Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frank has never, for one single second, given a shit about what he looks like in the comfort of his own car. 

He’s got restless energy in general, but it triples the second he has to wait for anything. Red lights? Torture. Like the one he’s sitting at right now, on the way to the apartment he and Mikey are renting. So naturally, the volume in his shitty Mazda is cranked so loud the whole car rattles like it’s trying to shake itself apart. He’s drumming against the steering wheel and screaming along to Black Flag like he’s auditioning for a job that doesn’t exist. Same shit, every time. Nothing to see here.

But today, as he’s thrashing around, he catches someone looking at him.

He stops moving and, yep. There’s a guy staring directly at him from the car in the next lane. He freezes, hands hovering in mid-air like he just got caught stealing. He makes direct eye contact.

The guy’s driving a Camry that is only slightly less shitty than his Mazda. He’s got his hands on the steering wheel and he is not even pretending not to stare. Not embarrassed. Not looking away. Just…watching. Which, okay. Rude. People are supposed to respect the sanctity of Car Time.

But Frank’s not looking away either. A little bit because this has become a staring contest and Frank is not losing, but mostly because holy shit. This guy is hot. 

His black hair is sticking out in a million directions, but it looks weirdly intentional. He’s got sharp eyes and a pixie nose and a leather jacket and a smirk that hits Frank’s gut like a ton of bricks. There are obviously details missing - they’re looking at each other through car windows - but Frank is at least 80% sure he’d let this guy ruin his fucking life.

He has no idea how much time they spend just gawking at each other, but he knows neither of them notice that the light turns green until someone behind them honks. And then the guy looks ahead, breaking the spell, and drives off.

And so does Frank, because what the hell else is he supposed to do.

He makes it to the apartment five minutes later. Mikey’s already there, and he helps Frank drag his shit in from the back of his Mazda. They talk briefly about their summer before they start making plans for the apartment, how they’re going to decorate it and how many parties they’re going to have.

Frank hates college. Everyone knows this. He’s not shy about it. He doesn’t even have a major yet, mostly because the only thing he wants to major in is music and he doesn’t want to have to justify the choice to his parents until the absolute last second, which happens to be at the end of this semester. 

But Rutgers has its perks. It’s not his parents’ house, they don’t require students to live on campus, and they made Mikey his roommate last year. 

The two words Frank would use to describe Mikey are: lanky and aloof. He and Frank didn’t have a full conversation until last November, because Mikey didn’t seem interested and Frank was, honestly, a little intimidated. Mikey always looks vaguely pissed off, and Frank assumed he was a man of few words, so he mostly tried to keep out of Mikey’s way. Until the day Mikey came home from class and Frank, who had lost track of time, was blasting Misfits and cutting the sleeves off of one of his shirts. You know, for fashion.

Mikey immediately started talking Frank’s ear off about music, which led to a conversation about movies, and then television.They realized that they were from the same hometown but they hadn’t met because Frank had gone to Catholic school and ran with a completely different crowd than Mikey. And after that they just… never stopped talking. Turns out that Mikey actually talks a whole fucking lot when he wants to. 

At the end of last year, they decided to go for it and get the apartment, which wasn’t a hard sell for either of their families because they promised they’d pay the rent themselves. 

The apartment is, quite honestly, a shithole. Tiny bedrooms, questionable bathrooms, no separation between kitchen and living room. But it has two very important things going for it: it’s off-campus, and it’s in their price range. Frank loves it the way you love an ugly dog: defensively, and with full commitment.

“If we ever need alcohol or anything, Gee can get it for us,” Mikey says as they collapse on the maroon couch Mikey picked up from the local Goodwill. 

“Sounds good. Am I ever gonna meet him or is he just gonna drop alcohol off on the doorstep like a booze fairy?” Frank has known Mikey for a year, has known about his brother for almost as long, but has never seen the guy. He’s allegedly an MFA student at Rutgers, but he never came to their dorm last year. When Frank and Mikey hung out at Mikey’s this summer, he was either at an internship in the city or in his basement, as Mikey put it, “avoiding people and responsibilities.” At this point, Frank is like 30% sure Mikey made him up.

Mikey laughs. “You’ll meet him. He’s excited I’m in an apartment now, he hates the dorms. He’s got this thing about how he’s a real adult since he has a degree and worked for Cartoon Network for a summer.”

“Well, tell him to come over, then. I’ll roll out the red carpet for such a prestigious adult.”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m fucking wiped.”

*

The next day is Wednesday, the first day of the semester, and Frank already wants to quit. His alarm goes off at nine and he smashes snooze four times like he’s personally fighting a war against it, because he is. Summer trained him to sleep until the afternoon and live like a raccoon, so having to get up before ten for Intro to American Literature feels like cruel and unusual punishment. He finally drags himself out of bed at 9:30, brushes his teeth, wrestles his hair into “not completely feral,” throws on whatever’s clean, and speeds ten minutes to campus. The only silver lining is that Past Frank had the foresight to build a schedule with just one class on Mondays and Wednesdays. Bless that guy.

He slides into the lecture hall at 9:58 and immediately heads for the back. The place is crawling with students, close to a hundred of them. Most of them are probably freshmen, because sane people knock their gen eds out in year one. Frank, on the other hand, waited until now because he hates English classes on principle. Reading books written by dead guys just because some other dead guys decided they were important is a massive waste of time. But, as his parents like to chant in unison, he needs “a fucking degree,” so here he is.

At the front of the hall, there’s a late middle aged guy wearing khakis and a bowtie and a fucking tweed jacket like a neon sign that says I AM YOUR ENGLISH PROFESSOR. He’s chatting with four people who are clearly not freshmen, maybe not even undergrads. They look older, confident, smug in that “I survived and now I own you” way. Frank squints at them, mostly bored, until one of them shifts and… holy shit.

Car Guy.

Leather jacket, messy black hair, smug face. The guy from the red light. The universe apparently decided Frank deserved a treat. Thank you, universe. Sincerely.

He’s thinking about how to introduce himself when the professor starts talking. “Good morning,” he says from the lecture podium. “You can probably guess that I’m Professor Grant. Welcome to Introduction to American Literature. I’m sure that many of you are here to fulfil a gen ed requirement, and that’s fine with me. I only ask that you keep yourselves open to fully receive the material. I understand you’re all busy, but giving literature the time and space it deserves will strengthen your convictions, expand your worldview, and might even be fun.”

Frank decides that he fucking hates Professor Grant.

A syllabus gets passed around, and Frank looks through it to realize that Introduction to American Literature is just High School English Again. He’s read (or been told to read) basically all of these books. He rolls his eyes as Professor Grant walks through the syllabus and discusses due dates, the cheating policy, and how they’re graded.

“The structure of this class will be a little different than a typical lecture, because it’s important that everyone be able to discuss the works that we’ll be reading,” he says eventually. “Every Monday, we will meet here for a standard lecture. Every Wednesday, you will meet with one of the TAs -” Professor Grant motions behind him at the four people he was talking to earlier. They’re sitting in the front row, and Frank can’t see their faces. “- and participate in a discussion of that week’s text. We will also have reflections and essays in this class, and the TAs will grade them and be available for feedback and questions. They have all taken this class, and many others with me. I trust that they will lead you well. I’ve split this class into four groups. The TAs will call out your names. If you hear yours, please head with the TA to the area they tell you.”

A girl named Leann gets up first. She seems… suspiciously peppy. She calls about twenty kids and tells them to meet her in the classroom next door.

They all file out. Then Car Guy gets up.

“Hey,” he says at the lecture podium. His voice is nasally and sharp, like he’s making fun of something whenever he talks. “I’m Gerard. Uh, it’s a nice day, right? So we’ll meet outside, in the courtyard by the front doors. Okay, James Matthews?”

He starts reading names, and Frank’s stomach is doing this dumb fluttery thing, like he’s twelve and about to get picked for dodgeball. The more names Gerard calls, the antsier Frank gets, begging the universe for another miracle.

And then: “Frank Iero?”

Frank stands, actively reminding himself to breathe. Gerard looks up from the podium and their eyes meet. Nothing changes on Gerard’s face. No flicker of recognition, no change in his smile. But Frank knows that he knows.

He wanders out with the others into the end-of-August sun and hovers at the edge of the courtyard group, buzzing with stupid energy. His brain is spinning through scenarios: Gerard saying something, Gerard asking him out, Gerard maybe pushing him against that tree over there.

When Gerard eventually does join the group, he throws on aviator sunglasses. They’re a little polarized, so Frank can’t see where he’s looking. Which, actually? is probably for the best, because the entire fantasy he’s building in his head is ridiculous. They stared at each other at a red light. That’s not the basis for a crush.

Although, Frank thinks as he watches Gerard pull a cigarette out of his back pocket with a smirk, Frank would probably be into him at this point regardless. He’s got that leather jacket on, and his jeans are tight around his legs and ripped at the knees. Predictable but devastating. The group of girls nearby are already swooning. Figures.

“Does anyone mind?” Gerard asks, waving his cigarette as he steps in front of everyone. No one says anything, so he pulls a lighter out of his front pocket. “Cool. Everyone sit.”

Once everyone is sitting in a little group on the grass, Gerard sitting in front of them, he starts in on introductions. “Alright guys, I’m not gonna keep you today because it’s the first day and I don’t actually have a lot to say right now. I’m Gerard, like I said. Uh, I’m in the Visual Arts graduate program, but I minored in English in undergrad, so I took a lot of classes with Professor Grant and he’s really cool.”

Frank notices that Gerard talks out of the side of his mouth. That’s cute. What’s not cute is that Gerard seems to be avoiding looking at Frank, although maybe he’s just imagining it.

“Let’s see,” he says after taking a drag of his cigarette. “Oh, I have office hours. Mondays after class, noon to two. If you want to talk any time outside of that, just shoot me an email. I’m always around. I have my own schoolwork and shit, but, uh, I’ll pencil you in. This is my first time as a TA, so I’m honestly just gonna wing it for the first few weeks. Bear with me.” He honest to god giggles, and Frank is so into it it’s sickening. He’s already planning his fake reasons to “drop by” office hours every single week.

“Also, whenever the weather’s nice I’m going to do discussions outside so I can smoke. If you’re a smoker, go ahead, I obviously don’t mind. Okay, that’s it. Uh, if you have any questions or anything, just let me know. My email’s on the syllabus and I’ll hang out here for a minute. Class dismissed, I guess.”

Gerard finally, finally turns to Frank, and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and Frank thinks about staying back for one single second. But then a group of five girls rushes up to ask about the class or the English department or who cares what else, and Frank decides against it. He’ll see Gerard again. He’ll have his chance.

Which doesn’t mean he’s going to be chill about it. Frank is not a chill guy. Thankfully Mikey knows this, so he doesn’t even flinch when Frank bursts into the apartment to declare, “I’m going to fuck my English TA.”

He just pauses whatever he was watching on his laptop and says, “It’s good to have goals.”

“He’s so hot,” Frank whines as he flops onto the couch, swinging his legs so  they’re in Mikey’s lap. “I was being a fucking dork in my car on the way here yesterday and this guy was staring at me from inside his car. Like a creep, right? But also gorgeous. But I was like, whatever, never gonna see him again. Except I did. He’s my TA for English. And he’s beautiful and has this leather jacket and this hair -”

“Oh no,” Mikey deadpans, but he’s grinning.

“What?”

“This is painfully like you,” he says. “A hot older guy into, like, literature and shit? Let me guess, is he broody?”

Frank thinks. “Probably,” he says finally. “Actually, he’s a little awkward.”

“Dark hair? Smokes?”

“Yes to both.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“I am not!” Frank lies, badly. Gerard does mark all the boxes. Older, artsy, pale, dark hair, dark clothes. Objectively hot, but also a little cute. 

“He’s going to fuck me up,” Frank groans. “And I’m going to let him.”

“Please don’t,” Mikey says dryly. “You let Anthony fuck you up last year and I had to listen to you moan about it for three months.”

“Not like that,” Frank assures him. “I’m not dating anyone this year. I told you that once I got over Anthony and I fucking meant it. I’m just going to let this guy have his way with me. I bet he’s amazing in bed. Like, I would let him do unspeakable things to me. Unspeakable.”

Mikey quirks an eyebrow. “Wow. Inspirational. You should take up poetry.”

“Shut up. You’ll understand when you see him.”

“Can’t wait. Speaking of meeting, Gee’s coming over tonight.”

Frank lifts his head to squint at Mikey. “For real?”

“Yeah, he’s bringing beer. And maybe food. He asked if we needed snacks or whatever and I’m not turning down free food. I told him all about your various restrictions.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet the mystery Way.”

“Hopefully he lives up to the hype. I was watching Spinal Tap. Want me to start it over?”

“Yes please.”

They get comfortable on the couch to watch the movie, and afterwards Frank decides he needs a nap, because 9:30 is way too early in the morning. He sleeps for way too long. Mikey is slamming on his door around 6, telling him to get the fuck up because Gee’s here and neither of you think the other one exists.

Which Frank can’t argue with.

He stretches and rubs sleep out of his eyes, runs his fingers through his hair and hopes it looks decent, and wanders into the living room still half-asleep.

But he wakes up pretty fucking fast.

Because while Mikey is putting beer in the fridge, Gerard - TA Gerard - Car Guy Gerard - is sitting on his couch, a cosmic joke in the flesh.Gerard is lounging on their couch like he owns it, legs spread, one arm draped lazily across the back cushion. When their eyes meet, his mouth curves into that smirk, the one that feels like it was made specifically to fuck with Frank. 

And Frank? Yeah, he’s dead.

“Frank, this is Gee. Gee, Frank,” Mikey says, chipper, as he gives Frank a can of Bud Light.

Gee. Like, G. Like, G for Gerard.

Frank is fucked. He prays that the universe is still on his side and Gerard doesn’t mention that they know each other.

“Yeah, we know each other,” Gerard says, because Frank’s luck has run out.

“Oh?” Mikey says, handing Gerard a beer and sitting next to him on the couch while Frank sits on their ratty recliner. “How?”

“Weird coincidence, I’m his TA for English.” He grins like the motherfucking Cheshire Cat, like he knows exactly how unbearable this is.

As Gerard takes a sip of his beer, Mikey turns to Frank with an expression that could actually kill a person. “Big coincidence,” he says slowly, still staring at Frank, who immediately remembers his declaration that he wanted Gerard to do unspeakable things to him and tries to melt into the couch. He looks into his beer can, wondering if there’s a way he can off himself with it.

“Yeah, hey man,” Frank manages, and kudos to him for sounding even a little bit normal.

Gerard looks infuriatingly comfortable. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your name on my roster.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, but your brother has literally never once called you ‘Gerard.’”

“Oh, yeah,” Gerard laughs. “He only does when he’s really pissed off at me. Which happens more often than you’d think.”

“Yeah, well, you steal my shit all the time,” Mikey says flatly, finally looking more like his normal self. But Frank isn’t fooled. He knows this isn’t over.

“What’s mine is yours, baby bro.” Gerard ruffles Mikey’s hair, and Frank is struck by how different he is here than he was in class. He’s not awkward at all. He’s confident, magnetic. Incredibly hot. And it’s clear that he and Mikey are best friends. Which is nice, except Frank’s pretty sure he can’t fuck his best friend’s best friend.

“That’s not how it works,” Mikey pouts. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Probably going to Pete’s. It’s the first day of the semester and I just have studio time tomorrow so I'm pretty ready to have a night out.” He winks at Frank and says, “Don’t tell any of my impressionable students.”

Frank just nods.

“What are you doing in that class anyway?” Gerard asks. “It’s basically all freshmen.”

“Yeah, I just didn’t want to take it last year,” Frank responds. “Not really a literature guy.”

“I’ll make sure to change your mind,” Gerard smirks, and then he fucking winks again.

Mikey doesn’t miss a beat. “Is something wrong with your eye?”

Gerard grins. “Nah,” he says simply before standing up and downing the rest of his beer. “I should run. Just wanted to say hi and meet your roommate. Don’t think this means I’m giving you special treatment, Frank.”

And there’s a tone there. A very specific fucking tone that shoots down his back. He almost says something like what kind of special treatment? But Mikey is, unfortunately, right there and, more unfortunately, related to Gerard. 

So he just says, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Gerard breathes a laugh, then says his goodbyes and he’s out the door.

It takes Mikey .2 seconds to round on him.

“Oh my god. Oh my fucking god!”

“I didn’t know, Mikey, okay?” Frank says. “I’m not gonna do anything.”

“But you want to! You told me! You told me he was going to fuck you up. My fucking brother, oh my god!”

“Mikey, I didn’t know. Obviously I’m not going to fuck your brother.”

“I don’t believe you. You are insatiable. You’re famously terrible with self-control.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never wanted my best friend’s brother, so there’s that.”

“Frank, I’m not telling you not to. It will be extremely weird for me, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“The first time - what?” Frank asks. He can’t mean that Gerard has hooked up with Mikey’s friends before. Can he?

“Everyone has a crush on Gee,” Mikey answers, which seems like a confirmation of Frank’s suspicions. “Just - he might fuck you up. I know you and I know Gee. And he doesn’t date.”

“Okay, I understand,” Frank tries to joke. “Your brother is a slut.”

“Yeah,” Mikey says seriously. 

“Oh,” Frank replies, taken aback.

“Look, I love both of you. I can’t stop you from doing… whatever. But just be careful.”

“Haven’t we gone through this?” Frank asks. “I’m not even dating anyone this year anyway.” 

“Right,” Mikey mutters, rolling his eyes as he heads to the fridge for another beer.

Chapter Text

The end of August should mean the end of summer, but September didn’t get the memo. It’s still miserably hot, and Frank hates every second of it. He’s a jeans guy and he can’t keep a pair of sunglasses on his person to save his life. Summer is hell, and Rutgers is its own personal circle of it.

This is never more true than when Gerard makes them do their stupid little discussions outside in the courtyard. Frank hates it. Grass stains, bugs, sweat, the whole deal. Sure, he likes looking at Gerard (along with seemingly everyone else), but American Lit is so brain-meltingly dull it’s actively sandblasting his crush down to something manageable. Gerard sits there, chain-smoking, nodding sagely while the girls in class gush about Leaves of Grass like they’ve just unlocked the secrets of the universe. Gerard always nods at them like whatever they’ve said is very smart, and they eat that shit up, and Frank can tell Gerard loves it. There’s this weird pseudo-intellectual feedback loop happening in front of his eyes on Wednesdays that makes him want to hurl. The only good thing about it is that he can smoke. 

Gerard hasn’t been back to their apartment in the two weeks since his first visit. Frank doesn’t really know what to make of that. Mikey said Gerard goes through hermit phases where he avoids everyone, which… fine, relatable. People contain multitudes or whatever, but Frank also can’t help noticing that Gerard’s still hanging out with Mikey. They’ve gotten lunch and dinner a few times, and Mikey has gone to his apartment at least once to hang out, so Frank wonders if it maybe has to do with… him. 

Although he’s not sure why Gerard would be avoiding him. He saw the way Gerard looked at him in the car, heard the flirtatious lilt in his voice when he came over. He’s pretty sure that they both know that Frank is down for whatever, and apparently Gerard has no problem hooking up with Mikey’s friends. Maybe Gerard is put off by the fact that he’s Frank’s TA. Which is stupid. And annoying. 

And fine. There are other guys.

Like Anthony, for example.

Which, sure, is not exactly random. They’re both music majors, chained to the same classes and practice rooms, so running into him is inevitable. But Frank’s always had this dumb feeling with Anthony, like fate keeps tossing them at each other. They dated last year until Anthony cheated on him with some fucking twink at the start of spring semester and sent Frank spiraling. Thank fuck for Mikey pulling him out of it. Then Frank gave up on relationships and hooked up with basically any guy that looked at him in April and May, which was incredibly fun, and he continued the pattern at home over the summer because why the fuck not. 

So it’s kind of funny, in a weird way, that Mikey called Gerard a slut like it was some kind of warning. Frank wonders if Mikey told Gerard the same about him. Probably. Fair’s fair.

