
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/585398.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      My_Chemical_Romance
  Relationship:
      Frank_Iero/Gerard_Way
  Character:
      Frank_Iero, Gerard_Way, Mikey_Way, Hambone, Donna_Way, Brody_Dalle
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Established_Relationship,
      Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Graphic_Mention_of_Past_Suicide
      Attempt, Violence, Dirty_Talk, Hand_Jobs, Phone_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-07 Words: 14972
****** Kids Like Us Don't Get Forgiven ******
by my99centdreams
Summary
     It was different after he tried and failed. Maybe it was therapeutic.
     Or, how Gerard stops drinking and Frank stops getting the shit bashed
     out of him.
Notes
     Triggering. There's graphic mention of a past suicide attempt
     (mentioned more than once). The title is from 'Runaways' by Single
     Mothers.
He used to stumble around the city drunk, scraping his palms and tearing holes
in his dirty jeans, looking for something. He doesn't know why he expected to
find anything, he was too busy throwing up in gutters and contemplating whether
or not throwing himself in front of a silver Audi would kill him.
He'd come home to the humming of his refrigerator and the soft whirring of his
bedroom ceiling fan and even though he was refusing to pay the rent in hopes of
being evicted he had never loved his apartment more. He doesn’t miss his
parents’ basement anymore, well, his mom’s basement now that they’re divorced.
Sometimes, when he's taken one too many pills and had too much to drink, he
sees fourteen year old Mikey sitting on the couch in his living room. He's
always bloody and tear stained and it took Gerard a month to realize he's just
been hallucinating the time when Mikey found him slumped against the bathroom
counter, wrists slashed open, blood spilling onto the tiles and running along
the dirty grooves like rivers.
He wishes Mikey didn't have to see that and can't decide if he feels that way
because that’s the kind of thing responsible adults say or because he still
feels like the desperate seventeen year old kid whose parents locked anything
he could use to kill himself in a cupboard under the sink. He would spend hours
on his knees in front of that cabinet, trying to figure out the fucking
combination because the bottle of aspirin in the bathroom cabinet could never
be the locked away sleeping pills, the sharp kitchen knives, or the toxic
cleaning supplies.
His mom even searched his room while he was at school, confiscating and
disposing of any alcohol and leaving a pack of cigarettes behind as some sort
of truce offering. No one ever really knew what to say when it was all over.
They avoided the subject, like talking about it would cause a repeat.
It was different after he tried and failed. Maybe it was therapeutic. The
feelings were still there: emptiness, loneliness, sadness, hopelessness, but
less intense. It was almost as if they were feelings he remembered
experiencing; emptiness was the painful ache in his chest, loneliness was the
unwelcome chill on his skin, sadness was the choking sensation, and
hopelessness was suffocating, it made him panic.
He smoked less when it was over and spent a lot of time with Mikey. It was rare
for Gerard to leave the house so Mikey acted as the scavenger almost. Mikey
would bring him movies, video games, comics, art supplies, anything that could
entertain him for a few hours.
Mikey didn't talk about it, he didn't have to, the way he looked at Gerard said
more than enough. Sometimes he seemed helpless and scared and the rest of the
time he seemed like Gerard was going to disappear into thin air before he could
reach out and grab hold of him.
"What do you hate?" Mikey asked quietly after they crawled into his too small
bed, hands clasped together on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling.
"What do I hate?" Gerard wanted to stare at the ceiling like Mikey was, wanted
to try to pretend they weren't having this conversation, but couldn't tear his
gaze away from his brother's face. He remembers not being able to recognize the
resemblance they shared and how it terrified him at the time.
Mikey nodded stiffly, like he regretted asking.
Gerard sighed and chuckled bleakly, "I hate everything."
"Specifics," Mikey whispered.
"Specifics," Gerard repeated, because now that he was put on the spot he
couldn't think of anything. He started with the most obvious, "School."
"What about it?"
"The teachers, the kids, the subjects… feeling like I could fail at any moment
and ruin my life indefinitely."
"What else?"
"People. I hate the way they look at me... I hate the way they don't look at
me. I hate the way I feel like everyone's laughing at some hilarious fucking
joke and I'm the only one who hasn't heard the punch line."
"What else?"
"I hate myself." It came out before he could even think of the words, he wasn't
even sure if it was true.
"Why?"
He paused, "I don't know."
"I don't hate you," Mikey said, eyes meeting Gerard's.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're an annoying idiot sometimes but I still love you, okay?"
"Okay," Gerard whispered, tired eyes closing.
"That means you don't get to die."
Gerard hesitated, a tear slipping down his cheek. "Okay."
"We're gonna make a suicide pact, like the sisters in 'Ginger Snaps'," Mikey
smiled.
"I get to be Ginger."
Mikey snorted, "Be Ginger, like I give a fuck. Brigitte's the one with the hot
drug dealer boyfriend."
"He wasn't her boyfriend!"
"Only because Ginger kept cock blocking," Mikey huffed, like it actually
offended him.
"You wanna get drunk and have a movie marathon tomorrow?”
“Sure, Gee." And he said it in the way that he always did when he was going to
do something Gerard wanted to do, like it was exactly what he wanted to do all
along but didn't know and was waiting for Gerard to remind him. He loved that.
                                       *
Frank is an eighteen year old boy with a sweet tooth for violence.
There's something about black eyes and split lips and white t-shirts speckled
with blood that keeps him from losing himself. It's weird to Gerard because no
matter how many fights he's been in, Frank always loses. He starts out strong,
getting an advantage from throwing the first punch and being too quick and
small to get a good grip on, but always ends up on his back, barely conscious.
He’s too stubborn to know when to stop. He remembers how Frank used to be taken
down within seconds and now it takes matching split lips before he gets thrown
to the ground, wailed on until someone helps Gerard end the fight.
But Frank's in catholic school now and being taught that you're going to hell
for being in love with another boy would be enough to enrage anyone. He tries
not to think about the fights started over meaningless arguments because in the
end Frank's not really punching the guy who spilled his drink on him at a show,
he's punching the guy who relentlesslypicked on him when he dyed his hair and
pierced his nose and lip, the nun who glares disapprovingly at him in class, or
the priest who tells Frank he's going to burn if he doesn't cut all ties from
Gerard.
The thought of Frank leaving terrifies him; he wants to make Frank promise
he'll never do anything like that but he isn't some heartbroken chick in a
shitty teen movie, he's the twenty one year old alcoholic in the sad, slightly
disturbing documentary about addicts. He's still unsure about what role Frank
plays: the boyfriend who stayed with him the whole way through or the one who
left when things became unbearable.
                                       *
He wonders what the Iero’s think every time their son fucks off and takes the
train to New York to stay with Gerard for a couple of days. It’s not like they
don’t know where he’s going or what he spends most of his time doing: fighting
and fucking. Maybe they just don't have the kind of energy needed to deal with
Frank; they both work full-time jobs and make an effort to have family dinners
every night, that's more than what Gerard's parents did.
Frank's mom is a nurse and his dad owns a jazz bar, Il Fantasma, that Frank is
more than a little in love with. The walls are a pure white covered in
paintings and pictures, the floors are checkered black and white linoleum, and
the bands performing on the small stage at the front of the room never fail to
keep people dancing happily.
Gerard's only been a handful of times, the place is always packed and crowds
really aren't his thing, but Frank works summers there as a waiter which keeps
him out of trouble. Sometimes he thinks Frank will end up working there when
he's older, maybe owning it when his dad dies. He's seen the way Frank's eyes
light up as soon as he steps through the door, sees the way his smile stretches
across his face easily and how he doesn't even tug at his dress clothes unlike
Gerard who can't even handle wearing a tie for a couple of hours. But, at the
same time he’s seen how Frank acts after getting into a fight, even if he
didn’t come to him with blood on his shirt and a swollen eye he’d still know;
it’s like he’s stoned or something, all loose limbs and easy smiles.
He talks about how his chest loosens up when he decks someone and how he likes
hearing his bones rattle when someone throws a really good punch, one that
messes up his rhythm. It’s times like those that Gerard’s tempted to suggest
being a boxer, but he doesn’t want to trade the crooning guitar and nasally
voice for an obnoxious announcer and a machine that lets him know Frank is
still alive even though it looks like he was hit by a Mack truck and left to
die on the side of the road.
                                       *
They take the grimy elevator up to Gerard’s apartment because Frank is seeing
double and Gerard’s too drunk to get them up the stairs safely. He hopes he
remembers everything tomorrow; he plans on yelling at Frank until he gets it in
his head that you can’t go around picking fights with strangers, especially
drunk ones.
He doesn’t really know what happened, one second Frank was smiling up at him
with bright eyes and the next Gerard was being shoved out of the way by a guy
with dark hair who smelled like he ran a mile and then took a shower in beer
afterwards.
Gerard stumbled into a few people, finally regaining his balance when a girl
reached out and grabbed his shoulders, blatant concern on her face. He nodded,
fixing his jacket before throwing himself in the general direction of the
fight. To be honest, he’s really fucking sick of getting the shit kicked out of
him in fights that don’t even concern him, like this one for instance. He threw
all of his weight into the guy, sending him crashing into the bar, and reached
out for Frank who was sprawled out on the sticky floor with a bloody nose and
red cheeks.
They were thrown out, forbidden to ever return and Frank had slung his arm
around Gerard’s shoulders because he knew – he fucking knew this was one of
Gerard’s favorite bars and now he was unwelcome all because Frank can’t keep
his fucking temper in check.
