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Frank isn’t looking for love in Rio.
To be quite honest, he’s not sure how any of his fellow athletes find time to fuck around during their free time. For one, Frank’s anxiety was so fucking horrible for the first few days in Rio that he took to his bedroom in the Olympic Village, doing his breathing exercises and watching a bunch of dumb movies with his parents so it felt more like home.
Second-time Olympian, Frank Iero, spending his free time kicking it with his parents on a gaudy green couch.
So pretty much, in between anxious awaiting his event and being fucking pumped to be at the fucking Olympics, Frank isn’t really going out on the town to see what he could find. Not especially with his parents literally right there with him.
So it’s pretty much a blessing that Frank’s event is during the first day of events. Air rifle isn’t a prime time event but Frank loves the lack of spotlight. The crowd is thin and polite and the air is still and his parents are sitting nearby, smiling at him constantly.
His coach doesn’t have much to say to Frank. The techniques Frank uses to shoot his straightest are the same techniques he uses to stop the noise in his head, to calm the racing of his heart, to relax after his anger gets the best of him. All he does is breathe, feel his heart beat so slowly he should probably be dead, so conscious of every flow of blood in his body and every breath taken and yet so focused, the only thing he can do is shoot straight.
And he does.
It’s not like Frank expects to win silver. He knows he’s good but Europeans are the usual bunch of air rifle champions. He didn’t medal in his last Olympics and was just grateful to be there, as he is this year, but the moment he shoots and his coach is shouting and his parents are standing in their seats, Frank knows in his soul of souls that he did amazing.
It’s probably the first time in his life that he’s properly proud of himself. He had set his expectations for himself so low that it’s a genuine shock to be standing there on the podium, holding a silver medal with a shit-eating grin, so fucking ready to run around back home in Jersey and show everyone his fucking Olympic silver medal, holy fucking shit!
His parents and coach stick around for another day or two before they leg it back home. It’s not like his old parents enjoy the Rio nightlife. All they wanted was to see their Frankie shoot some air. So Frank’s alone, although it’s a pretty good deal, since he gets to keep his room in the Village for the entirety of the Olympic games and he can fuck off back home whenever he gets sick of Rio.
For now, he’s totally ready to watch as much sports as physically possible.
Wearing his USA track suit top and his silver medal around at first seems kind of like a douche bag move, but some Belgian rifle shooter down the hall from him says that it’s pretty much the only way to go in and out of events without much trouble from security.
So Frank does it. He zips up his blue jacket and wears his slightly heavy medal around and keeps his head down as he takes a cab or two around to the various Olympic arenas. Frank’s got a schedule handy and he tries to see what events he can watch in between meals, but he has to leg it back to the Village to get any kind of vegan food, since the kitchen is accommodating like that.
Frank spends about two days watching events before he’s thinking about sex again. He sort of understands why it’s so fucking common among the athletes, especially when their event is one or two days long and once they’re done, they’re a young person in Rio with a bunch of hot athletes walking around, bored as fuck or looking to take the edge off.
He wouldn’t say he’s bored as fuck or looking to take the edge off, because he’s having a great time watching shit like swimming and gymnastics and tennis and he won his goddamn medal already, there’s nothing to be anxious about anymore, but Frank feels something beneath his skin.
It’s like a humming in his veins. Frank’s just another human who has their needs so he wonders if he really just needs a fuck, but for some reason no one he sees looks attractive enough to go to bed with. Besides, Frank was pretty much never the one-night-stand kind of guy, and there’s no way he’s meeting Prince Charming amongst all this sporting chaos, so Frank promises to himself to head back home in a day or two. Maybe it’s homesickness that’s prodding at his heart.
He’s contemplating all of his as he sits in the stands at the fencing event, waiting for the Round of 16. There’s surprisingly a shitload of fencers from everyone, all vying to get into the finals, so fencing is a bit of a long event and Frank is wondering if he’s prolonging his Rio stay if he gets into watching this event.
