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“Frank,” Ray said, hands on his hips. “Frank, this has gotta stop. We're worried about you.”
This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, and Frank was pretty sure it wouldn't be the last, but most of the times they had it when Frank wasn't literally lying in the gutter.
In fact, last time had been when he'd found himself waking up with somebody who turned out to be reporter, and the details of their sordid night had made their way across the headlines of several magazines, and Brian had seen it, sighed, and said, in his all too well practiced Disappointed Dad voice, “You know better than this.”
Which just made Frank feel worse, because he did, but it wasn't like he could ask everybody for proof of their occupation before hooking up. He was certain that, “You say you're a bartender, but do you have any recent payslips just so I can verify you're not an undercover reporter so my manager doesn't have an early brain aneurysm? Also, could you sign this non-disclosure agreement?” didn't make for the best pick-up line.
He groaned and rolled to the side enough that he had most of his body out of the gutter, and then he tried to pull himself up, but his arms were too weak so he mostly just flopped about inefficiently, squinting at the light and wondering when it had got so bright out. The sun was painful to even imagine let alone look at.
His head felt like an anvil being pounded by a titanium hammer, only the anvil was made of death and pain, and he was made of jelly, and also there were spikes being driven into his ears or something.
He was distracted from this thought then because he could feel his stomach rolling, like all the drinks - which, to be fair, was a lot - he'd had last night were making a joint effort to escape all at once.
“Oh god, I'm gonna throw up,” he said.
Ray shook his head. “No, you just think you are.”
“Well, that's a relief.”
And then he threw up on Ray's shoes.
**
Ray and him went way back. Frank didn't actually remember when the guy had first appeared in his life, but suddenly their moms were having girl's nights where they got drunk and giggled at romantic comedies, and that left the two pre-pubescent boys to sit awkwardly in Frank's room and try to make small talk.
Eventually, Ray brought over the guitar his uncle had given him, a battered one that Frank was sure had never not been a piece of crap, and that's when they realised that they both lived and breathed music.
Sure, Ray's cup of tea was like classical rock, and layered, well-practised guitar solos. Frank's was more the awful demos Mikey's older mate got down at the local dive, where the guitars were fast and unclean and beautiful. But they played together, and somehow, it worked. They were completely different and it worked.
His mom thought it was cute when the two of them played her the songs they'd been working on for days. She clapped and smiled and gave them all the best motherly enthusiasm.
She didn't think it was so cute when Frank grew his hair out and got some rough guy named Bunny who owned a second-hand tattoo gun to do his first inking in the back of a clapped-out old van, or when they started to write songs about death and fun things like that, but she tried to encourage what she saw as a way for Frank to get his teenage angst out through music.
She outright thought he was insane when, at 16, he started his first punk band with Ray and a couple of guys from school with dreams of taking on the world.
Hell, Frank thought he was insane himself.
The band didn't last (nor did the two second-hand guitars he wrecked on stage), but his passion did.
Ray and him struck out on their own, and that's when they found Bob and everything sort of clicked into place.
Bob was silent and deadly in his own way, but he played the drums like a banshee. The first time they'd met, Frank had been slightly in awe of the older man, until Bob had clapped him on the back and said, “Hey, let me tell you about the time I almost went blind,” and then told him this slightly unbelievable tale of how he'd snapped a drumstick in half whilst playing and it had flown into his eye and—“Dude, there was like, goo shooting out.”
“Can you still see properly?” Frank had asked, slightly terrified and slightly excited at the prospect of playing in a band with a guy who was obviously certifiable.
Bob had cackled and shook his head. “Sure thing, half pint, just don't let me drive home from gigs at night.”
And that was how the three of them formed Nervous Breakdown, which definitely was not a reference to the Black Flag song as much as it was a complete rip off.
**
They started out playing shitty little clubs as an opening act (and sometimes closing act, when everybody left almost straight after) and anything Bob, with his easy, charming smile, could sway with the local promoters. Frank didn't notice at first when the same faces kept showing up at their shows, until a dark-haired girl in fishnets and something which vaguely passed as a bralet approached them after a show one day.
She had an awesome and very detailed tattoo of a phoenix on her right arm, which was the first thing he noticed, and then she said, in a breathy, excited voice, “HeyI'mabigfancanIgetyourautograph?”
Which was—weird. But he put down the guitar case he was holding, and smiled. “Of course, what do you have?”
At this, she produced two of their demos from her bag and he realised, wide-eyed, people actually liked them. It was a great revelation to him, one that Ray laughed at when he told him later that night. He tried not to show his excitement as he signed everything she offered his way, including a battered stub of a ticket from their first show at the same venue. To be fair, he probably would have signed up to be her loan guarantor, he was that gleeful.
Afterwards, Matt, one of their old friends from the scene, sidled up to her and said, totally not obviously, “Hey, I'm a friend of the band,” and Frank turned away from that with a shake of his head, zeroing in on the six-pack of shitty beer and the crumpled joint that Bob had produced from somewhere in the van.
Later that night, they ended up at Bob's friend's house, which was on the outskirts of town and looked like it had seen better days - potentially the days were before it was even built. But they didn't care, because there was a keg of beer in the garden, and a throng of people drinking and chatting and sharing stories.
Matt had his hands all over the girl from earlier, who turned out to be called Fiona, and she said she could hook them up with some acid if they were into that. Ray seemed to think it was a brilliant idea, but then, he was also six beers into the night. Frank wasn't so sure but when everybody else voiced their approval, he found himself shrugging and saying, “Why not.”
Fiona giggled and said that she'd sort it out, and then she was off in a whirlwind of dark hair and tattoos, and Matt stared after her, eyes blatantly locked to her ass, grinning lazily.
“I think I'm in love,” he said, and Frank shook his head, because he knew that Matt would probably forget her name come the morning.
Fifteen minutes later, a delivery car pulled up. The delivery boy came to the door with a three pepperoni pizzas, balanced precariously high on one hand. He had an expression which said he'd rather be anywhere else, and he was still lanky and acne-spotted, obviously in his early teenage years, and Frank couldn't help but think, was this what the new generation of drug dealers looked like? Fiona took the food wordlessly and then presented Frank with an uncut sheet of acid, as if bestowing him with a great gift.
She told him, in a hushed whisper, that anyone could get acid delivered via pizza if they knew the secret words to say when placing the order. Frank thought that maybe it was something exciting like, “A deep pan for Mr. Magneto but hold the cheese”, or maybe “Vegetarian delight with extra jalapeños and the duck flies at midnight,” but knowing this group of people, in reality it was probably, “Tell Kieran to chuck in some acid as well, thanks bro,” because none of them seemed very imaginative.
“Didn't LSD make that one guy permanently think he was a glass of orange juice?” Bob asked when Ray complained that his whole body felt hot and tight like he'd been strained through a juicer.
“I heard it has strychnine in it, like, the stuff that's in poison?” Frank said, or at least tried to say, but his tongue felt too heavy to move and he was suddenly scared that talking would mean that the words would flee forever and then he'd run out entirely and that terrified him, and that's when he realised he was really, really high.
Apparently nobody cared about the fact that words were trying to escape, because they'd been distracted by Bob's declaration that the thing that linked every human together was that they all had assholes.
“I'm gonna call it the theory of relativity,” declared Bob, looking excited.
Matt lurched over and said, “Dude, that's like, already a thing,” and Bob huffed and muttered something about never trusting bears. Frank wasn't sure about that, but then the walls were melting and he felt like he was swimming through the air, so he crawled over to corner and curled up there.
Somebody tried to talk to him at some point, and he turned and snapped, “Leave me to my ocean,” and then settled happily back into said ocean, where he was a hundred percent sure he could understand what the whales were saying. The jellyfish were dicks, though.
And that was the last time he ever took acid.
**
The first signs of their growing popularity multiplied quickly, until they had a crowd of people – guys and girls alike that ranged from barely able to get into the shows to washed-up past rockers – that would turn up at every show, and then they had their first tour. It was terrifying and miserable, especially since they only had the van to sleep in at night, which was always either freezing cold or boiling hot no matter what, and Frank loved every minute.
Bob's friend, James, hooked them up by making them homemade hammocks in the back of the van, and that was meant to be luxury for a band like them. Frank spent the first few days falling out of them in a flail of limbs every time Bob took a sharp corner. Eventually, he worked out that if he laced his arms through the rope that held them up before he fell asleep, he only swayed violently and didn't actually hit the floor or fall on top of Ray, which was a bonus.
Still, they lived up to what they thought was the deal for a first tour. They smoked too much free pot and drank too much cheap, watery beer and Frank found himself bent in half, vomiting into ditches whilst Ray sloppily patted his back too many times.
When he wasn't off his face, Frank spent most of the tour sick thanks to his shitty immune system, but he played and screamed and sang his heart out every night, and it paid off. The shows they didn't think would even attract some bored locals soon had little red 'SOLD OUT' stickers slapped on top of them.
The night they met Brian was after another exhausting, sweaty show where Frank had thrown himself into the crowd and they'd repaid the favour by ripping his t-shirt to shreds (not like he didn't have any other clean clothes or anything.) The three of them were playing their favourite game of van tetris, where they tried to pack all their equipment into the tiny space whilst leaving enough room to fit them all in as well when a guy – who was as short as Frank, and that was saying something – appeared with a wide smile and a strong handshake.
“Hey,” he said. He was older than most of the crowd that night, but he dressed like he didn't notice, with tattoos up and down his arms and his hair spiked in a carefully messy way. “I'm Brian.”
“Frank,” was all Frank said in reply, turning back to the van and realising he'd put the box of merch in the wrong place and now everything was fucked up.
“I just wanted to say, incredible show tonight. Really,” Brian said smoothly, apparently not put out by Frank's brusqueness.
“Thanks, man,” Frank said, now shooting him a winning smile, because anybody that complimented the band was a good person in his eyes.
“Do you have a manager? Because I've got a load of experience and I'm looking for something new,” Brian said, and when he noticed Frank's slightly nonplussed look in response, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a crisp business card. “Think about it, man. I can get you some better gigs than this.”
And like that he was gone, but the next week, after Frank had discussed it with Ray and Bob, they decided to give him a call. Frank set up a meeting for the day after they were back in Jersey after tour, which turned into three further meetings where Brian enthused about The Vision he had for them (which seemed to involve a lot of Big Promises and Ideas which Frank wasn't sure were possible, but he was happy for Brian to try), and then finally a contract signed after one too many beers in the back of the shitty dive bar they'd been playing only months before.
Brian was a miracle worker though, and it turned out to be the best thing they'd ever done. He knew how to talk, and how to sell, and the next week he landed them a tour supporting a band that had just come back themselves from a massive, sold-out European tour. That tour led to reviews which confidently named Nervous Breakdown the 'next big thing.' Frank kinda wished the reviewers could also tell his landlord that as he demanded the next six month's rent up front "for security."
But then, suddenly, label scouts were on the prowl at their shows, looking like sharks with their wide, white grins and careful words of praise. There were indie labels and the big guns, all bumping elbows together in the crowds, and Brian was carefully fending them off with promises of meetings which never came to fruition. Frank didn't understand why, but Brian assured him that they were playing the long game.
Eventually, it worked, because then there was a representative from Paralyze at one of their shows, and that was the best alternative label in the East Coast. A whirlwind of meetings and promises followed, and then they found themselves back in the same shitty dive bar as before, but now they were signing a contract which had words like 'royalties' and 'marketing budget' written out in black and white.
They celebrated that night by getting absolutely shitfaced at Matt's flat. Honestly – calling it a flat was probably a step too far. It was only one room, and Matt didn't actually own a bed, only a mattress pushed in the corner, but there was plenty of beer from well-wishing friends, so Frank was happy.
Frank was hazy drunk and starfished on the mattress when somebody whose name he didn't know produced a little baggie of white powder.
Matt elbowed him in the side and went, “Come on, rockstar,” so he did a line because that seemed to be what everyone expected. He didn't really like it. He could taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and awful, and even another couple of swigs of beer didn't help wash it away, but soon he forgot that because his face was numb and he couldn't stop giggling and gripping people's faces and telling them how happy he was, his words all slurred together.
That was the first of many similar parties, except the warm faces of his childhood friends were replaced by a quickly rotating group of new people as the band toured worldwide as a support band for various other acts signed to their label, and then they went on their first major headline tour.
Half the time, Frank didn't actually know who the hangers on were, but they made it their job to befriend him in hope of getting in one some of the exciting life of a stardom, and he didn't have the heart to tell them that it was mostly getting drunk after shows and then sleeping it off in turns as they drove seven hours to the next venue because whoever was planning the tours and setting out the route couldn't read a fucking map or something.