Honestly? Frank would hook up with Anthony again. It’s all water under the bridge at this point. Yes, he loved the guy, and yes, he was heartbroken, but the whole ordeal feels like so long ago that he just cannot be bothered to be upset anymore. Anyway, he’d be a useful distraction. As it stands, all he can think about is Gerard and that smirk and the way he talks out of the side of his mouth, and if Gerard is avoiding him? Then Frank really, really needs to get laid.

A few weeks into the semester, Frank is at work at Above Ground, the cafe down the block from his apartment. It’s a miracle the place hasn’t gone under, because Frank has literally never seen it busy. But it’s cozy, and the owner bakes her own pastries to sell, and he works with this guy Adam who is very cool, if a little quiet, and the owner doesn’t care if they fuck around or stay on their phones until a customer comes up. Plus, free coffee. It’s Frank’s dream job.

He’s been complaining about his classes for at least the last half hour. “Like, I don’t understand why any of this matters,” he says, leaning on the counter with his back to the cafe as he watches Adam make them iced lattes. “Who cares about transcendentalism or whatever? And you can totally tell who wants to be an English major, they’re constantly dropping these brilliant insights about how Walt Whitman was gay.”

“I’m pretty sure he was actually gay,” Adam says.

“Not you too,” Frank groans.

“Well, he’s right,” a voice behind him says.

Frank whips around and is face-to-face with Gerard, all toothy grin and messy hair. “Complaining about American Lit at work? Man, am I that bad a teacher?”

“Teaching Assistant,” Frank corrects. “And I told you, it’s just not my thing.”

“Well, I haven’t read your reflection on transcendentalism yet, but I’m glad to know you’re not going to write about how all the authors were gay. I think I’ve read that particular paper five times already.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Seems like the gateway to being an English major is acting like you’re the first genius in history to discover homosexual undertones in books. Like you can’t find that shit in literally everything ever written.”

Gerard barks out a laugh. It’s high pitched and sharp, too loud for the empty cafe. Frank realizes he has never heard Gerard actually laugh. And he realizes that he actually really likes it.

“Not a bad observation,” Gerard says. “Can I get an americano? Extra shot.”

“No problem,” Frank says, punching the order into the register and praying he’s not blushing too much.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Gerard says, leaning casually on the counter like this is just some normal encounter and not completely wrecking Frank’s ability to function.

“Yeah, I just started this month. Even if I hadn’t, there’d be no reason for you to know.”

“Oh, I know,” Gerard says smoothly. “I just meant that I come here a lot. And trust me, I would’ve noticed you behind the counter.”

Frank looks at Gerard, at that smirk that looks like it was meant just for him, and says, “$4.92.”

Gerard pays. He chats with Frank while Adam makes the drink, stupid shit about his other classes and Mikey. When Adam sets the cup down, Gerard wraps a hand around it, tosses Frank a look that’s very hard to interpret, and says, “See ya ‘round, Frankie.” Then he saunters out.

“Are you fucking that guy?” Adam asks immediately.

“What? No,” Frank replies. “That’s Mikey’s brother.”

“Sorry, dude, but there was some pretty heavy eye-fucking going on. And he was flirting hard. I mean, Frankie?”

“You have no clue what you’re talking about,” Frank snaps, turning away before Adam can clock the smile tugging at his mouth.

*

It’s Friday a few days later, and Frank is wrecked. Like, can-barely-keep-his-eyes-open wrecked. This is bad. He’s usually only this tired right before he gets sick, and when he gets sick, it’s never just a cold. It’s something more akin to the plague. He wants to go out with Mikey, but he decides to be responsible and rest (see: lay under his comforter for three hours and pray that he doesn’t get some horrible virus that almost kills him). 

He queues up Neon Genesis Evangelion on his laptop, settles into couch mode, and figures he’ll ride out the night right here. Around ten, Mikey texts that he’s “definitely not coming home.” Frank is not surprised. Gerard and Frank might be sluts, but Mikey is no better.

By 11, Frank decides this sad little affair should at least move into the bedroom. He’s halfway upright when someone starts pounding on the front door loud enough to sound like a police raid. His first thought: Cool, this is how I die. But then he hears a voice slurring through the wood:

“Mikeyyyyy, lemme in dude.”

Frank opens the door, and Gerard almost faceplants into the apartment.

“Oh hey, Frankie,” Gerard grins, somehow managing to wobble into a standing position. His eyes are glassy. “Mikey in?”

“He’s not, actually,” Frank says, cursing the fact that he’s in threadbare pajamas. “He’s… not back till tomorrow.”

Gerard wiggles his eyebrows like a cartoon villain. It’s absurdly cute. “Good for him.”

“You good? I can call him. He’d probably come back.”

“Nah,” Gerard says. “Just need to sit for a sec.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Frank says, stepping aside so Gerard can stumble to the couch. 

“Man,” he says, “I love that you have an apartment. One more crash pad.” He notices the comforter under him, yanks it out, and burritos himself up without a second thought. Great. Frank’s going to freeze to death tonight because he doesn’t have another comforter and there’s no way he’s taking that one away.

“Got a lot of those?” Frank asks, filling a cup with tap water before moving back to the couch.

“Oh yeah. It’s like an underground system of - ooh! Evangelion!”

“Yeah, you wanna watch for a minute? Drink this.”

Gerard downs the water in one go, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in a move that should not be erotic. It absolutely is.

“Yes,” he says.

“Cool. Do you want me to start this one over or?”

“No need, I’ve seen this show a million times.”

“Me too,” Frank whispers, his eyes not moving from the screen of his laptop.

“It’s so good, right? Kinda fucked up but so good. And the art? Insane.”

“Is this the kind of art you do?”

Gerard snorts. “No, I’m not that fuckin’ good. I did work at Cartoon Network this summer, though.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Sounds cooler than it is, probably.”

Frank is quiet, because he thinks maybe Gerard will elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Didn’t realize you were a stay-at-home guy.”

“Gotta take a break every now and then,” Frank replies, deciding that diving into a primer on his deeply terrible immune system is not good drunk talk. “You seem like you had a good Friday night.”

“Yeah. I left earlier than I wanted, but I’m trying this thing where I don’t drink myself half to death and wake up with no memory of the night before.”

“That’s… probably good.”

“I used to be terrible about it,” Gerard says. It seems like he’s rambling a little, but Frank’s not going to stop him. “Undergrad? I would get trashed all the fucking time. Not healthy. But now I just get a regular amount of drunk a regular amount of times, and I have room to have a fucking life, which is very cool. I can do things like be your TA for English, and get a paycheck so I can afford to get a fucking art degree.”

“Is that why you’re a TA?”

Gerard shrugs. “Yes and no. I mean, it’s nice to have a paycheck, and they cut tuition down a lot for TAs. Which is good, ‘cause my parents can’t send me and Mikey to school at the same time. But I also just like books a lot. Telling stories. Professor Grant’s cool, I like hanging out with him. So like, it’s a win-win.”

“You’re a very chatty drunk,” Frank tells him. It earns him another one of those fantastic pitchy laughs.

“I guess so,” Gerard says. “Sorry, I can shut up if you want me to.”

“Please don’t. Hopefully you’ll say something really embarrassing and I can blackmail you into giving me As on all my papers.”

Gerard looks at Frank, his eyes sparkling. “You’re kind of dangerous, huh?”

Frank realizes with abrupt clarity that this is the first time that he’s ever been alone with Gerard. This is also the closest they’ve ever been, and from here Frank can see how bright his eyes are, how pink his lips are against his pale skin.

“Hey, I’m just trying to get an A,” Frank jokes, but it comes out kind of husky. He clears his throat. He thinks about that moment in his car last month, and he thinks about the cafe earlier this week, and he thinks about Mikey, and he turns back to his laptop. “So any time you want to spit out those embarrassing anecdotes.”

“Maybe another night,” Gerard laughs quietly, like he’s talking to himself.

They watch three episodes before they’re both nodding off on the couch. Frank snaps up from dozing a little after 1. “Alright, dude, I’m going to bed,” he says. “You staying over?”

“Would you absolutely kill me if I said yes?”

“Not at all. I’ll grab you Mikey’s pillow. You need anything else? More water?”

“No thanks, mom. I know where the water is.”

“Snippy,” Frank complains, but he grabs Mikey’s pillow and another glass of water and leaves Gerard to sleep on the couch under his comforter. Which is fine, because he steals Mikey’s.

Frank wakes up around 10:30 the next morning to the front door opening. He hears Mikey shuffling around in the front as he gets out of bed. When he gets to the living room, Mikey’s sitting on the couch looking at a Post It. Gerard’s not there.

“Gee stayed over?” Mikey asks, holding the Post It out to Frank.

Frankie, 

Thks for letting me crash your Friday. You have good taste.

G

“Yeah, he came by around 11. He was kind of drunk,” Frank explains.

“Okay. He wasn’t a bother?”

“No, man, he’s your brother. He’s cool.”

“Cool. Cool. One more quick q. Who the fuck is Frankie?”

*

Something shifts after that Friday, and by mid-September, Gerard’s a fixture in the apartment. He shows up with pizza boxes and six-packs, takes up half the couch, and yells with Mikey about multiverse theory or whether Mulholland Drive is better than Blue Velvet or how their cousin needs to stop procreating like a rabbit. Frank will come home from work or guitar lessons and just… there’s Gerard, all messy hair and loud opinions.

It’s fun when Gerard’s around. Stupid, easy fun. It makes both brothers seem younger, like they’ve time-warped back into being teenagers who stay up too late and yell about movies, even though Mikey is about to be twenty and Gerard is almost 25. Frank can’t help feeling like he’s getting away with something, like he’s got access to a private version of them that nobody else gets to see. Gerard especially. There are so many versions of him: the awkward TA, the confident MFA student, the dweeb on their couch. Frank likes all of it way too much. Which is why he works really fucking hard not to think about it.

The best way to do that, he knows, is to keep his routine. Which, of course, is to sit and stew in classes, half-ass his homework, go out every Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and get laid as much as possible. Thankfully, Mikey has the same routine, except he mostly goes home with girls, so there’s no competition. The weather is finally turning, so Frank can dress in a way he knows makes him look good. Skinny jeans, boots, flannels, tattoos on display, hair falling just right. He’s not blind, he knows he looks good. 

And the pool is much better this year. Last year, he and Mikey went to undergrad parties and the really awful college bars that never checked IDs and charged $10 for draft beer that tasted like it got wrung through a dishrag. But when Gerard starts coming around more, he also starts feeding Mikey intel on which of his bars aren’t checking IDs. Suddenly Frank’s in places with clean bathrooms, real cocktails, and decent music.

And lots of older guys.

Guys Gerard’s age or older, usually artists or writers who like the ink and melt when he mentions guitar. Who think it’s charming that he’s nineteen. They buy him drinks, talk at him about whatever novel they’re definitely never going to finish writing, and take him home. It’s not anything serious, it never is, but Frank doesn’t mind. He always pulls when he’s in one of Gerard’s bars, and he loves it.

He and Mikey avoid Gerard while they’re out. That’s the unspoken deal. Nobody wants to run into family while they’re out being messy. And honestly, Frank doesn’t want to see Gerard with other people. But sometimes Frank looks up mid-flirt, mid-drink, and finds Gerard already watching him. Dark eyes steady across the room, like he’s been tracking Frank. It makes something sharp curl low in Frank’s stomach. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s nothing. Gerard pulls as much as Frank does, and they both go home with other people, anyway. Whenever he catches Gerard looking, he just blinks and goes back to whatever thirty-something hipster’s talking in his ear, pretending like those eyes don’t split him open.

Toward the end of the month, he’s at Backspace, a deeply pretentious bar that Gerard loves. Dark wood, leather booths, every cocktail named after a book. It’s the kind of place Frank should hate, but it’s crawling with angsty wannabe-writers, which makes it prime hunting ground. Tonight’s no exception. Some guy is pressing him up against the wall in a dark corner, kissing him fast and messy. He doesn’t remember the guy’s name, but he’ll catch it later. He does know that he’s a fantastic kisser, and the way the sleeves of his button-down are pushed up to his elbows is incredibly hot.

“Another round?” Sleeves whispers against Frank’s mouth.

“You paying?” Frank shoots back. He knows the type. This guy lives to bankroll the starving-artist fantasy.

Sleeves laughs, just like Frank knew he would. “Sure, baby.”

Frank grins, wriggles free. “Gonna grab a smoke.”

“Don’t take too long.”

Outside, he’s thankful for the cool air that hits him. He lights up, taking a long inhale, preparing to drift into the usual routine: drink, kiss, fuck, forget. He tells himself it’ll be fun. 

“Look who finally came up for air,” a sharp voice says beside him. Frank’s body lights up like a struck match.

“You watching me?” Frank shoots back, turning just in time to watch Gerard pull a cigarette from his pack with his mouth. Frank swallows hard. Jesus.

“Hard not to,” Gerard says easily, lighting up. “This isn’t normally the kind of place where people make out against the wall.”

“They’re just letting anyone in these days.”

Gerard chuckles. “Guess so.” He takes a drag, red cherry against pale skin, and Frank notices the can of Coke in his other hand.

“Not drinking tonight?” Frank asks.

“No,” Gerard says. “It’s been a fucking month, with the start of school and everything, and I’ve had a couple of not great nights. Figured I needed a break.”

Frank nods, not sure what to do with the weight in Gerard’s voice. 

“I still like coming out, though,” Gerard continues. “Gets me out of my head.”

“You been in your head a lot lately?”

“A little.”

“Me too,” Frank blurts before he can stop himself. Immediately, regret coils in his ribs.

“Oh?” Gerard’s eyebrow ticks up, probing.

Frank can’t tell him the truth. He can’t say that his head is full of Gerard, full of crush-shaped fantasies and panic about getting over it. Instead, he says, “My parents aren’t really getting along. They keep bitching to me about each other. It’s exhausting.”

“That sucks,” Gerard says simply, exhaling smoke into the night air.

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t talk about this with a lot of people, for a couple of reasons. The main one being that when he starts, he can’t stop. “They were really happy when I was growing up, you know? They loved each other and they loved me. And then when I went to college, which I didn’t even want to fucking do, something changed. It’s like the only thing they have in common is me, but they didn’t realize it until I left. So now they just… don’t talk to each other. It’s like a powder keg at home.”

Gerard studies him, expression unreadable. “That why you were always at our place this summer?”

Frank blinks. “You knew I was there?”

“Yeah, dude. The basement's not soundproof.”

“Why didn’t you come upstairs? You and Mikey are tight.”

Gerard shrugs. “I wasn’t really up to meeting new people this summer,” he says around his cigarette. “Guess I had to be ready.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you were up to meeting me this fall.”

“Wouldn’t have had much of a choice,” Gerard grins. “Leaves of Grass would’ve dragged us together eventually."

Frank chuckles and takes a drag of his cigarette.

“I am sorry about your parents, that sounds hard.”

“Thanks.”

The silence that follows hums. Neither of them moves. 

Then Gerard tips his chin at Frank’s hands. “When’d you start getting tattoos?” he asks.

“Senior year.”

“Shit. A good Catholic boy like you?”

“I only ever pretended to be a good Catholic boy.”

Gerard chuckles, warm and low. “Yeah. I believe that.” He reaches out suddenly, catches Frank’s hand, tilts it in the light to read his knuckles. The touch burns.

“When’d you get these?”

Frank tries very hard to breathe as he says, “Last Halloween.”

“You’re a big Halloween guy.”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Seriously?” Gerard says. He drops Frank’s hand, which sucks, but he looks very excited, which doesn’t. “That’s sick.”

“Yeah. Some of my friend’s parents didn’t like it. Pagan holiday and all that. It gave me Catholic teen street cred.”

“I bet you were such a bad boy,” Gerard says, his eyes flicking up to meet Frank’s, sharp and dark.

Frank swallows. “It’s a good thing we didn’t know each other.”

“You would have been a huge problem for me.” Gerard’s grin is… delicious. Frank’s body goes warm. Maybe he could, Frank thinks. Maybe they could. 

Gerard steps away and brings his cigarette back to his mouth. “I’m surprised you’re hooking up with all these guys.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, his voice breathy. This is it. Gerard’s gonna bring him home.

“Yeah,” Gerard says instead. “You’re not really a hookup guy.”

Frank feels like the floor drops out from under him. “Um.”

“Like, you’re a relationship guy,” Gerard continues, unaware that he’s just given Frank whiplash. “As in, you seem like you want to be in a relationship, and also you’re boyfriend material. I just worry -”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Frank cuts in. Gerard just blinks.

Frank scoffs, heat rising in his face. “You’re worried? I’m not a fucking kid.”

“I know that. But you’re messing around with these guys, and you’re not getting what you need from them.”

“Why do you think you know what I am?” Frank asks, trying very hard not to shout. He doesn’t ask all of the other questions rattling around behind his teeth: How does Gerard know what he needs? Why is he inviting Frank to these bars if he’s so worried? If Gerard knows what he needs, why won’t he just give it to him? “I know exactly what I’m doing. I want what they give me.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, stomping out his cigarette, shrugging. 

“And who are you to say anything about casual sex? Everyone knows you get around.” 

Gerard looks surprised, but only for a second. Then he settles into an easy smile and says, “Have a good night, Frankie.” And he goes back into the bar.

Frank takes a deep breath, collects himself, and walks back to Sleeves. He will have a good night. Just like all the others. He ignores that feeling in the back of his brain like the script isn’t landing right all of a sudden. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Chapter Text

“Okay, who’s coming to your birthday?” Mikey asks, halfway through Two Towers.

“Mikes, it’s the beginning of October,” Frank says, sprawled on the couch. “I don’t know. Whoever.”

“Hey, it’s my apartment too. I’d like to know who’s going to be in here.”

“You throwing a party?” Gerard asks from the recliner, doing a great impression of someone who hasn’t been been listening intently to the conversation. “Am I invited?”

“You have to be. You’re supplying the alcohol,” Frank shoots back.

“Mm. See, I don’t know if it’s ethical to ply my students with booze.”

“Jesus, Gerard, you’re a TA. And anyway, I’m not inviting anyone from American Lit.”

“You’ve got such a vendetta against that class.” Gerard leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s it going to take to change your mind?”

“Maybe a better grade than a C on my next paper.”

“I asked for six pages, and you gave me three.” Gerard’s grin cuts across his face. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d fail you for not knowing how to count.”

“Excuse me,” Mikey says loudly. “I appreciate that you’re dying to suck each other’s faces, but can we stay on topic? Frank. Party?”

Frank ignores Mikey’s comment but still clocks Gerard’s blush. “I don’t know, okay? It’s four weeks away. All I know is I don’t want costumes, and I don’t want freshmen.”

“I’m on board with both of those.”

“Wait, hold up. You’re throwing a party on Halloween weekend with no costumes?” Gerard asks, eyebrows up.

“I’m turning twenty. This is an adult party.”

“Oh, sure,” Gerard says. “I’ll bring wine and pâté.”

“Jesus,” Mikey grumbles before stalking off to his room.

Gerard smirks after him, then abandons the recliner for the couch, dropping into the cushion right beside Frank. “For the record,” he says, “I’m not sorry about the C. I told you not to expect special treatment.”

“Honestly? I barely tried. The C was special treatment.”

Gerard chuckles. The movie plays on, battle sounds filling the silence between them. After a few minutes, he pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”

Frank blinks. “What?”

“Yeah. In case of emergency or whatever. I can’t believe we don’t have each other’s numbers yet.”

Frank smirks, grabbing the phone and punching in his digits. “You know, there are at least five girls and two guys in American Lit who would kill to be having this conversation right now.”

Gerard’s grin sharpens. “Well. Maybe I do give you some special treatment.”

*

Frank doesn’t know if he actually expected Gerard to start blowing up his phone, but when he doesn’t, it stings in a way Frank doesn’t want to think about. After a week of having each other’s numbers, they’ve exchanged a whopping three texts:

Gerard: hey it’s Gee

Frank: I’m giving everyone in class this number

Gerard: pls don’t

That’s it. No “what’s up,” no “how’s your day,” not even a stupid meme. 

Frank tells himself he doesn’t care. Gerard’s number isn’t burning a hole in his pocket, waiting to be used. He and Gerard flirt. Fine. It’s nothing. Friends flirt all the time. Who cares if his stomach flips every time Gerard smirks at him? Who cares if he blushes like a fucking freshman whenever Gerard’s eyes catch his across the classroom?

