the same—grief-stricken, lost, unsure of what to say.

Nobody really knew what to say.

The funeral home smelled overwhelmingly like flowers—suffocating and artificial, like someone had tried too hard to cover up the scent of death. It clung to the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of voices and the occasional sound of someone stifling a sob.

Everything felt distant, like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body. People moved in slow motion, whispering condolences, shaking hands, offering sympathetic smiles that didn't mean anything.

Gerard and Mikey stood near the front of the room, stiff and silent, their eyes locked on the closed casket. Neither of them had said much since we got here. Mikey looked like he hadn't slept at all, his face pale, his hands twisting together anxiously. Gerard was eerily still, his expression unreadable. I stayed close, just near enough that our arms brushed, but not close enough to make it obvious. I didn't know how much comfort he wanted—or if he even wanted any at all.

Helena sat in the first row, a rosary clutched tightly between her fingers. She looked smaller than usual, hunched over slightly, whispering quiet prayers under her breath.

Then people started speaking.

Helena was the first to stand. She walked up to the podium slowly, gripping the rosary so tight her knuckles turned white.

"My daughter was... a complicated woman," she said, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. "She was strong-willed. Stubborn. Sometimes difficult. But she loved her boys. She loved her family."

Mikey lowered his gaze to the floor. Gerard didn't move.

"She wasn't perfect," Helena continued, voice softer now. "None of us are. But she was my daughter, and I loved her."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she sat down again, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Mikey tried to speak next. He walked up to the podium, took a deep breath, opened his mouth—then froze.

His eyes welled with tears, and he swallowed hard, like he was trying to force words out. But nothing came.

After a few agonizing seconds, he shook his head, turned around, and hurried back to his seat. Pete wrapped an arm around his shoulders, whispering something in his ear.

Gerard never got up.

Donald didn't speak either.

After that, the service moved forward in a blur—some prayers, more people speaking, words that felt empty and rehearsed. Then came the burial.

I wasn't prepared for how fucking awful it would be.

The sound of dirt hitting the casket was too final, too real.

Gerard stood beside me, silent, unmoving. Mikey gripped Pete's hand like a lifeline, his whole body trembling.

Helena whispered more prayers. Donald stood with his arms crossed, face unreadable.

I felt Gerard shift beside me, and then, after what felt like forever, his fingers brushed against mine before lacing together. He didn't look at me, didn't say anything, just squeezed.

I squeezed back.

After the burial, people gathered at the Way house.

There was food—trays of sandwiches, casseroles, all that typical shit—but no one really ate. People whispered condolences, murmured in hushed voices, occasionally approaching Gerard and Mikey to tell them how sorry they were.

Gerard lasted maybe half an hour before he slipped away upstairs.

I gave it a few minutes before following.

I found him in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands resting on his knees. His tie was gone, his dress shirt rumpled, his eyes distant.

I sat beside him.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then, finally, he exhaled a shaky breath. "She's really gone."

His voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

I closed my eyes for a second. "I know."

His fingers curled into the fabric of his dress pants. I watched him struggle with whatever was going on in his head, his breath uneven, his shoulders tense.

Without thinking, I reached out and took his hand, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. He didn't pull away.

Instead, he let out another breath and leaned into me, resting his head against my shoulder.

I tightened my grip on his hand and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"I'm here," I murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't say anything, but the way he clung to me said enough.

The house felt hollow.

Even with people still lingering, quiet conversations happening in corners, the sound of cups being set down in the kitchen—it all felt distant, like background noise in a movie neither of us were really watching. The funeral had drained what little energy Gerard had left, leaving him heavy and silent as we slipped upstairs, away from the murmured condolences and the stiff embraces of distant relatives who didn't know what else to say.

Mikey stayed downstairs with Pete, and I figured that was for the best. He needed someone other than Gerard, someone who could distract him without reminding him of everything. I didn't think Gerard had it in him to take care of anyone else right now, not when he could barely keep himself together.

His bedroom was dark when we walked in, only lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside his window. Gerard sat down on the edge of his bed and exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping forward like he was trying to fold in on himself. I sat beside him, close enough that our knees touched.

"You okay?" I asked, knowing full well he wasn't.

He let out a dry laugh. "What do you think?"

Fair enough.

He rubbed at his eyes, already red and puffy from crying earlier. I reached out and ran my fingers through the ends of his hair, still soft from the shower he took before the funeral. He leaned into the touch but didn't say anything, just stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

I wanted to tell him something reassuring, something that would make it better, but what the hell do you even say after something like this? It'll get easier? Bullshit. She's in a better place? Even worse. So I didn't say anything. I just slid onto the bed properly and pulled him down with me, wrapping an arm around his waist. He let himself be moved like he didn't have the energy to resist, resting his head against my chest.

We stayed like that for a long time.

The rest of the house slowly went quiet. People left. The soft murmuring of voices downstairs faded out. The front door opened and closed, cars rolled away down the street, and the whole world shrank until it was just the two of us in this dark room, breathing in the same rhythm.

At some point, I must have dozed off, because I woke up to the bed shifting under me.

I blinked groggily, trying to adjust to the dim light, and saw Gerard sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to me. His shoulders were shaking.

"Gee?" I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

He didn't answer.

I sat up properly, trying to focus, and that's when I saw his hands—both pressed against his face, his fingers curled like he was trying to hold himself together. His breath was uneven, ragged, the kind of breathing that barely holds back sobs.

I reached out and touched his back. He flinched but didn't pull away.

"Hey," I said softly. "Talk to me."

Gerard exhaled shakily and dropped his hands to his lap. "I just—" His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "I don't know how to do this, Frank."

I nodded, even though he wasn't looking at me. "I know."

"It doesn't feel real," he admitted.

I didn't realize I was crying too until I wiped my face with my sleeve.

Gerard wiped at his own face angrily, like he hated himself for breaking down in front of me. "I don't wanna feel this, Frank."

Before I could say anything, he stood up suddenly and walked over to his desk. He yanked the drawer open, rummaging through it like he was looking for something.

I had a bad feeling about this.

I got up and walked over just as he pulled out a prescription bottle, his hands shaking. My stomach turned when I saw the label—Lorazepam.

"Gerard," I said, carefully.

"I just—I just need to sleep," he muttered, twisting the cap open. "I can't deal with this right now."

I reached out and gently took the bottle from his hands. He didn't fight me, just watched as I closed it again and set it back in the drawer.

"This isn't the way," I said quietly.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know what else to do."

I took his hand and pulled him back toward the bed. He followed without resistance, letting me guide him under the blankets again. His body was tense, like he was trying not to fall apart. I pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"You don't have to know," I murmured. "You just have to keep going."

That night was slightly better than the last. Gerard still twitched in his sleep, still clenched his fists in the sheets like he was bracing himself for something, but he didn't wake up gasping for air. He didn't shake or cry out, and that felt like progress, even if it was barely anything at all. I didn't wake him when he moved, just ran my fingers through his hair, letting him settle on his own. Maybe it helped. Maybe it didn't. Either way, I wasn't gonna let him wake up alone.

When morning finally rolled around, sunlight creeping in through the blinds, I was the first to open my eyes. Gerard was curled up against me, his face buried in my shoulder, his breathing slow and deep. For a moment, I let myself just stay there, let myself feel the weight of him, the way his body still unconsciously pressed against mine like he needed the comfort even in sleep. I didn't move. Didn't want to wake him. But the sound of clinking dishes from downstairs made him stir.

We dragged ourselves out of bed, neither of us really wanting to face whatever the hell the morning was about to throw at us, but knowing we couldn't just hide up here forever. The second we stepped into the kitchen, Donald was standing at the stove, pouring coffee like this was just a normal fucking day. Like the past forty-eight hours hadn't completely shattered his family.

He glanced up at us and nodded. "Morning."

I muttered a greeting back. Gerard said nothing, just sat down at the table, arms crossed. Donald's gaze flickered to me. "Your mom's okay with you skipping school for this long?"

"Yeah," I lied without hesitation.

He studied me for a second, like he wasn't sure if he believed me, but let it go.

We all sat down except for Helena, who still hadn't come out of her room since the funeral. She hadn't spoken to anyone, hadn't eaten, hadn't moved from behind that closed door, and I could tell it was starting to worry Gerard, even if he didn't know how to talk about it.

Donald seemed to notice too. He turned to Mikey, who had been quietly picking at the corner of his plate. "Take a plate up to your grandma. Sit with her for a while, okay?"

Mikey hesitated, but eventually nodded, gathering some food before heading to her room. His steps were slow, reluctant, but he didn't argue. As soon as he disappeared, Donald cleared his throat and looked at Gerard. "I need to talk to you."

Gerard raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That so?"

Donald exhaled sharply, already tired of him. "I have to leave tomorrow morning."

Gerard let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Of course you do."

"They called me. I don't have a choice."

"You never do."

Donald ignored the comment. "Look, I know this is hard—"

"Oh, do you?" Gerard interrupted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you really know what it's like to lose her? Because from where I'm sitting, you don't seem too fucking devastated. Well, In fact It wasn't like I was expecting something like that from you. I'm stupid I know."

Donald clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his coffee mug. "Gerard, I pay for everything you and Mikey need. You'll be fine here."

"Oh, right, because money fixes everything."

"Don't be a child."

Gerard scoffed, shaking his head. "Okay, well, if we're talking about shit you should've provided for us—Mikey still doesn't have a fucking phone."

Donald frowned. "What?"

"He's been asking for one for years. He has to borrow my phone or Pete's just to fucking text people. But sure, tell me again how you take care of everything we need."

Donald let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his temples. "I'll look into it."

Gerard rolled his eyes. "Sure you will."

Breakfast was tense after that. Mikey eventually came back down, looking even quieter than before, and we all ate in uncomfortable silence. Gerard was the first to finish, pushing his plate aside before standing up. "I'll clean up."

I followed him into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel and drying the plates as he washed them. He was still pissed, scrubbing harder than necessary, his movements sharp and irritated. I bumped my hip against his lightly. "Hey."

He huffed. "What."

"You're gonna break that plate."

He loosened his grip slightly, exhaling through his nose. "I fucking hate him."

"I know."

We finished the dishes in silence, but something about the simple, domestic task made the tension ease just a little. When we were done, he leaned against the counter, staring at me with that look in his eyes.

The one that said do something about it.

So I did.

It started slow, teasing. Light touches, stolen glances, the way Gerard's fingers ghosted over my hip as he moved past me. Then I kissed him, and all the teasing turned into something else entirely.

He let out a soft noise against my lips, gripping the front of my hoodie and pulling me in closer. I barely had time to react before he was pushing me against the counter, hands slipping under my shirt, fingers pressing against my ribs like he needed to feel something real. His hands found my hips too, lifting me slightly, and in seconds, I was sitting on the counter, thighs wrapped around his waist.

We didn't hear the front door open.

Didn't hear the footsteps.

Didn't hear the sharp intake of breath.

But we did hear him.

"The fuck is this?!"

We both froze.

Gerard's hands clenched in my hoodie, his breathing still uneven, his lips still flushed from kissing me. Slowly, we turned to face the doorway.

Donald was standing there, face red with fury, eyes locked onto us like he had just walked in on something disgusting.

"Get the fuck off of him!" he shouted.

Gerard didn't move.

Instead, he gripped me tighter.

"Dad—"

"You're fucking disgusting," Donald spat.

And that's when Gerard lost it.

"Excuse me?!"

Donald slammed his keys onto the counter. "You heard me. You think this is okay? In my house? With Mikey in the next room?"

Gerard shoved me behind him, stepping forward. "I don't give a fuck what you think."

Donald's hands curled into fists. "You're a disgrace. You're a fucking bad example for your brother—"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you!" Gerard snapped. "You wanna talk about bad examples? You're the one who left! You're the one who was never fucking here!"

"I was working my ass off for you two—"

"No, you were building a whole other fucking life in California!"

Silence.

Mikey stood in the doorway now, eyes wide.

Donald's face twisted. "Who told you that?"

Gerard let out a breathless, bitter laugh. "So it's true?"

Mikey took a step back, shaking his head. "You have another family?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Donald swallowed hard.

"You waited until she was dead to tell us?" Gerard's voice cracked.

"I didn't—"

"You didn't what, dad? Think we didn't deserve to know?"

Mikey turned and walked away without another word.

Gerard's eyes burned. "No. You don't have to justify yourself to me. Because I don't fucking care anymore."

And with that, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me upstairs, leaving Donald standing there in the wreckage of his own goddamn lies.

Donald looked stunned, like Gerard had just physically struck him. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something, wanted to fight back, but nothing came out. Maybe because he knew Gerard was right. Maybe because, for the first time in his life, he was actually seeing the damage he'd done—the cracks in the family he had never really been a part of.

But Gerard wasn't finished.

His hands were shaking, but his voice was steady, sharp like a blade cutting through the thick, suffocating air between them. "Just leave, dad. Leave! We're fucking good on our own. Go back to your real family in California, to your perfect life, to your perfect little world where nothing is hard, where you don't have to deal with us, because I get it now. We were never good enough for you, were we?" His voice wavered, but only for a second. "We were always too fucking low for your expectations. Imagine having us as sons. Imagine having a bipolar wife. Imagine how fucking terrible that must've been for you. Yeah, I get it."

Donald ran a hand over his face, exhaling like he was struggling to keep his own temper in check. "Gerard—"

"No, fuck you. Just go away." Gerard's eyes were burning, red-rimmed but furious, not broken, not weak. He took a step forward, and I could feel the heat rolling off him. "Just go. We don't need you. We never did. We're good with just your money, because that's all you've ever been fucking good for. I don't know how that makes you feel, but I bet your beautiful, tan girlfriend doesn't give a shit either, because let's be realistics—she's only looking for the same thing." His mouth curled into something cruel, something bitter.

Gee, c'mon," I muttered, reaching for his arm, tugging him toward the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm fucking done with him," Gerard said, loud enough for Donald to hear, like he wanted him to remember it.

And then we were gone, leaving Donald standing there, looking like he had just realized—too late—that he had nothing left.

Upstairs, Gerard was still fuming.

He paced back and forth in his room, running his hands through his hair, his breath coming fast and uneven. His whole body was vibrating with adrenaline, his fingers twitching like he needed something to grab, something to hold onto before he lost control completely.

I sat on the edge of his bed, watching him. Letting him get it out.

"Fuck, Frank," he muttered. His voice was raw. "I can't fucking stand him."

"I know, I get it, but don't let it get to you now" I said simply.

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, but it wasn't funny. Not even a little. "Do you think he even realizes what he's done? Or do you think he just—" He exhaled harshly, dragging both hands down his face. "Fuck. I don't know."

I didn't either.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then Gerard suddenly turned toward his desk, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of pills.

I stiffened.

"Gerard—"

"It's just for my head." His voice was defensive, clipped. "I promise."

I didn't believe him. Not entirely.

But I didn't stop him either.

He popped a pill into his mouth, swallowed it dry, then threw himself onto the bed next to me, exhaling loudly. He draped an arm over his eyes like the weight of the day was finally pressing down on him, crushing him into the mattress.

I hesitated for a second before reaching out, fingers brushing against his wrist.

"I'm here," I said. I didn't know if that was what he needed to hear, but it was all I had.

Gerard was silent for a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "I know."

And I held onto that.

—

The next few days passed in a strange, muted blur.

Helena barely left her room. Mikey was quiet, distant, his eyes dark with something that looked too much like hopelessness. Pete came over a few times, trying to get him to talk, but Mikey barely acknowledged him.

And Gerard?

Gerard was... functioning. But barely.

He went through the motions—eating when I reminded him to, getting out of bed when he had to, pretending like he was okay when Helena or Mikey were in the room. But I could see it, the way he was unraveling under the surface. The way he kept disappearing into his head, getting stuck there. The way he reached for those pills too easily, like he wasn't even thinking about it anymore.

I tried not to hover. I tried not to push too hard. But I watched him.

And I worried.

School had become an afterthought. Neither of us had been going, not really. The school had been understanding at first—grief had a way of excusing almost anything—but deadlines didn't stop just because someone's world had collapsed. Assignments piled up, emails from teachers started coming in, and eventually, the school counselor left a message on my mom's phone, asking if everything was okay. Gerard's dad had called in a leave of absence for him, something about a "family emergency," but no one really checked in on us beyond that. I tried to keep up with some of my work—half-heartedly skimming through readings, scribbling bullshit answers on worksheets—but Gerard didn't even pretend to care. He barely glanced at his school laptop, and every time I brought it up, he just shrugged, like it was the least important thing in the world. And maybe it was. What the fuck did math even matter when your whole life had just split down the middle?

But still, we couldn't avoid it forever.

I started setting aside an hour or two every day, sitting at Gerard's desk with my books open, pretending I wasn't keeping an eye on him while I worked. Sometimes, he'd sit with me, doodling in the margins of an old notebook, scribbling half-formed lyrics or mindless sketches of monsters and ghosts. Once or twice, I caught him actually reading a textbook, but the moment he realized I'd noticed, he slammed it shut like it was some kind of betrayal.

Mikey tried to keep up too, but I could tell he was struggling. His grades had always been good, and he actually cared about school, but now? His head wasn't in it. Pete started coming over more, bringing him class notes, trying to help him study. It was the only time I saw Mikey look alive—when Pete was next to him, nudging him, making dumb jokes between study sessions.

School still felt distant, like something happening in a completely different world. But at least we were trying.

A week later, my mom called.

She wanted me to come over for dinner. Wanted me to bring Gerard.

"I don't know if he's up for that," I admitted, glancing at him where he was curled up in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Just ask him," she said. "It might be good for him to get out of that house."

I hesitated. But maybe she was right.

Maybe he needed to breathe.

So I asked him.

And to my surprise, he said yes.

Chapter Text

The drive to my house was quiet.

Gerard sat in the passenger seat, his fingers drumming idly against his thigh, eyes half-lidded as he stared out the window. The sun had already started to set, casting everything in a deep orange glow, making the bare trees look like they were on fire.

I kept glancing at him, waiting for him to say something, but he just sat there, lost in his own head.

"You okay? Are you sure you still wanna go there?" I finally asked, my voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

Gerard swallowed, shifting in his seat, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeves. "I just—" He trailed off, exhaling sharply like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. "Never mind."

I glanced at him as I pulled into the driveway. "What?"

He shook his head. "It's just... I don't know what to expect. I know you said she won't interrogate me, but—" He hesitated, then muttered, "Moms don't usually like me."

I shut off the engine and turned to him fully. "She just wants to meet you properly. And if she does say something shitty, I'll handle it."

Gerard gave me a weak smile, but I could tell he wasn't convinced. I didn't blame him. After the first time he met her, after everything with his dad, meeting another parental figure probably felt like stepping into a war zone.

We sat there for a moment, neither of us moving. The house in front of us was too familiar, too loaded with history for me to just walk in without bracing myself. It looked the same as always—small, a little worn-down, but still standing. The porch light flickered slightly, and behind the living room window, I could see the soft glow of the TV.

"Ready?" I asked.

"No," he admitted, but he unbuckled his seatbelt anyway.

I led the way up the steps, opening the door without knocking. The smell of something overly spiced hit me immediately—whatever my mom was cooking, she'd gone overboard with the seasoning. The sound of low voices drifted from the kitchen, the hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clink of dishes.

"Frank?" my mom called out.

"Yeah, we're here," I said, stepping into the light. Gerard hovered just behind me, shoulders tense, eyes darting around like he was scanning for threats.

My mom was leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in her hand. That wasn't exactly a surprise, but I'd been hoping—just for tonight—that she'd prove me wrong. Next to her, a guy I assumed was her new boyfriend sat at the kitchen table. He was older than I expected, maybe mid-forties, with graying hair and a neatly pressed shirt that made him look out of place in this house.

"There he is," she said, smiling, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Then her gaze flicked to Gerard, and the smile faltered for half a second before she recovered. "And this must be Gerard."

Gerard gave a polite nod. "Uh, yeah. Hi."

Her eyes scanned him quickly—his red hair, the smudges under his eyes, the way he stood half behind me like he didn't want to be noticed. I knew that look. She was already forming opinions.

My mom's expression shifted, something almost cautious passing over her face. Then, in an awkward attempt at sincerity, she said, "I—uh, I heard about your mom. I'm really sorry, Gerard."

Gerard stiffened beside me, his fingers curling slightly into the hem of his sleeves. He swallowed, eyes flickering down before nodding once. "Thanks," he murmured.

She exhaled, like she wasn't sure if she should say more. "I can't imagine what you're going through. If you ever need anything—"

Gerard cut her off with another nod, a little sharper this time. "Thanks," he repeated, voice tighter.

I watched the exchange closely. My mom wasn't the type to get sentimental over other people's pain. Maybe she really did feel bad, or maybe she just didn't want to look like an asshole in front of her new boyfriend. Either way, it didn't change the fact that her condolences came with a wine glass in her hand.

"This is Daniel," she said, gesturing toward her boyfriend.

"Dan," the guy corrected, standing up and extending a hand to me first. His grip was firm, practiced. Salesman vibes. "Nice to finally meet you, Frank. Your mom talks about you a lot."

I glanced at her, but she was already taking another sip of wine.

"Yeah," I muttered, shaking his hand quickly before stepping back. He turned to Gerard next, offering the same handshake. Gerard hesitated for a second but took it, his fingers twitching slightly.

"Good to meet you, Gerard," Dan said, all polite and smooth.

"You too," Gerard murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

An awkward silence settled between us. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the muffled voices from the TV in the other room. My mom cleared her throat.

"Well," she said, a little too brightly. "Dinner's almost ready. Hope you boys are hungry."

Gerard shifted closer to me, like he wanted an escape plan. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

"Yeah," I said. "Starving."

I wasn't, but I had a feeling we were gonna need something to keep our mouths busy.

We sat at the table a few minutes later, plates filled with whatever my mom had thrown together. The food was decent, but the air was thick with something unspoken. Gerard barely touched his plate, picking at his food like he was dissecting it.

"So, Gerard," Dan said after a few minutes of awkward silence. "Frank tells me you guys are in school together?"

Gerard nodded, swallowing hard before answering. "Yeah. I just transferred this year."

"Ah," Dan said, nodding like he actually cared. "How do you like it?"

Gerard forced a small smile. "It's... fine."

Dan looked like he was waiting for him to elaborate, but Gerard wasn't offering anything else. My mom sighed, setting down her fork.

"So, Frank," she said, turning her attention to me. "How long were you planning on staying at Gerard's?"

I stiffened, my grip on my fork tightening. "I don't know. Why?"

She shrugged, too casual. "Just wondering. You've been gone a lot."

I glanced at her wine glass. It was almost empty already.

"You basically kicked me out and I told you I'd be there for a while," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "And you were fine with it."

"I am," she said, but there was an edge to her voice. "I just thought, you know... maybe you'd want to be home sometimes. We haven't really talked."

I scoffed before I could stop myself. "Right. Because talking has always been our thing."

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't argue.

Gerard cleared his throat softly, shifting in his seat. He looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to disappear into the floor. Dan, meanwhile, was watching the exchange with mild interest, like he was observing a social experiment.

"So, Gerard," my mom said, switching tactics. "Tell me about your family."

Gerard went rigid. I could feel it, even without looking at him.

I cut in before he had to answer. "Mom."

"What?" she said, feigning innocence. "I'm just trying to make conversation."

Gerard shifted in his seat, glancing at me for a second like he was checking if this was okay. I gave him a slight nod, and he inhaled quietly before speaking.

"Well, uh... I have a younger brother. Mikey. He's—he's great, actually," he said, a small, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He's quiet when you first meet him, but he's got this weird, dry sense of humor that just sneaks up on you. And he's probably the smartest person I know, not in like, a 'straight-A student' way, but just... the way he sees things. He doesn't miss anything."

Linda nodded, listening, and even Dan seemed mildly interested.

Gerard rubbed his palms against his jeans. "Then there's my grandma, Helena. She's... everything, honestly. She basically raised us when my parents were too... busy. She's strong, but this whole thing with my mom has been hard on her. I think she's trying to hold it together for us." His fingers curled into fists on his lap before he forced them to relax again.

He hesitated for a moment, then continued, "My dad... uh, Donald. He's—" He let out a small laugh, but it wasn't out of amusement. "Well, let's just say we don't have the best relationship. He's always been more of a paycheck than a parent, you know? The kind of guy who thinks providing financially is the same as being a dad."

My mom raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

Gerard's voice got quieter when he said, "And my mom... Donna." He swallowed, his throat bobbing slightly. His fingers tapped anxiously against the side of his plate. "She had her struggles. A lot of them. But I think she loved us. In her way, and I wish... I just wish things had been different, for her and for us, y'know?"

The room fell into a heavy silence, but this time, I didn't try to fill it.

Dan cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, uh, Gerard," he said, clearly trying to change the subject. "Any plans for after high school?"

Gerard looked at him like he'd just spoken a different language. "I—um. I don't know. I think I want to be an artist, have my own business or something like that."

Dan nodded like that was a perfectly acceptable answer. "That sounds so nice, I could help you with that but you still have plenty of time to figure it out."

Gerard just gave a tight-lipped smile.

I was done with this dinner.

I pushed my plate away slightly, leaning back in my chair. "So, Mom," I said, tone flat. "How's the whole 'changing' thing going?"

Her expression darkened slightly, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. "Excuse me?"

"You know," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the glass in her hand. "The whole 'new you' thing. You still planning on actually doing it, or was that just something nice to say on the phone?"

Linda sighed, swirling the wine in her glass before setting it down. "I know you're upset with me, Frankie," she said, her voice softer than I expected. "And I get it. I really do. But I'm trying."

I glanced at Gerard, who was sitting tensely beside me, his hands clasped together under the table. He hadn't touched his food much, but at least he wasn't looking like he wanted to bolt.

Linda exhaled, looking at me like she was trying to find the right words. "That's part of why I wanted you to meet Dan." She gestured toward the guy next to her, who had been quiet up until now, just observing. "He's... he's been helping me a lot. More than you probably think."

Dan, who looked way too put-together for this house, gave me a small, polite nod. "It's good to finally meet you, Frank," he said. His voice was calm, steady, like he was used to smoothing things over.

I shifted in my seat. "Yeah. You too, I guess."

Linda smiled a little, though it was hesitant. "Dan's been there for me for a while. Helping me, keeping me accountable. He's not just—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "He's different, Frankie."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'd heard this before. Every guy was different until they weren't. But I didn't say that. Not yet.

Dan cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. "I know this might feel sudden," he said, "but I just want you to know that I care about your mom, and I care about her getting better. She's been making real progress."

Linda nodded quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been cutting back," she said, almost like she was proud of it. "I know that doesn't erase anything, but I'm trying, Frankie. I really am."

Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten. I wanted to believe her. I really did.

I glanced at Gerard, who gave me a small, uncertain look before focusing back on his plate.

Linda bit her lip. "I know I've messed up a lot. And I don't expect everything to just go back to normal overnight. But I want to fix things with you. I want us to be a family again."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah," I muttered. "We'll see."

Dan gave me another one of his calm, understanding nods, like he got it, like he wasn't gonna push. Linda looked hopeful. And me? I wasn't sure what I felt.

Gerard ran a finger along the rim of his glass. "Yeah... I get that," he said, his voice quieter now. "I used to drink a lot too. Not in, like, a fun way. More in a 'this is the only thing that makes me feel okay' kind of way." He let out a short breath, shaking his head. "It got bad for a while. I stopped, but... I know it's not easy."

Something twisted in my chest, slow and heavy, like a dull knife dragging through me. I already knew about this—Gerard had told me before, in quiet moments when it was just the two of us, when he didn't have to look anyone else in the eye. But hearing him say it out loud, in front of other people, in front of my mom—it was different. It made it real in a way that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to my mom's glass, the deep red swirl of wine against the dim light. Gerard's fingers kept moving, tracing the rim of his own glass, restless, like he was trying to shake something off. He wasn't just talking—he was admitting something, putting himself out there in a way I knew wasn't easy for him.

I wanted to reach for his hand, to squeeze it, to let him know I'm here, I've got you. But my mom and Dan were sitting right there, and I wasn't sure if he wanted that right now. So I just glanced at him, hoping—praying—that he could hear everything I wasn't saying.

Linda's eyes softened. "It never is," she murmured. "But you did stop. That's what matters."

Gerard gave a small nod, but his fingers were still fidgeting, like part of him wasn't sure if he agreed with that.

My mom took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes flicking between the two of us like she was deciding whether or not to say what was on her mind. Finally, she exhaled and set her glass down. "Have you two thought about going back to school?" she asked carefully. "I know it's hard... losing someone like that. But, y'know, the world keeps going, and they always expect you to just—" she made a vague motion with her hand, "—keep moving with it." Her gaze softened. "I just... I think it might help. Having a routine again. Getting back to something normal."

I nodded, feeling Gerard shift beside me. "Yeah," I said. "We've talked about it. We'll go back soon."

Gerard gave a small, tired nod of agreement. "Yeah."

Linda looked relieved, like she'd been afraid we were gonna say no and fall into some kind of deep, irreversible pit. "That's good," she said. "That makes me happy."

There was a pause, and then, almost hesitantly, she let out a sigh and leaned forward slightly. "Listen, Frank... I, uh—" she rubbed her hands together, as if trying to warm them. "I know I haven't always been... the best with this stuff. With you. With who you are. And I—" She hesitated, glancing at Dan, who gave her an encouraging nod.

She took a deep breath and turned back to me. "I was wrong," she admitted. "About a lot of things. And I want you to know that. I never should've made you feel like you had to hide anything from me. Like, who your partner was or stuff like that."

Dan gave her a small smile, then turned to me. "We've talked a lot about it," he said. "She knows now that there's nothing wrong with it."

Linda nodded, looking at me earnestly. "I do. And I'm... I'm glad you're with someone stable, Frankie. You used to be all over the place, messing around, getting into trouble, and I didn't know how to help you. And I know I didn't give you any chance to trust me," She glanced at Gerard. "But it seems like you've found something good."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Part of me wanted to tell her she didn't get to rewrite history just because she suddenly decided to be supportive. But another part of me—maybe a stupid, naive part—wanted to believe her. To believe that she was really trying this time.

I cleared my throat and looked at Gerard, who just gave me a small, unreadable smile. Then I turned back to my mom and nodded. "Thanks," I said quietly.

A storm started slow, a low rumble in the distance as the wind picked up, shaking the old trees outside my window. By the time dinner was over, the rain was coming down hard, slamming against the windows like it was trying to get inside.

Linda peeked through the curtains and sighed. "That's a bad one," she muttered.

I glanced at Gerard, who was sitting stiffly in his chair, hands curled into his lap. The thought of making him go back to his house tonight, to the empty silence and memories waiting for him there, made my stomach twist.

"So, uh..." I rubbed the back of my neck. "We should probably stay here, huh?"

Linda turned to us, raising an eyebrow. "I don't have a problem with that," she said, shrugging. "As long as you're not sneaking out in the middle of the night to do anything stupid."

"Yeah, no," I said quickly. "We're good."

She nodded. "Alright. You know where everything is."

Gerard looked at me, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be relieved or anxious about this. I bumped his knee under the table, a silent it's okay, and he exhaled softly.

My room felt different with him in it. Warmer, somehow, even with the storm raging outside. We were lying on my bed, the sound of rain and occasional thunder filling the space between us. Gerard was on his back, one arm folded behind his head, staring at my ceiling like it held all the answers to his problems.

"This is kinda nice," he admitted after a while, voice soft.

I turned my head to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He glanced at me, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "I don't know. Just... not being there. Not thinking about everything for a second."

I shifted closer, resting my chin on his shoulder. "Well, you can stay as long as you want. You don't have to go back tomorrow either."

He huffed. "I think we should, though. Like your mom said, we gotta keep moving, right?"

I blinked at him. "Wait. You wanna go back to school?"

He laughed lightly, nudging me. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying, this doesn't sound like the Gerard I know."

He rolled his eyes, but there was something fond in it. "I just think—maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. A distraction, y'know?"

I studied him for a second. His eyes weren't as heavy as they'd been the last few days. There was still pain there, obviously, but it wasn't crushing him in the same way.

"Okay," I said. "Not tomorrow, but the day after. We'll go back."

He nodded. "Yeah. That sounds good."

I smiled and tilted my head up to press a quick kiss to his jaw. He hummed, closing his eyes for a moment, and I thought we might just drift off like that—warm, tangled up, safe from everything for a while.

And then we heard it.

A voice, soft but urgent, calling my name from outside.

Gerard tensed. "Did you hear that?"

I frowned, sitting up. "Yeah."

Another call, barely audible over the storm. But I recognized it.

"Ryan?" I muttered, pushing back the covers and rushing to the window.

The sight outside made my stomach drop. Ryan was standing in my driveway, absolutely soaked, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes clinging to him. He swayed slightly, eyes unfocused, and even from here, I could tell he was wasted.

"Jesus Christ," I hissed, already moving.

Gerard sat up. "Frank, what—?"

"I gotta let him in," I called over my shoulder, running down the stairs.

I yanked the front door open, wincing as the wind sent a spray of rain into the house. "Dude, what the fuck?"

Ryan blinked at me, shivering. "I, uh... I think I drank too much."

"No shit, Sherlock." I grabbed his arm, pulling him inside. "C'mon."

By the time we got to my room, Gerard was standing there looking half concerned, half irritated. "This is a Wednesday," he deadpanned.

Ryan snorted, stumbling slightly. "Wow, you should be a detective."

I rolled my eyes and shoved him toward my desk chair. "Sit. You need dry clothes."

Gerard tossed me a hoodie and some sweats, and I threw them at Ryan's face. "Change."

Ryan groaned but obeyed, peeling off his wet shirt and replacing it with Gerard's hoodie. His movements were slow, clumsy, like his brain was lagging behind his body.

Gerard handed him a towel, which he used to halfheartedly rub at his dripping hair. "So," Gerard said, arms crossed. "Why are you here?"

Ryan flopped back in the chair, sighing dramatically. "Needed to talk. About my life. My mess of a life."

I sat on the bed beside Gerard. "Okay. Talk."

Ryan draped the towel over his face. "So I'm dating Dallon, right?"

"Who?" Gerard asked.

"Hot guy from the record store," I explained.

"So hot," Ryan confirmed from under the towel. "But... I think I'm in love with Brendon."

I blinked. "Brendon?"

"Brendon." He groaned. "Brendon fucking Urie."

"James' new best friend?"

"Yes, that Brendon." Ryan peeked out from under the towel. "We fucked on Friday."

Gerard choked.

"And then Saturday," Ryan continued. "And then again yesterday. And I think we're gonna keep doing it." He stretched his arms over his head. "Oh, also," he said, voice muffled by the fabric. "James told me something weird at that party. About you, Frank."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Ryan yawned. "He said he thinks you're fucking gorgeous."

Gerard's expression immediately darkened.

"And that he's jealous of Gerard," Ryan continued, completely oblivious. "Like, really jealous. Said he's gonna do everything he can to get you out of the way."

Gerard went rigid beside me.

Ryan pulled the towel off his face. "Anyway, got any snacks?"

I barely heard him. I was too busy squeezing Gerard's hand, grounding him before he could spiral.

"Dude," I muttered. "It was just some drunk party shit. It doesn't mean anything."

Gerard exhaled slowly, his grip on my hand tightening. "Yeah, sure."

Ryan squinted at us. "Wait. What did I say?"

I groaned, rubbing my face before grabbing some blankets and a pillow from my closet. "Nothing, Here," I muttered, tossing them at Ryan. "You're sleeping on the floor."

Ryan barely reacted, just sluggishly unfolding the blanket and flopping down onto it. "Love you guys," he mumbled, already half asleep.

Gerard huffed, watching him with thinly veiled exasperation. "I hate him."

I smirked, nudging him toward the bed. "No, you don't."

"...True."

I laughed quietly, but Gerard didn't. He just sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, staring at the floor.

The shift was immediate, like a cold breeze through the room. I frowned. "Hey, what's wrong?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Nothing."

I sighed. "Dude."

Gerard shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. "It's just... James."

I blinked. "James?"

He turned to me, something sharp in his eyes. "Who else, Frank?"

Gerard exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly, but I could tell he wasn't convinced. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, his whole body coiled tight.

"Gee," I said carefully. "Talk to me."

His jaw clenched. "It's just funny," he said, voice flat. "Because it's James."

I swallowed. I knew exactly where this was going.

"The same James who fucking kissed you," he muttered, staring at the floor. "The same James who told you he was in love with you. And I thought—I really thought—that was over. That he moved on. Like you said he's dating Haley, for fuck's sake." His voice cracked slightly at the end, like the realization hit him as he said it out loud.

I stayed quiet, letting him get it out.

"But no," he went on, shaking his head. "Turns out he's still obsessed with you. Still thinking about you. Still fucking jealous of me." He scoffed, his laugh dry and bitter. "And I'm just supposed to be cool with that?"

I exhaled, reaching for his hand, but he pulled away. Not harshly, but enough that I felt it like a punch to the gut.

"Gee," I said quietly.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then finally looked at me. His eyes weren't just angry—they were hurt.

"Do you still talk to him?" His voice was small now, like he hated even asking.

"No," I said instantly. "We're not friends anymore, Gee."

He nodded slowly, staring at his lap. "Okay."

I hesitated. "Do you believe me?"

Another pause. Then, finally, a sigh. "...Yeah." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "I just—I hate feeling like this. I hate that I care."

I reached for his hand again, and this time he let me take it. "I get it."

He exhaled, squeezing my fingers. His hands were cold.

After a long silence, he leaned into me, resting his forehead against my shoulder.

-

I grinned in the darkness, shifting onto my side so I could face him. "You're such a jealous little bitch, you know that?"

Gerard groaned, shoving at my chest, but I barely moved. "Shut up."

"No, seriously." I rolled halfway on top of him, pinning his wrists down just to be annoying. "You should've seen your face, dude. Terrifying."

He huffed, trying to twist out of my grip, but I held firm. "Frank."

"What?" I smirked, dipping my head closer. "You gonna get all mad at me 'cause he has a crush on me?"

Gerard scoffed, but I could feel his pulse pick up under my fingers. "James can go fuck himself."

"I know that," I said, shifting just slightly so my hips brushed against his. "But I kinda like seeing you like this."

"I mean, you're kinda hot when you're mad," I murmured, dragging my lips along his jaw, teasing. His skin was warm, a little damp from the growing heat between us. "Makes me wanna... " I started to put my hands under his shirt still wanting more from the early made out session we started in his kitchen.

"Frank," he warned, but it wasn't convincing. His hands, once tense in my grip, relaxed, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch me too.

I smirked. "Yeah?"

Then he flipped us, fast as fuck, knocking the air out of my lungs as my back hit the mattress.

"Oh, now you wanna play?" I taunted, grinning up at him.

Gerard loomed over me, his hair messy, his eyes dark in the low light. "You're such a fucking brat," he muttered. Then he grabbed my wrists, pinning me down this time, pressing his weight against me.

Holy shit.

I sucked in a breath, my body already reacting, but then—

"Mmm, you guys are so gay."

Ryan.

I groaned, dropping my head back. "Ryan, shut the fuck up."

He let out an exaggerated sigh from the floor. "I can feel the sexual tension from here."

Gerard groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. "Oh fuck him, why didn't you let him in the street?"

"Dude," I whined, kicking my foot toward the lump on the floor, not even sure if I hit him. "Go to sleep."

"Fine," Ryan mumbled. "Just keep it down."

Gerard lifted his head, eyes catching mine in the dark.

I smirked. "Where were we?"

Gerard groaned, pressing his hands against my chest to keep some distance. "Frank, we're not doing anything with him here."

I grinned, leaning in just enough to feel his breath against my lips. "Stop teasing me."

"You liked it."

His face flushed, but he didn't deny it.

Chapter Text

Gerard's POV:

The room was dimly lit with the gray morning light filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows over the mess of blankets tangled around us. The air was warm, heavy with sleep, and for a few blissful seconds, I forgot everything—forgot the storm, forgot why we were even here, forgot the weight of yesterday pressing down on my chest.

And then Ryan groaned. Loudly.

I blinked my eyes open just in time to see him stir from his spot on the floor, his face scrunching up in confusion. He rubbed a hand over his face, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "What the fuck...?" His voice was hoarse. He sat up, looking around the room like he had no idea how he got here. Then his eyes landed on me and Frank still curled up in bed, and his face twisted into something between horror and disgust. "Why the fuck am I here with you two?"

Frank grinned, stretching lazily beside me. "Good morning, princess."

Ryan ignored him, still taking in the situation like it was some sick joke. Then he paled. "Oh, Jesus Christ—please tell me you two didn't fuck with me in here."

I rolled my eyes, pushing myself up on one elbow. "You're disgusting."

"But if you did, I don't remember shit," he added, rubbing his temples. "Which is even worse."

Frank laughed, sitting up. "Relax, dude. The only thing you did last night was get shit-faced in a storm and tell us your entire life story. Very touching, by the way."

Ryan groaned again, dropping his head into his hands. "Fuck, I feel like shit. And like—" He cut himself off with a sharp gag, his face suddenly twisting.

"Go puke in the bathroom! I'm not cleaning anything, asshole!" Frank yelled, already throwing a pillow at him.

Ryan scrambled to his feet, muttering something about how the world was unfair before stumbling out of the room, heading straight for the bathroom. A second later, we heard the door slam and the unmistakable sound of retching.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Why do we even keep him around?"

Frank smirked, shifting so he was facing me fully. "He's like my shrink and he keeps things interesting."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Listen... I have to go home."

Frank's expression sobered slightly. "Oh."

I sat up, stretching my arms before running a hand through my hair. "I'm worried about them being alone. Mikey, Grandma... I have to be there."

He nodded, shifting the covers off himself. "Yeah, I get it."

"We'll see each other tomorrow at school, okay?" I said, reaching for my shoes. "Thanks for everything. I really liked dinner yesterday."

A small smile played on his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I stood up, glancing toward the hallway where we could still hear Ryan dying in the bathroom. "Take care of him, okay?"

Frank smirked. "He's on his own if he pukes on the floor."

I laughed softly before leaning in for a quick kiss, barely a brush of lips but enough to make my chest feel lighter.

"Take care, Frankie."

The house felt too quiet when I walked in. Not that it was ever really loud—Mikey and Grandma weren't exactly the type to fill a space with noise—but this silence was different. It felt hollow, stretched thin, like something had been drained out of the walls.

I found Mikey sitting at the dining table, hunched over his textbook with that deep-in-thought frown he always got when schoolwork wasn't making sense. His hand was gripping his pencil so tightly I thought it might snap.

Before I could say anything, he spoke without looking up. "Why the fuck didn't you guys come home last night? I was fucking scared."

I blinked, caught off guard. "You sure it wasn't because of the storm, Mikes?"

He finally glanced up, glaring at me. "Hell no. I'm not a little kid."

I smirked a little, but I could tell he was serious. I let out a breath and dropped into the chair across from him. "I was at Frank's place. Because of the storm. Got to properly meet his mom and her boyfriend."

Mikey's expression shifted, some of his frustration giving way to curiosity. "How'd it go?"

"Pretty well, actually. Thought it'd be awful."

He nodded, eyes flicking back down to his textbook. "I'm glad."

There was something off about him, though. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept well. I knew that feeling. I felt it too. The house hadn't felt the same since Mom left, and last night must have been rough for him, being here alone.

I sighed, glancing at his book. "What subject is that, Mikes?"

"Chemistry." He let out a dramatic groan and shoved the textbook toward me. "Can you help me?"

I leaned over, scanning the page. "Sure. What do you need to find out?"

He tapped at one of the diagrams, scowling. "I don't get why this atom doesn't have the same amount of protons and electrons. And I have a test this week."

I scoffed. "Oh, c'mon, man. It's easy."

Mikey shot me a deadpan look. "Easy for you, maybe."

I snorted but started explaining anyway, pointing out how ions work and why some atoms gain or lose electrons. Mikey nodded along, his expression slowly shifting from frustration to something almost like understanding.

When I finished, I leaned back, crossing my arms. "See? Not that bad."

He hummed in response, still scribbling down notes. After a moment, I asked, "How are things with Pete?"

Mikey froze for half a second before shrugging. "Fine. He's... too nice with me."

I raised an eyebrow. "Too nice?"

He shrugged again, not looking at me. "I don't know. It's weird. He compliments me a lot."

I smirked. "I mean... you are cute. You're just like me, I'm cuter than you but still..."

Mikey groaned, shoving my arm. "Stop."

I laughed, shaking my head, but before I could keep teasing him, Grandma's voice called from the kitchen.

"Lunch is ready, boys!"

Mikey practically bolted from his seat, clearly grateful for the distraction. I followed him into the kitchen, where Grandma had set up plates of perfectly cooked steak. The smell filled the whole house, warm and comforting in a way I hadn't felt in a long time.

And for a little while, at least, it almost felt normal.

Lunch was always better when Grandma cooked. The beefsteak smelled incredible, the garlic and soy sauce mixing into something warm and familiar, like home. Mikey was already digging in like he hadn't eaten in days, and I wasn't far behind.

Grandma sat across from us, watching us eat with a fond little smile. "So," she said, setting her fork down. "How's Frank? Everything okay at his house?"

I nodded, chewing. "Yeah. His mom's... different from what I expected. She's trying, I think. And her boyfriend seems alright."

"That's good." Grandma reached for her glass of water. "He's a sweet boy. I worry about him, though. I know what it's like to grow up with things being... unstable."

I glanced at Mikey, who was still focused on his food, but I could tell he was listening.

I swallowed and cleared my throat. "Ryan was there too."

Mikey snorted. "Who's that"

"A friend of ours. A dude who got drunk in the middle of the storm last night."

"Showed up out of nowhere, soaking wet, talking nonsense about being in love with two people and how James is still weirdly obsessed with Frank."

Mikey's chewing slowed. "Wait. What?"

"Yeah." I rubbed my temples. "Ryan let it slip that James is still, I don't know, jealous or whatever. Which is stupid, 'cause he's dating Haley now. Frank's ex."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "That guy is the worst."

Grandma frowned, folding her hands on the table. "James isn't your problem, Gerard. And Frank can handle himself."

I sighed but nodded.

She studied me for a second, then softened. "And don't worry about your father, either."

I blinked. "What?"

"I heard what happened. He has to accept it," she said simply, cutting another piece of steak. "You're not doing anything wrong. Neither of you are."

Mikey suddenly tensed beside me, his fork stopping mid-air. His face turned an alarming shade of red.

"...Does she know?" he muttered to me under his breath.

I smirked, leaning in. "She knows everything, Mikes. You can keep a secret from me, but not from her."

Mikey groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table. "God, kill me."

Grandma chuckled, completely unfazed. "Mikey, sweetheart, you don't have to say anything if you're not ready. But I see the way you look at Pete."

Mikey groaned louder.

I grinned. "He's been all flustered because Pete's nice to him."

"He's too nice," Mikey muttered, still not lifting his head.

Grandma just smiled knowingly. "Being treated well shouldn't make you uncomfortable, Michael."

I snorted, shoving another bite of food into my mouth. "She's got a point."

Mikey had always been weird about feelings—his own, specifically. He could handle mine just fine. He was the one who sat with me when I was at my lowest, the one who distracted me with dumb jokes or quietly handed me his headphones when I needed to drown everything out. He knew how to be strong when I couldn't, even when he was just a kid. And I think that's why he hated being on the other side of it. Vulnerability made him squirm. He'd spent so much time taking care of me, making sure I was okay, that he never really let himself be soft in front of anyone else. It was like he thought if he acknowledged his own feelings too much, they'd make him weaker, or maybe they'd make him need something from someone else—and needing people was risky.

So whenever the conversation turned to him, to the way he looked at Pete or the way Pete looked at him, he shut down. He got defensive, or he turned red and groaned dramatically, or he acted like we were all just imagining things. Because if he didn't admit it, then it wasn't real, right? If he didn't say it out loud, he didn't have to deal with it. But Grandma knew. She always knew. And I could see how much it terrified him—how much it embarrassed him to have someone else notice something he wasn't ready to say. Because if someone noticed, if someone pointed it out, then it was real. And if it was real, then it meant it could hurt.

And Pete was the total opposite. From what I knew of him, he loved getting all protective, like he had something to prove. He was the kind of guy who'd drape himself all over the person he liked, make sure everyone in the room knew exactly who he was with, who he was in love with. He wasn't scared of feelings—he basked in them, craved them, turned them into grand gestures and loud declarations. If he cared about someone, he wanted the whole world to know. And that had to be a nightmare for Mikey.

Because Mikey wasn't like that. He was private, careful, hesitant. He didn't want to be perceived, let alone be the center of Pete's open affection. I could already picture it—Pete throwing an arm around him in public, calling him cute nicknames, getting all soft and sincere at the worst moments. And Mikey, all stiff and awkward, face burning, trying to act like it didn't affect him when it obviously did. It wasn't that he didn't like Pete—if anything, that was the problem. He did like him. And the more Pete showed it, the harder it was for him to pretend otherwise.

Frank was somewhere in between Mikey and Pete. He wasn't as reserved as Mikey, but he wasn't as loud as Pete either. He had his fears—God, did he have them—but when it came to me, his love always won. I came before all of his doubts, before all the things that scared him. And that made him the bravest person I knew. It wasn't that he didn't care what people thought—he did, maybe more than he admitted—but he refused to let it stop him. When he kissed me, when he held my hand, when he whispered things that made my chest ache, it was like he was saying, Yeah, I'm scared, but you're worth it.

And maybe that was why I was so fucking scared of losing him. Why I hated James, why I hated anyone who had ever hurt him, anyone who had made him feel like he had to be someone he wasn't. Because what if one day, he listened? What if one day, all the bullshit got to him? What if he decided that the version of himself he was before me—the one who could fuck around with girls and never get attached, the one people expected him to be—was easier than loving me? The thought made me sick. I knew I was insecure, but I couldn't help it. I wanted him to be mine, and I wanted everyone to know. I wanted to be able to show him off the way Pete would, to make it so obvious that no one would ever question it. Because I loved him. I fucking loved him.

That afternoon, Mikey invited Pete over. He tried to act like it wasn't a big deal, but I could tell he was nervous. It was kind of funny, honestly.

I had to go grocery shopping anyway, so we figured we'd all go together.

Pete leaned forward from the backseat, resting his arms on the front seats. "Why isn't Frank here?"

I kept my eyes on the road. "He's taking care of a friend of ours. Ryan. He was pretty fucked up, so he's helping him out."

Pete hummed, nodding like that was a completely normal thing to do on a Thursday afternoon. "Cool."

At the store.

I grabbed a cart and started ticking things off Grandma's list—milk, eggs, bread, all the basics. Meanwhile, Mikey and Pete were messing around with the cart, taking turns pushing each other and giggling like idiots. I had to admit, it was kinda cute seeing Mikey like this. But Jesus Christ, watching my little brother be all clingy and sappy in front of me was starting to make me regret bringing them along.

I was just about done when we ended up in the hygiene aisle. And, of course, Pete had to notice the condoms.

"Dude, look at this one! It says it has texture on it. That's so fucking cool." He turned the box over in his hands, inspecting it like he was about to do a science project on it. "Ribbed for her pleasure—oh shit, wait, or his! Damn, equality."

Mikey made a strangled noise, immediately turning red. "Shut your fucking mouth up!" he hissed, looking around frantically like someone from school might be lurking behind the shampoo bottles, ready to witness his humiliation. "Jesus, Pete, put it back!"

Pete grinned, waving another box in the air. "Oh, what about these? Ultra-thin, barely-there sensation. Wow, Mikey, you into the full experience? Or—" he gasped dramatically— "do you like it extra safe? Look, they even have glow-in-the-dark ones! Holy shit, imagine that. Your dick, but a lightsaber."

Mikey snatched the box from his hands and shoved it back onto the shelf. "I swear to God, if you don't shut the fuck up, I will leave you in this store."

I finally turned around, raising an eyebrow. "What the hell are you two doing?"

Pete immediately shoved his hands behind his back like a kid caught stealing candy. "Uh, nothing."

Mikey glared at him. "Absolutely nothing," he echoed stiffly.

I stepped closer, grabbed a few packs, and threw them in the cart. "I'll just give you one of these," I muttered, side-eyeing Mikey. "The others are mine. If you wanna do it, buy your own."

Mikey let out the most horrified sound I had ever heard in my life. "Gerard!"

Pete, meanwhile, was losing his mind laughing. "Damn, big bro out here supplying the essentials. That's love."

Mikey covered his face with both hands. "I'm gonna kill myself."

"Not before you use those, apparently," Pete snorted.

Mikey groaned in agony, his whole face turning an alarming shade of red as he kept his eyes glued to the floor like it might somehow open up and swallow him. He refused to look at me, at Pete, at anything in the general vicinity of the conversation we were having. I knew my little brother—he wasn't exactly the type to jump headfirst into things, especially not something as big as that. He was too careful, too hesitant, always second-guessing himself, always thinking a hundred steps ahead. And if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that Mikey had never been the most confident about himself, especially when it came to relationships.

But the thing is, they were both so young. Well, Pete was barely Frank's age. And when you're that young, when the heat comes to you, it just comes. There's no build-up, no logical sequence of events—you just go from zero to a hundred, and suddenly you're making out in a dimly lit basement, or bathroom stall, wondering how the hell you got there. So even if Mikey swore up and down that he wasn't thinking about it yet, that he wasn't ready, I knew better than to assume. Because sometimes, it didn't matter how much you planned or overthought—hormones didn't exactly wait for permission.

And if it did happen, well... I'd rather him be prepared than panicking last minute. It's what a good big brother would do, even if the thought of Mikey doing anything remotely sexual made me want to claw my own brain out.

We rolled up to the checkout, and the second I saw him, I almost laughed.

James.

Wearing a cheap-ass uniform, standing behind a register like some minimum-wage loser.

(It sounds awful Ik, but c'mon it's James)

Oh, this was rich. The same asshole who used to walk around school like he was the king of the fucking world? Bagging groceries? For me? Poetic.

The moment his eyes landed on me, his lips curled into a smirk.

"Well, here you are, faggot."

I sighed so dramatically I should've gotten an Oscar. "Wow, James. Still using the same tired-ass insult? I almost feel bad for you." I gave him a look. "You're a cashier now, huh? That's cute. You should put that on your resume."

His jaw twitched. "It's a job, Way."

"Oh, totally. Honest work and all that," I said, stacking my shit on the conveyor belt. "How's it feel to finally contribute to society? Or did you just take this gig for the discount on beer?"

James narrowed his eyes but didn't answer. Pete let out a snorted laugh, and Mikey kicked his ankle.

Then, as if the universe wanted to make this even better, the condoms slid down the belt.

James grabbed the box before I could and turned it over in his hands, smirking.

"These for fucking Frank?" he asked, voice dripping with something too close to resentment.

Oh. Oh.

I grinned. A slow, sharp, predatory grin.

"You're right. These are for fucking Frank, you have no idea how loud I make him moan my name," I said. Statement. Not a question. Then I tilted my head, all fake curiosity. "What's wrong, James? Sound a little... jealous."

His face immediately hardened. "Jealous?" He scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"Oh, come on," I said, resting an elbow on the counter like I had all the time in the world. "Don't play dumb with me. We both know you had a thing for Frank. Or maybe still have." I dragged out the words, enjoying how his expression twitched. "And it's gotta sting watching me be the one who gets to fuck him while you're stuck ringing up people's toilet paper."

James's grip on the condoms tightened, and for a second, I thought he was gonna crush the box. "You're delusional," he spat.

I gasped, all mock-offense. "Am I?" I leaned in slightly, voice dropping just for him. "'Cause I know what's up, James. And you know I know." I tilted my head. "And I think it's hilarious."

His jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. "Shut the fuck up, Way."

"Hit a nerve, huh?" I grabbed the condoms back from his hand and tossed them in the cart. "You can keep pretending, buddy. I don't give a shit. Just know that he's mine. Not yours. Not ever." I smiled, voice dripping with sugar. "No matter how fucking hard and how much you try."

James's face darkened, but he had nothing. Nothing that wouldn't prove me right.

Pete let out a dramatic "Oooooh," grinning like we were in some reality TV showdown.

Mikey hissed, shoving him. "Shut up, Pete."

James swallowed, nostrils flaring, and finally, finally gave up. "Cash or card?" he muttered.

I swiped my card so aggressively it nearly broke the machine.

He scanned the rest of our stuff in fucking silence.

I grabbed the bags, tossed one at Mikey, and turned on my heel without another glance.

I didn't need to look back.

I'd already won.

As soon as we stepped out of the store, Pete practically exploded.

"Fuck, dude! That was fucking amazing!" he cackled, gripping my shoulder like I'd just won a championship fight. "I mean, the audacity! The confidence! The way you just annihilated that dude with a smile on your face? That was some cinematic shit."

I smirked, digging my keys out of my pocket. "Yeah, well, someone had to put him in his place."

Mikey groaned, walking ahead like he was pretending not to know us. "Jesus Christ, Gerard. Did you have to be that dramatic?"

I snorted. "Uh, yeah? You think I was gonna let James of all people try to pull some alpha male bullshit on me?" I rolled my eyes, unlocking the car. "Besides, we both know he's been in love with Frank for, like, years."

Pete let out a choked laugh as he threw the bags in the trunk. "Fucking exactly! That guy is seething. He's gonna be thinking about this conversation in his grave."

I shrugged, sliding into the driver's seat. "Not my problem."

Mikey muttered something about me being insufferable as he got in the back, but Pete just kept grinning like an idiot.

I turned on the engine, checking the rearview mirror. "What?"

Pete shook his head, smirking. "You're a menace, dude."

I grinned back, shifting into drive. "Yeah," I said, pulling out of the parking lot. "I know."

I really didn't know I had that in me. I'm not like that. Since when did I get all that confidence? Since when did I stand up for myself like that, all sharp words and unshakable stares?

Probably since that motherfucker kissed him. Since I realized he wants him. Since I understood that James feels things for my boyfriend—feelings he shouldn't have, feelings that make my skin crawl.

Or maybe it was just because I was scared as hell.

I don't want to lose Frank. I don't want him to ever think he'd be better off with someone else, someone safer, someone easier to love. I don't want him to doubt us, to let the world's bullshit get inside his head and make him question what we have.

Because he makes me so happy.

And maybe that's why I acted the way I did back there—because I was protecting what's mine.

I threw the last of the grocery bags into the trunk and shut it with a loud thunk. Pete was still buzzing from what had happened inside, practically vibrating as he hopped into the backseat.

"Wait, Frank's calling me," I said, pulling my phone out as I slid into the driver's seat.

Pete leaned forward instantly. "Tell him what you fucking did, it was amazing," he whispered, practically in my ear.

As I answered, I watched them in the rearview mirror—Pete grinning like an idiot, Mikey looking like he wanted to crawl into the floor.

"Babe?" I said into the phone.

"Hi, Gee. What are you doing?" Frank's voice was warm, familiar, grounding.

"Uh, not much. Shopping with Mikey and Pete. We're heading home now. How's Ryan?"

"Oh, good. He left a few minutes ago... Brendon came over, and, uh... they paid me so they could fuck in my room."

I blinked. "What? You did what?"

"I know how it sounds, but, listen, it was a good amount, and Ryan cleaned the sheets after, so—"

"Frank—"

"They didn't have a place to do it!" He sounded way too casual about this. "But, look, now we can even have a real date tonight. If you want."

I paused. "Wait. You're asking me out?"

From the backseat, Pete let out the most obnoxious, high-pitched AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW I had ever heard.

Frank snorted. "Yeah. Was that Pete?"

"Yeah." I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "You're a fucking genius. So, I'll go home, change, and everything, and you tell me when to pick you up."

"Sure. Love you."

"I love you more."

"Bye, bitch."

Mikey let out a disgusted groan. "Ugh."

I smirked, glancing back at him. "What were you two whispering about earlier? Why'd you get all red?"

Mikey stiffened. "Nothing!"

Pete grinned. "Can you drive me home? I'm having a sleepover with Mikey."

I raised an eyebrow. "With permission from who? And why at your place?"

Pete rolled his eyes. "Because it's different from your house, fuck, Gerard, we're not gonna do anything. We just wanna cuddle."

Mikey groaned again, hiding his face in his hands.

Pete threw an arm around him dramatically. "Please, Gee?"

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Alright, alright."

Pete fist-bumped the air like he just won something, while Mikey muttered something under his breath about wanting to die.

God, I was too old for this shit.

I had already dropped Mikey and Pete off at Pete's place, so now I was back home, standing in front of my closet, trying to find something that looked cute—but not so cute that it screamed I tried too hard for this date. It was a fine fucking balance.

After way too much debating, I settled on a pair of black skinny jeans with my favorite punk belt, a plain dark blue long-sleeve shirt, and my leather jacket. Classic, effortless—but still good enough to make Frank look at me.

I even took a shower.

So yeah, I was trying hard as fuck.

My phone buzzed. Frank: Ready when you are.

I grabbed my keys, ready to head out, when I saw Grandma unpacking the groceries in the kitchen. And that's when it hit me.

The fucking condoms.

I turned on my heel and beelined for the kitchen, trying to act natural as I searched through the bags before she could. I spotted the box, snatched it up, and stuffed it into my jacket.

Wait.

One was missing.

Hell yeah. What a fucking mystery.

Grandma looked up from the fridge and smiled. "Where are you going, all good-smelling, showered, and combed, Gerard?"

I stood there for a second, the condoms practically burning a hole in my pocket. Then I cleared my throat and turned to face her.

"Well, I have a date with Frank tonight," I said, casually leaning against the counter. "Also, I let Mikey have a sleepover at Pete's. Hope that doesn't bother you."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, that's fine. Are you coming back tonight?"

"Probably. We have to go back to school tomorrow, but if I don't come home, don't worry. I'll be at his house or something."

She gave me that look—the knowing grandma look that always made me feel like she had some supernatural ability to read minds. "Okay, sweetheart. Take care."

I kissed her cheek. "Bye. Love you."

As I walked out the door, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Now, time to pick up my boyfriend.

I pulled up outside Frank's house and honked twice, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I waited. My heart was beating way too fast for something as simple as picking up my boyfriend, but I guess that's just what Frank does to me.

The front door swung open, and he came jogging out, slipping into the passenger seat with his usual grin. He smelled good—like cigarettes, fabric softener, and whatever shampoo he used that always made me want to bury my face in his hair.

"Hey, handsome," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

I smirked. "Who, me?"

"Nah, I was talking to your car." He patted the dashboard affectionately. "But you're alright too, I guess."

I rolled my eyes and pulled away from the curb. "So, where are we going?"

Frank shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "Dunno."

"This was your idea, loverboy." I said, "Hey, you're the one who pimped out your bedroom to Brendon and Ryan for sex money. You should be the one treating me".

Frank groaned and covered his face. "Don't remind me."

"Dude. That's what you did to afford this date?"

"Yeah. It was traumatic, but I put music on," he said, dead serious.

I stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "What the fuck, Frank?"

"I don't know, man!" he said, throwing his hands up. "Brendon was desperate, Ryan was broke, I was in need of cash. Everybody wins."

I shook my head, still laughing as I pulled onto the main road. "Alright, well, I can never set foot in your bedroom again."

"Fair. I barely even wanna sleep in there myself now."

We drove in comfortable silence for a bit, just letting the radio fill the space. Frank fiddled with the window, letting in the cool night air, and I tapped the steering wheel, trying to think of a place to go.

"What about that Chinese place you like?" I suggested.

Frank's eyes lit up. "The one with the big-ass portions?"

I grinned. "Yeah, that one."

"Fuck yes."

That settled it. I made a U-turn and headed toward the restaurant, Frank switching the station to something we both liked, singing along off-key to whatever played.

We slid into a booth by the window, menus already in hand, though I was pretty sure Frank had the entire thing memorized. He immediately kicked off his shoes, tucking his legs up under him like he owned the place.

I flicked through the menu lazily, my eyes scanning over the different options, but I wasn't really focused on the food. I glanced at Frank, who was chewing on his thumbnail, deep in thought over his choices.

I set my menu down. "Hey."

He looked up. "What?"

"Thanks."

He blinked. "For what?"

I shrugged. "Just... for this. For us."

Frank tilted his head, giving me a weird look before a small smile crept onto his lips. "Honey, this is almost a free date, don't worry about it."

"That's not what I meant." I sighed, searching for the right words. "I just mean... for trying. With me. I know I've been a mess about everything, and I keep fucking up, but you still... wanna be here. And I don't know. That means a lot."

Frank's face softened. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Yeah, well. I do wanna be here. With you."

I squeezed his hand.

Then he smirked. "Even if I had to rent out my bed like a cheap motel to make it happen."

I groaned, yanking my hand away. "Jesus Christ, Frank."

He cackled, proud of himself.

Our food came, and we ate like we hadn't had a real meal in days. Frank was right—the portions were huge, and we ended up stealing bites from each other's plates.

Halfway through my lo mein, I took a deep breath and set my chopsticks down.

"I have to tell you something."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "That sounds ominous."

I hesitated, then just said it. "I saw James today."

Frank froze, his entire body going stiff. "What?"

"At the grocery store. He works there now."

Frank set his fork down carefully, like he was preparing himself. "What happened?"

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. "He was on register when we checked out, and of course, he had to open his mouth. Called me a faggot the second he saw me."

Frank clenched his jaw. "Fucking prick."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't in the mood to take his shit. And then, when he saw some condoms I bought for us and... Pete and... anyways, he made some dumbass comment about you, well, us.

Frank's nostrils flared. "Oh, what the fuck?"

I leaned forward, smirking. "So I told him—very clearly—that they were for fucking you and that you were mine."

Frank blinked. "Wait. You—what?"

I grinned. "I said, these are for fucking Frank. And he's mine. Not yours, asshole. No matter how hard you try."

Frank stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing.

"Gerard, what the fuck?"

"What?" I said innocently, twirling my chopsticks. "I was just being honest."

"Oh my god." He covered his face, shaking his head. "I swear to God, if I had been there—"

"You would've gotten a boner."

"Shut up."

I laughed, picking at my food. "Anyway, after that, he had nothing to say. Completely shut the fuck up. He was pissed, though. But, like, what could he even do? The cashier next to him was just watching, and I wasn't about to let him talk shit like that."

Frank was still shaking his head, but he looked... impressed. "I didn't know you had that in you."

"Me neither, honestly. I think it's just 'cause that motherfucker kissed you." I scoffed. "He has feelings for you, Frank. And that scares the shit out of me."

Frank's expression softened. "Gee..."

I sighed, poking at my rice. "I just—I dunno. I got so mad. I was scared. I don't wanna lose you."

Frank reached across the table again, grabbing my hand. "You're not losing me."

I swallowed, squeezing his hand tight. "Promise?"

"Promise."

For a second, we just sat there, staring at each other. The restaurant noise faded into the background, and it was just him and me, his hand warm in mine.

Then the moment was ruined when our waitress came back.

"More water?"

We both jumped, yanking our hands back like we'd been caught doing something illegal.

Frank snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, please."

As she walked away, Frank smirked at me. "God, we're so fucking gay."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, no shit."

And just like that, the tension melted away.

We finished our food, cracking dumb jokes between bites, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt simple. Easy.

Like us.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

"Gee, wake up!" I murmured against his ear, my fingers creeping under the blankets to tickle his sides.

He let out a groggy groan and twisted away from me, burying his face into the pillow like that would save him. It wouldn't.

"Mmh, leave me alone..." he mumbled, voice muffled and rough with sleep.

I grinned. "Nope." I kept tickling, pressing my cold fingers into his warm skin, feeling him flinch and squirm against me.

"Stop it, fuckface," he whined, kicking his foot back in an attempt to push me away. It was weak, sleepy, half-hearted. I laughed and dodged it easily, throwing my arm over his waist to hold him in place.

"Mmm... last night you didn't treat me like that," I muttered, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Miss you. I'm sad now."

That got him.

Gerard sighed dramatically, shifting under my grip before turning to face me. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, his dark lashes brushing against his cheeks, but he smiled—small and lazy, the kind of smile that made my stomach twist.

"Mmm, don't be," he murmured, voice softer now. "C'mere."

He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me and tangling his legs with mine under the blankets. His body was warm, comforting, and I almost forgot why I was waking him up in the first place.

But then—fuck. School.

I groaned. "We have to get ready. We have to go to school, remember?"

Gerard sighed again, this time more exaggerated, and nuzzled his face into my neck. "What a waste of time," he muttered. "We could be here, cuddling all day."

And honestly? He had a point.

I tightened my arms around him and let my eyes slip shut for just a second, pretending, just for a little bit, that we didn't have responsibilities or classes or teachers breathing down our necks about late assignments. Just us, warm and safe under the covers.

After our date, we went to my house because my mom was out with Dan, which meant we had the place to ourselves. At first, Gerard was hesitant about staying, and I got why. Because of my damn bed, Ryan and Brendon were literally defiling my fucking bed. But I swore up and down that everything had been washed—clean sheets, fresh start, no ghosts of past trauma lurking in the mattress.

That, and we were both kind of needy.

So yeah, we had... fun. And then we passed out.

Mikey wasn't home, which made it easier for Gerard to just let go and not feel guilty about leaving him alone. Pete had him covered, and Gerard had already told his grandma he was staying out, so for one night, it was just us. No responsibilities, no grief looming over us—just tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and warmth.

But of course, morning came too soon.

Coming back to school after everything that happened felt fucking weird. Like, life just kept going, like the world didn't even pause for a second. People were still complaining about homework, about teachers, making out in hallways, and laughing about shit that didn't matter. And meanwhile, Gerard's mom had just died. Just like that. It didn't sit right with me.

But Gerard... he was moving on. Or at least trying to.

I could see it in the way he carried himself—like he was forcing normalcy, like if he just kept walking, kept talking, kept acting like everything was fine, maybe one day it actually would be. And I knew it wasn't easy. Some days were worse than others. Some mornings, he'd get that faraway look in his eyes, like his brain was stuck somewhere else, somewhere painful. But he wasn't shutting me out. He let me be there.

And that meant fucking everything for me.

The teachers wasted no time reminding us how much we'd missed, especially me. Gerard had an excuse—his mom had just died, and even the coldest of assholes knew better than to press him too hard. But me? I had nothing. No tragic backstory to justify why my assignments were collecting dust. So now, I was getting double the pressure from teachers who already didn't like me.

It was bad.

And the worst part? I could barely focus.

I kept zoning out in class, staring at my notebook but not writing a single word. My mind kept drifting back to James, twisting my stomach into fucking knots. I didn't know what the hell was going on with him. Why was he still acting like this? He had Haley now—shouldn't he be happy? Shouldn't he be moving the fuck on?

Why couldn't he just be normal?

I could feel Gerard watching me sometimes, like he could tell where my head was at. He seemed more relaxed than before—probably trying not to give James more space in his mind than he deserved—but I knew he was thinking about it too. We both were.

James, for his part, was acting strange. Keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact. He wasn't pulling any of his usual bullshit, no smug looks, no snide comments. It was like he was trying not to be noticed.

And honestly? That made me more uneasy than anything.

James was clearly trying not to give Gerard and me any reason to start shit. He wasn't looking at us, wasn't talking about us, wasn't even acting like his usual smug self. If anything, he was doing his best impression of an invisible man.

And the whole school fucking noticed.

People were curious as hell. James wasn't exactly known for keeping his mouth shut, and now he was suddenly silent, avoiding eye contact like his life depended on it. It was suspicious as fuck.

I wasn't thinking too much about it when I left my locker and headed to chemistry. I had more important things to worry about—like the fact that I was drowning in unfinished assignments and half the shit in this class made zero sense to me. But then, right before I reached the classroom, James appeared out of nowhere.

And, just like that, he finally snapped.

"Your boyfriend's a fucking asshole," he spat, his voice low but full of resentment.

I stopped walking, blinking at him like he'd just spoken in a different language. "What?"

James scoffed. "You heard me. He's all possessive and classist—he really thinks he's better than me."

I frowned, utterly baffled. "Dude, what the fuck are you even talking about?"

"At the store," he said, crossing his arms like he thought he had some kind of valid argument. "He treated me like shit, like I was nothing. Like I didn't fucking matter."

Oh.

Oh, this was about that.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Are you serious right now? You care about that? What did you expect, James? You literally tried to take him out of the picture, and now you're acting like you're the victim?"

