Work Text:
The weird thing is that dating Mikey doesn't really change much. Except for the fact that now they fuck regularly, of course.
But they don't really act any different. There's making out and shit, of course, but other than that nothing really changes. At least nothing that Frank can pinpoint. They don't hold hands or go on dates or anything. They live together but they lived together before they hooked up.
So what's different is that now they're fucking, and everyone knows they're fucking and gives them shit about it all the time during tour. Even though obviously they're not gonna fuck in the van. Not that Frank doesn't sometimes want to and not that Mikey wouldn't be up for it, but Frank's not actually an exhibitionist. At least he's not gonna be an exhibitionist in front of Mikey's brother. So they keep it to backstage and truck stop bathrooms and shit like that.
It's kind of like an open relationship, even, except Frank's pretty sure they're not fucking anyone else. Well, Frank's sure he's not fucking anyone else. He's about ninety nine percent sure that Mikey's not hooking up with anyone besides him. Mikey used to tell him all about the people he hooked up with, and he hasn't since this whole thing started, so either he's not or he's just not sharing. Frank's pretty sure it's the first one. (He kind of hopes it's the first one.)
Mostly Frank likes the way things are. It's less pressure. It means that maybe when they stop fucking it won't mess up the band.
He really doesn't like it when he's curled up in bed with a cold and the worst fucking sinus headache ever and Mikey is nowhere to be found.
He was already sick during the short tour they did; sick as a fucking dog, he has no idea how he got through some of the shows. He was better by the end, or at least not actively dying. They got home yesterday and he spent most of the day asleep, thinking he'd get better faster now that they weren't living on shitty food and who knows how many hours of sleep.
But this morning he woke up feeling like his head was this close to exploding.
Which is really fucking unfair, considering his head never hurt like this when he was really sick. His body fucking hates him.
He couldn't stay in bed, though, because the thought of spending the entire day in his room like that made him want to claw out more than the nerves in his head.
So now he's on the couch, curled up with a blanket over him, and TV on but on mute, because his brain needed the white noise because his brain fucking sucks. His throat still hurts a bit, he's trying not to start coughing, and he hates everything. He sneezed like twenty minutes ago and he still feels it, the way he was sure his brain was gonna explode and splatter all over the walls.
And Mikey's nowhere to be found.
Frank doesn't like to be overly coddled and he hates when people feel sorry for him. But he's still pretty sure his fucking boyfriend should be here to look after him and at least make sure he doesn't die.
Is Mikey even his boyfriend? Frank's pretty sure he is. Except he's not here and Frank is sick and angry and sad and possibly dying. So maybe Mikey doesn't think he's Frank's boyfriend. Fucking Mikey.
Frank manages not to start coughing, at least. It takes a few more minutes, but finally his headache pulls back a little from the "oh god, if I move then my head will explode, but if I don't move then I might die" level it shot to after he sneezed and he can breathe a bit easier and just drift.
~
"Frankie? Frankie, hey."
Someone is shaking Frank's shoulder. Their voice is way too loud. Frank goes to curl up to escape from it, but that makes him cough. Not for long, thank god, but it quickly shoots his headache back up to "going to fucking explode" levels.
"Sorry," Mikey says, still too loud. "Sorry, sorry." He's rubbing Frank's arm. "I thought you were feeling better."
Frank glares at him. His eyes hurt. Mikey's kneeling in front of the couch, looking awake and good, in the way Frank's sure he won't ever feel again.
"The fuck were you?" Frank asks, trying not to move his fucking face too much.
"Gerard's," Mikey says. Frank would laugh and make fun of their codependency, but everything is terrible.
"So you left me dying here?"
"I thought you were doing better," Mikey says again, looking affronted.
"I told you I felt like shit," Frank says. "Yesterday, when we got home!"
"Oh," Mikey says, quieter now. "Yeah. Well, I thought you were okay. Because you were better enough to complain."
"So you just left."
Mikey frowns, confused. "I thought you wanted some space, dude. You always want space when you start to feel better. Or when you're sick, too."
"I don't!"
"You do," Mikey says. "On tour you kept complaining about wanting to be left alone!"
Frank glares at Mikey. "I didn't mean completely alone."
Really, he hadn't meant it at all. It would suck to have band mates who didn't care about how he was doing. He just wanted them to see that he was good enough to play.
Mikey sighs. "Well how did you expect me to know that?"
