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Frank looks blearily into his cupboard, feeling around in the empty space when he realises his eyes must be deceiving him. His palm meets the clammy bottom of the shelf and yields no positive reports either.
Frank giggles to himself at that; that idea of his fingers issuing reports, all ‘sir, yes sir’ and maybe they could wear little finger army uniforms. He laughs even harder, faltering with the realisation that his sleepless nights are catching up on him. God, he’s tired. He can feel it in his bones, in his dry eyes, cottony mouth, in the ache of his back. Every now and then, he gets this feeling like his soul’s gonna fall asleep and his body will keep moving and leave it behind.
He reaches back up, slides his fingers across the bottom of the cabinet again, remembering halfway through that he’s already done that. And just like the last time there’s nothing.
Frank feels abruptly more awake, caught in panic as he realises there aren’t any hidden packets lurking in the deep expanse. He pulls his hand out, pats his pockets for his keys and runs to the door.
I can’t be out , he thinks but also remembers pouring the remains of the last packet down his throat several hours ago. He got caught up after that, lost in his crappy sleep-deprived lyrics and stilted chords. He completely forgot he had to get more.
The door slams shut behind him and he barely remembers to lock it. As he’s trying fruitlessly to yank his keys back out, the door across the hall opens and Brian regards him cautiously.
“It’s fucken’ four in the morning Frank,” he remarks.
Frank’s keys give into his pulling and he waves them in a flourish. “I know,” he says seriously, “but thank you Brian.”
Brian blinks hard but Frank doesn’t see it. He’s already halfway down the hallway, sneakers slapping against the cheap linoleum.
There’s this little 24/7 place down the street which is kind of Frank’s savior. He doesn’t really sleep anymore, so whenever he’s sitting alone in the middle of the night and feels like the crunching of chips may help fill the emptiness, he heads on down. Usually he doesn’t manage to wake Brian up, but he tries really hard to every time.
“Frank,” the cashier greets, raising his hand in greeting. Frank isn’t sure how he feels about the cashier - Ray - seeing him so often that they’re almost something like friends. It’s nice, but he worries it might just be pity niceness. Ray doesn’t really seem like the kind of guy to do that but Frank doesn’t really know him outside the overexposed grocery store. He could be.
Frank waves back, a hesitant shaking motion that drops off at the end like an un-sung last line in a song. Ray nods at the gesture but he seems pretty done for. His eyes are drooping almost as much as his frizzy halo of hair and the only thing that seems to be keeping him upright are his elbows propped on the counter.
Frank hesitates, thinking maybe he should say something encouraging ‘ hang in there kiddo’, ‘at any moment Dormammu could decide to wipe our tiny planet out so there’s no use worrying’, ‘you may just be a cog in the machine, but you’re like… an important cog,’ but then Ray sees him still standing there and goes to say something himself. Frank quickly ducks into an aisle before that can happen.
It happens to be the dog food aisle and he takes a moment to pause and breathe as the hammer of grief ploughs through his guts. Frank had had a dog but she got hit by a car a month ago. Now all he has is her food bowl on the kitchen floor and the red-speckled collar the vet had given him afterwards.
He quickly steps away, stumbling over himself.
Almost on autopilot he makes his way to his most visited aisle and lurches to a stop in front of what he’s there for. He feels a little like a zombie, except instead of ‘brains’ he’s groaning ‘coffee’ and gnawing on the branches of coffee plants or something - he doesn’t know what the fuck coffee zombies are supposed to do.
He blinks the shelves back into focus. The packets gleam before him and he pulls four bags down, cursing his lack of foresight in not grabbing a basket. He doesn’t really care about brands, all he cares about is caffeine and it’s glorious ability to keep him awake for days or maybe even weeks at a time.
Ray raises an eyebrow at him when he drops his treasure trove down on the conveyer belt.
“Dude,” he starts, “I really don’t think you need all that.” His eyes flicker uncertainly between Frank and the belt. Frank shrugs. He knows he’s visibly shaking. He knows he won't be able to keep sleep at bay for many more days, but he’s going to try regardless.
Ray mimics his shrug and starts pulling the packets through the scanner. There’s about nine packets in all and Frank pays for them silently. His eyes are watering and he can feel tiredness seep over him like a blanket. His eyelids droop as he takes his bags and he stumbles as he walks. Ray reaches out a little but doesn’t say anything and lets him go into the night.
Frank barely makes it home. He slips and stumbles and shuffles his way back, head dropping between his shoulders. He unlocks the door to his building, dropping his bags to lock it after him and it’s only once he’s back in his apartment on the third floor that he realises he left his bags behind in the lobby.
He groans, takes a step towards the door and slips. The slight pain doesn’t shock him. He’s tough and sleep-numb. He isn’t jolted awake like he hopes to be. Instead his brain decides he’s horizontal and he’s exhausted as all fuck and the time for sleep is right now. Right now!
It’s bright when Frank pushes himself off the kitchen floor, roused by a consistent knocking on his door. Frank groans at it loudly and the knocking stops. He catches sight of himself in the mirror in the front hall and sighs. He’s a right mess, hair askew, floor boards etched into his face and his eye keeps sticking. He’s so fucking mad at himself for leaving his stuff downstairs, even madder about how he fell asleep. Goddamn. At least he didn’t have any nightmares this time. He’s perfectly happy withou- holy shit.
Frank jumps a little, reaching to really see what he thinks he’s seeing through his peephole. Frustratingly he doesn’t grow any and instead wrenches open his door.
There’s a guy there and Frank doesn’t necessarily want to be rude but - “who the fuck are you?” - guys this hot do not exist in neighbourhoods like Frank’s and they certainly don’t come knocking on his door.
“Hi to you too,” the guy remarks sourly, straight eyebrows drawing together, “I just thought you’d like your stuff that you left downstairs. But no, obviously that makes me an asshole.”
Frank stares at him, down at the plastic bag in his hand and back up. “I like coffee,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” the guys agrees, “I can see that.”
“How’d you know it was mine anyway? I don’t scream ‘guy who exists on coffee’ do I?” Frank asks and gets a laugh in return.
“Well you kind of do actually. But how I really knew is because you left your wallet in the bag.” He pulls out Frank’s wallet from his pocket and opens it to show him, “see all your information’s just here.”
“I know where my information is,” Frank snaps because apparently today is ‘be an asshole’ day. He can’t quite believe he left his wallet where it could get stolen. He has like the easiest pincodes to guess ever. He could’ve been robbed blind.
“Whatever,” the guy says, dropping Frank’s collection of coffee on the floor, “If you’d like to apologise or thank me at any point, I live below you.”
Frank stares at this information because there’s been a cute guy living below him for who knows how long and he never realised.
“Gerard,” the guy offers, which Frank takes to be a name and not ancient greek. Suddenly and inexplicably he feels like a total asshole, which is okay because he is a total asshole .
“Hey - uh, I’m sorry. I’m Frank. I could make you coffee if you want, to make up for - well - me.”
Gerard eyes the bag on the floor and attempts to pull the sleeves of his old school military jacket over his hands. “Sure.”
