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The gun is cold against Gerard's forehead. Rainwater is seeping through the fabric of his jeans and he's shivering, soaked through and through in his leather jacket and t-shirt.
He never saw the guy coming, just felt an arm around his neck as he was pulled back into an alley, then a hand in his hair as he was pushed to his knees.
The guy is talking, spitting and cursing, but Gerard can't hear him over the noise of his own thoughts. They're deafening, drowning out the sound of even the rain.
"Please," he says.
At first he's not sure the guy hears it - the rain is loud, and there are still cars driving by, people passing - but then the barrel digs into his forehead, hard and unforgiving, effectively shutting him up.
After that, he stays quiet, and prays his tears can't be seen through the rain.
On Frank's nightstand, his alarm clock is ticking away at an achingly slow pace, glowing numbers changing at a glacial speed. It almost feels like they're mocking him.
Sticking a hand out from beneath his comforter, Frank grabs his phone, thumbs it open. The light of the display is blinding in the darkness of his bedroom.
No new messages.
He's barely even disappointed anymore.
Beneath his feet the pavement is slippery, and he keeps stepping into puddles, splashing muddy water all over his jeans, but Gerard keeps running. He can barely see - only a few of the streetlights he passes are lit, and a fog has crept in over the city, clouding his sight, but he's not stopping now.
If he does, he's not sure he'll make it all the way.
open the door
Frank stares at his phone. This isn't the first time Gerard has appeared outside Frank's house in the middle of the night - far from it - but it's been three days since Frank's heard from him and he can't help but be a little suspicious.
But… it's Gerard. And he doesn't just show up on Frank's front step in the middle of the night without a reason. Not usually, at least. (Frank doesn't really count an awesome new comic idea as a reason, but he let Gerard keep him up the entire night to talk about it anyway.)
srsly frankie its cold and i rly need 2 see u pls just open the door
Gerard is staring at his soaked boots when Frank opens the door.
"Frankie," he gasps, arms coming up tight around Frank's back, rainwater dripping from his hair. He's cold, so fucking cold, teeth chattering and hands trembling even as he grabs his own elbows around Frank's neck.
Frank's a little shocked. Something changed after their fight. He doesn't know what, exactly, or how or why, but it did, because unlike most of their fights, this one was about something important. When Gerard slammed the door on his way out, he didn't show up on the doorstep a few hours later, hands stuffed in his pockets and head bowed, his posture an apology in itself. Instead, Frank spent three days calling and texting him, leaving voicemails begging for Gerard to at least let him know he was okay. Alive.
"I'm so sorry, Frankie," Gerard mumbles, chest still heaving a bit, as if he ran here all the way from - wherever he was before. At a bar getting drunk would seem like the most obvious option, but there's something in Frank's gut telling him this isn't just an intoxicated Gerard he's dealing with. His words aren't slurred, and apart from the shivering, he's steady on his feet, grip still tight around Frank's shoulders.
"Gee," Frank whispers, pushing Gerard back just enough for him to see his face. His eyeliner is running, smudged over his wet cheeks, and his lips are pale to the point of being almost blue, trembling with the effort of keeping himself warm. Frank brushes his thumb over them, just the quickest touch, like he promised he wouldn't, before pulling Gerard into his arms again, holding tight.
"C'mon," he mumbles into the back of Gerard's neck. "Let's get you warmed up."
Frank doesn't ask what happened until Gerard is in his bed, wrapped up in every blanket Frank could find with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in his hands, since Frank refused to make him coffee.
"It's two in the fucking morning, Gee," he said. Gerard grumbled something inaudible, but accepted the chocolate with a grateful smile.
"Gee," he starts, settling next to him on the bed, head resting on his shoulder. "What happened?"
Gerard taps his thumbnail against the porcelain of the cup. "You know that club on the corner of Passaic and Broadway?"
The guy at the bus stop is skinny but dressed in baggy clothes, jeans that bunch around his ankles and a jacket that sags on his shoulders, easy to hide stuff in. Together with the hand he keeps stuffed in his right pocket, it gives him away immediately, but Gerard isn't looking at him closely enough to notice. It's his first mistake.
Shifting closer on the bed, Gerard untangles a hand from the bundle of blankets to put on Frank's thigh, fingers playing with a loose thread in one of the many holes that litter Frank's sweatpants.
"He caught me around the neck and grabbed the back of my jacket," Gerard says, wrapping one of the longer threads around his index finger, "and pulled me into an alley, pushing me down until I was on my knees."
