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Frank moaned as he rolled onto his stomach, forcing his eyes open against the brightness of the unfamiliar room. The digital clock by his head told him it was ten…something.
He closed his eyes against the sting of the light, resting them and chanting words in his head to keep awake before shooting them back open.
10:59…11:00
Eleven in the morning?
Frank sat up with a gasp and instinctively glanced beside him in the hotel room bed. Gerard lay there with a small smile etched on his otherwise vacant face…sound asleep but happier than Frank was used to seeing him.
Glancing around the room, blackness—blankness—accompanied his memories of the night before. There was nothing, and that scared the shit out of him.
His heart began to race as the sleep edged away and his mind fully returned. Hotel room, hotel bed, Gerard… Naked.
Frank felt the flesh of his thigh beneath the sheets, too afraid to pull the fabric back, and groaned at the absence of his clothes. He glanced around at the room again, Frank spotted his boxer shorts—or what looked to be them—crumpled up in a ball beneath the un-shrouded window. Their position, and the haphazard locations of the rest of his and Gerard’s clothes, told him more than the ache he felt between his legs that he wished he didn’t acknowledge.
His right hand flew to his mouth as he stared at the clothes without seeing them and he sobbed. Once hard, and the rest muffled and hysteric.
This couldn’t be happening—no, it wasn’t possible! This… Not like this… But he couldn’t remember anything…
Gathering his scattered mind, Frank pulled himself together long enough to crawl from the bed and reach his jeans by the locked door of the room. He pulled his cell phone from the pocket and unlocked it, chest already constricting before the number of missed calls appeared.
Twenty-seven.
He glanced at Gerard, still sleeping so peacefully and so still, and then pulled together his clothes from around the room. The truth was, he didn’t want to leave without saying something to Gerard…but there was nothing he could say. He had to leave and all Gerard would do was try to make him stay.
Frank couldn’t stay. He belonged somewhere…he was missed. He was in for it.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard tried not to think about how, over the past two days, he couldn’t get ahold of Frank after he’d woken up alone in the hotel room. He tried to keep himself calm and think that Frank was really busy, or Frank lost his phone, or Frank had gone out…or Frank was dead.
Anything so that he wouldn’t have to think that he’d been used up by the man he loved and now Frank was avoiding him—ignoring calls, not answering the door…
Today was practice, though. Frank never missed practice unless he was sick, so Gerard knew he would be there. He couldn’t help waiting like a dog outside of the studio, looking at every passing car and every passing person and hoping to see Frank.
He didn’t know why, but on his walk to the studio he’d picked up some kind of fancy flower at the small florist that was on the way. Something about the situation called for a flower—maybe he’d done something that had upset Frank…or maybe a flower would just make the man smile and feel loved. It would maybe make Frank want to go with him on a proper date...
A flower just seemed appropriate, so Gerard bought one and now held onto it—feeling, and probably looking, like a fool.
Finally, when Frank did appear, Gerard’s heart both leapt and constricted. Frank was alright—Frank wasn’t looking at him.
“Hey,” Gerard said, a hopeless, friendly greeting as Frank walked up to him beside the door to the studio.
“Hey,” Frank repeated, looking at the floor. He tried to move by him and enter the studio without giving Gerard a glance or another word, but Gerard grabbed him by his arm desperately.
No, he couldn’t let him walk away just like that.
It hurt too much to think that he might have done something to upset the other man—to have upset him and then be disallowed to make up for it…
“Um—I…Frank, I got this for you…it’s uh…it’s—you probably think it’s stupid.” Frank looked up when he started to speak—looked up and looked tired—and then he glanced at the flower with what had to be dissatisfaction. Maybe he should’ve gotten him jewelry? Or maybe a bouquet…
He must’ve really messed something up for Frank to be this quiet. He wouldn’t even answer.
“Frank?” Gerard asked, lowering the flower that he was trying to give him—feeling more and more like an idiot as each second ticked past. “Frank, are you okay? Did I—”
“I’m sorry, but can we talk about this later?” Frank asked as he slid past Gerard and opened the studio door.
“Did I do something?” Gerard asked desperately, following after him.
“Later,” Frank said, hurrying down the hallway and making Gerard’s heart ache even more. “Please, Gerard—we’ll talk later.”
“Please—just tell me what I did!” Gerard called, keeping his voice low so the others around wouldn’t hear. He didn’t think he could sing with his mind this tormented. He didn’t even think he could remember a single line to any song on Earth let alone his own lyrics.
“Later!” Frank said back in a harsh whisper, turning to look at Gerard over his shoulder. “Please, Gerard. I don’t want to ruin practice with this.”
“Why would it ruin practice?” Gerard asked, throwing the flower he’d bought into the next trashcan that he passed. He felt part of his heart fall away with it.
Frank quit walking and turned around, looking both sympathetic and cold all at once.
He knew exactly where this was going. Frank didn’t want him. Frank had used him that night…Frank didn’t love him, and when he’d said that he did, it was all a lie.
Gerard could understand how strangers would do that to him—how complete and utter strangers could swoon him just for a fuck before disappearing forever, but his own friend? His best friend—his band mate? How?... How could Frank be that mean?
“Gerard, I have a boyfriend, okay?” Gerard felt his heart stutter and his chest tightened beyond his ability to take a breath. A boyfriend? He already had a boyfriend? Since when? How could he hide it? Why would he do what they’d done if he had a boyfriend?
Why would he joke like this?
“Frank—”
“I’ve been with him for six months.”
“A boyfriend?” Gerard questioned, hoping somehow he’d heard him wrong. How could he possibly keep a boyfriend of six months a secret?
“You have a boyfriend?” Gerard flinched and Frank turned around. It was Mikey, coming down the hall with his phone ready to dial a number. He’d probably been wondering where they were.
“Yeah,” Frank answered, looking away from both of them and sighing. “Sorry I’m running late. I had trouble getting out of the apartment—he didn’t want to let me go.”