"He acted like some privileged prick—"

"He's nothing but privileged," I snapped, cutting him off. "And if he told you all that shit, it's because you provoked him."

James clenched his jaw, but I could see the flicker of guilt in his expression.

I didn't know if I wanted to punch him or just laugh in his fucking face.

James's expression darkened, but there was something desperate behind it too, like he was barely holding himself together.

"I don't get why you don't dump him and be with me," he said, like it was the most obvious fucking thing in the world.

I just stared at him, completely done. "Are you serious right now?"

"We have more history," he insisted. "I'm prettier, I'm not some half-dead looking guy. I'm in shape—"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Wow. That's your pitch? That's the big sell? Jesus Christ, James, you don't even want to be with me. You just want to use me—to be your fucking experiment while you figure yourself out."

James flinched, his fists clenching.

"Get me out of your head," I said, voice low but firm. "I don't like you. It'll never fucking happen. He's my boyfriend. You're not. You're not even my friend anymore. Accept it."

His face twisted, but I kept going.

"You're with her," I reminded him, my voice picking up heat. "And all that shit you said to me about how I didn't treat her right? And you're out here pulling this? You're a fucking hypocrite, James. Don't waste your fucking time."

For a split second, I thought he was gonna punch me.

His whole body tensed, and his arm twitched—

But before he could do anything, a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me backward.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

Ray.

James took a small step back, forcing his hands into his pockets like that would somehow hide the fact that he was two seconds from taking a swing at me.

"Nothing. None of your damn business," James muttered.

"Yeah, doesn't fucking look like nothing," Ray shot back. He didn't even sound mad—just vaguely disappointed. And for some reason, that seemed to piss James off more than anything.

I didn't argue when Ray started pulling me away, his grip firm but not rough. I was too worked up to be standing there any longer.

Once we were far enough down the hall, Ray finally let go of my arm and turned to look at me properly.

"You good?"

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah," I muttered, but even I didn't sound convinced.

Ray raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

I sighed. "No."

Ray nodded like he'd expected that answer. "Want to talk about it?"

I hesitated. "Not really."

"Too bad," he said simply, leaning against the wall. "Because I just saved your ass, and I do want to talk about it."

I rolled my eyes but didn't fight it.

"James is being a fucking psycho," I muttered.

"Yeah, I picked up on that," Ray said dryly. "Dude, what the hell is his problem?"

"He doesn't know what the fuck he wants," I said, still irritated. "He's with Haley, but he's out here acting like I'm the one who should be making a choice."

Ray frowned. "Wait, Haley Haley? What the hell is he doing with her if he's still obsessed with you?"

I scoffed. "You tell me."

Ray shook his head, clearly frustrated. "He's fucking pathetic."

"Yeah," I muttered. "And now he's trying to act like Gerard's some villain just because he called him out on his bullshit."

Ray snorted. "Yeah, I bet that really went over well."

I smirked a little. "Oh," I said. " I wasn't there but It was fucking beautiful."

Ray chuckled but then sighed. "Listen, man," he said, getting serious again. "You know James. You know how he gets. He's not just gonna let this go."

I clenched my jaw. "Yeah, I know."

"You need to be careful," Ray said, his voice quieter. "Both of you. If he's pissed off enough, he might not come at you head-on, but he'll find some other way to make your life hell."

I exhaled, nodding. "Yeah," I said again, and for the first time since I left class, the anger started to settle into something heavier.

Ray was right. James wasn't the type to just drop something like this.

This wasn't over.

I was sitting with Ryan and Brendon, half-eating my lunch and half-listening to Brendon complain about how we almost set the lab on fire earlier.

"Okay, so theoretically, it should've worked," Brendon was saying, waving his fork around like a professor. "The sodium thiosulfate was supposed to neutralize the hydrochloric acid."

Ryan scoffed. "Except someone—" he shot Brendon a look, "—thought it would be fun to add magnesium into the mix just to 'see what happens.'"

Brendon shrugged. "Science is about experimentation, Ry."

Ryan deadpanned. "It exploded."

"Okay, minor miscalculation."

I snorted. "Minor miscalculation? Brendon, we almost died. The flames went up, like, three feet in the air."

Brendon grinned, unbothered. "Which is why next time, I think we should try it outside."

Ryan groaned, shoving a fry into his mouth. "I fucking hate you. I prefer being partners with Frankie at chemistry."

Brendon was about to respond when Gerard, Ray and the girls joined us at the table.

"Hey, nerds," Avril greeted, setting her tray down. "Still discussing ways to get expelled?"

"Always," Brendon said proudly.

Lindsey sat next to Gerard, poking at his food. "Why do you always get the saddest-looking meal?"

Gerard shrugged. "It builds character."

Before the conversation could get any dumber, Brendon suddenly straightened up like he'd just remembered something.

"Oh, shit, guys. I almost forgot—James has been talking mad shit about all of you."

I tensed immediately. Gerard's jaw clenched. The rest of the table got quiet.

Ryan frowned. "What do you mean?"

Brendon leaned forward. "I mean, he basically told me I shouldn't hang out with you anymore."

Ryan looked genuinely confused. "Why?"

"Because you're gay."

Ryan's expression shifted from confusion to blank shock. Gerard dropped his fork. Avril and Lindsey both exchanged looks of disgust. Ray just exhaled heavily, like he was already exhausted by the bullshit.

"That's not even the worst part," Brendon continued. "Apparently," he said, mimicking air quotes, "this whole group is basically a 'fag convention' for him."

Gerard let out a slow breath, gripping his thigh under the table.

"Jesus Christ," Lindsey muttered.

Brendon wasn't finished. "And he said we're all splitting apart anyway, so I should, like, separate myself before I 'turn gay too.'"

Ryan blinked. "What?"

I ran a hand down my face, already so fucking done. "That doesn't even make sense," I said.

"Oh, but wait—" Brendon leaned forward dramatically, locking eyes with me. "The best part? He straight-up said that you only became gay because you spent too much time with Gerard."

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Gerard let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Oh. Oh, so it's contagious now?"

"Apparently," Brendon deadpanned.

Avril scoffed, tossing a fry at my plate. "Fuck, it's no one's fault. Gay dudes are the hottest. If I was a dude, I'd be gay just to date both of you at the same time."

Lindsey nodded. "Fucking true."

Gerard smirked slightly, but his fingers were still gripping the edge of the table. I could tell he was pissed. And honestly? Same.

Ray, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke up.

"But that guy's a hypocrite," he said, his voice calm but firm. "He confessed his feelings to Frank, and still treated him like shit. And now you're telling us he literally tried to get Gerard out of the way? When that guy wants something..."

I sighed. "He's fucking psycho."

Gerard exhaled through his nose. "Oh damn," he said dramatically. "I'm gonna die. I'll be murdered."

Lindsey patted his shoulder. "Don't panic. By now, he's just afraid of you telling more people than us."

Brendon shook his head. "Dude, I knew James was kind of a dick, but this? This is next-level insecure."

Ryan, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke.

"I just don't get it," he muttered. "He was fine with us before. Like, we all hung out. We were friends. When did he start being like this?"

I sighed. "I don't think he started being like this. I think we just didn't notice before."

"And now that Frank rejected him," Lindsey said, rolling her eyes, "he's spiraling and taking it out on everyone else."

"Not to mention," Gerard added, "he's the one who's been weirdly obsessed with sexuality this whole time. Like, dude. If you're that scared of being around gay people, maybe take a moment to think about why."

Brendon hummed, stirring his drink with his straw. "You do tend to become what you hate the most..."

Ryan let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, he's already halfway there."

That made everyone go silent for a second.

Then Avril just sighed and stabbed her salad with her fork. "God, I hate men."

Lindsey nodded solemnly. "Same."

Gerard smirked. "Same."

I grinned a little. "Same."

Avril raised her glass. "To hating James."

Everyone clinked their drinks together like it was some fucked-up version of a toast.

But despite the laughter, despite the jokes—I could still feel the tension hanging heavy in the air. Because deep down, we all knew that James wasn't just gonna let this go.

And yet, despite everything—despite the bullshit he spewed, despite the way he treated me, despite the fucked-up, toxic mess he'd created—there was something inside me, something small and stupid and good, that felt bad for him.

Not bad enough to forgive him, not bad enough to excuse anything he'd done. But still... I got it.

He told me how he felt about me. And he hid it for a long time. Who knows how many years he's been carrying that around, letting it rot inside him like a wound he never let heal. That's gotta be fucking miserable.

And yeah, he was a dick. He is a dick. But it's still kind of sad, isn't it? Loving someone and knowing they'll never love you back. That they can't.

I've felt something like that before. That ache in your chest when you realize it's just never gonna happen.

He needs to get over me.

Because I'm not into him.

We were leaning against the car, waiting for Mikey to come out, when Gerard checked his watch and groaned.

"He's always the last one out," he muttered, rubbing his face. "I swear, he does it on purpose."

"He's just building suspense," I said. "Making a dramatic entrance."

A minute later, Mikey finally appeared, adjusting his glasses and looking like he had way too much on his mind for a boy his age. He barely made it to the car before Gerard crossed his arms and went, "So... how was the sleepover?"

Mikey froze mid-step, staring at him. "Why are you asking me like that?" His eyes narrowed. "It's so creepy. Stop."

Frankly, that reaction was way too suspicious.

I leaned forward. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing." Mikey said, a little too fast.

Gerard grinned. "Don't you dare tell him, Gerard!" he mock-quoted in a high-pitched voice, shaking his head.

"Oh my god," I groaned. "You guys are the worst liars on the planet. What the fuck happened?"

Mikey buried his face in his hands and mumbled something.

"Speak up, Mikes," Gerard said, obviously enjoying the moment.

Mikey sighed dramatically, dropping his hands. "Don't bother me, we just played Guitar Hero."

Gerard and I exchanged looks.

Bull. Shit.

Mikey huffed and shoved past us, climbing into the car like he was so over this conversation. Gerard rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was just as curious as I was. Whatever had happened at Pete's place, Mikey was not giving it up easily.

I climbed into the passenger seat while Gerard slid in behind the wheel. Mikey slumped in the backseat, arms crossed, staring out the window like a moody little shit.

"So," I started, turning in my seat to face him, "do I have to bribe Pete, or are you gonna tell us?"

Mikey's eyes snapped to me in alarm. "You wouldn't."

I smirked. "I would."

Gerard chuckled as he started the car, the engine coming to life with a low rumble. "C'mon, Mikey, just tell us. It's obviously not a big deal, right?"

"No it's not, we just kissed and stuff but I really like that you two stop. I don't ask you that stuff,"
Mikey grumbled something under his breath, but we let it go for now.

"Sorry Mikes, you know we love you" I said.

"Yeah, sorry" Gee added.

When we pulled up to Gerard's house, his grandma was already waiting by the door, wrapped in a thick cardigan. She waved when she saw us, her face lighting up.

"Frankie, sweetheart! How are you?" she called as we got out of the car.

"Hey, Helena." I grinned, walking up the porch steps to hug her. She always smelled like lavender and sugar cookies, and it was the kind of comfort that made me miss having actual grandparents around.

"You're getting skinnier," she said, squeezing my arms. "Are you eating enough?"

"I'm fine, I promise," I laughed.

She gave me a skeptical look, then turned to Gerard. "And you. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

Gerard sighed. "Grandma, yes."

She hummed like she didn't quite believe him, but let it go. "Well, come inside. It's cold out."

She has seen me before, but not with the same eyes that she had before his daughter passed away, so it was really nice see her like fresh new, or kinda.

We followed her in, and the warmth of the house immediately wrapped around us. The faint scent of coffee and cinnamon filled the air, and it was weirdly cozy despite everything. Mikey kicked off his shoes by the door and was halfway up the stairs when Helena called after him.

"Oh, Mikey! Something came for you in the mail."

That got his attention. He turned around, brows furrowing. "For me?"

She nodded and gestured to the kitchen table. "It's in there."

Mikey shot us a confused glance before heading into the kitchen. Gerard and I trailed behind, watching as he picked up a small package. His name was printed on the label, and he hesitated for a second before tearing it open.

The second he saw what was inside, his whole face lit up.

"No. Fucking. Way."

Gerard leaned in. "What is it?"

Mikey pulled out a brand-new phone, eyes wide like he couldn't believe it was real. "Holy shit. This—this is for me?"

Gerard blinked. "Wait. Who sent you this?"

Mikey fumbled for the note inside the package and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the paper, and then, suddenly, his whole expression shifted.

"Oh," he said, voice quieter. "It's from Dad."

The room went still.

Gerard's face immediately hardened. He crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "Of course it is."

I stayed quiet, watching as Mikey stared at the note. He wasn't smiling anymore.

Helena placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What does it say, sweetheart?"

Mikey hesitated, then read aloud:

Mikey, I know things have been hard lately, and I want you to know I'm still here for you. I hope this makes things a little easier. Take care of yourself. Love, Dad.

Silence settled over us again.

Mikey swallowed, looking at the phone in his hands. "I mean... it's cool, I guess."

Gerard scoffed, shaking his head. "Right. Because a phone totally makes up for him being a shit dad."

"Gee—"

"No, seriously." Gerard laughed bitterly. "He barely talks to us, barely checks in, and then he just buys you something to make himself feel better? That's so fucking typical."

Mikey's grip on the phone tightened. "I didn't ask for it."

"I know you didn't, I kinda did it for you but Mikey, that's not—" Gerard stopped himself, exhaling sharply. His hands curled into fists, and for a second, I thought he was about to launch into a full-blown rant. But then he just shook his head again and muttered, "Whatever. Keep it if you want. You always have wanted one."

Mikey's shoulders hunched slightly. "I don't know if I want it," he admitted. "But... I mean, it's a phone."

"Exactly," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "Now you can talk with pete and we can send you dumb memes all the time."

Mikey snorted, the tension breaking just a little. "Great."

Gerard still looked pissed, but he didn't say anything else. Instead, he just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose.

I could tell Gerard was still stewing, but he let it go for now.

Later that night, after dinner, we were all curled up in the living room, Mikey messing with his new phone while Gerard doodled absentmindedly in his sketchbook. The TV was on, playing some random show none of us were really paying attention to.

At some point, Mikey looked up and muttered, "I just don't get why he's like this."

Gerard sighed. "Because he sucks, Mikey. That's why."

Mikey didn't respond right away. He just turned the phone over in his hands, lost in thought. "I kinda hate that I want to keep it."

"That's normal," I said. "Keep it."

Gerard didn't say anything, but I could feel the tension rolling off him.

Eventually, Mikey just sighed and slumped back against the couch. "I guess I will."

Gerard reached over and ruffled his hair. "It doesn't matter anyways."

And that was that.

A weird, bittersweet moment—Mikey caught between wanting something from their dad and knowing it didn't really mean anything. Gerard struggling with the fact that their dad still had some kind of hold on them, no matter how much he hated the guy.

-

It started off innocent. Really.

I actually wanted to understand chemistry because, as it turned out, almost burning the school down during an experiment gone wrong was not a great look. So I let Gerard help me study. And by let, I mean he insisted, and I caved because I liked the way he got all serious and focused when he was explaining things.

We were in his dorm, sitting on his bed, Gerard's chemistry book open in front of us. It was supposed to be a normal study session. Supposed to be. But I was already distracted—by him, by the way he smelled, by the fact that he was warm, and maybe also by the way his hands moved when he wrote stuff down.

At some point, I got tired of leaning over to see the book, so I just—y'know. Sat on his lap.

It was not meant to be a thing. It was just more comfortable. That's all.

Gerard didn't even react at first. He just hummed, flipping a page. "Okay, so, valence electrons—"

"That sounds fake," I said immediately.

Gerard groaned. "Frank. Come on."

I grinned, leaning back against his chest. "Fine. Valence electrons. Super real, totally legit. Continue."

He rolled his eyes but kept going. "So, atoms want a full outer shell—"

"Kinky."

Gerard paused. "Frank."

"What?" I said innocently.

He pinched my side, making me squirm. "Behave."

I laughed but tried to focus. "Okay, okay. Full outer shell. Got it."

"Right. So they either gain, lose, or share electrons to make that happen."

"Damn. Sounds desperate."

Gerard groaned again, but I could feel him trying not to laugh. "Oh my God. I swear, if you don't take this seriously—"

"I am taking it seriously," I said, even as I wiggled slightly just to mess with him.

Gerard kept explaining, his voice low and steady, and for once, I was actually listening.

Not just because I was trying to be a good student or whatever, but because when Gerard talked about something he understood, he got this certain look—focused, confident, kinda hot, if I was being honest. His hands moved a lot too, gesturing like he was conducting an invisible orchestra of scientific knowledge, and I found myself actually absorbing some of it.

I rested my hand on the back of his neck absentmindedly, rubbing small circles with my thumb while he talked. Not really thinking about it, just doing it. My hands always needed something to do, and his skin was warm under my fingers, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck brushing against my palm. He didn't react, just kept flipping through his notebook, still explaining.

"So, the octet rule is basically that atoms are trying to get eight electrons in their outer shell to be stable," he said, tapping a diagram on the page.

I hummed, still rubbing slow, lazy patterns against his neck. "Like a gay little cult."

Gerard snorted. "Yeah kinda."

I grinned, leaning in slightly, lowering my voice like I was about to tell him a secret.

"Hey, Gee," I whispered, my breath brushing against his ear.

He tensed just a little. "What?"

"Do you think we have chemistry?"

I felt the way his entire body stuttered. His breath caught, his shoulders stiffened, and I swear, for half a second, his brain completely short-circuited.

"...Frank," he said slowly, and I could hear the glare in his voice.

I smirked, fingers trailing up into his hair now, just barely playing with it. "What?"

Gerard sighed dramatically, shaking his head, but I could feel the heat creeping up his neck. "You're impossible."

"I think we have", I said, fake modesty in my tone.

He tried to focus again, flipping the page, but I was still rubbing at his neck, still too close, and I could tell it was getting to him. I leaned into him more, head resting against his shoulder, still grinning.

Then, a few moments later, I felt it.

Something not chemistry-related.

Or maybe yes.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. But then I shifted slightly, adjusting my position on his lap, and—

Oh.

I went completely still.

Gerard did too.

Neither of us said a word.

The tension stretched, thick and loaded, and then—

"Oh my God," I whispered, my lips twitching.

I froze for a second, and Gerard's whole body went rigid.

I didn't say anything right away. I just slowly turned my head to look at him, my lips twitching.

He was already blushing.

Gerard whimpered. "Frank, please."

I bit down on my lip, shaking with barely contained laughter. "Gee... Is this about the octet rule?"

Gerard let out the most pained groan and dropped his head against my back. "You are actually the worst."

I grinned, leaning back into him. "Damn, science really does turn you on."

Gerard let out the most pained noise. "No! Oh my God, shut up."

"'Cause like, I know ionic bonds are pretty hot, but damn, dude."

"Frank!"

Gerard squeaked.

I lost it. Started laughing so hard I almost fell off his lap, but Gerard grabbed my waist and held me in place. Which, uh. Did not help.

"Fuck, Gee," I wheezed, still laughing. "It's so hard to concentrate if your dick is touching my ass."

I was having way too much fun.

Then, suddenly, he muttered, "You could, uh. Move, y'know."

I blinked. "Nah."

Gerard let out a breathy laugh against my neck, and for a second, everything was warm and lazy and nice.

"...You still gonna explain chemistry to me?" I asked.

Gerard groaned. "Not a fucking chance."

Chapter Text

Gerard's POV

Frank stopped staying over every night. At first, it was weird not having him in my room, tangled up in my sheets, kicking me in his sleep, waking me up with his stupid bedhead and half-asleep grumbling. But he said his mom was really trying—really trying this time—and they needed to catch up on a lot of things. He sounded hopeful, almost like he wanted to believe it as much as he wanted me to believe it.

And I did. I wanted to. He seemed happy. At least most of the time.

But some nights, when I was already lying awake, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling, my phone would vibrate, and it would be Frank. His voice was rough with exhaustion, or maybe frustration, maybe both. His mom and Dan had been fighting again. Not the same kind of fights she had with his dad before he left—no, this time it was about her. About the way her hands shook when she wanted a drink, about the cold sweats, about Dan trying to stop her. She was going to AA meetings with him, and things were supposed to be getting better. But healing isn't linear. Frank knew that. I knew that.

He'd call me, and I'd just listen, let him rant, let him be quiet, let him breathe through it. And then we'd talk. About anything. Everything. Dumb shit, serious shit, things that didn't matter but did at three in the morning. Sometimes he stayed on the line until the sun started rising, both of us too tired to function the next day. But it didn't matter. I needed him as much as he needed me.

The nightmares were still there.

Some nights, they were lighter, like shadows barely brushing the edge of my consciousness before slipping away. But most nights, they dragged me under, left me waking up in a downpour of sweat, sheets twisted around me, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was always the same.

Bert.

His room, his lifeless body, his hands curled around a bottle of pills. Lines of cocaine on his desk, like a graveyard of decisions he wouldn't take back. But in my dreams, he wasn't silent. He looked at me, hollow-eyed and bitter, and his lips moved.

"Your love wasn't enough."
"You made me do this."
"You can't give me what I want."
"You're not worth it."

I knew it wasn't real. I knew Bert never said those things, never would have. But the thing about nightmares is that logic doesn't fucking matter. They sink their teeth in, and it doesn't matter how much you tell yourself it's just your brain playing tricks on you—you still wake up feeling like you've been gutted.

And then there were the nightmares about my mom.

The bathroom floods with blood. It pours over the tile, over my shoes, swallows me whole. She's sinking in it, but she doesn't fight it. She just looks at me. Looks through me.

"This is your fault."

And I believe it. Because maybe it is.

Bert's death, my mom's decline—I wonder if I was the common denominator. If my existence was just a slow unraveling of the people around me. I stopped eating again after Bert. I drank until I couldn't feel anything. And she saw it. My mom saw me wasting away, saw me not caring anymore, and it broke her. And when she broke, she didn't survive it.

Maybe everyone thinks it. Maybe they just don't say it out loud.

And lately, the worst nightmares aren't even about them.

They're about Frank.

I see him in my dreams, the same way I saw Bert. Pale, empty. I see him with a bottle in his hand, or a razor against his skin, or a gun in his mouth. And in every version, he looks at me before he does it.

"Your love wasn't enough."

I wake up gasping. Sweating. Reaching for my phone.

And he picks up. Every time.

It keeps me alive, I think. Just hearing his voice. Just knowing he's still there.

Therapy became more frequent after my mom died. Dr. Marin knew I wasn't handling it the way I should be. I talked about it, but I didn't talk about it. Not in the way that mattered. Because how the fuck was I supposed to say it out loud? That I felt like I destroyed my own family? That I felt like a bad example for Mikey? That I felt like I let everyone down? That maybe if I'd just been better, she wouldn't have done it?

Dr. Marin saw through me. She didn't even bother prescribing more pills.

She knew.

-

It's two in the afternoon on a lazy Saturday, and I'm sitting on the couch with Mikey and Pete, half-watching some random horror movie while we sort out the final details for Frank's birthday. We're all kinda bored, but still busy in our own way—Mikey's texting people about the plans for tomorrow, Pete's flipping through a magazine, pretending to help but really just making dumb suggestions, and I'm sitting here, trying not to let my excitement get the best of me.

Tomorrow's gonna be perfect.

Frank is staying over tonight, and in the morning, I'm taking him to our lake spot for a picnic—just the two of us before we meet up with everyone else later. I already have everything packed in the car: his favorite snacks, a blanket, even a thermos of that cinnamon coffee he always steals from me. I want it to be ours. A moment away from the chaos, just us before the rest of the day kicks in.

And later, we'll all be at the horror fair—Mikey, Pete (obviously), Lindsey, Avril, Ray, Bob, Ryan, and Brendon. It's kind of a tradition around here, and I can't wait to see Frank's face when we get there. He loves horror shit more than anyone I know, so it's the perfect way to end his birthday.

But for now, I just have to get through the rest of today without spilling anything or acting like a lovesick idiot.

Easier said than done.

By the time evening rolls around, Frank shows up at my door, looking effortlessly comfortable in his usual ripped jeans and some old hoodie that's probably mine, at this point I can't even remember. He grins as soon as I open the door, holding up two takeout cups.

"Happy almost-birthday to me," he announces, pushing one into my hands.

I step aside to let him in, closing the door behind us. "And you got yourself coffee?"

"Nah," he smirks. "I got you coffee. But now that you mention it, yeah, I should've gotten one for me, too."

I roll my eyes, leading him to my room. We settle on my bed, legs tangled, backs against the headboard. He takes a sip from my cup, because of course he does, then hands it back like he didn't just steal half of it.

We talk about everything and nothing for a while—our friends, the dumb shit Mikey and Pete have been up to, the new horror movies coming out. It's easy. He's easy to be around.

And then, right in the middle of some story about the time he and Bob almost got arrested for stealing sodas, smoking weed and skateboarding in a grocery store parking lot, Frank takes a sip of coffee, miscalculates, and spills it straight down his shirt.

"Fuck—shit—" He hisses, yanking the fabric away from his skin before groaning dramatically. "Goddamn it, this was my only good band tee."

I snort, watching him peel the damp shirt over his head, exposing the ink scattered across his chest. He flops back onto the bed, sighing heavily, like the universe just personally ruined his night.

I don't mean to stare. I really don't. But my eyes are already trailing over his tattoos, taking in the dark lines and colors etched into his skin. Without thinking, I reach out and trace the one closest to me—a small, intricate dagger near his ribs.

He shivers slightly under my touch. "You're really gonna take advantage of my tragedy and start feeling me up?"

I laugh softly. "What's this one mean?"

Frank shifts, glancing down at my hand. "That one's for my grandma." His voice is quieter now, softer. "She used to have this little dagger pendant she wore all the time. It was, like, her thing. When she passed, I got this for her."

I nod, moving my fingers to the next one. A scorpion, coiled and sharp.

"Self-defense," he says before I can ask. "You know, like... sometimes you gotta be a little dangerous to survive."

I keep going. A rose. A skull. Latin words I don't understand.

"Nulla tenaci invia est via."

I run my fingers over the letters, waiting.

Frank sighs. "No road is impassable for the tenacious."

I trace it again, my touch lingering a little longer this time. "I like that."

He hums in agreement, his eyes drifting closed. And maybe it's the way he's lying there, his head resting against my thigh, completely unguarded, or maybe it's the way the dim light casts shadows over his skin, but something about the moment feels different. More intimate than it should be.

And then, my fingers brush over something else.

Scars.

Frank doesn't flinch, but I feel the way his body tenses slightly. He doesn't open his eyes, doesn't say anything. He just waits.

I swallow, hesitating. "Tell me?"

Frank stays quiet for a long time after I ask. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against my thigh, and for a moment, I think he's going to shrug it off, crack a joke, change the subject. That's what he usually does when things get too real. But this time, he just exhales slowly, his breath warm against my leg, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter than I've ever heard it.

"The first time... I don't know. I was young. I guess I eleven? Maybe twelve? I don't remember exactly. It wasn't, like, some big dramatic moment. No life-changing event. No tragic backstory. I was just... mad. Mad at everything, at my mom, at my dad for never being there, at school, at myself."

He pauses, shifting slightly, like the words are heavy in his mouth.

"I remember sitting on my bedroom floor, just feeling like I was gonna explode. Like, there was all this shit building up inside me, and I didn't know how to let it out. I felt out of control, you know? Like I was drowning in my own fucking head. And I don't even know what made me do it. I just—I was holding this safety pin from my backpack, and I pressed it against my skin, and suddenly, it was like... everything got quiet. Just for a second. Like, all that noise, all that anger, all that fears, they were just gone."

My stomach twists, but I don't say anything. I just keep tracing patterns over his skin, silent, waiting.

Frank swallows hard. "It wasn't deep. Just a scratch, really. Barely even bled. But it worked. And that scared the shit out of me. Like, I remember staring at it after and thinking, 'What the fuck did I just do?' But at the same time, I felt... I don't know. Lighter? Like I had a way to deal with everything. And I told myself I wouldn't do it again. That it was just some dumb impulsive thing. But then, a week later, I was back in the same place, feeling the same way, and I—"

He stops, his throat working like the words are caught there.

I brush my fingers gently over the small tattoo on his forearm, waiting.

He exhales, slow and shaky. "It became a habit after that. Like, whenever things got too loud, too fucking much, I knew I could do this one thing, and it would quiet everything down for a little while. I didn't even think about it. It just happened. It was like... like some kind of switch in my brain. Like, 'Oh, you're upset? You feel like shit? Here, do this. Problem solved.' And I knew it wasn't normal. I knew it was fucked up. But I didn't care. Because it helped."

I close my eyes for a second, pressing my lips together. I don't want him to stop. I don't want to scare him into shutting down.

So I keep listening.

Frank shifts again, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling now. His voice is flatter when he continues, like he's trying to distance himself from the words. "It got worse when I started high school. That's when my mom really started drinking. She'd have all these different guys coming in and out, treated me like shit, and I'd pretend I didn't care, but I did. And my dad—" He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "I don't even know what the fuck he was doing. Probably having dinner with his real family. So I just kept going. And at first, I told myself I had control over it. Like, 'I can stop whenever I want.' But then I'd go a few weeks without doing it, and the second things got bad, I'd be right back where I started."

His hand finds mine, and he starts running his fingers over my knuckles absentmindedly. His voice is quieter now, more careful.

"There were times when I hated myself for it. Like, I'd look at my arms after and feel so fucking stupid. Like, what kind of person does this to themselves? I'd tell myself I was done. That I was gonna be better. And I'd do okay for a while, but then... something would happen. My mom would come home drunk, or Jamia would stop answering my calls, or I'd just feel like the biggest fucking failure, and suddenly, I'd be sitting on the bathroom floor with a razor in my hand, wondering how the hell I got there."

I swallow, my throat tight. My fingers tighten slightly around his.

"But then there were times when I just... didn't care," he says, almost like he's talking to himself now. "Like, I'd sit there and think, 'This is what I deserve.' Like, maybe if I just let myself feel it, I'd finally stop being such a fucking mess. Like, I could bleed out all the shit in my head and be normal for once. And I know how fucked up that sounds, but back then, it made sense to me. It felt like the only thing I had control over."

The room is silent for a long moment, the only sound the distant hum of Mikey's TV from the other room.

Frank breathes out slowly, his grip tightening slightly around my hand.

"But it doesn't work," he says finally. "Not really. You think it's helping, but it's just making things worse. And you don't even realize how deep you're in it until you look at yourself one day and don't recognize the person in the mirror."

I nod, even though he's not looking at me. I press my thumb against his wrist, tracing slow, careful circles over his skin.

He lets out a small, shaky laugh, finally turning his head to face me. "Wow. That was a fucking overshare."

I shake my head. "It wasn't."

His eyes search mine for a moment, like he's trying to figure out if I really mean that. Like he's waiting for me to flinch, to look at him differently now that he's said all that out loud. But I don't. I won't. Because I still see him the same way I did before—loud and chaotic and stupidly funny, but also this—the raw, honest, bleeding version of him that I think I might love even more.

Then, without warning, he pulls my hand up to his mouth and presses a quick, barely-there kiss to my knuckles. My breath catches slightly, but I don't pull away. I just watch him, the way his eyelashes brush against his cheeks, the way his lips linger against my skin for half a second longer than necessary, like he's afraid to let go.

"You're really strong, you know? And you haven't done it for a while. I'm proud of you, Frankie."

His eyes flicker back up to mine, surprised at first, and then something else—something softer, something vulnerable. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow as he studies me, lips parting like he wants to say something but isn't sure how. And then, finally, in a voice so quiet I almost miss it—

"You're strong too."

I blink, caught off guard.

"You've been through a lot of shit too, and here you are... the best and perfect boy I've ever met."

My chest tightens in a way that makes it hard to breathe. The best and perfect boy.

He doesn't say it like he's trying to flatter me, or like he's expecting me to deny it. He just means it. And for some reason, that's harder to handle than anything else.

So I lean in. I lean in and kiss him because I have to. Because if I don't, I might fall apart right here, in front of him, and I don't want to ruin this moment. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, tasting like coffee and something undeniably him. He kisses me back without hesitation, his hand sliding up to rest against my cheek, thumb brushing just under my eye like he's memorizing every inch of me. It's not desperate or rushed—it's slow, meaningful. A thank you, an I see you, an I love you without the words.

When I pull back, I keep my forehead against his for a second, just breathing him in.

"How was skating with the guys?" I ask, my voice a little rough around the edges, but steady.

Frank sighs, rolling onto his back again, stretching his arms above his head. "So good. I really liked it. Brendon almost broke his leg 'cause his skate got stuck in a bench, and Bob taught us some tricks. It was sick." He grins, but then his expression dims a little, and I can tell there's something else.

"But...?"

He hesitates, rubbing his hand over his face, like he's debating whether to say it or not.

"I kinda miss James," he admits finally, his voice quieter. He doesn't look at me when he says it, like he's expecting me to judge him for it. "It's weird not having him around, y'know? I've known him since I was, like, six, and we became really close. But I never got the trust to tell him my shit like I did with you. He doesn't know that part of me."

I stay quiet, waiting, knowing there's more.

Frank exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I do know that part of him, though. Better than he knows mine. His father beat the crap out of him." He pauses, jaw tightening. "And he just pretends to be someone else."

Something heavy settles between us. I think about James, about how much of an asshole he can be, about how easy it is to hate him. But I also think about how people wear their pain in different ways. Some people fold in on themselves. Others get loud and cruel, pushing people away before they can be pushed first.

"It's okay," I say finally. "I know it's hard not to miss him. I don't blame you. You shouldn't feel guilty about that."

Frank looks at me then, really looks at me, and something in his face softens.

"Thanks, Gee."

And somehow, I know he's not just thanking me for this.

"It isn't fair," Frank mumbles.

I glance down at him, sprawled across my lap, his head tilted up, eyes big and hazy. "What, honey?"

He sits up slightly, propping himself on his elbows, and stares at me with those fucking puppy eyes. "You're wearing too many clothes. Not the same amount as me."

I smirk, tilting my head. "I don't have anything interesting to show you."

Frank scoffs, dramatic as ever, and lets his fingers trace absent patterns on my stomach. "Oh yeah, you do."

And then, before I can react, his hand drifts lower, dragging slowly down from my chest to my crotch. He bites down on his lip ring, watching me with a smug expression, and fuck.

"Damn, since when are you so sassy?" I mutter, voice a little uneven. "You read that in a gay porn magazine?"

Frank grins, pressing his palm a little more firmly against me, just to watch me squirm. "The things I do for love," he sighs dramatically. "I had to watch gay porn just to blow you off, remember?"

I huff out a breathy laugh, running my hands up his sides, feeling the familiar heat of him beneath my palms. "Mmm, I forgot about that. But yeah... and it was awful, by the way."

His jaw drops, eyes wide. "What!?"

I shrug, biting back a grin. "Yeah, I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. But hey, you're great now, don't worry."

"Oh fuck, I feel so bad," he groans, dropping his head onto my shoulder dramatically, but he's already laughing, breath warm against my skin.

"Don't," I murmur, grabbing his chin and tilting his face back up to mine. "C'mere."

And then I kiss him again, hard and urgent, heat pooling in my stomach as Frank shifts against me. His hands tug at my shirt, frustrated, fingers slipping against the fabric as he tries to pull it off without breaking the kiss. I let him struggle for a second, just because it's funny, but then I finally lift my arms and let him yank it over my head. His hands are everywhere at once, tracing over my chest, my ribs, down to my hips, nails scratching lightly against my skin.

My pulse is fucking pounding.

"Gee—"

The door flies open.

"OH FUCK! Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?!"

Mikey's voice cuts through the air like a gunshot.

We freeze.

Frank is still in my lap.We're definitely still half-naked. Mikey is standing in the doorway, eyes blown wide in horror, looking like he just walked in on a murder scene.

"Jesus Christ, Mikey!" I yell, scrambling to shove Frank off me, but Frank is too busy laughing—wheezing—to move.

"No, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you two?!" Mikey groans, slapping a hand over his eyes. "I live here too, you animals!"

"Dude, get out!" I grab the nearest pillow and chuck it at him, but he just catches it, looking personally victimized.

"No, you get out! Or at least get a fucking sock for the door next time!" He shudders dramatically. "I need therapy."

And then he slams the door shut, leaving us in stunned silence.

Frank completely loses it, collapsing onto my chest in a fit of giggles.

"You were so into it, and then—" he gasps between laughs. "Mikey's face—oh my god, I'm never gonna forget this."

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "I hate everything."

"Aw, babe, don't be mad." Frank leans in, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to my jaw. "Now we have to finish what we started."

I exhale sharply, biting back a grin. "Door locked this time."

"Deal."

-

"Take this as your first birthday present," I murmur against his skin, dragging my lips down his neck, across his collarbones.

Frank giggles—half a laugh, half a moan—as I suck a mark into his chest, his fingers tangling lazily in my hair. "I can't complain," he breathes.

His skin is warm, flushed, and I could stay like this all night, but then I remember—

"Wait," I say, pulling back.

Frank groans, head dropping back against the pillow. "Oh no, don't stop."

"Just a sec, you'll like it," I assure him, already climbing off the bed.

"You better not be grabbing another —" he mutters, watching me with suspicious eyes as I dig through my nightstand.

"Oh no, I don't feel like another round, Gee, I'm tired," he whines dramatically, rubbing at his eyes.

"It's not that, dumbass." I turn back to him and toss something onto his chest. "Here."

Frank blinks, sitting up just enough to grab whatever I just threw at him. He stares down at it for a second, and then—

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I grin. "Yeah."

"NO FUCKING WAY—" He scrambles upright, holding the two concert tickets in his hands like they might disappear if he blinks too hard. "Dude, how—where the fuck did you get the money for these!?"

I shrug, flopping back down onto the bed. "I just did what you said one night."

Frank's face twists in confusion. "What?"

"I kinda... sold most of those pills to someone."

His mouth falls open. "Oh damn, Gee, I was joking!"

"You sounded pretty serious!"

"That's fucking dangerous!"

"Oh fuck, Frankie, stop complaining. I'll just go with Mikey then." I smirk, reaching for the tickets like I might actually take them back.

"No fucking way—" He jerks them out of reach, hugging them to his chest like a gremlin. "Fucking Green Day, huh?"

"Yep."

He shakes his head, eyes still wide, still fucking shining. Then, suddenly, he launches himself at me, knocking me flat onto my back and kissing me hard.

"You're insane," he breathes against my lips.

"Happy birthday, Frankie."

Chapter Text

The morning is slow, lazy in the best way possible. Frank barely stirs when I shift beside him, his face buried against my chest, his breath warm and steady against my skin. His arm is draped over my waist, his leg tangled with mine, and it feels like if I move too much, I'll ruin the moment, like it's this fragile, perfect thing that could shatter if I'm not careful.

I should let him sleep longer. It's his birthday, after all. But I'm too fucking excited.

"Frankie," I whisper, nudging my nose against his temple.

He groans. Burrows deeper into me.

"C'mon, birthday boy," I hum, pressing a kiss just below his ear. "Wake up."

"Mmm, no," he mumbles into my skin.

"I have surprises."

That gets him. His fingers tighten against my waist, his body shifting closer. "Surprises?" he mutters sleepily.

"Yeah. But if you wanna stay in bed all day, I guess I could just—"

Before I can finish, he's rolling on top of me, his hair a mess, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, but awake now. He smirks, voice still scratchy as he says, "Alright. I'm up."

-

The car ride is full of excitement, mostly mine, because I've been planning this for weeks, and now that it's finally happening, I can barely sit still. Frank, on the other hand, is just confused.

"Okay, what the fuck, where are we going?" he asks, twisting in his seat to look at me.

"It's a surprise," I say, grinning.

"Tell me."

"Nope."

"Gee."

"Frank."

"Gerard."

"Franklin."

"Arthur."

"Anthony."

"You asshole," he huffs, crossing his arms. "At least give me a hint."

"Fine," I say, pretending to consider it. "It's a place. Outdoors. You'll love it."

He rolls his eyes. "Wow. So helpful."

I glance over at him, smirking. "Oh, also, you need to wear this."

I pull a soft piece of cloth from my pocket and dangle it in front of him. His brows furrow. "The fuck is that?"

"A blindfold, obviously."

Frank stares at me for a long moment, like he's trying to decide whether or not I'm serious. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a smirk. "You're kidnapping me? Kinky."

I snort, shaking my head. "Shut up and turn around."

"Oh fuck that really turns me on, we should do it like that"

"Frank"

"I don't know, man," he teases. "My mom told me not to get into cars with strangers, and here I am, getting tied up and driven to a second location."

"Oh my god, Frank, just let me do this romantic thing for you."

He laughs but eventually turns, letting me tie the cloth over his eyes.

"Can you see anything?" I ask.

"Nope. You could totally murder me right now."

"Good to know."

I pull back onto the road, the drive taking another ten minutes, and Frank doesn't stop talking the entire time.

"If you kill me, just know my ghost will haunt you forever."

"If you die, I'm going to die too, so joke's on you."

"Aww, that's kinda cute. Tragic, but cute."

"It is tragic, actually. Shakespearean, even."

"We could've been so fucking dramatic in the 1500s."

"We're dramatic now."

"Yeah, but imagine us in corsets. We can try that too."

"Frank, I am driving."

He laughs, shifting in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee like he's restless. He tries to guess where we're going, but I give him nothing, just keep driving until we finally reach the spot.

I put the car in park and glance at him, still blindfolded, lips pursed like he's deep in thought. "We're here."

"I swear, if I take this off and I'm in a fucking graveyard, I'm breaking up with you."

"Jesus, Frank, have a little faith in me."

"Faith? In you? That's crazy."

I shake my head, grinning. "Okay, listen. I need to set some things up first. Stay here."

"Blindfolded? You want me to just sit here in the middle of nowhere, unable to see shit?"

"Yes. And no peeking."

He sighs dramatically. "Fine. But if something eats me, I'm suing."

"Noted."

I grab the picnic basket and blanket from the trunk, along with a few other things, then make my way toward the clearing by the lake. The spot is perfect—quiet, surrounded by trees, and the lake stretching out in front of us, shimmering under the morning sun.

I spread out the blanket, place the food neatly, making sure everything looks good. When I'm done, I make my way back to Frank, who's still sitting in the car, fidgeting like he's about to explode.

"Are you done yet?" he asks.

"Almost. Come with me."

I help him out of the car, guiding him carefully toward the setup. He grips my arm tightly, mumbling complaints about tripping over something and how the fuck am I supposed to trust you if I can't see? I just laugh, squeezing his hand.

When we finally reach the blanket, I stop him.

"Okay, stand still," I say.

"Gerard, if you leave me here—"

I lean in and press a kiss to his mouth, soft and lingering, and I feel the way he melts into it, his grip on my hand tightening.

"You can take it off now," I whisper against his lips.

Frank pulls back just enough to yank the blindfold down, his eyes adjusting to the light. Then he looks around, taking it all in—the lake, the trees, the picnic set up just for him.

For the first time since we got here, he's silent. Just standing there, staring, his mouth slightly open.

"What do you think?" I ask, suddenly a little nervous.

Frank turns to me, his eyes impossibly soft, the corners of his lips twitching up like he doesn't know whether to smile or cry.

"Gee... this is fucking amazing," he breathes.

I grin, pulling him down onto the blanket with me.

Frank sinks onto the blanket beside me, still staring around like he can't quite believe it's real. His eyes flicker over the trees, the lake, the way the sunlight cuts through the leaves, dappling golden patches across the ground. The air is crisp but not cold, the kind of perfect autumn morning where everything smells like damp earth and pine, like something out of a dream.

"You really did all this?" he asks after a moment, voice quieter now.

I nod, watching his expression carefully. "Yeah. Wanted it to be special."

Frank doesn't answer right away. He looks down at the spread—our favorite sandwiches, fresh fruit, a thermos of coffee, even a small cupcake with a candle in it, waiting to be lit. His fingers brush over the edge of the blanket like he needs something solid to ground him.

"You're fucking insane, you know that?" he finally mutters, shaking his head. But there's no teasing in his voice, no sarcasm—just something raw, like he doesn't know how to hold this kind of affection in his hands.

I reach for him, fingers grazing his jaw, guiding his face toward mine. "Happy birthday, Frankie."

His lips part slightly, like he's about to say something, but instead, he kisses me. Soft at first, almost hesitant, but then he exhales into it, like he's giving up, like he's letting himself fall completely. My hand moves to the back of his neck, his fingers gripping my thigh, and for a moment, it's just this—the quiet, the warmth, the way we fit together so easily.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker, a little unfocused. "I fucking love you," he murmurs, like it's not even a choice, like it's just the most obvious thing in the world.

And I can't breathe for a second because fuck, I love him too, so much that it physically hurts sometimes.

"I know," I say, pressing my forehead against his.

-

By the time we get back to my house, Frank's hair is still damp from the lake, curling slightly at the ends, and I'm pretty sure my hoodie—which he stole because his clothes were too cold—will never smell like anything but him again. Not that I mind.

The house is warm, carrying the scent of roasted chicken and fresh bread, the kind of smell that makes everything feel safe, steady. Helena is in the kitchen, moving with ease, pulling a tray of golden potatoes out of the oven. The table is already set, plates stacked neatly, glasses filled. Mikey and Pete are in the living room, arguing over something on TV, their voices blending into the quiet hum of conversation coming from the kitchen, where Linda and Dan sit at the small table near the window.

It's weird seeing Frank's mom like this—relaxed, even happy. She's got a glass of water in front of her, fingers tracing the rim as she listens to whatever my grandma is saying, nodding along, actually engaged in a conversation. Dan sits beside her, his posture easy, his presence grounding. He doesn't talk over her, doesn't dominate the conversation. He just sits, listens, adds something here and there, making her laugh every once in a while.

And Frank sees it too.

He doesn't say anything, but I can tell. The way he slows as we step inside, the way his gaze lingers on his mom like he's watching a completely different person—someone he's not used to seeing. Someone he's not sure he trusts yet.

"There you two are," Helena calls from the kitchen, smiling. "Come help set the table, birthday boy."

"It's my birthday, shouldn't I be exempt from chores?" Frank grumbles, but he kicks off his shoes and heads toward her anyway, stealing a piece of bread from the counter on his way.

"You get cake, that's your reward," she tells him, smacking his hand lightly when he reaches for another.

"That and the satisfaction of being a decent human being," I add, grabbing the silverware from the counter.

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask to be a decent human being," Frank mutters, but he's smiling, setting plates around the table with practiced ease.

Lunch comes together quickly. It's simple, nothing fancy—roast chicken, potatoes, fresh salad, warm bread—but it feels like more than just a meal. It feels like something solid, something whole. The kind of meal families have. The kind of meal that means something.

We all sit down together—Helena at the head of the table, Linda and Dan beside her, Mikey and Pete on the opposite end, and Frank and I squeezed in next to each other. It's a little cramped, but no one seems to care.

"Alright," my grandma says once everyone's settled. "Let's eat before it gets cold."

And we do.

It's... nice. Really fucking nice.

Frank's usually the loudest person in any given room, but right now, he's quiet, just taking it all in. The way my grandma fusses over his plate, making sure he has enough. The way Mikey and Pete bicker playfully over the last roll. The way Linda looks lighter, freer, laughing softly at something Dan says.

For once, there's no tension, no weight pressing down on anyone's shoulders. Just a meal. Just people sitting together, eating, talking, being.

Pete, of course, is the one to bring chaos back into the moment.

"So, Frankie," he says, grinning. "How does it feel to be old?"

Frank snorts. "I'm literally a year older than you."

"Exactly. Ancient."

"You're an idiot."

"And you're a senior citizen now. We should get you a cane."

"I will beat you with it."

Pete just cackles, stealing a bite of chicken off Frank's plate before he can react.

The conversation moves easily from there—music, movies, something stupid Mikey and Pete did last weekend. Linda and Helena get lost in their own discussion, and Dan listens, nodding along like he actually enjoys being here, like he's not just here for Linda but for all of it—for Frank too.

And Frank notices.

Maybe that's why, when my grandma finally brings out the cake—simple, homemade, covered in thick chocolate frosting—he doesn't even put up a fight. Just smirks a little, rolling his eyes as we all start singing.

It's off-key. Loud. Pete turns it into some weird theatrical performance, throwing in extra flourishes, and Mikey tries to match him just to piss Frank off. Dan actually claps along, grinning, and Linda looks like she's trying not to cry.

Frank blows out the candles quickly, almost like he's embarrassed.

"Make a wish," I murmur beside him.

He looks at me then, something unreadable in his expression, something soft. He doesn't say anything—just closes his eyes for a second, lets the moment settle before opening them again.

"Okay," he says.

And then we eat.

Mikey and Pete fight over the last slice. Linda sneaks extra bites of frosting when she thinks no one's looking. Helena scolds Pete for trying to lick his plate. Dan just shakes his head, amused.

And Frank?

Frank just leans into me a little, his knee bumping mine under the table, his fingers ghosting over my wrist, like he's anchoring himself.

Like he's realizing, maybe for the first time, that this—this whole thing—is real. That people are here. That they care.

And yeah.

Maybe he didn't think this birthday would be anything special. Maybe he thought it would just be another day.

But looking around the table, at the way he's smiling without even realizing it—

I think he knows.

-

Two hours later, my house was full of people—our friends showing up one by one, all carrying gifts for Frank, some wrapped neatly, others shoved into whatever bag they had lying around. There was barely any space to move, but somehow, everyone found a way to squeeze in, stacking presents on the table or shoving them into Frank's arms.

"You better open this first thing when we get back," Ray said, placing his gift on the pile.

"Yeah, yeah, I will," Frank replied, barely glancing at the growing mountain. "But we gotta go, or we'll miss all the good shit at the fair."

"Priorities," Bob said with a smirk.

So we left, piling into my car, everyone buzzing with energy. The drive wasn't long, but the anticipation made it feel like hours. The moment we arrived, the fair was already glowing—neon lights flashing, rides spinning, laughter and screams blending into the cool night air. The smell of fried food and sugar hit us instantly, making my stomach growl.

"Alright, where the fuck do we start?" Brendon asked, bouncing on his feet.

"Games first," Frank decided, already leading the way. "Then rides. Then horror house."

Ryan sighed dramatically. "Why do we have to do the horror house at all?"

"Because it's called the horror fair," Lindsey said, rolling her eyes.

"And because you'll scream like a little girl and we want to see it," Bob added.

"I do not scream like a little girl—"

"Oh, you absolutely do," Avril cut in, smirking. "Remember the haunted corn maze last year?"

"That was different!" Ryan argued.

"It really wasn't," Brendon said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "But don't worry, babe, I'll protect you."

Ryan shoved him off, muttering something about idiots under his breath, and we all just laughed, following Frank toward the game booths.

The first stop was the ring toss, where Ray and Bob immediately got competitive, determined to win something. Every time they missed, they groaned dramatically, and every time they got close, they'd glare at each other like it was war.

"I swear this game is rigged," Ray muttered, tossing another ring.

"That's just what losers say," Bob shot back, grinning when he landed one.

Meanwhile, Avril and Lindsey stood next to them, watching, arms crossed.

"You know," Avril said, "you guys could just let us win something."

"We could," Bob agreed, aiming another ring. "But we won't."

"Asshole," Avril muttered, but she was smiling.

Ray finally managed to win a stuffed bat and immediately handed it to Lindsey.

"For you, milady," he said, bowing dramatically.

"I hate you," she said, taking it anyway.

Bob, not to be outdone, won a tiny Frankenstein doll and handed it to Avril, who looked at it for a moment before smirking.

"You just gave me a mini version of Frank," she said.

Frank, who was at another booth, turned around just in time to hear that. "Excuse you?"

"I mean, she's not wrong," Brendon said, looking between him and the doll.

"I'm taller than that thing."

"Not by much," Ryan mumbled, barely dodging Frank's punch.

The goldfish booth was next.

"I always wanted a pet," I admitted, staring at the tiny fish swimming in clear plastic bags.

"You can have one," Frank said, standing beside me.

"Mikey's allergic to cats and dogs," I reminded him. "Not fish."

Frank hummed, considering that. Then, without another word, he stepped up to the booth, grabbed a ball, and tossed it toward the floating bowls. First try—nothing. Second—still nothing. Third—splash.

The carny handed him a plastic bag with a tiny orange fish inside.

"For you, sugar," Frank said, grinning as he held it out to me.

I took it carefully, watching the little thing swim in slow, lazy circles.

"Guess I actually can keep this one," I said, still surprised.

"Damn right you can," Frank said. "Name it after me. Or after your favorite rock star. Or after Bob, since he's kinda shaped like a fish."

"Hey, what the fuck," Bob said from behind us.

Frank just cackled, and I glanced down at the fish again. "I think I'll name it—"

"Gerard Fishway," Frank cut in.

I rolled my eyes. "Absolutely not."

At some point, we found the photobooth.

"Group pictures first!" Avril declared, shoving everyone inside.

It was a tight fit, limbs tangled together, heads smushed. The first photo was semi-normal—everyone crammed in, smiling. The second was pure chaos, with Bob flipping off the camera, Lindsey sticking out her tongue, and Pete (who had somehow reappeared) pretending to choke Mikey.

Then, after everyone else had their turn, it was just me and Frank.

"Okay, serious one," Frank said as the timer started.

We tried, we really did, but right as the flash went off, he made a face, and I ended up laughing.

"Idiot," I muttered, shoving him lightly.

"You love it," he shot back.

The next picture was a blur of movement—me turning toward him, him leaning in, lips brushing mine. It was soft, quick, barely even a kiss before the camera went off again.

The third shot caught us mid-laugh, foreheads almost touching.

The last one? A little messier. A little closer. A little more.

"Alright, horror house time," Frank announced.

Mikey and Pete exchanged a look.

"Actually, we're gonna check something else out," Mikey said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"Don't worry about it."

Pete wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Mikey shoved him.

"Just keep your phone on," I told him.

"Yeah, yeah."

And then they were gone.

The second Mikey and Pete disappeared into the crowd, Frank turned to the rest of us with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The line stretched ahead of us, winding beneath flickering string lights and eerie decorations. Every few minutes, the muffled sound of screams echoed from inside, followed by laughter and the occasional cursing. Fog machines hissed from somewhere near the entrance, adding to the whole spooky, over-the-top ambiance.

"Brendon, you sure you're ready for this?" Lindsey asked, grinning as she nudged him.

"Fuck you, I got this," Brendon shot back, puffing out his chest.

"Says the guy who screamed at a plastic skeleton last year," Ryan deadpanned.

"IT JUMPED AT ME."

"It was literally bolted to the ground," Ryan said, crossing his arms.

Brendon scowled but didn't argue further. The line shuffled forward.

Frank stood close to me, his arm brushing mine, and when he turned to smirk at me, I could already tell he was about to start shit. "Think you'll scream?" he asked, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"I don't scream," I said flatly.

"We'll see."

The doors creaked open, fog spilling out from the entrance like something out of a horror movie. The group ahead of us hesitated before stepping inside, and I heard one of them mutter a nervous "fuck, fuck, fuck" under their breath before vanishing into the darkness.

Frank grabbed my wrist suddenly, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling me forward. The movement was so quick, so casual, that I almost didn't notice it. But I did.

I noticed everything.

We stepped inside, and immediately, we were swallowed by darkness. The air was thick, the scent of artificial fog and something metallic—probably fake blood—clinging to the space. Distant whispers played through hidden speakers, a slow, echoing build-up of distorted voices that made the hairs on my arms rise.

Lindsey and Ryan took the lead, Brendon right behind them, muttering about "setting the fucking record straight." Ray and Bob followed, arms crossed like they were completely unbothered. Meanwhile, Frank stuck beside me, unnervingly quiet.

We turned the first corner, and a figure lunged out from the shadows.

"HOLY FUCK!" Brendon yelped, stumbling back and slamming into Ryan.

"Jesus, dude," Ryan muttered, shoving him off.

Frank snickered. "Not even five seconds in, Urie."

Brendon grumbled something under his breath but straightened up. We kept moving, weaving through the winding corridors, where the walls narrowed, the air pressed close, and the dim, strobing lights made it impossible to tell what was coming next.

Frank's hand ghosted over my back, just the faintest touch, like he was making sure I was still there. I leaned into it instinctively.

The next room was even darker, lined with hanging plastic corpses and mannequins missing limbs. As we moved through, one of them suddenly moved—a real actor disguised among the props.

Ray flinched but played it off quickly, shaking his head. Bob didn't even react, just muttered, "Nice try, man."

Then another figure jumped out, dragging something metal against the floor, a screeching, jarring noise that sent a sharp jolt through my spine.

Frank actually grabbed my arm this time.

I glanced at him, amused. "Thought you weren't scared?"

"I'm not," he said immediately, but his fingers didn't let go.

More screams echoed from deeper inside, flashes of light revealing brief, unsettling glimpses of shadows and distorted faces. Someone sprinted across the hall ahead of us—one of the actors, moving too fast, disappearing before I could fully process them.

We turned another corner, and suddenly, the floor shifted under us—some weird vibrating effect, disorienting as hell.

Brendon cursed again.

Frank inhaled sharply beside me, his fingers twitching against my sleeve before he caught himself.

"You totally just got scared," I murmured.

"Shut up," he muttered, but his grip on my arm lingered.

We moved deeper, past mirrors that reflected back slightly off versions of ourselves, past flickering lights and air vents that hissed out bursts of cold air at random intervals. A hand shot out from the wall at one point, grazing Lindsey's shoulder, and she just laughed, because of course she did.

Ryan, unfazed as ever, just kept walking.

Ray and Bob remained solid, barely reacting, even when a figure in a tattered, blood-stained dress suddenly dropped down from the ceiling.

Brendon, on the other hand—

"FUCKING HELL," he shouted, stumbling so hard he knocked into Ray, who barely budged.

Ryan smirked. "That one was actually impressive."

Frank pressed closer against my side, and I felt him shift slightly, like he was trying to decide whether to hold onto me or not. I made the choice for him, reaching back and grabbing his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go.

He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against my ear.

We finally reached the end—a long, pitch-black hallway with a single, red-lit exit sign at the very end.

"Okay, there's definitely something waiting at the end," Ray said.

"Duh," Lindsey replied.

We braced ourselves, moving forward, and—sure enough—just as we were about to step through the doors, a chainsaw roared to life.

Frank jumped. So did Brendon.

Ray just sighed, unimpressed.

Bob? Didn't even blink.

And then we were outside, stepping back into the crisp night air, laughter spilling out from all of us as we caught our breath.

"Okay, I'll admit," Brendon said. "That was fucking terrifying."

Frank glanced at me, still slightly breathless. "You screamed," he pointed out.

"No, I didn't," I shot back.

"Oh, you totally did," he teased, grinning.

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

"Next stop?" Lindsey asked.

Frank slung an arm around my shoulders, still grinning. "Let's win Gerard another fucking fish."

The game was rigged. Had to be.

Frank had been at it for a solid five minutes, gripping the ball in his hand like it personally offended him. His jaw was set, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and every time he missed, he muttered something under his breath that I was definitely sure wasn't appropriate for a family-friendly carnival.

"Dude, it's not that deep," Bob commented, watching as Frank lined up for another shot.

"It's personal now," Frank muttered, tossing the ball—and missing. Again.

Ray snorted. Lindsey leaned against the booth, clearly enjoying the show. Meanwhile, I was just standing there, holding my poor little goldfish in its plastic bag, watching as Frank spiraled into madness over a rigged-ass carnival game.

And then, out of nowhere, Ryan's entire bag of popcorn spilled to the ground.

Everyone turned.

Brendon frowned, tilting his head. "Babe, what's wrong?"

Ryan had gone pale. Not just oh, I feel a little sick pale—he looked like he had literally seen a ghost. His eyes were wide, his hands frozen mid-air like he'd just witnessed a murder in real time.

"Uh, I just— I—" He looked at me, and I saw the exact moment panic took over.

Ryan suddenly lunged toward me, gripping my arm. His fingers were ice cold.

"Fuck, Gerard," he hissed, voice urgent. "Dallon's here. Oh, jeez. Earth, eat me alive. He saw me—he's coming. Fuck. Brendon doesn't know a shit."

I followed his gaze. Sure enough, in the distance, a guy was making his way toward us. Tall, blonde, confident stride—definitely looking right at Ryan.

Brendon, still oblivious, was staring at Ryan in confusion. "Who the hell is Dallon?"

Ryan squeezed my arm like I was a stress ball.

"Man," I whispered quickly. "Tell him you're going to pee or something—just get out of here."

Ryan hesitated for half a second before nodding, turning to Brendon with the fakest casual expression I'd ever seen.

"Uh, babe, I gotta—uh—bathroom. Yeah. Be right back."

And before Brendon could even respond, Ryan bolted.

Frank finally gave up on the game with a groan, rubbing his face.

"Sorry, Gee, I couldn't get your fish a brother. Your Gerard Fishway is gonna be an only child."

I deadpanned. "Oh, c'mon, I'm not naming it that."

"Why not? It's got a nice ring to it."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"I'll flush it before I call it that."

"Jesus, you're heartless." Frank clutched his chest dramatically.

Bob and Ray were too busy laughing to defend me, and Lindsey just rolled her eyes, muttering something about us being idiots.

Then Brendon frowned, glancing around. "where's Ryan?"

"Bathroom," I said quickly, trying not to look suspicious.

Brendon squinted at me. "Uh-huh. And who the fuck is Dallon?"

Frank shot me a look. The kind of look that said handle this or I will.

I cleared my throat. "No idea. Some dude, I guess."

"You guess?" Brendon crossed his arms.

"Yeah, man, I don't know everyone in this damn park."

Brendon still looked unconvinced, but before he could press further, Frank groaned dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Ugh, we should get home. We already did everything, my legs are fucking dead."

"Same," Bob agreed. "I swear, I walked like fifteen miles today."

"That's because you kept chasing after those stupid plushies," Lindsey teased.

"They weren't stupid. They were majestic," Bob shot back.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a hero." She patted his back.

Frank pulled out his phone. "Imma call Mikey, see where they are."

As he did, I glanced back toward the direction Ryan had run off to, hoping to God he wasn't having a full-blown crisis somewhere behind a carnival booth.

Chapter Text

The fair had been fun, mostly. Pete had won Mikey a stupid stuffed bat, Mikey had rolled his eyes but kept it anyway, and they'd shared a funnel cake that left powdered sugar on Pete's chin. And now, after hours of noise and flashing lights, they'd finally slipped away from the others, ducking out past the game booths to somewhere quieter.

Pete was holding his hand.

Mikey let him, even though it made his stomach feel weird and warm, even though it made his brain short-circuit every time he remembered they were outside. In public.

Pete didn't care about that stuff. He'd spent the entire night throwing an arm around Mikey's shoulders, touching his waist when he walked past, leaning in too close just because he could. And Mikey—Mikey wasn't used to it. He wasn't used to being someone's boyfriend, to being something someone wanted to show off.

Pete swung their hands between them. "You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet," Mikey muttered.

Pete grinned. "Yeah, but usually you're making fun of me by now."

Mikey huffed a laugh, but Pete still wasn't letting go, still watching him like he was waiting for something.

"Do you—" Pete hesitated, which wasn't like him. "Do you like this? Like, the couple-y stuff?"

Mikey's fingers twitched in his grip. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"That's not an answer."

Mikey sighed, staring at the ground. He wished Pete wasn't so good at reading him. "It's just... weird, sometimes."

Pete was quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Because it's me?"

Mikey's head snapped up. "No."

Pete smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's okay if it is."

"It's not," Mikey insisted, stomach twisting. "I just... I don't know how to do this."

Pete's expression softened. "Babe. There's no right way to do it." He squeezed Mikey's hand. "You just—be with me. However you want."

Mikey swallowed, looking away. Pete was so sure of this, so all in about it, and Mikey didn't know how to match that. He wanted to—God, he wanted to—but it scared him. If he let himself want it too much, if he let himself need it, what happened when it was gone?

"I don't wanna be something you regret," he said quietly.

Pete's grip tightened. "You think I'd regret you?"

Mikey shrugged. "People regret stuff all the time."

Pete let out a breath like his heart was breaking. "Not you," he said. "Never you."

Mikey felt something crack open in his chest, something terrifying and fragile. He didn't know what to say.

Pete bumped their shoulders together. "Y'know, we can just make out until you stop overthinking."

Mikey snorted. "You're an idiot."

Pete grinned. "Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

Mikey rolled his eyes, but Pete caught the way his fingers curled a little tighter around his.

Mikey thinks Pete is something like an autumn ghost, lingering in the spaces between dying leaves and cold wind, in the quiet moments where the world feels like it's holding its breath. He is not the warmth of summer but the last embers of it, burning at the edges, desperate to keep from going out. He leaves behind the imprint of his body heat on Mikey's skin, the ghost of his laugh in the air, fading too quickly, making Mikey wonder if he imagined it. Pete is all noise and static, a radio caught between stations, his fingers twitching like a song stuck in his head, a thought unfinished, an impulse left unchecked. He holds Mikey's hand too easily, like Mikey is something to be claimed, like he has always been his to hold. Mikey lets him, even though it makes his throat feel tight, even though it makes his stomach feel like it's filling with water. He is afraid of drowning in this, afraid of what happens when autumn fades into winter and Pete disappears with the last of the golden light.

Pete feels everything too much, and Mikey doesn't know if he feels anything at all. He has spent his whole life trying not to—because feelings mean vulnerability, and vulnerability means weakness, and he has never had the luxury of being weak. Gerard got to be weak. Gerard got to be fragile and brilliant and broken in ways that demanded attention, in ways that turned their whole house into a war zone of whispered concerns and careful hands pulling him back from the edge. There was no room for Mikey to fall apart. So he didn't. He taught himself how to be invisible, how to be small and quiet and easy, how to take care of people without needing to be taken care of. He learned how to keep his voice even and his hands steady and his feelings locked away so tightly that sometimes he thinks they don't exist at all.

And then Pete comes along with his easy touch and his messy, open heart, and suddenly Mikey wants. He hates that he wants. He hates needing anyone, hates the way Pete makes him feel raw and exposed, like every wall he has ever built is cracking at the foundation. Pete is careless in the way he loves people, reckless and overwhelming and too much, and Mikey doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't know how to be needed without being consumed.

Pete is not red-hot, not like Mikey thought before. He's not a flame—he's something softer, something that lingers. His hair is brown, messy, always falling into his eyes, and his hands shake when he doesn't know what to do with them. He touches Mikey constantly, like he's grounding himself, like he's trying to prove Mikey is real. Pete feels everything too much, and Mikey feels nothing, but when Pete presses his forehead against Mikey's temple and breathes him in like oxygen, like necessity, Mikey wonders if maybe Pete can feel enough for both of them.

Pete doesn't know how to love quietly. He is loud about it, not in words but in presence. He is always there, always close, always taking up space in Mikey's life in ways Mikey never invited him to, in ways he never even realized until it was too late. Pete doesn't just want Mikey—he worships him, in a way that is both infuriating and terrifying. He looks at Mikey like he is something holy, something rare, something Pete is afraid to lose but even more afraid to touch too hard in case he breaks it.

And Mikey, for all his distance, for all his careful walls, lets him.

The Ferris wheel creaks as it rises, metal groaning under the weight of the wind, of them, of everything Mikey refuses to say out loud. The night is cold, autumn sharp against his skin, and Pete's warmth is too close, pressed against him in the tiny space of the carriage. Their breath fogs up the glass, ghosting over the lights below, the carnival shrinking beneath them, everything spinning but them.

Pete is talking, or maybe he isn't. His lips move, but Mikey can't hear anything over the rushing sound in his ears, over the way Pete's knee knocks against his, the way Pete's fingers twitch on the metal bar between them like he's holding back from reaching out. Mikey stares at his hands. His nails are chipped, his fingers restless, veins sharp beneath his skin like lightning under the surface.

"Hey," Pete says, softer this time, like he knows Mikey is somewhere else, like he always knows.

Mikey swallows, turns his head slightly. Pete is watching him, eyes dark and deep, full of things Mikey isn't ready to name. The lights outside paint him in flickering reds and blues and yellows, like he's something impossible, something unreal. And maybe he is. Maybe Pete is just another ghost, another thing that will disappear when the season ends.

Pete shifts, and then his hand is there, between them, palm up, an offering. No pressure, no demand. Just a choice.

Mikey stares at it. His throat feels tight, his heartbeat slow and steady and wrong, like something waiting to start. Pete is warm, even through the space between them, and Mikey hates that he wants to reach for it. Hates the way his fingers twitch with the need to close the distance.

"You don't have to," Pete murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself. His voice is quieter up here, softer, like the height has stripped him of some of his usual noise. "I just—" He exhales sharply, then laughs, tilting his head back against the seat. "Forget it. I just like being here with you."

Mikey doesn't move. He watches Pete's fingers curl slightly, like they're waiting for something that isn't coming. Maybe Pete thinks he's incapable of this, incapable of wanting in the way Pete wants, in the way Pete always does—too much, too fast, too recklessly.

The Ferris wheel halts at the top, the carriage swaying slightly, a breath caught between earth and sky. The silence stretches. Mikey exhales.

And then, before he can think too hard about it, before he can talk himself out of it, he closes the space. His fingers slide against Pete's, careful, hesitant, like he's touching something fragile, something dangerous. Pete inhales sharply, and Mikey feels it, the way his breath stutters, the way his whole body goes still for just a second before he turns his hand, palm against palm, fingers curling tight.

Pete is so warm. Mikey hates how much he notices that. How much it makes his chest feel like it's unraveling, thread by thread.

Pete doesn't say anything. He just looks at him, eyes wide, like he doesn't want to scare him off, like he's memorizing this moment in case it never happens again. And maybe it won't. Maybe Mikey will wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened, shove it down deep where all the other dangerous things go.

But tonight, with the whole world stretched out beneath them, with the wind in his hair and Pete's heartbeat under his fingertips, Mikey lets himself stay.

Pete talks too much. He knows this. Words spill out of him like water through cracked hands, never enough to hold onto, always slipping away before he can make sense of them. But this—this is different. This is something he's been carrying too long, something heavy in his chest, pressing against his ribs every time Mikey so much as looks at him. So he exhales, drumming restless fingers against his knee, and says,

"I like you, Mikey."

It's quiet, not his usual brand of loud, attention-seeking noise. It feels heavier, like it belongs to the night air between them, to the way the Ferris wheel creaks in the distance, to the soft glow of streetlights that barely reach where they're sitting. Pete swallows, licks his lips, watches Mikey's face for something—anything. He doesn't get much, just the familiar blankness, the way Mikey stares straight ahead like he's waiting for Pete to keep talking. So he does.

"I like you in a way that makes my chest hurt," Pete admits, tipping his head back, eyes on the stars because looking at Mikey feels too raw. "Like, I don't even think you realize how much space you take up in my brain. You're just—always there. Even when you're not." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "It's annoying, honestly."

Mikey shifts beside him, just barely, and Pete risks a glance. His face is unreadable, but his fingers twitch against his thigh, the only sign that he's actually listening.

Pete exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to find words that make sense, that don't sound like he's unraveling. "I like the way you don't talk unless you have something to say. I like the way your glasses slide down your nose when you're reading. I like how you pretend not to care about anything, but you do. You do, Mikey, I know you do."

Mikey's hands are clenched into fists now, and Pete wants to take them, wants to smooth them open, wants to press his thumb into the creases of his palm until Mikey believes him. But he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps going, because this feels like the only time he'll ever get to say it.

"I like the way you never ask for help but always give it when no one else does. I like that you let me be near you, even though I know you don't like letting people in. I like that when you do say something, it's worth listening to. I like—" Pete stops, swallows hard, shakes his head. "Fuck, Mikey, I just like you. And I don't know how to make you see that you're already everything to me."

Silence stretches between them, long and thin, almost unbearable. Mikey's breathing is steady, too steady, like he's trying to hold himself together. Pete waits, heart pounding, hoping, terrified.

Then, finally, Mikey exhales shakily. "I know," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I know you do." He shifts, just enough that his shoulder presses against Pete's, grounding them both. "And I—" He cuts himself off, but Pete stays quiet, waiting.

Mikey licks his lips, takes a breath, like he's preparing himself for something raw and painful. "I like you, too," he admits, and his voice wavers, but he pushes through it. "More than I know what to do with. But I keep thinking—what if I'm not enough? What if you wake up one day and realize I'm not what you want? What if—" He swallows hard. "What if I fuck this up and lose you?"