There were those who called them sell outs, and part of Frank agreed with them, but then the monthly checks started rolling in and he was living The Dream, and maybe that was worth giving up some of his morality.
It was around then he met Travis, who was the type of guy who managed to never grow up. He was in his late twenties at this point, but he also still had his pot dreadlocks, and he still – when he was home, which was rare – lived with his parents. Despite this, Travis was cool and he knew everybody and he could hook you up with anything. They hadn't dare to test this any more after the time Ray had asked, almost as a dare, about the grossest pornography Travis could find, and he'd returned with a film that nobody had been able to watch the whole way through.
Travis blagged his way onto their tour somehow, and then, when they realised how useful he was, they kept him on with a vague title of 'Executive Coordinator', which he wore with pride. Literally – he had a badge made up with it on, which he pinned to his jacket and seemingly forgot about.
But Travis was the one who introduced him to the world of proper partying. Sure, Frank was no stranger to the idea of getting absolutely shitfaced occasionally, and he'd made his share of bad decisions, but Travis was an expert at it. He'd smooth talk anybody he needed to, and soon they found themselves spending every night at random parties, some of which were nothing more than glorified house parties, some of which were held in expensive suites in five star hotels which invariably ended up completely trashed by the end of night.
Ray would join them at first, and sometimes Bob would make an appearance, but slowly they began to excuse themselves half way through the night, and then they didn't even bother to show up at all. It was just Frank and Travis then.
**
The first time he tried oxy, it was when he'd thrown himself around the stage a bit too violently, and he'd ended up twisting his ankle, and that night he was limping and bitching to anybody who would listen, which wasn't many. Ray made sympathetic noises and his hair made sympathetic movements. Brian ignored him in favour of something he was writing on his laptop, which was about normal. He couldn't even find Bob.
Travis seemed to have the least patience, because when Frank tried to whine to him about how much it hurt, he rolled his eyes and produced a blister pack of pills from his jacket pocket.
“Shut the fuck up and take a few of these,” he said, and that was that. Frank took two because – well, he was in pain, and it hated being in pain, and they had another show to play the next day so anything which meant he could get some relief was good in his eyes.
He hadn't expected the buzz he got off of it though. It was weird, because it felt like his edges were blurring, and his toes and fingers were buzzing and he could feel his heartbeat in his eyes. But the pain in his leg was certainly gone. To be fair, at one point he was lying in his bunk and he felt like he was floating several inches off the bed, so he wasn't even sure if he still had legs, but he was totally fine with that.
Oxys soon became his substance of choice, because they were cheap and quick and Travis seemed to have a never-ending supply. He soon learned that the smart kids crushed them up and snorted them, because it gave an amazing headrush that was ten times better than the slow-release of swallowing it.
He never let anybody else in the band see him taking them. It was a dirty secret. But he knew they knew he was doing something most nights – they just didn't know what or how bad it had gotten. Some days he even found himself craving a hit before he even got near the stage. Towards the end of the tour, Ray didn't even try to hide his contempt when Frank would crawl into whatever hotel room they'd rented at 7am, eyes bloodshot, nose running and a manic grin firmly in place, even when roll out was only a few hours away.
Brian was pissed when he missed a TV interview because of it, but Brian was also magic, so he managed to soothe the irritated TV executives and rearrange it. Frank wasn't surprised. Brian was the sort of person who would keep a calm head during the zombie apocalypse, and would be annoyed that everyone else was freaking the fuck out when zombies were chewing on their grandmother.
Frank was partly sure that Brian was his guardian angel, even if he was one who yelled and swore and once – when Frank was being particularly hard to deal with and rather belligerently high – clocked him around the face.
(He went around with two black eyes for a week, making up increasingly bizarre explanations when anybody asked him about it. “So, like, the mob has a hit out on me,” he told one fascinated hanger-on.)
But despite it all, Brian had his back, and he picked up the pieces and calmed every situation down, even situations where it was Frank and Bob and Ray screaming at each other after a show, because of something Frank had done or said. Even when it was the latest girl or guy's heart he'd broken crying in Brian's very unimpressed arms.
Which was why, when his guardian angel slash manager called him at 3am on the last day of their latest tour, he picked up immediately.
“Frank,” Brian said, and his voice was thin and he sounded even more stressed than usual, and Frank could perfectly picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he always seemed to do when around him. “Bad news.”
“Worse than the Georgia incident?”
Brian drew a sharp breath in between his teeth, probably because none of them ever mentioned the Georgia incident any more, and then he said, “The label is going to kick you out.”
“What?” Frank said, maintaining an air of confusion even though he'd been expecting something like this for a while now.
“You know I'm fighting your corner,” Brian said, and he did sound genuine, but Frank still wanted to punch him a little bit. “You've got one last chance. Sort your shit out.”
**
Brian turned up in his hotel room the next day, at the godawful time of 8am, and he kicked Travis and the half-naked guy that Frank had decided to make his conquest of the night out with a viciousness normally only reserved for fans which got a bit too handsy.
“I've booked you travel,” he said, as he yanked Frank bodily out of bed, completely ignoring the fact that he was about as dressed as a newborn baby. “You're going on a break.”
“What the fuck is your deal?” Frank asked, as he was frogmarched to the bathroom by his irate manager, but he knew better than to fight back.
“You're taking a three month break,” Brian said firmly. “I've hooked you up with a place to stay. Don't cause any shit. Don't get your face in any magazines. Keep your head down. And maybe, just maybe, you'll still have a career when you're done.”
“Fuck you,” he hissed back, but Brian just smiled patiently and made him hand over the dregs of coke that Travis had left behind and the last of his pills, and then made him watch as he flushed it down the hotel toilet.
“You'll thank me later,” was all he said.
Frank thought that was unlikely, but he didn't say that, he just sullenly stared at the floor as Brian packed his things up. He didn't miss how meticulously Brian unfolded everything, checking pockets and lining for anything illicit, before putting them into his bag.
The room was completely silent as this happened. Frank checked his phone, noting he had three missed calls from his mother early that morning. That was odd, because she never called these days.
All was explained when Brian passed him a white envelope. “Here's your plane tickets. I've called your mum. She knows.”
“Fuck.”
**
He was hungover and miserable and shaky on the plane which took him back home to New Jersey, and even more miserable when there was no driver waiting for him as usual, and he had to take a cab back to his mother's house.
It didn't look better now than it did the last time he was there, which was – he inhaled sharply when he realised it had been over two years since he'd been home. There had been invites, of course, at first phonecalls from his mother which were cheerful and happy as she told him, “You must come home for your birthday, Frankie, I've been working on the best vegan roast you'll ever eat and everyone is so excited to see you,” and then – slowly, as he missed every important date – slightly forced and cold.
“Maybe you can come for Thanksgiving.” He'd been in Germany, about to run on stage, and he said that he'd call her back.
“Your dad is worried. We're all worried. I'm proud of you, Frankie, but this isn't you. Are you coming home for Christmas?” That had been a voicemail, which he'd heard when he was high and slightly truculent at the fact his mother was still trying to guilt him, and he'd left an equally snappy voicemail back saying that he had prior commitments but that he'd send their presents in the mail.
He hadn't got a reply to that, and her calls had slowly switched from almost daily to once a week, and then only once a month. At first, he'd been angry that she had given up so easily, but then he decided it wasn't even worth being angry over, and he sat through each slightly more resigned call with all the enthusiasm of a petulant teenager. “Yes, mom, I'm eating well. I'm fine,” he'd say, already downing his second beer of the day at 11am. “I'm looking after myself.”
When he knocked on the door, his mother appeared in the doorway, and she had a forced smile on her face which said everything he needed to know.
“Frankie,” she said, softly, as if he was a skittish animal that was likely to freak out at loud noises and flee.
“Mom,” he replied.
She breathed out a long sigh, and then she was pushing forward and pulling him into a hug which he didn't fight. She smelled like cheap wine and the ever present flowery perfume he remembered from when she'd hug him when he was a child, and when he pulled back and looked into her eyes, he noticed there was dark purple rings underneath which stood out like bruises in her pale face. He wondered how much of that he was to blame for.
“Brian called and told me you've been having problems,” she explained as she led him into the sitting room, which was still the exact same as he remembered. There was the overstuffed couch where he'd been sitting when he first met Ray, and the crappy old TV he'd first learned to love watching overly gory 80s horror movies on. He wondered, briefly, if she'd kept his room exactly as he'd left it.
It felt weird to be standing in the same room that held so many memories and yet felt so alien now.
When he'd first starting making significant pay checks, he'd offered to send her money, maybe buy her a nicer place, and she'd laughed him off with an airy, “Oh, but it's my home, love,” and that's the last they'd ever spoken of that.
“Coffee?” she asked as she motioned for him to take a seat. He nodded as he did, pretending not to notice when she casually picked up the empty prescription bottles from the coffee table as she left.
She returned with a coffee for him and a glass of wine for herself even though it was barely midday, and then she took a seat next to him. “Oh, I was so worried about you,” and that was all he needed to feel like the shittiest person ever. He stared down at his shoes, figuring that if he looked up he was likely either to break down or freak out, and neither of those felt like good options.
“I'm glad you're home,” she said finally, when the silence had stretched on too long not to be awkward.
“Home,” he repeated, glancing around. “Yeah.”
**
His mom explained later that there were quite a few people that had wanted to see him again, and that Mikey had arranged a small get together that night. When she said Mikey's name, he wondered briefly if he was still the slightly chubby, awkward guy he'd met back when he was the only reliable source of bootleg copies of his favourite bands and demos from local bands.
“You don't have to go if you don't want to,” she said, and then looked sideways at him, as if she was worried that he was going to splinter like fine china.
He was sick of people giving him that look. He'd had it enough times from Ray, Bob and Brian, so instead he stood up and decided to change the subject. “I'll be fine. Can I take a nap? I'm exhausted.”
She nodded mutely and then she gathered up his empty cup. “You know where your room is, I'm sure,” she said lightly as she left, but Frank hear the sharpness in her voice. You should know, even though you haven't been to visit since you became a big rockstar, her voice repeated in his head, even though he knew she'd never say anything like that.
He was woken up a few hours later with a call from Brian, who wanted to know that he'd got back safe, and that he hadn't done anything stupid yet – “Fuck off, I'm not a child” – and also to tell him that the place he'd hooked him up with to stay, because even Brian knew that throwing Frank back into a house with his mother was a recipe for arson (from who was the question), was with none other than Mikey himself.
“I'm pretty sure that I can afford to get my own place,” Frank said sort of hotly when Brian told him this, and there was a long pause on the other line.
“You can,” Brian said. “But I don't want you too.”
“Oh,” Frank said, because oh. “So, Mikey is like, my babysitter then?”
“Until you don't need one, yes.”
“I hope he's getting paid well for this duty.”
Brian assured him that Mikey had a good head on his shoulders. Apparently, he was working for their label now, and the label was footing the cost for his new apartment whilst Frank stayed, because it seemed Mikey had them wrapped around his pinky. Frank was slightly impressed.
Brian rattled off an address, and then said, “Look after yourself,” before he hung up.
Frank didn't have Mikey's number anymore, but he knew that his mother would, so he went and asked her and she gave him a look before writing it down, and then he texted Mikey saying, 'Hey, it's Frank. You ok? What's going on tonight?'
He got a reply only a few minutes later. 'Be here for six. Ppl want to see you.'
Of course, he was never on time, but he made an effort this time, for once. He dressed in his favourite worn-out Black Flag t-shirt, and then he kissed his mother on the cheek as he headed out, ignoring the fact that she startled back as if he'd stabbed her instead.
He was there by half six, and the apartment was alive with people. People he hadn't seen in years. People he was pretty sure he'd gone to school with, or that he'd toured with, back in the van days, but who looked so different and grown-up now. It felt like it had been decades since he'd seen some of them, not only years.
Mikey, it turned out, had changed. A hell of a lot. He'd shed his puppy weight, and now he was tall and lean, and he had a serious face but his eyes were bright and their seemed to express everything that he needed to, and he was dressed in a too-tight t-shirt and skinny jeans which suited him in a strange way.
“Jesus Christ,” Frank said, when he realised that it was indeed the guy he'd known back in the day. “When did you get hot? You were such an awkward squirt when I saw you last.”
“When did you turn into a such a pissy little diva?” Mikey replied, and then gave him a serious look over the top of his designer glasses.
