Chapter Text
Frank was starting to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Mikey was beneath him, panting between wet kisses, his fingers tangled in Frank's hair. This shouldn't be happening. Ever. Frank was in love with Gerard, and Gerard was… outside, somewhere in backstage of the venue, kissing a girl (whom he remembered seeing a few times backstage, chatting with technicians and helping out with the lights). And it wasn't a friendly kiss, or a fan pecking her favorite singer, no. Gerard's hands had held her waist, tenderly pulling her close to his body as he deepened the kiss. Frank had stood there, like a deer in the headlights, watching his whole life flash before his eyes before he'd fled to the dressing rooms, ignoring Ray in his desperate attempt to get away from everyone and everything before he was seen losing it in the middle of the corridor. That he'd bumped into Mikey in his escape was just bad luck. The bassist had been comfortably typing on his phone, sipping on a lukewarm beer when Frank nearly ran over him as he fled.
Frank already knew what Mikey would probably say, that this was a terrible idea and that they should stop before things got too complicated, and while he could understand the sentiment, that would sound so hypocritical coming from him. Mikey was always surrounded by people, sometimes just as friends, sometimes as something more, during and after Warped Tour, though he rarely let anyone linger too long. He was just as messy as Gerard was, if not worse. Except Gerard always seemed to end up falling for people who weren't Frank, as much as it stung his pride to admit it, and Mikey was simply living his life.
A better option would've been to discreetly cry in the bathroom and never talk of it again, but he wanted Gerard to see him with Mikey and, in consequence, to suffer as much as Frank had suffered. The thought gave him a bitter, shameful sense of satisfaction, imagining the singer's rage, threatening, perhaps, to kick him out of the band for the offense. But Frank wouldn't be quiet, no sir. He'd tell him the ugly truth in the face, how unfair it was that Gerard could kiss whoever he wanted while Frank patiently waited to touch him on stage and then go back to pretending it didn't matter, because at the end of the day, they were just two close friends.
The problem was, Gerard was still outside and Mikey wasn't Gerard, not even close. He was taller and thinner, sharper where Gerard's body had always felt soft and warm against Frank's. He had expected Mikey to be somewhat accommodating with his misery, maybe just to let go so he could lose himself in his embrace without a thought for the pain. From what he had seen in during Warped, it had been easy to convince himself that Mikey was simply like that: the kind of person others could approach effortlessly. And those other people seemed to assume that as well, but with Frank, Mikey was anything but welcoming. Mikey could return his kisses, yet there was no passion behind the feeling of their bodies pressed together. The gasps the bassist let out when they briefly pulled apart were most likely from a lack of oxygen rather than a real excitement. Frank frowned into the kiss. Why others and not him? Was there something wrong with him? Aside from the fact that he wasn't in love with Mikey, obviously. But it was unlikely that all the people Mikey had been hanging out with had been in love with him. Some of them just wanted to be around artists because of fame or good-looks, and in Mikey's case, that was probably the case. He could be cute or sexy when he felt like it. Which was… 5% of the time. If anything.
Mikey pulled back after a while, his lips red and a little puffy from Frank's anxious kissing, and looked at him with disdain. "So… are you done?" he asked, wiping their saliva off his mouth with the back of his hand. All pretense of pleasure had evaporated. "You're starting to bore me." He sat down on the carpet, adjusting his beanie with hand and fishing his phone out his pocket with the other. Settling against the wall, he resumed typing, paying no further attention to Frank. It would've been more exciting to kiss a cardboard box.
Frank had seen it himself, for God's sake, the way Mikey acted when he really cared. He allowed himself to smile and act tender, all kisses and caresses. Frank would even venture to say that Mikey enjoyed it. As an example, during the Warped Tour, he had walked into a sound tech snuggled up to Mikey in the shade of the tour bus, away from the prying eyes and cameras of the fans. The bassist had laughed as the man kissed his nose and cheeks. The guy was tall, with bleach-blond hair peeking from under a blue cap and freckles dusted over his toned arms. Frank had stood there stupidly, staring at them with his cheeks getting redder and redder when Mikey had looked up, catching his gaze. Mikey had smiled and winked at him before Frank left the bus in a rush. Later that same day, Mikey had come on stage sporting an LA Dodgers cap and a bunch of pink hickeys on his neck.