Pete's chest aches, and he doesn't think, just reaches out, curling his fingers around Mikey's wrist, solid and real. "You won't," he says, quiet but firm. "I promise, Mikey. You don't have to be anything but you. That's all I want."

Mikey closes his eyes for a second, like he's letting the words settle inside him. Then he nods, almost imperceptibly, and turns his hand just enough to lace their fingers together.

"Okay," he says, barely above a breath. "I'll try to believe that."

Pete squeezes his hand, smiling softly. "That's all I need."

-

The fair is chaos in the best way. Neon lights flicker between eerie shadows, casting jagged patterns on the pavement. The distorted laughter of animatronic clowns echoes from the haunted maze, blending with the distant screams of people on the rickety old rollercoaster. The air is thick with the scent of fried food, cheap cologne, and artificial fog.

Pete and Mikey have been here for hours, moving through the fair like they own the place. They played shitty carnival games (Pete cheated, Mikey called him an asshole, Pete won him a stuffed bat anyway), ate too many deep-fried Oreos, and made fun of the fair's terrible attempt at a "realistic" zombie scare zone. It's been good. Easy.

And now, somehow, they're pressed up against the side of an abandoned fortune-teller's booth, half-hidden in the shadows between flashing lights.

Mikey's back is against the wooden panel, fingers twisted in the front of Pete's jacket. Pete has one hand curled around Mikey's jaw, the other gripping his hip, their bodies flush against each other. The fair exists somewhere in the background, but it doesn't matter. Not when Mikey is kissing him like this—slow and deep and messy, like they have all the time in the world. Like they haven't already been doing this for the past ten minutes, completely ignoring the fact that they're supposed to be meeting up with Gerard and the others.

Pete grins against his mouth, tilting his head just enough to murmur, "This is the most romantic date I've ever been on."

Mikey huffs out a laugh, breath warm against Pete's lips. "We're at a haunted fair, making out next to a booth that smells like mildew and cheap incense."

"Exactly," Pete says, kissing him again, his thumb tracing the edge of Mikey's jaw.

Mikey hums, pleased, fingers tightening in Pete's jacket. He pulls Pete in harder, deepening the kiss, his heart hammering against his ribs. Pete makes a soft, satisfied noise, sliding his hand under the hem of Mikey's hoodie, fingers skimming warm skin—

And then Mikey's phone starts vibrating aggressively in his pocket.

They both freeze. Pete groans.

Mikey sighs heavily against Pete's mouth, pressing his forehead against Pete's chest like he's physically in pain. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Pete lets out a dramatic, suffering noise. "Oh my God."

Mikey fishes his phone out of his hoodie pocket, still breathless, thumb swiping at the screen without looking. He puts it to his ear, voice flat. "What."

There's a pause. Then: "Dude, where the fuck are you?"

Mikey squeezes his eyes shut. "Gerard."

"Yes?"

Mikey takes a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Why are you calling me right now."

"Because you were supposed to meet us twenty minutes ago and I swear to God if you're off somewhere getting murdered—"

Pete snorts. Loudly.

"Wait a second." Gerard's voice shifts, like something just clicked. "Why is Pete laughing?"

Mikey glares at Pete, who is currently smirking like a demon. "No reason."

"Oh my God," Gerard says, horrified. "Are you— Wait. Are you two making out somewhere?"

Silence.

Pete is grinning.

Mikey considers hanging up. Considers throwing his phone into the haunted corn maze and running. Instead, he rubs his temple and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

"Are you fucking serious?!" Gerard sounds genuinely distressed. "*Mikey, we are in public.**"

Pete leans in, whispering just loud enough for the speaker to catch it. "Technically, we're in a secluded part of the fair, so—"

"*DON'T ENABLE HIM, PETE.**"

Pete cackles.

Mikey, already dead inside, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Gerard, why the fuck are you calling me right now."

"Because we're about to leave and you're nowhere to be found! Jesus, you were supposed to meet us by the entrance—"

Mikey exhales, tilting his head back against the wooden panel. "We'll be there in five minutes, relax."

"Oh, I am so not relaxing after this," Gerard mutters. "Hurry the fuck up."

The call ends.

Mikey lowers his phone, staring at it like it personally betrayed him.

Pete is grinning, eyes bright with amusement. "So," he drawls, arms sliding back around Mikey's waist. "What I'm hearing is, we have five minutes—"

Mikey shoves him away, exasperated. "We are leaving."

Pete pouts. "You're no fun."

Mikey rolls his eyes but grabs Pete's hand, lacing their fingers together as they step back out into the chaos of the fair. Pete swings their hands obnoxiously between them, grinning, and Mikey ignores the warmth in his chest as they make their way to the exit, bracing himself for the absolute shit Gerard is going to give him.

-

Frank's pov:

The night is winding down, and we're all standing by the entrance of the fair, smoking cigarettes while we wait for Mikey and Pete to finally show up. The place is still buzzing with energy—flashing lights, distant screams from the last few rollercoaster runs, the chatter of people still clinging to the last bit of Halloween. But for us, it's that post-adrenaline lull, where the fun's been had, and now we're just tired but in the best way possible.

Gerard exhales a slow stream of smoke, tapping his foot against the pavement. He's restless, glancing toward the fair every few seconds like he can summon Mikey and Pete with sheer willpower. "I swear to God, if they're making out somewhere instead of coming to the car—"

"They definitely are," Bob cuts in, deadpan.

Ray snorts, flicking ash from his cigarette. "We should just leave them here. Let them fend for themselves."

"They'd die," I say. "Mikey can barely function in a controlled environment, let alone abandoned at a horror fair."

Gerard groans dramatically. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"No, you didn't," I point out. "You were the one begging everyone to come."

"Yeah, well, now I regret it." He crosses his arms, scowling. "Brendon, back me up."

Brendon barely acknowledges him. He's leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, glaring at Ryan like he wants to set him on fire. The air between them has been weird ever since Ryan casually dropped the fact that he's dating Dallon. Brendon has been sulking ever since, and Ryan has been pretending not to notice.

"Brendon?" Gerard tries again.

Brendon finally blinks, like he just realized Gerard was talking. "Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Jesus, drama queen."

Brendon glares at him. "Oh, I'm the drama queen?"

"Oh my God, here we go," Bob mutters, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it.

Brendon pushes off the lamppost, arms flailing. "Yes, here we fucking go, because maybe if you actually told me you were dating Dallon, I wouldn't be finding out from a random offhand comment like I'm just some random dude you barely talk to—"

Ryan sighs loudly, rubbing his face. "Brendon, I didn't think I needed to announce it right now we're not even—"

"Because you didn't care," Brendon accuses, eyes dark.

The rest of us stand there in deeply uncomfortable silence as the tension between them grows, crackling like a downed powerline.

"Soooo, Mikey and Pete, huh?" I asked.

Ray immediately latches onto the change of subject. "Right? What the hell is taking them so long?"

Bob hums. "Probably fixing their hair after aggressively making out in some sketchy-ass corner of the fair."

"Disgusting," Gerard mutters.

I smirk. "I bet they weren't even hiding properly."

"They definitely weren't," Ray agrees.

Before we can keep roasting them, a voice calls out, "Alright, fuck off, we're here."

We turn to see Mikey and Pete approaching, both looking suspiciously disheveled. Mikey's hoodie is slightly crooked, Pete's hair is a mess, and neither of them will make direct eye contact.

"Oh, this is so obvious," I say.

Mikey flips me off as he walks past. "Eat shit."

Pete grins, unbothered. "Missed us?"

"Not even a little bit," Gerard says, already walking toward the car. "Get in, we're going home."

The car ride is chaos, which, at this point, is expected.

Gerard's driving, hands tight on the wheel, navigating through Halloween traffic with barely-contained road rage. Ray's in the passenger seat, because he's the biggest. I'm stuck sitting on Bob's lap in the backseat, because I'm the smallest and apparently that means I don't deserve personal space. Brendon and Ryan are both holding the girls. Meanwhile, Mikey and Pete are in the trunk, because we physically ran out of space, and neither of them protested.

Gerard sighs dramatically as he turns onto the main road. "Mikey, if you die back there, Grandma's gonna kill me, so try not to suffocate or anything."

"Noted," Mikey deadpans.

Pete knocks against the back of Ray's seat. "Hey, can we open the trunk while you're driving?"

Gerard's eye twitches. "If you try anything, I will leave you on the side of the road."

Pete cackles.

Bob shifts under me, adjusting his arms. "Frank, you're bony as fuck, Jesus Christ."

"Well, sorry I'm not a human pillow," I retort.

Brendon sighs dramatically, staring out the window. "This was the worst night of my life."

Ryan scoffs. "You were literally having fun until, like, an hour ago."

Brendon glares at him. "That was before I knew you were a liar."

Ryan groans. "Oh my God—"

Gerard turns up the radio to drown them out.

The rest of the drive is spent dropping people off one by one, each exit making the car progressively quieter. Brendon gives Ryan one last meaningful glare before slamming the door behind him. Ray and Bob leave together, sharing a look that says good luck before disappearing into the dark.

Finally, it's just me, Gerard, Mikey, and Pete.

Pete's the last stop before Mikey's house. He hops out of the trunk, stretching exaggeratedly. "What a night, gentlemen."

Mikey leans against the car, yawning.

Gerard sighs. "Are you staying at my place tonight?" he asks me.

I blink at him. "Uh, yeah, but my mom said I gotta go for clothes. She doesn't want me wearing the same shit every day."

"You can wear mine," Gerard offers, shrugging.

"Yeah, but still," I say. "Plus, I can leave the presents there too."

Gerard nods. "Okay."

Pete smirks. "You two are so fucking married."

"Get the fuck out of my car," Gerard says.

Pete cackles, flipping us off as he jogs up to his house.

Once we drop him off, we go back to Gerard's place to grab my stuff. It's a quick stop—just enough time for me to shove some clothes and my gifts into a duffel bag before we head back to the car.

The ride to my house is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes when the night starts sinking into your bones, when exhaustion settles in but the adrenaline of the night still lingers at the edges. Gerard is driving, fingers tapping against the wheel, and the only sound between us is The Smiths playing softly through the radio.

"Please, please, please let me get what I want..."

The song drifts into the dimly lit street as Gerard pulls into my driveway. He doesn't turn the engine off, just leans back in his seat, fingers twitching like he wants a cigarette but is too tired to reach for one.

I grab my duffel bag and push the door open, stepping into the cool night air. "Be right back," I mutter, mostly to myself.

Gerard hums in acknowledgment, eyes half-lidded as he stares out the windshield, lost in the music.

I make my way up the porch steps and unlock the door. The house is dark, eerily still.

"Mom!" I call out, stepping inside. "I'm home!"

Silence.

I flick the hall light on, peering into the kitchen. Empty. No sign of her, no dishes left out, no half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. I check her room—bed still made, lights off. Dan's car isn't outside, either.

Guess she's out.

I sigh, shaking my head, and make my way to my room. I push the door open, reaching for the light switch—

And then my heart stops.

There's someone sitting on my bed.

The second the light flickers on, my breath catches in my throat. My whole body goes rigid, blood running cold.

James.

He's just there, slouched like he belongs in my fucking space, legs spread wide, hands clasped in his lap. He looks up at me with a lazy smirk, like this is normal. Like he belongs here.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" I stagger back, my whole body on high alert. "What the fuck—"

James rolls his eyes, unbothered. "Relax, dumbass."

"How the fuck did you get in here?" My voice is shaking, a weird mix of terror and rage bubbling in my chest. "What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

He stretches, like this is all so inconvenient for him. "Your mom let me in. She was here, like, an hour ago or something."

That makes me freeze. She was here? Then where the fuck did she go?

James shrugs, noticing my hesitation. "I just wanted to say happy birthday."

I stare at him. "You have my fucking number. You could've called me."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We always used to go to the cinema today."

My stomach twists. I know. The Halloween tradition. The one we've been doing since we were kids, the one that used to actually mean something before everything got so fucking wrong.

But that was before.

James' expression shifts, dark eyes locking onto mine. He stands up slowly, like a predator watching its prey, and I instantly take a step back.

Then another.

And another.

"Get away from me," I say, my voice sharp, warning.

James tilts his head. "Why, Frank?"

"You know why." My breath catches as I take another step back, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands curl into fists at my sides. "I don't want anything from you."

James exhales sharply through his nose, eyes never leaving mine. "I do, Frank."

And then he moves.

He steps forward fast—too fast—and before I can react, my back hits the wall. My stomach drops.

Fuck.

James presses in closer, his body inches from mine, eyes dark and heavy. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of cigarettes and something sharp clinging to his clothes.

I swallow hard. My skin is crawling.

"Let me go, motherfucker," I snap, trying to shove him away.

James just grins. And then—his hands are on my wrists, gripping them so fucking tight that pain shoots through my arms. I struggle, twisting against his grip, but he's stronger, always has been, and panic floods through me.

"James!" My voice cracks, pure fucking desperation. "Let me go!"

He doesn't. He pulls something from his pocket—something small, something white, something damp.

I freeze.

No.

No, no, no—

The second he presses the cloth against my face, my world shatters.

The scent hits me first—thick, chemical, cloying. It burns down my throat, makes my lungs seize. I thrash against him, kicking, trying to turn my head away, but his grip is ironclad. My vision blurs. My body feels wrong, like I'm floating and sinking at the same time.

I can't—

My limbs are heavy. My stomach rolls, bile creeping up my throat as my lungs beg for air. Everything is tilting, spinning, collapsing.

I try to scream. Nothing comes out.

Then—

Black.

Chapter Text

I'm numb. An idiot. Like some lost kid in a massive mall, swallowed up by its endless hallways and flickering fluorescent lights, wandering aimlessly without his parents. Except this isn't a mall, and I'm not a kid. I'm nowhere, nowhere at all, just suspended in a heavy, airless void where nothing exists—no time, no space, no coherent thought. Everything is blurred, smudged together into something unrecognizable, but it's starting to take shape again, beginning to make sense in the worst possible way. And all I want is for it not to. For this to be nothing but some sick, drug-induced nightmare. If I don't think, if I don't acknowledge it, maybe it won't be real. Maybe I'll stay here in this semi-dark suffocating limbo, where I don't have to face what's waiting for me on the other side.

I don't know how long I've been like this—seconds, minutes, hours. A lifetime, maybe two. My body doesn't feel like my own, doesn't feel like anything at all. It's weightless and detached, like I'm hovering outside of it, watching from a distance, a ghost of myself. Like maybe I don't even exist anymore. And I want that. I want that more than anything because it would mean I'm free from this horrible, twisted reality where my fucking ex-best friend is torturing me for loving someone who isn't him.

I don't know if I can even begin to explain the way my chest feels. It's not just fear, not just pain—it's something deeper, something wrong, like an absence, like a part of me has been carved out and replaced with nothing but a cold, gaping void.

Then suddenly, I feel something.

Pain.

It slices through the numbness like a jagged knife, sharp and cruel, dragging me back to myself. A dull, throbbing ache pulses through my skull, radiating down my neck, settling deep in my chest like a weight pressing down on my ribs, making it hard to breathe. My throat is raw and dry, scorched like I've been screaming, or choking, or both. The inside of my mouth tastes bitter, metallic. Something sharp digs into my wrists, biting into my skin, and when I try to move, nothing happens. My arms are locked in place, dead weight. My legs feel twisted, stiff, wrong, and my skin—fuck, my skin is damp with sweat, but I'm freezing. Burning up and shivering all at once, like my body can't decide whether it's shutting down or going into overdrive.

I don't recognize myself.

I don't know anything.

The darkness around me begins to shift, color bleeding into the void, warping and twisting until it starts to form something—shapes, sounds, movement. A low hum buzzes in my ears, growing louder, morphing into muffled static, distorted voices somewhere in the distance. My stomach twists violently, reacting before my mind can catch up, like my body always knows before I do when something is fucked.

I try to move again, but my arms won't budge. My fingers twitch, brushing against something rough and unyielding—rope.

I want to throw up.

My stomach lurches, acid burning the back of my throat as reality crashes over me, drowning me in it. And suddenly, I'm not floating anymore. I'm trapped. I'm here.

I started panicking.

I'm not usually a guy who panics a lot—I like to think I can handle my shit, keep a level head even when things go sideways. But this? This is different. This is worse than anything I've ever felt before.

My eyes snap open, and the world slams back into me all at once, hitting me like a freight train. The dim light from upstairs is still on, glowing faintly from my bedroom. The overwhelming scent of stale cigarettes clings to the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the sharp, lingering ghost of old perfume. The pressure on my wrists and ankles sharpens, ropes biting into my skin like teeth, and my breathing stutters—short, shallow gasps that barely make it past my chest.

I try to move.

I can't.

I fucking can't.

It's like being trapped inside my own body, useless, completely fucking useless. My arms are locked behind me, bound so tightly they've gone numb. My wrists burn with every tiny twitch of resistance. Something cold and rough presses into my back—wood, maybe. My legs are stiff, twisted unnaturally, ankles bound together so tightly that every small movement makes my skin scream.

And then the panic really kicks in.

It rushes through me in a violent, uncontrollable wave, slamming into my ribs, making my pulse hammer against my skull. My breathing turns ragged, too fast, too shallow—fuck, I can't get enough air, I can't fucking breathe. My chest is tight, my vision swims, spots of darkness creeping in at the edges. My whole body is fighting against itself, instinct screaming at me to move, to run, to do something—but I can't.

I blink hard, trying to force my vision to clear, trying to ground myself in where the fuck I am.

And then I see it.

The hallway.

I'm in my house.

The thick wooden column at the base of the staircase is pressing against my spine, hard and unyielding. The dim glow from the kitchen spills into the room, casting long, stretching shadows across the floor. The house is quiet—too quiet.

My brain is trying to catch up, trying to piece together how the fuck I got here, but the answer isn't coming fast enough.

All I know is that something is very, very wrong.

Then I see him.

James.

He's standing a few feet away, leaning against the dining table like he has all the time in the fucking world. Casual. Relaxed. Like this isn't insane. Like he isn't holding a fucking gun.

The dim light catches on the metal, making it glint in his hand. He isn't even gripping it properly—it's loose in his fingers, his thumb idly tracing the edge of the barrel, slow and deliberate, like it's nothing, like it's just some toy he's gotten bored of. My stomach twists violently.

This is real. This is happening.

And then—

A sound.

A groan. Low, weak, filled with something raw and pained.

I turn my head so fast my vision tilts dangerously, the room spinning in slow, nauseating waves. But it doesn't fucking matter, because that's when I see him.

Gerard.

Tied to a chair. Ankles and wrists bound behind him with thick, coarse rope. His head is slumped forward, his beautiful red hair hanging in messy, sweat-damp strands, clinging to his forehead. It falls over his face, shielding most of it from view, but I can still see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the slow, uneven breaths that make my stomach drop.

He looks fragile. Limp. Fucked up.

My blood boils instantly, rage surging hot and furious, burning through my veins like wildfire. But at the same time, an icy flood rushes in right behind it, freezing me to the spot, locking my muscles in place.

Because this isn't just about me anymore.

James has him.

And I don't know what the fuck he's going to do next.

"James, what the actual fuck? What are you doing with your life?" My voice comes out hoarse, raw, but the anger cuts through it like a blade.

James only smirks, head tilting slightly, eyes glinting with something sickeningly amused. "Finally, you wake up, sunshine. Good morning."

"Don't fucking call me that." My voice is sharp, but my breath is shaky. I yank hard against the ropes, feeling the bite of them digging into my skin, burning against my wrists. "What the fuck did you do? Are you fucking mental?"

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed, and takes a step closer. His hand reaches out, fingers pressing lightly against my right arm, like he has any right to fucking touch me. My skin crawls.

"Relax, Frankie," he says, voice calm, almost patronizing. "I just wanted to talk to you. I just want you to listen, for once. You wouldn't talk to me the easy way, so..." He gestures vaguely, like the ropes and the fucking gun in his hand are just minor inconveniences.

"So what, you fucking tie me up?" My voice is rising, sharp with disbelief, with fury, with something dangerously close to fear. "What the fuck is wrong with you? It's not my fucking problem you're obsessed with me—"

James' smirk vanishes. In a second, his whole demeanor shifts, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening with something ugly. "Oh, come on, dude, shut the fuck up." His grip tightens briefly on the gun, just enough to make my stomach lurch. "I have duct tape, too, so don't make me use it."

I grit my teeth, my whole body thrumming with anger, but before I can snap back, he sighs, rolling his shoulders like this is just so fucking exhausting for him.

"You weren't making it easy," he mutters, tone annoyed. "It was supposed to be just you. But your pathetic boyfriend was outside making too much goddamn noise, so I had to drug him too."

My stomach clenches violently.

"He got in the way," James continues, "and now he's gonna listen. And watch everything."

My breath catches.

Gerard.

I twist my head toward him, my pulse hammering, my brain scrambling to process, to understand how the fuck this happened. I was the one who blacked out first. Which means—

James must've taken him after that.

James must've found him looking for me.

And now we're both here, tied up in my house, trapped with him.

Gerard stirs, a low, pained groan slipping past his lips as his head lolls to the side, strands of sweat-damp red hair falling into his face. His body twitches, instinctively testing the restraints even before he's fully conscious, muscles tensing and shifting against the rough rope binding his arms and legs. His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, before hitching into something more erratic, more alive. His eyelids flutter, brows knitting together in sluggish confusion, and then—his breath shudders.

He's waking up.

James notices immediately. His sharp, dark gaze flicks toward Gerard, watching, waiting, like a predator sizing up weak prey. He doesn't move, just leans lazily against the dining table, fingers still idly tracing the edge of the gun, as if this is all just some twisted game to him.

"Goddammit, Gerard, wake the fuck up!" The words rip out of me before I can stop them, my voice raw and desperate, too loud, but I don't care.

James clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Jesus, Frank, you're loud. Keep your voice down." His tone is light, exasperated, like I'm an annoying little kid instead of someone he tied up in my own fucking house.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do, asshole," I snap, yanking against the ropes again, feeling them dig deeper into my skin.

Gerard's head lifts sluggishly at the noise. His movements are slow, heavy, like his body is still dragging itself out of whatever drug-induced haze James put him in. His eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused at first, the dull brown barely visible under his half-lidded gaze. He blinks, his lips parting slightly, like he's about to speak—but then it hits him.

Everything slams into place at once.

His body jerks, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet as he tries to move, tries to shift, only to realize—he can't. His muscles tense hard, breath catching in his throat as he fights against the restraints, only to be met with resistance. The ropes bite into his arms, his ankles, holding him still, trapping him. His breathing quickens, his eyes darting wildly from me to James, then down to the knots digging into his skin, the realization setting in fast, too fast—

And then he sees it.

The gun.

Everything in him locks up.

His whole body goes rigid, shoulders pulling tight, breath stuttering into silence. His gaze snaps back up to James, wide and panicked, the raw fear bleeding into every inch of his expression, and fuck—this isn't fair.

I want to go to him.

I want to rip out of these fucking ropes and get to him, to pull him into my arms, to hold him so fucking tight that none of this can touch him. I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I never meant for this to happen, that this isn't his fucking mess to be caught up in, that after everything he's been through, he shouldn't have to deal with this too.

But I can't.

Because James is standing right there.

And we're stuck.

"There he is," James murmurs, a slow smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. His eyes gleam with something dark, something dangerous.

"Let him go, you jerk!" The words burst out of me before I can stop them, my voice hoarse but sharp. I yank against the ropes again, harder this time, ignoring the sting of it biting into my skin. "He has nothing to do with this," I spit, my breath ragged, furious.

James doesn't even flinch. He just watches me, amused, like I'm some fucking animal scrambling in a trap. Then, slow as fucking molasses, he moves closer, lowering himself to my level, his hand lifting—

And then I feel it.

The sickening warmth of his fingers against my cheek.

My whole body recoils, my head jerking back as far as it can, but I can't fucking go anywhere. I can't move, can't escape it, his touch crawling over my skin like something rotting.

"That's not gonna happen, babe. You know that," he says, voice low, syrupy sweet, like we're sharing some kind of secret.

Babe.

The word makes me want to fucking vomit.

"Don't babe me, motherfucker," I snarl, my lip curling in pure disgust. "Go suck someone else's dick and get the fuck over me."

Something flickers across his expression—annoyance, amusement, something twisted right in between—but he doesn't react much. Just clicks his tongue, pushing off the table in one smooth, lazy movement. The gun dangles loosely in his grip, almost careless, like it's just an afterthought, an accessory, like he doesn't need it to make me afraid of him.

His gaze flickers to Gerard.

And stays there.

My stomach twists.

Gerard is too quiet.

He's not speaking, not moving—just watching, his chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his bound hands twitch against the rope, the way his jaw clenches so tightly I can hear his fucking teeth grind. He's pissed. He's scared. He's holding everything in.

And James is fucking thriving on it.

"You keep making bad decisions, Frank," he says, turning back to me, his voice light, almost conversational. "Your whole life is just a mess of bad fucking decisions. Picking the wrong paths, fucking the wrong people..."

I glare at him, my pulse hammering, my breathing uneven, but I force out a bitter, rasped laugh. "You don't know shit about me, idiot," I bite out, venom dripping from every word. My voice is shaking, but fuck, I don't care. "And what the fuck do you even want? You think I wanna fuck you? You think you're the one?"

Silence.

James doesn't say anything.

Just tilts his head, watching me with that same unreadable expression.

And then I steal a glance at Gerard.

His eyes meet mine—just for a second, just long enough for me to see everything there, the concern, the anger, the fucking fear—before he looks away again, his gaze hardening as it settles back on James.

And fuck, I want to kiss him.

I want to kiss him so fucking bad, to press my mouth to his and swallow all the fear, all the anger, all the pain that I fucking put him in. I want to tell him I'm sorry, tell him I'll fix this, tell him he won't have to watch whatever the fuck is about to happen.

But I can't.

And James is still standing there.

Waiting.

"You didn't say no when we fucked in detention," James says, his voice dripping with faux nostalgia, like he's reminiscing about something beautiful instead of some twisted lie he's spinning out of thin air. "When you let me touch you, kiss you, when we made out in the dirtiest fucking music room in school while you were dating him."

My stomach churns.

Liar.

Lying fuck.

My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms even through the rope. He's smiling, smug, knowing exactly what he's doing—twisting the truth into something ugly, something Gerard will believe.

But it's not true.

It's not.

He knows I didn't kiss him back. He knows I fucking ran away.

"FUCKING LIAR!" I explode, my voice cracking under the weight of my anger, my desperation. The words are sharp, raw, almost painful as they rip from my throat. I twist against the restraints, every muscle in my body screaming to move, to fucking lash out, but I'm fucking trapped.

I whip my head toward Gerard. His face is pale, unreadable, lips parted just slightly like he wants to say something, like he wants to interrupt, to tell James to shut the fuck up—

But nothing comes out.

His eyes meet mine.

And I see it.

The hesitation. The flicker of doubt. The way his brows knit together, the way his breathing is just a little too shallow. He's thinking.

And it fucking kills me.

"GERARD, YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT FUCKING TRUE!" I shout, my voice raw with something that isn't just anger—it's fear. Because I know Gerard. I know how his mind works, how easily he can spiral, how quick he is to believe the worst about himself, about me, about us.

And fuck, what if he believes it?

What if James wins?

What if this is the thing that finally breaks us?

His lips press together, his hands twitching against the rope binding him to the chair. His body is tense, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes—are glassy, stormy, full of something dark and messy and unreadable. And for the first time since I woke up here, I feel something deeper than fear.

I feel sick.

He doesn't say a word.

And that silence—his fucking silence—feels worse than anything James could do to me.

I swallow hard, my chest tight, my breath coming out in shallow pants. "Don't listen to him, baby," I say, my voice breaking, a desperate plea. I don't even care that James is standing right there, that he can hear the way my voice wavers, the way I'm practically begging Gerard to believe me.

Gerard blinks, his throat bobbing as he swallows. But he doesn't look at me.

And James?

James laughs.

"Oh, damn," he drawls, shaking his head, his smirk widening. "This is so fucking funny."

"Let us go, James," I say, my voice raw, desperate. "You already fucked this up too much—is this not enough for you?"

James doesn't hesitate. Doesn't flinch. His expression is eerily calm, his grip on the gun loose, almost casual. "No, Frankie," he says, voice soft but unwavering. "It isn't."

My throat tightens. My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears, drowning out everything else. I don't understand this. I don't fucking understand him.

"I don't get why you're acting like this, James." My voice is rising now, thick with frustration, confusion, fear. "You never said you liked me. Never. And I know—fuck, I know—you were scared, but it's not fair that you show up now, trying to make my life miserable, trying to fucking—" I choke on the words, my breath hitching. "While I'm finally with someone worth it."

James' jaw twitches. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing hard, but his expression doesn't change.

I shake my head, struggling against the ropes again, even though I know it's useless. "You never—never—got to know me, James. You were my best friend, but it was never equal. I was there for you, but you weren't there for me. Not the way I fucking needed you to be. And now that you've lost me, now that I've moved on, you're afraid—you're afraid of ending up alone, being someone you're not, 'cause you were too damn afraid to say anything back then."

His lips part, his eyes flickering, something fucking breaking inside of him, something he's been trying to keep buried.

"Fuck, Frank," he says, voice lower now, unsteady. "I thought you were straight."

"I KNOW THAT!" I shout, my voice cracking under the weight of everything. "BUT I DON'T CARE NOW! YOU HAVE HALEY, JESUS CHRIST!"

James' whole body tenses. His grip on the gun tightens, his fingers flexing around it. Then—

"I want you."

A whisper. Barely audible.

My blood turns to ice.

He takes a slow step forward.

Then another.

And then—

The gun lifts.

My stomach plummets.

He doesn't point it at me.

He points it at Gerard.

My breath shudders out of me. My limbs freeze. I can hear the ropes creak as I strain against them, every muscle in my body screaming to move, to do something, but I can't.

James stares at Gerard first, his expression unreadable, his hands steady. Then, without a word, his gaze flicks back to me—

But the gun stays on Gerard.

I swear my heart stops.

Gerard doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. I can see the fear in his hazel eyes, the way they shine under the dim light, the way his lips press into a thin, pale line. He doesn't speak. Doesn't fucking react.

And it's too much.

The silence. The tension. The weight of the fucking gun aimed at him. It's too much.

"Gee—" I start, my voice barely working. I need him to talk. Say something, please, say anything.

But he stays silent.

James takes another step toward me.

"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

Gerard's voice shatters the thick, suffocating air like glass. It's raw, furious—more emotion than I've ever heard from him before. His whole body tenses against the restraints, muscles straining, eyes burning with something that looks like pure fucking rage.

James barely reacts.

"Oh yeah?" His lips curl into a slow, smug smirk. "Watch me."

And then he moves.

Too fast. Too fucking close.

I feel the heat of his breath before his lips are on me.

Rough. Desperate. Angry.

I recoil instantly, twisting my head to the side, but he follows, catching my lips again. It's not a kiss—it's a fucking claim, a threat. The ropes burn against my skin as I try to jerk away, but it's useless. I can't push him off. I can't move.

"Fucking kiss me back," he breathes against my ear, voice dark, unhinged. "Or I swear I'll shoot him."

My stomach drops.

I don't think. I can't.

Gerard is right there—tied up, helpless. And James—fuck, James has a gun. A loaded gun. I don't know what he's capable of, what line he's willing to cross, how far he'll actually go.

I don't kiss him back.

I won't.

His grip tightens in frustration, fingers digging into my skin—

And then—

A fucking shot.

A split second of pure, paralyzing silence before the sound explodes through the room.

The bullet rips through the air, slamming into something solid.

My ears ring.

My vision swims.

I can't breathe. I can't move. I think I might be dying.

Oh. God.

A gunshot is not funny. It's not some dramatic movie scene with slow-motion reactions and poetic last words. It's fucking terrifying. It's chaos. It's panic. It's the sharpest, loudest, most violent sound I've ever heard in my entire life, and it slams into me all at once, rattling through my ribs.

I don't know how I didn't piss myself.

I can't see Gerard.

I can't fucking see Gerard.

My stomach lurches. My breath stutters. My whole body locks up as ice floods my veins.

"GERARD!" I scream, panic cracking my voice. I thrash against the ropes, my pulse hammering, my chest seizing. "GEE!"

My vision readjusts, my world snapping back into place all at once—

And then—

James laughs.

"Oh god, Frankie, you should've seen your face!" he fucking laughs, the sound sharp, wild, like he's enjoying this.

And that's when I see Gerard.

On the floor.

The chair tipped over, his body twisted awkwardly, hair falling over his pale face.

Blood—

No.

No blood.

James didn't shoot him.

He just shot the fucking roof.

My stomach clenches so hard I think I might throw up. My skin is hot, my hands trembling, my heart a rapid, uneven mess in my chest.

"This is NOT a fucking GAME, James!" I yell, my throat raw, my whole body shaking. "Grow the fuck up!"

I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. My chest feels too tight, like the ropes around my wrists are squeezing my entire body instead.

James is still too fucking close. His fingers press into my jaw, holding me there, like he's trying to make me see something—something I refuse to look at.

"You really think you're out of this shit?" he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. "That it's just me and my fucking feelings?"

His breath is hot against my skin.

"You acted like you don't owe me anything," he continues, his grip tightening. "But you do. Maybe I don't know a lot about you, but that was because you never fucking told me."

My blood boils. My stomach twists. I yank against the ropes, glaring up at him through the mess of my hair, breathing hard.

"BECAUSE I NEVER FULLY, TRULY TRUSTED YOU!" I spit, my voice cracking with raw emotion.

James flinches, his nostrils flaring. His fingers twitch against my skin before shoving me back roughly. "Oh, fuck you, Iero."

"Fuck you!" I shoot back, louder.

We stare at each other, both of us breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sharp, erratic movements. His face is twisted—hurt and angry and desperate, like he wants to shake me until I understand something, until I give in.

But I won't.

I never fucking will.

His jaw clenches. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, maybe, but it's twisted up in something darker, something that makes my skin crawl.

And then—

He leans in again. His breath is heavy against my cheek.

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice is quieter this time. Almost... shaky.

I stay still, barely breathing.

"I loved you first, Frank," he whispers.

My stomach plummets.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs.

He swallows, looking almost bewildered, like he's just now realizing it himself.

"Before him," he says, voice trembling. "Before any of them."

I stare at him, my pulse hammering.

For the first time since this nightmare started, James doesn't look like the same arrogant, unhinged asshole who tied me up in his parents' dining room. He doesn't look smug. Or angry. Or cruel.

He just looks... lost.

But that doesn't change a fucking thing.

A cold, numbing dread spreads through my body, creeping into my limbs like ice, making me feel disconnected from myself, like I'm floating outside of it, watching this unfold from somewhere far away. My throat tightens, my chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths, but I can't fucking move. Every nerve in me is screaming to fight, to thrash, to do something, but I'm locked in place, trapped beneath the crushing weight of fear. James' hand is firm around my neck, not choking, but holding—controlling. His fingers press into my waist, his grip possessive, his breath warm and heavy against my cheek. Then his lips move lower, ghosting along my jaw, my throat, my skin crawling beneath the unwanted touch.

"Stop," I whisper, my voice barely audible, hoarse, fragile. But he doesn't. He just keeps going, his mouth trailing lower, his hold tightening, like he's daring me to resist. And then his hand moves, slipping lower, fingers teasing at the waistband of my jeans, inching beneath the fabric with deliberate, horrifying slowness. A violent shudder racks through me, my body jolting, twisting against the restraints on pure instinct. My wrists burn where the ropes dig into my skin, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't fucking matter because I can't get away. I'm trapped. Helpless. And when his fingers finally slip beneath my underwear, skin against skin, something inside me snaps.

"Please, stop," I choke out, my voice broken, trembling. My whole body is shaking now, every muscle locked up in panic, my breath stuttering out in sharp, shallow gasps. Tears sting at my eyes, blurring my vision, turning everything into a mess of color and movement, panic and nausea. It's suffocating. It's too much. I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can feel is him—his touch, his weight, the way he won't fucking stop. A sob rises in my throat, thick and desperate, but I bite it back, clenching my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I don't want to give him that. I don't want him to hear me break.

I never thought he would do this to me. Never. Not James. Not the kid I grew up with. The one I used to call my best friend. The one who spent summers in my backyard, sneaking out of our houses at night, laughing until we couldn't breathe. The one I trusted my stupid childhood fears. But I don't know him anymore. Maybe I never fucking did. Because the James I knew—he would never do this. The James I knew is fucking dead. And the person in front of me, touching me, hurting me? I don't know who the fuck he is.

His lips crash against mine again, rough and desperate, like he's owed this, like I owe him something. I turn my head, trying to escape, but he follows, forcing the kiss, swallowing the way I whimper, the way my body recoils beneath his touch. My stomach twists violently, nausea rising in my throat so fast I think I might actually be sick. I feel filthy. Used. Like something cheap, something disposable, something he can take without consequence. My skin is burning where he touches me, but not in the way it's supposed to. Not in the way Gerard makes me feel. Not like love. Never like love.

Gerard's voice was sharp, cutting through the sick, suffocating air like a blade. "I said Get the fuck off him." There was nothing shaky about it this time, no hesitation, no fear. Just raw, unfiltered rage. But James barely reacted. His focus was still on me, his fingers still wrapped around me, moving with slow, calculated strokes that made my skin crawl, my stomach churn. He didn't even bother looking back. Just let out a low chuckle, like this was some kind of fucking joke. "Big words for someone tied to a chair."

And for a second, I thought that was true. Thought we were both still trapped, thought there was nothing we could fucking do—until suddenly, there was movement. The sharp screech of wood against the floor. A sudden, violent crash. My eyes darted toward Gerard just in time to see him slam onto his side, the chair hitting the ground with a heavy thud. For a breathless moment, I didn't know what the fuck he was doing. But then, with a pained grunt, he twisted, strained, fought against the restraints with everything he had. The veins in his arms were taut, his fingers clawing, pulling, yanking—until the chair leg cracked. The rope snapped. And then Gerard was free.

James didn't realize it right away. He was too fucking cocky, too focused on me, on himself, on whatever twisted game he thought he was playing. His hand still lingered where it wasn't fucking wanted, his breath hot and disgusting against my skin. But then—then something changed. The air shifted. James' body suddenly tensed, his hand yanked away from me so fast it almost fucking burned. His shoulders straightened, his entire body locked in place. And I knew. I knew before I even saw it.

The gun wasn't in his hands anymore.

It was in Gerard's.

I barely breathed as James slowly turned his head, as the reality of the situation finally hit him. Gerard stood just a few feet away, chest heaving, face twisted with pure, unrestrained fury. His hands trembled, but the gun was steady, aimed directly at James' head. The same gun James had used to taunt us, to fucking torment us. The same gun that had made me feel powerless. But now—now, it was different. The power had shifted. And for the first time since this fucking nightmare started, James wasn't in control anymore.

Chapter Text

James was fucking terrified. I had never seen him like that before, never seen that kind of fear in his eyes—wild and desperate, like a cornered animal. But even through the panic, there was rage. That same anger, that same entitled fury, but it wasn't as strong as mine. Not even close. I was still crying, my body still shaking, my skin crawling with the ghost of his touch. I felt used. Violated. Pathetic. Every part of me wanted to disappear, to claw my way out of my own fucking body and escape, to get as far away from him as humanly possible. But I couldn't. I was still tied, still fucking stuck, my head hanging low, strands of my hair falling into my face, damp with sweat and tears. I hadn't cut it in months. I don't know why the fuck that detail stuck with me, why it mattered in that moment, but I felt so fucking ashamed. Like it was my fault. I knew it wasn't. I fucking knew. But that didn't stop the feeling. And worst of all, I felt sick for dragging Gerard into this, for making him witness it, for letting him see me like this.

But Gerard wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about me crying, or my hair, or my shame. His hand twisted in James' collar, yanking him back with a violent force that made James stumble, the gun pressing harder against his skull. Then Gerard's arm hooked around his throat, locking him in place, choking him just enough to keep him still. His grip was steady, his knuckles white, and I could hear him—spitting words like venom, threats pouring out of him between ragged breaths. But I wasn't registering any of it. My head was spinning too fast, my ears ringing, my body still frozen. The only thing I knew was that James wasn't touching me anymore. That should've been enough. It should've made me feel safe. But it didn't. It fucking didn't.

Because then, James moved.

It happened so fucking fast. One second, Gerard had him locked down, gun in hand, completely in control—and the next, James' elbow rammed into Gerard's gut, knocking the wind out of him. Gerard stumbled, the gun slipping from his grasp, clattering against the floor as he slammed back against the dining room wall. And suddenly, the balance shifted again. James was on him in an instant, shoving him down, fists swinging, fingers wrapping around his throat, pressing down, pressing hard.

"Fuck!" I screamed, every ounce of pain and rage tearing from my throat as I struggled against the ropes. My wrists burned, blood dripping from where the skin had already rubbed raw, but I didn't fucking care. I thrashed, yanked, cursed James' name in every way I could think of, told him how much I hated him, how much I wanted him dead, how much I wished I had never fucking met him. But none of it mattered. He wasn't listening. He was too busy choking the life out of Gerard.

Gerard clawed at his hands, his legs kicking, his face twisted in pure agony, gasping for air that wasn't fucking coming. His fingers scrambled against the floor, searching, reaching—until they found something.

The gun.

It was behind the table, just barely within reach. I saw Gerard's arm stretch, his fingertips graze the handle, his grip tighten. And then—

The gunfire.

The sound was deafening, shattering the room, rattling the walls, cutting through the chaos like a goddamn executioner's blade.

James' body went stiff.

His fingers slipped from Gerard's throat.

And then—

Blood.

Everywhere.

On him. On Gerard. On the fucking floor.

He slumped forward, collapsing onto Gerard's chest like a dead weight. The breath left my lungs in a single, strangled gasp, my whole body locking up in shock. I wasn't crying anymore. I wasn't screaming. I wasn't fucking breathing.

One of my hands slipped free from the rope, the skin around my wrist torn, bleeding, shaking. My fingers barely moved as I tried to reach out, tried to make sense of what the fuck had just happened.

"Gee—" My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

"Fuck," Gerard muttered, his voice hoarse, breathless, pained. His arms trembled as he shoved James' lifeless body off of him, his face pale, his chest still rising and falling in short, uneven gasps.

And then, silence.

Just the two of us.

And the body between us.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—Frank!" Gerard's voice was raw, cracking under the weight of everything that had just happened. His whole body was shaking, his breath ragged and uneven, and when his eyes locked onto mine, they were glassy again—wide and wet and drowning in panic. But for a second, none of that mattered. Nothing else in the world fucking mattered except getting to me. He lunged forward, reaching for me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, and I let him. I let him wrap himself around me, bury his face into my shoulder, let his trembling hands clutch at the back of my shirt like he was scared I'd disappear. And I held onto him just as tightly, my free arm locking around him, my head pressing into the crook of his neck as I felt him completely fucking fall apart. His whole body shook against mine, his breathing uneven, gasping, breaking, his cries muffled against my skin. I shut my eyes and let myself cry with him.

Then, he pulled back, his hands moving, fumbling to untie me. He was still trembling, still panicking, still barely holding it together, and his hands weren't working right. His fingers kept slipping, struggling against the knots, breath hitching every time he fucked up. "Fuck," he gasped, more to himself than to me, "I swear—I swear I didn't mean to—fuck, it was a fucking mistake—I stopped breathing, I thought I was gonna fucking die—Frank, I—I—" His voice broke again, and I couldn't take it.

I pulled him into another hug, tighter this time, holding him together because he was falling apart too fucking fast. I couldn't find any words—none that would help, none that would make this okay, because how the fuck do you even begin to process something like this? How do you look at the blood on the floor, at the body of someone who used to be your best friend, and accept that this is real? That it's not some nightmare you're gonna wake up from? No one prepares you for this shit. No one sits you down and says, "Hey, one day you might have to watch the person you love kill someone to protect you." No one fucking tells you that this could happen to you.

And I wasn't mad at Gerard. Not even a little. How could I be? If anything, I was mad at myself—for bringing him into this, for letting this happen, for being too weak to stop it before it got this far. But Gerard? No. Never. He did what he had to do. What anyone in his position would've done. What I would have done if I were in Gee's position. James wasn't going to stop. He wasn't going to let us go. He had power, and he reveled in it, fed off of it, like he thought he was untouchable. He thought he could take what he wanted, do whatever the fuck he pleased, and get away with it, like he always had. Like he always fucking had. But not this time. Gerard stopped him. Gerard saved me. And now, he was the one left breaking apart because of it.

And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair. He had just lost his mother. Just barely started to claw his way out of that endless pit of grief, only to be dragged back under, deeper, darker, heavier than before. And this time, it wasn't just loss. It wasn't just pain. It was blood on his hands. It was guilt, trauma, a weight that I knew would never leave him, no matter how much I wanted to take it from him. No matter how much I wished I could reach into his chest and rip it out before it had the chance to fester, before it had the chance to bury itself inside him and rot. But I couldn't. I couldn't fix this. I couldn't fix him.

And the worst part wasn't even the body on the floor, or the blood, or the gun still clutched in Gerard's shaking hand. It was the fact that he had to sit there and watch. Watch while James touched me, while I cried, while I begged him to stop, while I struggled and fought and lost. He had to hear me, had to see me, had to take in every single second of it, powerless to stop it. And that—that was what killed me. That was what made me want to scream, to rip my fucking skin off, to crawl out of my own body and never have to exist as this version of myself ever again. Because I knew how much he loved me. I knew how much it must've hurt him to see me like that and be unable to do a fucking thing about it. He must've felt like he was drowning, like he was suffocating, like he was already dead before he even got the chance to fight back.

His breath hitched again, sharp and uneven, and his grip on me tightened like he was afraid I'd slip through his fingers if he let go. And then, barely above a whisper, so quiet I almost didn't hear it—"Sh-should I call the cops? Right?" His voice was wrecked. Hollow. Not really there, like he wasn't asking because he thought it would help, but because he didn't know what the fuck else to do. Because there was no handbook for this. No step-by-step guide on how to handle a situation like this without completely falling apart.

I pulled away just enough to look at him, and fuck, I almost wished I hadn't. His face was pale, too pale, his lips slightly parted, his whole body still trembling, and his eyes—his fucking eyes. I had never seen them like that before. Devastated. Broken. Not just sad, not just scared, but ruined. A storm of guilt and fear and trauma all bleeding together into something I couldn't even begin to untangle.

I swallowed, hard.

And then, I nodded.

Gerard's fingers trembled violently as he reached for the phone, his knuckles almost translucent from how tightly he gripped it. I could see his thumb hover over the buttons, hesitating, breathing ragged and uneven, before he finally pressed down. His movements were stiff, mechanical, like his body was running on autopilot, because his mind sure as hell wasn't here anymore. The dial tone buzzed, endless, deafening in the silence of the room, and then a voice crackled through the speaker.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

Gerard's lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat worked, eyes unfocused, and for a moment, I thought he wasn't going to be able to do it. That I would have to reach over and take the phone from him. But then, his breath hitched, and in a voice so hoarse and quiet it barely felt like his own, he muttered, "There's been a shooting."

The words felt foreign, unreal.

The operator asked for details, and Gerard forced himself to give them. His name. The address. What had happened. His voice was eerily detached, like he wasn't fully registering what he was saying. Like if he said it like this, monotone, empty, then maybe it wouldn't feel real. Maybe it wouldn't be real.

But it was.

And we couldn't fucking escape it.

After hanging up, we didn't say a word. We didn't even look at each other. We just walked outside, leaving the body inside, the blood soaking into the floorboards. My hands were still shaking, my wrists raw and bleeding, my shirt hanging loosely around my shoulders like it wasn't mine anymore. Like none of this belonged to me. Like none of this was real. I sat down on the porch steps, staring blankly ahead, and Gerard sank down next to me, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The cold air bit at my skin, at my throat, but I welcomed it. It was grounding. A reminder that I was still here. That I had survived. Even if it didn't feel like it.

The silence between us was heavy, suffocating. I knew he was crying again, though he was trying to be quiet about it. I didn't reach for him. I didn't try to comfort him. I didn't do anything but stare straight ahead and wait. For what, I wasn't sure. The cops. The consequences. Whatever the fuck came next.

And then, the sirens came.

Bright red and blue lights slashed through the darkness, reflecting off the wet pavement as two cop cars rolled up to the house. Doors opened, boots hitting the ground in unison, and suddenly, there were people everywhere. Flashlights. Guns at the ready. Voices yelling orders. I barely registered any of it. It all blurred together, background noise against the roar inside my skull.

"Hands where we can see them!"

I blinked slowly, my body stiff and exhausted as I raised my arms. Gerard did the same, his movements sluggish, drained. Two officers approached, one reaching for Gerard, the other for me, pulling us up to our feet. My legs almost gave out beneath me. I hadn't realized how fucking weak I felt.

"What happened here?" one of them asked.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat was too dry, too raw. Gerard didn't answer either. His head was down, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to disappear into his own body.

"The call said there was a shooting," another officer pushed. "Where's the victim?"

I swallowed hard, finally managing to rasp out, "Inside." My voice didn't sound like mine.

"Are either of you injured?"

I shook my head. Gerard didn't move.

"Alright, we're gonna need you both to come with us."

A pair of cold metal cuffs closed around my wrists before I even had the chance to process what was happening. Not too tight, but firm. Restrained. The feeling sent a bolt of nausea through me, panic rising sharp and fast, but I forced myself to stay still. I didn't fight. I didn't move. I just let them push me toward the car.

Gerard was beside me. His eyes met mine, just for a second, and it was the first time we had looked at each other since stepping outside.

Then, the doors shut.

And just like that, we were being taken away.

The drive was silent, aside from the static of the police radio and the occasional murmured conversation between the officers up front. I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching as the world blurred past, too fast, too unfamiliar. My pulse hammered against my ribs, my breath shallow and uneven.

The ride to the station was suffocating. The police car smelled like stale coffee and old leather, and the barrier between the backseat and the front made everything feel even more claustrophobic. The officer driving barely spoke, only exchanging a few words with his partner, who kept glancing at us through the rearview mirror. I could feel Gerard beside me, barely moving, barely breathing, his whole body curled into itself like he was trying to disappear. I wanted to say something, but what the fuck was I supposed to say?

Then, finally, the car slowed, turned a corner, and the bright lights of the police station came into view. My stomach twisted. This was actually happening. This was real.

The doors clicked open, and cold air rushed in. Hands guided us out of the car, firm but not rough, and we were led inside through a back entrance, away from the main lobby. The hallway smelled like disinfectant, the walls a dull, lifeless gray. A few officers were waiting, one with a clipboard, another rubbing tiredly at his temples like this was just another long night on the job.

One of them stepped forward, eyes flicking between the two of us. He wasn't yelling, wasn't aggressive, but there was a weight to his presence, something that made my pulse quicken.

"You boys know why you're here?" he asked, voice even, measured.

Neither of us answered.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before giving a small nod to the officer beside him. "Read them their rights."

The guy with the clipboard cleared his throat and started speaking in that slow, rehearsed tone I'd only ever heard in movies.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

The words felt like bricks being stacked on my chest, one after the other, heavier and heavier. My mouth was dry, my hands cold. I glanced at Gerard. He was staring at the floor, eyes dark and unfocused, his breathing shallow.

"And because you're both minors," the officer continued, tucking the clipboard under his arm, "we need to contact your parents or legal guardians before proceeding any further."

My stomach twisted even more. Fuck.

Another officer nudged Gerard toward one of the desks, where a landline phone sat waiting. "Go ahead," he said, voice still neutral, still professional. "Call your folks."

Gerard hesitated. I could see his throat working, his fingers twitching at his sides. His dad. He had to call his fucking dad. I wasn't sure I had ever seen him this still, this fucking rigid, like his body was trying to reject the moment entirely.

Then, slowly, he reached out, picked up the receiver, and started dialing.

Meanwhile, another officer was looking at me expectantly. I knew what he wanted. I had to make the same call.

I swallowed hard, stepping forward toward another desk. My hands shook as I grabbed the phone, my mind already scrambling for what the fuck I was even going to say. My mom was probably drunk. Or asleep. Or both. And if she answered—if she actually picked up—what the hell was I supposed to tell her?

Still, I forced myself to dial.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then, finally—

A groggy, slurred voice: "Hello?"

And just like that, my breath hitched, my throat tightened, and I felt something inside me start to fucking crack.

The phone felt heavy in my hand. Too heavy. My fingers were shaking so bad I almost dropped it.

The cop across from me—some guy in his forties with a thick mustache and a badge that read Sgt. Ramirez—watched me closely, arms crossed, waiting.

I forced myself to breathe. "Mom," I croaked.

"Frankie?"

Her voice was sharp, alert, and that's when I realized. She had seen the call from an unknown number and picked up immediately. Not groggy, not annoyed—just ready. Like she knew something was wrong before I even said a word.

My throat closed up.

"Frankie?" she said again, louder this time.

A pause. I could hear her breathing.

"Where are you?"

I gripped the phone tighter. "The police station." My voice sounded off. Hollow. Like it didn't belong to me. "They need you to come."

Silence.

I could picture her face in my head, the way her eyes would go wide, the way her grip would tighten around the phone.

"What happened?"

"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed again. "I can't—I don't know, just—just come. Please."

Another pause. A sharp inhale.

"I'm on my way."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a second before putting it down, my hands still trembling.

The cop—Ramirez—sighed, rubbing his face. "Alright," he muttered, then looked at Gerard. "Your turn."

Gerard just... sat there. Staring at the table. His fingers were curled into the fabric of his jeans, knuckles white.

Ramirez waited a beat, then nudged the phone toward him. "Kid."

Gerard didn't move.

I could feel the tension radiating off him, his whole body locked up like a wound coil. I knew what this was. This wasn't hesitation. This was dread.

"I can't," Gerard finally muttered.

Ramirez frowned. "What do you mean, you can't?"

"My dad's in California." His voice was flat, dead.

The cop exchanged a glance with his partner, then sighed. "Doesn't matter. He's still your legal guardian. Call him."

Gerard clenched his jaw. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He didn't reach for the phone.

The room went silent. I could hear the distant sound of an officer talking at the front desk, the faint hum of a vending machine outside.

Ramirez's patience ran out first. He picked up the phone, dialed the number Gerard had given, and held it out. "Talk."

Gerard's fingers curled around the receiver, but he didn't lift it to his ear until a voice answered on the other end.

"Yeah?" A man's voice. Low, clipped.

Gerard inhaled sharply. "Dad."

A pause.

"Gerard?" His dad sounded confused, like he hadn't been expecting him to call. Then, sharper, "It's one in the morning. What the hell are you calling for?"

Gerard swallowed hard. I saw his throat bob, his fingers tighten around the phone. "I'm at the police station." His voice was quiet, but steady.

Silence.

Then, a sharp inhale through the receiver.

"What the fuck did you do?" His dad's voice wasn't worried. It wasn't even surprised. Just pissed.

Gerard's entire body tensed. His knuckles turned white. "I—" He cut himself off, jaw locking. "I didn't—"

"Jesus Christ, Gerard," his father snapped. "Do you have any idea how bad this looks?"

That did it.

Gerard's expression changed. Something cold, something furious passed through his eyes, and suddenly, the shaking wasn't from fear anymore.

"You think I give a shit how it looks?" he hissed.

His father exhaled sharply through his nose. "Don't start with me."

"No, fuck you," Gerard snapped, gripping the phone tighter. "You didn't even ask what happened. You just assume it's my fault, like always. Like I woke up this morning and fucking planned this—"

"Enough." His father's voice was clipped, controlled. "I'll take a plane. First flight out. Stay put."

Then the line went dead.

Gerard stared at the phone for a second, breathing heavily. Then, slowly, he put it down.

I could still hear the echo of his father's voice, sharp and dismissive. Like Gerard was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Gerard sat back in his chair, his hands balled into fists against his thighs. He didn't look at me.

Ramirez sighed. "Alright," he muttered. "Now, we wait."

It wasn't like the movies.

There was no dramatic walk through the station, no slamming of doors, no yelling or fighting back. No one grabbed us by the arms or shoved us into interrogation rooms under a blinding spotlight. It was slower, quieter, suffocating in a way I hadn't expected.

Just exhaustion. Numb, heavy exhaustion.

Everything moved in sluggish, detached motions, like we weren't really there, like this was happening to someone else and we were just watching from the outside.

They took our fingerprints first.

A female officer with tired eyes and a bored expression guided me to a desk, grabbed my hand, and pressed my fingers onto an ink pad. She didn't say anything. Didn't look at me like a person, just another set of hands she had to process before the night was over.

The ink was cold, sticky. It stained my fingertips as she rolled them against a piece of paper, one by one, pressing harder than she needed to. My prints lined up in neat little rows, smudged at the edges.

When she was done, she grabbed a disinfectant wipe and shoved it toward me. I took it, rubbing my fingers clean, watching the ink smear into gray streaks before fading completely. It almost felt like none of it had happened.

Except it had.

Gerard went next. He didn't say a word. Didn't even flinch. Just let the officer take his hand and go through the motions, his face blank, his posture stiff. His whole body screamed tension, like he was one wrong move away from snapping, but he held it in.

Then came the mugshots.

We were taken to a white backdrop, one at a time. The officer told me to stand still, look straight into the camera.

The flash burned my retinas.

Then I had to turn. Another flash.

I stepped aside, and Gerard replaced me.

He didn't move until they told him to. He didn't argue, didn't resist, but he didn't really comply either. It was like he wasn't even there, like he was just some shell of himself going through the steps, letting them do whatever they needed to do.

Flash.

Turn.

Flash again.

Then it was over.

After that, they led us down the hall, past desks cluttered with case files and old coffee cups, past officers hunched over paperwork, past the flickering buzz of an overhead light that no one had bothered to fix.

The station smelled like sweat, cheap disinfectant, and burnt coffee. The kind of smell that got stuck in the back of your throat.

No one looked at us.

Or maybe they did, but I didn't register it. My brain was too fogged up, too full of static and exhaustion and the phantom sound of a gunshot that I couldn't shake.

The holding cells weren't far.

Just a row of them. Cold metal benches inside. Iron bars lined up like a fucking cage.

The cop guiding us—Ramirez, I think—sighed, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the door to an empty cell.

"Juveniles go separate from the adults," he said, pushing it open.

I stepped inside first. Gerard followed a second later.

The door clanked shut behind us, the sound final.

I sat down on the bench. Gerard stayed standing, arms crossed tight over his chest, staring out through the bars like he could will himself out of here.

Neither of us spoke.

Neither of us looked at each other.

We just waited.

Time didn't move the same in a holding cell.

It stretched, warped, bled together into something unrecognizable. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like hours. And hours—fuck. Hours felt like they could swallow you whole.

I sat on the cold metal bench, my back against the wall, arms wrapped around myself for warmth. It didn't help. Nothing did. The chill in the air had nothing to do with the temperature.

Gerard didn't sit.

He stood near the bars, arms still crossed, his fingers digging into his sides like he was holding himself together. His eyes flickered between the hallway outside and some invisible spot on the floor. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his whole body was wound up so fucking tight I thought he might snap in half if I touched him.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

The silence wasn't comfortable. It wasn't even the kind of silence that happens when there's nothing left to say. It was the kind that was so loud it drowned out everything else. The kind that made my ears ring.

At some point, I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on them, staring at the floor, at the bars, at anything but the way Gerard's hands were shaking.

He wouldn't sit.

He wouldn't talk.

He wouldn't let himself stop being angry because if he did, the next thing would be fear. And if he let himself feel that—really feel that—he'd break apart.

And I knew, because I felt the same way.

My voice was hoarse when I finally spoke.

"You should try to sleep."

Gerard let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah," he muttered, "I'll get right on that."

I didn't argue. There was no point. He wasn't going to sleep.

I ran my fingers over the fabric of my jeans, picking at a loose thread, anything to keep my hands busy. My skin still felt dirty. I wanted to scrub at it, wash it all away, peel it off until there was nothing left of this night on me.

Gerard sighed, tilting his head back against the bars. He was breathing hard. Not like he'd just run a marathon, but like it took effort just to exist.

"I keep hearing it," he whispered.

I swallowed. "Hearing what?"

His hands curled into fists. "The gunshot."

I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose. "Me too."

Gerard let out another laugh, but it cracked at the edges. It wasn't real. Nothing about tonight was real.

I moved before I could stop myself. I stood up, stepped toward him. He stiffened when I placed a hand on his arm, like he hadn't expected it, but he didn't pull away.

And then, carefully, I wrapped my arms around him.

For a second, he didn't move.

And then he just—collapsed into me.

His arms came around my back, his forehead pressed into my shoulder, and I felt him shudder. His breathing hitched, ragged and uneven, and he clutched at the fabric of my hoodie like he was afraid I'd disappear.

I held him tighter.

Neither of us said anything. There was nothing to say.

The night stretched on, endless, heavy, pressing down on us like a weight we'd never be able to lift.

I must've dozed off at some point because the next thing I knew, there was movement outside the cell.

A voice.

A woman's voice.

"Frankie."

I blinked, my brain sluggish, my limbs stiff.

Gerard was still standing, still pressed against me, but his body had gone tense. He lifted his head slightly, and I followed his gaze.

My mom was standing on the other side of the bars.

She looked... small. Smaller than usual. Her hands were wrapped around the strap of her purse like she was holding onto it for dear life. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a mess like she'd left in a rush. But she was sober. She was here.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Mom."

Her eyes flicked between me and Gerard. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders, then turned toward the officer beside her.

"What happens now?" she asked, voice steadier than I expected.

The officer, Ramirez, sighed, rubbing his temple like he hadn't gotten any sleep either. "We'll go over everything in the morning. He's not being charged yet, but we still need statements, paperwork... it's gonna take a while."

She nodded, then turned back to me.

And just like that, whatever wall she'd been holding up cracked.

Her eyes welled with tears, her face crumpling as she reached through the bars, cupping my face in her hands.

"Frankie, baby, are you okay?"

I didn't know how to answer that.

I let her pull me into a hug through the bars, my body limp, drained, too exhausted to do anything else.

Over her shoulder, I caught Gerard's expression.

He was staring at the floor again, hands clenched, jaw locked tight.

His dad wouldn't be here until tomorrow.

I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The hug didn't last long.

One of the officers cleared his throat, shifting on his feet like he felt out of place witnessing something so raw. "Ma'am, we need to take you back to the waiting area."

My mom hesitated, like she wanted to argue, but then she nodded. Her hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before she pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "I'll be right there, Frankie, okay?"

I just nodded.

She turned, following the officer back through the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the tile. The second she was out of sight, the silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating.

Gerard exhaled, long and slow. He was still standing close, his arms now wrapped tightly around himself, his nails digging into the sleeves of his jacket. He looked... wrecked. But I didn't have the energy to ask him if he was okay. We both knew the answer to that already.

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face, and sank back down onto the bench. Maybe if I closed my eyes for a second, maybe if I just—

A commotion.

Raised voices.

My mom.

I snapped my head up, my pulse spiking as I heard her, sharp and angry, cutting through the low hum of the station.

Then another voice. A woman's. Loud, furious.

And a man.

I knew those voices.

My stomach twisted.

James' parents.

I shot to my feet, gripping the bars as I strained to hear.

"You're seriously defending him?" the woman was yelling. "Our son is dead, and you're defending the one who killed him?"

Gerard went rigid beside me.

"How dare you—"

Something crashed—like someone had knocked over a chair or shoved a desk.

One of the officers barked, "That's enough!"

But the yelling didn't stop.

"He was a child—"

"A child who tied my son and—"

My breath hitched.

The words felt like they slammed into me, like someone had just sucked all the air out of the room.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Then the man's voice, low and sharp—"You'll be hearing from our lawyers."

Footsteps. The sound of doors opening and slamming shut.

Then nothing.

Just the hum of the station.

Just the ringing in my ears.

I let go of the bars, my fingers stiff from how hard I'd been gripping them.

Gerard was staring at me, eyes wide.

I swallowed hard, blinking fast, but it didn't stop the way my chest ached.

"...Shit," I muttered.

Gerard didn't say anything. He just sat down beside me, close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that if I had any strength left in me, I would've leaned into him.

But I didn't.

So we just sat there.

Waiting for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

Frank fell asleep on my shoulder.

We were on this fucking cold-ass floor, backs against the wall, locked in this shitty excuse for a room that smelled like piss and sweat and metal. His weight was warm against me, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only thing grounding me to this moment. But I couldn't sleep. I wouldn't sleep.

Because I knew exactly what would happen if I did.

I'd be back there. In that fucking room. On that fucking floor. James' body crushing mine, his dead weight pressing into me like he was still trying to suffocate me even after he was already gone. His blood soaking through my clothes, drying in my hair, staining my skin. I could still feel it, even though we'd been forced to strip down and change into whatever shitty, oversized clothes the cops had given us. I could still smell it. Still feel the way my hands had shaken as I tried to clean myself off, as if I could scrub away what I'd done.

But I couldn't.

Nothing could change it.

Nothing could undo the way I'd let it get this far.

I let Frank suffer. I let James touch him, let him hurt him, let him tie him like an animal. I didn't do shit to stop it. I was right there, and I didn't do a goddamn thing until it was too late. Until I had no choice but to put a bullet in his chest.

And now Frank was here, covered in bruises and rope burns, wrapped up in my fucking disaster, and the only reason the cops weren't treating him like a criminal was because of the marks on his wrists. Proof that he was the victim. That he was the one who needed saving.

But me?

I was the fucking monster.

I was the one with blood on my hands. The one who had pulled the trigger. The one who had shattered any chance of getting out of this without ruining both of our lives.

I didn't even know what was gonna happen next. If we'd be charged. If Frank would get dragged into this mess with me. If we'd ever fucking see each other again after this night.

All I knew was that it was my fault.

Just like it was my fault when Bert died.

Just like it was my fault when my mom died.

And now James was dead, and this time, there was no doubt. No lingering what ifs, no ways to twist the truth in my head to convince myself otherwise.

Because I had been the one to kill him.

I deserved to be here. I deserved so much worse.

And Frank—

Frank deserved better than me.

Better than this.

Better than some fucked-up, weak, pathetic excuse for a person who had let him down over and over and over again.

He was gonna realize it soon.

And when he did?

He'd be better off without me.

My mind wouldn't stop. It just kept running, circling the same dark thoughts like a fucking vulture waiting to rip me apart. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. The blood. The way his body jerked when I pulled the trigger. The way Frank looked at me afterward—not scared, not angry, just... shocked. And that was somehow worse. My chest felt too tight, my breath too shallow, like I was locked inside my own body, screaming for a way out. But there was no way out. Not from this. Not from the weight pressing down on me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel the sweat slick on my palms, and no matter how many times I told myself to breathe, I couldn't. My skin didn't feel like my own. My thoughts weren't mine either, just a constant, unrelenting spiral of you should be dead you should be dead you should be dead.

I knew what this was. I'd felt it before. The panic, the guilt, the feeling that nothing was real and everything was too real all at once. But this was worse. So much worse. Because now, I had proof that I was exactly as fucked up as I'd always believed. I wasn't just thinking I was a monster—I was one. I wasn't just some sad, broken fuck-up; I was a killer. And what scared me the most wasn't even that I'd done it. It was that a part of me, some deep, hidden part I didn't want to acknowledge, felt relieved. Because James was gone. Because he could never touch Frank again. Because I'd stopped him. And then, just as quickly, the guilt would come crashing down, and I'd want to crawl out of my own skin, tear my own fucking heart out just to make it stop. But there was no stopping it. No escape. Just me, trapped inside my own head, drowning, suffocating, and knowing that I deserved every second of it.

It started slowly, like a creeping sensation under my skin, an unease that slithered its way into my chest and coiled there, tightening, squeezing. My breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and suddenly the room felt too small, the air too thin, the walls too fucking close. I tried to steady myself, to focus on the cold of the floor beneath me, the weight of Frank against my side, but it was useless. My heart pounded, too fast, too loud, like it was trying to break out of my ribs. My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms, but I couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything but the overwhelming, suffocating certainty that I was dying.

I gasped, choking on nothing, my whole body shaking as I pressed my hands to my chest, as if I could force my lungs to work. My vision blurred, dark at the edges, and my skin burned hot and ice-cold at the same time. I couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe—fuck, I couldn't breathe. My throat was closing, my body betraying me, and I was drowning in open air. My head spun violently, nausea twisting in my gut, my ears ringing with a distant, high-pitched whine. I couldn't—fuck, I couldn't.

Then—movement. A shift beside me. A groggy mumble, then the weight against my shoulder disappeared.

"Gee?" Frank's voice, thick with sleep, but then sharper, alarmed. "Gerard—shit, Gerard—"

I barely registered the hands on me, shaking me, gripping my face. My whole body jerked at the contact, like I was being burned alive. My limbs were locked, my fingers twitching uncontrollably, and I couldn't make out anything past the panic clawing its way through my ribs, past the terror suffocating every inch of me.

"Fuck—hey, hey, you're okay, you're okay," Frank was saying, his voice breaking, his hands pressing against my cheeks. "Breathe with me, okay? Gee, look at me—"

I tried. I really fucking tried. But my body wasn't listening. My vision swam, black dots bursting behind my eyes, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat, frantic and wrong, and Frank's voice, desperate, pleading.

"Please—fuck—just breathe, just hold on, just—"

And then everything went black.

-

I woke up to fluorescent lights. A harsh, sterile glow, too bright against the pale walls. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled my nose, stinging, foreign. A fan whirred somewhere in the distance.

I blinked, sluggish and disoriented, my head throbbing. My whole body felt... wrong. Heavy. Drained. My chest still ached like something had been clawing its way out of it.

A soft sound—someone shifting beside me.

I turned my head, sluggish, and saw Frank.

He was sitting in a plastic chair next to the cot I was lying on, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his leg bouncing. His face was pale, his eyes dark with worry. He looked exhausted.

I swallowed, my throat raw. "What...?"

Frank exhaled sharply, like he'd been holding his breath. "Jesus fuck, Gerard." He leaned forward, rubbing a hand down his face, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were wet. "You scared the shit out of me."

I licked my lips, still too out of it to form a real response. My brain felt fogged over, distant. "Where...?"

"The fucking nursery," Frank muttered. "Or whatever the hell they call it here. You—" He shook his head, like he couldn't even say it. "You passed out. You weren't breathing right, you—Jesus, I thought you were dying." His voice cracked on the last word.

Something clenched in my chest. Guilt. Shame.

"I'm sorry," I rasped, barely above a whisper.

Frank's jaw tightened. Then, after a moment, he exhaled again and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Just—don't do that again," he muttered. "Please."

I didn't make any promises. Because I wasn't sure I could keep them.

"How'd they let you come here with me?" My voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. My throat felt raw, my body heavy. I still couldn't shake the last remnants of whatever the hell had just happened to me.

Frank shifted in his seat, arms still crossed over his chest, but his posture wasn't tense anymore. Just exhausted. "I told them you needed me," he muttered. "I kinda... begged. And the nurse was nice, so." He shrugged like it was nothing, like he hadn't just fought to be here.

Something warm curled in my chest, soft and painful at the same time. I didn't know what to do with it.

I swallowed. "What... happened to me?"

Frank's leg was still bouncing, his fingers twitching against his sleeve. "You had a panic attack," he said, voice quiet. "A bad one." He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "I tried to calm you down, but you weren't—you wouldn't snap out of it. You stopped breathing right, and then you just... collapsed." His voice wavered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. "The nurse came in with some cops, and they made me go back to the room."

I nodded weakly, staring at the ceiling. Everything still felt distant, like I wasn't fully back in my body yet. The cold weight of the night pressed down on me, thick and unbearable.

Frank hesitated. "They're waiting till the sun comes up," he said eventually, voice low. "Eight in the morning. My lawyer's coming then."

I turned my head to look at him. "And my dad?"

Frank's expression darkened slightly. "They have to wait for him, too. He's contacting a lawyer."

So we just had to wait. Again. Wait for morning, for more questions, for whatever fresh hell was coming next.

I let out a shaky breath and closed my eyes.

-

Frank shot me a quick glance as the cop gestured for him to follow.

"I need to talk to my mom and my lawyer," he said, voice tight. "In another room."

I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He hesitated for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but then he just sighed and followed the officer out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone.