They managed to keep the moment for a whole two seconds before Mikey cracked, and then they were both laughing as Mikey gave him a one-armed hug. “It's good to see you, squirt.”
“Likewise, asshole,” Frank said as Mikey took a hold of his arm and started to take him around the crowds of people, introducing him to people he vaguely remembered the faces of, and steering him through the awkward small talk, which he was thankful for.
Everybody was very earnest and very attentive and very careful in what they said, and he noticed Mikey's eyes on him when he went to get a drink, and he raised his diet coke in his direction as a distinct 'fuck you' in response, but he was secretly a little bit happy that nobody was treating him like he was an absolute dickwad, even though he was.
Even Matt was there, although now he was firmly attached at the hip to a leggy blonde with tattoos up and down her arms, and Frank even restrained himself from flirting with her because they did look rather cute together.
When Frank approached, Matt grinned proudly and motioned at his companion. “This is my fiancée, Fiona,” and that's when Frank choked on his drink.
“Fiona?” Frank said, slightly startled, because the last time he'd seen Fiona she was been dark-haired and awkward and a little bit unsure, but now he glanced at her upper arm and saw the tattoo of the phoenix inked there he'd noticed the first time he met her, still fiercely bright.
“It's been a while,” she said, wide smile breaking out on her pretty face. “Do you still speak to whales?”
“I'm never living that down,” Frank moaned slightly, which was totally unfair, because Ray had also freaked out and screamed that rats were trying to crawl into his ears and eat his cochlea, but nobody ever brought that up.
“I told you I was in love,” Matt said happily, as he kissed her on the cheek, and Frank decided that he didn't really like this version of his old friend. Then again, he didn't like in love versions of anyone. They were the worst kind of people.
“Congratulations,” he forced out, deciding that he needed to remove himself from this situation quickly before he puked. All over them both. He made his polite excuses and then made his way through the crowd, fending off other interested people with quick smiles and, “Sorry, I just need to bathroom”, if they didn't get the hint.
He made his way through to a hallway he was pretty sure led to the bathroom, musing that the apartment was way bigger than any one guy needed – no wonder Brian had managed to convince Mikey to let him stay.
He found the bathroom, and stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him and feeling very melodramatic. It was a lot to take in. His hands were shaking. He'd never spent this long without something to take the edge off of socialising, which was never his favourite past-time when he was sober.
He'd kill for an oxy right then.
Instead, he leant his elbows on the sink and stared at his face in the mirror, noting that he had dark circles around his eyes which reminded him starkly of his mother's face when he'd seen her earlier.
His hair was too long again – he'd forgotten to get it cut – but aside from his slightly bedraggled appearance, he didn't look like he was having an existential crisis, so he gave himself some credit for that.
He splashed some water on his face and took some deep, calming breaths and then tried a few smiles in the mirror. Only the first was shaky. By his third attempt, he looked exactly as he normally did when he was trying to charm whoever it was that was the latest recipient of his affections.
That'll do, pig, he told himself as he made his way out of the bathroom. He almost didn't notice the door opening further down the hall, but then there was a thud and new voice said, “Shitting fuck.”
“You okay?” he asked as he approached, and realised that whoever it was had tripped and also dropped an armful of papers all over the hallway floor.
“I – ah – yes,” said the new person from the floor, and then they looked up and Frank immediately thought, oh, hey, because it was a guy and he was very pretty. He had very wide, very hazel eyes which only locked on his own for a brief second before he looked away, and Frank immediately crouched down and started to gather up the papers, ignoring the guy's feeble protests.
“Here you go,” he said, offering back several of the fallen papers, which appeared to be half-finished drawings. When he reached out for them, Frank made sure to brush his fingers against his hand, and apparently that warranted the guy snatching his hand back as if he'd been burned.
“Thanks,” he muttered to the floor more than Frank, as he stood up. He was wearing a hoodie and a thick scarf and Frank didn't really have time to think about how weird it was to wear that indoors before the guy was shuffling back into the room he'd just come out of.
“Hey, uh, aren't you going to join the rest?” Frank asked as a last ditch attempt, and then the guy turned back and gave him a sort of scandalised look, as if he'd suggested that he chop off a limb or two instead.
“I'm okay,” he said, and then the door closed in Frank's face, and he thought about how very strange and weirdly intriguing it was as he went to find Mikey again.
“Dude,” he said, pulled Mikey away from the slightly stilted conversation he'd been having with somebody with a very bright, enthusiastic smile and hair straight out of 2005. He even had smudged eyeliner under his eyes.
“Oh thank god,” Mikey said, “That dude, Pete, is in one of these shitty garage bands, and I think he was this close to kidnapping me and making me listen to his demo at gun point.” He held up a finger and thumb almost touching as if to emphasise his point, but Frank paid him no mind.
“Whose that weird guy?” he asked.
“Which weird one?” Mikey replied, which was a fair enough response because there did seem to be an abnormally high amount of weird people around.
Frank sort of gestured abstractly, not quite sure how to relay the slightly antsy yet pretty guy to Mikey, and then settled for, “I dunno, he's kind of got, like, a Wednesday Addams vibe? But crossed with a startled rabbit and maybe a bit of potential serial killer.” He titled his head to the side. “Kind of pretty, though.”
“Oh,” Mikey said. Then, as if for emphasis, “Oh.”
“What?” He was feeling pretty defensive at Mikey's reaction, but then Mikey crackled a smile.
“You probably met my older brother, Gerard,” he explained, as then Frank's stomach dropped, because he didn't normally go around telling people their brothers were pretty in a “startled rabbit crossed with a serial killer” kind of way.
Mikey seemed to realise this too, because he shook his head. “Don't you dare.”
Frank just grinned his normal shit-eating grin and pointed at himself. “Me? Never.”
Mikey just eyed him warily over his glasses, as if he had psychic powers and could read Frank's mind and knew that he was planning on ways to lure his older brother out of his dark cave and into the real world and maybe into his bed too.
“I don't want to know,” he said finally with a sigh.
**
To Frank's credit, he left it exactly two hours and forty minutes before putting his plan into action. When he noticed that Mikey was entirely involved with a conversation with Fiona and the odd guy named Pete, he slunk over to the drinks table, grabbed two glasses of coke and a bottle of vodka and then he made his way back to the door that had firmly been shut in his face before.
He wasn't quite sure why he was so determined to get Mikey's hermit brother to talk to him, but partly he knew it was because he didn't like getting turned down – he was Frank fucking Iero, after all – and he was stubborn.
Besides, he was really doing Mikey a favour by being nice to his brother, because then they could all play happy families in the flat together and pretend that Frank wasn't just there because he was a fucked-up rockstar addict that apparently needed babysitting.
He knocked twice before the door cracked open and Gerard warily eyed him through the inch of space he'd allowed.
“Want to drink vodka with me and hide from everybody else?” Frank asked, holding up the vodka bottle as if to demonstrate that he was being serious and it wasn't just a plan to get the poor guy alone. Which, you know, it was, but he didn't need to know that.
“I don't drink,” Gerard said, which was a bit of a downer, but Frank never let a small issue like sobriety stop him.
“Oh,” he said, brightly. “Neither do I.”
“What?”
He swiftly dropped the vodka bottle on the floor behind him. “So you wanna drink coke with me and hide from everybody else?”
Gerard seemed to a relax a bit now that Frank had dropped the vodka bottle, and he even relented and opened the door fully, and that's when Frank saw he was still wearing the scarf and hoodie but now he could see he was also wearing Star Wars pyjama bottoms.
He always did know how to pick the strange ones.
They stared at each other for a few moments; Gerard, still warily, and Frank, brightly, until Gerard nodded slightly and stepped aside.
“Did Mikey put you up to this?” he asked as Frank stepped inside the dimly lit room. It was spacious but looked like somebody had taken a thousand and one projects and hobbies and interests, chucked them inside and then shaken up the whole thing like an unsettling cocktail.
Frank was slightly distracted by the almost life-size drawing of Jean Grey on one wall, remembering when he'd been a horny preteen and she'd been the very first subject of his slightly shameful lust. Times had been simpler back then. He turned back to Gerard with what he was hoped was a slightly relaxing smile. Gerard still looked like a deer that was about to bolt. “No. I just got bored of being nice to people I don't know. It's weird.”
“I get that,” Gerard said vaguely, and he didn't even seem perturbed when Frank started to flick through one of the comic books on his desk, although he did dart his gaze quickly between Frank and the door, as if wondering if he could make a break for it.
“Cool,” Frank said, putting it back down and turning to look at him. “I love Doom Patrol.”
Gerard was still giving him that wide-eyed, startled look, and Frank huffed out a laugh. “Dude, relax. You look like a scared hamster.”
Gerard titled his head to the side, his dark hair swaying slightly with the movement, and then he wiggled a hand. “Did you know that hamsters can only blink one eye at a time?”
Which was not quite what Frank expected, but to his credit, he didn't let his surprise show on his face. “Really?”
Gerard nodded earnestly, and Frank noticed that he had lips which he decided would be very nice to kiss, if he could get past the whole, terrified of other people vibe he seemed to have going on.
“Dwarf hamsters also mate for life,” he continued, and Frank wondered briefly if this was a normal first meeting conversation for him.
“Wow.”
“So do swans,” he said. “And they can be gay.”
**
It took a while, but slowly Gerard relaxed, as if he was finally realising that Frank probably wasn't a serial murderer or anything. Frank dutifully recited memories of his times with Mikey, back when they were nothing but kids who thought the whole world was against them, and this seemed to help. Sure, Gerard still barely made eye contact, but it was a start.
Gerard offered up non-committal comments, but the conversation was sorely lacking in further animal facts, which was kind of sad because Frank wanted to know what other animals could be gay. He decided it was probably parrots, just because they were fabulous, but he didn't really want to ask Gerard that in case he decided that Frank was too strange even for him, so he erred on the side of caution, and instead told him about the first tour his band had ever been on, the one where he was still innocent and earnest and excited about it.
It had felt like a good idea before he started to tell it, but then it started to hurt to think about, and instead he trailed off and started to talk about more light-hearted things, like awkward tour encounters he'd had with other bands and famous people.
It was nice, Frank decided, to be in the company of someone who so obviously did not want anything from him. It was relaxing and cathartic because there was no condemnation there, no thinly-veiled barbs about his life choices. Just quiet interest, even if Gerard had also curled up on his bed with a sketchbook and was working on something at the same time. It seemed to help him, to concentrate on that as well, so Frank couldn't hold it against him.
Besides, he looked cute with a slightly furrowed brow as he concentrated, and Frank decided that he very much needed a drink now he was thinking such ridiculous thoughts about his new flatmate's brother.
Eventually, Mikey came and found him, and gave them both looks over the top of his glasses, but he said nothing, just told Frank that people wanted to talk to him.
He left only slightly reluctantly, and followed Mikey back to the party.
**
Brian called him the next day. It was the crack of dawn and Frank was not impressed when his phone started blaring out a tinny rendition of the Imperial Death March, his personalised ring tone for his manager, and he briefly considered if it would be worth the chewing out he'd get it if just threw his phone. At the wall. Hard.
Instead, he groaned and blindly groped for the phone, and pulled it up to his ear and mumbled something which probably passed for a hello.
“Frank,” said Brian, and he sounded wary and also concerned. “You're not hungover, are you?”
“Like fuck I am,” Frank said, because fuck him, seriously. He glanced at the clock on the phone quickly, and groaned some more. “It's not even fucking 7am, what the fuck.”
“I enjoy making you suffer,” Brian said blithely, and that felt like it wasn't even far from the truth. “Just calling to let you know that you've got a telephone interview with Rolling Stone at 11am. Don't fuck it up. Any questions?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “When do I get to stir up the masses and overthrow this totalitarian regime?”
“I've pencilled that in for next week,” Brian said before he hung up with a sharp click.
Frank briefly considered going back to sleep, because his head was pounding and his eyes were heavy, but when he tried to curl up under the covers again he felt sweaty and his limbs hurt and his blood was buzzing, like somebody had filled his veins with carbonated water instead.
The bed was too big and too soft and too new to him too. He knew that the spare room hadn't had anybody in it yet, so it was still weirdly new and smelt like fresh paint, and that was probably one of the reasons he was so on edge as well.
He pulled himself reluctantly from the bed and threw on a t-shirt so he was at least half-presentable in case he ran into Mikey, and then stumbled blindly to the kitchen in search of a caffeine fix. If he couldn't have his normal shot of vodka, then coffee would have to do. Pity he couldn't mix the two.
He was sipping from his coffee and feeling slightly better when he realised, to his surprise, he wasn't actually alone.
