Chapter Text
It’s unbearably early when Frank wakes up from his slumber–or, that’s how he feels. Frank realizes he’s being dramatic when he looks at the thumbnail of his flip phone–through heavy eyelids–and it reads ten minutes to eight.
It takes him a second to register his surroundings properly. He’s not in the storage room, no, he’s on a mattress; there’s a proper window above his head, and even a lamp nearby, crudely shoved next to the makeshift bed.
For once–since he got evicted–Frank actually feels satisfied with everything. Hell, he’s even tempted to swaddle himself and fall back asleep, his stomach void of anxiety. Additionally, the window above his head doesn’t have proper shades; he’s practically blinded by the sun that’s beaming into the room. As easy as it would be to just close the blinds and fall back asleep, Frank can’t bring himself to; he’s not too concerned about upright positions, presently.
He makes a weak attempt to pull the blankets over his head–shield his face from the bright light–but it’s futile, the blankets doing very little to obscure any light. At least they kept Frank warm throughout the night–not that it was needed, since the radiator squished against the wall near the door was fired up. It’s the only thing producing a sound throughout the solitude of the townhouse.
Truthfully, it’s quiet throughout the house, hollow without the sound of discussion or laughter like the night before–the only sounds that ricochet off the wallpaper walls are the crackles of the radiator squished against the wall, and the typical groans of a settling, elder home. It’s comforting, how Frank feels the house’s warm embrace & its hands cradle him gingerly, like he’s a long-lost friend; Frank’s prior weeks of concrete-laced rest only amplify his sense of belonging within the home, and he’d beg to stay with the Ways if his dignity didn’t threaten to smother him amongst the pilled blankets and feather-gorged pillows.
Frank pushes past the remnants of his comatose-esque rest and flicks his phone open, checking the overwhelming influx of net zero messages left over the last five hours. He doesn’t expect anything, he never does–only Ray, Brian, and ‘Ma Iero have his number, after all–and he’s still not awarded anything contrary.
Furthermore, it settles in that it’s eight in the morning–so much for waking up too early, the fucker is pretty much right on time. There goes his plans to act a menace–also known as, complaining about waking up at such an unbearable hour. Not that he would’ve, because then he’d felt bad about making the Way brothers think that something’s actually wrong, and he’s not gonna bite the hand providing him food and shelter… and showers.
Again, Frank takes a moment to himself to bask in the peace, nearly holding a conversation with the damn radiator–it’s just so endearing to him. But regardless of how good he feels–the coiled mattress springs pressing against his spine just right, his back properly bent-out-of-shape–he knows he can’t remain idle all morning. He resurfaces from under the blankets–like he’s coming up for air–feeling lethargic.
It’s so human, living in such an embarrassingly simplistic manner. Frank doesn’t care, though–he just feels normal again, and he craves the mundane like a drought begging for rain.
Once on both feet, Frank grips his blankets in both of his iron-fists and fluffs the sheets until his shirt and pajama pants drop onto the floor, limp and lame. He slips his clothes on–soft fabric brushing against his skin–and stretches one last time until his joints crack with a sickly satisfaction.
After some thought, he concludes that Mikey totally won’t notice–nor would he care, probably–if Frank brews a cup of coffee, to help wake up. The kid’s practically attached at the hip to the stuff, so it wouldn’t surprise Frank if he’s hiding some Rube Goldberg machine, rigged to the coffee pot.
Before leaving the gutted bedroom, he grabs his cell and slips it into his pocket. The bare soles of his feet brush against the grain of the wood as he shuffles into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind him; he rounds the corner, stepping into the living room & tiptoeing to avoid rustling Ray. It’s not like the guy’s a light sleeper–for fuck’s sake, he’s dead as a rock–but he’s still courteous, because Ray is his best friend and has saved his ass more than he can count. It doesn’t keep Frank from calling him the geekiest guitarist alive, though–nothing would.