The silence was deafening.

I stared at the wall, fingers curled weakly around the cheap styrofoam cup of tea the nurse had given me. It smelled sweet, herbal. Like something that was supposed to calm me down.

It didn't.

I took a sip just for the hell of it, but it tasted like nothing. Just warm water with a sad aftertaste. I set it down on the metal tray beside me and ran a hand down my face, trying to ground myself, but it was useless. My skin still felt wrong. My clothes smelled like sweat and fear.

I wanted coffee. Something bitter, strong, something to jolt me awake because my brain felt like it was dragging through fucking mud.

I wanted a cigarette. Wanted to step outside and breathe in something other than this stale, suffocating air. Wanted to feel that burn in my throat, that momentary hit of relief before reality came crashing back down.

Or painkillers.

Yeah. That'd be nice. Just to take the edge off, just to make my brain quiet for a while.

But I had none of that.

Just me, this room, and the goddamn tea I wasn't gonna drink.

-

I knew he was coming the second the door opened.

Not because I saw him—my eyes were glued to the table, tracing the tiny scratches in the metal surface, my fingers clenched into fists in my lap. But I felt it. The shift in the air. The heavy, deliberate footsteps. The disappointment crawling up my spine before he even said a word.

Then, there he was. My father.

"What the hell, Gerard?"

His voice was low, quiet—too quiet. He never yelled. He never had to. That even tone of his, controlled, edged with something sharp, was worse than screaming.

I forced myself to lift my head. His face was blank, unreadable, but his eyes burned into me, demanding an answer.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "It was an accident." My voice barely made it out. "I—I didn't mean to—"

"An accident?" He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. "Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in?"

Yeah, I did. I fucking did. But what did he want me to say? That I regretted it? That I wished I had let James keep going, let him hurt Frank more, let him kill me instead? Because I did.

Before I could say anything else, a woman's voice cut in.

"Mr. Way," my lawyer—our lawyer—Evelyn Thompson, placed a steady hand on my father's arm. "Let's focus on the facts."

She turned to me, her expression professional, but not unkind. "Gerard, I need you to walk me through exactly what happened."

So I did.

And as the words left my mouth, they felt like they didn't belong to me. Like I was watching someone else speak, some ghost of myself, broken and exhausted, stuck in this fucking nightmare that wouldn't end.

"I was waiting in my car," I started, my voice barely above a whisper. "Frank had gone inside to grab some clothes. He was gonna spend the night with me. It was his birthday." My throat tightened. "We spent the whole day at the fair, we—we were happy, we were supposed to end the night at my place, but he was taking too long, and I got this feeling, this—this horrible fucking feeling, so I went inside to check on him."

My hands clenched into fists under the table.

"I went upstairs, to his room, and he was just—he was on the floor. Just lying there, not moving." My voice cracked. "I ran to him, but before I could even touch him, James—he grabbed me from behind. He had this fucking—this rag, and I—I couldn't fight him off. It was over before I even understood what was happening."

I swallowed, blinking rapidly, trying to keep my voice steady, but it was shaking. It was fucking shaking.

"When I woke up, I was tied to a chair," I forced out. "Frank—he was tied up too, near the stairs, his hands behind the column in the middle of the room. He looked so scared. I've never—I've never seen him like that before." My breath hitched, and I could barely keep going.

I felt my father's stare burning into me, but I couldn't look up.

"James was there," I continued, my fingers digging into my palms, "and he—he started talking. Saying all this shit about Frank. About me. About how he—he loved him, how he couldn't have him, how Frank would never love him back, and how it was all my fault. He was so fucking angry, so unhinged. He kept saying that if Frank wasn't his, then he couldn't be anyone's. That he'd rather fucking—fucking destroy him than let me have him."

My voice broke. I felt like I was going to be sick.

"And then—he started touching him." I squeezed my eyes shut, bile rising in my throat. "Kissing him. And Frank—he was crying, he was begging him to stop, and I—I couldn't do anything. I couldn't move, I couldn't—" My breathing was uneven now, too fast, too shallow. "He took out a gun. Shot at the ceiling, just to scare us. And then he laughed. He fucking laughed."

I gritted my teeth, forcing the words out.

"I—I lost my balance. The chair broke. I grabbed a piece of wood, started sawing at the ropes, but it—it took too long, and Frank was still crying, still screaming, and I—I've never felt something like that before. That rage. That fucking helplessness."

I could still hear it. The way Frank's voice cracked. The way he gasped through his sobs.

"I finally got free," I continued, my vision blurry with unshed tears. "And the gun—James left it on the floor. He was too busy hurting Frank to care. I grabbed it. I—I put it to his head, and I thought—I thought I won. I wasn't going to shoot. I swear, I wasn't. But he—he fucking hit me. Elbowed me in the gut. I dropped it."

I exhaled sharply, my chest so tight it felt like it was caving in.

"We fought. I don't even remember how. Frank was still tied up. I—I couldn't even look at him. James got on top of me. He pressed his hands around my throat, and I—I couldn't breathe. I could feel everything fading. My vision was going black. I thought—" My breath stuttered. "I thought I was gonna die."

The memory came rushing back like a tidal wave. The pressure, the panic, the burning in my lungs.

"The gun was right there. Inches from my hand. And I—I reached for it, and I didn't think. I just pulled the trigger."

Silence.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't lift my head.

Because if I did—if I saw my father's face, saw the way he was looking at me—I think I'd break apart completely.

Evelyn listened, nodding occasionally, writing things down in a leather-bound notebook. When I was finished, she sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"This was clearly self-defense," she said, looking from me to my dad. "New Jersey law allows the use of deadly force when a person reasonably believes it's necessary to protect themselves—or someone else—from immediate danger."

My father crossed his arms. "What are the chances of that holding up in court?"

"It depends. The biggest complication is James's family. His father is a high-ranking military officer, which means they have influence. The prosecution may push for Gerard to be tried as an adult."

I flinched.

"But," she continued, "we have strong arguments in his favor. One, he acted in defense of Frank, who was restrained and at risk of being killed. Two, Gerard has a history of mental health struggles—which means his perception of threat could be argued in his defense. And three, Frank's injuries back up the claim that James was the aggressor."

My father sighed, rubbing his temple. "So, what now?"

"First, the interrogation." She glanced at me. "I'll be present to ensure they don't try to manipulate your words or coerce you into anything. You have the right to remain silent, but I'll guide you through what to answer."

A knock at the door.

"They're ready," an officer said.

I exhaled shakily, standing up. My legs felt weak.

Evelyn placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Deep breath, Gerard."

Yeah. Right. Like that would help.

Evelyn Cross sat with perfect posture, her polished nails tapping lightly against the metal table. She was sharp, professional, and had the kind of presence that made people shut up and listen when she spoke. My dad sat beside me, arms crossed, his expression tight, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. I could feel the anger radiating off him—not directed at me, not really, but at the situation, at the fact that we were sitting here at all.

The investigator, a man named Detective Morris, leaned back in his chair, watching her as she began speaking. He had that look cops always had, like he'd seen too much shit to be impressed by anything.

"Let's go over the facts again, Detective," Evelyn said, her voice even, controlled. "Gerard Way and Frank Iero were taken hostage by James Dewees. They were drugged, bound, and threatened inside the Iero household. James Dewees exhibited violent and erratic behavior, including brandishing a firearm, firing a shot to instill fear, and physically assaulting both victims. Gerard, after partially freeing himself, attempted to intervene as James was actively harming Frank. A struggle ensued, during which James Dewees attempted to strangle Gerard. At this point, Gerard was left with no other option but to use lethal force to protect himself. This is an undeniable case of self-defense."

Morris exhaled through his nose, flipping through the papers in front of him. "You understand that James Dewees's parents are arguing otherwise. They're claiming this was premeditated."

I felt my stomach drop, but Evelyn remained unfazed.

"Of course they are," she said, voice edged with disdain. "Their son kidnapped and assaulted two people, and now they're trying to spin this to protect his legacy. But we have physical evidence—Frank Iero's injuries, the marks on my client's neck, the gunshot residue, the blood patterns at the scene—all of which corroborate Gerard's statement. Not to mention, Frank Iero will testify to what happened, and I assume you've already received his official statement?"

Morris gave a slow nod. "We have. His account lines up with Gerard's."

"Then what are we doing here?" My father finally spoke, his voice low and furious. "Why is my son still in custody if you already know the truth?"

Morris didn't flinch. "Because this is still a homicide investigation. Whether or not charges are filed will be up to the district attorney."

Evelyn crossed her arms. "Gerard is a seventeen-year-old with no prior record, no history of violence, and a documented history of mental health struggles. He was in a life-threatening situation. If the DA is considering charging him, they need to be prepared to argue against self-defense, against his trauma, against the fact that he was kidnapped, drugged, and nearly killed. They don't have a case."

Morris looked at me then, his expression unreadable. "Let's hear it from him," he said. "Gerard, I need you to answer a few questions."

I nodded stiffly, my hands clammy under the table.

"Did you intend to kill James Dewees?"

I swallowed hard. "No."

"Then why did you pull the trigger?"

"He was on top of me," I said, my voice hoarse. "I couldn't breathe. I was blacking out. It was—it was instinct. I wasn't thinking, I just—I had to get him off me."

Morris studied me. "Had you ever used a gun before?"

"No," I admitted.

"You understand that using a firearm is considered deadly force?"

I nodded. "I didn't want to kill him," I said quickly. "I just—I was going to die. He wouldn't stop. I—I reached for the gun and pulled the trigger. I wasn't thinking about anything else."

Morris wrote something down. "After the shooting, what did you do?"

I shut my eyes for a second. "I got up. I untied Frank." My voice cracked. "He was—he was a mess. He could barely move. I—" I swallowed down the lump in my throat. "I checked if James was still alive. He wasn't."

Morris looked at Evelyn, then at my father. "Did Gerard have any prior conflicts with James Dewees?"

Evelyn cut in. "Irrelevant. James was the aggressor. He kidnapped and assaulted them—this wasn't some schoolyard fight that got out of hand."

Morris exhaled through his nose. "I have what I need for now." He turned to me. "You'll be informed soon about next steps. Until then, you'll be held here until your legal counsel clears the conditions of your release."

My father cursed under his breath, but Evelyn only nodded, her lips pressed into a firm line.

I just sat there, numb, knowing that no matter what happened next, nothing would ever be the same again.

The walls are too white. Too bright. The kind of white that makes my head pound, that doesn't feel clean but sterile—like a hospital, like a morgue. The fluorescent light above me flickers, buzzing like a fucking wasp in my ear. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, staring at the cold metal table in front of me. Hours? Feels like days.

My wrist is cuffed to a loop in the table. Just one, but it's enough to make me feel trapped. They took my belt, my shoelaces. Standard protocol. Like I'm some kind of criminal. And maybe I am.

Frank is gone. They took him three hours ago to meet with his lawyer. His mother.

I clench my jaw, trying not to picture what that conversation looks like. I should be with him. I should be the one holding his hand, telling him everything will be okay, even though I don't know if that's true anymore.

The door creaks open.

"Still awake?"

I snap my head up. My dad steps inside, looking like he just got off a red-eye flight from hell. His suit is rumpled, his tie loosened. He's paler than usual, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

I let out a slow breath. "What the fuck do you think?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I should've known. Should've fucking known you'd get yourself into something like this."

I swallow the sharp lump in my throat. "I didn't plan on getting kidnapped and almost fucking murdered, Dad."

"No, but you planned on putting yourself in situations where something like this could happen." He sits down across from me, eyes cold. "This isn't just another one of your fucking screw-ups, Gerard. This is a homicide investigation."

I flinch.

Homicide.

Right.

He exhales, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."

Before I can say something I'll regret, the door opens again. Evelyn steps inside, her heels clicking against the floor. "We don't have time for this." Her voice is sharp, all business. "The DA is reviewing the case, but Frank's lawyer is pushing for his release first."

My stomach twists. "They're letting him go?"

"They're fighting for it," Evelyn corrects. "Since he was a victim, he's the priority. The problem is, the Dewees are already making noise. They're pushing for charges. They want this to look like cold-blooded murder, not self-defense."

My dad scoffs. "Of course they are."

Evelyn turns to him. "We need a strategy. Right now. If the DA decides to move forward with charges, Gerard's chances depend on how we handle this from the start."

"There's only one strategy." My dad's voice is flat. "We make it clear he's not mentally competent to stand trial."

My stomach drops. "Excuse me?"

He ignores me. "He has a history. Depression. Anxiety. Suicide attempts, ED, PTSD. The only way we win this is by making it clear that he acted out of trauma. That he was pushed beyond his limits."

My hands curl into fists. "You want me to plead insanity?"

"Do you have a better option?" he shoots back.

"I'm not fucking insane."

"No, you're just a fucking mess," he says, voice cutting. "And that might be the only thing that saves you."

Evelyn sighs. "We'll explore all options, but right now, we need to focus on the DA's decision. Gerard, you need to keep your mouth shut. No more statements until I say so."

I clench my jaw but nod.

The door opens again.

And that's when I see them.

Mr. and Mrs. Dewees.

James' parents.

My stomach sinks.

Mrs. Dewees looks exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed like she's been crying for hours. Mr. Dewees, though—he looks like he wants to fucking kill me.

His voice is low, shaking with rage. "Are you happy, Way?"

I swallow, my throat dry. "I—I don't—"

"You murdered him." His voice rises, his face red. "You fucking killed my boy."

I flinch. My pulse spikes. "He fucking tried to kill me!"

"Bullshit!" he roars. "You think you can just say that and walk away? You took my son's life, you sick little piece of—"

"Enough," Evelyn snaps, stepping between us. "I understand that you're grieving, but this is not how we handle things here."

"He was a fucking psycho! He was obsessed with Frank, he was jealous!" The words are out before I can stop them, my voice raw. "He tied us up! He was going to—" I stop, my stomach turning, bile rising in my throat. "He was going to hurt Frank. He was going to—"

"My son wasn't a fucking faggot!" Mr. Dewees spits. "you shot him in cold blood."

My breath shudders. "I—"

"Gerard." Evelyn's voice is sharp, a warning.

Mr. Dewees points a shaking finger at me. "You'll pay for this."

Mrs. Dewees is silent, staring at me like I'm a monster she can't quite recognize.

Evelyn straightens. "You should leave. Frank will need people in his corner when he gets out."

Mr. Dewees glares at me for a second longer before grabbing his wife's hand and yanking her toward the door. She hesitates, like she wants to say something, but then follows him out.

The second the door shuts, I let out a shaky breath. My hands are trembling.

I just killed someone.

And I don't think I'll ever stop feeling like I have blood under my fingernails.

-

I'm sitting on the cot, staring at the wall, trying to disappear into the cracks of the concrete. My whole body feels numb, like I'm floating outside of it, watching from a distance as the door creaks open and his footsteps echo against the cold floor.

Frank steps inside, and for a second, I don't recognize him. His eyes are raw, bloodshot, dark circles smudged underneath like bruises. His face is pale, lips chapped, fingers twitching at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. Like he's barely holding himself together.

He looks at me, and something inside me fucking breaks.

"Hey," he says, voice hoarse, wrecked.

I exhale shakily, rubbing a hand over my face, because I don't know what else to do. "Hey."

He hesitates, then moves toward me, sinking down onto the cot. His body is warm beside mine, too warm. It makes me realize how fucking cold I am.

"My lawyer says I'll be out soon," he murmurs.

"Good." My throat is dry. "You should be."

He swallows, glancing down at his hands. "They're still deciding about you."

"I know."

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.

Then, he shifts closer, pressing our knees together, grounding me.

"Gerard," he whispers.

I close my eyes. "Yeah?"

"You're not alone."

I let out a shaky breath, pressing my lips together. I don't deserve that. I don't deserve him.

Frank reaches for my hand, curling his fingers around mine. His grip is firm but trembling. I stare at our hands, at the contrast between his warm skin and my freezing, blood-stained fingers. And for a second, just a second, I let myself lean into it.

Let myself believe it.

But then I shake my head. "I'm guilty, Frank." My voice is barely above a whisper. "Even if they all want to believe I'm not—I am."

Frank's fingers tighten around mine. "No, you're not."

I let out a bitter laugh, choking on it. "I want to die," I add, staring at the floor, feeling the weight of my own words suffocate me. "I fucking want to die."

Frank flinches, but he doesn't let go. "No, baby, you don't."

I stiffen, jerking my hand away. "Don't call me that." My voice cracks. "I'm a fucking psychopath."

Frank's eyes glisten, his breath shaking. "I love you."

"No, you don't." I laugh again, empty and hollow, my throat burning. "You think you do, but you don't."

Frank's breath stutters, his jaw tightening. "Gee, c'mon," he pleads, his voice barely holding together.

I shake my head, blinking fast, trying to push back the burn behind my eyes. "You should go."

"No." He grips my wrist again, holding it tight, grounding me. "I'm not leaving you."

I swallow hard, my throat closing up. I don't fucking deserve this.

I don't deserve him.

Frank doesn't let go.

His fingers tighten around my wrist, stubborn, desperate. I can see it in his eyes—he's barely holding himself together, but he's still here. Still fighting. For me.

I don't know why.

"Gee," he murmurs, voice trembling. "Look at me."

I shake my head, staring at the floor, at the cracks in the concrete. My vision blurs, everything twisting and warping at the edges.

Then his hands are on my face. Warm, steady, shaking.

He cups my cheeks, tilting my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His thumbs brush under my eyes, over the sharp edges of my cheekbones. His hands are calloused but gentle, and my fucking chest aches.

"I'm here," he whispers. "I've got you."

I squeeze my eyes shut. A breath shudders out of me, broken and uneven. "I'm sorry."

"Stop." His voice cracks.

"No." My lips tremble. "I'm so fucking sorry, Frankie. I should've—I should've done something. I should've protected you."

Frank shakes his head, his grip on my face tightening. "You did."

I let out a bitter laugh, wet and shaky. "No, I didn't. I let him touch you. I let him hurt you. I should've stopped him before he ever—" My voice breaks, and I drop my head, pressing my forehead against his chest, because I can't fucking breathe.

Frank exhales sharply, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me in. He holds me like he's the one keeping me from falling apart, like he's the only thing holding me together.

"You saved me," he whispers. "You did. And I don't care what anyone says, I don't care what you say, you saved me, Gerard."

I shake my head against his shirt, my fingers curling into the fabric. "I killed him."

Frank doesn't flinch. He just holds me tighter.

"He was gonna kill you," he murmurs.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The weight of his words, the truth of them, crushes me.

But I still can't forgive myself.

"I don't deserve you," I whisper.

Frank pulls back, just enough to look at me again. His eyes are red, his lips pressed into a thin line. He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb under my eye, wiping away the tears I didn't even realize had fallen.

"You deserve more than this," he says. "More than—than sitting here thinking you're a monster."

I let out a hollow laugh. "That's exactly what I am, Frankie."

His hands tighten on me, his brows furrowing, his expression desperate. "You're not."

I just shake my head.

Because I don't believe him.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

We sat in that bleak little dining room, the fluorescent light above us humming like it had something to say. Two old cops sat nearby, eating their meals like this was just another shift. The woman who served the food moved quietly around the room, her presence barely noticeable. But all I could focus on was Gerard.

His tray sat untouched in front of him, some pathetic excuse for a meal—mushy potatoes, dry chicken, a carton of milk. He just stared at it like it personally offended him.

"C'mon, Gee, eat your food," I whispered, nudging his hand under the table.

He didn't even look up. "Don't wanna," he muttered, barely moving.

I sighed, my fingers tightening around my plastic fork. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to, Frank."

"Well, you should," I snapped. "Fucking eat it. You haven't had anything but coffee."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That's enough."

"Hell no."

"Oh my god, don't start, Frank."

"I'm fucking worried about you!" My voice wavered, frustration and fear creeping into every word.

"Don't be," he shot back, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like a damn shield. His gaze dropped to the tray again, but he still didn't move.

I clenched my jaw. "Look at me, Gerard."

He didn't.

"Please."

There was a beat of hesitation before he finally lifted his chin, dark eyes meeting mine. They were unreadable. Dry. Hollow. Like he had cried so much he didn't have anything left.

"What?" he said, his voice flat.

"I love you," I whispered.

His face didn't change, but I felt his fingers twitch against his arm.

"We'll get out of this," I said, voice softer now. "I promise you."

Gerard scoffed, barely even a sound. "Don't promise that," he murmured. "Not yet."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, wanting so badly to reach for him, to grab his hand, to pull him back from wherever his mind had gone.

"Time to eat up, boys," one of the cops called from the other side of the room. "C'mon."

I stared at my tray, but my appetite was gone.

Gerard didn't even taste his.

We gathered in the dimly lit conference room of Thompson & Cortez LLP. The air was thick with tension, the weight of recent events pressing down on all of us. Gerard sat beside me, his face pale, eyes distant. Across the table, our respective lawyers prepared to explain the labyrinthine legal process ahead.

Evelyn Thompson, Gerard's lawyer, began, her tone measured yet compassionate. "Given the severity of the charges, Gerard's case has been waived to adult court. This means he'll be tried under the same standards as an adult defendant."

Linda, my mom, gasped softly, her hand tightening around Dan's. "But he's just a kid," she murmured.

Evelyn nodded sympathetically. "I understand, Mrs. Iero. However, New Jersey law permits juveniles aged 16 and older to be tried as adults for serious offenses like homicide."

Mathiew Cortez, my lawyer, interjected, "Frank, considering the evidence and your role as a victim, we've successfully argued for your release without charges. However, you'll likely be called as a key witness during the trial."

I swallowed hard, the reality of testifying against my best friend settling heavily in my chest.

Donald, Gerard's father, leaned forward, concern etched into his features. "What happens to Gerard now?"

Evelyn folded her hands on the table. "The court has agreed to release Gerard under strict conditions. He'll be on home detention with electronic monitoring, meaning he'll wear an ankle bracelet to ensure compliance with the court's restrictions."

Gerard's eyes flickered with a mix of relief and apprehension. "How long until the trial?"

"Typically, the pretrial phase can extend over several months," Evelyn replied. "However, given the circumstances and the court's schedule, we're looking at approximately three weeks before proceedings commence. During this time, we'll gather testimonies—from you, Frank, school friends, and James's acquaintances—to build a comprehensive case."

Dan, ever the pragmatist, asked, "And what about Gerard's mental health? How does that factor into all this?"

Evelyn exchanged a glance with Mathiew before answering. "Gerard's mental health will be a crucial component of our defense strategy. We'll present evidence of his psychological state to provide context to his actions, which could influence the court's perception and the trial's outcome."

The room fell silent, each of us grappling with the gravity of the situation.

They got us ready to leave. Handed us our clothes and whatever shit we had on us, packed up in clear plastic bags. My clothes, my phone, a box of cigarettes, a lighter. Gerard's stuff, too, except they strapped that ankle monitor on him before giving it back. They didn't return his shirt—it was still stained with James' blood.

I passed him my hoodie without a word. He pulled it on, sleeves hanging past his hands, and we said goodbye to our lawyers before heading out to Dan's car.

I didn't want to go home. I knew my mom and Dan had cleaned up whatever mess was left after the cops came, but I still didn't want to fucking be there. So I climbed into the backseat with Gerard, my mom sliding in beside me, while Dan drove and Donald sat in the front.

I glanced at Gerard's ankle. "What does that thing do?"

My mom rubbed my shoulder. "It keeps him within a set perimeter. In this case, his house."

Gerard didn't react. He just kept staring out the window, barely even blinking. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his, half-expecting him to pull away. He didn't. He just let me hold on.

Then, finally, he turned his face toward me, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. His voice cracked when he spoke.

"Fishway must be dead too. He was in my car."

Fuck. That hit like a punch to the gut. His poor fish.

"I'll get you another one, babe," I whispered.

Silence stretched between us.

After a moment, Gerard swallowed hard. "Dad, Mikey, and Grandma... do they know?"

"Not the truth," Donald muttered. "I told them you got drunk, hit someone with the car, but they didn't die."

Gerard let out a breath. "Fuck."

I hesitated before speaking. "Mom... can I stay with Gerard? I don't wanna be home. And he can't come over."

She glanced at Donald. "If that's okay with you."

Donald coughed, shifting in his seat. I could tell he didn't want me there, but after a long, irritated sigh, he muttered, "I don't know. Agh, yeah, whatever. I don't care."

Gerard gave me a weak smile, squeezing my hand. I squeezed back.

Dan pulled up into the Ways' driveway, the car rolling to a stop with a quiet hum. I could already feel the weight of the house pressing down on me—on Gerard too, probably.

Donald sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You two go inside first," he said, his voice tired. "The adults need to talk."

I nodded, not bothering to ask about what. It was probably lawyer shit. Court shit. Shit we had no control over anymore.

I turned to my mom. She gave me a small, tired smile, brushing some of my hair back. "I'll come by to check on you, okay? And if you need anything—anything at all—just call me. Or Dan."

I swallowed and nodded. "Okay."

Gerard and I stepped out of the car, making our way up the short steps to the front door. Before we could knock, it flew open.

Mikey stood there, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.

"Oh my fucking God—Gerard, you're fine!"

He launched himself at his brother, arms wrapping tight around him, squeezing the air out of him. Gerard let out a shaky breath, then—just like that—he fucking broke. His shoulders trembled, hands clutching at Mikey's hoodie, face buried in his shoulder as he started sobbing.

I stayed back, stepping inside but making my way straight to the couch, letting them have their moment.

Mikey rocked him slightly, whispering something I couldn't hear, rubbing his back. Then he pulled back just enough to get a look at him, and his brows furrowed.

"What—what's that, Gee?" he asked, pointing at Gerard's ankle.

Gerard sniffled, wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Where's Grandma, Mikey?"

"She went shopping. She wanted to make you an amazing dinner."

Gerard nodded weakly, then turned his head toward me. "Frank—"

I looked up, meeting his eyes. He was standing there, pale and exhausted, still leaning into Mikey for support.

"Can you tell him?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I can't. And I have to pee. Please."

Fuck.

He wanted me to tell Mikey the truth.

Before I could respond, he was already heading toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with his brother.

Mikey hesitated, rubbing his arms. "What... what's going on?"

I patted the spot next to me on the couch. "C'mere, man."

He sat down slowly, his knee bouncing up and down. "This about James"

I nodded. "Yeah".

"I—uh. I heard you knew he... died." He said "Someone told me. But no one would say what really happened."

"Well," I started, trying to find the words. "He kinda... kidnapped us. Threatened us. Drugged us. And Gerard had to—" I exhaled shakily. "Gerard had to shoot him."

Mikey's head snapped up. His eyes widened, breath catching. "What?"

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling my throat close up. "He was saying awful shit to me. Doing awful shit. And we were tied up, but Gerard managed to get free, and they fought, and James was—he was killing him, Mikey. And then Gerard had the gun, and he—he did it."

My voice broke.

Mikey covered his mouth, shaking his head. "Oh, fuck. I—I don't even know what to—"

"Me neither." I wiped my eyes quickly. "Just... be here for him, okay? I'll be here too. I got released without charges because they found evidence of what James did to me. But Gerard—he's the one who pulled the trigger. His lawyers are good, but James' parents are rich as fuck, and they're pushing for a trial. It's set for three weeks. Until then, he's stuck in this house."

Mikey's hands were trembling. His breathing was uneven. And then—tears. He covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking, trying to keep it together but failing.

I put a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles, whispering, "It's okay, man. We'll figure it out."

A soft creak.

I looked up.

The bathroom door was cracked open, and standing there, red-eyed and frozen in place, was Gerard.

He had heard everything.

Mikey sniffed, rubbing at his face before glancing at his brother. "G-Go with him," he muttered, voice thick with tears. "I'll—fuck, I'll call Pete or something."

I nodded, standing up.

Gerard didn't move, didn't say anything. Just stood there, staring at me.

I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together, then gently tugged him upstairs to his room.

We stepped into his room, and it was spotless. Helena must've cleaned it. It felt almost eerie, like no one had lived in it for weeks.

Gerard exhaled deeply and collapsed onto his bed. "I'm fucking tired."

I sat on the edge of the mattress, watching him. "You should sleep."

"I don't feel like sleeping."

"What do you wanna do, then?"

"I don't know."

"Wanna smoke?"

He hesitated for a second, then looked me in the eyes and smiled, small but real. "Fuck yes."

"On the roof?" I stood up, already reaching for my pack.

"No, too much effort."

"But it's gonna smell in here. You hate that," I reminded him, pulling out a cigarette and passing it to him.

He sighed, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter, Frankie."

I shrugged, lighting the cigarette between his lips before lighting one for myself.

Gerard sat up, leaning against the headboard. I moved too, pressing my back against the cold wall beside him. Our legs tangled together naturally. He took a slow drag, and I followed. Smoke curled in the air between us.

After a moment, he spoke. "Why are you here?"

I glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I get why you don't wanna be in your house... but why are you still here? With me? After what I did?"

I sighed. "Oh, Jesus, Gee... I don't blame you. I mean, yeah, it's awful, and you know that. But you—we—we didn't have a choice. Did we?"

He stared down at his cigarette, turning it between his fingers. "He should've killed me," he murmured. "I don't know why I—"

"Shut the fuck up, Gerard. Stop saying that."

Silence.

We just sat there, smoking, letting the thick haze fill the room, clouding everything. It felt like we were disappearing into it.

After a while, I shifted, moving to sit beside him against the headboard. He sighed, then slung his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in.

"I'm glad you're here," he mumbled, "but I think you shouldn't be."

I rolled my eyes even though he wasn't looking at me. Then, without thinking too much, I turned my head and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

And then another.

And another, trailing them slowly down his jaw, lingering at the corner of his lips.

His breath hitched. Then he started crying.

I tasted salt on my lips before I even realized he was shaking.

"Wh—what's wrong?" I whispered, brushing away his tears with my thumbs.

"N-nothing. Everything. Just—just keep going, Frankie," he choked out.

"Oh, honey—"

"C'mon, please."

So I did.

I kissed his face again, softer this time. Gentle. Careful. Like he might break if I pressed too hard. Maybe he already was. Maybe we both were, and this was the only thing keeping us from shattering completely. His breath was uneven, shaky, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into it, like he needed it, like he needed me. His fingers curled weakly around my wrist, holding me there, grounding himself. Or maybe grounding me.

I shifted closer, crawling into his lap, my knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. He let out a breath as I settled against him, my hands cupping his damp cheeks, thumbs brushing away the stray tears that still rolled down.

Then I kissed him. It was messy at first, desperate in a way that neither of us knew how to control. Like we'd forgotten how to do this. Or maybe we'd never known how in the first place.

His lips parted against mine, searching, unsure, and I let myself fall into it.

We figured it out.

He let out a soft, broken moan, muffled between our lips, and I felt it vibrate against my mouth, down my throat, straight to my fucking heart.

The kiss deepened, slow and desperate, like we were trying to swallow each other whole. Gerard's hands tightened on my waist, on my ass, fingers slipping under my shirt, cool against my overheated skin. I shivered, pressing closer, my own hands tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him sigh into my mouth. His lips were warm, soft, trembling slightly, and I kissed him harder, like I could somehow kiss all the pain away, all the memories, all the weight he was carrying. He let me. He let me consume him, let me pull him under, and fuck, I wanted to drown in him. His hands moved, sliding up my back, pressing against my shoulder blades, holding me in place. My fingers trailed down his neck, brushing the collar of his shirt, feeling his pulse racing underneath my touch. My body burned where he touched me, my skin too tight, my breath too shallow. He let out another soft moan, hips shifting slightly beneath me, and fuck, I felt it. I felt everything. My mind was hazy, drunk on the taste of him, on the way his breath hitched when I traced my tongue along his lower lip, on the way he pressed back against me like he needed more, needed me.

And then—

"Oh god."

We jerked apart so fast I nearly fell off the bed. I turned my head just in time to see Mikey standing in the doorway, looking horrified.

"What do you want?" Gerard yelled, breathless, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand.

Mikey groaned. "Close the goddamn door."

Gerard rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. What do you want?"

Mikey disappeared for a second, then came back to the doorway, looking slightly less disgusted. "I have your fish."

Gerard froze. "Really?!" He shoved me off him—not even gently—and scrambled to his feet, bolting out of the room toward Mikey's. I followed, still catching my breath.

Mikey was standing next to a small fish tank, water bubbling softly inside, and there it was—a tiny, bright-colored fish, swimming in lazy circles.

"Oh, it's so beautiful," Gerard whispered, pressing his hands against the glass. Then he turned to me, eyes shining. "Look, Frankie, it's Fishway!"

I smiled. "You're keeping the name?"

"Yeah— I don't know anything else. And you named it, so...it's our kid."

I laughed, feeling my face heat up a little.

"Pete had this fish tank and the plants and all that, and he brought it," Mikey explained, watching Gerard fondly.

Silence settled between us while Gerard stared at his fish, like it was the only thing grounding him in this moment. Then Mikey's eyes flicked back to us, and suddenly his expression twisted into pure disgust.

"Oh, gross," he muttered.

"What?" Gerard asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mikey gestured vaguely at both of us. "Your fucking boners."

My entire face went up in flames. I scrambled to tug my shirt down over my crotch while Gerard just giggled, completely unbothered, grabbing the fish tank with both hands.

"Thanks, Mikey," he said, still grinning like an idiot.

Gerard carefully placed the fish tank on his desk, adjusting it slightly until he was satisfied. The soft hum of the filter filled the silence for a moment, the water bubbling gently as Fishway swam in slow, aimless circles. I closed the door, exhaling as I turned back to him, but before I could say anything, I heard the front door downstairs swing open. Footsteps. Voices. Helena's, and then—Pete. The unmistakable sound of his loud, animated talking drifted up the stairs, followed by the distinct thud of feet heading toward Mikey's room.

I glanced at Gerard, who was still watching the fish tank. He looked tired. Soft. Like the weight of the day was still pressing against his shoulders, but at least now, in here, with me, he could breathe a little.

"You wanna continue—?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes flicked back to me, and he hesitated for just a second. "Only if you do."

I nodded, and that was all he needed. He leaned into me, pressing his lips to mine in that slow, careful way he always did, like he was afraid I might disappear if he moved too fast. My hands found his waist, pulling him closer as he kissed me deeper, his tongue sliding against mine, warm and soft, making my head spin. I let him in completely, let him have all of me.

Then his hands found the hem of my shirt, lingering there for a second before tugging at it slightly, a silent question. I didn't hesitate. I pulled it over my head and let it drop to the floor, the cool air hitting my skin. My fingers traced along his torso before I did the same to him, peeling off his shirt and tossing it aside.

For a moment, I just held him. Wrapped my arms around him tight, skin against skin, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the way his heart pounded against mine. I pressed my lips to his collarbones, then his neck, trailing kisses over his skin, over the bruises James had left behind. I didn't suck, didn't bite—just kissed, soft and careful, like I could erase them with my lips alone.

A shaky breath slipped from his throat, and his fingers curled against my back.

I fumbled with his belt, unbuckling it as my fingers brushed against his stomach. He watched me, his lips parted, his breath uneven. I tugged at his jeans, trying to pull them down, but the stupid ankle monitor got tangled in the fabric.

"Ugh, fuck," he muttered, sitting back on the bed with an irritated huff, yanking at the denim. His fingers struggled with the straps and wires, his frustration growing with every second.

I reached out to help, but he just sighed, finally freeing himself and kicking the jeans off. And then, without hesitation, he pulled his boxers down too. My breath hitched at the sight, my entire body burning, but before I could react, he was reaching for me. I shoved my own jeans down, leaving myself in my boxers, and climbed back on top of him, our mouths crashing together again.

Our bodies pressed close, heat radiating between us, and then—fuck. Our cocks brushed against each other through the thin fabric of my underwear, sending a sharp, desperate pleasure shooting up my spine. Gerard gasped into my mouth, his fingers tightening on my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. We rocked into each other, slow and teasing, our breaths heavy, our bodies aching for more.

Then he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

He was being so fucking careful with me. Even now.

"Yes..." I breathed. No hesitation. I needed this. Needed him.

He nodded, swallowing hard, and reached over to his nightstand, pulling open the drawer, his fingers digging through the clutter in search of the condom and lube. I could feel the shift in his energy the second he couldn't find them.

"Ugh, I fucking hate when people move my stuff—where the fuck did she put it?" His irritation bubbled over as he yanked the drawer open further, shoving things around, checking under books, knocking over random objects in his search.

"Calm down, Gee..." I murmured, trying to soothe him, but it was no use. His frustration only grew, his movements more erratic, until—

"DINNER IS READY! IT'S GONNA GET COLD!" Mikey's voice echoed up the stairs.

"Oh, fuck." Gerard groaned, standing there in nothing but his annoyance, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes flicking between his room and his closet like he was considering tearing the entire place apart until he found what he was looking for.

"Look, it's okay—calm down," I tried again, reaching for him, hoping to bring him back to me, but he just pulled away.

He grabbed his underwear and some sweatpants from the floor, his jaw clenched. "I'm gonna jack myself off, then I'll go eat," he muttered, voice flat, like he was stating some mundane fact.

"Gee—"

He didn't even look at me. He just shut himself in the bathroom.

And me? I was left sitting there, still hard, still breathless, my chest tight with something I couldn't name. I laid back, staring at the ceiling, my hand slipping into my boxers.

And fuck, it was hard. Because all I did was cry while I did it.

-

Gerard finally emerged from the bathroom, looking more composed but still irritated. He ran a hand through his hair and stormed into the dining room.

"Where the hell did you put my—the stuff in my nightstand, Grandma?" His voice was sharp, his patience clearly worn thin.

Helena, who had just placed a steaming dish on the table, turned to him with a gentle smile. "Oh, first, you say 'hi, honey,'" she scolded lightly, walking over and wrapping her arms around him. "I'm just glad you're okay." She kissed his cheek, her hands lingering on his arms for a second, as if to reassure herself that he was really there.

Gerard exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. "Hi, Grandma." His voice was softer this time.

She smiled, smoothing his hair down like he was still a little kid. "And I don't know what you're talking about, dear. Why?"

Gerard's jaw tightened. He shot me a glance—just a quick flicker of his eyes, but it was enough to send a sinking feeling into my gut.

She still didn't know.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered, dropping into his seat.

Helena sighed, settling back in hers. "I just—Gerard, I don't understand how you didn't see that poor woman. You weren't driving that fast, were you? And why were you drinking? That's not like you anymore." Her voice was full of concern, but she wasn't accusing him. She was just confused. Trying to understand.

I could feel the air shift.

Gerard tensed beside me, gripping his fork too tightly. "I wasn't paying attention. I—I don't know. I didn't think I was that drunk." His words were clipped, dismissive, but I knew better. He just didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Not after what had happened upstairs.

Pete, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the conversation, suddenly blurted out, "Man, this is the best meal I've had in weeks. No offense to dorm food, but this actually tastes like real food. And it's not moving. Which is a plus."

Mikey shot him a look, probably catching onto the thick tension in the air. "Dude, read the room."

"What? I'm trying to lighten the mood," Pete muttered, stuffing another bite into his mouth.

But there was no saving it. The dinner was painfully awkward. The food was delicious, but every bite felt heavy. I forced myself to eat, but I kept glancing at Gerard. He barely touched his plate, pushing the food around with his fork, looking down at it like he wasn't even seeing it.

And worst of all?

He didn't look at me.

Not once.

That night, after dinner, I lay awake in Gerard's bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to his slow, uneven breathing beside me. He was asleep, or at least pretending to be, curled up with his back to me, his body tense even in rest. I wanted to reach for him, to hold him, to tell him it was okay—even if nothing about this was okay. But I didn't. He had barely looked at me all evening. Barely spoken to me. He was shutting down, and I could feel it like a wall between us, thick and impenetrable. It hurt in a way I couldn't put into words. Like I was being pushed away just when I needed him most. Just when he needed me most. And still, I understood. Of course, I understood. But it didn't make it easier.

Because how could I blame him? He was the one with charges, not me. He was the one who had pulled the trigger. The one who would have to stand in a courtroom and explain why he had to do what he did. The one whose life was being picked apart by lawyers, by police, by James's rich, angry parents who would do everything in their power to make sure he paid for what happened. And me? I got to walk free. No charges. No trial. Even though I had been there, even though I had been tied up and terrified and humiliated. Even though everything that happened was because of me. If I hadn't let James back into my life, if I hadn't been so fucking weak, none of this would've happened. Gerard wouldn't be here, struggling to eat, struggling to function, drowning under the weight of something that should've never been his burden to carry.

I kept telling myself that it wasn't my fault, that James had done this to both of us. That it wasn't my hands that had taken a life. But my brain didn't listen. The guilt was relentless, crushing me from the inside out. I replayed that night over and over, dissecting every moment, every decision. Could I have fought harder? Could I have stopped it before it got to that point? Could I have done anything differently so Gerard wouldn't have had to make that choice? My mind said yes. Over and over, it screamed yes. And now, he was the one suffering for it. Now, he had to face the consequences while I sat there, useless, watching him fall apart.

And the worst part? He was slipping back into old habits. I could see it happening in real-time—the way he barely touched his food, the way he got irritated over the smallest things, the way he pulled away when I tried to comfort him. I knew what this meant. Knew where it was heading. More therapy. More medications. More nights of him sitting awake, staring at the wall, lost inside his own head. More of me trying to reach him, trying to remind him that he wasn't alone, only for him to retreat further away. He had come so far, and now, it was like he was being dragged back into that darkness. And I was terrified that this time, I wouldn't be able to pull him out of it.

I wanted to fix it. I wanted to take his pain and carry it myself. I wanted to turn back time and erase everything. But I couldn't. All I could do was lay there, eyes burning, chest aching, feeling completely fucking useless. Because no matter how much I loved him, no matter how much I wanted to be enough to make this better, love didn't undo trauma. Love didn't erase what had happened. And love sure as hell wouldn't stop a judge from deciding Gerard's fate.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

"Are you awake?" I murmured into the darkness. My voice was quiet, but I knew he wasn't asleep.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

I shifted onto my side, turning to face him. The dim glow from the streetlamp outside cast soft shadows across his features, highlighting the tired lines under his eyes, the curve of his lips, the messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. He looked so calm like this, but I knew better.

"Sorry," I said, my voice barely above a breath.

"For what?" he asked, his brows knitting together slightly.

"I treated you bad today," I admitted, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have. None of this is your fault, okay? Not a single fucking thing."

Frank let out a soft sigh, his eyes searching mine in the dark. "It's not yours either, Gee."

Silence settled between us, thick and heavy but not uncomfortable. I hesitated for a second before slipping an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He didn't resist. Our faces were inches apart now, his breath warm against my skin.

"I don't know how to tell my grandma what I did," I admitted. My voice felt small, almost foreign. "She's gonna hate me."

"She won't," Frank said, his fingers brushing lightly over my arm. "She loves you, Gee. But she has to know. She'll find out eventually, and it's better if it comes from you."

I sighed, letting out a weak, humorless laugh. "I'm so fucked."

"I'm not," he giggled, pressing his forehead against mine.

I smiled despite everything. "Sorry about earlier," I mumbled.

"It's okay," he said softly before closing the space between us, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips. It was gentle, like he was trying to tell me something without words. I melted into it, savoring the warmth, the reassurance, the quiet promise.

"You're gonna win," he murmured when he pulled away.

"You think so?" I asked, my voice laced with doubt.

"Yeah," he said with absolute certainty. "You're too cute. It's in your favor."

I let out a genuine laugh, shaking my head. "You're gonna testify that?"

"If it's necessary, yeah, I'll do it," he grinned.

"You're an idiot," I said, rolling my eyes.

"You're more," he shot back, smirking.

"I'm afraid to sleep," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "If I do, I'll have those nightmares again."

Frank shifted closer, his hand finding mine under the covers. His fingers were warm, steady, grounding. "If you have those nightmares," he murmured, his voice gentle but firm, "I'll be here. I'll wake you up. I'll hold you and kiss you all night if I have to."

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with something I couldn't name. Fear. Exhaustion. Relief. Maybe all of it at once.

"You promise?" I asked, sounding more like a child than I wanted to.

He nodded, squeezing my hand. "I promise."

And yeah. That night was fucking cozy. I fell asleep tangled up with Frank, his arms around me, his breath warm against my neck. The weight of everything—the trial, the fear, the guilt—felt a little lighter with him there. If I had a nightmare, I don't remember. All I remember is the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, the way he held me like he meant it.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!" Frank called out, his voice way too cheerful for this early in the morning.

I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow. "Mmm—"

"I think I might need a kiss to wake up," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.

"Oh, you're talking! So that means you're awake. Now it's not necessary!" he teased.

I hate him. I squeezed my eyes shut and made a dramatic attempt to fall back asleep, just to see if he'd give in. It took a few minutes, but then—finally—I felt his lips press against mine.

I opened my eyes, catching the stupid grin on his face. He reached out and placed a hand on my chest, then gasped.

"Oh my god! You don't have tits! You're a dude! You're not a beauty at all!"

I rolled my eyes, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt to pull him in for another kiss.

"Mmm—your morning breath is awful, Frankie," I muttered against his lips.

"Ugh—yours too," he groaned, pulling away.

I sighed and sat up, rubbing my eyes as they adjusted to the light. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, ready to start the day—until my gaze landed on my ankle. The monitor.

And just like that, reality crashed over me like a fucking knife to the gut.

I tried to shake it off. Frank was in too good of a mood today, and the last thing I wanted was to drag him down with me.

"How's my Gee Fishway?" I asked, making my way over to my desk and peering into the fish tank. The little guy swam aimlessly, bumping into the glass like he had no thoughts in his tiny fish brain.

"He looks stupid," Frank called from across the room.

I turned to glare at him. "What are you saying, motherfucker?"

"He's just like you."

"What are you implying?" I narrowed my eyes.

Frank grinned. "Figure it out. I'm gonna go brush my teeth, 'cause someone made me feel gross." He shot me a pointed look.

"Yeah, go," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Once he was gone, I sighed and reached for an old sketchbook buried under some papers on my desk. I wanted to draw something—anything—to get my mind off the monitor, the trial, everything. But as soon as I flipped open to a blank page, my hand hesitated. Nothing came. I stared at the paper, waiting for inspiration to hit, but my mind felt jammed.

It was weird. I had too many things in my head, too many thoughts, too many emotions. And somehow, I couldn't express any of it.

Mikey called from the doorway, his voice hesitant.

"Hey, are you decent?"

I frowned. "How's that?"

"You know... not naked, not with your dick inside—"

I groaned, standing up to open the door before he could finish that thought. "He's not even here," I muttered. "He's in the bathroom."

Mikey stood there in his Batman PJs, his glasses missing, his light brown hair a tangled mess. He looked younger like this, softer. It reminded me that no matter how much time passed, he was still my little brother.

"Why aren't you at school?" I asked.

"Grandma let me stay home."

"And Pete?"

"He had to go. He had an exam that he already failed twice."

I snorted and shook my head as we both sat down on my bed. Mikey hesitated for a second before speaking again, his voice quiet.

"I love you, Gee—I know it's weird to say out loud, but I do."

I blinked at him, caught off guard for a second. Then I sighed, rubbing his curved back. "I love you too, Mikes."

He nodded, like he needed to hear it. "I just wanted to tell you that you're not alone. You have Frank, and me... and I'm here, and..." He trailed off, his fingers moving to his mouth as he started biting his nails.

"Thanks..." I murmured, because I didn't know what else to say.

A few beats of silence passed before he asked, almost whispering, "Are you going to jail?"

I exhaled slowly, staring at the floor. "Probably yes. Probably not. I can't tell now."

Mikey chewed his nail down to nothing before asking, "What if you do go to jail?"

I hadn't really thought about it. Not in a real way, at least. I knew it was a possibility, but picturing myself rotting in some cold, gray-ass prison cell? That was a whole different thing. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't. I'd rather kill myself than be stuck there.

And now, for the first time, I really fucking understood how Bert McCracken felt back then.

"I really haven't thought about it..." I muttered, shaking my head. "So you shouldn't either. Let's wait, Mikey."

He shrugged, letting out a small sigh. "Okay... Breakfast is ready, though. Call Frank too. And, uh—" He hesitated, then added quickly, "I kinda told Grandma you have something to tell her."

My stomach twisted. "Oh, fuck... Thanks, I guess."

Mikey just gave me a look, one that said she doesn't deserve those lies, Gerard. And I knew he was right. I just wasn't ready.

The second he left the room, panic settled in my chest. It was instant. My throat felt tight, my hands unsteady. Fear.

Breathe.

I clenched my jaw, trying to push it down, but I couldn't stop the way my body reacted. My fingers twitched at my sides. I felt sick.

"Gee?" Frank's voice was soft. I turned my head to see him standing in the doorway, his expression full of concern.

"I have to tell her. Like... now," I said, my voice cracking.

Frank didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, grounding me. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," he whispered. Then, standing on his tiptoes, he pressed a kiss to my lips.

I melted into him, my hands gripping the back of his shirt. I needed something—someone—to hold onto so I wouldn't fall apart. And Frank was that for me. He always was.

"Hold my hand during breakfast," I murmured against his shoulder.

He squeezed my waist in response. "I was already planning on it."

The table felt too small, or maybe the room too quiet. My grandma greeted us with her usual warmth, placing food in front of us while Mikey sat there, absorbed in his phone, his fork moving automatically from his plate to his mouth.

"Michael, put that thing away and eat," she scolded, her voice stern but affectionate. "If you don't focus on your food, it won't feed you properly."

I had no idea where she got that from, but it was one of her things—one of those weird beliefs she held onto like gospel. Mikey just rolled his eyes and shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket, chewing begrudgingly.

Frank was beside me, shifting his chair a little closer like he always did. His hand landed on my thigh, warm and grounding, and I reached down to hold it. He squeezed, just a little, as if to say, I'm here.

I took a sip of my coffee, clearing my throat. "Grandma..."

She looked up, smiling. "Yes, honey?" Then her gaze flicked to Mikey, and she added, "Oh, yeah. Mikey told me you needed to tell me something. What happened? You need money?"

I shook my head quickly. "No, no. It's not that..." My voice felt small, like it belonged to someone else.

She waited, her eyes gentle but curious.

"I lied to you," I admitted, forcing myself to keep my gaze steady. "Well—first of all, Dad lied to you." I swallowed hard. "And I kinda... continued the lie. About the 'accident.'"

Her face barely shifted, but I could tell she was paying closer attention now. "Huh?"

I inhaled deeply, the words clawing up my throat. "It was Halloween. Frank's birthday. It was late, and we were dropping everyone off at their houses. We stopped at Frank's place because he needed something, and then we were supposed to come back here..."

I told her everything.

Every second of it.

I kept my eyes down for most of it, and so did Frank, his hand limp in mine. But every now and then, I stole a glance at her, watching the way her face changed—how her eyes slowly filled with tears, how she clutched her napkin in her lap like it was the only thing keeping her together.

By the time I finished, there was silence.

And then she exhaled, a shaky, uneven sound. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Gerard—I—"

"I know," I cut in quickly, my throat raw. "It's fucked up. And I'm a fucking psycho and a killer and I deserve—"

"Stop it," Frank muttered under his breath, his grip tightening around my fingers.

Then she stood up.

For a second, I thought she might walk away. That she might be too horrified to look at me. But instead, she came around the table and pulled me into a tight, warm hug, pressing a kiss to the top of my head like she used to when I was little.

"We're going to get through this, baby," she murmured against my hair. "Don't worry. I know you're scared. I am too. But—" She pulled back, holding my face between her wrinkled hands. "You're brave enough, you know that? Nobody you know has been through the things you have, and you're still here. And you have a beautiful boyfriend who loves you, a little brother who adores you, and you have me. Even your father, sometimes. You're not alone in this, okay?"

My heart cracked open.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry for lying to you. I thought you—"

"You thought I wouldn't understand?"

I nodded weakly.

She sighed, her own voice cracking. "It's... difficult. But I know you're not that kind of boy."

I wanted to believe her. God, I needed to believe her.

By the time everyone had gone to shower, I stayed back to clean the dishes with Frankie. Mikey had pulled his usual bullshit—pretending not to hear me when I asked him to help, suddenly developing selective deafness whenever chores were involved. And honestly, I didn't have it in me to argue with him right now. So I made Frank stay, which wasn't hard because he never really minded. He just dried the dishes, asking me where to put them, while he went on tangents about music and movies. I didn't even have to say much—he filled the space with his voice, jumping from one thing to the next, cursing about some random band that "sold out" or some shitty horror remake that completely "disrespected the original." And I just listened. Because I liked listening. I liked the way his voice got all animated when he was ranting about something that didn't actually matter, how he could get so worked up over the dumbest shit. It made me forget everything else.

By the time we finished, he was already perched on the counter, still holding the rag in his hands, twisting it absentmindedly as he kept talking. His words blurred together, but I didn't care—I just wanted to watch him. The way his whole face lit up when he got excited about something. The way his hazel eyes brightened when he looked at me. The way he giggled between sentences, soft and unfiltered, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. And fuck, his mouth. That lip piercing. That stupid little piece of cold metal that made his lips even more distracting than they already were. My mind wandered, and for a second, all I could think about was what it felt like against my own lips, the way it pressed between us whenever we kissed.

And then it hit me like a punch to the stomach.

I didn't want to lose him. I couldn't lose him.

I stared at him, still talking, still so unaware of the absolute wreckage happening in my brain. He had no idea. No idea how much I needed him. No idea how the thought of being away from him—really away from him—made my chest tighten like a vice. It wasn't just fear. It wasn't just sadness. It was something worse. Something unbearable. Because the truth was, I didn't think I could survive without him. I really, truly didn't.

He jumped off the counter and stepped toward me, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He wasn't talking anymore—just watching me, studying my face like he could read whatever the hell was going on in my head. Then, without a word, he tossed the rag aside and grabbed both of my hands, pressing me gently against the opposite counter.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" he murmured, his thumb grazing over my knuckles.

"You're perfect," I said, barely recognizing my own voice.

Frank hummed, tilting his head like he was considering my words, then smirked. "Mmm, I think you are," he whispered, his hands sliding from my chest, trailing down until—

"Fuck, Frank—" I sucked in a breath.

"What?" He grinned, feigning innocence, fingers teasing the waistband of my sweatpants.

"Why do you like making out in the kitchen so much?" I groaned, squeezing his wrists.

"Oh, you want to make out?" he teased, raising an eyebrow.

I didn't bother answering—I just kissed him, cutting off whatever other smartass remark he had lined up. My lips found his, the cold metal of his piercing pressing against my mouth as I dragged my tongue along his bottom lip, tasting him, memorizing him. My hands roamed, first up his back, then down, gripping his waist before sliding lower, grabbing handfuls of him as I lifted him slightly, just enough to set him on the counter—not fully, just enough to bring him to my level.

His breath hitched, but he didn't stop me. Instead, his fingers tangled in my hair, pulling, as his tongue traced my lips, seeking permission. I gave in instantly, opening up for him, letting him take whatever he wanted. My hands slipped under his shirt, fingertips skimming the warmth of his skin, tracing the lines of his ribs, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

I wanted to remember every part of him. The way his body reacted under my hands. The way he shivered slightly when my nails scraped lightly against his back. The way he tasted—fuck, the way he tasted. Because deep down, I knew—I knew—that I had no control over what was coming. And if there was ever a day when I couldn't have him like this, if there was ever a time when I had to go without him, I needed to have this burned into me. Every single second. Every single touch.

Just as things were heating up—Frank's fingers gripping my hair tighter, his legs wrapping around my waist, my hands under his shirt tracing every inch of him—he let out this little moan against my lips. A soft, breathy sound that sent a shiver down my spine and made my grip on him tighten.

And that was exactly when I heard it.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

Frank and I jerked apart like we had been electrocuted. I spun around so fast I almost knocked over the dish rack, and Frank nearly fell off the counter, his face turning a shade of red I didn't even know was possible.

There, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, was my grandma. Her expression was somewhere between amused and exasperated, like she had caught two kids sneaking cookies before dinner instead of, well...this.

"You boys are gonna give me a heart attack one of these days," she sighed, shaking her head. "If you're gonna do that, go to your room. The kitchen is for eating—not for whatever this is."

I covered my face with both hands. Kill me. Just kill me now.

"Jesus Christ—" Frank wheezed, clutching the edge of the counter like he needed physical support to survive this moment.

"Oh, relax, Frankie," she chuckled, patting my shoulder as she walked past me toward the fridge. "Just have some damn discretion. And Gerard, put your little 'supplies' back in the right place when you're done, huh? They're in the last drawer of your closet, Gerard, inside that box. I moved them when I was cleaning."

I froze.

"Grandma—"

"Oh, and Linda is coming over later," she added, completely ignoring my suffering. "So if you two plan on doing anything else inappropriate, I suggest you do it now before she gets here."

I turned to Frank, who looked like he was actively considering jumping out the window.

"We are never making out in the kitchen again," he whispered.

"Agreed," I muttered.

As we hurried up the stairs, Frank still looking half-traumatized from the whole ordeal, he muttered under his breath, "I'd rather it was Mikey who caught us."

"Yeah, me too," I admitted.

Because sure, Mikey would've been an asshole about it—he would've made a joke, maybe gagged dramatically, maybe even threatened to pour bleach into his own eyes—but this? Getting caught by my grandma, having her casually remind me where she stashed our supplies? Yeah, this was a whole different level of humiliation.

We reached my room, and I pushed the door shut behind us, sighing deeply. Frank flopped onto my bed, still looking flustered but with that little smirk playing on his lips. Like, yeah, he had been embarrassed, but also? He was definitely enjoying how fucking mortified I was.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake it off. "Let's go shower."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Together?"

I shrugged, keeping it casual. "Well, I mean, yeah."

His whole face lit up. "Fuck yes."

I grabbed a couple of towels from the closet and threw one at Frank's face, making him yelp.

"Ow, what the fuck?" He pulled it off and grinned at me, eyes flickering with excitement. He was already pulling off his pants.

"You're way too eager," I teased, stepping closer, my hands already working on my own shirt.

"Well, yeah, my boyfriend just invited me to shower with him," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I rolled my eyes but smiled, tossing my shirt onto the counter. Frank was doing the same, his tattoos standing out against his bare skin in the warm bathroom light. He caught me staring, and instead of teasing, he just looked back, something softer in his expression.

"C'mere," I muttered, pulling him into a kiss, my fingers tracing the lines on his ribs. He melted against me, warm and solid and mine. The lip piercing was cold against my mouth, and I licked at his bottom lip just to feel it, just to taste the minty chapstick he always wore.

His hands were already at the waistband of my pants, pushing them down along with my boxers in one go. I let them fall to the floor, kicking them aside while my hands did the same to his, peeling them off until we were both naked, flushed, and grinning like idiots.

"You're staring, dude," he said, tilting his head.

"Shut up." I turned the water on, testing the temperature. When it was warm enough, we stepped inside, steam rising around us. The second the water hit our skin, Frank sighed, leaning his forehead against my shoulder.

"This is nice," he murmured.

"Yeah," I agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. My hands roamed down his back, gripping his hips, pulling him closer. He let out a breathy laugh, his fingers skimming over my stomach before drifting lower.

"You know... we could make it nicer," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin as his fingers curled around me, moving slow, teasing.

"Fucking hell, Frankie," I groaned, my hips jerking into his touch, chasing the friction. My own hand found him too, and the little gasp he let out sent a shiver straight through me. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath hot and shaky against my wet skin, his moans vibrating against me.

Water poured down over us, sliding between us, making every touch slick, every movement effortless. I barely noticed the steam clouding around us, the way it blurred the world outside the space we were creating. It was just him and me, nothing else. His lips brushed against my collarbone, my throat, then lower, following the droplets of water down my chest. His hands traced along my ribs, my hips, guiding me back until I hit the cool tile wall.

I felt my knees weaken as he dropped down in front of me, looking up with those dark, hooded eyes, his lips red and parted, his hands firm on my thighs. My stomach tightened. "Frank..." I murmured, barely a warning, barely a protest, because fuck—I wanted this. I wanted him.

His fingers dug into my hips, grounding me as his mouth found me, slow and deliberate. My head hit the wall, my fingers tangling in his wet hair, my breaths turning into broken gasps. The heat of it, the way his tongue moved, the way he hummed against me—it was overwhelming, dizzying, fucking perfect. My grip on his hair tightened, and he just moaned in response, his hands holding me steady as he took his time, like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every sound I made.

When I finally pulled him up to me, my hands shaking, my lips found his in a messy, desperate kiss. His back hit the opposite wall, and this time, I was the one sinking down, my hands tracing the shape of his thighs, the way his breath caught in his throat making something in my chest tighten. His fingers gripped my shoulders, his body shivering slightly under the steady stream of water, but his eyes—his eyes were locked on mine, dark and wild, his lips parted, waiting, wanting.

I pressed slow kisses to his stomach, feeling the way his muscles tensed under my lips, my hands holding his hips steady. "Gee," he whispered, almost breathless, his fingers sliding into my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan. I loved that. Loved the way he got impatient, loved the way he tried to stay quiet but couldn't.

I let my mouth follow the path of water down his body, tasting the heat of his skin, teasing, taking my time, because fuck—if this was all I had, if we didn't know how much time we had left, then I wanted to make it count. I wanted him to remember this. I wanted to remember this.

And when I finally gave him what he needed, his head tipped back against the tile, his breath leaving him in a shaky, broken moan, his fingers tightening in my hair. "Fuck, Gerard," he gasped, and that alone made my whole body burn. He trembled under my hands, under my mouth, and I could feel every little movement, every shudder that ran through him. His thighs tensed around me, his stomach clenching, his hands pulling me closer, needing more, and I gave him everything.

His moans filled the small space between us, raw and honest, echoing in the steam. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, his head lolling forward, his forehead pressing against mine as I stood, his arms wrapping around me, holding on like he never wanted to let go.

For a moment, we just stayed like that, our breaths mixing, our bodies warm and wet, our hearts pounding against each other.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered against my lips, a dazed smile tugging at his mouth.

I smirked. "You started it."

He let out a breathless laugh, his arms tightening around me. "Yeah, and I'd do it again."

I kissed him again, slow and deep,

And when it was over, when our foreheads pressed together, our chests heaving, I just held him there, our bodies still slick with water, his heartbeat fast under my fingertips.

After a moment, I grabbed the shampoo bottle and squirted some into my hand, rubbing it between my palms.

"Turn around."

"Bossy," he muttered but obeyed, letting me run my hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, fingers gentle against his skin. He hummed in approval, leaning into my touch.

"Mmm, okay, this makes up for everything," he sighed, eyes half-closed.

I laughed, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. "Yeah, yeah. Rinse, so I can do mine."

We took our time washing each other, my hands smoothing soap over his shoulders, his fingers gentle against my arms. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex, just taking care of each other, making sure we were both okay.

By the time we stepped out, drying ourselves off, I felt lighter.

-

Linda, Dan, my dad, and our lawyers were already in the living room when we got there. My grandma sat on the couch beside Mikey, her hands clasped in her lap, looking more serious than I'd seen her in a long time.

"Good morning, boys," Linda said when she saw us. She looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept much, but she still managed a small smile.

"Hey," I mumbled, sitting down. Frankie hesitated, like he wasn't sure where to go, but I tugged him down beside me. He stayed quiet, resting his hands on his knees, looking between everyone.

Dan, Linda's boyfriend, sat beside her, his jaw tight. My dad—who, for once, wasn't in a business suit—had his arms crossed, looking unreadable. Evelyn cleared her throat and pulled out some documents.

"Alright," she said. "Now that we're all here, let's go over the details of the trial."

Chapter Text

I sank into the couch, exhaling as I made space for Frank beside me. The moment he sat down, his fingers laced through mine, warm and steady. I flinched at the contact—not because I didn't want it, but because of the people in the room. His mom. My dad. A bunch of adults I didn't fully trust. The only person here I did trust was my grandma.

Nobody said anything, but they knew. And maybe it sounds stupid, but this isn't some perfect, accepting world where everyone's just cool with it. Where love is just love and that's the end of it. It's not. It never will be, at least not for us. Even in the future, no matter how much things change, we'll never be the rule.

I caught my dad's glance—just a flicker, barely a second long, but enough to make my stomach twist. A look of disapproval, maybe even disgust. It was in the way his eyes flicked over us when we walked downstairs, our hair still damp from the shower. In the way his lips pressed into a thin line when Frank sat beside me. When he took my hand. He thought he was being subtle, but I saw it. I always saw it.

I was used to it. I learned to expect it. But it wasn't Frank's fault, and he didn't deserve it. I knew he didn't give a shit what my dad thought—if anything, he'd probably enjoy pissing him off. But deep down, where I hated admitting it, I felt guilty. He shouldn't have to deal with this. With me.

"Alright, we all know this is Gerard's trial," Evelyn started, her voice steady but firm. "But I think it's important that you both participate. Because at the end of the day... you're both involved. One more than the other, sure, but I think it's necessary to have both sides here. That's why Matt and I are here, okay?"

Frank and I nodded, though neither of us really knew what to say. My grandma quietly excused herself to the kitchen, already preparing coffee. She knew this was going to take a while.

The conversation started with the usual, mostly unimportant details—confirming personal information, going over some legal formalities, things that made my head pound. I was barely paying attention, just squeezing Frank's hand under the table, when a knock at the door made everyone pause.

Mikey bolted down the stairs before anyone else could react. A second later, Pete stepped inside, looking around the room with obvious confusion.

They hugged briefly, and Pete shot a glance at the tense scene in the living room, his eyebrows furrowing. "Uh... hey?" he said, unsure of what exactly he was walking into.

Mikey didn't explain. "We'll be in my room," he announced before dragging Pete upstairs, like this whole thing wasn't some massive, suffocating mess.

I barely had time to process it before I felt my father's gaze on me again. The same look he gave me earlier, but worse now—more scrutinizing, more confused. Like he was trying to piece something together and hated what he was coming up with.

I rolled my eyes and looked away. Whatever. Let him think whatever the fuck he wanted. We still had a long way to go.

"So... Frank, you told me he was your best friend, right?" Matt started, his tone careful, almost hesitant.

Frank nodded, but I felt the slight tremor in his hand, the way his fingers tensed in mine. "Yeah," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

"How was he?"

Silence stretched for a moment. Frank exhaled, his hand colder now, even against my warmth.

"Cool," he started, but the word felt too simple. Too shallow. "I mean, before all of this—before... Gerard—we used to hang out a lot. At his house, mine, Bob's basement, the skatepark. We liked skating a lot." He hesitated, glancing down at our hands. "We also smoked cigs, weed... a lot of shit, honestly. But he was more of an addict than me. Most of the time, he was high. Boozed up, dizzy."

He swallowed. "And, uh... it was when I liked him the most." He added quickly, "(Like a friend, obviously.)"

I almost wanted to scoff at that. Like it made a fucking difference now.

"Because otherwise," Frank continued, "he was rude. Or just... indifferent. To everything. To me. I always worried about him, but I don't think he really cared about the things that happened to me." His voice tightened, and I squeezed his hand, grounding him, though I wasn't sure if he even noticed.

"His dad abused him. Verbally, physically. Said and did some really fucked up things to him." Frank took a slow breath. "And he never accepted that he was gay. Or—at least—that he was in love with a dude. Because of his dad. Because he was too scared."

The room felt unbearably quiet.

"He preferred to just let it go," Frank murmured. "Tried to push it down. It was only when he saw I was dating a guy that he freaked out. Because, suddenly, he thought maybe... maybe he really did have a chance with me. And that scared him even more."

I looked at Frank, at the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the floor. Like he was forcing himself to say it all out loud, to be honest in a way that maybe he hadn't been before.

I wanted to kiss him. Instead, I just held his hand tighter.

I could hear it in his voice. The sadness. He tried to mask it, tried to keep his tone steady, but I knew him too well. I knew the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way he swallowed hard between sentences. He was hurting. And fuck, it just made me feel worse. Like I was some kind of poison in his life. Like maybe he would've been better off if I had never crashed into it at all.

"How was he in school?" the lawyer asked again, pushing forward.

Frank shifted uncomfortably but answered. "Normal, I guess. Just lazy. He wasn't dumb—actually, he was pretty good at math and shit without even trying. But he wasn't at school much. Mostly just to piss off his dad."

There was a pause, the lawyer studying him carefully. "So... this man scared him, but he still wanted to disappoint him?"

Frank exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well... yeah. I don't know. Maybe he figured it was better to be a bad student than to be gay or something."

His words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. No one said anything.

"You have friends in common?"

Frank hesitated for a second before answering. "Uh, yeah. A few. Everyone kinda just went their separate ways. Mostly because of him. He was a dick." His voice was flat, but I could tell it wasn't easy for him to say. "It's just Bob now, and... fuck. Haley. She was his girlfriend."

He paused, pressing his lips together. "But Ryan and Brendon... we kinda became friends with Gerard's friends. And yeah, because James treated Ryan like shit. You know, 'cause he was gay, and Ry had a thing with Brendon. And, well, you can imagine. James was so in denial that he didn't even want to be around people like him."

The lawyer nodded, taking notes. "Well, I figure we can talk to those friends of yours, see if they'd be willing to give a testimony about James' behavior. Maybe Gerard's friends too?"

Frank and I exchanged a look.

"Maybe Ray," Frank said carefully. "I was with him when James threatened me once." He looked at me as he said it, and my stomach twisted. I didn't know that.

I nodded, but the whole situation made my skin crawl. Too many people. Too many opinions. Too many rumors that were bound to spread like wildfire. I was already the villain in this story—this was only going to make things worse.

"Is this whole shit really necessary?" I muttered, voice low.

Evelyn didn't even blink. "You wanna go to prison, Gerard?"

I shut my mouth.

Frank's hand tightened around mine. Hard. Like he could feel the way my whole body had gone cold. Like he could sense how badly I wanted to run.

The conversation kept going, but I barely processed half of it. It was all legal jargon—shit I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. Evelyn and Matt talked about charges, testimonies, court dates. My dad occasionally chimed in, his voice clipped, detached, like he was discussing a business deal instead of my entire fucking life. Linda asked about plea bargains, about what could happen if things went wrong.

I just sat there, staring at the coffee table, feeling like a fucking ghost in my own trial.

"...the argument is that Gerard acted in self-defense," Matt was saying. "But the prosecution is going to try and paint it as assault. They'll say he was aggressive, that he had a motive."

Frank scoffed. "A motive? Yeah, not wanting to get his ass beat again. He was protecting himself. Protecting me. Protecting us. Damn."

Evelyn nodded. "That's exactly what we need to emphasize. James had a history of violence. If we can prove that, it weakens their case. But we have to be careful because—" she turned her gaze to me, "—your history isn't exactly clean either, Gerard."

I knew exactly what she meant. I wasn't some innocent kid who got caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn't some golden boy who'd made one mistake. I had a record, maybe not a criminal one, but a history of fucking up that people wouldn't ignore. I smoked too much, drank too much, did shit I shouldn't have just to feel like I had control over something. The court wasn't gonna see me as some scared kid who lashed out because he had no other choice. They weren't gonna listen to the parts that mattered—the fear, the desperation, the fact that I hadn't meant for things to go as far as they did. No, they'd look at me and see the worst parts first. A violent, unstable teenager who finally lost it. Someone who'd been a ticking time bomb from the start.

And the worst part? They wouldn't be wrong.

I got drunk and picked fights I knew I couldn't win, just to see if I could take the hit. I threw punches at strangers because sometimes I needed to let it out and I didn't know how else to do it. I got high and reckless and stole shit once—not because I needed it, not because I even wanted it, but because I wanted to see if I could get away with it. And then there was Bert. The kind of friend who never said no, who handed me whatever I needed to keep going, to stay numb. The kind of friend who got me caught. That was the closest I ever got to real trouble, to being kicked out for good. I'd been in the wrong place with the wrong person and a fucking lot of drugs.

And then there was the shit they wouldn't put in police reports but would still come up, still paint me as the problem. The nights I spent staring at my ceiling, hating myself so much it felt unbearable. The times I actually did something about it. The hospital rooms, the cold white walls, the way doctors spoke to me like I was fragile but also too far gone to fix. The therapists, the psychiatrists, the endless questions, the pity in their eyes when I told them what went on in my head. I knew how they saw me. A case study. A cautionary tale. Something they could analyze but never really understand. I stopped going because I knew how it always ended—empty words, empty promises, nothing changing.