Gerard was looking at him from the couch, and the TV was on, a soft buzz in the background.
“Hey,” he said, because what else was he meant to say when his new flatmate was giving him strange looks at 7am.
“Hi,” Gerard said, because apparently he felt the same way. He broke his gaze away, looked back at his lap, and then motioned towards the TV. “I was just – I couldn't sleep.”
Frank finally paid attention to it then, and smiled when he realised it was a rerun of CSI playing. “Sweet,” he said, walking over to lean on the back of the couch. “Was the body all mutilated?”
“Yes,” Gerard replied, and he actually sounded excited, because of course. “All fucked up.”
Frank nodded his approval, taking another sip of his scalding hot coffee. “The best episodes are like that,” he said. “What do you think, jealous ex-lover, or overlooked sibling?”
“Double-crossed business partner,” Gerard said firmly, and that was probably the first time Frank had heard him sound firm. He smiled at it, but made sure to hold his mug just high enough he could disguise it.
After an awkward pause, Gerard said, sort of hesitantly, which was his normal tone of voice to be fair, “Want to watch the rest with me?”
“Sure,” he said. It wasn't like he was going back to sleep any time soon, anyway. He walked around and flopped down on the couch after Gerard had scooted slightly backwards to give him room, tucking his legs under his body.
They ended up watching all four episodes that were airing, one after another, and slowly Gerard seemed to loosen up. He'd been sat crammed up against the edge of the sofa at first, but by the second episode he was leaning further into Frank's space, and by the end he had a foot jammed up against Frank's hipbone – the other trailing on the floor – and when he talked, he used his hands to make wide, sweeping motions which were weird and kind of cute.
They'd got into a debate over the methodology of criminal investigators – “I'm just saying, you can't just zoom and enhance in real life, you know?” – when Frank realised that he had the interview and he had to prepare himself, and he sort of launched himself awkwardly to his feet. “Shit, man, Rolling Stone are gonna call me in like,” he glanced at the owl clock which hung above the TV, “half an hour, what the fuck.”
“The life of a rockstar,” Gerard mused, and it was the first time he'd acknowledged anything about this fact of Frank's life, even though he'd told him all the awkward stories yesterday anyway.
Frank sort of paused, and then smiled, briefly. “I think I'm a retired one,” he said as he headed back to his room, already trying to mentally prepare himself for the barrage of questions he knew was coming.
**
The interview didn't start out bad, although the guy on the other end of the phone sounded young and he stammered a bit and he was obviously inexperienced. Frank couldn't remember his name. Something beginning with S.
Frank wondered when Rolling Stone had decided to start sending their summer interns to interview him.
Maybe after the last time he'd had an interview with them, when he'd ended up throwing the journalist and the camera man off the bus because she'd pried one too many times into his romantic life. Apparently, a terse “No comment” had not been enough gossip for her.
To be fair, it had been two hours walk to the next gas station, but that wasn't Frank's fault, and besides, they had cell phones, they could call for a lift. Probably.
“So, um, how would you say, your new album has been – um – influenced by your latest exploits?”
“Only a little bit,” he replied smoothly, fighting the urge to roll his eyes even though he knew that the guy couldn't see him. Sean, Sam, whatever his name was. He tried to act polite even if he felt like his patience was being tested. “We all write together, as a team, and we all bring something to the table.”
“So you wouldn't say – ah – that you've been on a downward spiral at all?”
He huffed a quick sigh of exasperation. “No comment,” he said, because that's what Brian had drilled into his over and over again in their emergency meetings after Frank had pissed off yet another magazine with his heated replies. Sometime he wondered why he was allowed to do interviews alone, but he also knew deep down that Brian wanted to trust him, wanted him to have his independence, and this was a little way of him showing it.
“How about the rumours you're currently in rehab? Is that true?”
“No,” he snapped a little too quickly, and then he kicked himself, because that was probably exactly what Shaun/Simon/Sean wanted. “I'm on a break to visit family.”
“Oh I see,” said the guy, “So, it's not true that you've suffered – uh, a nervous breakdown, as such?”
“No.”
“And how do you feel about Rox Steffand's comments that you're “just another punk junkie” during her latest interview?”
Frank hung up on him, and then he called Brian, and hissed, “I am never doing an interview with them again,” and then he hung up on him as well, which wasn't half as satisfying as slamming the phone down would have been. So he kicked the bedroom wall.
“Hey now,” said Mikey mildly from the doorway. “Please don't hurt the walls. They've done nothing wrong.”
And then Frank felt like an asshole, and he couldn't even explain it, so he gestured at his phone instead. “Fucking journalists.”
That seemed to be enough for Mikey though, because he smiled his mysterious half-smile and nodded. “Come on, you look like a man that needs pancakes.”
**
Mikey knew a kickass diner which also catered to Frank's weird lactose-intolerance as well (seriously – fuck his screwed up genes, he had the immune system of a blueberry muffin and he couldn't even eat normal muffins), and they gorged themselves on the special pancakes and had their coffees refilled fifty million times under the watchful eye of the pretty waitress.
Finally, Mikey ordered himself a double fudge chocolate milkshake, and Frank briefly wondered how the hell the boy stayed so thin, and then he said, chocolate smudged around his mouth, “So, what are your intentions with my brother?” like they were in some terrible cliché romance novel, the ones that Frank's mom liked to read, and he was guarding a lady's honour.
Frank wished that Mikey wasn't giving him the look which half-said, I don't want to be here any more than you having this conversation, and half-said, if you hurt anybody close to me I will slice you into tiny little slivers and feed you to a pig. Which was a pretty impressive amount to convey for a look, but Mikey had expressive eyes apparently.
“Uh,” Frank said eloquently, because even he was perturbed by the slightly threatening look. “I think he's pretty, but I respect the boundaries of our friendship and I will not cross them unless you give me explicit permission, and also I'm a good person that wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was like, buzzing around my head and trying to get in my mouth.”
And Mikey nodded and went, “Good,” before going back to his milkshake like nothing had ever happened.
It was only outside when they were chain-smoking whilst leant against the cool brick that Mikey said, conversationally, “It's not that I'm saying you can't, you know,” and he did a broad gesture which could mean anything from chat casually about Doom Patrol to have a five man orgy, but Frank didn't want to think about that. “It's just, you're kind of fucked up right now, and he's always been a bit fucked up, and I just don't want you to hurt each other.”
Frank appreciated the honesty, even if he inhaled a little bit too quickly and ended up choking embarrassingly on his cigarette. “Nah man, it's cool,” he said after he'd hacked half his lungs up on the pavement. It really was a wonder that he'd managed to create a career out of singing when he really did not treat his lungs right.
“Cool.”
**
The next few days were an awkward blur of trying to fit into a new routine which didn't involve staying up until 4am, off his face and not able to remember the last few hours. He mostly found himself sleeping a lot, because apparently years of not sleeping properly were catching up to him, and he was now the kind of old man that slept in until at least noon. He felt a bit like he had the flu, his body hot-cold and achy all over. It wasn't a particularly glorious way to be.
The sleeping didn't seem to be just him, though. Mikey had managed to get himself a few days off when he didn't have to go into the label's offices, so he mostly stayed up late listening to new talent or going out to see them in person and then didn't emerge into past 1pm, looking mildly worse for wear and only communicating in grunts until he had a mug of coffee in his hand.
And Gerard, well, the only time Frank saw him properly was the one day when he'd apparently had a fit of inspiration and started sketching and lost track of time, and then blinked sleepily at him when Frank wandered into the lounge.
When that happened, Gerard had jolted up and started to gather up his things but then he stopped and let Frank look at what he'd been working on and make appreciative noises until he finally ran off, apparently exhausted by social interaction for the time being.
Frank tried not to be a little bit insulted that being around him was that mentally draining. He could understand it, really. Sometimes, being around people was like driving knives into his eyes, and it hurt his brain to concentrate on words, and he mostly just wanted to curl up under his covers until everybody and everything left him alone.
But he didn't tell anybody that.
He just smiled and waved away their concerns, and when Brian called every morning to check up on him, he didn't tell him about the nights when he'd found himself sweating and panting in bed, or the nights where he found himself hugging a toilet bowl, sure he was about to vomit his guts up again.
Going cold turkey wasn't fun.
He was doing well at hiding it until the fourth night he awoke in a sweaty, gasping mess, and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, and he decided that he was so, so done with this body.
And then he heard a tentative knock at the door, and a quiet, familiar voice said, “Frank? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” he called back, because what the fuck else was he meant to say? He was having nightsweats and terrors and his heart felt like it was going to burst because he hadn't drunk any alcohol or done any oxy this week? That made sense.
“You don't sound okay,” Gerard said through his door. “Can I come in?”
So he said yes, because what else could he really say, and Gerard slipped into the half-light of his bedroom and crept over to his bed, and sat down on the edge sort of hesitantly, which was funny considering he was the one that had come knocking. He stayed silent for a while, but then he reached out and ran his thumb over one of Frank's hands, which were clenched tightly around the bedsheets, and he said, “I could hear you making these little pained groans when I was going to the bathroom.”
Frank tried to laugh, tried to make his usual filthy remarks but the joke just died on his lips, because Gerard was giving him his big earnest eyes that he was so good at.
“I know how it feels,” Gerard continued finally, after the silence was almost awkward, and Frank wanted to tell him that he didn't have to say or do this, but he also didn't want to interrupt, so he just stayed silent and stared somewhere off above Gerard's shoulder. “I assume Mikey's said something?”
“No,” Frank said, because technically, he hadn't. He'd just said his brother was a little fucked up, and weren't they all really?
“Well,” Gerard sighed, and his thumb was still tracing an invisible pattern on the back of Frank's hand and it was strangely soothing. “I've been there. You can talk to me, you know.”
“I don't need to talk,” Frank said.
He regretted it as soon as he said it, but Gerard just nodded and stood up. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
And then he left, closing the door softly behind him.
**
After that night, his sleep was still restless, and he still found himself sweaty and angry and hurting all over some nights, but at first it seemed like the worst of it was passing. He was grateful, because his fingers itched and he was so, so close to breaking down and trying to score a few oxys just to take the edge off things.
But then a few days later he woke up and it felt like his stomach was being ripped in two by angry dragons, and somebody had broken into his room in the night and slipped hot pokers between his ribs, and even breathing hurt which wasn't fair because he could hold very still to try and not aggravate the pain in his stomach or his ribs but it wasn't like he could choose not to breathe.
Frank wasn't afraid of his emotions. He really wasn't. He'd laugh at stupid jokes and he'd cry at cute, cheesy romance movies that he often tried to make Bob watch just because it was funny to see the gruff man try and not smile at the happy endings. He was enthusiastic in his affection, never afraid to hug and kiss people on the cheek and tell those that he was close to that he loved them, which was ten times more often when he'd had a few pills to ease his mind.
But when he found himself crying in his dark room, and he could hear his shaky breathing echoing off the empty walls, he felt pathetic.
He muffled most of the sound in one of the pillows which he pressed against his face and he tried to stay very still and not think about how much this fucking sucked, and he was succeeding until he felt his stomach rolling and knew that familiar nausea was making an unwelcome comeback like a washed-up pop star.
He found the energy to pull himself to his feet and stumble blindly to the bathroom, just in time because he didn't even get a chance to shut the door behind him before he was throwing up his dinner into the toilet.
He kept heaving and he could feel his throat burning and he was still fucking sobbing and it was probably the worst he'd ever felt for a long time, and he definitely didn't want anybody to see him like this.
But of course, the universe had a grudge against him now, apparently, because the next thing he knew, soft hands were pulling his hair back away from his face and a familiar voice was asking if he was okay, and he all he could manage were a few unintelligible croaks before he was back to gagging.
The hands disappeared for a minute and he tried not to feel disappointed, but then, “Here,” Gerard murmured, pressing a cool glass of water into Frank's shaky hands. Frank was partly happy that he had an excuse to stare into the glass rather than meet his eyes, and as he sipped obediently at the water the coolness soothed his throat slightly, so he was grateful.
“I didn't realise it was this bad,” Gerard said, as he folded himself down next to Frank. He was still holding Frank's hair like he was a teenage girl who'd had one to many fruity 2-4-1 cocktails, but his free hand was rubbing soothing circles on his back.
“Surprise,” Frank managed through shaky breaths. His nausea was settling slightly now, so he rocked back on his heels and sipped some more water and tried to subtly wipe his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie, but he knew he was probably being quite obvious. Besides, his eyes were sore and swollen, so it wasn't like he could hide that.