“So…wait,” Mikey said, looking from Gerard who was frozen back to Frank. “He’s living with you?” Frank nodded and started back down the hall. Gerard swallowed hard because he thought he might cry. A boyfriend of six months who Frank was already living with?
But the hotel…
That was all he wanted to say. He wanted to follow Frank, grab him, and say ‘but the hotel…but the hotel. Didn’t that mean anything?’ Obviously it didn’t.
Obviously it didn’t…he was just going to have to accept that. Frank didn’t want him. He was just a one night stand.
“Gerard, are you okay?” Mikey asked after Frank had gone. “Weren’t you two—you know…together the other night?” He was just a one night stand, and now Mikey knew it too… “Gee?”
“I’m fine…let’s go before everyone gets impatient.”
( ) ( ) ( )
The apartment had once been Frank’s sanctuary. It had been decorated how he liked, messed up the way he liked, and filled with the music and sounds that he liked. He played music in the mornings that was different than what he played in the afternoon and night—sometimes with and sometimes without consideration for the neighbors.
But those days were over. Half of his CDs were missing, posters were gone, some of his favorite outfits had vanished…it had been over four months since he’d even listened to an album of a band other than his own. In a way, he felt as if he’d lost himself. Or been forced to give himself up…
Now, the sounds infesting the apartment were sheets fluttering, falling, the mattress groaning, low growls and high-pitched cries of protest. Frank moaned in distress as he tried to push away the hands that were going for his shirt, preparing to literally tear it off of him. His wrists were repeatedly seized and released after being shoved aside.
His boyfriend had him pinned on his back and forced himself between Frank’s alternately kicking and constricting legs. He’d already made quick work of the zip of Frank’s pants and belt, but getting Frank undressed was proving harder than he’d initially planned.
It was nothing a few hard slaps couldn’t fix, but he was trying to be gentle. Leave it to Frank to fuck every tender moment up.
Oh well, his boyfriend thought as he forced Frank’s hands away in order to grasp his throat. Frankie always had liked it rough.
Frank clawed at his hands, wet eyes wide and mouth open in a silent cry. His legs kicked out for the first few moments and then settled to constricting around his boyfriend’s waist between them. When he finally lay still, the hands were removed from his throat, allowing him to cough and choke on the air before being slapped, stripped, and flipped onto his stomach.
He didn’t fight anymore. He’d given up.
Frank wanted to say he didn’t feel it anymore when he was taken like this—raped like this—but he did. It didn’t hurt like it had the first time, didn’t break his heart like the first time, didn’t crush him like the first time, didn’t kill him like the first time, but it still tore him apart.
The pain, at least the physical parts of it, didn’t faze him much anymore. He’d become accustomed to that.
For the most part, he was able to detach himself completely from it. He stared at the wall while his boyfriend thrust into him with no preparation or regard for the blood he was spilling, scarcely blinked, and rarely thought.
Sometimes he daydreamed about playing while on tour, other times he thought about the chords for songs…he thought about anything really, except for his boyfriend, their relationship, what they’d had before, and Gerard.
If he thought about his lover, it brought him back to what was happening… If he thought of Gerard, he imagined what the two of them couldn’t have…could’ve had…should’ve had…didn’t have anymore…
He used to find solace in pretending that his boyfriend was Gerard on nights like this…but then he understood that this wasn’t even sex—it wasn’t “making love” or even fucking—it was just sodomy. There was nothing else behind it.
He didn’t want to think of Gerard like that.
A searing bolt of pain shot through him, ripping him from his thoughts just as it tore an agonized scream from his throat. He lifted his head from the damp pillow and looked behind him, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows beneath the weight of his overzealous lover who paid no mind to the shriek or the loud wail that followed.
Frank couldn’t see anything or feel any blood, but the angle was wrong and the pain was so intense that it blotted his mind of every other sensation.
“Honey, please stop,” he whined, closing his eyes tightly and cowering as he expected a blow. “Something’s wrong. Please stop!” He tried to pull away and crawl forward on the bed, but his boyfriend easily pushed him back down and pinned his head down so that his face was buried in the pillow, smothering him.
His screams of terror and agony were muffled as the pain intensified and the thrusts grew harder, deeper, and faster. The only comfort Frank had as he struggled to breathe was in the knowledge that his boyfriend was almost done with him. He was going to come, he was going to detach himself, he was going to let Frank go, he was going to roll over and go to sleep.
Frank twisted his head until he found a pocket of air at an excruciating angle and sobbed before he could even get enough air to breathe. It was rare that his boyfriend reduced him to actual sobs, but silent tears were something that he’d become accustomed to as well as the usual pain.
But this was so much worse. The blatant disregard for his body was as crushing as the feeling of being shredded inside. He couldn’t help but sob—from the pain, from everything.
He wanted Gerard more than ever. On the emotional level. He remembered how they’d held each other that night in the hotel and longed for the warmth of his embrace and the security of being held.
But he’d broken Gerard’s heart…he was never going to have that again. This was what he had, and this was what he deserved. Pain, neglect, detachment, and heartache.
That’s more than you deserve for treating your best friend like a one night stand.
Especially a friend so sensitive and so easily broken as Gerard.
For what he’d done, Frank knew he deserved this. So when his boyfriend finally pulled out, Frank just rolled onto his side, pulled his legs up, and sobbed. His boyfriend caressed his side and placed a kiss on his cheek without any regard for the tears there before collapsing with a content sigh and leaving Frank be.
He tried not to cry loudly, but the sobs broke free one after another beyond his ability to control them. He sought comfort from a swath of blanket since his boyfriend’s only response to his tears was a loud, frustrated sigh.