Frank’s gotten kind of great at making coffee, given how much of the stuff he drinks, and he can hear Gerard’s appreciation, not when he says ‘holy fucking shit Frank how did you even do this?’ but before that when he drinks down a big mouthful and honest to god moans.
Frank swallows his own mouthful too fast, burning his throat and forcing him into a choking fit. Gerard sips delicately from his own cup, lightly patting Frank’s back with his free hand and though he’s saying nice good things like, “it’s all okay Frankie. Breathe, okay. It’s fine,” he’s also smirking. He knows he’s turning Frank into a walking talking disaster. He doesn’t just know, he intended it. Fucker.
“I’m fine,” Frank gasps, noticing the absence of Gerard’s hand on him at about the same time he notices the absence of his own coffee cup. Sure enough, when he looks Gerard’s holding it and alternating sips from both cups. “Hey what the fuck?”
“Who am I, in this economy, to turn down an opportunity when I see it?” Gerard asks cheerfully, stepping in closer and-
And they’re in Frank’s favourite bar. It’s a little ways down from his apartment. It seems like everything is only a little ways down from his apartment. The supermarket, the bar, Gerard’s apartment, coincidentally Ray’s house which he knows because he went there three days ago.
Gerard had gone with him, of course, and swayed around alcohol like it was real actual poison. He’d supported Frank most of the way back, watching him worriedly, tugging on his short white hair and muttering about parades and the dead. It was a little weird, but Frank quite liked Gerard so he didn’t comment. He thought maybe he saw some regrowth happening and wanted to ask Gerard what his normal hair colour was but when he looked again it wasn’t there. Trick of the light.
The bar though, the bar is packed and Gerard’s been glaring at the bartender for the past ten minutes. He glares harder whenever she approaches Frank.
“What’s your problem?” Frank hisses and Gerard rears back from the fingers snapping in front of his face.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been glaring at that poor girl like you want to follow her home and slit her throat.”
Gerard winces then turns huge huge eyes on Frank. “Frankie, I would never do anything like that. That’s barbaric.”
“What’s up with the glare then?”
Gerard shrugs, breathes through the side of his mouth and mumbles something.
“What?”
Gerard mumbles it again. It sounds a little like, “imenamena-kick” but Frank’s certain that’s not what he’s supposed to be getting from it.
“Gerard,” he hisses, leaning up to Gerard’s ear, “tell me what the fuck you’re saying.”
Gerard takes a deep noisy breath and then lowly, breath smoothing over Frank’s ear, “I’m an alcoholic.” Frank reels back, but Gerard just draws him back in. “I’m three months sober.” His eyes are huge and Frank abruptly realises he’s never seen Gerard drink and he brought an alcoholic to a bar. Like a fucking dumbass.
“Let’s go,” he says back, pointing his thumb in the direction of the door.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says the moment they hit fresh air and Frank hushes him.
“It’s really okay. Let’s order pizza and watch Batman, okay?”
“Yeah,” Gerard agrees, looking like he expected Frank to kick him out of his life. Frank grins at the perplexity written over his face.
“Begins?” he asks and Gerard nods, worrying his lip between his teeth. He looks a little shy, which isn’t really what Frank expects to see from Gerard but he’s beginning to understand that Gerard isn’t really himself all the time, sometimes he’s just playing a role-
Gerard flounces into Frank’s apartment, waving something in the air. It reminds Frank of when Harry Potter got his Hogwarts letter. He’s halfway tempted to throw envelopes into the air, but he doesn’t have any and also, clean-up. Gerard hugs Frank so tight it makes his ribs creak, and explains the something he’s holding is a letter of publication for his comic. He’s saying something about getting his message across to people when Frank kisses him.
“Frankie,” Gerard breathes after, looking delighted.
“I really like you,” Frank interrupts, “and your stupid comics and your hair and-”
Gerard interrupts him with a kiss. Gerard kisses like his personality; it’s a lot of confidence stacked on top of a crumbling interior of nerves. He starts out strong and then falters. Frank picks up the slack, twists their tongues together and makes Gerard forget all about the shy boy trapped inside him.
“Urgh,” Gerard says when they part, which isn’t encouraging, “is it weird if I want to kiss you like in Spider-man?” He looks stupidly nervous and stupidly adorable and Frank has to sigh and roll his eyes.
“Let’s do it,” he agrees, “it’ll be awesome.”
They do it. It is awesome.
Frank wakes up a month into their relationship to Gerard grinning at him. His hair is poking out in little white tufts everywhere.
“We should do it,” he whispers, like it’s some kind of secret.
Frank blinks blearily at him. “We did it last night,” he offers. It’s not that he doesn’t want to right now as well , he just doesn’t understand why Gerard is looking at him like he’s about to give up his virginity.
“What?” Gerard asks, brow furrowing in confusion, “what do you- oh! I mean, we can do that too.” His eyes light up. “We could do them at the same time.”
Frank rolls onto his stomach and lifts his head to look at Gerard. He looks like he hasn’t gone to sleep yet and is running entirely on sugar, which is entirely possible knowing Gerard. Frank can’t really believe the complete reversal of his own insomnia. He- he - Frank frowns. Has he been to sleep recently? He can’t remember. He obviously just woke up, but he can’t remember falling asleep and… didn’t he have nightmares. Didn’t he used to have those horrible horrible nightmares? The ones he doesn’t remember?
Frank swallows down his panic, convincing himself that it’s all fine and he’s just tired. He’s just tired is all. He just woke up but - has he even slept all month, has he? - he’s tired is all.
“What do you want to do?” he manages to say. Gerard’s grin widens even further.
“Build the lego Millennium Falcon,” he says loudly, wiggling with excitement.
“And you wanted to do this at the same time as sex?” Frank clarifies, deadpan.
Gerard shrugs and nods shyly. Frank’s about to tell him how fucking weird that would be and they can do both but they’ll be doing them separate thankyouverymuch.
But first- there’s just something bothering him.
“Could you pinch me Gerard?” he wonders.
“What?”
“Please just pinch me. Here,” he points at a spot on his inner forearm.
Gerard smiles unsurely and reaches out. He looks bemused, mouth taut in a strange way, eyes shadowed and fixed on Frank's face. He probably thinks Frank is crazy. That's okay thought, Frank would rather be crazy than be right.
Gerard’s fingers touch his skin, feather-light. He looks at Frank and his smile is enough confirmation that it’ll all be okay, that when he pinches Frank he won't wake up and this won’t all be a dream. Gerard’s real, Frank thinks.
Gerard pinches him.
Frank wakes up.
Frank looks around at his kitchen cabinets, at the wobbly dinner table, at the lonely dogbowl.
His head hurts; he probably hit it against something when he passed out. His heart hurts too but he doesn’t suspect hitting that on anything.
It happened again. Of course it did. It always god damn happens.
Gerard… Gerard always happens.
This time though - Gerard was different. Gerard had white hair instead of the mess of black and he was confident, or at least acting it. Sober for three months. He knew Gerard had been getting better with every dream, but to go from close to sober to actually sober and then three months sober … That’s a difference.