“Hey, it's okay.”
“No, it's fucking not,” he snapped back, and then he felt like an asshole, because Gerard was only trying to help. “Shit, I'm sorry,” he said quickly, unhappy that he'd been so quick to anger, but Gerard just smiled and shook his head.
“Don't worry about it,” he said ruefully. “I've said worse to people trying to help me.”
“This fucking sucks,” Frank said decisively.
Gerard just nodded and then they lapsed into silence. Frank's throat hurt and the water was almost gone, and he just wanted to curl up in a dark room and sleep for, say, the next few years and pretend this had never happened, but he couldn't, because Gerard was there and he was rubbing those slow circles on his back and Frank's head hurt thinking about it all.
But he also didn't want to be alone.
“You want me to stay with you a while?” Gerard asked, which was weird, and Frank glanced quickly up and met Gerard's hazel eyes, wondering if it wasn't just Mikey who was apparently psychic in their family.
He just nodded mutely, and then Gerard helped him to his feet, and he huddled miserably in his oversized hoodie as Gerard steered them towards the lounge and pushed him onto the couch very gently like Frank was made of china.
Then he disappeared and came back with an armful of blankets and pillows and a goofy smile. He started clucking and wrapping Frank up like when he'd been five years old and got chicken pox and his mother had taken a day off work just to fuss over him.
Frank let him, because it seemed to make Gerard happy, and – although he was loathe to admit it – it was nice to be fussed over when he felt so bad. His ribs still felt like he was being stabbed and his stomach was cramping and now his throat was burning too.
And then Gerard arranged himself next to him, and pulled the Frank bundle into his arms and petted his hair and whispered things which were probably meant to be soothing, like the fact that houseflies apparently hummed in the key of F and chameleon's tongues could be as long as their bodies, and that was how Frank fell asleep again.
Mikey, to his credit, when he came in the next morning before work said nothing about the fact Frank and his brother were curled up on the sofa together in an ungainly heap, covered in three blankets, one which had little unicorns all over it.
When Gerard roused at the smell of coffee brewing, Mikey made complicated eyebrow movements which apparently were meant to convey, “What is this?”
And Gerard shrugged and made an unhappy face and Mikey nodded and left it at that.
**
That evening, after work, Mikey brought home Chinese food and then he herded the two of them into the lounge so they could eat it together – “Like normal human beings eat dinner” – and Frank was still grumpy and sore and embarrassed about what had happened the night before so he hunkered down on the couch and decided that his lap was a very interesting thing to stare at.
Mikey had found a bean bag somewhere, which was odd, and he threw himself into it and sort of half-pushed the boxes of Chinese towards Gerard as if bestowing him with a great gift.
“Oh, you want me to serve you, my lord?” Gerard said, which made Frank snort into his lap, and when he glanced up he saw Gerard was grinning at him. It suited him, scrunching up his nose slightly and Frank had the sudden urge to make him smile all the time, which was – ew.
He went back to staring at his lap, huddled in his hoodie, until Gerard pushed a carton of noodles into his hands and then he stared at that instead. He wasn't really hungry – too scared it would aggravate the nausea and make him feel even worse.
“Eat or I'll make you eat,” Mikey said eventually, when he'd watched Frank push the food around for several minutes and not make any move to actually try any.
“What you gonna do, wrap yourself around me like a snake?” Frank shot back, because seriously, Mikey didn't look like he could force anybody to do anything they didn't want to.
“I'll call Brian,” Mikey said decisively.
Frank ate.
**
Unfortunately, Mikey was a backstabbing traitor, because the next day Brian showed up in their lounge.
Frank woke up late, and went straight to the kitchen for coffee, and then he turned around and saw his manager sat awkwardly on the edge of the couch as if he was entirely unhappy to be there himself.
Oh cool, Frank thought, was hallucinating a new, fun part of his life?
“Hello,” Brian said then, which ruled out hallucinations, because Frank's hallucinations never spoke to him (He'd had a lot of experience with this.)
“What,” said Frank, flatly, placing the mug of coffee down on the counter rather too sharply, “are you doing here.”
“Being a friend,” Brian said, which was hard to argue with. He had been one of the few who had stayed with Frank through the ups and downs of life so far, and he'd done it all with the sort-of grim determination that he wore so well. “You need some help.”
“I'm doing fine,” Frank said. “Quitting everything. Drinking a lot of coffee. Smoking a lot of cigarettes. But I'm fine.”
Brian hummed slightly and shook his head. “Nobody likes a martyr,” he said, rubbing his forehead and the bridge of his nose and his chin absent-mindedly. He looked like he was fighting off a headache, which was pretty often the case when he was dealing with the band.
“Bullshit, being a martyr sold fucking thousands of our records,” Frank said, and then cracked a smile at the ridiculousness of the situation, and the pinched look on Brian's face which looked like he'd been chewing on lemons.
“Smartass.” But Brian was smiling himself now. “You've got an appointment.”
“Have we rescheduled the uprising against you, then?” Frank asked lightly as he picked up his coffee mug and headed back to his room to put clothes on, since wearing pyjamas outside was normally frowned upon by society.
“Please, you wouldn't last a week without me.”
**
Brian bundled him into the rental car he'd driven there, and then had to deal with Frank's barrage of questions for the next ten minutes whilst he drove to the mystery appointment.
(“No, I don't have psychic powers. Mikey called me,” Brian said when Frank asked him if he'd felt a disturbance in the force and that's why he'd appeared in the living room, but he sounded huffy and Frank was put out because it was a perfectly acceptable question, really.)
They pulled up in front of Frank's childhood doctors and he looked at it with narrowed eyes for a while before turning to Brian. “This better not involve needles,” he said quietly, barely containing a shudder.
Brian gave him a slightly incredulous look. “You have enough tattoos that you look like a children's colouring book and you're worried about there being needles?”
“There's a difference between suffering for art and a stab-happy white coat,” Frank replied huffily as they walked into the surgery.
“I suffer for your art every day of the week.”
Dr. Koyfman had the posture of a solider, and every move and action she made seemed purposeful and precise. Her bedside manner was slightly lacking, but she'd been the doctor who had seen Frank through his early teen years, when it seemed like every other week something else was going wrong with him. She'd been his favourite of the parade of white coats he'd seen, because she took no nonsense and she gave as good as she got, with very little patience of his snotty teenage attitude.
When he stepped into the room, she raised one carefully-plucked eyebrow as she looked him up and down. “Well, look who is back. How's Linda?”
Frank tried not to flinch at the mention of his mother. “She's fine,” he said, glancing sideways at Brian, who had slipped in behind him and taken a seat in one of the chairs against the side of the room. He sat heavily, leaning against the wall, and Frank was struck by how tired he looked suddenly.
His stomach rolled queasily.
“And you? Have you picked up some strange infection on the road from one too many fan-made cookies? I've told you not to eat those. It's a recipe for disaster with your immune system.” Koyfman was still giving him an appraising look as she motioned for him to take a seat on the examining table.
“No, I'm—” He broke off and looked at Brian again, seeking some reassurance.
It wasn't forthcoming. “He's a little shit that makes terrible decisions,” Brian said helpfully. “He's been taking oxy for kicks. We're trying to get him clean.”
“Oh, I see,” Koyfman said in the tone of voice which said, You're an idiot, but in a strangely fond way. “It's really bad enough you insist on stabbing needles into yourself for fun and going on a tour of those grotty little venues, I'm not really sure you should be making it worse by throwing chemical imbalance and narcotic addiction into it.”
“You think, doc?”
Koyfman asked him careful questions about how he'd been feeling, both mentally and physically, and made what Frank assumed was meant to be a sympathetic face when he explained the nausea and stomach pain and nightsweats. Then she snapped on gloves and started to examine his pupils and seemingly poke him for no reason at all, nodding and muttering something under her breath when he flinched back from the poking because, seriously, who wouldn't?
Apparently satisfied by this, she stepped back and nodded once more and said, “You're doing good. I'm gonna suggest clonidine to take the edge off of things.” She looked over at Brian. “You need to keep a close eye on him, and I want to see him for regular checkups. Let's make the next one in a few days just to be sure.”
“Of course,” said Brian. “I've got a hotel nearby for the next month, and he's living with one of my trusted friends who has had some personal experience with this”
“I'm not gonna die?” Frank asked, just to check, because he felt like that bit had been overlooked in favour of their discussions of logistics – which was definitely Brian's favourite topic.
“Definitely not going to die. But stay off the internet,” she said helpfully as she left to write the prescription, which Frank took as code to mean, 'Immediately Google these things' and did just that, pulling his phone out of his pocket and reading about the drug she'd prescribed.
“Sweet, it says here that clonidine prevents menopausal flushing,” Frank said happily when she stepped back into the room, and she gave him a look.
“This was exactly why I told you not to go on the internet. And anyway, it doesn't prevent anything, it only helps with the severity of menopausal flushing.”
Well, that was a bit of a downer.
Brian hustled him out of their pretty sharpish after that, promising that he'd keep an eye on him to Koyfman and shaking her hand before telling Frank to get in the car and stop listing off the side effects.
“Dude, impaired ability to cry? That sounds like, the worst superhero power ever.”
“It'll be helpful when I beat the shit out of you, Iero,” Brian said and Frank frowned at him until he shook his head and sighed. “Shut up. You want sorbet?”
“I'm not twelve,” Frank replied, but then he paused and said, “But yes,” because he wasn't a sociopath. What normal human being refused sorbet? Brian knew exactly how to bribe him into behaving by now, and he couldn't even resent him for it, because his manager was a clever motherfucker.
**
Frank devoured two bowls of sorbet to himself whilst his manager watched with a slightly raised eyebrow and an amused twist to his mouth.
“You've got some on your nose,” Brian said, indicating this with a sweep of one tattooed hand.
Frank made a face back and wiped the sorbet away with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Thanks, mom.”
“Careful, I'll break out the tissues and spit wipe it off next time, sunshine.” Brian glanced down at his watch, then back up at him. “Come on, let's get going. I have to write a few emails to your damn record company and then I need you to pee in a cup.”
“You've got some weird ass fetishes.”
**
Mikey answered when Brian knocked on the door, then looked between the two of them with a look which said more than he ever did. “Have fun?” he asked after a pause.
“Brian made me pee in a cup,” Frank said huffily as he walked into the apartment. He threw himself on the sofa and looked up at Mikey, who had followed him in. “A cup!”
“Don't act like that's the first time you've peed in weird things, Iero. I saw the Gatorade bottles in the van days,” Brian yelled from the hallway, where he was making a lot of noise doing something.
“Drug test?” Mikey asked.
“He said that, but I think it was probably for his collection of rockstar urine.”
“Don't be silly,” Brian said as he walked into the room, laptop under one arm and papers gripped in the other. “I only collect toenails and saliva.”
**
When Frank found himself still awake at 3am that night, he googled clonidine again, and this time read the side effects properly. “Insomnia,” he mused, glancing at the clock. “Another terrible super power.”
His leg had developed a twitch somewhere around 1am, which was driving him slightly crazy, but nothing seemed to be helping except constantly shifting position, and that only made his sleeplessness even worse.
At some point, he found himself staring at the moon through the half-open curtains. It was full and bright tonight, casting pale white light on a pathway from the window to his bed. It looked like a path for fairies, and part of him wished that he was artistic in any way at all because he wanted to capture the view properly.
He sighed and rolled over for probably the fiftieth time that hour, and then decided to get up and stretch. Shoving his legs into the first pair of pants he found, which were stained with either hair dye or blood, he headed over to the door. That was when he heard what sounded faintly like singing, and – curious – he titled his head to the side and listened properly. It was so quiet he could barely here it, but it was definitely singing.
He followed the sound and found himself standing outside Gerard's room, because of course the vampire-human hybrid Mikey called his brother was also somebody who sang at 3am for no apparently reason.
When he knocked, the singing stopped, and then, “Come in?” said the hesitant voice he'd come to associate with Gerard.
He opened the door and peeked round and saw Gerard said on the bed with his legs crossed and a pair of headphones around his neck, a puzzled frown in place between his bright eyes. “You okay?”
“Couldn't sleep,” Frank said, which was about as much of an explanation he could give for knocking on his door at this time of night.
Gerard nodded as if this was completely normal and motioned for him to come in. “Sit down,” he said gently as he removed his headphones and placed them to the side. “Insomnia shared is insomnia halved. I think.”
“Gerard,” Frank said as he took a seat on the bed next to him, and tried to ignore the urge to lean into his warmth.
“Yes?”
“Were you singing Pink?”