He doesn’t care. They’re just friends. That’s cool. That’s so cool. Frank loves the way things are going. That’s why he’s holed up in the practice room three hours after jazz ensemble, hammering through scales until his fingertips are raw, doing absolutely everything to avoid going home. Because his life is absolutely fucking perfect.

Eventually, though, his body betrays him by way of his stomach growling so loud it reverberates against the walls. He packs up his shit and heads out the door. Straight into Anthony fucking Green.

“Shit, sorry,” Anthony says, stepping back. Then recognition clicks. “Oh, hey, Frank.”

“Hey, man.” Frank hikes his guitar case higher up on his shoulder. This is significantly more awkward than he expected. But then, he hasn’t talked to Anthony directly since last year. He’s just watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what it would be like to kiss him again, to make it meaningless this time.

“How, uh, how’ve you been?”

“Good. Pretty good.”

“I haven’t seen you around, really. Out, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. Just trying out different places now.” Different places, different people.

“Cool. You doing jazz ensemble?”

“Yeah. You doing vocal?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation should end there. Like, that’s a good place to stop. Clean break, no harm, no foul. But Frank doesn’t move, and neither does Anthony. Frank’s brain, traitor that it is, supplies the memory of Anthony’s mouth, how wet it was whenever they kissed. 

“Listen,” Anthony says suddenly, rushing it out. “Me and Tucker are trying to start a band. We could use a guitarist, and I know you’re good. I don’t know if that’s weird, since we… whatever. But I think it could be fun.”

Frank chokes out a laugh. “That’s sudden.”

“Is it? Fuck, sorry.”

“No, no worries.” And he means it, weirdly. Tucker’s solid, Anthony’s a good singer, and a band would be fun. That’s the part that matters. It doesn’t matter that it would pull him out of the apartment more, or that it would tether him closer to Anthony. Those things don’t matter at all when he says, “That actually sounds really cool.”

Anthony’s face lights up. “Wait, for real? That’s rad. I’m dying to play stuff that’s actually, like, fun. I’ll text you this week and we can figure out when we want to get together.”

“Sounds good, dude. Talk to you soon.”

He’s buzzing on the way to the car and on the drive home. He doesn’t check his texts until he’s parked in front of the apartment. He has two new ones.

Gerard: hey where are you?? I brought vegan pizza and everything

Mikey: Gee is being a fucking menace. When are you coming home

Frank stares at the screen. He’s irritated, but he can’t stop the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Yeah, the band is a good idea.

*

Trying to get over a crush on Gerard is fucking impossible when he’s literally always around. It’s insane Frank knew Mikey for a whole year without meeting him, because now Gerard’s in his space all the time, as inescapable as furniture.

Frank doesn’t like school, but that doesn’t mean he’s not busy. He goes to class, sits through lessons and ensemble rehearsals, works shifts at Above Ground, and he and Anthony and Tucker are practicing twice a week. He’s still keeping up his habit of crawling into anyone’s bed who looks at him too long. October fills itself up, and Frank’s at home for maybe two hours a day. And when he is, Gerard’s always there.

Which would be fine, except Gerard is also in American Lit and, somehow, also at Above Ground whenever Frank works. He claims it’s easier to grade in a cafe than at home where all his art stuff is. He usually spreads out on the counter by the espresso machine, chatting away to Adam and Frank while they pull shots and steam milk. Adam is charmed, because Gerard charms everyone with that stupid smile and those stupid hazel eyes glinting from behind his stupid hair. Adam is so charmed that he doesn’t understand why Frank starts rolling his eyes whenever Gerard breezes into the cafe and snaps at him whenever he makes a flirty comment. But Adam doesn’t get how brutal it is to try and shake a crush that won’t get the fuck out of your face. Gerard’s gorgeous and funny and completely unattainable, and it would matter a hell of a lot less if Frank ever had room to breathe.

And Mikey, with his little digs, his smug asides, is not helping. Neither is Gerard’s maddening calm in the face of them, like it doesn’t even register.

A couple weeks before Frank’s birthday, he’s hanging back with Anthony after practice. Tucker left already, and lately it’s been happening like this: Frank lingering because he doesn’t want to go home, Anthony lingering because he doesn’t want to leave Frank. They’re bullshitting about tattoos when Anthony points at the woman inked on Frank’s forearm and says, “I always loved that one.”

Anthony’s flirting, Frank knows. He welcomes it. He pushes it, even though he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea. 

“I have the artist’s card at my apartment if you want to come over and grab it.”

Anthony smirks. It’s nothing like Gerard’s. Frank is surprised that a smirk can look so… innocent. “Like, right now?”

Anthony follows Frank back to his apartment. They make eyes at each other up the stairs. Frank is half-sure he’s going to go through with it, until he opens the door and sees Gerard and Mikey on the couch.

He’s not surprised that Gerard is here. He is surprised when he realizes he expected this. That he maybe wanted this.

Both of them glance up. Matching eyebrow raises. Only, Frank knows what each of them are thinking. Gerard is surprised, but Mikey is pissed.

“Anthony,” he says, icy.

“Hey, Mikey.” Anthony shifts, pretending he’s not uncomfortable.

“Anthony, this is Gerard,” Frank says as he shrugs his guitar off of his shoulder. “Mikey’s brother. Sorry, didn’t know you’d be here.”

“No worries,” Gerard says, smiling. His voice is strained. Frank can hear it, and he likes that he hears it.

“Anyway,” Frank says, pushing through, “I just need to grab Anthony my tattoo artist’s card. We’ll be in my room.” He motions for Anthony to follow him.

“Don’t be too long,” Mikey says. “Gerard’s making dinner.”

Gerard flicks him a look. Mikey fires one right back. Frank knows what that means: Gerard’s not cooking shit, but he’s gonna go along with it. 

“Not enough for four people, though,” Mikey adds, sharp. “Sorry, Anthony.”

Anthony shifts again, hands shoved in his pockets. “It’s fine. I can get the card another time.”

“No, dude, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s cool. Just bring it to practice. Maybe we can hang out soon, though.” He says it directly to Mikey, pointed, then tosses in, “At my place next time.”

Frank sighs. It’s over before it even started, and dealing with all this unspoken bullshit is exhausting. “Okay. I’ll text you.”

The door clicks behind Anthony, and Mikey immediately snaps, “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“Mikey, don’t start,” Frank fires back, collapsing into the recliner.

“Out of all the guys at this fucking school, you want to go back to that? I say this with love, Frank. You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I’m not going back to anything. It’s nothing, it’s  easy.”

“What’s happening?” Gerard cuts in.

“Frank wants to hook up with that asshole even though he fucked Frank up for months last year.”

“Oh?” Gerard looks over, eyes steady. Frank won’t meet them.

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “They got together fast and then Anthony cheated on him. Left Frank a crying mess for months.”

“He cheated on you?” Gerard asks. His tone is so fucking concerned, so delicate, and it grates against every one of Frank’s nerves.

“Yes, okay, he cheated on me. But it’s not, like, a thing. I’m over it. We’re fine. We see each other all the time, and he wants me, I want him, done.”

“But he broke your heart, dude. I was there. You were in love with him and he totally screwed you over.”

“You were in love with him?” Gerard has that same tone. It lands like a punch to Frank’s stomach, making him sick. He’s carefully avoided getting personal with Gerard, and ever since that weird intervention at Backspace, he’s remained intentionally silent on the subject of relationships. Fuck Mikey for doing this when Gerard is here, and fuck Gerard for pretending to give a shit. And fuck Frank for putting himself in this position. He knew what he was doing dragging Anthony here, parading him in front of Gerard. And now he’s choking on it.

“Fuck off, both of you,” he snaps, standing up. “I can handle myself.” 

He grabs his guitar and stalks off to his bedroom. As he settles the guitar on the bed, he hears Mikey say, “Don’t worry. He… feels a lot.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” Gerard answers.

Frank slams the door.

*

The weekend before Halloween is always chaos, and Frank loves being part of it. He’s never thrown a rager for his birthday before. His parents wouldn’t let him in high school and he lived in a dorm last year. As more and more people filter into his apartment on the last Saturday of October, Frank thinks maybe he was a little too excited for this party, a little too generous with the invitations.

“I can’t believe we know this many people,” Mikey mutters from his spot next to Frank in the kitchen. 

“I don’t think we do,” Frank answers, downing his beer.

It’s a good fucking party. Mostly thanks to Gerard, but Frank would die before admitting that. Gerard somehow knew to get way more alcohol than they thought they’d need. They’d split the cost of it three ways, but Gerard contributed more than the other two, calling it a birthday present. His friend Pete brought massive speakers and an incredible playlist and even more alcohol, and based on the smell that’s filtering in through the open window to the fire escape, probably some weed, too.

Mikey’s been staring at Pete since he got here, his expression flat but his eyes laser-focused. Nobody else would catch it, but Frank knows he wants. 

“I didn’t know you were so into tattoos,” Frank says. “I’m offended you haven’t tried to hook up with me.”

“You’re too needy.” Mikey kills his beer and says, “I can’t believe Gee hid this guy from me.”

“Mikey and Pete, sitting in a tree…” Frank sing-songs, earning himself a punch in the arm.

“Shut up. Let’s do shots.”

They down two each, and the vodka hits Frank hard, loosening his whole body. He’s laughing with Mikey when Mikey’s gaze flicks to the door. “Your boyfriend’s here,” he deadpans.

Frank turns toward the door, knowing it’s going to be Gerard. He has a retort for Mikey, but it dies in his throat when he actually sees the older man drifting toward them. He’s wearing a black button down, leather pants (holy shit), and eyeliner in a thick stripe across his face, covering the area around his eyes like a thin mask. 

“Hey Frankie,” he purrs when he finally gets to them. He leans in and kisses Frank on the cheek. It’s brief, but Frank can feel that Gerard’s lips are chapped, and the heat from them lingers when Gerard pulls away. Frank blames the vodka for the weakness in his knees.

“Hey,” Frank chokes. “You look - wow.”

“I know you said no costumes, but it’s Halloween weekend. Had to do something.”

Frank can see Mikey roll his eyes in his peripheral vision. “Gee, be honest, do I have a shot with Pete?” he says.

“I think anyone has a shot with Pete,” Gerard answers.

“Good enough,” Mikey declares. He grabs another beer and heads off in Pete’s direction.

“Having a good time?” Gerard asks, grabbing his own beer and taking Mikey’s place next to Frank, looking out at the mass of people in the apartment. It’s cramped in here, warm from the sheer volume of bodies packed into the living room and kitchen. Between the crowd and the music, Frank is vaguely aware that they’re violating about 100 terms of their lease, but whatever. The party is just what he wants - sweaty and stupid, wild and fun. The bass from Pete’s speakers is rattling Frank’s bones. He’s deliriously happy.

“A great time,” he replies. 

“This is a good crowd,” Gerard says. “You’re a popular guy.”

Frank hums, distracted by how close Gerard is right now. He can smell cigarettes and this very specific cologne that Gerard only wears when he goes out, vanilla and salt. 

“What can I say,” he responds eventually, trying and probably failing to sound bored.

The song switches to something hard and fast, some punk song Frank could probably place if he wasn’t two beers and two shots in. He bobs his head a little to the beat and catches Gerard looking at him sideways.

“You dance?” Gerard asks.

“No,” Frank says flatly.

“Good.” Gerard plucks the cup out of Frank’s hand and puts it on the counter with his beer. “Neither do I.”

And then he’s grabbing Frank’s hand and pulling him into the crowd.

Frank barely has time to register the heat of Gerard’s hand in his before Gerard is letting it go, depositing them in the middle of the thick tangle of people closest to the speakers. The music feels like it’s swallowing them, something tangible. Gerard isn’t touching him, but the crowd here is so dense that their knees keep knocking together as Gerard jumps around, his movements chaotic and off-beat. It works, somehow. Maybe because of the way Gerard throws his head back and laughs as he dances. Frank cannot stop staring.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” Frank teases, yelling to be heard over the speakers.

“Exactly!” Gerard yells back. “No pressure for the birthday boy!”

Frank laughs and starts bobbing his head again, moving just a little. Gerard presses to him suddenly and puts his mouth close to Frank’s ear. Frank can feel the heat of his breath when he says, “Stop trying to be so cool all the time.”

Gerard pulls away as quickly as he pulled in and starts jumping around again. Frank grins and flips Gerard off. And he laughs. He knows Gerard wasn’t insulting him. He knows it’s true. He knows Gerard sees him. He fucking loves it.

Frank starts jumping around, too, and soon the two of them are bouncing to the beat, messy and uncoordinated but unmistakably together. Frank has no clue if anyone is watching them and he doesn’t actually give a shit.

The song shifts to something heavier but slower, bass vibrating through the floor until it settles in Frank’s ribs. The crowd presses tighter, and without making a conscious decision about it, Frank ends up chest-to-chest with Gerard. Gerard’s hand curves around his elbow, not rough but insistent, thumb brushing against skin every time they move. The contact hums down Frank’s body, pooling in his hips. Their bodies find the same rhythm, slow and deliberate, like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

Gerard leans in, mouth near his ear, voice curling against his skin. “You’re blushing.”

Frank feels heat crawl higher at the words. He turns his head just enough to snap, “It’s hot in here,” against Gerard’s cheek.

“Yeah.” Gerard’s grin is wicked and soft all at once.

Frank’s getting hard, and he thinks about stepping back, but the crowd won’t let him. It presses him closer, until Gerard can slide his hand down to his waist and keep it there, fingertips digging lightly, almost lazy. He shifts, grinding their hips together just enough to be unmistakable.

Frank squeezes his eyes shut for a second to try to stave off the heat curling in his belly. Gerard keeps pushing against him, slower, harder, thigh pressing up into Frank’s cock. Frank gasps, and Gerard’s laugh is quiet, indulgent. He leans in again, lips grazing the shell of Frank’s ear. “Loosen up, Frankie, you’re so tense,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing.

Frank tries to regulate his breathing as his arms hook loosely around Gerard’s shoulders, not insistent, just holding on. Gerard takes it as permission, pressing his fingertips harder into Frank’s sides to drag their hips together, keeping his lips close to Frank’s cheek without actually kissing him.

Frank wants to shove him away. He wants to haul him closer and kiss him until they choke on it. He doesn’t do either. He just breathes Gerard in, the warmth of his cheek, the brush of his mouth at his neck. He inhales through his nose when Gerard presses his face to his neck. Gerard’s lips move, and Frank can’t tell if he’s talking against his skin or sucking on it.

Frank doesn’t want to groan, doesn’t want to give Gerard the satisfaction. But when he feels the press of Gerard’s cock against him, he can’t help it. It rips out of him, raw. “Gee.” 

“Frankie,” Gerard answers, just as rough, his mouth ghosting back up to Frank’s ear.

The press of bodies, the music, Gerard’s heat - it’s all too much. He lets Gerard hold him there, lets himself feel it. They stay tangled like that, swaying slow against the pulse of the song, bodies grinding together in small, languid motions. It feels decadent, like they’re stealing something from the rest of the world.

And then, too fast, the song dies. Something frantic replaces it, crowd breaking apart, mood tilting so quickly Frank gets dizzy. It’s not helped by the fact that Gerard is untangling from him as the crowd thins. 

He smiles as he steps away from Frank, pure and open. Frank can see sweat shining at his hairline.

“You’re not subtle,” Frank says over the music.

“About what?” Gerard asks, all faux innocence, as he starts walking out of the crowd. Frank follows.

“You’re an asshole.” Frank rolls his eyes, pretending he’s not incredibly turned on.

“I’ve been called worse,” Gerard sighs dramatically. “I’m gonna go smoke. Make your rounds, Frankie.”

Frank feels insanely cold when Gerard walks away, like he’s taking all of Frank’s body heat with him. Frank stands there for a second, frustrated and confused. He wonders how many people saw them dancing, whether it matters to Gerard. He knows he can’t misinterpret what just happened, but he has no clue what to do with how suddenly it ended.

Then he locks eyes with Adam, smirks, and walks over to demand he take a shot with the birthday boy. Adam goes willingly, and on the way to the kitchen Frank finds Anthony and Tucker and drags them along. Adam pours them all double shots, and Frank doesn’t complain, and they all make fun of Tucker for choking on the vodka, and Anthony goes in search of weed for the four of them, and Frank resolves to forget the whole Gerard thing.

At the end of the night, when his tongue is down Adam’s throat, all he can think about is whether Gerard tastes like the cigarettes he smokes.

*

Frank’s actual birthday falls on Thursday. Gerard hasn’t been around their apartment since the party, which Mikey says is because he’s buried in MFA work before Thanksgiving break. Frank tries to let that explanation sit, tries not to pick at it. Actually, the only time Frank has seen Gerard this week is in American Lit, where he observed an intellectual circle jerk about the class divides in The Great Gatsby and wondered if it’s possible to roll your eyes so hard that they dislodge from your head.

Honestly, the break is a relief. He's had two dreams about his party that ended in him waking up sweating, the scent of vanilla strong in his nose. He needs time to get himself under control.

On his birthday, he’s scheduled at the café, which is fine. No one wants to hang out at a coffee shop on Halloween, so the place is dead. He and Adam kill time arguing about the best vampire movies while Frank practices latte art.

“There is no way Interview with the Vampire is even in the running,” Frank says. “It tries to be erotic, but it’s way too repressed.”

“The eroticism is in the repression,” Adam shoots back. “Plus it’s got a perfect amount of gore.”

“Nosferatu is way better about the gore.”

“Kind of heavy-handed on the eroticism, though,” a voice cuts in, smooth and infuriating.

Frank jerks his head up. Gerard’s leaning on the counter, smiling faintly.

“Hey,” Frank says like an idiot.

“Hey,” Gerard says back. “Happy birthday, Frankie.”

“Thanks. Americano?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Frank starts pulling shots. “Haven’t seen you around this week, man. How’ve you been?” Adam asks as he rings Gerard up. 

“Good. Busy as hell. I’ve been working nonstop since Saturday.”

“At least you got to go to Frank’s. He knows how to throw a party.”

“Yeah, you looked like you were having fun when I left,” Gerard says, something devilish in his voice. Frank doesn’t look up from the drink he’s making. He feels heat creep up his neck.

“One of the better ways to end a night,” Adam says, unfazed. Frank doesn’t look at them, but he knows there’s no tension or competition between the two. Adam doesn’t expect anything from Frank, and he knows Gerard can tell.

As far as hookups go, Adam’s one of the better ones.

Frank slides the Americano across the counter. “Sticking around?”

Gerard shakes his head. “No. Got a lot to do.”

He knows Gerard pretty well by now. Well enough to recognize the little pause before he lies, the way his voice goes light, almost cheerful, to cover it. It’s the same tone he uses when he tells Mikey he already ate or when he insists he’s not tired. Gerard is not a bar liar, and Frank hates that he can catch it. 

“Oh,” he says, unable to get anything else past the knot in his chest. Because he knows now that Gerard has definitely been avoiding him.

“But I couldn’t let the day go by without saying happy birthday,” Gerard says. His smile is warm, if a little tight, and Frank finds himself smiling back.

“That’s sweet,” Frank says.

“Also, I have something for you.” Gerard digs into his bag, head ducked like he’s embarrassed. He pulls out a flat canvas the size of a postcard and holds it out. “It’s dumb. Don’t make it a thing.”

Frank takes it carefully. The second he sees the painting, his breath sticks. It’s the Angels from Neon Genesis Evangelion, every single one, painstakingly detailed in miniature.

“You made this for me?” Frank asks.

Gerard shrugs, deliberately casual. “Yeah. Hard to know what to get a twenty-year-old. I kind of just threw it together.”

That’s bullshit and they both know it. Each Angel is meticulous, layered with color and shading that must have taken actual days. Frank can feel the weight of it in his hands.

But he doesn’t press. He just grins. “Thanks, Gee.”

For a moment Gerard just looks at him, like he’s waiting for Frank to laugh it off, to make it casual again. But Frank doesn’t. He just keeps holding the painting like it’s precious, because it is.

And Gerard’s face cracks wide open. His smile is huge, unguarded, the kind of smile Frank’s not sure he’s ever seen aimed directly at him before. 