His pondering his given a definite answer when he watches his first match. The fencer for the USA is some guy named Gerard Way, but Frank can’t see his face since he walks out with his mask already on. There’s an American flag on the side and he looks elegant, standing there with his saber and stretching his legs and arms out in ready position to battle.
The crowd gets silent for the bout and Frank finds himself holding his breath. The actual battling lasts for all of a few seconds, a flurry of swinging sabers and fast feet and suddenly Way is stepping away from his opponent, fist pumped in the air. The crowd cheers and so does Frank, clapping and cheering along their American as he steps back to go again.
Way pretty much blows away his opponent. He’s just too graceful, almost feminine in the way he turns and ducks out the way of his opponent’s attacks. He takes one swift step to the side, bows slightly, and taps his opponent on the arm, and that’s all it takes for him to win the bout and continue on in the competition.
When the announcer calls out the win for Way, the crowd cheers again and Frank watches as the fencer walks away and pulls off his helmet.
Then he’s struck with that feeling again, like Rio sunshine bleeding into his skin and coursing through his veins, His breath catches as Frank watches his dark, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his red cheeks and his sheepish grin as he waves up a the crowd in thanks.
Frank stands abruptly, hoping to God that somehow Gerard will look up into the stands and only see Frank there amongst the crowd, but he doesn’t. Gerard keeps walking, all smiles until he’s out of view from the stands.
It’s his heart spurring him forward, beating so hard Frank can barely breathe, and yet he’s nearly sprinting down the steps and out into the hallway as fast as he can.
Frank finds his way to the door where he knows the athletes go in and out. Of course it’s manned by a guard, who eyes him pointedly when he walks over.
It’s that moment. “Hey,” Frank begins, fingers already finding the safety of his medal. “I’m Frank Iero, Team USA. I was wondering if I could go in and surprise my friend Gerard Way. He just competed and won.”
The guard continues to stare strongly at him but doesn’t say no. He simply nods his head, mutters “congratulations on your win” at Frank and lets him inside.
Frank doesn’t know why the lie of being Way’s friend came out of his mouth so easily. Maybe it’s because he’s already hoping that in a few minutes they will be friends, and that the most beautiful fencer in the entire world will be magically smitten by Frank, a fucking air rifle shooter who still looks like a dirty Jersey punk underneath his fancy Ralph Lauren track suit top.
It’s not until Frank has made his way to the back room where the athletes roam around that he realizes he has absolutely no game plan.
Which is fine.
Frank sees Gerard, still in his fencing suit but without his helmet. He’s brushing strands of hair away from his face and taking big gulps of water. There’s a tall, slender woman standing beside him, wearing a Team USA suit and talking very seriously about something. Gerard keeps nodding but Frank can tell he’s not paying attention. He’s probably on post-win high and his coach is there blabbering about logistics and other important shit that honestly doesn’t matter in that euphoric moment of winning.
It’s not a medal win, and yet Frank can see how much it means to Gerard to be sitting there, having won his first bout. Frank wants to know how old he is, if this is his first Olympics or not, because he has that starry-eyed look of someone who is new to all of this and can’t believe it’s all happening in real time.
Suddenly a storm of great and important questions come up. Frank realizes he wants to know everything there is to know about Gerard but he has no real way of getting into a situation where Gerard might sit there and answer all this questions without thinking Frank is some kind of Olympian stalker.
So Frank goes in the only way he knows how, with one goal in mind.
“Hey,” Frank begins again, catching Gerard’s attention. Frank momentarily forgets everything he’s doing when Gerard looks at him. He’s got those sparkly eyes and edgy eyebrows and his mouth is slightly open as he stares at Frank. “Uh… so. I’m Frank.”
“Frank?” Gerard’s voice is soft and light. Frank feels a shiver.
“…Iero. Sorry. Air rifle.”