They lean against each other in the filthy elevator, careful not to touch the
walls because it smells like piss and there’s gum stuck to the rails. Gerard
grumbles, “But why – why d’you always have to get in fights all the time, huh?
I mean, we were fine and then bam! I’ve got a black eye and you’re on the
fucking floor bleeding and shit.”
“I think I have a fucking concussion,” Frank groans, wrapping an arm around
Gerard’s waist and letting his head drop to rest on his shoulder.
Gerard runs his fingers through Frank’s hair, searching for something obvious
like blood or a bump the size of a golf ball and grunts, “’m not staying up all
night with you; I’ve got class in the morning.”
“Gee, anything later than eleven can no longer be counted as morning, how many
times do I have to tell you that?” Frank grins, lazy and small, and Gerard lets
his hand dangle by his side.
“Just – just fuck off, Frank. Alright? Just fuck off.”
Frank pulls Gerard in closer and breathes, “Yeah, alright.”
                                       *
He can't drown his sorrows in art and music anymore, but it's okay because
Frank kisses him greedily, like he wants to take something from him and
Gerard's all too ready to give up everything he has. Even though he's rotten
inside, made up of the things that go bump in the night and topped off with
what middle school kids promise themselves they'll never become, he's sure
Frank would take it all from him.
He’d bury it down deep inside of himself, so deep Gerard couldn't even stumble
across it by accident, and Frank would smile, licking his lips before murmuring
a "thank you". He doesn't know what kind of damage that could do and the
thought of poisoning Frank, contaminating him and sucking all of his happiness
into that hungry hole in his chest, is enough to make him wake up in the middle
of the night with a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.
He can't – no – he won't do that to Frank. But even as he thinks it he curls up
closer to Frank so he can rest his head on Frank's chest; they’ll fall asleep
on the couch while watching ‘Planet of the Apes’ because they both somehow
managed to survive midterms and Frank hasn't fought in over two weeks. Gerard
wants to be happy about that, but there's this crazed look in Frank's eyes
that's so similar to the one he gets when he hasn't had a drink in days and
sometimes it sneaks up on him when he's trying to relax and sends him running
to the bathroom, spilling his guts out into the toilet.
                                       *
Suddenly it takes more booze and pills than soft words uttered by pretty boys
with secrets hidden beneath the warmth of their skin. He drinks until he can’t
hold a pencil and when he finally does throw up he waits until he’s sure he’s
done before moving onto the next bottle. One second he’s lying on the couch,
wondering if he should pick up the bottle that’s on the floor now to save
himself the trouble of picking glass out of his foot later, and the next he’s
being violently shaken awake by Frank who’s yelling something he can’t hear
with tears streaming down his face. “Wake the fuck up, asshole!”
His vision’s sleep blurred and his tongue feels too thick. He slurs, “What’re
you doin’ here?”
“It’s Friday,” Frank says, eyes wide. Oh, right, he was supposed to meet Frank
at the train station.
“’M sorry; come…come sleep with me.” He’s not drunk anymore and everything’s
starting to ache; he wants to go back to sleep now. Frank ignores him, storming
into the kitchen as Gerard tries to get off of the couch without falling onto
the coffee table. He can hear bottles clanging and the refrigerator door
slamming shut; the fridge has been empty since he ran out of beer two days ago.
He watches as Frank takes all of the alcohol out of the house, cradling bottles
like a baby, before hurling them at the brick wall on the side of the apartment
building.
He can’t hear the glass shattering through his window over the incessant
pounding in his head but when Frank comes back upstairs, nose and cheeks pink
from the cold, he manages to drag Gerard into the shower with him because Frank
reeks of sweat from the walk over and Gerard can’t even take a breath without
inhaling the putrid scent of unwashed boy, vomit, and alcohol. Frank’s hands
tremble as he reaches up to brush Gerard’s hair out of his eyes, his thumbs
trace along his eyebrows and Gerard’s eyes immediately flick down to the scar
on Frank’s right eyebrow from when some guy ripped out his eyebrow ring during
a fight, he closes them as Frank’s hands continue sliding down his jaw to
dangle at his sides. Gerard cups Frank’s cheeks as he kisses his nose and
forehead, sighing at the taste of clean water on his chapped lips. Steam swirls
around them as Frank shakes like he’s about to fall apart.
“I’m sorry, Frankie.” He breathes; he can’t tell if Frank’s crying or not
because his eyes are closed and his stomach keeps seizing up painfully. “Don’t
– just – d-don’t leave me. I can’t – I need –” The lump in his throat swells
and it hurts too much to try and speak through it.
Frank places his hands on either side of Gerard’s cheeks and gazes up at him
intensely. “Don’t ever say that to me; I would never fucking leave you. You’re…
you’re messed up right now, okay? But, everyone’s fucked inside it’s – you’re
going to get better, okay? You’re going to get better because I know you want
to, but you can’t try to drink yourself to death when things get hard.”
The water’s getting cooler now and Gerard’s shitty showerhead is losing force
and it was easy to tell when Frank started crying: it happened somewhere around
the word “leave”.
                                       *
“You lead,” Frank says softly.
Gerard’s eyes widen as he chokes out, “Me?”
“You,” Frank grins. He grips Frank’s hand a little tighter and takes a step
forward, trying to move like he has the slightest idea of what he’s doing.
Frank’s wearing the stupid pink, studded belt he found in Hot Topic two years
ago along with a dress shirt and tie (turns out casual Friday’s at Catholic
school aren’t all that casual) and Gerard’s wearing his waistcoat and dress
shirt because now that he’s a host at Sheridan’s, some “classy” restaurant with
decent food, he has to dress nicely. Frank Sinatra is playing softly in the
background, courtesy of Frank’s dad’s CD collection, and this is the first time
‘The Blob’s’ been on TV in years and they're not even watching it.
"I haven't seen ‘The Blob’ since I was fifteen," Gerard says, spinning Frank
easily.
"It scared the shit out of me when I was twelve; I had to sleep with my
parents." Frank laughs. "See? You're a natural."
Gerard smiles, "Sure. We should be watching it.”
“We should be dancing. How was work?” Frank asks, letting out a soft “oops”
when his shoes squeak obnoxiously.
“It was…pretty good, I guess.”
“Did you freak out at all?”
Since it isa decent restaurant, he’s always got his hands full. The customers
and employees all need him to help them with certain things and one wrong move
could get him fired. It’s not the most stressful job but for someone with a
minor anxiety disorder it’s stressful enough. Gerard blushes and grins
sheepishly, “Maybe for like five minutes.”
“Progress,” Frank winks then says, “Dip me.”
“Um – sorry - what?”
“Dip me,” Frank says again, dragging out each word.
“I’ll drop you,” Gerard frets.
“You’re not gonna drop me.”
Gerard starts, “Frank -”
“Too late,” Frank sings, leaning back so as to force Gerard into dipping him.
He almost does drop him and it’s a really sloppy dip. His left hand flies down
to rest on Frank’s back while his right holds up Frank’s left leg, which he
kicked up dramatically, and Frank’s arms are wrapped around his neck.
“You are such a little freak,” Gerard laughs, leaning down a little further to
kiss the smile off of Frank’s face.
“And you’re not?” Frank raises an eyebrow, pushing at Gerard a little to get
him to let Frank stand up properly again.
“I never said that.”
“C’mon, freak, what would people say about us if they found out we didn’t watch
‘The Blob’?”
Gerard follows him to the couch, falling onto it lazily and shutting his eyes
for a moment; he’s been on his feet all fucking day. “You mean, what would
Mikeysay?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
He snuggles in closer to Frank and presses a kiss to his cheek before laying
his head in Frank’s lap. He sighs happily when Frank’s fingers start combing
through his hair soothingly. “Must’ve heard you wrong.”
                                       *
There's something about Frank's crooked ties and bloody noses that make Gerard
want to curl up in bed with him, make him want to press his fingers against
Frank’s bones to make sure nothing's broken because if Frank’s broken then he
won't know how to put Gerard back together anymore. His mind’s fucking
unraveling and he doesn’t know up from down anymore but Frank says his name
like he wants to keep it in the back of his throat like a juicy secret.
He has this way of breathing that makes the hairs on the back of Gerard’s neck
stand up. His fingers ghost over Gerard’s sternum before tracing a path down to
his hips where they’re quickly replaced by eager lips, the same ones that came
to him bleeding a few hours ago because Frank’s teeth didn’t do a good job at
biting back what his tongue wanted to say. He’s small and soft but he strings
words together that piss people off and fill Gerard up with buzzing energy that
needs to be spent on things like paintings and words and bruised skin. Frank’s
breath quickens when he traces his fingers over the bruises scattered along his
skin.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Touch me.”
Gerard’s hard the second the words leave Frank’s mouth. He flattens his hands,
digging his fingers into Frank's hips, and surges forward to kiss Frank. Frank
kisses him back hard, biting his lip and tangling his hands in Gerard's messy
hair. He tastes like cigarettes and mint gum.
He palms Frank’s ass, dragging him closer so he can grind against him, if he
angles his hips more to the right he can feel the damp spot on Frank's briefs;
god, he leaks like a fucking faucet. Gerard pulls Frank’s briefs down, just
enough to be able to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of Frank’s ass. He
swallows down the breathy noises Frank makes eagerly and moans when Frank
breaks the kiss to groan, "Gerard."