Once Ray is safe out of earshot, Frank finds himself in the doorway of the kitchen; he pauses for a second, to yawn and rub his eyes, and he loses his balance a bit as he takes his final steps into the kitchen. He drops a fist from his eyes–nearly rubbed raw–and nearly bites on his tattooed knuckles once he registers the other man in the room, an unexpected surprise.
Within the illuminated kitchen, a singular man sits in a chair–the seat next to the window, with a glass of water resting on the sill, tobacco smoke wafting through the room despite the open aperture. His sketchbook is splayed out in front of him, some kind of inking pen tucked behind his ear, and a pencil swinging back-and-forth between his fingers; the source of the smoke–a cigarette, naturally–rests between his lips, and the ash avoids crumbling onto the sketchbook. The fingers of his free hand pinch the cigarette right before the filter, freeing his mouth to take a sip from the tumbler–he relieves the smoke of its ash, revealing the cherry that hid itself.
The younger man has to force himself to remember that, right, Mikey doesn’t live alone– it's just his brother who lives with him, too… his older, hot brother. Frank’s trying so hard to gather himself–because he’s now alone with Gerard–and God’s really fucking him sideways.
Clearly, the silence isn’t welcome, Gerard speaking through a nicotine-infused exhale. “Jesus, it’s my own goddamn house. I’m not, like, a Jersey Devil or some shit.” His demeanor is a tad defensive, his voice sounding raspy–it’s probably the first time he’s talked that morning, the tobacco clinging to the innards of his throat and mouth–Frank tries to squish the thought, knows he shouldn’t let his mind wander to that… but it sounds really sexy, he can’t help it. Frank observes Gerard take a drag, and responds in tandem.
He forces a chuckle. “I, uh, I know it’s your house–swear that it’s not it,” he knows he sounds painfully awkward right now, “It’s just, uh… you don’t exactly make your presence known to other people, I guess? You just kinda appear, like you fuckin’ teleported or some shit.”
Gerard laughs, and to Frank’s surprise, it sounds bitter–Gerard brings the end of the pencil to his kisser, pressing it against his bottom lip–god, it’s so fucking off-putting that Frank finds Gerard this attractive, because it’s not like he’s a model–not that he couldn’t be–it’s more so the fact that there’s this painful beauty to him. The way his eyes sink into the sockets; his nose remaining delicate despite its angularity; how his cheekbones carve out his face, despite his rounded cheeks. It feels appropriate, that Gerard is an artist–his appearance is like a subject in a painting, his black-dye hair shiny from grease but appearing like oil paint strokes; his complexion naturally pale, contrasted by a flush as if afflicted by hayfever; his eyes glassy and unfocused on his surroundings, yet sharp when he would focus on the sketchbook.
Gerard’s like a fucking–an elf, someone so beautiful that it could move someone to tears.
It’s not like Frank doesn’t have anything to form an opinion around–in his and Mikey’s day, they didn’t solely frequent shitty dive bars and hole-in-the-wall establishments. No, the two constantly found themselves in the embrace of gay bars, enthralled by what they could offer. It varied depending on the locale, but it was typically decent booze and walking eye-candy–something that Frank appreciated (still does, in fact) artistically and lustfully.
Honestly, Frank’s known about his sexuality since sixth grade–although, being raised in the Catholic church did jack shit for accepting oneself, and spin-the-bottle at shitty preteen parties were all-telling at the end of the night. Thankfully, by the eighth grade, Frank had come to terms with his identity, and accepted himself in stride–he wouldn’t admit it now, but he was kind of a manwhore throughout all of high school.
Interestingly, Frank’s experience contrasts Mikey’s–the guy had definitely been questioning, attempting to explore for himself–and Frank had been happy to help. He kept an eye on Mikey at those bars, ensuring that whomever the rogue Way could get his hands on weren’t absolute scumbags; by the night’s end, he would tease Mikey about how he was a hussy, and Frank would laugh in his drunken stupor.