Frank sat down too, but didn't stay still. Instead, he crawled over to Mikey so he could collapse on his friend's chest. Mikey shifted slightly to make room for Frank's head to rest on his collarbones. Frank sighed. He sucked at heartaches and right now it all felt irrelevant, overshadowed by the looping thoughts of Gerard, Gerard, Gerard. He felt pathetic, used, stupid, doomed to long for people he wasn't allowed to have. He wanted to stay like this for a long time, maybe fall asleep in Mikey's impersonal embrace until he forgot the look on Gerard's face when he kissed the girl, the affection he'd never shown Frank. Once the lights stopped shining on them, the intimacy was buried and forgotten for the sake of the band. Frank hated every second of it, yet his heart refused to stop racing for the man.
Mikey squirmed a little beneath him. "You're heavy," he complained, but made no effort to push Frank off. His phone chimed cheerfully, and Frank caught the glimpse of a contact saved as 'Johan' pop up on the screen before Mikey turned the device away from him with a tiny, genuine smile on his lips. Great.
Frank buried his face in Mikey's shoulder, inhaling slowly. Mikey had showered, probably for the first time in days, and he smelled… so good. Menthol cigarettes and fresh cologne, something with juniper and lemongrass in it that masked enough of the post-concert sweat. It was nothing like the smell of Gerard's skin, of coffee and vanilla (when he could smell it under the layer of grime that always clung to the singer's skin like a film). Mikey looked down at him again. "Are you done now?" But Frank shook his head, clinging harder to his friend's t-shirt. Mikey scoffed, raising a hand toward Frank's head, not to kiss him or anything like that, just to lazily pet him on the head, a clumsy comfort. Frank shivered. "Aren't you gonna ask me what's wrong?" he asked against Mikey's neck. His fingers traced the man's waist through the cotton. The phone beeped again in Mikey's hand, but this time he didn't look at it, his hand stilling their path at the base of Frank's skull.
"You do know that Gerard doesn't see this the same way you do, don't you?" Mikey asked in a whisper. "Like, I've seen him when he's truly in love. It's repulsive. He gets all mushy and saccharine, talks too much, sighs all the damn time, write stupid songs in napkins. You," he flicked Frank's forehead with a finger, hard, "—don't seem to inspire any of that in him." He put his phone aside and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit up one without bothering to offer Frank one. "But you already know that," he continued, exhaling a cloud of menthol-flavored smoke toward the ceiling. "That's why we're here."
Frank sat up straight, pulling away from Mikey. He thought back to the girl, blushing as she played with Gerard's greasy hair as he smooched her. "Then tell me something," he muttered, swallowing hard. "Are they… is it a serious relationship?"
Mikey took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke pour out of his nose. "Obviously," he said, rolling his eyes. "They've been together for… what? Three or four months? You just hadn't noticed because you spend way too much time staring at my brother's mouth like a creep." He tapped the ashes in the carpet, where they piled up in a sad little gray heap. "I wouldn't be surprised if he took her home to meet our parents for Christmas, so… yeah, definitely a serious relationship."
Frank's stomach clenched into a tight knot. He had interacted with Donna and Donald Way a few times in his life. Aside from the early days when they practiced at the Ways garage, he'd seen them when they came to the shows to support their sons and those times when either Gerard or Mikey invited them to eat at their house. They seemed to be nice enough people, reserved despite the chaotic lives their children now led, welcoming the band with just a pinch of apprehension. It was nice being the sons' funny bandmate at family dinners, but it was a whole different thing to be brought to your parents' home to meet them formally. In Frank's head, meeting the partner's family was the first step on the road that always ended up in those absurd images of generic weddings, having children, paying mortgage every month… stuff he'd seen all the time in movies and furniture catalogues, but that didn't seem to fit in the messy reality he lived in. Not that he didn't want to marry, he had thought about it, and his mother would totally want his baby boy to settle down. It just didn't make too much sense lately.