The gun is a .357 Magnum, and it's like ice against Gerard's forehead. The guy is still talking, but his voice gets lost behind the smattering of rain against the pavement, cars passing on the street outside the alley. Gerard's heart is in his throat, thrumming wildly and choking him, and no matter how hard he swallows, it won't fall back down into his chest.
A finger curls around the trigger, and everything stills. The rain fades out, engines disappear, and Gerard isn't entirely sure his heart is even beating. He makes a vague notion about how he's too young to die, but it's just that - vague and hazy, a thin layer of white over the pictures that keep flashing through his mind.
There's his mom, smiling around a cigarette, black nails clicking against the keys of a piano, and Mikey, first just a little bundle in her arms, then staggering through the living room, only to end up asleep on Gerard's bed in front of The Empire Strikes Back, glasses askew and hair an absolute mess.
Frank isn't in as many pictures, hasn't been a part of Gerard's life for that long, but in the few there are, he's always smiling, eyes bright and happy, and if not, it's because his face is hidden behind his middle finger.
Except that the image most prominent in Gerard's mind is none of those. Instead, Frank's shoulders are slumped, hands in his lap as he sits cross-legged on his bed, eyes downcast. The picture is blurry - he was been so mad, and only got a quick look before he stormed out, but a look nevertheless. And now it's imprinted onto the inside of Gerard's skull forever, it'll be the last he ever saw of Frank, and he'll never get to apologize, never get to say how fucking sorry he is, how much he regrets everything. He's going to die hating himself, but that's nothing compared to that he's going to die with Frank hating him, and -
When the trigger clicks, it takes until the guy is gone for Gerard to realize that he isn't dead.
But when he does, he runs.
Sitting so close, Frank can feel the tension in Gerard's shoulders. On his thigh, Gerard's hand has stopped moving, lying palm up on the denim. When Frank covers it with his own, Gerard's fingers push up slightly, like a thank you.
"I didn't really think," he says. "I just ran."
Frank is quiet as he laces their fingers together, careful not to put too much pressure on Gerard's palm. There's a bandage keeping them from being skin-to-skin, but Frank can't say he minds, because when he whispers, "Gee," and Gerard turns his head, he can lean in and watch the way his eyelashes flutter.
And he can kiss him.
It's their first kiss, and it's perfect. It's not fireworks, or earthquakes, or either of their hearts bursting out of their chests. Just a dry press of lips until Gerard's mouth widens around a blissful sigh and Frank's hand surges up, wrapping around the back of his neck and deepening the kiss, licking into his mouth until he tastes chocolate. There's teeth, too, digging into Gerard's bottom lip as if the fingers treading into his hair aren't enough to keep him where he is.
When they break apart, there's a red tint to both their faces and Gerard's palm is stinging where Frank's hand is gripping his, but he can't be bothered to care because Frank is looking at him like he's never been so sure of anything in his life, eyes soft and warm and filled with every apology Gerard will ever need from him.
"I'm sorry," Gerard says, partly because it's only right he says it back, but mostly because it's all he's wanted to say for the past three days.
"Me too," Frank mumbles, leaning in to mouth at Gerard's neck. "But we're okay."
Bringing his other hand up to cup Frank's jaw, Gerard lifts his face until their lips meet in another kiss. Frank makes a soft noise in his throat, pleased, and lets Gerard kiss him for a while before he nudges Gerard's cheek with his nose, reluctantly pushing him away. He's tired, though, and judging by the way Gerard's eyelids are drooping, so is he.
"C'mon," Frank says, pushing and pulling at the bundle of blankets that is Gerard, until he's sitting by the headboard, making it possible for Frank to pull back the covers.
Moving off the bed, Frank stands up to pull his t-shirt and sweatpants off, much to Gerard's blushing delight. Frank is toned and tanned in places where Gerard is soft and pale, and it makes him want to reach out, drag his fingers across Frank's chest and examine the contrast between his hands and Frank's skin.
"C'mere," he says, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. He makes grabby hands through the blankets, and Frank smiles, stepping forward to kneel on the bed in front of Gerard.
Running his hands up and down Frank's back, Gerard pulls him closer until he can lean in and kiss him. Automatically, Frank's hands come up to cup Gerard's face, tilting his head slightly for a better angle. They kiss for a long time, slow and deep and sure, making noises that sound much louder than they are in the silence of Frank's room.
Eventually, though, Frank starts to shiver, and Gerard pecks his lips one last time before pulling away, urging him to get under the covers. He spreads his blankets over the both of them, pulling Frank close and tangling their legs, wrapping his arms around Frank's back.
"Sleep, yeah?" Frank mumbles into Gerard's neck, breath warm and damp over his skin. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"Yeah," Gerard agrees, pressing a last kiss to the top of Frank's head. "Sleep."