And now here I was. Sitting in a room full of people discussing how to keep me out of prison. I wondered if this was just another thing that had always been inevitable. If this was the only way my story could go.

I wasn't a puzzle. I was a mess—one that couldn't be pieced together, no matter how hard anyone tried. There weren't missing parts waiting to be found, no perfect solution that would suddenly make everything click into place. I was just a fucked-up collection of bad decisions, bruises that never fully healed, and feelings I never knew what to do with. People liked to think that if they asked the right questions, if they dug deep enough, they'd find the reason behind it all, like there was some tragic, poetic explanation for why I was the way I was. But there wasn't. There was no grand answer, no moment that broke me beyond repair. I just was.

And being a mess wasn't something that could be fixed, not by therapy, not by medication, not by people who thought they understood me. I'd tried. I'd sat in front of too many professionals who thought they could help, who thought I was just another equation to solve. But I wasn't something that needed to be figured out. I was something people tolerated until I became too much, until they realized I wasn't going to get better, just different kinds of worse.

People wanted to believe in progress, in healing, in neat little redemption arcs where kids like me turned their lives around. But I knew better. I knew that some people weren't meant to be fixed, that some damage ran too deep to ever be undone. And maybe I was okay with that. Maybe I preferred it that way. Because at least if I stayed broken, people wouldn't expect anything else from me.

I wasn't a puzzle. I was a mess. And I was fucking tired of people pretending I could be anything else.

Evelyn sighed. "That's another thing we need to consider. Your mental health. The prosecution could try to use it against you. But we can also use it in your favor."

"We need an official psychological and psychiatric evaluation. A professional who can assess you specifically for this case. Someone credible who can explain your history, your struggles, and how they factor into what happened that night."

I clenched my jaw. "I've already seen a million of them. It's useless. They don't help."

Evelyn's expression softened a little. "I know. But this isn't about help, Gerard. It's about making sure they don't paint you as something you're not."

I looked down at my hands, my nails digging into my palms.

I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to go through the motions again, sit in some office while a stranger asked me to talk about my fucking feelings. But what choice did I have?

Frank squeezed my hand, grounding me.

I exhaled sharply and nodded. "Fine. Get whoever you need."

My dad sighed, rubbing his temples. "What kind of sentencing are we looking at?"

"Worst case? Gerard could be looking at juvenile detention until he's eighteen. Which is like, less than 6 months and then... Worst case, a couple of years in jail."

That made my stomach drop.

Frank's grip on my hand tightened again, and I swallowed hard. I couldn't look at him. Couldn't stand the thought of how fucking pathetic I must've looked.

"And best case?" Linda asked.

Evelyn exhaled. "Probation. Maybe community service. But it depends on the judge."

"It depends on if they believe I'm a monster or not," I muttered, finally looking up. My voice was bitter, but it was the fucking truth.

No one said anything for a second.

My dad's voice cut through the room like a blade—sharp, cold, meant to wound. "You're not helping your case by acting like a victim, Gerard."

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. "Yeah? And what the fuck would you call it then?"

His stare was unwavering, the same blank, disgusted look he always gave me when I was anything less than the son he wanted. "A consequence," he said simply, like it was that fucking easy. Like getting my face kicked in, like nearly getting killed, was just something I had coming.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. So I should've just let him do it, then? Let him beat the shit out of me, choking me, maybe break my fucking ribs, maybe worse—"

"You should've walked away," he snapped, eyes dark with something close to anger but not quite. Not real anger. Just exhaustion, irritation, like I was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Walked away?" My voice cracked with disbelief. "You think I fucking could? You think I wanted this? Jesus Christ, do you even give a shit what happened, or are you just pissed that it's me in trouble and not him?"

Donald scoffed, shaking his head. "Spare me the dramatics. I'm not bailing you out if it comes to that. I'm not wasting a cent on some pathetic sob story about how you were the victim. You look for it by hanging out with little fags."

The room felt suffocating. My fists clenched against my knees, nails digging into my skin. I wasn't even surprised. Of course, he'd say that. Of course, he wouldn't pay for shit. But hearing it out loud, in front of everyone, made it real in a way I wasn't ready for.

Frank shifted beside me, tense, like he wanted to say something but knew better. I could feel his fingers twitch against mine, hesitant. But before he could open his mouth, before I could figure out what to do with all the anger boiling in my chest, my dad sighed, shaking his head again, like I was some fucking disappointment.

"You're a lost cause, Gerard," he muttered. "Always have been."

That was the moment I knew—I wasn't just fighting James. I wasn't just fighting this case. I was fighting him, too. And in his eyes, I'd already lost.

-

Evelyn and Matt had left hours ago. The weight of the conversation still lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Grandma was in the kitchen, talking with Linda in hushed voices, probably about the trial, probably about me. My dad had left too, deciding to stay at a hotel nearby. He said this place reminded him too much of my mom.

It was funny, in a sick way. How people only seemed to miss you when you were gone.

Dan sat across from Frank and me, trying to make conversation. He had that soft concern in his eyes, the kind that made my skin itch.

"So, how are you guys?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But like, really. I have a degree in psychology—I worked in the field for four years. If you ever wanna talk, I'm here. I won't bullshit you. I'm worried about you both, if I'm being honest."

Frank and I exchanged a look. His teeth caught his bottom lip, eyes darting away.

"I think that'd be nice..." he said, voice quiet. "I dunno, like, just talking to someone. What do you think, Gee?"

I exhaled sharply. "Thanks, but I already have a psychologist."

Frank frowned. "You're not going anymore. And you said it's not working."

I bristled. "How the fuck am I supposed to tell her that I killed someone, Frank?" My voice came out harsher than I intended, shaking slightly. "You think they'd just listen? No, they'd fucking put me in some facility, some psych ward, and I'd spend the rest of my goddamn life locked up."

Frank let go of my hand. I barely noticed until the warmth was gone. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Dan.

Dan held up his hands. "Calm down, Gerard, you—"

"Calm down?" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, my breath catching in my throat. "Are you fucking serious? Are you out of your mind? Why is everyone telling me to calm down when my whole fucking life is shattering into a million fucking pieces!?"

My voice cracked. The room fell silent, thick with tension.

Linda and Grandma stared at me from the kitchen. Frank was frozen, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, his eyes glassy but determined not to let a single tear fall. Dan exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his hands down his face like he was trying to physically wipe the tension away. The whole room was waiting for me to explode, and I could feel it, taste it.

And me? I couldn't do it anymore.

I pushed myself up so fast the chair scraped against the floor, the noise slicing through the silence like a blade. My limbs felt disconnected from my body, moving on instinct, on desperation. My feet hit the floor in uneven, frantic steps as I shoved the door open with so much force it slammed against the frame.

The cold air hit me like a slap, but it didn't stop me.

I stumbled down the porch steps, my vision swimming, my head pounding with the force of my own heartbeat. My chest ached—like something heavy and rotten was pressing down on it, suffocating me, caving in my ribs. I needed to go. I needed to get out. The pressure inside me was unbearable, clawing at my throat, making it impossible to breathe. I kept running, my ankle monitor digging into my skin as I crossed the boundary, and then—

The alarm.

It shrieked through the quiet night, high-pitched, piercing, relentless. A warning. A punishment.

I barely made it a few more steps before my body gave up on me. My knees hit the frozen ground, my arms wrapping around my stomach as if I could physically hold everything inside, keep myself from falling apart completely. But I already was.

My breath was coming too fast, too shallow, not enough, never enough. My fingers curled into my sleeves, gripping so hard my nails dug into my own skin. My heart was hammering so violently I thought it might actually burst. Everything was too loud—the alarm, my own gasping breath, the blood rushing in my ears. My vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in, twisting, warping the world around me.

I rocked forward, forehead pressing into my arms, choking on air that refused to fill my lungs. My body was shutting down, my ribs locked so tight it hurt, my fingers trembling as I tried to ground myself, to think, to do something—

But I couldn't.

I was drowning.

Somewhere, footsteps. Someone calling my name.

But it didn't matter. Because I wasn't here anymore. I was lost, trapped inside my own fucking body, spiraling into something dark and endless, and there was no way out.

I barely registered the footsteps—fast, uneven—before Frank was there, dropping to his knees beside me. His hands found my shoulders, gripping too tight, too desperate, shaking me slightly like he could just snap me out of it.

"Gerard, please," his voice was raw, breaking around the edges. "Come on, babe, you gotta breathe, you gotta—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "The alarm, Gerard. We have to go back. Please."

I tried. I swear I tried. But my body wasn't mine anymore, my limbs weak, useless. My legs felt like they'd been replaced with water, trembling violently under me. My lungs burned, and no matter how many gasping breaths I sucked in, it wasn't enough.

"Frank," I rasped, shaking my head, ashamed.

I couldn't do it.

I was stuck here, curled into myself like some pathetic fucking kid, while the alarm screamed, while my family watched me completely fall apart again.

Frank hesitated for only a second before pulling me against him, wrapping his arms around me like he could physically hold me together. His heartbeat was solid against my ear, fast but real, something to hold onto. His hands moved in slow, shaky strokes down my back, grounding me, keeping me from slipping away completely.

"It's okay," he whispered, pressing his cheek to the top of my head. "It's okay. Just breathe. Please, baby, just breathe."

I couldn't answer. I just clenched my fists into his hoodie, squeezing my eyes shut, focusing on the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body against mine.

And then—stronger hands.

Dan.

"Gerard, I got you, man," he murmured, voice steadier than Frank's but still thick with worry. Before I could protest, his arms were under me, lifting me up like I weighed nothing. My head lolled against his shoulder, and I felt so fucking weak, so fucking helpless.

The alarm was still shrieking as he carried me back inside, and I didn't even have it in me to care.

The moment we were through the door, Grandma was there. Her hands cradled my face, soft and shaking, her eyes filled with a deep, quiet sadness that made my stomach twist.

"Oh, Gerard..." she whispered. She brushed my hair back, her fingers warm against my clammy skin, and I wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor and never have to see the way she was looking at me.

And then—Mikey.

Standing behind her, fists clenched at his sides, tears pouring down his face. His whole body was trembling, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths, and he just—he looked so small. So broken.

Because of me.

Dan lowered me onto the couch, and that was when I noticed—everyone was looking at me. Frank, still kneeling by my side, wiping at his eyes. Dan, standing over me, arms crossed but his face etched with exhaustion. Grandma, Mikey, Linda, all of them watching, waiting, like I was some fragile fucking thing that could shatter at any second.

And I hated it.

I was so fucking tired.

Tired of being the one who always needed help. The one everyone had to worry about, had to fix. The center of every goddamn crisis. The walking fucking disaster they all had to keep from completely falling apart.

I just wanted to be left alone.

I wanted a real life, not this endless cycle of breakdowns and pity and people looking at me like I was made of fucking glass. I wanted to be normal. To be someone who didn't have to be dragged back inside, who didn't make his little brother cry, who didn't make people whisper his name like it was some kind of tragedy.

I did something terrible. I get it.

But they didn't have to remind me every single fucking second of my life.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

Gerard was lying beside me, his body curled slightly inward, his breathing uneven even in sleep. He looked small—too small—like the weight of everything had finally crushed him down to nothing. His damp hair clung to his forehead, strands sticking to his temples, and his lips, pale and cracked, parted slightly with every shaky exhale. His hands, curled into loose fists against his chest, twitched every now and then, like even unconscious, he couldn't fully escape whatever the fuck was eating him alive from the inside.

I stayed beside him, not moving, barely breathing, afraid that if I did, he'd stir, and I didn't want him to. He needed to rest. God, he needed so fucking much, and I didn't even know where to start.

Mikey sat on the other side of him, legs crossed, hands clasped together like he was holding himself back. His gaze was locked onto Gerard, heavy with something that sat between exhaustion and fear. He hadn't said much since we got him to sleep, just stayed there, watching, like he was scared that if he looked away, even for a second, Gerard might disappear.

Then, finally, in a quiet, strained voice, he said, "I'm fucking scared, Frank."

I turned to look at him, and for the first time since I met him, Mikey Way looked helpless.

"I've seen him go through a lot," he continued, swallowing hard. "A lot more than anyone even knows. But this? This is different. This is worse."

His voice cracked on that last word, and I felt my stomach drop.

Mikey was Gerard's fucking rock. He was the one who had seen every version of him—drunk, high, broken, reckless—and had somehow always managed to pull him back. If he thought this was worse, if he was scared...

I clenched my jaw, my fingers twitching against the sheets. "What do you mean?"

Mikey exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he didn't even know where to start. "He—he gets like this sometimes. When things get bad. But this isn't just bad, this is..." He trailed off, eyes flickering back to Gerard before meeting mine again. "This is fucking dangerous, Frank."

I felt a cold rush of panic crawl up my spine.

Mikey pressed his lips together, hesitating for a second before continuing. "When he gets like this, he—he does things. He makes things worse on purpose. Self-destruction, self-sabotage, anything just to drown himself more than he already is."

I swallowed, my throat tight.

"He stops taking care of himself. Stops eating, stops sleeping. Pushes people away—sometimes in a way that makes them hate him, just so he has another reason to hate himself, like he needs an excuse to keep spiraling. He drinks until he blacks out, or gets high just to feel anything else—or sometimes to feel nothing at all. And then, when that's not enough..." Mikey exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. "He does things that he knows will hurt him. And if that doesn't work..." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "He makes it work."

I felt my chest tighten, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Gerard shifted slightly beside me, his brow twitching, but he didn't wake up.

Mikey ran a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing anxiously. "I just—I need you to know that, okay? I need you to see it before it gets worse. Because I can't—" His voice wavered, and he shut his eyes for a second, breathing through it. "I can't fucking lose him, Frank."

My throat felt like it was closing up.

"You won't," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I swear, Mikey, you won't."

But as I looked down at Gerard, pale and exhausted, even in sleep, I realized that I wasn't saying it for Mikey.

I was saying it for myself.

Pete appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets. His expression was softer than usual, a quiet kind of concern lingering in his eyes as he glanced between me and Mikey.

"Hey, babe, I gotta go now. Will you be okay?" he asked, directing the question at Mikey but still eyeing Gerard for a second, like he wasn't sure whether he should be asking, too.

Mikey nodded, pushing himself up from the bed. "Yeah, thanks for coming. I'll go downstairs with you." His voice was tired, but there was something grateful in it, something that made Pete relax a little.

Pete turned his gaze to me. "Bye, Frank."

"Bye," I muttered back, watching as Mikey followed him out, leaving me alone with Gerard again.

The room felt even quieter once they were gone, the only sound the slow, uneven breaths of the boy beside me.

The rest of them stayed downstairs for the rest of the day, making dinner, keeping themselves busy—probably giving me space. My mom didn't say anything, just let me be alone with him for now, waiting for him to wake up. I should be grateful for that, but I can't feel anything except this bone-deep exhaustion, this aching weight in my chest that won't go away. I feel like shit. I feel worse than shit. But I know I have to be strong for him.

I can't deny that I've thought about it. Cutting. Punishing myself. It's been sitting in the back of my head like a quiet, constant whisper, getting louder every time I see Gerard like this—pale, fragile, completely drained of whatever fight he had left. And I can't do anything about it. I can't fix this. Half the time, I just end up making it worse. Saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, not doing enough. I see it in his eyes when he looks at me, like he's already waiting for the moment I give up. And maybe he's right. Maybe I am making it worse.

I don't even know if I'm a good boyfriend. I don't know if we should be together. Not because I don't want to—God, I do. I want him more than anything. But I can't stop thinking that maybe he shouldn't be worrying about a relationship when he has to deal with all this other shit, and if something between us goes wrong, he'll blame himself. He'll think he's not good enough, that he's fucking everything up, and in the worst-case scenario—he'll leave. Not because he doesn't love me, but because he thinks he has to.

And the worst part? I feel the same way. Like I'm not good enough for him. Like maybe if I was better, he wouldn't be like this. Like maybe if I was different, I wouldn't be thinking about going home, opening that damn drawer, and ripping my skin open just to feel like I have some control over this mess.

But I can't do that. Not when I know exactly what it would do to him. Not when I know that if I start spiraling, he'll drown even deeper. And I can't—I won't—let that happen.

He was waking up, shifting on the mattress, his breathing uneven, face scrunching up like even existing hurt. I just watched him, my mind still racing, my body still heavy with exhaustion.

"Gee, I'm here..." I murmured, rubbing his arm gently, hoping it would ground him, let him know he wasn't alone.

He didn't say anything at first, just let out a lazy, miserable groan before whispering, "I feel like throwing up—"

I was on my feet instantly, slipping an arm around his waist to help him up. He was weak, unsteady, leaning into me more than I expected.

We barely made it to the bathroom before he lurched forward, gripping the toilet bowl as his body convulsed. The sound of him gagging, retching, gasping for breath—it made my stomach turn, but I stayed there, rubbing slow circles on his back, whispering "It's okay, it's okay, let it out," even though it obviously wasn't okay.

I sank onto the edge of the bathtub, watching him, my fingers still tracing over his spine. His skin was clammy, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the porcelain. And I hated this. I hated seeing him like this. I hated that I couldn't do anything except sit here and watch him suffer.

When he was finally done, he let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the cold tile of the bathtub, his body sinking against it like he was trying to disappear into the wall. I slid down onto the floor beside him, close but not overwhelming, giving him space while still being there.

He ran a hand through his damp, red hair, the strands sticking to his fingers. It looked faded now, unkempt, the roots dark and overgrown. It made me sad in a stupid way—I used to love helping him dye it, watching him grin at his reflection when it was freshly done, vibrant and alive. I'll redo it later, I thought, making a mental note.

Then, without a word, he let his head fall against my shoulder, his body heavier than usual, like he was finally letting himself rest.

"What happened?" he muttered, his voice raw, barely above a whisper.

"You had a panic attack," I answered softly.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "No shit, I know that," he sighed.

"About the ankle monitor, the alarm—" he added, sounding more resigned than anything.

"A cop came. My mom explained everything to him. He just checked if you were still here, and you were, so... don't worry about it."

Silence. He just nodded against me, his breathing slow and uneven.

I nudged him lightly. "Wash your mouth, brush your teeth—I wanna kiss you."

He groaned. "Just do it."

"No, fuck no, you just puked."

"So you don't love me enough."

"Guess I don't," I said with a smirk, standing up and offering him my hand. He rolled his eyes but took it, letting me pull him to his feet.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he brushed his teeth. He still looked exhausted, dark circles heavy under his red-rimmed eyes, his expression distant, like he wasn't fully here. His hair was a mess, his bangs falling too long over his face, hiding his eyes every time he looked down. And that shirt—too short on him, the hem riding up just enough to expose a strip of his pale skin. It was probably mine, but he looked better in it than I ever could.

God, I loved this boy.

We walked back to his room in silence, his hand loosely gripping mine like he was scared I'd let go. The door clicked shut behind us, and as soon as we were inside, he turned to me, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but searching for something—comfort, distraction, anything to make him forget for a little while.

I didn't say anything, just pulled him in gently, pressing my lips to his. He melted into it almost instantly, his hands finding my waist, gripping the fabric of my hoodie like he needed to hold onto something solid. His lips were warm, soft despite how torn they had looked earlier. He tasted like toothpaste and something distinctly him.

The kiss was slow, almost lazy. Not desperate, not rushed, just needed. His fingers ghosted over my hips before sliding under my hoodie, cold against my skin. I shivered slightly, making him smirk against my mouth.

"Your hands are freezing," I mumbled, breaking away just enough to speak.

"So warm me up," he murmured, voice low, teasing.

I huffed a quiet laugh, kissing him again, deeper this time. His fingers pressed into my skin as he pulled me closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. I let my hands wander, one threading into his messy hair, the other resting on his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of stubble under my palm. He let out the softest sound when I bit his bottom lip, barely a whimper, but it was enough to send a rush of heat down my spine.

But just as I started to press him back toward the bed, he sighed against my mouth and pulled away, resting his forehead against mine.

"I'm really fucking tired, Frankie."

I exhaled, nodding, running a hand through his hair. "I get it, baby. It's okay."

Dinner felt suffocating. The air was thick with things unsaid, tension simmering under the surface of casual conversation. My mom and Helena had done their best, preparing a nice meal, keeping the atmosphere light. My mom talked about work, about office gossip, about things that didn't fucking matter. Mikey sat at the table, scrolling through his phone until Helena snapped at him to put it away. Dan was engaged in conversation, nodding along as my mom vented about her coworkers.

And Gerard—he was barely holding it together. He sat stiffly in his chair, pushing food around on his plate, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. I knew he didn't want to eat. I knew he felt sick, exhausted, wrung out from everything. But all eyes were on him. So he tried.

I focused on my own plate, keeping my head down, pretending like I wasn't watching him struggle. But I was. Every slow bite he forced himself to take. The way he clenched his fist under the table, like he was bracing himself for something.

My mom turned to me suddenly, breaking me from my thoughts. "Frank, did you look over the stuff you need to study before winter break?"

I barely looked up. "Yeah, Ryan is sending me his notes."

"You can't fail your last year, Frank. I know it's hard, but—"

I exhaled sharply, already annoyed. "I'll try. I can't promise, but I'll try."

She wasn't satisfied with that. "I need you to go back and catch up ASAP. I already spoke to the principal and some of your teachers, but your grades aren't great enough to let this slide. And your disciplinary record isn't exactly helping. If you fail the course, you're going to have to start working—"

I snapped. "Mom, can we not talk about this right now? There's more important shit going on."

"Don't talk to your mom like that, kiddo," Dan cut in, giving me a warning look.

I scoffed. "Oh, come on. You haven't heard how she used to talk to me—"

"Frankie," Gerard muttered, his hand resting on my thigh, squeezing just enough to ground me.

I clenched my jaw but let it go, shoving another bite of food into my mouth.

Helena cleared her throat, offering a small smile. "I think Frank will be able to graduate next year, Linda. Don't worry, sweetheart, you'll do everything you can, right?"

I just nodded, stabbing at my food.

Mikey was the first to stand, his plate mostly empty. "Thanks. That was really good." His tone was unreadable, face neutral as he walked off to the living room.

Gerard followed, getting up with his plate.

"You haven't finished," Helena pointed out, frowning.

"I'm full."

I stared at him. "Gerard, you just threw up."

His eyes flicked to me, tired, irritated. "Oh, fuck off, you're so annoying." And just like that, he walked off, slumping onto the couch beside Mikey, eyes glued to the TV like he hadn't just driven a knife straight into my chest.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep eating even though my appetite had disappeared the second Gerard snapped at me. It wasn't even that harsh, not really. But it stung. Like he was pushing me away again. Like I was just another problem on his plate, another thing suffocating him when all I wanted was to fucking help.

"He didn't mean it, Frankie," Helena said gently, rubbing my arm.

"Uh... yeah." My voice was flat, my grip tightening around the fork. I stabbed at my food without really eating, pretending I wasn't bothered.

Linda sighed, setting her fork down. "Gerard needs patience right now. You know that."

I didn't answer.

Dan cleared his throat, probably trying to ease the tension. "He's just overwhelmed, kid. It's not personal."

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "It's always personal with him."

The table fell into an awkward silence after that. Helena gave my arm one last comforting squeeze before going back to her plate. Linda just sighed again and kept eating. Dan muttered something under his breath before taking a sip of his drink.

I shoved another bite of food into my mouth just so I wouldn't have to talk anymore. Just so I wouldn't have to think about how fucking tired I was too. Of all of this. Of the constant worrying, of watching Gerard fall apart and feeling completely helpless, of not knowing if I was making things better or worse.

After a few minutes, I heard Gerard and Mikey's voices from the living room, low and quiet, the muffled sound of the TV playing in the background. I wanted to go after him. Wanted to sit beside him, press my leg against his, remind him that I was there, even if he didn't want me to be right now. But I stayed at the table, finishing my food in silence, my stomach twisting with something too heavy to name.

I finished my food, muttered a "thanks," and got up. Gerard was waiting for me on the couch, eyes flicking up when I walked past the table. But I didn't sit beside him. I didn't even look at him. I just kept walking.

I climbed the stairs, making my way to his room, heart pounding for no reason other than the weight of everything. The weight of this fucking day. Of everything that's been happening since the moment I let myself love him.

I reached for my bag, fingers digging past clothes and random shit until I found what I was looking for—a nearly full pack of cigarettes. I took one, shoved the pack into my hoodie pocket, and pushed the window open. The cold air hit me immediately, sharp against my skin, but I didn't care. I climbed out, feet steady on the roof tiles, moving like I'd done this a thousand times before.

The moment I sat down, I lit the cigarette, inhaling deep, feeling the burn rush into my lungs. My fingers were already numb, the cold biting at my skin, but I liked it. It made me feel something. It made me focus on something other than the fucking mess inside my head.

I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up into the dark sky. My breath came out in clouds, mixing with it, disappearing into nothing.

Gerard's words kept replaying in my head. Oh, fuck off, you're so annoying. It wasn't even the worst thing he could've said. But it was the way he said it. Like I was just a nuisance. Like he didn't want me there.

I knew he didn't mean it. At least, not really. He was tired, overwhelmed, hurting. But so was I. And the truth was, I didn't know if I was helping him or just making everything worse.

The smoke stung my throat as I took another drag, letting it settle, letting the nicotine do its job.

The cold wind brushed against my face, making my eyes water, but I just sat there, staring at nothing.

I was tired. So fucking tired.

I took another drag, letting the smoke sit heavy in my lungs before exhaling, watching it dissolve into the night. It was quiet up here. Just the wind, the faint hum of cars in the distance, the occasional creak of the house settling beneath me.

I wished I could stay here forever. Away from the weight of expectations, from the constant pressure of trying to be what everyone needed me to be. Away from the looks of pity, the worried glances, the fucking feeling of walking on eggshells around Gerard, like one wrong move would send him spiraling even deeper.

I pulled my knees up, resting my elbows on them, the cigarette dangling between my fingers. My hands were shaking. I didn't even know if it was from the cold or something else.

I didn't know how to do this.

I loved him. More than anything. But love wasn't fixing shit. Love wasn't making things easier. Love wasn't stopping the way my chest felt like it was caving in every time I saw him hurting and knew I couldn't take it away.

I didn't know if I was helping him or just giving him one more thing to feel guilty about. He had enough of that already. If he thought he was dragging me down with him, he'd leave. He'd fucking leave, and I knew it. I knew him.

And the worst part? Maybe he was right. Maybe I did deserve better. Maybe we shouldn't be together. Maybe it would be easier if I just let him go, let him deal with his shit without me making it worse.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't let him go.

Even when he pushed me away. Even when he said shit that cut deep. Even when I felt like I was drowning right alongside him.

I took another shaky inhale, but before I could exhale, my breath caught in my throat. A lump, heavy and suffocating. My vision blurred. The smoke burned its way up my nose, making me cough, but I barely noticed.

I bit down on my lip, hard, willing myself to hold it together. But then the first sob ripped through me, and it was over.

I buried my face in my hands, cigarette still burning between my fingers, shaking as I broke apart right there on the fucking roof.

I hated this.

I hated feeling this helpless. I hated feeling this lost. I hated that no matter how much I tried, nothing was getting better.

Tears dripped onto my jeans, cold against my skin. I tried to quiet myself, pressing my palms to my face, but it didn't stop. I was just so fucking tired.

Of feeling like I was never enough.

Of watching the person I loved fall apart and not knowing how to put him back together.

Of being afraid that maybe—just maybe—I was falling apart too.

I heard a voice in Gerard's room, just beneath where I was sitting on the roof. My heart jumped.

Was he looking for me?

I wiped my face quickly, dragging the back of my hand over my cheeks, trying to pull myself together. My cigarette was burning low between my fingers, the last of it dimming in the cold air. I took one final drag, deep enough to sting, as if that could steady me. If he was looking for me, I wanted to look indifferent. Normal. I wanted to be able to throw out some sarcastic comment and pretend I hadn't been sitting here for what felt like forever, waiting.

Because that's what I was doing, right?

Waiting.

For him to come find me.

For him to realize I was fucking hurt, that I felt like shit, that his stupid comment at dinner had hit me deeper than it should have.

I exhaled, smoke curling around me, and leaned forward, listening.

But then I heard her.

"Frankie? Where are you?"

My mom.

Fuck.

The disappointment hit harder than I wanted to admit, sinking into my chest like a stone. I don't know why I thought it would be him. Why I still had hope. He wasn't looking for me. He wasn't standing in his room, anxious, wondering where I went. He was downstairs, watching TV, like nothing happened. Like I didn't matter.

I clenched my teeth, furious at myself for expecting anything different.

"Wait!" I called, my voice hoarse from crying. I flicked my cigarette off the roof, watching the embers disappear into the darkness, then swung my legs over the edge, climbing back inside.

She was standing in the middle of Gerard's room, arms crossed, watching me. Her expression was unreadable, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to scold me for sneaking onto the roof or just let it go.

"We're leaving, honey. Take care, okay?"

I swallowed hard. My throat burned from the smoke, from the cold air, from the lump that had been sitting there since dinner. And then, before I even knew what I was saying—

"I'll go with you."

She frowned, tilting her head slightly. "What?"

"I'll go with you, damn," I snapped, pushing past her, grabbing my bag from the floor and yanking it open, throwing my shit inside with too much force.

"Frank, are you angry at him?"

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Yes, Mom. I'm fucking angry. And I'm so tired of everything. Just let's go."

My voice cracked on the last word.

She sighed, stepping closer. "Oh, sweetheart—"

And then she hugged me.

A real hug.

A mother's hug.

Like she used to when I was a kid.

Like she actually fucking cared.

I lost it.

My whole body shook, and I fucking lost it.

The tears came back harder, wrecking me. I clung to her, my fingers digging into the back of her sweater, all the anger and exhaustion and sadness pouring out at once. It didn't even feel like crying anymore—it felt like breaking. Like everything I had been trying to hold in for weeks, months, maybe even years, was finally splitting open. And I didn't even care. I just let her hold me.

I wasn't a kid anymore. I hadn't let her comfort me like this in a long time. But right now, I needed it.

By the time we made it downstairs, Helena had already gone to bed. The house was quiet except for the low murmur of the TV. Dan was standing by the doorway, arms crossed, waiting, his gaze flicking between me and my mom like he wasn't sure what had just happened.

Mikey saw me first.

He was curled up on the couch, scrolling through his phone, but when I stepped into the room, his eyes lifted. He looked at me—really looked at me—the redness, the puffiness, the mess of it all. His fingers tightened around his phone. He bit his lip, sighed, but didn't say anything.

And Gerard—

Gerard didn't even look.

He was lying down, head resting on Mikey's lap, staring blankly at the screen, as if I wasn't even there. As if I hadn't just spent the last hour sitting on his fucking roof, waiting for him to care.

Something in my chest twisted painfully.

I clenched my jaw, gripping my bag tighter, forcing myself not to react.

"Take care, Gerard," my mom said.

"Yeah, you too," he muttered, still not looking at me.

I swallowed hard, my throat thick. "Bye," I mumbled.

No reaction.

I turned for the door, heart pounding, stomach in knots, but before I could step outside, I felt it—

A hand grabbing mine.

"Frank, wait."

I froze.

His touch was warm, familiar. A part of me wanted to give in, to turn around and let him fix whatever this was. But I knew better.

I turned, meeting his eyes. Those fucking eyes that used to make me stay. That used to make me weak.

But not tonight.

Not anymore.

I ripped my hand from his grip.

"Fuck off, Gerard."

And then I rolled my eyes, turned away, and slammed the door in his face.

I knew that wasn't the right thing to do. I fucking knew it.

I'm not gonna sit here and say my emotions controlled me—well, maybe a little—but I was fully aware of what I was doing. I knew slamming that door in his face would provoke a reaction. A bad one. And maybe that was what I wanted. Maybe I needed him to feel even a fraction of the way I felt. Because the truth was, I felt fucking miserable.

And I wanted him to know it.

I wasn't going to pretend everything was okay. I wasn't going to swallow it down and play nice. It was too much. Too overwhelming. All I wanted was a long, slow kiss goodnight. I wanted to sleep tangled up with him, just feeling his breath against my skin, his heartbeat steady against my chest. I wanted someone to shove a needle full of Novocaine into my veins and numb all the pain in my body, in my head, until there was nothing left.

But I didn't get any of that.

Instead, I got a silent car ride home in the backseat of Dan's car, my head resting against the cold window, the streetlights flashing by in a blur. No one asked questions. No one forced me to talk. And for that, I was fucking grateful.

What I hadn't thought about, though, was what would happen when I walked through the front door.

The fucking crime scene.

The column near the stairs where he tied me up.

The missing chair where Gerard had been bound, the one that broke when he fell.

The scent of linoleum cleaner and something artificial, something meant to cover up the stench of everything that had happened here. We never used that shit. My mom never cared if the house smelled good. It was too organized now, too clean. It wasn't my home anymore.

I barely felt my legs as I dragged myself upstairs. My room was exactly how I had left it, like a fucking time capsule of a life I didn't feel connected to anymore. My birthday presents were still on the floor, untouched. I dropped my bag on the bed, peeled off my hoodie, my jeans, my shoes, and sat on the floor, staring at the pile of gifts before finally reaching for them.

Ray: Three damn beautiful guitar picks.
Ryan: A Metallica t-shirt.
Avril: A gift card for a piercing.
Brendon: A pair of fingerless black skeleton gloves.
Lindsey: A Radiohead CD.
Pete & Mikey: A fucking gay porn magazine with a note attached.

(Sorry dude, we were 2 broke for a real gift, but we wanted to wrap smth. Next year it'll be better. Enjoy it. XO)

I fucking laughed at that. I could already picture Pete snickering while Mikey rolled his eyes and reluctantly signed his name.

At the bottom of the bag, I found my ticket for Green Day's concert. December 10.

What the fuck was gonna happen by then?

Would we still be together?
Would Gerard even be around?

I had no fucking idea. A part of me wanted to rip the ticket apart, just so I wouldn't have to hold onto that hope. Just so I wouldn't be disappointed. But I didn't. Instead, I shoved it into my nightstand with the rest of the gifts, closing the drawer a little too hard.

And that's when I saw it.

A letter.

Sitting on my bed.

It wasn't wrapped like a present. It wasn't tucked away like someone had left it there to surprise me. It was just... there.

Something about it felt off. My stomach twisted as I reached for it, as I slid my fingers under the edge of the envelope and pulled it open.

And the second I saw the handwriting—

I knew.

James.

Chapter Text

My love and my hate for you are infinite:

Frank,

Happy fucking birthday.

Weird as hell writing that, huh? Saying happy birthday to a dead guy. 'Cause that's what you are now, right? Dead. Not literally, obviously-I'm not sitting here writing to a corpse (though that'd be metal as fuck, in a fucked-up way)-but the Frank I knew? The one I grew up with? The one who made fun of whoever was an emo or a nerd or a fag. That Frank is gone. I know is mad. But I miss him so bad. The Frank who had my back no matter what, who knew me better than anyone, who was my fucking best friend-he's dead.

And I don't know whether to mourn him or fucking hate him for leaving me behind.

And I don't know when exactly it happened.

Maybe it was gradual, like a sickness creeping in, infecting you little by little until one day, you just weren't you anymore. Maybe it was when you stopped laughing at my jokes-the real ones, the ones only we understood, the ones that used to make you double over, gasping for breath. Maybe it was when you started spending more time with him instead, letting him sink his claws into you, letting him turn you into something... less.

Maybe it was when you let yourself get soft. Let yourself get weak.

I mean, Jesus, Frankie. Look at yourself. You used to be fucking untouchable. You used to know who you were. And now? Now you're just some lovesick idiot chasing after a guy who'll never love you the way I-

Forget it.

You didn't looked at today. On your fucking birthday. Like I was just some guy. Like I was nothing. I had to showed up here in your fucking house.

Remember when we were kids? Every Halloween, it was our thing-horror movies, too much candy, sneaking into whatever rated-R shit we could find. It was tradition, man. It didn't matter how fucked up things got, how much our parents sucked, how many fights we had, or how much the world pissed us off-we had that. Every fucking year. Just us. No one else.

And now? Now it's like it never even mattered to you.

I waited, dude. I fucking waited. Sat outside the theater, freezing my ass off, telling myself, he's coming, he wouldn't just forget, he wouldn't just ditch me for some artfag with mommy issues.

But you never showed.

I should've left. I should've just said fuck you and gone home. But I sat there like a goddamn idiot, watching kids in costumes run past, watching couples go inside, watching the time tick by, waiting for you to come to your senses. Waiting for you to remember me.

But you didn't.

And you know what? I should've seen it coming. I should've known the second you started acting different, the second you stopped giving a shit about the people who actually know you.

The people who actually care.

You think he fucking cares about you? You think any of them do? Open your eyes, Frankie. You're a novelty to them. A fucking stray dog they picked up, a fun little pet to parade around until they get bored. And when they do? When they find something new, something shinier, something easier?

They're gonna drop you. Just like that.

And then what? You gonna come crawling back? You think I'll be sitting around, just waiting for you to remember who the fuck you are? Who the fuck we were?

Newsflash, man. I won't.

They'll leave.

And guess who's gonna be left?

Not me. Not this time.

I've spent years waiting for you, Frankie. Waiting for you to wake the fuck up, to snap out of whatever trance he's put you in and remember who the fuck you are. Who the fuck we were. But you won't, will you? You won't, because you're too far gone. Too wrapped up in him, in whatever sad little fantasy you've built around him.

And I can't fucking watch it anymore.

I'm done waiting for you to come to your senses. Done waiting for you to realize you're throwing everything away for nothing. Because that's what he is, Frankie. Nothing. A fucking loser with a sad little sob story and a bad dye job.

And you? You're not just letting him ruin you-you're helping him do it. You're choosing this.

Do you even see what you're doing? What you've done?

I fucking hate him, Frankie. I hate him so much I can't even think straight. And I know you'll roll your eyes at that, I know you'll say I'm just being a dick like always, that I'm just talking shit because I don't like change or whatever the fuck, but no. It's not that. It's him.

It's the way he looks at you. Like you belong to him. Like he fucking owns you. Like you're some fragile little thing he has to shelter and mold and keep so goddamn close that no one else can touch you. Like he's the only one who fucking matters. And the worst part? You let him. You let him stand there with his sad, pathetic little puppy-dog eyes and his shitty art-school philosophies, and you eat that shit up like he's some kind of savior. You let him change you.

Because you're not the same, Frankie. You're not. And don't even try to tell me that you are. I see it. I see it every fucking time you avoid my eyes in the hallways, every time you choose him over me, every time you open your mouth and it's not your voice coming out anymore-it's his.

You think he's good for you? You think he makes you better? Because all I see is you breaking yourself into pieces just to fit next to him. Cutting off the parts of yourself that don't match. Lying to yourself, lying to me. And I fucking hate him for that.

I hate that he took you away from me.

And I hate that I still fucking miss you.

And I know I shouldn't. I know I should just let you go, let you be whoever the fuck this is now, but I can't. I can't stop missing you. I can't stop thinking about how things used to be-before all this, before him, before you started looking at me like that. Like maybe you knew. Like maybe you always knew.

And maybe that's what scares me the most.

Because what if you did? What if you saw it in the way I looked at you? In the way I laughed too hard at your jokes, in the way I always had your back, no matter how fucked up things got? What if you knew, Frankie? What if you always fucking knew, and you just never said anything? Never called me out on it? Never asked?

Because I don't know what I would've done if you had. If you ever turned to me and said it out loud. If you ever looked me in the eye and asked me why I hated seeing you with anyone else. If you ever made me admit it.

And now it doesn't even fucking matter, does it? Because I lost my chance. I lost you.

I miss us, Frankie. I miss you.

I miss laughing until my ribs hurt, until we couldn't even breathe, until we had to hold onto each other just to stay upright. I miss sneaking out at night, skating or riding our bikes through empty streets, feeling invincible, like nothing could touch us. I miss the way the world felt smaller when it was just us, the way we could talk about the dumbest shit for hours, the way nothing else mattered.

I miss the way you used to see me. Not just look at me-see me. Like I was someone. Like I fucking mattered.

But you don't see me anymore.

And maybe you never will again.

So yeah. I'm done waiting. I'm done holding my breath, hoping you'll wake the fuck up and remember who you are. Who we were.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop missing you. I don't think I ever could.

Haley is fucking amazing, you know? She's everything a guy could ever want. She's beautiful-no, breathtaking. She walks into a room and it's like the whole world tilts in her direction. I love her blonde hair, the way it catches the light just right, the way it falls in front of her face when she laughs. I love the way she talks, the way she moves, the way she dances like she owns the whole fucking universe and everyone else is just lucky to be in it. The way she looks at me like I'm something worth looking at. The way she pulls me into her orbit without even trying, like it's effortless, like I belong there. The way we fuck, like it means something.

And maybe it should. Maybe it would, if I wasn't so fucking broken.

I don't know how you dumped her for him. I don't know how you looked at her-at everything she is, everything she has to offer-and still chose him. Because if it was her, at least I could understand it. At least it would make sense. At least I wouldn't have to sit here, choking on the fact that you were into guys this whole time and you never-not once-looked at me.

But the truth is, Frankie?

I still want all of that with you.

Just in another universe. One where no one can bother us, where no one's watching, where no one gives a shit about who we are or what we're supposed to be. One where it's just us, the way it always should've been. One where I don't have to bite my tongue, don't have to shove it all down, don't have to keep looking at you and pretending it doesn't fucking hurt.

One where I'm not so fucking scared of what it means-of what you mean to me. One where I don't have to lie to myself, where I don't have to prove anything to anyone, where I don't have to wake up every goddamn day with this thing inside my chest, eating me alive.

One where I don't have to keep pretending.

But this isn't that universe.

And it never will be.

And I know I'm a fucking coward. I know that. I've always known that. I spent years convincing myself I wasn't like that, that I wasn't weak, that I wasn't one of them. That I didn't want you like that. That whatever I felt was just some stupid, fleeting thing-just a phase, just a fucked-up attachment, just nothing. But you got under my skin, Frankie. You wormed your way in without even trying, and now I can't get you out. You fucking ruined me.

And now? Now it doesn't even matter. Now you're too wrapped up in him, too fucking gone for me to even reach you. Too in love with that fucking Gerard to even see it. To even see me. To even look at me the way you used to. And I fucking hate you for that.

But I hate myself more.

And you know what pisses me off the most? What fucking eats me alive?

Every time I kiss her, every time I touch her, every time she laughs against my lips or moans my name like I'm the only thing in the world that matters-I close my eyes, and it's you. It's always you. And I fucking hate myself for it.

I liked our kiss in detention. I liked it. And I know you did too, even if you never fucking admitted it. I know it shook you, scared you, changed something in you-just like it did to me. But what did you do? You ran.

You had to run away.

And now? Now I don't even know who the fuck you are anymore. I don't recognize this person who looks like you, talks like you, breathes like you-but isn't you. Because my Frankie, my best fucking friend, wouldn't have left me behind. Wouldn't have cut me open and let me bleed out alone.

I just wanna go out and skate and get high and smoke weed, just the two of us, like we used to. I wanna feel the cold night air on my face as we race down empty streets, boards rattling against the pavement, your laugh echoing in the dark. I wanna sit on that shitty curb by the gas station at 2 a.m., legs stretched out on the sidewalk, splitting a pack of cigarettes, burning our fingers on the last drags. I wanna talk about dumb shit that only made sense to us, about music and horror movies and how fucking pointless everything felt, but at least we had each other.

But I know I'll never have that again. I know that.

At least I have to try.

I hope you forgive me for what I'm gonna do today.

I don't know how it's gonna happen. I don't know if it'll even work. Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll fuck it up like I fuck up everything else. But I can't keep living like this, with this fucking storm in my head, with this feeling that's eating me alive.

Yeah. I'm a psycho. And I'm sick. I know that. I've known it for a long time. But you-you made me this way. You crawled under my skin, into my fucking bones, and now I don't know where I end and you begin. And I hate it.

I hate you for it.

I hate me even more.

But my love and my hate for you are infinite. They bleed into each other until I don't know the difference. Until it's all just one fucking mess, tangled up so tight I don't know how to pull myself free.

And maybe I don't want to.

So yeah. Happy birthday, I guess.

Hope it was worth it.

-James D.

Chapter Text

What if he was right?

My hands trembled so fucking bad the whole time I read that note, I could barely even hold it, let alone make sense of the words. They blurred together, one fucking after another, his anger spilling off the page like he was right there, spitting the words at me, shaking with it. I thought I used that word a lot, but this? This was something else.

And then I saw it. His handwriting. And I fucking broke.

The second I realized it was really him, the second I knew he had actually sat down and written this, I started crying. Ugly, shaking, gut-wrenching crying. Because it hurt. It hurt in a way I didn't even know I could hurt. Like he'd reached into my chest and twisted his hands around everything soft inside me and just ripped.

What if he was right?

What if I was just a fucking waste? What if Gerard would leave me just like James said he would? What if nobody really cared about me, not really—not enough to stay, not enough to fight for me? What if I'd thrown away something real, something stable, for something that was just... what? A fucking fantasy? A lie I'd built up in my head just because I liked the way Gerard fucked me?

What if this wasn't love?

And what if that's why I couldn't save him?

What if I had fucked it all up? With James. With Haley. With Gerard. What if every single choice I had made was the wrong one, and now everything was just collapsing around me, and I had no one to blame but myself?

He was going to kill Gerard.

Maybe.

Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just saying that, just trying to scare me, to make me feel like it was my fault, like I'd pushed him to the edge. But the way he worded it... I hope you forgive me for what I'm gonna do today. The way he talked about trying to have that again, like there was only one way to make that happen. The only way to erase Gerard.

And he was asking for forgiveness for that?

Am I wrong?

I don't know. I don't fucking know. And it's eating me alive. It's making me want to rip my fucking hair out, to claw my skin open, to scream. I want answers. I want to know what he meant. I want to know if I could have stopped him, if I was supposed to do something, if I missed some fucked-up warning sign before it was too late.

I want to play the Ouija. Just to fucking ask him. Just to hear him say it. But I'm too scared. I don't fuck with ghosts, I don't fuck with spirits, I don't fuck with any of that supernatural shit, because if I open that door, what if I don't just get him? What if I get something worse?

I don't know how to feel. I don't even know what the fuck I am feeling. Sad? Angry? Mad? Disappointed?

Or maybe just fucking broken.

I feel like I have no control. Like I'm a ticking time bomb, seconds away from blowing up, from shattering into a million pieces with no way to put myself back together. Like every single second is just me waiting for the explosion, waiting for the break, waiting for the moment I finally lose my grip on everything I've been trying so fucking hard to hold onto.

And the worst part?

I don't even know how to stop it.

I stood up, my legs shaky, my head spinning with too many thoughts, too many fucking what ifs, and went downstairs. The kitchen was dark, the whole house felt wrong, like the walls were closing in, like the air was thicker than it should be. My hands were already shaking when I started opening cabinets, searching.

There had to be something.

A bottle of whiskey, a half-empty vodka hidden behind the cereal, a shitty beer in the back of the fridge. Something.

But there was nothing.

Of course, there wasn't. Dan had made sure of that. He was in charge of my mom's whole sobriety journey, and part of that meant every last drop of alcohol was gone, wiped clean from the house like it had never fucking been there in the first place.

I gripped the counter, squeezing my eyes shut.

Fuck.

I needed to get drunk. I needed the burn in my throat, the numbness in my limbs, that fuzzy, distant feeling that made everything stop for a while. But I couldn't have that.

And that made me sob even harder.

It made the desperation crawl up my throat like bile, made me feel fucking trapped, made me want to scream because I had nowhere to put this, no way to make it stop, no way to make any of it go away.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I went back upstairs, locked my door, and opened the drawer.

The Altoids box was still there, cold metal against my palm, rattling slightly when I picked it up. I flipped the lid open, and there they were.

My razors.

I took one and held it between my fingers, watching the way the dim light from my lamp glinted off the blade. It was small, almost insignificant, just a thin piece of metal—but it felt heavy in my hand. Like it was carrying every thought I'd been trying to push down, every fucking feeling I didn't want to deal with.

I stared at it for a few seconds, just breathing, just existing in that awful, suffocating space between wanting and not wanting.

I had been clean for so long.

So fucking long.

But staying clean didn't mean I wasn't suffering. It didn't mean I had magically fixed whatever was broken inside me. It just meant I had been distracted. That I had been shoving all my shit into the background because I was too busy worrying about someone else's head instead of my own.

And now?

Now there was nothing else to focus on. No noise to drown it out. Just me and this razor and the way my hands were shaking so fucking bad I almost dropped it.

I sat down near my bed, my back against the edge, the room spinning around me like I wasn't really there. My legs were bare, exposed—just my boxers and my shaking hands gripping that stupid little blade like it was the only thing anchoring me to the fucking ground.

And then, before I could think, before I could stop myself, I pressed it against my upper right thigh and dragged.

One line. Then another. Then another.

Red welled up in perfect, stinging streaks, beading, slipping, following the curves of my skin like it had been waiting to escape. I switched to my left, barely hesitating before I did it again. My hands didn't tremble anymore. I made the next ones deeper. Ripped myself open like it might let something out—like it might pull the pain from somewhere inside me and make it real. Make it visible. Make it something I could fucking understand.

And I sobbed.

Not because of the sting, not because of the blood trickling down my legs, but because it worked. Because for a split second, I could breathe again.

For a split second, the suffocating weight in my chest cracked open, spilling out in the form of red ribbons across my skin, and it was a fucking relief.

It never lasts long.

It never fucking does.

But for once, I felt like myself again. Like this horrible fucking habit wasn't just a habit—it was a way to exist. A way to feel something instead of the nothing that had been eating me alive, consuming me whole, swallowing me into the void I felt growing, stretching, clawing inside my ribs.

For once, I didn't feel empty.

For once, I didn't feel gone.

Then I moved to my arms. My clean fucking arms. The ones I had kept safe for so long, the ones I swore I wouldn't touch again. And for a second—just a second—I hesitated.

Because if I did this, if I ruined them, then that was it. No more short sleeves, no more taking my shirt off without a second thought, no more pretending I was okay. But fuck, I needed this more than I needed to be shirtless. More than I needed to keep up the illusion that I was fine.

So I did it.

At first, just shallow lines, barely enough to break the surface, but then deeper, dragging the blade slow, controlled, watching the skin split open like it was meant to. Like it was waiting for this. Blood welled up, warm and bright, running down my arm, dripping onto the floor, staining the carpet in messy, uneven splatters. The napkins I grabbed weren't enough. They never were. It didn't matter.

I wasn't trying to die. I wasn't. I promise.

I just did it like I always did. Like I had before. Bleed enough to feel it, but not enough to disappear. Just enough to let the pain spill out, to let the mess inside me exist outside of me, even if just for a second.

The mess was everywhere. In the bloodied napkins, in the red soaking into the floor, in my fucking head.

James' letter lay beside me, the edges curled slightly from how many times I had unfolded and refolded it, how many times my fingers had trembled over the ink. I glanced at it every time I thought about stopping. Every time Gerard crossed my mind. Every time I wondered how this would make him feel.

But he wasn't going to find out.

He didn't even want to fuck me lately. And I wasn't about to go crawling back, not anytime soon.

I was too fucking pissed.

At him.

At myself.

At everything.

My phone was vibrating. I noticed.

At first, I ignored it. Let it buzz against the floor like it was just some distant noise, something happening outside of me, something that didn't matter. But then I glanced at the screen, and—fuck.

6 missed calls.

3 voice messages.

14 texts.

And the rest? A modic amount of 87 from my so-called friends and classmates, the ones I'd been ignoring since my birthday.

But none of them mattered.

His messages mattered.

Gerard.

I stared at the screen, my breathing uneven, my hands sticky with half-dried blood. I swore I didn't want to check. Swore I wasn't gonna let him get to me. Swore I was done waiting on him to care.

But I did.

I fucking did.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding, my breath shallow. My fingers hovered over the play button, and then, before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed it.

Gerard's voice filled the quiet room.

Voice message 1:
"Frankie, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. Just come here, and we can talk, please."

I shut my eyes. His voice was shaky, desperate, the kind of voice you use when you're afraid something is slipping through your fingers.

Voice message 2:
"Please, Frankie, at least answer my calls. I need you, and I know you need me. Please forgive me. I was a jerk, and I want to apologize. You mean everything to me, and I don't know if you realize it. Please, Frankie, don't be mad. I love you."

The way he said I love you made my chest tighten. Every word cracked a little more, like he was breaking apart.

Voice message 3:
"Baby, please, don't ignore me. I love you. I love you more than my whole life. Please, Frankie, I need you here with me—"

And then Mikey's voice cut in, panicked: "Oh my God, Frank, come here. This guy is gonna go running to your house, and they're fucking gonna send him directly to jail."

My stomach twisted.

Then, the texts.

G❤️: Call me, pls
I'm sorry, Frankie
I mean it
babe, don't do anything stupid. I promise I won't
babee, answer me. At least tell me to fuck off once again—I deserve it
I'm gonna go crazy if you don't answer me
I love you
I love you ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
*please forgive me ;((( *
I'll do anything, just tell me
I fucking miss you
frank?
???????
goddammit, Frank.

My fingers clenched around the phone.

I didn't know what to do.

I didn't know how to feel.

I was still bleeding.

I was still furious.

I was still drowning in everything James had said, every fucking word that made me question if I'd thrown my life away for something that wasn't even real.

And yet—

Gerard loved me.

He fucking loved me.

And right now, he was losing his mind over me.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning.

I should call him.

I should.

But I didn't move.

But I didn't make it worse. I could have, but I didn't. I just sat there, curled up on the floor, surrounded by bloody napkins and the mess I had made, sobbing so hard it felt like my ribs might break from the pressure. The world outside didn't exist. Nothing did.

Then—knock, knock.

At first, I barely registered the sound. My ears were ringing, my breathing uneven, my head heavy with everything I wanted to shut out.

Then it happened again. Louder. More insistent.

I turned my head toward the window, my movements slow and heavy, like I was underwater. And there he was.

Fuck.

I froze, every muscle in my body going rigid as my eyes met his for a split second before I looked away, shame swallowing me whole.

"Go away," I croaked, my voice raw, barely more than a whisper, but I knew he heard me.

I saw his lips press into a thin line, his eyes wet, his fist tightening at his side before he knocked again—harder this time.

"Fucking let me in or I'll break this window, and then we'll wake up the whole damn house."

I clenched my jaw, breathing in through my nose, wiping my face roughly with the back of my hand. My whole body felt drained, my limbs heavy, but I forced myself to my feet anyway.

I unlocked the window, stepping back as he climbed in. Neither of us spoke as we sat down on my bed, the air thick with everything I didn't want to say.

I reached for the pajama pants crumpled at the foot of my bed, my fingers barely gripping them before Gerard's hand caught my wrist, stopping me.

"I don't need you here, just go," I muttered, trying to pull away, but my voice wavered, and fuck, I hated that.

"Shut up," he said, and then he was holding me, wrapping himself around me so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse us together.

His whole body was shaking. Or maybe it was mine. Maybe it was both of us.

I kept my arms at my sides, stiff, unresponsive. I should've pushed him away. I should have.

But I didn't.

I just sat there, breathing him in, feeling the way his fingers curled into my skin like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.

"You scared the shit out of me," he whispered, his breath shaky against my neck, his voice so raw, so broken, it made my stomach turn.

I swallowed hard, my throat aching. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding, Frankie."

I didn't answer.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands cupping my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks like he could wipe away everything I felt, everything I was.

"Frank."

I shut my eyes.

"Please."

My chest heaved. My arms finally moved, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, clinging onto him like he was the only thing keeping me from slipping away.

"I'm tired, Gee," I admitted, my voice barely more than a breath. "I don't wanna do this anymore."

Gerard made a broken sound, like something inside him had snapped, and then he was kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my nose—messy, desperate, frantic, like he was trying to put something back together with nothing but his lips.

"I love you," he whispered, over and over and over again, like maybe if he said it enough times, it would fix everything.

I let myself sink into him.

Just for a second.

Just for tonight.

"Gerard, you shouldn't be here, the ankle m—"

"Mikey broke it," he cut me off, his voice hoarse, still holding me so fucking tight it was like he was afraid I'd disappear.

I pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, confusion cutting through the fog in my brain. "How?"

He shook his head, sniffling. His eyes were bloodshot, cheeks flushed. He looked like he'd been crying long before he even got here. "I don't know, Frankie," he whispered. "Just... let me be here with you."

His hands trembled as they gripped my arms, his fingers cold against my skin. He was still wearing his hoodie, but I could feel how tense he was, how he was barely holding himself together.

I should've told him to go.

I should've reminded him about the ankle monitor, about how if he got caught sneaking out, he was fucked.

But I didn't.

I just exhaled shakily, dropped my head against his shoulder, and let him hold me.

"Why did you do it?"

I swallowed hard, staring at the mess on the floor—the bloodied napkins, the letter, the fucking razors. My throat felt tight, raw from crying.

"I don't know."

That was a lie. I did know.

"Was it because of me?"

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "Kinda—I mean..."

Gerard didn't let me finish. "S'okay, I get it," he murmured, and then he pressed a soft kiss to my cheek.

I shut my eyes, breathing him in. His hoodie smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne and something inherently him.

I just stayed there, in his arms, letting myself have this moment, even if it didn't fix anything.

"Stay here, okay?" he said after a while, pulling back.

I blinked at him as he stood up, rubbing his hands over his face, exhaling shakily like he was trying to gather himself.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Just stay here," he repeated, softer this time. "I'll be right back."

Gerard disappeared out the window, and for a second, I thought maybe he'd actually left. Maybe he finally realized I wasn't worth the trouble. Maybe he'd go back home, get some sleep, forget about this mess. But then, a few minutes later, he climbed back in, slightly out of breath, holding a small bucket of water, a washcloth, and what looked like a first-aid kit I probably stole from the nurse's office.

"Just lay down," he muttered, setting everything down on the floor before kneeling beside me. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been crying too.

I swallowed hard. "You shouldn't be here, Gerard. You—"

"Frank, shut the fuck up and let me help you," he interrupted, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out. His hands were shaking. I hadn't even noticed until now.

I hesitated but eventually shifted so my legs stretched out in front of me, the cuts still raw, still bleeding in some places. I watched as Gerard took my thigh carefully in his hands, his touch gentle, almost hesitant, before pressing the damp cloth against my skin. The sting made me wince, but I didn't move away.

"Fuck," he whispered, barely audible. "I hate seeing you like this."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "Yeah, well. I hate it too."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, continuing to clean me up. The room was quiet for a while, just the sound of our breathing and the water dripping back into the bucket.

"Why, Frankie?" he asked eventually, voice small. "I mean, I know you said 'kinda'—that it was because of me—but... was it really? I know I said mean stuff and—"

I exhaled shakily, staring up at the ceiling. "It's not just you. It's everything. James, my fucking brain. Everything feels like it's caving in, and I don't know how to stop it." I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice barely above a whisper. "And I—I just—"

"You wanted to feel something else," he finished for me.

I nodded.

Gerard sighed, his thumb brushing over my skin absentmindedly, careful to avoid the fresh cuts. He looked exhausted. "You should've called me."

"I didn't wanna."

His eyes flicked up to mine, guilt swimming in them. "I know I fucked up, okay? I know I hurt you. I was—I was just exhausted, Frankie. I felt like shit, and you kept pushing, and I—" He sighed, shaking his head. "I didn't mean it. I swear. I just—fuck, I just wanted you to stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Like you knew," he admitted, his fingers tightening around the antiseptic wipe. "Like you saw right through me. I couldn't handle it. And then I thought maybe if I backed off, if I gave you space, you'd stop worrying about me." He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Guess that didn't work out so well, huh?"

I clenched my jaw, looking away.

"So why'd you keep sending me messages and all that?" I asked, my voice rough, my throat raw from crying.

Gerard didn't look at me right away. He focused on wringing out the cloth in the bucket, watching the water tint red before shaking his head. "And why didn't you answer?" he mumbled. "I was so fucking worried, Frankie. I knew you'd do something stupid, and I couldn't fucking leave that house. I knew this would make things worse, but I worry about you more than if I'm gonna go to juvie or prison or whatever the fuck. I don't care about any of that. I just—" He finally lifted his eyes to mine, his voice cracking. "I just want you to be okay."

I looked away, swallowing hard. My fingers twisted in the sheets beneath me. "You made me think you don't love me anymore."

Gerard let out a breath, almost like he was in pain. He set the cloth aside and stared at me, his face softer now, the anger drained away. "You really think I don't want you anymore?" he asked, quieter now. "That I don't love you?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Because if you do, you're a fucking idiot," he muttered, dipping the cloth back into the water, watching the blood swirl into the liquid.

My stomach twisted. I hated how much I wanted to believe him.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. "I thought I was losing you," I admitted, my voice small. "And I didn't know how to handle it."

Gerard sighed again, setting the cloth aside and pulling out some antiseptic wipes from the first-aid kit. He didn't say anything as he ripped one open and gently dabbed at one of the deeper cuts on my thigh. I winced but let him do it.

"You're not losing me," he said finally, glancing up at me. His eyes were still red-rimmed, still filled with something that looked an awful lot like love. "I promise."

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

"Please, Gerard, don't promise me that," I choked out. My throat felt like it was closing up, and my chest ached. "I know you're falling apart. And I am too. And I don't know if we can handle a relationship right now if we keep hurting each other. Love isn't—" I swallowed, shaking my head. "Love isn't healing shit. And I don't know. You can't fix me, Gerard. I'm broken, but you can't fix me. You're broken too, but—"

"Fuck, Frank," he cut in, his voice desperate, raw. "You can. You do. You fix me. And I can fix you."

"No, Gerard, you don't—" I shook my head harder, my hands trembling. "You can't. We can't."

His breath hitched. He stared at me like I'd just ripped him apart. "Frank... are you breaking up with me?"

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a sob. And then another. And then I was crying, shoulders shaking, hands covering my face like that would somehow make me disappear.

"Frankie, please don't—" Gerard's voice cracked, and I could hear the panic creeping in. He grabbed my hands, squeezing them tight, like he could physically keep me from slipping away. "You're everything I want, and I don't want this to be ruined. We're just... going through a lot of shit, but we're gonna make it. I swear."

His breath was uneven, and I could feel his hands trembling against mine.

"I'll go to those stupid shrink appointments, I'll sit there and act all crazy, and then maybe they'll declare me mentally unstable or some shit and I'll be free and—fuck, Frankie, we can be happy again." His words were rushed, frantic. He wiped at his eyes roughly before looking at me again, his gaze burning. "If that's not enough, I'll get a job, I swear. I have savings—my dad started a bank account for me, my mom too, after—" he swallowed hard. "After everything. We could leave. Get the fuck out of this state, go somewhere new. Just you and me. Please."

I couldn't breathe.

"Give me one more chance, Frankie," he begged, voice shaking. "One more chance to reverse this fucking curse. We'll be happy again. I know we will. Just—be strong for me, and I'll be strong for you. I know I've been selfish, I know I've made everything about me, but—fuck, just because I pulled the trigger doesn't mean you're not suffering too. I see it now. I was too fucking wrapped up in my own pain to notice how much you were hurting, and I hate myself for it."

His hands tightened around mine, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath warm and uneven against my lips. "I should've seen it sooner. I should've done something. But I swear to you, Frankie—I'll try."

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping me from slipping away completely. He let me. He didn't say anything, just put aside the stuff he'd been using to clean me up and peeled off his hoodie, revealing the small, worn-out shirt that was mine. It made my chest ache—seeing him in it, knowing he still held onto little pieces of me like that.

He let me pull him closer, let me bury myself in him, and we laid down together, my face pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady and real against my cheek. His fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns on my back, and I felt his breath hitch every now and then, his own tears wetting my hair.

He kicked off his shoes, shifting to get comfortable, and I reached for the covers, pulling them over us. It felt safe, like we were hiding from the world, just for a little while.

Gerard stretched a little, reaching over to shut the door, then flicked off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

Neither of us said anything else. We didn't need to.

We just stayed like that, tangled up in each other, and eventually, we slept.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

I fucking hate seeing Frank like this. He's so tiny, so small—literally and figuratively—and I love him so much it makes my chest ache. I hate that he hurt himself. But more than that, I hate that I'm the reason why. That, in some way, I'm responsible for the new scars that will mark his beautiful, inked skin. And I fucking despise myself for it.

But when he started talking about our relationship, about how maybe we shouldn't be together, about how we just keep hurting each other—I lost it. I can't do that. I won't. There's nothing to discuss. No room for negotiation. We've fought too hard, built something too amazing, too real, too fucking beautiful to let it collapse now. This isn't how it should go. We should be holding each other up, not tearing each other down. Not like I did, at least. I was too caught up in my own bullshit, drowning in my own fucking misery, that I didn't even notice he was going under with me.

I know I messed up. Again.

But I'm here now, and I want to fix it. I want to rebuild this fucking boat—our boat.

I cleaned his wounds, careful, gentle. He didn't flinch, didn't react, like it didn't hurt. Like he was grounding himself, proving to me—or maybe to himself—that he could handle it. That this was his choice. That he was in control. He's always been like that. Since the day I met him, he's held all his pain in, trying to be strong enough for everyone. Trying so fucking hard.

He hates crying in front of me. In front of anyone, really. I get it. But I want him to know that it's okay. That he doesn't have to be strong all the time. That when he can't hold himself up, I will. And when I can't, I need him to do the same for me. That's how this should work. That's how we should work.

Maybe I'm a loser for thinking this way, for loving him this much. But if that's the case, then I'm the luckiest fucking loser in the world. Because I love Frank. And I've never loved anyone the way I love him.

And I'll do anything—anything—to keep us from falling apart.

I don't want to be separated from him because of this trial bullshit. I don't want anything taking him away from me. And I think—I think—I might even be willing to talk to Dan. Or someone. Maybe.

I don't believe in therapy. I still don't. But I want to try. For him. I want him to see me trying.

I want to move out with him someday. Live together. Be happy.

And I want him to believe that's possible, too.

I wasn't supposed to read James' letter. I knew that. I fucking knew that. But I couldn't stop myself. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the paper, my heart pounding against my ribs like it already knew what I was about to feel.

And then I read it.

And it fucking destroyed me.

The guilt came first, wrapping around my throat, suffocating me. James had hurt him, broken him, and I—I—was supposed to be the one who made things better. But instead, I'd hurt him too. Maybe not in the same way, but I did. I pushed him away. I made him feel like he was alone when I swore I never would.

Then the jealousy, burning hot and ugly in my chest. It wasn't logical. It wasn't fair. But James knew Frank in a way I didn't. He knew him before all of this, before me. He had a place in Frank's past that I could never touch, and that fucking killed me.

The anger came next. At James, at myself, at the whole fucked-up world that kept throwing shit at Frank like he was some kind of punching bag. Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to go through all this? Why wasn't I enough to keep him from feeling this way?

And then, the worst of all—pain. Because the words in that letter weren't just a confession. They weren't just apologies or regrets. They were wounds, fresh and open, bleeding out onto the page. And Frank carried them. Every single one. Along with everything else.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Trying not to fucking lose it.

Then I heard Linda's voice.

"Frank, wake up. Would you like to—"

She stopped when she saw us. Me, sitting against the headboard, staring at nothing, drowning in everything. Frank, curled up beside me, his breathing soft and steady.

"He's asleep," I whispered, hoping she'd keep her voice down.

But she wasn't looking at Frank anymore. Her eyes were locked on me, sharp and worried.

"Gerard, you're not supposed to be here. The cops—Gerard, you should be at home—"

Then she saw it.

The bloody mess on the floor.

Fuck.

I forgot about the mess. The water, the stained napkins, the antiseptic wipes scattered around.

Her face paled. "What is this, Gerard?"

Frank started to stir beside me, rubbing his eyes, groggy and unaware of what was happening.

"Mikey kinda broke the monitor," I mumbled, scrambling for an excuse. "Linda, please—Frank needed me. Please don't—"

She wasn't listening.

Her hand trembled as she picked up one of the crumpled napkins, stained dark red. Her expression shifted—confusion, then realization, then horror.

"Frank." Her voice was sharp now. "What is this?"

Frank blinked, still half-asleep, but the second he saw what she was holding, he tensed. His grip on the covers tightened like they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

"Linda, please," I tried again, but it was too late.

She reached for the blankets, and Frank flinched.

"Mom, stop!" he yelled, his voice cracking, desperate.

But she didn't stop. She won.

And then she saw.

The red lines. Fresh and raw, covering his thighs, his arms.

Linda gasped, stepping back like she'd been burned. A hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with something between heartbreak and fury.

Frank shrank into himself, his face twisting in shame. I wanted to grab him, to pull him into me and shield him from whatever was coming next. But I couldn't move.

None of us could.

The room was silent.

Waiting for the explosion.

I thought she was gonna say something. Yell, cry, demand an explanation—something. But she didn't.

She just stood there, staring at Frank, her expression unreadable at first. Then it shifted, sinking into something that looked a lot like sadness. Maybe disappointment. Maybe just exhaustion.

She sighed.

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to come shopping with us," she said, her voice quieter now. "But... I think I'd rather you go to Gerard's house instead. I don't think the cops would like this."

She gestured vaguely at the mess—the stained napkins, the water still tinted red, the tension hanging so thick in the air it was suffocating.

Frank didn't say anything. He just held the covers tighter, like they could somehow make him invisible. Like if he didn't move, if he didn't breathe too loudly, maybe this moment wouldn't be real.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Linda—"

"Just go, Gerard," she cut me off, her voice empty, tired. "Take him with you."

And then she turned and left the room.

"C'mon, Frankie, just take a shower. I'll clean this up, and then we'll leave," I said softly.

He sighed but didn't argue, just stood up and made his way to the bathroom, his shoulders slumped, his movements slow.

I stayed behind, cleaning the mess in his room, tossing the bloodied napkins and wiping the floor as best as I could. The air still smelled like iron, but at least the evidence of what had happened was disappearing. As I moved around, I grabbed one of his shirts—another one to add to my collection—and pulled my hoodie back on.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Mikey: Gerard, I think you're fucked. I think you should come home.

My stomach twisted.

Me: ???

Mikey: Pretrial services...

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

I stood frozen, Mikey's message burning into my mind. Breaking the ankle monitor was a desperate move, but now the consequences were closing in faster than I had anticipated.

Frank emerged from the bathroom, looking marginally better but still weighed down by the gravity of everything. I forced a smile, trying to mask my own anxiety.

"Hey, feeling a bit better?" I asked, attempting to keep my tone light.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, a bit."

"Listen, we need to head over to my place," I said, trying to sound casual. "Mikey's got something he needs help with."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Now? What's going on?"

"Nothing major," I lied, hoping to keep him calm. "Just some stuff we need to sort out before... you know, everything."

He seemed to accept that, and we gathered our things, making our way to my house. The walk was tense, each step echoing the dread building inside me.

As we approached my street, I spotted them—two police cruisers parked outside my house, lights flashing but sirens off. My heart plummeted.

"Gerard," Frank whispered, eyes wide with fear. "What's happening?"

I swallowed hard, trying to find words that wouldn't come. "I... I think they're here for me."

Before he could respond, the front door opened, and two officers stepped out, their expressions stern.

"Gerard Way?" one of them called out, voice carrying the weight of authority.

I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

"You're under arrest for violating the terms of your pretrial release," he continued, approaching us. "Please turn around and place your hands behind your back."

Frank grabbed my arm, his grip tight with panic. "No, wait! It was my fault! He was helping me—"

"Sir, step back," the other officer ordered, gently but firmly moving Frank aside. "Interfering won't help him right now."

I turned to Frank and Mikey, trying to convey everything I couldn't say aloud. "It's okay, Frankie. I'll be okay."

Mikey looked pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "This is bullshit," he muttered, shaking his head.

Tears welled up in Frank's eyes as he took a step forward, his voice breaking. "This isn't fair."

The cold metal of the handcuffs snapped around my wrists, the weight of them sinking deep into my chest. I barely noticed the officer reading my rights—my focus was on them.

Grandma had stepped onto the porch, her face creased with quiet devastation. She wasn't crying, but the way she held herself, arms wrapped tightly around her frail frame, hurt more than anything.

As they led me to the cruiser, I turned back one last time. Frank looked shattered, like something inside him had just been ripped away. Mikey stood stiffly beside him, his jaw tight, fists trembling. Grandma reached for Mikey's hand, gripping it as if she could keep us all from falling apart.