“It's a good album,” Gerard said defensively, as he picked up his sketchbook. “Don't hate.”
“I am definitely not hating,” Frank said happily, as he settled into the nests of pillows and blankets that Gerard apparently decided were entirely necessary on his bed. There must have been about eight pillows, but Frank couldn't fault him – it was damn comfy. They lapsed into a companionable silence as Frank watched him draw.
“I wish I could draw,” Frank said finally.
Gerard glanced quickly at Frank before turning back to his drawing. “You can learn. I had to learn a lot of it again. For a while, I couldn't even stomach the thought of art.”
Frank paused for a second, realising this was Gerard opening up to him, and also realising that it was like approaching a skittish wild animal at times. “Why?” he ventured cautiously.
Gerard looked at him for the first time in a way which seemed completely open, without his normal reservations. He held his pencil frozen at the end of a line. “I was dating this – guy, a few years back. He got me into some bad shit, but he was the one who encouraged me to follow my passions and go to art school. And – when I quit, it just reminded me too much of him.”
At this, Frank tried not to show his shock. So Gerard did – or at least had liked - guys. He was certain he didn't succeed in hiding it, or at least some part of it must have showed on his face, because suddenly Gerard was narrowing his eyes, guarded look back.
“Don't tell me you have a problem with that?” Gerard said, and that was probably the first time Frank had ever heard him sound fierce and he tried not to think about how weirdly hot it was. “You know, people have a right to love who they want.”
“No – no, I, I, of course not,” Frank mumbled quickly, suddenly feeling like they'd swapped places entirely. “'I'm pretty much the queer one in the band, unless you count the time Bob made out with a dude when he was drunk.”
Gerard seemed to visibly relax. His shoulders slumped slightly. “Bi?”
“More – it's not really a thing I consider,” Frank said, brutally honest, and this got him a small smile and a raised eyebrow in return. “Not that I'm a slut, per se, just, I'm down with, like, embracing sexuality.”
“Hey, no slut-shaming in my house.” Gerard waggled one of the pens he was holding in Frank's direction, which was adorable.
Frank defiantly ignored the warmth that spread through his stomach.
**
“Frank,” Gerard said gently later, placing a hand on his knee. Frank realised he'd been bouncing his foot up and down without even noticing, but now he made an effort to freeze as much as possible. “Restless legs?”
“Huh?” Frank replied, eloquently, too busy staring at the chipped black nail polish on only half of Gerard's fingers.
“Restless legs. It's a side effect. Feels like something crawling in your muscles?”
“Yeah,” Frank said, slightly relieved that he wasn't alone in his body betraying him, and slightly annoyed that he had yet another side effect to deal with.
Gerard made a low humming noise as he trailed his fingers over the contours of Frank's leg, and Frank tried not to be too distracted by the fact that he was being so overly touchy. “You know,” Gerard said softly. “Heat can really help. And...” He trailed off and frowned.
“And?”
“Mikey used to be really good at giving massages. They relax the muscles. Stop you twitching as much.”
“Are you suggesting I wake your brother up at 4am to give me a leg massage? Because I think that's overstepping the boundaries of our friendship.”
Gerard looked slightly scandalised. “No!” He paused for maybe two seconds, then said, “I could try?”
“Um,” said Frank. Gerard had already sat up properly and was now grinning at him happily. “Okay?”
It should have been awkward, and it kind of was, as Gerard gently pulled his legs into his lap and began running his hands up and down Frank's calves, but there was also a softness there, a delicate attentiveness, which made him relax visibly. He soon found himself sinking more into the warmth of the bed whilst Gerard hummed The Smiths under his breath and gently rubbed his fingers in small circles.
His eyes easily slipped closed, and that's when Gerard's humming stopped, but he continued his attentions for several long minutes, working the muscles all up and down his lower legs and even slipping to the balls of Frank's feet and then massaging the arches of each foot in turn, which he didn't even realise was tense until he did.
He didn't notice that he'd stopped twitching until Gerard's hands skirted higher to his knees, and then they stopped, and Frank opened his eyes to meet Gerard's hazel ones.
“See?” Gerard said softly. His palms were warm against Frank's legs, despite the layer of fabric between them and his skin, and Frank tried not to focus too much on that. Since when had he become a blushing schoolgirl about something as simple as that? In his last few relationships, he'd always been the person to initiate things, even with one-night stands. He was most definitely not a shrinking violet when it came to being assertive.
But now –
Mikey's disapproving face came quickly to his mind.
Frank sat up suddenly.
“I'm sorry, I have to go,” he said.
“Oh. Okay.”
He hoped he was imagining the hurt in Gerard's voice, but he wasn't sure.
**
“Wanna go to a thift market?” Gerard asked him a few days later. They'd barely spoken since the night Frank darted out on him, so he tried not to look surprised as he looked up from where he'd been absent-mindedly jotting down potential lyrics. Gerard looked worried, rubbing the back of his neck like a tic, but when Frank nodded, he broke into an infectious smile.
Frank didn't know why he agreed, but maybe it was because clonidine was working and he'd finally managed to get a better night's rest, so he was feeling a lot more energetic than before. Koyfman had signed off on his latest check-up and said that he was doing even better than she'd expected.
(Brian had looked quietly pleased in the corner, like a proud parent.)
And partly because he was still fascinated with Gerard and he enjoyed spending as much time as possible with him, if only (he told himself) to figure him out.
That was how he ended up in a warehouse in some decidedly seedy neighbourhood. It wasn't abandoned at least, because if it was he'd be pretty sure this was just a badly-disguised attempt to murder him. In actual fact, it was rather brightly lit and busy and full of vendors hawking things which looked like they'd be dug out of dead relatives’ attics.
“I'm pretty sure this is the start of a horror movie,” he said conversationally as Gerard darted forward, off to explore the weird and wonderful feast laid out in front of them.
“Nah,” Gerard said over his shoulder. “There needs to be more ominous flickering lights and stuff.”
There was one blown-out bulb towards the back of the warehouse which he considered pointing out, but then he decided he didn't really want to be in a horror movie, and acknowledging it was just making it more likely so instead he shrugged and followed Gerard, who had already stopped by a stool and was grinning excitedly at something.
“What have you found?” he asked as he came up beside him, peering down at the table at what looked like an average bunch of slightly tattered comic books.
“Look,” Gerard said, pointing at one of the slightly more tattered ones, which had a man's face being melted off on the cover. Frank couldn't quite see the appeal, but maybe he just wasn't cultured enough. “These are horror comics, ones before the Seduction of the Innocent bullshit.”
“Seduction of the Innocent?”
“It was some shitty court case in the fifties where they decided that comic books had to be censored.”
“Oh, I see, so, these are like, the video nasties of the comic book world?”
“Something like that,” he said with a slight laugh. He was ghosting his fingers over the covers of the comic books, mouthing their names out like an excited kid. “How much do you want for these?” he asked the bored looking guy sat behind the table.
The guy gave him an appraising look, then rolled his shoulders and said, “Two hundred and you can have the lot.”
Gerard's face fell slightly, and Frank watched this carefully, noticing the forlorn look Gerard was giving the books, and then Frank said, “Come on, let's have more of a look around. My mom always told me off for blowing all my money on the first thing I saw.”
“Yeah,” Gerard said quietly as he turned away, and then he apparently spied something else because he hurried off in the direction of another stall.
Frank hung back, waiting for him to get far enough away, then slid the bills he'd slipped into his hand over to the guy manning the stall and said, “I'll take them all. Can you put them in a bag for me?”
The guy gave him an amused look, as if he knew that Frank being a massive sucker, but he said nothing as he quickly counted the money and then packaged the comic books up for him and handed them over.
Frank muttered his thanks as he hurried after Gerard, wondering what it was that had caught his eye now. He was having an animated conversation with one of the old ladies sat knitting behind her stall, motioning at something Frank couldn't see.
He came up beside him and Gerard turned and waved a raccoon in his face and said, “Meet Brendan!”
He jerked back slightly, surprised that there was a raccoon in his face – what the fuck – and it took him a shamefully long moment to realise that the raccoon not, in fact, alive, but instead had been taxidermied.
Brendan was stood up on his hind legs and had his arms thrown out in what Frank assumed was meant to be glee, a ridiculous grin firmly in place which made Frank want to both giggle nervously and also run away, but only a tiny bit, because he only ran away from spiders. And other creepy-crawly things. Oh, and rats, but mostly because rats were like, apparently the reason the bubonic plague killed so many people and he was way too young to die of the plague.
“Is Brendan for sale?” Gerard was asking the lady, who was watching this with a thinly-veiled expression of amusement, probably because Frank was still giving the raccoon a mildly terrified look.
“If you promise to look after him, dear, you can have him for free,” she replied. She sounded like she was entrusting Gerard with a treasured possession. Frank had to wonder how many people treasured dead raccoons.
Well the answer to that it appeared was Gerard, because he made an excited noise and started nodding, promising that he'd love and cherish Brendan until the end of time.
And that was how they ended up with a grinning dead raccoon as their latest possession.
“I'm gonna put Brendan in Mikey's bed when he's not in,” Gerard said happily as he tucked the raccoon under his arm.
*
Mikey didn't seem quite as enamoured with Brendan himself, judging by the screech that he emitted when he indeed found the raccoon grinning from his bed.
Gerard and Frank were sitting on the sofa when they heard this, and Gerard turned to him and genuinely cackled like a comical witch which set Frank off in a fit of giggles. He wasn't proud of how girlish they were. Apparently, this was also amusing, because this sent Gerard into another fit of laughter.
Mikey found them both curled up in hysterics when he stalked out of his bedroom, brandishing Brendan and yelling, “What the fuck is this?”
“Hey, his name is Brendan,” Frank managed through his laughter, and ducked as Mikey made to throw Brendan at his head in response, until Gerard made a scandalised noise.
“Don't throw him! He's very delicate,” he said unhappily, bounding over to rescue Brendan from Mikey's hands.
“You're both freaks,” Mikey said, turning around and walking straight back out.
Frank nodded in agreement, because Gerard was now cradling the raccoon and cooing at him in a twisted display of parental affection, and then he remembered the comics he'd bought earlier.
“Hey, stay here a minute,” he said as he left to grab the bag containing them from his room.
When he returned, Gerard had balanced Brendan on his shoulder with one paw twisted in his hair and was sitting on the couch, looking at him with wide eyes.
“Here,” Frank said, thrusting the bag at him. He probably should have been a bit more gentle, but he felt awkward and he just wanted to get it over with. Gerard took it with only minimal hesitation, although his expression did betray his wariness. This all changed when he peeked inside, and he made a very girlish yelp of what Frank could only assume was excitement.
Then he threw himself at Frank, which he wasn't really expecting, and they went tumbling to the ground in a pile of limbs, comic books and dead raccoon.
“Thank you,” he said, kissing Frank on his cheek, which was enough to make it worth spending two hundred bucks on some tattered bits of paper in his eyes.
Mikey chose that moment to return for some reason, and he took in the sight with barely-disguised confusion. To be fair, it wasn't every day you walked into a room and saw a startled rock star, your older brother, a dead raccoon and a bunch of comic books with things like decapitated women on their covers in one big pile on the floor.
“You guys are insane,” was all he muttered as he neatly stepped over their legs to make his way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” Gerard replied, his voice muffled because he'd pressed his face into Frank's neck now.
Frank was too distracted to reply by the fact that Gerard had curled his fingers around his wrist and was stroking the skin there now, as if this was a completely normal thing to do. Considering he had yet to move and was still fully laying on him, it was more than a little bit odd. Not that he was complaining, except it really wouldn't be cool to molest Mikey's brother in the middle of the living room floor and that was becoming a real possibility now.
He was pretty sure there was a house rule against that.
**
“Alright, dickhead,” Mikey said that evening as he caught Frank sneaking into the kitchen for yet another cup of coffee to fuel his lyric writing. “Spill.”
“Spill? I think that would be kind of painful, this is hot coffee,” Frank said mildly as he held up the cup for him to see.
Mikey gave him an exasperated look over the top of his glasses. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”
Frank took two, slow, deliberate sips of his coffee, then tilted his head to the side with what he hoped was an innocent expression on his face. “Do I?” He took another sip of his coffee.
“Look.” Mikey said slowly. “Let me even with you. If you're gonna fuck my brother, you gotta tell me first so I can move to Peru.”
Frank spluttered his coffee all over the floor, which was sad. “I – nothing happened!”
“I know,” Mikey said, shaking his head as he left. “He'd tell me if something had.”