"Then… you knew it…?" he muttered, his hands shaking with rage. "You knew it and you didn't tell me anything?!" He grabbed Mikey by the neck of the shirt and pulled him close to his face, their noses brushing.
The bassist shrugged, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray laying on the corner of the vanity table. A thin line of smoke rose and vanished in the air. "What for? So you can throw a tantrum?" His voice had gone from indifferent to exasperated. "Frank, you're a mess. A blind mess. It doesn't matter how much you sigh and make puppy eyes for Gerard, I doubt he would've noticed you unless you openly confessed to his face, and we both know there would've been a very uncomfortable silence afterwards." He took Frank's wrists and squeezed them hard enough to make him let go, glaring at him. "Did you think you were oh so smooth and that I wouldn't notice? I bet everyone knows about your stupid crush on Gerard, Frank. Except for him, I guess, but that's because he's even blinder than you. Don't ever grab me like that again, are we clear?"
Frank's face turned beet red. He wanted to punch something (preferably Mikey's stupid face), but all he managed to do was grab a water bottle and hurl it as hard as he could against the opposite wall. The cheap plastic made a pathetic crackle and rolled over the carpet, its remains spilling out in a dark stain. "Fuck you! You don't know shit about how I feel!" he spat at Mikey. His voice echoed in the small changing room, too loud for the cramped space, yet his friend didn't flinch at the outburst. He leaned against the wall again, his eyes half-closed behind his glasses as if the whole thing was unbearably tedious for him.
"Of course not," he said slowly. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Touching me like I'm some cheap substitute of my brother because you don't have the guts to talk to him."
Frank opened his mouth, then closed it again. He slowly sat beside Mikey on the carpet, watching a lonely spider sway in the cool breeze of the air conditioner. Had it all been an illusion then? Had he been so desperate that he unconsciously twisted a perfectly normal friendship with Gerard into something more intimate? But what kind of friends kiss in public like that?
"So, he didn't say anything to you," Mikey muttered thoughtfully. "It does sound like something Gerard would do. He's a coward when it comes to his feelings, but then he complains when people don't love him back. He was insufferable when we were in high school, always whining about girls not talking to him." His fingertips were red, raw from all the anxious biting. "Knowing him, he probably wasn't planning on telling you anything either. He's got this weird thing when he thinks he's doing the right thing and acting like a gentleman by assuming you won't care because it wasn't a 'serious matter'. Which ultimately leaves him like an idiot who makes out with his friend while dating someone else."
"As if you weren't the same," Frank grunted. Mikey had this uncanny knack for saying the stuff no one wanted to voice, usually with the worse timing possible. There was a reason why they hardly ever passed him the mic in the interviews. Mikey scooted closer to Frank and hugged him half-heartedly, letting him snuggle up to him once more. Frank closed his eyes. "Sorry… for yelling."
"Whatever," Mikey said, his tone still icy. "She's nice, you know?" he added, his fingers carding once more through Frank's hair. "Her name's Louise. She plays the piano and has a degree on English Literature and she doesn't laugh at Gerard's stupid jokes. She's smart and has some sick taste in music. Honestly, she deserves someone better than him. I think you'd like her…" he paused, sighing against the top of Frank's head, "if you wanted to get to know her and didn't hate her, that is."
"I don't hate her," Frank grunted. "I just… it's so weird to see him like that, actually seeing the person. The lights are on and he's home. He looks so… happy. And she knows he makes out with me? What…" He clung harder to Mikey's body. "I don't know, Mikey… just stay here, stay a little."
Mikey made a little noise in the back of his throat, more tired than friendly, and shifted his weight so Frank wouldn't hit his head on the wall by accident. "If you get my shirt all wet with snot and tears, I'm going to burn it and you'll have to buy me a new one," he muttered. But Frank wasn't crying, at least not yet. His anger was slowly fading into a heavy resignation that settled deep in his bones. There was nothing he could do if Gerard already had someone else, was there? It was just a matter of time for him to get over it.