After ten minutes, the sobs quieted down to whimpers of pain as Frank tried to decide if he could handle standing up for a shower to wash the filth away. It wasn’t like with Gerard…He’d wanted to keep Gerard’s scent and Gerard’s touch on his skin as long as possible. His boyfriend was someone he just wanted to wash away…
“Alright,” his boyfriend said loudly. Frank sniffed and nuzzled the blankets gently, preparing to be told to shut the fuck up. “Get up.” Frank made a soft sound of confusion and pulled himself up onto his elbows so he could turn to see his boyfriend’s face. “I said to get up!” He said louder. “You’re too fucking loud. Go sleep on the couch if you’re going to be a fuckin’ cry baby.”
“Sorry,” Frank muttered. “I’ll be quiet.” He prepared to let his shoulders drop back down onto the bed, but his boyfriend shoved him hard enough for his arms to slip, almost tipping him off the edge of the bed.
“I said get up! Go sleep on the fuckin’ couch! You’ve pissed me off.” Frank whimpered and regained his balance.
“Please don’t,” he begged. He was rewarded with a hand fisting in his hair and pulling him up and awkwardly off of the bed. Managing to stifle the cry of pain as he stumbled onto his feet, he accepted the clothes that were shoved into his hands.
“You’re the one who cheated on me,” his boyfriend snarled as he pushed Frank towards the bedroom door. “I’m the one who should be crying. You don’t even apologize!” Frank started pulling on his jeans as he stumbled towards the door, pain ripping through his abdomen and fear pumping through his veins.
He didn’t want hit tonight. It was too late in the evening, he was already hurting and bleeding. He just wanted to go to sleep without being forced unconscious by a blow to the head or hand on his throat.
Essentially, he went quietly to the couch and dropped down on his stomach, sobbing into the cushion as all of his pain was brought back to his attention. He honestly felt as if he could die.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard sat in his apartment—alone like always, staring at a wall after trying to create something and failing. He couldn’t draw tonight. He just couldn’t write tonight…or compose or even hum.
It had been three weeks since the hotel…since he and Frank had actually had a conversation. It wasn’t worth it…trying to have a relationship with Frank wasn’t worth it. Frank didn’t want him, and now—because he’d pushed it—now Frank wouldn’t even talk to him, and those small conversations that used to make Gerard’s heart buzz with joy were gone.
They left nothing in their wake. No shared glances across the studio that Gerard used to believe meant something, no conversations, no shameless flirting. He had nothing but a memory of the night that ruined everything.
A party, too much drinking on Frank’s part, a few deep kisses that grew slower and more intimate than any drunken kiss Gerard had ever known. He’d believed for a time that Frank had just been playing drunk so no one would know—so that his feelings would be a secret if nothing worked out…but he wasn’t pretending.
He’d been drunk, they’d gone to a hotel, Gerard had poured out his heart, clung to the man he loved, and then…
And then they’d curled up together afterwards and went to sleep, Frank even mumbling “I love you.”
Frank must have mistaken him for his boyfriend—the one he never wanted to talk about. Must’ve thought Gerard had become Steve, or Ken, or John or whoever the hell his boyfriend at home was.
Because Frank couldn’t possibly have said “I love you” to Gerard and meant it…Gerard didn’t get love. He wasn’t worthy of love. He wasn’t good enough for Frank.
Good enough?
The thought made anger spark in Gerard’s mind. He wasn’t good enough? Who the hell did Frank Iero think he was?
( ) ( ) ( )
He woke up to a loud and shrill whistle from his boyfriend. It wasn’t cat-call whistle, nor was it the type of whistle used to call a dog. It was an “accessing the damage” kind of sound—starting loud and then quieting into a regular exhale.
Frank lifted his head—and essentially his face—off of the couch cushion and craned his neck to see his boyfriend.
“What?” He groaned, throat feeling horrid. He felt nauseous and lightheaded…he wanted to go back to bed—his actual bed.
His boyfriend stood there, staring at what Frank thought was his back, and shaking his head.
“What?” Frank asked again, voice cracking. He turned his eyes in the direction of his own back but didn’t turn his head to actually look. His entire body ached and every movement made his bones scream as well as his muscles.
“No wonder you were bawling last night,” his boyfriend said, his shoulders rocking with a bark of a laugh. “Here I thought you were just being a whiny little stuck-up bitch.” The man shrugged and turned on his heel as he made his way into the kitchen.
Frank simultaneously sighed and furrowed his brow in confusion and then looked away from his boyfriend’s retreating form to survey his own back. What he saw made him gasp and gag on the same breath.
Thick, drying blood had coated the back of his jeans, and when he rolled onto his side he noted that even more had stained the front as well as the cushion of his couch.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, touching the fabric and staring at his fingers when they came away tinted red. “Oh, God,” he repeated. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” He slipped off of the couch and staggered to his unsteady feet, momentarily ignoring the pain in his body and focusing only on the horror of the aftermath the previous night had led to.
After shooting an accusing and bitterly wounded look over his shoulder at the kitchen, Frank stumbled into the bathroom and began stripping off his clothes, grunting in agony with every movement of his legs. He turned on the shower after shoving away his filthy clothes and got in before the water was even warm.
He wanted the blood off of him. He wanted to get rid of the red streaks on his thighs and wash away the clots of it that formed between his legs. More than that, he wanted to see how much of the blood was fresh.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard just rolled his eyes when the first thing Frank did when he got into the room was lie down on his stomach on the couch and play dead. He’d dropped his guitar on the floor beside his new bed, but kept one hand rested on it the way a person might hold a dog’s collar to keep it from running away.
“Come on, Frank,” Ray said, crossing the room. “It’s three in the afternoon. You shouldn’t be tired.”
“Stay up too late with your boyfriend last night?” Bob teased. “That why you didn’t come in yesterday?” When he got no response, he crashed his drumstick against one of the cymbals of his drum set, successfully evoking a loud groan from Frank.
“Get the fuck up,” Gerard hissed, barely speaking louder than a mumble. Mikey sent a wary look in his direction and then dropped his gaze to his guitar, strumming it absently just to make noise.
“Not feeling good?” Ray asked, kneeling down beside Frank’s guitar and the couch and rubbing Frank’s back soothingly. Frank shook his head against the couch cushion. “Want to just listen for a while?” Frank nodded and Ray patted his back.