If Frank were daft, he would automatically assume that Mikey also drunkenly laughed, too–but it’s quite clear now that it wasn’t just drunk laughter. Instead, it was laughter that rooted itself in some kind of hellish crossfade, one Frank wasn’t inclined to experience.
It’s neither here nor there, though–the point of the tangent is that Frank witnessed his fair share of dudes–buff, twig, round, flat, etcetera etcetera. No otter, bear, nor anyone has anything on Gerard; he’s slender yet tender, his hair greasy and unkempt–somehow, it frames his features just right, fitting him. There’s a balanced femininity to everything, and it made Frank’s heart melt off his sleeve. Eyes–shadows like solar eclipses and bags that compliment his sunken sockets, irises richly hazel–are reserved, but still so fucking alive, and Frank can’t explain why his chest is near bursting.
At the same time, it’s eerie, Gerard looks how Frank did the night before. He’s in the same position, in the same chair, with the same cup of water on the same spot of the windowsill–Frank swears it’s the same glass, even if he can see the exact one he used rim-down in the sink.
Frank doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at Gerard–he’s praying that it’s only been a few seconds–but it doesn’t seem like he’s noticed, the artist completely absorbed in his sketching. He pulls his focus away from Gerard, because just standing in the entrance of the kitchen and staring dumbly can’t be comforting for anyone; he partially remembers the location of the mugs–Mikey told him the night before–and reaches for the cabinet.
Gerard’s gaze fixed on him, Frank awkwardly shuffles over to the coffee pot on the counter, allowing the aroma of freshly burning cigarettes to envelop him as he fills the reservoir with water. Frank opens his mouth to ask a question, and is immediately greeted by a snappy comment.
“You’re cold as fuck.”
He turns to face the voice sitting behind the table, startled. “Wuh?”
Gerard glances up at Frank, before returning to his sketchbook; it isn’t a one time occurrence, though. Gerard keeps shifting his eyes between the two subjects–only Christ knows why–smiling to himself impishly, and Frank kinda wants to punch him in the face for the secret poised behind his lips.
“It’s the door next to the fridge, which is like, the complete opposite side of the kitchen–kinda. Maybe adjacent is a better word? Either way, you’re only gonna find plates if you keep going–absolute shit at holding coffee, in my humble opinion.”
Frank nods, an oh escaping his lips. He’s quiet, but it doesn’t last long. “Well, I’d argue it depends on the plate, and how dire circumstances are.” It makes Gerard pause, and his eyes train on Frank for a minute or so–he takes it as a win, because Gerard’s eyes are gorgeous.
“If you say so, Frankenstein.” The answer is short, but the nickname makes Frank’s heart backflip. He’s lucky his back is turned to Gerard in order to grab a mug from the shelf, because he’s smiling like a fucking idiot. He sifts through the cups, intentionally stalling for time; the Universal Monsters mug–how fitting–already caught his eye, but he needs to get his expression in check before Gerard can see his face again.
“I do say so, Nosferatu. What if someone broke into your house, broke all your mugs, and only left you with plates and glass cups?” He hears a huff behind him, and it does nothing to help his grin–in fact, it makes it fucking worse , and now he’s spent too much time staring at mugs.
He swipes the Universal Monsters mug and closes the cabinet, and Gerard pipes up. “Okay, dude, firstly: heat-safe glasses exist, even if they’re too expensive at Bed Bath & Beyond. Secondly: who B&Es into a house, just to destroy mugs–is it a phobia thing, or a vendetta? Thirdly: have you thought about just drinking from the pot? You could wait for it to cool off or some shit.” Fuck, he has some points.
“You think I’ve been inside a Bed Bath & Beyond? I mean–I have, but it’s always too expensive. Anyway, people have B&E’d for less than mugs before, probably–it’s the same principle as, like, wishing someone’s pillow is warm on both sides whenever they sleep. It’s mildly uncomfortable and inconvenient,” he’s shaking the grounds into the coffee filter, “Also, wait, who the fuck drinks their coffee black? That shit’s gnarly.”