Frank looked at Mikey through his lashes, furrowing his brow. How long was he allowed to be here? Five minutes? Ten? His friend's patience could be unpredictable. "You really don't give a damn, do you?" he asked.
Mikey blinked slowly. "About your alleged romance? Not really," he admitted with a shrug that shook Frank’s head. "You're not the first person to cry over my brother. And I doubt you'll be the last one. The difference is, you're my friend. Someone has to deal with these kinds of situations so you don't think about doing anything stupid and get kicked out of the band."
Frank chuckled. "Wow. How sweet. Careful there, I might start to think that you like me."
"Don't push it," Mikey glared at him. His phone buzzed again, this time followed by a Joy Division ringtone, and the screen lit up between them. Johan again. The bassist poked the answer button. "Hey," he said, and Frank snapped his head up at the ridiculously friendly voice that came from his friend's lips. "No, we're still at the venue… Yeah, I know, sorry." There was a brief pause, the caller saying something that drew a laugh out of Mikey. A genuine laugh, not like the dry chuckles he reserved for the rest of humanity. "Mhm, lovely. Hey, do you mind if I bring a bandmate?" He looked at Frank, who had gone stiff beside him. "No, it's not Gerard, idiot. Frankie. Frank Iero? My other guitarist? Yeah? Cool, see you in twenty." He hung up and pushed Frank off him. "Up we go. We're going to Denny's."
"Sorry, we? Together?" Frank scoffed, rubbing his eyes. "With… a dude named Johan who I don't know?"
Mikey rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that night and gave Frank a little nudge with the toe of his boot. "No, Frank. I'm kidnapping you for a juicy $200,000 ransom. Yes, Frank, with Johan!" He tugged his beanie down until it almost covered his eyebrows, exasperated. "Quit acting like I'm forcing you to see a public execution, it's just pancakes. Johan's buying them and you already know him, he fixed your mic in Trenton a week ago."
Frank groaned. Of course, the guy with the Dodgers cap made his return. He'd seen him around, chatting with Louise, actually, laughing at something she had said while he fixed Ray's amp. When he and Mikey had gotten so close, Frank had no idea. In his head, it had been a chance encounter and they'd both gone their separate ways after the impromptu kissing at the bus. Well, apparently not. He grimaced at Mikey. "That doesn't mean I wanna be the third wheel at your fucking date, Michael. You don't even like the Dodgers."
Mikey raised an eyebrow. "There are many things you still don't know about me, Frank." He lifted Frank by the elbow, a surprising effort for someone with his build. "And he likes you. He said you were funny after hearing you at sound check."
The worse part was, Frank could really use some of Denny's 24 hours pancakes. He had been starving since lunch with only a cucumber and mayo sandwich in his stomach and it was already nine o'clock at night. "Fine," he agreed through gritted teeth, pulling his arm from Mikey's grip. "But if he asks why I look like shit, you'll keep your mouth shut."
The last time Frank had been to a Denny's, he had been twelve and his mother had taken him there for his birthday. He could remember himself, sitting on a red vinyl booth as he ate strawberry waffles with chocolate chips, still in his Halloween ghost costume, while his mom sang "Happy Birthday" and gave him a little present wrapped in shiny, dinosaur-patterned paper: a Disintegration cassette that he listened to endlessly until the tape was so worn and twisted that his poor Walkman couldn't even play it anymore. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he had cried his eyes out when the tape tore when he tried to put it one last time in the Walkman. Now, eleven years later, sitting across Johan and Mikey in a corner booth in the restaurant, Frank discreetly dabbed his eyes with a napkin. The last thing he needed right now was smudged eyeliner and looking like a depressed raccoon.
Johan, however, was in too good a mood to care about the state of Frank's eyeliner. He was tall, maybe the same height as Ray, and looked just as strong. He wore a loose zip-up, open enough to see a Jawbreaker t-shirt (the band, not the candy) underneath, and wasn't wearing his baseball cap tonight, so his blond hair fell freely down his neck, the roots already a deep mahogany where the bleaching was starting to fade. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished tabletop. "So," he said, smiling at Frank. The gesture made his brown eyes look even warmer. "Nice to finally meet you, Frank. Mikey talks about you basically all the time when we hang out."