He smacks himself hard in the face. “Gerard isn’t real,” he mutters to himself, “he’s a fucking dream. Stop being proud of a dream.”
He wobbles to his feet and tries so hard not to think about the life he had, a life like so many before it. He treks downstairs, hair falling over his face and puffy eyes.
His bag of coffee is still there. His wallet is also inside. Frank carries it all back upstairs. He makes himself coffee and drinks it resolutely. He won't fall asleep this time - he can’t. He can’t keep experiencing perfection only to have it ripped away.
Gerard’s face flashes through his mind and he very firmly tells himself that Gerard isn’t fucking real.
At two am Frank walks down the street to the corner store. Ray nods at him and Frank nods back. Ray’s a cool guy. The problem is Frank’s not. Frank is a wreck.
He turns into the coffee aisle and stops dead. There’s a guy standing in front of Frank’s packets of coffee. He’s got his sleeve in his mouth and a hood up over his face, a near-black silhouette against the bright white supermarket lights. A ghost.
Frank blinks, staring, squinting. Time seems to slow, each heavy blink lasting a lifetime. Frank can't feel his feet, can't feel his legs. He's transfixed, watching the shadowy figure sway and fidget, barely hearing the soft sound of humming over the roaring in his head.
The figure suddenly stumbles and with one flailing arm, knocks a jar of coffee off the shelf. It shatters at his feet, shimmery glass and soft brown powder scattering over the floor, breaking Frank breaks out of his reverie.
Abruptly he realises he's been watching this random man for an unnatural amount of time and at any moment said man could turn and see him. He bolts.
Two aisles away he stops, presses a hand over his racing heart and catches his breath. It's good he doesn't actually need any more coffee cause he doesn't think he can go back. His feet completed their automatic route and then Frank's brain misfired or something and left him there, unable to move, unable to comprehend this intruder to his routine. Abusing coffee is bad, he recites to himself. Caffeine is a drug and drug abuse is bad and he's hooked, he's fixed. He gets heart palpitations and can't breathe when he runs and now, apparently, he just stops working, ceases to function.
Which is great.
He collects himself somewhat and keeps going. Nothing to do but keep going.
He's piling packets of chips and popcorn onto the conveyor belt, near zoning out staring at the 'fro, when he gets a thought and can't stop the curious noise that leaves him.
Ray hesitates, giving him a look, holding a box of hash browns over the scanner for so long it double scans. "Crap," the other boy says and starts tapping away at the screen.
“There’s someone else here,” Frank says, nonchalant.
“Oh yeah,” Ray says, eyes lighting up, “that’s Gee. He usually comes around this time. You came early tonight.”
Frank wants to ask more but knows it's weird and knows it's none of his business. Instead he responds with his eyebrows and takes his stuff with a quick non-verbal eyebrow communication as well. Ray seems to understand because he gives this long-suffering smile and mutters something about ‘Mikey’ to himself.
“Who’s Mikey?” Frank wonders aloud.
Interestingly, Ray flushes bright red and glances around the store like he’s about to be taken down by the police. “No one,” he replies.
“Oh?”
“Shut up Frank,” Ray hisses, eyes darting back over to the coffee aisle.
Frank smirks but decides to leave him to it… for now. “This conversation isn’t over Toro,” he says, backing out the front door.
His apartment is silent when he gets back and he’s taken by the moment of unreality. His apartment’s never silent; there’s always humming or the swish of pages as Gerard-
He slams his door shut, standing out in the hallway. Gerard isn’t real. Gerard doesn’t exist and he’s not in Frank’s apartment anymore because he’s a dream. A fucking dream.
He opens his door again and though he knows there won't be any Gerard, it’s still a crippling disappointment. He moves through his apartment on autopilot, shutting the door, dropping his bags on the bench. He starts the kettle and leans back against the counters, waiting.
With a mug of coffee in hand, he turns on the TV and fills the silence with the voices of people who have friends and love and everything Frank doesn’t. He doesn’t mean to, but he gets wrapped up in the little bubble of other people’s lives and, coffee forgotten at his feet, he falls asleep.
Frank wakes up on the couch, a crick in his neck and the notion that he shouldn’t have fallen asleep again. He’s so fucking lucky he didn’t dream this time. There were… nightmares… weren’t there? Whatever.
He gets up, makes himself a nice wake-up coffee and heads out the door, mug still in hand. He’s wearing the clothes he was yesterday and he’s in socks, but he has this inexplicable urge to go downstairs.
The bulletin board has a new note when he passes it and when he turns to look there’s a little drawing of a skeleton in a marching band costume. It’s kind of awesome, but then again most of the little drawings left on the board are. Someone in his apartment building is one hell of an artist. Frank once had a sneaking suspicion it was actually Brian, trying to express his hidden talents but quickly threw that idea out the window after receiving an actual real Brian made drawing. It was terrible.
There’s a guy standing at the foot of the stairs. Frank fairly certain he’s never seen him before. He’s also fairly certain that any man trying to pull off white hair is a hell of a lot more punk than Frank’s trying to be.
He shuffles his feet on the step, hoping the other will look up and explain to him why the fuck Frank’s subconscious insisted on coming down here at ass o’clock in the morning. Frank stares balefully at his hands wrapped around his mug. They are the only part of him not fucking freezing.
When he looks back up he finds the other man staring at him - or rather his cup of coffee. He makes an interesting noise, blinking big hazel eyes up at Frank’s face.
“Coffee?” he mumbles hopefully, like he isn’t talking to a complete stranger. Frank glances at his cup and tucks it further into his side, ignoring the noise of discontent this elicits.
“Get your own.”
The other huffs. “I’m trying to.”
“You can’t steal my coffee. I don’t even know your name.”
“Gerard,” the guy says and hops up the couple of stairs into Frank’s space. “Can I steal it now?”
Frank chokes on his own tongue at the sudden closeness. “I don’t really think it’s stealing if you ask,” he manages, keeping in his coughs and squinting his watery eyes.
“Perhaps not,” Gerard shrugs, “but consent is very important.”
Frank isn’t one to give up his coffee; not to people he knows and definitely not to strangers. But he will admit to being tempted, if only because it looks like this strange punk guy would kiss him within an inch of his life if he did.
The huge eyes flick down to Frank’s mug again and his mouth twists, like he realises Frank’s not gonna give it up - not matter how pretty he may be.
“Guess not then?”
“No,” Frank confirms.
“Oh well,” Gerard sighs, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket and lighting up right there in the hallway. Frank usually gets told off by the landlord if he’s smoking outside, but the scary old lady doesn’t appear and he’s struck by how weird that is.
Gerard blinks slow and flashes him a gorgeous smile, holding the cigarette towards him. Frank takes it automatically, bringing it to his mouth at the same moment as Gerard wraps his long fingers around the abandoned half of Frank’s mug.
Frank releases a slow cloud of smoke and raises his eyebrows at the hand invasion.
Gerard shrugs unapologetically and takes his cigarette back. “S’cold,” he mumbles.
It really is cold, Frank thinks and decides Gerard’s justification is more than enough reason to share the heat of a mug of coffee.