“Just – just take those off and c’mere.” It takes him a second to stop moving
because he really could come like this, just from rutting against Frank. But,
he’s got something even better in mind. He adjusts himself while Frank strips,
giving his cock one last squeeze before grabbing Frank’s hand and tugging him
forward. He arranges them so that Frank’s back is flush against his chest. He
presses sloppy open-mouthed kisses down Frank’s neck and along his shoulder,
sliding his hands down Frank’s arms to wrap around his stomach.
Frank’s warm and just a little bit sweaty against him and when Gerard starts
pinching his nipples and tracing his tongue along the shell of Frank’s ear
Frank’s head falls back to rest on his shoulder, his mouth wide open. His head
lolls to the side as he spreads his thighs wider, panting hotly against
Gerard’s neck, chest heaving and stomach tensing. Fuck, Frank’s nipples have
always been sensitive but this is something else; Frank’s cock gets even
harder, it curves up against his stomach and his cheeks are red like he’s
embarrassed by it.
He leans in a little closer, smashing their cheeks together and breathes,
“Fuck, look how fucking hard you are.”
“Fuck – Gee– it hurts,” he whines, hips thrusting up into empty air like he
can’t help it, like he just has to move.
“Yeah,” Gerard moans, swallowing loudly because his throat’s gone fucking dry
all of a sudden. He was just going to jack Frank off nice and quick but now he
wants to draw this out, wants to make Frank beg and squirm and fucking come all
over himself.
He wishes he took off his fucking briefs, so it’d be skin on skin, but when he
digs his fingers into Frank’s hips and drags him back as he grinds up it’s
fucking perfect.He wants to keep going, wants to rub himself off against
Frank’s ass and come before he even gets naked like a fucking teenager but then
Frank groans desperately and moves to touch his cock so he has to stop.
He grabs Frank’s hands and places them palm down on the bed and whispers, “No
touching.”
“Gee -”
“You touch and I stop,” he threatens, lips curling up into a sinister smile
when Frank shudders against him.
“Fine,” he gasps, hands grabbing handfuls of the sheets. “Then fucking touch me
already, Christ.”
His fingers dance around Frank’s cock, feather light, never making any contact.
When Frank’s hips twitch he moves his hand even farther away. “You gotta… gotta
beg for it, Frankie.” And for a second he doesn’t even recognize his own voice,
it’s low and throaty like he’s been sucking dick or something and it’s fucking
crazy what this is doing to him.
“Touchme– fuck – need it; I fucking need it, please.” He begs shamelessly, cock
twitching as the words leave his mouth. God, he didn’t think Frank would beg
without putting up a fight; he feels this rush of heat zinging up his spine
that makes him shudder. One hand slides down to play with his balls while the
other wraps around Frank’s cock, squeezing lightly.
He leans back against the headboard, Frank moving with him, to get a better
view ‘cause he wants to see this, wants to see Frank’s dick sliding through his
fist. “So fucking thick, Frankie.” He pants, like he’s the one getting the
fucking hand job. He starts stroking, swiping his thumb over the head to make
things a little slicker. Frank’s hips hitch up again, trying to speed things up
and he’s moaning like it’s so much more than a hand job and that’s so fucking
hot. But, he doesn’t want it to be that easy for him. The hand cradling his
balls slides around Frank’s hip and holds him so he can’t move and his other
hand stills. “Don’t,” Gerard licks his lips, eyes dark and cock throbbing
almost painfully. “Don’t move.”
Frank whines but nods quickly and Gerard starts jacking him again. Frank moans
in relief, kissing Gerard’s cheek sloppily.
He mumbles absently, “Sometimes I forget.”
“Forget,” Frank gulps, “Forget what?”
“Just, like, when we’re fucking. When you’re pushing in, you always feel so
fucking huge – so fucking big and I feel so full, like I can’t take anymore but
you keep pushing in and sometimes it’s like I can’t fucking breathe.” He’s
rambling but he doesn’t care and if the way Frank’s head is thrashing back and
forth is any indicator he’d say he doesn’t care much either. He keeps stroking,
squeezing on every third stroke, and twisting his wrist as he thumbs over the
slit.
“Ah,” Frank gasps. Gerard wants to look at his face. Wants to see how dark his
eyes are and see if he’s bitten his busted lip hard enough to make it start
bleeding again, but just seeing Frank lose it like this, completely at Gerard’s
mercy, is enough to make him come.
“And when you… when you pull out I feel so empty.” Fuck, as soon as he says it,
voice rough and desperate, Frank’s dick swells in his hand.
“Fuck – Gerard – s-stop.” Frank grits out, voice tight like it’s taking all his
energy just to get the words out.
“Why? You close?” Frank nods again, letting out this long, breathy moan that
goes straight to Gerard’s dick. Fuck, he’s fucking close. He speeds up, jerking
Frank off hard and fast. “Don’t you wanna come?”
“Yeah, feels – oh god – feels so good.” He grunts, spreading his thighs a
little more and planting his feet on the bed like he’s gonna fuck up into
Gerard’s fist any second now.
Gerard’s fucking losing his mind.  He’s barely getting any friction and his
dick is painfully hard but he’s about to come. And, like always, he loses all
control over his brain to mouth filter. “God, you always leak like a
motherfucker. Makes me wanna… wanna get you in panties.” he rasps, hips pumping
up at the thought. Frank moans, high and strained, his thighs shaking like he’s
trying to hold back until Gerard finishes what he’s saying. “You’d get them so
wet for me, wouldn’t you? Just get them nice and soaked for me and I wouldn’t
even have to… wouldn’t even have to touch your cock.”
Frank curses sharply, voice breaking into a moan, finally fucking up into
Gerard’s fist as he loses it, spilling onto his stomach.
“God, yeah,” Gerard groans, teeth clamping down onto Frank’s shoulder as his
hips twitch up uncontrollably. He’s coming in his fucking briefs like he knew
he would and it still feels fucking amazing, his eyes rolling back and toes
curling as his back arches. Frank slumps against him, whining when he gets too
sensitive, and Gerard lets his head thump against the wall.
“You fucking tease,” Frank pants, grinning lazily.
Gerard laughs softly, “I don’t even know where that came from.”
Frank snorts, “What the fuck was that about getting me in panties? You got a
fetish I don’t know about?” Gerard’s cheeks heat up, fuck, his whole body heats
up as he squirms uncomfortably. Frank giggles, “What kind of panties are we
talking about here?”
                                       *
Gerard met Frank at a Descendents concert on November 22nd in Sayreville, New
Jersey; he was the guy who apologized when Frank punched him in the face
(whether it was an accident or not is still a mystery). If he brings it up now,
Frank says that was the night he fell in love with Gerard, because Frank’s a
sappy hopeless romantic who believes in love at first sight and other bullshit
like that.
"Dude," he snorted, looking at the cup of spilled beer on the floor. "Did you
seriously just apologize?"
"Um... yes?" Gerard shrugged, not caring if he sounded like an idiot if it
meant this kid wasn't going to punch him again. Fuck, he wasn't nearly drunk
enough for this kind of shit.
"Wow, where the fuck -" he cut himself off, eyes meeting Gerard's for the first
time. "Oh - no - I'm sorry." Gerard raised an eyebrow and the boy thrust a hand
up, waggling his fingers in what some people might call a wave. "I'm Frank."
Gerard nodded, already over it; the show was over and if he was going to catch
the eleven o clock train to make it back to the city tonight he needed to leave
as soon as possible. "Well - um - Frank..." he trailed off, raising his hand to
mimic Frank's wave because he didn't know what else to do. He remembers
thinking Frank was pretty and short and that maybe Gerard was too old to
include the former in his thoughts. "Yeah... See you." he finally said, pushing
his way through the crowd to the exit.
His eye was already throbbing and he was kind of excited to see the shiner he'd
have for the next week or so; he was gonna look badass. When he finally made it
outside, the cool night air feeling fucking great on his hot skin, he stopped
to dig his pack out of his pocket. More people exited after him, all having
varying conversations about how awesome the concert was. It was only when
someone knocked into him as they ran past, making him drop his lighter, that
made him look up.
"Fuck, what the fuck?" he grumbled, running a hand through his hair and eyeing
the running guy with disdain.
The guy's head snapped towards him and Gerard cursed inwardly at the huge grin
on the guy's - Frank's - face. "You're still here!" he smiled, grin faltering
slightly when his gaze landed on Gerard's cracked lighter. "Fuck, sorry - 'm
sorry."
Gerard muttered a, "It's okay." when Frank handed him his lighter. He didn't
know what was wrong with him; he was just standing there watching Gerard smoke
with this weird little smile on his face that reminded him of the one his
brother sported whenever he killed Gerard in Call of Duty (which happened more
than one would think possible). It made him uneasy; he cleared his throat.
Frank jumped. "So, uh, you never told me your name."
Gerard exhaled, "What?"
"Back inside when I - my name's Frank and your name is?"
Frank was blushing and that was how Gerard knew he was too young. "Gerard."
Frank beamed at him and Gerard looked away, flicking the ash off his cigarette.
He said, "That's the first time someone's ever apologized to me after I hit
them."
Gerard grunted noncommittally and blushed; he was such a fucking loser. He
started, "Yeah, well -"
Frank interrupted him, "You ever get into a fight?"