Frank burned the tip of his tongue on the overly hot coffee and cursed under his breath. "Oh yeah? he said, glancing at Mikey, who was suddenly very interested in the photos of fluffy pancakes on the menu. "Just bad stuff, I assume?"
Johan shrugged. "Mmm… bad stuff, good stuff. He says you're the only one who knows how to make his coffee exactly the way he likes it, and that you've thrown him off stage at gigs and dragged him by the ankle, and that you sing pretty well… when you're not screaming like a maniac." Johan paused to take a sip of his own drink, hot cocoa with whipped cream. "Oh, and that you look like a mouse when you wake up."
Oh? Frank thought as Mikey got up from the table, muttering something about going to the bathroom, nearly spilling his iced lemonade, far too cold to drink in winter, in the process. He watched the bassist go, fascinated by the quick stride with which he disappeared down the hallway.
Johan chuckled, stirring his hot cocoa with a spoon. "Seems like he acts weird around you," he said, studying Frank's face. "He tries to pretend he doesn't care, but then I get a text from him after a show to say that you sounded raspy and if honey tea helps with sore throats." He leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "If I had to guess, I would say Mikey is totally—"
Frank covered Johan's mouth with his hand. "No, no." He said, shaking his head. "Stop that. Whatever you're going to say, don't you dare." Johan laughed into his palm, and Frank grimaced, pulling his hand back and wiping it with a napkin. "God, why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with the Way brothers? They're just a couple of weird, pretentious, couple of—"
"Are you ready to order?" A waitress had approached without him noticing, her notepad and pen ready.
Johan straightened up immediately. "I'll take the berry waffles with maple syrup, please," he said. "Frank?"
Frank blinked, puzzled by the interruption. He hadn't even looked at the menu thoroughly. He looked down at the over-edited photos of pancakes. "Uh… the chocolate chips and strawberries waffles please."
"And for Mikey?" Johan asked. "I don't usually come here with him… do you know what he'd order or should we wait until he comes back?"
"I can come back in a moment if you need more time," the waitress offered kindly.
Frank shook his head. "No, um… it would be the cinnamon pancakes with banana and whipped cream." The waitress finished taking the order and left. Johan grinned again, satisfied, and Frank took a sip of his coffee without looking at him. "Don't you dare," he repeated.
"Mikey told me you're in love with Gerard," Johan said, scooping some whipped cream from his cup. "Is that right or is Mikey being an unreliable narrator again? He tends to exaggerate things, doesn't he?"
Frank wouldn't have minded the Apocalypse (of any kind: nuclear, biblical, an asteroid, aliens, zombies, dinosaurs, anything) happening right now so he wouldn't have to live with the embarrassment of knowing Mikey had told this guy about his romantic misadventures. "He told you that," he mumbled, gripping his mug so tightly his knuckles ached. Mikey, you fucking idiot. "Did he… you know, mention anything else?"
Johan leaned back against the bright red cushioned armchair. "Well… not much, really," he said. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. "He doesn't talk with me about Gerard as he does about you or Ray, though avoid talking about the band altogether. Actually, he told me that by accident. He was half asleep at my apartment while we watched a movie." He set his teaspoon aside. "You could tell that he… well, he wasn't happy. He seemed uncomfortable. He just told me, 'Frank is in love with my brother, and it's not gonna end well', and he fell asleep. The next morning, he didn't even remember saying that to me."
That wasn't at all what Frank was expecting to hear. It wasn't blatant gossip, or taunts, but before he could question Johan further, Mikey returned to the table. He'd take off his beanie and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater up to the elbows, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. He'd also washed his face, and his lips were red from the cold water. He frowned at them. "What?" he snapped, sitting down next to Johan. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He sat down and took a long sip of his lemonade, so long that his whole face scrunched up as his brain froze. Frank stifled a laugh as he watched Mikey groan and rub his temples.