Alone with my thoughts, I let the weight of everything crash over me, drowning me in memories I wished I could erase. The fight with James—his voice, sharp and venomous, cutting through the air. The way his eyes had burned with hatred, the way mine had burned with fear. The sickening moment when everything changed, when instinct took over, when my hands moved before my mind could catch up. His body hitting the ground. The silence after. The cold, unbearable silence.

I thought of Frank—how he had looked at me that night, wide-eyed, breathless, like he was seeing someone he didn't recognize. How even now, when he swore he loved me, I still caught glimpses of that fear lingering in his eyes, like a ghost neither of us could shake.

And then, the ankle monitor. That suffocating thing latched onto my skin like a brand, a constant reminder that I wasn't free, that I was being watched. We'd broken it without thinking. Maybe I had wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that I could still make my own choices. That I could still control something in my life.

But I couldn't.

Because here I was, shackled in the back of a police car, my wrists burning from the cuffs, my heart pounding in my chest like it was trying to break free of my ribcage. My fate wasn't in my hands anymore. It belonged to the courts, to the lawyers, to the system that would decide whether I was a murderer or just a kid who had been backed into a corner with no way out.

Now, all I could do was wait. Wait, and hope that the truth—whatever that even meant anymore—would be enough to set me free.

The ride to the station was a blur, my mind racing through the possible outcomes. I had acted in self-defense, but now, with the added violation of my release terms, everything seemed uncertain.

At the station, everything moved fast, but it felt like slow motion to me. The officers barely looked at me as they went through the motions, their hands rough but detached, like I was just another case file, just another name on their list. They took my fingerprints, the ink staining my skin like a mark I'd never be able to scrub off. They asked me the same questions I'd already answered a hundred times—full name, date of birth, any injuries, any medications, any tattoos or scars. I wondered if they wrote down the ones no one could see. The ones that weren't carved into my skin but still bled just the same.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, casting everything in a sickly, artificial glow. My wrists ached from the handcuffs, red lines pressing into my skin as they finally removed them, only to shove me forward through another set of locked doors. The air smelled like sweat, cheap disinfectant, and something stale—like fear that had settled into the walls and never left.

They led me down a hallway, past rows of heavy metal bars, past other people who barely spared me a glance. Some of them were slumped against the walls, others pacing, others just staring at nothing. I wondered how long they had been here. I wondered how long I'd be here.

Finally, they pushed me inside a holding cell. The door clanged shut behind me, the sound final, like a nail in a coffin. Cold concrete walls surrounded me, pressing in from all sides. There was nothing in here except a bench, a toilet, and a dull sense of suffocation. I sat down slowly, my back against the freezing wall, my arms wrapping around my knees.

The reality of it all started sinking in.

I sat there, hands in my lap, trying to ignore the way my fingers trembled. The holding room they brought me into was small, windowless, suffocating. The only source of light was the flickering bulb above me, casting sharp shadows on the walls. Across from me sat Evelyn Thompson, my lawyer, cool and collected as ever, her sleek black suit untouched by the filth of this place.

Beside her, my father.

Donald Way had the same stiff posture I'd grown up fearing, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn't looked at me since he walked in, his gaze fixed somewhere above my head like he couldn't stand the sight of me. The disappointment in his face was like a second set of cuffs around my wrists, heavier than the metal ones had been.

Evelyn cleared her throat, breaking the silence first. "Alright, Gerard," she said, her voice measured, professional but not unkind. "We have a plan. Right now, they're saying you'll be here for two weeks. They'll probably send you to juvenile detention until the trial, and then we'll see where things stand."

Juvie. The word sent a cold spike of fear through my chest. My mouth felt dry.

"Two weeks," I muttered, more to myself than to them. "Just two weeks."

"Just two weeks," Evelyn confirmed. "It's not ideal, but it's manageable. And we're working on making sure it doesn't go beyond that. I need you to cooperate, Gerard. Don't give them any reason to make this worse."

I swallowed, nodding. My voice felt like it belonged to someone else when I asked, "What if—what if they don't let me out after?"

"We're going to do everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen," she said, leaning forward slightly. "I've already contacted a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I'll schedule your appointments. We need to show them that you're willing to engage, to work through this. That'll help us in court."

I barely heard her. My head was spinning, my pulse hammering against my skull.

"Why?" my father suddenly cut in, his voice cold and sharp. I flinched instinctively, lifting my eyes to meet his for the first time.

"Why what?" I asked, already knowing what he meant.

Donald scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn't believe he was even having this conversation. "Why the hell did you break the ankle monitor, Gerard? Do you have any idea how much worse you just made this for yourself?"

I clenched my fists in my lap. "Frank needed me."

Silence.

Donald let out a breathless, humorless laugh, shaking his head again like he was trying to shake me right out of existence. "Jesus Christ." He ran a hand down his face, looking at Evelyn. "You hear this? He ruined his chances because of that fucking boy. Again."

My stomach twisted.

Evelyn shot him a warning look but kept her voice neutral. "Gerard, tell me what happened. Why did you think it was worth the risk?"

I looked at her, feeling like a caged animal, feeling like a fucking child. "Because he needed me," I repeated, harsher this time. "I didn't think, okay? I can't tell you more but I knew something was wrong, and I—I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. He was alone. He was hurting. And I—I just—" My throat tightened. "I had to go."

Evelyn exhaled through her nose, nodding slowly. "Alright."

"Alright?" Donald scoffed. "That's all you have to say?"

Evelyn ignored him. "Gerard, listen to me. I get it. I do. But right now, you need to be patient. Frank's lawyer, Matthew, is going through the testimonies. We're building your case. If you want a real shot at freedom, you have to work with us."

I nodded again, slower this time. "Okay."

"Okay." She gave me a small, encouraging nod. "I'll keep coming to check on you. We'll go over everything, piece by piece. We're going to win this, Gerard. But you have to trust me."

Donald let out another bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair, arms still crossed. "Yeah, trust her, Gerard. She's trying to save your sorry ass." He shook his head, eyes dark with something cruel. "And for what? So you can run off with that little boyfriend of yours? You think he's gonna wait around for some felon?"

My whole body tensed. "Shut up."

Donald smirked. "Touched a nerve, huh?"

"Donald," Evelyn warned.

But he wasn't done. He leaned forward, his expression hardening. "You're lucky your mother isn't here to see this. You—sitting in a fucking jail cell because of some boy who isn't worth it. You threw away everything for him. And for what? You think you're gonna ride off into the sunset together?"

I clenched my jaw so tight it ached. "I said shut up."

"Or what?" he challenged, his smirk widening. "You gonna kill me too?"

I shot up from my chair so fast it scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the air like a gunshot. But before I could say anything, Evelyn was on her feet too, stepping between us.

"Enough," she snapped, turning to Donald. "You're not helping."

Donald let out a sharp breath, rolling his eyes as he stood up and adjusted his tie. "You know what? Fine. Do whatever you want. You always do anyway." He turned to me one last time. "But don't expect me to be there when this all comes crashing down."

And with that, he walked out.

I stared at the door, my chest rising and falling too fast, my fists still clenched at my sides.

Evelyn sighed, sitting back down. "He's angry," she said. "That doesn't mean he's right."

I swallowed hard, looking away. "I don't care what he thinks."

She didn't call me out on the lie. Instead, she just gathered her papers, giving me one last serious look. "Stay strong, Gerard. Two weeks. That's all. Then we fight."

I nodded, but the words felt hollow.

Two weeks.

Just two weeks.

I hoped I could survive them.

-

The days leading up to my transfer were a blur of routines, fluorescent lights, and the heavy silence of a holding cell that never felt empty enough. I barely slept, barely ate. Time stretched and folded in on itself, turning minutes into hours, hours into eternity. Every time the door creaked open, my stomach clenched. Waiting was its own kind of punishment.

Then, the visits started.

Mikey came first.

He looked smaller in the sterile visiting room, his hoodie swallowing him up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. His hair was messy, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping either.

"They said it's only two weeks," he muttered, picking at his nails.

"Yeah," I said.

He glanced up at me, then quickly back down, like he couldn't look for too long. "I—" He swallowed hard. "I talked to Evelyn. She said you'll be okay. She's doing everything she can."

"I know."

Silence.

Mikey took a breath, then finally looked at me—really looked. His eyes were red-rimmed, too wide. "Gerard... what if it's not just two weeks?" His voice cracked on the last word.

I felt something inside me twist. "It will be."

"But what if it's not?" His fingers clenched around the fabric of his hoodie. "What if—what if they decide to send you to prison? What if they—"

"Mikey." My voice was firm, steady, even though I didn't feel that way inside. "Listen to me. I'm coming back."

He blinked quickly, like he was trying to stop himself from crying. "Promise?"

I forced a smile, even though it felt like lying. "Promise."

He nodded, exhaling shakily. "Okay."

We sat there for the rest of the visit, mostly in silence. He kept glancing at the clock like he wanted to make time stop. When the guard finally signaled that it was over, Mikey stood up slowly, like his body didn't want to move.

Then, in a rare moment, he pulled me into a hug. Tight.

I held on, feeling how small he still was. How much I didn't want to leave him.

"I'll see you soon, Mikey," I whispered.

His grip tightened. "Yeah. See you soon."

Grandma came next.

She was wearing the same pearl earrings she always did, her coat buttoned up neatly even though the room was warm. She smiled when she saw me, but there was sadness in her eyes.

"Oh, Gerard," she sighed as she sat down. "You look exhausted."

I gave a small shrug. "Not much to do here."

She reached across the table, taking my hand in both of hers. Her grip was warm, steady. "I know you're scared," she said softly.

I swallowed. "I'll be okay."

She nodded like she wanted to believe me. "Mikey's been having a hard time."

"I know."

"He needs you."

"I know."

She squeezed my hand. "So come home to him."

I nodded, my throat feeling tight.

For the rest of the visit, she talked about home—about how the cat missed me, about how the house was too quiet, about how she was trying to make sure Mikey ate real meals. She told me about a book she was reading, a new song she heard that she thought I'd like. She was trying to keep me tethered to normal life, to remind me that there was something waiting for me outside of this place.

When she had to leave, she kissed my forehead like she used to when I was little. "Be good, Gerard," she whispered.

I closed my eyes, holding onto the moment. "I'll try."

The second they let Frank into the visiting room, he didn't hesitate—he practically launched himself at me, wrapping his arms around my neck and holding on like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his hoodie, his skin, his everything. My arms tightened around his waist, pressing him flush against me, feeling his heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed against my neck. "I missed you so much."

I shut my eyes. "I missed you too, baby."

He held me even tighter. I never wanted to let go.

But the guard cleared his throat, and Frank reluctantly pulled back, his hands still gripping my hoodie. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red like he hadn't been sleeping much. I cupped his cheek, running my thumb under his eye.

"You okay, honey?" I asked softly.

Frank gave me a lopsided smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Liar.

I could see it in the way he kept shifting in his seat, in the way he kept his hood up like he was trying to shield himself from the world. I could smell the bullshit on him.

I narrowed my eyes. "Frankie."

He hesitated. "It's nothing, Gee. Just school shit."

"Bullshit."

His jaw clenched for a second before he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus, I forgot how annoying you are."

"Tell me."

Frank sighed, looking down at our hands. His fingers fidgeted with mine like he didn't know if he wanted to hold on or pull away.

Then, finally, he admitted it.

"People are talking," he muttered.

I swallowed hard. "About me?"

He nodded. "And me."

I clenched my jaw. "What are they saying?"

Frank's mouth pressed into a tight line. "That you lost your fucking mind. That you planned it. That you..." He hesitated, and his voice cracked on the next word. "That you enjoyed it."

I inhaled sharply, bile rising in my throat.

Frank looked down, his fingers tightening around mine. "They say I made you do it." His voice wavered. "That I wanted him dead."

Something in my chest twisted so violently it hurt.

"They're picking on you," I said, already knowing the answer.

Frank gave me a forced smirk. "I can handle it."

I shook my head. "Frank—"

"I can handle it," he repeated, voice sharper this time.

I didn't believe him. But what the fuck could I do? I was stuck in here. Useless. Helpless.

"Baby..." I whispered, brushing his knuckles with my thumb.

Frank's breath hitched, his fingers curling around mine. "I'm failing, Gerard," he admitted, his voice so quiet it almost got lost in the shitty hum of the fluorescent lights. "I can't focus. I'm so behind in everything. And our friends... they're trying to hold it together, but I can tell it's too much. The trial, the testimonies... it's like none of us can breathe."

I exhaled shakily, pressing my forehead against his. "I'm so fucking sorry, Frankie."

His hand came up to cup my cheek, warm and familiar, and my whole body melted into his touch.

"I miss you," he whispered.

I shut my eyes. "I miss you too, baby."

Frank swallowed, and his voice turned more urgent. "I have thought about it... We could leave, Gerard. Just... fucking run. Get out of here. We'll figure it out. We'll be together, and none of this will matter."

His eyes were burning with something reckless, something desperate. And fuck, for a second, I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to imagine waking up next to him every morning in some shitty apartment with broken heating and paper-thin walls. Playing music. Falling asleep tangled together on a mattress on the floor. No courtrooms, no whispers, no fucking cops.

But it was just a dream.

And dreams didn't come true for people like me.

I shook my head. "Frankie... we can't."

He exhaled sharply, looking away. "I know," he muttered. "It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," I said. "It's just..." I swallowed. "When this is over, we'll figure something out. I promise."

Frank searched my face, like he needed to believe me.

Then, finally, he nodded. "Okay."

The guard cleared his throat, signaling that our time was almost up.

Frank's expression twisted, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I hate this," he whispered.

"Me too," I choked out.

Frank sniffled, then grabbed my hands one last time. "Take care of yourself, Gerard."

I nodded.

"Eat," he said firmly. "Even if it's shit food. Do it for me, okay?"

I swallowed. "Okay."

"Stay strong." His voice cracked. "For me."

I bit my lip, nodding again. "I will."

Frank exhaled shakily, like he was barely holding himself together. He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something else—something big, something important—but the guard was already moving toward us.

Frank's hands slipped from mine.

"I love you," I blurted.

Frank's breath hitched.

Then, just before they led him away, he whispered, "I love you too."

-

The day of the transfer was cold.

They woke me up before sunrise, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as I was pulled from my cell. The process was robotic—change into the new uniform, get shackled, get put in the van. I kept my face blank, my body tense.

The ride was silent except for the hum of the engine. The air inside the transport van was stale, suffocating.

When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was the fences. High, topped with barbed wire, stretching in every direction. A fortress.

Inside, it was worse. The walls were a dull, lifeless gray. Everything smelled like bleach and sweat. The other kids being processed looked like ghosts—some tough, some blank, some just... lost.

They took my fingerprints, my photo. They led me down sterile hallways, past locked doors, past kids who looked through me like I wasn't even there.

Then, my cell. Small. Cold. A thin mattress, a metal toilet, a window too high to see out of.

The door shut behind me with a final, echoing clang.

I sat on the bed, staring at the wall, listening to the distant sounds of voices, footsteps, metal doors opening and closing.

Two weeks.

Just two weeks.

Chapter Text

Since Gerard got arrested, I've been dragging myself through school like a fucking ghost. I don't even know why I'm still showing up. I've already lost so many grades that I might as well be invisible to my teachers, and at this point, the only subject I'm remotely passing is lunch.

I think I'm done. Like, actually done. I don't give a shit about walking across some stupid stage in a cap and gown, pretending I accomplished something. It doesn't matter if I don't graduate with my friends. It doesn't matter if I don't graduate at all. None of this is my thing, and honestly? It never was. I'm tired. Tired of staring at pages full of shit that doesn't make sense. Tired of sitting through lectures that just blur together into a constant buzz in my skull. Tired of pretending that any of this fucking matters.

The only thing keeping me afloat right now is Ryan. I've been paying him to do my assignments, and thank fuck he's good at it, because it's the only reason I haven't completely drowned. But the exams? That's a whole other nightmare. If I can cheat, I will. If I can't... well, then I guess I'm just fucked. And honestly? I don't even care anymore.

The first thing I saw when I stepped into school was a fucking flyer taped to the entrance doors. A Night to Remember – In Loving Memory of James Dewees. Tomorrow. Great.

The first thing someone said to me was: "Fucking manipulative little faggot. Closet case."

I barely had time to process it before another voice chimed in. "Gerard killed James 'cause he was jealous of you hanging out with him and his friends."

Bullshit. All of it.

But in a town like this, the truth doesn't matter. It never does. People twist shit however they want, and when someone like James dies, he suddenly turns into a saint. Never mind the fact that he was a fucking bully. Never mind that I was the one who should've hated him the most. Never mind that Gerard had no choice.

It's obvious James' parents have been talking. And in a place like this, where everybody knows everybody, it only takes a few hours before the whole town is running their mouths, spreading rumors like wildfire.

I didn't know how bad things had gotten until that morning. I had spent the whole week ignoring my friends' texts, shutting off my phone, shutting off everything. I thought maybe if I stayed in my own little world, I wouldn't have to deal with the fallout.

But reality has a way of smacking you in the face when you least expect it.

When I finally made it to lunch—late, as usual—I spotted them. My friends. Sitting at our usual table. But I couldn't bring myself to walk over. I couldn't even look at them.

Ryan and Brendon were the first to notice me. "Frank!" Ryan called out, and before I could react, they both had their arms around me like they were my fucking parents welcoming me home after years at war. Ray was next, then Lindsey, then Avril. Their hugs felt warm, grounding, but also foreign—like I didn't deserve them.

"I need to talk to you guys," I muttered. "Somewhere quiet. Just us."

They followed without a word, letting me lead them out to the far end of the football field, where no one would hear us. For the first time, I let it all out. Not just what the lawyers had been saying, but everything—how I was actually feeling, the way people were treating me, the rumors, the trial, the fear.

They listened. They didn't try to sugarcoat it, didn't try to tell me everything would be okay. They just fucking listened. And that was all I needed.

After that, we just talked about dumb shit for a while, trying to pretend life was normal.

"How are things between you guys?" I asked Ryan and Brendon, needing a distraction.

Ryan smirked. "We're dating now. I broke up with Dallon. He was hot, yeah, but we just fucked. I love Brendon, so, yeah. You're hot too, don't worry, Beebo."

Brendon grinned like an idiot and kissed his cheek. It should've made me roll my eyes, but instead, I just felt... empty. I wanted what they had. But the person I wanted it with was locked away, and I didn't know if I'd ever get him back.

In history class, I ended up sitting next to Bob. I felt his stare before I even turned to greet him.

"Hey," I said cautiously.

He didn't respond. Just kept his arms crossed and looked straight ahead like I wasn't even there.

I knew why. He was pissed. He probably thought I had abandoned them—our whole group. And maybe, in some way, I had.

But later, when we were working on some group activity, he finally leaned in.

"Hey, Frank. Can we talk?"

I hesitated. "Yeah. Sure."

"I don't know shit about what happened, and James' lawyers keep pressing me to say something against Gerard," he admitted, voice low. "I don't know Gerard that well, but I know you. And I don't wanna fuck up anyone's life without knowing the truth. So tell me—what really happened?"

I swallowed hard. This was exactly what I had been dreading.

"Come to my place later," I said. "We'll talk."

That night, we sat in my backyard with a couple of shitty beers, skateboards lying forgotten in the grass. I told him everything—or at least, as much as I could manage. When it got too heavy, we just skated, letting the silence speak for itself.

Later, I stopped by Ryan's place to pick up my schoolwork—the assignments I was paying him to do for me. I handed him some cash, and we all ended up at the park nearby, smoking cigarettes and talking about nothing.

I was surrounded by people.

But I felt lonelier than ever.

I missed him.

I knew he was having the worst days of his life. And there was always that creeping fear in the back of my mind—that this wasn't temporary. That these awful days would stretch into years. That maybe I'd never see him again.

And if that happened... I had no fucking idea how I was supposed to survive it.

-

I woke up before my alarm. Maybe I hadn't really slept at all. The room was cold, but I still took a freezing shower, letting the water run down my face, hoping it would shock me into feeling something—anything other than this dull, empty ache sitting in my chest.

I dressed without thinking. Plain white t-shirt, denim jeans, Vans. The same hoodie I'd been wearing all week. Gerard's hoodie. It was too big on me, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but it still smelled like him, like home. I wasn't going to take it off anytime soon.

The ceremony was exactly what I expected. Stiff, impersonal, full of people pretending they had known James in some deep, meaningful way. The principal spoke first, dry, rehearsed condolences, the kind of speech you could probably find on Google if you searched what to say at a student's memorial. He didn't talk about who James really was. Just a collection of generic words about loss, community, and how we should all learn from this tragedy. Learn what, exactly? No one fucking said.

Other teachers followed, keeping their speeches short. No one mentioned the countless detentions James got, the fights he picked, the way he laughed too loud in class when he wasn't supposed to. They didn't talk about how he had this weird habit of biting his nails until they bled or how he could be both the biggest asshole and the most loyal friend in the same breath. They only said what was easy, what made them sound sympathetic.

Then his parents spoke.

His dad went first—serious, polished, the kind of voice you'd hear in a boardroom. He talked about James like he was reading a résumé, listing accomplishments he wished his son had actually cared about. Soccer team (James quit), high grades (he barely passed), responsibility (James hadn't had a responsible day in his life). It was all so hollow. A speech built for the people in the room, not for the son he lost.

His mom, though. She was different.

She was angry.

She was sad, sure, but beneath that sadness was something sharp. Resentment. Maybe at the world. Maybe at James. Maybe at whoever took him away. Her voice cracked when she spoke about his childhood, how bright he had been, how much he had changed. She didn't say it, but I knew what she meant. She was talking about us—his friends. The people he hung out with, the people she probably blamed. Maybe even me.

I shifted uncomfortably, eyes on the ground.

Brendon's arm wrapped around my shoulders, grounding me. I felt his fingers squeeze slightly, like a silent you okay? I wasn't, but I nodded anyway.

Then James' parents looked at me.

It wasn't subtle.

They expected me to say something.

I could hear people murmuring around me. Would I? Should I?

But I didn't move.

I wasn't shy. I didn't mind being in front of people. But this? No. I had nothing to say.

Because the only thing I knew for sure was that because of James—because of everything that happened—Gerard's life was in ruins. He was locked away, miserable, and we didn't know if he was ever coming back. And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was cruel, but in that moment, I couldn't find it in me to stand up there and say something nice about the boy who had helped destroy the one I loved.

I just sat there, letting my silence speak for me.

My house had never felt like a home. Not really. Not since everything that happened there. The walls held too many ghosts, too many memories I wished I could erase. Every time I stepped inside, it felt like the air got heavier, pressing against my chest, reminding me of all the nights I spent wishing I could just disappear. So I stayed out as much as I could.

Mikey and Pete became my escape. We spent hours wandering around town, loitering in convenience stores, sitting on sidewalks with cigarettes. Neither of them really smoked, just pretending that time wasn't passing, that life wasn't still moving forward while everything felt stuck in place. It was easier that way. It was easier to pretend.

Helena kept inviting me over for dinner when my mom worked late. I think she could tell I wasn't eating much on my own. Maybe she just wanted to keep an eye on me. I didn't mind. Her house felt safe. Warmer than mine, but Gee wasn't there.

After my mom saw the cuts on my arm, something changed.

She didn't say anything about it. Not directly. But I saw the way her face fell, the quiet sigh she let out like she had expected it but still wished it wasn't true. And maybe she didn't say anything because deep down, she knew it was kind of her fault.

My mom had never been there when I needed her. Not when I was a kid, not when things got bad, not when I was screaming for help in ways she never bothered to notice. She was too drunk to care back then. And now? Now she was too sober to handle it. Too sober to face the reality of what she had done—what she hadn't done.

And it was too late.

The trial arrangements kept moving forward, each day dragging me closer to whatever fate was waiting for Gerard. And I still had no idea what I was supposed to do with that.

-

The morning felt like a dream. One of those slow, suffocating dreams where you know something bad is coming, but no matter how much you fight against it, you can't wake up.

I got up before my alarm, again. My body was already wired with nerves, my stomach twisted so tight I felt like I was gonna throw up. The room was still dark, but I could hear my mom moving around in the kitchen. She was awake, too. Of course she was. She had been up late the night before, pacing, smoking, drinking coffee like it could actually prepare her for today.

I took a long shower. A hot one this time, letting the steam fog up the mirror and the water scald my skin. It didn't make me feel any cleaner. Didn't make me feel any more ready. But it gave me something to focus on, something other than the weight of the next few hours pressing down on my chest.

When I got dressed, I pulled on Gerard's hoodie. The same one I'd been wearing all week. It still smelled like him. Faintly. I hated that the scent was starting to fade.

By the time I stepped out of my room, my mom was waiting by the door with her coat already on. Dan stood beside her, holding his keys in one hand and a cigarette in the other, tapping it absentmindedly against his palm. He didn't light it.

"Ready?" my mom asked. Her voice was softer than usual, careful, like she was scared I'd shatter if she spoke too loud.

I nodded. But I wasn't.

We drove in silence. The city looked different that morning, heavier somehow, like the buildings knew what was happening today. The streets felt emptier. Or maybe I was just too lost in my own head to notice anything outside the car.

When we pulled up in front of the courthouse, the reality of it all hit me like a punch to the chest. The building was massive, looming over us, all stone and glass and sharp edges. People were already gathered outside—reporters, mostly. They turned the second we stepped out of the car, cameras flashing, voices overlapping, asking questions I didn't have answers to.

Dan shielded me from most of them, his hand firm on my back as he guided us through the doors. Inside, the atmosphere was just as tense. Families, lawyers, court officials—everyone moving with purpose, talking in hushed voices.

Then I saw them.

Mikey. Pete. Helena. Donald. Some of Gerard's relatives I recognized from Donna's funeral. His Aunt Marie was there, standing stiffly in the hallway, clutching a small purse in her hands. And on the other side of the room—James's family.

His father, Mr. Dewees, stood tall, his jaw tight, his eyes cold. His lawyer beside him, speaking in low tones, their heads bent together in quiet discussion. His mother wasn't with him. I wondered if she was even coming.

My heart was hammering as we were led into the courtroom.

The witness section was already filling up. Me, our friends, the people who had been dragged into this mess whether they wanted to be or not. I barely heard anything as we took our seats. My hands were sweating. My head was buzzing. Then—

I saw him.

Gerard.

Sitting beside Evelyn.

Pale. The kind of pale that didn't come from just being inside for too long, but from exhaustion, from stress, from nights without sleep and days spent drowning in his own thoughts. His skin had always been light, but now it looked almost sickly under the artificial courtroom lighting, like he was made of wax, like a version of himself that had been drained of everything that made him real. The bags under his eyes were deep, dark, almost bruised-looking, shadowing his face in a way that made my chest tighten. He looked... thinner, too. Maybe I was imagining it, maybe it was just the way he was sitting—shoulders hunched slightly, spine rigid, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were turning white.

His hair was still kinda damp, the red strands with now black roots curling slightly at the ends like he had barely run a towel through it before rushing out the door. It made me wonder if he had showered just to feel something, to shock himself awake with cold water, to scrub away the feeling of waiting, of uncertainty, of knowing that today could be the day his life changed forever. His white button-down was crisp, pressed, tucked neatly into his black dress pants—too formal for him, too stiff, too unfamiliar. His clothes fit him well, but they didn't feel like him. Gerard had always been the kind of person who wore his emotions on his sleeve, who draped himself in layers of sweaters, band t-shirts, ripped jeans, leather jackets, things that made him feel like himself. But today, he was stripped of all of that.

He looked—God, I fucking missed him.

Missed the way his face would light up when he talked about something he loved. Missed the way he'd lean into me when we were alone, when no one was looking, when he thought it was safe. Missed the way he smelled, the way his fingers felt against mine, the way he could make me laugh even when I didn't want to.

I wanted to run to him. Grab his face, kiss him, hold him so tight that maybe, just maybe, I could squeeze some warmth back into him, some life. I wanted to tell him I was here, that he wasn't alone, that no matter how fucking awful everything was right now, I hadn't left. I wouldn't leave.

But I couldn't move.

He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was locked straight ahead, his expression unreadable, like he wasn't really here, like he had retreated somewhere deep inside himself just to get through this moment. His hands stayed perfectly still in his lap, fingers interlaced, gripping each other like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And then—just for a second—his eyes flickered toward me.

My breath caught in my throat.

His eyes.

They weren't the same.

No spark. No warmth. Just exhaustion. Resignation. Like he had already accepted whatever was about to happen, like he wasn't even fighting it anymore.

Like he had already lost.

And I hated that.

I hated that he looked like a ghost of himself. Hated that he looked so fucking alone, even in a room full of people. Hated that this was happening to him at all.

And I hated that I couldn't do a single fucking thing about it.

The judge entered the room. Everyone stood. My pulse pounded in my ears. When we sat again, the trial officially began.

The judge entered. The bailiff spoke. We all stood. Then we sat again.

And then came the words I had been dreading.

First, the formalities. The charges against Gerard were read aloud. The words blurred together in my head, legal jargon stacking on top of itself, turning into static. But then—murder. Manslaughter. Those words sliced through everything else like a blade to the gut.

I gritted my teeth. I already knew this. I had known this since the moment Gerard had been taken away, but hearing it like this, cold and detached, as if it was just another case, just another name in a file—it made my stomach twist violently.

Evelyn spoke first. Calm. Collected. Like she had done this a million times before. Like this was just another day in court for her.

"Your Honor, the evidence will show that my client acted in self-defense. The victim, James Dewees, initiated the attack. He drugged both Gerard Way and Frank Iero, restrained them, and proceeded to harass Mr. Iero while my client was forcibly subdued. Mr. Way was choked to the point of unconsciousness. When he regained consciousness, he defended himself and Mr. Iero against further harm. The firearm involved in this incident belonged to Mr. Dewees, not my client."

My nails dug into my palms. Hearing it laid out so simply made me sick. Like it was something that could just be said, just explained, and then wrapped up neatly with a bow. But it wasn't neat. It wasn't simple. It was fucking horrifying.

Then came Mr. Dewees's lawyer.

He was different. Cold. Sharp. Every word out of his mouth felt like a knife aimed straight at Gerard. He twisted the facts, shaped them into something they weren't, made Gerard sound like some violent, unhinged murderer who had planned this, who had gone out of his way to kill James in some jealous rage.

"Mr. Way took the life of James Dewees in cold blood," he said, his voice unwavering. "This was not an act of self-defense. This was premeditated. Mr. Way harbored resentment toward Mr. Dewees and, upon perceiving a threat to his relationship with Mr. Iero, he chose to eliminate it in the most brutal way possible. The evidence will show that Mr. Way had every opportunity to de-escalate the situation and yet chose not to."

I clenched my fists so tight I felt my nails break skin.

None of it was true. None of it.

Gerard hadn't chosen anything. He had been fucking forced into it. Forced to fight for his life, for mine. James had taken away our choices the moment he drugged us, tied us up, put his hands on me.

Gerard had done what he had to do.

And now they were making him sound like a monster for it.

They called the first witness.

A police officer, the one who had arrived at the scene that night. He walked up to the stand with the stiff, rehearsed composure of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

"State your name for the record," the judge instructed.

He did. Then the questions started.

He recounted what he had seen that night—how he had arrived at the house after receiving a 911 call from Gerard himself. How he had found us sitting on the porch, Gerard covered in blood, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold the phone. How I had been beside him, pale, silent, the rope burns on my wrists stark against my skin.

"How did Mr. Way appear when you arrived?" Evelyn asked, her voice even.

The officer straightened. "Disoriented. He was in shock. He complied with all of our instructions, didn't resist when we took him into custody."

"And Mr. Iero?"

He glanced at me. "Also in shock. Visibly distressed. He had ligature marks on his wrists, indicating he had been tied up. No visible injuries on him beyond that."

No visible injuries. Like the worst parts of that night weren't still imprinted on me, just beneath the surface.

Evelyn nodded. "Can you describe the crime scene?"

"The front door was open when we arrived. Inside, we found clear signs of a struggle. A chair was broken. Rope on the floor. A gun nearby. Blood spatter on the walls and furniture. In the living room, we found the deceased, James Dewees, lying on the floor with a gunshot wound to the chest. No pulse. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene."

I exhaled sharply through my nose, staring at the floor. I felt my heartbeat in my throat.

Evelyn took a step closer. "Did you find anything else at the scene that supports my client's claim of self-defense?"

"Yes." The officer nodded. "Upon further investigation, we recovered sedatives from the premises. Traces of the same drug were later found in both Mr. Way's and Mr. Iero's toxicology reports. Mr. Dewees had no traces of the substance in his system, indicating he had administered it to the victims but not taken it himself."

"So, to clarify—Mr. Way and Mr. Iero were drugged?"

"Yes."

"And tied up?"

"Yes."

"Was there any indication that Mr. Way was physically attacked?"

The officer glanced at his notes. "Yes. Mr. Way had visible bruising around his throat, consistent with strangulation."

"And Mr. Dewees?"

"His injuries were primarily from the altercation leading to his death. No defensive wounds, no marks indicating that he had been strangled."

Evelyn turned slightly, addressing the courtroom. "So, to summarize, James Dewees drugged both my client and Mr. Iero, restrained them, and physically assaulted them. And when my client fought back, it resulted in Mr. Dewees's death."

"Objection." The opposing lawyer stood. "The defense is presenting a biased narrative."

"Overruled," the judge said.

I clenched my jaw.

Then they called the medical examiner.

He went over James's injuries in a flat, clinical tone, like he was listing off items on a grocery list. Gunshot wound to the chest. Fatal. No immediate death—likely a minute or two before he bled out. Fractured ribs from the struggle. Scratches, but nothing deep enough to be considered defensive wounds.

I gritted my teeth, my nails digging into my palms.

James wasn't the fucking victim here.

Gerard sat there, silent, unmoving, his hands clasped in his lap. He was listening, but he didn't react. Didn't flinch.

I wished he would. I wished he'd get angry, shout that this was all bullshit, that he had only done what he had to do. But he didn't.

Because he was too tired. Because he had already accepted that, no matter what, there were people in this room who would never see him as anything but guilty.

Then came the testimonies.

Mikey was first.

He was pale, his fingers twitching slightly as he adjusted his glasses. His voice shook at first, but he kept going, steadying himself with deep breaths. He wasn't here just as Gerard's brother—he was here because he needed them to understand.

He talked about how hard things had been for them. How, before they moved here, Gerard had been a ghost of himself, trapped in cycles of self-destruction. He told them about the years of fighting—against his own mind, against the need to disappear, against the things he couldn't control. How every time he saw Gerard, he wondered if it would be the last.

"But then we moved," Mikey said, voice thick with emotion. "And he met Frank. And everything changed."

He looked down for a second, pressing his lips together before continuing.

"My brother has always been kind. He's always been creative, smart, funny. But for a long time, it was like he didn't care anymore. He just let things happen to him. And then, suddenly, he was laughing again. He was alive again. Because of Frank." He swallowed hard. "I know he's not perfect. But he's not a violent person. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He had to."

Evelyn gave him a small nod, letting him take a breath before she continued. But then came the prosecution.

They twisted his words, made him hesitate.

"So you're saying your brother has a history of... instability?" the prosecutor asked, tilting his head.

Mikey hesitated. "That's not what I—"

"He's struggled with mental health issues, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but—"

"And has he ever been violent before?"

Mikey's jaw clenched. "Not like that."

The prosecutor turned slightly, addressing the courtroom. "So we have an individual with a long history of mental health struggles, substance abuse, and erratic behavior. Who has been in physical altercations before, as reported by multiple witnesses. Who has acted out while under the influence. Who—"

Evelyn stood. "Objection."

The judge nodded. "Sustained."

But the damage had been done.

Then came the psychologist and psychiatrist reports.

They didn't paint Gerard as a psychopath, like Mr. Dewees's lawyer wanted. But they didn't make him look good, either.

He was mentally unwell. He had struggled with eating disorders, alcohol abuse, drug abuse. He had multiple documented encounters with law enforcement—not for crimes, but for being found in the streets, drunk, disoriented, sometimes violent, lashing out when people tried to help him. He had been diagnosed with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and impostor syndrome, all of which had worsened over time.

And it was agreed upon—by every professional—that he was not fit to be placed in jail or juvie. That incarceration would only destroy him further.

But, of course, the prosecution tried to use it against him.

Mr. Dewees's lawyer leaned forward. "So, in other words, we have someone who is already prone to impulsive decisions. Someone who has had violent outbursts in the past. Someone who—"

Evelyn cut in before he could continue. "Someone who has also been actively seeking treatment. Who has been under psychiatric care for years. And someone who was drugged, tied up, and attacked before he acted in self-defense."

A tense silence settled over the room.

Then, the next witness.

Ryan.

He walked up to the stand, shifting uncomfortably. He was quiet at first, hesitant. But then he started talking.

About James. About how they had been friends once.

About how that changed when James found out he was gay.

"We were friends," Ryan said, voice hoarse. "And then I wasn't good enough anymore. Then I was something to make fun of. He picked on me constantly. Turned people against me. And I let him, because I thought—I don't know. I thought maybe if I just... played along, he'd stop."

He swallowed.

"But he never did. He hurt me. So much. I had to get away from all of them. I couldn't take it anymore."

Then Brendon.

He sat up straighter, anger simmering just beneath his skin.

"James was obsessed with Frank," he said, bluntly. "He wasn't even subtle about it. And when Frank stopped being friends with him, he lost it. He started spreading lies, turning people against him. And he hated Gerard. He hated that Frank had someone else. And he—he wanted to get rid of him."

Then Haley.

She looked uncomfortable as she spoke, her fingers twisting in her lap.

"He never really paid attention to me," she admitted. "I mean, he did, but not... in the way I thought he would. We'd hook up, but he never cared about me. He always talked about Frank. How much he missed him. And at first, I thought it was just, like... normal. Missing a friend. But I don't think that was it."

Then Ray.

Who sat there, stone-faced, recounting the time James had threatened me.

"He told Frank he didn't want him around Gerard anymore," Ray said. "And he meant it."

Then Bob.

Who was immediately pressured into saying things that weren't true.

"They kept trying to get me to say things that I don't know," Bob snapped. "They're making it sound like I was there that night. Like I knew exactly what was going to happen. But I didn't. None of us did."

He shifted.

"But I do know that James was out of his mind," he said. "I do know that he was dangerous. He told me once that he was going to buy a gun. I didn't go with him, and he punched me for it. And then he left."

The courtroom was silent.

They all did their best. Every single one of them. But I could see the way the weight of it was crushing them. The way they were overwhelmed by it all.

And then, finally—

It was my turn.

I stood up on shaky legs. The weight of everything—the stares, the silence, the sheer gravity of where we were—pressed down on my chest like a fucking vice.

The courtroom blurred for a second before coming into focus again. Faces around me flickered like static, some familiar, some not. Gerard's, pale and hollow-eyed, sitting there beside Evelyn. Mikey, gripping the edge of the bench like he was holding himself together. My mom, Dan, Pete, Ray, Bob—everyone who mattered, watching, waiting.

I forced myself to move. One step, then another, until I was sitting in the witness chair, facing the people who would decide Gerard's fate.

I took a deep breath. The questions started.

What was Gerard like?

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. My fingers curled into fists on my lap, nails pressing into my palms as I tried to steady myself. The room felt too big, yet suffocating at the same time. The silence stretched, waiting for my answer, pressing down on me like a weight I wasn't sure I could carry. But I had to. For him.

"He's—" My voice cracked, and I clenched my jaw, pushing through the sudden wave of emotion clogging my throat. I took a sharp breath, willing my words to come out right. "He's the best person I know."

The words felt too small for what I meant. Too simple to capture everything Gerard was. Because he wasn't just good—he was everything. He was the kind of person who carried other people's pain even when he had too much of his own. The kind of person who made things better just by being there, even when he didn't believe it himself.

"He's kind," I said, my voice stronger now. "And smart. And funny. He's not perfect—" I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "He's stubborn, and he overthinks everything, and sometimes he drinks too much coffee and forgets to eat. But he's not this."

I gestured vaguely to the courtroom, to the heavy, sterile air filled with quiet judgment, to the suffocating presence of the word murder hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to break.

Gerard didn't belong here. He wasn't a criminal. He wasn't some cold-blooded killer sitting in this courtroom because he wanted to be. He was here because James had given him no choice. Because he had been fighting for his life. Because he had been fighting for me.

I looked over at him, sitting there beside Evelyn, pale and exhausted, his hands clenched together so tightly they trembled.

I wanted to scream at everyone in this fucking room that they had it all wrong. That Gerard wasn't the one who should be on trial. That he wasn't the one who had spent years twisting people up, manipulating them, controlling them. That he wasn't the one who had turned love into something suffocating, something cruel.

But all I could do was sit there, my heart pounding, my pulse roaring in my ears, and hope that my words were enough.

How was his relationship with James?

I clenched my fists, steadying my breath. "They didn't really have a relationship," I said carefully. "Not in the way you're probably asking." My throat felt tight, but I pushed through it. "James was my best friend for years. Gerard... wasn't part of that. But when he came into my life, things changed." I exhaled sharply. "And James hated that. He hated him."

I hesitated, glancing at Gerard for a second before looking away. "It wasn't just some petty dislike. It wasn't just 'I don't want you hanging out with this guy.' It was—" I bit the inside of my cheek. "It was obsessive. James wanted Gerard gone. And he wasn't subtle about it."

Did I ever witness any aggression?

I stared at the prosecutor, my stomach twisting. I knew what they were trying to do. Trying to poke holes in my story. Trying to paint Gerard as unstable, dangerous, violent.

I straightened my shoulders.

"Not from Gerard," I said.

The prosecutor arched an eyebrow. "You never saw him display any aggression?"

I hesitated. "I mean, sure, I've seen him get mad. But not—not like that. Not like James. Gerard isn't violent."

The questions kept coming. Twisting things. Taking my words and reshaping them into something ugly.

And then—

"I'd like to present something," I said suddenly, my voice stronger than I expected.

Evelyn turned to me, eyebrows slightly raised, but she didn't object.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper.

The letter.

The one James left on my bed that night. Before he—before everything.

I unfolded it carefully, my hands trembling. The paper felt heavier than it should. Like it had absorbed all the horror of that night, every ounce of fear and betrayal, and was holding onto it, pressing it back into my skin.

I looked up at the judge. "James wrote this," I said. "He left it for me before he drugged me. Before he—" I swallowed, pushing through the nausea crawling up my throat. "Before he tied me up. Before he tried to get rid of Gerard."

The judge nodded for me to continue.

So I read it.

I hope you forgive me for what I'll do tonight.

Silence.

The air in the courtroom felt different now, charged with something dark and heavy.

I gripped the letter so tightly my knuckles ached. I couldn't look up. I couldn't see their reactions, because if I did, I might break.

I remembered finding it that night, thinking it was some pathetic apology, some last attempt to win me back. I had been annoyed, exhausted, done.

And then everything had gone to hell.

I thought about the way James had smiled when he saw me struggling against the ropes. The way his eyes had burned with something desperate, something unhinged. The way he had touched me like I was his, like I had always been his, like Gerard was just some obstacle in his way.

I thought about the gun. The way it felt like the room had been swallowed by gravity when he pulled it out.

I thought about Gerard. The way his hands had trembled as he tried to fight James off. The way his eyes had gone wide when the trigger was pulled. The way he had dropped to his knees afterward, covered in blood, looking more like a ghost than a person.

I took a shaky breath, finally forcing myself to look up.

Gerard was staring at the letter in my hands, his face blank, unreadable.

I could see it, though. The exhaustion. The weight of everything he had been carrying. The guilt, the fear, the doubt.

But also—hope.

Because this letter, this proof, meant something.

It meant that James had planned this. That he had never intended for Gerard to walk away from that night alive.

And maybe—just maybe—it meant Gerard would finally be free.

Then the cross-examination.

The trial dragged on, each second stretching unbearably long. Witness after witness. Evidence examined, reexamined, twisted, clarified. Evelyn Thompson held her ground, unwavering, her voice steady as she countered every accusation, every desperate attempt to paint Gerard as something he wasn't.

And then came the final blow to the prosecution's case—the overwhelming evidence that James had planned this.

The drugs. The rope. The gun. My injuries. Gerard's bruises. The letter.

The room went silent when Evelyn presented it.

James' own words, left on my bed like a parting gift. Like a confession.

The weight of it pressed down on everyone, undeniable, irrefutable. The defense rested their case.

The jury deliberated for hours. The waiting was agonizing. Gerard hadn't spoken since the trial started, and I wasn't sure he was even breathing now. His fingers trembled slightly where they rested on his lap, his jaw tight, his whole body locked in place as if bracing for the worst.

And then, finally—

"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty on all charges."

The words rang through the courtroom like a gunshot. My breath caught.

I turned to look at Gerard, my vision blurring. His head snapped up, his eyes wide in disbelief, like he hadn't dared to hope for this, like he'd already resigned himself to a much darker fate.

The judge spoke, making it official. Gerard was free. No charges. No juvie. No prison. His only sentence was continued therapy, treatment for the things that had been eating away at him long before this nightmare began.

Mr. Dewees tried to object, but it was too late. The judge's expression was firm, unimpressed. The court had found enough evidence not only to acquit Gerard but to take action against James' father for attempting to manipulate the case—pressuring an underage witness to lie under oath, withholding information, twisting facts to fit his own narrative. He would face his own consequences now.

The room erupted—some in relief, some in anger. Gerard sat frozen in place, his chest rising and falling unevenly, like he couldn't quite process what had just happened.

I couldn't stop myself.

I stood, stepping toward him, my heart pounding. He turned to me, and the moment our eyes met, I saw it—

The exhaustion, the pain, the fear that had been weighing him down for so long.

And beneath all of that, something else.

Relief.

I didn't care that we were in the middle of a courtroom. I grabbed his face, my hands shaking, and I smiled through the tears burning in my eyes.

He smiled back, just a little. Just enough.

The judge cleared his throat, bringing the courtroom back to order. His voice was firm, final.

"The court finds the defendant, Gerard Arthur Way, not guilty on all charges. Given the circumstances, this case is hereby dismissed. Furthermore, any attempts to tamper with witnesses or obstruct justice will be subject to further legal action. Mr. Way, you are free to go. Court is adjourned."

With a sharp bang of the gavel, it was over.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

I stayed frozen in my chair beside Evelyn, barely breathing as the words sank in.

"Not guilty."

The courtroom was moving around me—people standing, murmuring, filing out—but I couldn't move. I couldn't think. Frank was in front of me, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones like he was making sure I was real. His lips were moving, but I couldn't hear him, just the ringing in my ears, the distant echo of the gavel striking wood.

I won.

I fucking won.

So why did it feel so unreal?

I blinked, my vision swimming as the weight of everything pressed down on me. People were coming up to me—touching my shoulders, murmuring words of relief, of support. I barely registered any of it. Their voices blurred together into white noise.

Then Mikey shoved Frank out of the way and pulled me into a bone-crushing hug, his arms locked so tight around me it almost knocked the breath out of me.

"Sorry, I know I fucked it up there, Gee," he muttered against my shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. "But you're here. You're not going anywhere. Holy shit, Gerard, I love you."

I didn't say anything. I just clung to him, the warmth of his body the only thing keeping me grounded.

Then Helena was there, wrapping me up in her arms, whispering soft reassurances into my ear as she coaxed me to stand. My legs felt like they didn't belong to me. She kept murmuring that it was over, that I was safe, that I was okay.

I wasn't sure I believed it yet.

My dad stood a few feet away, watching. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of relief, maybe even pride. He didn't say anything. Just gave me a small nod before turning and walking out of the courtroom.

One by one, the room emptied. The press, the strangers, the people who had come to watch, to judge.

Then my friends. They came up, one after another, pulling me into brief, tight hugs. Telling me I was strong. That I deserved this.

I thanked them,—though I wasn't sure why. Maybe for coming, for testifying, for standing by me even when I didn't want them to see me like this.

Even when I didn't want to be seen at all.

We headed to a small cafeteria down the street—just Linda, Dan, Mikey, Grandma, Frank, and me. The air outside was crisp, and everything felt surreal, like I was walking through a dream I hadn't quite woken up from. The weight in my chest was still there, but it wasn't crushing me anymore.

"I fucking missed you, Gee," Mikey said the second we sat down, his voice rough, like he'd been holding it in for too long.

"We all did," Grandma added softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

Linda gave me a warm smile. "We knew you were going to win, Gerard."

I wasn't sure I had known.

Frank was beside me, his fingers laced with mine, holding my hand like he had no intention of letting go. He had this stupid, ridiculous grin on his face, like he couldn't stop smiling even if he wanted to. He just kept looking at me, eyes shining, like he was memorizing every detail.

When our orders came, we dug in. I got pancakes—stacked high, dripping with maple syrup, loaded with banana slices, strawberries, Nutella, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting at the edges. And, of course, coffee.

Frank had insisted I get something good. "Come on, you just won your fucking freedom, live a little." And fuck, yeah. After the shit they fed us in juvie, I wanted this. I missed hot food. Sweet food. Coffee. God, I missed coffee.

"You want some?" I asked, holding up a forkful of pancake toward Frank.

He grinned. "Yeah, a bit."

He leaned in, mouth open, and we both started giggling like idiots as I fed him.

"It's so good," he mumbled, chewing happily.

"Yeah, it is," I said, taking another bite.

Mikey groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

"Leave them alone," Grandma scolded, shaking her head but smiling.

Linda and Dan just exchanged a knowing look, their faces soft with something like relief, and went back to their food.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt normal.

"How was juvie, Gee?" Frank asked quietly.

I sighed, my fingers tightening slightly around my coffee cup. I didn't want to talk about it, but I knew he wanted to know. They all did.

"Awful," I admitted, forcing out a shaky laugh like I could make it sound less serious, less heavy. But no one laughed. They just sat there, waiting, silently telling me to keep going.

I exhaled slowly. "The bunk bed I had was fucking terrible. The mattress felt like it was made of cardboard, and I had this huge-ass bunkmate on the top bunk. The guy must've weighed a ton, and he moved constantly—shifting, tossing, turning. The whole damn bed creaked and shook every time, like it was ready to collapse on me in my sleep. I barely got any rest."

Frank frowned, his thumb tracing circles over the back of my hand, but he didn't interrupt.

I glanced around at the rest of them, their eyes on me, waiting. I sighed again. "The guys in there... most of them were hardened criminals. Like, real ones. They'd been in and out of the system their whole lives, and they could smell a newbie from a mile away. I stuck out like a sore fucking thumb. The way I looked, the way I talked—it was enough to make me a target. A group of assholes made it their mission to make my life miserable. They'd call me faggot and every other slur they could think of, just to get under my skin."

My voice tightened a little, but I forced myself to stay steady. "Not that it was anything new, but still. It never gets easier."

"Jesus," Mikey muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching.

I shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, but my fingers twitched around my fork. "Eventually, I snapped. Got into a fight with them. I didn't even mean to, but they cornered me one day, shoving me around, laughing, and I just—" I flexed my hand like I could still feel the bruises. "It was either let them walk all over me or fight back. So I fought back. It didn't end well for me, obviously. Spent the night in solitary after that."

Frank inhaled sharply, looking like he wanted to say something, but he just squeezed my hand instead.

I huffed a dry laugh, shaking my head. "And the rest? Stupid tasks, stupid activities—they make you do all this 'rehabilitation' bullshit, like crafts and group therapy, and they force you into these intense workouts. Like, full-on military-style training. Which, by the way, fucking sucks when you're running on barely any sleep and already feel like shit."

Linda and Dan exchanged a worried glance, but they didn't say anything.

Frank squeezed my hand tighter. "I'm sorry, Gee," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "But it's over now. Everything's okay."

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah."

And just like that, the weight of it all started to lift, piece by piece.

We kept talking—Mikey asking if I had to eat some 'prison mystery meat' (I did, and it was just as disgusting as it sounded), Grandma grumbling about how no one deserved that kind of treatment, Linda and Dan occasionally chiming in with sympathetic looks and reassurances that I'd never have to go back.

And Frank?

He never let go of my hand.

Then again, home. Fuck. What a fucking relief. My brain had almost started to forget this feeling—being somewhere safe, somewhere that was mine. The air smelled familiar, the walls, the creaks in the floorboards, the way everything felt slightly off but still right. Fuck, I missed it.

I headed upstairs with Frank right behind me. The door shut with a quiet click, and for a second, neither of us moved. Then he opened his arms for me, and I practically collapsed into them. His hoodie—mine, actually—was soft and smelled like him now, and I gripped the fabric tight, my fingers twisting into it. I hugged him as if I could make up for all the lost days, for every second I spent missing him, for every time I acted like a fucking idiot, for the things I said, for the things I didn't say. For making him suffer through this with me.

His hands rubbed soothing circles on my back, fingers tangling in my hair. His breathing was a little shaky, like he was still processing that I was here, really here.

"Please kiss me, Gerard," he whispered. His voice was breathless, desperate.

I didn't hesitate. I smirked against his lips just before crashing into him, cupping his cheeks, pulling him close, closer, like I could crawl into his skin if I tried hard enough. The kiss was messy at first, frantic, uncoordinated—too much teeth, too much desperation. But then we found it, that perfect rhythm. Slow and deep, like we had all the time in the world. Like this was something we could finally have.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I actually believed it.

Frank sighed into the kiss, tilting his head just right, pressing himself against me like he wanted to mold us into one person. My hands slid from his face down to his neck, his shoulders, the curve of his back, feeling the warmth of him, the way his body moved with mine. His fingers were gripping at my shirt, tightening and loosening, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pull me impossibly closer or just hold me still and feel that I was real.

We stumbled back until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and we tumbled down together, breathless laughter breaking through between kisses. Frank landed half on top of me, his weight grounding me, reminding me that I wasn't dreaming. I ran my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, tracing over his cheekbones with my thumb, memorizing every little detail all over again.

He looked down at me, his eyes soft, glowing with something I couldn't quite name, something warm and safe and ours.

"You're really here," he murmured, his fingers trailing down my arm, over my wrist, where the skin was still healing. He kissed the inside of it, gentle, reverent. "You're home."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Thanks to you."

Frank huffed a laugh, shaking his head like he didn't believe it, but I caught his chin between my fingers, making him look at me. "I mean it," I said. "I don't think I could've survived this without you."

His face flushed, and he ducked his head, pressing a kiss just under my jaw, then another to my collarbone, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to think about that anymore," he whispered against my skin. "You're here. That's all that matters."

I pulled him down again, our lips meeting in another slow, lazy kiss. There was no rush, no desperation this time—just us. His hands wandered over my arms, my chest, not taking anything, just feeling, just being. I held onto him like he was my anchor, the only thing keeping me from floating away.

Frank sighed into my mouth, his hands smoothing over my shoulders, down my arms, tracing the shape of me like he was memorizing it all over again. I felt the warmth of his palms through my shirt, the soft press of his fingertips against my ribs. I shivered, not from cold, but from the feeling of being touched like that—like I mattered. Like I was something worth holding onto.

I pulled him closer, rolling onto my back, bringing him with me. He laughed softly against my lips, his breath warm and sweet, and let himself be pulled, fitting against me like he was meant to be there. His nose brushed against mine as he adjusted, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing me. His hair tickled my forehead, and I reached up to push it back, tucking a strand behind his ear.

His eyes flickered over my face, searching. "I missed you so fucking much," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight. "I know," I said, because I did. I knew, because I felt the same.

He kissed me again, softer this time, slower, his lips lingering like he never wanted to stop. I curled my fingers around the fabric of his hoodie—mine, his, ours—and let my other hand run up his back, feeling the warmth of him, the way his breath hitched when I touched the right spot.

For a long time, we just lay there, tangled up in each other, trading soft kisses and quiet laughter. The world outside kept moving—the hum of cars passing by, the distant chatter of people on the street—but here, in this room, it was just us. Just this.

Frank pressed his forehead to mine, his fingers ghosting over my jaw, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns against my cheek. "You're home," he said, like he was still trying to believe it.

I nodded, closing my eyes, letting myself sink into him. "Yeah," I whispered. "I am."

I kissed him like I needed him to breathe. Like if I let go, I'd lose him again, and I couldn't—I wouldn't. Frank was warm under my hands, solid and real, his lips moving against mine like he'd been waiting for this just as much as I had. His fingers curled into my hair, tugging gently, making me sigh into his mouth.

The mattress dipped beneath us, and Frank laughed, soft and breathless, his nose brushing mine. I grinned, pressing another kiss to his mouth, then his jaw, then just below his ear. He shivered.

"You okay?" I murmured.

He nodded, his hands sliding under my shirt, fingers trailing over my skin. "I just—" He exhaled shakily. "I missed you so much, Gerard."

I closed my eyes for a second, just letting the weight of his words sink in. I missed you too. More than I even knew how to say. But I could show him.

So I kissed him again, deeper this time, slow and sure, like I was memorizing him. Like I was grounding myself in the feeling of him, his heartbeat under my palm, the way he sighed into my mouth. He clung to me, pulling me closer, like he wanted to melt into me completely.

I shifted, settling over him, our bodies pressed together. My hands moved on their own, sliding beneath his hoodie, pushing it up, desperate to feel more of him. He lifted his arms, letting me pull it off, then his shirt, and I took a second to just look at him. The way his chest rose and fell, the flush creeping up his neck, the way his eyes were dark and soft all at once.

I kissed my way down his throat, feeling his pulse hammer beneath my lips, then lower, over his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. Frank let out a shaky breath, threading his fingers through my hair. "Gerard," he whispered, his voice barely there.

I hummed in response, looking up at him, waiting.

"Yeah," he said softly, nodding. "I want this."

I want you.

I exhaled, pressing my forehead against his for a second before reaching for the bedside drawer. I didn't need to ask if he was sure—his hands on my back, the way he pulled me down into another kiss, told me everything.

I took my time with him, savoring every second, every soft inhale, every shiver that ran through his body under my touch. His breath hitched when I dragged my knuckles over his ribs, and his hands twitched at his sides like he was trying not to rush me.

When I reached his jeans, I moved just as slowly, popping the button, easing the zipper down. His breath came quicker now, uneven, his hands gripping my shoulders as I pushed the fabric past his hips. My fingers ghosted over the sharp jut of his hip bones, and he let out a shaky sigh, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking onto mine.

"I got you," I murmured against his lips, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes were wide and trusting, his expression so open it made my chest ache. I ran my fingers through his hair, pressing a slow kiss to his temple, then his cheek, then his lips. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was deep and warm and us.

My hands found the buttons of my dress shirt, fumbling slightly. Frank caught on, sitting up just enough to help, his fingers brushing over mine as he worked them open one by one, the backs of his knuckles grazing my skin as he went. I shivered under his touch, not from cold—just from him. He pushed the fabric off my shoulders, letting it slide down my arms and onto the bed.

"Fuck," he whispered, his eyes tracing over me, taking me in like I was something he was allowed to look at again. Like he was afraid to blink. His hands moved down my chest, careful, like he was committing this to memory. "I missed you so much."

Frank's hands slid down my torso, his touch light but deliberate, tracing over every inch of skin like he was memorizing me. His fingers ghosted over the waistband of my pants, hesitating just for a second before he moved to my belt. I felt the soft hitch in his breath, the way his fingertips lingered over the buckle. I nodded, giving him silent permission.

The buckle clinked as he unfastened it, then his fingers found the button, fumbling just a little in his eagerness. He let out a soft, breathy laugh when he struggled for a second, and I smiled against his mouth.

"Need some help?" I teased, my voice barely above a whisper.

Frank huffed, smacking my arm lightly before finally getting it undone. He slid the zipper down with a slow, deliberate tug, and I lifted my hips just enough to help him ease the fabric down. He helped me push them away completely, his fingers warm against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

We stripped down to just our underwear, moving slow, unhurried. There was no rush—no urgency, no desperation, just us. Just hands on skin, warmth pressing into warmth. Frank wrapped himself around me, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply like he was breathing me in. My arms circled his waist, holding him against me.

We just lay there, tangled in the sheets, foreheads pressed together, bodies perfectly slotted against each other. It wasn't about wanting. It was about having. About being here, in this moment, with him.

Frank giggled softly, his nose brushing against mine, his fingers still running over my skin like he never wanted to stop touching me.

"What?" I asked, smiling.

"Nothing," he whispered. "Just... you."

And fuck, if my heart didn't completely break and put itself back together in the span of a second.

I could feel the heat of his skin against mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart was racing just as fast as mine. Our legs tangled together as we shifted, finding that perfect closeness, like we couldn't stand even a breath of space between us.

Frank giggled against my lips, the sound muffled and light, like he couldn't believe this was real. Like he couldn't believe I was here with him. "You're crushing me, dude," he murmured, though he made no effort to push me away.

I huffed a laugh, resting my forehead against his. "Shut up. You love it."

His hands slid down my back, nails scratching lightly, making me shiver. "I do," he admitted, barely above a whisper. His lips brushed against my jaw, my neck, slow and teasing, before coming back up to capture my mouth again.

The heat between us built slowly, naturally, bodies shifting, pressing, moving. The thin fabric of our boxers did nothing to dull the friction, the way we fit together, the way every little movement sent sparks through my skin. I groaned softly, my hands finding the waistband of his boxers, fingertips teasing the edge.

Frank's breath hitched, his hands mirroring mine. He pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen, kissed-red, and he was smiling—soft, real, breathtaking.

"Take them off," he whispered. A request. A plea.

I swallowed, nodding as I hooked my fingers into the waistband and slowly, so fucking slowly, slid them down.

I tossed them aside, barely registering the sound of fabric hitting the floor. My hands found their way back to him instantly, palms skating over his bare thighs, his hips, the soft curve of his waist. Fuck. He was gorgeous.

Frank shivered beneath my touch, breath hitching as I traced the lines of him, memorizing every dip, every twitch, every spot that made him gasp. His fingers curled against my shoulders, nails biting just enough to make me feel it. Like he needed me closer, like he didn't want even an inch of space between us.

"Gee," he murmured, voice rough and needy, sending a fucking shiver down my spine.

I kissed him again, slow and deep, pressing him further into the mattress as our bodies moved together, his skin burning against mine. Every shift, every graze of him against me sent another jolt of heat through my body, tightening low in my stomach. I felt fucking dizzy from it—from him.

His hands roamed, desperate and shaky, fingertips ghosting over my lower back, my hips, teasing the waistband of my boxers like he was waiting for permission. I groaned into his mouth and nodded, barely pulling away long enough for him to slip them down my legs.

We were bare now, tangled together in the dim light, nothing between us.

I reached for the items in my nightstand, my brain barely able to process anything beyond the way Frank was looking at me—trusting, wrecked, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

"You're sure?" I whispered, thumb brushing against his cheek.

Frank nodded without hesitation, wrapping his arms around my neck, pulling me down into another kiss, just as deep, just as desperate.

"I want you," he whispered against my lips. "I want all of you. Wanna make love with you."

And fuck, I was gone.

My hands were shaking slightly, but Frank helped, his fingers brushing against mine as he took the condom from me, rolling it on carefully. Fuck, he was beautiful.

I slicked my fingers with lube, warming it up between them before pressing against him, watching his face carefully. "Tell me if anything feels wrong, okay?" I said, voice soft, breathless.

Frank just nodded, his eyes dark and trusting.

I kissed him again, swallowing every gasp, every little noise he made as I prepared him, slow and careful. His fingers dug into my shoulders, his breaths coming in short, shaky bursts. He was perfect. This was perfect.

And when he was ready, when his body relaxed around me, when his lips parted in a breathless "Gerard," I knew.

I pressed my forehead against his, meeting his gaze. "I love you," I whispered.

And then I pushed in, and nothing had ever felt more right.

-

After, we just laid there, catching our breaths, the room filled with the heavy scent of sex and warmth. The sweat on our skin started to feel sticky, uncomfortable, but neither of us moved right away. Frank's fingers traced lazy patterns on my chest, and I let out a slow breath, my hand brushing up and down his spine.

"Okay," he muttered, voice hoarse, "we should clean up before we get glued together or something."

I laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Yeah, yeah. Move your lazy ass."

He groaned dramatically but rolled off me, stretching like a fucking cat before finally sitting up. I followed, and we stumbled to the bathroom, naked and half-dazed, still wrapped up in each other.

The warm water felt like heaven. We didn't make it a whole thing—just rinsed off, soap and shampoo, gentle hands rubbing away the mess we'd made. Frank grinned as he ran his fingers through my damp hair. "Guess what's next?"

I rolled my eyes, already knowing. "You're gonna make me sit through another dye job, aren't you?"

"Damn right I am," he said, grinning. "Your red's fading. Can't have you looking anything less than stunning."

"Uh-huh." I flicked water at him, and he yelped, smacking my arm in retaliation.

After the shower, we dried off, and he got to work on my hair. The bathroom smelled like hair dye and coffee, and I sat on the toilet lid while Frank applied the color, his hands gentle but firm, massaging the dye into my scalp.

"You ever think about going for another color?" he mused.

"Nah. This is my thing now," I said, smirking at him in the mirror. "Unless you're suggesting something better?"

He hummed, pretending to think. "Green, maybe. Or purple. Something ridiculous."

I snorted. "Pass."

After rinsing out the dye and drying my hair, we ended up back in my room, curled up on my bed with my laptop. Frank had stolen one of my t-shirts, and I was just in boxers, my head resting on his shoulder as we ate popcorn straight from the bag.

"You think Mikey heard us earlier?" Frank asked suddenly, grinning.

I groaned. "God, I know he did. I swear I heard him call my name and then just... go downstairs again."

Frank burst out laughing. "Oh my God. He totally bailed on lunch because of us."

I covered my face with my hands. "We're never gonna hear the end of this."

Frank just kissed my cheek, still giggling. "Totally worth it."

At some point, the movie turned into background noise. The warmth of Frank's body, the comfort of being home, the exhaustion of the past few days—it all settled in at once.

We fell asleep like that, tangled together, safe.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

I woke up in the middle of the night, the warmth beside me gone. The absence was instant, like stepping into cold air after being wrapped in a thick blanket. My body still held the ghost of his touch—our legs had been tangled, his skin against mine, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing a lullaby. Now, there was nothing but the hollow chill of empty sheets.

Blinking against the dim light, I turned over, my heart sinking slightly even though I knew he hadn't gone far. And there he was—perched at his desk, sketchbook open, completely absorbed in whatever world existed inside his head. The soft bubbling of the fish tank filter filled the silence, a low, constant hum that felt oddly grounding. His lamp was on, the golden glow pooling around him like something sacred, casting delicate shadows along the curve of his shoulders and the slope of his spine.

The streetlights outside sent fractured slivers of moonlight through the window, pale ribbons stretching across the room. They made his skin look even softer, almost translucent, as if he weren't quite real, as if he might fade into the paper he was so focused on. His hair was a mess, dark strands curling slightly at the nape of his neck, the faintest hint of red catching the light where the dye was still fresh.

He had his iPod earbuds in, completely unaware that I was awake and watching him. His chin rested on his knee, one leg pulled up onto the chair, his body curled into itself in a way that made him look small, vulnerable. He was only wearing his underwear, his bare back hunched slightly as he drew, muscles shifting beneath pale skin with each movement of his pencil.

I wanted to say something. Call his name, tell him to come back to bed, ask what he was drawing—anything to pull him away from whatever thoughts had led him here instead of staying beside me. But I didn't. I just watched, my chest tight with something I couldn't quite name, some strange mix of affection and longing and the quiet kind of sadness that comes from knowing that no matter how close you get to someone, there will always be pieces of them you can't quite reach.

"Gee," I whispered. My voice barely carried over the quiet hum of the fish tank, but he didn't react, lost in whatever world existed between his pencil and the page.

I sighed softly, pushing the blankets off and stepping onto the cool floor, the chill biting at my skin. Padding over to him, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, watching the way his shoulders moved as he sketched, completely unaware of me for a few more seconds.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen me. He pulled out an earbud, blinking up at me with a sleepy smile, his voice thick with exhaustion and something softer. "Sorry if I woke you, honey."

"You didn't," I murmured, standing beside him, fingers naturally reaching for his hair, threading through the messy strands. They were still slightly damp from his shower earlier, and I let my fingers linger there, feeling the warmth of his scalp. "I woke up, and you were already here."

"Oh. Okay." His voice was barely above a murmur, and then I felt it—his hand slipping under my shirt, palm warm against my back, rubbing slow, lazy circles. It sent a shiver up my spine, not just from the sensation but from the tenderness of it. Like it was second nature to him. Like he didn't even have to think about it.

I let my gaze drift down to his sketchbook, curious. "What are you drawing, babe?"

"Our fish," he said, a quiet laugh escaping his lips.

I couldn't help but smile. "Aww, that's cute."

"And maybe..." He hesitated for a second, smirking slightly. "I drew you while you were sleeping."

I felt my face heat instantly. "What?"

He flipped back a page and held it up for me to see.

It was me—drawn in soft, careful strokes, peaceful in a way I never really saw myself. He'd captured something I didn't recognize, something almost gentle, like he looked at me and saw something worth preserving.

I swallowed, shifting on my feet. "I'm not that cute, though."

His smirk deepened, but his eyes were warm, amused, affectionate. "You're cuter," he said simply, like it was an indisputable fact. His hand slipped lower, fingertips teasing against the waistband of my boxers, and I shoved his arm away, making him chuckle.

"Come back to bed," I whined, leaning into him. "You said you didn't sleep well. You need rest."

"I will," he promised, but there was something distant in his voice, like he wasn't really here, like his head was still wrapped up in whatever was pulling him toward his sketchbook instead of my arms. "But I wanna draw for a bit. I haven't drawn in, like, a month or more. I could sleep all my life, but if I don't do this now, I feel like I won't be able to later."

I huffed, crossing my arms. "You're fucking weird."

"Yeah, I know. Go back to sleep."

"But I miss you," I admitted, my voice dropping slightly. "I wanna feel you next to me."

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Oh my god, you're so whiny and spoiled, like a little girl."

"Don't call me that. You're the girl," I shot back without missing a beat.

He rolled his eyes but didn't stop smirking, glancing down at his sketchbook again as he started shading something.

"Ugh, you're an asshole," I muttered.

"You are," he murmured under his breath, and it took me half a second to realize he meant it with double meaning.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Oh, shut up. Let me sit with you."

Without a word, he shifted slightly, putting his foot back on the floor to make space for me between his legs.

"I was gonna ask you to sit on my lap," he said casually, as if he was talking about the weather, "but I'd probably get a boner."

"Yeah, I know," I snorted, settling in beside him. "Just keep drawing—I like watching you."

And so he did.

And we talked.

His pencil moved effortlessly, lines taking shape, shading filling in, as the silence between us was filled with the occasional hum of the music still coming from his one remaining earbud, the bubbling of the fish tank, and the soft rustle of paper. I watched his hands, the way his fingers moved with purpose, the slight furrow in his brow when he concentrated. He looked so at peace like this—completely in his element, lost in something he loved.

After a while, I picked at my lip ring, hesitating before I finally spoke. "Gee?"

"Hm?" He didn't look up, still focused on his drawing.

"I wanna drop out."

The pencil stopped moving.

His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. "What? Why?"

I swallowed, glancing down. "I can't do it," I muttered. "I'm so behind. I'm fucking stupid. And I'm tired of trying."

His frown deepened, and he turned toward me fully, closing his sketchbook. "You're not stupid. You're stupid for thinking that."

"Well, I am, though," I mumbled, picking at the hem of my shirt, refusing to meet his eyes.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Your mom won't let you." Then, softer, "I won't let you."

I huffed, crossing my arms. "You can't do anything about it."

"Fuck yes, I can."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?"

"I'll help you study."

I let out a sharp laugh. "You don't even know what we're learning."

"Then we'll study together."

"I don't want to study."

"Well, neither do I, Frankie, but we have to." His voice was more serious now, more insistent. "It's just one more semester, and then we'll be free. And I promise, I'll take you to live with me. Our own place. But only if you graduate with me."

My frown deepened. "So if I don't, you won't?"

He shrugged. "Guess I won't."

Something about that made my stomach twist uncomfortably. I sighed, feeling irritated even though I knew he wasn't actually trying to piss me off. "Fine. Don't. I don't wanna live with you anyway."

He muttered something under his breath, too low for me to catch.

I narrowed my eyes. "What'd you say?"

Silence.

A slow smirk spread across my face. "Why don't you say that into my mouth?"