Gerard hummed softly, trying to find a way to tell the truth and not reveal the
pathetic geek he was. "If a bunch of guys taking turns beating the crap out of
you a few times a week counts, then yeah."
Frank nodded, rocking back on his heels, and made a sympathetic noise. "Ah,
yeah, that used to happen to me too."
"Used to?"
Frank leaned in closer and winked, like he was letting Gerard in on some sort
of secret. "I kind of have a thing for fighting. People got sick of fighting me
when they found out I liked it."
Gerard raised an eyebrow. “You like getting hit?”
Frank shook his head with a small smile on his face and said, “No no no. I
don’t like getting hit;I like getting in fights. I like fighting.”
“Why?” Gerard didn’t (and still doesn’t) like getting in fights; Gerard didn’t
even getinto fights. If someone punched him in the face he either stayed down
and took the rest of the beating or apologized.
“I really don’t fucking know,” Frank laughed. “I kinda just go with it.”
Gerard took one last drag off his cigarette before throwing it to the ground
and asking, “You any good?”
Frank sighed, eyeing the still burning filter on the ground. “Not really.”
Gerard nodded and started to walk away, “Right. I’ve gotta go; if I miss the
last train I’m fucked.” He probably wasn’t going to make the train anyways; he
didn’t even know what the fucking bus schedule was and it wasn’t like he had
his own car. He tugged on his hair, clearly frustrated, and tried to calm down
enough to figure out how he was going to get to the train station. There was no
fucking way he was spending the night at his parents’ house, no matter how nice
it would be to see Mikey again. He stopped under a streetlight and was about to
dig his phone out of his pocket when a car pulled up next to him.
The window rolled down and Frank stuck his head out of the window, “Hey! Um –
do you need a ride?”
Gerard heard an exhausted sounding, “Frank.”
All of the windows were down and there were two guys in the backseat as well as
Frank in the passenger seat, how the fuck would he even fit? “Car looks pretty
full to me.”
“Oh!” Frank scrambled out of the car and yanked the backseat door open. “You
can sit in the front!”
“Frank, seriously? There’s barely enough room as it is, dude, c’mon!” Some guy
with a buzz cut and a beard complained even though he was already scooting over
so there would be just enough room for Frank to squeeze in.
“Ham,” some guy with glasses whined.
The driver, some big guy with overly gelled hair and a high school basketball
shirt on, asked tiredly, “What, Shaun?”
Frank mumbled, “Dude, you smell like ass.”
The guy with the beard sniffed his armpits obnoxiously before shrugging and
saying, “And you don’t? I was in the fucking pit the whole show what d’you
expect?”
“Hambone,” the guy with glasses, Shaun, whined again.
“Shaun, you were late one time. One time.By, like, fivefucking minutes. Calm
the fuck down.” Hambone grunted, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands
wearily. And fuck you if you thought Gerard was actually going to get in that
fucking car.
“And stop punching people; I swear, you fucking decked me like three times.”
Beard guy pointed at Frank before rubbing his cheek, “Shit hurts.”
Frank laughed, “Sorry.” He looked out the window at Gerard again, “C’mon.”
So Gerard took a step forward, looked down at the phone in his hand, took
another step forward, put his phone back in his pocket, and got in the car.
Hambone asked, “Where are you going?”
“The Dover train station?”
Hambone nodded and pulled away from the curb, “The eleven train, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got plenty of time, d’you mind if we drop Shaun off first? He’s scared
his mommy’ll yell at him if he’s late.” Hambone grinned.
“Shut the fuck up, Hambone. Remember who pays for your god damn gas.”
“Ladies, ladies.” Beard guy said, “Not in front of the company.”
He heard this high pitched giggle from the back and since he was positive it
didn’t come from beard guy or Shaun it must’ve been Frank. Gerard found himself
smiling as he looked out the window. They drove along peacefully for a little
while, Frank and beard guy – Tim – chatting about the show.
They dropped Shaun off at some small house with blue shudders and a rose bush
and as soon as they pulled away Frank draped his body over the middle console
and reached for the drawer by Gerard’s knees. Frank’s arm kept brushing against
Gerard’s knee and his whole body stiffened instantly; Frank had this easy grin
on his face and he wasn’t even paying attention to what he was doing as he
turned to tell Hambone some stupid joke but Gerard was having a mini fucking
panic attack.
He couldn’t really see Frank all that well in the dark of the venue or the
night but when he turned on the little lights inside of the car, ignoring
Hambone’s weak protests, Gerard could see him just fine. He was rocking this
reddish orange baby Mohawk and he had an eyebrow ring and a really fucking nice
jaw line. His nails were painted black, and his knuckles were red and it was
becoming increasingly difficult for Gerard to stop imagining those same hands
wrapped around his cock, or fuck, spreading him open.
“Fuck, where’s the CD I gave you last week?” Frank asked, resting his hand on
Gerard’s knee to keep his balance as they turned onto the highway. He smelled
like sweat and cigarettes and Gerard would be lying if he said the scent didn’t
go straight to his dick.
“You give me a lot of CD’s, Frank. Which one are you talking about?”
“The one with Nada Surf on it.”
“The one with Nada Surf and Nirvana or the one with Nada Surf and the Smashing
Pumpkins?”
“Nirvana,” Frank said.
“Should be in the mirror thing,” Hambone pointed towards Gerard’s mirror and
Frank flipped it down. A CD fell onto Gerard’s lap and Frank took it with a
smile before sticking it into the player and pushing himself back into the
backseat. Hambone turned the volume up as loud as it could go and Gerard
relaxed. It only took them about fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes to get to the
train station so Gerard still had a twenty minute wait.
Frank got out of the car when he did and smiled at him shyly for a few seconds
before blurting, “Listen, we have this gig, well, I guess it’s not really a
gig… we’re just playing at a house party next Friday. You should come. I mean,
I want you to come.”
“Yeah, I don’t know, parties aren’t really my thing.”
“Oh, yeah I – okay.” Frank visibly, like, deflated. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out a scrap of paper before handing it to Gerard. “If you change
your mind this is the address.”
Gerard looked down at the itty bitty piece of paper and squinted to read the
address. He snorted, “This is my parents’ house.” Fucking Mikey.
“You’re Mikeyway’s brother?”
“Fuck,” Gerard nodded his head and gave Frank the paper back. “Yeah, I’ll be
there.”
Frank perked up again, “Awesome! Okay, so I’ll see you there.”
Gerard nodded, unable to hold back his smile. “Yeah, next Friday.” Frank waited
until he got inside the station to get back in the car; the Misfits started
blaring as soon as the car door shut and Gerard sank into an uncomfortable
plastic chair. Fuck, what a fucking night.
                                       *
He’s buying cigarettes after work when he spots the flyer, it’s light blue and
taped to the checkout counter so that when he places the pack down, counts his
cash, and picks up his cigarettes again it’s impossible for him to miss.
Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings every Tuesday from 6 to 7… and then it spits some
garbage about where they meet and that coffee will be provided. When the
cashier hands him his change he gives him this guilty, almost apologetic, look
like he knows the flyer is affecting Gerard but can’t do anything about it. Or
maybe Gerard’s just paranoid.
The meetings are held in some church’s basement; Gerard hasn’t stepped foot in
a church since his mom made him when he was eighteen, sleepy eyed and grumpy.
He hated it. Everyone did that thing where they made a big deal out of not
staring at him that it was so obvious they werestaring at him or at least felt
the needto stare at him. He isn’t ready for something like that, not today.
                                       *
He sits there at the back of the train with the dirty sleeve of his hoodie
pressed to his nose to stop the bleeding while Frank’s leg bounces up and down
spastically. His sleeve’s not completely soaked so that’s a good sign, but it’s
not doing a great job at absorbing all of the blood; when he smiles at Frank to
show him he’s fine he can taste blood dripping down his lip onto his teeth.
Whenever the ticket inspector walks by he shoots Gerard a dirty look and Gerard
waves back happily.
“If he says something I’m gonna punch him in the fucking face,” Frank mutters
angrily, fists clenching.
Gerard raises an eyebrow, “Pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to be pissed
off, you know, what with it being my nose that’s bleeding all over the place.”
Frank’s eyes widen comically as he leans forward. “Yeah and you’re fucking
sitting there like nothing’s wrong; that guy hityou, Gerard.”
“He was drunk off his ass; it wasn’t personal.” It really wasn’t. They were at
some stupid party Mikey had told them about and as the crowd in the living room
started to spread to other parts of the house again after the band finished
playing, Gerard was shoved into some guy’s arm. When he turned to apologize,
already smelling the overpowering stench of beer coming from the guy, he was
knocked on his ass. It was when he found Frank, blood trickling onto his shirt,
that Frank lost his shit.
“When someone punches you in the face it’s fucking personal,” Frank spits,
tugging at his hair. He keeps fidgeting, like if he stops he’ll explode from
all of the rage built up inside of him. “He’s fucking lucky Hambone and Tim
held me back; would’ve broken more than just his fucking nose.”
“When someone makes you spill beer all over yourself it’s personal.”
“That was an accident.”
“Whatever; I think there’s a show at Gramercy, you wanna go?” The only way
Frank’s going to calm down is if he gets pushed and shoved around, gets all
that energy beaten out of him.
Frank’s legs still as his fingers start drumming against his knees. His eyes
narrow as he asks, “Who’s playing?”
“Uh – you remember when you were in that garage band, what was it called?”
“Sector 12.”