Gerard made a noise of disgust.
“Why even come if you’re not going to play?” He mumbled. His comment was ignored for the sake of avoiding an argument and Ray left Frank’s side.
They played and Frank didn’t move from the couch. He did, however, tilt his head so that he could watch them perform with one eye veiled slightly with hair.
He stayed silent and watched, playing the part of a fly on the wall. Even when a stray drumstick somehow found its way to the back of Gerard’s head and connected with a painful sounding crack, he was silent.
Gerard laughed along with everyone else when he was done rubbing the pain from his skull. He looked happy when he jokingly cursed at Bob for “deliberately” assaulting him…genuinely happy…
Gerard was happy when he pretended Frank wasn’t there.
That was the worst realization Frank came to as he observed them.
The second worst was the recognition that they didn’t sound any different without him. At least not to a relaxed ear. They didn’t sound any better…they didn’t sound any worse…
It really didn’t matter if he played or not.
Frank closed his eyes tightly and sighed. The room was quiet for a moment as they all took a break for a drink (and to argue about who needed more practice or a firmer grip on a certain drumstick so it wouldn’t put out someone’s eye) which made Frank’s sudden fit of coughing that much more distracting.
“Maybe you should stay home tomorrow,” Mikey said when no one else spoke even though they were all staring in Frank’s direction. Staring was the usual reaction to the “Cough of Death.” The one that typically meant Frank wasn’t going to be performing for a few days…or a week…or more.
Frank nodded, sitting up slowly and stiffly as he swallowed hard—wincing against the sting of his throat.
“Why not go home,” Ray suggested. “You’re sick. You don’t have to be here.” The look Frank gave him left Ray confused, even after his youngest band mate crept out of the room with his guitar slung across his back.
He’d looked as if he’d just gotten punched. As if Ray had told him to go home and stay there.
“Did you see that look he gave me?” Ray asked once he was sure Frank had gone. Everyone shrugged except for Gerard who was sulking and picking at his mic, pretending not to listen.
( ) ( ) ( )
“You’re back early,” his boyfriend said the instant he came in the door. Frank shot him a nasty look and carried his guitar to its stand in the living room. “What the fuck’s your problem? They finally tell you you’re more of a hassle than you’re worth?” Frank pretended not to listen and stared fixedly at the blood stain on the couch.
How had he bled so much and still not gained his lover’s sympathy? More importantly, how had he been made to bleed that much without needing a doctor? Without choosing to go to a doctor just in case his self-diagnosed clean bill of health was wrong? Without coming to the understanding that maybe it would possibly be in his kind of best interest to throw his lover out?
“Seriously, though,” his boyfriend said, preparing to restate the horrible thing Frank had come to know as truth. “The only reason they keep you around is because you act so weird on stage and the fans like it. And you only get away with that because no one can tell the difference whether you’re playing or not, so it doesn’t matter if you quit in order to feel up your singer for a while. You’re just eye-candy.” He paused as Frank turned to face him, looking tired and hurt. “Really…bad eye-candy.”
“I’m not fucking ugly,” Frank spat in a shaking voice, defending the only thing he had left. “But if you think I am then why not just fucking leave? I’ve had enough.” His boyfriend snorted and pushed his hands into his pockets.
“You’ve had enough? Then get the fuck out.”
“It’s my apartment!” Frank shouted. His boyfriend glared at him and then began closing the distance between them. Frank realized his mistake and backed away, knees hitting the back of the couch and dropping him onto it with the help of his boyfriend’s fist as it connected with his cheek. He cried out from the combined pain of the punch and the slam of his body—so badly ravaged two nights before—against the stained couch.
Frank did the only thing he knew how to after that. He pulled into himself, cowered, and asked for forgiveness. Maybe if he’d been in full health he would have argued, punched back, or even threatened to call the police, but now he was too tired.
He knew that if he just kept still, accepted the beating and agreed with everything that was said, he’d be forgiven before long and the pain would stop and he could sleep then. He could escape then.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard hadn’t been surprised when Frank didn’t show up for the next few practices, but he had a feeling in his stomach and in his brain that kept telling him something was wrong even though everything seemed normal. Frank called to say he wasn’t feeling any better, the messages were of the usual length with the only difference being his lack of unnecessary apologies.
Usually Frank kept saying he was sorry that he was sick, sorry he wasn’t able to play, sorry he couldn’t be there to help out. In the last three calls, he hadn’t said a word about any of it.
Finally calming down from the incident, the wound in his chest scabbing over just a little, Gerard was able to take the calls and hold a conversation. He managed to voice the concern he knew was there and had been there since the day Frank had gone to sleep on the couch instead of practicing. How could he not care? Just because Frank slapped his love metaphorically in the face didn’t mean the affection disappeared. It turned into heartache, but it was still love.
He wanted to know why Frank’s attitude had shifted, and whether or not it was out of spite or something else. Was Frank blatantly holding back on the unneeded string of apologies so he wouldn’t have to hear “Frank, you don’t need to apologize” over again? Or did he suddenly quit caring whether he missed or not and, therefore, didn’t have to apologize?
Knowing Frank like he did—like Gerard thought he did—neither of those sounded right.
Maybe it had something to do with what Ray had said before, the thing that got Frank to look at him so dejectedly. Yeah. Gerard would admit that he pretended like he didn’t notice, just as he pretended not to notice that Frank had been wide awake during the entire practice and had been watching them with an alternately dry and tearing eye, but he did. He saw those things.
Ray had told him to go home because he was sick and attempted to imply that no one expected him to force himself to play by saying “you don’t need to be here”. Gerard had a feeling that Frank took those words the wrong way.
“You don’t need to be here” had become “we don’t want you here”.
What if Frank quit apologizing because he planned to quit the band or get himself thrown out? Maybe he stopped seeing himself as an important element and thought he was just in the way?