Johan cleared his throat. "Mikey," he said, putting an arm around the bassist's shoulders, "Frank was very kind and ordered cinnamon pancakes with banana and whipped cream for you."
Mikey looked up, still massaging his forehead. "Yeah, I've ordered something similar when we go to Pizza Hut," he mumbled with a shrug. Yet he glanced at Frank and mouthed a silent thank you, before looking away. The waitress arrived shortly after, accompanied by another young man who helped her with the plates. "Enjoy your meal," she said, placing the plates in front of them. Johan thanked them politely, while Mikey simply nodded, with his fork already in hand.
Frank wasn't as hungry as he had initially thought. He speared the strawberries with his fork and dipped them in maple syrup, watching the chocolate chips dissolve into amorphous specks on the golden-brown batter. Johan ate his waffles neatly, one square at a time, placing a berry in the center and letting a drizzle of syrup fall into it before bringing his fork to his mouth. Mikey, on the other hand, devoured his pancakes with an enthusiasm he rarely displayed in public. It was funny, all the time, Mikey pecked here and there at his food before saying he was "too full" and asking to take it home. Sometimes he reheated the leftovers. Sometimes Frank had to throw them out because the last thing he wanted was a new strain of mold capable of wiping out entire cities growing in their shared apartment's refrigerator.
He watched the syrup drip from Mikey's fork onto the table. Johan passed a napkin to the bassist. Mikey mumbled something unintelligible and wiped the drops from the Formica. Frank's stomach clenched again. At some point, Mikey, asleep or not, had told Johan about his situation with Gerard. Mikey had felt it, processed the idea until he'd concluded that Johan had to know, without bothering to tell Frank himself that he'd done it. Later, once they got back to their apartment, he planned to confront him about it. They could be friends, bandmates and had kissed just half an hour ago, but that didn't change the fact that Mikey had revealed something deeply intimate about his life without asking for his permission. But at the same time, Mikey allegedly looking uncomfortable talking about it, annoyed even, was more than what Frank's weary brain could handle right now. He didn't want to think about Mikey swallowing his pride and aloofness and confessing to Johan (were they dating or not?) that Frank wasn't doing good. That he was suffering because Mikey knew that Gerard loved someone else.
Johan broke the silence. "Louise told me you guys are going to Nebraska next week," he said, glancing from one to the other. "That's cool. I'd love to join you, but I have to get all my stuff sorted out." He nudged Mikey's shoulder with his own. "You'll be back before the tenth, right?"
Mikey, busy arranging the last few banana slices in a crooked line on his plate, didn't look up. He'd already finished the three pancakes. "Probably. Don't worry, we'll have time to catch up before you leave."
Frank stopped, his fork inches away from his mouth. "Wait, you're leaving? Where to?"
Johan stole a banana slice from Mikey's plate and popped it into his mouth. "Alaska. I finished my weather technician course last month and got a job with the NOAA at a station in Fairbanks for a year. Mikey promised me we'd have a farewell dinner before you guys' concert in Papillion."
"Wow, that's… man, congratulations. I don't know anything about… uh… meteorology, but that sounds like an awesome job," Frank said. Johan blushed a little, delighted by the compliment as Mikey set aside his empty plate to finish his lemonade. He seemed pretty unconcerned about the fact that Johan would be off to a place three thousand miles from New Jersey in only a few weeks.
Johan kept talking, oblivious to Frank's growing suspicion. "Yeah, I was surprised too. A lot of what I'll be doing is just sitting in a control room and checking that the satellites and sonar buoys are working, making sure everything's going well. Also, the Northern Lights. They said I'll be able to see them pretty well from outside my station. Plus, I'll have a certain little person," he rested his head against Mikey's, "breathing down my neck 24/7."
Frank's fork fell from his hand, bouncing off his plate with a clatter. "What? Mikey's… coming with you? To Alaska?"
Johan blinked, glancing at Frank and Mikey. "Yeah…?" he answered quietly, surprised. "Mikey… I thought you told them." He turned to get a better look, but Mikey was staring down at his plate, his fists clenched tight in his lap.
Frank swallowed hard. "Tell me what?"