“Anytime,” Gerard says, his voice low, almost shy.

Later, Frank props the painting on his dresser. He stares at it too long, then snaps a picture and sends it with three heart emojis. Gerard responds almost immediately:

Gerard: you sure know how to make a guy blush frankie 

Frank reads the text twice, three times. He doesn’t fight the smile that spreads across his face.

Chapter Text

The first real snowfall of the year comes at the beginning of November. It’s not enough for classes to get cancelled, but it is enough for Frank and Mikey to decide that trudging through slush just to go to class is for losers. Instead, they hole up in the apartment, smoke the weed Pete gave Mikey last time they hung out, and throw on Doctor Strange.

“So what’s the deal with Pete?” Frank asks, taking a long pull from his joint.

Mikey shrugs, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke. “There’s not really a deal. We both like fucking, so it makes sense that we fuck each other.”

“Yeah, but you’re fucking him, like, all the time. And you’re bringing home tons of weed. Is he giving you weed for sex? Is this a prostitution thing?”

“Oh my god.”

“Hey, no judgment. Just, like, maybe you should be charging cash too. Don’t undersell yourself.”

“He’s not giving me weed for sex! We just hook up and he happens to also give me weed.”

“Sounds like a business arrangement to me,” Frank pushes, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “You should start an LLC.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m not sharing with you anymore.”

“Ugh, fine. Just - is this a serious thing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve known him for, like, two weeks and he’s a good fuck. That’s all it is right now.”

Frank hums like he gets it, even though he’s already lost the thread of their conversation. Doctor Strange is fucking impossible to follow high, so he pulls out his phone and texts Gerard.

Frank: I dont get the multiverse

It takes less than a minute for the reply to come through.

Gerard: like the Marvel one or the real one

Frank: wait are they different

Gerard: I’m not explaining this to you again

Frank smiles, sinking further into the couch. He and Gerard have been texting nonstop since Frank sent him a photo of the painting. He hadn’t even responded to the blush comment, but the next morning Gerard had texted: who would win in a fight between Prince and Bowie do you think? Frank had replied Prince, obviously, and that was it. They’ve barely stopped since.

Frank’s still looking at his phone when a new text comes through.

Gerard: missed you in class today. No one can match your hatred for american literature

Frank blinks. Gerard noticed he skipped. Gerard missed him. Or maybe he’s just flirting. Frank doesn’t know which explanation makes his chest tighter. It’s been two months of this: push and pull, almost but not quite. Why can’t Gerard ever just say what he means?

“Cause he’s a bitch,” Mikey says out of nowhere, smoke curling out of his mouth.

“Huh?”

“You asked why Gee can’t say what he means.”

“No I didn’t. I thought that. In my head.”

Mikey laughs. “No dude, you thought that out loud.”

“Oh.” Frank takes another hit, lets smoke leak slow from his nose. “Well, Michael. I have a massive crush on your brother.”

Mikey laughs again, louder this time. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Not to be a fourteen year old girl, but does he have a crush on me?”

“Ugh, you’re killing my high. I’m not doing this with you.”

“But does heeeee?” Frank whines, dragging it out on purpose.

“If you don’t know the answer to that, you’re an idiot.”

“Then why is he like this? Is it the TA thing? That’s so stupid, he’s not even a professor.” 

“No.”

“Is it an age thing? Who cares? He gets us into bars all the fucking time, he sees me hook up with 30 year olds.”

“No.”

“Is it because you’re my best friend? Because I’ll drop you so fast, Mikey.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Only for a month. Just to fuck him, like, once.”

“Thanks for telling me about what you would give up to fuck my brother.”

“Sorry. But not really.”

“Anyway, it’s not the brother thing.”

“Then what is the thing?”

“I told you, he’s a bitch. He’s not fucking you around, dude. He’s just… being Gerard Way.” 

Frank rolls his eyes. “Wow, what insight. Really clears it up.”

“You want me to spell it out?” Mikey’s voice is flat, but his gaze is sharp, trained on Frank like he’s checking whether Frank’s ready to hear it.

Frank shrugs, defensive. “I already know he’s complicated. Doesn’t take a genius.”

“Yeah, but you don’t always act like you know it,” Mikey says. “You get all wound up, like it’s about you. It’s not.”

That digs under Frank’s skin, because of course it feels like it’s about him. He huffs a little, and Mikey’s face softens.

Frank takes the last hit from his joint and then says, “What’s it about?”

“He doesn’t date. He doesn’t like to, he thinks it’s a waste of time because he just ends up disappointing people.”

“How would he disappoint them?” 

“According to him, all sorts of ways,” Mikey says, dropping his roach in the ashtray and making a noncommittal gesture with his hands. “He gets too wrapped up in his art, he’s too moody, he’s too antisocial. Like, I think you thought I was joking this summer, but he actually didn’t want to come out of the basement.”

“Yeah, he said something about that a while ago.”

“So you know. He gets in these moods where he, like, won’t take care of himself. He doesn’t shower, doesn’t eat, doesn’t talk to anyone. Sometimes it’s ‘cause he’s too focused on his work, but sometimes it’s ‘cause he’s too, like, sad.”

Frank furrows his brow. “Shit.”

“He just gets in his head a lot. He’s not very confident.”

Frank snorts. “I don’t believe that at all.”

“Believe it, dude. He has a really hard time thinking he deserves what he gets, so he freaks out about being good enough and then he shuts down. And he doesn’t want to drag anyone into that cycle, so he doesn’t get involved, like, romantically.”

“Has he ever had a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

“A long time ago.”

Frank hums.

Mikey sighs. “I’m gonna say this once. Once. He likes you. And he’s a romantic. And he’s fucking scared of you.”

Frank doesn’t respond, and Mikey doesn’t press. On screen, Tilda Swinton is passing the baton to Benedict Cumberbatch. Frank opens his phone again.

Frank: i am so high that the multiverse is starting to make sense

Gerard: jfc

*

The next day, Frank wakes up with a sore throat. He prays that it’s just from smoking, but he knows it’s not. By midafternoon, he’s quarantined himself in his room with his personal stash of expired cold meds and a roll of toilet paper (because why the hell would he pay money for tissues when it’s all just paper). He wraps himself in blankets and waits for the sweet release of death.

Mikey checks in that night. He scowls immediately when he walks into Frank’s room.. “You look like a corpse.”

Frank lifts a middle finger from inside his blanket cocoon. “At least this is my first time sick this year.”

“That’s true. Last year you went down on, like, day two. You need anything?”

“Yeah, if you could just grab a knife from the kitchen and carve my sinuses out of my body.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “I’m going to Backspace, I’ll tell Gee you’re sick.”

“You don’t need to tell him that,” Frank complains, but Mikey’s already gone.

An hour later, someone knocks. Frank drags himself to the door. When he opens it, there’s a container of steaming vegetable soup from the vegan place downtown. He blinks at it like it’s a hallucination, then smiles faintly. Nice of Mikey to DoorDash him something. He makes a mental note to say thanks later. Then he eats half, passes out, and never gets around to it.

By the next morning, he’s got a fever and two texts waiting.

Gerard: heard you were sick, feeling ok today?

Gerard: hope you liked the soup. i have no clue what you usually order

Frank frowns, thumbs sluggish.

Frank: you got me the soup?

Gerard: yeah, who else? got a secret boyfriend i haven’t met?

Frank: i thought it was mikey

Gerard: you should know mikey is not that considerate

Frank: thanks dude. it was really good. but you didn’t have to do that

Gerard: I know

Frank spends the entire day in bed, rotating the medicine in his miniature pharmacy and sleeping long stretches while Twilight Zone episodes cycle through on his laptop. Gerard texts occasionally, checking in. Frank is only with it enough to respond to half of them, but it seems to be enough to convince Gerard that he is alive and can take care of himself, and Gerard doesn’t need to come over.

By Saturday, Frank is so far gone he doesn’t trust his own legs. Mikey doesn’t get sentimental, but he does shove a peanut butter sandwich at him in the morning, and then stomps back in every half hour to yell until Frank’s eaten the damn thing. Frank ignores Gerard’s texts altogether, too delirious to string words together, and instead just lies in bed thinking maybe this is it, maybe this is the virus that finally takes him out. Honestly, not the worst outcome.

He takes a long nap, and when he wakes up, he keeps his eyes closed because it makes his headache feel slightly better. He lays like that for about fifteen minutes before he hears Mikey outside his door.

“I’m not going in there, he’s sick,” Mikey’s snapping, obviously on the phone with someone. “He needs to rest, and I need to not get whatever plague is festering in there.”

A pause, then: “No, you do not need to come over. He’s not dying, okay? He’s a grown ass man, Gee. He can take care of himself.”

Frank smiles, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Gerard, I swear to god, if you come over here I’m not letting you in. Just leave him alone, you’ll see him in a couple of days.”

Mikey drifts away from Frank’s door, and Frank doesn’t catch the rest of the conversation. Not that he would have, because he’s asleep again in two minutes.

When he wakes, it’s dark, and he has no clue what time or even what day it is. He remembers Mikey’s phone call, remembers Gerard trying to crash the gates, and figures he should at least prove he’s alive. Too tired for texting, he dials and hits speaker.

“Hey,” Gerard answers on the second ring, voice pitched low with concern. “Are you okay?”

“What day is it?” Frank croaks. His voice sounds like roadkill.

Gerard laughs softly. “Saturday. It’s, like, 10:30.”

“Oh shit, are you sleeping?”

“No. Ten-thirty is early for a Saturday. You know that.”

“Right.” Frank swallows. “You out, then? Or, like, have company?”

Another laugh, warmer this time, and Frank wants to bottle it. “Neither. I’m trying to finish a painting. Shit, I don’t think I’ve eaten today.”

“You should do that.”

“I will. How are you doing?”

“Bad, Gerard. I’m doing bad.”

“Oh, Frankie.” Gerard’s voice softens into a purr, equal parts sympathy and something Frank can’t name. “You need anything?”

Frank hesitates. He only called to reassure Gerard, but now that he’s here, sick and pathetic, he realizes he does want something. And it’s not fucking soup.

“I’ve watched too much TV,” he mutters. “Can you just… talk to me? Till I fall asleep?”

“Sure, Frankie. About what?”

“I don’t care. What’s the painting?”

Gerard starts describing it: two figures, a portrait but not, a piece he’s calling Demolition Lovers. It’s part of a series, maybe the centerpiece for his final exhibition. He rambles for what must be an hour, words winding and unbroken, and Frank drifts under, falling asleep to the sound of Gerard’s voice.

His fever breaks overnight. By morning, he’s sweaty, disgusting, but alive. He drags himself to the shower, emerges victorious, and finds Mikey on the couch with a textbook.

“Hey,” Mikey says, glancing up. “Cheated death?”

“I’m the strongest fucker alive,” Frank announces dramatically, shoving bread into the toaster.

“Sure you are.” Mikey jerks his chin toward two shopping bags by the door. “Those are for you.”

Inside is a six-pack of Gatorade and four boxes of tissues. Frank blinks.

“Gerard?”

“Obviously. You two are disgusting.”

*

On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, Frank is getting ready to go to Pete’s for what promises to be a very fun party when his phone starts buzzing. He picks it up to see that Gerard is calling him. He picks up immediately, concerned.

“Gerard? What’s up?” he says.

“You have plans tonight?”

Frank looks at himself in the mirror. Skinny jeans riding low on his hips, sleeveless black shirt showing off his ink, black eyeliner smudged around his eyes. He told Mikey he’d be at Pete’s in a half hour. “No,” he says.

“Mikey said he’d go to the movies with me tonight, but he’s blowing me off for Loverboy. You wanna come?”

Frank exhales a laugh. “You called me for that? I thought something was wrong.”

“I gave you my number in case of emergencies. This is an emergency. I don’t like going to movies alone. Come on, they’re playing 28 Days Later at that arthouse theater downtown.”

“Alright, I’m sold.”

“Excellent.” Frank can practically hear the smirk. “I’ll pick you up in 10.”

Frank doesn’t change. He throws a flannel on over his shirt, texts Mikey not to expect him, and smokes a cigarette outside of the apartment complex while he waits for Gerard to show. 

The shitty little Camry comes into view in no time. When Frank opens the door and slides into the passenger seat, Gerard’s smirk is waiting for him, sharp and crooked. Frank ignores the way his heart hammers in his chest, the way his brain lights up with a realization that that smirk is one of his favorite things in the world.

“Looks like you had plans tonight,” he says by way of greeting.

Frank shrugs, trying for casual. “For all you know, I put this on for 28 Days Later.”

“I doubt it. That’s a little too hot for a zombie movie. Not that I mind.”

Frank bites down on his grin, but the giddiness buzzes through him anyway. “I was supposed to go to a party. But this sounded fun.”

“Pete’s?”

“Yeah. Surprised you aren’t going.”

Gerard wrinkles his nose. God, he’s cute when he does that. “I try to stay away from big party nights like tonight. Too much temptation to take things too far.”

“The Saturday before Halloween is a big party night,” Frank points out.

“That didn’t count. No way I would’ve missed that.”

Frank smiles as he looks out the window. He doesn’t say anything, and they lapse into comfortable silence. Gerard turns up the volume on the Violent Femmes album that’s playing, and Frank realizes that this is the first time he’s been in Gerard’s car. Gerard is a fixture in Frank’s life now: at his apartment, at his job, in his classes. But Frank hasn’t been invited into Gerard’s. Until right now.

Gerard’s life, apparently, includes a lot of time learning fun facts about how zombie movies have been made. He talks Frank’s ear off while they buy popcorn and wait for the movie to start  about how Danny Boyle intentionally made 28 Days Later low budget and wanted to work with no-name actors. Frank eats his popcorn and hums and nods in all the right places, letting Gerard know he’s listening to his rant. 

“Let me know if I’m annoying you,” Gerard says as the lights go down in the almost empty theater.

“Oh my god, no,” Frank says, immediately and honestly. “It’s cool that you know all this. Makes it more fun.”

Gerard smiles. “Cool.”

Apparently, that’s permission, because seemingly every five minutes during the movie, Gerard dips his head close to Frank’s, whispering in his ear about the production and the movie’s influence on modern horror. It sends a thrill down Frank’s spine every time, and he feels lit up by the end of the movie, so that when Gerard asks if he wants to grab coffee or something Frank readily agrees.

They end up in a diner a block away, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and fluorescent lights that make everything feel like three in the morning even though it isn’t. When they sit down, Gerard leans on his elbows and says, “Did you know New Jersey has the most diners of any state in the country?”

Frank laughs. “I didn’t. You’re full of information.”

Gerard blushes. “Sorry. I realize I’m not very fun to go to movies with. Mikey’s used to my running commentary, he’s heard it all before.”

“No, it was fun,” Frank assures him. “It’s always hard to hang out at movies, but I like that I still got to talk to you.”

“Me too,” Gerard says, a glint in his eye. He tilts his head, teasing. “I figured you wouldn’t care about a guy talking at you about movies. Given, you know.”

Frank narrows his eyes, but he knows what Gerard’s getting at. “Given what?”

“Given who you go home with most nights.”

Frank doesn’t have enough time to pretend to be offended before a waitress comes up to take their order. Frank is grateful. It gives him a second to process the fact that Gerard has apparently been watching him a lot more closely than he realized. They get two coffees and an order of fries to share. 

“So, who do I go home with most nights?” Frank asks when the waitress leaves, feigning curiosity, ignoring the burning in his gut at the idea that Gerard has been noticing him.

Gerard shrugs, mouth quirking up. “You know. Ten years older. Writing the next Great American Novel. A lot of opinions, never shuts up.”

Frank smirks. “Oh, I can assure you they shut up eventually.”

Gerard laughs, startled and delighted in a way that makes Frank’s stomach flip. The laugh lingers, softens, and then Gerard’s expression shifts into something quieter, more careful. “So you don’t want anything serious with any of them?”

The question lands differently than it should. Heavy with something Frank can’t name, doesn’t try to. He frowns, picking at the edge of a sugar packet. “Not with those guys.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They’re usually great in bed because they’re desperate to impress me, prove that they can keep up with a twenty year old. But they’re pretentious, and we both know we’re just a fantasy for each other. I can’t be serious with guys like that.”

Gerard leans back a little, studying him. “Do you want something serious at all?”

The waitress brings their coffees, giving Frank a few seconds to think. Gerard isn’t asking idly, and Frank knows it. His throat feels dry, but he pushes through, balancing on the line between honesty and self-protection. “I promised myself I wouldn’t date seriously this year. My heart got pretty wrecked last year, and I… decided to hit pause.”

“Anthony?” Gerard asks, gentle. 

Frank nods. “I mean, you know the story already. We were exclusive. And one night I caught him in a bar bathroom with his dick in a random guy’s mouth. He tried to blame it on being drunk, but I was also drunk and my dick wasn’t down anyone’s throat.”

Gerard grimaces, and Frank is struck by the thought that Gerard is as upset to hear the story as Frank is to tell it. “And you’re still in a band with him?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dad. I’m still in a band with him. It’s over, I’m cool with it.”

Gerard takes a long sip of his coffee, and Frank can tell he’s thinking too much. Holding something back. 

“What?” Frank finally asks, trying to sound annoyed instead of nervous.

“You don’t have to be cool with it,” Gerard says, putting his mug down. His voice is low, steady. “Like, you can be in a band with him or whatever, if you really want to. But you don’t have to be friends. You don’t have to be cool with someone cheating on you. And you definitely don’t have to fuck a bunch of 30 year olds if what you really want is a relationship.”

It’s Frank’s turn to take a sip of his coffee. The words sink into him, sharper than they should be, but not in a way that makes him flinch. No one else has cut through his bullshit so bluntly. It’s hard to wrap his head around the fact that he’s only known Gerard for a few months, because he sees Frank like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

He takes a slow sip of coffee, trying to mask the fact that his chest feels too full. “You make it sound so simple.”

Gerard’s mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close. “Maybe it is.”

Frank holds his gaze for a second too long, letting himself sit in the warmth of his eyes, before clearing his throat. “So is it just movies you hoard random trivia about?” he asks, desperate to change the subject so his heart rate will get back to normal.

Thankfully, Gerard takes the bait. “Not really. I mean, I’m an English TA. I just love learning how stories are made.”

“Why?”

“It’s just… cool, isn’t it? Someone had an idea, something they wanted to say, and they cared about it so much that they pushed and worked until they got it into the world. That’s huge.”

Frank can’t stop staring at him. There’s a light in Gerard’s eyes that makes him look younger, unguarded, like some kid geeking out about his favorite band. It makes Frank’s chest feel hot and soft at the same time. He has no business liking it this much. He tells himself it’s just nice to see Gerard happy, that’s all. Nothing more.

“Is that how you feel about your own art?” Frank asks, because he wants to keep him talking. Wants to keep that glow on his face.

Gerard laughs, warm and self-deprecating. “Well, I’m not Danny fucking Boyle, but yeah. When I show my stuff, I just… hope people see how much I needed to make it. How much it matters to me.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Thanks, Frankie.”

The way Gerard says it, so soft and sincere, makes something coil tight and pleasant in Frank’s stomach. They grin at each other across the table, and for a ridiculous moment Frank wonders if the waitress dropping off their fries thinks they’re a couple. The thought is too dangerous to linger on, so he busies himself with taking a sip of coffee while Gerard takes some fries from the plate.

“I love visual art, but I want to write too,” Gerard says around a mouthful. “Comics.”

“That’s fucking sick,” Frank says, grabbing his own fry. “You’d be good at that.”

“You’ve never even seen my art.”

“Not true. I’ve got a whole battalion of mini Angels standing guard on my dresser.”

“I mean my original shit.”

“I haven’t seen it because you haven’t shown me.”

Gerard smirks. “Fair point.”

“Would you?” Frank asks before he can stop himself. His voice comes out quieter than he meant.

The smirk falters. Gerard chews, swallows, suddenly serious. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Have you shown Mikey?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because, like, what if it’s bad?”

It’s such a simple answer, but Frank has about a thousand arguments against it. 