It didn’t sound like Frank to think that way, but who knew what Frank thought anymore. He kept his steady boy-toy a secret for six months, who was to say he didn’t hide a lack of confidence and an inferiority complex under all of that ink on his skin as well?
Gerard clicked his tongue and scowled at the wall of his bedroom.
They were in a band together—a really, really successful one. They went on tour together, spent virtually every day together—they were practically all married to each other! They were supposed to be open. They weren’t supposed to keep secrets like that.
They weren’t supposed to keep secrets at all.
( ) ( ) ( )
Frank stumbled out of the apartment building, literally falling down the last three steps and landing on his shoulder on the cracked sidewalk. He groaned softly and pulled himself back up against the four-day-old wave of dizziness that was consuming him. With a shaking hand, he tugged his cellphone from his pants pocket as he forced himself to sit on the bottom step of the building.
The first idea he had was to call his boyfriend and ask if it was okay to come back inside yet. Sure, he’d only just gotten outside, but it was cold and he really didn’t feel good…and it was his own apartment. And they loved each other, right? His boyfriend would forgive him, right? Let him back inside if he asked…right?
The more Frank thought about it, the less he thought so. He could still feel his boyfriend’s hands wrapped around his throat with a grip so strong it threatened to kill. No, it wasn’t a safe idea to go back just yet.
He stared at his phone as he tried to calm the convulsive shivers that wracked his entire body. Every breath he took made his throat hurt worse and he had to repeatedly fight the urge—the need—to cough.
He knew he couldn’t stay outside. It would just make him feel worse and worse with each second. He needed to be inside where it was warm…and safe.
Gerard would take him in for a few hours, right? Until his boyfriend calmed down enough to let him back inside… Frank remembered a time on tour when he’d been sick and Gerard had tended to him even though he hadn’t had to.
Frank heard a muffled ringing and glanced down at his phone. At first he thought he was getting a call, then he realized that he’d called Gerard without noticing. His fingers had the number memorized just as well as the strings of his guitar.
He quickly lifted the phone to his ear and waited to hear Gerard’s voice—not even remembering the fight the two of them were having at all.
“Hey, Frank. What do you need?” Gerard said. His voice was drained and a little bit sad, making Frank furrow his brow in confusion as he pulled his legs up to his chest.
“Gerard,” Frank said, his voice cracking before it was overcome by a thick cough that terrorized his already burning throat. He whimpered softly before attempting to speak again, being overwhelmed for a moment with self-pity and exhaustion.
It was his apartment… He paid for it… Why did his boyfriend have to take it away? All he wanted was to sleep…
“Gerard, can I come over?” Frank asked before coughing loudly again and feeling disgusted. There was nothing worse than coughing in someone’s ear.
“What for? Why?” Gerard asked in a strange tone. To Frank it sounded a little more sad than before, a little less angry, and very, very conflicted.
“I’m not feeling well,” Frank said softly. It was the voice of a child trying to convince a parent to let him stay home from school.
“What the fuck do you want to come over here for then?” Gerard snapped back, surprising Frank with his anger. Frank tried to stammer a reply, but the line went dead and he lowered the phone from his ear to stare at the screen.
The call must have been dropped, he thought. Gerard wouldn’t ever hang up on him.
So he called back.
“Frank, you’re not staying here!” Gerard shouted, making Frank choke in surprise. “You’ve got your own goddamned place! Stay there!”
“But, Gerard—”
“Don’t you get it at all?” Gerard hissed, Frank picked up the pain in his voice and tried to think of what could have put it there. “I don’t want to see you right now! Get someone else to wipe your snot for you. I’ve had all I can take.” The line went dead again but Frank still held the phone to his ear, eyes wide in surprise and lips parted in a small gape.
The accident in the hotel.
It suddenly flooded back to Frank’s mind after being suppressed by terror, pain, and guilt.
Was Gerard still angry about the accident in that hotel? He thought they’d passed that. He thought it was over…
Gerard had been so…concerned, when Frank had called to say he couldn’t make it to practice. Perhaps all of the kindness Gerard had left for him was just a show for the rest of the band. Perhaps there really was nothing left between them as friends.
Frank groaned and then whined as the vibrations of his vocal cords reignited his throat. His eyes welled with tears as he lowered the phone and stared down at its blank screen.
He’d wanted to stay in the hotel afterwards, but he knew that his boyfriend would make the pain that much worse for every minute that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
It hadn’t been his intention to leave Gerard behind like a one night stand. Shit, that was the kind of thing that tormented Gerard worse than anything else—being left behind and forgotten about. Feeling used up and abandoned. It was what he sang about.
He took in a shuddering breath and then collapsed into a coughing fit that left him gasping for breath and seeing stars behind his eyes. He knew he couldn’t stay out here much longer, but he didn’t know who else to call besides Gerard and his boyfriend…
His boyfriend would hit him, though, if he went to the door too soon or bothered him too much. Frank didn’t want hit anymore. He’d had enough…he felt, through his pain, heartache, and exhaustion, that he’d finally had enough.
Frank looked down at his phone as he tried to control his breathing.
He could call Ray…but Ray was as mad as Gerard about what happened in the hotel. It wasn’t unlikely that he and Gerard felt the same—the only kindness Frank was deserving of was the type necessary to keep him in the band.
His heart constricted when it dawned on him.
They weren’t even friends anymore. He was on his own…probably only still in the band because they hadn’t found a replacement or didn’t have the heart to dismiss him while he’s sick.
The only one who seemed impartial to the whole mess was Bob…but his place was already so cramped…there was no room for him there.
That left Mikey—Gerard’s brother.
That sounded dangerous, but it was his only other option and Mikey hadn’t shown much interest in the romance. In fact, he pretended like none of it was happening… Frank guessed that pondering your brother’s love life could be a nauseating experience. That would explain his semi-neutrality to the issue.
Yeah, Frank decided, he’d call Mikey…
He dialed the number and then laid down on the step, curling himself up until all of him fit on the stair except for his toes and a few stray stands of hair.