That got his attention. His head snapped up, his lips twitching. "Oh, c'mere."

And before I could respond, he was pulling me in, his smirk still intact, his fingers finding my jaw as if he'd been waiting for an excuse to touch me.

-

I yelped as Gerard shoved me onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath me. His smirk was downright devious as he reached for the waistband of my boxers.

"No—Gee, Mikey is right there." I shot a pointed look at the wall.

"He's sleeping. He's already traumatized," He said.

"So don't traumatize him more. And you're loud as fuck."

"Oh? So you don't want to?"

I rolled my eyes. "Shut up. You know that's not true."

"Then just a blowjob. I'll be quick. Besides, this way, you can prove to me you're not the loud one."

"Fucker," I muttered, but I still nodded. He was a jerk—a smug, cocky, insufferable jerk. But I loved him.

He wasted no time, tugging my boxers down, and I lifted my hips to help him. His hands were warm against my thighs, slow and deliberate as he stroked me, teasing just enough to make me bite back a whine. When he finally took me into his mouth, I sucked in a sharp breath but refused to make a sound. He had challenged me, and I wasn't about to lose.

Instead, I shoved a pillow into my mouth, gripping it hard as his tongue worked over me. His hand wandered up my torso, slipping under my shirt, tracing over my chest and brushing my nipples—then down to my sides. The fucker. He knew I was ticklish. I yanked on his hair, maybe a little too hard, but he only hummed against me in response, sending a shiver down my spine.

When I finally came, he pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself. I groaned and reached for my underwear, and he helped me slide them back on before collapsing next to me on the bed.

"The only way to get you to sleep," I teased, still catching my breath.

Gerard huffed a lazy laugh against my shoulder. "You started it, Frankie."

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't loud."

He propped himself up on one elbow, smirking down at me in the dim light. "Yeah, well, it was fucking boring." His fingers traced absentminded circles on my hip. "But I did enjoy watching you try so hard."

I swatted at his arm. "Oh, shut up, Gerard."

His grin widened. "Shut me up."

And I did. Without thinking, without hesitation—just leaned in, catching his mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. His lips were soft, familiar, but then—

"Oh, fuck—you taste like me." I pulled back abruptly, grimacing as I wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

Gerard burst into laughter, his whole body shaking against mine. "What did you expect?" he snickered.

"Gross."

"Idiot."

I let out a dramatic huff and turned onto my side, pressing my back against him in mock indignation. But he wasted no time, arms curling around me, pulling me into his warmth. His chest molded against my spine, his breath fanning over the nape of my neck as he settled in, his presence heavy and grounding.

"Night, Frankie," he murmured, voice already thick with sleep as he pressed a lazy kiss to my cheek.

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. His heartbeat was steady against my back, his arms secure around me like he never wanted to let go.

"Night, Gee," I whispered, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe.

-

The next morning, we had to go back to school. Well, I had to go back. Gerard, after everything that had happened, had a special permit to stay home for a while. But he still got in the car with me because, honestly, if he didn't, I wasn't sure I'd be able to leave the bed. Leave him.

Helena had made us a quick breakfast. We sat at the table, eating in silence, Mikey barely looking at us.

"Why are you so quiet, Michael?" Helena asked, glancing at him.

Gerard and I exchanged a quick look, biting back smirks.

"Ask them," Mikey muttered, rolling his eyes.

Helena turned to me, expectant. I shrugged, taking a sip of my coffee. "I don't know."

"I don't know either," Gerard added, feigning innocence. "Maybe he had a fight with Pete over who's better at Guitar Hero or something."

"Sure," Mikey scoffed.

When we finished, Helena stood up, collecting our plates. We muttered our thanks and headed upstairs to brush our teeth.

"You came needy as fuck from juvie," Mikey snorted at Gerard. "Thought they liked to fuck a lot in there."

"Oh, c'mon—"

"I'M NOT DEAF YET! I HEARD THAT!" Helena's voice rang from the kitchen.

Fuck.

I muttered a curse under my breath as Gerard shook his head.

"You're walking to school today," Gerard told Mikey. "For being a little smart-ass."

"Oh, c'mon, dude, no!"

"You're driving him, Gerard, it's dangerous!" Helena scolded from the kitchen.

"It's not dangerous, he's big enough," Gerard grumbled.

Mikey just smirked, clearly pleased that he'd won that round.

We finished getting ready and headed to the car.

"Can you grab me a cig?" Gerard asked as we climbed in, nodding toward the glove compartment.

Mikey groaned. "It smells disgusting."

"I don't care. You too," Gerard shot back, starting the engine.

I chuckled under my breath, watching them bicker. I loved seeing them like this. Normal.

I pulled out a cigarette and placed it between Gerard's lips, lighting it for him before taking one for myself.

"You nervous?" I asked, watching the way his fingers tapped against the steering wheel.

"Fucking yes," he admitted, exhaling smoke through his nose. "I hate it."

"It'll be okay," I reassured him. "Just a couple more weeks till winter break."

We dropped Mikey off at his school, then drove in silence toward ours.

Before we left the car, we had a full-on makeout session in the parking lot—our last chance to be close before going our separate ways for class. We were already late, but neither of us cared. It was our way of saying goodbye.

"See ya," I murmured against his lips.

"See ya, Frankie," he whispered back, grinning.

And then, classes.

It didn't take long for the bullshit to start.

The teacher barely even looked up from their desk before launching into the usual routine—calling me out in front of the whole class, like a fucking morning ritual.

"Mr. Iero, how generous of you to grace us with your presence," they drawled, voice dripping with condescension. "Would you care to explain why your attendance record looks like you're a part-time student? Or why your grades are consistently scraping the bottom of the barrel? Or why, for the third time this month, you've strolled in late like this class is just a suggestion?"

My jaw locked, my nails dug into my palms under the desk. I could feel everyone's eyes on me, waiting for a reaction, some of them smug, some just bored, but all of them staring. I slumped lower in my seat, heat creeping up my neck.

Then, from the other side of the room, someone muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Probably busy planning another murder with his emo boyfriend."

Laughter rippled through the class.

And I lost it.

The chair scraped against the floor as I shot up, fists clenched so hard my knuckles cracked. My vision blurred at the edges, my blood pounded in my ears, and I was two seconds away from smashing that smug fucker's face into his own desk—

But before I could take a single step, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, yanking me back with enough force to knock the breath out of me.

"Mr. Iero, sit down," the teacher snapped, their grip iron-clad.

My chest rose and fell with sharp, ragged breaths. I forced myself to unclench my fists, exhaling hard through my nose. My entire body vibrated with pent-up rage, fingers twitching with the need to do something—anything—but I swallowed it down and rolled my eyes instead, shoving my chair back under the desk with more force than necessary.

Fuck this place.

I dropped back into my seat, this time next to Brendon. He leaned in slightly, voice low.

"Iero, calm down."

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," I hissed. My hands were still shaking. "You heard him."

"Yeah, and he's just an asshole," Brendon said flatly, chewing the end of his pen. "They don't know shit about what happened, but they believe what they want. Let them. Hell, threaten them with murder or something, I dunno. Just chill out."

I clenched my jaw, shaking my head. "I fucking hate this school."

Brendon snorted. "We all do. That's why we need a party before break. To let off some steam."

I huffed, rubbing my temple. "Yeah, 'cause getting wasted with the same people who hate me sounds like a blast."

"You know what I mean," he muttered, kicking the leg of my chair lightly. "Just us. No assholes."

I sighed, exhaling the last of my anger. "Yeah, okay."

"Great. Lunch, we're planning this shit."

By the time lunch rolled around, I was still pissed, but at least I wasn't vibrating with the need to punch someone anymore.

I met Gerard outside the cafeteria, where he was leaning against the wall, picking at his nails, one foot propped against the bricks. His hair was still a mess from gym class, strands falling into his eyes. He looked up the second he saw me, expression immediately shifting into something between concern and amusement.

"Hey, baby," he greeted, eyes flicking over me like he was checking for bruises.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine."

He raised an eyebrow. "Brendon texted me."

"Oh my god, of course he did."

"He said you almost murdered some kid."

I shrugged. "Would've been justified."

Gerard sighed, grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward the lunchroom. "C'mon. Let's eat."

Inside, we found our usual table, where Ray, Ryan, Brendon, Lindsey, and Avril were already sitting, deep in conversation. Bob stood nearby, shifting on his feet like he wasn't sure if he was actually invited to sit.

"Hey," Gerard said. "You wanna sit with us?"

Bob's eyebrows shot up, like he wasn't expecting the invite. "Uh... sure."

He pulled out a chair, settling next to Ray, who gave him a nod of approval.

"So," Brendon started, stealing a fry from Ryan's tray, "we're throwing a party."

Gerard blinked. "We are?"

"Yeah. Before break. Just us and whoever we actually like."

Ryan nodded. "Mostly just us."

"Invite your brother's friend, Gerard," Avril said, nudging him.

"Who?" He raised an eyebrow. "Pete?"

"Yeah, he's adorable."

Gerard and I burst out laughing.

Ryan smirked. "Wait—he's not, like, your brother's boyfriend, right?"

Gerard nodded. "Yeah, he is."

Avril's eyes widened. "Oh my god, seriously?" A hint of embarrassment crept into her voice.

Lindsey chuckled. "Girl, I thought you already knew."

Bob leaned in with a grin. "Alright, listen—my stepdad's out of town. We should go to his place tonight. He's got tons of alcohol."

That caught everyone's attention.

"Wait, really?" Brendon asked, leaning in.

Bob shrugged. "Yeah. The guy stocks up like he's preparing for the apocalypse. We'd barely make a dent."

Lindsey smirked. "Sounds perfect."

Gerard turned to me, an unspoken question in his eyes. I hesitated. Getting drunk with all of them sounded like a good way to blow off steam, but part of me wasn't sure if I'd be able to relax. My nerves were still shot from the morning, and the last thing I needed was to get wasted and start a fight.

"What do you think, Frankie?" Gerard murmured.

I exhaled through my nose. "I dunno."

"C'mon," Brendon nudged me with his elbow. "It's just us. No assholes."

Ray smirked. "That means you gotta behave."

I rolled my eyes. "Fuck off."

Gerard squeezed my knee under the table, his way of grounding me. "We don't have to stay long," he said. "We'll just hang for a bit, then leave if you want."

I glanced at him. Those hazel eyes, warm and steady, were enough to tip the scale.

"...Fine."

Brendon grinned. "That's the spirit."

Bob leaned back, satisfied. "Alright. My place, nine o'clock. Just bring yourselves."

Gerard's fingers curled tighter around my knee, and I knew we were thinking the same thing.

This night could go really fucking well.

Or really fucking bad.

Gerard drove us to pick up Mikey and Pete first, blasting old Misfits songs through the shitty speakers, the kind of blown-out sound that made everything crackle like we were inside a tin can. Cigarette smoke curled out of the cracked window, mixing with the freezing night air that kept whipping into my face, sharp enough to keep me awake but not enough to shake the pleasant buzz of nicotine in my veins.

Mikey slid into the backseat first, rolling his eyes at Gerard's reckless swerving but grinning anyway as he yanked his hoodie tighter around himself. Pete, on the other hand, immediately made himself at home by throwing his legs up on the middle console, nearly knocking the gear shift.

"Jesus, Pete, can you not?" Gerard snapped, shoving his legs off.

Pete just laughed. "What? You drive like you're playing fucking Mario Kart anyway. If we die, we die."

"That's not exactly reassuring," Mikey muttered, clicking his seatbelt into place with unnecessary force.

Gerard ignored them both, turning the volume up and drumming his fingers against the wheel. I leaned my head back, letting the chaotic mix of music, cigarette smoke, and Gerard's terrible driving blend together into something weirdly comforting.

We made a quick stop for smoothies, something that felt just ironic enough to be funny—four idiots in leather jackets, reeking of smoke, loitering outside a bright, overly cheerful smoothie shop. I took a sip of mine, grimacing at how the artificial sweetness clashed against the lingering cigarette taste.

Mikey gave Gerard a disgusted look as he inspected his own drink. "Why do you always get the most unholy abominations? That's not even a smoothie, it's just a cup of melted ice cream."

"It's good," Gerard said defensively, stabbing his straw into the mountain of whipped cream.

Pete made an exaggerated gagging noise. "I can literally feel my arteries clogging from looking at that." Then, without warning, he grabbed Gerard's cup and took a massive sip anyway.

Gerard spluttered. "Dude, what the fuck?"

Pete wiped his mouth, smacking his lips obnoxiously. "Tastes like childhood trauma."

"Give me that," Gerard grumbled, snatching his cup back and flicking both Pete and Mikey off before speeding toward his place.

Once inside, the energy shifted, the casual banter fading into something quieter. Gerard tossed his jacket onto his bed before grabbing his makeup bag, pulling out an eyeliner pencil like it was some kind of sacred ritual.

He turned to me, eyes flickering over my face like he was already picturing the final result. "C'mere."

I rolled my eyes but stepped forward, letting him maneuver me in front of his mirror.

"Hold still," he murmured, the tip of the eyeliner cool against my skin as he traced along my lower lash line. His breath was warm against my face, his fingers steady on my cheek.

I smirked. "Didn't know you were so delicate, Way."

He scoffed, dragging the liner a little more aggressively. "Shut up."

I laughed, the sound short and easy, my chest feeling lighter than it had in days. Before I could say anything else, Gerard leaned in, pressing his mouth against mine.

It was soft at first, then deeper, his fingers slipping to the back of my neck, keeping me there like he didn't want me to go anywhere. My hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding myself in the warmth of him, the way he smelled like cheap cologne and cigarettes and something inherently Gerard.

When we pulled away, I caught my reflection—eyes dark, lips a little swollen. Gerard grinned, swiping his thumb over my cheekbone, his voice smug but affectionate.

"Perfect."

By the time we pulled up to Bob's place, the house was already alive with music, bass rattling through the walls like a second heartbeat. The front door was cracked open just enough for the glow of party lights to spill onto the driveway, flickering against the surface of the pool. The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of weed and alcohol, mixing with chlorine and cheap cologne. Someone was laughing loudly from the backyard, and inside, people were sprawled across couches, hunched over pool tables, or locked into intense rounds of video games. It was one of those nights that promised to spiral fast—one way or another.

I barely had time to take it all in before I saw her.

Dark hair, sharp blue eyes. A face I hadn't thought about in months—or at least, tried not to. But there she was, standing near the pool table, looking right at me, lips parting slightly in recognition.

Fuck.

"Frank?"

Her voice cut through the noise like a razor, and my stomach dropped. The kind of drop that left you lightheaded, nauseous, bracing for impact.

Next to her, Bob visibly paled, rubbing a hand over his face like he could physically wipe the situation away. "Oh, shit." He glanced between us, shifting awkwardly. "Dude, I—I didn't know she was coming, I swear."

I forced a shrug, trying to ignore the way my fingers twitched at my sides. "It's whatever." My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Wait, you two—?"

Gerard, who had been half-distracted by the party, suddenly snapped to attention. His eyes narrowed, darting between us like he was piecing together a puzzle he didn't like.

"Not important," I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair like it could somehow shake off the sudden weight pressing down on my chest.

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over her chest. "Not important?" she repeated, amusement flickering across her face. "That's funny, 'cause I remember it a little differently."

Not angry. Not sad. Just... amused. Maybe a little smug. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Gerard shifted beside me, his fingers twitching again, and I could feel his stare burning into the side of my face, waiting for me to react. I didn't. Couldn't.

Bob, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and stepped between us, his voice a little too forced in its attempt at casual. "Okay, so, uh. Drinks? Games? Pool? Literally anything else?"

She smirked, not even bothering to look at him. "Relax, Bob. I'm not here to cause drama." Then, she turned back to me, her voice dropping just enough that only I could hear. "Just surprised you forgot me so fast, Frankie."

I exhaled sharply, jaw tightening as a familiar headache started forming behind my eyes.

This night was going to be long.

Gerard didn't say anything right away, but I could feel it—his mood shifting like a storm rolling in. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep, and his jaw was just tight enough to make it obvious he was chewing on something.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face before turning to him. "Go ahead. Say it."

He arched an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Say what?"

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever's brewing in that moody little head of yours."

Gerard let out a sharp, humorless laugh, tilting his head. "Oh, nothing. Just thinking about how weirdly small the world is. Like, what are the fucking odds?" He gestured vaguely toward Jenna, who was now deep in conversation with some guy near the kitchen. "I mean, you show up here all innocent, fresh off the train, and—oh, surprise! You've already hooked up with Bob's step-sister. Who, by the way, is from Denmark? What the fuck, Frank?"

I snorted, shaking my head. "First of all, 'hooked up' is a strong phrase."

"Did you or did you not sleep with her?"

"That's not the point."

Gerard huffed, crossing his arms tighter. "So you did."

"Jesus, man, it was literally, like, two weeks in the summer. I came here to the pool, she was here, we got along, and, you know, one thing led to another." I shrugged, acting like it was no big deal. "Didn't even know she was coming back. Thought she was just a limited-edition summer attraction."

Gerard made a face. "Limited-edition? You're disgusting."

I smirked. "And yet, you love me."

He scoffed, looking away. "Yeah, I'm reconsidering."

There was something under his voice, though—something tight and sharp, something that wasn't just sarcasm. His fingers twitched again at his side, and his knee bounced slightly, like he needed to be doing something with his hands.

Then, suddenly, he turned toward the kitchen. "I need a drink."

I grabbed his wrist before he could take a step. "Gerard, don't."

He yanked his arm away, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Because you don't drink that much, anymore" I said, lowering my voice. "And also, because you're fucking driving."

He rolled his eyes. "Bob has a whole house, Frank. I'm pretty sure we can crash here if it comes to that."

"Yeah, but it's not gonna 'come to that' because you're not drinking."

"Who died and made you my mom?"

Damn.

"Gee..."

"Yeah, I know who fucking died" He said biting his lip and regretting every single word he said.

Bob, who had apparently been listening in, cut in with a lazy shrug. "I mean, he's right. You can crash here if you want. No one's gonna care."

Gerard glanced between us, his jaw still tight, but after a second, he sighed through his nose and muttered, "Whatever," before slumping onto the couch like the world had personally wronged him.

I sat next to him, nudging his knee with mine. "You're so dramatic."

He flipped me off without looking.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

I was fucking jealous. I didn't want to admit it, but it was obvious—burning under my skin, twisting in my stomach, making my hands curl into fists even though I had no real reason to be this pissed. But that didn't matter. Feelings didn't give a shit about logic. And right now, mine were clawing at my insides, leaving me restless, uneasy.

I hated that girl. Hated the way she smiled at him like she still had some kind of claim over him. Hated that she could casually bring up some inside joke from that summer, something he'd laugh at, something I'd never understand because I hadn't been there. She had a piece of him—something small, maybe, something that probably meant nothing to him now, but it was still hers, not mine. And that was enough to make me want to fucking scream.

It wasn't just her, though. It was the thought of all the people who'd touched him before me, who'd kissed him, who'd made him laugh, who'd had even a fraction of what I had now. It was the knowledge that there was a whole version of his life that existed without me in it. A world where I was just some stranger in the background, where he was out there, fucking around with people who weren't me.

And yeah, maybe it was for the best that we met when we did. Maybe if I'd met him earlier, I wouldn't have even stood a chance. What if I'd fallen for him back when he was still screwing around, when he wouldn't have even looked twice at me? What if I was just another face to him, another name he barely remembered? He kind of dumped Haley for me, sure, but what if he hadn't? What if we hadn't been paired up for that stupid French assignment? What if we never got to know each other?

What if I had lost him before I ever got the chance to have him?

But still. It gnawed at me, that ugly little feeling I couldn't quite name.

I knew it was stupid. I knew I was being ridiculous, petty even, but I couldn't help it. The thought of Frank tangled up with someone else, of his hands gripping someone else's waist, his lips pressing against someone else's neck—it made my skin crawl. And yeah, I knew it wasn't fair. He wasn't mine back then. Hell, he wasn't even supposed to be mine now.

But he was.

And that was the part that fucked with me the most. Because if he could be mine now, if he could love me now, then what was stopping him from loving someone else before? What if I wasn't as special as I wanted to believe? What if I was just another name on his list, another moment he'd eventually outgrow?

I shook the thought off. No. That wasn't true. It couldn't be.

Because Frank looked at me like no one else mattered. He kissed me like he was starving, like I was the only thing that could keep him breathing. And when we were alone, when it was just us, it felt different. It had to be different.

Didn't it?

I glanced at him, watching the way he laughed at something stupid, the way his nose scrunched up when he smiled. I hated that this bullshit was stuck in my head instead of just enjoying him. Instead of just being happy that, despite everything, he was here.

Mine.

Maybe what pissed me off the most was the way he kept acting like my fucking babysitter. Like the only reason I was here—the only reason I ever did anything—was to get drunk and spiral into some pathetic, self-destructive mess. Like I was a problem he had to manage, a disaster waiting to happen. And yeah, maybe there was a part of me that was afraid of that too—afraid of slipping, of losing control, of letting that dark, gnawing thing inside me wake up and swallow me whole.

But I was handling it.

I was fine.

And yet, every time his eyes flickered toward me, every time he tracked my movements just a little too closely, I could feel it. The doubt. The unspoken Are you okay? hanging in the air between us. The way he watched me like I was already halfway to breaking.

Like he was waiting for the moment I snapped.

Like he was waiting for me to fail.

I fucking hated it.

I wanted to be normal. I wanted to take a drink without him flinching, without him pressing his lips together like he was already preparing for whatever fucked-up shit he thought I was about to do. I wanted him to stop looking at me like I was some little diabetic kid loose in a candy store, stuffing my face with something that was only gonna make me sick.

I wanted to stop feeling like he might be right.

And yeah, Frank had his own little problem with alcohol. Not as bad as mine, but still. He could pretend all he wanted, act like he had it under control, but I knew better. I saw it. The way he never turned down a drink. The way he gravitated toward the cheap shit—shitty beer, watered-down whiskey, whatever would get him drunk the fastest. It wasn't dramatic or obvious, but it was there, lurking under the surface.

And maybe that was why it pissed me off so much when he looked at me like I was the one who couldn't be trusted. Like I was some kind of walking cautionary tale, a fucking disaster he had to keep from combusting.

The difference was, I knew I couldn't drink.

I knew I'd disappoint Mikey, Grandma, and—fuck—even him.

But we were at a party.

And I was pissed.

And I was annoyed.

So I went straight to the kitchen.

The music was loud, too many voices, too much heat pressing in on me. I barely even looked around before I grabbed the first thing I saw—a punch bowl, bright red, the kind of thing that was probably more sugar than alcohol. I poured myself a cup, took a sip, barely even tasted the burn, so I downed the rest in a few gulps.

Then I found beer.

And I drank that too.

And then—fuck.

The edges of everything started to blur. My head felt light, my skin too warm, the music rattling through my bones like it was inside me instead of outside. And for a second—for one perfect, dizzy second—it felt good.

But I stopped.

I stopped before it got worse.

Before I could slip.

Before I could wake up tomorrow feeling like I was drowning in the weight of my own bad decisions.

And when I turned, Frank was still watching me.

His arms crossed, his mouth pressed into this thin, unreadable line.

And I didn't know if I hated that or needed it.

I didn't know if I wanted to push him away or grab onto him and make him see me, make him understand that I was fine, that I was handling it, that I wasn't going to fucking fall apart in front of him.

But then I saw her.

Jenna.

She was moving closer to Frank again, tilting her head, smiling like she had some fucking right to stand there, to look at him like that.

And suddenly, I really wanted another drink.

He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, glancing around like he was searching for an escape route. Like he wanted to be anywhere but here. But Jenna either didn't notice or didn't care. She just kept closing the space between them, her voice too close to his ear, her laugh too soft, her hand finding his arm again and again, like she had some claim on him.

And it made my stomach twist.

But I wasn't going to do anything.

It wasn't my place. It shouldn't fucking matter.

So I turned away, planting myself in the kitchen, forcing myself into a conversation with Lindsey. She was talking about Avril—about how she liked her. How she really liked her. But I wasn't listening, not fully. The words slipped past me, half-heard, drowned out by the noise in my head. Because even though I was facing Lindsey, even though I was nodding along and making the occasional sound of agreement, my mind was elsewhere.

With him.

With them.

With the way my fingers clenched around the counter, my nails biting into the cheap laminate as I resisted the urge to turn around, to check, to see.

And then, somehow, the party got even bigger.

More people, more noise, bodies squeezing into the already-too-small space. I didn't know where they all came from, but I had a pretty good guess. Jenna's friends. The ones who never passed up an excuse to get wasted, who didn't care whose house they trashed as long as the booze kept flowing. They brought more alcohol, more chaos, more people from school—people I really, really didn't want to see.

And Avril was flirting with one of them.

I saw it first. The way she leaned in, the way she smiled, all soft and effortless. And then I saw Lindsey see it too.

Her expression barely changed, but I still noticed. The way her lips twitched like she wanted to frown but forced herself not to. The way her eyes dimmed just a little, losing some of that light. The way her fingers tightened around the plastic cup in her hand, like maybe if she squeezed hard enough, she could keep herself together.

It was hard to watch.

I knew that look.

That quiet, aching kind of sadness when you realize someone's never going to look at you the way you want them to.

"Say something," I told her, keeping my voice low. "Take a chance."

She just shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"She's my best friend," she mumbled, staring down at her drink like it had the answers. "I don't wanna lose her."

And I got it.

Kind of.

Because I didn't think I could ever be just friends with Frank. The thought alone made my chest ache, made my ribs feel too tight. But at least it would be something, right? At least he'd still be there. I don't know. Maybe I was just trying to convince myself.

Either way, I was glad I had him.

But deep down, in that moment, I hated him.

Because that bitch wouldn't stop touching him.

Even when he was clearly trying to get away. Even when his shoulders tensed and his eyes darted toward me like he wanted me to do something. And maybe I should've. Maybe I should've walked over, wrapped an arm around his waist, kissed him just to prove a fucking point.

But I didn't.

I just stood there, gripping my drink, letting the jealousy fester, letting it curl hot and ugly in my stomach.

Letting it win.

Then the whispers started.

At first, it was just background noise. A murmur. A few glances. The kind of thing I could ignore if I focused hard enough, if I pretended it wasn't there, if I drowned it out with the bass thumping through the walls and the sound of my own breathing.

But then it got louder.

People were talking.

About me.

About what I was.

And they weren't wrong.

That was the worst part. The thing that made my stomach twist and my throat close up. They weren't making it up. They weren't exaggerating. It wasn't just some fucked-up rumor or a bad joke at my expense. It was real.

I am a murderer.

And that's something I'll carry with me until the day I die.

But I just wanted them to understand.

I wanted them to see me.

I wasn't a monster.

I was just sick.

Mentally fucked up in ways I still didn't fully understand, in ways that made my brain feel like an open wound some days. But I still felt things. Too deeply, too violently. So much that it became unbearable sometimes, like I was carrying the weight of the whole fucking world on my back.

And I hated being judged for something they would never understand.

I had been judged my whole life.

For being too feminine. For being a fag. For the way I dressed, for my hair, for the way I talked. For liking art. For being a bad son, a bad brother, a fucking disappointment.

And now, a murderer.

I could feel their eyes on me.

The way their conversations would slow when I walked past, the way their heads would turn just enough for me to catch the edge of their sneers, their disgust.

I could hear them.

Hushed voices, sharp laughter, the occasional not-so-quiet remark.

"How is he even here?"

"I'd kill myself if I were him."

"Didn't he, like, totally lose his mind? Shouldn't he be locked up or something?"

And the worst part?

They weren't even wrong.

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

I wanted to disappear, to vanish into nothing, to erase myself from the narrative completely.

But instead, I stood there.

Frozen.

Drowning in it.

I lost Frank in the crowd, and it made my chest tighten, my fingers twitch. There were too many people, too many voices, and the music was pounding in my skull, vibrating through my ribs like it was trying to break me apart from the inside. My head was already swimming, the edges of everything blurring into a haze of movement and noise. I needed to calm down. To settle the panic curling up in my throat.

So I drank more.

The party had exploded. What had started as a handful of people drinking in the kitchen had somehow turned into a full-blown, shoulder-to-shoulder chaos fest. People were dancing, grinding to the music, their bodies moving like they had no worries, no weight pressing down on them. Their laughter rang out over the heavy bass, carefree, uninhibited. It was the kind of energy I wished I could tap into, the kind of detachment I envied.

Brendon and Ryan were there, tangled up in their own world, practically orbiting each other like they didn't even notice the rest of us existed. A group had taken over the living room for karaoke—shouting lyrics, spilling drinks, shoving each other around in that rowdy, drunken kind of way. In the corner, Bob and Ray were playing—Bob hammering away at the drums, Ray completely lost in his guitar, his fingers moving fast, precise, like he was part of the music itself.

It was loud.

Chaotic.

The room shifted like it was breathing, like it was alive, and my head was spinning.

And then, suddenly, Frank was in front of me.

"You're drunk," he accused, his voice somehow cutting through the noise, through the static in my brain. His brows were furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line, but there was something else in his eyes—something unreadable. "And why the fuck didn't you save me from her?"

I blinked at him, trying to focus, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

"She's crazy," he continued, exasperated. "I told her I was gay and had a beautiful boyfriend now, and she freaked the fuck out and left me."

His lips curled into a smirk, like he actually found the whole thing amusing, and I felt something warm spread in my chest.

The way he said it.

Beautiful.

I rolled my eyes, trying to act unfazed, ignoring the way my stomach flipped. "You could've just told her you had a boyfriend, y'know. No need to mention the beautiful part."

Frank shrugged, his smirk widening. "But it's true."

Fucking hell.

I swallowed hard, looking away, because if I met his eyes for too long, I knew I'd crack. I knew I'd do something stupid, like kiss him right then and there, in front of everyone, consequences be damned.

But he didn't give me time to dwell on it.

"Let's dance," he said suddenly, grabbing my wrist. "Live a little."

I barely had a chance to protest before he was dragging me toward the makeshift dance floor. The lights were dim, flashing in erratic bursts of color, and bodies pressed in close on all sides. It was too much—too loud, too hot, too overwhelming—but then Frank was shoving a beer into my hand, grabbing a cup of his own, and I forced myself to focus on him.

He took a sip, then made a face, his nose scrunching up in disgust.

"Jesus, that shit is strong," he choked out, shaking his head.

I smirked, feeling the alcohol buzz through my veins, making me bolder. "You're just a pussy."

He narrowed his eyes at me, then downed another sip out of pure spite, grimacing the whole way through.

And then he smiled, wide and reckless, and I knew I was absolutely, completely fucked.

He shoved me, laughing, a lazy, drunken grin stretching across his face as he stumbled back a little, his balance thrown off by the alcohol. I caught his wrist instinctively, steadying him, but he just used it as leverage to pull me closer, to keep me there, locked in this moment with him. The music pounded through the speakers, rattling through my chest, shaking the floor beneath our feet, and we kept dancing. Too close. Too in sync.

His body fit against mine like it was supposed to be there, like we'd done this a million times before, and maybe we had—just never like this. Never without holding back. Never without the weight of everything else pressing down on us, making us second-guess every move.

But tonight?

Tonight we were drunk.

And we didn't fucking care.

I felt the heat of him everywhere. The warmth of his skin, the press of his chest against mine when the crowd shoved us closer, the ghost of his breath near my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. His fingers found my waist—just barely, just light enough to make it seem accidental—but they lingered. Moved. Slipped under the hem of my shirt, tracing the skin there like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

And I felt it.

Everywhere.

My pulse was too fast, my skin too hot, and I knew—fuck, I knew—I should step back, put some space between us, clear my head before I did something I'd regret.

But I didn't.

Because he was smiling at me, his eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something I couldn't name, and I was too far gone to resist him.

So I let him pull me in closer.

The bass vibrated through my ribs, matching the erratic pounding of my heart, and I could feel it—this pull between us, this fucking gravity that I'd been trying so hard to ignore. It had always been there, in every glance, in every accidental touch, in every moment that felt too charged to be just friends—and now it was suffocating. Drowning me.

And I let it.

I could feel eyes on us. The weight of stares, the shift in the air around us as people turned to look. There were whispers—soft at first, barely noticeable over the music, but growing louder, sharper.

And then the flashes.

Phones lifted, cameras aimed in our direction.

People were taking pictures.

Recording us.

Maybe to mock us, maybe to send it around like a joke, like a fucking scandal—but I didn't care.

And neither did Frank.

Because he just laughed, tipping his head back, his hand still on me, his body still flush against mine, and he looked free.

Wild.

Like he was happy.

And for once, I wanted to feel that too.

So I let myself have this.

Just for a little while.

Someone yelled, "Everyone to the pool!" and the energy in the room shifted. A surge of people started moving outside, and we went with them.

Frank and I pulled off our clothes, shoving them somewhere safe in the patio—because knowing these assholes, someone would definitely try to steal them or throw them into the bushes. Then, in just our boxers, we jumped into the freezing water.

The cold hit like a shock, a slap to the senses that sent a jolt straight through my body. My breath caught in my throat as I surfaced, shaking my hair out of my eyes, and then—before I could even recover—Frank was there, laughing, shoving water into my face.

"Fucker," I sputtered, wiping at my eyes as he grinned at me, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

The pool was alive with chaos. People were everywhere, bodies crashing into each other, voices raised over the pounding music that spilled out from the house. Someone had dragged a speaker out onto the patio, and the bass vibrated through the water, mixing with the splash of waves and the drunken shouts of people climbing onto each other's shoulders.

Brendon and Ryan were tangled up near the deep end, clinging to each other, grinning like idiots. Ray was laughing as Lindsey tried to shove him under, and Avril was perched on the edge of the pool, her feet kicking at the surface as she sipped from a bottle that definitely wasn't just soda.

And then there was Frank.

His face was flushed, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, water droplets running down his neck, disappearing beneath the fabric of his soaked boxers. He was beautiful.

And I was so fucking drunk.

Someone threw a ball in our direction, and Frank caught it, immediately launching it at Brendon with a little too much force. It smacked him in the chest, and he let out an exaggerated oof, making Ryan laugh so hard he had to cling to the side of the pool for support.

"Damn, Iero," Brendon said, pretending to rub at his ribs. "You got some anger issues you wanna talk about?"

Frank just smirked. "Nah, just bad aim."

He threw the ball at me next, but I barely had time to react before it hit the water right in front of me, sending a wave straight into my face.

"Dick," I coughed, wiping at my eyes, but Frank just grinned, already swimming away, disappearing into the tangle of people.

I watched him go.

Even in the chaos, in the noise, in the blur of movement around me—I couldn't stop watching him.

And I didn't know if I wanted to.

And then it hit me.

Mikey.

Where the fuck was Mikey?

And Pete?

Panic sliced through my buzz, my stomach dropping.

I was a fucking terrible brother.

I had completely forgotten about him.

I scrambled out of the pool, my breath hitching as the cold air slammed into me like a punch to the gut. My skin prickled, goosebumps erupting instantly, and my soaked boxers clung uncomfortably to my body. I muttered a curse under my breath, my fingers fumbling as I grabbed my clothes from where Frank and I had stashed them. Everything was damp now—either from the pool water dripping off me or from the humidity of too many bodies packed into one place. I barely bothered drying off, just yanking my shirt over my head and shoving my legs into my jeans with clumsy, shivering hands.

I turned toward Frank, still trying to catch my breath. "I'm gonna look for Mikey and Pete," I said, my voice coming out hoarse, uneven.

He barely reacted. Too busy laughing at something Brendon had said, his body still vibrating with the reckless energy of the party. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a wide, drunken grin. He looked happy. Carefree. And for a second, I wanted to stay—wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer, the feeling of us dancing, of his hands on me, of the way he had looked at me like I was something more than just a fuck-up.

But Mikey.

My stomach twisted. I had already forgotten about him for too long.

I turned away and pushed through the crowd, shoving past the bodies crammed into the house. No one else seemed to care about the cold. People were still dripping wet, still laughing, still launching themselves into the pool like they had no sense of self-preservation. The music inside was even louder now, a pulsing bass that vibrated through the walls, making everything feel unstable, like the house itself was breathing. The air was thick with alcohol, sweat, and the unmistakable bite of weed.

I moved through the chaos, my heart hammering faster than it should've been. I checked the living room first—too many people, too much noise. The kitchen was just as bad, bodies pressed together, drinks spilling, someone making out against the fridge. I started opening doors, slipping down the hall, my pulse climbing higher with every empty room, every unfamiliar face.

Where the fuck was he?

The first room—two people fucking. Jesus.

The second—same deal.

The third—worse.

A group of guys, the kind that immediately made my stomach twist. They looked up as I entered, and something shifted in the air.

I recognized one of them. He recognized me too.

And then he moved.

Before I could react, he shoved me hard against the wall, his breath reeking of alcohol. "You think you can just fucking walk around like you own the place?" he spat. "Fucking murderer."

My throat closed up.

I couldn't defend myself. With what? I did it. I fucking did it.

The others laughed, egging him on, and then—

Someone handed him a knife.

Oh, fuck.

Panic surged through me as he grinned, flipping the blade in his fingers. And then—he ran at me.

My body moved before my brain could catch up. I bolted, shoving through the doorway, stumbling down the hall. My heart hammered in my chest, blood rushing in my ears.

I reached the bathroom and yanked the door open—

FUCK.

A couple of dudes. Blowjob happening.

Except—FUCKING HELL. It wasn't just any two dudes.

It was Pete.

And Mikey.

I froze. My brain short-circuited.

Mikey's head snapped toward me, eyes wide in horror. "GERARD, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

I slammed the door shut, turned around, and squeezed my eyes closed like that would somehow undo what I just saw.

"FUCK," I choked out. "I'M SORRY AND—WHAT THE FUCK, MIKEY?!"

"GO THE HELL AWAY, DUDE," Pete shouted from inside.

"I'D LOVE TO, OKAY? BUT THERE'S A FUCKING DUDE WITH A KNIFE OUT HERE CHASING ME!"

Silence.

Then—

"WHAT?" Mikey's voice, now panicked.

"YES, I'M SORRY, OKAY? BUT CAN WE DEAL WITH THE FUCKING PSYCHO FIRST?!"

BANG.

The door shook as something heavy slammed against it.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, MOTHERFUCKER!" the guy yelled, pounding his fists against the wood.

I pressed my back against it, breathing hard. My whole body was shaking now, and not from the cold.

The door rattled again, another heavy BANG that sent a jolt through my spine.

"Uh—guys?" I said, voice tight.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Pete groaned from inside. "You just had to walk in now?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly plan on ruining my fucking night by seeing my brother-in-law's dick, but here we are!"

"DUDE, STOP TALKING," Mikey yelled, horrified.

Another THUD against the door.

"I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking gut you, Way!" the guy snarled from outside.

My breath caught in my throat. I gripped the doorknob tighter, my hands shaking.

"Okay, great! Awesome!" Pete said, his voice moving closer. "Let's focus on the part where Gerard's about to get fucking murdered instead of the part where he walked in on Mikey sucking my dick, yeah?"

"I WASN'T EVEN SU—"

"NOT THE TIME, MIKEY!"

I felt the door jolt again, but this time it wasn't from a punch—it was the fucker outside trying to force it open. I braced against it with my whole body, my wet clothes clinging to me, making everything feel ten times colder, ten times more suffocating.

"I—I think he's got friends out there," I said, my voice shaking now.

Pete cursed under his breath. "Okay, we need to get out of here. Is there a window?"

Mikey scrambled to look. I could hear him moving, probably still half-dressed, which—fucking gross, but also, not the time.

"Yes," Mikey said. "But it's small."

"I don't care, dude, start crawling."

"Wait, what about you guys?!" I asked.

Pete snorted. "What, you want me to carry you out like some damsel in distress? We're all going through the window."

"I hate you," I muttered.

"Cool, I'm still your only chance of survival, so suck it up."

Mikey was already climbing through, cursing as he squeezed himself through the tiny opening. Pete shoved his clothes into his arms, and then he looked at me.

"You next, Drama Queen."

I didn't argue. I climbed up onto the sink, twisting my body awkwardly, and—

BANG.

The doorframe cracked.

My pulse skyrocketed.

"GO GO GO," Pete shoved me, and I scrambled through, twisting my shoulder painfully as I landed hard on the ground outside.

Pete followed a second later, landing with a thud next to me.

We lay there for a second, panting. Then we heard the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door busting open inside the house.

"FUCK, RUN!"

We took off.

I didn't know where we were going, but we ran, tearing through the yard, the music still blaring from inside like nothing was wrong.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS FRANK?" I shouted.

"WORRY ABOUT YOURSELF, YOU JUST WALKED IN ON YOUR BROTHER GIVING HEAD," Pete yelled back.

"I'M BLOCKING THAT OUT, THANKS."

We tore around the side of the house, ducking behind a fence as voices shouted behind us.

"Okay," Pete panted. "New plan: never go to Bob's parties again."

"Yeah," I wheezed. "Agreed."

Mikey groaned from where he was hunched over. "I hate all of you."

I couldn't help it—I started laughing. Hysterical, borderline insane laughter, because what the fuck just happened?

Pete clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Gerard, my guy," he said, "I have never respected you more."

Mikey groaned again. "I'm actually gonna throw up."

I wiped my face, still trying to catch my breath. But even as the adrenaline faded, my brain was still spinning.

Where the fuck was Frank?

We sat in my car, just waiting. I was too drunk to drive, but not drunk enough to be completely stupid with my little brother there. I didn't want to fuck things up even more. Mikey sat in the backseat, way too embarrassed, his head resting on Pete's lap, his feet up on the seat. He wasn't talking. Probably wishing he could disappear.

I kept calling Frank, but he wouldn't answer. My eyes flicked back to the house entrance, scanning for those psychos, but they weren't there. Guess they gave up. After, like, thirty minutes of waiting, my phone finally rang.

"Geeeraaard," Frank slurred. "Where are you? Did you them find?"

"Yes—Frank, where the fuck are you?"

"I was singing in the karaoke! I wanted to sing with you, baby. And I smoked weed."

"What? Who gave you that?"

"I dunno, but Bob did too, so I did."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temple. "Frank, come to my car, okay?"

"No! For what? I'm having fun."

"Just come."

"Oh, are we gonna fuck?" He giggled, way too drunk.

I sighed. "Sure, just come."

The silence between me and the youngest couple was unbearable, so I put on some soft music to make it less awkward. My fingers tapped against the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the house entrance. That's when I saw him—Frank, stumbling out the doorway, scanning the street, probably looking for my car. He was too fucking drunk. I rolled the window down and waved at him.

And then—fuck. I saw those motherfuckers behind him.

"RUN, FRANK! COME HERE!"

"WHAT?"

"RUN!" Mikey, Pete, and I yelled in unison.

And he actually did.

I slammed the engine on and drove like fucking hell, barely managing to keep the car steady. The nearest gas station—where the fuck was it? My hands were sweating, my head spinning, but I kept my foot on the gas. When we finally pulled in, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Frank was panting, laughing a little as he flopped against the seat. "Where are we going? I thought we were about to—"

"UGH," Mikey groaned, cutting him off.

Frank blinked, glancing back at the street. "Wait, why were they there?"

"Frank, shut up," I muttered, trying to focus on not running anyone over. Thank fuck, I didn't, and we made it to the gas station in one piece.

As soon as we stepped out, Frank shivered. "Gee, I'm cold," he whined, voice small and childish.

"Come here," I sighed, shrugging off my jacket and handing it to him. I was still hot from the adrenaline and running for my life.

Frank grinned as he put it on. "You smell awful, Frankie."

"Rude," he said, but he was still smiling.

Mikey and Pete were already inside, grabbing whatever the hell they wanted from the shelves. Frank and I followed.

"I need coffee," I mumbled, rubbing my face.

"I want some too," Frank said, pressing himself into me in a loose, lazy hug.

Drunk Frank was kind of cute. If he wasn't miserable, if he wasn't spiraling, he got clingy—really clingy.

And I couldn't say I hated it.

I paid for the stuff Mikey and Pete wanted—because obviously, they never had money, and I was basically their personal piggy bank. Pete grabbed a Red Bull and a donut, while Mikey got a bag of chips and sour gummies. Frank and I got coffee and cigarettes.

We all sat on the sidewalk, staring up at the moon. Frank rested his head on my shoulder, my arm draped around him. His coffee sat untouched in his hand, cooling—he never liked it too hot. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, the one we were sharing. Not because we didn't have enough, but because we liked sharing. It felt like kissing.

I took a sip of my coffee.

"Can I have one?" Pete asked.

I exhaled smoke, too tired to give him a whole speech about why he shouldn't start. "I don't think Mikey's gonna like it, but go ahead."

Mikey, still chewing on his chips, muttered, "Mikey's not gonna kiss me with you two around, so, whatever."

"Shut up, Pete," Mikey grumbled.

Frank was barely awake, eyes heavy, only flicking the cigarette to his lips now and then before passing it to me. Pete took his first drag and immediately coughed his lungs out.

"We should sleep in the car," I said, my voice low and tired.

"What? Why?" Frank murmured, blinking up at me.

"I thought we were crashing at Bob's," he added.

"Too dangerous, honey. I'll explain tomorrow," I said, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"How the fuck are we gonna sleep in there?" Pete groaned.

"Easy," I smirked. "You two in the trunk."

"You asshole, you sleep in the trunk," Pete shot back.

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

I groaned, my head pounding like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon. "What the fuck," I muttered, voice rough and barely above a whisper, the sound scraping against my dry throat like sandpaper. My whole body ached, stiff and sore from sleeping in the worst position imaginable, like my spine had been twisted into some unnatural shape overnight. Every small movement sent little pulses of pain through me, and the second I even tried to sit up, the dizziness hit me like a goddamn freight train.

My stomach twisted violently—somehow both completely empty and nauseous at the same time, a cruel fucking contradiction that made me want to curl up and never move again. I swallowed against the sick feeling creeping up my throat, willing myself to keep it down. My mouth tasted horrible, like stale beer, cigarettes, and something vaguely acidic I didn't want to think too hard about.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my palms against them, trying to shake off the heavy fog of sleep and whatever else was still lingering in my system. It didn't help. I was drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging to my skin in the most disgusting way, damp and cold now that the night was over. And the smell—Jesus Christ. Alcohol, cigarettes, weed, sweat, and something even worse, something sour and pungent that made my nose wrinkle. I reeked, and I hated it. That thick, stale stench of a night gone way too far, clinging to my clothes, my hair, the back of my throat.

I blinked hard, trying to piece together where the hell I even was. My brain felt like scrambled eggs, thoughts sliding around with no real coherence, nothing clicking into place. The world around me was still a blur, my vision sluggish as I turned my head—and then I saw Gerard next to me, knocked out cold, mouth hanging open, snoring just a little. He looked like absolute shit, dark circles under his eyes, red marks on his cheek from where he must've been leaning against something too hard for too long. His hair was a mess, sticking up in odd directions, like he had been rolling around in his sleep.

Behind us, Mikey and Pete were tangled up in a mess of limbs, still dead asleep. Pete was completely shirtless, his bare chest rising and falling steadily, while Mikey's arm was thrown lazily over his stomach, like they had passed out in the middle of moving and just never bothered to fix it. It was a miracle they were even comfortable like that, their legs all bent at weird angles, Pete's sock-covered foot pressing against the car door.

Everything felt hazy, like I was floating just outside my own body, watching all of this from a distance. The night before was a blur, bits and pieces flashing through my mind in disjointed fragments, but I didn't have the energy to make sense of any of it yet. All I knew was that I felt like death, and morning had come way too soon.

We all smelled fucking awful. A mix of sweat, alcohol, cigarettes, and whatever other sins the night had left clinging to our skin. It was the kind of stench that felt permanent, like it had seeped into our pores, into our bones.

Then my stomach lurched, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

Panic shot through me as nausea took full control, and I scrambled to find Gerard's keys with shaking fingers. My hands weren't working right—clumsy, slow, like I was moving through molasses—but I somehow managed to unlock the door before practically falling out of the car. My balance was completely shot, my legs weak and unsteady beneath me, but none of that mattered because the second my knees hit the ground—

I puked.

And I kept puking.

It was violent, miserable, like my entire body was rejecting existence itself. My stomach twisted brutally, forcing up everything it had left, which wasn't much. Just acid, burning its way up my throat, leaving behind that awful, sour taste that made me want to gag even more. Every heave felt like it was ripping me apart from the inside, like my body was trying to expel my fucking soul along with whatever was left in my gut. I swore I had never thrown up this much in my entire life. It was endless. Agonizing. My eyes burned, my throat raw and stinging, my arms shaking as I braced myself against the pavement.

It felt like actual death—like being turned inside out, like drowning from the inside.

Fucking disgusting.

And now I smelled even worse.

When I finally stopped puking, I just collapsed onto the grass, too drained to move, barely able to breathe. My limbs felt like dead weight, my muscles useless and shaky, and my head was still spinning like I was on some kind of fucked-up carnival ride I couldn't get off. My throat burned like hell—raw, scraped open by the acid, every breath stinging as I tried to swallow down the disgusting taste lingering in my mouth. My stomach kept twisting, still threatening more, but there was nothing left. Just emptiness and exhaustion.

The car was parked near the road, close to a shitty little gas station with flickering lights and a sad, half-broken sign that probably hadn't been replaced in years. I could hear the occasional whoosh of cars speeding by, their tires slicing through puddles on the pavement, but everything else was still. Too still.

The grass underneath me felt weird—damp and uneven, little sticks and pebbles pressing uncomfortably into my skin, kind of itchy, like it was clinging to me. I should've cared. Should've moved. But I couldn't bring myself to. My body was overheated, my skin sticky with sweat and whatever the fuck else had soaked into my clothes overnight. But the air—it was cold. Sharp against my damp skin, cutting through the disgusting heat that clung to me, and it felt good. I needed it. It was the only thing keeping me grounded.

I let my head roll back against the grass, my eyes half-lidded as I stared up at the sky. It was a washed-out kind of gray, the sun trying to fight through in patches, making everything look dull and too bright at the same time. Blurred edges, soft shadows, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. It felt like a fucking metaphor for something, but my brain was too fried to figure out what.

"Frankie, wake up," Gerard's voice was soft, a little hoarse, like he'd been screaming all night or smoking twice as much as usual.

I barely registered him sitting down next to me until I felt his hands on my stomach, rubbing slow, lazy circles, like he was trying to soothe something deep under my skin. His fingers were warm, a stark contrast to the cold air biting at my damp clothes. Then he moved up, fingertips ghosting over my ribs, my chest, finally pressing against my forehead like he was checking for a fever. He probably had one himself if anyone did.

I turned my head slightly, my body still too heavy to do much else, and looked at him through bleary, half-open eyes. He was pale, almost grayish under the washed-out morning light, his skin clammy, his lips chapped. He still looked sick, like the night had chewed him up and spit him out just as violently as it had done to me. His hair was a disaster, tangled and sticking up at odd angles, the red at the roots fading into something almost pinkish. His face was lined with exhaustion—dark circles smudged under his eyes, jaw tense like he was barely holding himself together—but his touch was careful, steady. Warm in a way that made my chest ache.

I loved him.

It hit me all at once, heavy and undeniable, like a punch to the gut. Not just the drunk, reckless kind of love that made me want to kiss him in dark corners, but something deeper. Something quieter. Something that made me want to curl into his touch and stay there forever.

"Mmm, I don't wanna," I muttered lazily, sinking deeper into the grass. My body felt like it had been cemented to the ground, too heavy, too exhausted to even think about moving. The cool air against my sweat-dampened clothes was the only thing keeping me from feeling like total garbage.

"We need to go home. Grandma's probably worried since I brought Mikey," Gerard said, his voice still rough around the edges. He was still rubbing my stomach absentmindedly, like he thought that would magically cure the absolute trainwreck that was my hangover.

"You're drunk," I reminded him, cracking one eye open to glare at him.

"I'm not anymore," he argued, way too casually for someone who had been shitfaced a few hours ago. "I'm better today, and I drove us here last night, so I think I'm a pretty good drunk driver."

"That's not—" I started, forcing myself to sit up just a little, but before I could finish whatever half-assed lecture I was about to give him, the car door creaked open. Pete stumbled out, still shirtless, immediately hugging himself against the cold morning air.

"Fuck, it's freezing," he muttered, voice scratchy from sleep. He grabbed his sweater from the car and yanked it over his head without even waking Mikey, who was still sprawled out in the backseat like a corpse.

Pete stretched, cracking his neck, then looked down at the mess near my feet. "Morning, lovebirds. Fuck, who puked all that? That's disgusting."

"Frank," Gerard answered immediately, no hesitation, completely throwing me under the bus.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "You were the lovebirds last night, man."

"Oh, fuck yeah," Pete said, rubbing his eyes like he was just now remembering. "But it was uncomfortable as fuck. I had Mikey's elbow on my dick the whole time."

He leaned against the car, fishing a cigarette from my jacket pocket like the absolute menace he was.

"I thought you were gonna say mouth," I muttered, barely processing the words before they left my mouth.

"Oh, fuck, don't remind me," Gerard groaned, looking genuinely horrified, like the thought alone was enough to ruin his entire day.

I squinted at him, my brain lagging behind. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Pete just grinned, taking a long drag from his stolen cigarette. "C'mon, get over it, dude. And if it was the case, it wouldn't be uncomfortable."

"I found them in a blowjob work last night," Gerard said suddenly, his expression unreadable as he looked straight at me.

"What?" I blinked, my mind still sluggish from the hangover, struggling to catch up.

"Why the fuck are you corrupting Mikey, asshole?" I turned to Pete, too exhausted to properly yell, but the rage was definitely simmering under the surface.

"I'm not!" Pete laughed, shaking his head. "C'mon, Gerard, tell him."

"I'm not forgiving you anytime soon," Gerard muttered, crossing his arms dramatically, like some brooding movie villain.

Pete sighed, rolling his eyes before flicking ash off his cigarette. "Buy me something to eat, dude, please."

Gerard scoffed. "You think I'm fucking rich?"

"Alright, whatever," Pete muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

But Gerard ignored him, already standing up, brushing dirt off his jeans like this whole situation wasn't an absolute disaster.

"We have to go home now," he said with the exasperation of an exhausted parent dealing with a bunch of misbehaving kids.

The drive back home felt like it stretched on forever, every mile dragging painfully slow. My head throbbed with every bump in the road, the kind of dull, relentless ache that made it impossible to fully relax. At some point, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I forced myself to answer, already knowing who it was.

My mom.

I went through the motions, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. She asked all the usual questions—how was the party, did I have fun, was I behaving. I lied. Told her everything was fine, that I hadn't done anything too crazy, that I'd be home soon. She sounded relieved, and guilt curled low in my stomach, but I ignored it. I just needed the conversation to be over.

Once I hung up, I slumped further into my seat, resting my head against the cool glass of the window. The contrast against my overheated skin was a relief. My stomach still felt off, twisting uncomfortably every few minutes, but I forced myself to chew on some gummies Mikey hadn't finished last night. The sugar helped a little, coating my tongue in artificial sweetness, distracting me from the lingering nausea.

Pete sat in the front, hunched over his Nintendo DS, completely lost in whatever game he was playing. Mikey leaned in from the back, watching over his shoulder, quiet as ever. He hadn't spoken since waking up, which wasn't surprising. The kid had always been shy, the type to shrink into himself when things got too overwhelming. If embarrassment could kill someone, Mikey would've been dead a long time ago.

Gerard drove in silence, a cigarette hanging from his lips, humming under his breath. His voice was hoarse, raw from last night, and every few seconds, he sniffled, rubbing at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. He still looked like shit—pale, sickly, eyes dark-rimmed and tired. The red in his hair had faded at the roots, clashing weirdly with the rest, but somehow, it suited him.

No one bothered to put on any music, so the only sounds in the car were quiet and familiar—Pete's buttons clicking, Mikey shifting against the seat, Gerard's sniffling, my own slow breathing. The car smelled like stale cigarettes, sweat, and the overpowering scent of Pete's cheap cologne, still lingering from the night before.

Every now and then, Gerard glanced at me, subtle but noticeable, like he was making sure I wasn't about to pass out or puke again. And every time, I caught myself doing the same.

I dug through the half-empty bag of gummies, fingers sticky with sugar dust, and grabbed one—bright red, cherry-flavored. Without thinking, I pressed it against Gerard's lips until he sighed through his nose and took it from my fingers. His lips brushed against my skin for half a second before he bit down, chewing lazily.

"Are you still jealous, Gee?" I asked, watching his jaw work.

"I wasn't fucking jealous," he muttered, mouth still full.

"Oh, fuck, you were, dumbass."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "Okay, yeah, kinda," he admitted, voice begrudging. "But I just forgot about it. Did I tell you someone chased me with a knife last night?"

I blinked. "What?" My whole body tensed, the gummy bag crinkling in my grip. "When? Who?"

"Yeah, that. Last night," he said, completely unbothered, like he was telling me about the fucking weather.

"I know that, idiot," I snapped. "Who the fuck was it?"

Gerard shrugged, eyes still on the road, cigarette balanced between two fingers. "I don't know, I think it was that asshole from school who's always messing with me."

I clenched my jaw. "You're gonna have to be more specific, dude."

"The guy from informatics, I think."

My stomach twisted. "Beckett?"

"Yeah, I think so," he said, like it was no big deal, like he hadn't just said some guy literally chased him with a weapon.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling hard. "Jesus fucking Christ. Don't worry, baby, I'm gonna break his nose the next time I see him."

Gerard finally looked at me, his smirk slow and sharp. "I'd like that," he murmured. Then he shrugged again. "But you don't have to. Well, kinda. Because if that didn't happen, I wouldn't have seen what I saw in that bathroom."

"Gerard, stop!" Mikey suddenly yelled, yanking Gerard's hair from behind.

"OUCH—"

Then, FUCK—

A truck. Out of nowhere.

"OH MY FUCKING LORD!" Gerard screamed, jerking the wheel so hard my stomach lurched. The car veered sharply, tires screeching against the asphalt. A deafening honk exploded through the air, rattling my skull, shaking my fucking bones.

For a second, everything slowed down.

I felt my fingers digging into the seat, nails scraping against the worn fabric. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else. Mikey was as pale as a ghost, his wide eyes locked on the road ahead. Pete's Nintendo flew from the backseat, smacking against my leg before clattering to the floor.

Nobody moved.

"Sorry," Mikey muttered, barely above a whisper, voice small, fragile.

Gerard exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes like it was nothing, but his grip on the wheel was iron-tight. "It's okay," he mumbled, though his knuckles were white, tendons straining under his skin. His hands must've been sweating because he wiped them on his jeans, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

He didn't light another cigarette. His pack sat untouched on the dashboard, the usual routine abandoned. No flick of his lighter, no glow of the cherry tip, no trails of smoke curling lazily from his lips. His fingers, the ones always twitching for something to do, stayed locked around the wheel, gripping it like a lifeline.

He didn't hum. No absentminded melodies, no half-muttered lyrics under his breath. The car felt hollow without it, the silence stretching too wide, too heavy. It wasn't like him. Even when he was tired, sick, or pissed off, there was always music—some song lodged in his brain, some tune escaping without him even realizing. But now? Nothing.

He didn't glance at me like he usually did. No quick side-eyes, no smirks, no checking to see if I was looking back. His focus was nailed to the road, unshakable. Even when I shifted in my seat, even when I let out a breath, waiting for him to react—he didn't. He just kept his hands at ten and two, kept his jaw locked, kept his fucking heartbeat hidden under his hoodie.

Just stared straight ahead, dead silent, eyes locked on the road like he was afraid to blink. Like if he looked away for even a second, we'd all go up in flames.

When we finally pulled into the Way's driveway, it felt like we had been holding our breath the entire ride. The second the car came to a stop, we all scrambled out like we couldn't get away from it fast enough. Pete practically launched himself out first, making a beeline for the front door without waiting for anyone else. Mikey was right behind him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, still looking pale. I followed, stepping onto the cracked pavement of their driveway, inhaling the crisp air like it could steady the mess still swirling in my chest.

Gerard was the last to get out. He pushed open his door with a sigh, rolling his shoulders before stretching his arms over his head, his spine popping in protest. His fingers raked through his hair, a shaky breath slipping past his lips as he finally let go of the tension that had been weighing him down since the highway. He still looked rattled, like the ghost of the near-death experience was clinging to him, lingering in the stiffness of his limbs and the way he kept flexing his hands like he was trying to shake something off.

Before any of us could even knock, the front door creaked open. Helena stood there, smiling that warm, knowing smile of hers, the kind that made you feel like you'd been gone a lot longer than you actually had. Like she already knew something had happened, even without anyone saying a word.

Home.

Pete, ever the charmer, threw his arms around her. "Hi, Grandma! How are you!?"

"Hello, kids," she greeted, her voice soft, laced with that endless patience only grandmothers seemed to have. "I was a little worried, but I knew you were in good hands." She winked at Gerard, like she was in on some inside joke none of us were aware of.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head.

Then she hugged me, and it wasn't just one of those quick, absentminded squeezes people gave out of obligation—it was real. Warm. The kind that made you feel like you actually mattered. I had this theory that she liked Pete and me more than her actual grandkids, but that was a whole other story.

"Frankie, dear, go grab a shower," she said as she pulled back, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Oh, crap, yeah," I muttered, suddenly hyperaware of how disgusting I must've smelled. A mixture of sweat, cigarettes, alcohol, and whatever the hell had been spilled on me last night. I scratched the back of my neck, embarrassed.

"Sorry, Grandma," Gerard added behind me, rubbing his own neck. "We were supposed to be back last night, but, y'know... things got kinda wild."

"How wild?" she asked, narrowing her eyes, the kind of look only grandmothers could pull off—equal parts amused and mildly threatening.

"Just the usual, don't worry," he said smoothly, brushing it off with a smirk.

Mikey let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping onto the couch like he had just been through the most exhausting journey of his life. "We're hungry, Grandma."

"I'm finishing lunch, so be patient," she said, already making her way toward the kitchen, her tone firm but affectionate.

The second she disappeared, I exhaled, finally taking in the familiar warmth of the house. The scent of home-cooked food drifted from the kitchen, filling the air with something comforting—something safe. And for the first time all day, I felt something close to okay.

The moment Mikey and Pete disappeared into Mikey's room, the door clicking shut behind them, Gerard let out a loud, exaggerated groan, throwing his head back like a kid denied candy.

"Seriously?" he whined, crossing his arms. "They didn't even say bye. So fucking rude."

I snorted, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Oh my God, cry about it," I teased. "They're probably just geeking out over some dumb inside joke or playing Pokémon or whatever."

Gerard huffed, still glaring at the closed door like it had personally offended him. "Still. Manners exist."

"Grow up, dude," I said, shaking my head. Then, with a smirk, I added, "Let them have their fun. We could do the same."

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to mine, his posture shifting just a little. There was this beat of silence, thick with something unspoken, before he scoffed, looking away like he hadn't even heard me. But the tips of his ears were pink, and I caught the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

Yeah. He heard me.

Gerard squinted at me, like he wasn't sure if I was messing with him or if there was some hidden meaning behind my words. I just smirked, holding his gaze for a second longer than necessary before brushing past him, heading straight into his room. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing us in, the air between us shifting just a little.

He sighed but didn't argue, moving toward Fishway's tank, the tension melting into something routine. He tapped the side of the glass lightly before sprinkling in some food, watching the little guy swim up to eat. There was something weirdly delicate about the way he did it, the careful way his fingers moved over the container, like this tiny fish actually meant something to him.

I watched him for a second, then turned away, emptying my pockets onto his desk—gum wrappers, my lighter, a couple of crumpled bills I'd forgotten about. Then I peeled off my shirt, letting it drop to the floor without a second thought.

I heard Gerard's breath hitch, just barely, and when I started unbuckling my jeans, I felt his eyes flick to me.

For a second, he just stared.

Then, as if snapping himself out of it, he turned abruptly, reaching into his closet and pulling out a couple of towels like this was completely normal. No big deal. Just two guys getting ready for a shower, whatever.

And then—he started undressing too.

As I stepped closer, the space between us disappeared, and I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. My fingers skimmed over his collarbones, barely touching, teasing.

"Wanna shower with me?" I murmured, tilting my head slightly, my lips just inches from his.

His smirk was instant, sharp and knowing, but he didn't hesitate. "I wanna fuck you in the shower," he shot back, voice low, rough, before closing the gap and pressing his mouth against mine. His hands found my ass, gripping just hard enough to pull a quiet gasp from me, my fingers curling against his bare shoulders.

I pulled back just slightly, breathless, still feeling the heat of his lips. "Why are you so eager?"

Gerard snorted, rolling his eyes but still looking entirely too smug. "Are you serious? Last night, I had to tell you we were gonna fuck in my car just to get you out of that damn party."

I blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said, raising an eyebrow like I was the dumbest person alive. "Now, c'mon."

Without another word, he tossed me a towel, and I caught it just in time before he wrapped his own around his waist. There was something easy about the way he did it, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was.

I just smirked and followed him to the bathroom.

The bathroom was already warm from earlier, a faint haze still clinging to the mirror. Gerard flicked on the light, then turned to look at me, his smirk never fading as he untucked his towel and let it drop to the floor. My breath hitched, but I covered it with a scoff, rolling my eyes.

"Show-off," I muttered, stepping forward and reaching past him to turn on the shower. Warm water spluttered from the showerhead, and I tested it with my fingers before stepping in, feeling the heat wash over me.

Gerard followed, sliding in behind me, his hands immediately landing on my waist. He didn't waste time—his lips brushed against the back of my neck, slow and deliberate, before working their way to my shoulder.

"You're still sore from last night, aren't you?" he murmured against my skin.

I scoffed, but the way my breath caught gave me away. "I can take it."

Gerard hummed, amused, pressing his chest against my back. "Good," he whispered before sinking his teeth lightly into my shoulder, making me shiver.

The water ran down our bodies, steam curling around us as his hands moved, his lips trailing down my spine. My fingers pressed against the wet tile, grounding myself as heat coiled in my stomach.

"Fuck," I breathed, head tilting back against his shoulder.

"Yeah?" His voice was smug as hell.

I turned my head slightly, catching his gaze through the steam. His dark, wet hair clung to his forehead, lips parted, pupils blown.

Instead of answering, I twisted in his grip, grabbing his jaw and pulling him into a kiss—hungry, desperate, almost bruising.

Gerard groaned against my mouth, pushing me back against the shower wall, and just like that, all thoughts dissolved into heat, water, and the feeling of him everywhere.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

That ended up being the last time we fucked for an entire week. Not because we didn't want to, not even close—but because life had other plans. Schoolwork had stacked up to hell and back while we were drowning in court hearings, legal bullshit, and all the stress that came with it. Every subject was a mess of unfinished assignments, half-forgotten lessons, and looming deadlines that seemed impossible to meet. And even when we were at school, focusing was a joke—people either whispered about us behind their hands, stared at us like we were some kind of freak show, or just avoided us altogether. Not that I cared. I was too fucking tired to care.

But we had to push through.

So, for an entire week, we didn't go out. We barely even made out, which was probably the worst part of it all. Instead, we forced ourselves to be responsible for once—sprawled out across my bedroom floor, textbooks open, notebooks filled with half-legible scribbles, and highlighters bleeding all over our notes. We quizzed each other, groaned about assignments, and tried to make sense of numbers that seemed to mock us with every wrong answer. When things got really bad, we'd call Ryan over for tutoring, slipping him a few bucks to deal with our dumbassery. He made it look so easy—barely even had to try, and somehow, he still had the patience to sit there and explain the same equation five times in a row until it actually stuck in my brain. Grandma adored him, always made sure he left with a full stomach, and in return, he tolerated us complaining about school for hours.

I hated every fucking second of it. Not the hanging out part, but the studying. I don't mind learning—I like knowing things, expanding my brain and all that—but I hate the process. The repetition, the pressure, the way it felt like my brain was being squeezed dry by the end of the night. I missed drawing. Missed the way a pencil felt between my fingers, the weight of a sketchbook in my lap, the way my brain would finally shut the fuck up and just be for a while. But there was no time. No room for it. We were drowning in responsibilities, and for once, I couldn't just ignore them.

Somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, we ended up accepting Dan's offer to talk—like therapy, but way less formal. No stiff chairs, no awkward silences, no sterile office that smelled like disappointment and old books. Just us, sprawled out in his living room or sitting around his kitchen table with mugs of coffee, talking about shit we usually avoided. And honestly? The guy was great. Way better than I expected. It wasn't like talking to some professional who stared at you over a clipboard and analyzed your every move. It felt more like venting to a friend—someone who actually listened, who didn't judge, who knew when to push and when to just let us be. I kinda wished I'd given him a chance earlier, but maybe we just met at the wrong time. Or maybe not. Maybe things happen when they're supposed to, when you're actually ready to let them.

At some point, Dan pulled Frank aside and asked him what he thought about him proposing to his mom. Frank told me about it later, and for once, there wasn't any bitterness in his voice. No sarcasm, no hesitation. He was happy. Genuinely happy. Because Linda was stable now. No more random guys drifting in and out of their lives, no more empty bottles lying around like landmines. Just his mom, sober and in love with someone who actually deserved her. Someone who treated her like she was worth something, who looked at her the way people in love are supposed to. And the best part? Dan wasn't just good to her—he gave a shit about Frank, too. He wasn't trying to replace his dad or force some bullshit father-son bond, but he was there. And that was more than enough.

Dan helped us with other things too—things that were harder to talk about. Like making sure Linda really understood and supported our relationship. Like making sure she was on our side when it came to everything that happened with James. It wasn't easy, but having someone like him in our corner made a difference. A huge one.

For the first time in a long time, things weren't completely fucked. And honestly? That was a weird feeling.

Pete started staying over more often. Don't get me wrong, I like the guy—most of the time. He was funny, easy to talk to, and had this effortless way of making people feel like they belonged. But watching Mikey slip away, even just a little, stung more than I wanted to admit. It wasn't like I was losing him completely—he was still my brother, still my best friend—but that kid who used to follow me around, who used to look up to me like I was the only thing he had? He was fading. Changing. Growing up too fast, and maybe I should've been happy about that. Maybe I should've been relieved that he had someone else, that he wasn't just stuck in my shadow anymore. But I wasn't. Because Pete was becoming his person. And even though Pete was a good guy, and Mikey seemed happy, I still felt that gnawing ache in my chest. That stupid, selfish part of me that wanted to drag him back and keep him mine.

Not that I had much room to complain. Frank barely lived at his own house anymore. Maybe the occasional Wednesday night or a weekend when his mom specifically asked him to stay over, but other than that? He was here. He was mine. My closet had turned into a chaotic mess of both our clothes—we barely even remembered whose was whose. Except for sizes, and even then, we just grabbed whatever. His hoodies? Mine now. My shirts? He stole them constantly. His toothbrush sat right next to mine in the bathroom. I'd cleared out two drawers in my desk just for his random crap—loose guitar picks, packs of gum, folded-up notes he wrote in class when he was bored. His shoes were scattered across my floor. His cologne clung to my jackets. My bed always had some piece of him in it. We were too fucking married.

And I loved it.

The smell of him lingered everywhere—on my sheets, my pillows, my clothes. It seeped into my skin, wrapped around me like a second layer of warmth, and I needed it. I needed him. On the nights he wasn't there, when he had to sleep at home, the silence in my room felt wrong. The air felt too empty, too cold. I'd end up hugging a pillow just to fall asleep, because I was too used to him. Too used to the way his body curled into mine, the way he buried his face in my chest, the way he felt real and solid and mine.

I was waiting for Frankie to get out of class, leaning against the car in the school parking lot, lazily smoking a cigarette. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the pavement, warm but not overwhelming, just enough to take the edge off the crisp air. I took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around my fingers before exhaling, watching it drift and dissolve into nothing.

I'd finished an assignment early—rare, but it happened—and figured I'd just chill for a bit, let my mind wander. Everything had been so fucking hectic lately. Court hearings, schoolwork, people whispering and staring like we were some kind of spectacle. It felt like every second of my life had been something—something urgent, something overwhelming, something I had to deal with. And for once, I had a moment to just exist.

No expectations. No pressure. Just me, the nicotine buzz, and the quiet hum of the world moving around me.

And then, out of nowhere, Lindsey's face slammed against the window of the car.

"HEY!" she screeched.