He’s trying to figure out how to voice them when Gerard continues, “Do you know how many people get MFAs every year? I don’t even know the number, but it’s a shitload. And I’m not even the best in my class. So how do I know my stuff’s worth anything? What if I show you, or Mikey, or anyone, and everyone hates it?”

Frank frowns. “What if everyone loves it, though?”

Gerard looks briefly like he’s been slapped, like the thought has never once crossed his mind. And then he hums, a smile playing at his lips. He takes another sip of coffee and says, “What about you? Do you play for other people?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

“But you’ve never played for me.”

“You’ve never asked!” 

Gerard tilts his head. “I’m asking.”

Frank’s lungs forget how to work for a second. His sharp inhale is loud in his own ears, and all he can manage is a low, “Okay.”

They eat the rest of their fries in easy silence, and their waitress refills their mugs without asking. Frank is grateful for her Coffee is one of those things Gerard never says no to, and Frank’s selfish enough to want him stuck here just a little longer.

“Can I ask you something?” Gerard says after the fries are gone.

“Sure, anything.”

“Why do you fuck off so much in American Lit?” Gerard asks, like he’s genuinely curious. “You’re smart. Do you really hate books that much?”

“No,” Frank snorts. “I actually love reading. I just don’t like when someone tells me to do it. I promise, I’m just as much of a shit in Music Theory and ensemble and everything else. I really hate school. I hate that someone else sets my schedule and goals.”

“Why do you go, then?”

Frank shrugs. “My parents made me.”

“Yeah, but you’re an adult.”

“I’m twenty. If I wasn’t in school, I couldn’t afford to live anywhere other than my parents’ house. And I don’t think they’d let me stay if I dropped out. Even if they did, I don’t think I’d want to be there. It’s like the Cold War at my house, and I would rather suffer through American Lit than that.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says. “I get that. That really sucks about your parents.”

Frank shrugs again, tries for casual even though his throat feels tight. “It’s alright, I guess. Thanksgiving’s gonna be a shitshow, though.”

“You don’t think they’d separate?”

“Divorce isn't really a Catholic value.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Gerard leans in, so earnest that Frank wants to cry or kiss him or both. “You know I’m here for you, Frankie. You can text or call me any time this week. And if you want to drop out, you can just move into the basement with me.”

Frank laughs. “Thank you, Gee. I appreciate it. I… appreciate you.”

“I know.” Gerard says it so simply, and his smile is so soft and open that Frank almost forgets to breathe.

“So,” Gerard continues, mercifully moving them along, “is your big plan to be a musician?”

“I guess so. I don’t think I’d make it in a regular job.”

“Yeah, regular jobs do suck.”

“Says the guy who worked at Cartoon Network.”

“That was a regular job, and it sucked.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. I got that internship and thought I’d made it. Working on cartoons? Dream job, right? But it was just tracing and retracing cells someone else had drawn. Cubicle life. Didn’t talk to anyone. Total hamster wheel. Then I’d come home and everyone would act like I was this golden boy for landing it, and meanwhile I was dying inside. I knew I wasn’t gonna go in there and, like, create a show. But I thought it’d be… something. Creative. Instead it was soul-crushing.”

Frank watches him as he talks, the way his mouth twists like he’s embarrassed. Gerard doesn’t do this often, doesn’t open up like this. Frank can’t stop staring at him.

“And now I’m here, finishing this MFA, and I have no clue what I want when it’s done,” Gerard admits.

“Maybe you could be an English professor.”

Gerard laughs, loud and nasally, and Frank laughs too. 

When it quiets, Gerard’s smile lingers, so soft and beautiful. “I’m gonna miss you this week, Frankie.”

Frank swallows as he smiles back. He aims for light, but it comes out a little too tender when he says, “I’m gonna miss you too, Gee.”

For a beat, they just look at each other, the words sitting heavy between them. Tonight suddenly doesn’t feel casual. But then, nothing ever does with Gerard.

“We should head out,” Gerard says, motioning for the check. “I still need to pack.”

*

Frank does miss Gerard during Thanksgiving break. He misses Mikey too, but Gerard’s the one who keeps slipping into his head when it’s quiet. The Ways are hosting family all week, and they’re bouncing in and out of the city, drowning in holiday spirit like it’s their civic duty. Frank, meanwhile, is stuck at home with the emotional equivalent of Chernobyl.

His parents both work during the day, so he’s left to himself. He practices guitar until his fingers ache. It’s partly to get ready for Anthony’s party the weekend after they get back, which is officially the band’s first time playing in public. But it’s mostly to avoid thinking about what fresh hell the evening will bring when his parents come home.

Gerard texts him constantly. Stories about his mom embarrassing Mikey. A photo of his little cousin with chocolate on her face. Every time he sees a Christmas tree in New York, he sends a picture to Frank and demands a rating from 1-10. Frank takes the game very seriously.

They don’t talk about how Frank’s parents only communicate through pointed silence and knife-edged arguments over dinner. They don’t talk about how Gerard’s relatives keep asking if he’s going back to Cartoon Network or what his “plan” is. They don’t need to. They know. They distract each other instead.

This year isn’t the Ieros’ most fun Thanksgiving. Frank’s dad watches football and drinks can after can of beer while his mom sweats in the kitchen and drinks an entire bottle of wine. Neither seems thrilled at his existence, so he takes his cigarettes outside and freezes on the porch, trying to inhale his way through the tension. By cigarette number four, his lungs feel like ash and battery acid. And then his phone buzzes.

Gerard.

Frank answers immediately, voice rasping like gravel. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Gerard says down the phone, and Frank can hear the smirk. “I’m gonna guess I caught you during a smoke break.”

Frank laughs. “Yeah, my whole day’s been a smoke break. Me and nicotine, real star-crossed lovers.”

Gerard chuckles. “Rough Thanksgiving?”

Frank can hear the chaos in the background of the call - family members yelling at each other, music playing through speakers. He feels his heart constrict. “Not my favorite,” he says.

“I’m sorry. You know, you could come over here if you wanted.”

It’s sudden, but Frank knows Gerard is serious. It’s more tempting than it should be. His whole week has sucked, and Gerard offering him a lifeline makes his bones ache with want. But as much as his parents are driving him insane, abandoning them feels wrong.

“Thanks, but I think I need to suffer through it here. We don’t have any guests this year, I think my presence would be missed.”

Gerard hums, thoughtful. “Fair enough. Just thought I’d ask.”

Frank kicks at the porch rail, smoke curling from his lips. “So, you having fun over there in Holiday Land?”

“Define fun.” Gerard’s deadpan is sharp enough to cut glass. Then he exhales and admits, “It’s been good. I love my family. But if Aunt Steph tells me one more time how proud she is of me for having a ‘real job’ this summer, my head’s gonna explode. Like tracing someone else’s cartoons in a cubicle is the best I can hope for.”

“Sounds like you’re suffering too,” Frank says lightly, although what he means is I want to make you feel better, I just want you to be happy.

“Guess so.” Gerard’s voice dips quieter, almost swallowed by the background noise. “I wish you were here, Frankie.”

Frank swallows hard, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a long inhale on the other end, heavy like Gerard’s holding something back. Then his voice shifts gears, suddenly too bright. “Anyway, just called to say happy Thanksgiving. And don’t think you’re off the hook. You better actually read The Bluest Eye, because I’m gonna grill you next week in class.”

The whiplash makes Frank bark a laugh, even though it hurts his chest. “Alright, Professor. I’ll get right on it.”

“You do that,” Gerard says, and there’s a smile tucked under it. “Happy Thanksgiving, Frankie.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

Frank hangs up and stares at the ember of his cigarette, burning down to nothing. He stomps it out on the porch and heads back inside.

Chapter Text

Okay, so Frank is totally gone for Gerard.

Not that this is news. Anyone who’s seen them in a room for more than ten seconds could clock it. But something’s been breaking open in Frank recently, and he can’t deny or avoid the way he feels anymore. He lets himself daydream, lets himself stare, lets himself grin like an idiot when he comes home and finds Gerard draped over the couch like some feral cat that wandered in and decided to stay.

On the outside, nothing’s different. Gerard still comes around, they still text constantly, Mikey still sighs and rolls his eyes whenever they’re in the same orbit. Gerard isn’t more touchy than usual, and they’re both still drowning in work. Same old routine. But inside Frank, it feels like the alarms are blaring. He’s been on fire for months, and now he’s finally noticed the smoke. He catches himself aching for Gerard’s eyes on him, hating how long it takes him to respond to a text, wondering what Gerard’s apartment smells like. It’s pathetic, and it’s addicting.

He hasn’t wanted like this in a long time.

Anthony’s party feels like a reprieve, thank fuck. Since they came back from Thanksgiving break, the band’s been in overdrive, rehearsing every night, which has been the only thing keeping Frank from climbing out of his skin every time he finds Gerard lounged in his recliner like he owned the place. 

It’s Mikey who ends up telling Gerard about the show. Frank sure as hell wasn’t going to volunteer the information. Just the thought of playing in front of Gerard makes his stomach twist. Thankfully Gerard begs off, citing MFA deadlines. Frank is actually pretty relieved. One night without Gerard’s constant orbit. One night without watching him charm strangers at their usual bars. A night where Frank can sweat it out at some dingy undergrad house party with kids drinking terrible beer.

And it rules. The band fucking kills, and there’s something about that cramped basement - the sticky floors, low ceilings, the smell of beer and cigarettes - that makes Frank feel electric. He throws himself into it, feeling the crowd’s eyes on him, that hunger in their faces because they want to be him or fuck him. Frank would never admit it, but he loves the attention. He gets off on it. He wants this forever.

Mikey hangs out for a while after the set, buzzing with pride, talking shit about Anthony but hyping the band, swearing he’s going to roast Gerard for missing it. Frank grins through it, still thrumming with adrenaline, catching the eyes of a few people who’d definitely brag about hooking up with the guitarist. Mikey eventually heads out to meet Pete, and Frank makes a big show of pouting until Mikey placates him by hauling some of his gear to the apartment and promising to bring home weed. 

Once Mikey’s gone, Frank floats. Beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, bouncing between groups, riding the post-show high and leaning into the flirting. Anyone who wants him can have his attention for five minutes. It keeps his hands busy and his mind occupied, stops him from texting Gerard just to say wish you were here.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been socializing when Anthony sidles up next to him outside, standing close in the cold, their smoke curling into the dark.

“That was a great fucking show,” Anthony says. “We were so in sync.”

“Yeah,” Frank mutters, cigarette between his fingers. The adrenaline still buzzes faintly in his veins, but it’s starting to slip away, leaving him shaky. “We sounded so good. You sounded good.”

Anthony’s smile sharpens, and something in it makes Frank tense up. “So did you,” he says, his voice just a notch too low, too intimate.

Frank takes a long drag. “And thank god for Tucker,” he says, desperately trying to keep the conversation neutral.

“Mm.” Anthony hums, eyes fixed on him like a predator. “Where’s Mikey?”

“He left. Had another party.”

“What about his brother?” Anthony’s mouth curls. “Haven’t seen him tonight. A shame, really. He’s so pretty.”

Despite the cold air, Frank suddenly feels like he’s sweating. “Gerard couldn’t make it.”

“Ah.” Anthony steps just a little closer, enough for Frank to notice. “So no one to interrupt us.”

“Well, there are, like, a hundred other people here,” Frank shoots back.

Anthony smirks. “You know what I mean.”

Frank does know what he means, and his stomach twists. It should be flattering, easy. But standing here, heart still trying to catch a rhythm after the show, Anthony’s attention feels heavy, suffocating. He thought he wanted this. Now all he feels is the walls closing in.

The high is gone. He’s cold. He’s tired. He’s painfully aware that Gerard isn’t here. And all at once, he knows exactly where he wants to be, and it’s not with Anthony.

“Sorry. Bathroom,” he mutters, already pushing past Anthony, ignoring the look he throws after him.

The house is hot and crowded, bodies pressing in from every direction, but Frank weaves through until he finds a half-dark, blessedly empty bedroom. He closes the door and collapses onto the bed, pulling out his phone with shaking hands. Before he can overthink it, he dials.

Gerard answers on the first ring. “Hey, Frankie. How was the show?”

Frank closes his eyes, relief flooding his chest at just the sound of his voice. “Can you come get me?” he blurts, all in one breath.

There’s a beat of silence, then Gerard’s tone sharpens, steady and serious. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just… I can’t be here right now.” His throat is tight. He’s rambling. “Fucking - please. I know it’s late, and you’ve got work, but you said - emergencies and -”

“I’m coming,” Gerard cuts him off, firm and final. “Send me the address.”

Frank does, fingers clumsy.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Gerard says immediately. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

Frank exhales, tension draining out of him in a rush. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Frankie. Just sit tight. I’ll see you in a few.”

Gerard texts Frank seven minutes later. Frank shoots out the door without saying goodbye to anyone. The night air is sharp in his lungs, but what hits him harder is the sight of Gerard leaning against his car, leather jacket creased at the elbows, skinny jeans smeared with paint, his mouth pulled into a line of worry. Frank wonders, distantly, if he sped to get here.

“I’m fine,” Frank says the second he’s close enough. “Can we just go?”

Gerard’s eyes flick over him, searching. Then he nods. “Yeah. Come on.”

He drives not to Frank’s apartment but to his own, which makes Frank’s heart speed up. He should be wrung out, too exhausted to care, but instead he’s wired, keyed up by the fact that Gerard made this choice without asking.

Gerard’s place is a third-floor walkup. It’s a studio apartment, and it’s an absolute disaster. A built-in bookshelf is filled to the brim with books and comics. There are posters all over the wall, and records on the floor, and schoolwork piled on the coffee table. It’s a decent size, but the couch and the queen-sized bed are shoved together in one corner so that half of the room can function as a studio, multiple easels standing around a table piled with art supplies. There are paints and canvasses everywhere, some blank and some covered with a sheet. It’s overwhelming and intense, but it feels like stepping into Gerard’s brain. Messy, vivid, alive.

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was coming over,” Gerard says, pulling piles of comics off of the couch and throwing a sheet over a half-completed painting. “I don’t like looking at them when I’m not working on them,” he explains. 

“Is this how your apartment looks… all the time?”

Gerard laughs, and Frank can tell he’s a little embarrassed. He shrugs off his jacket to reveal a shirt that’s two sizes too big, also covered in paint. The collar is stretched out, and Frank can see the sharp line of his collar bone and the pale dip of his throat. “Most of the time, yeah. I just have too much going on to worry about how it looks. I don’t even notice it, really.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “You want some tea or something?” 

Frank shakes his head and sinks into the couch, letting it swallow him whole. “You seem so put together,” he says.

“Seem is the key word there,” Gerard replies, dropping onto the cushion beside him. Their knees almost touch. The space between them feels electric. “You wanna talk about it? You seemed… spooked.”

Frank lets his head fall back until it’s resting on the back of the couch. “I promise nothing bad happened. I just… I was so excited after the show, and then right as I was coming down from that, Anthony started to make a move. Or, not really, but he was about to. I could tell. And I realized that I could tell because I knew him so well, because we dated and I was in love with him, and normally that’s fine but tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about how it didn’t have to be okay -”

“It doesn’t,” Gerard says firmly. 

“I know. I know that. Tonight was the first time I really felt it, though. And I just… freaked. I didn’t want to be there. I thought I wanted to be away from you, but I didn’t.”

Frank didn’t mean to say that last thing, he realizes. The air shifts immediately. Gerard goes still, so still Frank can feel the weight of it pressing between them. His voice, when it comes, is quieter, frayed at the edges. “What do you mean?”

Frank swallows. His heart is pounding, restless. “I mean, we spend so much time together. Tonight was supposed to be, like, a return to form or something. Going to a shitty house party instead of fucking Backspace. And I was excited for that. Like, I was excited to get out of my head.”

“Get out of your head.”

Frank finally dares to glance at him, and it’s a mistake. Gerard’s face is all shadow and light, worry written into the crease between his brows, his mouth set like he’s holding something back. He is so fucking beautiful that Frank doesn’t know what to do. His heart surges, and he can’t stop the words tumbling out of him..

“I’m in my head all the time with you,” he admits. “And I thought maybe tonight I wouldn’t be. I’d get to stop feeling that way. But I didn’t. Because you weren’t there, but I was still thinking about you.”

Gerard shifts his entire body to face Frank, knocking their knees together, locking his eyes with Frank’s like he’s daring him to flinch. Frank doesn’t.

“How drunk are you, exactly?” Gerard asks, voice low, careful.

Frank swallows but doesn’t break eye contact. “Tipsy,” he admits. “It wasn’t a drinking thing. I told you, I just… didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Gerard’s eyes flick down to Frank’s mouth before he drags them back up. “So you called me.”

“You’re my friend.” The word feels flimsy, laughable in the space between them.

Gerard presses his lips into a thin line, silent for a beat that stretches too long. Finally, he says, “It’s just a crush. It’ll pass.”

Frank’s chest tightens. “Are you talking to me or yourself?”

It happens in an instant. One second, Gerard is staring at him, eyes sharp and hard, and the next, Gerard’s mouth is crashing onto his, rough and hungry and fucking desperate.

Frank moans into the kiss instantly, and Gerard devours it, forcing his tongue into Frank’s mouth like he’s starving. Frank barely has a second to kiss back before his back is shoved into the couch cushions, Gerard’s weight pressing down, every inch of him demanding, relentless. Frank’s fingers claw into Gerard’s shoulders to drag him closer, terrified of even an inch of space between them. Gerard kisses like he wants to consume him, messy and rough, and Frank gives it right back, biting, tasting, pulling until it’s impossible to know where one ends and the other begins.

It’s fucking reckless. It’s greedy and brutal and Frank has never been kissed like this, like they’re the only two people left in the world. He could drown in it. He wants to.

Gerard’s hands are everywhere - running up his sides, gripping his waist hard enough to bruise, cupping his jaw, his thumb dragging against Frank’s cheek, like he can’t choose which part to hold. Frank’s body arches up helplessly, and then Gerard’s knee wedges between his thighs, pressing hard. Frank breaks into a sharp moan, shamelessly grinding down, chasing friction like he’ll die without it. Nothing has ever felt so good.

Sighs and little groans fall from Gerard’s lips, and Frank swallows them all willingly. He tastes like old cigarettes and something sweet, and he smells like fucking vanilla, and Frank is dizzy with it, drunk on him. He’s almost embarrassed at how long he’s wanted this, how little he wants to stop. 

Time stops. Or stretches. Every kiss drags them deeper, and neither of them moves to stop it. Minutes blur into eternity, and still Gerard won’t let him go, his mouth moving hot and frantic over Frank’s like he’s making up for every second wasted.

Eventually Gerard eases off, not pulling away but dragging his mouth across Frank’s lips, slow, sucking his bottom one until Frank’s cock throbs in response. Frank fists his hands in Gerard’s hair and yanks him back in, refusing to let him escape, pressing their mouths together again and again until his chest aches from lack of air.

They only break apart because their bodies demand it, both of them panting hard, foreheads pressed together. Gerard won’t stop kissing. His lips brush Frank’s cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, like he can’t bear to stop tasting him.

“Gee, fuck,” Frank gasps. “I mean - fuck.”

“Yeah,” Gerard mumbles against Frank’s skin. “Yeah.”

He kisses Frank again, slower, one last tender press of lips, before he shifts back, sitting on his heels at the other end of the couch. His mouth is swollen, his breathing uneven.

“Um,” Frank stammers, trying to sit up, his body still buzzing.

“I think we should get some sleep,” Gerard whispers, his voice steady but soft. He doesn’t sound like he regrets it. He just sounds like he’s holding the line with both hands.

“Gee,” Frank whines, crawling toward him anyway. He’s sure he sounds desperate, but he doesn’t care. He is desperate.

Gerard cups his face in both hands, steadying him. “Sleep, Frankie,” he says, firm but not unkind, and seals it with another slow kiss, final but full of promise.

“Okay,” he says, defeated but not disappointed.

Gerard just smiles at him, his eyes full of something Frank can’t place. “Goodnight, Frankie.”

“‘Night.” 

Frank curls onto the couch, dragging the blanket over himself. Gerard presses a kiss to his forehead like it’s the easiest thing in the world, then kills the lights and slips into his bed. The space between them is thick but not tense. It doesn’t take much time at all for Frank to fall asleep.