“Hey,” Mikey said, friendlily enough.
“Mikey,” Frank stammered. “Can you come pick me up? I got kicked out.”
“You got evicted?” Mikey asked.
“No,” Frank answered, his voice sounding raw. He cleared his throat in hopes of making it better but knew it wouldn’t help. “But I can’t…he won’t let me in,” Frank confessed, feeling desperate. “Please?”
“You sound like shit,” Mikey said, without a care in the world. Whatever he was doing on the other side of the phone had his complete attention.
“Please,” Frank repeated. “He won’t let me back inside. Please? It’s just for a few hours until he stops being mad. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise. Please.”
“Frank,” Mikey said, far too bluntly. “You don’t have to beg. You at your apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
“Try not to fall asleep this time, okay? I don’t want to have to pick your ass up and carry you to the car because you decide to reenact Sleeping Beauty.”
“I’ll try,” Frank mumbled, swallowing hard and biting his lip against the pain in his throat.
“I’ll be there in a few,” Mikey said as his closing line before hanging up. Frank pulled the phone to his chest and stared at the sidewalk, preparing to wait as the agonizingly slow, aching, freezing minutes ticked by.
( ) ( ) ( )
The phone rang and Gerard was less inclined than ever to answer it. He figured it was Frank again, still not understanding why Gerard refused to allow his apartment to be used as a cost-free hotel. It would be the third time he’d called.
At least he’d waited an hour and a half before trying again. The first two calls had come in rapid succession—being hung up on the first time didn’t seem to drive the message home.
At first, when Frank had asked to come over, Gerard had gotten his hopes up that Frank wanted to talk—about what happened in the hotel, about what happened after…anything—but then those hopes were smashed as Frank declared that he “wasn’t feeling well”.
Gerard’s apartment was not a sick-house for deceitful, lying, insensitive, talent-less rhythm guitarists! It was his fucking home! His safe house! His escape…
Despite his bitter and afflicted thoughts, Gerard grabbed his cell phone off of the table beside his bed and prepared to answer—to tell Frank off for the third goddamned time.
It wasn’t Frank calling though. It was Mikey.
“Gerard?” Mikey asked before his older brother could even say hello. That was Gerard’s first clue that something wasn’t right. It caused him to pause as he instinctively ran through the list of things that could possibly have happened. Death in the family being the first, sickness the second, robbery the third—an onslaught of possibilities hit him. Break-in, death threat, evection notice, trouble paying the bills… “Gerard? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Gerard said, sitting up and pulling himself out of his thoughts by shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose against the faint headache he had. “What’s the matter?” Now it was Mikey’s turn to pause. “Mikey, what is it?” Gerard pressed after fifteen seconds of stale air from the other side of the line.
“You know Frank’s boyfriend?” Mikey asked without the slightest bit of hesitation. “The one he never talks about?” Gerard rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, dropping the hand which had been at his face onto the bed beside him.
“Yes,” Gerard hissed, leaning heavily back against the headboard of his bed and glaring sharp daggers at the corner of his dark bedroom.
“Yeah…I found something out about…that guy.” Mikey’s tone was one of disappointment and embarrassment.
“What?” Gerard asked angrily. “That he doesn’t fucking exist?” That was the conclusion that Gerard had come to within days after finding out about the man Frank never once mentioned before.
Hell, Frank had never even said the man’s name! Not once! Never! He only ever called him “my boyfriend.” Even when Bob had asked “hey, what did you say his name was?”, Frank had only replied “who? My boyfriend? Yeah he’s—oh, hang on, someone’s calling me.” His phone hadn’t even fucking rang. He’d just grabbed it out of his pocket and left the room.
Gerard didn’t believe in Frank’s boyfriend any more than he believed in literal blood-sucking vampires—the ones that lived in coffins and couldn’t cross moving water, the metaphoric ones seemed to be too easy to find these days to deny.
Frank was just one of those damned vampires, and Gerard had thought he loved him—had thought that Frank loved him back. No, Frank had just accepted that love, took it in his hands and sucked it dry before cackling and handing it back. All too eager to hurry home to his “boyfriend.”
Gerard could still feel the wound in his chest from where he’d opened it up in order to offer his heart and all that it entailed (his life for instance, and his fucking soul) to Frank who’d squashed it and then ran away.
And why did he run away? Because he apparently had a boyfriend back at home who had been waiting for him the whole time that they—he and Gerard—had been having sex!
How convenient that the first time this “steady boyfriend” was mentioned was just after Gerard had tried to ask Frank out on a proper date.
He’d even fucking given him that flower. That fucking flower!
Gerard tried to tell himself that Frank was just scared—scared for the band and what their relationship (a real one instead of the one they masqueraded sometimes) might do to it, scared of admitting his feelings to himself—but as the days went by, that nameless boyfriend became the center of too many conversations.
He—it—became Frank’s way of saying “sorry, Babe, you’re just a one night stand. I don’t want you. You’re not good enough for me.”
The person became Frank’s excuse. A lie. He didn’t even think Gerard was worthy enough for the truth…
“Oh, he exists,” Mikey said quietly. “He beats him.”
Gerard snorted and rolled his eyes, lifting a hand to push back his hair.
“Frank tell you to say that?” Gerard asked, trying to mask his feeling of betrayal. Now Frank had even gotten Mikey in on the joke? And what was that joke exactly? Gerard couldn’t tell if it was to make him feel worse or better. Was Frank trying to rip his heart back out, or was he trying to help stitch it back in by stepping up the lie?
“W-what?”
“Did Frank tell you to say that,” Gerard annunciated, his eyes narrowing in confusion at Mikey’s disbelieving, almost horrified tone.
“Gerard,” Mikey said firmly, angrily. “He’s been fucking beating him.” His voice was harsh, but he didn’t yell, leading Gerard to believe that Mikey’s apartment was the place Frank had decided to retreat after he had turned him away. “He threw him out of his apartment this morning.”