“Oh.” Gerard gives a little grin. It’s probably out of sympathy, because Frank is a sad excuse for a human and he can’t talk to beautiful guys to save his life. “Hi. I’m Gerard Way. Sorry I’m all sweaty, I just had a bout.”
“I saw! I mean- yeah, I was in the stands. I watched. You were great!”
“Thanks!” Gerard properly smiles, all teeth and his mouth slightly crooked. Frank thinks it’s so fucking adorable and it takes all of his strength not to launch himself a few feet and attack Gerard already, even with his damn fencing suit still on. “I was so fucking nervous. I can’t believe I’m at the fucking Olympics and I didn’t, like, walk out and fall on my face or some shit.”
“I get you,” Frank replies, and he really does. His anxiety made him think ridiculously stupid shit like that. Like his rifle would jam and he’d stand there on live TV, looking like a fucking idiot while he tried to figure out what’s wrong with his gun. Or he’d sneeze in the middle of a shot and get the worst score of all time. Or shit he pants, he doesn’t know, his brain just makes everything up for him. “I’m a nervous wreck pretty much constantly so I understand.”
“You seem okay, though, by the looks of that medal…” Gerard’s staring at his medal and his eyes slowly rake up to Frank’s face. It would be suggestive if it wasn’t for Gerard’s wide eyes of wonder. He looks like a little kid meeting his hero, except Frank is a stranger and definitely no hero.
Frank hates small talk, so he just bites the bullet. “Listen Gerard, you’re like, a fantastic athlete and all, but the real reason I came over to say hello is because I think you’re, like, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Probably. Like, I’m pretty sure you are. And I wanted to say hello and tell you that you’re really fucking gorgeous. And talented. You looked like a knight out there.”
It’s so lame that Frank considers turning on his heel and running straight out, but he doesn’t. He stays there and watches as Gerard’s face turns redder than it did when he was just finished with his bout.
“Oh…” Gerard rubs his nose. A nervous tick. “I… wow, sorry, um… this is a lot.”
Fuck. Frank regrets everything. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have been so forward. So fucking creepy of me. I had to like, flash my medal to get in here like a moron and now I made you uncomfortable, fuck, I’m leaving-“
“No!” Gerard stands up and waves his hands like a little kid, like he’s using the Force to make Frank stay. “I’m sorry! I just meant that I didn’t expect to have my first Olympic win and then get complimented by the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, so… y’know. Brain sorta went haywire for a second.”
Frank’s ever been so relieved in his fucking life. He’s giggling and then Gerard’s giggling and Frank steps forward, fully intent on grabbing Gerard and kissing him so hard that neither of them can see straight, but then Gerard’s coach comes over holding some sort of clipboard and the moment is over.
Gerard bites his lip and Frank can’t help reaching over to quickly squeeze his hand.
Gerard’s coach seems to not even realize Frank is there, which is fine, because explaining Frank might have been awkward. She just rattles off some information about Gerard’s next bout, which is in maybe twenty minutes depending on how fast the next bouts are, and Frank knows there’s no way he’s dragging Gerard off to some changing room to touch him everywhere.
Frank can’t read minds but he’s pretty sure Gerard is thinking the same thing. He’s got a cute disappointed face on so Frank just holds onto his hand and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’ll go now, so you can focus,” Frank says, Gerard frowning in disappointment. “But I’ll be in the stands watching and I’ll come back when you’re finished. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gerard replies, grinning so brightly Frank can’t help giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“Alright, beautiful. I’ll be back later.”
“Okay!”
Frank lets go and immediately misses him. When he’s walking away, he looks over his shoulder and sees Gerard still smiling at him and Frank has the strangest urge to tell him he loves him. Which is fucking insane. Frank knows he’s just caught up in the moment but something about seeing Gerard felt like the planets aligning, but it might just be because they’re at the Olympics.
Maybe this is what all the other athletes were telling Frank about. Or maybe Frank really did just fall in love with a fencer.