That didn't make Frank feel any better at all.
**
When Brian called, Frank always made to pick up, because Brian was about a five minute walk away now and he would probably come round and smack him if he didn't.
“Go see your mother,” Brian ordered over the phone, which was nice because at least he wasn't there in person to give Frank his disappointed looks.
“I don't think –”
“No excuses. You've been home for two weeks now. Go. And fucking grovel, Iero.”
Frank didn't think arguing was going to get him anywhere, and he also knew that Brian was exactly the sort of person who would have installed spy cameras around the apartment to make sure he did what he told him to do. He eyed a suspicious black mark on the wall for a moment.
“Ray and Bob send their love,” Brian added before ending the call with his usual sharp click.
Frank turned on his heels and stalked off to his room to get ready.
He'd only just managed to pull a pair of clean jeans and a t-shirt on before there was a knock at the door, and Mikey poked his head around. “Brian says I need to make you go see your mother,” he said.
“Oh good. Did he also alert the newspapers?”
“Sarcasm isn't gonna win you friends,” Mikey said with a small shake of his head. “Anyway, I'm busy, so you can take Gerard to meet your mom.”
“I'm sorry, why exactly?”
“I just feel if you're getting married, it's only right.” Mikey had one of his little smirks in place.
Frank kicked the door closed with a huff.
**
“Why am I here?” Gerard asked petulantly from behind his two scarves. He'd also managed to bury himself in a hoodie as well, which didn't help how muffled he sounded.
Frank handed money to the cab driver and stepped out of the car to stand next to him, looking up at his childhood home. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “To babysit?”
“Mikey did say I have to make sure you don't stab anybody, but I don't know if I can do that, you look like you'd be strong when you're feeling homicidal.”
“Thanks?”
“Did you know blue whales are officially the strongest animals on earth? They can send boats flying with their tails.”
Frank smiled, because who could not when presented with one of Gerard's little factoids? It was shortly lived, however. He took a long, slow breath, braced himself, and strode as confidently as he could to the front door. There was a long moment where he froze there, hand halfway raised, and then he heard Gerard shuffling behind him and that pushed him enough so he knocked, a quick rat-tat-tat.
His mother answered in a dressing gown, her ever-glamorous dark hair piled up on top of her head in one of her elaborate updos. Her eyes quickly flicked over his shoulder and then she looked back at him and a smile broke out on her tired face. “Frankie,” she said softly, stepping back. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Hi,” Frank said as softly as he could as he followed her into the depths of the house. Gerard hesitated in the doorway until Frank motioned for him to follow. In the living room, there was the ever present empty wine glass on the coffee table, and next to it was a gossip magazine lying open, the pages worn from obvious over-reading.
“You must be Gerard,” his mother said she motioned for them to take a seat on the overstuffed couches. “Brian's said good things about you.”
Gerard didn't seem to know how to reply, so he just gave her his trademark wide-eyes, and then smiled hesitantly. “Uh, yes, Mrs. Iero—”
“Linda, please. Would you two want some refreshments? Wine—” Her eyes flicked at Frank quickly, then away. “Coffee?”
They both made appreciative murmurs at that, and she disappeared back into the hallway. Gerard turned to Frank then, and gave him an unsure smile, which Frank found himself unable to return. Instead of pressing the issue, Gerard instead turned his attention to the magazine that had been discarded on the coffee table.
“Hey, is that you?” he asked, pointing at one of the open pages.
Frank frowned, slightly puzzled, and leaned forward enough that he could see it was indeed a picture of him and the rest of Nervous Breakdown, awkwardly posed in one of their first ever photo-shoots holding instruments that weren't plugged in and covered in what was possibly the whole of New Jersey's supply of fake blood. It was probably two years old by now, but the article had been carefully maintained, almost meticulously compared to the creased and faded page next to it.
It was the first profile where Frank had been honest about how terrifying being in a band was and how much he missed home.
His heart ached.
Then his mother back, carrying two full cups of coffee and smiling thinly. She'd applied red lipstick which looked too stark against her pale skin, and if she noticed the weird look Gerard was giving Frank now, she said nothing.
“So tell me,” she said later after they'd spent a few minutes making awkward small talk and sipping coffee. “What do you do then?”
She was directing the question at Gerard, which seemed to throw him off a bit, and he glanced at Frank quickly for reassurance before mumbling something about working as an artist and comic books.
“Oh,” she said, as if this wasn't information she'd probably already extracted out of Brian. “I have some of my paintings upstairs, if you'd like to see?”
Gerard visibly perked up then and nodded eagerly, which made Frank half-smile as his mother ushered them to gather their stuff and follow her. She led them up the first set of stairs, and into the room that had once been Frank's playroom when he was a young toddler.
It had changed so much that Frank almost did a double take. The walls, which had been a buttercup yellow, were now a dark burgundy like spilled wine. There wasn't a free space in the whole room that didn't have some kind of art or art supplies on it.
“I didn't know you were so into painting,” Frank said softly as Gerard darted into the room and started making happy little noises under his breath as he studied the paintings. One was huge, a stormy grey sky with red streaks of lightning flashed across like angry swipes from a deity.
“There's a lot you don't know,” his mother replied mildly, as she watched Gerard crouch down to study one of the older sketches.
Frank bit his lip and said nothing.
“You could do worse than him, Frankie,” she said casually as she stepped into the room to show more of her work off.
**
When they left, Frank kissed his mother's cheek and promised to be back in a few days, and she gripped his hand so tightly she left little half-moon indents in his palm and said she was proud of him. They travelled the whole way back in silence, but Gerard seemed to have found a new buzz. His mother had already promised to show any of her new work to him and that seemed to have made him the happiest Frank had seen in a while.
As they walked up to the apartment, Gerard turned and grabbed his hand and said, hurriedly, “Come on, I want to get this idea down.” And he started dragging Frank with him, which Frank would have complained about if he wasn't secretly a little bit thrilled about the skin contact.
God, he needed to get laid.
Gerard dropped his hand as soon as they were inside and darted into his room without so much as a backward glance. Frank tried not to feel a little bit upset as he trudged to his own bedroom.
He checked the mobile he'd left on his bedside table – the one that he always used on the road.
There were three new texts from Travis from the last two days.
“yo bro everything ok, was worried after the brian thing. call me.”
“hey iero, don't ignore my texts or i'll beat ur lil gay punk ass.”
“coming to jersey for a few days – u want any scripts?”
He put the phone down heavily and resolved not to think about it.
**
He should have known he couldn't ignore it forever, not even when he was finally feeling 95% of himself again, or at least what he thought was himself – after two years of almost never being completely with it, he found himself getting to know himself all over again.
The day started off bad with Brian's terse text that one of Frank's brief flings had written a “tell-all” expose in some shitty little music gossip column. Frank didn't really care, but it didn't help his already damaged reputation, and Brian's favourite hobby was getting worked up over things like that.
Then, around midday, his second phone started buzzing the tune to Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd, which had been his little – and in hindsight, completely unfunny – joke with Travis, so he didn't even need to look at the screen to see who was calling.
He answered on the sixth ring, and when Travis' crackly voice came through, a funny feeling twisted through his gut like a combination of nervous hunger.
“Hey, Frankie. It's been awhile. Fancy a catch up?”
**
He knew he shouldn't be doing it, knew he was just tempting fate, but it was Travis, who had been his closest friend on the road – or as close as he'd got to having one, considering how much (often rightful) contempt he faced from everybody else.
So that's how he found himself pulling on converse in order to go meet Travis at a new artsy venue downtown which he'd been promised wasn't one of those “crackdens badly disguised as an indie hangout.”
His stomach was doing nervous flips as he stepped through the door, but then he saw Travis, wild hair and wild grin and wild eyes, and a sense of familiar relief washed over him. Travis was in an animated conversation with the bartender about something. Frank couldn't hear what until he walked a bit closer.
“--I'm just sayin, Social Distortion had like, two great songs, that's it.”
“You're so fucking wrong, Travie,” Frank said mildly.
He was rewarded by Travis' spinning around and throwing his arms around him. “It's been too long, man. Was starting to think you'd tweaked on me big time, you dick.”
“Never.”
**
Travis was already three beers into the evening, and he gave Frank a look when he asked for a glass of water, but he said nothing. Instead, he spent thirty minutes on a rambling story about his last on-the-road hookup with a “filthy groupie, you know, one of those truck stop bathroom types”, which Frank found himself more than mildly disgusted by.
“Yo,” Travis said finally, when Frank had been silently sipping his water for the last few minutes. “What's up? You don't look too good.”
Frank had to laugh then, because Travis had seen him at his very worst – high, drunk, puking, crying, the lot of it – and now wasn't anything like that. “Yeah, I'm cool, just tired.”
Travis nodded solemnly. “I got something that'll help with that, if you want.”
There was that quick flash of heat in Frank's stomach, the need-need-want he'd come to call his friend, and Frank's fingers clenched tightly around his glass. He was biting his lip without realising, but he forced himself to say, “No, I'm – no.”
Travis frowned at him. “You're not really doing what the Dictator tells you to do?”
“It's my livelihood at stake,” Frank said plaintively, setting the glass down on the counter of the bar. “Hell, my life.”
“Bit melodramatic,” Travis said lightly, shaking his head of dark dreads.
Frank didn't respond, but apparently it wasn't needed, because Travis was moving on.
“Well, if you're gonna be like that – how about something to distract you?” Travis said, smiling wickedly.
“What...” Frank began, but then he saw Travis was looking, and he knew exactly what he meant. His eyes were locked on a guy across the room – small, thin, dark-haired, pale. Frank's type, for sure. “I.. don't think that's a good idea.”
But it was too late, because Travis was already up and striding across to the mystery guy, and Frank found himself following without wanting to.
“Hey, have you ever met somebody famous?” Travis was saying and – oh god, that was worse than normal. Suddenly, all Frank wanted was a long, cold drink.
**
The stranger's name was Benji, and he was cuter up close, all long dark lashes and big green eyes, and he was wearing a Bouncing Souls t-shirt, so maybe he wasn't that bad after all.
“So, you're really, like, a singer?” Benji was saying, and Frank found himself loosening up slightly.
“Yeah – I'm on a break at the moment, but yeah.”
“Awesome,” Benji said in a voice which betrayed just how star-struck he was. There was a pause, then, “Have you ever met the Bouncing Souls?”
Travis reappeared at Frank's elbow carrying three drinks, which he passed to them all. Frank frowned at him slightly but he just smiled, rolling his eyes. “Relax, squirt, it's just coke,” he said, which made Frank feel better.
He took a small sip and the cool, familiar taste of coke slipped down his throat.
**
It wasn't much later that Frank felt his stomach doing something weird, and he stood up and excused himself to the bathroom, where he found himself slightly dizzy and very confused. He leant heavily on the sink, staring at his own face in the mirror, which was blurry and wouldn't focus properly.
Despite that, he felt good – better than he had in a while, honestly. He swallowed down the slight anxiety threatening to overwhelm him, and stepped back outside. Benji had been staring at the door of the restroom, he realised, as the guy glanced quickly away.
Part of him knew it was a bad idea, but another part – the part which whispered that it wasn't bad, not really, it wasn't like he was sworn off getting with anybody; Brian hadn't gone that far yet.
He felt slightly giddy as he sat back down at their booth, and then he leaned over, crowding into Benji's space, so his breath tickled his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”
They made their excuses to Travis, who just smiled and shook his head. As they left, he handed Frank his jacket, and then they escaped into the cold night, Frank gripping Benji's hand tightly as they hailed a cab. His vision wasn't any better now, even though he expected the cold to have helped him focus, and he was still feeling ridiculously happy.
**
He almost chickened out when they cab pulled up outside Mikey's apartment, but then Benji was crowding up against him in the doorway, his mouth hot and inviting. He felt himself melting slightly, the stress of the last few days slipping away under Benji's surprisingly confident hands.
Besides, he was certain Mikey was out that night at some showcase and Gerard –
His stomach swooped slightly at the thought of Gerard, but then he pushed the image out of his head and grabbed at Benji's shirt and dragged the him into his room.
He wasn't doing anything bad, he told himself, as he pushed Benji onto the bed.
**
Apparently, Benji knew the deal, because he didn't stay. He smiled at Frank as he slipped out, and Frank felt a heady mixture of shame and – he wasn't sure what, but it wasn't nice – settle in the bottom of his stomach.
His head hurt, and his legs felt numb, which he wasn't happy about.
“I need a cigarette,” he told the empty room. He signed slightly to himself, and then he dragged himself up and started gathering up his discarded clothes. His jacket was across the other side of the room and he knew his cigarettes were in it, so he pulled himself to his feet.