“What are you doing down here?” Gerard asks suddenly and Frank startles at the question.
“I live here.”
“In the lobby?” Gerard says, raising a single eyebrow. His mouth quirks to the side and Frank fixates on that. He’s never felt so inexplicably drawn to someone.
There’s a long stilted moment where Gerard stares at Frank and Frank stares at Gerard’s mouth. It’s a moment so long Gerard probably doesn’t expect an answer anymore, regardless of whether the question was rhetorical in the first place.
“Upstairs,” he corrects, except now it sounds more like an invitation than an answer. Gerard’s eyelashes are so long and when he looks at Frank, they brush his skin and flutter like whispers. Carefully and purposefully, his tongue darts out to sweep over his bottom lip.
Frank’s eyes fix on the movement and he realises distantly that he’s going to sleep with this man, maybe not right now but - fuck please let it be right now.
“So you just came down here to taunt me with coffee?” Gerard asks. He’s talking quietly and Frank has to lean even further in the hear him, close enough that Gerard’s hair brushes his face.
“It just felt right,” Frank replies honestly. It sounds a little like a line, but Gerard doesn’t seem to mind.
“I know what you mean,” he says, nodding. His nose brushes against Frank’s forehead and his lips linger in his line of sight.
There’s tension thickening the air around them. Frank feels it pressing him in, and instead of feeling claustrophobic, he feels electric and alive. He can’t hear any of the normal lobby sounds, no shuffling behind closed doors, no baby birds squawking outside. It’s just him and Gerard.
Gerard’s eyes turn again to his coffee and he bites his lip. “Sure you wont share?” he wonders, words pressed into Frank’s cheek bone.
Frank takes a step back, drawing himself and his coffee away from Gerard’s hands. Gerard’s face drops from half-lidded pleasure to disappointment in less than a second.
“I have more coffee upstairs,” Frank mumbles, face beginning to burn. He’s not about to be rejected, he knows that for sure. Gerard is possibly the least subtle person in existence, and he would need to be blind, deaf and daft not to see that Gerard wants to bone him right against the notice board. But he hasn’t slept with someone in a year. He can’t invite people around to stay when he knows there’ll be nightmares. There’s nightmares… right…?
Gerard’s face lights up. Whether it’s at the promise of coffee or the promise of Frank isn’t clear, but regardless it feels pretty damn likely to end up with naked skin and Frank is definitely into that.
Gerard follows him up the stairs, watching Frank with heavy-lidded eyes. He’s still smoking, but the cigarette is being posed with more than actually being smoked. It rests against his lips, gets rolled in his fingers, is pressed against Frank’s lips at one point, the pads of Gerard fingers soft over his lips. Frank takes a long drag. He doesn’t expect Gerard to replace the cigarette with his mouth, but he doesn’t mind it.
He doesn’t mind it so much, he moans at the contact and tries to octopus his limbs around Gerard’s. He gets a low full-bodied chuckle for his efforts and then Gerard’s pressing him against the stairwell wall, mouth insistent against his own.
There’s a quick flicker of tongue against his and Gerard pulls back.
“Wow,” he groans, sliding wet open-mouthed kisses along Frank’s jaw, “you taste like coffee.”
Frank laughs, tilts his head back farther to expose his throat, “I’m starting to think you’re using me to get at my coffee.”
Gerard grins. Frank can’t see it, but he can feel it against his skin. “Well, I was thinking when we’re done I could take you out to get some,” he offers, which is totally a promise of something more. Awesome.
Frank shakes his head and Gerard’s smile stays, but his eyes drop. “That’s okay,” he mumbles.
“No,” Frank says, shaking his head harder, “I just- we don’t have to leave. I have lots of coffee. We don’t even have to get dressed.”
Gerard’s eyes and smile widen. “Where have you been all my life,” he says, before latching his teeth onto Frank’s neck.
They make it to Frank’s apartment, somehow, and Frank quickly unlocks it. He expects Brian to appear at his doorway to regard them with disgusted fondness, but it doesn’t happen and a little niggling sensation of something being wrong starts up in the back of Frank’s mind. It’s quickly silenced by Gerard pressing him further into his apartment from behind, wasting no time in getting his mouth on neck and hand down Frank’s pants. He kicks the door shut behind them, unbuttoning Frank’s jeans with one hand while the other hand works teasing strokes over his dick.
Frank tries to say something along the lines of, ‘holy shit you work fast’ but all he can manage is a needy breathless sound. Gerard holds him tight against his body and the angle is difficult for Frank to even attempt to kiss the other but he has to . He twists his head to the side, ignoring the strain in his neck and hopes Gerard will get the picture.
He doesn’t, but he does seem to get another idea entirely. With Frank’s jeans undone and sliding down his hips, Gerard’s hand isn’t occupied and quickly slips up his body to press first one then two long fingers into his mouth. Frank groans around the intrusion. It has been so long since he’s had sex, even longer since it was something other than a quick alleyway blowjob.
This is not that, this is better, this-
Gerard stretches, uncoiling his body from around Frank’s and rolling away. He looks good stretching, like a big cat out in the sun - but also like a vampire who hasn’t seen the sun in hundreds of years. Frank watches the pale skin shift over soft muscle and has half an urge to pull Gerard closer and kiss every inch. This urge is outranked though by the much more entertaining urge to let Gerard roll further towards the edge of the bed.
He falls off the mattress with a little shout. Frank snorts and starts laughing. He turns more fully to face Gerard’s side of the bed, watching as fluffy white hair emerges followed by large eyes and a soft pouty mouth. Gerard rests his forearms along the bed and pillows his chin into them.
“I could’ve died,” he says, very seriously.
Frank laughs harder and scoots over to kiss him. Gerard pouts right the way through, but somehow when Frank pulls back his teeth are bared in a giant grin.
“Drama queen,” Frank says fondly.
Gerard quickly pulls the pout out again. “Oh but Frankie, it hurts so bad. Kiss it better?”
Frank raises an eyebrow. “How terrible,” he drawls, “where exactly does it hurt?”
“I’d have to say the worst pain is probably my dick.”
Frank tries to keep a straight face, but Gerard’s almost earnest delivery is too much. Gerard blinks but his gaze is steady and serious.
Frank breaks into laughter; loud, wretched laughter that rocks his body and makes his chest hurt. “Oh sure baby,” he teases, “get it out.”
Gerard does, which is sort of unexpected but not necessarily a bad thing. Frank hadn’t been planning on kissing any dick better, but now that there’s one in mouth range he finds he’s pretty happy with the idea. Gerard seems less surprised than Frank about Frank being into the idea, possibly because he knows he’s irresistible.
Through pure blowjob skill alone, Frank plans on wiping that smug expression off Gerard’s face.
“Hey Frank,” Gerard calls when Frank comes through his apartment door, “do you want to move in together?”
Frank kicks his shoes off, drops his bags and steps into the kitchen where Gerard is staring intently at a pot on the stove. From where Frank’s standing it appears to only have water in it.
“You already live here,” Frank reminds him, “are you watching water boil?”