The next morning, Gerard isn’t there. The bed’s empty, and there’s a faint smell of fresh coffee. Frank’s phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside him.

Gerard: had to get to the studio, but take your time in the apartment. Coffee’s in the kitchen

Frank stares at the text a little too long. He could. He could wander into the kitchen, drink Gerard’s coffee, let himself sit with the mess of last night. He could poke around the canvases stacked at the foot of Gerard’s bed, snoop through the chaos, dig through his drawers, wait for Gerard to come home like a housewife.

But his chest feels too tight, and the apartment is steeped in Gerard in a way that makes Frank’s skin prickle. So he doesn’t. He just makes sure he’s got his keys and wallet, and then he heads home, locking the door behind him.

*

Gerard texts Frank that night: get home ok? 

Frank responds that he did, and that’s it. That’s the extent of the conversation about their kiss. 

Actually, there’s not much conversation at all over the next week. Gerard doesn’t come over. He tells Mikey that he’s drowning in work. He doesn’t bother giving Frank an excuse, because he barely texts him. He doesn’t look at him at all in American Lit, which leaves him feeling frustrated enough to practice guitar by himself for three and a half hours. 

He hasn’t told Mikey what happened. Not because he’s scared of Mikey’s reaction, but because he wants to get a handle on his own head first. He doesn’t regret kissing Gerard, and he knows Gerard doesn’t either. That’s not the problem. The problem is the cold aftershock. He didn’t expect fireworks or love confessions, but he didn’t expect… silence. Now every time he replays that night in his head, it feels raw, like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Thursday night, Mikey and Frank are holed up in the apartment, wrapped up under blankets in an attempt to keep their heating bill down. They’re studying for next week’s finals. Frank’s lucky. No exams until Tuesday, and his American Lit essay is basically done, which means it’s destined for a solid C. Exactly the grade Frank aspires to.

“Has something happened between you and Gee?” Mikey asks very suddenly, causing Frank’s head to snap up from his Music Theory notes.

“What?”

“Has something happened between you and Gee,” Mikey repeats, tone flat.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Oh my god. What happened?”

“Why do you think something happened?” Frank snaps.

Mikey just stares at him, his face totally unreadable. Then he says, “He’s isolating. Which he does sometimes. But right now he’s isolating specifically from you. Which is different.”

Frank squints at him. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means he won’t come over, which is weird, even for him. And he won’t tell me why. And he keeps asking about you like your phone’s broken. Which I know it’s not, ‘cause I watch you check it every five minutes like you’re in middle school.”

Frank exhales, glaring. “You’re freakishly observant.”

“I consider it a skill set. So what happened?”

Frank stalls. He really doesn’t want to do this now, but Mikey’s relentless. He won’t leave it unless Frank gives him something. 

“Anthony kind of came onto me after you left that party,” Frank admits finally. “I called Gerard to come get me. He took me to his place, I crashed on his couch, and then I came home the next morning. That’s it.”

Mikey’s eyes widen, comically huge behind his glasses. “Wait. He brought you to his apartment? Did you ask him to?”

“Yes. And no. Is that… a big deal?”

“Yeah, it’s a big deal. He doesn’t bring anyone over there, not even his hookups. My parents haven’t even seen it.”

“I can see why,” Frank says. “The place looks like a dumpster exploded.”

Mikey snorts, but his serious face is back in seconds. “So that’s it? He took you to his apartment and you slept there?”

Frank hesitates just a beat too long. “Mhm.”

“Frank.”

“Mikey.”

“That’s not it.”

Frank’s shoulders tense. “No.”

Mikey sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. Okay.”

“It was just a kiss, Mikey. Don’t get any ideas.” 

“I’m just going to think about it as little as possible. And now he’s avoiding you?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna talk to him?”

Frank frowns. “Remember that part where I said he was avoiding me?”

“Yeah, and he’ll keep avoiding you unless you corner him. Did you two talk about it at all?”

“No.”

“What about the next morning? Did he say anything?”

“Well, he wasn’t there the next morning. He texted me that I could stick around, but I just came home instead.”

Mikey’s quiet for a long moment. Finally, he looks down at his textbook and mumbles, “You two are fucking idiots.”

*

Frank takes Mikey’s advice to heart. If Gerard is, as Mikey so eloquently put it last month, a bitch, then Frank’s gonna have to have the confidence for the both of them. Which sucks, because he barely has enough confidence for himself. But he’s tired of Gerard not being around, so he does one thing he has never done in the history of his collegiate career: he goes to office hours.

Gerard is holding a special session for people to ask about the final essay. On Friday afternoon, about fifteen minutes before it’s supposed to start, Frank trudges to the library and takes the stairs to the third floor, where TAs conduct office hours in little temporary offices. He recognizes the gaggle of girls in front of Gerard’s closed door and fights against rolling his eyes. 

“He told me after class last week that I should major in English,” one of the girls, Becca, is saying to the others, her tone breathless.

“God, I wish he could be my adviser,” Olivia chimes in. “I’m so glad he’s going to be a TA for Shakespeare’s Tragedies next semester, I hope I’m in his group again.”

“He’s so smart,” Jean adds. “Like, a genius. I’d kill to see his art.”

“I’d kill to see his apartment,” Becca says. “Like, Jesus, please just notice me already!”

Frank bites his lip hard to keep from laughing. Or maybe snarling. He covers it with a cough. A bad move, because now all three sets of eyes are locked on him.

“Hey, Frank, right?” Olivia asks.

Frank groans internally. “Yeah, hey.”

“I saw your band last weekend. You were really good.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You were hanging out with Mikey Way, right?”

“Yeah, he’s my roommate.”

“Mikey Way?” Jean asks. “Gerard’s brother?”

“One and the same.”

“Do you know Gerard? Like, outside of class?” Jean asks, and suddenly there are three hungry pairs of eyes on him, desperate for information. And Frank, honestly, just doesn’t feel like giving it to them.

“Not really,” he says flatly. “He’s just my friend’s brother, you know?”

“Well do you at least know if he has a girlfriend?” Becca asks. “He has to, right?”

Frank shouldn’t feel possessive. He knows that. But he also knows that if he keeps having this conversation, he’s going to punch a wall.

“I’m pretty sure he’s gay,” he says, his voice a little too sharp.

“Who’s gay?” a voice says behind him. He whirls around to see Gerard strolling up to the group, carrying his bag. 

“No one,” Frank responds quickly. “Not important.”

Gerard smirks, and Frank almost melts into the floor.

“Alright then. Frank, why don’t you come in first, we can chat while I get myself in order.”

Frank nods, feeling a surge of pride as he walks past the girls, who are now glaring at him, into the tiny office space.

“Were you talking about me out there?” Gerard asks lightly when he closes the door.

Frank bristles as he sits down. “Look, I’m sorry. They know I know Mikey, and they asked if you had a girlfriend -”

Gerard drops his bag on the desk and laughs, low and maybe a little anxious. “Jesus, Frankie. You sound jealous.”

“I’m not,” Frank lies, jaw tight. He is, and they both know it.

Gerard sits, leaning back like the whole thing amuses him. “You don’t have to worry. I know they talk. I don’t mind.” 

Frank’s face burns. “I mind. I just…” he takes a breath. He’s made out with this guy, he can say what he wants to. “I don’t like hearing them talk about you.”

“I don’t like hearing people talk about you, either.”

Frank’s brow furrows. “Really?”

“Really. It… gets under my skin.”

“Huh,” Frank says, because he has no clue how else to respond.

Gerard smiles fondly. “I’m guessing you aren’t here to talk about the final paper?”

“I had to see you. You’ve been kind of radio silent since… you know.”

“End of the semester. I’ve been really busy.” Gerard leans back in his chair, tone casual and withholding. Frank wants to scream at him.

“Yeah? Because I’ve been busy too, but I’ve had time to notice that you aren’t talking to me. So if there’s something else…”

Gerard sighs and gets up from behind the desk. He walks around to lean on it, and he’s so close that Frank can smell the coffee and cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt. He crosses his arms, and Frank has a flash of a fantasy of Gerard crowding him against the desk, breath hot against his mouth. He wills himself to stay in the moment.

“Frank, you’re one of my best friends. You know that?”

Somehow, he didn’t until this second. “Oh. Okay. You - you’re one of my best friends, too.”

“Obviously my feelings run deeper than that, but we’re friends. And that’s really important to me. I don’t have a lot of those.”

Frank should be happy to hear it, but all he feels is the slow, sinking ache of being offered something smaller than what he wants. Mostly, he just feels like he’s getting broken up with.

“Did you - did you like it?” he asks, feeling pathetic until Gerard groans his answer.

“Yes, Frankie. Fuck, I liked it.”

“Okay,” Frank whispers.

“I think about you all the time,” Gerard murmurs. It feels like a siren in Frank’s ears.

“I think about you too,” he says.

They stare at each other for a minute, and Frank’s body is thrumming with tension. The silence is crackling, alive. Frank cannot, for the life of him, figure out how to say what he wants.

“I love that you’re in my life,” Gerard says finally. “I’m busy and I’m a mess and I have no fucking direction. Sometimes that’s, like, really fucking bleak. But not when you’re around. I always want you to be around. You know?”

Frank knows. It’s killing him, but he knows.

“I get it.”

“We’re good?”

“Yeah, Gee, we’re good.”

*

They are not good.

At least Frank isn’t. He’s wound up, a rubber band about to snap. He makes it through Friday night and most of Saturday without exploding through sheer force of will. The more he thinks about the conversation they had, the less satisfied he is. So he tries not to think about it at all. He tries to study, tries to practice, tries to listen to music or watch TV or talk to Mikey or do literally anything to take his mind off Gerard. But all it does is bring him to the forefront of Frank’s brain. Those eyes, that mouth, that heat. He can’t ignore how much he wants it.

He gets ready to go out, because it’s the last Saturday before finals. But he knows Gerard is staying home, and he knows if he goes to a party he’s going to spend the whole night kissing some random guy and wishing he was kissing someone else. And suddenly, he doesn’t want to go to some random apartment. He wants to go to one particular apartment, and he’s gonna fucking do it.

He shoves his jacket on and bolts before he can stop himself, muttering, “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it,” like a prayer. He practices a little speech on the drive over: I want you, we should try this, it’s stupid to avoid how we feel. At Gerard’s building, he takes the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun his nerves. His knock on the door is way too loud.

Gerard opens the door quickly, and he smirks when he sees Frank. He’s wearing those paint covered jeans and a Fender shirt. There’s a streak of red paint on his jaw. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

He’s gorgeous.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to one of the many end of semester parties I’ve been hearing about?” Gerard asks, a hint of laughter in his voice.

And Frank is suddenly so outrageously, unbelievably tired of this.

He grabs a fistful of Gerard’s shirt and slams their mouths together, wild and feral. Gerard freezes for exactly half a second before kissing back with a growl, pressing his body flush against Frank’s. He makes another noise, something low in his throat, and stumbles a step back, gripping Frank’s hips to drag him into the apartment.

Frank goes willingly, kicking the door closed just for Gerard to shove him up against it, grinding the air out of his lung. Gerard’s tongue sweeps into his mouth like he owns it, like he’s dying for it, and Frank groans, loud and desperate, clinging on tight. He pulls away but keeps his lips on Gerard’s when he says, “I don’t wanna be fucking friends.”

“Cool,” Gerard pants, then he’s kissing Frank again, nipping at his lower lip, stripping Frank’s coat off his shoulders and pushing it onto the floor. Frank briefly thinks the conversation went pretty well. Then his brain short-circuits when Gerard sucks his tongue into his mouth, wet and filthy, and then it ceases to function entirely when Gerard’s hands slide under his shirt, fingertips pressing into his abdomen, dragging higher like he needs to map him out by touch. Frank hums, shoving his hand to the back of Gerard’s head to keep him right there, stealing every breath he can. 

Gerard wraps his hands around Frank’s ribcage. Frank has one second to think about how big they are against his body, how calloused his fingers feel from holding pencils and paintbrushes, before Gerard’s walking backwards and pulling Frank along, falling easily into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and dragging Frank down on top of him, never breaking apart. Frank scrambles, straddling his hips, and the heat of Gerard’s cock hard against him has his own erection pressing back with messy urgency. He grinds down instinctively, chasing it, and Gerard rips his mouth away just to bite at his jaw, teeth sharp enough to make Frank shudder.

“Frankie,” he purrs. His hands clamp on Frank’s hips, dragging them harder into his lap, until Frank can only gasp at the pressure. Gerard’s eyes are nearly black, blown wide with hunger.  “Yeah, show me how bad you want it.”

“Fuck,” Frank groans before he can help himself. He doesn’t stop moving, just keeps rolling his hips down, shuddering when Gerard leans in to press the flat of his tongue against his scorpion tattoo.

“God,” Frank whines. “Your mouth is so fucking… god.”

“Wanna see all of you,” Gerard murmurs against his throat. “Been thinking about these tattoos for months.”

Frank takes that as an invitation to pull away and yank his shirt over his head. He watches Gerard’s eyes get impossibly darker, and then suddenly Gerard’s grip tightens on his hips and he throws him on the bed, flat on his back, and crawls over him.

“You’re so hot,” he groans, running his hand down Frank’s chest to the swallows at his hips. “Fuck, Frankie, you’ve been killing me ever since I saw you in your car.” 

His hand burns as it trails lower, fever-hot, unbuttoning Frank’s jeans with frantic fingers and shoving inside. The first stroke of Gerard’s hand around his cock makes Frank arch off the bed with a broken whine, bucking into the friction helplessly.

“This what you came here for?” Gerard asks, leaning down on his elbow so he can kiss at Frank’s chest, his neck, his jaw, never letting Frank go a second without his mouth on him. “God, you’re fucking wet.”

“Yeah,” Frank gasps, bucking helplessly into his fist. “Don’t stop, Gee, don’t -”

Gerard starts working him rough and fast, pulling moans and curses from Frank’s core. “You this easy for everybody?” he asks, voice low and wrecked, his lips pressed to Frank’s cheek.

“No,” Frank breathes, thrusting in time with Gerard’s hand, feeling greedy and half-crazed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it dawns on him that this is the first time he hasn’t performed pleasure during sex in close to a year. All of his neediness, his aching desire, it’s real. The thought spurs him on, and he works on Gerard’s jeans, opening them and shoving them down quickly so that he can get his hand around Gerard as soon as possible.

Gerard cries out when Frank takes him in his fist. Frank uses the slick at his tip to ease the slide and works him fast, opening his mouth when Gerard kisses him again.It’s frantic, the two of them gasping into each other’s mouths, grinding and tugging, teeth clashing, everything so close to snapping. Gerard is big in his hand, thick and hot, and Frank thinks wildly about how he’d feel inside him, how deep he’d go, and his cock twitches helplessly at the thought.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” Gerard groans, biting hard on Frank’s lower lip. Frank momentarily blacks out from the way the pet name shoots through his spine, but he pulls away from Gerard’s mouth as soon as he can gather his thoughts again.

“You have to fuck me,” he blurts, like it’s been dragged out of him.

“What?” Gerard jerks back just an inch, his brows snapping together. “Frankie, I - you sure?”

Frank squeezes Gerard’s cock in his fist, just enough to make him shudder. “I need to feel this. I need you to fuck me. If you’re cool with that.”

Gerard laughs, a short, hysterical sound. “If I’m cool with that? Jesus, obviously I’m cool with that.” He tears himself away, and Frank thinks about pouting before realizing that Gerard is pulling off his clothes. Frank gets with the program, shoving his jeans and boxers to the floor. While Gerard rummages through the drawer of the nightstand for a condom, Frank takes in his body, completely unable to stop staring. The pale softness of it is such a stark contrast to the sharp, dark persona he puts on out in the world. Frank thinks he looks so incredible like this, soft and unguarded, but with this dark hunger in his eyes. He wants Gerard like this all the time, just for him.

“You’re fucking pretty,” he blurts as Gerard finally emerges from the nightstand with lube and a condom.

“Shut up,” Gerard says immediately, but he’s grinning, and Frank wants to kiss the smile right off his face. He shoves Frank back and climbs over him, mouthing his way down his chest, nipping at his collarbones, sucking at his nipples. Frank is practically writhing under him, clutching at Gerard’s hair.

“You’re driving me crazy, Gee, don’t wanna wait,” Frank whines.

“How do you like it?” Gerard asks. “I bet you like it fucking rough, huh?”

"Oh my god.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Gerard shuffles lower, settles between Frank’s thighs, and pops the lube open. He warms it between his fingers, smirking like he already knows every thought in Frank’s head. “I bet you like the stretch. I bet you get on your hands and knees for all those assholes you go home with, but I bet what you really want is to be folded in half and fucked into a mattress.”

Frank’s breath hitches, his eyes wide as he watches Gerard move his hand between his legs. He didn’t expect this side of Gerard, but he’s so into it he might die. Precome leaks down his cock, smearing over his thigh.

“That sound good to you, baby?" Gerard presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, then slides a slick finger into him with devastating ease, working him immediately. “Want me to fuck you so hard you never forget it?”

Frank whines, every muscle clenching. “Gee…”

“Mhm, I knew you’d like that,” Gerard murmurs, twisting his finger just right, watching Frank’s face with rapt attention. “Been wanting this. Been wanting you in my bed for months.”

“Why - why didn’t you bring me home?” Frank pants. “I saw you looking.”

Gerard looks up at Frank, smirking. “I’m an idiot, I guess,” he says, pushing in a second finger and scissoring. 

Frank feels all of his muscles relax as he moans. It feels so good, unbelievably so. Gerard is careful but not slow, and his fingers feel thick inside him, knowing just where to go, just how to twist. Gerard’s eyes keep moving from Frank’s face to the space between his legs, awestruck. Frank is going absolutely insane. He pushes his hips down, fucking himself on Gerard’s hand, chasing this feeling with everything he has. 

“God, you’re responsive,” Gerard purrs.

“I’m ready.”

Gerard’s rhythm stalls for a fraction of a second before he continues fucking Frank with his fingers. “I don’t think -”

“I’m ready.”

“Frankie. I’m not trying to be an asshole about it, but, like, everyone needs a little extra prep before they can take me.”

“No,” Frank says, still rocking his hips. “It’s like you said. I like the stretch.”

Something changes in Gerard’s expression. “Oh yeah? You a size queen?”

“It’s more about… the feeling.”

Gerard’s mouth curls into a grin. “You’re a pain slut.”

“Jesus fucking Christ."

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Gerard says easily, though his eyes are blazing. “I can work with that.” He pulls his fingers free and grabs the condom, rolling it on with practiced speed.

Frank is mesmerized watching him. He’s never thought about whether another guy’s dick looks good, but Gerard’s is thick, long, flushed dark, and it’s fucking hot. A desperate noise escapes his throat. Gerard looks up at him and smirks as he kneels between Frank’s legs. 

“You want it like this?” He asks, voice husky as he pushes Frank’s thighs to his chest and lines himself up right where Frank is aching for it.

“Yeah,” Frank groans. “Don’t be gentle.”

“Pain slut,” Gerard teases, and then he’s pushing in, slow but hard, stretching Frank open inch by inch until Frank’s head is tipping back and he’s clutching Gerard’s biceps like a lifeline.

“Gee,” he bites out,. “Fuck, fuck.”

“You good?” Gerard asks, his own voice frayed, strained with the effort of holding back, though he never stops moving, pressing deeper. His eyes stay locked on Frank’s like he’s afraid to blink. Frank just nods, shifting so that Gerard can push deeper, choking out a broken sound when he bottoms out. Gerard takes a breath, looking like he’s about to lose his mind.

Frank’s thankful for the few seconds he gets to adjust. He feels stretched out, split open, and he’s walking the line between pleasure and pain. But he has one thought pulsing through his brain, louder than any of the others:

Gerard is inside him.

“Gonna start moving, baby, I gotta fuck you,” Gerard rasps, pushing Frank’s thighs into his stomach and drawing his hips back before Frank can respond. He slams into Frank, clearly not holding back, and Frank fucking screams.

“Fuck, again, Gee, you feel -“ he cuts himself off with another moan when Gerard does it again, pulling out almost all the way to shove back in, hard and relentless. 