His blood rushed the wrong way, and his head hurt.
He frowned, pressing his fingers to his temples, and that's when his vision went funny again and he found himself falling backwards.
**
The next thing he heard was a door slamming against a wall, a loud bang which would have made him jump if he could have, and then his manager was in his vision, crowding over him.
“What the fuck did you do, Frank.” Brian was almost frantic – the most unsettled Frank had ever seen him, in a long time. He was gripping Frank's arms tightly, too tightly to be comfortable.
Frank's vision was still blurry and his head hurt and he didn't know why everybody was yelling at him, but he didn't like it. He wanted to tell him to leave him alone, he was fine, but then he realised he was sprawled on the floor like a crumpled ragdoll and his head was throbbing.
“Brian,” Mikey said grimly, drawing the manager's attention. He held up a small baggie which had a few pills at the bottom. In his other hand, he was holding Frank's discarded jacket.
“I –” Frank tried, but his words were slurring together, and he couldn't get them to work – his tongue was too heavy. They're not mine, he wanted to say, wanted to say he'd done nothing, that all he'd drank is water and – his brain clicked suddenly, back to the image of Travis rolling his eyes and saying, “It's just coke.”
Back to the image of Travis handing him his jacket as he left.
Fuck.
Brian's eyes were dark with what could have been anger or hurt. “I trusted you, man,” he said sharply, as he snatched the baggie out of Mikey's hands. “I should have known better.”
He left without another word, the click of the door sharp and final.
“You should go to bed,” Mikey said finally, slipping an arm around Frank's waist and helping him to his feet.
**
When he woke up, the room was empty and dark. His jacket had been left on the chair nearby, and there was a little note on his bedside table. He reached out for it, groping in the half-light, and opened it up.
I hope you're okay. Brian will understand. Talk to us.
Mikey x
He swore viciously because it felt like the situation deserved it, and then pulled himself up. His head hurt, his stomach was unhappy, and his teeth felt weird. All-in-all, not fabulous. And he really needed to pee.
Sighing, he decided that he really needed to deal with that first, so he gathered himself up and walked cautiously over to the door. When he peaked out, the hallway light was on, but the apartment seemed quiet and empty. Thankful he didn't have any more judgemental stares to deal with, he turned and –
Gerard was staring at him from the bathroom doorway.
“Hey,” Frank said, surprised.
There was no response, not even Gerard's normal slightly awkward smile. Instead, he looked away and strode past.
Frank stared after him, the sickness in his stomach suddenly ten times worse.
**
“I didn't do it,” Frank told Mikey when he appeared at the doorway that night holding a box of Chinese takeaway. “I didn't – I didn't know, it was Travis, he must have done—”
“I believe you,” Mikey said plainly as he stepped inside. “Don't worry.”
“You do?” he asked, surprised simply because he'd expected he'd have to argue his side of the story more passionately than that.
“Brian saw the texts from Travis, so he called him and gave him a piece of his mind. He admitted everything, said he was just trying to loosen you up – fucking asshole, if you ask me. That dude is no friend.”
Frank bit back the anger, and shook his head numbly, averting his eyes to his lap. He wanted to ask why they'd immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion, but he knew why. He'd have done the same thing in their shoes.
He felt the bed dip as Mikey sat down, passing him the Chinese. “Hey, man, it's okay. Shit happens.”
Frank was worrying his bottom lip, tonguing the lip ring that was hooked there. “Can I ask—” he began, and Mikey's wide, open eyes made him hesitate. “Um. Gerard...?”
Mikey said nothing for a moment, his face guarded, then shook his head. “It's not – it's not what you think,” he said finally. “You should eat something.”
Then he left, leaving Frank alone in the cold, dark room, a slowly cooling box of vegetarian noodles in his lap.
**
Frank only worked up the courage to leave his room again the next day. He went to find coffee, deciding that most things in life could be fixed by a hot cup of sweet caffeine. The kitchen was – thankfully – empty. He grabbed his favourite mug because it said “PUGS AND PUNK” on the side, and started the coffee machine.
When he heard the sounds of footsteps, he turned, and opened his mouth to say something.
“Don't,” Gerard said quickly, which was better than the angry look he'd been giving yesterday, but not by much. He was holding Brendan in one hand, which was a little bit odd – but not really, because it was him.
Frank closed his mouth as Gerard slipped into the kitchen, grabbed a sketchbook off the counter, and then disappeared.
He tried to fight the hurt and anger curling at his insides, but it was hard.
**
“What is his deal?” he asked Mikey plaintively the next day, curled up on Mikey's bed. It was the first time he'd been in Mikey's room, and it didn't disappoint – the whole room was meticulously organised and clean, but the walls were decorated in ticket stubs and AAA passes. It was pretty cool, Frank had to admit.
“You...” Mikey sighed and shook his head. He was sat at the desk, focused on some paperwork he was going over for the contract of a new band he'd found. “You're both idiots and you both owe me shit tons in fucking therapy fees.”
“Maybe if he would just talk to me,” Frank mumbled.
“Maybe you should apologise.” Mikey's words were light, but there was a tightness there which dared Frank to disagree.
“Apologise for what? For getting my drink spiked?” He asked hotly, frowning at one of the pillows as if it had personally affronted him.
“Idiot,” Mikey muttered under his breath.
**
Despite his reservations, he decided he had to give it a try, if only so he could tell Mikey that he had. He found himself that night standing outside Gerard's closed door, trying to work up the courage to knock.
He had his thumb hooked in his mouth and he was gnawing on the side of his nail and he knew it was a bad thing to do, but at least it distracted him from how scared he was.
Finally, he raised his other hand and knocked.
“What do you want?” the familiar voice came from the other side.
“I –” Frank began, but that's all he got before the door was yanked open and he came face to face with Gerard himself. He was back to wearing a scarf indoors, and he had on the pyjama bottoms he'd been wearing when they first met, but he looked pissed.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm... here to apologise?” Frank tried uncertainly.
Gerard frowned at him, then shook his head. “I don't need an apology.”
“Oh.” He paused and licked his lips, then, “Can we talk?”
“I'm kind of busy,” Gerard said lightly. He turned to go, then added, seemingly as an afterthought, “Why don't you go talk to your new boyfriend?”
“Gerard –” Frank tried, but it didn't work. The door slammed shut again, leaving him alone in the hallway, thoroughly confused.
**
Mikey wasn't very helpful about it.
“I swear to god, I am not your relationship therapist,” he snapped, placing his coffee rather too heavily on the counter so some of the liquid spilled out. Frank's hands itched to wipe it away.
“I just – I mean, I don't get it,” Frank said. “We were fine!”
Mikey made a sound which sounded a lot like a vocalisation of his absolute disgust at this. “I'm gonna kill you both.”
**
It was late, and Frank needed to get a drink of water because he throat was killing him – please God be just a little hoarseness, he didn't need to get sick again, he thought banefully. He had the door to his room half-open when he froze because he could hear a raised voice from the next room over – Mikey's room.
“You're an idiot.” That was Mikey's voice. “You're both idiots.”
“Mikes – you know what happened.”
Frank took a sharp intake of breath when he realised that was Gerard. He pressed himself back into the darkness of his room, knowing that eavesdropping was wrong but also hoping they hadn't heard him yet so he could hear more of their conversation.
“He's not dating anybody,” Mikey said sharply. “He has every right to bring people back here.”
“Mikey...”
“I'm gonna call Brian and tell him if he doesn't send me a rescue team, he's gonna have two dead bodies to sort out. In the meantime, get over yourself. You're being an asshole. I hate assholes. Either you do something about... this, or you shut up, because until you do you have no right to act like you are.”
There was the sound of a door closing sharply and Frank quickly shut his own, hoping nobody saw that it was half-open.
**
There was a note under his door the next morning.
I'm sorry for being a dick.
Forgive me.
There was no name signed at the bottom, but he recognised the spiky handwriting from the signatures he'd seen at the bottom of Gerard's sketches.
That, and little scribble of a cartoon zombie chasing a grinning raccoon at the bottom of it kind of gave it away.
His head swam slightly. He wasn't sure what to think, but he was relieved, a little bit giddy, and still very confused.
**
He was in the kitchen later that morning making yet another cup of coffee when footsteps alerted him he wasn't alone anymore.
“Frank,” said a familiar voice, slightly hesitantly.
He turned and he couldn't help it if a small smile came to his face as he saw Gerard stood awkwardly in the doorway. He looked a little bit lost, and he was gripping his sketchbook and biting his lip, and it took all of Frank's willpower not to throw him against a wall and bite his lip for him. He patted himself on the back for his restraint, at least.
“What's up?” he asked, because he was kind of worried and kind of sick of the puppy dog eyes Gerard was giving him. Not that it was abnormal, but still.
“I just, uh,” said Gerard, as eloquent as normal. “Wanted to show you something?”
He scuffed his feet and Frank tried to bite back a grin. “Sure,” he said, hoping that “something” could either stand for his penis or to do with his art, because he liked Gerard's art. It was weird and unsettling and perfect, exactly like the artist himself.
Judging by the sketchbook Gerard was proffering, it was something to do with art and not his genitals and Frank tried not to feel slightly disappointed. He placed his coffee down and took the book out of Gerard's hands, and then noticed that one page had a corner folded down. He looked up at Gerard questioningly before he gestured for Frank to turn to that page.
So he did, and at first he just stared at the drawing, confused, before he realised that the birds on the page were swans. Two of them, as black as night, but with brains oozing out of their broken skulls, and deep red slashes across their bodies where you could see their fragile bird bones. “Oh, cool,” he breathed, running his fingers over it without any pressure, scared he would somehow mess it up.
And Gerard was giving him his big earnest eyes, so Frank looked up and grinned brilliantly and said, “This is amazing.”
But that didn't seem to be what Gerard was waiting for, because he kept biting his lip and his gaze kept flicking between the drawing and Frank, and then he was scratching at the back of his neck, a nervous tic he sometimes did without realising.
“I drew it for you,” he said quietly.
Frank's grin grew tenfold, because this was one of the coolest gifts he'd been given, and it was only when he glanced back down at the drawing that it suddenly clicked and his stomach swooped slightly.
“You drew me... zombie swans?” he said, finally, only slightly hesitantly.
“Gay zombie swans,” Gerard mumbled, as if he was disappointed that Frank hadn't picked up on the sexual tension between the two gay zombie swans. Which was –
“Oh,” breathed Frank. And then he found himself leaning over, and placing the sketchbook to the side, and reaching for Gerard.
“I – should go,” Gerard said quickly, before he could say anything else, and he made to bolt for it but Frank had a firm grip on his arms now, and he held him there.
“Oh no you don't, motherfucker,” he muttered quickly. “Look, it seems like we're not on the same wavelength here.”
“Uh,” said Gerard, but he couldn't say anything more, because Frank was already speaking again.
“So, I'm gonna make sure we're on the same wavelength. I think you're very pretty and very talented and I would like to be your gay zombie swan.” He paused, then sighed, because there was no way he should ever have to say those words. If Brian could see him right now, he'd probably smack him. “Also, I would like to have sex with you.”
Gerard seemed to choke on his next breath, but then he swayed slightly forward, and that was all Frank needed to close the distance between them and kiss him. It was nothing at first, a press of closed mouths, but then Gerard seemed to relax, and melt into the kiss, and then they were pressing close to together and Frank had his tongue in his mouth and he was tracing his slightly weird teeth, and maybe coming across a bit too much like a tooth fetishist for their first kiss, but Gerard was making little noises and he didn't really care.
The kiss felt familiar. It felt like coming home.
Until the front door opened with a bang, and he jolted away enough to meet Mikey's scandalised eyes from the doorway, even though they were fully clothed and barely groping each other.
Well, his hand was under Gerard's shirt, even though he didn't remember putting it there, but that didn't really count.
He turned and pressed his face into Gerard's shoulder, muffling his laughter against his t-shirt.
“Oh motherfucker,” he heard Mikey groan. “I did not need to see this.”
And then the front door slammed shut again, and Frank huffed out another laugh and reached up to press his forehead to Gerard's, which kind of meant he had to awkwardly stretch up on his tip-toes, but whatever, and he said, “Looks like we can cross scarring your brother off our lists.”
“It wasn't on my list,” Gerard said petulantly, but then he was distracted, because Frank was kissing his jawline and down his neck.
“Shut up,” he said fondly, as he dragged him towards his bedroom.
“Did you know that vampire bats can also be gay?”