“No,” Gerard sniffs, “I’m watching the transitionary period between not boiling and boiling.”
“A watched pot never boils,” Frank deadpans.
“Exactly why I need to watch it happen,” Gerard mutters, then his head shoots up. “What? We don’t live together.”
Frank leans back against the opposite counter. “When was the last time you were in your apartment?”
Gerard shrugs, “not that long…” he eyes Frank cautiously, “like… last week?”
Frank snorts. “Try last month.”
“Oh,” Gerard mumbles, blinking rapidly as if that’ll help him process the information faster. “So we live together then?”
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t have to ask you?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it more romantic if I ask?”
“Oh for fucks sake,” Frank groans. He steps over to where Gerard’s standing, leaning into his space and kissing him. “I would love it if you would move in,” he says as sincerely as he can manage. “How romantic of you to ask.”
Gerard laughs and shoves him lightly. “You don’t have to make fun of me,” he grouses, but he’s smiling and leans in for another kiss so Frank reckons it’s all okay.
“Your water is boiling,” Frank mentions, since Gerard seems too enraptured to notice.
Gerard smiles lazily back at him. “What? Wait… what!? Oh fuck!” Gee spins around, twisting the gas back off and frowning as the bubbles start to dissipate. “Now I have to do it again.”
There’s a carnival in town and Gerard really doesn’t want to go, or rather he does but he won't admit it.
“Carnivals are for kids,” he says, matter of fact, as if he isn’t arranging Star Wars figurines into the Mos Eisley Cantina scene as he speaks.
Frank glances down at it. It’s very accurate, but he’s not sure that makes it any more grown up. Gerard doesn’t seem to notice Frank’s pointed look, instead placing a miniature Obi-Wan down and exclaiming, “you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy” in the most mangled attempt at an accent Frank’s ever heard.
“Mikey wants to go,” Frank reasons. Gerard’s mouth twists into an expression that can only be described as perturbed.
“Yeah,” he scoffs, “because Ray’s going. I don’t want to watch my kid brother eye-fuck Ray.”
It is a valid point. Frank doesn’t want to see that either - well he does, but only because he thinks it’s funny when Ray blushes.
“I could eye-fuck you,” Frank offers.
Gerard lazily waves him off. He’s placing a blue lego elephant down in the clustered replica and Frank isn’t sure if it’s something that came with the set, or something he already had. “You’ll eye-fuck me regardless,” he mutters, like Frank’s eye-fucking is no longer special.
Frank frowns. He thinks his eye-fucking is special, even if Gerard doesn’t. His lack of subtlety is what got them together in the first place. “Will not,” he grouses.
Gerard looks up, which is a miracle in of itself considering there’s Star Wars lego in front of him and he hasn’t so much as glanced upwards in over two hours. Gerard fixes him with this look which quickly melts into concern.
“Don’t be upset Frankie,” he rushes to say, “I didn’t mean it like that. I love it when you eye-fuck me.”
“I don’t care,” Frank mumbles, shrugging.
“I was just saying you do it regardless of where we are,” Gerard continues, hands fluttering over to Frank before remembering themselves and fluttering back over to the lego. “I love it. I really do. It’s just I don’t need to go anywhere special for you to do it.”
Frank feels oddly like Gerard’s being sweet, but also like he should be offended. He frowns a little harder and Gerard lets out a noisy exhale.
“Okay Frankie. We can go to the carnival and you can eye-fuck me wherever… maybe not around kids or my brother, but anywhere else. Okay.”
Frank’s about to shrug again and repeat his line about not caring at all if his eye-fucking has lost it’s value to Gerard, but instead Gerard grabs his scarf and Frank’s hat and bundles himself up. He eyes Frank critically, grabs his jacket from the back of the seat and attempts to bundle Frank up too.
“I don’t need it,” Frank complains, trying to slide the jacket off.
“It’s cold,” Gerard admonishes. He starts trying to wrap a scarf around Frank’s neck.
“No it’s not. Gerard- Gerard! Stop! It’s Summer!”
Gerard pauses, arms half wrapped around Frank’s neck, scarf snaking up over his wrists. “It’s cold,” he challenges, “you’ll get sick.” He places a delicate kiss on Frank’s nose which proves itself to be a distraction as Gerard loops the rest of the ugly knitted thing over Frank’s shoulders.
Frank touches the end hesitantly. It’s the ugliest scarf he’s ever seen; stripes uneven and patterned in shades of lime green and purple. Gerard’s scarf, by comparison, is much nicer. It looks, at least, like it wasn’t made by a blind teenager with no knitting skills and Parkinson’s disease. Frank makes a cautious disgusted noise.
“Who the fuck made this thing?” Frank questions, though he’s got half a mind to assume Gerard brought the fucking thing for way too much money.
Gerard flicks him a hesitant grin. “I did. Do you like it?”
Oh.
Oh, wow.
Wow …
Wowwwww.
“It’s… cute,” Frank tries. Gerard’s little grin becomes a big grin.
“I have a tonne like it,” he says, which… wooooooowwwwww . “I think I’ve gotten better. When I first started making them they were awful.”
Frank nods. “So when did you make this one?”
Gerard glances at his fingers still touching the scarf and looks thoughtful. “Maybe like… I don’t know… a week ago.”
When Frank first met Gerard, this would’ve seemed odd. A punk rock kid like Gerard knitting at all would be completely baffling, Now though, it seems so normal for a weirdo like Gerard to have discovered a secret love for knitting.
Gerard looks even more thoughtful, so thoughtful Frank’s sure he’s gonna come out with something truly profound.
“I also make gloves,” Gerard finally intones.
They make it to the carnival. Gerard chatters the entire way there, discussing the various patterns he’s tried for his gloves and which ones seemed to work better than others. Frank nods along, half pulling him down the frozen streets. His scarf scratches his neck and draws weird looks but he really doesn’t care. If knitting monstrosities makes Gerard happy, who is he to ruin it for him.
Mikey however eyes Frank’s scarf like it’s about to hop off his neck and eat someone. “Gerard,” he finally says, in the tone he reserves for trying to explain things to his friend Pete, “that is possibly the ugliest scarf you’ve ever made.”
Ray bobs his head in not quite a nod. He’d been about to nod enthusiastically but then Mikey had come out with ‘you’ve ever made’ and Ray, in an effort not to hurt Gerard’s feelings, abandoned his agreement. He wavers a little, like he’s not sure what to say which is fine because Gerard’s great at filling silences.
“What the fuck,” he squawks at Mikey, “I don’t talk shit about your knitting.”
Ray’s eyebrows shoot up, mirroring Frank’s own. Their gazes meet and Ray mouths ‘what the hell?’ at Frank like Frank’s supposed to know about the knitting - Mikey knits? - what the fucking fuck?
Mikey tosses his long black scarf over his shoulder. “That’s because mine are immaculate,” he retorts. Frank shrugs automatically. If Mikey made the scarf he’s wearing, Frank’s really really impressed. It’s sleek almost, with little triangular ends. It looks like it should belong on an androgynous model in the middle of a runway show, a model wearing a pleather skirt and nothing else because something like a top would detract from the scarf and it’s potential to shift the whole fashion industry forward into a new tomorrow.