“Threw him out of his own apartment?” Gerard asked, scratching his left eyebrow tiredly. Part of him felt panic beginning to creep up; another part just felt that the joke was wearing thin. How much did everyone think he could take? What in their history together made them feel that he could handle so much agony? “I find that hard to believe,” he added on in a mutter. “He’s not that weak.”
“Frank’s sick,” Mikey asserted. “He didn’t have it in him to fight back—he was still trying to figure out what was happening to him when I got him here.” Gerard didn’t say anything. His ideas that the story was a fabricated gimmick were retreating hastily. “He said he tried to call you right afterwards,” Mikey said with a tone of confusion. “Why did you hang up on him?”
“He just said he was sick!” Gerard argued, worry cracking his voice as well as betrayal. Why was he being attacked? It wasn’t his fault! And what of Frank getting beat by this boyfriend? Wasn’t that a more pressing issue than hanging up a phone? “I thought he just wanted someone to fuss over him and I was still pissed off! Now is Frank all right or not!? When did he say he was getting beaten?”
“When I picked him up,” Mikey said, sniffing again. “He said he was going to ask to be let back in, but he was afraid he’d get hit too hard.”
“Hit too hard?” Gerard repeated, feeling nauseous. He slid out of the bed and made his way into his living room where his shoes sat by the couch.
If this boyfriend really existed, and Frank really was getting beaten, that explained a lot. It made Gerard feel hopeful again, yet at the same time awful. He was so happy to know that there really was a reason he’d been so heartlessly rejected—not because there was someone else who Frank loved, but because there was someone else who had control over him—and then at the same time he was disgusted that the fact gave him so much pleasure.
He felt he was too glad about Frank’s predicament…too eager to play the hero and pull Frank back onto his feet before sweeping him off of them.
“I asked what he meant and…and then I started to notice shit.”
“What shit?” Gerard asked, practically screamed as he held his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he forced on his shoes. God, he wished Mikey would just lose his cool like a normal person—scream out in startling rapidity everything that had happened, not speak slowly as if trying to build some sort of suspense. His heart was already pounding, he didn’t need the drama. “Would you just say something already!?”
“He had these bruises on his neck, and he was trying to cover up a black eye with his hair.” Mikey sighed heavily. “He didn’t want to say much about it.”
Of course not… That was Frank’s way about this guy. He didn’t want to say anything… But why?
Did the man really have him convinced that he deserved it? Did Frank think his friends would really allow someone to hit him and get away with it? Did he think no one cared?
How long had it been happening?
Gerard tried to think of anything he had missed. A scraped knee? Blood on a shirt? A bruise in a strange place? They’d slept together—how had he missed it?
“The black eyes, the…the—the bruises, yeah—but is he okay? Like, now? Is he okay now?” Gerard grabbed his keys off of the coffee table and made his way to the door, exiting into the hallway and locking the door behind him.
“Well, he’s sleeping now,” Mikey answered nervously, as if Gerard had asked him to wake Frank up.
“But before that!” Gerard insisted, the panic finally stealing him as he raced down the hallway and down the flights of stairs. “Could he walk okay? Was he bleeding anywhere? What else did he tell you?”
“When I tried to ask more about it he cried, Gee.” Mikey said. “He made Frank cry.”
“I’m going to kill that mother fucker,” Gerard hissed as he burst onto the street, storming off in the direction of Mikey’s place.
He hung up his phone and put it in his pocket before Mikey could even reply. It was so much easier to run when your hands were free.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard opened the door at Mikey’s, and his brother was already standing there waiting for him.
“I called Ray and Bob,” Mikey said. “Frank wouldn’t want me to, but I had to talk to someone to keep from going nuts.” Gerard just nodded and closed the door behind him, looking in the direction of the bedroom and then back to Mikey. “He’s still asleep.”
“I won’t wake him up,” Gerard said, as if asking permission. He didn’t wait for an answer, he just approached the room and drifted inside like a ghost, keeping silent.
Frank was sleeping on his side on top of the blankets, even though he typically liked to be covered up when he was sick because he always felt so cold.
Mikey should know that…
Gerard went over to him and tried to shift the blankets around to cover him while stealing glances at what skin was exposed.
Frank did have a black eye. There were bruises on his neck. There was a cut on his lip and one of the wrists he had folded to his chest was bruised.
No matter how badly Frank had hurt him, Gerard knew he didn’t deserve to be grabbed, punched, or strangled.
“Gerard,” Mikey whispered from the doorway. Gerard looked over his shoulder at him while dropping the blanket into place over Frank’s shoulder. “Look under his shirt.” Gerard didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see—but he had to.
He moved the blanket aside and watched Frank’s face as he slowly grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pushed it up to reveal his side. Frank stayed still and his breathing remained slow and even. Gerard looked down at the damaged flesh and whimpered.
The farther up he pushed the shirt, the more wounds appeared. Red, angry welts that faded into dark bruises took up most of the skin on his side, but it was the small, round burn on the face of the tattooed bird on the right side of the intricate “And” printed on his abdomen that made the first tears fall.
It was his bird, and that other man had burned it—that other man knew Gerard was a threat. So he took a cigarette and put it out on his boyfriend’s stomach. What a way to say ‘I love you’—beating, burning, choking…
Gerard wanted to get his hands on this man, and Frank knew it, too. Frank knew that if Gerard found out about this—knew that Gerard would find out about this—he would kill that mother fucker. He was wise in keeping the man’s name a secret, but Gerard still knew where he lived…
“I’m gonna kill him for this,” Gerard hissed, turning his head to look at Mikey. Frank shifted on the bed, letting out a groggy, choked whine as he straightened one of his legs. Gerard turned back to look at him and petted Frank’s hair softly, watching him slowly wake up from his pain. Another pained groan followed by a cough and Frank’s eyes finally pulled open.
He seemed only to pick up on the hand on his head, because he closed his eyes tightly again when Gerard pulled away and shuddered.