Gerard nods enthusiastically, “Right! God, you guys…”
“Sucked?” Frank smirks.
He smiles and laughs softly, “Epically. Fuck, you played at one of Mikey’s
parties – what was that one song? The one where you screamed ‘burn this
motherfucker down’ a bunch of times while Tim hit the fucking cymbals over and
over again until the song ended?” Frank laughs, it’s tight sounding but it’s
better than nothing. Gerard leans back a little more, resting his head on the
seat as he lowers his hand, and then continues, “You were fucking aggro.”
Frank snorts, “Was?”
“Are,” Gerard corrects, shaking his head. “Anyways, they sound like that.”
“Yeah,” Frank sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Yeah, let’s go.”
                                       *
In class he had to sketch a nude model, his first of many, and she had this
jagged inch long scar running down the side of her neck like someone had
pressed a knife there with shaking hands. He was torn between wanting to marry
her and wanting to roll his sleeves up to show her his scars.
Frank has scars and Gerard has scars; Frank’s fade to these tiny nicks that
soon become invisible to someone who doesn’t know where to look whereas
Gerard’s stand out bright as day, these raised lines that are impossible to
miss. Sometimes people stare when they go out and Gerard tugs his sleeves down
or sticks his hands in his pockets or hides them under tables; their stares
make his skin crawl.
If the scars were on Frank’s arms, Gerard thinks Frank would roll his sleeves
up as far as they could go and shove his marred arms in their faces while
screaming something like “take a fucking picture”. But it’s Gerard they’re
talking about here so Frank snarls at strangers and kisses Gerard’s cheek.
Maybe he should just get over himself already; he’s had the scars for four
years now and it’s about time he’s learned to accept them.
                                       *
Frank likes to fuck with the lights on and Gerard still takes showers in the
dark. Where Frank has tattoos and muscles Gerard has stretch marks and chub;
he’s the pale, self conscious artist he always knew he’d become. But Frank has
this way of touching him, of kissing him that makes him feel like something
prized and delicate and important. And when he’s fucking Gerard, droplets of
sweat sliding down his neck as he spreads Gerard’s legs wider, Gerard can’t be
bothered to focus on his trivial insecurities.
His hair’s plastered to his forehead and he can’t seem to close his fucking
mouth no matter how embarrassing the noises he’s making are and he’s sure he’s
tearing holes in the sheets with how hard he’s gripping them but he’s too far
gone to care.
He can’t stop though because it feels “So... so good,” he moans, voice breaking
on a particularly hard thrust, “F-Frankie don’t – god – don’t stop.” Frank just
curses and nods his head which could mean he’s agreeing with Gerard or he’s not
planning on stopping and really either one works just fine. Frank’s thick and
hard inside him and every drag of his cock makes Gerard’s stomach muscles tense
up and his eyes roll back; when Frank shifts and his cock brushes against
Gerard’s prostate he squeezes his eyes shut tight and lets out this long,
relieved sounding groan.
It’s like this is what he’s been waiting for his entire fucking life and he’s
having trouble doubting it because it’s so intense, like, god he can’t– “Oh god
– Frank – god, you feel so fucking good.” Frank’s hands slide up from their
grip on his hips, one dips underneath his arm to grab onto his shoulder while
the other grasps the pillow next to his head. His head drops down, forehead
resting in the juncture between Gerard’s neck and collar bone.
“Shit.” His voice comes out rough and breathy. He spreads his legs wider as
Frank’s weight pins him down and Gerard’s never felt safer in his entire life.
Frank’s this warm, soft solid weight on top of him and he can’t concentrate on
anything else. He locks his legs around Frank’s lower back, just trying to take
him in as deep as he can and almost can’t fucking breathe through it all.
Frank’s mouth is wide open as he breathes hotly onto Gerard’s neck, and Gerard
can only imagine how swollen his lips must look from sucking him off earlier,
so pink and slick with spit. He’s panting into Gerard’s ear, words like “god”
and “fuck” and “t-tight” slipping out, and god his fucking voice is too much.
His hands fly up to Frank’s back, chewed up fingernails leaving angry red lines
as he drags them down, making Frank hiss and scrape his teeth along Gerard’s
earlobe. Frank’s belly rubs against him on every stroke and the friction sends
these shocked sort of gasps flying from his lips like he can’t believe he’s
almost about to fucking come. His hand flies up to tangle in Frank’s hair and
when he pulls Frank lets out this soft, weak moan and that’s so fucking hot.
“Gonna – Frankie – come. Gonna fucking come – oh –” he’s coming so hard he’s
fucking blinded by it, can’t feel anything but the heat spreading through him
as Frank keeps pounding against his prostate. It feels so fucking good and he’s
probably close to ripping Frank’s hair out with how hard he’s pulling but he
can’t even get his mouth to close let alone getting his fingers to let go. When
he finally comes back down, riding out the last of his aftershocks, he can hear
Frank whining in the back of his throat as he shakes on top of him.
“Gee,” he whines. “Please – I can’t –”
“C’mon, Frankie,” Gerard breathes, lifting Frank’s head up so their eyes can
meet. “I’ve got you; come for me.” Frank’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever
seen in his entire life; eyes fluttering and dark, hair stuck to his forehead,
face flushed and lips kiss swollen. Gerard leans up a bit to kiss him and when
their tongues meet Frank groans and tenses up, coming inside of him. When he
comes back down he rests his head in the crook of Gerard’s neck again and
Gerard strokes his back lazily.
“You okay?” he whispers, shivering when Frank pulls out, he can feel come
dripping out of him.
“If you are,” Frank whispers back. He’s quiet as Frank gets up to go get
something to clean them up with. He comes back with a washcloth, kneeling on
the bed as he cleans Gerard first. When they’re both relatively clean Gerard
grabs the remote and turns the news on because he hasn’t watched it in at least
four days and has no clue what’s going on in the world. He mutes it though; he
can’t stand how peppy newscasters always are, no matter if they’re talking
about puppies for sale or bombs being dropped. Their corny jokes and
unnaturally white teeth make his stomach churn.
He rolls over. “How was school?”
“Okay, I guess. I got an eighty on that math test I was telling you about,”
Frank blushes.
Gerard grins, “That’s awesome; didn’t I tell you you’d be fine? You’re smart,
Frankie, just accept it.”
Frank smiles and curls up next to Gerard. He whispers, “You look tired; you
been having nightmares?” He’s exhausted; the deep purple bags under his eyes
have reappeared.
“I’ve just been staying up late to finish this project,” he lies. He doesn’t
want to talk about his nightmares, it’s not like they change. Every fucking
time it’s the same thing: everyone he cares about – everyone he loves – dies.
“Let’s just – let’s sleep, okay?” he doesn’t call Gerard on his lie and for
that Gerard’s thankful so he smiles and nods, shutting his eyes. They’ll sleep,
Gerard will start to dream, Frank will wake him when he starts screaming and
then he’ll either walk Frank to the train station or half heartedly try to
convince him to go to school tomorrow. If Frank leaves he’ll just spend the
whole day drinking and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to get
drunk.
“Stay with me tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” Frank’s eyes don’t open but his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile
but he’s too tired.
“Please.”
“Okay – shh – sleep.” He slurs quietly so Gerard does; Frank wakes him up about
two hours later and when Gerard buries his face into Frank’s chest, tears still
sliding down his cheeks, he doesn’t say anything mean so Gerard’s stuck
thinking Frank’s the only one for him again.
“I’ll get better,” he whispers, lips brushing against Frank’s skin.
“I know,” Frank whispers, nodding his head. “I know you will, baby.”
                                       *
He wakes up hung over, head pounding and mouth too dry, and rubs at his eyes
for a minute or two because he knows he has to get out of bed today, no matter
how shitty he feels. He tries to hit the snooze button on his alarm clock but
he’s too clumsy and ends up swiping it off his nightstand, he groans, fuck.
It’s too fucking early for this shit, he thinks, even though he knows it’s at
least twelve in the afternoon.
His first class of the day starts in an hour. He’s got motherfucking Art
History today and he’s got a paper due in a week that he hasn’t even started
researching for.
It takes him about fifteen more minutes before he gets out of bed, but the fear
of being late makes him rush and by the time he gets around to making coffee
he’s got twenty minutes to spare. He still feels like shit and has this
undeniable urge to find a nice, dark cave to crawl into and never come back out
of. He hops up on his kitchen counter with his coffee mug and opens the cabinet
by his head, pushing plates and bowls aside for the half empty bottle of
Bailey’s he knows is in there. It’s pretty much impossible to get drunk off the
stuff so it’s not like he’s doing any damage. He has three cups of coffee
before grabbing his messenger bag and heading to class with a scowl on his
face. 
                                       *
He doesn't know what time it is when the knock on his door comes, but it's dark
outside and he knows he probably should've went to bed hours ago. He shuffles
to the front door, socked feet making soft noises on the carpet, and after he
sends whoever this is away he's going to finish watching ‘Star Wars’ and get in
bed. The door swings open and all of the air is sucked out of his lungs.
Frank blurts, "Don't freak out."
He's freaking out. His hands fly up, sliding over Frank's chest, belly, and
ribs. He keeps tugging at Frank's shirt and when he tries to get his hands to
let go he finds he can't, probably because he still hasn't found where all of
the blood is coming from. He chokes out, "What the fuck happened to you?"