“Can we just carnival?” Ray squeaks. He gestures whole heartedly at the fun park behind him. There’s warm lights flicking on and off behind the entry, sugar heavy in the air. Usually Gerard would be all up in that shit, darting around and regaling Frank with some tale from the depths of history. Right now though, appears to be Gerard’s time to protect his honour - or rather, you know, knitting abilities.
“Frank likes it,” Gerard defends, motioning sideways at him with an aggressive half-wave. Mikey turns a skeptical eye on Frank.
Frank, caught in a rare moment of complete and utter panic, freezes and promptly attempts to run away. Gerard’s brow furrows and he holds out his hand towards Frank like the touch will get Frank to say something like, ‘why yes, the lime and purple compliment each other very well, can’t you fucking see that Mikeyway?’ Instead, in an attempt to dart away from that possibility, Frank falls.
He flails out his arms, but still manages to land face first onto the concrete. He groans, pulling himself up with the edge of his coffee table.
Frank itches his nose blearily. “It’s a nice scarf Gerard, really,” he mumbles, leaning back against the front of the couch. Gerard doesn’t respond and Frank glances up, confused. Gerard always has something to say- oh.
He’s in his living room. Not the warm expanse of the carnival grounds. He’s alone and there’s no Gerard. There’s no Gerard. There’s no fucking Gerard!
Frank’s face hurts, likely because he just dream-hurled himself off the couch. It’s a wonder he didn’t brain himself on the coffee table. He reaches up to fiddle with the edge of his frayed scarf, fingers meeting empty air and he lets out a long sigh. There’s no Gerard and therefore there’s no hideous scarf said man made. Fucks sake.
He gets himself up and puttering around. He puts on a pot of coffee, writes some half-assed lyrics down, takes the shortest shower of his entire life. He feels pretty good really - depressed as shit, sure - but he’s not tired. He’s managed to get more sleep in the last couple days than he has in the past month, and he feels oddly refreshed.
He’s certainly going to binge himself on coffee from now on, and absolutely avoid sleep still. But right now it feels sort of nice not to feel like total shit.
Frank sips delicately from his mug of coffee, hands clasped firmly around the little spot of warmth.
He can almost hear the little mumble… coffee?
That little hopeful mumble… Coffee?
Frank grips his mug tighter.
Guess not then…
There’s a loud crash from the apartment below Frank’s, followed by loud voices.
“You can’t bring that in here!”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m a fucking alcoholic Bert!”
Frank raises an eyebrow at himself in the mirror hung on the back of his bathroom door. He can picture Gerard saying that one too. The guy saying it now even sounds the same, but Frank reckons that’s his mind playing tricks on him.
“What?” There’s a pause then the Bert guy’s voice sounds again, perplexed. “Isn’t that more of a reason to bring it in?”
I’m three months sober, Gerard says. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes huge and imploring. He wants Frank to get it and Frank does.
I’m an alcoholic.
I’m three months sober.
“I’m three months sober,” the second voice says, in this put upon tone that Gerard hadn’t been using in Frank’s dream. All the same, the inflection is startlingly similar.
“It’s not a big deal,” Bert tries again. Man he sounds like a douchebag.
There’s a long pause until;
“You sound like a total douchebag,” someone else pipes in and Frank has to stifle a laugh cause he knows that voice. Fucking Brian.
“Wha- this doesn’t concern you dickhead!”
“You’re the one yelling.”
“Well stop fucken’ listening.”
“Bert,” the second voice sounds, more subdued.
“You’re the kind of guy who would try and pressure his date into prom sex,” Brian yells, “I can tell.”
“What the fuck asshole. I’m coming up there and you better be ready to get your ass fucking handed to you.”
“Bert,” the second guy tries again, “stop.”
“Bring it the fuck on,” Brian croons.
Frank pulls a stupid face at himself in the mirror, listening to the stampede going on downstairs. He assumes douchebag is pulling on some knuckledusters and practicing angry faces in the mirror. Frank tries some himself, managing to look more constipated than angry.
He hears the door downstairs slam, either open or closed, Frank isn’t too sure which. Frank sighs, still staring at his reflection.
“You really gonna do this Iero?” he asks himself. “Fucking fuck it.”
He toes on a pair of sneakers, pulling his hoodie off so his tattoos are more visible. His hair’s flat on one side, a product of sleeping on the couch that he hadn’t gotten round to fixing.
When he pulls open his door, Brian’s already standing in the hallway. He looks lean and short. Sure, he’s tattooed and doesn’t look like he’d make a very good babysitter, but he doesn’t look like he can hold his own. Frank figures he’s making up for that with the metal baseball bat he's holding.
“Come to assist?” he asks, grinning toothily. Frank grins back.
Apart they look like terrible babysitters, but together - with Brian’s baseball bat (why the fuck does he even have a baseball bat?) - they look a little more like a gang. Frank closes his door and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest to really show his tattoos off.
There’s a stomping up the stairs, alongside a strange scuffling sound which Frank takes to be the other trying to pull him back down. Brian raises an eyebrow, and his bat. It rests against his shoulder, glinting in the bright lights of the hallway.
“Bert,” that voice calls again and Frank shakes his head. He must be really obsessed. This guy sounds exactly like Gerard.
“Fuck off,” the other spits and then he appears around the top of the stairway. He hasn’t got any knuckledusters and he visibly pales when he notices the two of them standing there - and the bat. He halts and the other guy walks into him with a quick curse.
Bert tightens his jaw, glaring at them. “Let’s fucking go Gee,” he mutters angrily, stomping back down the stairs.
Brian twirls his bat and gives Frank a cheeky grin.
Frank doesn’t sleep for a week and a half. He intends to go without for even longer, but Ray frowns the next time he’s in the supermarket and stalls the checkout process.
“Frank, you brought coffee yesterday,” he says in this nice concerned tone that makes Frank want to punch him.
“So what?”
“You’re buying more today,” Ray says, as if Frank’s dumb, and gestures over the nine packets sitting on the conveyor belt.
“I ran out,” Frank shrugs. He’s holding his wallet and is so tired, he can barely feel it against his fingertips.
“You brought five packets yesterday,” Ray adds incredulously, hair springing back and forth like a tree in the wind. Frank reaches up and touches it. He isn’t sure why he does, but he thinks maybe it’s his brain shutting down. The inhibitions part of his brain anyway.
That has to be it, because when Ray takes a quick breath and says, “there’s a party I’m going to after shift you should come,” Frank actually says yes.
Ray beams at him. “Good.”
He starts ringing up Frank’s coffee supply, but as Frank’s about to make his escape he gets grabbed by the back of the hoodie and Ray goes, “party's now, man.”
Frank lets himself be dragged out of the building, half dead on his feet.
Ray keeps tugging him and glancing back to make sure he’s there.
“Where are we going?” Frank slurs.
“My friend, Mikey’s.”
Frank isn’t sure how he feels about that, but it doesn’t really seem to matter because he’s falling asleep, still stumbling along behind Ray.