“You like that?”  Gerard demands, grinding deep and rocking his hips to keep Frank open around him.  “Fuck, you do like it rough.”

Frank groans, his head tipping back into the pillow, sweat slick on his skin, cock throbbing untouched between them. Gerard mouths at his jaw, never slowing, never easing those short thrusts deep inside him. “When was the last time you had good sex, huh? Did any of those guys give you what you need?”

The answer is no. “You’re… mouthy during sex,” Frank chokes out.

“Oh, I’ll shut up then.” Gerard says, and the smile that stretches across his face is fucking dangerous. He shifts Frank’s legs so they’re hooked over Gerard’s shoulders and then presses his body as close to Frank’s as possible. It does actually almost bend Frank in half. The new angle makes Frank see white as Gerard pushes impossibly deeper, the stretch blinding, perfect. Frank digs his nails down Gerard’s back, dragging hard enough to leave marks, and Gerard groans, the sound guttural, lost.

“Yeah,” Gerard bites out. “Yeah, like this.” And then he’s fucking down into Frank recklessly, no restraint, hard and deep and messy. And Frank will die if he never gets to feel this again.

“Thought about this - for ages,” he groans, arching his back for a better angle. He gasps when Gerard drags his dick against his prostate. Gerard clocks it immediately and repeats the motion.

“That?” He asks.

“That,” Frank whines, clinging tighter, and Gerard adjusts his rhythm, hitting it over and over until Frank is keening.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” Gerard groans between Frank’s moans. “I fantasized about this for - fucking forever, but I never thought - god, I’m gonna get off to this for months.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Frank chokes, his cock twitching painfully between them. “I’m close, I’m gonna -“

“Say what?” Gerard taunts, fucking into him harder, faster, sweat dripping down his temples. “That I want you? That I’ve already jerked off to you? That I touch myself thinking about your mouth, your ass, the tattoos on your fingers?” His voice breaks on a moan, and Frank feels dizzy from how raw it is, how far gone Gerard looks.

“God, Gee - god,” Frank gasps, grinding up against him, his cock trapped and leaking between their stomachs. He’s close, so close, the words and the pace and the heat sending him spiraling.

“You gonna come on just my cock? You’re so fucking easy, baby, don’t even need me to touch you. Fuck, come for me, I want to feel it, I want it so bad.”

That does it. Frank shatters with a broken cry, coming hard, hot between them, clenching around Gerard so tight he sees stars. Gerard fucks him through it, then he drops Franks legs to kiss him hard and dirty. He rolls his hips for just a few seconds before he spills into the condom, groaning into Frank’s mouth as he thrusts deep and stills, pulsing inside him until he’s empty.

They collapse together, sweaty, shaking, lips still brushing, too wrecked to separate. Frank’s chest heaves against Gerard’s, both of them trembling with the aftershocks. Frank is weirdly disappointed when Gerard pulls out, like he misses him.

“Believe it or not, I did have a whole speech planned out,” he says a few minutes later as he watches Gerard tie off the condom and toss it into the garbage can by the bed.

“I think I got the message,” Gerard replies, kissing Frank long and slow.

“Fuck,” Frank breathes when they pull apart, half-laughing, half-gasping. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

“Can’t argue with that one. You want dinner?”

Frank furrows his brow. “Oh. I mean, yeah, but weren’t you working?”

Gerard shrugs, wrapping himself around Frank’s body. They’re both messy, Frank’s come drying on their bodies, but it doesn’t matter to either of them. “I was. And you were going to a party. But now we’re in bed, and I’m hungry. I can order pizza.”

Frank didn’t really think about the aftermath of whatever was going to happen tonight, but Gerard nuzzling into his neck like this and buying him dinner is probably the best possible outcome.

“Pizza sounds good.”

“Great. Shower, then pizza.” Gerard pulls himself off the bed and offers his hand to Frank, who takes it and walks with him into the bathroom.

“So does this mean I get an A on my American Lit final?” Frank asks as he watches Gerard adjust the temperature in the shower.

“Nice try, but no. I do think you’re the hottest person in class, if that helps.”

Frank smirks. He can’t get over how good he feels right now. “It helps a little,” he responds, following Gerard into the shower.

Chapter Text

A little more than a week before Christmas, Frank lets himself in the front door of the Ways’ house and steps directly into a family feud.

“I don’t want to watch Empire Strikes Back again!” Mikey yells at Gerard, standing behind the couch and holding the remote hostage. “We watched it last week and last night. Other movies exist!”

“But better movies don’t,” Gerard says serenely from the couch. He tips his head back, eyes flicking toward Frank. “Right, Frankie?”

Frank shrugs off his coat, scowling. “Don’t drag me into this. Ask Ray.”

“Hey, I don’t want to be dragged into this either!” Ray says from the loveseat, hands raised. “They’ve been going at it for ten minutes.”

“Jesus,” Frank says, collapsing on the loveseat next to Ray. Ray’s a friend of Mikey and Gerard’s that Frank never met in high school because of his Catholic school shield. Which is a shame, because Ray’s a cool fucking guy and Frank is sad to have only just met him at the beginning of Christmas break. But at least now they talk about guitar and music, and sometimes it’s nice having someone in the room who isn’t a Way.

Frank has been over basically every day of the last week and a half. He hates being at home. His parents are energy vampires, completely sucking the holiday spirit out of the air wherever they go. It absolutely didn’t help that he finally told them he declared a music major. His dad was fine with it, but his mom flipped about how he needed to get a “real degree” for a “real job.” His parents fought about it, making for even more tension between them. Frank just doesn’t want any part of it, so he usually heads over to the Ways’ as soon as his parents get home from work.

“Wow,” Gerard says, mock wounded. “I’m really disappointed you won’t take my side, Frankie. Or even sit with me.”

“And risk getting caught in the crossfire? No thanks. Mikey looks ready to chuck that remote at your head.”

“I’ll be nice if you come over here.”

Frank feels his cheeks heat. Since that night, the flirting has sharpened. Every time Gerard uses that voice, smooth and teasing, Frank’s stomach flips, his body remembering exactly how Gerard had touched him in his apartment.

“I’m only moving because it’s a better angle for the TV,” Frank mutters, rolling his eyes, but he stands anyway and crosses the room, letting himself fall onto the couch beside Gerard.

“You two are gross,” Mikey deadpans, sliding into Frank’s vacated seat. “We’re watching Batman Returns. It’s a Christmas movie.”

No one fights him on it. Frank isn’t surprised when, five minutes into the movie, Gerard pulls the throw blanket off of the back of the couch and wraps them up in it. His arm loops easily around Frank’s shoulders, drawing him close until Frank is slouched against his chest. 

This has been happening a lot lately. They didn’t talk about what happened. It didn’t feel like they needed to. They showered and ate pizza, and Gerard put on some old vampire movie, and they laughed at the special effects and made out until they fell asleep. They woke up the next morning and spent three hours tangled up with each other, not getting out of bed or getting dressed, until they both realized that finals were, in fact, breathing down their necks. Gerard kissed him goodbye at the door and Frank went back to his apartment. They texted during finals, but they didn’t see each other. And then winter break started, and Frank complained to Mikey and Gerard about his family, and they both told him to just come over, so he did. And he didn’t stop. 

He hangs out with them all night, every night, usually peeling himself off the couch at one am to drive home. Mikey and Gerard stay up with him, talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes, Mikey gets tired and it’s just him and Gerard in the living room, but they haven’t hooked up again. They haven’t done anything more than this, but they do this a lot. Gerard finds Frank any time he can, when they’re watching a movie or listening to music or complaining about their classmates, and pulls him as close as possible. They’re wrapped up in each other more often than not. They haven’t so much as kissed since winter break started, but that’s honestly okay with Frank. He likes feeling close to Gerard however he can. Gerard knows how he feels, and Frank will take what he can get.

He’s comfortable in Gerard’s arms, half-dozing as Gerard whispers random facts about Tim Burton and Catwoman into his hair. No one has ever made him feel so safe, maybe not even Mikey. He thinks that he could do this every day, for the rest of his life. Just spend forever curled up in Gerard’s lap, drifting off to the sound of his voice.

Which is kind of a shock. 

Frank tries very hard not to let his thoughts reach their inevitable conclusion. He blames it on the comfort of the holidays, especially here, where Gerard’s mom has covered almost every inch of the house in decorations and tinsel. He and Gerard aren’t even dating, they aren’t even hooking up. Frank’s feelings shouldn’t - can’t - be this deep.

His panic doesn’t stop him from turning his head to nuzzle his nose into Gerard’s neck. He’s wearing that cologne he wears when he goes out, and Frank wonders whether he put it on because he knew Frank was coming over. Gerard hums at the contact, tightening his hold on Frank’s shoulders.

“There are two other people in the room,” Mikey says loudly. 

Frank snaps his head back, but Gerard doesn’t loosen his grip. “Ray doesn’t care,” Gerard says, casual. “Do you, Ray?”

“I’m not getting in the middle!” Ray shouts. Thankfully Frank can hear the laugh under his exasperation.

After the movie, they watch Batman, and then Ray decides to go home, leaving Mikey pouting about “being left alone with them.” Ray shrugs and says he’ll come over on Saturday. Mikey throws on a Bowie record, and they stay up and talk for three hours about the merits of rock operas as a medium until Mikey yawns and says he can’t keep his eyes open.

“Be safe,” he deadpans as he climbs up the stairs.

Usually, this is when Frank disentangles himself, grabs his coat, and makes his way home. But tonight, he stays put, still wrapped up in the blanket, still pressed against Gerard. He doesn’t want the night to end. Not yet.

Gerard shifts beneath him, opening his mouth like he’s about to say goodnight, but instead he says softly, “I feel like a cigarette. Wanna smoke?”

“Yeah,” Frank says. They both get up from the couch and Frank moves toward his coat.

“Let’s not go outside.” Gerard’s voice drops, quieter, something private. “Come on, I can smoke downstairs.”

He opens the door to the basement and clicks the light on, and Frank follows him silently down the stairs. 

The basement is a smaller version of Gerard’s apartment at school. A rickety bed, an incredibly old and worn sofa, a desk shoved against the wall. There’s a sound system crammed in the corner with stacks of CDs on top of it. The desk, part of the couch, and the floor are all covered in art supplies and comic books. The bed seems suspiciously clear, like maybe Gerard cleaned it off at some point today. LIke maybe he wanted Frank in here.

“You lure lots of guys down here for a cigarette?” Frank asks, sitting on the bed because the cleanliness feels like an invitation.

Gerard smirks as he cracks the window above his desk. “Only the lucky ones.”

He pulls his cigarettes out of the back of his pocket and lights one before settling on the bed next to Frank. “Wanna just share?” he asks around it.

Frank smiles and plucks the cigarette out of Gerard’s mouth to take a drag. “It’s cold down here,” he comments as he passes the cigarette back.

“It’s a basement,” Gerard grins with a level of snark that reminds Frank that he and Mikey are definitely related.

“I’m just saying, we had a blanket upstairs.”

The grin lingers, softer now, and Gerard studies him. “Things still bad at home?” he asks finally.

Frank’s chest tightens. He takes another drag, holds it, then lets it go. “Yeah. Christmas is going to suck.”

“Did you tell them about the music major?”

“Yeah, and my mom freaked out. My dad was surprisingly cool about it, but that just pissed my mom off more and they had this huge argument about whether anyone was allowed to be upset about my major.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Not great. And this is the first time that they’ve fought because of me. I feel so guilty. I know I shouldn’t, but I don’t want to give them one more reason to hate each other.”

Gerard leans off the bed to stub the butt of the cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk. Then he turns his body to Frank and cups his jaw, turning Frank’s head to face him. “Hey. You know that their bullshit isn’t your fault.”

“Yeah. It’s just so… lonely over there. I get in my head a lot.”

“I hate that,” Gerard whispers. His thumb strokes along Frank’s cheek. “I hate that you ever feel like that.”

Something in Frank unspools at the words, fragile and dangerous at once. He leans into Gerard’s touch. He scans the room as much as he can without moving his head, then he looks back at Gerard, who’s leaned in so close that Frank can see flecks of gold in his eyes. “Thanks for bringing me down here. It feels like you.”

“A mess?” Gerard laughs.

“Dynamic,” Frank responds softly. He’s smiling, but he’s serious.

“Hm,” Gerard says. Then he leans in and kisses Frank with a sigh.

Frank cards his fingers through Gerard’s hair as he crawls into his lap, pressing his body against the warmth of Gerard’s chest. Gerard holds Frank tight against him. The kiss is tender, searching, and Frank indulges in the taste of the cigarette on Gerard’s tongue as their lips slide together.

“Missed kissing you,” Gerard whispers after they break apart.

“Mm, me too,” Frank replies.

“You’ll stay tonight? No one comes down here. And, also, I don’t think anyone cares.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Frank teases. “You’re kind of springing this on me, I don’t have any pajamas.”

Gerard laughs and pushes Frank off of his lap so he can close the window. “You know,” he says when he crawls back on the bed, and god, there’s that smirk, there are those eyes, there’s Frank’s heart outside of his body, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

*

“Are you and Gee together?” Mikey asks the next afternoon. They’re at a diner in town, just the two of them, eating pancakes before hitting an early movie.

Frank almost chokes on his pancake. “Uh,” he says, because he’s a very intelligent person.

“I don’t care, honestly, I just can’t get a read on you two.”

Frank’s brain helpfully replays a moment from last night, right after he came down Gerard’s throat, when Gerard kissed him softly and sighed, God, baby, you taste so good.

“Define ‘together,’” Frank says now.

“So you are together.”

“No! Or. I don’t know. I don’t think either of us think of it that way. Like, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Frank steels himself. “Don’t be mad.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“We hooked up right before finals.”

Mikey stares at Frank for five very long seconds. Then, unbelievably, he starts laughing.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Frank asks, equally offended and relieved.

“I just can’t believe neither of you have told me about this till now.”

“It’s only been, like, two and a half weeks.”

“Yeah, but neither of you can ever shut up. It’s insane to me that you hooked up and neither of you immediately came running to spill the details about it.”

Frank pulls a face. “I think that we have an unspoken agreement not to talk to you about it. Gerard’s your brother.”

“And I seem to remember you telling me you weren’t going to fuck my brother.”

Frank groans, running his hands down his face. “Mikey, please.”

“Okay, okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But I just wanted to bring it up ‘cause I don’t want you thinking you have to, like, sneak around. That whole little dance you did this morning where you snuck out of the basement to go home and then came back to pick me up? It’s a bit much.”

“I did have to change clothes, Mikes.”

“I’m just sayingl, you don’t have to be all walk-of-shame-y about it. Like, it’s cool with me.”

“Thanks, but I don’t even know what it is. I don’t particularly care, we have a good thing going, but I just don’t want you thinking I’m gonna be giving you and play-by-plays in case, you know.”

“In case it blows up?”

Frank sighs. “Yes.”

“No worries. But you do have to understand that if something happens, I gotta take Gerard’s side. I love you both, but that motherfucker raised me. So don’t screw up too bad, Iero. No pressure or anything.”

“Right. No pressure.”

*

The routine changes a bit after that. 

Frank still hangs out at the Ways’. Sometimes Ray is there, sometimes he’s not. Either way, Frank stays over almost every night. No one says anything about it - Gerard doesn’t invite him to stay, and Frank doesn’t ask, and Mikey doesn’t make any sarcastic comments. Mikey will go upstairs to his room, and Frank and Gerard will wander downstairs and fall into bed. 

Frank has never had sex like he has with Gerard. Gerard is talkative and almost possessive, murmuring constantly about how he wants Frank to remember this, wants to be the best fuck Frank has ever had. Frank wonders sometimes if this is just stuff Gerard likes to say during sex or if it’s reserved specifically for him. He doesn’t know the answer.

He is the best fuck Frank has ever had, though. He’s rough when Frank wants him to be, but there’s an undercurrent of adoration in every touch. He coaxes Frank to the edge, gentle, telling Frank how beautiful he is, holding him like he’s valuable. He loves to watch Frank come, and Frank loves Gerard watching him. It’s dirty and fun and frantic, but Frank can’t ignore the connection that exists between them. It’s always there, pulling them together like a magnet, but it’s so obvious in bed, when they aren’t trying to keep a lid on their feelings.

Frank always goes home in the morning, after a coffee and a cigarette in bed, making sure he gets to his house after his parents have gone to work. He could probably just stay at Gerard’s all day, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he won’t. Anyway, Gerard has to work on his final exhibition, and Frank has to practice guitar, and they aren’t even dating. 

A few days into this, Gerard calls him about an hour after he gets home. Frank frowns as he picks up. “Hey, Gee.”

“Do you think it’s too derivative to only use black, white, and red for an entire series of work?”

Frank’s brain can’t keep up with how suddenly Gerard drops into conversation, no matter how often it happens. “Uh.”

“Or maybe derivative isn’t the right word,” Gerard presses on, because he doesn’t actually want a response until he gets all of his thoughts out. “Maybe just… boring? Part of what I want to do with Demolition Lovers is explore shading and the absence of color, but how many 25 year old punks have tried to do a series with just black, white, and red, you know? Like, is it different enough?”

“Does it need to be different? Or does it just need to be good?” Frank asks.

Gerard huffs over the phone. “Both would be ideal.”

“Okay, fair. I mean, yes, black, white, and red are basic colors, but I don’t think your concept is basic. And if you know that the colors are basic or overused, you just have to do them really really well. Like, a brownie is basic. But when someone makes an excellent brownie, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted, you know?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says after a beat, sounding excited. “Yeah, I get it. Cool. Thanks Frankie.”

“You know, you could have asked me about this when I was over theret.”

“It’s weird talking to you about art face-to-face. Anyway, I just thought about it, like, ten minutes ago. What are you up to today?”

They stay on the phone for four hours, talking a little and then letting silence stretch as Gerard works and Frank practices guitar. The next day, after Frank gets home, Gerard calls again around the same time. It happens every day. It’s easy, comfortable. Frank tries very hard not to love it.

“Are you going to mass tomorrow?” He asks on the phone the day before Christmas Eve.

“Of course, Frankie. Mikey and I are perfect Catholic boys.”

Frank laughs. Then, for some reason, he has an intense urge to know something. “Do your parents know? That you like guys?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says easily. “I never came out or anything, but they weren’t shocked when I brought a boyfriend home. I think they expected it. My dad probably holds out hope that I settle down with a girl, but my mom truly doesn’t give a shit.”

“Do they know about Mikey?” Frank asks, ignoring every burning question about this mysterious boyfriend.

“That I don’t know. You know Mikey has always preferred women, at least up until now. I don’t think there’s been an opportunity for my parents to find out.”

“That makes sense.”

“What about your parents?”

“Yeah. I got suspended for two days junior year for making out with my classmate in the bathroom at school. So. Kind of hard to hide it after that.”

Gerard barks one of those loud laughs. “Such a fucking bad boy,” he teases.

“You don’t get it. Being gay at a Catholic all boys school is the hormonal equivalent of a fucking… buffet or something.”

“Were your parents upset?”

“About the suspension? Yes. About being gay? Not really. I think they probably already knew, they’d dealt with their anger or sadness by then.”

“Cool Catholics.”

“I guess,” Frank laughs. “Sucks that we don’t go to the same church, mass would be much more enjoyable if I could watch you in a suit.”

“I do clean up very nice.”

Frank thinks about how Gerard looked the night they first kissed - old jeans, worn out shirt. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more attractive than Gerard was that night. “You always look nice,” he says.

“You’re sweet,” Gerard says. “God, I miss you.”

Frank exhales a laugh as he picks up his guitar. “I saw you last night. And I’m going to see you on the 26th. It’s only three days.”

“I know.” Gerard is quiet for a minute, then he says, “I miss you whenever you’re not around.”

Frank wills himself not to let that affect him.

*

The Ways host a New Year’s Eve party at their house. Frank knows from Mikey that they do this every year. His mom is, apparently, very into hosting things. It’s Gerard who invites Frank. 