“Uh, I do, snotnose–we’re an endangered species, the young ones,” his tone is mischievous, and despite how stupid the joke is, Frank finds it endearing. “Fucks sake, even Mikey drinks it black–anyway. For weaklings–milk is in the fridge, middle door-shelf. Sugar cubes at the table here… we do have sweetener if you prefer it, but,” Gerard grimaces, as if remembering a painful memory. “Gets gross if you use too much.”
Frank shoots a look at Gerard, and he feels the dumbfounded expression cross his face–thankfully. “Sugar cubes?”
Frank failed to notice that boy-wonder resumed sketching until he halted–again–to glance up at the tattooed man. “Cubes are fun, and none of us bake or what-fucking-ever, so why not?” His expression is deadpan, and Frank stifles a chuckle; he just nods, before an epiphany smacks a frown on his face–which Gerard notices, immediately. “What?”
“I–well–my body is kind of shit. I have every possible digestive issue known to man, aside from autoimmune shit–er, it feels like every possible issue. Everything upsets my stomach… including dairy.” Frank’s hand fidgets with the mug; one hand grasps the handle, the other taps the side of the cup–it’s too hot to hold just yet. “I think, like, part of my paycheck covers soy milk alone.”
Gerard nods–well, it’s more of an absentminded bob, his face trained on his sketchbook again. “Sounds like it sucks, sorry ‘bout that.” Frank musters a shrug in response.
Frank feels the energy in the room begin to deplete, which strikes him with a terrible unease–so, he returns to the prior topic. “Then both of you are freaks of fucking nature–makes sense, considering the, uh,” Frank squints his eyes cartoonishly, gesturing vaguely towards Gerard, “Blood relation.” He hopes it’ll make Big Way laugh.
Gerard’s chuckle is gentle and raspy in response, and Frank breathes a laugh-slash-relieved-sigh out of his nose as he pulls the container off the shelf–he could totally drink his coffee black. Well, maybe if he was forced to… or if he’s allowed to pinch his nose while he swallows the caffeine down in gasps.
He feels his mouth form the question about coffee to Gerard, but can’t hear himself say it–Frank assumes Gerard agreed, because he’s watching his ink-wrapped hands snatch another mug from the cabinet. He fills the reservoir four-fifths of the way and rips open two sweeteners that get added to the joe–not that he’s bragging or anything, but he totally remembered what Gerard said four-ish (whorish?) minutes ago about drinking his coffee black.
Coming to terms with the concept of milkless coffee for himself–snatching a fistful of Sweet ‘n Low packets from the counter container–Frank finally makes his way over to the table. It takes two trips for Frank to bring both mugs to the kitchen table–he knows he’s clumsy, and Frank is quite adverse to burning himself with scorching hot bean water on his off-day. Once the task is completed, Frank seats himself diagonally across from his company. He rips open the tiny saccharine envelopes, dumping three packets-worth of powder into the Universal Monsters mug; he forgot to grab a spoon, so he swirls the mug feebly in counter-clockwise circles.
It’s barely enough for his coffee to not taste like battery acid, but he’s not especially picky this morning.
Once he’s made himself comfortable in the nearly-dilapidated-chair, Frank stares at Gerard in an attempt to wordlessly ask for a cigarette. It’s a few minutes before Gerard even meets his gaze, and another couple minutes for the older man to register Frank’s eyes shifting between him and his Lucky Strikes.
Gerard sighs, as he flicks the pack open, and tilts it toward Frank; the younger man steals a tobacco pre-roll from the container, a toothy grin decorating his lips. “Light?–” Frank begins, but Gerard is quick with the punches; he swiftly places the antique Zippo on the kitchen table and slides it in Frank’s direction, and wow, Mikey was telling the truth. It’s the same lighter, with the same engravings and scuffings as the one Mikey pulled out of his pocket last week. Even the ding on the top–only noticeable if you looked hard enough–was there, and Frank deems it impossible for that detail to be replicated perfectly.