Frank doesn't know. His head hurts so bad he feels like he's gonna cry and Mikey can't read his mind, which would usually be a comforting thought but at the moment just sucks.
He closes his eyes and tries to swallow back stupid fucking tears, because crying will definitely make him feel worse.
"Frankie? Tell me what's wrong."
Frank almost snorts. "I'm sick."
"I know," Mikey says. "But what sucks the worst right now. Your lungs? Throat?"
"Head hurts so bad," Frank whispers.
Mikey touches his shoulder, his neck. His hands are thankfully warm, but not too warm. It's a comforting, light touch, and it's gone way too soon.
"Sucks," Mikey says, voice flat. Frank feels like laughing. Fucking Mikey Way.
That only makes him cough again, though, which is just fucking great. His lungs may not be as fucked up as they were during tour, but the muffled coughing goes right to his head and to his stomach.
He curls up, pressing a hand against his belly, hoping that will calm it. His head's hurting too fucking bad, he doesn't have time for this on top.
"Frankie?"
"Stomach's bothering me again."
"When is it not?" Mikey asks sadly, and he's so right Frank feels like crying again.
He closes his eyes and tries to breathe without moving too much.
"Shh," Mikey says, and pats his hand. Mikey's not always very good at being comforting, even though he tries. (He still hasn't learned how to really take care of anyone but Gerard. Frank hopes he will.)
"Want me to rub your stomach?" Mikey asks. It's the one thing he'll do even without prompting, and pretty often it actually helps. Right now Frank's not so sure about it.
"No," he says weakly. "Head hurts so bad I feel like I'm gonna be sick."
"Shit," Mikey says, sounding alarmed. "Should I get the trash can?"
The thought alone makes Frank's stomach riot more. "No," he says, breathing through it. "No, don't."
"Just in case?"
"Please don't," Frank says.
Mikey sighs. "Okay. Did you take anything for this? Tylenol?"
"No," Frank breathes out. Talking too much hurts too. "Too tired."
There's a gentle touch of fingers in his hair and then Mikey's standing up and walking away. It's like Frank can feel the vibrations of that in his head, which is ridiculous because Mikey's a skinny fuck—spooning after sex is always uncomfortable.
Frank focuses on breathing and tries to think happy thoughts. There aren't a lot, but the thought that this headache can't possibly last forever is one he's clinging to.
"Here," Mikey says. "I got you this."
Frank opens his eyes and squints up at him. He's holding out a Tylenol to Frank, looking expectant.
"You can't take it while lying down," Mikey says after Frank doesn't move.
"I know," Frank says. "Fuck."
"Come on, just for a minute," Mikey says. "Do you need my help?"
"No," Frank says. "No, don't—let me."
"Okay," Mikey says, and waits.
Frank slowly pushes himself up, leaning heavily on his right arm, and hopes the feeling that his brain's gonna fall out will stop soon. Fucking sinus headaches. Fuck his body.
"Here," Mikey says, crouching down in front of the couch and holding the bottle out.
He helps Frank drink it, and then holds on tight to his shoulder while Frank breathes and prepares for moving again.
"If it's really that bad then maybe we should go to urgent care," Mikey says.
"Ha," Frank says weakly. "Go to urgent care like this?"
"Well, maybe we should call someone, then."
"It's a headache," Frank says. "It sucks, but it'll pass. Just have to give it time."
Mikey sighs. "Why didn't you take the Tylenol before?"
"Because I couldn't fucking move," Frank says.
"You made it to the couch."
"And felt like dying every step of the way."
Mikey looks sad. "You should have called me."
"Phone's in my room," Frank says. "Fuck you."
Mikey sighs again. "I'm really fucking sorry."
He says it so sincerely, too, like he's been learning it from Gerard or something.
"I know," Frank says, and gingerly lies down again. Mikey pulls the blanket over him.
"Try to relax," Mikey says. "And we'll make, like, tea later when your head feels better. Maybe it'll settle your stomach."
"Maybe," Frank says. He feels incrementally better now that he knows that if this stupid headache kills him, he won't be alone when he dies. Fuck, his brain is fucked up.
Mikey touches his temple, fingers so gentle that they don't add to the pressure in Frank's head. "Try to sleep," he says, carefully pushing Frank's hair back.
Frank tries to tell Mikey that he's not sure if he can, but he's too tired to get any words out.
~
Frank's not sure what wakes him—whether it's how hot he is under the blanket or the sudden clarity of his head. He turns his head this way and that, not opening his eyes, and yeah, there's still soreness there, but the killer headache is gone, thank fuck.