Frank's wearing his white Bad Brains shirt, the one that's too tight across the
chest and rides up a bit whenever he raises his arms, and there's blood fucking
everywhere.
His apartment is dark and the hallway lights keep flickering and every time he
blinks it looks like the spot of blood right below Frank's left rib is steadily
getting bigger, blood seeping through the shirt from some fatal wound he can't
see. His hands finally release Frank's shirt and when he looks down they're
shaking and covered in blood; he can't see his scars. Frank could be fucking
dying right now and he can't get enough air in his lungs to push back the bile
he can feel rising in his throat all because he can’t see his stupid scars. If
he doesn't look away he's going to be sick.
"Gerard - Gee - look at me," Frank places his hands on Gerard's shoulders, his
knuckles are raw and bloody. "Breathe."
He's trying, but it's hard to see anything that isn't the blood on his wrists.
It's not your blood, he tries to remind himself, the scars are healed,
remember? He doesn't.
"Gerard?" Frank's voice is quiet, frantic.
"I haven't seen this much blood since-" he stops, biting his lip so hard he
tastes blood, his stomach lurches.
"Since what, Gee?"
"Since... Since I was seventeen, when I tried to kill myself." he hasn't ever
said it aloud, not to Frank. He doesn't know who told Frank; maybe it was Mikey
or Frank's mother or some kid at school who, like everyone else, had to sit
through assembly after assembly on why suicide was taking the easy way out; if
it's so easy, why is he still here?
"There was - god - there was so much blood, Frankie. I couldn't - I didn't
think there was going to be so much. I - I didn't think it was going to hurt so
much either. There was this - um - stinging?" he can barely hear himself now
and Frank's nose is clearly broken and he's still standing in the fucking
hallway but he can't stop. "My wrists felt like they were on fire and then it
sort of spread. It was like someone shoved something inside of my arms; I
couldn't move my fingers. I sat there on the floor, biting my tongue until it
bled to stop myself from screaming; my parents and Mikey were talking about
some pep rally, I could hear them through the vents."
He pauses, looking at Frank almost curiously. "Did you know people can be saved
when they cut vertically? I didn't; I heard something or read somewhere that if
you cut vertically they couldn't sew you up, couldn't save you."
Frank's eyes are dark and scared. "Gee, I -" he reaches out to Gerard's wrists,
probably to wipe the blood off, make Gerard realize he's okay, they're okay. He
flinches but Frank ignores it, rubbing his thumbs over Gerard's wrists until
the blood is smeared enough that his scars can be seen again. "You're okay,
Gee. See?"
Gerard exhales loudly and nods stiffly.
“Okay,” Frank whispers and then speaks up, “Okay. We – I have to go the
hospital now; some jackass broke my nose.”
“Yeah – um – no, I’ll go with you. Let me,” he pauses, glancing down at his
wrists. “Let me just go get my jacket and wallet.” He steps back from the door
and Frank follows him inside. “Do you want a different shirt?”
Frank looks down at his shirt, like he forgot about all of the blood on it.
“Yeah – just give me one of the ones you paint in.” Frank leans up against the
wall by the door while Gerard goes in search of his wallet and a shirt; he
makes a pit stop to the bathroom to wash his hands along the way. It’s during
the taxi ride over that Frank finally tells him what happened.
“These two guys were fighting,” he starts, voice low. “And I was going to
ignore them -” Gerard shoots him a disbelieving look. “I was! But when I passed
by them I saw that the one guy, some guy in a leather jacket, was getting the
shit beat out of him by the other guy. And the guy who was beating the shit out
of him, some dude with a Mohawk, wasn’t letting up at all. It wasn’t even that
he wasn’t about to stop or anything, but, Gee, the leather jacket guy wasn’t
even trying to stop him. I don’t think he could even feel the guy hitting him
anymore; his face was fucked.”
“That doesn’t explain where all of the blood came from.”
Frank doesn’t continue though; he gazes out the window, watching the bright
lights of the city. A few more minutes pass by and Gerard never noticed how far
from the hospital he lives, or maybe the traffic is just really bad tonight.
Frank’s fingers walk down Gerard’s thigh to where his hand is resting by his
knee, he tangles their fingers together and starts talking again. “When I
finally managed to drag the Mohawk guy off of the leather jacket guy he took
one look at me and decked me, fucking broke my nose with one punch. So, then I
was the one knocked on my ass, clutching my nose like an idiot, while the
leather jacket guy was trying to get away. He was just dragging himself towards
the street, like if he could just get to the street someone would see him and
save him. And I remember thinking that the Mohawk guy was going to have to pick
who to go after when he walked over to the guy on the ground, flipped him over,
and punched him in the stomach one last time before running away.” Frank pauses
and looks at their joined hands. “When I finally got to the guy to help him up
I saw he was… he was bleeding. He fucking stabbed him, Gee. I was yelling for
someone to call 911 and was putting pressure on the wound ‘cause that’s what
you’re supposed to do, right? I was trying with my hands but it didn’t do
anything so I took off my shirt and balled it up and put it there and that
worked for, like, ten seconds.” He laughs bleakly, “And then he started
coughing and breathing weird, I - I think he was choking on his own blood.”
Frank gulps loudly. “It was everywhere, Gee. I couldn’t stop it. And he looked
up at me… H-he looked up at me and said, ‘it’s going to be okay’ and then he
fucking died. So I put my shirt back on and… and I left.”
“Frank,” Gerard says, tipping Frank’s head up to look at him. “Frank, listen to
me. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything more.”
When he starts crying he buries his face in Gerard’s neck. “He lied; he said it
was going to be okay.”
Gerard wraps his arm around Frank’s shoulder and kisses the top of Frank’s
head. “I know, Frankie. I know.”
                                       *
He doesn’t like hospitals; he avoids them like the plague and hasn’t been since
he tried to kill himself all those years ago and everyone had treated him like
he was a nuisance. It wasn’t like in the movies or TV shows or books where
everyone, even people you’ve never met before, come up and tell you how lucky
you are to be alive and how you’ve got so muchto live for. It wasn’t anything
like that. He felt this huge wave of disappointment just wash over him, filling
him up with resentment and hatred towards himself because he couldn’t even
fucking kill himself properly.
He doesn’t remember the paramedics or the trip to the hospital or even being
wheeled in on a stretcher; he does remember waking up and only being allowed to
see his mother. It was past visiting hours and the nurses had this thing about
not giving him special treatment because then they’d have to do the same for
everyone else; it was as simple as that. He had foreign bandages around his
wrists, light spots of blood not quite seeping through, and he felt like he had
the flu.
“That’s from the blood loss, sweetie.” His mom had said, her makeup smeared
around her eyes and trailing down her cheeks. He didn’t know what to say to
that so he nodded and kept quiet, wondering what the fuck he was going to have
to go through now to get this shit over with once and for all. Her hands were
shaking when she reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes and she made this
soft cooing noise that Gerard hadn’t heard since he was a little kid. They
didn’t say much to each other and she left about ten minutes later when the
nurse showed up and escorted her to the door.
When the doctor came to talk to him the following morning he treated him like
an object and reminded him he wasn’t free to leave until he met with the
psychiatrist. He can’t remember if he was excited to see the psychiatrist
because that meant he had actual problems and that it really wasn’t all in his
head or if he was annoyed. The psychiatrist, Dr. Singh, was great.
He liked how Dr. Singh spat garbage about god and told Gerard to use his brain
for things like positive thinking, he liked how he was given a combination of
pills that could make him “even worse”.
And then it was all over, he was signed over to the care of his parents and
kicked out of the hospital bed so some kid with actual problems could get the
attention they deserved. He was unworthy and now he gets to add ‘broken’ to the
list of adjectives that describe him.
He’s the kind of broken pretty boys like Frank flock to with their big green
eyes and tattooed hips. He wants the hole in his chest to be filled with angry
guitar solos that cut through his skin like the razors he tried when he was
seventeen, all fucked up with no one to live for, because just like writing his
suicide note on the back of a comic book receipt, razors sounded easiest. He
could live for Frank though; he could chuck the pills and pour the booze down
the drain if it meant waking up to Frank making him coffee in his boxers and
being the little spoon and having Frank listen to him talk even though he
starts rambling as soon as his mouth opens. And he wants this; he wants Frank.
“Gerard?”
“Hm? Yeah?” his attention snaps back to Frank who’s sitting on a hospital bed,
his legs dangling over the side.
“You should go wait out there,” he says, pointing in the direction of the
waiting room.
“What? No, I’m fine. I’m staying with you.” He insists, grabbing Frank’s hand
with both of his even though there’s a doctor standing there with a bored
expression on her face.
Frank brings their hands up, kissing the backs of Gerard’s, and smirks a little
when he says, “She has to reset my nose.”
He wants to leave but needs to stay. “No – um – I’m… I’m gonna stay here.”
Frank’s eyebrows shoot up, “You’re going to end up passing out.”
Gerard lets out a slightly hysterical laugh and turns around, “I won’t look.
I’ll be fine.”
“Can you take your piercing out?” The doctor asks.
Frank doesn’t say anything for a moment and then Gerard hears a “ready”
followed by a muffled scream. He doesn’t pass out, but a shiver runs through
him that leaves him swaying unsteadily on his feet. He chokes out, “See? I’m
fine.”
                                       *
Gerard stopped drinking on March 10th, 2012 and went to his first AA meeting
three days later. He showed up five minutes late and choked back the shitty
free coffee they provided and listened to the other men and women in the
meeting speak openly about their struggles with alcohol.