Sparking the Zippo is oddly satisfying–Frank sees why the brothers share the thing, there’s a generous weight to it. Plus, for whatever reason, the lighter refuses to warm up from the flame–it remains cold in his hands, and he has half a mind to ask Gerard why.
But he doesn’t.
Frank lights the end of his cigarette–the cherry burning a bright red as he inhales nicotine clouds–before gently placing the lighter in the middle of the table. Frank watches Gerard hold his cigarette and flick ash off into the bashtray with one hand; the long fingers of his other hand wrap around the Zippo, absconding under the table and out of sight into Gerard’s sweatshirt pocket.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, each enjoying the nicotine that burns their throats and buzzes beneath their skin–it’s comfortable, an easy coexistence, yet everything feels so awkward. A stroke of genius on Frank’s part initiates a conversation, and so an awkward-yet-comfortable silence becomes an awkward-yet-milquetoast conversation.
Frank starts. “So, uh, whattya do for work?”
Gerard motions to the sketchbook in front of him, and Frank realizes that Gerard tucked his pencil behind his ear long ago. “I’m not exactly Lee or Ditko or Mignola artistically–or Gaiman or Morrison or Moore literature…ally?–but I hope I’m half-decent. You?”
Frank feels a kindle warm his cheeks, and he looks out the window vacantly when he responds. “Uh, well, I’m a sales associate–at Neck ‘n Neck, the guitar place in the mall? Y’know it?” Gerard nods, and Frank’s lips turn upward in relief. “Sweet.”
Frank fidgets with his mug, his eyes flickering between the steaming dark brown drink and the wrinkles that imprint themselves into Gerard’s features–they compliment him perfectly, and he’s ready to start eating drywall. “So! Music!”
Gerard quirks a brow. “What about? What I listen to?” Frank nods dumbly, and Gerard chuckles quietly. “Well, Mikey ‘n I shared tapes growing up, so we share a lot of favorites–classics, y’know? Smashing Pumpkins–” Frank realizes where Mikey’s obsession might’ve stemmed from, “–Jawbreaker, Bowie, The Clash, Iron Maiden, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus, The Descendants, uh… etcetera-and-more. I’m kind of a niche, I guess.”
“Etcetera? Like local gigs?” Gerard nods, and Frank’s brain buffers–if Gerard likes local bands, why hasn’t Frank seen him at any shows? Why wasn’t Gerard with Mikey when they met, or at any other outings? Has Frank missed out on a shitton of really good bands?
Frank’s expression betrays him, he assumes, because Gerard pinches the bridge of his nose–not pissed off, or anything of the sort, but more in thought. “Mikey bootlegs them–shows, I mean–for me, sometimes. Or, well, if he knows a guy isn’t gonna record it already, at least.” The explanation is blunt, which Frank appreciates, but it’s the only easy answer he gets out of the artist–of which, the aforementioned man had begun to draw, once again.
Why didn’t you come to any shows? I’m not a party person.
Did you take care of Mikey at those shows? Of course I did, we even held each other’s hair in bar bathroom stalls.
Did you know this? Oh, I didn’t know this. Did you know that? No! I didn’t know that!
It all feels almost robotic, like Gerard’s reading off a predetermined list of answers for interactions he might participate in. Frank doesn’t find it odd, though–he recognizes that this isn’t the guy’s element at all, and that he’s probably far out of his comfort zone.
He appreciates it, a lot, because impromptu morning interactions are really fucking hard, and Frank would only be half as good as Gerard is at this moment.
Automated responses really only get you so far though, Frank figures, because the interaction forms a cystic lull once again; it makes the youngest shift in his seat, it’s unbearable for him.
It only occurs to Frank to take the opportunity to peek at Gerard’s sketchbook, once his desperation practically waterboards him–and he feels his cheeks heating up. “You–you’re drawing me?” This time, the other man flushes a bit too.