He grumbles and tries to kick the blanket off.
"Ow," Mikey says.
Frank blinks his eyes open and sees Mikey's sitting on the far end of the couch, rubbing his side.
"Shit, sorry."
"It's fine," Mikey says. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah," Frank says, and cautiously stretches. His head's still fuzzy, his whole face feeling tender, but it doesn't feel like it's going to explode. So compared to that, he feels fucking great.
He squints over at the muted TV, but the flickering images still hurt a bit, so he turns away from it, and pushes the blanket down.
"Were you watching over me?" he asks. He tries to aim for teasing, but misses. Whatever.
"Yeah," Mikey says. "Of course."
Frank wonders if he still feels guilty. He doesn't want Mikey to feel guilty. Or, well, maybe just a little. But he doesn't want Mikey to feel guilty because he's obligated to, he wants Mikey to feel guilty because he cares about Frank. Fuck.
"Headache gone?" Mikey asks.
Frank nods. "Yeah. Still sore, but good." He yawns and slowly sits up. He wants to go back to sleep, but he's gotten tired of the couch.
"Tea?" Mikey asks.
"Nah," Frank says. "I'm sorry if I was an asshole."
Mikey blinks, and furrows his brow. "You weren't."
Frank shrugs. "Feels like I maybe was."
"You weren't," Mikey says. "I shouldn't have left you alone. Or, like, I should have asked, you know? I'm sorry I wasn't here. I guess I kind of suck at this."
"At what?"
Mikey shrugs, and looks away. "Being your boyfriend. I don't know."
Frank tilts his head. "Why?"
"I don't know," Mikey repeats. "I mean, it's—are we boyfriends? Or is this just like a fuck buddy thing, I don't know."
"What?" Frank asks. "Of course we are."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm fucking sure," Frank says.
So what if they don't do boyfriend-y shit or whatever people should maybe do if they're dating. Frank—Frank really likes Mikey.
"Here," he says, pushing himself up onto his knees. "Come—ow, fuck."
"Easy." Mikey scoots forward and covers the back of Frank's neck with his hand, while Frank clutches his stomach.
"You gonna throw up?" Mikey asks. "Frankie?"
"Yeah, no, I'm good," Frank says, and lets out a breath. "Fuck."
Mikey leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead. Mikey can be so fucking sweet.
"Come on," Mikey says. "You should go to bed, you'll just fuck up your neck on this couch. Can you stand?"
"Yeah, dude, I'm good," Frank says. His stomach still hurts but it's calmed down enough he's sure he can make it to the bedroom without help.
Still, Mikey wraps his arm around Frank's waist and has him lean on him. (Shitty boyfriend, Frank's ass.)
"You sure you don't want anything?" Mikey asks after Frank's settled in bed.
"I'm good," Frank says, and holds his hand out to Mikey. They don't really sleep in the same bed unless they've been fucking that night, but whatever, Frank's sick. And he likes having Mikey in bed with him, even though he's bony and takes up way more space than he should.
Mikey lies down next to him, and pulls the covers up. His hair brushes against Frank's neck. It's comfortable.
"So what did you and Gerard talk about?"
"Not much," Mikey says. "We read comics."
Frank rolls his eyes. "Of course you did." It doesn't matter how much he's known them, the Way brothers as a unit are still fucking weird. Good weird, but still.
Mikey turns on his side and pushes Frank's shirt up, resting his hand on Frank's belly. Sometimes it's like he is a mind reader.
Frank sighs happily, the warmth and light pressure of Mikey's hand feeling perfect. He closes his eyes, because keeping them open is too exhausting and is making his head hurt again. He's almost asleep when he remembers what Mikey said earlier. (And that, in the end, Mikey won't actually be able to read his mind. And communicating is important, and stuff. Allegedly.)
"Hey, Mikey?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not a fuck buddy."
"Okay," Mikey says.
"No, seriously, dude," Frank says, blinking his eyes open. He tugs on Mikey's hand and Mikey turns to look at him. "You're one of my best friends," Frank says. "And a best friend who I really want to kiss right now. But I'm really fucking tired."
Mikey grins. "Okay," he says. "Good."
Frank laughs and okay, yeah, ow, that still hurts a bit.
"Shh," Mikey says. "Sleep." The brush of lips against his temple is the last thing Frank knows before morning.