He kept his mouth shut and alternated between staring at his coffee mug and
some of the twelve step posters hung up haphazardly around the room. Even
though he was beyond uncomfortable he still felt welcome, like everyone knew
how hard it was for him to just step into the room and they weren’t going to
make it any harder. He supposes that’s what’s making him go back now, what’s
making him grab a cup of coffee and sit next to the single father of three
middle schoolers and the nineteen year old film student who’s been drinking
since she was thirteen.
He kind of feels like he’s back in his tenth grade English class when the
teacher arranged the desks in a circle to discuss poetry. He always hated it.
The person sitting across from him is Brody, a woman who’s trying to get her
life back together after living on the streets for a year, and Gerard kind of
wants to hang out with her outside of the meetings because she’s got
personality. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. She’s got fucking liberty
spikes for fuck’s sake and Gerard’s having a hard time tearing his gaze away
from her bright red, pierced lips; she’s gorgeous in that gritty punk rock way
that Gerard sees a lot of in Frank with his piercings and weird haircut.
He tries to tell himself the reason he can’t look away from her is because
she’s pretty and is also sitting right in front of him but one look at those
faded scars on her wrists and he knows the real reason. His hands are shaking,
foot tapping, and the lingering smell of sweat in the room is making his
stomach roil. He tried not to look in the mirror before he left, already
knowing he looked like shit, and that’s probably why Patty, the group leader,
is going to try to include him more.
“Gerard?” Patty smiles at him. “Would you like to share?”
No. “Um, I’ve been sober for about three days now.” He’s embarrassed to say it
in front of a group of people who’ve been sober for years at this point in
their lives, his cheeks burning hot. But when he chances a glance at some of
them they’re nodding their heads and smiling.
Brody grins, “Rad.”
Her voice is raspy, whiskey and cigarettes kind of wrecked, and deep, sultry
almost. It’s soothing in a way Gerard didn’t expect it to be. He nods and
smiles weakly, “Yeah, three days. It’s – it’s harder than I thought it would
be.”
He stops and after a few seconds pass Patty nods and smiles at him, moving onto
someone else. He didn’t realize how fast his heart was racing until everyone’s
eyes were off him and focused on someone else. Well, everyone’s except for
Brody’s.
It isn’t until he’s standing outside of the church, lighting his second
cigarette, that Brody says something to him. “That’s a pretty morbid
fascination you’ve got.”
“Excuse me?” he splutters.
Brody grins and holds up her arms, the sleeves of her denim jacket slipping
down enough to show her wrists. She’s wearing a cut off denim jacket, hoodie,
and Transplants shirt, Gerard’s in a sweatshirt and leather jacket and he’s
still pretty cold. The weather isn’t warm enough for those kinds of clothes:
gig clothes. Between staring at her pale wrists and trying not to stare at them
he can’t quite figure out what her accent is. “Do you always stare at people’s
scars?”
Gerard blushes, because he knows how uncomfortable that can make a person,
knows how uncomfortable it makes him. But, it’s like he can’t help himself,
like he’s stunned by coming face to face with someone like him. “No I – sorry.”
“Hey,” she shrugs, shirt riding up even more. “An eye for an eye, right? Let’s
see yours.”
For a second he considers stuttering out an excuse and walking away but he’s
been waiting for this since January when he sketched that nude model in art
class. He sticks his cigarette between his lips and rolls up his sleeves,
shoving out his arms. He says, “Right.”
She whistles and brings her arms up, aligning their wrists. “How old?”
“Seventeen,” he answers, not taking his eyes off their wrists. While Gerard’s
scars are vertical, Brody’s are horizontal and he can tell she didn’t cut as
deep as he had. “You?”
“Just a baby,” she laughs. “Seventeen as well.”
He finds himself laughing along with her and takes one last drag off his
cigarette before throwing it to the ground. “Do they ever – do you ever…” he
trails off, not sure how to say it.
“Get embarrassed by them?” she asks, waiting for Gerard’s nod before
continuing. “Why should I? The only embarrassing thing is how I cut the wrong
way,” she drags her finger down her wrist. “Vertical was the way to go.”
“That’s what I thought; did you know they can still sew you up?”
“I do now,” she smirks.
                                       *
Frank hasn't come over in just over two weeks and Gerard's a little
uncomfortable with how much he fucking misses him. Frank's been spending most
of his time with Hambone and his new band, Leathermouth. Frank talks about them
with the kind of excitement Gerard hasn't seen since they followed The Bouncing
Souls around the east coast last spring. Gerard's yet to hear any music but
according to Frank they're a hardcore punk band and suddenly Frank's obsession
makes sense. It's not even like they have shows or anything though, their
singer keeps fucking off to Philadelphia while promising to come back with
lyrics in hand.
"So when do I get to actually hear the band?" Gerard asks, shutting off the TV.
"They - hold on," Frank sighs, and Gerard can hear a door creaking open in the
background before Frank whispers, "Ma, I'm home."
Frank's mom's voice is soft and far away but there really isn't any other noise
so Gerard can hear her perfectly, "What're you doing here?"
"I was at Hambone's, remember?"
"Who?"
Frank grumbles, "John, ma."
"I don't know why you don't call him by his actual name, I'm sure he doesn't
like being called Hambone."
"He was the one who came up with it!" Frank whines and Gerard can’t stop
himself from laughing.
Gerard hears another voice, "Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"I thought you were in New York with Gerard," Frank's dad says, sounding
puzzled.
"Not this week. 'm just checking in, go back to sleep." A few seconds pass and
then Frank says, "They want me to sing for them," Completely unable to mask the
glee in his voice, "Well, not really sing so much as scream."
"No shit?" Gerard grins, toeing off his socks before crawling into bed.
"They kicked the other dude out and were gonna quit so I told them to give me a
week and I'd have lyrics." Gerard can practically hear Frank’s face-splitting
grin and it makes the butterflies in his stomach start acting up.
"I'm so fucking happy for you; I don't even know what to say."
Frank laughs softly and Gerard can hear the muffled sounds of him getting into
bed. "This is what I need, I didn't even realize it earlier but this is it."
Frank starts talking about the two tracks they gave him to use as a starting
point and about how "raw and fucking dirty" the guitar sounds and the way he
says it, voice low and a little tired sounding, makes Gerard swallow loudly and
grab his dick, not really sure when he started to get hard.
He blurts out an "I miss you" and tries not to cringe when it comes out as more
of a whine.
He hears Frank's breath hitch, "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Gerard breathes.
"Fuck – just – wait,” Frank rushes out. He hears some muffled sounds, bed
covers sliding against skin, before a soft whirring picks up in the background.
When Frank starts talking again he sounds a little out of breath, like he shut
the door and turned the fan on and got back into bed as quickly as he could,
anxious to keep this going. “Tell me what you miss."
"Miss -" Gerard licks his lips and spreads his legs a little, hand resting hot
and heavy on his dick. "Miss kissing you, touching you, tasting you."
“Yeah, I - I think about it a lot.” He pauses and Gerard can hear something
slide shut in the background and realizes it’s probably Frank’s nightstand
drawer where he keeps lube. “Think about you sucking me off, those pretty lips
of yours stretched tight around my dick, spit running down your chin ‘cause you
always try so fucking hard to fit it all in your mouth.”
He shuts his eyes, picturing Frank with his boxers around his ankles, slicked
up hand wrapped around his hard cock, not really moving or anything yet, just
squeezing. Gerard moans, throwing any plans of trying to make this last out the
window and just inching his sweats down enough to get his cock out. "Fuck –
yeah – want that."
"Know you do, Gee.” Frank breathes. “Always so eager for it, like you – oh –
can’t wait to get your face fucked.”
"Can't," he moans, finally sliding his hand up his cock. It's too dry though so
he licks his hand and kicks the covers off because he's starting to sweat a
little. He starts jacking himself again and - ah, yeah - that's so much better.
"Can't wait. You'd make me take it all, right Frankie? Just - just fucking push
me down until there's nothing left to take." God he fucking wants that, wants
to feel the fucking weight of Frank's dick on his tongue, the salty taste of
pre come making his cock throb.
"Yeah - shit - yeah, babe." Frank rasps, and if it were any other circumstance
he'd laugh at being called "babe" but he can hear the slick sounds Frank's hand
is making as it slides up and down his cock and that's enough to make Gerard's
hips snap up. He's cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, one hand on
his cock and the other tangled up in his hair because he needs something to
grab onto and the sharp burn just makes his dick leak even more, keeping things
nice and slick. Frank lets out these muffled moans, like he's biting his lip to
keep quiet and they remind Gerard of the sounds he makes when he's sucking
Gerard off, hands clasped behind his back with his pretty eyes gazing up at
Gerard. Fuck, he's closer than he thought he was. He's panting, hand dropping
down to pinch a nipple, and he can't stop himself from fucking up into his hand
anymore.
"Fuck, you're gonna come aren't you?" his eyes snap open, almost expecting to
see Frank between his legs.
"Yeah - ah -" he closes his eyes again, balls drawing up at what he pictures.
"Fuck, wanna - wanna come on your fucking face, Frankie."
"Oh, fuck." Frank grits out before moaning loud (a little too loud) and long
and it's like Gerard's there, can see Frank's dick spurting come all over his
belly. He comes a second after Frank does, mouth dropped open to let out a
wordless groan as his dick throbs in his hand, come spilling onto his shirt as
his back arches.