He comes to with a weight across him. He moves to brush whatever it is off, he assumes a dog or something. Instead there’s a huff of laughter and he cracks his crusty eyes open to see white hair and a sharp grin.
“Who are you?” Frank wonders, “and why are you on top of me?”
“Ray left you on the couch,” the guy shrugs, “and it’s kind of my bed when I’m here so we had to share.”
“Had to?” Frank asks.
“Wanted to,” the guy corrects. His cheeks colour prettily. “I’m Gerard,” he continues, looks thoughtfully amused before tacking on, “of the Woodland Realm,” with a little snort.
“Frank, of Gondor,” Frank returns, trying to inject some majesty into his words.
“Gondor?” Gerard questions, laughing, “I think you mean of Erebor.”
“Is that a height joke? I’m horizontal!”
Gerard scrapes his socked toes down Frank’s shin and keeps going until Frank’s toes brush his shins. “I don’t think it matters which way you’re positioned,” he says, teasingly, “besides, I was here when Ray brought you in. I know how short you are.”
“Rude,” Frank deadpans, shifting to maybe get up and find coffee, or maybe just to put some space in between his newly interested dick and the ridiculously attractive man on top of him. Instead his movement only serves to push his erection into Gerard’s hip, which is okay because he can feel Gerard’s own nudge against his stomach.
Frank’s going to play off the awkwardness, say something funny that will release the tension. Gerard seems to think they need to release the tension some other way, or at least that’s what Frank gets from him as he ruts his dick harder against Frank and leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Frank’s throat.
“Oh yeah sure,” Frank mumbles. He’s not really sure why, but he sort of remembers hearing someone tell him consent is very important . Frank’s hands catch in Gerard’s shirt and he manages to say, “So uh - do you want to?” because consent goes both ways.
The look he gets from Gerard makes him feel dumb for asking. He flushes but says, “consent is very important,” so Gerard won't think he’s too dim.
Gerard’s forehead creases and his mouth turns down into a frown. “Frank,” he says seriously, like he’s about to lead into something really important, “Do you remember me?”
Frank frowns at this. He’s pretty sure he would remember Gerard if he’d ever met him before. He’d remember the hair or the pretty grin or the - guess not then - voice.
“I - have we met?” Frank asks unsurely and Gerard laughs, shaking his head.
“No nevermind Frankie. It’s okay. You don’t remember, you don’t have to remember.”
Frank finds himself very confused, but doesn’t get to ask before Gerard’s kissing him. It’s hard to focus on both his confusion and the awesomeness that is Gerard’s mouth, so he picks the more important one and enthusiastically kisses back.
Gerard helps him out of his shirt and Frank’s about to do the same when someone says, “Gee- oh what the fuck Gerard?”
Gerard pulls away and glares. “Why do you have to cockblock me everywhere Mikes? You’re in my fucking dreams.”
Frank glances over at the intruder. He’s tall and skinny and looks simultaneously bored and disgusted. Mikes, Gerard had said, like maybe the Mikey Ray talked about.
“Gerard,” Mikey says again, but his voice is soft and distant and Frank can hear a more pressing voice saying, “Frank Frank Frank.”
Frank frowns at that and opens his eyes - when did he close them? Ray is leaning beside him, looking concerned.
“I thought you were gonna be out all day,” he says and - and - and, oh. Frank had been dreaming.
“How long was I…?”
“It’s been like seventeen hours. I have to get back to work, you know?”
“I thought he was gonna cry,” a dry voice interrupts and Frank turns to find Mikey there, leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s holding a mug and he’s definitely the guy from Frank’s dreams. He’s Mikey, Frank’s sure of it.
“That’s-” Ray starts.
“Mikey,” Frank finishes, “you were in my dream.”
“Cool,” Mikey shrugs, “what was I doing?”
“Uh - cockblocking me and your brother?” Frank says before he can stop himself. “I mean-”
Mikey frowns at him. “How do you know I have a brother?” He eyes Ray and Ray shakes his curly fro back and forth.
“You do?” Frank asks, “I don’t know. Gerard was just - I mean, I just knew you and him were brothers. Not in like real life though, right?”
Ray’s gaping at him. Mikey looks like he would be too, if he were capable of that much expression.
“Gerard-” Mikey starts.
“Because Gerard’s not real. I know that,” Frank cuts him off. “So your brother’s someone else right, someone real... I have to go.”
He’s panicking and he’s not sure why, but he feels like he’s cut himself open and shown Ray and this total stranger his crazy. He doesn’t even like his crazy.
He fairly runs out the door, Ray calling after him. He has to get home and drink coffee and never sleep again.
Frank locks himself in his apartment for the next week. He buys a metric shit-tonne of coffee from the supermarket that Ray doesn’t work at and spends his time wallowing in misery. His eyes are dry and his hair turns greasy after two days.
He needs to re-evaluate his routine. He can’t go back to Ray’s supermarket - not after that spectacular bout of crazy. The other one doesn’t stay open as late, so he’ll have to start going out while the sun is still up. The rest of the time he can spend locked inside, he doesn’t need to leave. He’s got money saved up from his last selection of songs and his mother keeps sending him more though he tells her not to.
He’s almost out of coffee at the end of that first week, and by almost he means is. He is out of coffee. He’d poured the dregs of it directly into his mouth from the packet. It had been disgusting, but he had to. He was not falling asleep again.
It didn’t really do much. He is so tired. He is so tired he thinks he may die. He’s dead on his feet as he stumbles over to the microwave. The numbers blink at him, but it takes almost a full minute to decipher what they’re telling him. It’s seven, he thinks, watching them. He squints. He’s fairly certain they say seven.
He pulls back his curtains and is almost blinded by a stray ray of sun. Seven in the morning then. Weird.
He shuts the curtains again and haphazardly gets dressed. Ray had never cared what Frank looked like at three in the morning but Frank thinks normal daytime people might.
He falls over every article of clothing he tries to put on. His shirt gets caught around his shoulders and his shins catch on the waist of his jeans. He has to sit down to put on his shoes. He is so tired. So unbelievably tired. He used to go without sleep for almost months but now he can’t go a week? All his recent lapses in consciousness have made him soft.
He’s just so ready to go to sleep. He’s so ready to close his eyes and just sleep-
No. He’s up immediately, swaying from the sudden change. He can’t sleep. He can’t. Jesus Christ. He digs his nails into his palms and holds them there, letting the pain flow through him.
One deep breath. Two deep breaths. Go.
He rushes down the stairs, almost trips over multiple times. He passes the door that was once Gerard’s in another lifetime. The front door is in sight, and he almost gets to it when something on the notice board catches his eye.
There’s a moment where he thinks he’ll face-plant into the door, his legs stop moving so quickly. He doesn’t though, simply sways forwards and readjusts.
On the noticeboard is a drawing, sort of like the ones that his artistic neighbour leaves there. The difference is that this one is of Frank. His face just sits there, in detail, and Frank has to wonder when the fuck his neighbour got a good enough look at him to draw that.
“I hope it’s not weird that I drew you,” a voice mumbles behind him. Frank blinks. He knows that voice.