“Uh, yeah–I mean, you’re literally a walking piece of art, it’s kind of… irresistible? I guess? Like, obviously you have some empty space–taking creative liberty there, for the record–but, uh. Yeah.” He bites on the eraser, probably as a method to silence himself–Frank’s face is probably fully tomato red, because Gerard just called him walking art–maybe he thinks Frank is a masterpiece. He hopes.
“Thanks–I’m planning to fill empty space in, I wouldn’t mind some ideas,” he takes a sip of his coffee, and sticks his tongue out after it scalds, “But, uhm. Can I–can I see?”
Instead of a direct answer–he remains quiet, demeanor shy–he pushes the book over to Frank, careful to avoid the mug. He nods in gratitude, and plucks it up off the table; with his vision unobscured, he’s able to see how beautiful the sketches are. There’s one of him standing in the doorway–he did linger for too long, shit–there’s one of his backside, when he was picking a mug. There’s a profile sketch, where Frank feels like Gerard was too generous with his nose and chin, and then there’s miscellaneous sketches of his arms; they’re coated in tattoos, each one detailed and absolutely stunning in every way. Frank is mesmerized–he wants to rip the page out and find the nearest tattoo parlor. “Holy shit, Gerard–”
“I know, they’re not the best, I mean–”
“Are you fucking me? Dude, these are amazing, the fact that you did this stylistically but it still looks like me? That’s like, oh my god?” Gerard glances out the window, and he stretches out his hand–asking for the book back, in silence. Frank hesitantly complies, placing the book gingerly in the other man’s lengthy palm. “I’d love a copy of these–genuinely, I’ll pay for it or whatever, I just… please.”
“Sure–yeah, uh. I can ask Mikey to go to Staples or Kinko’s, our printer is kinda shit at copies.”
Frank smiles big and gleeful, and Gerard grins too, because he looked at the dolt in his peripherals. He picks up his glass to take a sip from his water, and that makes Frank wonder where his cigarette went–and he realizes that Gerard snuffed it out way earlier. The guy can apparently read minds, because he takes a smoke out from the pack of Strikes, and rests it on his lip–the saliva allowing for the paper encapsulating the filter to stick while he sparks his lighter. Frank remembers that it’s the lighter Mikey had–but he opts not to say anything.
The two sit in comfortable silence for a while, with Gerard continuing to draw and Frank sipping his coffee; eventually, Ray stumbles into the kitchen slurring sleepily about a dream he had–which was composed of his nails falling off–and coffee. Mikey follows twenty minutes later, his face obscured by his phone; he’s seemingly texting someone back at lightning speed, his bedhead sticking up from behind his flip phone. Once they’re all caffeinated–Mikey had asked Gerard if he wanted coffee, and appearing embarrassed once Gerard brought attention to the mug stationary on the table–the kitchen comes alive with a warm buzz. It’s comforting–the smell of coffee, tobacco, and sleep is thick in the air; the room is alive with the chatter of the quartet, none of them registering how much time passes.
Well, except for Gerard, who finds himself down to the filter after nursing his cigarette for so long. He smushes the dead cherry into the bashtray, downs his glass of water, and grants a considerate glance at the half-full mug of coffee Frank made for him. After a few blinks and a sniffle, Gerard scoops up his belongings and ducks out of the kitchen–he mumbles a weak goodnight, and despite Frank’s disappointment at his rejected coffee, he can’t help but watch the older brother’s figure disappear from the room.
They all wave, saying goodnight as Gerard disappears from the doorway; Frank drinks up whatever he can of Big Way before he’s gone forever–or what feels like forever, considering what he knows of Gerard’s socializing habits.
He barely manages to spot Mikey’s eyes darting between Frank and the vacant entrance to the kitchen, and he ponders if Mikey can read people’s minds.
He’s absolutely fucked if it’s true, and the suspect glare he’s getting doesn’t ease the newly-forming knots in his stomach–either the tangles were tied by Gerard’s own two hands, or by the mug of black coffee Frank’s body is finally digesting.