“Frank?” Gerard said quietly, biting his lower lip and watching his friend closely. Frank’s eyes slid open again and finally looked to see who sat beside him on the bed. “Hey…are you okay?” Frank stared at him with sleepy disbelief and wonder.
“Gerard?” Frank said, rolling slowly onto his back and wincing.
“Are you okay?” Gerard asked again, trying not to hug the man in his surge of guilt and sympathy.
“Yeah,” Frank said, his voice raw as he sat up slowly. Gerard reached out and touched his arm gently, unable to control himself. Frank didn’t flinch, just looked at his hand curiously. “I’m just sick…sorry I bothered you earlier.” He closed his eyes again a rush of pain and Gerard watched him—almost feeling each ache and sting himself.
“Frank…I know about your boyfriend,” he said, looking Frank in the eye when they reopened. Frank glanced at the doorway, but Mikey had disappeared into the other room. Frank seemed incapable of forming words. “You let him hit you?”
“Gerard, I…I’m too tired,” Frank said before swallowing hard and shivering from the pain in his throat. “I’m too tired to talk about this right now.” Gerard looked him over and nodded, biting his bottom lip again anxiously.
“Okay—uh, yeah, just lay down and get some sleep,” Gerard said, pulling the blankets closer to Frank and draping them wherever he could. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Just some water,” Frank said, looking Gerard over. He had to have seen something he liked because he smiled as he laid down and pulled the blankets around himself. Gerard got up and quickly went into the kitchen, Mikey handing him a bottle of water before he even got the chance to ask.
They shared a look as Gerard took the bottle. When Frank was better, that look said, they were going out for blood.
( ) ( ) ( )
Frank was feeling a little better when he woke up in the middle of the night. The room he was in was pitch black, it made him feel safe and hidden even though so many others found the dark terrifying. He could hear Mikey and Gerard mumbling to one another in the other room, making him feel even more secure. It was like the two of them were guarding him—protecting him from his boyfriend.
His boyfriend…
Hell, he didn’t have a boyfriend anymore. He’d had enough. As soon as he got his voice back he was calling the cops and saying there was an intruder in his home…that would take care of that.
Slowly, he rolled onto his back and shuffled out from under the blankets, preparing to get himself up so he could thank Mikey again for taking him in and to face Gerard… He was afraid to see Gerard.
Maybe it was a better idea to stay in bed until he left…he would have to leave eventually, right? Knowing Gerard, no. He’d stay until morning…or the next morning…he wanted to talk about this mess, and Frank knew that eventually he was going to have to answer for what he’d done in the hotel.
You can’t fuck your best friend and then leave him behind like a whore—and Gerard meant more to him than that, so much more…
But still, hiding bed sounded better than facing Gerard, so Frank pulled the blankets back up to his chin and rolled onto his side, fighting the urge to cough as he moved. Of course, he wasn’t able to keep it suppressed and he heard someone begin walking towards the door.
“Gerard, let him be—”
“But I need to check on him—I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“He’s fine—let him sleep. Come on…” But Gerard obviously wasn’t listening because the door to the bedroom Frank was hiding in opened, flooding the space with invasive light. Gerard closed the door halfway once he was inside, keeping the beams off of Frank’s face. He came over to the bed and sat down beside Frank, reaching out to gently wipe his hair away from his eyes. “Are you feeling better?” He asked quietly. Frank gave up pretending to be asleep.
“A little,” Frank admitted, sniffing and sitting up. Gerard moved back slightly. “I still don’t want to talk about it,” he added. Gerard hummed and turned his head away.
“Can…Can I ask you something?” Gerard asked in a voice quiet enough that Frank almost missed it.
“Okay,” Frank answered, worried about what it was.
“When you left…you left because you were afraid of him, right?” Frank sighed and closed his eyes. He’d said he didn’t want to talk about this. “Not because…because you didn’t want me?” Frank was quiet until he heard Gerard let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.
“I left because I had somewhere to be,” Frank answered. “And that place was with him—yes. I…you know, I wanted to stay.”
“Why?” Gerard asked.
“Because,” Frank answered, thinking over what exactly that reason was. Because he wanted protected? Because he wanted to hide? Because he loved him? That seemed to be the best answer, and the one that would make Gerard the happiest…he hoped. “Because I love you.” Gerard stiffened and Frank watched him with eyes that started to grow heavy again. God, he wished once more that he was like everyone else—healthy like every-fuckin’-body else. What good did it do to be so sick that he wasn’t able to finish a conversation before passing back out?
“You must be delirious because of your fever,” Gerard said with a sudden, forced laugh as he got off of the bed quickly.
“Gerard,” Frank said, staring after him.
“Get some rest.”
“Gerard!—I left so he wouldn’t make it worse, please.” His begging turned into a fit of coughs and he buried himself further down in the sheets as if they could somehow offer him comfort now. “I wanted to stay,” he repeated, speaking into the mattress. “I wanted to stay with you…” Frank felt the mattress shift again as Gerard sat back down. “I mean it…I love you. I’m afraid of him.” He said the last sentence in a whisper, sighing as his throat began to burn again.
“We won’t let him get to you again,” Gerard said quietly, gently stroking Frank’s hair. It was just like on tour…Gerard taking care of him even though he really had no reason to.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Frank breathed, closing his eyes again and falling into the warmth of the blankets.
“Just sleep,” Gerard said back. Frank made a sound because he no longer had the energy to speak. He tried to move his hand to grab Gerard’s, but couldn’t find it within the three inches he could get his arm to reach. He heard Gerard hum with a soft smile and suddenly felt the other man’s hand close gently over his own. “It’s okay. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Gerard really was that much better than him…he was so much more than he could ever deserve—but he was his for the taking now, wasn’t he?
Frank really hoped so…he guessed that if he woke up and Gerard was still with him then he was right.
If Gerard stayed even though Frank hadn’t stayed for him…if Gerard stayed then he would be forgiven.