He turns and - there is Gerard. In all his white haired glory. He’s wearing that military coat, the one Frank remembers from so many dreams. He remembers how Gerard likes to pull the ends of the sleeves over his hands, even though the material is so not made for that. He remembers Gerard trying to pair it with a pink and orange mess of a scarf, alongside matching fingerless gloves. He remembers taking the thing and wearing it out one time, getting back to their apartment to find Gerard waiting for him - strangely possessive as he pressed Frank into the door and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe.
“Gerard?” Frank manages, well aware his voice is breaking.
Gerard’s eyes widen, his mouth drops and he does an amazing impression of a goldfish for a good five seconds. “Frankie,” he breathes, “you remember?”
“You’ve been in my dreams,” Frank says, which he thinks is as good as an actual answer to that question.
Gerard pauses and - “you too.”
Frank launches himself at Gerard. He wraps himself in the warmth and familiarity that is Gerard, octopusing his limbs around anything he can. Gerard laughs and laughs, a little hysterically, and hugs back, mostly holding Frank up.
“This isn’t a dream,” he mutters into Frank’s hair, over and over. He’s leant close, and Frank’s practically vibrating with movement. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get a nose to skull encounter. Frank nods with Gerard. Fuck yeah it’s not a dream. He thinks it sounds like Gerard is telling himself the words more than Frank which… which-
“You had dreams of me?”
“All of my dreams,” Gerard says, “and you never remembered.” Frank can’t see Gee’s face, but there’s something in his voice that indicates if he could, he would be seeing the haunted depression that hangs over his own head after he wakes up.
“I remembered,” Frank tells him, “I remembered every time, but only when I woke up.”
“I thought I was going crazy,” Gerard admits quietly.
Frank just kind of nods at that. He doesn’t have much to add aside from an equally quiet ‘me too.’
“Did Mikey tell you about me?”
Gerard’s brow furrows. “Mikey’s met you?” he asks.
“Like a week ago. I kind of crazied on him.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Maybe he forgot,” Frank shrugs, far too content to hide his face in Gerard’s chest - even if his damn military jacket buttons keep trying to poke his eye out.
Gerard shrugs, inadvertently pushing a button up into Frank’s nose. It would totally ruin their moment, so Frank doesn’t mention it, just tries to softly blow it back out.
Gerard unfortunately takes this to be crying. “Oh Frankie,” he says softly and starts trying to fucking rock them back and forth. Frank can’t help laughing, but tries to keep it to a subtle shake of his shoulders. He fears this just makes Gerard even more concerned. “It’s all okay,” he continues, patting Frank soundly on the back.
Frank doesn’t really want to let on that he’s laughing at Gerard, but he also doesn’t know how he’s meant to keep on concealing it when Gerard does simultaneously hilarious and heartwarming things. To hopefully distract Gerard, Frank slides his hands up to the back of Gee’s neck and pulls him down for a long openmouthed kiss.
Gerard seems to still be trying to comfort Frank somewhat, patting him absently on the back while his other hand threads through Frank’s hair and tilts his head to a better angle.
Frank groans and slaps the patting hand away until it comes back with a new purpose. That purpose apparently being to touch Frank’s butt. Gerard uses the contact to pull Frank tighter against him, so tight Frank resorts to standing on his tiptoes and holds on for dear life.
He feels a bit like a koala, but like a sexy koala. Which is okay, until his brain decides to dump a fun-fact bomb on him. Like, hey Frank… remember how almost all koalas have chlamydia? That is un-sexy enough in itself, worse when Frank’s brain continues along the koala STI tree and supplies him with a stray thought about how they’re gonna have to massacre a fuck tonne of the fuzzy infected creatures.
“Fuck,” Frank groans, pulling away from Gerard’s mouth with a fair amount of reluctance but also a large amount of disgust for himself. What the fuck is he doing thinking about venereal diseases when Gerard’s trying to get into his pants?
“What’s wrong?” Gerard asks cautiously. He looks like he thinks Frank’s gonna reject the shit out of him, which is so ridiculous Frank has to blink at him stupidly for a couple of seconds.
“Fun-fact,” Frank drawls, mouth twisted in a mimicry of a smile, “half of Australia’s koalas have chlamydia.”
Gerard pauses and his mouth sets in a thin line.
“To save the remaining half, they think they’ll need to kill the infected.”
“... how is this relevant?” Gerard questions.
“It’s not.”
“So… why?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Frank sputters, “Stray thought. Fucking with my boner though.”
Gerard stares at him for a long time, mouth pulling up at the edges slowly but surely until he’s full on howling with laughter. Frank wants to join in but he’s suddenly preoccupied with how adorably dorky Gerard’s laugh is. Sure he’s heard it before, but he’s never heard it for real.
“Come home with me,” Frank says quickly, almost without trying to. Gerard stops laughing, turns wide eyes on Frank. He’s so achingly pretty, dark eyes and a softly downturned mouth. Frank stares at him and finds he means it, he really means it. “Come home with me,” he repeats.
Gerard nods slowly, grabs his hand and links their fingers together. They climb the stairs together and this time there is no posing with cigarettes, no hasty kisses against the wall. This time Frank just jitters his way upstairs and Gerard follows along behind him with this soft half smile.
Frank fumbles with his keys but manages to unlock his front door. It’s cold and silent in his apartment, the feeling of being so totally alone washing over him until he’s sure he’s dreamt up Gerard again.
He glances over his shoulder. Gerard’s still there and when he notices Frank looking at him, he smiles this shy, tiny smile.
“Holy fuck, you’re real,” Frank mutters. Gerard’s smile grows.
It’s Gerard that has to lead Frank to his bedroom. He eyes Frank’s bookshelves and his shitty TV and his poster of Dracula and says, “it’s exactly like my dreams,” with this soft awe. Frank just stumbles along behind him, fingers tangled together, shaking all the way down his spine.
Gerard shoots him a concerned look and Frank shrugs it off with a, “s’cold.” Gerard looks skeptical, which is fair cause Frank isn’t sure spines can get cold and if they can, he’s pretty sure that’s not what’s going on with his.
Regardless Gerard takes it as an excuse to curl up around him under three layers of thick blanket.
Frank ducks his head into his pillow, presses his body back into Gerard’s heat and tries to melt them together. He’s still shivering and it’s really not the cold this time because he’s so warm he’s sweating and Gerard is a little like a human space heater.
Gerard huffs a warm breath over the slope of his neck and burrows tight around Frank.
Frank, warm and happy and a little giddy in the wake of the revelation that Gerard’s real - has always been real - is suddenly so tired. He yawns, feels Gerard echo the motion.
“I’m not afraid to sleep,” Frank admits and he’s been saying it to himself on and off for years but it’s suddenly the truth rather than a desperately constructed lie.
“Then sleep,” Gerard mumbles into the back of his neck, “I’ll be here in the morning.”
“You’d better,” Frank mutters, but his face is smushed into the pillow and it sounds more like, ‘oob etta’. He follows it up with a quick distorted, “ah un oob.”
Gerard doesn’t say anything to that, or if he does Frank’s too asleep to hear it.