"Fuck," Frank says, giggling.
"Fuck is right."
"'m sorry I haven't been around."
"No, don't even. You're joining a fucking band, Frankie. I think I can live
without you for a couple of weeks." If he’s being honest he doesn’t even really
have the time needed to be with Frank. He goes to class, goes to work, goes to
AA meetings, and hangs out with Brody when it’s too late to go to sleep but too
early to get up at Melrose Diner.
Frank sighs and grumbles something unintelligible before murmuring, "Miss you."
Gerard grins, "I know, babe."
Frank groans, "Fuck you! Excuse me for not being the most eloquent guy around
when you're talking about sucking my dick."
Gerard laughs and makes a thoughtful noise, "Ah, eloquent. Did your mom hear
how not eloquent you were?"
"I was loud?"
Gerard hums and Frank hisses in embarrassment. "I'm staying at my mom's house
for the weekend, d'you wanna do something?"
"Yeah, 'course."
"Show me your lyrics?" Gerard presses.
Frank hesitates and Gerard can tell he's blushing. "Maybe."
                                       *
He expected to feel weird and slightly out of place at his mom’s house, but he
actually feels like he never left, like maybe it was all a dream but there are
small changes that he doesn’t remember being around for that confirms he did.
They're sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking their
respective cigarettes, laughing over something stupid Gerard said. His mom
hasn't changed much, maybe she even looks better; Gerard moving out was
probably the best thing for everyone, no more walking on eggshells. His mom
would never admit to that though. She's started teasing her hair again, puffing
it up like it's 1986, and her fingernails are black - like Gerard's.
Mikey isn't supposed to show up until midnight and Gerard finds that he doesn't
mind, he misses spending time with his mom, plus, he hasn’t been able to fall
asleep before five for days. Just because she didn't know what was going on
with him all those years ago doesn't mean they weren't - aren't - close. They
talk about school for a little while, what his grades are like and if he likes
his classes or not, and eventually they get to the topic of Frank, like Gerard
knew they would.
"How are you two?" she asks with a small smile, raising her eyebrows as she
brings her favorite mug, a robin's egg blue with a broken handle, up to her
lips.
"We're good," Gerard smiles back easily, stubbing out his cigarette on the
table. It's funny how his father would've had a coronary if he saw him do that
when he was a teenager, but after a few seconds his mom stubs hers out as well.
They never liked this table anyway; it was a gift from his dad’s sister.
"He’s still getting into fights?"
Gerard shakes his head, "He's too busy; give him something good to focus on and
he won't have time for bullshit like that."
She nods. "He's a bright boy, surprisingly sweet too. When you first told me
about it, about the fighting, I didn't understand. Perhaps I still don't."
He sighs, fingers tapping restlessly on the table before he gives up and
snatches up another cigarette. If he can't drink then he sure as hell is going
to chain smoke. "He's angry, ma. He's angry and I don't think he really knows
why." he pauses, leaning back in his chair. "I think he keeps everything he
feels - no - everything negative he feels inside. Let's it eat at him until he
can't see straight, until he's seeing red." It used to make him nervous. He
remembers how angry he was all the time before it morphed into sadness, he
doesn't want Frank to end up like him.
"You said he's keeping busy?"
"Joined a band," Gerard says, proud.
"When isn't that boy in a band? Seems like every time we talk he's in a new
one. What were they? Hybrid, Sector 12, American Nightmare, Pencey Prep, and I
Am A Graveyard." she ticks off each one with her fingers, eyes closed as if
she's reading off a list in her mind, and maybe she is, she always did have an
excellent memory.
"I can't believe you remember all of them."
"I remember thinking it would be important, maybe not to me and maybe not even
to you." The unspoken "maybe to Frank" lingers and Gerard knows Frank would
love that she remembered them all, that they remembered them all. They chat a
little while longer and Gerard wants to tell her he stopped drinking but at the
same time doesn't. What if she has no clue it had even gotten so bad? What if
no one said anything?
When Mikey shows up around seven he practically trips over himself in his rush
to get to Gerard. They migrate to Gerard's old room because it's cooler in the
basement and Gerard can feel the sweat on his back making his shirt stick to
his skin a little. Mikey shoves a Morrissey CD in the DVD player before
flopping back onto the bed.
Gerard grabs one of his old sketchbooks and a pencil because he really needs
something to do with his shaky fucking hands. He draws Mikey and finds himself
having to glance up every now and then to reacquaint himself with his brother's
looks because he's actually changed, the boy who will wear the same shirt every
other day for a month has changed.
His hair's darker and shorter, dyed, which makes him look older, and there's
old eyeliner smudged around his eyes, probably from a gig he went to a couple
of days ago. He's gained a few pounds, hip bones no longer sharp enough to
puncture something but still very prominent, and he's grown too. He walks a
little awkwardly, like he isn't quite sure how to carry the added inches and
pounds. His eyes are the same though and it calms the churning in his stomach a
little, knowing he isn't coming to home to a house full of people he once knew.
He didn't plan on telling Mikey either, he wouldn't know anything was wrong
unless Frank told him, but Mikey makes the decision for him.
"You look like shit," he comments.
"Yeah, well," Gerard replies, distracted. "Withdrawal will do that to a
person."
The slow rise and fall of Mikey’s chest stops for a second before picking up
again. Mikey’s tone is casual when he says, “Oh?”
Gerard hums then says, “Twenty-five.”
“What about pills?”
“Pills, too.”
Mikey stays silent and Gerard thinks maybe he doesn’t believe him and he never
thought it could go that way. If things with Mikey didn’t work out then there
was no way in hell he was going to say anything to Frank. Fuck that. But then
he’s up and tackling Gerard in a hug. “’m proud of you.”
Gerard beams, relief flooding through him as he takes in a shaky breath. “Me
too.”
                                       *
If he’s being honest, Leathermouth makes him nervous. The music is fucking
drowning in self-hate, misery, and an anger so strong Gerard doesn’t think
screaming and thrashing around onstage all night will be enough for Frank to
exorcise it out of himself. It’s unlike anything he’s ever heard, unlike
anything he’s ever seen before.
The air is thick with sweat and Frank’s, as well as the crowd’s, screams and
Gerard’s shirt is sticking to his back even though he’s just working the merch
table. It’s Leathermouth’s first show outside of someone’s house so the lack of
people complaining about the “noise” is refreshing and the surplus of people
singing along and buying shirts is reassuring. It’s the third stop on the two
month long summer tour and even though his back fucking hates him right now for
sleeping on the uncomfortable van seat and his eyes are still burning from
having to drive for hours on end he’s having the time of his fucking life and
he’s sure Frank is too.
Frank’s onstage, mic chord wrapped around his arm as sweat fucking drips off
him, screaming about cutting girls up and setting them on fire. His face and
neck are red, the tendons in his neck standing out with the effort of
screaming; he’s so loud Gerard’s pretty sure he doesn’t even need the
microphone. He looks like he’s having a fucking seizure and the fans can’t get
enough of it, all eyes are on Frank; Gerard even catches Hambone watching Frank
like he’s from another planet, like he isn’t the person he’s spent every waking
moment of his life with for the past few months.
He thinks this might be the longest Frank’s been on his feet, it feels like
every time Gerard glances up at the stage in between customers Frank’s rolling
around on stage, scraping his knees on the hard, unforgiving stage floor. They
sound good, fuck, they sound greatand even though the place reeks of beer and
it’s taking everything he has right now not to go buy a drink he can’t stop
grinning like an idiot.
After the show’s over and they’re halfway to Maryland, they drop the guys off
at a diner and park a few blocks away so they can fuck in the backseat. It’s
fast and frantic and a little cramped and Gerard loves every fucking second of
it. They pick the guys back up an hour later and Dewees kicks Gerard out of the
driver’s seat with a grin and asks, “Where are we going next?”
“Just wake me when we get to Baltimore,” Gerard yawns, climbing into the back
with Frank. “God, you guys reek.”
Frank laughs, breathy and tired, and slings an arm around Gerard’s shoulders,
smashing their cheeks together and planting a sloppy kiss on Gerard’s forehead.
“We were good, though?”
Gerard nods, pushing Frank away to rest his head on Frank’s legs. “Great, you
were great. You looked like you were fucking possessed, though.”
Frank’s head falls back and he spreads his legs a little and Gerard makes an
unhappy noise as the movement jostles him. His hand falls to rest on Gerard’s
head, fingers running through his hair softly. “I’m taking that as a
compliment.”
Gerard’s eyes close and he slurs, “Knew you would.”
He doesn’t dread going to sleep anymore, not since he stopped having nightmares
a few weeks ago and he doesn’t know who, or what, he needs to thank for that.
They still don’t talk about his drinking, or his lack thereof, and he doesn’t
really mind. He sees the way Frank looks at him when he turns down a drink or
doesn’t even approach the bar at shows, like he’s proud of him, like he’s
something special and that’s enough for him. He still goes to AA meetings
sometimes, in cities he’ll only be in for the night, when the itch under his
skin travels to the back of his throat and makes him want a drink like nothing
else. In other words, they’re okay. Frank’s too busy and tired to go looking
for a fight and Gerard hasn’t touched alcohol in just over three months now.
The last thing he hears before falling asleep is Frank’s voice, quiet and
amazed, bordering on shocked. “We fucking made it, Gee. We fucking made it.”
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