"OH FUCK—JESUS CHRIST!" I practically swallowed my cigarette, choking on the smoke as I jolted upright, banging my elbow against the door. Lindsey cackled like a maniac, looking way too pleased with herself.

"Whatcha doin' here, Gee?" she asked, completely unbothered by the fact that she'd just taken five years off my lifespan.

I rubbed my chest like that would somehow clear the smoke from my lungs. "Waiting for Frankie," I muttered hoarsely, still recovering.

"Oh, okay—Gerard, guess what?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "What?"

"WE KISSED!"

"What? Who—oh, wait, SERIOUSLY?"

"YEAH, I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT! I'M SO HAPPY!" she practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"And? Did you like it? Wait, no—did she like it?" I asked, leaning in like this was the most important piece of gossip I'd ever received.

"I think so! She invited me to the movies today—I gotta go home, get dressed, and oh fuck, I'm so nervous!"

"OMG, YOU'RE ALREADY GOING ON A DATE!"

"OMG, AM I?"

"YOU ARE, GIRL!"

Before I could fully process this groundbreaking information, I heard my name being shouted from across the lot.

"Gee, guess what?!"

Oh, fuck no. If one more person said that to me today, I was gonna throw myself off a bridge.

I turned and saw Frankie jogging toward me, his bag slung over one shoulder, looking excited as hell. I groaned, throwing my head back.

"Please tell me you didn't kiss anyone," I said, glancing between Lindsey—who was still halfway hanging out of the car window—and Frank, who was already yanking the passenger door open.

"What? Oh—hi, Lindsey," he greeted her casually before turning back to me. "Wait, why would I—?"

"Frank, I kissed Avril, and we're going on a date!" Lindsey interrupted, practically radiating joy.

Frank blinked. "What? You like her?"

"Yes, dummy," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Oh—wow. Congrats!" He grinned, genuinely happy for her.

"Okay, guys, I gotta go—wish me luck!" Lindsey said, bouncing on her heels.

"You don't need it, babe," I told her with a smirk.

"Go get her!" Frank added, giving her a thumbs-up.

Lindsey took off running, her ridiculous purple backpack smacking against her back with every step.

Frank and I watched her disappear into the distance, and then he turned to me, still grinning. "Wow."

"Talkin' about dates," I said, tilting my head at him. "We should go on one. Whatcha think?"

Frank was already close, his lips barely inches from mine. Instead of answering, he kissed me, soft but sure. I took that as a yes.

"I'm kinda broke, y'know," he muttered against my mouth.

"It doesn't matter, I'll pay. We can go somewhere chill—nothin' fancy. You deserve it. And last time, you invited, so," I said with a smirk.

"With the money I made renting my room as a motel," he deadpanned. "Doesn't count. I haven't taken you on a real date."

"Well, me neither, so this is the first," I shrugged. "C'mon, you invite the next one."

"Sure," he said, grinning before pressing another kiss to my lips.

I leaned against the car, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, like he was actually happy for once.

"What did you wanna tell me?" I asked.

His grin widened, and he yanked his bag onto his lap, digging through it. A second later, he pulled out a thick stack of papers, practically shoving them in my face.

"Our week of studying actually worked!" he said, his voice brimming with excitement.

I took the papers, flipping through them quickly. His exams—all of them—passed. Not perfect grades, but solid, totally acceptable ones.

My chest swelled with pride. "Oh, sugar, I'm so fucking proud of you," I said, beaming as I pulled him in, pressing a firm kiss to his lips.

Frank exhaled against me, like he was finally letting himself feel it. The pride. The relief. The fact that, for once, things weren't completely fucked.

I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "You did this, Frankie," I murmured. "Not me. Not anyone else. You."

He ducked his head, like he was embarrassed, but he was still smiling.

We headed to my house, this time without picking up Mikey. He had texted earlier, saying he had to work on a school project with Pete and some other kids. If you ask me, I'd bet they were just a bunch of nerds huddled together in the ICT club, pretending to be productive while goofing off on ancient school computers. Mikey was into that kind of shit—coding, weird internet forums, obscure video games with pixelated graphics. I didn't judge him—I was a freak too—but I sure as hell made fun of him for it. He knew I was joking. At least, I think he did.

Frank sat in the passenger seat, his feet propped up on the dashboard, idly messing with the frayed strings of his hoodie. "Think Mikey's actually studying, or just making out with Pete behind a projector screen?"

I snorted. "Oh, fuck... Probably, both. Nerd shit first, then full make-out session in the dark corner of the library."

Frank smirked. "Classic."

When we pulled up to the house, I barely had time to kill the engine before the front door swung open. Helena stood there, arms crossed, looking mildly unimpressed.

Frank grinned immediately, pushing the car door open. "Hi, Helena!"

Before he could step inside, she pulled him into a warm hug, squeezing him tight. "Hello, Frankie. How are you, sweetheart?"

"Good," he answered, still smiling, patting her back awkwardly like he wasn't sure how much affection was appropriate.

Meanwhile, I stood off to the side, arms open, expectant. "And where's my hug?"

Helena pulled back from Frank just enough to shoot me a look. Not the soft, loving kind. The you're-about-to-hear-it kind.

"You didn't do your chores this week."

I groaned. "I was busy!"

"Busy running from your responsibilities?"

Frank chuckled under his breath, hiding his smirk behind his sleeve.

"I was studying," I tried, desperate.

Helena raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," I muttered, kicking at the ground like a scolded kid.

She sighed, but let it go, turning her attention back to Frank. Her expression softened again, like he was some golden child who could do no wrong. "C'mon, Frankie, are you hungry?"

"Uh, y-yeah, a little," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh my God, you don't have to pretend to be shy, dude, we both know you're always hungry."

Frank nudged me hard in the ribs, making me grunt. Helena ignored me entirely, nodding like she had already decided he needed a full meal.

"C'mon, let's get you boys fed."

Frank followed her inside, while I trailed behind, muttering, "Yeah, yeah, you just like him better than me."

"Of course I do," she called over her shoulder. "He actually listens to me."

Frank threw me a smug grin, and I flipped him off behind her back.

We ate in silence for a bit, the only sounds coming from the occasional clink of plates and the faint hum of the heater kicking in. The sandwiches were warm, stuffed with melted cheese and grilled just right, and the hot chocolate was rich, with tiny marshmallows floating on top. Comfort food, the kind Helena always made when she wanted to soften a blow. I should've known something was coming.

Frank was sitting beside me, one knee bouncing under the table, his fingers absentmindedly drumming against his mug. He seemed relaxed enough, though I caught him glancing at me every now and then, like he was checking if I was okay.

Then Helena cleared her throat.

"Your last therapist has been calling me," she said, looking at me pointedly.

I barely had time to swallow before responding. "Dr. Marin?"

She nodded. "Yeah, she wanted me to catch her up on your life... and I did. She said you haven't been answering her calls."

I sighed, setting my mug down a little harder than necessary. "Why'd you do that? It's not like I need her anymore. I'm fine with Dan. And I didn't answer because I don't wanna go anymore. I can handle my mind right now."

"Right now," she repeated, emphasizing the words. "But you know they need to prescribe you something, just in case things get bad again."

I let out a sharp breath, my fingers curling into fists under the table. "If things go bad, I'd probably just take that shit and end it, and it'd be so fucking easy for me." My voice was flat, distant, like I was talking about the weather. I stared at the untouched crust of my sandwich, suddenly feeling sick.

"Gerard, dear..." Helena's voice softened, her usual strictness replaced with something painfully gentle. She reached out, rubbing slow circles on my arm.

Frank sat beside me, chewing slower now, like the weight of my words had settled over him. I felt the shift in him—the way his knee stopped bouncing, how his shoulders sank, the sudden tight grip he had on his mug. He didn't say anything, but I didn't need him to. His silence was louder than anything he could've said.

I glanced up, and there it was. The look.

The pity glance.

The same one Helena was giving me, like I was fragile, like I might shatter if they said the wrong thing.

"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, pushing my plate away. "I'm broken, and I can't be fixed, Grandma. Not by Dan, not by therapists, not by shrinks, not by you, not by Mikey." I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. "Not even Frank. It's just the way it is, okay?"

My voice cracked at the end, and I hated it.

"It's not like that—" she started, but I didn't let her finish.

"I don't want more, thank you," I mumbled, pushing back my chair so fast that the legs scraped loudly against the floor.

I could feel their eyes on me as I stood up, as I walked away, as I climbed the stairs two at a time.

They didn't try to stop me.

Maybe they knew there was no point.

I sat at the edge of my bed, my body feeling heavy, like every movement took twice the effort it should. I kicked off my shoes, slow and aimless, letting them land somewhere on the floor with dull thuds. My hoodie followed, peeled off in one sluggish motion before slipping from my fingers and pooling in a forgotten heap beside me. The room was dim, the only light coming from the weak glow of my bedside lamp, stretching long, distorted shadows over the walls. It felt too quiet, like the air itself was pressing in on me, thick with everything I didn't want to think about.

I laid back against the mattress, my arms sprawled out at my sides, my head sinking into the pillow as I stared up at the ceiling. My mind wouldn't shut up. It kept looping, circling around the words I had let slip downstairs—words I never say out loud, never mean to say out loud. But I had. And now they were real, hanging in the air between me and the people who mattered, people who would look at me differently because of it.

I hated that.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping maybe that would make it stop, that it would somehow pull me out of my own head. But the moment I did, I saw Helena's face again, the way her expression had softened, how she reached for me, her touch gentle but weighted with something too close to pity. And Frank—Frank, who had sat there, silent but tense, his body stiff like he didn't know what to do with what I had just given him. His eyes had said enough, though. That same look, the same one people always gave me when they realized just how fucked up I was.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, like maybe if I pushed hard enough, I could erase it all. But I couldn't. It was done. Said. Out there. And there was no taking it back.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling, pretending I didn't hear the door creak open, but I knew it was him before he even stepped inside. Frank always smelled the same—a mix of cheap drugstore perfume, faintly sweet but sharp, tangled with the ever-present scent of cigarettes clinging to his hoodie. It was comforting in a weird way, something familiar, something that felt like him. The soft click of the door shutting barely registered over the storm in my head. He didn't say anything. No snarky comment, no teasing remark, no demand to stop being so fucking dramatic. Just the quiet shuffle of his feet against the floor as he crossed the room.

I heard him set something down on my bedside table, the soft clink of ceramic against wood. A plate. He carefully nudged aside the mess I had let pile up—half-empty coffee mugs, a stack of dog-eared comics I'd meant to reread, an old sketchbook gathering dust. He didn't complain about the mess, didn't tell me to clean up my shit like he sometimes did. He just made room and left the plate there.

Still, he didn't speak.

Instead, I felt the mattress dip slightly as he sat down beside me, close but not touching, his weight a quiet presence next to mine. It should've been awkward, but it wasn't. Not with Frank. He was just there, the way he always was, filling up the space I didn't know how to ask him to.

Frank let out a quiet sigh as he settled in beside me, his body shifting the mattress just enough for me to feel it. "You're gonna eat that shit, y'know that," he muttered, already tugging off his own shoes and kicking them to the floor with a dull thud.

I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to look at him. "Later," I mumbled, knowing full well he wasn't going to drop it that easily.

He hummed, low and unconvinced, but didn't push. Instead, he stretched out beside me, shifting closer until I could feel his warmth through our layers of clothing. And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he rested his head against my chest, his arms wrapping around me without hesitation. No hesitation at all—like he belonged there, like I was something solid he could hold onto.

I barely even thought about it when my fingers found their way into his hair, tangling absentmindedly in the strands, messing with them the way I knew he liked. His breathing slowed, matching mine, his grip tightening just slightly like he was grounding himself.

We didn't talk. Didn't need to.

The silence between us wasn't empty. It was thick, warm, filled with the things we weren't saying but somehow still understood.

"Why do you stay, Frank?" I asked after a moment, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stiffened slightly. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "Just... why are you always here? With me?"

He huffed out a small laugh. "Because last time I wasn't, you got arrested and sent to juvie for two weeks?" he joked, his tone light but his grip on me tightening.

"Yeah, and you almost bled yourself to death," I shot back, matching his sarcasm.

His amusement faded, and for a beat, he just looked at me. Then, with no hesitation, no doubt in his voice, he said, "I stay because I love you."

I swallowed hard, staring past him at the ceiling. "How do you even know you really love me? If I'm like this... y'know."

Frank lifted his head, eyes locking with mine, his expression serious in a way that made my chest ache. "How? Because you're you, dumbass. That's why I love you. I don't know, I just do. Okay?"

I exhaled, my fingers still tangled in his hair. "I love you too," I admitted, voice softer now, like saying it any louder might break something inside me.

The silence between us stretched, but it wasn't heavy—it was warm, steady, like the way he pressed himself closer, the way his fingers traced absentminded patterns against my ribs. Then he kissed me, slow and soft, his hands threading into my hair as I pulled him in by the waist. It wasn't rushed, wasn't desperate. It was just us.

I swallowed, my fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie, grounding myself in the warmth of him. My heart twisted at the way he said it, like he really believed he could take everything broken in me and make it better, like he was willing to carry the weight of it if it meant I wouldn't have to.

My eyes fluttered shut for a moment. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that someone could hold me together, that love alone could make everything stop hurting. But I knew better.

Still, I tightened my grip on him, pulling him closer. "I'll be here with you too," I said, voice quiet but firm, like a promise. "If I'm any help to you. If you need me."

Frank let out a small breath, almost like a laugh, but it wasn't amusement—it was relief.

"You are," he said, without hesitation. "You don't even realize it, but you are. You think you're too much or not enough or something in between, but Gerard, you're everything to me. You don't have to be perfect, you don't have to be okay all the time. I don't love you because you're easy to love, I love you because you're you. I don't care if you think you're broken or messy or whatever bullshit you tell yourself when you're alone—I see you. And you're not some problem that needs fixing. You're not something I have to endure. You don't have to prove your worth to me, because you already are enough. You always have been, even when you don't see it. Even when you think you're a burden, or a lost cause, or whatever dark shit your brain tries to convince you of. I'm here because I want to be. Because I love you. And if I have to keep reminding you every single day, I will."

His voice was steady, sure, like he meant every single word. Like he'd say it a hundred more times just to make me believe it.

Frank shifted closer, his hands steady on my waist, his voice softer but just as sure.

"And you don't have to carry all this alone, Gerard. I know you think you do, that no one can really understand what's in your head, but I want to understand. I want to be here when it gets bad, not just when things are easy. You don't scare me. Your thoughts, your past, the things you don't say out loud—I don't care how messy it is. I'm not gonna leave just because you think you're 'too much.' You're not. You never were. And I wish you'd stop waiting for the moment I decide you're not worth it, because that moment's never coming. You don't have to be fixed for me to love you. I just need you to let me stay. Let me try. Because I'd rather be here, even in the worst of it, than anywhere else without you."

"Wow, I didn't know you were this deep, Frankie. It kinda turns me on," I teased, smirking just to see the way his face would scrunch up.

"Ugh, asshole," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he started to pull away from me.

"No! Don't go, I'm sorry, I—" I reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping around his wrist, holding him there. Not just physically, but in that unspoken way I always did—like if I let go, he might finally realize I wasn't worth all this trouble. I swallowed hard, my voice lowering, losing its usual sharp edges. "I didn't mean that. I just... I don't know how to be serious sometimes without feeling like I'm gonna fall apart."

Frank didn't say anything, but he didn't pull away either. So I kept going.

"I need you to know, really know, how much I appreciate you. You've been here for me in ways no one else has. Not just when shit got bad, but even when things were good—when I didn't think I needed anyone, but you stayed anyway. You've seen me at my worst, when I was fucking impossible to be around, when I pushed you away over and over again, and somehow you still didn't leave. I don't even know what to do with that. I don't know how to deserve that. But I need you to understand that it matters. That you matter. That I see you, Frankie. I see everything you do for me, and I don't take it for granted, even if I'm the worst at saying it. Even if I joke when I don't know how to deal with real feelings. Even if I fuck up a million times. You're the one thing that makes me feel like maybe—maybe—I can be okay. And I don't think I've ever had that before."

I exhaled shakily, my grip on his wrist loosening, but not letting go. "So, yeah. Please don't go."

Frank gave me this look—half amused, half exasperated—before shaking his head with a small grin. He shifted closer again, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth before pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice steady, like a promise. "But let's get pretty for our date, okay? Eat your sandwich."

I huffed out a laugh, rolling onto my back and rubbing a hand over my face and actually eating that sandwich. "I am pretty."

Frank snorted. "Sure, in a 'haven't-slept-in-three-days, possibly-haunted' kinda way." He sat up, stretching his arms over his head before grabbing my wrist and giving it a small tug. "C'mon, let's actually make an effort. Just this once."

I groaned dramatically, but sat up anyway, watching as Frank swung his legs over the side of the bed and started messing with his hair in my mirror. He ruffled it up, then smoothed it down, then ruffled it up again, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to look effortlessly cool or like he just got hit by a strong gust of wind.

I dragged myself off the bed, wandering over to stand behind him. "You look fine," I muttered, resting my chin on his shoulder.

"Fine isn't enough. I want to make you drool," he teased, smirking at me in the mirror.

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue, because—yeah. He always looked good, whether he tried or not.

Frank turned, eyeing me up and down like he was assessing damage. "You should wear that black shirt," he said, poking my chest. "The one that actually fits and doesn't make you look like you're drowning in fabric."

"Bold of you to assume I'm not going for the 'drowning' aesthetic."

Frank ignored me, already digging through my drawers until he found the shirt he wanted. He tossed it at me. "Put this on. And maybe... I don't know, brush your hair?"

I rolled my eyes again but did as he said, because as much as I liked to act like I didn't care, I wanted this night to be good too. When I was dressed and semi-presentable, I turned back to Frank, who was fixing his hair in the mirror.

I watched him for a second, then grinned. "You do want to make me drool."

Frank smirked, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. "Shut up. Let's go."

Chapter Text

Frank's pov:

Our date was amazing—not in the cliché, rom-com kind of way, where the world slows down around you and soft music plays while you flirt over candlelight. There were no nervous glances, no hands hesitantly reaching across the table, no untouched plates of food growing cold while we got lost in each other's eyes.

It wasn't awkward, either. There were no forced conversations, no moments of silence where you scramble to think of something—anything—to say. No pretending to be someone we're not just to impress each other. We skipped past all that.

Because this wasn't a first date in the traditional sense. We already know each other. And sure, it's only been a couple of months since Gerard stumbled into my life, but somehow, it feels like I've known him forever. Like I want to keep knowing him forever. Like no amount of time will ever be enough.

And that thought? It should probably terrify me.

But it doesn't.

We've seen each other at our best and at our absolute worst—the kind of worst that most people would turn away from, the kind that isn't pretty or poetic, just raw and ugly and real. Gerard has been there for me when I've felt like complete shit, when I've wanted to disappear, when I've convinced myself that I wasn't worth sticking around for. And I've done the same for him, holding him together when he's felt like falling apart, reminding him that he's not as alone as he thinks he is. That's why this date mattered. It wasn't about impressing each other with grand gestures or carefully rehearsed words. It wasn't about dressing up and pretending to be people we're not, faking perfection for the sake of some idealized version of romance. It was just us, stripped of all the noise, away from everything and everyone that makes life complicated. Just a moment carved out of the chaos where we could breathe, exist, be, without the weight of expectations pressing down on us.

Gerard took me somewhere I never would've expected—a restaurant way outside the city, tucked at the very top of a towering hotel. He swore up and down that it wasn't anything fancy, but he fucking lied. This place was on a massive, rotating platform, the kind that moved so subtly you wouldn't even notice until you glanced up from your plate and realized the entire world outside had shifted. One moment, we were staring at the glowing skyline, the city stretching out like a sea of flickering lights, and the next, it was nothing but dark, empty roads and dense patches of trees, the kind that made you wonder what the hell was lurking just beyond them.

The night sky was unreal, the kind of deep, endless black that only made the stars seem brighter, sharper, almost unreal. It felt like we were in some old Hollywood movie, except instead of being dressed in suits and gowns, we looked like we'd just stumbled in from the street. And people noticed. Stares followed us from the moment we stepped inside, wide-eyed couples and businessmen in pressed suits eyeing us like we were some kind of performance act, waiting for us to pull out guitars and start singing for spare change. I don't know if it was the way we were dressed, or just the fact that we looked like we didn't belong. But Gerard didn't care. He just smirked, pulled out his chair with a little too much dramatization, and told me to sit like we owned the place.

Somehow, we made it in. Gerard had managed to pull off a last-minute reservation while we were still on the way, like he had some kind of magic touch for making things work out in the most unexpected ways. The place wasn't packed, which helped. No long wait, no crowded entryway full of people giving us side-eyes while we stood there looking like two punks who took a wrong turn and accidentally ended up in fine dining. Just a quiet hostess who glanced at Gerard's name on the list, raised an eyebrow at our outfits, and led us to a table anyway.

Sitting there with him, it almost felt unreal. For once, there wasn't anything hanging over our heads—no immediate disaster to deal with, no bullshit drama waiting for us the second we walked out. Well, okay, maybe school, but we were getting better at handling that. And sure, life wasn't perfect. We still had our bad days, still got under each other's skin, still spent too much time together to the point where we'd argue over stupid things like whose turn it was to steal an extra blanket or whether I always took too long to roll a joint. But the thing was, no matter how much we fought, no matter how much we pissed each other off, it never really mattered. Because in the end, we always found our way back to each other. Like some unspoken rule. Like gravity.

At school, I ran into William Beckett. Yeah, that William—the one who used to shove Gerard into lockers for fun, the one who'd occasionally turned his attention to me when he got bored. But more importantly, the one who had chased Gerard with a fucking knife at Bob's party. The one who should've faced real consequences for that shit but somehow got to walk around like nothing ever happened.

I remembered the way Gerard had looked at me that night, shaken but trying to play it off, and the way my blood had boiled when I told him, I'll break his fucking nose. Because if there was one thing about me, it was this—I never made promises I didn't intend to keep.

I fucking hate empty promises. They've been following me my whole life, whispered like prayers, like lullabies meant to soothe me just enough to keep me quiet. My dad used to swear he'd stick around, that we'd play guitar together, that he'd teach me all the songs he knew, but then he left, and all I had were the ghosts of those words, lingering like cigarette smoke in an empty room. My mom told me she was gonna change by the time I turned twelve, that she'd be better, that she'd be the mom I deserved—but it didn't happen at twelve. It happened much later, when the weight of it all had already crushed me, when I had already learned to live without expecting shit from her. By the time she actually tried, I wasn't even sure I cared anymore. And then there were the promises I broke—the ones Gerard made me swear on, looking at me like I was something fragile, something worth saving. Don't cut, he'd said. Don't hurt yourself, just—promise me, Frank. And I did. I promised. But I still did it, and then I had to see the hurt in his eyes, had to hear the way his voice cracked when he asked why. Like I could even explain it. Like there was some logical answer that would make him understand why I kept breaking my word. But he wasn't perfect either. He made promises too, promises that slipped through his fingers the same way mine did. And James—fuck, James and I had so many unspoken promises between us, ones we thought we'd never break until everything came crashing down. We used to be inseparable, used to swear we'd have each other's backs no matter what. And now, well, nothing but broken words and regrets, a friendship that turned to ashes (Literally). Maybe that's why I couldn't let William Beckett walk away like nothing had happened—because I was sick of people getting away with shit, sick of words meaning nothing.

So I had to wait. I had to swallow down every ounce of rage, every impulse screaming at me to take a swing at him right then and there, because if I did it before the last day of school, I'd be looking at another black mark on my disciplinary record. And I couldn't afford that. Not after everything. Not after months of forcing myself to play by the rules, of pretending to be this so-called exemplary student, of keeping my head down and my grades up so they wouldn't have another excuse to call me a lost cause. I'd worked too damn hard to get here, to prove—to who? The school? My mom? Myself?—that I could do this, that I wasn't just some reckless fuckup waiting to self-destruct. But more than that, one more mistake could ruin everything. One more fuck-up, and maybe Gerard wouldn't move out with me. Maybe he'd get sick of my bullshit, sick of my anger, sick of the way I always seemed to throw myself into situations that made life harder for both of us. That thought alone scared the shit out of me. Because I wasn't just doing this for myself anymore. I was doing it for us. And if I lost that—if I lost him—then what the hell was the point of any of it?

So I waited. I let the days crawl by, let the anticipation settle deep in my bones, let the weight of every insult, every bruise—physical and otherwise—sit heavy on my chest until it all felt like second nature. I kept my head down, clenched my fists in my pockets, and played the part of the good student, the reformed troublemaker, the guy who had everything under control. But the truth was, I'd been counting down the days. I knew exactly when and where I'd catch him. And when that moment came, I didn't hesitate.

I caught him outside, right when he least expected it. Right when he thought he'd gotten away with everything. The second he saw me, his face twisted into that same smug grin he always wore, like the world was his playground, like he could do whatever the fuck he wanted without consequences. And of course, he started running his mouth—cracking jokes, acting like this was just another day where he got to be a piece of shit without paying for it. Maybe he thought I'd let it slide. Maybe he thought I'd changed, that I wasn't the kind of guy who followed through on threats.

I didn't say much. Just let him have his little moment, let him get it all out before I cut him off with, "Oh yeah? How about this?"

And then I broke his fucking nose.

He hit the ground hard, the crack of bone against pavement sharp enough to send a shiver down my spine—but it wasn't regret, not even close. Blood poured from his nose, slipping past his lips in thick, crimson streaks, and for the first time in his miserable life, William Beckett looked shocked. His hands trembled as he touched his face, smearing red across his fingers, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Like he couldn't believe what had just happened. Like he couldn't fucking comprehend that someone had finally put him in his place. A strangled, choked-off sob escaped him, something between pain and disbelief, and for a second, all I could do was stand there and watch. Watch him crumble. Watch the fear creep into his expression, replacing all that bullshit bravado he'd worn like armor for years. It should've felt like victory. Maybe, in some way, it did.

But then I felt it—that familiar, burning weight of someone's gaze drilling into the side of my face.

Gerard.

He was across the lot, leaning against his car like he'd been there all along, cigarette already perched between his lips, his expression unreadable beneath the glow of streetlights. I could see the faint red at the end of his cigarette as he took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the cool night air, his face calm. Too calm. He'd watched the whole thing. He'd seen me throw the punch, seen Beckett hit the pavement, seen the blood, the shock, the raw satisfaction in my stance. And for a split second, I braced myself for the fallout. Maybe he'd tell me I was an idiot. Maybe he'd roll his eyes, ask what the hell I was thinking, remind me of all the times he'd said violence wasn't the answer.

But he didn't.

He just met my eyes through the haze of smoke, tilted his chin up in something that almost looked like approval, then nodded toward his car.

And that was it.

No lectures. No disapproving looks. No dragging me away before I could do something stupid. Just a quiet understanding that this was something I needed to do. That I needed this moment, this closure, this fucking proof that I wasn't as powerless as I'd felt all those years.

So I turned my back on Beckett, on the blood staining the pavement, on the people staring like they'd just witnessed something out of a movie, and I followed Gerard without a word.

We left.

Gerard drove without saying a word, his hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The city stretched out around us, but it felt different now—quieter, darker, like we'd slipped into some hidden part of it that only existed for us. The towering buildings loomed over the empty streets, their windows glowing faintly against the night sky, and the air outside was thick with that familiar Jersey grit, a mix of smoke, damp asphalt, and something electric that I could feel buzzing just beneath my skin. I shifted in my seat, glancing out the window, the silence stretching between us, thick and heavy.

"Kinda dangerous out here, don't you think?" I murmured, my voice low, almost teasing. "I mean, it's Jersey, y'know."

Gerard didn't answer.

Instead, he exhaled softly, turned toward me, and before I could say another word, he kissed me.

It wasn't careful. It wasn't slow. It was the kind of kiss that knocked the air out of my lungs, that sent my pulse spiking in my throat, that made everything else—every thought, every hesitation, every goddamn rational part of my brain—cease to exist. I barely had time to react before my hands were in his hair, tugging, pulling him impossibly closer, the heat of his body seeping through his jacket, the scent of cigarettes and faded cologne filling my senses. His fingers traced down my jaw, along my throat, pressing into my skin like he needed to memorize the shape of me right then and there, and fuck, I let him.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he reached down, unbuckling my belt with a practiced ease that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Oh, fuck," I muttered, head tilting back as I fumbled for my seatbelt, shoving it aside, the leather of the seat creaking beneath me as I adjusted, making space, making room—for him, for this, for the fire in my veins that wouldn't let me sit still.

And then, well—nothing else really mattered.

It was one of those Saturday nights that started with zero expectations, just another weekend where we figured we'd lie low, maybe sneak off somewhere and made out, but some guys from school were throwing a party just to say goodbye and start the winter break—one of those over-the-top, chaotic messes where everything blurred together in a haze of bad decisions. We weren't invited, obviously, but that never stopped our friends from insisting we go. They wouldn't shut up about it, practically dragging us along until we finally gave in. And maybe it wasn't the worst idea. Maybe, for once, it was easier to just say yes instead of finding an excuse to stay behind.

Compared to Bob's party, this one felt like complete anarchy. The house was packed with people, rooms overflowing with bodies pressed together in drunken, dizzying excitement, the music blasting so loud the floor vibrated beneath us. The air was thick with smoke, the unmistakable stench of weed and alcohol clinging to every surface, swirling into something dizzying, something dangerous. The kind of night that made people reckless, that blurred the lines between fun and disaster. We weren't stupid—we knew better than to get completely lost in it—but that didn't mean we didn't indulge. We got high, the kind of high that made everything feel just a little bit unreal, like we were floating above it all, untouchable. We drank, not enough to black out, but enough to feel the warmth in our limbs, enough to loosen the edges of everything sharp and stressful. And through it all, we stuck together, barely leaving each other's side, moving through the crowd as a unit, like it was us against the rest of the party.

Some random guys—ones we didn't completely hate—roped us into one of those dumb party games, the kind that always started with harmless dares and spiraled into something ridiculous. People kept daring us to kiss someone, like they thought they could turn us into their personal entertainment, like they were waiting for something scandalous to happen. But we weren't playing their game. Every time someone called out our names, we just turned to each other, mouths meeting in something casual, effortless, like it was the easiest thing in the world. At first, they laughed, rolling their eyes, pretending it was funny. But after a while, they gave up, realizing there was nothing shocking about it.

So they moved on, throwing out different dares—stupid shit, harmless, the kind of things we could laugh off. But somewhere along the line, it escalated. Somewhere in the middle of that packed, overheated room, the energy shifted, and suddenly, Gerard's hands were in my hair, mine were on his jaw, and we were making out in front of everyone, mouths messy with the taste of smoke and beer, fingers gripping, pulling, like we'd forgotten where we were, like the world outside of us had stopped existing altogether.

And maybe it had. Maybe, in that moment, nothing else really mattered.

We were too high to care.

And Gerard—fuck, there was something about him when he was drunk or high that made it impossible to think straight. He carried himself differently, this lazy confidence dripping from every move, every smirk, every sharp, teasing remark that sent a rush of heat straight through me. He had this way of leaning in just close enough to make my breath catch, just enough to make me crave more, then pulling away like he knew exactly what he was doing. His voice got lower, rougher, like a purr wrapped in sarcasm, his words always laced with something cocky, something undeniably hot. Every time he said my name, it sent a shiver down my spine, and I fucking hated how much power he had over me—hated it, but wanted more of it at the same time.

It didn't take long for it to get unbearable. The tension between us had been building all night, simmering beneath every shared glance, every casual touch that lingered just a little too long. The alcohol, the weed, the sheer recklessness of the night had stripped away whatever little self-control we had left. It was like the second we realized we could have each other, nothing else mattered.

And then Gerard said something—some stupid, flirty, smartass comment that sent me over the edge, made me snap, made my entire body burn with the need to shut him up in the only way that mattered. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing, or maybe he was just as desperate as I was, but either way, we both knew we couldn't take it anymore.

I grabbed his wrist, and he let out this quiet little laugh, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as I pulled him through the crowd, weaving past drunk, oblivious bodies until we found an empty room. We barely had the door shut before we were on each other, hands everywhere, mouths crashing together in a messy, feverish kiss, all teeth and tongue and raw, unfiltered want.

We didn't care that it was some random person's bedroom. We didn't care about the noise outside, the pounding bass of the music vibrating through the walls.

All that mattered was that we had finally stopped resisting.

I was glad Mikey and Pete weren't there this time. It meant Gerard wasn't constantly glancing over his shoulder, checking in, making sure they weren't getting into trouble or drinking too much. It meant he wasn't stressing about them, wasn't playing the responsible one, the older brother, the designated babysitter. It meant, for once, we could just exist—just be two stupid kids at a party, letting loose, letting go, forgetting about everything outside of this night.

And yeah, maybe it wasn't the healthiest way to deal with shit. Maybe we both knew that, deep down. Maybe we were just fooling ourselves, pretending like we could drown out everything that weighed on us with enough beer and weed and heat between us. But in that moment, none of it mattered. For a few hours, there was no pressure, no expectations, no fears lurking in the back of our minds. There was no school, no family drama, no future to worry about—just the present, just the rush of the night, the feeling of being untouchable, invincible, young and reckless in all the ways we weren't allowed to be most days.

And even through all of it, we were still us. No matter how much we spiraled, no matter how much we tried to outrun the things that haunted us, we always found our way back to each other. Maybe that was the only thing we could really count on—maybe that was the only thing we needed.

So one night like this? It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't break us. It wouldn't rewrite the way we always found our way back to each other. Maybe we weren't making the best choices, maybe we were fucking up more than we'd admit, but at the end of the day, we were still here. Still us.

Yeah, we woke up the next morning feeling like absolute shit—heads pounding, mouths dry, stomachs twisted in that special kind of nausea that only comes from mixing too much alcohol, weed, and bad decisions. The guilt settled in, too, creeping up the way it always did after nights like these. But we didn't talk about it. Instead, we did what we always did. We ordered two massive pizzas, ate until we couldn't move, got stupidly high again, and spent the rest of the day buried under blankets, watching Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings on repeat. We quoted the lines we knew by heart, made fun of each other's favorite characters, and somewhere in between slices of greasy pizza and half-mumbled dialogue, we drifted in and out of sleep, warm, full, and safe in the only place that ever really mattered—each other.

When we finally left the room, still a little drunk, still a little high, there were these assholes waiting for us. Leaning against the walls, arms crossed, smirks plastered across their faces like they'd been waiting for this moment all night. It took me a second to realize why they were there, why they were looking at us like that, and then it clicked. They'd seen us. They knew.

The taunts started immediately—low, mocking voices, exaggerated laughter, the kind of sneering comments I'd heard a thousand times before. "Have a good time in there, princess?" one of them snickered, nudging his friend. "Bet you like it when he gets on his knees, huh?"

It was always the same tired, unoriginal bullshit. Usually, I ignored it. Usually, I just gritted my teeth, kept walking, let it roll off me like I didn't give a fuck. But maybe it was the alcohol still burning in my bloodstream, or the weed clouding my judgment, or maybe I was just fucking sick of it. Sick of the whispers, the side-eyes, the way people thought they could get away with treating us like we were some kind of joke.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I took a step forward and shoved the guy closest to me. Hard. He wasn't expecting it—stumbled back, slammed into the wall with a sharp crack that echoed down the hallway. His smirk vanished, replaced by something more uncertain, like he wasn't sure if this was actually happening.

Gerard grabbed my wrist before I could go in for another hit. "Frank," he muttered under his breath, a quiet warning, but his grip wasn't that strong. He wasn't actually stopping me—just reminding me that this wasn't smart. That we were outnumbered. That if I did this, it wasn't gonna end well.

But I didn't care. Not anymore.

Then his friends got involved.

It happened fast—too fast for me to stop it, too fast for me to think. Hands grabbed at my jacket, shoving me forward, pushing Gerard and me into the middle of the room like we were some kind of fucked-up entertainment for the night. A circle started forming around us, voices overlapping in a chaotic mess of laughter, jeering, drunken encouragement, and something meaner, something uglier.

Gerard was hurt. I could see it in the way his fingers dug into my sleeve, the way his wide, dark eyes flickered between the faces around us, desperate to find an out. He wasn't scared, not exactly—just tired. Tired of this shit, tired of the way people treated him like a fucking punching bag, like a joke, like he wasn't even a person. His grip on my arm tightened, and he pulled, silently begging me to just walk away.

But I didn't.

Instead, I grabbed the microphone from the karaoke machine in the corner. The music had cut out a while ago, but the mic was still on, still live, and the sound of my breath filled the speakers for a second before I started talking.

I don't remember exactly what I said. Not all of it, anyway. I was drunk, and I was high, and maybe I was reckless, but more than anything, I was fucking brave. Or maybe just stupid. Either way, I didn't hold back.

I talked about the shit they'd said about us. About Gerard. About me. About all the whispers in the halls, all the snickers behind our backs. About James. About how easy it was for them to act like they were better than us when they were just as fucked up as we were—worse, even, because at least we weren't cowards. At least we weren't pretending to be something we weren't.

And for once, they had to shut the fuck up and listen.

I could feel the shift in the room, the way the energy changed. Some people looked uncomfortable. Some laughed, nudging each other like this was still just a game to them. But some—some actually listened.

And then I saw it. The glow of phone screens held up in the crowd, the unmistakable red recording light blinking. Not just one. Not just two. A lot. Different angles, different people, all capturing the exact moment I lost my fucking mind.

"COULD YOU JUST shut the fuck up and listen for once, you fucking assholes?"

My voice ripped through the noise, slurred but steady, fueled by alcohol, weed, and months of pent-up rage. The room went still, a hundred pairs of eyes suddenly on me, wide with shock, like they couldn't believe I had the audacity to speak. Like I was supposed to just take it. Like Gerard was supposed to just take it.

"I don't care what you think of me," I went on, my grip tightening around the mic, my breathing heavy. "I don't care what you think of Gerard, or James, or what we did or didn't do. I don't give a fuck if you like me, if you like the Frank that fucked around with girls and now has a boyfriend—I'm fucking proud of him. Someone I'm sure none of you would ever have the fucking chance to have in your pathetic lives."

I laughed, sharp and bitter, shaking my head. "But what I do care about is telling you the fucking truth. Gerard didn't do shit. James was the one who was obsessed with me—yeah, you don't fucking believe that, right? You can't wrap your tiny, inbred fucking heads around the idea that a bully, a guy like James, would fall for me. His own best friend.

"You don't believe that.

"So instead, you judge the guy who wears band tees and eyeliner, and you make up your own bullshit stories, like you always do, because it's easier than admitting you don't know a fucking thing about us.

"Well, guess what? I fell in love with him. And I don't give a fuck what you think."

I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, loud and frantic, my breath coming fast, my whole body on fire. But I wasn't done. I was so far from done.

"James made Gerard do it," I said, voice cracking. "And I shouldn't even tell you this shit because it's none of your fucking business. But fuck, when you actually mean something to someone—and I know none of you will anytime soon—you'd do anything to save what you might lose.

"You'd do everything. Even die or kill for that someone.

"So just shut the fuck up. Live and let live."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that comes when everyone's just too stunned, too moved, too fucking impressed to speak. No—this was the ugly kind. The thick, suffocating kind. The kind that wrapped itself around my throat and squeezed, that filled my ears with static, that made my skin itch and burn and crawl all at once.

The kind that came right before the laughter.

First, just one. A short, sharp bark of amusement, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Then another. Then a few more, until it wasn't just laughter anymore but something worse—murmurs, whispers, voices bleeding together, a sickening, swirling mass of sound. I couldn't make out the words, not at first, but I didn't need to. I knew what they were saying. I knew what they were thinking.

About me. About him. About us.

It felt like standing in the middle of a storm, like getting hit from all sides, every single word sticking to me like something I couldn't scrub off, couldn't shake, couldn't escape. I could feel it, the way their eyes were on me, on us, hungry and cruel, waiting to see what we'd do next, waiting for us to break.

I turned to Gerard.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wide and dark and burning, flickering between me and them and something far away, something only he could see. His lips were parted like he was about to say something, like maybe he had some magic fucking words that could fix this, fix me, fix everything, but nothing came out.

Instead, he just grabbed my wrist.

Tight. Firm. Like he needed me to feel it, to know he was there, to know we had to get the fuck out of there before either of us did something we couldn't take back.

Then he pulled me.

And we ran.

We ran past the gawking faces, past the sneering mouths, past the ones still laughing, past the ones recording, past the ones who would spend the next week spreading their own twisted versions of what had just happened. We ran through the thick, smoke-stained air of the house, past the blur of flashing lights and bodies pressed together and music that was suddenly too fucking loud.

We didn't stop when we reached the door, didn't stop when we stumbled out onto the lawn, didn't stop when the cold night air hit our faces and filled our lungs with something sharp and real. We kept going. Down the street, past parked cars and flickering streetlights, past drunk kids hanging around outside, past the distant, muffled chaos of the party we had just set fire to.

We didn't stop until we had no choice.

Until our legs gave out.

Until our lungs burned.

We finally stopped when our bodies couldn't take it anymore, when our legs gave out beneath us, and we collapsed onto the damp forest floor, panting, gasping, shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion. My lungs burned, my head spun, and my whole body felt like it was still moving, like the ground beneath me was unsteady, like I could still hear the echoes of laughter and whispers chasing us through the trees.

Gerard was beside me, sprawled out on his back, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his red hair a wild mess against the dark earth. His face was flushed from the run, from the cold, from everything, and when I looked at him, I could still see it—that fire in his eyes, that stupid, reckless light that made my stomach twist in ways I still didn't know how to handle.

For a while, neither of us spoke. Just breathing, just staring up at the sky through the gaps in the trees, just existing in the same space, far away from everything that had just happened.

Then, out of nowhere, Gerard rolled onto his side, propped himself up on his elbow, and looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I fucking love you."

His voice was soft but firm, like it wasn't a thought he just blurted out but something he meant, something that had been sitting heavy in his chest for a long time, waiting to be said. His hand found mine, fingers clumsy but warm, tracing over my knuckles, gripping like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.

And fuck, maybe it was the weed, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just the way he said it—completely serious, completely sure—but it hit me hard.

I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His lips curled into this lazy, crooked smile, eyes heavy-lidded but full of something real. "Like, disgustingly in love with you. It's tragic."

I huffed out something between a laugh and a breath, shaking my head. "You're so fucking dramatic."

"I know," he said, completely unashamed. "It's part of my charm."

He shifted closer, his breath warm against my skin, his lips brushing against mine, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was good. For a second.

Until—

"I'm the love of your life," I said, voice dripping with exaggerated confidence, grinning like an idiot because I was still high, still drunk, still buzzing from the rush of running and yelling and kissing him in the middle of the fucking woods like some tragic, lovesick idiot in a bad coming-of-age movie. I meant it, though. I meant it in the way that you mean things when you're not really thinking, when there's nothing holding the words back, no second-guessing, no overanalyzing, just raw, stupid honesty.

Gerard snorted, shaking his head as he sprawled out beside me, kicking at the dirt with the heel of his boot like he was bored already. "Debatable."

I scoffed, propping myself up on my elbows just so I could glare down at him properly. "Please, you'd be lost without me." It wasn't even an insult, just a fact. I was the only one who could handle him when he was like this, when he got weird and restless and ridiculous, when his head got too heavy with thoughts he didn't want to say out loud. He needed me. Maybe not in a dramatic, life-or-death way, but still—he needed me.

I let myself fall back again, staring up at the branches overhead, my vision blurring slightly as the sky swayed in and out of focus. "Why do I like you?" I asked, more to myself than to him, but of course, he had an answer ready. Of course, he always fucking did.

"Because I'm hot and emotionally damaged."

And goddammit, he was right.

Chapter Text

Gerard's pov:

I don't know what I did to deserve a boy like Frank. He's too good—too gentle, too patient, too fucking real. I always thought he'd get bored of me, that eventually, he'd realize I was too much to handle, that all my mess, my damage, my bullshit would become too heavy for him to carry. And for a while, I could see it in his eyes, that hesitation, that flicker of doubt, like he was thinking about leaving. And honestly? I wouldn't have blamed him. I was ready for it. Bracing myself for the inevitable moment when he'd sigh, shake his head, and walk away because loving me wasn't worth the weight of everything that came with it.

But he didn't.

And now, after everything—after the fights, the whispers, the bruises the world tried to leave on us—I know that this wasn't meant to be some fleeting thing, some temporary, reckless rush. I don't think he believes that anymore either. We've changed for each other, grown into each other, and maybe I'm not fixed, maybe I never will be, but I'm trying. For him. With him. I love him so much it fucking aches sometimes, and I know—God, I know—he loves me just the same.

I'm proud of him.

He's been clean. We've been better. We still drink sometimes, but together, and never to the point of losing ourselves. And we're learning—learning how to say no, learning how to find another way, and on the nights where the noise of the world is too loud, we climb up to my roof and let the quiet swallow us whole.

Even when Mikey and Pete and their nerdy little crew are downstairs, voices carrying through the walls, laughter echoing up through the floorboards, the roof is ours. It always feels too personal, too sacred, a place just for us. We sit there, sometimes lying back against the cold shingles, breathing in the winter air, watching the sky stretch out above us, the stars blinking down like they know something we don't. Sometimes we talk, but sometimes we don't have to. Sometimes the smoke does it for us, curling in soft, hazy ribbons between us, wrapping us in this dull gray glow. But even with that lingering shadow, we have too much love between us to be swallowed by it.

We're doing okay. More than okay. We're surviving. School is manageable. We're passing. Graduation is close enough to taste, but for now, I just want to live in this—this winter, this moment, this version of us where things are warm despite the cold.

I love every fucking second I spend with him. The way we laugh together, the way we share everything—our food, our clothes, my comics, his guitar, my music, my blankets. The way we exist in sync, whether it's playing music with Mikey or curled up in the dark whispering about things that only matter to us. The way he looks at me like I'm something worth looking at.

There was something about the way Frank played guitar that made everything else disappear. He didn't just play—he poured himself into it, like every chord, every riff, every strum was an extension of something deep inside him that he couldn't say out loud. His fingers danced over the strings with an ease that made it look effortless, like he was born to do this, like the guitar was just another part of his body. I could watch him for hours, just sitting on my bed or the floor, hunched over his guitar, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration, his fingers working their way through melodies that no one else could have come up with, at least not in the way he did. And then there was his voice—rough, unpolished, but so full of emotion that it made up for everything. He didn't try to be perfect when he sang, didn't give a fuck about technicality or precision. He just let it out, raw and real, like he couldn't hold it back even if he wanted to.

And fuck, his hair. He'd let it grow out again, the sides too long now, curling around his ears in these messy little waves that he kept pushing back but never really managed to tame. It was always unkempt, always a little wild, like him. Sometimes I'd reach out without thinking and run my fingers through it, feeling the softness of it between my hands, and he'd just smirk at me like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. And I guess he did.

Then there was his lip piercing, that stupid little piece of metal that I could never stop staring at. It suited him too well, a perfect little accent to everything else about him that drove me insane. Every time he bit his lip, worrying at the ring between his teeth, I wanted to reach out and pull it from his mouth just to see if he'd whine about it. And his tattoos—I loved them. Every single one. The ones on his arms, the ones on his hands, the ones I traced absentmindedly when we were lying around together, doing nothing but existing in the same space. I loved how his skin was marked, how every piece of ink felt like another piece of him, another thing that made Frank who he was. Sometimes I'd watch him while he was distracted, just admiring the way his tattoos moved when he stretched or played or ran a hand through his hair.

Even his nails—now a little longer than usual, but still neat, still beautiful in a way that only Frank could pull off. I noticed everything about him. The way his hands moved when he played, the way his lips parted slightly when he focused, the way he rolled his eyes when I teased him, even though I knew he loved it. I loved every fucking part of him, every little detail that made him who he was.

And I loved every second I spent with him. The way we laughed together, the way we shared everything—our food, our clothes, my comics, his guitar, my music, my blankets. The way we existed in sync, whether it was playing music with Mikey or curled up in the dark, whispering about things that only mattered to us. The way he looked at me like I was something worth looking at. Like I was something worth loving. And maybe, just maybe, I was.

It's perfect. He's perfect.

Not in some flawless, airbrushed way, but in the way that matters. In the way that feels real. In the way that makes me believe in something bigger than all the noise and the bullshit and the pain.

He's all I ever wanted.

And I still don't know how the hell I got lucky enough to have him.

Frank's pov:

Gerard's art was the first thing that ever made me believe in something beyond the mess of our reality. Before I ever touched him, before I even knew what he tasted like, I knew his art. Knew the way his hands moved across a canvas, the way his fingers curled around a pencil like they were born to hold one. He painted like he needed to, like the images in his head were too loud, too unbearable, unless he spilled them out in color and shadow and shape. His work was raw, always—dark in a way that wasn't about horror, but about something deeper, something more human. His paintings felt like secrets, like confessions, and I wanted to understand them the way I wanted to understand him. He never hesitated when he created, never second-guessed, just let the paint smear across his hands and wrists, let the graphite stain his skin, let himself become part of the piece, like he wasn't just making art—he was living it. And sometimes I caught him in those moments, so lost in his own world that he didn't notice me watching, and fuck, I wanted to grab him by the face and kiss him senseless, just to remind him he wasn't alone in it. Sometimes I did. And he'd laugh against my lips, his hands still streaked in color, the scent of acrylics thick on his skin, and I swear to God, I've never seen anything more beautiful than him like that.

He'd draw me sometimes. Said he couldn't help it. That I had one of those faces, like something out of a story he wasn't finished writing yet. The first time he showed me a sketch of myself, I didn't know what to say. It wasn't just me on the page—it was the way he saw me, the version of myself that only existed through his eyes. There was something devastating about it, about being loved enough to be captured like that. And I guess I wanted to give him the same, wanted to know every part of him the way he knew me, so I started keeping his art, tucking sketches into my notebooks, stealing little scraps of paper where he'd mindlessly doodled when he thought no one was looking. I wanted to collect him, every little piece. Because the more I had, the closer I felt to understanding him completely. And I wanted that. Needed it. Like knowing him was just another part of breathing.

But art wasn't the only thing he did with his hands.

There was nothing like the way he touched me. Nothing like the way he moved when we were alone, when there was no one else, no audience, no world outside of us. It was always passion, always heat, but it was never just that. It was comfort too. It was love in the way he whispered my name, in the way he pressed his mouth against my shoulder, in the way he held me like he didn't just want me—he needed me. It was never rushed, never careless, never anything less than fucking consuming. Some nights it was slow, aching, drawn-out, like we were memorizing each other all over again. Other nights it was fast, desperate, like we couldn't get close enough, like we needed to be inside each other just to prove we were real, that this was real, that nothing could take it from us. And I never felt safer than in those moments, with his body tangled up in mine, his breath hot against my skin, his fingers trailing down my back like he was tracing something only he could see.

And when it was over, when our bodies were heavy with exhaustion and warmth, there was never awkwardness, never distance. Just the quiet kind of comfort that came with knowing each other that intimately, with being that connected. The kind of comfort that let us exist together in silence without needing to fill it. We could lay there for hours, bodies pressed together, legs tangled, his head resting against my chest as we breathed in sync. And the silence was never empty. It was full. Full of everything we didn't need to say, because we already knew.

Even the most mundane things were different with him. Showering wasn't just showering—it was lazy touches and shared shampoo and the sound of his voice humming some song under his breath as I pressed my forehead against his shoulder, letting the hot water wash over us. It was him washing my hair, his fingers gentle against my scalp, taking care of me in a way I'd never let anyone else do before. It was laughing when he got soap in my eyes, shoving at him playfully as he kissed my forehead in apology, his lips soft, his hands warm. It was routine, but it was ours, and that made it something more.

Everything with him was more.

And if this wasn't love, then nothing was.

Which is why it was so fucking weird that, an hour later, we were trying to convince Mikey that no, Gerard did not drink all of the orange juice straight from the carton like some kind of gremlin while Gerard sat there covered in very suspiciously orange-stained evidence.

"You have literally no proof," Gerard was saying, licking his lips—his very orange lips.

Mikey held up the empty carton like it was a piece of damning evidence in court. "No proof? No proof?! Gerard, the juice is GONE, and you look like you just gave a blowjob to a fucking Cheeto."

Helena groaned from the kitchen table, rubbing her temples. "Can you both shut the hell up? I have a headache."

"You think you have a headache?" Mikey shot back. "I have to deal with this—" He gestured at Gerard, who was now wiping his hands on his pants like an absolute menace. "—every fucking day of my life."

"You love me," Gerard said, grinning.

"I barely tolerate you."

"Yeah, well, Frank thinks I'm hot."

I choked on my own saliva. "I never said that."

"Stupidly attractive, wasn't that it?" Gerard smirked.

"Jesus Christ," Mikey muttered, shoving past him to toss the empty carton in the trash. "I don't need to hear your foreplay."

-

Gerard's pov:

There were days when I felt okay—when I could laugh with Mikey and Frank, when I could sit around and make stupid jokes, when everything felt light, like it wasn't pressing down on my chest. But it never really went away, that weight. It just lingered there, somewhere beneath my ribs, waiting for a quiet moment to creep back in. And I guess today was one of those days. It wasn't anything specific, not a bad dream or a memory triggered by something random. It was just there, this dull ache that settled in my bones the second I woke up, reminding me that no matter how much time passed, there were still things I'd never get to fix.

I never told her how much I loved Frank. I mean, I think she knew, even before I did, before I could admit it out loud. She knew because she looked at me the same way she used to look at Dad when she was starting to resent him. Like she saw something in me she didn't like, something she wished she could change but knew she never would. I hated that. I hated that I never got to sit her down and just say it, tell her how he made me feel, how it wasn't just some stupid phase or rebellion or whatever the fuck she probably thought it was. I hated that I never got the chance to make her understand.

But maybe that was the real problem. Maybe I never really understood her. She was always a puzzle I could never quite put together, shifting between warmth and coldness, love and distance, like she didn't even know which side of herself was real. Some days she was the mom who sang along to the radio while making dinner, who hugged me when I was scared, who defended me when Dad was being an asshole. And some days she was someone else entirely, someone whose moods turned on a dime, who disappeared into herself, who said things that made me feel like I was too much or not enough, like I was both at the same time. I spent years trying to figure it out, trying to be the version of myself that wouldn't set her off. But it never mattered. It was like she was fighting something invisible, something bigger than any of us, and I never knew how to help her.

And maybe that's what fucks me up the most. That I wasn't enough. That in the end, it didn't matter how much I loved her, how much I wanted to fix things. She was still gone. And I still never got to tell her that I was sorry Dad was such a fucking jerk, that I knew he made her miserable, that I knew he left her with all this pain and no way to let it out except at us. I never got to tell her that even when she was cold, even when she made me feel small, I still loved her. And I still wanted her. And that no matter how hard I tried, I never hated her the way I knew she thought I did.

I used to think I was a burden to her. I still do, sometimes. I know Frank hates when I say that, always tells me I'm not, that I never was. But it's hard to unlearn something when it's been wired into you for so long. And some days, I can still hear it, that little voice in my head, telling me I took too much space, that I was too difficult, that I exhausted her. Maybe she loved me, but maybe she also wished I wasn't me. That thought eats at me more than anything.

So one day, I woke up too early. Mikey was staying at Pete's, probably doing God knows what, and Frank was still curled up in bed, because ever since we didn't have to wake up early anymore, we slept in till noon, easy. But I couldn't today. I felt that weight in my chest, like something was pulling me somewhere else. And I knew where. I wanted to see her. I didn't know why today, didn't know why now, but I just needed to go. It was freezing outside, the sky dull and gray, but that felt kind of fitting. I got up, pulled on my clothes, fed Fishway, and tried to be quiet, but Frank shifted in bed, blinking up at me sleepily. His voice was soft, thick with sleep when he reached for me.

"Where are you goin', baby? Come here with me."

I hesitated for a second, my fingers frozen in the middle of pulling on my jacket. It would've been easy to just crawl back into bed with him, press my face into his neck, let his warmth pull me under again. And for a second, I wanted to. I wanted to forget about the weight in my chest and just stay here, where everything was soft and simple. But I couldn't. Not today.

"I—I wanna go see her," I murmured, avoiding his eyes as I zipped up my hoodie. "At the cemetery."

Frank didn't say anything right away. He just propped himself up on his elbow, watching me carefully, like he was trying to read between the lines of what I wasn't saying. Then he sighed, rubbing the sleep from his face before pushing himself upright.

"Give me five minutes."

I frowned. "Frank, you don't have to—"

"I know," he said, already throwing the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "But I want to."

I didn't argue after that.

Frank got dressed quickly, shivering when he pulled his hoodie over his head. I could tell he wasn't a fan of the idea of stepping out into the cold so early, but he didn't complain. He just ran a hand through his messy hair, shoved his feet into his boots, and grabbed my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.

The walk to the cemetery was quiet. The cold was biting, the kind that cut through layers and settled into your bones, but Frank stayed close to me, his hand warm in mine, his thumb rubbing slow circles against my skin. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk, watching our breaths curl into the air, feeling the familiar weight pressing down on my ribs. Frank didn't try to fill the silence, didn't try to talk me out of whatever was sitting heavy in my chest. He just walked with me, like he always did.

When we got there, the place was almost empty. Just a few scattered footprints in the snow, a couple of wreaths leaning against headstones, forgotten candles that had burned down to nothing. My hands felt clammy when we stopped in front of her grave. The flowers from last time were dead, petals shriveled and brown against the frost. I swallowed hard, staring down at the name carved into stone.

Donna Lee Way.

For a long time, I just stood there, trying to gather all the things I wanted to say. There were too many, tangled up in my throat, things I'd held onto for too long. Frank gave my hand a squeeze but didn't say anything. Just waited.

After a while, I exhaled shakily. "I miss you," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "I wish you were still here."

It felt too small. Too simple for everything I felt. But it was all I could get out.

Frank shifted beside me, his grip on my hand tightening. And then, without a word, he let go, knelt down, and started clearing the dead flowers away. His fingers were red from the cold, but he was careful, brushing snow off the headstone, making it look like someone had been here recently.

Like she wasn't forgotten.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, "Thank you."

-

Frank's pov:

I figured he needed a little more time, so I let him be, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before stepping away. I walked around aimlessly, hands buried in my pockets, the cold biting at my skin. I hated this place, but I also kind of liked it. It's hard to explain—cemeteries hold onto people, their names, their years, their stories, but at the same time, most of them have been forgotten. I looked at the graves, reading over the names and dates, tracing the lifetimes in between. Some had flowers, some had damp, crumpled letters from people still holding on. Others had little stuffed animals, offerings to the ones who never got the chance to grow up. It was all so fucking sad. And knowing Gerard was here, standing in front of his mother's grave, trying to work through something I couldn't fully understand—it made it even heavier.

He had hated her, in a way. But deep down, you can't really hate a mother, or a family—not entirely. You can tell yourself you do, you can scream it, you can carve it into your bones, but it's never the full truth. There's always that tiny part of you that still loves them, that still wants things to be different. I knew that because it happened to me with my mom too. I could say I hated her all I wanted, but at the end of the day, she was still my mom. And I think Gerard felt the same way about Donna, no matter how much pain was tangled up in it.

I kept walking, kicking at the frozen ground, and then I saw his name. James.

My stomach twisted instantly, and my feet felt like they were made of cement. Even after all this time, it still made me nauseous. The fact that my boyfriend had killed him. The fact that we'd stood there, covered in his blood, knowing he'd never take another breath. I don't pretend I don't think about it—I do. I've talked about it with Dan, and it's helped, but some things never really go away. Some nights, I wonder how Gerard lives with it, how he manages to keep moving forward. He doesn't talk about it much, and I don't push, because I know it has to be fucking unbearable sometimes. But it wasn't his fault. Gerard isn't a cold-blooded murderer. He was just scared. He was protecting himself. He was protecting me.

But still.

James was my best friend. Fuck, we were close. I don't know if I'd say I miss him, because the truth is, the last version of him I knew was someone I couldn't miss. Someone who wasn't really James anymore, not the way I remembered him. But I do think about who he could've been, if things had gone differently. He was young, and yeah, he had a future, even if he didn't want to admit it. He hated the idea of doing what his dad wanted—joining the army, following orders. He didn't care much for school either, even though his mom pushed him to go to some big university. But he had something. He could've had something. Maybe he would've figured it out if he had more time. Maybe he wouldn't. It doesn't really matter now.

I didn't say anything. I just stood there, staring at the name etched into stone. Was I looking at him? I don't know. Maybe I was just looking at a memory.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned before Gerard could see where I'd been standing. I didn't want to explain. I didn't want to talk about it.

"Who's over there?" he asked, pulling out a cigarette, his fingers shaking slightly from the cold. He looked stupidly adorable in his winter hat, the wind making his hair stick out in weird directions.

"No one," I said quickly. "I was just—doing the math, thinking about how old some people would be. Doesn't matter."

Gerard studied me for a second, like he wasn't sure whether to believe me or not, but then he just nodded, lighting up and taking a slow drag. "Did you talk to her?" I asked.

"Yeah. A little," he murmured, exhaling smoke into the cold air. "Not much, but I feel... better. I think." He looked at me then, eyes soft. "Thanks for coming with me."

I squeezed his hand, the warmth of his fingers grounding me. "Of course, baby."

"Wanna go get coffee?" he asked, voice a little lighter now.

"Yeah," I said, pulling him closer. "C'mon."

Chapter Text

The city felt endless tonight, stretching out in all directions like an open wound. Streetlights flickered in the distance, bleeding their dull glow onto the pavement, and the wind howled through the empty alleyways, carrying the scent of something burnt, something ruined. I could still taste the smoke in my throat, thick and acrid, like a memory I couldn't swallow down. Gerard walked beside me, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his breath curling into the cold air like ghosts escaping his lungs. He hadn't spoken in a while, and maybe I should have been worried, but I wasn't. This silence between us wasn't empty. It was full. Heavy. Like the weight of everything we'd done, everything we were, pressing down on us from all sides. We were standing in the wreckage of something, and I couldn't tell if we had built it or burned it down. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

I watched him from the corner of my eye, the way the neon signs reflected off his pale skin, the way his lips trembled ever so slightly as if he was on the edge of saying something and couldn't quite make himself do it. I knew what that felt like. To carry words in your chest like sharp edges, to feel them scrape against your ribs, but to be too afraid to let them out. I could take it. Whatever it was, whatever he needed to say, whatever he needed to do, I could take it. I had already taken so much. The bruises, the scars, the things I could never say out loud. The nights I spent trying to pull myself out of my own head, the mornings where I didn't know how to be a person again. I had already burned, and I was still here. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He finally exhaled, shaking his head like he was trying to clear a thought he didn't want to keep. "Do you ever think," he started, his voice hoarse, "that maybe we don't get to leave this behind?" He didn't look at me when he said it. Just kept walking, his fingers twitching like he needed a cigarette, like he needed something to ground him before he floated away. "Like, no matter where we go, no matter how much time passes, this—" he gestured vaguely at the dark streets, at the distant sirens, at us "—just follows us."

I swallowed hard. He wasn't talking about the city. He wasn't talking about the things we had done. He was talking about the weight of it. About the way it had gotten under our skin, into our bones, deep enough that it felt like we were made of it now. Like we couldn't be anything else. I knew what he meant because I felt it too. The way trauma doesn't just leave you, the way it stains, the way it lingers even when you're miles away from where it started. You can scrub yourself raw, you can start over, you can pretend to be someone new, but at the end of the day, you're still you. And maybe that's the worst part. Maybe that's the real horror. That you never actually get to escape yourself.

"It's like a chemical burn," I murmured, and he finally looked at me. "It peels you open. Strips you down. Changes you." My throat felt tight, like the words were trying to choke me on their way out. "And when you see your own face again, you're never really the same."

Gerard's lips parted slightly, his eyes dark and endless in the low light. "Yeah," he said after a long moment. "Yeah, exactly."

We stopped walking then, both of us just standing there on the cracked sidewalk, the city stretching out before us like a promise or a warning—I couldn't tell which. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, laughter echoed from a block away, life went on, indifferent to the fact that we were standing here, unraveling. I looked at Gerard, at the way the wind made his hair fall into his eyes, at the way he was chewing on his bottom lip, at the way he was trying so hard not to fall apart. And I realized, maybe for the first time, that I wanted him to fall apart. That I wanted him to let it happen, to stop trying to hold himself together with shaking hands and forced smiles. Because I wasn't afraid of the wreckage. I wasn't afraid of the fire.

I was already burning.

And if he burned with me, at least we wouldn't be alone.

Gerard let out a slow breath, watching it dissolve into the cold night air like a ghost finally released. Then, without a word, he reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe, after everything, after the bruises and the fire and the long, sleepless nights, after the guilt and the fear and the things we still couldn't say out loud—maybe this was what was left. Just us. Still here. Still standing. His hand was warm despite the chill, his thumb brushing over my knuckles absentmindedly, like he just wanted to remind himself that I was real, that we were real. And I squeezed back because we were. We weren't just ghosts walking through this city, we weren't just lost boys waiting for the world to chew us up and spit us out. We had made it. Maybe not unscathed, maybe not unchanged, but we were here. And somehow, that felt like enough.

The city stretched before us, no longer endless, no longer a wound. It was just a city, just a collection of streets and buildings and neon signs, just a place that had shaped us but didn't have to define us. I looked at Gerard then, really looked at him, and all I saw was someone who had fought so hard to exist, to be himself, even when the world tried to tell him he was too much or not enough. And I knew, in that moment, that I loved him. Not in the way movies tried to sell love, not in the way songs romanticized heartbreak. I loved him in the way you love something that has become a part of you, in the way you love the air you breathe, in the way you don't realize how much you need something until you think about losing it. He turned to me, a small, tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and I knew he felt it too.

"We're gonna be okay," he said, so quiet I almost didn't hear it over the sound of the city. But I did. And I believed him.

Because yeah, life was messy. It was loud and painful and complicated, and some nights it felt like it would never get better. But then there were nights like this. Nights where you realized that even when everything felt like it was falling apart, there was still love. There was still someone willing to take your hand, to walk beside you, to remind you that you weren't alone. Being a teenager was fucking terrifying, because everything felt like the end of the world, and maybe sometimes it was the end of a world—the world you knew, the world you were comfortable in. But endings weren't always bad. Sometimes they were just the beginning of something else, something better.

So if you're reading this, if you've ever felt like you were drowning, like you were too much or not enough, like you were lost in a world that didn't seem to want you—just hold on. Just keep going. Because you don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this. Maybe it's love. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's a night like this, where everything finally makes sense. And maybe, just maybe, it's a hand reaching out in the dark, pulling you back to yourself.

The air is cold but electric, the kind of December night that bites at your skin but fills your chest with something warm, something untouchable. The lights flicker and hum, casting a glow over the restless crowd, bodies pressed together in a sea of anticipation. Gerard stands next to me, bundled up in his coat, his cheeks pink from the cold, his eyes wide and shining. He looks younger like this—like the boy I met before everything got complicated, before we learned how easy it was to hurt each other. His gloved fingers tighten around mine, and I let myself sink into it, let myself believe that maybe this is what healing feels like—not some grand revelation, not some moment of clarity where everything suddenly makes sense, but just this. Being here. Together. Still holding on.

I look down at the ticket in my other hand, the edges worn from where I almost ripped it apart, the creases proof of every time I hesitated, every time I thought about throwing it away. It was my birthday present. That birthday. The day everything fell apart. When I thought Gerard was done with me, when I thought we had taken things too far and broken them beyond repair. And maybe we had broken something. Maybe we had torn down the versions of ourselves that didn't fit anymore, maybe we had scraped away the parts that hurt too much to carry. But now I think—now I know—that it wasn't an ending at all. It was something else. A shift. A chance to be something new. And I'm glad I didn't throw this away. I'm glad I let myself believe, even just a little bit, that we could make it through.

The bass rumbles beneath our feet, the murmur of the crowd swelling, the cold air thick with breath and sound and life. Gerard leans into me, his body solid and warm, and I turn my face toward him just as he grins, teeth catching the light, eyes burning with something reckless and free. "This is fucking unreal," he says, barely audible over the noise, and I laugh because yeah, it is. It's unreal that we're here. That after everything—after blood and fire and nights spent wondering if we had finally destroyed each other—we're standing in this crowd, waiting for the band we used to dream about, the band we used to pretend we were when we played in that shitty little practice room at school.

I remember the first time we talked about this. It was late, and we were lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, our voices hushed like we were afraid of breaking whatever spell had wrapped itself around us. "One day, we'll be there," he had whispered. "In the pit. Screaming our lungs out." I had laughed, told him he was an idiot, but I had wanted it too. And now here we are, standing side by side, our fingers tangled together, waiting for the first chord to hit, waiting for the music to drown out the rest of the world.

And maybe that's what this has always been about. Not just love, not just surviving, but this. These moments in between. The ones where everything is loud and beautiful and too big to hold, the ones where you realize that even after all the shit, all the pain, all the nights you thought you wouldn't make it—there's still something left. Something worth staying for.

The lights drop. The crowd erupts. Gerard turns to me, his face glowing in the chaos, and I know, without a doubt, that we made it. Maybe we're still figuring things out. Maybe we always will be. But we're here. We're alive. And that's enough.

-

Looking back, it's hard to say when it all began. Was it the first time we locked eyes in a crowded hallway? Was it the first fight, the first kiss, the first time I realized I cared more than I should? Or did it start way before that, when we were still just two boys trying to make sense of a world that didn't seem built for us? Maybe love doesn't have a clear starting point. Maybe it sneaks up on you in the quiet moments, in the spaces between anger and longing, in the way someone's voice can pull you back from the edge without even trying. And maybe that's the point—not knowing exactly when it started, just knowing that it did. That somehow, against all odds, it grew. It survived. Even when we thought we had destroyed it, even when we tried to run from it, even when it felt like a fire burning too bright to hold onto, it stayed. And in the end, it saved us.

But love is never just about two people. It's about the versions of ourselves we become when we love. It's about the way we learn, the way we break, the way we pick up the pieces—not just for someone else, but for ourselves. This story wasn't just about me and Gerard. It was about all the people who shaped us, the ones who hurt us, the ones we left behind. It was about growing up in a world that doesn't always make room for kids like us, about fighting for something even when we weren't sure we deserved it. It was messy. It was ugly. It was painful. But it was real. And if there's anything I hope you take from this, it's that love—real love—is never perfect. It's not always easy, and it doesn't always come wrapped in pretty words and perfect endings. Sometimes it's jagged, sometimes it cuts deep. But that doesn't mean it isn't worth it.

Being young feels like the end of the world sometimes. Every heartbreak, every mistake, every night spent wondering if you'll ever really be okay—it all feels like too much, like it will never end. But it does. And then one day, you're standing in a crowd, holding someone's hand, realizing that you made it through. You'll change, you'll grow, you'll fuck up, and you'll heal. And maybe you'll lose people along the way. Maybe you'll have to leave parts of yourself behind. But you'll keep going. And you'll find people who remind you why you stayed. People who see you, who know you, who love you anyway. And that's what matters. Not being perfect. Not getting everything right the first time. Just trying. Just living. Just making it to the next moment, and the next, and the next.

So if you're lost, if you're scared, if you're wondering if things will ever get better—hold on. It won't always be easy. It won't always make sense. But you are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. There is light, even in the darkest places. And one day, when you least expect it, you'll look back and realize that every painful moment, every wrong turn, every night you thought would never end—it all led you here. To something more. To something worth staying for.

Give me all you've got, I can take it.
The city hums like a heart on fire,
neon veins pulsing under midnight's breath,
where nicotine lingers on our lips like a promise,
where we kissed the stars and left them aching,
where we walked alone, but never alone enough.

We stole the fire, held it between shaking hands,
watched it flicker, reckless, burning bright,
was it ever ours to keep?
Or did we just borrow the light,
long enough to see ourselves in the glow of streetlamps,
coffee steam curling into the cold air,
Halloween laughter echoing in the bones of the night?

They said we'd never make it,
that boys like us don't get to heaven,
but we carved our names into the skyline,
left echoes in the empty nights,
took every pill, every heartbreak, every whispered curse,
and let them shape us into something real,
something unbreakable beneath the weight of winter.

It's like a chemical burn, peeling back the skin,
shedding the ghosts of who we were,
and maybe we'll never be the same again.
But under the city lights, we are still standing.
Not ashamed.
Never fading.
Still burning.

The End.