Frank shows up about an hour after the party starts. He’s wearing a gray button down and a pair of jeans that don’t have holes and don’t look like they’re painted on, which he thinks is a pretty decent look for attending a house party hosted by his friends’ parents. Gerard finds him immediately, and Frank’s mouth goes dry. He’s wearing a white button down and black slacks and a fucking waistcoat that Frank didn’t even know he owned. His hair is gelled back but still messy, his eyeliner is smudged in a way that is definitely intentional, and he’s wearing that cologne that makes Frank crazy.

“Hi,” he murmurs, passing Frank a glass of champagne and kissing him briefly on the cheek. Frank’s breath hitches, his face flushing. Other than them, Mikey, Ray, and a couple of people Frank thinks are probably cousins, there’s no one here under the age of 40. But Frank still feels a burst of pride that Gerard has clearly been waiting for him, that he’s the one Gerard has chosen.

As soon as Gerard pulls away from his face, his mother appears out of the crowd. “Frank!” she greets, her voice warm. She wraps Frank in a hug. “I’m so glad you came!”

“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Way,” Frank says, all politeness and respect. “This looks like a really great party.”

“I wouldn’t dream of not having you here,” Mrs. Way says. “After how close you and Mikey have gotten.”

“Mikey’s the best,” Frank says. He glances to the man on his left and continues, “Gerard’s not so bad, either.”

“Oh, Gee has very nice things to say about you,” Mrs. Way replies conspiratorially. Frank has to fight to make sure his jaw doesn’t drop onto the ground.

“Mom,” Gerard hisses from next to Frank.

“What?” Mrs. Way asks in a tone that suggests she absolutely knows what she’s doing. Jesus, does everyone in this family get their kicks from starting shit? “You know, Frank, you should come over for dinner or something soon. Based on how much both of my boys talk about you, I’m sure you’d be excellent company.”

Apparently the answer is yes.

“Definitely, thank you, Mrs. Way,” he says. Mrs. Way smiles and floats off to greet another guest, giving Frank the opportunity to spin to the side and see Gerard’s face a magnificent shade of red.

“How much both of her boys talk about me, huh?” Frank smirks, because he also likes starting shit.

“Just, be cool, please,” Gerard groans, running a hand over his face.

“You know, someone’s been telling me to stop trying to be cool. Maybe you could use that advice.”

Gerard drops his hand and glares at Frank, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Come on, let’s go find Mikey and Ray and try to avoid the middle aged crowd.”

They do exactly that. Mikey and Ray are in the kitchen, having a very intense debate about whether Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer was a song or a movie first.

“You know that all four of us have phones and can easily figure this out,” Frank says, downing his champagne and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I bet it was a song,” Gerard says while Frank looks it up. 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ray replies. “The plot of the movie is a little thin.”

“It’s meant for children,” Mikey points out.

“Yeah, but children are smart. They don’t need shitty plots,” Gerard counters. “Spirited Away is meant for children. The Iron Giant is meant for children.”

“But this is a Christmas movie.”

“All I’m saying is the plot feels a little like something based on a song -”

“Song came first,” Frank says as soon as Google loads. “1949. The movie came out in 1964.”

“Ha!” Ray pumps his fist in the air. Mikey looks pissed.

“Knew it,” Gerard says, all smooth confidence. He kisses Frank on the cheek. “Thanks, baby.”

The world stops for exactly one millisecond. Gerard has never used a pet name in public. Frank can tell from the tension in Gerard’s body that he didn’t mean to do it, and he can tell from Ray and Mikey’s expressions that they’re shocked. Frank doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t know what to say, or do, or think.

After one millisecond, he decides with everyone else to ignore that it happened.

“Okay, what about Frosty the Snowman?” Mikey says. “That one has to be movie first.”

“Are you dumb? That has absolutely no plot,” Ray argues.

“Song first,” Frank confirms on his phone.

“Fuck!” Mikey groans. Gerard smirks.

They stay in the kitchen, drinking and chatting and basically hiding from everyone else, for a long time. Frank eventually looks at the clock on the microwave and sees that it’s 11.

“Well,” he says during a lull in conversation, “I need to go smoke my last cigarette of the year.”

“Your resolution better be to quit,” Mikey says. “The apartment smells like an ashtray, even when you go on the fire escape.”

“My resolution is actually to make you wish you never moved in with me,” Frank says, pushing off of the counter to make his way to the back door, “so I’m actually going to start smoking more.”

He’s outside, smoking alone, for no more than ten seconds before Gerard opens the back door and slides over to him. “You think we should actually try to quit?”

“You want an accountability buddy?” Frank asks, passing Gerard the cigarette he’d been smoking so he can light a new one.

“Even if I did, I feel like you would be terrible at it. I’d confess to you that I bought a pack and you’d immediately ask me for half of it.”

Frank chuckles. “Yeah, you’re right. I just wouldn’t be able to tell you no.”

“Oh, I know,” Gerard says, his tone low and velvety. 

They smoke in silence for a minute. Not that Frank doesn’t have anything to say. He has a lot of things. Like: that was weird how you called me baby in the kitchen. It was weird how much I liked it. I want to know everything you’ve said to your mom about me. I want to know everything you do all day. I want to see your art, I want to know if you’ve ever drawn me. I want to kiss you right now, and also all the time. I’m falling way harder for you than is probably good or healthy. I think you’re falling for me too. But if you could give me some confirmation on that, I’d appreciate it.

He says none of them. 

Eventually, Gerard finishes his cigarette. He always finishes before Frank. He smokes like a madman. Frank has a very insane thought that he wouldn’t mind being a cigarette if Gerard was smoking him. He takes a long drag to calm himself down.

“Getting tired of the party?” Gerard asks as he stomps the butt of the cigarette on the ground.

“Why?”

Gerard looks at the sky. It’s a pretty clear night, and the moon is big, and Frank thinks that Gerard is beautiful like this, leaning against his childhood home, neck stretched as he looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “I wore this for you, you know,” he says very quietly.

“Oh?” Frank asks, and it comes out as a breath.

“Yeah, I’m not usually dressing up for my mom’s New Year’s party. But I knew I’d see you, so I did.” He’s quiet for a beat, like he’s trying to let the confession settle, then he turns his head to look at Frank. “You’re not wearing eyeliner.”

“I - no. I wasn’t sure what the vibe would be here.”

“Can I put some on you? I have some in the basement.”

“Yeah. What do you want to do after that?”

“After that…” Gerard pushes himself off the house and turns fully so his entire body is facing Frank’s. “You know, earlier I was thinking about where I wanted to be at midnight, and I realized that I really want to start the new year inside of you.”

Frank drops the rest of his cigarette. “Lead the way,” he says.

Gerard grins before he turns to go back in the house. He doesn’t check if Frank is following him. Which doesn’t upset Frank. He’s obviously going to follow Gerard.

They stop off in the kitchen so Gerard can grab a bottle of red wine and two solo cups from the counter. 

“Do I want to know where you’re going with that?” Mikey deadpans. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Gerard replies sweetly as he ruffles Mikey’s hair.

“You’re annoying,” Mikey groans, batting Gerard’s hand away. Next to him, Ray just winks and says, “Happy New Year.”

As he follows Gerard through the crowd to the basement door, he is infinitely thankful for how chill his friends are. 

Gerard hits the lights and locks the basement door. Even when they get downstairs, the music and voices from the party fill the room like white noise. It reminds Frank how separate they are from everyone, how Gerard has stolen him away for the night. It’s romantic, and he needs to stop reading romance into this thing.

He sits on the couch and watches Gerard drop the drinks on the desk, unbutton the top button of his shirt, and dig through the top drawer of his dresser before pulling out a black eyeliner pencil. 

“Are you one of those guys that needs his dates to wear makeup?” Frank teases as Gerard sits next to him on the couch.

“No, but if I have the opportunity to see you in makeup, I’m fucking taking it. Close your eyes.”

Gerard is very gentle as he runs the eyeliner over Frank’s eyelids. He uses his thumbs to smudge it a little, and his touch is light. Frank isn’t sure if he’s ever done something so intimate with another person.

“Look up,” Gerard whispers. 

Frank does so that Gerard can get his lower lashline. There is nothing urgent happening right now, but Frank’s heart is hammering anyway.

“My band has a gig toward the end of the month,” he says. “Our first one at a bar. Will you help me get ready?”

“Of course,” Gerard says, his voice low, his breath fanning Frank’s mouth.

“Will you come?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, baby.” He pulls away and smiles. “Perfect. God, you look good with eyeliner. Wanna see? The mirror’s in the bathroom.”

Frank smiles, feeling kind of dopey. He doesn’t need to see. The eyeliner isn’t for him anyway. “Nah,” he says. “I trust you.”

Gerard smiles and kisses Frank slow, languid. He sighs into it, and Frank sighs back.

“Wine?” Gerard asks after he pulls away. Frank nods.

“So do you just wear eyeliner? Or do you branch out?” Gerard asks when he brings the bottle and the solo cups back to the couch. He pours a hefty glass for Frank and hands it to him.

“Eyeshadow sometimes,” Frank answers after he takes a sip. “I’m pretty good with concealer, too, if I need it after… you know.”

“Oh, you like getting marked? I’ll keep that in mind,” Gerard winks. 

Frank rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna ask for it,” he says. “Like, I don’t want it to be orchestrated. But if someone gets so into it that they leave a mark, I don’t hate it.”

“You are a pain slut,” Gerard nods.

“Shut up,” Frank laughs. “It’s not about the pain.”

“Mhm. So what’s it about?”

Frank takes another big drink as he thinks. “It’s about, like, the intensity,” he finally answers. “Like, someone lost themselves in me so much that they gave me a bruise. And then I get to wear it around as a reminder.”

“You like being claimed?” Gerard asks. He’s teasing, but a chill runs down Frank’s spine anyway.

“Maybe,” Frank purrs.

Gerard hums, smirking as he refills their cups. They’re quiet as they drink. After a while, Gerard says, “I’m glad you’re with me tonight. This is the best New Year’s I’ve had in a long time.”

Frank grins. “Nothing’s even happening. We’re just hanging out in your basement.”

“Exactly. I’m hanging out in my basement with my best friend, who happens to be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and he wants to be here with me. It’s a good way to end the year.”

Frank feels warm from the words. He feels so insanely happy to be here, to have Gerard’s attention. It’s been over a month since they first kissed, and Frank has only slipped deeper into this. He doesn’t know when it got to this point, way past physical attraction into a deep, all-consuming need. But he doesn’t care. He knows Gerard feels it, too. And despite his reputation as a flirt and a little shit, he’s always felt too much, too fast. With Gerard, that doesn’t feel like a problem. He’s tired of being too cool for this.

“Gee,” he says, looking into Gerard’s eyes and taking his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I really like you.”

Gerard fucking beams. “God, Frankie, I like you so much.”

Frank smiles too, then he pushes Gerard so he’s laying on the couch and climbs on top of him. They kiss desperately, but it’s not the same urgent want that’s defined their hookups so far. It’s quiet, needy. Frank wants to sink into this man, tangle into him the way his fingers are tangling into his hair. He wants to be close, and then closer, wants to taste nothing else but the wine in Gerard’s mouth, feel nothing but Gerard’s palms against the skin of his lower back. 

“Bed?” Gerard pants against Frank’s mouth after a minute.

“We can just stay here,” Frank argues.

“No, baby. I wanna lay you out, I wanna take my time,” Gerard whispers, and it is without a doubt the sweetest invitation Frank has ever heard. He gets off the couch and pulls Gerard the three feet to the bed. He drops Gerard’s hand to crawl onto it, laying on his back in the center, head on the pillows. Gerard crawls after him, settling on his knees between Frank’s legs.

“I didn’t mean to get this invested,” Gerard confesses quietly, running his hand from Frank’s knee up to his hip. “I don’t know when it happened.”

“Me either,” Frank responds. 

When Gerard leans down to kiss him again, Frank meets him halfway, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of the waistcoat and button-down (that Gerard wore for him, holy shit). Frank indulges in the feeling of Gerard’s tongue, the wet heat of his mouth. This isn’t a stolen thing, not anymore. This is his to give into, and he’s going to give into it. 

Gerard settles over him, one knee between Frank’s thighs, his palms braced on either side of Frank’s head. The mattress dips under his weight, and Frank feels cocooned, held.

“Frankie,” Gerard breathes when they break for air, their foreheads pressed together. “You taste like wine.”

“You taste like trouble,” Frank whispers back, grinning. He shoves Gerard’s shirt down his shoulders and catches his mouth again. They kiss as Gerard works on the buttons of Frank’s shirt, and he pulls away when Frank’s shirt is open.

“Frank,” Gerard breathes, spreading his hands out on Frank’s stomach and running them up to his chest. He looks like he’s in awe, like Frank is art.

“You’re staring,” Frank whispers.

“Can you blame me?” Gerard leans down to kiss the flames on his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I love your body, all your tattoos. I want to map all of them out, stare at them for hours.” He kisses up Frank’s chest to his neck, tugging the shirt off of Frank’s arms. Frank closes his eyes as Gerard mouths at his throat. No one has ever talked about him this way.

“You drive me crazy,” Frank says, grabbing Gerard’s face and bringing their lips together again. He wraps his arms around Gerard’s shoulders and pulls down until Gerard sighs and lowers himself closer, so their bodies are flush and Frank can feel the beat of Gerard’s heart against his. 

They make out for a while, unhurried, clothes peeling off in layers. They laugh against each other as they try to pull off their pants without breaking apart. They moan as they deepen the kiss, as their skin runs together. By the time their boxers are gone, Frank feels almost dizzy.

Gerard stays pressed against him, bringing a hand to run his thumb across Frank’s cheekbone. “Good?” he asks.

“Yes,” Frank whispers. “Please, Gee. I need you.”

“God,” Gerard groans, and then he’s kissing down Frank’s body, slow and wet. Frank’s skin hums where Gerard’s mouth has been, leaving him shaking. He doesn’t expect the way Gerard takes his time with it. He presses his mouth to the sharp jut of Frank’s hipbone like it’s holy, teeth scraping gently, then follows the line of his stomach with his lips, stopping to nuzzle into the swallows on his waist. Frank shivers and tries to laugh it off, but his voice comes out cracked and shaky.

Gerard moves between his legs, kissing the inside of his thigh. “I am so lucky,” he says, and Frank gasps, his hand flying into Gerard’s hair without meaning to, fingers curling tight when Gerard sucks a bruise into the tender skin there. Gerard lingers, lips dragging along Frank’s thigh like he’s memorizing the taste of him. When Frank’s hips twitch, Gerard presses them back down with a steady palm.

“You’re impatient,” Gerard teases softly, kissing his way higher. “Let me take care of you.”

Frank’s stomach swoops, heat pooling low in his gut. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just lets his head fall back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut.

When Gerard finally mouths over the length of him, not even taking him in yet, just breathing him in, Frank curses out loud. Gerard’s tongue traces him lazily, reverent, like he’s savoring the shape before he commits. And then, finally, Gerard takes him into his mouth, slow and steady, his lips sealing around him like he’s meant to be there.

Frank groans, his hips jerking before he can stop himself, but Gerard’s hand is already pressing him back down, grounding him. He works him deep with unhurried patience, hollowing his cheeks, the warmth of his mouth overwhelming. Frank feels undone, flayed open.

“Jesus, Gee,” he moans, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

Gerard hums around him at the words, sending vibrations through Frank’s whole body, before swallowing him down again. Frank feels himself hit the back of Gerard’s throat once before he pulls off.

Frank takes a breath, weirdly thankful for the break, watching with wide eyes as Gerard grabs lube out of his nightstand.

“My baby,” Gerard breathes, pressing his lips to Frank’s temple as he slicks his fingers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He brings his hand between Frank’s legs, and Frank spreads them wider as Gerard teases his hole. Frank really doesn’t need prep, they’ve been fucking every night. But god, he wants it. He wants Gerard every way he can get him, and the noise he makes when he feels Gerard’s finger inside of him is so needy it’s almost embarrassing.

Gerard works one finger inside slowly, then another, rolling his hips lightly against Frank’s thigh, never moving his lips from Frank’s temple. He murmurs Frank’s name in between soft praises: “so good for me, Frankie, you’re taking me so well.” Frank clutches at the sheets, his breath uneven, every stretch and curl making his body twitch.

“Why’re you being like this?” he breathes, hips bucking against air, leaking precome down to his thigh.

Gerard hums, then says, “Because you’re letting me.”

“Jesus.” He can barely breathe, let alone speak, but the words tumble out anyway. “Didn’t think - fuck - I didn’t think you wanted me this bad.”

Gerard kisses his temple. “Of course I do. All the time.”

Frank shudders, his throat working around the moan that escapes him. “You can’t say that while your fingers are -” He breaks off with a groan when Gerard finds his prostate and presses. “I’ll fall apart.”

“Good,” Gerard says, smirk obvious in his voice as he pulls his fingers out. “You’re clean?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna come inside you.”

“Please,” Frank moans, way too loud. Gerard laughs as he slicks himself up. 

When Gerard finally presses in, Frank’s whole body goes taut at the stretch. It’s a dizzying, impossible fullness, and he clenches tight around Gerard’s shoulders to ground himself. Gerard’s forehead drops against his, both of them breathing hard, Gerard whispering, “Breathe, Frankie. Just breathe. You’re perfect.”

Frank’s body opens up for him easily, and Gerard starts to move slow, steady, but fucking deep, each thrust angled with intention. Frank moans helplessly, arching into it, and Gerard’s hand slides down his side, smoothing over his hip like he can soothe every tremor.

The rhythm builds gradually, Gerard rocking into him with a patience that feels like torture. Frank wraps his legs around Gerard’s waist, dragging him closer, and Gerard groans, biting down on a gasp as he sinks deeper. Their mouths keep finding each other, kisses messy and desperate, interrupted by broken breaths and whispered names.

Every time Frank moans, Gerard answers with a kiss, like he can’t bear to leave him unattended, like his mouth belongs everywhere at once. His hands map Frank’s body, reverent in every touch - palms skimming his sides, fingers digging lightly into his thighs, one hand pressing firm against his ribs to hold him steady.

“Look at you,” Gerard breathes against his mouth, voice shaking. “So beautiful like this.”

Frank feels the words like another thrust, his whole body tightening. His eyes sting, though he’s too wrung out to question why. “Didn’t know it could feel like this,” he chokes out without meaning to. Gerard kisses him hard in response and then wraps his hand around his cock. Frank cries out from the relief, digging his fingers into Gerard’s shoulders.

Gerard strokes him in time with his thrusts, slow and steady, thumb dragging over the head until Frank’s gasps turn ragged. The heat builds sharp and unbearable, curling tight inside him until he’s keening into Gerard’s mouth. 

“You’re so tight, baby,” Gerard groans. “So tight and hot and all mine. Say it, please. I want -”

“I’m yours,” Frank sobs. His vision whites out as he comes, pleasure slamming through him in waves, pouring hot over Gerard’s fist.

“Yeah,” Gerard groans, fucking him through it. “All mine, baby, all fucking mine -” and then he’s coming too, thrusting deep and pulsing hard as he spills into Frank’s body. And, all due respect to hickeys, but this is what being claimed should feel like. It should make you feel full and spent at the same time. It should make you feel wanted, attractive, safe. Frank never wants to forget this feeling.

For a long moment, they just cling, their breaths ragged, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. Gerard doesn’t move to pull out. He stays pressed close, lips brushing Frank’s jaw. 

“Are you mine, Frankie?” he asks, and it’s a different question all of a sudden. He sounds so different now than he did two minutes ago. So vulnerable. It makes Frank’s heart surge.

“Of course,” he says. “All yours, Gee.”

Gerard pulls out with a soft grunt. He uses his shirt to clean Frank off and then immediately wraps his arms around Frank’s waist, kissing at his jaw.

“Can I tell you something?” Frank asks, pressing closer to Gerard, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“Yeah.”

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” 

Gerard laughs, breathlessly, and Frank laughs too, threading his fingers through Gerard’s damp hair. 

“I’m yours too, you know,” Gerard whispers, his breath warm against Frank’s temple.

“I know.”

They’re quiet after that, curled up together, letting their breathing even out. After a few minutes, they hear the party upstairs counting down from 10. 

When they all shout “Happy New Year,” Gerard presses his mouth to Frank’s, and Frank kisses back like he’s in love.